#and let me be clear that when I say 'in a bootleg sorta way'

[quizzicalink]

I’ve been listening to A LOT of Toonkind DnD recently and, well, you could say I have a few favorites The Engineer and Alibi belong (in a bootleg sorta way) to @modmad and Larry belongs to @yunisverse

[mattzerella-sticks]

Acutely (coda to 15x13 ‘Destiny’s Child’, Dean/Cas, 2.5k)

ao3 link

Jack said he's sorry, after getting his soul back.

Jack said he's sorry, and he's looking at Dean. They're all looking at Dean.

Jack said he's sorry, and Dean can't take it. It's too much. Like a frog thrown into a boiling pot he hops out, jumping out from the room towards safety. Doing his best not to succumb to the pain.

He can't hide forever, let the wounds fester. It's too much to deal with on his own, though. Can someone help him through it?

           It’s no secret, where he hides. Where he ran away to after Jack broke down in an apology. Overwhelmed by the sorrow in the younger boy’s voice; his remorse for actions Dean hadn’t mentioned in so long. Dean barely made it before his knees buckled, collapsing on his bed instead of the floor. Face pressed against the pillow Dean counted his breaths while ignoring the heavy lump sitting in his throat.

           He loses track after seventy-five, mumbling ‘one… two… three… four… five…’ over and over until he felt like his feet were farther from the edge than they had been. As he lifts his head, Dean takes stock of himself. Grimaces at how sweat dampens both his shirts, dark fabric clinging annoyingly underneath oppressive denim. And as the knot unwound in his stomach, Dean realizes he hadn’t eaten yet. Hunger gnaws at his awareness, begging for attention. Thinking about food, though, guides his paths towards the kitchen and – ultimately – Jack, again.

           There’s not much of an appetite left after that.

           Instead he blindly throws off his outer layer, then his undershirt. Bends, clawing at his laces and when they unravel, he yanks them and his socks off, too. Discards his jeans by flinging them into some far corner. Red boxer-briefs are all that remain, for the moment. In the next second Dean reaches for a set of pajamas. Picks the set at the top of the pile. Cowboys riding bucking broncos on the pants while lasso script spells out ‘Save a Horse’ on the shirt. As he pulls it overhead, he hears something shift nearby. Turning, Dean finds Cas watching him from the hallway.

           “Crap,” he hisses, tugging the shirt down. Cheeks burning under Cas’s intense gaze, “Ever hear of knocking?” Instincts say he should cover himself, but midway through wrapping arms around his midsection Dean realizes what a ridiculous notion that is. Actions aborted Dean’s fingers twitch before they retake his shirt’s hem. Twisting it as the awkward silence continues. “Cas?”

           This breaks Cas from whatever trance he fell under. Cas steps into his room, “Sorry, Dean, you left your door open.”

           “Right…” If his hands weren’t busy strangling fabric one would be rubbing a hole into the back of his neck. “I – uh, must’ve forgotten.” Dean finally fights back the static drowning his mind, releasing his shirt hem. “What uh… what’re you doing here?”

           “I came to check on you.”

           Sweet, but totally despicable. Cas’s earnest tone easily overpowers his crumbling defenses, making the flush across his skin deepen. Lips pursed, Dean dips his eyes so he won’t fall prey to the deadliest of his angel’s weapons. Angel blades have nothing on those baby blues. “Thanks,” he coughs, shrugging, “but I wasn’t the one having a full breakdown five feet from the cookie cereal…” He sits down once more, at the foot of his bed, squeezing his knees. “How is Jack, by the way?”

           “He’s calmed, somewhat,” Cas tells him, slowly pacing Dean’s room. Picks up Dean’s stray button-down, loosely folding it while he talks. “Sam had a brilliant idea of taking him for a drive.”

           “A drive? Is that allowed?”

           “Well, Billie didn’t appear and tell us no….” He sets the shirt on Dean’s dresser, claiming the nearby chair for his own. “They left awhile ago. Not sure when they’ll be back.”

           “Awhile, huh?” Dean snorts, arching a stern brow. “And you’re only visiting me now?”

           Cas stiffens, “Yes. You see – um…” Stuttering, Cas stalls for time as he thinks up an answer.

           Tension leaks out of Dean’s shoulders watching him, seeing his angel go through human motions. Dragging a hand through his hair and pulling at his tie, both alight a familiar warmth in his heart. He snuffs that flame a second later, knowing how dangerous it would be if he let it keep. “Kidding,” Dean sighs, smiling, “I’m glad you waited. Probably wouldn’t have been this… chatty?”

           “Of course…” Cas says, nodding, “I figured you’d need some time alone… to – to sort through things.”

           He’s being generous. Dean used all his strength to not remember the pain stricken across Jack’s face. The wound is still so fresh, Jack ripping off the scabs with a frenzy caused by his soul’s return. Mary’s death hurting like it happened yesterday. “Maybe you should’ve given me five or ten more minutes, then,” he chuckles, tapping at his temple, “still a mess up here.”

           “Hmm…”

           “Hmm what?”

           “Oh, nothing –“

           “Bullshit, Cas,” Dean leans forward, a more devilish expression on his face, “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on in your mind.”

           “Nothing you probably don’t already know,” Cas says, “I’m… trying to wrap my head around this whole day. Jack getting his soul back… it’s remarkable. But also, troubling. How could that even be possible and – and will it last?”

           “Don’t think about it too much, man,” he says, “what happened with Jack it’s… it’s a gift. Probably one of the few we’ve ever gotten that’s come with no strings attached. A win.”

           “Have we ever gotten a win like that?”

           It’d be so simple. Unfortunately, Dean chomps off the head of his one-word confession. Swallows the three-letters alongside all his other feelings. By the time the corpse of it decomposes in his stomach, Dean realizes it’s been too long since he last spoke. Cas waiting, staring at him. An awkward chuckle bubbles forth, his breath reeking of ashen sincerity. “Bout time we got one, then, don’t you think?”

           He concedes, mouth thinning in a cunning smile. “I suppose we are… but enough about what I think.” Dean’s lips pinch tight. “I think we’ve delayed the inevitable conversation. Don’t you?”

           “No,” he says, “we can delay it some more. Like… what was up with those bootleg versions of us?” Dean scoffs, “I bet that other me doesn’t even know what pie tastes like… too busy cramming caviar down his throat.”

           “You might enjoy caviar. I hear it’s very popular?”

           “Caviar’s only popular because it’s expensive,” Dean tells him, “and all those rich dudes spent too much money on it to hate it, so they lie and convince others it’s good and it’s an awful, self-servicing cycle.”

           “I didn’t know you had such strong opinions on caviar?”

           “I’ve got strong opinions on just about everything…” Dean makes the mistake of glancing up, catching sight of Cas’s judgmental bend of his brow. “But you don’t wanna hear any of those…”

           “Not right now, no…” Cas stands, drifting towards his door. “I guess you were right, you do need more time by yourself. Perhaps in the morning –“

           “Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” he says, rising, grabbing his elbow. The touch sears even through the jackets and shirt; Dean’s grasp on it firms, savoring it. “Y’know how… how tough this has got to be for me, right?” His throat cracks on the last word, eyes glistening. He feels the tears brimming behind them, pooling, waiting for release.

           Cas sighs, dropping any pretense of exiting. “I do,” he says, hand hovering over Dean’s briefly. Considering if he should. A short argument, as it gently embraces his hand; the one chaining Cas to him. “That’s why I want you to speak. Free yourself of the burden… let me help carry it with you.”

           “You don’t have to, Cas,” Dean says, “You’ve got your own things, worries t’deal with –“

           “That won’t stop me.”

           Stubborn. A double-edged sword that makes up the arsenal of Cas’s traits, all weapons Dean would gladly throw himself on.

           Cas quiets, then, waiting for Dean and his response. Words were unneeded. Dean can decipher all he thinks by looking into his angel’s eyes. Captivating, whether in the harsh fluorescents of his bedroom or the soft moonlight of an abandoned church. They always make his head dizzy, thoughts unspooling like Dean drank half a bottle of whiskey or smoked three joints. The more he stays the course, the worse it gets. He nearly forgot hellhounds were baring down on them, Sam their last defense against the creatures, because Cas’s eyes hold a magic that quells any fear or worry gnawing at Dean’s senses.

           “Dean?”

           “It hurt being around him,” Dean whispers his admittance, inching closer. Chests almost pressed together. Noses dangerously close. His toes practically climbing atop Cas’s dress shoe. “I hate that that’s true but… it is. Because as glad as I was to see the kid still kicking it… I’m just reminded of her.” Cas’s thumb rubs a comforting circle into his knuckles, Dean dropping his gaze there. “Reminded of what he did. How he just didn’t… didn’t get it, y’know. Couldn’t tell that it was bad. He – there was still this… this disconnect. And after he came back I could tell he’d look at me and try to find the words t’apologize but they were never there. And without them, we’d never move past it. He’d still be hurting, and so would I… Which sucks because – because I know you think of him as your son, but y’know… I think of him as mine, too –“

           “I like to think of him as ours, Dean.”

           “Yes, well…” he clears his throat, tongue wetting his lips as he recovers. Dean chooses tactical evasion, ignoring Cas’s comment and moving on. “He’s like… my second chance. He is a second chance. A second coming, really – sorta like Jesus –“ He pauses, gaze darting towards Cas’s face. “That doesn’t matter. I just… I wanted to make things right with Jack, but he didn’t know how – and I sure didn’t know how. So we were circling each other, doing nothing. I could feel things festering. The happiness that came after Jack’s return began fading; instead of relief there’d be dread whenever he walked into a room. Got it into my head that things’d never get any better, and there was no way of fixing this rift between us.”

           “But with his soul, he finally understands,” Cas says, “he’s apologized. That’s what you wanted?”

           “It is. I… yeah,” Dean shudders, neck suddenly weak. It bends, Dean’s chin saved from touching his neck by Cas’s forehead supporting his. There noses are beside one another, lips a breath apart. “I know it’s for the best but… seeing him cry, all I wanted to do was hug him. Let him know it’d be all right. Except I ran I… I couldn’t say anything. He was hurting and that – that made me hurt even worse. And then I felt glad he could feel hurt… it sorta spiraled from there.”

           Cas hums, Dean’s mouth vibrating with the note. “You were overwhelmed,” Cas says, “there’s no reason for you to be ashamed.”

           “Yes, there is.” Dean scowls, “I’m middle-aged, can gank a monster twice my size without blinking, but the second a situation gets too touchy-feely I stomp on the gas and speed through all the red lights.” While Dean talked about Jack, a highlight reel of all his shortcomings playing on a giant screen in his mind. Times where Dean’s emotions short-circuited. Fried his circuits, caused him more pain than necessary. Many of those scenes feature a recurring character, shaped like a man in a trench coat. It flickers out, leaving Dean with a blank slate. That fades, too, and Cas’s face is there.

           “It’s not fear, Dean. Not at all,” he says. Protest swells, but with a sharp look from Cas it wanes. “Trust me, as someone who knows you… knows your soul, you – you are not afraid of feelings. Not at all.” He smiles, Dean leaning back for the full effect. Blessed by heavenly light. “On the contrary,” Cas continues, “You embrace your emotions. Unfortunately… sometimes you feel too much and that – that can be particularly difficult to manage. I remember when I was human, sometimes the smallest of ripples in my heart caused me great pains. Something modest like being cold or hungry… or in pain, were too much for me to express. Your capacity for feelings, your intelligence and understanding it’s… fantastic. But there are limits. We all have them. You feel too much sometimes that you cannot express yourself or even deal with them.”

           Dean’s tears prick at the corners of his eyes, dangling. Still unshed. “It does feel like that,” he says, “Sometimes it’s… like there’s a highway, and it’s rush hour. Traffic on – on all sides. No one’s moving, and I’m behind the wheel and I want to go but I can’t and I… I get so angry that I can’t.” He lets go of Cas, slipping from his loose grip. “S’what I’m feeling right now.”

           Cas accepts Dean’s need for distance, hands retreating into his pockets. “And what I’m here, to tell you, is this. You might be behind the wheel, but you’re hardly alone in that car. Sam’s there. Jack’s there. And I am most certainly there.”

           Dean nods, wiping a hand down his face. “Thank you, Cas. I… needed this.”

           “I’m glad to be of service, then.” Cas’s tone fell, a discordant pluck of the harp that triggered Dean’s worry. Before he could ask about it, his angel floats away. “I should let you get your rest. Today was exhausting…”

           Halfway out the door, Dean stops him. “Cas, wait!”

           “Yes?”

           Standing there, framed by his doorway, waiting for Dean to continue with shining eyes, Dean thinks his angel never looked more gorgeous. And he wants to tell him. Despite how the words stick in his throat, the sweat dripping from his forehead, and how his feelings might be received, he wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything. Finally.

            That flame from earlier, snuffed out, relights. Burns hotter than Baby’s engine gunning down the highway. Ballooning, spreading through his veins and disorienting him. The room spins, his vision blurs, but Cas stays clear and firm. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue –

           “Yes, Dean?”

           He’s cold. Doused by an untimely thought that quells any of his passionate desires, leaving him charred, ashen, and helpless.

           Dean notices the frown lines around his mouth. The way his eyes drooped in a way they’ve never done. Shadows stretch across his body, slithering, hiding most of his expression from Dean. But he senses a tiredness there that, on Cas, seems foreign.

           The moment passes. It wouldn’t feel right, anyway.

           “Just…” his face hurts from the tight grin he forces, “I go both ways.” Blushing, he amends his statement. “I mean, I don’t have to give you all my baggage – I can… I can also help you carry some of yours, if you’d like?”

           Cas tilts his head, light revealing a gentle smile. “I’d like that. Night, Dean.”

           “Night Cas…”

           A closing door never felt more ominous.

           Dean stares at it, chewing on his lip. Chest aching, heart beating against it with the force of a storm wreaking havoc. He walks towards the switch, flipping it off. Bathing the room in shadows. Making it easier. “Cas,” he says aloud, looking ahead into the endless darkness. “I love you. After this is all over, and we don’t have any more fights heading our way… I’d like for you to stay. With me. And we can have the life we both deserve. I just… I want you to know what I’m fighting for. It’s not the world. It’s you. It’s us.”

           He slips under the covers. Talking to empty air didn’t make the feelings disappear, or easier in dealing with. But it’s a start.

           Maybe he’ll do better in the morning.

[titleknown]

Three Spooky Fictional Knockoff Toylines!

That’s right, as the big writing piece for this spooky time of year, it’s three spooky toylines ripping off bigger properties in a way that do not exist.

These are all public domain/CC0, free to use for whatever you see fit, though crediting me and linking to my Patreon or Ko-Fi would be nice.��

Shoutout to @genustoys, @phelous and @therobotmonster for heavily inspiring these with their work!

Now, LET US BEGIN!

Monsterlords of the Nether Realms- This line is an odd duck in that it was a knockoff of a toyline that wasn't all that popular. Namely, Inhumanoids.

It was seemingly designed to be cross-compatible with the large monsters of that line, yet in all irony it stuck around seemingly far longer, likely due to the lower price points it was was able to get away with due to being a “non-branded” product and the cross-compatibility of play pattern with the larger figures.

And they were shockingly lavish for what was seemingly a “low rent” property, which has lead to suspicions of it and its related properties being a money-laundering scheme, or at least cover for something unsavory, though others say it could simply be good craftsmanship and the evidence in favor of and against such is perhaps a story for another day.

There were five of them that ended up bumping around store shelves, give or take a few “extras,” which we will cover as they come.

The first piece; likely intended as the “mascot” due to its prescence in promotional artwork is the one known as MOLINTHA, or “ANTHILL EVIL” on certain variants, a large figure encased in a roughly mountain shaped “shell” when curled in a specific position; with an ominous “maw” that turned into a torso when the figure was uncurled.

The mountain pieces themselves (Which were free-standing on their own) provided a large amount of play value with platforms seemingly shaped for various 3&¾-inch figures, but the body itself was a gorgeous design, with the “scaffolding” where the mountain clicked on turning into a series of platforms for figures to climb and clamber over,

The articulation was low, but the sculpting was pleasantly gnarly, resembling some dark ancient castle covered in mystic carving given humanoid form, without an articulated head but instead a snarling “maw” in which figures could be placed inside. Though, there has been some speculation that this head was ripped off a similar design from the front of the classic D&D Dungeon Master's Guide, and I would be lying if I did not see the resemblance.

As expected, it did not come with any figures, but did come with a large assortment of commonly-circulated plastic “bugs” molded in a clear rubbery plastic; along with a few of the notorous “Chinasaurs” that ended up as the basis for D&D monsters bizarrely enough.

The second known most commonly as “LEVIATHOIN” was a piece that had a similar yet wildly different gimmick. The main “body” was actually simply an inanimate idol, which one might say resembles a very specific image of Baphomet, but the smaller figures were of real interest.

Four five-inch ones, bearing an odd resemblance to a scaled-down Molhilintta minus the scaffolding and with a few odd tweaks, with a similar simple articulation scheme, but also a feature in which the arms and legs could “click” together tightly, which leads to the real draw of such.

Each figure attached to a socket in the main “idol” and functioned as a crude combiner., forming a huge “creature”. Each figure could function as n arm or a leg on either side, and the color variants (Including a few alledged remolds of these torsoes) could be their own article in and of themselves.

The third known as MECHA-SHAG was an extremely simple design and yet also one of the most bizarre of them all. It was a hairy “core” akin to the Masters of the Universe Grizzlor, but with a strange robotic face; limbs and at least a dozen missile launchers. They were Micronauts-styled “safety” missiles, but still fascinatingly odd all the same. There is evidence for the pieces origin as a possible Shogun Warriors/Jumbo Machinder knockoff, but again that is a detail for another day.

The fourth one was known as RUCIBEDO, and was unusual even for this line. It was a stylized kaiju-esque “pterodactyl” with a flapping action; its oddly “bio-mechanical” look seemingly giving credence to the idea that the enigmatic company behind the linwas making a Shogun Warriors knockoff-series before they decided to switch gears, but those are not the only notable parts.

The most blatant one is the fact that it is sculpted in a bright red; translucnet plastic, and not only that but had electric lights wired to the flapping mechanism in some bizarrely spacious “alcoves” in the back (Possibly for aborted missile-firing features), creating an immensely striking effect. Albeit one that had a tendency to break; though there are repair guides out there.

And the fifth PLUCHUN is an odd duck, because it should by all accounts be considered kind of a “ripoff” due to using far less material for the same price point as the others, but is often the most fondly remembered.

It is a small torso seemingly made of organic “pipes with a “hatch” on the head and a button slightly below. It also came with a small container of “slime” indicating its function. Namely, put it in the back of the head; press the button repeatedly; and the slime drips out of the holes in the creature, with a pumping rubber “heart” completing the effect. Weirdly; while the rubber on most of these has rotted off, there appears to be a fully sculpted (Albeit much cruder) “heart” that still moved in and out when the button was pressed.

The whole thing was capped off by immensely long rubbery bendy-limbs in the same style as the “main body's” pipes. These tended to be very fragile, and while memorable, this has the fewest surviving specimens out of them all.

As said before, there are other specimens that may be covered at a later date; such as the odd hand-puppet and the bizarrely remolded Imperial Dinosaurs linked to the line and the smaller-range figures, but this is running a bit long, so I'll leave it here for now.

Nightmare Gores- Relating to the preponderance of He-Man knockoff figure lines in the 80s, and the popularity of slasher films, it was only a matter of time that the two would be combined, in ways only possible without mass-fundie-protest at least) in small lines like this.

In striking red-and-black packaging with crude art of a horde of ghoulish monsters rseemingly ripping out of the card back, with the bizarrely memorable phrase of “WE WILL KILL YOU” coming out of a word balloon, there's relatively few things like it.

It used a standard barbarian body whose origins predated the line; but from where they predated was a matter of debate (Though it is known that it most certainly was original to that company and not a He-Man or Galaxy Hole bootleg(), all the same across the line with differing headsculpts.

The headsculpts did have consistent names, and one could tell their inspirations relatively well. Joe was obviously a Freddy Kreuger without the hat, the hockey-masked Rod was obviously Jason Voorhees, Mike was very obviously a riff on Michael Jackson's Thriller Werecat (Corroborated with the usual non-caucasian color of his body sculpt) and Gross was blatantly the Toxic Avenger. Mush was a generalized “melting” face, but could be said to be taken from Cropsey of The Burning; and Hexen's gas mask was likely inspired by My Bloody Valentine's main antagonist; albeit with bizarrely added devil horns.

Then there are the oddballs. Clash is a fan-favorite alongsid Hexen due to his pure black-plastic body and strange hood in striking red with a black void for a front and two piercing red pupils, but I like Frank a lot if only for being a big ridiculous Frankenstein head repurposed for this, as was what I would call the “Baltard” of this line Stall-9 with his slighly crossed eyes and almost comical grin negating whatever intimidation factory they might have. Redd caps off the line with the strange combination of bull and horse head designs obviously repurposed from the barbarian toyline this comes from in a way that still sorta works.

Their pack in accessories vary across production, but there are some commonalities. Mike; Rod; Hexen and Clash almost always came with cool red vinyl “jackets” and Tedd and Frank almost always came with bizzarrely realistic handguns molded in bright orange. And Stal-9; Mush and Clash came with a “chainsaw: very clearly remolded from a gun.

The rest were a mushmash of machetes and hammers, and knives; axes and clubs that were clearly re-utilized from the original line. There are other “relatives” like the Killer Beasts and the Murder Lady, but we'll leave it here for now.

ShineFriendz- One of the many Tamagochi-come-latelies in the 90s, this line tried valiantly to differentiate itself from the usual Tamagochi clones by giving itself a backlite, far more extensive interaction within the limits of its mono-colored pixel art and a link function for “playtimes,” All in a model approximately the size of a modern day smartphone, and to be supported with early web tie-ins in lieu of an expensive animated series.

Of course, the fact that it was its parent company's first venture into such things; a battery company to be exact (Hence why they felt so secure in being battery-eaters), there was very little oversight into the programming. And, due to a series of circumstances too stupid to mention, the devices had  far more memory than they anticipated, and far more than they would need for the device's intended functions.

And, what happens when you have bored programmers and lots of time, you get easter eggs. Lots and lots of unsettling easter eggs. To the point where they took up approximately as much space as the “main” games.

So, they were immensely easy to run into during play, but they went unnoticed by corporate during the first three iterations of the pets. The most notorious of them was the possible evolution called only BREATHING which looked like an emaciated and decrepit eyeless version of the brand's canid mascot-species the Buroof that was continually doing what its name implied and had a legion of ominous quirks too long to list here.

Despite rumors, surprisingly none of the glitches involved causing death or injury to any of the pets. Though, that still didn't make them any less fucked up, with such examples as a “pet” known as BRILT that took the form of continual flame graphic that at times would flicker to the outline of another; random pet, to the weird “bird” known as CAUSE whose pleasure meter would go up if you hit the scold button,

There's a full list of “AnomalyFriendz” (the usual fan nickname0 that's too long to list here, but it wasn't limited to them, with such things as a “Game” that involved running from what looked like a crude pair of jaws to a “food” that looked like a wad with what was unmistakably eyes. And the web fiction didn't help, given how the actual text stories were dark , reading more like if Clive Barker wrote Watership Down with it just being barely within what was “appropriate” for kids, with increasingly less subtle allusions to the “AnomalyFriendz”

The minority of parental complaints weren't what got the execs notice however, it was actually the fans of the property, young girls who wrote in asking about those glitches. Not even in disapproving tones either, just asking whether they were intentional, or even asking if playground rumors (Or the rumors circulating across the website's own forums) were true.

This lead to them trying to integrate the macabre bits into the actual marketing for the toys, with the fourth iteration “FreakyFriendz,” with a cleverly altered shell with an ominously warped corner and more integration of the “anomalous” and “regular” Friends. And that is what sunk the line.

Because, parents actually noticed and; since this was the 90s; they bitched up a storm, leading to most of them being removed from shelves. Which is a shame, because enthusiasts say these were the best models yet.

The company left the business shortly thereafter, but there remains a small cult fandom to this day; complete with officially sanctioned web-iterations and even a few (sadly stillborn) attempts at full on revivals. But, maybe someday...

[builder051]

Hello! for a prompt: bucky massively overestimating his alcohol tolerance?

Ha!  Nice one!  Here you go.

This is Powers/No Powers.  And it’s Halloween!

________________________

Halloween is boys’ night in.

Steve’d called Clint.  “You know Buck’s not really good with the doorbell, so we’re looking for somewhere quiet to spend Halloween.”

“No one hikes up to our house,” Clint’d assured him.  “Laura’s taking the kids into town, so you’re welcome to come crash with me.”

So they’d made plans for drinks and sloppy joes and Svengoolie

Steve pulls up in the driveway as Laura’s loading the two miniature pirates into the car.

“Arrrgh!”  Leila growls at them, brandishing her plastic hook.

Bucky looks at Steve for a second and whispers, “Am I supposed to act scared?”

“Um.  Yeah,” Steve replies, raising his hands and pulling a girlishly frightened face.

“Ooh.  Scary,” Bucky says flatly, missing the nail on the acting part.

“You boys let yourselves in,” Laura says, dusting off her jack-o-lantern sweatshirt before settling behind the wheel.  "Clint’s…a little excited.”

Laura’s right.  The kitchen is cluttered, and Clint’s bouncing back and forth between the large collection of condiments on the counter and what looks like a full bar on the breakfast table.

“Hey, what can I start you off with?” Clint asks, setting down his down-to-ice-cubes glass and grabbing a couple clean glasses from the cupboard.

“I don’t know…” Steve says unsurely.  Drinks has always meant a couple beers on the back porch, or at least it has since Bucky came back.  Not hard liquor.  Alcohol doesn’t do much for Steve these days, and he’s not sure it’s wise for Bucky to imbibe anything stronger than a Miller Lite.

But it’s not like they don’t have a history.  Steve remembers the days when he was barely legal and three sheets to the wind on scotch and soda, watching Bucky try to pick up everyone in the vicinity.  Maybe Bucky remembers too.  Maybe it’ll be ok.

“What do you recommend?” Bucky asks, looking at the intimidating number of bottles.

“This one’s always been one of my favorites.”  Clint selects Canadian Club from the array and turns to fridge for ice.

“He doesn’t want ice,” Steve says quietly, trying to give a gentle reminder that Bucky’s trigger situation is still…what exactly?  Delicate?

“Maybe I do.”  Bucky’s standing close to Steve, looking at him with an expression Steve doesn’t quite recognize.

“Well, I mean…”

“I know you’re helping me out.  Just.  Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve concedes.  He’s always know it would come to this someday.  And it’s really a good thing if Bucky starts to see him at too protective.  It means he’s getting better.  More independent.  It’s just hard to see things change when he’s not sure of the outcome.

“Do you want ice?” Clint asks, looking over his shoulder and flicking his gaze from Steve to Bucky.

“No,” Bucky replies, nullifying the argument.

Clint splashes whiskey into the glasses, then tops off his ice cubes as well.  Steve takes his serving and inhales the slightly sweet, almost woodsy aroma before taking a small sip.  Bucky’s already tipping his head back and chugging down a gulp.

“Someone’s a little eager,” Clint comments, raising his brows.

“I think I remember this,” Bucky murmurs after holding the liquor in his mouth for a moment and swallowing it down.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you drank everything you could get your hands on back then,” Steve replies, a smile pressing out of the corners of his worried expression.  “I think scotch and soda was your usual, though.”

“Do you have that?” Bucky asks Clint, draining his glass of Canadian.

“You underestimate my skills as a bartender,” Clint says, rinsing Bucky’s empty glass and setting to work mixing.

“You should probably pace yourself,” Steve warns.  “You haven’t had this stuff in a while.  Don’t know how it’s gonna make you feel.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says.  “Don’t go getting sore about me out drinking you.”  He gives Steve a playful nudge.

“Yeah, well.  A lot’s changed since then.  I wouldn’t go thinking everything’s all the same as it was before the war.”

“Well.  Gotta try before we find out.”  Bucky accepts his refreshed beverage from Clint and takes a generous sip.  He considers for a moment, then slowly nods.  “Yeah.  I did like this.  I think I still like this.”

“Thank you, thank you.”  Clint mock-bows and takes the words as praise for himself.  “I’m a pretty good cook, too, if you’re ready to eat.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty hungry,” Steve agrees.

Bucky looks up from another sizeable sip of his drink and nods.  “Sure.”

The crock pot is plugged in on the counter, and when Clint lifts the lid, the savory scent of meat and tomato sauce and spices fills the air.  “Mm.  Smells great.  You are a multitalented man,” Steve says.

Clint throws buns onto plates, then starts ladling out the filling.  The name sloppy joes ends up being quite accurate as Clint isn’t precise with his plating.

“You know…” Bucky says, an edge of uneasiness in his voice.  He holds his glass against his mouth and clinks it against his teeth.  “I’m…I don’t know if I’m real hungry.”

Steve follows Bucky’s gaze to the red-brown sauce dripping from the edge of one plate onto the counter. And practically in the blink of an eye, things are back to being delicate.

“I’m sure we could get you something else,” Steve says.  “I bet Mr. Master Chef’s a whiz at grilled cheese too.”

“Uh.  Yeah,” Clint agrees, clearly not sure what he’s missing.

“I’m good.  I’m just not hungry yet,” Bucky says.  He drains his glass again.  He’s paled slightly, and his eyes are wide and a tad glazed.

“Do you need a minute?” Steve asks, offering the out that Bucky clearly requires.

“No, I’m.  Um.”  Bucky turns away and sets his glass down on the bottle-laden table.  “How do I mix this?”

“I’ll get you set up,” Clint promises.  Then, a bit unsurely, “You ok to eat in the living room?  You’ll have to promise not to tell Laura.”

“Yeah, here, I’ll take the plates,” Steve says, jumping into action.  He transfers one of the sandwiches to his own plate so nothing will be left out or wasted.  When he’s back in the kitchen, Bucky’s sipping another scotch and trying hard to hide the tremors in his hand.

By the time they’re through the first Svengoolie-commentated film that Clint’s bootlegged from somewhere, Steve and Clint are fed and Bucky’s on his ninth or tenth cocktail.  Steve has to practically bully him into eating a plain hamburger bun, and Bucky keeps insisting he’s fine even though there’s clear evidence to the contrary.

“Think maybe you should slow down a little, Buck?” Steve says, softly patting Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” Bucky says.  “This is fun.  We should do this more often.”

“You’re going hard, though.  Might be better to take a little break.  Drink some water.”

“We always do what you want,” Bucky grumbles, smacking his glass against his knee so the tablespoon or so of liquid in it slops onto his jeans.  “I wanna…pick what I do.”  He puts his glass on the coffee table and dabs the spill with his fingers.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe.  You know that,” Steve reminds him.

“Yeah, but…I just…That’s not what I want to do.”

“Buck—”

“Just shut up a minute, Stevie.”

Clint comes back from the kitchen where he’s been washing dishes.  “Do you need me to leave so you can have a fight?”

“We’re good,” Steve says.

“Top me off,” Bucky demands nodding at his empty drink.

“Sure.”  Clint picks up all their glasses and heads off to refill.  Steve launches up to follow him.

“You need to cut him off,” Steve says.  “He’s drunk, he’s barely eating, he’s in a bad mood…”

“How many has he had?” Clint asks.

“I don’t know.  You keep refilling him!”

“What?  Oh, fuck, I thought that was your glass, that’s why I kept refilling it.  Shit.  I don’t know either,” Clint admits.  “What was he talking about, making his own choices?”

Steve sighs.  “He thinks I’m smothering him.”  He runs his hand agitatedly through his hair.  “I mean, I knew this would come on eventually as he gets more independent, but… turns out he has to be drunk off his ass and making really immature decisions in order to talk to me about it.”

“Maybe you should let him.”

“Huh?”

“Let him do something stupid and drink himself sick.  He’s in a safe place here.  He’ll learn and get over it and move on,” Clint suggests.  “You can tell him ‘I told you so’ while you’re carrying him to bed.”

“Is that, like, a parenting thing?”  He cringes at the idea of being a father figure to Bucky.

“Eh.  Sorta.  More like a college roommate thing.  Sometimes people have to figure out shit for themselves,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Steve exhales.  “I still think you should cut him off, though.  Give him a glass of water.  Or at least something else, something maybe he won’t like so much.”

Clint chuckles.  “You got it.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks when Clint hands him a taller glass of yellow liquid instead of the scotch he’d been expecting.

“Pinnacle Whip and pineapple juice,” Clint replies.  “It’s kind of more Laura’s thing, but like I said, I’m a good bar tender.”

Bucky gamely takes a taste.  He shrugs and sips it again.  “Kind of sweet.”

“You don’t like sweet so much, huh?” Steve poses.

“It’s ok.  Way better than that pumpkin coffee whatever thing you had that one time…”

“Wait, you drink pumpkin spice lattes?” Clint asks, bursting out laughing.

“What?  They’re good!” Steve says in his own defense.

Clint starts another episode of Svengoolie, but they only watch a few minutes before all three of them are laughing raucously at something and Bucky shouts that they should probably play cards.

“That’s what we do, right?” He asks Steve, a little slur tainting his pronunciation.  “Play cards?”

“Um.  We did.  I think.  Before the war?  When we’d go drinking?”  Steve strains to remember.

“No, when I can’t sleep.”

“Oh.  Yeah, we play cards sometimes.  Uno and stuff.”  He tries to lock on Bucky’s blurry gaze.  “You getting tired?”

“Maybe.  I don’t know.  It feels late.”

“It’s 8:30,” Clint says with his own version of buzzed sarcasm.  “So late.”

They dig up a pack of cards.  It takes a while to come up with a game they all know how to play, and finally they just start up with 3-way war, even though Steve thinks it’s a bad idea from the name alone.

Bucky drains his glass for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, then knocks it over as he sweeps a pile of cards toward himself.  The glass doesn’t break, but Bucky jumps when it hits the table and whispers, “Shit.”

“You’re ok,” Steve says, righting the cup and clapping Bucky on the stump shoulder.  Maybe a little harder than he meant to.

“No, I’m not,” Bucky murmurs unexpectedly.  “I was…I’m…I don’t…”  He hiccups.  Then spills all his cards into his lap.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint says.  “It’s really easy to clean cards out of the carpet.”

Bucky belches wetly in response, swallows hard, and brings his fist up to his mouth.

“Barf, though…”  Clint cocks his head.  “Not so much.”

“Ok.  Come on.”  Steve heaves Bucky up from the couch and steers him toward the bathroom.  Bucky gags into his hand before they’re over the threshold, then leaves a brownish spitty handprint on the toilet seat when Steve guides him down to his knees.

Bucky retches hard.  “I don’t feel good, Stevie,” he chokes.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “Looks like maybe your tolerance isn’t so high after all.”

A huge slew of liquid splashes into the toilet, and Bucky coughs and groans as his system rejects everything he drank.

The wave of vomit finally lets up, and Bucky turns his head to the side to rest his cheek on the toilet seat. His eyes are red, and spit’s stuck to the stubble on his upper lip.  He looks 18 and naïve.

It brings Steve back to being young and invincible, though more often than not he was the one with his head in the toilet back then.  Even though he’s so much older now, things aren’t that much different.  Not really.

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes.

“It’s ok, Buck,” Steve says.  He pats him on the back, then tries to relieve some of the tension in Bucky’s quivering shoulders.  “You’re really doing ok.  I mean, of all the things that could’ve brought you down tonight, it’s the liquor.”  Steve laughs in spite of himself.

“’S not that funny,” Bucky grumbles, repositioning himself over the toilet to prepare for the next wave of sickness.  He throws up for a while more, then just stays there, bent over the porcelain bowl as Steve rubs his back.

There’s a scuffling of doors opening and closing, then footsteps dashing through the house, which can only mean that Laura and the kids are home.  Steve’s barely thought through what to do next when knuckles softly rap on the door frame.

“You doing ok?”  Laura’s standing there in her festive sweatshirt, looking concerned at the scene playing out in her bathroom.

“Yeah, I’m sure Clint told you,” Steve says quietly.  “Just.  Had a little too much.”

“I’ll put some sheets on the guest bed for you,” Laura offers.  “There are some spare toothbrushes under the sink.”

“No, we’ll get out of here,” Steve says.  Bucky starts retching again.  “Just, give us a few more minutes.”

“You’re staying here,” Laura says with gentle matriarchal authority.  “I don’t know how much you’ve had to drink.  And he really needs somewhere to sleep it off.”

Steve sighs.  She has a point.  “I’m just…really sorry to be…you know.  Those kind of guests.”

“You guys are never bad guests,” Laura smiles.  “Is there something he’ll want to eat in the morning?  Just so I can have it on hand.  I’m sure the kids are going to insist on candy for breakfast…”

“Anything but that,” Bucky mutters into the toilet bowl.

Steve laughs, relieved that of all the possibilities, this is how he gets to spend Halloween.