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http-shield · 2 months ago

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell.

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid.

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it."

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek.

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face."

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one.

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town.

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face. Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches.

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions.

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat.

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs.

"The wolf is here."

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner.

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns.

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below.

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me."

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?"

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please."

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you.

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow.

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking."

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow.

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side.

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder. Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour.

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you."

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat.

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money."

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you.

"Are you okay?" the man asks.

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man.

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you."

"Do you need to call someone?"

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix.

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing.

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away."

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi.

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!"

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please."

"No, I can't accept that-"

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in.

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat.

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips.

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded.

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away.

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb.

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar?

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow.

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now.

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning, the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance.

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need.

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world.

Food.

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins.

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read.

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy."

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath.

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes."

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss.

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle.

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move.

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again.

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible.

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?" There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago.

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue.

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle.

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm?

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living.

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades.

Another deep breath in.

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew."

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something.

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen)

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle.

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation.

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand.

"Sorry?"

Oh.

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom?

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do."

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken.

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation.

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley.

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend.

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week."

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out."

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side, and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't.

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to"

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something.

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking.

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember.

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself.

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with.

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross.

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you.

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display.

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety.

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?"

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about.

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try." That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants.

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words.

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too.

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-"

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed.

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember."

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand.

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason.

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it.

"Me?"

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks.

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend.

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time,"

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear."

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure."

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?"

"I don't have a phone."

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone.

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now.

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

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seeingivy · 2 years ago

Text

milestones

satoru gojo x f!reader

megumi thanks you and satoru for everything you’ve done

content: megumi + oc child, FLUFF, just sweet little wholesome family moment at graduation, lil family dynamics

an: based on a very cute family I saw while working graduation a few weeks ago. realized ive been giving no attention to my man gojo while I draft the longer fic so I will revive an unfinished draft. not proofread.

“Asami, stop ringing the cowbell. Your Megumi-nii is going to be here any second.”

You feel her tug on the end of your skirt and you look down to meet her crystal blue eyes, no cowbell in sight.

“That’s not me, Mama.”

You turn your neck to find Satoru standing on the platform, shaking the cowbell over his head. Megumi’s going to kill him. If you don’t get to him first. You grab his arm and yank him down, pinching the end of his ears in your fingers.

“Ow ow ow. Quit it.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find Megumi, love! I would have used the air horn but Asami lost it.”

He reaches down, tickling her by the sides as she laughs out in protest. You pull them both in front of you, scolding the two of them under their breaths as you fix their outfits. Satoru’s tie was off center, Asami’s skirt was riding up, their matching white hair unruly. Before you can fix it, Satoru grabs your hand in the air, locking his fingers with yours.

“This is worse than when he was in the school play. You’d think he was getting married by the way you were acting.”

“Shut up. This is a big deal for him, I don’t want him to think we’re not taking it seriously.”

“You printed out minute by minute itineraries on how we were all going to get here. I think he knows you take this seriously, my sweet.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he fixes your hair, pushing it behind your ears. You give him one last eye roll, before standing on the tips of your toes to find Megumi in the crowd. The graduates had started coming out, other families wrapping their arms around each other.

“Megumi-nii!”

Asami spots him first, her tiny little legs running up to where Megumi was standing. She wraps her legs around his knees, catching him off guard as he breaks out of the conversation he was having. You watch him crouch down and pick up Asami, as you and Satoru excitedly walk up and crush him in a hug.

“Alright, alright. Calm down.”

Satoru reaches forward and ruffles his hair, the same way he had been doing since the two of you first got Megumi, all but knocking the cap off of his head.

“Congratulations Doctor Megumi. Don’t kill anyone, okay? Y/N and I love you very much but we have no interest in helping you hide bodies anymore.”

The couple standing to your side give you a weird look before walking across the courtyard. You reach forward, pushing Satoru out of the way as you readjust Megumi’s dark green hood, his cords, and his cap. He gives you a thankful smile - one that you’ve seen hundreds of times over the years, whenever you save him from Satoru’s pestering. Which was often.

“This is a…big deal. Satoru’s just being silly.”

You give him a smile before taking the flowery lei out of the plastic box and handing it to Satoru. You watch Satoru jokingly smack Megumi with the flowers, before placing them around his neck and ruffling his hair, nicely this time.

“You guys didn’t have to.”

You crush his hand in yours, squeezing twice as Asami runs in little circles around your legs.

“Of course, we did. I know we joke about it, but you really are our first kid. We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

He gives the two of you a smile, reaching to pick up Asami, who had been pulling on the end of his gown for the past five minutes. Satoru wraps his arm around you, leaning his head against yours as the two of you try your best not to cry at the sight of your two kids, smiling at each other.

“We’re really proud of you, Megumi.”

Satoru’s words make the tears well in your eyes and you crush him into a hug again. Asami’s still crushed in between the two of you, her tiny voice muffled by your arms. He pulls back, putting Asami on the ground as he nervously runs his hand through his hair.

“Ah, right. Um.”

“Something wrong, Megs?”

“No Y/N. It’s just- I wanted to thank you guys. I really couldn’t have done it without you.”

Megumi pulls the graduation cap off of his head and secures it on top of Asami’s little ponytails, poking the side of her cheek before standing up to face the two of you. Your face hurts from smiling, seeing your two favorite people being sweet together.

“Megumi.”

“You guys did so much for me when I was younger, and I never really made it easy for you. This is my achievement just as much as it is yours.”

Megumi swipes the cords off his neck and swings them around your neck. He does the same with his gown, zipping it off and holding it out for Satoru to stick his arms in. By the way he’s looking at you, you know that you and Satoru are a mess. Cheeks pink, makeup smudged, tears running down your cheeks.

“You guys are corny. Stop crying.”

You take his face in his hands, squishing his cheeks.

“When did you become so grown? You literally slept in my bed till you were fourteen and now you’re acting so mature and grown up and-”

You feel Satoru’s hands curl around your wrist, pulling your hands off of his face. He lets go, lifting his hands to your face to swipe the tears off your cheeks. He gives Megumi a smile, beckoning for him to go talk to his friends who were waiting at the side. He takes Asami by the hand, introducing them to Nobara and Itadori as they all walk down the courtyard. He turns his head back to you, the tears still pouring out of your eyes.

“Are you done yet crybaby?”

“How are you not crying? Megumi grew up.”

He wraps his arms around you, pressing soft kisses to your hair as you watch Itadori and Asami play a very intense game of rock paper scissors a few feet away from you.

“Asami’s not going to stay a baby, you know. And when you’re the one crying about it, I’ll be the one laughing at you.”

“That won’t be a problem. We can just make another one!”

You smack him as Asami runs back over, followed closely by Megumi. “Ready to go, Mama?”

Satoru nods, picking her up and dragging her back to your car as you link your arms with Megumi and follow the two of them.

“You know, Satoru’s just as sentimental about this as I am. He’s just trying to act cool.”

“He’s worse than you. I asked him to fix my tie this morning and he had a whole meltdown.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Went on and on about how I made you two parents, about how I’m Asami’s big brother so I have to come back and take care of her, how I can’t forget you guys.”

You look up to find Satoru hanging Asami in the air by her ankles, the two of them laughing as he swings her in the air. You shove your head against Megumi’s shoulder, linking your arm through his.

“What a sap.”

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