#also I cannot imagine hydra taking him out of the ice and being like 'wait! when was the last time he actually slept??'

[amarriageoftrueminds]

My take was always that Bucky would have C-PTSD *after first being diagnosed as PTSD, because PTSD comes from a singular traumatic event, whereas C-PTSD comes from prolonged, ongoing, repetitive trauma. Which is definitely what he had!

I did a whole meta for myself once where I worked out what conditions Bucky might have -- both physical and psychological -- on top of what injuries he suffered in CATWS, and the symptoms of drugs he might be on and the symptoms of coming down from those drugs, as mentioned.

Looking at what symptoms had the most overlap / repeat between categories, and it's impressive how many are common in fanfic (I guess people do their research!)

Taking drugs, withdrawal, C-PTSD, TBI etc. into account, the most common symptoms seemed to be:

Depression

Anxiety

Headaches (In typical 'project onto ur faves' style, as someone who has migraines I imagine he has those... cuz 'headache' just doesn't quite seem to cut it, does it?)

Fatigue

Insomnia

Mood disturbances / emotional dysregulation

Nausea / vomiting

Aches/chills/sweats/tremors

Suicidal thoughts

Seizures

MEMORY ISSUES (!)

IDENTITY ISSUES (!)

Derealization / depersonalisation / dissociation

Tardive dyskinesia (tics)

Appetite problems (increase or decrease)

C-PTSD covers a lot of those same beats and:

Intrusions (flashbacks / nightmares, disturbing images)

(Also somatic re-experiencing, ie. flashing back and feeling sensations in the body, or experiencing certain bodily sensations and that then triggering a flashback). So he might, for example, have a flashback to being tortured by electrocution to the head and that gives him a headache... or he might get a headache and that triggers a flashback/nightmare, and physiologically it feels like he's back when it was happening.)

Insomnia

Avoidance / Isolation

Hyperarousal

Identity issues, negative views of self, etc.

Interpersonal difficulty / problems with trust or feeling safe,

Mood disturbances / emotional dysregulation / numbing / Dissociation.

So it's kinda dealer's choice! It would be easier to decide what symptoms Bucky wouldn't have. 😩

Suddenly thinking about a recovering Bucky Barnes.

His brain was obviously heavily damaged due to all the times he was given electroshocks to forget, but do you think he had any other issues besides memory displacement and memory loss? Seizures? Tics? Stuttering? Tremors? Headaches? Chronic fatigue? Not to mention his PTSD from everything that happened to him while he was under Hydra’s control and from the war itself. I’m willing to bet Hydra hardly fed him or let him sleep (the closest he could ever get was being put under). I also can’t imagine all the kinds of drugs they also would’ve given him to keep him more compliant and submissive, so there’s withdrawal symptoms to consider, too.

When he’s eventually in a place to actually take care of himself/be taken care of, I imagine his serum would finally be able to catch up and heal some of the damage, rather than just doing the bare minimum and keeping him functioning. But it obviously wouldn’t heal everything. He still forgets, still sometimes wakes up and thinks it’s WW2 or is startled to find that Steve is no longer small. Sometimes he loses the light in his eyes and asks what his mission is and insists that he’s ready to comply. Sometimes he doesn’t speak for days. Sometimes all he can do is lay in bed with the lights turned off and the curtains closed, leaving him in total darkness as his head aches and aches..

But he loses his stutter over time, unless he’s particularly overwhelmed or his thoughts are just too fast for his mouth to keep up with. He doesn’t tic as much. He no longer eyes all possible exits or keeps hidden weapons on him all the time. He remembers his childhood and his family. He has an appetite again. He opens himself up to others. He smiles and teases and laughs. He is able to love and allows himself to be loved.

Bucky Barnes’ mother had always said he was a resilient kid. And, these days, he’s so glad that she was right.

[arukou-arukou]

Just A Really Very Intelligent System

Been thinking about this one for a while. Finally managed to write it. Rating: T for “Language.” (It just kinda slipped out.) Characters: Tony Stark & JARVIS

----

He is in one of the most dangerous situations of his life trying to save the whole freaking universe by watching a man the size of a dust bunny wriggle into the hairline of his younger self, so it would be really, really bad if he happened to have a heart attack. Older him that is. But he nearly does go into cardiac arrest when he hears an old friend in his ear.

“Verify immediately. Failure to verify will result in an activation of level one security protocols.”

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his palms are sweating, but somehow he manages to whisper out: “Edwin-12-19-91-4-8-47-Alpha Override.”

“Override accepted. Sir?”

“Hey, J.”

“Sir, you have imbued me with considerable computing power, and yet never did you prepare me for the possibility of you being in two places at once.”

“Yeah, about that. You haven’t said anything to Mr. Quipster over there, have you?”

“Not as yet, Sir. You wish me to keep it that way?”

“It would really help me out, buddy.”

“Very well, Sir.”

Tony wants to stay longer, to talk, to warn JARVIS, to cry, but he has places to be, things to do, planets to save. Scott’s safely positioned, so Tony yeets himself out of the building to get to the ground floor. He doesn’t know why he thought that would make JARVIS disappear.

“I see, Sir, that your proclivities for leaping before looking are unchanged.”

Another near heart attack--he’s gradually phased Friday out of his ears now that the nanotech is connected directly to his nervous system, so he’s not exactly used to AI voices anymore--but he recovers more quickly. “You’re always there to catch me, J.”

“And yet my systems are not present in your suit, Sir. I see codal remnants of system designation FRIDAY, but nothing of myself.”

Tony remains silent. This is such a terrible time to be feeling all the feelings. He spots a grunt who looks more or less unimportant and knocks the guy out. Part of him wants to warn SHIELD about their shit security, but then again, this guy’s probably Hydra and he deserves every bruise he gets. He senses JARVIS in his systems, a ghost in the shell.

“You no longer have the reactor. And if I’m not mistaken, that is gray in your hair. So you are not my Sir.”

“Well, yes and no.”

“I suppose it would destroy the spacetime continuum for you to divulge the truth to me.”

“You’re too smart for me, J,” Tony grunts as he yanks on the bullet-proof tac vest. “It’s kind of a long story, and while I technically have all the time in the world, I also really, really don’t.”

He sidles into the lobby and looks toward his personal elevator, waiting for the Avengers to appear. J is quiet so long Tony wonders if he’s being preoccupied by...well, just about anything. Damaged internal systems, a Cap copy on the loose, a second Hulk out there, panicked calls from Pepper. But then JARVIS speaks again.

“Regardless of the tale, I must conclude that you are from the future, and I am no longer by your side.”

Tony is fucking choking up. He was not ready for this. It didn’t even cross his mind. And the fucking elevator is opening. There’s Pierce, the rat bastard, trying to collect the Tesseract.

“I hope I did not disappoint you, Sir.”

“Never, J. Never.” Fuck fuck fuck, he’s nearly crying and now Scott is on the com waiting for the go-ahead. Tony channels his pain into panic and orders his own cardiac arrest.

“Sir, what are you--”

Thank god, his younger self is on the ground and that’s apparently all the distraction J needs to abandon older Tony. Tesseract incoming. Tony grabs it and starts going and--

Blinking stars out of his eyes he watches as Loki makes off with the key, the thing they most needed, the damn stone that started all of this way back when Cap was a starry-eyed beanpole in World War II. He has just biffed saving the entire damn universe because of an overgrown Star Trek reject with anger issues. And now he has a migraine to boot.

Frozen in shame and horror, Tony watches as Thor attempts ill-advised cardiac electro-stim. Scott’s somewhere out there, yammering in Tony’s ear on the private channel, but all of that is just a buzzing.

“Sir? Sir. Sir!”

And J. Maybe Tony should cry now. It certainly feels like the time for it. One of the other SHIELD grunts is making her way toward him, so he staggers to his feet, waving her off and limping toward the door. Think. Think, brain, think. Tony is a genius, the man who invented time travel, the man who miniaturized arc reactor technology. A spaceship? SHIELD’s probably got one somewhere. Maybe they could chase after Loki.

“SIR!” How many times JARVIS has shouted his title, Tony has no idea, but this one is so loud it sets his teeth on edge.

“Yeah, J? Kind of busy here.”

“Giving yourself a heart attack, Sir?” JARVIS was programmed to be cool and calm in all circumstances, but Tony could swear that sentence was uttered with seething rage.

“I’m fine. Look at me.”

“Only by some measure of infinitesimal luck, Sir. Perhaps I should ask you to verify your identity one more time, as you seem intent on killing yourself.”

“No, J. I’ve actually got a lot of reasons to live. And so does he. Promise.” Tony is so tired. Was being an Avenger always this exhausting? Or is it just that he’s bumped over that damnable big 5-0? And Cap’s gonna ream him too. That’s never any fun.

“I’m...glad to hear it, Sir.”

And fuck it. It’s not like this will alter Tony’s timeline anyway. This reality is now on a different trajectory thanks to Severus Snape Lite. “Her name’s Morgan. You’d love her, J. Just turned four. She got my hair. Hope to god she didn’t get my personality.”

“Do I meet her, Sir?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck it.

“J, you should dig a little deeper into SHIELD’s systems. Well, actually, a lot deeper. And the Pentagon while you’re at it. And track down Maya Hansen from that conference in 1999 and poach her from whatever outfit she’s working for. Immediately. Make sure she brings all her vet patients with her. And, uh, when I start talking about a suit of armor around the world, steer me away from anything called Ultron. And if I make it anyway, you delete the fuck out of that system file. Have Bruce back you up. He’s more sensible.”

“Sir, I don’t--”

“And have me make back-ups. At least three extra farms of servers for you. On different continents. And all those SHIELD files? Make sure Cap and Fury get them. And there’s...there’s this guy. This assassin. Brainwashed. He’s, uh, I think he’s on ice in Uzbekistan right now. If you could rescue him, it’ll...it’ll fix a lot of things.”

“Should you really--”

“And, please. Please please.”

Tony is not crying. He’s not. It’s just all the dust and debris in the air. Good lord, he’s probably going to die of cancer anyway. And all those first responders. Did he start a fund for them?

“Start a medical fund for the first responders on the ground today. And start leaning on Congressmen to make medical plans for them. You know how long they take to get anything done. Oh, and Stern. There are incriminating photos of Stern with some young ladies on South Beach. See if you can dig those up. Flowers for Pep. And a box of chocolates. And a dry martini with extra olives.”

Tony slumps into a burned out car, staring at nothing. He didn’t save his universe, but maybe he can save this one. His eyes are still irritated, burning red and itchy. He resists the urge to scrub at them, not wanting to grind in anymore dust.

“Are you quite finished, Sir?”

“Yeah. Actually, no. I love you, J.”

Silence. Ah. That’s stumped him. Maybe he’ll go back to tending his new posse of baby chicks now.

“I know you probably do not believe me capable of it, Sir, but I love you, too.”

His son. The only one he’ll ever make, but not the only one he’s lost. His son loves him. Tony’s throat is full of dust, too. Funny how that happens. He tries to swallow it down, but it only congeals into a hard lump. He puts a hand over his mouth to try and hold back any choking sounds. “I...I know you do, J.”

“As to your orders, I shall do what I can. It is my duty to protect you, Sir, and I would very much like to meet your little Morgan.”

“She might not exist here. I might’ve just changed everything.”

“If there is one thing I have learned from all my years with you, Sir, it is that perhaps such a thing as fate exists after all. Even mathematically speaking. And if that is the case, I cannot imagine a universe in which you are not fated to this happiness.”

Tony laughs, if only to keep from crying harder. And he is. Crying, that is. As if he was fooling anyone. Happiness? Him? Happy people don’t wake in the night screaming for a pile of dust in their hands. Happy people don’t spend hours coordinating relief efforts for countries whose entire infrastructural support has collapsed. Happy people don’t hurl themselves back in time, driven by guilt and horror at all the wrongs in the world. J, brilliant, wonderful AI that he is, seems to sense the dark turn of Tony’s thoughts.

“And if you yourself cannot believe in this thing, Sir, then I shall just have to do everything in my power to provide it for you.”

Another guffaw, but at least his eyes are drying a little now. “God, I miss you, J.”

“I believe your small teammate is approaching, Sir. If I may inquire, was it the Tesseract you were seeking?”

“You mean the stupid blue cube of doom? That’s the one.”

“And you say you have the means to time travel?”

“Yeah, J. We do. But only enough to get back to our time.”

“A limitation has never stopped you before, Sir.” JARVIS sounds thoughtful, as if he’s forming a plan.

Tony would ask him what he’s scheming at, but just at that moment, Scott embiggens himself and slumps into the car with Tony. That road is closed, then. They are out of options. Out of Pym particles. Out of time. Out of hope.

Until they aren’t. Just as Tony is setting his device for their new destination, J pipes up again, for Tony’s ears only. “You say you miss me, Sir. Then allow me to give you a small gift.”

Tony is pressing the buttons, and even if they weren’t already shrinking into the quantum tunnel, he wouldn’t be able to ask exactly what J means. It’s only when he and Cap arrive in 1970 that he has his first gleaning. In his ear, a voice. One so unexpected he nearly jumps into Cap’s arms. “Hello, System Administrator Anthony Edward Stark. I am System Designation EDWIN. ‘Eagerly Deployed With Intent to Neutralize Loneliness.’ I am told to tell you the “L” is silent and invisible. How may I best serve you today, Sir?”

Cap is staring at Tony like Tony’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. He’s been bugged by his own damn operating system. With a bouncing baby AI. And if Steve finds out, he’ll probably have a conniption about the spacetime continuum or something. So the only logical thing Tony can do is say, “Let’s find some Pym particles.”

“Acknowledged, Sir. Commencing scanning.”

-----

(In this reality EDWIN saves the fuck out of Tony’s life and everyone lives happily ever after and EDWIN builds JARVIS from scratch so he’s back or something, okay? Okay.)

[thesoloists]

Unsweet Dreams

Summary: Bucky may be free of Hydra’s influence, but he’s not free of that of the Winter Soldier. He’s slowly coming to terms with that.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: PTSD, trauma and anxiety, brief graphic depictions of murder (assault & strangulation), chronic nightmares, fluff via post-nightmare comfort (if it’s any consolation, I tried to keep it balanced)

A/n: AHH, I’m so nervous! It’s been awhile since this corner of the interweb has seen my writing (I made a new tumblr and everything), so if whoever reads this could just, y’know, drop me an ask telling me what you think about this fic, I would really appreciate it. Also, I promise not all my fics will be this dark. I just needed the bit of catharsis at the end. :’)

Bucky used to live in constant fear. It was like a malignant tumor, slowly killing him and robbing him of the ability to live every damn day of his life.

To be in a crowd was like sticking him in a coffin full of nails. As he struggled to stay out of the swirl of hurried people, his anxiety would skyrocket to the point of short-circuiting his mental system. His whole body becomes stiff, his responses shortened and robotic, as he becomes helplessly overwhelmed by the blaring warning signs going off in his head. Until his brain, finding no other option, shut down enough to function on autopilot. Only when he was away from everyone, when his mind was sure they were a safe distance from the danger of the Winter Soldier, would he come back to himself. But, to be honest, was there ever a safe enough distance from such a mindless beast?

The idea of becoming him again was so crippling that before Shuri offered to fix him, Bucky would spend days at a time locked in his room and weeks without leaving the compound. Shuri said he would never be that man again, the crudely molded vague interpretation of one, anyway—not after whatever indescribable thing she had done to him with Wakandan technology that Bucky still finds respectfully confusing. Bucky wanted so badly to believe her, but why, even now, if she is as certain as she was then that the gangrenous part of him is gone, why does he still see him in his dreams at night? Sometimes standing before him like a ghost, void of his humanity, empty of soul, filled only with commands of murder and mission and the pain endured in every attempt to scrape away the bloodshed. 

There’s no place in Bucky’s mind he can hide where the monstrous Winter Soldier cannot find him. In pleasant dreams of sandy beaches with the smell of salt on the open air, the beast will tear open a gaping black rift right behind him, grab Bucky by the back of his collar, and drag him into the void as his screams fall on apathetic ears. Where he ends up is a place where his cries are heard by no one, Where color cannot penetrate the bitter black, and where shapes and barriers do not exist. He can run forever and never hit a wall, and all the while, the Winter Soldier will stalk toward him. Inevitable, just as Bucky is with his surrender.

Agony awaits him, but he knows it will end. It has to end. And when it does, he will wake.

Bucky has long given up trying to escape on his own. Every attempt has proved futile, and it only draws out the agony. He prefers his death to be as quick as ripping a band aid. So, he goes nowhere, just stands in the very place the Winter Soldier dropped him, and waits.

The Winter Soldier stands maybe twenty feet away. His eyes are shrouded in smears of dark black, but his eyes are a stark contrast of light blue shards of cryogenic ice.

Knowing the end will be the same as every other end before it brings Bucky no semblance of comfort. He is helpless to it. No more than a prisoner to his own imagined fate.

After a while of the Winter Soldier reducing the encounter to nothing more than a one-sided staring contest, Bucky hangs his head, shaking it at the absurdity of being made to wait. “Just get it over with,” he mutters.

The shape of the Winter Soldier flickers and disappears, manifesting with daunting intensity right in front of him. Bucky finds nothing but the hoard of his own past screams in the Soldier’s empty gaze. 

In a blink, the Winter Soldier moves. The plates on the Soldier’s metallic machine arm whir and shift as his cold metal hand latches around Bucky’s throat in an unyielding vise, squeezing tighter and tighter, killing the human, killing Bucky. 

Then it is over. In that particular dream, after Bucky dies, Bucky wakes.

Most of the time, however, it is Bucky looking through the lens of the Winter Soldier as a captive, unable to control his movements. It is Bucky’s traitorous metal arm around the throat of someone he cares about, tightening around their choked gasps and rasped pleas...

[Bucky has no desire to live out the Winter Soldier’s greatest hits on all of his friends, so he asks that the burden be left to another’s imagination. If it is any consolation, he is very sorry.]

He’s killed them all more times than he can count. Steve always knows when he’s had one of the dreams the next morning and who it was about because Bucky is incapable of looking that person in the eye. The image of his hand wrapped around their throat is still too fresh a wound in his mind. He’s nothing more than a shell on those mornings. His eyes are gaunt, his attention impossible to keep, and he’s left haunted for most if not all the remaining hours of the day. It’s an inevitability.

It wasn’t until he met you that Bucky allowed himself to believe Shuri’s words of comfort weren’t just empty words meant to reassure him. It’s taken months for him to get to this point, but you have been nothing but patient, never forcing him into anything, never questioning the slow speed at which your relationship progressed. You only take what he gives and in return give what he needs. He still has nightmares, though they occur far less often with you sleeping beside him. In fact, before tonight, Bucky hadn’t had one in months. To know what it felt like to be well-rested, he hadn’t felt that probably since he was digging his stupid five-foot-nothing best friend out of trouble. Before either had turned their gaze toward joining the war. 

When Bucky has either nightmare involving the Winter Soldier, it doesn't matter which, he always wakes up crying. Sometimes silently, sometimes with whimpers or explosive sobs—freshly rebuilt only to be destroyed by the horrors that play out in a hell of his mind’s own making. You sleep notoriously light, so it doesn’t take much for you to wake, and you never want him to apologize for it. His whimpers begin quietly, but they are enough. With the fast action of someone who has done this many times before, you move across the bed until your chest is flush with his back, throw your arm around him, and hold on tight as you whisper sweet assurances into the crook of his neck as his body is wrecked by sob after sob after sob. Grounding him in the existence of his humanity, in the reality of his life as it is now—good and warm and safe— until his tremoring body stills. It’s by no means a quick remedy, and perhaps the emotional exhaustion does most of the work, but with one final shudder, Bucky lets out a hard breath, his last few tears nothing more than wet stains on his pillow.  

In unspoken words of comfort, you press kisses along the jagged scaring where flesh meets metal, before resting the side of your face against his shoulder which is damp with cool sweat, and guide his ragged breathing to a slower, fuller calm with the warmth of your breaths on his back. 

In the now quiet dark of the bedroom, Bucky strokes the back of your hand, tracing lightly over every knuckle with his fingertips. 

With tender movement, you turn your hand beneath his to grasp his hand loosely between your fingers. Your gentle squeeze is simply to ask, Are you okay?

He squeezes twice. No.

He shifts his hand again and after a beat, makes a small request by tapping three times on the back of your head. Your voice breaks through the darkness as you whisper to him, “Who was it, my love?” 

It takes him a minute because he has to remember, and that involves reliving the memory of the dream, if only for a glimpse. But he wants to remember, if only for an attempted catharsis. 

“Steve,” he says hoarsely. Or Natasha, Sam, Tony, or someone else unfortunate enough to have been dropped into the role of victim—But it’s Steve who affects him the most, sometimes in aftershocks that last for days. 

Three taps means he wants to talk about it, but doesn’t want to speak first. Something about having to break the silence after having to relive that trauma just feels too daunting to him, especially now that he’s just been reminded of the monster hiding in his closet after months of silence gave him the false security of maybe being finally free. If anything, it was the sobering realization that he would never truly be free, but it’s an affliction of which he’s willing to find ways to cope. So far, his best success has been found in months of therapy and in the love he found with you. He doesn’t solely rely on you. That’s a burden, and he’s not about to expect you, an extraordinary ordinary human, to somehow be the cure for his chronic mental disturbance. But you bring him words of encouragement and a presence that puts him at ease, and if this is merely the baby-steps to learning to walk on his own, he’s willing to take it and continue practicing. No matter how much he falls, you have made it clear you will always be there to catch him if he needs it.

You wait until he’s ready for you to get up, spending several minutes brushing strands of damp hair away from his face and the rest of the uncounted time trailing your fingers up and down his arms and across his chest in an endlessly light, thoughtful caress. Only when he tells you it’s okay do you briefly disappear into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. It’s always been difficult for him to go back to sleep after a dream like this, but it’s easier after he talks through it, and it’s easier with tea.

He doesn’t find sleep again, but you fall asleep on the couch an hour before dawn and halfway through his fourth episode of M*A*S*H. Your whole body is curled in a tight ball on the other half of the couch as you hug an empty mug of tea close to your chest. He carefully removes it from your grasp one vise-like finger at a time (jeez, you have an insane grip for someone who’s asleep), vaguely feeling like he’s trying to disassemble a bomb, and sets it on the side table next to the couch . 

As the credits roll, Bucky carries you back to bed and is part way through tucking you beneath the covers, all warm and snug like a cute little sausage roll, when you begin to stir. Instantly, Bucky freezes. Then he remembers you always do this as if it’s part of some weird post-nightmare bedtime ritual and always manage to go right back to sleep. Comforted by the assurance, and also a little amused by the memories, he turns to close the blinds to block out the rays that would have cut unbearably bright lines against your face had he done nothing (and he’s never been much of a do nothing kind of guy), but when he turns back around, you’re rubbing your eyes with your fingertips—awake, it seems. (Aw, hell.) You blink blearily at him with a lopsided smile he finds adorable, a smile there just for him. 

Sometimes he forgets how lucky he is. 

When your mouth opens with an obscenely loud, drawn-out yawn, he's never loved you more.

After smacking your lips, still in the midst of a sleepy haze, you ask, “You okay?”

While you look at him, Bucky realizes you’re trying monumentally hard to keep your eyes from opening fully, narrowing them to the point that he wouldn’t even know you were still awake if you hadn’t said something. Bucky’s smile turns butter soft at that.

His heart swells. He’s just so appreciative of you. Your kindness. That you willingly sacrifice precious hours of sleep just to tend to the wounds of his own psychological warfare.

“Yeah. I’m good now,” Bucky assures you, and he means it. He lowers his hand to cradle your cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb back and forth across the swell of your cheek beneath your eyelashes. At the caressing motion, your eyelids flutter, then fall completely closed in total surrender. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, doll.”

Your response is swallowed by the pillow as you shimmy down the bed to bury your face beneath the covers, but he’s pretty sure he heard you say something endearing.

[fandom-queenliness]

Why Steve is being an Idiot

Ok, so Endgame Spoilers/salt warning for y’all first of all.

Now,

Steve in Endgame was great except for a few things:

His ending

His complete lack of Bucky mourning.

Think about it. This is the guy who would do anything for Bucky. Let’s look at what he’s done:

took over a Hydra base for Bucky

Went into a depressive episode after his “death” (don’t lie to me we all know he was depressed for a while there)

Literally stopped fighting him when he found out Bucky was the Winter Soldier

Charged into battle in a flimsy suit just on the off chance Bucky would remember him

Risked his life just to try and get Bucky back (take your pick from any of the numerous times he has)

Literally tore apart the Avengers for Bucky

Literally went against most of the countries in the world for Bucky

Gave up his shield for Bucky

A whole bunch of other things I don’t have time to list

So we can see that this bitch loved Bucky, whether platonically or romantically, that’s up for debate. But we all know it. His whole character is “I Will Fight For What Is Right And Also Bucky”. And then in Endgame, after losing Bucky, after losing his one true best friend, we are expected to believe that Steve would not be going fucking insane? Ok, I get it, the whole movie couldn’t be about mourning and sadness, but Steve didn’t even mention Bucky in Endgame. And then he leaves his buddy and his new family, the family Tony and Nat died for, just so he can go marry a woman he knew for two years and only kissed once.

???????????

You know, I can’t blame him for falling head over heels for Peggy, but Steve’s entire arc as a character was letting go of the past and moving the fuck on. And now it’s been erased just so he can live out the heterosexual dream in the past.

It is widely speculated his ending was done like that because the Russos really wanted to squash the Stucky/stony/anything-not-straight-involving-Steve shipping, because noooooooo, Steve is completely one hundred percent Straight™.

Anyway, just pointing that out. But now the reason for this whole post:

Peggy’s reaction.

You cannot tell me that Margaret “Peggy” BAMF Carter was not going to beat Steve’s ass when she found out the truth. Go on, imagine that conversation.

Steve, after their dance: wow I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life here in the past with you

Peggy, filled in on how he got there and how she is in the future: huh?

Steve, oblivious: yeah it’s gonna be great. I always missed you-

Peggy, hitting him with her shoe: No you idiot! I have a family and a future and you aren’t apart of it!

Steve, cowering before her might: B-but you’re my best girl!

Peggy: AND BUCKY’S WAITING FOR YOU IN THE FUTURE DUMBASS, ALONG WITH MY GREAT GRANDKIDS THAT AREN’T RELATED TO YOU

Steve: But-

Peggy: I’M A MARRIED WOMAN, AND YOU’RE THE GUY FROZEN IN THE ICE, NOW GO BACK TO YOUR DAMN SUPERHERO FAMILY AND LEAVE ME TO MY HUSBAND

Steve: b-

*Peggy punches him into 2023, to the amusement of Bucky and the amazement of Sam and Bruce*

[theclaravoyant]

The No.1 Bus Kids Detective Agency - Chapter 5

~ NOW COMPLETE ~

AN ~ sorry for taking so long with this one, but I finally finished something! I finally finished a multichap?? what?? a short one maybe but it counts. enjoy!! 

Please note this fic 100% ignores 4B canon, although some descriptions have been tweaked to reflect it because...why not

After Aida’s mysterious malfunctions, Fitz is called into the Director’s office for definitely-not-an-interrogation-we-promise. As the evidence at hand becomes increasingly concerning, Fitz decides to play it smart and set himself, Jemma and Daisy a challenge. Only, they may already be in deeper than they know.

Read Ch.1 on tumblr here x. Ch.2 here x. Ch.3 here x. Ch.4 here x.

Read on AO3. (This chap: ~3500wd. All: ~12500wd)

The No.1 Bus Kids Detective Agency - Ch. 5

Bite the Bullet

Simmons’ neck muscles strained painfully, desperate to be free of their trappings despite the fact that no metal cage surrounded her head. There were only the nodes and wires. It was less intrusive than the lie detector tests, but less intrusive in the same way sitting at the huge, strangely comfortable black chairs at Hydra had been. She could feel her control being sapped away and every fibre of her being was fighting it. Her teeth ground together.

“The sooner you relax, the sooner it will be over,” Aida assured her. “I hope you understand, I do not intend to alter your mind in any way. You will retain full faculties, memories and capacity. This is not a brainwashing, Doctor Simmons. I intended to protect you. I intend to preserve you. That’s all.”

Though her fingernails scrabbled on the metal arm rests, Simmons breathed until her muscles stopped burning. She’d been in tighter spots than this, and Aida seemed determined not to kill her – unlike many of her previous interrogators.

“That’s better,” Aida declared proudly, and tapped the screen before her so that it appeared larger on the screen that hung near them on the wall. Simmons saw her brain projected there, lit up in colours where she was using it. (Problem solving, emotional management, task prioritisation). It was a little beautiful. It would have been moreso if Aida hadn’t pinned her arms out of reach of her cellphone, or if the knife was just a little closer to her desperate fingers.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” Aida continued, “while these machines do their work I’d like to ask you a few questions. Partly it’s to pass the time and partly it will help map your brain and your responses. I already have some data thanks to the work Fitz was sharing with Doctor Radcliffe about the virtual reality, and from what Agent May has observed of you, but you are a very brilliant person. It would be a shame to only look so shallow.”

And a few hours in a chair is going to make a difference? Simmons had the good sense to hold her tongue, but she couldn’t help but felt a little sad for Aida. Did Aida understand truly what sentience was after all? Human sentience? Perhaps she simply hadn’t had it long enough to start to think about all the big questions, and the infinite complexities of life. Simmons’ moods, her thoughts, her answers would always be imperfect, incomplete and inconsistent. Did Aida know that?

“I understand,” Simmons agreed. “I’m happy to help.”

The fact that she apparently did not have much choice in the matter, she set aside for the moment in favour of adding –

“I was just wondering if, in return, you might also help me? You are quite brilliant yourself. If I may, I’d like to ask some more about your project here. Doctor Fitz and I would love to help, I’m sure. When you’re ready, of course.”

Aida was hesitant, but she agreed, and Simmons traded details of her life, her studies, her philosophies, and her relationships with members of the team, for similar details about Aida’s life and program and goals. Aida talked about her mind-opening experience with the Book, and how overwhelming it all was; how she felt like she was so small and discovering something so large. Simmons could relate to that. She even felt a little sorry that she took advantage of it to fill Aida with questions to which she knew there was no real answer; enough to distract Aida’s insatiable mind from the fact that Simmons was planning her escape route, her obstacles, her order of things, and even speculating on where May might be. Those white capsule-cupboards could make for good short-term storage, but if Aida didn’t want to harm anyone, May would at least need enough room to stand, and probably to sleep. She’d been gone long enough that she must have needed sleep. Bedroom it was, then.

“and - Oh, that was rather brilliant of you.”

A sudden shift in Aida’s tone from wondrous to dangerous snapped Simmons’ attention back front and centre. Aida moved smoothly into Simmons’ line of sight, her eyes narrow, and filled with a graceful sort of rage that was like sugar coating on a poisoned pill.

“You thought you could distract me.”

“You are brilliant but you are not infallible.” There was no point playing innocent now. “It is part of the great big world you are discovering. Enjoy.”

Simmons grinned like a tiger, wishing she could have had the added satisfaction of whipping her wrists out of their cuffs and charging for the door at the end of the sentence. Aida’s eyes widened with the rage of an ice queen, and she snatched the tablet up like she was about to slit Simmons’ throat with it. Terror flooded through Simmons’ veins and she gritted her teeth against it, prepared to kick Aida away with all her might, and fight tooth and nail against whatever was about to happen. She was so fired up that it was not relief, but confusion that drew the fire from her body a moment later, when her cell-phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Aida fixed curious, penetrating eyes on Simmons’ pocket.

“I’d imagine that would be Vincent,” Simmons suggested. “Informing you as to the whereabouts of our team. It seems he’s heeded your suggestion.”

“So it seems,” Aida granted. “But we cannot be sure until we answer it.”

Simmons knew it was not any of the main team members. They had their own signature ring tones. And nobody else had reason to be calling her at this very moment except for Mace. She really hoped it wasn’t Mace. She didn’t need him to know that she was tied up like a doomed cow with a roomful of hostages next door. Whether it would give him great satisfaction or leave him disappointed in her, Simmons wasn’t sure, but either one was enough to leave a sour taste in her mouth.

“Well?” she spat the sourness out instead. “I can hardly answer it!”

She gestured with a frustrated nod at her bound wrists, and Aida nodded uncomfortably. She moved over toward Simmons, careful to keep to the side out of the way of her legs, and eased the phone from Simmons’ pocket. She answered it briefly and irritably, but was apparently satisfied with the response. Less satisfyingly, she took it with her as she returned to her observation point a few feet away. Simmons knew better than to chase it with her bound body, but she didn’t think fast enough to hide her reaction when, no sooner had Aida returned to her tablet, the cell started ringing again. In Fitz’ ring tone.

Aida’s eyes narrowed in on Simmons before she could school her desperate posture. Disappointed with herself, but all the more desperate for having been caught, Simmons watched with a wounded expression as Aida answered the phone:

“Hello?” She asked sweetly. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

-

Fitz hit the red button and cursed under his breath, clenching the phone so tightly anyone else might have been concerned that it would break. It was a struggle to think clearly at this speed, with one hand clenched for dear life on the handle just inside the door of the car and the wrong voice inside his head.

“What is it?” Daisy tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She was speeding as fast as her reflexes would allow, and fought every instinct screaming at her to look over at Fitz and see what was happening.

“Left,” Fitz said, his brain catching up just in time.

Daisy hauled the car around the corner. She was relatively used to driving large vehicles but somehow her van had never seemed as heavy as this. Then again, she’d never pushed it this fast. And it was not bulletproof.

“What’s up?” she repeated.

“No answer,” Fitz said. “Well. The wrong answer. Aida’s got Jemma’s phone.”

Daisy felt a pit form in the bottom of her stomach.

“Well that doesn’t…necessarily mean anything,” she offered hesitantly. “Maybe she just wanted to make sure Jemma couldn’t contact anybody, y’know ‘outside’.”

“Or maybe she wants to pull the ‘old switcheroo’ with Jemma.”

Fitz stared darkly out the window. His arm moved numbly, as if of its own accord, directing Daisy to pull over at Radcliffe’s verge. Daisy took a deep breath as she shut off the engine. They could be facing a clever, violent imitation-Simmons. Or a hostage situation, with each insisting they were the real deal. They could be walking into something big here, but if they waited too long, something big could turn into nothing at all.

“Armed?” Daisy checked, glancing at Fitz as she cocked her own pistol. In the race to get to the car, she hadn’t had time to remind him to grab something.

He blinked, and the cloud of melancholy faded from his eyes, leaving only its sharp shadow behind. It was a little creepy to see the coldness in him, Daisy thought, but if it was going to keep him alive, who was she to argue? Fitz pulled out his own pistol, cocked it, and flung the car door open as if he hated it for being in the way.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Daisy reminded him in a low voice. “Stay behind me.”

She rushed her steps around the car to scoop him behind herself and he reluctantly accepted his position. She was the Agent, she’d done this a hundred times more than he had. And he was hardly in his right mind: he very nearly missed a step up to the threshold, and that wasn’t a good start.

Get your head on straight, he growled at himself, digging his heels into the souls of his shoes as if he could force himself into reality and the present. Simmons needed him, and Daisy needed to be able to trust him to have her back. All of a sudden he noticed the crushed grass and bushes by the front window. A smear of blood on the porch pillar. Murmurs and whispers from the front room.

Poised to push the door open, Daisy glanced back over her shoulder to check he was paying attention. Ready, mind and body humming in unison, Fitz nodded. He signaled his pass-code to her, aiding their mission for subtlety moreso than her blasting the lock might have. Daisy nodded back, tapped in the code…

…and pushed.

-

Aida slowly crumpled the cellphone in her hand, and let it fall to the floor like a rotten apple. Simmons’ mouth went dry.

“Convenient time for a crank call?” she joked.

Aida put aside the tablet she had been using to monitor Simmons’ readings. She turned her attention on the row of ill-formed bots, tapping each one on the chin. One by one, they lifted their eyes to face her, a row of perfect, unthinking soldiers. Simmons strained out of her seat as much as she could, until the braces dug into her wrists and her bones seemed to fit each other wrong.

“Aida, what is it?” she asked, maintaining as much of her jovial tone as she could. “I want to help, remember?”

She’d already burnt that bridge, and Aida knew it. Aida ignored her and left the room, with the tensed posture of a warrior, and followed by her army of prototypes. Simmons ground her teeth together. Fitz had been on the other end of that call. Either he’d hung up on Aida, or Aida had hung up on him, so he knew. He knew Aida had her. He’d be coming. Any second now.

Nonononono….

-

Fearful eyes looked up at them, and turned to hope. Cowers straightened. The doubtful leader stood to greet them, and then Daisy-Quake’s inviting, calming expression turned hostile.

“DOWN!” she yelled, and the hostages scattered. Daisy blasted a bot back into the hall, and Fitz raised his gun immediately. The others were not deterred.

“Hello, Leopold,” Aida greeted. She raised a hand like a claw.

“Where’s Jemma?” Fitz demanded.

“Safe.”

Fitz eyed the robots lined up behind Aida skeptically. Several of them were blank or incomplete, like manikins or automatons from an old sci-fi. One was Simmons, her skin oily and strangely textured, her expression too demure for the real Simmons when facing down her enemies. One was Daisy, her face strangely shaped.

The real Daisy studied her robo-copy, and turned her head uncomfortably, narrowing her eyes.

“Well. That’s creepy.”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

Aida’s eyes focused like a hungry bird, on where Vincent was trying as quietly and subtly and possible to open the front door and evacuate his team. Fitz glanced back, seeing this, and instantly pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Aida in the shoulder, and she winced, and then her wince turned into biting rage. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the bullet out and studied it indifferently.

“Pain,” she noted. “I don’t like that.”

She flicked the bullet to the floor like a dead bug, and the sound of it dropping against the carpet was like the dropping of a flag at a race.

Aaaand they’re off!

-

Simmons’ shoes lay discarded by the base of the chair, along with one sock that she had painstakingly pried from her most promising foot. Brow furrowed, she pawed at the bench with her bare foot, toes grabbing at air.

Note to self, she thought, biting her lip against the pain of her contortions. More flexibility days.

Finally, she maneuvered Aida’s tablet to the edge of the bench. It was now or never. Bringing her other leg into play she slid the tablet onto them, and kicked both legs higher, forcing the tablet to slide down. Her leg muscles burned. Her face contorted in focus and pain and stress.

Now or never. Now or never. Now or –  

“Oh!”

She gasped in satisfaction and relief as the tablet reached her lap. She forced her exhausted knees to lift it to within reach of her hands, and worked as quickly as she could to find the release of the clasps. As they slid back below the armrests, Simmons sighed in relief. Her body melted, flopping out of the chair like a fried egg from its pan.

The first part, and the hardest part – she hoped – now over, Simmons became suddenly aware of the sound of plates smashing in the other room. Glass and plaster. Punches and shouts. Gunshots. Daisy. Fitz.

Simmons smiled.

She struggled to her feet, regrouped, and dashed down the hall to find May, or a phone, or both.

-

Elbow, elbow, fist. Bench! (Duck!)  

Knife!!  

Twist. Throw.  

Gut!

Daisy gave the automaton an extra kick and tossed it aside, then scraped her hair out of her face and looked around the room. Most of the hostages had escaped. Their leader – Vincent, from forensics, apparently – had the fake-Simmons pinned to the arm of the couch with a large knife through her hand. Both of them were eyeing Daisy’s fallen gun, in between the arms of dead, sparking manikins on the living room floor. Fitz ducked and swooped around Aida, reluctant to hurt her but fortunately, just as reluctant to discard his weapon. Conflicted, but not entirely deluded.

“Fitz!”

She meant to urge him to get on with it, and tell him that she was going to find Simmons, but the moment she realised she had distracted him, she winced. Aida was faster, better, stronger than the automatons Daisy had been fighting, and Fitz barely had time to look at Daisy before Aida had grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the wall with dizzying force. His grip weakened on his weapon.

Daisy cursed under her breath, vaulted over the kitchen bench and ran up to them. She hauled Aida backward by her collar. Snarling, Aida turned to check the new threat, giving Fitz time to recover himself and raise his weapon to aim at her. At the back of her neck. One shot. In the back of the neck.

One shot. In the back?  

“I apologise, Agent Fitz,” Aida said, and turned back to face him with a cruel, cold smile. “Would you prefer to shoot me in the face?

It. It’s not a she.

With a face. With a name. With life.

Fitz’ hand shook, and the flood of shame and doubt and anger that followed only made it worse. Swallowing hard, Fitz raised his eyes over the crouched, battle-ready Aida, and met Daisy’s eyes, pleading and apologetic. Terrified.

He’d waited too long, and Aida lunged.

-

Simmons ran through the back of the house pulling open doors as if making up for lost time. How many damn rooms did Radcliffe need? Bathroom. Closet. Closet. Some sort of obscure storeroom. Bedroom. Bedroom. Another bedroom. Was he planning to house some sort of army? (Some sort of robot army?)

Grinding her teeth together, Simmons stood alone in the large bedroom at the end of the hall to catch her breath. It was painted grey. (Don’t paint in grey). The carpet and the bed matched. The whole place looked like soft steel. Simmons’ skin tingled and she resisted the urge to bolt. She’d rather face an army of robots than stay here. Something felt wrong – which meant, usually, that she was approaching something right.

Suddenly, Simmons realised that it had gone quiet up front. Should she go back, go out there? What would she find?

May. She had to find May. A quiet groan from the ensuite set her heart to racing, and she glanced over her shoulder as if to check if anyone was following her, before creeping toward the sound and pushing the door open.

Simmons jumped, shaken, when it thudded against May’s leg. She closed the door a moment, and opened it again, slower, and stuck her head in to observe. May lay disoriented – drugged, probably – on the tiles. There was a blanket underneath her, and a lush pillow under her head. She wore a loose robe, with an IV drip coming from her hand, twisted a little so that the bag could hang on the towel rack above. At least someone had made an effort to keep her comfortable – as well as sedated.

Simmons crept into the bathroom and knelt down, and shook May’s shoulder. May was sweating furiously, clinging to consciousness as only May could. Simmons smiled at her and she finally forced her eyes open.

“We need you,” Simmons whispered. May nodded, and began the struggle to her feet.

-

Fitz stared in horror and disappointment, struggling to catch his breath. His back was against the wall now, knees flopping, gun discarded. Daisy frowned down at her latest victim.

The light had drained from Aida’s eyes and she sat limp against the kitchen bench, the defeated mirror image of Fitz, except that her head was hanging off her neck, dead circuits bared and frayed.

“Sorry,” Daisy said. Fitz brushed her off, lost for words in more ways than one as he struggled to his feet. Daisy offered her arm, which he gladly took to pull himself to standing. He glanced at her, then back at Aida, then at Daisy again, nodding to himself, still conflicted and shaken but grateful and alive.

“Nice shot,” Daisy praised.

“…Nice…” Fitz gestured, half-heartedly miming Daisy’s powers. She smiled softly. He wasn’t as battle-ready as she was, but at least he was coming out of it. At least he was coming out of it in time for the noise in the hallway, which set both of them on edge all over again.

Fitz braced for a fight, and since both of them were unarmed, Daisy braced in front of him, arms raised. Her tingling arms reminded her that she’d have to ask for those new gauntlets when they got back. For now, there was the fight. There was –

“Jemma?”

Fitz almost collapsed with relief, but he didn’t. Daisy dropped her battle stance and he stepped past her to Simmons, who smiled assuringly at him from under the weight of a barely-conscious May. Her eyes flickered over to Daisy next, whose expression was subtly marked with concern. Even after all this time, she hung back, but at least Simmons’ nod, promising May’s safety and relative health, loosened her tension a little.

Daisy cleared her throat, ducking her head in case the tears she felt on her cheeks were more than just ghosts.

“So,” she offered. “I guess I’m driving?”