#and am just. feeling like rambling i guess

[bubbarnes]

i need to take a second because I've been crying so much while reading this and that ending... my god, that last line made me cry like a baby. i wish i was exaggerating but i can't even lie with things like this.

this was by far, one of the most, if not the most beautiful and perfect thing I've ever read. i think i always ramble about things i like and the last thing i would like to do is like, quote the most important things for me but this was just magnificent.

i am so glad i found this... or that it found me, i don't know. i really can't put into words how this made me feel.

it should be so lovely and pure? i don't even know if those are the right words but i feel so sad for bucky the entire time. he just wanted the love of his life back. it pains me so much because after everything he went through, the man was just looking for anything. something. even if that probably wasn't the best.

and she seems like a lovely woman. when she was completely alive, they were meant for each other. and you wrote her so well in her second chance because yes, something was dead. something definitely changed. and it's sad that she obviously knew and bucky as well but i guess his happiness was overshadowing the mess.

we just know he's never gonna be the same. he lost the love of his life two times but I think the good thing here is that he got the chance to say goodbye this time.

the thing about the star... oh god, i can't deal with it.

it's four am, i just finished this, so i am sorry for my bad english, the whole rambling thing but i felt i needed to say something. even if it was pure gibberish. if i could like this a million times more i would.

saturn

summary: you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

warnings: angst. death. being revived from death and the processes that follow. sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan.  The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower. 

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again. 

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced  certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds. 

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of. 

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no. 

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating.  Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.  

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious. 

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.  

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning. 

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door.  The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound. 

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice–  staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation. 

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep. 

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even.  But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones. 

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now. 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be. 

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor. 

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red. 

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.  

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots. 

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon. 

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones. 

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.  

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup. 

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips. 

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time. 

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two. 

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him. 

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did. 

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe. 

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute. 

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees. 

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly. 

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day.  He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.  

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time. 

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature. 

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?" 

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures. 

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck. 

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively. 

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move. 

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.   

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need. 

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now. 

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade. 

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good. 

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share. 

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply. 

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should. 

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night. 

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.  

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand. 

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent. 

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand. 

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up. 

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest. 

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.” 

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child. 

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real. 

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum. 

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this. 

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love. 

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.  

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie. 

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried. 

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance. 

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like. 

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else. 

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side. 

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons. 

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water. 

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror. 

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling. 

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his. 

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.  

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do. 

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live. 

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying. 

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be. 

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed. 

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening. 

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding. 

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less. 

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake. 

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch. 

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.  

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him. 

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask. 

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line. 

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him. 

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free. 

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

[astrcmoni]

ᯓ☆ star’s midnight caller ☆ᯓ

MASTERLIST

pairing: billie eilish x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader

genre: fluff, smut(kinda)

synopsis: in the quiet of the night, you answer a call that pulls you into a world of mystery and intrigue. what starts as a simple conversation with a stranger turns into a connection you never expected, leaving you craving more with each ring.

wc: 2.4k

warnings: light cussing here and there

authors note: let me know what you guys think, i really liked writing this and i want to make a part two. also there’s no smut in this part but the concept of the hotline is sexual (idk if that made sense) anyways imma stop rambling byeee ☆

phone call style story — reader is in bold italics, billie is in blue italics.

————

wednesday 12:43 am — incoming call from +1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC)

“thanks so much, babygirl,” richard says from the other side of the phone, his voice soft, tinged with something like gratitude. “you always know what i need.”

richard is one of your regulars, calling at least twice a week. he likes to imagine that you’re his long-lost girlfriend, reaching out from some parallel universe. you let him ramble, your voice smooth and coaxing, playing into his fantasy like a script you know by heart. a light laugh here, a soft hum there, the occasional breathy moan when it fits the moment.

“anytime, boo,” you reply, fingers already grazing the disconnect button. “take care of yourself, okay?”

the line clicks off, leaving a brief silence that feels heavier than it should. you exhale, stretching your arms above your head as you try to shake off the remnants of his voice. just another call. just another night.

soft light spills through the corners of your room, golden and warm against the pale lavender of your walls. the curtains billow lazily, carried by a breeze that whispers through the cracked window. outside, the city hums—a distant siren wailing, cars rolling down the street below, someone leaning on their horn too long, too loud.

at your desk, you lean forward, catching your reflection in the mirror perched precariously against a stack of books. sticky lip gloss catches the lamplight, glinting like glass. your lashes look decent—lifted enough to remind you of your own femininity. normally, you wouldn’t bother. no one can see you, after all. but it helps, this small ritual. it’s armor in a way, a mask you slip behind before stepping into this role.

“alright,” you mutter, rolling your neck to release the tension settling in your shoulders. “one more call and i’m done.”

the surface beneath your elbows is cluttered—textbooks splayed open, scribbled lab reports fighting for space with overdue bills. it’s not glamorous, but it pays. and it’s enough, for now.

you adjust your headset, letting the padded cups press comfortably against your ears, and clear your throat. the practiced warmth creeps back into your voice as the phone chimes again, flashing another number across the screen.

wednesday 12:49 am — incoming call from +1 (213) 597-3492 (los angeles, california)

“hello, and thank you for calling the pulse network. this is star speaking.” your voice drops an octave, soft and inviting, the words sliding out like honey. “who do i have the pleasure of speaking with tonight?”

there’s a pause on the other end—static filling the silence like a breath held too long. then, a voice cuts through, low, smooth, and distinctly feminine.

“uh…hi?” she sounds hesitant, her voice fraying at the edges like she’s second-guessing herself. “is this…is this a-uh…hotline for…you know?”

your brows knit for a moment before relaxing. most callers know exactly what they want, their voices heavy with intent. but her hesitation feels different. delicate, almost.

“that depends,” you say, leaning forward slightly, your tone light and playful. “what are you looking for, my love?”

she exhales sharply, and you can hear the faint sound of movement—like she’s pacing, the rhythm of her footsteps soft and uneven.

“honestly?” she says after a beat, her voice quieter now. “i don’t even know why i called. jus’ bored, i guess. curious. didn’t think this would even work.”

a smile tugs at your lips, though you bite it back. calls like these are rare, but you don’t mind them. there’s something refreshing about the uncertainty, the lack of pretense.

“well,” you murmur, letting your voice wrap around the words like a velvet ribbon, “we’re here now. go ahead, tell me whatever’s on your mind. no pressure.”

there’s a pause, long enough that you glance at the timer on the screen, wondering if she’s about to hang up. but then she sighs again, the sound softer this time, like she’s giving in.

“is it weird that i’m calling?” she asks, her voice dipping into the quiet like it’s unsure of its place.

“no judgment here, love. everyone has their reasons.” your response is soft, easy, laced with practiced charm. but something about her feels different.

“i don’t even know mine.”

the line falls into silence again, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of her breathing—steady, almost meditative. it’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting for you to fill it, but instead, you let it linger, listening.

“what’s your name?”

you blink, caught off guard. most callers don’t ask that unless it’s part of the fantasy they’re crafting. most don’t care to know.

“well, what do you want it to be?” you counter, your voice tipping into something playful.

she laughs softly, the sound low and throaty, curling through the line like smoke. “no, that’s not what i asked. i wanna know your name.”

there’s a pause as you weigh her words, the sincerity behind them.

“star,” you say finally, keeping it professional, your tone steady. “you can call me star.”

“what’s your real name?”

her question lands heavier than it should. it’s not forceful, not even intrusive. just curious. like she’s asking for a story rather than a fact.

you hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of your desk absentmindedly. something about her voice makes you want to give in, but you push the temptation aside, slipping easily into deflection.

“you know, most people don’t ask me that,” you murmur. “they usually want to know what i look like, what i’m wearing. things like that.”

“guess i’m not most people, then.”

“come on, you’re telling me you’re not even a little curious?”

she chuckles, warm and low, the kind of laugh that sticks in your chest. “okay, i’ll bite. what are you wearing, star?”

you smirk, leaning back in your chair as the city hums faintly through the open window.

“blue and black pajamas” you reply, your tone light. “lace trim. very cute, if i do say so myself.”

“where’d you get it?”

“some victoria’s secret around my city. they were having a sale.”

“cute.” her voice dips, carrying a hint of a smile. “now, back to my question.”

you roll your eyes, though there’s no edge to it. she’s persistent, you’ll give her that.

“you’re just gonna have to call me star. can’t give you my name. not tonight, sorry sweetheart.”

“no, it’s okay.” she pauses, then repeats it, like she’s trying it on. “well, star.” there’s something deliberate about the way she says it, slow and careful, testing its weight. “i’m billie.”

her name sits soft and sure in the air, settling between you like it belongs.

“you seem like a billie.”

“do i?”

“mhm,” you hum, leaning forward against the desk. “so, billie. what do you want to talk about?”

“hmm.” she draws the sound out thoughtfully, the silence stretching just long enough to make you wonder if she’ll answer. “why do you do this?”

the question hits you in a way you don’t expect, cutting through the usual rhythm of calls. most people don’t ask—don’t even think to ask.

you consider lying, giving her something easy, but the weight of her question lingers, tugging at the edges of your honesty.

“it pays the bills,” you admit finally, your voice soft. “and it’s not as bad as people think. i meet some…very…interesting people.”

“like me?”

the corner of your mouth quirks up, her words pulling at something playful in you.

“you tell me. are you interesting?”

“guess that depends.” she pauses, her voice curling with quiet amusement. “you think i’m interesting so far?”

“so far? i’ll give you a solid maybe.”

her laughter spills through the line, warm and unexpected, and it lingers in your room long after it fades.

“oh really? how long have you been doing this?”

“for about…” you pause, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like the answer might be scrawled there. “for about a little over a year now.”

“damn. that’s a long ass time.”

you chuckle, the sound warm and easy. “it is, isn’t it? i don’t know, i don’t mind it though. all i do is answer the phone. sometimes i do schoolwork, cook—small things like that. not like i necessarily have to be fully present for it, as long as i’m paying attention, you know?”

“you’re in school? just exactly how old are you?”

“wait—before we continue, you’re aware it’s a dollar seventy-five per minute, right?”

“uhh, i wasn’t, but i don’t mind it.”

“ooh, so you’re rich then?”

she laughs, a low, honeyed sound that settles in your chest. “i wouldn’t say that. i’d say i’m… comfortable.”

“only rich people say they’re comfortable. but to answer your question, i’m twenty, in my junior year. babe, you?”

“okay, not bad. i’m twenty-three. though i did think you were much older.”

you snort, rolling your eyes even though she can’t see it. “not bad? we’re practically the same age.”

“mm, i got about three years on you, so… no,” she laughs, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “what are you majoring in?”

“criminology. mainly forensics and things like that.”

“that’s so fucking cool. so you’re like those people on tv who examine bodies and shit?”

“yeah, but doing it in real life is way different than it looks on tv.” you close your eyes, the memory of your first dissection flashing briefly. “especially lab work. but you get used to it after a while.”

“still, that’s badass. you must be super smart.”

the compliment catches you off guard, heat crawling up your neck. “i guess you could say that,” you mutter, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

the conversation flows easier after that, like water finding its way downhill. you don’t even realize when you’ve moved to your bed, your headset cast aside as her voice fills your room through the speaker.

she asks you everything—your favorite movies, the hobbies that keep you up at night, the kind of music that makes your soul hum. the questions are simple but intimate, slipping past your usual defenses like she’s known you for years.

and you answer her. honestly, without hesitation. there’s something about her voice, warm and unhurried, that pulls the truth out of you.

you find yourself smiling, more than you have in days, fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair as you lean into the sound of her. it feels oddly intimate—like a late-night call with someone who’s already carved out a space in your life.

“so,” she asks after a lull, her voice soft but curious, “what’s your favorite movie?”

you grin, closing your eyes as you let the answer roll off your tongue. “pulp fiction. it’s a classic, don’t judge me.”

“no judgment. i respect it. but you gotta admit, it’s a little basic.”

“oh, and you’re not basic? let me guess—you’re gonna say something artsy like ‘a clockwork orange’ or whatever.”

“wrong. mine’s ‘the shining.’”

“oh, so you’re a horror girl. noted.”

she laughs, the sound warm and easy, and you realize you don’t want the conversation to end. not yet. not with her voice lingering in your room like this.

“what about you?” you murmur, breaking the soft rhythm of silence that had settled between you.

“hm? what about me?” her voice lilts, curious but guarded.

“what do you do? like for work?”

there’s a pause, long enough that you wonder if she’s going to sidestep the question entirely. but then she exhales, the sound quiet, like she’s carefully letting something go.

“i’m a musician,” she says finally, her words tentative, like they might break if handled too roughly. “or i guess i was… i teach music now.”

her admission catches you off guard, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through the connection. but you don’t press her, sensing that whatever she’s offering is enough for now. instead, you let the conversation drift, carried by the quiet ebb and flow of her voice.

the hours blur like watercolors, the world outside fading until there’s only her.

eventually, her tone softens, the edges of her words rounding with sleep. “it’s getting late. i should let you go,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

you glance at the alarm clock on the wall, the soft red digits blinking 3:35 a.m. back at you. exhaustion tugs at you, but the thought of ending the call feels heavier than it should.

“but…” her hesitation pulls you back to her. “can i call you again? i had a really good time.”

your heart stumbles over itself, a small hitch in your chest. “yeah, of course you can.” your voice dips into something softer, something closer to truth. “i had a good time too.”

“great. goodnight, star.” there’s a smile in her voice, light and unguarded, and it lingers in the air even after she’s gone.

“goodnight, billie.”

the line goes quiet, and for a moment, you sit there, the warmth of her voice still brushing against you like an afterglow.

you slip off your bed, padding into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. the cool water shocks your skin, but it doesn’t chase away the heat curling low in your stomach.

when you return to your room, the lamp clicks off with a soft snap, plunging the space into shadows broken only by the shifting colors of your tv. you slide under the covers, the faint hum of a late-night rerun filling the silence. the images blur on the screen, but all you can think about is her voice, the way it clung to the edges of the night, soft and sure.

a ding pulls you from your thoughts. your phone glows faintly on the nightstand, and you reach for it, the sudden brightness making you blink.

new transactions — 4:03 a.m.

+1 (254) 783-0184 (dallas, TX) - $26.25

+1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC) - $43.75

+1 (213) 597-3492 (los angeles, CA) - $315.62

you smile, the corners of your lips twitching up involuntarily. it’s nothing unusual, but tonight it feels different, lighter somehow. you turn the screen off and set the phone back down, a quiet sense of contentment settling over you.

for the first time in a long time, you find yourself looking forward to your next call.

inspired by @whore-era

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[snoopyliker]

thinking about aromanticism in fandom again who couldve guessed im gonna nonsensically ramble dont expect this to make sense

but it really is interesting to experience fandom with a completely different outlook to relationships and seeing how allos react to things

i think one of the more fascinating to watch in terms of fandom was pangili and being like hm. what allos interpret as romantic is interesting. cause for me i’ll see an interaction and im like aww thats so me and (insert friend) and then you’ll go into the fandom its all romantic shipping of the two based off that interaction and ur like hm. and also sidenote i was about to type “Not that i have a problem with the shipping” and like i hate that i have to clarify that all the damn time anytime i talk about this shit. cause u just knoowww someones gonna be like oh so u hate gay ships? u hate? kissing? u hate gays? like no man. its just interesting to witness fandom shipping culture from the standpoint of someone who isnt allo i’d say. so much shit gets said where youre just like thats silly. “that couldnt be platonic” “u dont say that to friends” urrr scope of relationships is so narrow. tell ur friend you’d die for them and adore every detail on their face, it cures all.

even MAN. outside of fandom this is something idk. so fascinating ITS FASCINATING TO SEE HOW ALLOS EXPERIENCE LIFE. i was watching a vlog with a friend today and she randomly went “yeah i get why people think these two are dating” talking about two cc’s in the vlog and i was like huh? cause i just had no clue where that came from and she went “i mean look at how hes joking with her. if i didnt know better i’d assume they were dating too” and to give context these r two cc’s who have been friends for like over a decade and are not dating. stated many times by the ccs themselves. and then i was like oh. the way he joked with her? and then i replayed the interaction and it was like. just how normal friends joke around with each other? and she was like see? and i was like man what the fuck are allos on. obviously thats a scenario with a guy and girl so i feel like naturally people r just more annoying about those friendships and thinking every relationship between men & women is romantic but i was so taken aback. i genuinely could not detect an ounce of anything romantic there…. because it wasnt, it wasnt romantic, theyre friends, it was friends joking around. am i crazy

i think i just dont understand romance or like More specifically amatonormative thinking. its all just so foreign and doesnt make sense in my head. wdymm you cant flirt with ur friends without it being romantic? what planet do u live on?

[eliashawthorne]

“huh.” elias thoughtfully replied, intrigued. “you know, i supposed that isn’t too far fetched.” it was nice to think that the a good deed could be the reason millions of lives were saved, without the consequences of something else drastically happening. he tried not to think about if one of the lives saved could be the reason something does happen, perhaps their evil outweighs what we are prepared to handle as a society, instead he focused on the positive outcome of it all. now he knew that with all this time travel talk, he was going to go down a rabbit hole the moment he got home later. he was determined to gather all the theories he could for their next encounter because now he wanted to ramble on about space and time travel with zarah. he nods at her question, “yes, that’s true.” he pauses, then smiles, “well, all in all, at the end of the day, i think the choice we make would be the best one. i don’t know about you, but i think we make a killer duo.”

much like zarah, elias could easily adapt to various topic changes in conversations. actually it was quite fun to him to have different conversations going on in the same one, as long as it wasn’t too confusing. this was not confusing, it was fun. the idea of someone actually patrolling the worlds largest rubber band ball was amusing, unlikely, but he could see how even that might need protecting. “if you’re stealing the worlds largest rubber band ball and you manage to get away with that…i am both impressed and curious as to what the intentions are with said rubber band ball. maybe they would want to roll it off the grand canyon and see if it bounces up and how high it would bounce.” now he was just being a bit silly, but it was ideas like that that called for protection at even the most isolated of place like road side attractions. it was a shame, really. “i never really understood that, not being able to leave well enough alone. isn’t it enough to know you were there and simply take in the beauty?” as they continued on with their conversation and it turned to their road trip he got more excited at the idea. he smiles when zarah encourages his book savings idea, but nods at the auto draft option. “i will do both. get the book and begin auto drafting. that way if one fails, at least the other is in full effect.” though he wasn’t sure how auto drafting would fail, but he guesses there is a first time for everything and that would be no exception. “you know what? i’m going to invest in an adventure scrap book for our journey too.”

you were basically a parent, when owning a pet. luckily the only schedule that mochi was on was feeding times. he chose cat over a dog at the moment because he liked how independent they could be, and he did not have the time to properly give a pup. he understood that she couldn’t just get up and leave (as much fun as it sounded like) because he was in a similar boat. but there were times, like tonight, in which he simply had to trust mochi was going to be okay without him. he felt like the cat had already known something was on the horizon anyway, as he was also a firm believer that animals had a strong sixth sense. “i would be surprised if he wasn’t being a loaf on my bed or burrowed under blankets. but yes, once I get back home, i will be giving mochi extra love and affection to make up for my absence during the fireworks show.” when he hears her answer to his question it pulls a lighthearted chuckle from his lips, shaking his head before replying, “not even a little bit. i was just wondering if you wanted to watch them together.” then he thinks of something, not wanting her to feel like he has alternative motives, he ends up also adding, “we don’t have to kiss at the count down, just to throw that out there.”

“I feel like most modern science fiction and theory leans heavily into the whole altering one event altering all of history but there are some where that isn’t the case,” she could admit. She’d read a book series once that had time traveling didn’t ultimately change anything even though the protagonist had definitely taken some liberties by bringing modern medicine and technology. Ultimately, time travel went both ways and everything sort of ended up happening the way it had in history. “Every action has a reaction and at the end of the day I think everyone had to decide if the consequence is worth whatever it is they do whether that be in the day to day or in their hypothetical time travel experience. I think the potential of saving millions of lives would have to be deemed worth consideration.” Though at the end of the day, she didn’t suppose anyone could predict whether the lives saved would lean toward doing good in the world or bring additional chaos that they couldn’t have begun to prepare for. “At the end of the day, it’s a choice. Isn’t everything in the world a choice though?”

Zarah could easily go from talking about one thing to another. Truth be told, given the opportunity she could probably talk to a leaf about a tree for hours on end. If there was someone willing to talk, she was willing to listen and join in on the conversation. It was definitely enough to keep her mind stimulated. “Security seems like such overkill,” she wanted to say though she knew that the world they lived in merited it. Just because most people who might want to take a stop and look at one thing or another on the side of the road were probably harmless, there were always people out there that lacked the ability to keep it together. Maybe they weren’t going out there and actively looking to put anyone else in danger but there were definitely people whose idea of a good time were stealing from National Parks and making their own mark at places they had no business touching. “It’s so easy to just visit a place, appreciate it and live it as it was but I completely understand that not everyone has that perspective,” she could admit. Zarah nodded, knowing full well that whatever his attributes or the employee circumstances they were going to be just fine. Saving money was the primary concern. It wouldn’t be too hard to do if they had months to get their ducks in a row for it though. “A book could be a good start for you,” she was willing to concede. “Only way to know what you can is to try and it and if you realize it’s not working you’ll still have time to change it up. Auto draft is a savior though.”

Pet ownership did come with responsibilities. It wasn’t always easy especially when there were things that could scare them or it impacted scheduling. She definitely couldn’t just pick up and disappear for days on end without putting in some thought into who was going to care for her pet. She knew that he got it. “I’m sure Mochi will be fine,” she reassured. “Plus when you get home, he’ll feel safe again. Hopefully, he’s asleep somewhere and doesn’t even know what is about to go down.” Then again, maybe he did. She felt like animals in general had a pretty strong sixth sense when things were about to happen – storms or fireworks. She her gaze move up to his with his question, laughing. “I didn’t really have any plans. Just you know, enjoying the crowd. Being where I end up, you know. Am I keeping you from someone?”

[800db-cloud]

i’ve been wanting to do this since day one

[aroaceleovaldez]

I was reading a post about CoTG and I realized: Rick has seemingly started to write every character pairing with the exact same dynamic, and he's not good at writing that dynamic and it doesn't make sense for 90% of the characters he writes it for.

It's that very specific dynamic of one half of the pair who is almost aggressive to the other party - "teasing" them constantly/insulting them, affectionately punching/judo flipping/maiming/etc, seemingly almost always exasperated with the other - and said other party usually just accepts this treatment or blanketly views it fondly, and may generally be framed as more incompetent than their partner and a little bit of a doormat (particularly relating to being insulted/teased/etc by their partner).

We start seeing this dynamic in HoO with Percy and Annabeth, as a sort of semi-inconsistent twist on their rivals-to-friends-to-lovers dynamic from the first series. Then the dynamic pattern develops further with Leo and Calypso. Then Magnus and Alex. Then Nico and Will, particularly in TSATS. And now in CoTG, it's Percy and Annabeth again but even more in this direction.

I know people have talked about Nico and Will's relationship over the series rapidly being shoehorned into Percabeth Two™, and it's extremely apparent in TSATS that Rick's doing it on purpose (including directly quoting Percabeth scenes but minorly tweaking them to be Solangelo). But recognizing it as an overarching trend in Rick's later books honestly reminds me a lot of how Rick started trying to apply the "Percy Formula" so-to-speak to nearly every protagonist in HoO (and then try to replicate similar character archetypes with Magnus and Apollo's narrations - moreso Magnus in being jaded and sarcastic, very much trying to be first series Percy. He only sounds unique because Rick failed at making him Percy 2. Apollo is more akin to later-series Percy characterization of being goofy and incompetent. Apollo [and Zeus] even got retconned to give Apollo a more similar backstory to Percy's). Rick seems to have decided that he thinks the audience wants this specific dynamic but 10 times over, except he's not good at writing it the first time because it's a bastardization of the time he did a different thing okay.

And Rick also seems aware of that too! Because he retconned Calypso and Leo at the end of TOA, probably because he realized how absolutely awful it was reading when they were written with that dynamic of Calypso just functionally hating Leo and constantly being aggressive towards him! The only time Rick's actually made the dynamic even semi-successful was with Magnus and Alex, because it actually fits within their characters, their dynamics with each other, and their environment. Alex beheading Magnus on the regular works out fine because there are no repercussions to that in Valhalla, Magnus will be fine, so it does genuinely come off as humorous. And Alex has been effectively established to be abrasive at times but have her genuine feelings shine through regularly, and that meshes well with Magnus' jaded-and-aloof-but-quietly-very-empathetic character. And Magnus has been established to, yes, not be great at combat, particularly compared to Alex. They are the only time that flavor of dynamic in that form was effective and cohesive.

Percabeth is no longer rivals-to-friends-to-lovers badasses on equal levels with shaky pasts who finally found some form of permanence with one another. Now it's super smart doting and affectionately aggressive girlfriend and her silly goofy 50%-of-the-time incompetent boyfriend who she judo flips/pushes off cliffs/etc - but affectionately~! Solangelo is trying to riff off of the early series "Poseidon & Athena are enemies" dynamic that Percabeth had but with Apollo & Hades being "opposites" but learning to accept each other, except it ends up with Will just coming off as a huge asshole and Nico being retconned to a complete doormat about it - when prior to that those characterizations would be completely contrary to their established characters (even just from TOA!). Calypso in HoO gets retconned from her PJO characterization to being snooty and aggressive, and Leo's false persona gets merged into his just normal personality except he just also becomes a doormat but more goofy than Nico with occasional haha-dark/depression-humor! Which Nico also got. Which was also a bastardized Percy trait that got redistributed.

It's exhausting. Rick write more than one relationship dynamic you can do it I promise

[saphflare]

Won't lie, I do think it is wild to think about the fact that probably a majority of people that enjoy Content SMP only know it from the videos on Youtube.

Like they don't know about the secret Arathain and Luxintrus tumblr lore posts, or they aren't in the Rattiest Gang discord to see the lore discussion where the ccs sometimes drop pretty significant teasers or answers regarding the server and its characters. Like they might know the overall story, but they certainly do not know the lore lore that like fundamentally changes how you see certain characters and certain plot points.

Like the fact that most people probably know the Mason as just a silly guy that just snuck in the increased netherite rates and was probably a decent dad to Lux, instead of the Wheelbearer that committed multiple atrocities, including kidnapping at least two children that he psychologically manipulated and subjected to a whole lotta trauma of the religious variety and much violence against (one of which is Lux), and that the increased netherite rates were part of some deal he made with Charter is slightly insane to me. Like just everyone acts like this guy just was there as a guy and that is the extent, when oh boy fellas you don't know the other half of it.

This is also not getting into like any other characters, though compared to the Mason, I can't say the perception difference for any of them is as signficant. But also yeah the Charter lore is also a whole nother can of worms that even I haven't been able to dig up and understand everything about in the discord. But people also keep mistaking Arathain as the characters and that the character that appears after Lux gets killed is not the Mason, but the Augur, who you only know their name if you read the most recent post from Arathain and also fucking ate Mouthpiece in the metaphorical and/or literal way.

Like I am glad that by itself the videos themselves show a clear and enjoyable story for the people only knowing about it from there, and that is the extent they might need to do to engage with it as a fan. But it is just absolutely crazy to me that like a significant amount of people that like Content SMP just will never know the extensive lore because it is never mentioned at all by the ccs themselves and you never would know unless you like happen to accidentally stumble across it and after a few times you get enough clues to try to actively look for it and suddenly it feels like you are now on a scavenger hunt for lore 😭

[gotstabbedbyapen]

I have very complicated feelings for the Vengeance Saga (after the first listen)

Disclaimer: I will only criticize Epic the Vengeance Saga as a work on its own, not for its inaccuracy or deviation from mythology and The Odyssey. There are more knowledgable people who can point out and analyze the changes in Epic the Musical, but that is not what I'll be tackling here.

To put it bluntly, I'm not being angsty about it as I should. The whole saga just... didn't feel right with me.

Now, first off all, I'm a big fan of Epic and had been following it since the Cyclops saga (first version). I've been in love with many songs and hyperfixed it for months on end. But when the Vengeance saga came along, I didn't feel that same bubbling love rise in me.

Even as a fan, this isn't my first time having peeves with Epic. I didn't jam with the re-release sagas for a while, I'm underwhelmed with the Circe VS Odysseus fight and other issues, very unpopular opinion but "Monster" wasn't too impactful to me, and also the God Games (especially Zeus' attack).

The Vengeance Saga though? Well, they say we gotta do the Bun-Meat-Bun (or whatever the hell its name really is) technique when giving criticism, so I'll start with the good parts.

I love that Odysseus looked so done with Calypso in "Not Sorry For Loving You". They're basically this meme:

Like sorry you're a sad but you're still an abuser 😒

Then Odysseus starts singing the reprise for "Full Speed Ahead" but there's no one to back him up. That one hits me hard. To whoever on Tumblr said that after the Thunder Saga we will never hear the crew's back-up again and Odysseus' singing will be answered with silence, Apollo really blessed you with the red ball.

Hermes and the Winions' part was really cool too! I really like them being mischievous helper! The warning about the wind bag and the changing scene of Odysseus fighting off sea monsters while Hermes just vibing with the beats is 👌👌👌

But after that the hype started to sizzle out for me. You might want to skip this part if you're not comfortable with harsh criticism because I WON'T hold back.

It's really backward but I like the Odysseus VS Charybdis draft more than the final production. Charybdis' roars and music are somehow less intimidating, which is a shame because I thought this would be one of the biggest struggles Odysseus will face. Even with awesome illustrative animatics, the scene wasn't as thrilling as I've expected.

The other songs got massive improvement from its draft version (on top of my mind I can think of "Thunder Bringer", "There Are Other Ways", "Little Wolf"), but I don't get why "Charybdis" didn't get up-graded as much like them. It's like a cake that was throughly baked but half decorated and it just didn't taste as good as I've hoped.

Then we have the Odysseus VS Poseidon part in "Get In The Water" and "Six Hundred Strikes". The first thought I had for GITW is this song sounds like all the draft snippets were mashed together without a smooth transition/connection between them. Jorge and Steven's performance is great, but there's not enough tension for me to dread for Odysseus. When Poseidon first met Odysseus in "Ruthlessness", the whole opening was terrifyingly good! And we didn't even have any illustration animatic back then! (that's not to say the GITW animatics were bad, they just can't salvage much when the song itself was already weak)

I wasn't impressed with Poseidon's Shatter The Ocean move either. It's supposed to be the Strongest AttackTM but it's less scary than when he and the Laestrygonians destroyed Odysseus' eleven ships with probably 1% of their power. It didn't even help when Poseidon looked like he's having a seizure with lights pouring out of his eyes and mouth during the transformation.

Odysseus being literally on the brink of death with the souls of his loved ones pulling him into the abyss is a gem in the rough, but because we've seen Odysseus almost drowning before in the end of the Thunder Saga, it's not as shocking as it should be. Furthermore, Poseidon could have instant-killed Odysseus right then and there but didn't really annoyed me. But I guess he just wanted Odysseus to slowly suffer while dying.

Right when I thought the progress will get better, it... gets down. I can go with Odysseus using wind to escape the water, but him wearing it like a jetpack is so comical it ruined the drastic of the situation. And I'm officially let down when Odysseus FUCKING ATTACKED Poseidon in "Six Hundred Strike".

What? Just... why with that choice?

Look, I'm not gonna fault Epic for making creative liberties from the source material (as said in the disclaimer), but I will criticize if that change contradict itself in the transformative work. And this is one of them.

Poseidon and the gods have been proven time and time again in the musical just how powerful they are. Their ominous and grandiose entrances, them striking fear and inferiority in our hearts just by singing. Even Circe, a low-level goddess, poses a constant threat to the crew and Odysseus had to get help from Hermes just to get a chance to corner her (and Hermes even joked that he can still die!)

Poseidon easily destroyed almost all of Odysseus' fleet. Odysseus was very avoidant of him, opting to go to the literal Underworld to find instruction on how to dodge him and sailing through Scylla's lair + willing to sacrifice six men for safe passage. And when Poseidon said he can drown all of Ithaca, it's not just bluffing, he would and could have done that. Yeah, the King of the Sea is THAT BIG of a threat.

So no, Odysseus isn't cool to attack Poseidon, he's being stupid. I'm not even cheering for him the whole time he fight, just groaning at how ridiculous the whole thing is. If Epic is more believable and sticks to WHAT IT HAD ESTABLISHED BEFORE, having a sudden burst of anger and choosing ruthlessness won't save Odysseus from one swipe of Poseidon's trident. Odysseus stood no chance against one of the most powerful deity, even if he's the protagonist and love his family.

Not only that, Poseidon didn't even defend himself and was wounded by a mere human! And he just sat there and took all the blows and insults from Odysseus??? And he actually begged Odysseus to stop and agree to quell the storm to let him get home??? I'm not buy that bullshit. I'm more upset that a literal Olympian god was nerfed down than Odysseus having a Gary Stu moment. Give me a break, that try-hard moment to be cool and edgy just show how badly written the scene is.

What's the fucking point of hyping up how dangerous the gods are if a human can take one down? Tell me this isn't some Wattpad-y Greek myth retelling fanfic where the teenage Y/N sass her way to defeat an entire pantheon. Epic really traded its opportunity to be better for some cheap and out-of-the-blue dramas in this saga, dare I say it's even worse than Zeus' OOC attack on Athena. I'm very disappointed with that decision.

On an end note, the saga did have one saving point with the "After everything you've done, how will you sleep at night?" - "Next to my wife" lines. Odysseus knew he could be the most horrendous man ever and Penelope would still choose his side, that just show how powerful their love and faith in each other are.

But not enough to excuse all the terrible cinematic choices.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

so REVENGE, HUH? or justice, if that makes you feel better. it tastes the same when cooked just right. 'I REALLY WANTED A BROTHER.' such a shame to burn a bridge you so desperately wanted to keep, especially when it wasnt even you who started the fire. especially when you hope that not a single fragment of that bridge ever washes ashore.[MAY IT ROT FAR FROM MY SIGHTS] an unfortunate loss! atleast he has his friends.

[stressfulsloth]

Thinking about Disco Elysium and stars. Something about communal experience and simultaneous isolation, hope and idealism, fear and beauty and terror and burning. The inherent horror in the vast romantic starscape of the sky, the melancholy and loneliness inherent in the untold distance, a communal experience of something too enormous to fathom. Stars bear witness to humanity, to the millions of tiny people crawling on the face of Elysium. They watch the people, and the people watch back, and make up stories about the stars. Stars symbolise love, hope, something unreachable and unattainable.

The way that the light of the stars reaches every single being in Elysium, from human to phasmid, but no matter how far it reaches it is still a cold and distant glow, always on the verge of going out. A moral brilliance, a holy light to strive towards, something always at risk of burning out, but there's a dichotomy too. A duality between the stars as brutal unfeeling observers, moralists even, like the aerostatics flying overhead, tiny dying lights that watch impassively over every terrible thing in the world, and the flipside; stars as the burning kernels of hope, furious burning flames that parallel Harry and his golden-orange forest fire nature. Stars as the light of communism, the star-and-antlers. They're hope and dreams- a million years in the stars. Rockstars and superstars. The light of a brighter future (however short-term that future might be) coming towards them at the end of the tunnel. It makes me think of Sacred and Terrible Air and the light pollution in Vassa- ending light pollution as the world ends. "You may laugh at this, but in the evening, when the big world in the distance swells into a bloody maelstrom, families come out into the street in Vaasa and are insignificant together. Only distant explosions disturb the deep peace of the winter night, its flawless starry sky. Everyone watches, heads tilted back." The stars are a shared experience. Something that everyone watches, insignificant together, when there's nothing more that can be done. Light in the face of darkness, community in the face of inevitability. Togetherness. The stars are there in the church with the ravers. They're there watching Harry and Kim together. Insignificant together. In dark times, should the stars also go out?

[callixton]

i think the thing to understand abt martha jones is that even after she leaves she is five seconds away from dropping everything and traveling with the doctor at any given time. bc that itch to blow everything up and damn her personal duty to hell in search of a higher call never leaves her. but martha is smart. and rational. and has spent a long fucking time needing to keep herself safe. (bc he comes when she calls but never before.) and so she has gotten very good at keeping herself on the right side of those five seconds. but i do think if ten was a different person (if he could acknowledge how much he needed her instead of just how much he liked her) (if he didn’t feel this righteous martyrdom when it comes to being left alone) (if he cared enough about her to beg. if he cared enough about himself.) i think that her answer no would come crumbling down pretty quickly is all.

[trans-axolotl]

also: I mostly switched over from saying "antipsychiatry" to psych abolition after I started to see more groups like CPA use it, and thought I'd share some of my thoughts on it.

antipsychiatry is a fundamental part of psych abolition for me, but i think my definition of psych abolition contains a lot more. first, there's a lot more things than just psychiatry that i want to abolish and transform--the whole mental health system and many different belief systems, types of providers, forms of treatment, and types of incarceration that are encompassed in that. i think it's important to name and identify the particular harms of psychiatry as a value system in the way it is the strictest example of pathologizing, medicalizing, and the strongest adherer to the purely biomedical model of illness and how this creates so much harm. but i think that there are also so many other harmful structures + belief systems within the whole mental health system. i also sometimes see therapists, for example, portraying themselves as alternatives to psychiatry, and while that's true in the sense that they are a different treatment option than a psychiatrist, they are often still harmful actors in their own rights and entangled with the state in an equally bad way.

second thing for me is that i think it's really important to intentionally build cross movement solidarity, especially with the prison abolition movement and to expand the way psych survivors currently support support people fighting for abolition of all forms of incarceration. (i drew inspiration from sins invalid and the 10 principles of Disability Justice). I see so many people in psych survivor spaces saying " I can't believe we were treated like prisoners on the ward" with the implication that it's fine if prisoners are treated that way, but it's bad when it happens to them. i think that's fucked up and i think that any psych survivor movement that doesn't actively support people incarcerated in prisons is a movement that does nothing to dismantle white supremacy. we need to be able to recognize the ways carceral logics operate in many different structures, and approach our activism as a shared struggle, where we constantly are led by those most impacted. so i think that naming what we're doing as "abolition" is important (with the important caveat that our organizing must then actually be abolitionist, and especially for white organizers, that we need to learn about the history of abolition, actively support the Black leaders and thinkers who have created the prison abolition movement and not center ourselves, that we actually have to be actively involved in supporting abolitionist work happening in your area, instead of just stealing the work of Black abolitionist scholars to use it for our own benefit without any credit or reciprocity, that we need to actively interrogate ways white supremacy culture and antiblackness are showing up in our movement places so that we aren't inviting our comrades who are people of color into spaces that are not safe for them, or exploiting our comrades of color by expecting them to do the work of dismantling the racism within our shared organizing spaces--don't call yourself a psych abolitionist if you still call the cops on your homeless neighbors, if your solutions to psych incarceration contribute to gentrification, if you refuse to support currently incarcerated comrades, for example.)

third thing is that antipsychiatry as a specific term is often associated with the sociologist theory from the 1960s, some of which i think is useful, some of which comes from antisemetic and racist psychiatrists who should not be given any legitimacy. antipsychiatry also often gets associated with cults like scientology. although i think that scientologists bastardize a lot of antipsychiatry stuff and weaponize it for their own ends, a lot of the public thinks of them if you say antipsychiatry, and it can cause misconceptions. also think that people sometimes assume antipsychiatry is inherently against medication and while i don't think that's our responsibility to clear up every time people misread our words on purpose, i think it's been a lot more helpful for me to talk about medication in the context of autonomy, harm reduction, war on drugs, and the ways that psychiatry creates issues to consent, autonomy, informed use, risk reduction, etc etc etc. and i think psych abolition helps me do that a little better.

i get in a lot of conversations with people who say "well from what i've seen you are just against institutionalization. why not just say that instead of attacking psychiatry?" and my answer is always if we want to end institutionalization, we have to end the structures, belief systems, and power dynamics of psychiatry--psychiatry is one of the logics that enables institutionalization to continue, and abolishing institutionalization without abolishing the structures that allow it to continue mean that it just pops up again in a new form with a new name (asylums to hospitals to group homes etc etc etc). so i think psych abolition to me is a clearer way to encompass the ways that all these systems are interconnected, and that when we're fighting for mad liberation, the right for mad/neurodivergent/mentally ill people to access care, support, healing on our own terms, to be free from institutionalization and violent treatment, and have the right to exist as mad people, whether or not we're "cured."

TL;DR: I switched to saying "psych abolition" rather than antipsychiatry even though there are many core ideas of antipsychiatry that I agree with. I think that for me, psych abolition helps clear up some misconceptions that people have about antipsychiatry, more clearly connects to prison abolition, and makes it clear that we need to transform more of the mental health system than just psychiatry.

[theokusgallery]

Hiiii I saw you say you have Notes on your Remus and Janus designs 👀👀?

Could we see/hear some tidbits?

FOR SURE !! Here's what the original doodles for their designs look like, first off, (I know you didn't ask for Virgil but I did these three at the same time)

When I drew this I had just finished an exam and had to wait another hour until I could leave the classroom, so I wrote down enough notes that I had to flip the page instead:

Virgil:

- Virgil has light brown hair that he dyes black (badly). It is essential that the dye job look like shit. It looks artificial, his roots are showing, there's patches where the color didn't take, etc etc.

- He also has blue eyes, which I decided on mostly because it makes it even more clear that his hair isn't naturally black.

- He wears earrings, but his ears aren't actually pierced — they're fake little little clip-on things.

- He wears black nail polish at all times, but it's always chipped because he gets the cheapest stuff he can get his hands on.

- His hair (especially his bangs) get very long at times because he gets too socially anxious to go to the hairdresser. Back in middle school, he used to have Janus cut them for him (Remus could have done a better job but trusting him with scissors would have been a mistake). Now he mostly cuts it off by himself — it looks about as good as his dye job.

- Virgil's purple hoodie is a leftover from Remus' fashion design endeavors that Remus thought didn't look weird enough.

Janus:

- He has naturally strawberry blonde hair. The length is very important to him — he started growing it towards the end of middle school. (He allows Remus to experiment with hairdos sometimes as long as he doesn't cut anything off. I need to draw that sometime)

- I'm not entirely settled on his eye color. I know at least one of his eyes is a very pretty brown, but I have half a mind to give him a yellow glass eye for his left side — I'm not sure it'd make any logistic sense for his situation, though

- He got his ears actually pierced when he was 16.

- He also may or may not have a forked tongue. Not sure how I'd ever be able to show that off — but if he does have one, then Remus definitely was the one to encourage him to do it.

- His fashion style was definitely influenced by being around Remus (who may have used him as a mannequin/dummy because he's small.) so much. Remus also attempted to make clothes for him, but Janus is very fancy and picky, so he doesn't wear those clothes very often (though he might accessorize with stuff Remus made for him occasionally).

Remus:

- He has naturally very dark hair. He uses temporary/surface level dyes a lot, but if he's using permanent or semi-permanent dyes, he's usually limiting himself to the grey streak — it's kind of a sample strand, since it's already bleached. He 100% copied his hairstyle from Roman's.

- He (and Roman, of course) has greenish blue eyes.

- Janus paid for him to get his ears (and eyebrows) professionally pierced because otherwise he was just going to do it himself with a sewing needle.

- He has a lot of very shitty stick-and-poke tattoos he made/makes on himself. They're almost always hidden by his outfits.

- Speaking of which, Remus makes most of his outfits costumes himself. The quality of the work may vary, but they are always way too over-the-top for casual wear, because he stands out anyway, so... in for a penny, right. (As I said in the tags of a post: he is very creative and has no shame or social anxiety at all, so he had his whole aesthetic ("overdramatic green") figured out by the time he was 13)

- He also has SH scars, but, again — they're hidden by his outfits 99% of the time. He's a slut who never shows an inch of skin

[lacecap]

i saw you once in a dream

[piyo13sdoodles]

day 5 on chapter 15 of Hands of the Emperor:

He played until the full moon sailed high above them, his last song one of the endless longing of a poet who had fallen in love with the Moon. [...] "It is nearly the eclipse," his Radiancy said in a quiet voice, and Cliopher realized that he probably knew its coming far more intimately than any of them.

[sssssaarn]

Me when unicorns have been such an important part of a my life ever since childhood, and likely fall somewhere under the alterhuman umbrella for me, but I have no clue where: