#also his teeth. and his eye crinkles. and the rings. and the hairy arms.

[bunnywan]

daily pic of ewan that makes me want to blow him

[adjoining]

the silence of sunflowers

We walk like cattle. Like cattle to a field to chew our cud, to flick flies with our tails. With chains clicking and clanking, linking our ankles and wrists together, we are animals. A herd rounded up for slaughter. Percussive sounds of bare feet on hard-packed earth, the occasional scuff of a heel against rocks. Mud squishes and squelches, painting dirty ankles dark brown as it latches onto toes. 

It’s almost musical, I think. The broad, smelly brute ahead of me (a murderer; raped and quartered the priest’s daughter, I overheard him say) pounds into the puddles, no care that he splashes himself and me. But the footsteps are perfectly timed. For every boom of his feet, I triple-step to the side: a waltz to a death march.

How fitting.

How very fitting indeed.

Of course, Mother always told me this would be my end: a disowned brat of a boy in a train of criminals ushered toward the hangman’s noose. I had hoped that she was wrong, but a part of me always knew that my life would end with a rope around my neck. I could almost hear the crack of the platform, the twang of the noose pulled taut, the snap of the bones in my neck as my soul traveled wherever. Hell, probably. 

Delicate feet, delicate hands, delicate tongue. Mother claimed that when I was a toddling boy, I had been kissed by Lucifer himself. She loved her gossip, and she loved her religion. She claimed that I would lay the foundations of tribulation. Apparently if you have an affinity for picking pockets and reciting sacrilegious poetry, you are halfway to hell already. To her, I was the Antichrist. That’s what she called me to her friends. If there truly is a God, then he made me too pretty for my own good, too wily for anyone else’s good.

Tis a shame the world should be deprived of such beauty, such talent, such ambition. Idealism births Ambition, the Father of Deception and Perseverance. I hold a king’s share of all. 

I was born to be a royal. I dreamt of fine silks lighter than cloud fluff and golden crowns twisted like laurels to rest on my brow. Gold pairs marvelously with pale skin untouched by sun-burdened labor. Gold does not pair marvelously with barley farmers. If there truly is a God, he gave me too lofty of dreams for a farm boy. And gold does not grow from barley sheathes. It sleeps in pockets and purses of pretentious prats who misuse it. 

Even now, wrists chafed raw and blisters bursting yellow clouded pus from the pressure of the manacles, the itch in my fingers starts again. They almost vibrate, humming and stirring with such ferocity that I clamp them underneath my chin. Anything to stop that desire, that burning yearning to take, take, take.

There’s something in the pocket of Ugly Murderer in front of me. Like a desperate ocean navigator to the Pole Star, my eyes spot the thump of something in his trouser pockets. What could this deplorable creature be concealing? It’s certainly too round to be a useful weapon. Too light in the pocket to be of considerable weight. What could it be?

Only one way to find out. Picking this troll’s pocket cannot possibly result in a worse fate than the one I am about to meet.

There’s a large puddle of mud four lengths in front of him. With a glance to the left, a dart to the right, I release my hands, a gentle smile curling on my face for that rush of excitement, that promise of a conquest. Two and a half lengths now. Stepping the slightest bit closer to the man, I ready my right hand. One length now. The execution awaits.

Years of practice and dedication guides my right hand. My fingers are like antennae to gently brush against his threadbare pants to grip whatever hides in the shadows of his pocket. As it slips in, my foot connects with his left heel as his other foot stumbles into the puddle, throwing the man’s balance. He lurches forward, preparing to be painted the color of the mud that sucks on his knees as he timbers down. As gravity claims him, my fingers connect with the item, grasping onto it between the fore and middle finger. He lands with a thud and a splash, a surprised groan huffed from his tooth-chipped mouth. 

“My sincerest apologies, sir,” I say, tamping down the smirk that threatens to split my face in two. My hand curls around the picked item, concealing it with a casual clasp of my hands. The telltale clank of the soldiers’ armor reaches my ears, and I watch with growing mirth as the brute, face painted red like summer strawberries, rises from the ground to (no doubt) deal out a pummeling. His hairy arm reels back, the promise of a smack to ring through the air. Yet, before his fist reaches my unflinching jaw, two soldiers clamp his arms to his sides.

“Bloody coward!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth and dribbling down his mud-slathered chin. “I’ll tear you to—” 

A studded fist connects to his stomach. His words and breath explode from his mouth in a huff of air, and I cock my head as one soldier unlocks him from the chain that keeps us prisoners in a line. They then drag the still-spitting man to the front.

Tis a shame, really. I would have much rather preferred being escorted to the front lines. Now the oaf would die a whole few minutes before me. He would also die with an empty stomach, now.

I toss the stale piece of bread I snatched from his pocket up and down in my palm. The piece is so old that no flecks drop from the crust. Such a thing is a delicacy, though. Perhaps I’ll save it for a better time. Perhaps in another hour before they slip a noose around my neck.

I breathe in a deep breath, the cool air filling the expanse of my chest. It’s the kind of air thick with water. It’s the kind of air that sticks my threadbare shirt to my skin and turns my limp hair into snarls of tangled blonde strands. It’s the kind of air that ushers out days of spring rainfall and threatens to drown the wildflowers just starting to bloom in the fields. Through the smattering of trees on the side of the road, I could see bright tickles of bluebells growing in hordes on the hillsides. It was like a sea of purple. If I closed my eyes, I could see myself laying with them, a finger stuck between the worn pages of an old poetry book I had swiped from the church after a Sunday service when I was eight. The flowers would hang down and sigh with me. I wonder if the bells of Notre Dame hang like bluebells from their towers. 

The one regret I shall shoulder with me into death: never finding the beauty of worlds outside of England.

I am snapped from my thoughts when I see a soldier march back to me, and I quickly shove the bread in my pocket. In his hands, he carries a chain connected to someone that he yanks behind him. As he leans down to connect it to the main one, I take in the newcomer. And my head cocks to the side. She cannot have seen more than seven winters. The pale grey dress she wears hangs in tatters from her bony shoulders. She is all waxy skin and pointy bones. Black circles pool underneath her eyes, faintly concealed by hair that looks like it hasn’t felt the teeth of a comb since she was born. She lacks the healthy, full cheeks of a child her age, and the sallow pull of her skin on her face shows every crevice of her skull. If she tried, the could slip her wrists from her shackles. But from the droop on her shoulders, I see that she has lost her will.

If she is Atlas, she has dropped the sky. 

We resume our walk to the gallows soon after the soldier links her in front of me. There is no more boom of heavy feet in front of me to dance to; only the drag of her bare toes on the ground. Her feet hold silence in the din of a death march. Despite her lack of will, she is gentle. Her silence is velvet and my feet are sandpaper. If people were masterpieces, she is a marble statue: all cracks and edges smoothed down, heeded, bended, broken by hands that have, undoubtedly, given her over to the fate of criminals.

Her silence is shattered only in the briefest sound of sniffles. Before I know it, my fingers curl around the measly piece of bread. I step with light feet to her left side. Bending at the waist in a half-bow, I present it to her.

“Bread for milady?” I say. She spooks to a stop, eyes darting from the proffered bread to me. 

“W-what?” Her eyes are heavy with overflowing tears, but the brown shines through. Her shoulders say defeat but her eyes speak life.

A frown crosses my mouth and creases my brow. “Now, my dear lady,” I encourage her to continue walking, and she stutters to a start again, “surely you know a delicacy when you spot it? Why, this is bread of the highest quality: reaped from the golden fields of our King himself, threshed and grinded by the same hands that prepare feasts for visiting nobles. Would you want to deny yourself such a pleasure?”

Her sorrowful eyes bunch together, contemplating me. Then with tentative hands, she wraps her fingers around the bread. Sniffs it. Takes a cautious nibble.

She crinkles her nose. “… It tastes like sweat.”

A snort almost explodes from my nose, but I tamp it down. “Ah, that’s simply the seasoning. Pure sea salt imported straight from imperial Qing China.”

“There’s mud on it.”

“Purely for aesthetic pleasure, my lady.”

“Is that mold?”

“Aged like a fine gruyere cheese.”

“I think there’s a hair on it.” “From the head of the king himself.”

Her tears are long gone now, replaced by eyelids narrowing to slits. “Are you lying to me?”

“Me? Lie? Heaven forbid.” I clasp my hands to my chest, bending halfway at the waist in the best bow I can muster in chains. “I am but a humble pickpocket. No lies lie in my vocabulary. And to whom do I have the honor of conversing with?” I gather her hand in mine, ready to press a noble kiss to her bony, muddy knuckles.

A rose blush blooms on her cheeks when I shoot a dazzling smirk at her. She drops her head, whether in shyness or in shame, I know not which. But I do know that she will not tell me. She shakes her head, greasy blonde hair concealing her face as she pulls her hand from mine while the other tosses the bread to the ground. I almost berate her but think twice. Her focus returns to her walking feet. Silence claims her voice and I can almost hear the hollow sound of her footsteps jarring through her body. I can hear it bounce between her ribs, rattling them and skipping her heart beats faster and faster and faster.

Overhead, the clouds blend white into grey. The wind yanks at my hair, throwing wisps into my mouth. They stick to the cracks on my lips and I wet them, dehydration forming canyons of dried blood. I suck it out. In the distance, thunder rumbles. What a lovely image my mind conjures: my corpse swinging, dripping from rain, life slipping between my cold fingers as my soul puddles beneath my hanging body. Those poor soldiers will be tired, hauling the waterlogged bodies to the criminals’ graveyard. How horrible for them.

I loathe them. 

The girl’s head still hangs beside me. Her neck is so severely angled that it already appears that a noose has already broken it. My heart heaves a sudden pang. 

“’What shall I call thee?’” The words, not my own, twist in my mouth. They taste sweet to these pauper’s lips, and they fly with a melody I cannot fathom of my own thoughts. I aim them towards the darkening clouds, but the words dance to meet her ears. “’Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy but two days old…’” From the corner of my eye, the girl raises her head. Straightens her shoulders.

“What?”

“’What shall I call thee?’” I repeat, poem giddy on my tongue. I level my look to her eyes. “’Sweet joy I call thee; Thou dost smile. I sing the while, Sweet joy befall thee.’” A true smile dawns on my face. “Tis a poem by a fellow named Blake. Since you do not deign to provide me with your name, I shall give you one: Sweet Joy.”

“… Sweet Joy?”

“While thou smile, I shall sing the while.”

“But… You haven’t seen me smile.”

“Yet,” I say. “I haven’t seen you smile yet. But I would be willing to bet a rich man’s pockets that it rivals that of sunflowers.”

She blushes once more. 

A chuckle rumbles in my throat. Her silence is sweet now. “Would you like to hear another?” She gives a single, tentative nod, and I clear my throat, beat my chest twice, and begin.

“’Ah Sun-flower!’” She, and every other criminal in the vicinity, jump at the sudden boom of my voice. The power one can wield with a simple voice is the mightiest weapon. “’Weary of time, Who countest the steps of the Sun: Seeking after that sweet golden clime, Where the travelers journey is done.’” My voice is a kite that follows the breeze of poetry. “Where the Youth pined away with desire, and the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: Arise from their graves and aspire…’” She tenses at the uttering of the word graves, “…Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.’”

I can hear the phantom claps of applause from months ago ringing through my ears. If I close my eyes, I can see them, the people, cheering for me, for just one more poem, one more verse. They call for words brighter than the sunlight, prettier than stained glass windows. They seek more than dirt and church. They seek beauty and freedom. They seek poetry. I seek poetry. I seek freedom.

A shame I sought pockets more than both of these.

I look to my side and see that my young companion has fallen silent once more. But this silence is sweet. It’s the kind of silence you can taste. It tastes like summer citrus after a hot day in the fields. Sink your teeth into the skin and swirl the juices around your tongue. Swallow the rinds and lick what drips down your arms. 

She is the one to break it this time. “I am afraid of the dark.”

The words slip from her mouth so suddenly, they almost slither past my ears. But instead of replying, I beckon for more with my head. 

She still does not look at me, but continues in a still, quiet voice. “Mother always told me that monsters lived in the dark. She said that if I went out at night, the demons would get me. I don’t want the demons to get me.” It’s the kind of voice that only children use when they have been caught doing something naughty. Quiet, timid, and otherworldly. Some of the words catch on hooks in her voice. They crack against disuse from imprisonment. “When she died, Father told me I needed to sleep without a candle. But demons will get me if it’s dark. He hid all the candles in the house.”

“How did you sleep at night, sweet joy?”

“I screamed,” she says. “I screamed and screamed, hoping it would keep the demons away. But Father said I was already possessed by a demon if I didn’t like the night. I don’t want to be possessed by a demon. I don’t think I’m possessed by a demon. Do you think I’m possessed by a demon?” Her eyes, wide with desperation, glimmer at me once more with burgeoning tears. Her fingers grip the sleeves of my shirt, wrinkling underneath her nails.

Another pang ruptures through my heart in one, deft wave. Overhead, the clouds make a solid ceiling of grey. “Of course not, sweet joy.”

“He told me that death is just darkness. He told me…” She gulps, and her hands begin to rattle in the links again. We walk a few more paces before she speaks again. “He told me that a child like me isn’t worth raising.”

The silence around is now bitter. The poems once uttered now leave bitter after-traces on my tongue. Ahead, I can see a bridge in the distance. If it’s the bridge that I think it is, then time is running thin. We will reach it in another mile.

“Do—” She swallows again, “do you think it will be swift?”

No. “Yes.”

“Do… Do you think it will be painful?”

Yes. “No.” “…I don’t want to die.”

I almost lie. I almost say I don’t want to die either, but that would be another lie. I’ve lied to her a fair too many times. She does not deserve more lies from a thief. She does not deserve death from a noose. And perhaps I do not deserve this fate either. Perhaps none in this band of criminals deserve this fate (aside from ugly brute; gods be praised he shall be the first of us offed). But seven-years-old is a flower yet to bloom, the barest light of dawn before a sunrise. I am high noon, and the others round us are various stages of dusk and sunsets. She cannot leave a mark on the world if her footprints do not sink into the mud.

I hear the pitter of the first drops of rainfall tap against the ground. One lands on the side of my forehead and slides down, following the curve of my cheekbone to trace along the edge of my jawline to land on the still-drying lane. I brush the sleeve of my shirt against it and it comes away smeared with dirt. Gasping, I furiously rub my face in the crook of my elbow, wiping every exposed area against the fabric.

“What are you doing?” she questions, voice rising in pitch over the words.

“I have spent… my whole life… covered… in dirt…” I grind out between swipes of shirt over my mouth. “I will not die… with dirt on my… beautiful face.”

A laugh blooms from her mouth, and my arm halts in its motions. It breaks from her mouth in a gust of air, then grows in volume until she spurts into giggles, and then back down to a breathy laugh. Her eyes are closed; there are no wrinkles creasing around it, and I wonder if she has ever laughed in her short life. She laughs with no care for who hears her. It races through the trees and shifts mountains with its power. She laughs as if she cares not for the future.

“You are so vain!” Her laughter increases, and I begin to wonder if she is laughing more from the impending terror than the humor of my beauty (which is not humorous at all, thank you very much). But I just chuckle along with her. Who can deny the contagious laughter of a child?

Our giggles subside until we are simply smiling. They hold the memory of what might be the last laugh we ever experience. I wonder when she last laughed. She deserves days full of laughter, full of poetry, full of light. I would not have her be alone. I would not have her be afraid. Bitterness seeps into my mind. No, I cannot allow myself to crack. I am supposed to welcome death; bitterness be damned.

I look to her to distract myself. 

“That’s the sunflower smile I have been waiting for.” Her face blushes deeply, but she just smiles. She smiles at me. She smiles for me. “Prettier than anything I’ve ever seen.”

The silence around us is soft. The rain continues to fall, and the clouds continue to glow a hazy grey, but it is soft. I wonder if I could. If I could… If I could stretch my fingers to the sky one last time and drag them through the daytime winds. Would I feel the wind tangle and knot itself between the gaps? Could I twine them together into paintings? The only thing my fingers have ever created are empty pockets and poetry books with missing pages. 

I wonder if Mother found all the stolen pages stuffed in the floorboards of the barn. I folded and tucked them between the cracks underneath Old Milly’s stable. Each carries a fragment of dandelion fluff for every dream I have wished. The margins drip with black ink words, smeared with my hopes. But the hopes of a nineteen-year-old pickpocket are silly affairs. The only fate that has ever awaited me is the one I face now. This is the path I placed my boots on and traveled on until this moment. To this moment with her. To this moment with this girl…

This seven-year-old girl who will die because she fears the dark.

How cruel of her bastard father. How cruel of life. 

The atmosphere shifts suddenly. Tension wraps its thorny tendrils around us all, and I look over the heads of those ahead. We have come to an abrupt halt, everyone standing still as statues.

We have reached the Bridge of Sighs. And just beyond that: the gates to the graveyard.

The first five criminals, including ugly brute, stand at the edge of the Bridge where it meets the gates. I watch as soldiers unchain them one by one. Through the breeze, I hear an elderly woman begging, pleading. The soldiers ignore her cries, shoving her through the gates and through the graveyard. There is a hill full of unmarked gravestones they must traverse through before they reach the gallows. The contraptions themselves sit on a taller hill behind it. They loom like towers. I can see the criminals lining up behind each noose.

A few minutes pass in tense, ugly silence. This is the kind of silence that is not quiet. It’s the kind of silence that bears all things, hears all things, and devours all things. Suddenly, the unmistakable crack of the door dropping out rings through the air. I can almost hear the strained, final breaths of the criminals. Ugly brute has received what he has deserved. The soldiers return and begin to unlink the next five. I count quickly, numbering off seventeen or so before we… before…

She hyperventilates beside me, deep, gasping breaths and she is terrified. She is so so terrified. I see it in her eyes as she looks up at me through her tears. She is desperate and she is falling apart and she is so so terrified.

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”

“Shh, shh, sweet joy,” I whisper. I bend down on one knee, my hands moving to her face where she swipes furiously at the tears. I place the palms of my hands on each of her cheeks, and I realize for the first time that she has freckles like pinpricks of stars, a needlepoint of constellations. “You’ll rub your face raw if you continue like that.” In the air, a second crack of the gallows. The rain begins to fall in sheets, and I cannot tell tear from raindrop.

“I don’t want to cry anymore,” she says, taking more gasping breaths. “Father said crying is weakness.”

“Well, your father is a fool and a liar. Don’t you know that tears freely given contain powerful magic?” I say. Her brows furrow at me. She shakes her head, not trusting her voice. “Every tear that you cry, wherever it lands, shall grow into a wildflower.”

Her hands, tiny things that I could swallow with just one palm, wrap around my wrists. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

Another crack fills the air. The soldiers come back for the next group. I aim a playful frown at her. “Are you so quick to mistrust me, my lady?” 

We move forward, shuffling our way onto the Bridge. Beneath us, the creek babbles, ignorant to the sorrows and fears it courses underneath. She shakes her head at me, tears now falling in cascades. They slide through my fingers, and I let them drop to the ground. “W-why don’t you cry, then?”

I pull on my best smile, but it droops in the corners, weighed down. “My tears make thorns, sweet joy. I am stitched and knitted by bitterness. But you?” I hear the third crack resound through the air. “You are kind. You are beautiful. You have given this pickpocket joy before he meets his end. That makes an authentic heart. That makes tears full of wildflowers. You can cry flowers for me.”

I hear the soldiers come for us.

I move my hands from her face to clasp her own shaking hands in mine. “’To see a World in a Grain of Sand…’” One final poem for her. I press a kiss to the tips of her fingers. 

“’And a Heaven in a Wild Flower…’” I can see the soldiers now. 

“’Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand…’” Her eyes grow wide with fear, but I hold her tight. I will not let her go.

“And Eternity in an hour…’” The soldiers unchain us from the others. 

“Come, sweet joy,” I say, words squeezing past the stone in my throat. “Let us embrace the Eternity that awaits us.”

This is the deafening silence I have been waiting for. It is the kind that swallows all sound, all sobs, all footsteps. It has even swallowed the wind. It sucks up the rainfall. Silence is a sword plunged halfway to the hilt. In a few moments, it will be sunk straight through.

I do not focus on the gravestones. I do not focus on the looming gallows. I do not focus on the corpses. I do not focus on the rain. I do not focus on the voice laying out our crimes. I do not focus on anything except for the seven-year-old girl at my side who still clutches onto my sleeves. I focus on the girl who should not be here. 

She should not be here. 

She is about to be hanged for the crime of being unloved by her own father.

She. Should. Not. Be. Here.

I feel the boards of the stairs leading to the gallows platform creak under my feet. They do not creak under hers. She is not old enough for stairs to creak under her. She should not be here. 

The soldiers place us behind one noose each, a necklace to paint a ring of purple bruises around our necks. I look out. I look out past the graveyard where I will meet my eternal rest. Past the others standing on the Bridge of Sighs who will lay beside me in death. Past the muddy road where I met a seven-year-old girl who should not be here. 

I look at a world that gave me nothing. It birthed me and kicked dirt in my face. It signed my death warrant the moment I was born a peasant boy to a widowed mother who gave her only money to a church that did not want her or her bastard son. But it did give me poetry. At least I will always have poetry. And I will always have the memory of her.

The wet, frayed noose slips over my head, the knot pushed harsh against my neck. 

I turn my head to her. She stands on a block because she is too short to reach the noose. She is quiet, but the tears still fall freely from her face. She should not be here.

“Sweet joy,” I call out one last time. Her eyes meet mine.

“Make wildflowers for me.”

A final crack.

[hongbab]

Let me be your canvas - Wonshik thinks he’s probably smiling, because Jaehwan apparently smiles a lot and Wonshik, a brooding, always negative and anxious person, thinks it’s like a breath of fresh air seeing Jaehwan smile so easily at everything. (Ravi/Ken, g, 2590 w)

a/n: written for this prompt. i hope you’ll like it, anon!! ♥️ also, i wrote this on my phone and typeset the whole thing on it as well so pls excuse me if it looks weird;;

Wonshik didn’t really know what he should have expected when he called Sanghyuk to book an appointment at the shop, but this was definitely not it.

Not him, really.

Sanghyuk did tell him that they hired a new artist after Jaeeun had gone on maternity leave, and he also told him the new artist was called Jaehwan, supposedly an amazing professional, but, for some reason, Wonshik imagined a burly, hairy guy with too many piercings in weird parts of his face and maybe tattoos on his eyelids, and now, as he looks into Jaehwan’s eyes, he feels unable to say a thing.

“Hey,” Jaehwan smiles with the whitest teeth Wonshik has ever seen, his plump lips stretching way too wide on his small, hairless, piercingless face. “I’m Jaehwan.” He reaches out to shake Wonshik’s hand, his bony fingers smeared with charcoal. Wonshik looks down at his hand, blinking. “And you are Wonshik, right?”

“Yeah. Wonshik.”

He hears Sanghyuk snort behind the reception counter and Wonshik feels his face heat up, embarrassment washing over him in waves as Jaehwan’s smile becomes brighter.

“Shall we?” Jaehwan asks and starts walking to his corner of the shop, sitting down on a chair that used to be Jaeeun’s, patting the other one next to him. “Take a seat.”

Wonshik does as he is told, eyes not leaving Jaehwan.

“So, you told Sanghyuk you’d like a hollyhock on your shoulder blade, right?” Jaehwan asks, turning a page in his sketchbook, hiding what seems to be a cutely drawn kitten from Wonshik. “I did have to look that one up,” Jaehwan laughs softly, kindly. “I’m not very well-educated about flowers.” He taps a little on his tablet, bringing out a picture of some hollyhocks, taking his charcoal into his right hand and starting to work on a sketch.

“It means ambition,” Wonshik croaks out and when Jaehwan glances up at him, Wonshik suddenly averts his eyes. “I mean, a hollyhock.”

“They also mean fertility,” Jaehwan says, chuckling at the way Wonshik freezes up. “So it says on Wikipedia, anyway. It’s because they leave behind a disc before they die, so you can plant the seeds contained in it. And, did you know they were used for curing a lot of diseases back in the middle ages?”

Wonshik did, but he listens to Jaehwan go on and on about the medicinal uses of hollyhocks, how they supposedly cured lung diseases and constipation and ulcers and bleeding, how they were said to be able to break up kidney stones and fight lung problems.

He watches Jaehwan draw, trying to look less shameful than he feels while he eyes his appearance. All his tattoo artist acquaintances (most of whom he knows from this particular shop) wear dark clothes and their bodies are covered in tattoos, but Jaehwan is sitting next to him in a simple baby pink T-shirt and stone washed denim shorts, a black choker wrapped tightly around his neck. Wonshik might be thinking in stereotypes, but the only evidence for Jaehwan not minding the ink beneath his skin are the tiny feather just under his pointy left ear, and the small bird on the inner side of his wrist. He looks too delicate for all of this.

“Wonshik?” Jaehwan asks and his question echoes weirdly in Wonshik’s ears, like he’s hearing it while standing in a valley, Jaehwan’s voice bouncing off the surrounding peaks. “Earth to Wonshik,” Jaehwan says, Wonshik’s name rolling off his plush lips like a spell as he smiles slowly, “are you okay?”

“Um, yeah,” Wonshik mumbles and looks up into Jaehwan’s eyes. “Sorry, I’m… sleepy.”

“Maybe we should do it at a different time if you’re tired,” Jaehwan says, his hands falling away from his sketchbook.

“No!” Wonshik exclaims and he feels heat rising in his cheeks as Jaehwan’s ears prick up at the sharp sound. “I mean, I’m fine, can I— can I take a look at it?”

He fingers the edge of the sketchbook and when Jaehwan nods, he pulls it in his lap, eyeing the single hollyhock on it, the petals too realistically frayed for a quick sketch. There are small leaves and some curly tendrils around the flower, making it look a lot more artistic than just a simple image of a plant and Wonshik… he’s not sure if he likes it.

“Isn’t this, well, a little too feminine?” he asks, trying not to sound too rude but still trying to convey his wish for the tendrils and leaves to disappear. “I mean, if it were just the flower itself, without all the… green stuff…”

“Feminine?” Jaehwan laughs, his chuckles ringing in the air like the soft sounds of a wind chime. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping around Wonshik’s wrist and Wonshik’s eyes almost pop out of his skull at the sudden touch, but Jaehwan won’t pull his warm hand away. “You’re about to have the image of a flower sewn into your skin; if you think the leaves make it more feminine—”

“I’m just saying,” Wonshik huffs, a little miffed from being laughed at, “it looks… cuter, I think, than most of my other tats.”

“I think it’ll look really pretty on your skin,” Jaehwan says, eyes clear and sincere and crinkling at the corners. “Can I just put the stencil on your shoulder blade? And you’ll see if you think it still looks bad—”

“It doesn’t look bad, that’s not what I said, I—”

“—you’ll see if you want the leaves or not, okay?” Jaehwan turns back to the desk, taking out a sheet of transfer paper and a fine tipped pen, pulling the sketchbook out of Wonshik’s grip. “Trust me.”

Wonshik doesn’t know if he shuts his mouth because he hates conflicts or because he’s really curious or simply because Jaehwan’s lips are too pretty as they form the words ‘trust’ and ‘me’, but he stays silent as Jaehwan works.

Wonshik doesn’t realize that Jaehwan is done with the stencil until Jaehwan lets go of the pen, his knobby fingers dropping it on the desktop.

“Could you please…?” Jaehwan motions towards Wonshik’s T-shirt while pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

“Oh. Yeah.”

He takes the hem between his fingers and suddenly he feels self-conscious; he’s never been too confident about his body, and even though he’s been working out very diligently lately, his muscles starting to get sculpted, he still hasn’t reached his goal and he feels awkward as he pulls his shirt over his head, keeping it in his lap. He hears Jaehwan pull his chair closer to Wonshik’s, spraying the cold disinfectant on Wonshik’s skin, making him hiss.

“Sorry,” Jaehwan says, sounding much like he’s smiling.

He wipes at Wonshik’s skin with a paper towel and then smears something creamy on it, the paper rustling behind his back as Jaehwan presses it against his shoulder blade, his gloved fingertips almost caressing the surface as he tries to even it out.

There are goosebumps on Wonshik’s back even as he feels Jaehwan’s body heat on it, too aware of all the small moles there, thinks, what if they form a weird shape?

But Jaehwan doesn’t comment on the moles as he takes the paper off Wonshik’s skin and stands up, saying “I’m done,” as he tugs at Wonshik’s elbow gently, making him stand with him, keeping his fingers on Wonshik’s arm as he guides him to the full body mirror, only letting go of him to shove a smaller makeup mirror into his hand.

“What do you think?” Jaehwan asks, his eyes searching Wonshik’s face as the latter holds up the mirror and alignes it so he can see his own back. The placement is perfect, just how Wonshik wanted, and he imagines the outlines filled with colour: soft purple on the petals and green on the leaves and tendrils, and he takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says against his better judgement because this is the first time he’s meeting Jaehwan but the boy is looking up at him expectantly and Wonshik wants to see him smile again. He doesn’t want to hurt Jaehwan and that’s probably stupid, especially that he’s risking the appearance of his own body here, but he has a few cover-up tats already and they look pretty neat. If he doesn’t like it in the end, he can just get it fixed, though obviously not by Jaehwan… “Okay,” he says again. “Let’s do this.”

“Really?” Jaehwan asks, surprised, and when Wonshik lowers the makeup mirror, Jaehwan is beaming up at him, his eyes sparkling with happiness. “It’ll look so beautiful on you, I promise!”

Wonshik grins, sucked in by Jaehwan’s infinitely deep gaze only for a beat before Jaehwan strides back to his working corner, turning around the chair Wonshik sat on a few minutes ago so Wonshik can hunch over the backrest.

“So, Wonshik,” Jaehwan starts while fumbling around on the desk for his tools. “Tell me about yourself.”

Wonshik’s face contorts and he’s happy Jaehwan can’t see it. He went over this with Jaeeun as well, and it was as awkward as a conversation can be, mainly because he’s an awfully dull guy with awfully dull hobbies and even more boring stories-–if he has any real stories, that is.

“I… don’t really have much to tell,” he mumbles and the tattoo machine starts whirring, the first pinprick tearing through his skin, and Wonshik’s muscles tense up, though he knows better than to move. The pain isn’t pleasant but it’s comforting, something Wonshik knows how to handle unlike the fact that he’s sitting with his back to a gorgeous boy who’s probably trying to have small talk with him only because he wants to distract him, not knowing that Wonshik has a sadistic kind of liking for the tattoo machine wounding him.

“Everyone has a story to tell,” Jaehwan mutters, probably concentrating. Wonshik imagines him pursing his lips and that makes him want to squirm, but he stays still.

“I dropped out of university,” Wonshik admits, his heartrate picking up from shame like it always does whenever he brings up the topic. “I dropped out so I can focus on songwriting,” he laughs to ease the tension, but Jaehwan isn’t laughing with him. “It’s not going very well.”

“I think that’s great,” Jaehwan replies quietly, wiping away excess ink and, Wonshik figures, blood. “I wish I had the guts to follow my dreams.”

“What are your dreams?” Wonshik asks and he wants to turn around, wants to see Jaehwan’s eyes sparkle the way they did when Wonshik told him he’d like to get his version of a hollyhock on his skin.

“I’ve been dreaming of becoming a singer since I was small,” Jaehwan says, “but I don’t have enough talent to become successful, so I’m kind of just here, doodling on other people’s bodies.” He suddenly laughs and the tattoo machine stops whirring until his laughter dies down. “Don’t get me wrong, I like doodling on other people’s bodies, but, you know…”

“It’s not what sparks the fire in you,” Wonshik finishes it for him but feels stupid, because it all made a lot more sense in his head. “I mean, that’s how I think of my dream of becoming a popular songwriter, so-–”

“That’s the best way to put it,” Jaehwan says, tearing at Wonshik’s skin again. “Your songs must be amazing if you put such cool stuff into the lyrics.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” Wonshik grumbles.

“Absolutely not,” Jaehwan replies. “I’d like to hear your songs someday. Maybe they’ll inspire me enough to pursue my dream. And who knows, if you become a well-known songwriter and I, a well-known singer, we might even work together.”

“That’d be…” Wonshik clears his tight-feeling throat. “That’d be awesome.”

Jaehwan doesn’t say more but Wonshik thinks he’s probably smiling, because Jaehwan apparently smiles a lot and Wonshik, a brooding, always negative and anxious person, thinks it’s like a breath of fresh air seeing Jaehwan smile so easily at everything.

Jaehwan finishes up the tattoo without saying anything apart from ‘almost done’s and ‘just one more line’s and Wonshik endures, feeling a little stiff when Jaehwan finally tells him he can stand up and take a look at it.

Wonshik stands in front of the full body mirror again with the smaller one in his hands and Jaehwan is watching him expectantly once more, chewing on his lower lip nervously, looking smaller than before. The flower is incredibly vivid on Wonshik’s shoulder blade, like he stuck a real one there, with the leaves and all. It’s beautifully done, not quite like a tattoo but like a painting and Wonshik tries to imagine it without the green stuff, but can’t quite form the picture in his head–-it looks perfect.

“It looks perfect,” he whispers and glances down at Jaehwan, at his big, shiny eyes forming crescent moons and at the way he pulls his shoulders up to his ears like a puppy awaiting treats. “Looks perfect,” Wonshik says again and loses control over himself, placing a hand on Jaehwan’s cheek and kissing his smile that starts faltering under his mouth. Jaehwan’s lips are warm and soft but they close on the kiss and he pulls back with fluttery eyelids.

“You could’ve asked me out on a coffee date first,” he says and he probably sees the embarrassment on Wonshik’s face because he starts laughing, patting Wonshik’s hand on his cheek. Wonshik quickly pulls it back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–- I just, you–- the tattoo’s really pretty and I–-” he rambles but then Jaehwan presses his index finger to Wonshik’s mouth.

“Shh,” he says, grinning. “I’ll tape you up and we can go get that coffee.”

Wonshik feels like he’ll puke an entire freaking rainbow, his insides turning into knots that can’t possibly be unravelled, not by him, anyway.

Jaehwan puts the protecting foil on the fresh tattoo and fixes it with some tape, putting on a pair of cheap black plastic sunglasses while Wonshik gets dressed, putting on his own similarly cheap black plastic sunglasses. Jaehwan must find the matching style amusing because he smiles again, curling his pinkie around Wonshik’s and pulling him towards the front door of the shop.

“What the hell?” Sanghyuk asks indignantly.

“I have no more guests for today,” Jaehwan says, not even stopping to listen. “I’m done for today, Sanghyuk-ah!”

“But–- Wonshik, you haven’t even paid yet!” Sanghyuk yells, but then the door closes behind Wonshik and they can’t hear Sanghyuk’s protests anymore.

“You can pay me in coffee,” Jaehwan says, tugging Wonshik forward, walking quickly, maybe so Sanghyuk won’t be able to catch up even if he wants to chase them. “It’s going to be around 25 cups of secret menu items at Starbucks.”

Wonshik barks out a laugh and Jaehwan looks at him surprised, arching his perfectly shaped eyebrows. Wonshik stops in his tracks and yanks Jaehwan back with him by the pinkie, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Does that mean,” he starts, “that you’re asking me out on 25 coffee dates?”

“I also accept cash, coffee coupons, and I once drank 18 cups a day, so don’t get ahead of yourself,” Jaehwan chirps and then smiles kindly at Wonshik. “You songwriters are so mushy.”

Wonshik wants to retort but then Jaehwan stands on tiptoe and presses a short kiss to his cheek, continuing on their way, pulling Wonshik after him.

Wonshik laughs again, the knots untangling inside him as he follows Jaehwan.

[partlycharlie-archive]

(we ain’t) got no time

chapter one: #fuckhydra #fuckpanicattacks link to chapter two

summary: “Thanks, Shellhead,” Winter mutters, and Tony is once again startled, this time by the unhindered sound of Winter’s voice. He probably should’ve realized, especially considering he was the one who has created the technology, but Winter’s voice modulation is controlled with the mask, meaning that the voice he just heard is Winter’s normal speaking tone. Fuck. It’s fucking gorgeous. word count: 3,513 warnings: panic attack, mention of torture & rape a/n: this was my fic for the @capreversebb ! thanks so much to my amazing artist @massivespacewren and my beta @capolleon <3 love you guys

art!

read on ao3

It starts with…

Well.

It starts with a fall.

A bit more of a literal fall than most falls at the beginning of a story, but a fall nonethe-

Wait.

No.

No, no, no.

Sorry. Wrong timeline.

Anyway -

It starts with a kidnapping. To be fully accurate - not a kidnapping, per say. A little bit less common than a kidnapping (just a little bit), but still very exciting.

So. Setting up the scene:

Picture this: The Asset, sitting in The Chair (as one does, of course), long brown hair flowing majestically past its (because Assets don’t get human pronouns, obviously) shoulders -

(Just kidding, the Asset hasn’t showered in like 60 years, so.)

- long brown hair flowing greasily past its shoulders, hiding its face from view. Handcuffs (metal, but, like, reinforced, obviously, because the Asset has Mad Strength) attached to its arms and legs. The annoying as fuck domino mask still attached to the bottom half of its face (because fuck talking, am I right?). Naked.

No joke - just. Full on naked. Dick hanging out, hairy legs, emasculated stomach, the whole deal. The Asset doesn’t generally get clothes when it’s not on a mission, because its Handlers either hate him or have really weird (or fucked up? AND fucked up) kinks.

Or both?

Ew.

Anyway.

Also: Brock Rumlow (a.k.a Certified AssholeTM) standing in front of it, arms crossed across his chest.

(His muscles bulging, because even Certified AssholesTM work out.)

Rumlow (who will now be known as Handler One because… Asset logic) is talking about the mission, probably. The Asset is listening, of course, probably taking notes in its mind or something (like a nerd), when something interesting is said.

“… and this’ll be a long-term mission, you got it?” Handler One redirects his attention to the agents standing behind The Chair (and yes, The Chair will be keeping those capital letters, thank you very much, reader) and fixes a narrow-eyed glare upon them.

(Is it racist to think he looks oddly Asian like that?

Yeah, yeah it is.

Wait, isn’t his grandfather Japanese?

Besides the point.)

“It’ll be your job to make sure it doesn’t malfunction, yeah? I shouldn’t have to tell you that more time without a wipe equals more memories, so you’re going to need to go for some sort of Dominance Establishment every week or so. Think you assholes can handle it?”

The agents nod quickly, heads bobbing like those little action figures with disproportionately large  heads. Figureheads? Head-bobbles? Bobbleheads? Whatever.

“Alright,” Handler One says, eyebrows twitching momentarily. “Get him suited up. Let’s go.” The Asset is lifted out of The Chair by two of the agents standing behind it.

(What the hell is up with that malfunction, by the way? The Asset needs to get its shit together, honestly.)

“Should we hose it down?” Agent One asks with a raised eyebrow. Handler One shrugs.

“May as well.”

Ugh.

 ---

 After The Asset has been hosed down (always a fun experience, with the freezing water and all), it’s dressed in the customary armor. It takes the guns laid out in front of it and places them in the concealed holsters, grenades in the holders along its waist, knives in the sheathes hidden in its boots and sleeves and torso and pants and -

You get the point.

According to Handler One, this mission is an in-and-out - in New York - Manhattan, specifically -

(Brooklyn’s better, but it guesses it can deal with the city.)

(Wait, what?)

- on the East Coast of the United States.

A minor government official, supposedly covering as one while in reality being the head of an organization called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (more commonly known as SHIELD by those aware of its existence). Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury, known as Nick Fury by associates. Despite his title, a severe lack of security has been noticed - possibly because of his capabilities as a military official, possibly because of the need to maintain his cover.

The Asset’s job is not to kill (fortunately, as killing tends to lead to an odd churning in its chest area), but to only temporarily injure and (if possible) tranquilize, leading to the kidnapping of Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury. If all goes well, its mission will result in the conversion of Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury into a Hydra agent, used as a double agent to further infiltrate SHIELD.

The Asset tugs on the sleeves of its suit, futilely attempting to straighten out the wrinkles in the crisp white shirt caused by the plates of its metal arm. It smooths down the lines of its slacks, adjusts the way the socks slide into the dress shoes (uncomfortable as they are), and uses the black hairband provided to it to tie its hair into what is referred to in modern culture as a "man-bun". It is suddenly reminded of red hair, pulled tightly into a - ballerina bun?

To be ignored.

 ---

The Asset is transported via Agents One through Five into what Handler Two calls a "Quinjet", a flying device piloted by Agents Three and Four, with Agent One to its right and Agent Two sitting in a reclined position across from it.

"Why the hell did Rumlow decide we all needed to be here, again?"

Agent Two responds in kind. "Fuck if I know. The bitches in Asset Chem told Rumlow it gets aggressive when it goes too long without a wipe or something." Agent One nods.

"So what, you think he wants us here to fuckin' secure it if it goes wild? Guy's gotta know we can't take it when it gets like that, Jesus Christ."

Hell yeah, you can't, crosses its mind, and then abruptly -

Where the hell did that come from?

To be ignored.

 ---

 The Asset pulls at the cuffs of its stark white sleeves, face twitching at the way the cuffs itch against its skin.

“Oh - fuck, bro.” Agent Two glances up from his tablet.

“Yeah?” he asks, eyebrow twisting in confusion. “What’s up?”

“Are we gonna have to cut his fucking hair?”

Fuck.

 ---

 Hair freshly shortened (shunned? Shorned? Cut. It was fucking cut.), the Asset cringes at the way the tiny hairs feel against its neck when it shakes its head back and forth and back and forth -

It forcibly stops the movement of its head, holding both of its hands to the sides of its heads to stop the almost subconscious shaking.

Phew. Much better.

 ---

 The lights were too bright, so the Asset (“Alexander Davidson” for tonight - but “his” friends all call him Alex, so everyone he meets should too) pulls out the sunglasses stowed in the lining of his jacket and slips them on. If it had the added benefit of hiding nervous eyes from the agents, who were almost definitely looking for an excuse to practice their BDSM bullshit (wait - BDSM? The Asset… probably shouldn’t know what that is) on him, well. It couldn’t hurt, right?

Yes, it could. Oh well.

“Fury’s out on your seven, Asset,” Agent Two says into his microphone. The Asset readjusts its earpiece (manipulated to look like a hearing aid in order to allay suspicion) to show that he heard.

“… and we said, ‘If the U.N. won't remove those landmines, we will.’ And we personally dug up over a thousand unexploded land mines from the area surrounding the orphanage.”

The Asset smiles widely, pulling out the Brooklyn charm it knew so well. “That’s… wow, Rachel, that’s amazing.”

Wait. Brooklyn charm?

To be ignored.

Rachel smiles demurely in return, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you so much! What did you say you did, Alexander?”

The Asset is probably supposed to say something like “Please, call me Alex,” maybe accompanied by a wink, or a lascivious smile, or something along those lines, but honestly it can’t be bothered.

Instead, it brushes a hand through its (unbearably short, this is ridiculous) hair, shrugging mildly. “I have a minor position in the government. Nothing big, though -” it leans in close as if sharing a secret, and Rachel’s eyes widen, “- I have met the president.”

Technically, it isn’t even a lie. He did meet the president, but it was less meeting and more observing through a rifle scope, and the president wasn’t alive by the time the meeting was over.

Yes, the Asset killed the president. Any problems?

It doesn’t think so.

“Wow, really?” Rachel lays a ring-adorned hand on her chest, leaning back as if to confirm the honesty of the Asset’s statement (by looking into its eyes? Okay, sure.)

(Also. This woman is married and trying to pick up Alexander Davidson? Jesus Christ.)

Her eyes crinkles. “What’s he like?” she asks, her head bobbing a little.

The Asset’s eyebrows raise, and it considers its words. Who’s the president right now? There’s something important about him, too…

Ah! Obama, Barack Hussein. The first black one, at least for America.

What a backwards country.

“He’s nice. Very - honest? Yes. Honest. A good man, I’d say.”

Rachel smiles widely, the red lipstick on her teeth shining brightly in the lights of the party. “Oh, well, I’d hope so - he is our president after all!”

It glances off to the side. Don’t jinx it, Rachel.

“… right. Well. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I must go… mingle some more.” It gives her the most sincere apologetic smile it can muster (which isn’t much, to be honest), and turns away as fast as it can.

“Mister… Davidson, am I right?” The Asset glances around hurriedly, and - there, on it’s three - Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury.

“Yes, that’s me,” it says, smiling widely.

(Not too widely - the Asset had been given lessons on how to smile properly in certain situations after almost ruining a mission because “it smiled like a fuckin’ psycho, Jesus Christ”.)

“And you are - Nicholas Fury?”

“Yes. You, though - you can call me Nick.”

Damn it. The Asset knows it should’ve given that line to Rachel. It would’ve worked like a charm, just like it is for Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury.

Wait. Is it working? What is Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury trying to accomplish here?

Is this mission turning into a honeypot?

“Holy fuck, this mission is turning into a honeypot!” Agent One’s nasal voice blasts through the comms. The Asset winces, reaching up to its ear to lower the painful volume.

Colonel Nicholas Joseph Fury frowns. “Is everything okay? Mr. Davidson?”

“Please - Alex is fine,” it says, shaking its head as if to shake away flies.

“No worries - my hearing aid went a little rough, sorry.”

“Asset - Asset, you have to fuck him!”

Agent One snorts, soft in the Asset’s ear. “See - oh my god, Asset - ha, see if you can get a visual!”

It tunes them out.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather talk somewhere more… quiet, then?”

The Asset’s smile is almost genuine.

“Of course.”

 ---

 five years later

It starts with…

Well.

It starts with a fall.

A bit more of a literal fall than most falls at the beginning of a story, but a fall nonetheless.

You see, dear reader, Tony Stark is a genius.

(Real facts right here.)

As a genius, it’s part of his job to think of solutions to problems nobody else would even be able to dream of.

Yes, he’s serious - it’s in the job description. Look it up.

At any rate, Tony spends a shit load of time, figuring out solutions (too much time, if you listen to Pepper - but Pepper’s not the (only) one keeping the board happy, so Tony usually doesn’t bother).  His most recent stroke of genius?

Altitude trackers.

Altitude. Trackers.

!!!!

Like a regular tracker, right? But with altitude, too!

Are you clapping yet?

No?

Well.

Oh - you don’t understand why!

Of course.

As you have almost certainly noticed by now, the non-flying Avengers (and even sometimes the flying ones - damn it, Sam!) have started habitually jumping off buildings, apparently with the (totally and absolutely ridiculous) assumption that someone would be available to catch them before they fell to their DEATH.

Sure, they’d been lucky so far, but certain… events, let’s say, had convinced him it was only a matter of time.

 ---

 “Ew.” Tony’s nose crinkles severely as he examines the slime on his suit. The comms crackle suddenly, and Clint’s voice floods into his ear.

“Listen, y’all - ew, Jesus - as long as you don’t - oh my God, eugh, holy shit - get any of the slime on your skin, you’ll be fine. Probably.”

Tony snorts. He blasts up into the air and shakes his body furiously, something about the action reminding him of a dog, as he watches with a sort of morbid fascination as the specks of slime come flying off him.

“What exactly happens when the slime gets on you?” he asks, landing softly back down on the ground (and on top of a dead slug, ew).

There’s a hesitation coming from the other end, but finally Steve speaks.

“Well. You start, um. Throwing up slugs.”

Jesus Christ.

Someone reads too much Harry Potter in their free time.

“Yikes. Be sure to avoid that, then.”

Tony finds himself settling into a sort of rhythm: repulsor blast, gunshot, building jump rescue (the assholes), then a flight to a different area to start the whole process all over again. He’d just fired off a repulsor blast towards one of the slugs when -

“WINTER!”

Tony swivels around and - there, right behind him, the Winter Soldier free falling from a building half a mile away from him. He glances around as quick as he can, but there’s no sign of anyone who can stop Winter’s fall.

He starts flying -

Ten seconds until arrival.

Two thousand feet and six inches to impact.

Nine seconds until arrival.

One thousand eight hundred eighteen feet and seven inches to impact.

- just a little bit farther -

Eight seconds until arrival.

One thousand six hundred thirty six feet and nine inches to impact.

Seven seconds until arrival.

One thousand four hundred fifty four feet and eleven inches to impact.

- and he can see the fear pooling in Winter’s eyes -

Six seconds until arrival.

One thousand two hundred seventy three feet and one inch to impact.

Five seconds until arrival.

One thousand ninety one feet and two inches to impact.

- his heart pounding in his ears -

Four seconds until arrival.

Nine hundred nine feet and four inches to impact.

- and he pushed the blasters just a little bit farther -

Three seconds until arrival.

Seven hundred twenty seven feet and five inches to impact.

- come on come on come on -

Two seconds until arrival.

Five hundred forty five feet and seven inches to impact.

- and -

One second until arrival.

Three hundred sixty three feet and nine inches to impa-

“Gotcha,” he murmurs, catching Winter with one metal-covered hand. He notices with a start that Winter’s mask (new and improved by yours truly) is hanging off by one strap attached to his right ear, but Winter’s hair is being blown into his face by the wind, so Tony isn’t too worried.

“Thanks, Shellhead,” Winter mutters, and Tony is once again startled, this time by the unhindered sound of Winter’s voice. He probably should’ve realized, especially considering he was the one who has created the technology, but Winter’s voice modulation is controlled with the mask, meaning that the voice he just heard is Winter’s normal speaking tone.

Fuck.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

All baritone and shit - God, Winter sounds like he just got out of bed. Maybe it’s the two-thousand-foot fall? Maybe he’s just surprised? Whatever it is, it sounds fucking amazing.

Tony can’t believe it’s been five years and that’s the first he’s heard of Winter’s voice.

He needs to hear that way more often.

 ---

 So.

Yeah.

He decided, right there and then, that he needed to make altitude trackers.

In his defense - that had been scary! Yeah, so he knew that people fell at an average of 181.86 feet per second, and that he was only around ten seconds away, and that at most he would’ve gotten to maybe 200 hundred feet above the ground before someone managed to catch him, but. Still.

At any rate, that’s what he’s doing. He had needed to redesign Clint’s armor at some point (after the slug incident, Clint had blatantly refused to wear armor that showed any skin below the face), and this provided the perfect excuse.

“J - give me some AC/DC.”

Shoot to Thrill starts blasting through the workshop speakers, and muscles that he didn’t even realize were tense start relaxing of their own volition.

“Okay, so… stretch vinyl for the sleeves, because of course he wants sleeves, maybe cotton for the legs? Cotton spandex maybe… I should give him a fucking ass cutout, see how much he likes that… maybe the tracker in the forearm stitching? No, his arm guards… maybe the middle of his chest? That’d probably be the most accurate…”

“Sir?”

Tony’s head jerked up from where it was stubbornly stationed, buried deep in holographic designs.

“Yeah?” After answering, Tony absentmindedly notes that the music’s volume has been turned down.

“The Winter Soldier is requesting entrance, Sir. Shall I allow him to enter?”

Tony waves a hand, already turning back to Clint’s armor designs. “Yeah, yeah, let ‘im in.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony registers the quiet noise of his workshop doors entering, but he doesn’t bother looking up just yet. When he does, though, he finds the soldier sitting on his ass (on the floor, no less), knees cradled to his chest and head buried in between his thighs.

Tony hurriedly grabs the digital notepad he had been using to take notes and scribbles something down.

@j wht tm dd he cm dwn

Bright blue words appear quickly, a ding sounding that would’ve alerted him to their presence if he hadn’t been staring intently at the screen.

~3:20 PM. Time now is 4:17 PM.

hw long bn sitting ?

~50 minutes.

“Shit”, he mutters, and scrambles over to where Winter is crouched.No response, but that’s okay.

“Hey, buddy,” he says in as calming a tone as he can manage, “I’m gonna rest my hand on your thigh, okay?”

He places his hand delicately on Winter’s thigh. Almost immediately, Winter’s hand - flesh, this one, which means it’s bad - grasps his, but Winter had taken his goggles off and Tony can see that his eyes are firmly clenched shut.

Without moving his hand from its precarious position, he arranges his legs into a more comfortable position, laying his other hand on top of Winter’s to sweep his thumb back and forth in a soothing gesture. He’s never done it before when the soldier is in the midst of one of his panic attacks, so he doesn’t know how it’ll affect him, but at this point (fifty minutes!) Tony’s willing to try anything?

“Winter? How you doin’?”

It takes a few seconds, Winter’s mouth opening and closing as he tries to find his voice, but finally he says, “Winghead.”

Tony has to hold back a cringe (Winter’s voice is hoarse as fuck) as he pushes himself off of the floor, already heading towards his private exit. “Yeah, yeah - of course, why would you - aha, yeah, yeah, I’ll go get him, he’ll be right back - here, sorry, yeah, okay.”

He slips quietly through the door in the back of his workshop, and the suit is already there waiting for him to step into it.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” he whispers, stepping carefully into the suit and watching as it closes around him. Holograms pop up around him as his faceplate closes, showing him his vitals and the dimensions of the room he’s in.

He opens the door again to find Winter in the same position, hand still resting on his thigh where Tony’s was before.

Ugh.

He stomps over, trying to be as quick as possible. “Hey Winter - y’ think maybe we should head on over to the couch?”

Winter nods, nothing more than a tiny shake of his head, and Tony picks him up almost immediately, easy as anything. He heads over to the couch he keeps in the workshop (usually for when he’s too tired to head up to his floor, though it does help for times like these) and sits down, placing Winter down to his right as gently as possible.

The soldier almost immediately curls up into Tony’s side (always surprising, considering his side is made of metal) and lays his hand (skin-and-bone, again) on Tony’s chest, right above the arc reactor. Almost without him thinking about it, the gauntlet on his left arm retracts, leaving his skin bare from hand to elbow. He grabs Winter’s hand and entwines his fingers with Tony’s own, resting their hands on his knees.

With Tony’s right arm free, he lays it across Winter’s shoulders and the soldier almost immediately curls his head into the junction between Tony’s armpit and chest. Tony’s mouth curls into a sappy smile (ew), and he almost tries to tamp it down before realizing that Winter can’t see it.

“Everything’s okay, sweetheart, everything’s fine.”