#I will fix quiche tomorrow and things will be better.

[thegreenleavesofspring]

🙃🙃🙃

[meli-productions]

Love Bug

Day Three of #ineffablehusbandsauweek by @ineffablehusbandsweek.

Today we venture into a small-town that seems pulled from a Hallmark movie: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26599846

Aziraphale paced the length of the waiting room, nervously twirling his ring and hoping that his darling was saveable - if only because he couldn’t handle thinking about the cost of replacement. Grace had been in the family for years - it’d be a shame that a silly thing like a trip into the country would put her out of commission. 

But she’d been sputtering and smoking for the past few weeks - this had been inevitable. 

The door opened and he'd never been more grateful to have been ready to speak because at least it hid the dropping of his jaw. The man who walked out was unfairly attractive - disheveled in a way that looked purposeful. His coveralls were tied around his waist, leaving him in a loose black tank and there were grease stains covering the lightly defined muscles of his arms and the long-fingered hands.

When he glanced up, the mechanic took a moment to stare at him - Aziraphale bit down a sigh at the sight of his molten gold eyes - and then took a step towards him.

“You must be the owner of the Volkswaggen,” he reached out a hand, then looking down at the grease, wiped it on the coveralls. “Sorry, I’m filthy, otherwise I’d shake your hand.”

Aziraphale’s mind caught up as the man spoke, “Right, yes. Is Gracie going to be okay? Is she - y’know - ascending to car heaven?”

Though he wanted to smack himself for that comment, it was worth it for the sharp smile that bloomed on the mechanic’s face.

“Nah, nothing of the sort, dove,” said the mechanic. “I’m Crowley, by the way and your - Gracie - she’s gonna be just fine. Just had a little leak that ended up making a bigger mess. Nothing that should break the bank.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Azirpahale, shoulders dropping with relief. “I’m Aziraphale. Thank you so much for doing this so last minute. How much do I owe you?”

Crowley shook his head, “Nothing at the moment. I’m afraid to say that she’ll be out of commission for a few days at the least - the clean up’s gonna be a bitch.”

Tension returning, Aziraphale felt himself lose color, “Oh, dear. Oh, I was meant to head back home tomorrow. Gabriel will be so cross. I wasn’t meant to be away so long and, I’d only set up a room for a couple of days and now - ”

“Easy there, dove,” said Crowley, hands outstretched but just out of reach. “Take a seat, you look like you’re going to double over. Deep breaths, that’s it, dove. We’ll get you sorted out.”

As Aziraphale sat in one of the rickety, blue plastic chairs and focused on the gold eyes that were now watching him so worried as the mech - as Crowley - squatted before him and, despite the state of his hands reached out towards him. He greedily took the spindly fingers and relished in the warmth of the hand.

“There, we’ll work through it, alright?” he waited until Aziraphale nodded, then swept a thumb across the back of his hand and continued, “I’ll try to get it fixed so you’re not here any more than you need to be. And I have a friend that runs a bed & breakfast, I’m sure she can squeeze you in a room. As for this Gabriel, if he has a problem he can shove it.”

A laugh bubbled out of him and the thumb pressed against his knuckle gave a little squeeze, “I don’t want to put anyone out - and Gabriel is my brother…and boss. I was just supposed to be doing a little travel piece and now it’s become immersive.”

“ Ah, that just means that you’ll have a hell of a piece,” said Crowley. “Look, my break starts in a few minutes. How about I treat you to lunch? Least I could do for freaking you out.”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe his luck, so he just gave a nod which was answered with a bright smile.

“Brilliant. Just wait here. Let me get decent if I’m going to be seen out with an angel.”

Without another word, Crowley straightened up and sauntered out towards the workshop, hips swinging while Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the movement with wide-eyes.

Oh, good Lord.

While he waited, Aziraphale called Gabriel, bracing himself for the berating. And, as usual, his brother didn’t disappoint.

“Honestly, sunshine,” sighed Gabriel and the eye-roll was palpable through the phone. “I told you that that car was unreliable. You should’ve just taken the Lexus we offered.”

Aziraphale pouted, “That car was mother’s, Gabriel. You didn’t want it, Michael didn’t want it, but I did - it was one of her favorite things in this world.”

Another sigh, this time more exasperated, “I know, we don’t have to go through it again: I got the newspaper, Michael got the house, and you got the car. I know. Just - are you gonna be able to get the piece to me in time?”

“Yes, Gabriel.”

“Then for all I care,” the man said. “You can stay as long as you want - get a quaint little cottage there, hell, get married to that God-forsaken town. Just - get me the piece. It’s the tie-in to everything else.”

“Alright , I’ll - ” the dial-tone met his voice, “see you soon.”

He pressed the ‘End Call’ button a little harder than needed, but didn’t feel the satisfaction he thought would come from it.

“Whoa, there, take it easy, angel. Don’t want you breaking the phone,” said Crowley’s voice from behind.

Aziraphale turned, blushing, “I just - he just- ”

“I’m sure your brother deserved it. No doubt,” said Crowley, smirking. “But put the muscle away, dove, might need it later.”

Implication dripped off his words and, had his eyes not been covered by glasses, Aziraphale would’ve expected a wink directed in his direction. He was, nonetheless, disappointed that the gorgeous gold had been covered up, but pleasantly distracted by the new outfit donned by his companion.

Tearing his eyes away from the tight shirt and pants, he asked, “So - ahem - lunch?”

Crowley smiled, “I know a perfect place. I’m sure you’re gonna love it.”

A sleek, black Bentley sat waiting and Aziraphale’s jaw did drop this time at the amazing vehicle before them.

“This is yours?”

“Belonged to my grandfather,” said Crowley, preening under the attention. “I’ve kept it in great shape. She’s my little darling.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help be impressed, if a little jealous, as a pout curved his lip, “And I can’t even keep Grace alive.”

“Oh, dove, things happen. She hasn’t looked like this always, believe me. Come on, in you go, let’s get lunch.”

So as Crowley drove around the small town, the two swapped stories about cars, then family, and then into more casual topics as they relaxed - slipping into the bistro amidst laughter and hand swats.

“Oh, you are dreadful, dear.”

“Look, Bea shouldn’t have tried it - they knew what they were getting themself into.”

The server looked between them, then shot Crowley a sly smile that he pointedly avoided, “Hey Tones, who’s your friend that you took a lunch break for?”

Crowley clenched his teeth, “This is Aziraphale. He was having a rough day so I decided to distract him a little. Don’t be nosy, Ligur - that’s not what you get paid for.”

Ligur just scoffed and turned to Aziraphale, “Regardless of his grumpiness, it’s an honor to meet the person that somehow got the hermit out from under a car. I’m Ligur, Crowley’s oldest friends and I’ll be happy to get you anything you want.”

Aziraphale blushed at the attention from the newcomer, “Aziraphale, pleasure to meet you. The spinach quiche sounds good, I think I’ll have that - and a glass of lemonade.”

“Uh-huh, sure thing,” he glanced over at Crowley and asked, “and dessert?”

Crowley bit back a groan, “Ligur.”

“Not - not at the moment, dear. Thank you.”

With a little huff of laughter, Ligur turned to Crowley and took his order, leaving only after he’d ruffled the red-hair out of its perfect disheveledness. Then, pink sprinkling across his cheeks, Crowley turned to Aziraphale.

“Please, don’t let Ligur freak you out, he’s just trying to be funny.”

“Dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said, reaching over to squeeze Crowley’s hand. “I know all about annoying friends. Believe me, you are not being judged by the pushiness of your friend.”

With easing shoulders, Crowley smiled, “Thanks, angel. But, trust me, he’s not gonna be the worst of them all.” 

It was true.

While they tried to enjoy their lunch, still joking and Crowley taking little breaks to watch the enraptured look on Aziraphale’s face as he ate, more people dropped in to catch a glimpse of their famed ‘hermit’ and his new friend.

Hastur, Ligur’s boyfriend, came in and made snide comments that only ended when Ligur upended a glass of cold water atop his head and swept him out of the bistro. Then came Anathema - the friend with the B&B.

“I have a room with your name on it, Aziraphale,” she said, clasping his hands in hers, then giving a little hum. “Your aura is so bright, querido, like a halo. Ay, que chulo,” then turned to Crowley, “tenías razón, si es un angelito mandado por Dios.”

Crowley blushed and hid his face behind his glass of water as Anathema continued to coo over Aziraphale, telling him that the room would be his for as long as he needed - or until he found better accommodations which he thanked with a bright smile and a shake of her hand.

“She’s very pretty,” Aziraphale said, sipping on his drink and watching Crowley’s reaction.

A quirk of a smile, “Yeah, her fiance thinks so, too.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and a happy wiggle ran through his body. “Well, thank you for lunch, darling, but I think I’ve imposed on you for far too long.”

“No imposition, trust me,” said Crowley. “I’m my own boss and I get to decide how long my lunch break is…so you’re not getting in anyone’s way - trust me.” 

“Well, if you say so.”

Anathema was sitting along the flowers of her little cottage when Crowley dropped Aziraphale off and she peeked through the foliage as her friend helped unload the suitcase. Aziraphale knew she was there, he had seen the crest of her curls, but figured that it was just another Ligur incident and should just be ignored.

“Thank you for everything, Crowley,” he said. “Now, you have my number so just let me know when Gracie’s good to go.”

Crowley nodded, “Of course, angel. And I’d say I hope you keep entertained - but I’m sure Ana will find something interesting for you to do. I’ll see you soon.”

“Mind how you go, dear.”

He watched Crowley drive away and when he turned around, he found Anathema perched over the gate - looking far too much like the Cheshire Cat to be comfortable. 

“Welcome, Aziraphale,” she said, swinging the gate open. “Ven, amor, let’s get you settled. And then join me and Newt for tea, we’d love to get to know you a little better.”

The woman was intimidating and zipped through the cottage like a hurricane while Newt, a tall and quiet young man, just smiled at Aziraphale and tried to settle her down for a cuppa. Eventually, he won and the woman settled into her white-washed, wooden chair nursing a cup of lavender tea and the couple grilled him until he was hot under his collar and wishing for the earth to swallow him up.

“Don’t look like that, angelito,” Anathema said, patting his cheek as she passed into the kitchen. “We just want to make sure that you’re good enough for our little carino. Crowley’s special to us and he barely ever comes out of his cave.”

Aziraphale focused on her echoing footsteps instead of the heat of his body, “I’m not anything - I - I’m just a failing journalist from London. I’ll be out of town before you know it and - ”

Newt gave a little snort, “Yeah, that’s what Ana thought. It’s what I thought. This town has a way of dragging you into its heart and making you stay.”

“Opens your heart, too,” said Anathema, reappearing and placing a kiss on Newt’s forehead. “Just - keep the possibilities open, okay amor? You never know what might happen. But enough of that, it’s time for sleep - it’s time for good little angelitos to get ready for tomorrow.”

As dismissals go, it was the nicest Aziraphale ever got and he was ushered into his room by an apologetic Newt. He lay in the soft bed and stared at the ceiling with their spirals that he tracked with his eyes and thought of the curve of Crowley’s smile. 

He wished nothing more to wrap himself in this life with Crowley and his gold eyes - but his life was in London and wishes only took you so far. 

The next afternoon, an unknown number rang Aziraphale’s phone and - with only one unknown person who knew his number - he answered to the drawl of Crowley’s voice.

“Is - is she okay? Are we ready to go?”

Crowley’s silence made Aziraphale nervous, even more so with the sharp intake of air, “Okay, so there might be a little more wrong with Grace than I thought at first glance and I’m going to need some more time.”

As Aziraphale’s breath hitched, Crowley continued in a rush, “Relax, dove, breathe. I’m picking you up and taking you to lunch again - somewhere you won’t be harassed - and we’ll talk this out, alright?” 

The soothing tone released some of the tension off his shoulders, “How do you know just the right thing to say?”

“Practice,” said Crowley, laughing. “I’ll be over in a few, angel. Just be ready - the last thing I need is Anathema on my ass.”

Aziraphale joined in laughing, “Of course not, I’ll make sure I’m ready.”

Anathema, like the seer that she was, was already waiting for him at the door of Jasmine Cottage, “Have another date with Crowley?”

He blushed, “Hardly a date, dear. I think that he just - just feels bad that I have such a bum car.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If that were the case, I should be worried about my fiance being taken away from me - his car is worse than yours. Believe me, Aziraphale, this has nothing to do with your car and everything to do with you, chulo.”

She pressed a kiss on his forehead before gliding back into the heart of the home. Aziraphale, rubbing the spot she’d kissed, kept his focus on the road and processed her words.

Angel. Crowley called him ‘angel’, and there was no way it was because he knew the meaning of his name so it had to be a - a pet name. So when the Bentley pulled up to the curb, Aziraphale blushed and hurried in.

“You seem in a better mood then when we last talked,” Crowley said, tilting his glasses to look upon him with bare eyes. “Let me guess, you told off that hardass brother of yours and now are gonna follow your dream and open up your library.”

Aziraphale stopped in the act of putting on his seatbelt to blink over at his companion, “You remember that?”

“Course I do, ‘s hard to forget such a dream,” drawled Crowley, a hint of a pink brushing his cheeks where they met the rim of his glasses. “So, did you tell Gabriel to fuck off?”

“No,” he said, slowly tracking the blush as it made its way lower into the collar of his shirt. “Not just yet. But he did give me permission to stay as long as I want - might even stay forever - with the right incentive.”

Crowley’s hand slid off the wheel as he turned, “O-oh, yeah? And what incentive would that be.”

Aziraphale, feeling bolder than he had in awhile, hummed, “Let’s start with lunch. Then I’ll let you know.”

A small chuckle was coupled with a change in gears, “Then I hope this lunch is everything you’ve ever wanted, angel.”

[ends-of-the-wayward-storm]

KH OC Week 2020–Day 6: Life’s Perks

Nothing Beats Homemade

[This time I had a plan! Partially. I got the gist of it before filling in the finer details. Anyway this was actually kinda cute to write, but it’s a bit long, I think. Got to practice more with writing some characters which is always nice. :) Hope you enjoy!] @khoc-week

————

“Here you go.”

Seifer frowned as he took the letter from Erica. “At least this was on time.”

“Mail comin’ in late’s the worst, y’know?” Rai commented.

“That it?”

“Looks like it,” Erica replied, giving her messenger bag one last search. “Hope you have a good day!”

“We’ll see about that.”

Erica briefly frowned before setting her skateboard down and heading off. That was the last piece of mail for today, which meant the weekend was officially hers. She wondered what they’d be able to do this time. Last week, Ax—Lea decided to try his hand at skateboarding. He thought he’d be a pro at it since he considered himself pretty good with balance.

That is until he crashed into someone with a large bag of groceries. Needless to say getting the eggs and ice cream out of his hair took way too long for his liking.

Approaching the post office, Erica slowed down to pick up her skateboard. When she pushed open the door, a little bell rang from above it, alerting a woman with brown hair picked up in a bun.

“Any issues today?” she asked.

“Nope! Everyone got their mail,” Erica replied.

“That’s good to hear.”

Erica hung her bag up just as her Gummiphone buzzed. Fishing it out of her pocket, she felt it buzz a few more times as messages from her friends kept popping up.

“Plans for the weekend?”

“Looks like it.”

“Then I hope you have a good weekend.”

“You too!” Erica gave the woman a wave before exiting the post office and leaning against a pole.

—Pence: Hey Erica! We’re headed to the Bistro for lunch tomorrow. Wanna come with us?

Ooh that sounded fun!

~~Sure!

—Olette: This would be your first time at the Bistro, right?

—Roxas: I think so.

—Olette: It’s amazing! You won’t want to eat anywhere else.

—Lea: Sounds like it’s the best in town.

—Hayner: Sure is.

Erica laughed to herself before tucking her Gummiphone away. Setting her skateboard down again, she set a course for the train station to head home.

————

The next day, Erica was quickly making her way over to the Bistro. She hoped she wasn’t too late. The train was having some minor technical difficulties, but luckily they were able to fix them.

Up ahead, a boy with a sort of wizard’s hat was walking down the street.

“Hi Vivi!” Erica said.

“Hello,” he replied just before she passed him.

After a few more moments the Bistro was in sight, and the rest of her friends were by the steps leading down to it. But what was strange is that they all looked disappointed.

“I’m here!” Erica announced.

“Oh. Hey,” Hayner said dejectedly.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“We just found out the Bistro’s closed for renovations,” Pence replied.

“Oh. . . .”

“Seems we’ll have to find another place for lunch,” Isa said.

“I guess. . . .” Hayner pouted.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something,” Naminé said.

Roxas glanced to the ground in thought for a few seconds. “Maybe we could make something.”

“What would we make?” Xion asked.

“Good question,” Lea commented. “Any ideas?”

Pence hummed. “My dad makes a really mean quiche. Maybe we could try that?”

“Quiche?” Xion repeated.

“It’s kinda like a pie but without the sugar and sweet stuff.”

“Can’t be that hard, can it?” Lea said.

“You said that about the skateboard,” Roxas teased, leaving the redhead spluttering for a comeback.

“A-anyway, whaddowe need to get?”

“I think I have what we need over at my place,” Pence said.

“That makes things easier.”

So the group followed Pence over to his house in hopes of saving their lunch plans.

“I was so looking forward to that crab biscuit thing,” Hayner complained.

“Crab bisque,” Isa corrected.

“Yeah whatever. Point is I’m not getting it.”

“Hayner,” Olette warned.

“I think it might be fun trying to make something,” Erica said, getting a nod from Naminé.

“Besides, you’ve had Pence’s dad’s quiche before.”

“I know,” Hayner moaned.

The group finally approached Pence’s humble abode, and he dug around in his pockets before pulling out a key. “My parents aren’t home but they know I have friends over sometimes.”

Inside was your average but quite cozy home, and there was a very nice vase of flowers on the kitchen counter.

“Nice place,” Lea said.

“Thanks!” Pence said. “Make yourselves at home. Oh, make sure to leave your shoes by the door.” After doing that himself, he began to search his kitchen for the needed ingredients. “Let’s see. . . . Eggs, check, pie crusts, check. . . .” He muttered a few more ingredients before stopping. “Aw man!”

“What’s wrong?” Naminé asked.

“There’s no ham!”

“Can we use something else instead?” Erica asked.

“I’m pretty sure we could, but my dad’s recipe’s the only quiche recipe I know.”

“Maybe we could make something else?” Xion suggested.

“What about pizza?” Olette said.

“Give me oooone second.” Pence scouted the fridge and cabinets. “Yep! We’re good to go!”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Hayner said.

As Pence grabbed the ingredients, the others went to wash up. “Anyone like pepperoni?”

“I do!”

“Sure,” Lea replied.

Once everyone gathered in the kitchen, preparations began. Two pizza crusts were placed onto baking sheets and pans, and the oven was set to preheat.

“I figured we’d cheat a little bit with the crusts since someone’s hungry,” Pence said, earning a look from Hayner.

“There’s always next time,” Isa said. “Assuming Hayner won’t object to it.”

“Hey!” Hayner snapped.

“Okay. Roxas you’re in charge of putting the oil on the cheese pizza, and Xion can do the other pizza,” Pence said. “Make sure not to put too much.”

“Got it,” Roxas said, and the group fell into a comfortable silence for a bit. “I wonder what they’re doing renovations for.”

“Could be technical stuff,” Lea said.

“Or they could be fixing other things,” Erica added.

“Maybe. . . .” Roxas inspected his pizza after a couple moments. “Is this enough?”

“Yup,” Pence said.

“What about mine?” Xion asked.

“Perfect. Now we’re going to do the same thing with the pizza sauce.”

Naminé watched Roxas and Xion thoughtfully. “It kind of looks like you’re painting something.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Erica said.

It didn’t take too long for the sauce and the toppings to be put on. And once the pizzas were seasoned, they were placed into the oven.

“And now we wait,” Pence said as he set the dial timer.

“So, what do we do until then?” Erica asked.

“We could play a game,” Olette said.

“What about cards?” At that, the former Organization members exchanged brief looks.

“I think I have some in my room,” Pence said before heading down a hall. A few moments later, he came back with a deck of cards. “Go Fish seems like a good one to start with.”

“Someone we knew was an expert at card games,” Isa said.

“Yeah. So much of an expert it wasn’t even fair,” Lea remarked.

“I won a few games,” Roxas said.

“Me too,” Xion added.

“I guess you just had terrible luck,” Isa said.

Lea sighed. “I just don’t get a break around here, do I?”

The group laughed at his expense, which ultimately tugged a smile out of Lea.

Erica studied the hand she was dealt. “So uh, who goes first?”

“I think Isa’s supposed to go first,” Hayner said.

“All right.” Isa eyed his cards. “Any 2’s?”

“Aw man!” Hayner forked over two of them, and the blue-haired man couldn’t help smirking.

The group managed to make a full circle at least once, and already Naminé seemed to be taking first place with Isa not too far behind. Once they got to Erica a second time, the timer buzzed, startling Xion.

“I’ll get the plates!” Olette said, leading the others to set their cards down as the pizzas were carefully taken out.

“That smells really good,” Erica said.

“Right?” Pence agreed.

“Hey do you still have that lemonade from yesterday?” Hayner asked.

“Think so.” Pence served everyone their slices as the lemonade was poured out. “And lunch is served!”

“Thank you,” Naminé said.

“No problem.”

Isa took a bite before a small smirk made its way through. “Huh. Not bad.”

“Nothing beats homemade!”

“Oh, wait wait! Let’s get a picture!” Olette said. Everyone went behind the counter as they tried to squeeze into frame.

Roxas briefly bumped into Naminé. “S-sorry.”

“It’s all right, Roxas,” the blonde said.

“Little to the left, Hayner,” Olette said as Erica blew a stray curl out of her face. “Um Lea could you bend down a bit? You too, Isa.”

“How ‘bout I take the picture?” Lea suggested.

“That might be a better idea.” Olette handed her device to him.

“I think you still need to bend down,” Pence said.

“Maybe put it higher?” Naminé said.

Lea raised the device, and everyone managed to fit into the soon-to-be picture. “Uh which button are you supposed to press again?”

“I think the red one?” Erica guessed.

Xion squinted at tiny numbers counting up on the screen. “What are those numbers there?”

“I didn’t do it,” Lea said instantly.

“It’s been recording this whole time?!” Pence exclaimed.

“Oops,” Olette said. “Um push the red button.”

Lea did as told, and the numbers stopped counting. “All right now what?”

“Press the button next to the red one. Now everyone say cheese!”

“Cheese!” mostly everyone said before the picture was taken.

“Nice photo!”

As everyone continued with their meal, Roxas kept occasionally glancing to the pepperoni pizza.

“Can I try that?” he finally asked.

“Oh sure!” Pence gave Roxas a slice, and Roxas took a bite. But after a few seconds, he let out a cough.

“That’s . . . really strong pepperoni.”

“Really? Never really noticed,” Lea said.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Isa said as Roxas debated on taking another bite or not.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to, y’know.”

“Yeah. Not everyone likes pepperoni,” Hayner said. Roxas frowned, and Lea snatched the slice right off of Roxas’s plate.

“We should do this again some time,” Naminé said.

“This was pretty fun,” Erica agreed.

“How ‘bout tomorrow?” Olette said.

“I don’t see why not,” Isa said.

“Then it’s settled! Tomorrow it is.”

As Erica watched her friends discuss tomorrow’s lunch (which Pence promised would be his dad’s quiche), she smiled to herself. She was sure they still would’ve had this much fun if they had gone to the Bistro, but somehow having it just be them felt more special. I guess nothing really does beat homemade.

————

[beckzorz]

Dressed to Kill: Killer Shoes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Words: 9852 Summary: Ever since Bucky found you on that island beach, you’ve been each others’ best-kept secret. So why are you looking at him like he’s a stranger when you’re supposed to be miles away? Warnings: NSFW (language, smut), 18+ A/N: Sequel to Dressed to Kill, one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, for @jewelofwinter‘s 1.5k writing challenge! Congrats to my dear Jessica on this awesome milestone! My prompt was booze. Hope you enjoy!!!

Sidestepping a tipsy woman’s flailing arm, Bucky snags a fingernail-sized quiche off a passing waiter’s tray. He pops it whole in his mouth, ignoring the snort of derision from the comm device hidden by his ear.

“Jesus, Barnes, you’re supposed to be the classy one.”

“Shoulda sent Wilson,” Bucky mutters as he dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

Hill just chuckles. “Yeah, probably. If only he wasn’t the most recognizable superhero in America.”

How he manages to keep from rolling his eyes is a mystery. Thankfully, Hill doesn’t say anything else, even when Bucky makes the mistake of licking his fingers after eating a tiny, glistening slider.

For some reason, the cocktail party spirit is evading him tonight. Hill doesn’t know why, but she sure as hell knows he’s not on top of his game. If Sam were here, he’d be giving Bucky even more bullshit than Hill.

Well, Bucky knows the reason if no one else does. No one else had better know.

You’re his secret.

He’d be doing better if he didn’t know you were in town. He might have smuggled you a ticket, finagled your help, done something more fun than this private eye bullshit somewhere private—but no, you’re working too.

A different place, different mission, different target.

Presumably a different end goal, too. Well, whatever. Hill might judge, Wilson definitely would, but Bucky’s done too much murdering of his own to give a fuck if you’re off murdering someone who deserves it tonight.

He assumes they deserve it. You might have unconventional methods of making the world a better place, but that’s what you’re doing.

What he’s doing, too, even if tonight is the biggest pain in his ass since that long mission posing as security in Ukraine. If only you weren’t working. God, how nice that would’ve been. Bad table manners aside, he’s done his job. There’s loads of nooks and crannies in this place that’d be perfect for—

Bucky chokes on his champagne.

A woman just walked in. Black dress, deep lipstick, killer heels. Under all that, a face and body to die for.

It’s you.

Bucky turns away, face hot. He wipes his mouth as daintily as he can to disguise the utter bafflement he feels. Is the room warmer than before? He can’t tell. All he knows is that the mingling crowd is too much. Last time he’d seen you in a crowd…

He surreptitiously adjusts his pants. Best not to think about that now.

What the hell are you doing here? Did you finish your mission? How the hell did you even get a ticket?

He traces the outline of his phone in his breast pocket. It’s quiet. Can he sneak it out for a look, or is that too rude?

No, fuck that, he doesn’t need to look. If you’d called, or even texted, his phone would’ve vibrated.

Why didn’t you call?

Hell, why aren’t you looking at him? Talking to him? Running your hand down his lapel…

Bucky chances it. He turns around, but you’re leaning against the bar, eyes resolutely elsewhere. Mission be damned; the assignment can wait a few minutes. He makes his way through the crowd, silk dresses whooshing against his suit as he squeezes between clusters of the rich and ambitious.

He’s not the only one stunned by you. You’re smiling coyly at the bartender, whose eyes keep drifting back to you as he mixes a drink and slides it your way.

Huh. Bucky’s never seen you drink a martini before.

You stir the olive through your drink, eyes drifting down the bar and passing over Bucky with no more feeling than if you were looking at a stranger.

A chill runs down his spine.

You’re good at your job, damn good, but there’s never been a single moment that you haven’t reacted to the sight of him. For the first time, Bucky looks closer. The curve of your neck, the size of your breasts…

Ah.

Quite.

He orders a whiskey from the bartender, props himself on the bar with his elbows, and tugs his phone out of his pocket. Clicks off his comm device. Dials a number. Waits. His lips curl into a smirk when someone picks up.

“Hey, darlin’.”

—

You cross one leg over the other and lean back in your chair, lips pressed tight together as you adjust your phone against your ear. The man across from you watches with a sympathetic grimace as he cuts his steak.

“Ballsy of you to call after all this time,” you say stonily.

A pause, then a low chuckle that makes you glad you’re wearing closed shoes—Nicholas can’t see the way that sound curls your toes.

“Well, better late than never, right?”

“No, I think never would have been better.”

Nicholas nods approvingly. You reach over and slide your hand into his, mind a million—or more accurately, a quarter dozen—miles away.

“If you have something to say, say it,” you continue. “Otherwise—”

“I can see you when I close my eyes.”

You can hear the smirk in Bucky’s voice, but the next words come out sounding less sultry.

Less sultry, more ominous.

“Sometimes, like right now, I don’t even need to close ‘em.”

What?

Questions swirl in your brain. What the hell does he mean? He can see you? But you’re miles away, in some rich loser’s eat-in open-concept kitchen—

You swallow, set your jaw, and squeeze Nicholas’ hand. His eyes are blue, but they’re the wrong shade, the wrong shape.

Wrong everything.

“That’s very sweet,” you drawl. “But you can stop wasting your time. Go use those cheap lines on someone else.”

You hang up and groan, burying your face in your hands to disguise your racing pulse.

“Just block his number,” Nicholas says. He takes a sip of his wine.

“I will,” you lie. A few deep breaths help settle your nerves, but your mind is reeling. A sniff for good measure as you recreate some semblance of composure. “God, I can’t believe I let him get under my skin.” You rub your arms and shiver. “You think you know a person…”

“People can be awful,” Nicholas says. He sets down his fork and pats his knee. “C’mere, you.”

You glance at him from under your eyelashes as you set your napkin on the table and sidle around to drop on his knee. You loop your arms around his neck and press your cheek to his shoulder.

Nicholas settles his hands on your hips, his thumbs tracing circles low on your belly as he murmurs placating nonsense in your ear. You’re not listening. You’re busy unsticking a patch from the inside of your wide bangle.

“—and you know you can always trust me,” Nicholas says.

You cup his neck in your hands, the finger-sized patch latching seamlessly onto his skin and already starting to dissolve.

“I know,” you murmur.

You lean in slowly, but Nicholas blanches. He lurches to his feet, sending you sprawling to the floor.

“Nicholas?!”

“I—I’m sorry—I think I ate—”

He darts to the bathroom, and within seconds you can hear him retching.

Finally.

You climb to your feet and grab your phone, mind racing back to the Bucky problem now that Nicholas is out of the way.

What the hell did he mean, he can see you? How can he? Does he mean he’s watching a video feed? But there aren’t any here. You turn your phone in your fingers and bite your lip. Bucky’s working tonight, same as you—well, sort of. It would be silly to call him back before you’ve even thought his riddle through. Not to mention while Nicholas is still on his feet. You don’t know how much that patch will affect him.

How can Bucky be seeing you if he’s miles away? It’s impossible.

Unless…

Unless—

“Oh shit,” you mutter.

Someone is impersonating you at the party.

Someone.

Is impersonating you.

At the party.

Well that just takes the cake.

You slip your phone back into your purse and go knock on the bathroom door.

“Nicholas? Are you alright?”

A groan.

“I’m coming in,” you tell him. A beat, and then you push the door open with as concerned an expression as you can manage.

Nicholas is back on his feet, but he’s pale and shaky. Perfect.

“Oh, love!” you gasp. You rush over and steady him. “Let me help you.”

“You’re a godsend,” Nicholas says weakly. He leads the way to his bedroom—his apartment is sprawling; how the hell does he manage? Who needs this kind of space?—and lets you tuck him in.

“Shouldn’t have had that steak,” he says. “You did warn me it looked a little off…”

“Oh please,” you tell him. You press a kiss to his brow to conceal your scowl. Can’t he just go to sleep and stop talking? You’d only warned him about the steak in case of emergency. You hadn’t expected to need to pull off that trick… “Rest, dear. I'll come by tomorrow to check up on you, alright?”

“You’re an angel,” Nicholas mumbles. He smiles, finally letting go of your hand.

Angel?

You pull back as fast as you reasonably can, a little queasy yourself now. No one calls you an angel but Bucky. It’s wrong, sickening, to hear it from this dumb jerk.

It’s a disgrace. How dare he.

You’re out of Nicholas’ place before you even have time to consider your own mission. So much for his bank accounts, his trust funds, his shady offshore properties…

Well, screw that. It can wait. You’ll be back tomorrow.

—

Easy enough to catch a cab, easy enough to namedrop the most upscale venue in the city. Easy enough to hook into the video feeds you’d had Kasie hack into back when you didn’t think you’d be going.

You call Bucky as the driver peels away from the curb. He answers in a ring and a half.

“Didn’t know if you’d call,” he says.

“Is she wearing a black dress?”

“Uh… yeah. How’d you—”

“Feeds are fuzzy. Can’t tell for sure if that’s her,” you say curtly.

“Don’t be like that,” he says.

You bristle as you fix a fresh patch to the inside of your bracelet. Just in case. “Like what?”

“Like you aren’t glad I called.”

You close your eyes, tip your head back. “I’m a little preoccupied,” you murmur. “Not every day I find out my cover’s blown.”

“We’ll figure it out, darlin’.”

Bucky’s voice wraps around you, almost as comforting as if he was holding you in his arms. You'd had to hide your delight before, at Nicholas’ place, but no one’s looking at you this time.

This time, you let yourself smile.

—

The first time you’d met Bucky, you’d swept from the street up marble steps not unlike these. Of course, back then the whole point had been to distract him.

You smooth down your skirt as you wait for Bucky to let you in. This time, you’re distracted even before you walk in the door. Bucky’s nowhere in view and you’re already a bundle of nerves. Of course, Bucky’s not the one making you nervous.

He really should be, you decide. You’ve never not gotten a swoop in your stomach from catching sight of him, whether through a rifle scope on a rooftop or from the bottom of a carpeted staircase. Or from a bed. And he’d looked so good in the feeds, blurriness aside… No man had ever looked better in a suit.

If nothing else, thinking about Bucky is doing wonders to distract you from the more pressing problem. Who has time to consider the implications of someone posing as your double when in just a few moments, you’ll be able to run your hand down his velvet lapel?

A sigh escapes your lips. You lean against a column by the door, gazing down at the street. Cars start and stop as they ease by, the occasional bike or scooter weaving between traffic. Black taxis reflect the last pink stripes in the sky, the white streetlamps, the red-yellow-green of the traffic lights. Pretty, but your focus is still caught up with the man coming to fetch you.

It’s been too long since you’ve seen him, touched him… You’ve been in the same city for a few days, but his team is too perceptive for him to have snuck away. Every meeting with him has been snatched, secret. Your hands curl, fingernails digging into your plans.

What you wouldn’t give to have the freedom to have him whenever you want.

The desperation, the need tugging at you makes you feel like an addict, but god if Bucky Barnes isn’t the best drug there is.

“There y’are.”

You flinch, pulse racing under your skin, as that smooth voice washes over you. A swallow, and you press your eyes closed just for a moment before looking at him.

It’s the same exact rush you’ve gotten every single time you’ve seen him. The swoop in your belly, the clench of your thighs, the way your mouth goes dry when his lips quirk into their customary smirk. And gosh, that suit looks even better in person. It’s black, with sharp lines that mirror the sharp line of his jaw, and a velvet lapel that you just know won’t be nearly as soft as his lips. All your frustration melts away.

Finally.

“Hi,” you breathe.

Bucky offers you his arm, his blue eyes dark as they drink you in. A new dress, a black dress, the perfect match. The style he likes, with a fitted bodice and draping skirt. You hook your arm through his elbow, trying to hide your relief at finally being with him. Not to mention the absolute thrill of having his strong, solid arm under your hand…

Bucky flashes his ticket—and a SHIELD badge—at the doorman, who lets you both in with an inquisitive frown. Did he see your doppelganger earlier? No matter.

“Nice of you to join the party,” Bucky teases.

You snort. “I’d thank you for the invite if I wasn’t so damn aggravated.”

Bucky drops a kiss against your hair as you study your surroundings. A gilded lobby, just shy of ostentatious, with a a row of polished wooden doors leading into the function hall. Two concierges at the long counter by the doors, glassy-eyed and bored until they notice you looking, at which point they turn on megawatt smiles. You bite your tongue as you smile back. Ah, nothing like customer service.

That’s at least fifty percent of your own job, really. All that simpering at Nicholas…

You shudder.

Bucky pauses mere feet from the door—you can already hear the lounge singer crooning away—and frowns down at you.

“Y’alright?”

“Sure, sure.” You adjust your hold on his arm, then step back. Time to get back in the game. You rub your temples. “Is there a plan? Or are you just winging it?”

Bucky scratches his cheek, brow pinched. “She seems to be focused on one guy in particular, but I don’t know if it’s about murdering him or what.”

“And you just left her in there?!” you gasp. He rolls his eyes.

“Calm down, darlin’, no need to blow a gasket. Got my backup to come in, keep him busy. But not so busy the other you suspects.”

You let out a stream of air between your teeth. Fine. That works.

“Anyway, if you’re done accusing me of not knowing how to do my job—” he shoots you a sardonic look bordering on a glare— “I figured we’d just corner her, get her out, get her talking.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

You brush past Bucky, eyes ahead, and push the doors open before he can stop you. Enough talking. Time to take this bitch—whoever she is—down.

—

Unlike the first—and only—time you’d been dressed to the nines together, you’re geared up. These are your killer shoes, with the blades hidden in the soles and a needle inside the right heel. There are two holsters hidden under your skirts, and false pockets granting easy access to your pearl-handled pistols. Your necklace hides a garrote, your bangle a drugged patch.

And you’ve got murder on your mind.

No one, not once in your entire career—or maybe even life—has ever pretended to be you. No catfishers, no copycats…

Well, not that you have a style that enables copycats. You’re an assassin, not a serial killer.

There’s a difference.

Right now, though, you feel the self-righteous pull of a worthy target more than ever. How dare she steal your face.

Barely anyone glances your way when you enter into the function hall. High ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, bubbling champagne passing by on a waiter’s tray. You snag a glass, but Bucky nabs it out of your grip before you can so much as take a sip. You scowl at him, but his eyes are twinkling as he drinks.

“Thanks,” he says. He offers the half-empty flute back to you, but you ignore it.

“Where?” you demand. “Where is she?”

Bucky tilts his head, and you turn to follow his gaze. There, at the bar, a woman in a black dress. Thicker straps than yours has, a fuller skirt… But it’s a close enough match.

A chill runs up your spine. Is that what you look like, in the flesh, from the outside? Are those your shoulders, your ears? Is that the curve of your cheek?

How?

You turn back to Bucky, heart pounding, a million questions on your lips. He touches your elbow and leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“She’s nothing to you.”

A shiver runs through you at the low timber of his voice. You pull back and meet his eyes. They’re burning, bright with determination and dark with—you can’t tell. Murder? Desire? Both?

He nods once, squeezes your hand, and melts into the crowd. You press your hand to your pounding heart. A few people glance at you, but you deftly avoid their gazes. A waiter passes with a tray of hors d’oeuvres; you take a tartlet, bat your eyelashes at the waiter, and trail after Bucky, caviar bursting in your mouth.

You don’t have any problems spotting him. He’s leaning against the bar now, chatting you—her up. Her shoulders are tense; you can see her back, and you have a suspicion she’s not quite able to meet his eyes.

Bucky calls the bartender over and orders her a drink; you can just make out the coaxing smile in his voice as he asks, “What’s your poison, doll?”

“Is booze poison to you?” your double asks. She shakes her head. God, even her voice sounds like yours. Eugh. “A martini, please.”

You slip between two men and slide onto the barstool right next to her. She’s still facing Bucky, and she doesn’t turn her head quite far enough to realize she’s been cornered.

“You know,” you drawl, calm as day, “what I really prefer is champagne.”

The woman freezes. Bucky slides his half-full flute of champagne past her to you, and you take a long, slow sip, gaze fixed on Bucky. His face is serious, but there’s a thrill behind his eyes.

Your double shifts back on her stool, twisting to face Bucky even more, sliding out of her seat. You stand up too, your breasts nearly pressed against her back. From here, you can see the differences. Her skin tone is a little darker, shoulders a little broader… The hair at the nape of her neck isn’t quite the right shape either.

You fiddle with your bangle as you wait for something, anything to happen. Should you play your cards and drug her? Chase her to the bathroom, corner her there? Or let Bucky lead her away, keeping her head unmuddled for easy interrogation?

It’s a choice you don’t get to make.

The woman spins, and the sight of your own face snarling has you reeling, breath catching and eyes going wide. It’s you, but it’s wrong, backwards, wrong wrong wrong—

A harsh shove sends you careening back, and then she darts off. You knock a stocky woman halfway over, barely managing to catch yourself on some man’s sleeve, but your eyes are latched onto her.

Did she really think she could run away from the Winter Soldier?

Your double only makes it a few quick steps before Bucky’s hand clamps onto her shoulder, spinning her back to face him, his SHIELD badge tucked in his fingers, a thin, dark-haired woman rushing forward to assist.

The man whose sleeve you're holding helps right you, and you shoot a sorry to the woman you’d nearly knocked over. She’s too busy gaping between you and your doppelgänger, her eyes round as dinner plates.

Now that your double’s being led away, your fury dissipates. She failed, she’s got her head slumped, and she doesn’t look anywhere near as good as you. A giggle escapes your lips, and the stocky woman stares.

“Evil twins, am I right?” you say.

The woman blinks, too shocked to answer, and then you dart after Bucky and the others, a bounce in your step and every single wrong thing turned right.

You weave between hobnobs as they slowly sink back into their sedate ignorance. How strange. How could anyone go back to their dull party when there’s something like this going on?

Bucky opens a door, and his associate drags your double through. You step ahead to follow, but he catches your eye and shakes his head just before he vanishes.

You freeze. Right. Of course. You can’t just run after him. He’s working. Your relationship, if you can call it that, is a secret. He’s an Avenger. And you’re just…

You’re…

Someone puts a hand on your back. You stiffen.

“Jeez, Mal, what the hell happened while I was in the bathroom?” a low voice mutters.

What the hell…?

You turn and take in the bland face of the middle-aged white man frowning around. Your heart skips a beat, and you let out a slow breath between your teeth. You know that face.

“Some woman got dragged off by the feds,” you whisper, linking your arm in his and angling him away from the bulk of the crowd.

His eyes widen as he looks around, more scared than confused this time. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” you say curtly. “Come on.”

Your grip is solid on his arm, but he puts up no resistance as you lead the way to a door, not the one Bucky dragged your double out of. Mal? Is that her name? Is it short for something? Mallory, Malia?

No. Malinda.

The name rings a bell, but for the life of you, you can’t place it quite yet. You push your guesswork aside as you lead the man—his name is Christian Havemeyer, old money, shady enough to get him onto your radar—down one carpeted hallway and then another to an out-of-the-way powder room.

Your radar.

Oh, of course. Havemeyer was connected to Rex Carston, your target back when you’d first met Bucky. And Carston’s date that fateful night had been Malinda.

Is the woman who’s stolen your face the pretty woman who’d been on Rex Carston’s arm the night he died?

Well, Bucky will find out. Right now, you’ve got your own job to do.

Havemeyer is pacing, hand clutching his dyed hair—there’s no way a man with so many wrinkles on his neck has hair that black—as you lock and lean against the door. You slide your hands into your pockets, watching Havemeyer carefully. He doesn’t seem armed. Better than that, he doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious.

Well, that’s about to change.

“Got any ideas?” you ask. He whirls on you, face red.

“What the hell do you think? You said this event was clear!”

“Well, clearly I missed something,” you say evenly. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still follow through.”

“Follow th—follow through?” Havemeyer gapes, then narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down, realization dawning in his face. He steps back, glances around. “Wait. You—”

“Hmm?” you drawl. You push away the lacy strap holding one of your pistols in place and curl your fingers around the grip. No point turning off the safety; you could take this guy barehanded.

Well, probably. It better not come to that.

Havemeyer’s face shifts from fear and confusion to stern determination. He steps towards you, puffing up his chest and balling his hands into fists.

“Where is she?” he hisses.

You raise your eyebrows, impressed despite yourself. Well, to be fair, he doesn’t know you’re armed to the teeth.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“You’re not Malinda,” he snaps. He takes another step.

A little too close for comfort.

You draw your pistol and press the barrel against his gut faster than he can blink. “Down, boy,” you say coolly. “You should know better.”

Havemeyer slowly puts his hands in the air. You push your gun against him, and he steps back one, two, three times before you’re satisfied. You click off the safety, just for added measure.

“Now,” you say, “let’s talk.”

He swallows. “Maybe you can put down the gun first.”

You tap your chin. Consider.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Behind you, the doorknob rattles.

Well, fuck.

You keep your eyes on Havemeyer as you turn your head towards the door, trying to listen over his ragged breathing and your own. Not that your breathing is ragged.

“Mr. Havemeyer?”

A deep male voice, one you don’t recognize. Havemeyer’s face lights up as your stomach drops.

“Help!” he calls.

“Bad call,” you snarl.

A vicious crack—they’re shooting the door open. You shoot Havemeyer in the kneecap, his howl music to your ears. He collapses like a wet rag. You kick him low in the gut, further immobilizing him, and swing the chair at the counter around to wedge it under the doorknob.

You drop into a crouch and whip out the knife from your left shoe. Havemeyer is curled around his knee, whimpering.

Suits him, the bastard.

You dig your fingers into his jaw, the knife scraping against his clean-shaven cheek, and dig the barrel of your pistol into his wound. He sobs, scrambling, but you don’t give in.

“Talk.”

You’ve got a minute, maybe, before his goon opens the door. But it’s enough.

Havemeyer doesn’t just talk.

He sings.

—

A swift kick to the head knocks him out. Kind of you not to kick him in the knee; the pain would’ve done the trick, but meh. You’re not really here for him. It’s just a nice little bonus, learning things.

Anyway, better not to get blood on your shoes.

You wipe the barrel of your gun, bloody from being jabbed against Havemeyer’s knee, on his suit jacket. It’s been seventy-five seconds since you told him to talk. You really are good at your job.

Of course, you still have to deal with whatever’s waiting behind the door. It’s been quiet. Have they gone for help?

The powder room had no other exits, not even a window. Well, whatever’s waiting outside can’t be worse than things you’ve faced in the past.

Hell, you’re the woman who faced down the Winter Soldier and came out on top—well, not literally on top, but…

Eh, maybe later. Hopefully later.

You press an ear to the door, listening, not daring to breathe. It’s silent in the hall.

Worth the risk. You’re a professional, after all. If some rich man’s security is good enough to get you, you probably deserve to get caught.

You step back and whisk the chair out of the way.

The second you do, the door bursts open.

Oh, bother.

Tall, broad, bulky—you’re nearly pinned by his long arms, but you manage to duck aside. Still, he knocks your pistol out of your hands. You tighten your grip on your knife as you whirl to retaliate, but he jumps back. Your knife grazes his open jacket, cutting a neat slice in the thick material. You don’t have time to admire the clean cut because he’s lunging again.

And he’s got a knife too.

Oh, bother.

You kick the chair in his way, scrambling at the inside of your bangle. He throws the chair at you. It hits; you stumble back, but there’s just enough time as he tosses the chair aside. You hurl yourself at him, latching the patch from your bangle onto his neck with one hand while you drive your knife into his thigh with the other.

He grunts—more pain tolerance than his boss, apparently—and aims his knife at you. But with the patch administered, you’ve got a hand free.

He’s got no chance at all.

Well, let’s be fair. He never had a chance.

A knee to the groin, an expert twist of your hand, and his wrist cracks. This time, he does howl. He stumbles back, away from your knife, back through the open door into the hall. You stalk after him, a feral grin on your face as he slumps against the wall.

“That’ll teach you to pick on girls,” you tell him.

“Who are you?” he whimpers.

“None of your goddamn business.”

Your knife is still bloody. You hike up your dress and carefully wipe the blade clean on the inside of your skirt, still watching the bodyguard carefully.

A low whistle echoes down the hall.

You pause, a smile edging onto your face as you tilt your head. You don’t take your eyes away from the bodyguard, but your whole body lights up. You can sense Bucky from meters away.

“See something you like?” you call.

The bodyguard blanches.

You don’t blame him, really. It takes a really dumb criminal to be delighted to see the Winter Soldier.

What does that make you?

A lovestruck idiot, probably.

Bucky saunters down the hall, smirking. A pair of handcuffs dangle from his right hand; his left hand is tucked neatly in his pocket. “I might.”

Havemeyer’s bodyguard shifts a few inches down the wall as he holds out his trembling hands, one at an unnatural angle. Bucky spins him to face the wall and cuffs his hands behind his back. You slide your knife back into its slot in your shoe as Bucky shuts the bodyguard into the powder room.

“This yours?” Bucky asks.

You turn, still smiling, and reach for your pistol. But Bucky holds it out of your reach, the pearl handle clinking against his metal hand. You stick your hands on your hips and raise your eyebrows.

“That’s mine,” you tell him.

“No time for that now.” He loops his arm through yours and drags you down the hall. “Hill’s on her way over.”

Hill? Is that his associate?

Her?

You press your lips together as you run alongside him. Envy coils unpleasant and heavy in your chest.

Her?

You’re not jealous. You know Bucky well enough now to know he’s got no eyes for anyone else.

But… someone he can work with? Someone he can be in public with? Someone he can see without subterfuge, without shame…

You don’t have regrets about your career. None whatsoever. You’re talented, you’re passionate about it… Some people think murder is wrong, but the world is far better off without certain people in it.

But Bucky—he’s from another world.

A world where you’re not welcome. Not you, not your team, not your delight in a perfectly executed kill. He can ravish you all he wants—all you want, if you’re being honest—but at the end of the day, you’re just a dirty little secret.

It’s never bothered you before. Right now, though?

You hate it.

Bucky drags you down a back staircase, gripping your hand tight. You burst outside into a back alley, the fresh air cool against your clammy skin. A high fence shuts out the rest of the world, but when you look up, you can see the hazy sky, stars barely visible past the light of the city.

“That went well,” Bucky says cheerfully.

“Mm,” you answer, feigning cheer. “Can I have my gun back?”

“Oh this?” He dangles the pistol in front of your face, smirking. You stare stonily, not taking his bait.

Bucky’s smirk drops as you stand there. He passes the gun to you; you check the safety and slide it back into its holster, refastening the snap with a muffled click.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.

“I—” You draw your lower lip between your teeth and start to pace. A glance at Bucky; he’s confused, worried, his playfulness fading fast.

But the right words don’t come out.

“What did Malinda say?”

His face screws up, adorably confused. Even as you’re metaphorically kicking yourself in the foot, you’re half breathless by how much you love to look at him.

“Huh?”

“Malinda,” you say again. “The woman impersonating me.”

“Ohhh.” Bucky nods, his face smoothing. “She didn’t give her name, though I assume Hill is on it. Without her mask, it shouldn’t be hard.”

Your eyes bug out. “Didn’t you recognize her?!”

He frowns. Tips his head back. Then his head falls forward, chin nearly brushing his chest.

“Well, shit,” he says. “She was there when we met, wasn’t she?”

Oh my god.

“More than that,” you snap. “She knows who I am! She was Rex Carston’s dinner date the night we—”

You clap your hands to your mouth, but Bucky’s caught on. He steps closer; you step back, until your back is against the wall. He’s boxing you in, face stern.

“What’s this really about?” he says, voice low.

You lower your hands. They’re trembling. “She knows me, Bucky. She has to know me. How else…”

What else is there to say? If she’s in SHIELD custody, and she knows you, she’ll talk. She’ll talk, and you’ll be on their radar.

And then Bucky really will be in bed with the enemy.

“I hate being your dirty little secret,” you mumble, eyes fixed on his lapel. “I don’t want to have to be your enemy too.”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. He grips your face and tilts it up towards his. “You’ll never be that.”

“I'm basically that already!” You knock his hands away, shove him back. “Bucky, I’m tired of sneaking around! It was fun, but I’m tired of it! You don’t care, but I’ll never be good enough for your moralistic friends, and I’m tired of it.”

He blinks.

“But they like what you do,” he says. “I mean, the ones that matter.”

Thank god you’re leaning against the wall, because you’re pretty sure you just fainted.

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t know about us,” Bucky says slowly, “and they don’t know what all of you look like—at least they didn’t—but your team is on SHIELD’s list of outfits not to bother. An unofficial list, but it still counts.”

You’re a fish. A gaping fish. Bucky scratches the back of his head.

“Assuming you don’t take a sharp left turn in the evil direction, I mean,” he adds.

He peers up at you from under his eyelashes, hands stuffed in his pockets. Even with the sharp-as-knives suit and cheekbones, he looks more adorable than ever.

With Bucky clearly nervous, you find your voice.

“So all this time,” you say slowly, “there hasn’t been a reason to be all—” you gesture vaguely— “secretive?”

Bucky’s lips quirk up. “Well, I mean, there’s fun in intrigue. At least…” His tiny smile fades. “I think so.”

“Well shit, I think so too!” You snort. One step away from the wall, towards him. “I’m not in my line of work because I don’t like intrigue. But my god, Bucky, I could have been your date all night! You’re telling me I’ve been missing out on you for no good reason?”

“I figured you had good reason,” he retorts. He steps towards you now, his hands light on your waist. You melt into his touch, warmth spreading from his hands so close to your skin. His face softens. “I never wanted you to think… Shit, angel, I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s okay.” You brush a hand across his face, thumb tracing his sharp cheekbone with a new kind of reverence. He’s close, his darkening eyes fixed on your face, your barely parted lips.

The world is wide open now, isn’t it?

You lean in, his breath on your lips before he stops you. His eyes dart over your heads, by the door—a surveillance camera, red light holding steady.

The very thing you’ve avoided.

The very thing you’re done with.

“Fuck that,” you murmur.

You grab his chin and kiss him, rough and hard and without mercy. He gasps into your mouth, and you bite his lower lip before drawing back. No blood, but his lip’s already swollen, dark pink and even more plump than usual. He’s the one gaping now. You drag your thumb across his mouth, admiring it.

“Fuck that,” you repeat. “Let them see.”

He stares. “Seriously?”

“Am I a liar, Mr. Barnes?”

“Not in the usual way,” he says, lips twitching.

“I’m serious. Now kiss me before I change my mind.”

Bucky crushes his lips to yours. You knew it was coming, but his intensity still tears a cry from your throat as he slams you back against the concrete wall. His hands knead your hips; his teeth nip at your lip just as you’d done to his.

Well, fair’s fair.

Heat thrums though you. You thread your hands in his hair and tug hard enough to break the kiss. His head falls back and you waste no time in leaving a mark against his neck, frantically unbuttoning his jacket, his shirt. He hisses into the open air as your teeth press just deep enough against his throat to hurt. Your lips follow your hands, kissing across that sculpted chest, fingers stealing touches of his skin as his hands skate up your sides.

When you reach the last button on his shirt, you snake your hand straight down his pants and take his hardening cock in hand. His hands squeeze painfully tight on your waist, but you revel in it.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You draw back, lick your lips. Smirk coyly at him from under your eyelashes as you stroke him lightly, one hand still tracing his chest.

“Something the matter?”

Bucky shakes his head and leans one arm against the wall. He’s panting, but he manages a grin all the same. “You and your mouth.”

“Oh, you want my mouth?”

You fall to your knees, cement biting into your knees through your dress, but you don’t care. You tug his zipper down with your teeth and pull his cock free. A fresh wave of want surges through you.

Damn if he doesn’t look like the best snack in the world.

One hand around his base, the other cupping his balls, you draw him into your mouth with a hungry moan. Hot, heavy, perfect; god, there’s that delicious stretch you’d been missing, the taste of him, of Bucky, heady on your tongue.

It’s like your first time together. You on your knees, his hand in your hair, him singing your praises, your mouth around him and your hand cupping your own sex, touching yourself through your dress, desperate for release but too busy tasting him to beg him for more.

It’s like then, but it’s not. Because right now, you’re not lying to him. You’re not fooling him, distracting him. No ulterior motive beyond letting the whole world know how much you want him.

How much he wants you.

No more hiding, no more sneaking, no more looking over your shoulder—it’s all you and him, him and you, the two of you together—

Bucky’s hips are rocking now, seeking you out. Lipstick stains his cock dark in the shadows, but you can’t take your eyes from his face. That beautiful face, a flush across his cheeks and a pinch between his brows. Those beautiful eyes, so dark and full of that thing that neither of you have to hide anymore. His panting echoes in the alley, sweet sounds falling like the first spring rain. Beautiful, vital relief. Your skin prickles, pressure building as you struggle to breathe.

You squeeze the base of his cock as you relax your throat, drawing more of him into your mouth. You hum around him, the vibrations pulling a fresh stream of whimpers from his pretty mouth that makes a fresh rush of want pool between your legs. God, it’s filthy how he’s moaning your name, leaking in your mouth…

“Fuck, yes, f—fuck!” he rasps.

A swirl of your tongue around his head, suction so strong it makes your cheeks hurt, and the lightest squeeze of his balls. Then your hand dances back, teasing his rim, and Bucky shouts his release, spilling down your throat as you swallow hungrily.

You pull back and lick your lips clean, smirking up at him as you lightly graze your clothed breasts. Just a pause, to let him come back to himself. And to bask in his afterglow. Looking at him like he is now, flushed down to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut in bliss, is like looking at God.

It’s not long before Bucky’s eyes open. He tugs you up. His breathing is heavy, but he catches it enough to kiss you long and tender, one hand still buried in your hair. You moan into his mouth, breasts tight against his chest. Can he taste himself on your lips?

You break the kiss with a gasp as Bucky pushes you against the wall. He smirks and starts bunching your dress up around your waist, his body still pressed against yours. The air is cool on your legs, all the more so when your thighs are bared.

Bucky leans his forehead against yours, both of you panting as he grips your thigh, toying with the lace of your holster. He shifts his wrist, his eyes blacker than the hazy sky. His touch between your legs buckles your knees; you’re held up by his chest on yours and his other hand on your waist. His hand slips under your panties.

The merest brush of your clit and the world shudders, all your focus zooming in on that tender touch. You’ve been on the precipice for what feels like hours, and his touch, Bucky’s touch…

It’s everything.

You clutch his arms, chin trembling as you try to hold on. His fingers dip between your folds, circle wet and slick against your clit.

“Let go,” he murmurs. He nuzzles your neck, teeth scraping against your collarbone as he works his magic. His left hand holds you steady against the wall, the concrete scraping your shoulders. “Let go for me.”

He curls one hot finger inside you, and it’s enough to tip you over the edge. A cry tears from your throat as you quake in his hold, sparks shooting through you. He coaxes you through, sweet sounds—full words, perhaps, but you’re too overwhelmed to make them out—falling from his lips as he slows his ministrations.

You ease down from your high as Bucky takes his hand away. He’s gentle, his eyes dark but so damn sweet. They’re the first thing you see when you resurface.

He sucks his fingers clean, smiling all the while, as you steady your breathing. He smooths your skirt back over your legs, zips his fly, buttons his shirt. Your face screws up.

“What, is that all?” you manage.

Bucky’s laugh echoes loud and clear in the alley. He slings his arm around you, squeezing your bum fondly as he leads you away. “Not a chance.”

—

The city twinkles outside of the wide windows of your hotel room. Warm lighting, a queen-size bed that might be a bit snug for Bucky—well, it’s upscale, not platinum; you have a budget, after all—and his suit jacket already hung in the closet. Bucky’s standing in his shirt by the window, on the phone with Hill. Maria Hill, Nick Fury’s right-hand man.

“I ran into an old associate,” he tells her for the third time. His voice is steady, though you can see in the reflection his lips pursing. He’s being just vague enough to keep her suspicious. He’s quiet for a moment as you fill a cup in the bathroom sink.

You wander back into the bedroom, nerves humming. The whole cab ride over, Bucky’s hands had been all over you, light and teasing and just enough to keep you right on edge. And the elevator ride up to the seventh floor had him rutting against you like a dog in heat.

Now he’s putting your patience to the test with his drawn-out call when all you want to do is scream his name. You clench your thighs as you swallow, waiting for him to finish. But he’s still got the phone to his ear.

This won’t do.

You finish your water and lick your lips dry, the taste of your lipstick heavy on your tongue. Is his cock still stained with it? You’re dying to find out. The cup clinks against the dresser, abandoned. Bucky’s eyes meet yours in the window reflection as you wander over to him and lean against his back, circling your arms around his waist to start unbuttoning his shirt for the second time tonight. His lips twitch.

“Hill, listen, I gotta—”

“Not until you explain yourself, Barnes.”

You sink your teeth into his shoulder as you slide your hand inside his pants. He jerks, nearly dropping his phone.

“Fu—Hill, it’s fine, just—”

You palm his cock through his boxer briefs.

“Fuck!” he gasps. He slams his fist against the window, but there’s no swallowing back what’s just come out of his mouth.

Hill’s silent for a moment. Then she laughs. “Oh, I get it. Have fun, James. Don’t forget your paperwork!”

Click.

Bucky twists in your arms with a growl. His phone thumps against the floor as he forces his mouth on yours, bruising. He grips your upper arms and pushes you back until your knees hit the bed. A shove, and you’re falling, lips parted from his onslaught as you bounce on the mattress.

“You little devil.”

The low tenor of his voice sends a shiver through you. Bucky crawls over you, his open shirt brushing your arms as you push it down his shoulders.

“Thought I was your angel,” you murmur.

Bucky sits on his haunches and shrugs off his shirt. You lick your lips as you feast on him with your eyes alone, your fingers light on your breasts. Bucky’s eyes fix on your hands. He sucks in a breath as you squirm, nipples hardening under your dress.

“Whatever you are, you’re divine.”

Bucky stands for just long enough to push his pants and briefs off, barely giving you a chance to see how hard he is. But you see well enough: cock jutting out, thick and heavy. And yes, still painted with traces of your lipstick.

He pushes you further up the bed until your head’s on the pillow, then settles back between your legs. His hands knead your thighs, spread them apart. It’s his turn to lick his lips.

“And I’m going to worship the hell outta you tonight.”

Bucky glides his hands down your skirt. You twist your hands in the blankets, breathing shallow as you watch him. He lifts your leg and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle, fingers dancing along your shoe.

“Killer shoes, huh?”

You laugh breathlessly, but you can’t answer because he’s kissing his way up the inside of your leg, his hands sliding up your skirt so smoothly that you’re a mess before he’s even reached your thigh holster. Fuck grabbing the blankets; you bury your hands in his hair and pull.

You half expect him to resist, but no, he lets you pull him between your legs, pushing your dress up over your waist. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the crotch of your panties, his tongue flicking against your clit. You cry out; your hips buck against his face, but he only chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. He peels your panties away, shifting so he can toss them away with the rest of his clothes. You reach for the satin bows on your holsters, but he grabs your hands.

“Safety’s on, leave ‘em,” he says, eyes glinting.

Your eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

He shrugs and tucks his hair behind his ear. “What can I say, watching you at work earlier was a turn-on.” You giggle and run your foot against his side.

“Let me guess, you want me to keep my shoes on too.”

“If it’s comfy.” He winks. “Think you’ll accidentally kill me if I drive you too crazy?”

You nudge at him with the toe of your shoe until he falls back onto you, his cock nestled between you. You twine your arms around his neck and kiss him til you’re out of breath.

“Kill you? Never.” You bump his nose with yours. “Now eat me out, or I might start charging you for my time.”

Bucky laughs out loud. Music to your ears. Then he dives back between your legs, pulling your thighs over his shoulders and settling on his elbows. One last wicked look, and then he latches his mouth to your clit, sucking and flicking and oh god you’re ruined, you’re wrecked. He’s pulling your soul out with his lips. Your hips buck up again, but he stills you with a single warm hand. Sounds fill the room, sounds you barely register as your own moaning.

He’s insatiable. His tongue dipping inside you, fucking you, his metal thumb circling smooth as silk against your clit. His other arm holding you in place so he can devour you, all your whimpers and cries and moans be damned. Your legs are shaking, thighs squeezing his head so tight you’re sure he’s suffocating, but no, he’s just lapping you up, humming, every vibration building you into a tighter frenzy. Sweat beads on your brow, on your chest—you grab hold of his hair, your breasts, the blankets, anything to ground you, but it’s impossible because he’s there, right there, his hips thrusting against the bed as yours strain towards his mouth.

More, more, more; it’s a chant in your mind, on your lips, back arching off the bed as his soaked metal fingers vibrate—

The throes of your orgasm are enough to wake the dead. Bucky lifts his head to watch you come undone, his hand still working on your clit. He lifts his arm from your hips, but by now you’re no more than a pile of mush on the bed, your silky dress sweaty and tight on your body, too much against your sensitive breasts. You twist bonelessly and reach for the zipper.

“Let me,” Bucky murmurs. He slides the zipper down slowly, careful not to let it catch on your skin. Peels the dress down until your arms are free, your breasts free in the open air. A few gentle tugs, and it’s gone, and you’re bare beside him.

Bucky doesn’t touch you, not yet. He hovers next to you, his hands reaching and falling back every second until you look at him and smile.

“C’mere, you,” you mumble. He settles in your open arms, propped on his elbow, his torso stretched across your chest. You brush back his hair and let your eyes drift across his body. Your gaze lands predictably on his cock, still red and hard and lipstick-stained, a bead of precum just at the tip. You take him in hand tenderly, reveling in his quiet hiss. “Poor Bucky. So much time worshipping me he hasn’t had a moment for himself.”

“I mean, you did—fuck, darlin’, just like that—you did suck me off earlier,” he says breathlessly.

You keep stroking him, your hands gentle, rubbing the lipstick stains into new shapes on his skin. Bucky’s tense, every muscle from his neck to his abs to his thick thighs in stark definition as you work along his length.

Bucky tugs your hand away all too soon. He settles between your legs; they’re spread wantonly, heels and lacy holsters an added bonus. His cock is scorching between your legs, sliding slick between your damp folds as he teases you.

“Fun as that is,” he rasps, “I just wanna be inside you already.”

A thrill shoots through you. Bucky rocks his hips gently, teasing, not fast or hard enough to provide relief. You tilt your hips, moaning, anything to spur him on. This dragging out the inevitable is torture.

“Fuck, what are you waiting for?” you gasp.

No warning, no caution—Bucky slams his cock home. Your body arches off the bed as you cry out, tears springing to your squeezed-shut eyes as he sinks deep, so deep it’s just shy of painful. But god, there’s no pleasure in the world better than this. His thick cock in you, his pelvis putting pressure on your clit, stars once again bursting behind your eyes.

Bucky doesn’t give you any time to adjust. His thrusts are fast, long, deep. Your feet scramble for purchase, heels catching on the blanket. A harsh rip as the comforter shreds, but it barely registers.

He notices. He growls, pulling your leg up, still pistoning in and out, pounding you into the bed. With your knee against his chest, he’s hitting all kinds of spots inside you, the ones you’d barely known of before him. Your walls flutter around him, a wail tumbling from your lips—

“Oh god, fuck, Bucky!”

Bucky litters your chest with kisses, alternating between tweaking your nipples and teasing your hypersensitive clit until tears run down your face and all you can do is beg.

“It’s ‘kay, darlin’,” he pants. His pace slows, the long drag of his head tugging at you, pulling fresh sobs from your throat. “Fuck. Look. Look how pretty y’are,” he urges.

You force your eyes open and stare between you. His cock, red and shining from your arousal and his, sliding in and out, your cunt stretched tight around him. You clench the muscles there as he sinks in once more, his prolonged groan enough to make you laugh triumphantly until he rolls you over, his hands strong on your waist as he sits you up, the movement shifting his cock inside you. You hiss and steady yourself with a hand on his chest.

“You seriously expect me to hold myself up? I’ve had two orgasms tonight and you’ve had none,” you tease.

Bucky’s eyes glitter. He rocks his hips up. You can’t move.

“You’re the one who was desperate for more,” he quips. “Prove it.”

“Ugh, fine.”

But you smile as you plant your hands more solidly on his chest, one finger just close enough to trace the scars at his left shoulder. You circle your hips, moving slow and small until he’s clenching his jaw. But he doesn’t beg for more. He just watches you, his hands still on your waist and his eyes black with lust.

The little movements prove your undoing before his, every roll of your hips providing fresh pressure on your clit. You mewl with pleasure as you start to bounce more solidly on his cock, chasing the building pleasure. Every slam has you both gasping. Your nails scrape against his skin, digging in, leaving marks. His hands shift to your breasts, just holding them, rubbing his palms back and forth across your painfully hard nipples. Every shift of his hands, every drop of your hips, every thrust of his send a shower of sparks through you until your whole body is fireworks, starbursts behind your eyes, fire in your blood—

One hard thrust of his hips when you’re not expecting it, one intense burst, and you seize up, shudders racking through you as he holds you up by your chest, walls milking him, eyes unseeing, all of you focused on the pleasure between your legs and the twitching of his cock inside you until he too explodes. He spills inside you, your name falling from his lips, offered up to you like a never-ending prayer as you fall forward to kiss him because you have to, you must.

“Bucky,” you murmur into his mouth. “Bucky.”

Every inch of skin is hot, damp with sweat, but you couldn’t move if the world was on fire. He’s wrapped around you, in more ways than one, and you never want to let him go.

And for the first time, he doesn’t have to go. Whatever his people think of him, they’re leaving him alone. Let the Winter Soldier blow off some steam, they must be thinking, and he’ll be our perfect operative when he gets home.

You smile into the crook of his neck as he strokes your back, your neck, your hair. He is perfect, isn’t he.

It’s a while before either of you have the strength to move. Bucky rolls you off him.

“Stay,” he murmurs. He drops a kiss on your forehead, and you watch his bum as he heads to the bathroom. Your eyes slide shut as you listen to him run the tap, splash water on his face. You don’t hear him come back, but you blink your eyes open again when he settles next to you. He cleans you up with a damp washcloth, tugging your shoes and holsters off as he works.

“There,” he says. He tosses it all off the bed—well, he puts the holstered guns gently on the nightstand—and lies down, pulling you into his arms. You wiggle your toes, stretching out your feet as you snuggle into his side.

Bucky’s quiet, oddly so. Usually he at least says how much he enjoyed himself. He’s never been shy with his words before.

Nerves gnaw at your stomach. What’s the matter with him? You’re not sure how to break the silence, so you let it settle, and wait.

It takes time, but eventually Bucky sighs and kisses your hair.

“It’s real fuckin’ nice that I can stay,” he says quietly.

You nod.

“And…” He swallows. “Were you serious earlier?”

You look up at him with a frown. “About what? I say a lot of stuff, y’know.” He chuckles, but sobers quickly.

“Were you serious about wanting to… be my date?”

The words tumble out of his mouth.

You sit up, heart pounding, and lean over him. His face is cupped in your hands, your eyes are fixed on his, and the whole world is in his hopeful smile. You kiss him, chaste and heartfelt as a ingenue.

“Am I a liar, Mr. Barnes?”

“Not in the usual way,” he answers.

“There we go,” you murmur. You push the damp hair off his forehead. He’s gazing up at you with something past liking, past wonder, past fondness in his eyes. It’s mirrored in yours, whether you acknowledge it or not. Either way, here you are, with him, with everywhere to go. “There we go.”

[wrathofthestag]

Atwater Market

Summary:  "The thing is, for someone who loves to bake, for someone that shows love through food, finding someone with a healthy appetite is nice. Is there anything better?" Bob and Eric go shopping for dinner fixings and talk about love and family.  Also on AO3...

“There’s a popular cheesemonger down that aisle.”

Eric smiled. “Cheesemonger, huh?”

Bob took a sip of his coffee and smirked. “Yes, cheesemonger, and also a superb fishmonger is just across the aisle from him.”

“That’s a lot of mongering,” Eric chirped.

The two made their way through Atwater Market shopping for dinner items. Jack and Eric had arrived in Montreal last night, and while Alicia and Jack caught up back at the house, Bob and Eric volunteered to go the market. Although, it wasn’t much of a sacrifice on their part to go off on their own, especially when food was involved.

It wasn’t unusual for them to go on food excursions whenever their stars lined up—a new restaurant in the neighborhood, a food truck they followed on social media, a cookbook signing by a favorite chef. (One year, Alicia bought them each matching aprons as a joke. She had no idea they would both take to them immediately and wear them with enthusiasm.)

Jack and Coach had, long ago, come to some sort of agreement in their relationship and it had taken a while to build, but for Eric and Bob, it had somehow always been effortless. Ever since that “Clutch shot, son,” Eric had felt that Bob was in his corner.

“I’m surprised I hadn’t brought you here yet,” Bob said they walked.

“This reminds me of Pike Place,” Eric said. “The last time we went out to visit Chowder, Jack and I attacked Piroshky Piroshky. So good!”

Aisle after aisle, Eric smiled as he took it all in. Produce, butchers, cheese sellers, tiny restaurants, and flower shops sat nestled within various vendor kiosks and stands housed in the art deco building they currently explored. A cacophony of English and Québécois peppered the atmosphere with vigor.

“So what do we need for the jambalaya?” Eric asked as he stopped at a fruit vendor.

“Green pepper, onion, chicken thighs, we have to stop at Les Cochons for sausage—we have rice at home, so we’re good there,” Bob said looking at his list. He chucked his coffee cup in the trash and continued. “Other than that, just whatever goodies you want to bring back but make sure we get everything. I don’t want to have to run out to the dép, later.”

“Should we take some sweets?” Eric strolled over to a crate of peaches, picked one up, and smelled it. He smiled at the man who owned the stand.

“If you don’t feel like baking tonight, then yes, we should. We’ll stop at Première Moisson,” Bob replied.

Eric nodded and put several peaches in his tote bag.

“We can grill these and serve them with blue cheese,” he said as he began to pay the man. “Oh my god, look at these dates!”

Bob picked up a container of dates and grinned.

“Bacon-wrapped dates!” they both yelled at the same time.

“Here, let’s take two,” Bob said and nodded at the man.

“Do we have stuff at the house for a quiche tomorrow?” Eric asked.

“Yeah, I got some leeks, too, just for the quiche.”

“Nice.”

“Should we get some flowers?”

“Sure,” Eric said as he looped his arm around Bob’s.

Their touching was always natural. Despite his moniker, Bob was actually quite affectionate and a touchy-feely person, and he always had an arm slung around Eric or Jack, a kiss ready to be pressed onto Alicia’s cheek.

“When we first started dating, I had a bouquet delivered to Alicia each week—no matter where she was.”

“Robert, you smoothie!”

“Hey, I had to stick out from all the other schmucks who were trying to woo her.”

“Did she fawn all over you? What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Knock it off.’”

Eric laughed. “Knock it off?”

“Yeah, she said that it was too expensive to be sending her flowers all the time and they would be dead in less than a week, so what was the point.”

“Well, now I see where Jack gets his bluntness from.”

Bob shrugged. “So I stopped, but you know what?”

Eric shook his head.

“Years later, I found that she had pressed and dried one flower from each bouquet. I found them in a box in our bedroom. When I asked her about it, she muttered something about minding my own business.”

Eric laughed.

“Here,” Bob pointed. “The butcher I like is here.”

“Hey, Bob,” the butcher waved as he smiled at them both as they entered the small shop.

“Marcel, how’s it going?”

“Not bad. It’s good to see you.”

“This is my son-in-law, Eric.”

The man smiled. “Ouais, Eric. Good to finally meet you.”

“Aw, you talk about me?” Eric said as he chirped Bob and elbowed him gently.

“Of course, son.”

“He’s always bragging. My son this, my son that. My son-in-law this, my son-in-law that… It’s kind of annoying.”

Bob threw his head back in laughter as Marcel grinned.

“So what can I get you?”

“I need some sausage for jambalaya but what else you got? What’s good?”

“Here, try this,” Marcel said and offered them a small tray filled with chunks of sausage skewered with toothpicks.

They each took a sample and Eric chewed thoughtfully.

“It’s our new Toulouse sausage,” Marcel said.

“It’s good,” Bob said as he took another.

“Is that nutmeg,” Eric asked as he savored the piece a bit longer, “and ginger I taste?”

Marcel smiled. “Bob, it's about time you brought an expert with you.”

Bob laughed again as he helped himself to another piece.

An hour later, Bob’s insulated bag was filled with chicken, sausage, and cheese, while Eric’s tote bag was filled with fruit and various baked goods.

They were chatting idly about Eric’s manuscript when Eric saw a man with a small child on his shoulders. He smiled as he watched the dad tickle his son’s feet as the boy squealed then placed his chin on top of his father’s head, cupping his chin with both chubby hands.

Eric imagined Jack sitting on top of his papa’s shoulders, feeling as though he was on top of the world—able to conquer almost anything put in his path.

“Did you bring Jack here when he was little?”

Bob glanced at the man and his son, smiled softly and shook his head.

“By the time he was that age, we were already in Pittsburgh, and when we’d come back to visit family, we never really made it out here. When we finally moved back to Montreal, Jack was pretty much doing his own thing and didn’t really want to hang out with us anymore.”

“That must have been hard, huh?”

“You know how it is. You reach a certain age, and you think you know better. You want to do what you want to do, and part of you feels like you don’t need your parents anymore.”

Eric shook his head. “I always needed my mama and had her. Always. It’s Coach I wish I’d been closer to when I was younger.”

Bob patted Eric’s hand. “He should have been there for you like I should have been there more for Jack.”

“You two did the best you could; we know that.”

“I know,” he said as he gave Eric’s hand a quick squeeze. “You know what I think we need?”

“What?”

“Soft serve, come on.”

“Ooo, you know what I love and can never, ever find? Strawberry soft serve.”

“I’ve never had it.”

“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. One day, we’ll find some for you and Jack.”

“It sounds like you’ve nailed the most solid foundation for a successful marriage right there, son.”

“Oh?”

“Scoring top-shelf food finds for your spouse.”

Eric laughed. “Really, that’s all? Then I guess I’ve been marriaging wrong this entire time what with the love and mutual respect and all. Although… on second thought. Scratch that, I have that boy knee-deep in amazing foods.”

Bob smiled. “It’s nice to see, you know?”

“What?”

“You two being happily married.”

Eric shrugged. “Jack makes it easy. I mean, there are days when he’s gone so much I want to throttle him, and he never puts the toilet seat down, and I have to ask him to throw out the garbage like five times before he does it, but yeah, he’s a good egg. He’s really sweet.”

“Marriage takes a lot of work, and you two are dedicated to it, so that’s a good start. I’ll never forget the look on Jack’s face at your wedding.”

Eric smiled. “His face?”

“Yeah,” Bob said then chuckled. “It was like he had a Cup Day, a hattie, and a slice of your pie all rolled into one.”

“That’s one way to make my head big,” Eric laughed.

Bob stopped walking. “No, I’m not kidding. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You love him for all that he is and never wanted anything from him but his honesty and love. You never tried to change him or force him into something he wasn’t ready for. He knows what he has—and so do you.”

Eric inhaled deeply. “Jack is one of the bravest, strongest people I know, and I know how private he can be, how guarded. So it’s incredible that he lets himself be vulnerable with me. He trusts me that much… and I trust him just the same.”

Bob smiled. “I know. I can see it. That’s how I knew you two were perfect for each other.”

Eric smacked Bob on the chest. “Listen, do not make me cry in the middle of a market, old man.”

Bob grinned. “My point is that the point is you two know marriage is hard work, and you put in the work. Neither of you looks for any shortcuts, and you have each other’s backs. Now stop with the sniffling and let’s get some ice cream.”

The two made their way toward La Cabane Bar Laitier and ordered two cones. Eric paid and handed one chocolate vanilla swirl to Bob and took the other for himself. They were just about to dig in when someone approached them.

«Excuse me, Bad Bob? Sorry to bother you. Could I get an autograph»?

«Yeah, yeah. Sure. No problem».

He handed his cone to Eric.

«Who should I make it out to»?

«My wife, Marie. She probably loves you more than I do», the man said with a grin.

Bob laughed and shook his head.

«To Marie. You have good taste in husbands», Bob said as he wrote it out on the napkin the man had given him.

The man laughed and clapped Bob on the back.

«This is my grandson, Marc. He plays hockey, too. A winger.»

«A winger!  That’s great.  Good luck, son.» Bob said to the teen who blushed and nodded.

«Thanks, Bad Bob», the older man replied. «And your kid is doing great, eh»?The man glanced at Eric and shot him a quick smile.

«Yes! He is, thank you».

«Wish him luck on the upcoming season».

«I’ll tell him, thanks».

Bob smiled and turned to Eric, who smiled and handed him back his cone as the man walked away happily looking at the napkin.

“That still happen often?”

“Not as often as it used to, but it’s nice here. People are respectful of me and Alicia—and you and Jack. It’s good. How’s that cone?”

“Amazing!” Eric took a big, messy lick. “Also, you’ll be happy to know that I understood like 90% of that conversation.”

“Really?”

“80%—well, actually 70,75%, but the point is I’m getting there.  65%”

“Son, it’s time you accept that languages are not your forte and that Jack and I will forever be chirping you and you won’t understand it.”

“Rude!” Eric said with a laugh as Bob chuckled. “Look, I am perfectly capable of ordering off any menu in French.”

“Well, that’s handy.”

Eric grinned. He glanced back at the man who was showing off the napkin to the teenager he was with.

"That was his grandson, right?”

Bob nodded. “Yep, a hockey player.”

“Poor child…”

Bob laughed. “When the siren calls, you answer. Speaking of grandchildren, when am I going to get some? I need new blood for the Zimmermann team.”

“We've only been married a year! I can’t be thinking about babies right now.”

"Babies, plural! I like your thinking.”

“Good Mary, Lord have mercy—of course, you would pick up on that one word over anything else.”

“Do you know how many tiny Habs onesies I could buy?”

“Habs!” Eric snorted. “Oh, I’m sure Jack would love that.”

Bob mimed rocking a baby, and Eric laughed.

“Moving on! You know what would be fun? If you teach me some things to say in Québécois that would freak Jack out.”

“You’re bad, son,” Bob laughed. “I like it.”

“Psssh! You act as if you don’t know me.”

“Hmm… let’s see. Okay, the next time you’re hungry tell Jack, ‘J’ai la langue à terre.’”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that you have your tongue on the floor, but it’s an expression meaning you’re either very tired or starving.”

“J’ai la… j’ai la langue… we’ll get back to that one. Another.”

“When something bad happens, you can say enterrement de crapaud. It means the burial of the toad.”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I hope I don’t have to use that one.”

“You can use it when you burn a pie or something; it doesn’t have to be dire.”

“Burn a pie?” Eric said, offended. “Yeah, I definitely won’t be using that one.”

Bob laughed and shook his head. “Right, sorry.”

Eric's phone beeped, and he quickly pulled it out. It was a text from Jack.

“Miss you already?” Bob teased, just as his phone beeped.

“Ha, well, not a bad problem to have, right?” Eric shot back as he raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Bob said as he unlocked his phone.

Eric read through his text from Jack and laughed. “Your son says he is starving and actually inserted a crying emoji.”

“Ooo, ask him if he wants to order pizza from Il Focolaio. We can eat it while you and I make dinner,” Bob said excitedly.

“I can tell you already the answer to that will be yes. Lord, that boy can eat, and I absolutely love it.”

Bob laughed, “Well, food is a wonderful thing.”

“Once, when we were still dating, we went to George’s house. She was having a barbecue and grilling steak for tacos. Jack must have eaten about ten tacos in one sitting, and he was still looking for seconds.”

“Jack’s always been a hearty eater,” Bob added.

“I know, and it’s perfect… That’s when I knew, he really, really, truly was meant for me.”

“Corny,” Bob said with a chirpy grin.

Eric smiled wistfully. “The thing is, for someone who loves to bake, for someone that shows love through food, finding someone with a healthy appetite is nice. Is there anything better? Seconds, thirds? Yes, please eat all of the things I am making to show you how much I care for you.”

Bob smiled softly. “Come on, let’s go cook for these ingrates.”

Eric laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[docholligay]

The Party

An AU of Mystery and Shadow release from the Patreon vaults for Michiru’s birthday! 

“Our concertmaster, we’re so lucky here to have him, playing a piece, by Peter Illyitch Tchaikovsky, that, when it was first presented to the royal court–”

Please, no, not that one.

“Was so difficult as to be deemed unplayable. Luckily, over the years, brave violinists have tried their hand at this most difficult piece. Our donors, who mean so much to us, will be presented this tonight. Please welcome Sota Chiu, playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Minor, Opus 35.”

Michiru’s heart sank as he bowed to the crowd. In her position. Playing her piece.

She politely sipped her champagne as the piece moved from slow and delicate, to fast and intricate, his fingers moving perfectly over the neck of the violin, his hand obeying him perfectly as his bow dipped and rose. She could almost smell the rosin.

Her eyes quickly scanned the room. Haruka sat in front of the table of appetizer offerings, considering them carefully against the small plate balanced on her knee. Everyone else seemed transfixed by his work, and why shouldn’t they be? It was a beautiful piece, flawless.

Hers.  

She took a few sharp, deep breaths, and walked quickly toward the back door, overwhelmed with the feeling of the music in her chest. She burst out the back door onto the large balcony space above the garden, running  down the wide marble steps toward the green space she had rarely even bothered to notice, ignoring the older men calling behind her, nothing but a sea of voices. Miss, are you all right? Miss? Can I help you? Miss?

The sharp fin of the elegant and practiced notes cut through that sea and found her ear, where ever she went.

She fell to her knees, bare now on the grass and vulnerable in a way she had not been since she was a child, openly sobbing. Those notes which by rights should have been hers, which had been hers for so long, were stolen forever. She had been the violinist, the artist, and what was she now? Some pencil pushing office nothing calling family friends and charming them away from their money. She had been the spirit of the music and now she was little more than a column at its highest temple.

She took the glove off her hand and drew her fingers over the long and puckered scar. She had adapted so quickly, learning to write with her left hand, to do the day to day things with what amounted to a hand and a half. She had managed so quickly, she knew, because Haruka hadn’t. Haruka had been spiraling over the loss of her ability to walk, and so Michiru had borne the brunt of their lives, Michiru had protected Haruka from the world while she cried and hollered and healed.

But now their baby was two, and Haruka seemed at ease, if you made an exception for asking when they could have another one.

And suddenly, here, at a fine black-tie party, Michiru had realized she was quite useless to anyone. Haruka no longer needed her in the way she always had, she had found an inner strength in M.A’s birth. Her family had never needed her, not even when she was worth something, to say nothing of her as a now-lamed show pony. The symphony…the music…that was the hardest. She could feel the bow in her hand, the swiftness of the movements, the delicate angles coaxing out the slightest notes. And now she could not even be in proper service to the music, and she had spilled wine on the front of her dress, and she was on her knees in the grass, crying in public.

It was a shame that suicide to preserve one’s honor was no longer in the fashion.

“Michiru?” She heard Haruka’s voice from atop the balcony. “Michi, someone said you went out here?”

There was the low bass of a man educating Haruka as to her whereabouts, and Michiru sighed.

“Michiru!” She was at the top of the stairs now, and Michiru looked over her shoulder.

“It’s quite all right, Haruka. I’ll meet you at our table in a moment.”

Haruka paused for a moment. “Well, you don’t seem all right. You seem really upset.”

“It’s nothing, I assure you. Now, go on, you’ll miss dessert, and I know that’s most of the reason you deign to attend these functions.” She turned back to face the garden, dabbing at her eyes and taking a deep breath.

Haruka looked down at the plate of appetizers on her lap, and scowled. She popped the best looking one, some sort of small quiche,  into her mouth and swallowed. “Okay well then, if you’re not coming up here, I’m coming down there.”

Michiru did not turn around, simply shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Ara, don’t be ridiculou–” There was a sudden clatter on the stairs, and Michiru whirled around. “Haruka!”

Haruka pulled herself against the railing to the steps and rolled down backwards, the slope of the stairs steep, nearly losing it at the bottom, but catching herself on the small landing before the last two steps into the garden. She laughed a small, embarrassed laugh, straightening her suitjacket. “Dammit. Tore my sleeve.” She looked up at Michiru. “I’m always gonna come for you, Michi.”

Michiru sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. You could have been hurt.” She moved to get up. “Wait. I’ll come to you.”

Haruka shook her head and popped a wheelie, popping down the last two small stairs. “The time to stop me would have been when I still had my snacks.”

Michiru looked back out into the darkened garden, sitting silently, a tear still dripping down her face.

Haruka stroked her hair. “What’s wrong?” Michiru began to shake her head. “C'mon, just tell me.”

“I’m sorry you went to all that trouble to come find me.” She sniffled “You know, there’s a ramp to the side of the balcony.” She did not look away from the garden.

“Yeah, I mean, I could have done that, I guess, but I would have looked a lot less cool. Also, I didn’t know it was there and my wife is crying in the grass, which is at least a level four emergency.” She took off her jacket and put it over Michiru’s shoulders, then slowly settled herself into the grass next to her, drawing her arm around her. “Did Ryuji say something to you? Cause this party looks great, babe, you did a great job.”

“Oh no,” she brushed her cheek against Haruka’s shoulder, “I haven’t even seen Ryuji, which I suppose is a sign that there may yet still be a god, and it’s laughable at best to assume Ryuji has even the slightest ability to drive me to tears, I don’t believe he’s had the power since I attained the age of four.”

Haruka laughed. “He’s such a prick.” She gently brushed a hair form Michiru’s cheek. “So what is it?”

Michiru tried to keep up her upper-class patter, but her voice broke, and she could not keep back the truth. “Oh Haruka,” A sob broke free. “I miss my violin. My painting. I’ve lost every bit of use I had in this world. People say all these very reassuring things, but it’s only because they lack the courage to tell me to my face that I’m as useful as a cracked bowl anymore.” Haruka opened her mouth, but Michiru did not let her start. “Please don’t tell me about my inherent value, and how your love for me is not dependent upon what I can accomplish, and all such things that are a lie anyhow.”

Haruka sat silently, her arm still around Michiru, and looked up at the few stars that poked through the city lights. “So was it a lie when you said it to me?”

Michiru cocked her head saltily. “Haruka, not all situations which might seem the same, are, in fact, the same. You are good, and likeable, and–”

“How is it not the same? It’s exactly the same. I used to run and ride and now I can’t. You used the play and paint and now you can’t. You used to be a musician, now you’re not. I used to be a mechanic, now I’m not.” She looked at Michiru, a certain amount of genuine confusion on her face. “Did I miss something, is this stuff taught in a college course or what?”

Michiru laughed darkly. “It’s like we’re an an O. Henry story written by the devil.”

“And you.” Haruka held her tight. “Are all those things too. You’re good and likeable and smart and–”

Michiru shook her head. “No, Haruka. There hasn’t been a Kaioh born in the last 50 years who could make a claim to being good, and people don’t like me, they are afraid of me. Cautiously polite. I’m a–”

“Stop, stop.” Haruka patted her hair softly. “God, Michiru, have you always felt like this? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“It wasn’t important.” She straightened up and began to put her hair back into place. “And it is not important now. I apologize, Haruka, I forgot myself for a moment, but all is well. I just need some club soda for the stain, and—oof!” Haruka wrapped her arms around her and pulled her down on top of herself, both of them now laying on the grass.

“Haruka, you’re going to ruin that shirt.”

“I don’t care. We’re going to stay here, and you’re going to let me love you.” She adjusted Michiru onto her chest and kissed the top of her head. “If you were a bad person, you wouldn’t take such good care of me.”

“Haruka, you don’t need me to take care of you, my god, a set of marble stairs which should by rights be your kryptonite can’t even slow you down.” she fiddled with the edge of Haruka’s collar.

“Well now, yeah. But remember when I was so screwed up? And you helped me and fixed up the house for me, even though I told you not to because I was too stupid to realize things were different now.”

“That wasn’t stupidity, that was insane, willful denial.”

“Whatever. You took all that time taking care of me. You loved me when I didn’t love me. Let me take care of you. Please.” She tucked Michiru’s hair behind her ear. “If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure I screwed up the front caster of my chair and I’m gonna be tinkering with it all day tomorrow.”

Michiru giggled. “Serves you right.” She sighed. “You used to love watching me play the violin.”

“I loved seeing you happy. I still see the same way you lost yourself then, sometimes, when you’re playing with M.A. I love it. Michiru.” She sighed and thought for a moment, then continued. “The way I was most broken was never my legs, you know? It made things worse, but it all started because I was really mean to myself. But now I know there’s a lot of good things about me. I try hard, and I love my family, and I’m good with my hands, and, you know lots of things. My therapist made me make a list of things.”

“She’s been wonderfully helpful for you, I’m so glad you see her.”

“You know, I bet she has another openin–”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. But, you should know that there’s lots of good things about you too. This is kind of my fault, and I want to help you.”

Michiru pushed herself off of Haruka and sat back neatly on her heels. “How could this possibly be your fault?”

Haruka looked up at her with a slight sadness. “You spent so much time making sure I was okay. And now that I am, you finally get to be sad for you.”

Michiru felt the simple honesty of it rise up in her throat, and she choked back another wave of tears. But she did not deny it.

Haruka’s voice was gentle. “I want you to be able to tell me when you’re sad. I need you in my life, forever. M.A. needs you. Hell, the symphony needs you, and if they didn’t they wouldn’t spend so much time trying to make sure no one else hires you. You’re really important.”

Michiru’s mouth betrayed a slight smugness. “The Met was courting me the other day, you know.”

“See?” She squeezed Michiru’s hand. “I’m sorry they played your piece.”

Michiru looked at her, disbelieving. “You remembered that was my piece?”

“Of course. I remember everything you do.” She grinned, propped on her side, cheek resting on her hand.

“I love you so, Haruka Tenoh.”

“And really, who needs music by dead people when you have all this butch splendor?” She dramatically fanned her hand over her body.

“Truly, all the art the human heart can hold.” She took off Haruka’s jacket and handed it to her. “I’d like to go home, my finely-sculpted Rodin.”

“As you wish, my prettily-painted Monet.” She pulled her chair over to her and slipped on her jacket. “I think we should take the ramp this time though.”

“Oh, is this us losing all sense of adventure?”

And despite the chill of the night, Michiru felt warm.

[frogsandfries]

I'm kinda discouraged

On the one hand, I guess I never guessed self-publishing could be so....... hard.

On the other, it's December. My sister is most likely coming to visit the sixteenth till the twentieth. Not sure if part of that is travel time. I got so excited, I was gonna make all kinds of snacks for the visit and get the apartment spik-n-span and all pretty. Now it's the fourth and........I guess I should get started, I'm just.... going to have the same struggle of being the only one who cares how my home looks to guests--even if the guest is my own sister.

I guess we're going grocery shopping...... y’know, idk in the next week or so, so I better figure out some cool, easy snacks that'll meet everyone's dietary restrictions--I think my sister shares my dairy issue, and she's vegan, so.........idfk.....

No idea...... I'd like a mini muffin tin and I could make like, idk mini muffins, I could probably use the muffin pan we have to make a bunch of mini quiches, mmmm that sounds amazing. I'd say meat balls but, meat. I wouldn't even know what to put in a slow cooker, if we got one, if not meat. Soup?? What do vegans even eat??? She won't even eat fish!!!!!! I don't wanna be lame and be like, veggie tray!!

I have veggie cream cheese and veggie yogurt for my own dietary purposes, and granola. We could grab some bagels and get donuts from up the road. We could always have pasta or rice........

Ugh we're also coming to the time of year where I also just feel chronically exhausted. I want to nap all the time. Blargh.

I think tomorrow, maybe I'll have some of my motivation back. I feel like I just spent most of my evening lazing around, tried to nap, got the uploading to Amazon issue figured out. I can start fresh, fix all the pages in my drawing program on my tablet. Maybe, since I've figured out the page sizing issue, and I know exactly how I want my pages to look, maybe I can do more scrappy, zine-y things, mount my text blocks and color keys on decorative backgrounds, and maybe make some custom washi tapes. We can do some colors and stripes, maybe, I dunno, like some circuit board patterns, since Kitty likes computers, or some eight-bit emojis. Watermelon popsicles ha ha. Aveley-Mastden school colors, maroon and gold.

I also want to make all the pages like a barely-off cream or eggshell, just to bring a little bit of warmth to the pages, make them a little less harsh or stark.

I kind of wonder if maybe, maybe, maybe it wouldn't be cool if the cover looked like the Aveley-Mastden folder Kitty's school acceptance letter comes in, with the bronze corner protectors and the school logo on the back, really faint, so you could still read the blurb on the back. Maybe instead of the chapter cover on the front, just the first image in the volume? It would give a good visual of which volume you're looking at...... maybe?

It would be even cooler if the inside of the cover had fake folder pockets and Kitty's acceptance letter in the right side.

I guess I should come up with an author's blurb for the back cover: "Stosphia lives in the desert mountains and works on The Fortune of Aveley Vale while she works from home. She conceptualized the story in her senior year of high school while severely depressed, and knew it had to one day become a graphic novel. She never would have imagined the bizarre format that graphic novel would take".

It is quite bizarre. A cross-stitch zine and the patterns are consecutive art in artist trading cards format. I keep meaning to go back to the cross-stitching part of this project, but I've become fixated on getting the zine part to upload the way I want it so I can finally, potentially hold a finished version in my hands. I'm borderline obsessed with the idea of this being a successfully tangible thing for others to have, acquire, see. Maybe then....... I'll finally be invested? Maybe then, it'll finally be real?

I dunno. But I have to finish this part successfully before I can let it rest. Plus, just think: once this part is successfully composed, the rest is just a matter of producing the art and plugging in the rest of the elements--I still want to change the frames around the patterns and change the decorative brackets and so forth. Maybe I'll start putting in different blurbs, discuss the direction the story is taking or who knows what. Almost definitely over time, I'll start getting my frames cleaned and mounted and get good photos of them, start adding that material into my finished volumes.

A really cool goal would be to release the zines quarterly. I know making twelve lineworks, then twelve patterns, and once I have a fully functional format, getting everything formatted, is doable in a three month period. I also feel from this end, it would be a very dogged, demanding pace.......I also think if I tried and focused really hard, it would be more than doable. Possibly once in a while, I could release bonus volumes...... with more social media effort, I might even make it worth my while.

[justlookfrightened]

Second part of Neighbors AU, Chapter 9

Read it on AO3

Or, read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 or 8

Eric pitched in to help Dex fill orders and took turns with Dex making the rounds to wipe the handful of tables and shuttle used dishes to the back.

Finally, at about 1 p.m., the line began to dwindle and and the tables started to empty. Eric looked at the pastry cases with a critical eye.

There were only two quiches left, and half a dozen mini-pies. The muffins looked like they would hold out for the rest of the day, but they were sold out of maple-crusted apple pie. Eric would have to add to what he planned to bake in the morning, and who knew if tomorrow was going to be just as busy? Still, it was a good problem to have..

“I’m not sure what happened today,” Eric said. “Do you think it was all that selfie Derek took with Bob Zimmermann?”

“I don’t know, Bits,” Chowder said, untying is apron. “Who would have thought a picture with our logo in the background would make that much difference? Do you need me to stay and help?”

“No, that’s OK, Chris,” Eric said. “You’ve already stayed late. We’ll take care of it.”

He patted his pocket for his phone -- Bob had said something about getting in touch with the Falconers about that strange tweet -- when he heard it ringing in the kitchen. He must have put it down during the rush. He hustled in to grab it before his voicemail picked up.

“Hello? Matthew? What’s up?”

“Eric -- what’s happening down there? You’re all over Twitter, and you didn’t answer my texts. I didn’t want to call during the rush in case you were busy.”

“Oh, Lord, was there a rush,” Eric said. “It was already busy, then Jack Zimmermann and Alexei Mashkov stopped in, and I guess someone must have posted that, because then it just got crazy.”

“Was Bad Bob there too?” Matthew asked, “Because I think that’s him showing up on Twitter. Was he there over the weekend? Whatever, good job. Keep it up.”

“Uh, thanks, Matthew. I’m gonna have to take a look at what’s going on. I hope it’s nothing, well, nothing that makes anyone look bad?”

“Well, it certainly makes the bakery look good,” Matthew said.

Eric ended the call, then headed back to the register.

“Dex, sweetheart, can you get the dishwasher going?” Eric asked. “I need to take a look at something.”

Then he opened the Twitter app on his phone, closed his eyes, took a breath, opened his eyes and looked at his notifications.

Bless his regulars, several had weighed in on the tweet from @FalcsFanRI, some in praise of the maple-crusted apple pie Eric had suggested, others suggesting their own favorites.

Then @FalcsFanRI had tweeted again, this time with a picture of Eric locking up Sunday afternoon, Bob standing next to him. This one included Eric’s own Twitter handle.

Looks like @bbzimmermann got a private look from @sugarnspice baker @omgcheckplease.

Eric couldn’t help walking to the door and looking out. Where was that picture taken from? And who would care anyway?

Then there were a whole series of tweets about Jack and Tater being there -- several including selfies with Tater -- and at least one picture of Jack coming out of the kitchen carrying his sandwich bag.

@FalcsFanRI had retweeted that with the note, Wonder what Jack Z wanted to talk with @omgcheckplease about?

Eric took screenshots of the new tweets from @FalcsFanRI and texted Jamie.

I don’t know if you’ve seen these, or if you know who this is, but I’m not sure what’s going on. Bob Zimmermann suggested I let you, or someone in PR, know about them.

His phone rang a moment later.

“These just started today?” Jamie was asking as soon as he answered.

“Yes, Jamie, and how are you today?”

“I’m fine, Eric, and I’m sorry,��� Jamie said. “We’re not sure who this is -- it looks like they just made their account last week and started following us -- or what they want to accomplish. None of the pictures are from any real private areas, and they don’t show anything except that you know the Zimmermanns. Bob already said he liked your food, so I don’t really get the point. But the tone does feel nasty. Does Jack know?”

“About the first one,” Eric said. “Not about the rest. But don’t tell him before the game tonight. He’s still not on Twitter -- after this, I’m not sure he’s going to want to be.”

**************************

Jack carried his sandwich to the player lounge, poured a cup of water and settled at a table.

He pulled his phone out to text Eric, who was probably up from his own nap now, either headed out for a run or over to Meehan.

Thanks for the sandwich. They always taste better when you make them.

Eric sent back a blushing emoji, then This isn’t just a ploy to get me to make all of them, is it? then a winky face.

I don’t know. Is it working? Jack typed back.

Good luck tonight! Eric texted. I’ll be watching. Call me later if you get a chance.

Jack finished his sandwich with a smile, tucked the note that had been attached into his pocket and cleared the wrapper and cup from the table.

He was still smiling when he pushed the door to the dressing room open. Marty and Guy, who had been looking at something on Marty’s phone, looked up.

“Hey, Jack,” Guy said. “Ready for tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said.

Marty locked his phone and put it on the shelf of his stall.

“Look at you smile,” he said. “I’m guessing Eric made your sandwich? I saw you and Tater were there today.”

Jack thought that might be a chirp, but Marty didn’t seem like he was trying to get a rise out of him, so he just said, “Ouais. The bread from the bakery is good, and he always has the best jam. You saw? From all the selfies Tater took?”

“There were a lot,” Marty agreed.

Jack shook his head.

“He honestly seems to enjoy it,” Jack said.

“What did he get?” Marty asked. “We’re on the road until Saturday. Don’t tell me he went home and ate an entire pie.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I think he just got a couple of those little mini-pies they make. You ready?”

“Of course,” Marty said.

If Marty stuck close by Jack while the team finished dressing, well, that was nothing unusual. Jack might wear the C, but Marty had appointed himself Jack’s mentor and guardian when Jack came into the league, and he was still a close friend. They went out for warmups, came back for final strategy and took the ice for the anthem.

The game was hard-fought and fast, but mostly clean, and ended in a 4-2 win over the Sabres. Jack thought he played pretty well, saw the ice and could envision the play developing. Even so, he couldn’t help but think that there was something going on just beyond the edges of his awareness.

Jack showered and dressed and grabbed his bag, planning to call Eric before he boarded the team bus for the airport. He’d just left the dressing room when Poots appeared at his shoulder.

“Is Eric OK?” he asked.

Jack stopped walking.

“He was when I saw him after morning skate,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“There’s just this stuff on Twitter,” Poots said. “With him and your dad? I guess they hit it off. Anyway, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Show me,” Jack said.

Poots opened his phone and pulled up the tweets involving Eric and Bob. He saw the first one, the one Eric had sent him, and Eric’s thoroughly professional response. Then the picture of Eric and Bob leaving the bakery, which somehow, he thought, made it look like they’d been doing something clandestine instead of prep work for a whole lot of baked goods.

That had been retweeted along with lots of snide remarks about Bob and getting his sugar fix and kneading buns. Jack felt his stomach twist a little. Not because he thought there was anything … untoward between Eric and his dad, not for a second. It was just so unfair that both of them, honestly two of the best men he knew, should be the subject of such speculation.

“Thanks,” he said, thrusting the phone back into Poots’ hands and stalking off to find a quiet corner.

As soon as he thought he was out of earshot of anyone, he touched Eric’s contact button and waited for him to pick up.

“Hi, honey! Great game!” Eric said in a slightly too bright tone.

“Eric, what’s going on?” Jack asked.

***************

Eric took a deep breath.

“I'm not sure, exactly,” Eric said. “With the posts I mean. It's like someone is determined to make something out of nothing, and I can't for the life of me figure out why.”

“But my dad?” Jack sounded kind of strangled.

“Oh, honey, you know that there’s nothing going on between me and your dad, besides him being nice and trying to get to know his son’s boyfriend, right?” Eric couldn’t believe he had to even say the words. The whole thing was ludicrous. How could Jack think such a thing about either one of them?

“No, no, no,” Jack was saying, like his mind had just caught up with Eric’s words. “Not that. Mon dieu, not that. But we’ve spent time together in public. We’ve gone for runs, we’ve gone to restaurants, we’ve gone grocery shopping. Why pick up on you being seen with my dad? If it had to be someone, why not, I don’t know, Tater? He’s at the bakery almost as much as me, and he’s not married.”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “What does your dad think? I guess if anyone has a right to be angry, it would be him and your mom.”

“You too,” Jack said. “Some of the things they were implying about you --”

“What, that I’m some kind of sugar baby?” Eric snorted. “I think most of them were just playing on me being a baker. I mean, your dad’s kind of old for me, I know, but if he wasn’t married and I wasn’t dating the attractive Zimmermann, I’d at least meet him for a cup of coffee.”

Jack groaned.

“OK, OK, I’m kidding,” Eric said. “And we both know your dad would never have looked at me twice if I wasn’t dating you.”

“Well, maybe to get a recipe,” Jack acknowledged, the beginnings of a grin quirking his lips.

“How long before you have to leave?” Eric asked.

“They’re starting to get on the bus now,” Jack said.

“Then let me call your dad and find out what he thinks,” Eric said. “Call me when you land and I’ll tell you if we’ve come up with anything.”

“Eric, that’ll be after midnight,” Jack said. “You have to sleep. Go ahead and call my dad if you want, but tell him I’ll call him when we get in to Charlotte. Then I’ll call you when I get up, OK? But please get some rest. You’re already up late.”

“Aww, you worry about me,” Eric said.

“I just know proper rest is important,” Jack said. “Talk to you in the morning?”

Eric ended the call and scrolled through his contacts to find Bob’s number.

Bob answered on the first ring.

“Eric! You’re still up,” he said. “I didn’t want to call during the game, and then I was afraid I’d wake you.”

“No, sir,” Eric said. “I just got off the phone with Jack. He, uh, might be calling you after they land in Charlotte? He didn’t want to call me then because he said I should be sleeping.”

Bob sighed.

“That’s Jack,” he said. “And he’s right, of course.”

“Of course,” Eric said. “Have you been following all this?”

“Well, I stopped looking at my mentions a while ago, but in general, yes,” Bob said.

“So what do we do?” Eric said.

“For now, ignore it,” Bob said. “I don’t know why anyone would find it interesting that we know each other; it seems to be pretty common knowledge that the Falconers like your bakery. There’s nothing we can really do, anyway -- the photos are pretty public and no one’s making any threats and any reaction looks like overreaction to the innuendo. How’s Jack taking it?”

“Not as badly as I thought he might,” Eric said. “But he’s upset about the disrespect to you and Alicia.”

“And you, too, I’d think,” Bob said. “We’re fine, really. Compared to when Alicia and I first got together? This is nothing. But I suppose Jack doesn’t really know about that. It had mostly blown over by the time he came along, and we didn’t talk about it much afterward. When he had his problems --”

“He told me about his overdose.”

“Yes, well, that was a different kind of thing. I mean, it was nothing we could laugh at, and in a way, this is, because we all know the truth. What does PR say?”

“Pretty much the same thing: ‘Don’t feed the trolls,’” Eric said. “Jamie did say she’d find out what she could about the account that started it all.”

“Then relax, Eric,” Bob said. “Jack’s right. Go to bed. Go to sleep. See what tomorrow brings.”

***************************************

“Salut, Jack.”

“Were you waiting up for me to call?” Jack said. “We just got into the hotel.”

“Well, yes,” Bob said. “I was going to give you another half-hour before I turned in. Eric seemed to think you were worried that this would be a problem for me and your mother.”

“It’s just not fair,” Jack said. “Eric’s my boyfriend --”

“I think we -- by which I mean, everyone who knows both you and Eric -- is pretty clear on that,” Bob said mildly.

“No, not like that, it’s just unfair that you and Maman get dragged into it,” Jack said. “That people would imply that you’re having an affair with a 23-year-old kid --”

“Don’t let Eric hear you say that,” Bob said.

“I’m 28. Not 60,” Jack said.

“I feel like I should be wounded,” Bob said. “But you’re right, of course. I would feel like a creep if I was looking to date someone that much younger. As it happens, though, it’s not the first time people bent on malicious gossip have cast aspersions on my relationship with your mother. A lot of people -- mostly her fans, to be honest -- couldn’t believe that she’d date a lowly hockey player and thought it was all a stunt. But there were a few people who couldn’t believe I was interested in her, either.”

“How’d you get through it?”

“Ignored it, mostly,” Bob said. “There were a couple of really persistent people that we had to get lawyers involved for, but for most people, once it became clear that we were really together, they gave up or moved on. I know that even when you were growing up, we -- all of us -- got more attention than maybe was healthy, but I guess it didn’t seem so bad to me because it was better than what happened when we were dating.”

“So I don’t do -- what do you call it, Twitter -- but Eric seems to think this is strange, but mostly harmless,” Jack said.

“What I’ve seen would fall into that category,” Bob said. “Eric and I could probably go after some of the people who were tweeting for defamation, but that would just blow it up, and the tweets that started it all skirt the line. The question is where it goes from here. If Deadspin or TMZ get hold of it, well, it could get nasty. But I’m not sure they care about a retired hockey player and a baker from Providence, no matter how cute he is.”

Jack snorted. “Retired hockey player, right.”

He paused for a moment.

“Is this what it’s going to be like when people find out about me and Eric?” he said.

“No,” Bob said. “As much as I’d like to make you feel better, it will be worse. Because everyone -- from TMZ and Deadspin to more reputable outlets like ESPN and Outsports -- are going to have something to say about the first out player in the NHL, and they’re all going to want a piece of the story, and for a good while, it’s going to feel like they want a piece of you.”

“And a piece of Eric.”

“Yes, and a piece of Eric.”

Jack took a moment to focus on his breathing, and his father spoke again.

“For what it’s worth, he really is a remarkable young man,” Bob said. “I know you’re just getting used to each other, and maybe this isn’t something you would be thinking about yet if it wasn’t for this little tempest in a teapot, but don’t get ahead of yourself, and talk to Eric. That’s the biggest thing. You aren’t going through this alone, so don’t act like you are.”

“But Eric wouldn’t be involved in this at all if it wasn’t for me,” Jack said.

“And you wouldn’t be involved in it if it wasn’t for him, mon fils,” Bob replied.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Jack said.

“No, of course you aren’t,” Bob said. “And you don’t have to convince anyone of that. Now, it’s very late, and even though I don’t have a game tomorrow, I need to sleep. I imagine you need to sleep even more. Will you be able to rest?”

“I think so,” Jack said. “Je t’aime, Papa.”

“Je t’aime aussi,” Bob said. “Tell Eric I said hello when you talk to him in the morning.”

*****************************

Eric made it through the morning rush with the help of three strong cups of coffee and determination that he wasn’t going to let a Twitter troll affect his job.

He’d found it hard to sleep, and woke to check his Twitter accounts at midnight and again at 2 a.m. There wasn’t much more than there had been the day before: a few jokes about Bad Bob Zimmermann robbing the cradle (he was an adult, thank you very much!) but nothing too threatening or mean-spirited. There were also lots of tweets from customers of Sugar ‘n’ Spice defending both his character and his baked goods.

@bbzimmermann has probably just fallen in love with the mini pies, one said. I did!

Another said, Why wouldn’t @bbzimmermann go to the best bakery in Providence when he’s in town? And @omgcheckplease would be fun to watch a game with!

Those made Eric smile. The ones that were a little more, well, personal (I’d make a play for @omgcheckplease if he swung my way! He looks delicious!) made him squirm a bit, but it was hard to think of a way to respond that wouldn’t seem encouraging, or overreacting, or something. So he ignored them.

On the upside, Sugar ‘n’ Spice had gained over a hundred new followers; @omgcheckplease had a few dozen more. So there was that.

The morning rush was busier than usual, but nothing like lunch had been the day before. Jack texted when he got up that he’d call after morning skate, when he had more time and the bakery should be quieter. Jamie called shortly after nine, and Eric called her back once he had the dishes washing and he could sit in the back and talk.

“We still don’t know who FalcsFanRI is,” she said, “but it looks like their IP address is in Boston.”

“Boston?”

“Yeah, go figure,” she said. “Anyway, like I said, the account’s relatively new, and they hadn’t put much of anything up until yesterday. They liked and retweeted some of our stuff, a couple of other tweets about the team, but nothing personal. They follow you too, both omgcheckplease and the bakery.”

“OK,” Eric said. “I don’t know who it could be. I’ll think about it. Any advice about responding?”

“I don’t think we should respond directly, but I was thinking about maybe posting a pic of you and both Zimmermanns from the game, something about how the Falcs enjoy it when their families can come and support them? I don’t think we’d have to identify you at this point. But would you mind if we did, if someone asks?”

“No, that’s fine,” Eric said. “After this whole thing I’d think anyone who was paying attention knows who I am. I’ll tweet like usual -- the lunch special, stuff like that. Nothing about hockey.”

“OK. I’ll run that by George, but expect us to do that,” Jamie said. “I’ll check in with you again tomorrow about this time, if nothing blows up today. And you can call me anytime if you need to. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, thanks for all your help, Jamie,” Eric said. “I guess I don’t understand why anyone cares.”

Eric had finished restocking the cases for lunchtime -- and noting that the bakery hadn’t been empty at all during the morning -- when his phone rang again.

“I’m going to take this in the back, Chowder,” Eric said before answering.

He waited until he was through the kitchen door before connecting the call.

“Jack! You doing OK?”

“Ouais, I’m fine, Eric,” Jack said. “The question is, how are you? No more weird tweets?”

“Not yet,” Eric said. “Nothing new, at least. Jamie said she’s going to post a picture of me with both your parents from the game, as long as it’s OK with your dad. But it’s been quiet so far. I was just about to tweet something about our specials before lunchtime.”

“And you’re really OK?” Jack said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, really, Jack, I’m fine,” Eric said. “I mean, I told my vlog subscribers I was gay before I told anyone else, so maybe I’m used to communicating with people I don’t know in real life.”

“You seemed upset yesterday,” Jack said.

Good Lord, Eric thought. Why was he being so persistent?

“I was, a bit,” he allowed. “It was just strange, having people say things -- or at least speculate about things -- about that weren’t true. When I came out on my vlog, I only had a couple of hundred subscribers, and I’m sure most of them already assumed I was gay before I said anything, and no one else who might have seen it really cared at all whether I was gay or not. What was different, I guess, was having strangers act like they had an interest, and to have them doing it at your dad’s expense, well, that rubbed me the wrong way. But your dad seemed pretty calm about it last night.”

“Yeah, when I talked to him he said he’d been through worse,” Jack said. “But he also said that if people find out about us, it’s going to be worse.”

“But it’ll at least be true,” Eric said.

Jack snorted. “Depends on what they say.”

“Jack, honey, I can’t pretend that I’m looking forward to all the talk,” Eric said. “And I know if we keep spending so much time together, there will be talk. But let’s not borrow trouble before we have to.”

“Maybe it’s good that I’m on the road now, eh?” Jack said. “Give things time to calm down?”

“Hush,” Eric said. “I’d always rather be able to see you.”

[muffin-thoughts]

12.27

Hello, and great job on handling another day. Some days can be easier or harder than other, so just remember to take things slow, and enjoy whatever you can.

My day was relatively simple. I woke up, did my normal routine, and got myself prepared for the day. Kristen and I spent a good portion deep cleaning the house. We took care of the Christmas clutter, fixed up the kitchen from its dirty dishes and messy counters, and rearranged furniture to get the most space available. We also vacuumed each room, washed all the sheets and bedding, and even steam cleaned the floors. It was a lot of hard work, but really rewarding. Everything smells so fresh and clean, and much better than the past few days. The holiday’s can be chaos, but we took care of that right away. 

Afterwards, we definitely earned a break. So we watched some TV, and had a bit to eat before we finished up on some of the basic laundry. A while later we eat dinner, the same yummy roasted vegetable quiche from Christmas, and then had some more work to do. The ceiling fan had no light source, so Jim came down to help us fix it. We had deduced that it was the switch that was broken, so after some troubleshooting, they decided to remove it all together. I actually learned a few things about wiring that never even thought to learn before, but I think everyone should learn a few things about what is so essential to our everyday lives. It was really interesting to see them work, and now I know who to go to if I ever want to learn more. We ended up making the ceiling fan better than ever! 

We chatted for a while after that. Jim talked about his exploits as a substitute teacher for a while, and then we got on the discussion of he job of working with mechanical calculations. He’s a very accomplished man, so I always love hearing his stories. We talked for probably an hour before it was time for him to leave and Kristen to sleep. I decided to take the time to myself and play a game I was given for Christmas. After all the work I did today, I feel very accomplished, and pleasantly sore. I remember when I was younger I used to love cleaning, and I think I’m starting to get back into that habit. 

I’m not sure what my tomorrow will have in store for me, but whatever it is, I know it will be something good. Until then, have a wonderful night.