#and shoutout to my friends who also were asked to beta test this like twice

[who-is-page]

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[infernal-fire]

five types of love.

what to expect: smut, swearing, friends w/ benefits arrangement, mention of Imposter syndrome, fluff, angst, heartbreak, overstimulation, implied creampie, rough sex

a/n: a little warning; you will be choosing your ending - there is a happy one and a sad one. a huge shoutout to @mollygetssherlockcoffee​ and @angrybirdcr​ for talking to me about the fic and offering such amazing advice! and @tuiccim​ was so damn lovely, even offered to beta this (though all mistakes are my own).

summary: you once heard that there were eight types of love. you only knew of five; the five that caused you to fall for one, blue-eyed menace.

Ludus: uncommitted, casual love that can attribute to a flirtatious and fun conquest. Not to be mistaken for Eros.

“I think we’re forgetting the reason why the mission failed in the first place. If the older fellow took a suggestion once in a-”

“-Tony, you know damn well that there were civilians in there.”

Steve and Tony glared at each other from across the briefing room. The tension in the room was exorbitant, but then again, it had been that way since Bucky joined the team. 

“This is exactly why we need the new girl. You super-soldiers and billionaires are getting tangled up in each others’ asses and forgetting about what it’s like for the normal people,” Rhodey sighed.

“The last thing we need is another trainee fucking up orders,” Tony snorted and began messing with his tech. The projector flipped through random screens, FRIDAY most likely filtering out the irrelevant news. 

“If you have a problem, maybe you should say it to his face,” Steve seethed, now standing up to match Tony’s stance. Usually, this type of jab at Bucky wouldn’t rile him up, but the super-soldier was at his wit’s end following the events of the latest mission.

Beside him, Bucky lightly tugged on his friend’s hand, signalling him to disengage.

“You’re with them?” Tony incredulously questioned Rhodey. 

“I’m with the idea of calming this room down.”

“Besides, she’s already been prepped for her first mission,” Natasha piped up. “We’re supposed to have a sit-down in 5 minutes... that is, if you boys can get your shit together.”

The room broke out into a chorus of muttering and everyone settled in their seats again. Captain strode to the front of the room and pulled up his game plan, fiddling with the map FRIDAY was projecting. 

You, on the other hand, could not decide how to act in front of the Avengers: Laidback? They wouldn’t take you seriously. Know-it-all? No, that was Stark’s play. Timid Tiffany? If you wanted to seem secretly conceited? Sure. That would work for now.

When Vision floated out to bring you in, you didn’t even flinch at the unforeseen phasing. Impressed at your lack of a reaction, Vision faltered before ever-so-courteously introducing himself. 

Could this sentient being laugh of his own volition? You gave him your name and dramatically curtsied to test your theory; he could laugh, and you were pleasantly surprised to find that it was not at all robotic. 

You felt the room intently eye you as you ambled to your seat beside one, blue-eyed menace. You half-expected the team to introduce themselves, but who were you kidding - anyone could hear the argument from three corridors away. There was no point in pretending like they wanted you here, but that wouldn’t deter you.

You glanced at your neighbour, met with the pleasant face of the one and only. James Buchanan Barnes was known to be a handsome devil, but the reputation of the Winter Soldier often precedes him; that, unfortunately, does not stop you from eyeing him. 

When he caught your stare, you scolded yourself. You’re such a creep. 

When he smirked at your ogling, you praised yourself. Oh, hello there. 

This is gonna be fun.

Eros: sexual, passionate love that is fueled by lust.

It didn’t happen after the first mission; he had the decency to wait until the fourth mission to knock on your door. 

You had been putting away the last of your belongings, finally adjusting to the grandiose living conditions the Avengers Tower provided.

As soon as you unlocked your knob, the door flung open; Bucky's stare was partially inhibited by his hooded eyes. He hadn’t always looked at you like that. 

Like what?

With unadulterated craving. 

That day, he strode in like he owned the place. You didn’t expect the shove that caused you to land on your bed with an oomph. Bucky wasted no time, climbing onto your form, straddling you. By the time you understood what was happening, a single finger was pressed into your lips.

“Either tell me you don’t want this right fucking now,” he leaned in, close to your face, “or shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

You whimpered in response.

“Not good enough.”

“Use me.”

That’s all the affirmation he needed. 

You pushed off the bed to try and meet his lips but he firmly pinned you down by your shoulders. Bucky reached into your panties and circled your clit without hesitation. It only took some swivelling, his intense gaze and the unexpected plunge of his fingers in your channel to make you see stars. Bucky had made you come before kissing you.

When he finally slotted his lips against yours, it was nothing short of all-consuming; you hadn’t even realized the absence of clothes on your body. Had it been ten minutes? Or thirty? It was hard to tell when you were being ravaged by another.

He made you come twice more: once with his fingers’ repeated dipping and pressing into the soft, spongy part of your cunt. The second time was with the talented sucking and flicking of his tongue. Technically, it was the third time.

None of your past partners had been this steadfast in their duty to pleasure you. You were already putty in his hands, ready to be moulded according to his needs. Part of you was ready to tap out, unable to fathom the likelihood of coming over his cock again, but the better half of you needed it.

In your orgasmic haze, you failed to notice that his clothes were being discarded - if you did, it would have given you the opportunity to gawk at the body that you so desperately wanted to see shirtless. When you finally registered his naked person, your hand involuntarily traced the connection between the metal arm and flesh. He threw his head back and groaned before kissing you again. 

He pulled off, just enough to get a good look. 

“Look at you, all fucked out. I didn’t even put my cock in.”

He pumped his shaft with fervour before pushing the blunt head against your slit. You winced at his attempt to put it in.

“Made you cum three times and you’re still too fucking tight,” he muttered and ran his length up and down your folds. Once he had accumulated enough slick he tried again, this time, successful.

You moaned as he slowly sunk in and buried his cock to its absolute limit. If the walls of your pussy had a voice, it would be absolutely hoarse. You also realized that he only bestowed the three orgasms in hopes of reprieving the pain of the stretch. Without the preparation, he might have torn you in half.

When he began moving, the only thing that was slow or soft about him was his lips against your skin. The thrusts were punishing; if it wasn’t obvious that he was angry before, this made it clear as day.

You screamed and moaned, alternating between keening and arching your back; the pleas did nothing to falter his furious pace. The smacking of your skin was only heightened by the slick that your cunt produced in attempts to accommodate his length. Every time he pulled out, his balls were connected to your sex with a string of come.

If someone told you that you could come five times within forty minutes, you would have face painted and dressed them up like a clown.

Now you laid in bed, being used like a rag doll, begging Bucky to stop you from coming a sixth time that session. It was usually the dirty talk that got you off, but he hadn’t said anything aside from the occasional ‘shut up’ or ‘shhh’. His movements alone had you convulsing around his length.

His thrusts didn’t get sloppy. Rather, they increased in force, as his cock sought space beyond your cervix. You tried to scream, but all that came out was more broken tears and cries. At last, he let out a pornographic moan as his load flooded your insides. Sure, you had let past boyfriends come in you, but you never actually felt the liquid shoot up inside you, until today.

Following the pop sound that his cock made as it pulled out, you whined again. You could feel your heartbeat throb down there. 

He flipped you onto your stomach and smacked your ass, laughing at the way you sobbed in pain before disappearing from your room altogether. 

He was gone as fast as he showed up. 

And he ruined everyone else for you.

In all fairness... you asked for it.

Philia: the deep, virtuous love that is formed in a good friendship. Lovers share a strong bond when Eros and Philia feed into each other.

What started as a release from the frustrations that accrue on the battlefield turned into a deep connection that neither of you had anticipated. Sex had only been used as a tool in the act of psychological detachment until that day. 

It was a failed date of some sort: either you had been stood up or the guy was a total moron. You could wrack your brain for the memory, but in any matter, it was all irrelevant now. 

You were upset, not just at your lack of a love life, but at the imposter syndrome that had weaselled its way into your liveliness. Feeling like you weren’t enough was catching up to your daily life and even Bucky had noticed the hesitation during your post-mission escapades. 

Before you knew it, your hand was knocking on Bucky’s door at the ripe hour of 1 AM. 

You heard the muffled thumps of his footsteps and considered booking it out of there, but before you made up your mind, the door opened.  As you had predicted, Bucky was wide-awake. 

“What?” 

You had wanted to sass him for his tone but decided against it since you were the one who interrupted his 1 AM activities. You shook your head from the clouds and mumbled incoherently, starting to walk away. The coldness of his metal arm abruptly gripped your wrist.

“Are you okay?”

You hated that question. You could be doing so good, holding in the burden of a horrible week, but the moment someone asks you that question, the dam would disintegrate into dust, only to be washed away by the inevitable waterworks. 

The sob you let out didn’t loosen his hold. He let you cry and watched as you tried to wipe away the unrelenting tears, still refusing to close the gap between your bodies. Finally, you shuffled into his arms where he bear-hugged you, cupping the back of your neck and holding it to the junction of his neck. 

"You smell nice,” you sniffled. 

He lightly chuckled before dragging you into his room and seating you on the bed. He ordered you to stay there and rummaged around his cupboard before pulling out a bottle with red liquid sloshing around. 

“You keep that in your room?” you snickered, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, before blanching at your state. Hell, he had seen you naked, how you look right now is the least of your concerns. 

“In case of emergencies,” he winked. “This seems like a real emergency.”

A fresh wave of tears pooled in your waterline as you peered at your hands that were picking at each other. 

“I don’t have wine glasses, so we can just chug.”

Bucky stuck out the bottle and you grasped it firmly before gulping one-fourth of it. That’s all the coaxing it took to get you to spill. 

You don’t even remember what you talked about, but before either of you realized, 3 AM blinked on the digital clock that hung above the bed frame. You were almost asleep, now resting on Bucky’s lap while he occasionally hummed or offered his two cents. Right before you drifted off, the super-soldier lifted you, placing you under a cover. He climbed in from the other side, one hand cupping your face, the other snaking around your waist.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

Your eyes drooped but swiftly opened as Bucky leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His lips barely touched yours, grazing their presence, but you moved, tenderly catching them. He returned the movement, the delicacy of his actions reflected in the softness of his eyes. 

You pulled away and the two of you wordlessly bore into each other’s eyes. At last, you succumbed to the fatigue, as did he; both of you resting in the others’ possession. 

Mania: an unhealthy, obsessive love that plagues the mind.

It was the third time Bucky didn’t show up at your door after a mission. Three missions, each of them ending in something that would have indubitably pissed him off - after all, they were HYDRA bases. That’s when you first suspected it.

The second was when you noted his intentional avoidance of your presence. Whether it be the kitchen, the gym or the hallways, the stealthy ex-assassin didn’t have trouble actively dodging you. Initially, you chalked it up to wanting space or simply taking a break.

Then you heard it.

Why was it that your gut told you to go right then? All this time you had been biding, yet it was at this precise moment that your hunch asked you to speak to him. It could’ve been the duration of the month that it took you to prepare yourself, but it had to be now. You raised your hand, prepping to knock on the door, but stopped.

Your hand froze mid-air. The elegant laugh of another girl sounded behind the door. It was faint, the noise slightly suppressed by the wall between you. 

It could be anyone. 

But it wasn’t. Your intuition, the one that told you to come here right now, was wise enough to know that this wasn’t just anyone. It was her. 

You cupped your mouth to stop the sob that threatened to liberate itself from the confines of your constricted airway. You fell forward, onto your knees, as if to pray to the gods to not let it happen. But it already did.  You let go of your mouth, gasping for air from holding your breath all this time. 

Shoulders sagged and spine bent, you stalked back to your room like a zombie. Face devoid of all emotion, you fell onto the corner of your bed and crumpled into a ball.  For twelve hours, you laid there. Sometimes sleeping, other times letting the tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. Memories of his fingers weaving through your own, the pleasures that chilled you to the bone. Most of all, the way you held his head to your chest as he whimpered about the nightmares that invaded his nights. It felt like those things happened to someone else. Nothing more than a distant memory.

Your heart clenched, tugging on the heartstring that you once thought was connected to him.

-

It was as if he knew you stood outside his door that day. There was an unspoken agreement to never speak of it. Yes, yes, don’t ever speak of it. The dam that you built so carefully will come crashing down.  He stopped avoiding you, but you wished he didn’t; it was crueller to be reminded, easier to pretend he didn’t exist. 

Be honest with yourself.

You didn’t pretend like he didn’t exist. 

In fact, the first thought after waking up? Bucky. Last thought before going to sleep? My Buck. Every time he wasn’t around? James Buchanan Barnes.

Please, don’t act like every waking moment isn’t spent loving him. Because deep down, you know what’s true.

He never did introduce the mystery girl to anyone at the Tower, but you knew his disappearance after missions could be credited to her. Did he take out his anger on her as he did to you? Or were you nothing more than a toy?

Guilt was one of the few emotions you could make out from the rare occasions you caught his stare. Longing was there too, but you couldn’t be sure that you weren’t projecting.  Months went by, waiting for thoughts of him to abandon your disturbed mind. The time never came.

As promised, he ruined anyone else for you. 

Pragma: the type of love that endures all shortcomings. Committed relationships that stay in love have an element of significant Pragma to them.

a happy ending.

That relationship may have ended but it didn’t mean he would come back to you.

He did come back. But he wasn’t yours.  Bucky made that clear when two more relationships ensued the last. Each time, the buffer period between them was filled by you. 

His back-up plan. That’s what you had been reduced to. 

After the third time he brought a new girl, you’d think you would be used to it, maybe even uncaring. Unfortunately, the opposite would always prevail.

Steve caught your fist and tutted, commenting on the bad form. You stopped, shook your shoulders and began hopping on the balls of your feet again.  Jab, jab. Swing.  At first, you’d imagine the faces of those girls. Nowadays, it was easier to envision the pads Steve held as his best friend’s face. 

“Bucky’s girl broke up with him.”

“Oh,” you made out, focus slightly wavering. 

“You know what happened?”

“Are you asking me ‘cause you wanna know or because you already know?”

“I already know,” he sighed, lowering the hand pads. 

He exhaled your name, shaking his and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “When are you two gonna stop playing around?”

“I really don’t understand, Steve.”

“You know why she broke up with him?” You blinked, tongue poking the inside of your cheek in anticipation of an answer. 

“He moaned your name during sex.” 

“God, that’s so corny,” you huffed, now beginning to make your way out of the boxing ring. 

“So what, you’re gonna do nothing? Keep letting him use you?” Steve jogged to catch up to you.

“No,” you faced him, “I’m not letting him use me as a fallback anymore. I’m putting an end to it.” 

Steve pursed his lips and shot you and exasperated look before shaking his head.  “Don’t let something good go to waste.”

It used to be something good.

You wondered if you could hold up the promise you had just declared to Steve; in the past, you failed every time he showed up at your door. Bucky knew exactly how to play into your emotions, how to say the right things every time. And just like that, the next morning you’d end up in his arms. That stops today.

Determined, you practically punched the button to go up on the elevator and impatiently tapped your foot. As the doors slid closed, you took one look at yourself and turned away, fighting the urge to fix your appearance for him. The doors opened again and you check the floor number, ready to step out, but stopped at the sound of your name.  His ex. You almost ran off, unwilling to put up with an angry ex, but she called on you again. You sheepishly stood there, as if you were the one who did something wrong, until she stepped in and pressed the button to go to the lobby.

The silence stretched on, much like your patience. Does she even know who you are?

“We were both fooling ourselves.”

You turn to check if she was speaking to you. Her stare was unwavering and she maintained eye contact that almost made you squirm.

“We both love different people.” She smiled, an obvious melancholy tainting her face. You stood there, absolutely clueless as to how you should respond.

“It’s too late for me, but it’s not for the two of you. Just... don’t let him go. He’s one of the good ones.”

You turned again, now looking down at the ground. Even if she expected you to say something back, it was impossible, at this point. Your mind was in shambles, everything she said contradicting the choice you made five minutes ago. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and she stepped out. She turned one last time and nodded as if you knew what to do now. 

Bucky’s door was unlocked. You called out his name, barely above a whisper and sauntered with hesitation lining your every step.  Nothing. Empty. He wasn’t there. 

It was a sign. You almost ignored the advice his ex gave, ready to walk into his room and end things. Your shoulder slumped as if your bore the weight of the world on them as you slunk back to your room. Now it would take another outburst or another month to prepare yourself to talk to him again.

As the days went by, you barely saw him around. It reminded you of the times he intentionally ignored you, except this time, you weren’t sure it was intentional. When you did see him, it was clear that he wasn’t doing good; his beard was unkept and scraggly, the bags under his eyes heavier than any trauma he carried. You pretended as though you didn’t notice and went about your routine. 

1 AM

A knock sounded at your door. You knew who it was, how could you not, but hoped it wasn’t him anyway. The encounter would most likely end with tears or sex and you didn’t favour either outcome. 

You waited a minute. Maybe he would leave if he assumed you were asleep. The knock sounded again.

You cracked the door open.  Whatever you were expecting, surely, it wasn’t this. Eyes red and puffy, it was clear he had been crying and most definitely not sleeping. 

He held up a wine bottle, and chuckled pathetically at himself. 

“Maybe this is bad idea,” he sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his left arm. 

It didn’t feel right to say anything. Rather, you opened the door wider and beckoned for him to step in.

“Emergency?” you asked with a little smile. God, you were so close to crying and he hasn’t even said anything.

“Oh yeah. Big emergency.”

He sat on your bed and felt the sheets, trying to remember the feeling of it on his knees. The days he would buck into you while you clutched them like a vice. The soldier pursed his lips and watched as you settled beside him.

“You don’t have to talk... if you don’t want to,” you said. Your voice cracked and you almost smacked yourself for being so weak around him. 

“But I do. I should talk. I have so much to say... Can I explain?” He turned to face you, reaching out for your hands, holding them in his own. You didn’t say anything, opting to return his request with a pleading look in your eyes. He knew what the look meant: just don’t break my heart. Again. He took a deep breath in acknowledgement, trying to form the words that would help you understand. 

“I can’t believe I hurt you. I swear, I didn’t know I was doing it, at first.” You mustered your best unbelieving look, almost scoffing for good measure. “No, really,” he hastily added. 

A few tears streamed down your face and you frantically tried to wipe them. Bucky took one look at you before he began breaking down, tears slipping down his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry... I just- I don’t understand? I thought things were good?” you questioned. You had given up on trying to wipe your tears, as did he.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you. And by the time I realized, we were so far in. Then I found a distraction... and I really thought I was over you,” he paused, wondering if he should continue or not. You showed no sign of speaking up, so he went on.

“I didn’t think you cared. I didn’t think you felt the same way. I was so convinced that you wouldn’t blink twice but then... but, I-... I heard you at the door that day. I wanted to kick her out and hold you, but I-...”

“But you what? You what, Bucky?”

“I thought it was too late for us. I thought I ruined everything.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“Don’t be mad,” he murmured, retracting his hands and fiddling with his fingers.

“I don’t think anyone can ever replace what we had. Maybe... still have? Because you’re it for me. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize that. I was on the brink of losing myself.” He looked up at you, eyes brimming with a new wave of tears. He mumbled your name weakly, croaking out a please at the end.

You curled in on yourself and fell into his arms, hoping that was enough of a answer.

“I can’t promise you that everything will be back to normal by tomorrow morning... but with some time, I can learn to trust you again.”

Above you, Bucky hurriedly nodded. At the state he’s in right now, you suspected that you could ask him to sell his soul and he would agree.

“And if you ever break my heart again-,” 

“-I would die before that happens,” he finished for you, kissing the top of your head for good measure.

“I love you,” you whimpered, “so fucking much.” 

“I love you too. I really love you too,” he affirmed and encased you with his arms again.

Though there had been some rough patches on the road to happiness, with Bucky by your side, you felt as though you could make it through anything; for that, is the power of pragmatic love.

an unfortunate ending.

The tears that would’ve been shed during the ceremony have dried on your pillowcase about five hours ago. Now, you sat beside the team, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. 

Bucky looked nervous, as if he were reconsidering his life decisions. The little devil on your shoulder was holding onto every little thing he did: the wrinkle of his forehead, his repeated tugging on the suit and his flustered glancing around. Oh lord, and when he accidentally locked eyes with you? You may have bitten your lip and looked away in contempt but the shoulder-devil was as persistent as ever.

He secretly still wants you.

Shut up.

He wants to call it off.

Get a life.

At last, the lucky girl stood at the end of the winding path and you couldn’t help but sneak a look at the groom. His tension and nervousness crumbled at the sight of her; it was difficult not to feel happy that he had found the one that made him feel this way. 

It may have been him for you, but that notion was long forgotten, a nuisance of memory at most. Your love for him, regardless of the storms it has endured, is no longer respected or wanted by either party.

If he loves her, why does he come to you when things get bad?

You shook your head at that, having no answer for the nature of his secret infidelity. It was nothing more than taking out his frustrations on you - much like the old days.

Your reminiscing was cut short when a voice asked everyone to rise for the bride. You stood and straightened out your outfit, flicking off the little white petal that clung to your maroon dress. A hand grasped your own, and you turned to see Steve smile reassuringly. You squeeze his hand in appreciation and turned your attention to the white-clad figure walking down the aisle.

And that’s all you remember. You wish you could recall the rest of the wedding. You really do. Too preoccupied with what was going to happen after the event, you disassociated from the ordeal altogether. No matter how hard you grilled yourself, nothing would come to mind - dissociative amnesia only occurs as a protective coping mechanism during traumatic events; was that what Bucky’s wedding was to you?

What type of question is that?

For once, you agreed with the little red beast that sat on your shoulder. Long ago, the first time you saw someone else Bucky’s arms, the devil pierced the pitchfork right through the angel’s heart. These days, it was all you could think of. 

After the bride and groom exchanged ‘I do’s’, you willed yourself to stay a while longer. Your only companion, Steve, slow danced with you in silence, knowing that whatever he says would be of no consolation. Bucky did have half a mind to ask you for a dance, but he saw you leave. You didn’t think anyone did. He waited for you to turn and look at him one last time, but you never did. It’s okay, he thought. I didn’t deserve her anyway.

No one saw you after that.

On your bed, Steve found a single note that didn’t explain anything more than what he already knew. If anything, it simply affirmed that you were gone for good. Your things packed up, no trace of a person ever having lived there. Even if he pulled some strings, it would take years to find you again. 

After all, you had already been lost for quite some time.

hey folks. i know this seems a little desperate-sounding but i would really appreciate reblogs and would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on the story. what was you favourite part? which part made you feel some way? i really love knowing these things. love each and every single one of you.

Masterlist

Shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[bijackkellys]

thunderstruck ; part three

safe haven.

Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types) Relationships: Jack Kelly/David Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer Word Count: 4,352 Dedications: a huge huge shoutout to my beta and gf @mistyw273 without whom this fic would not exist! tag list (if you’d like to be added to this list just send me an ask or dm!): @dimenovelcowboy​ @santa-fe-maniac @pulitzers-world @yo-let-me-get-a-milkyway @verified-dumbass @jewishdavidjacobs @agentsnickers @thetruthabouttheboy @the-games-changing Author’s Note: yes i know what i said and i'm aware that it's been WEEKS since i posted and i have absolutely nothing to say for myself. except that i'm the worst. and also that i'm going to stop making promises and tell you guys straight out that i'm probably not going to be any better at updating from this point forward, especially considering i'm working on college apps and sat prep right now. but it's fine! i hope the fact that this chapter is only like 10 words less than all the other chapters so far put together sort of makes up for it? but i kind of hate this part; i have a ton of exposition to get through so i'm really really sorry if it sucks and you've waited this long for like 4.3k of bullshit. i'm also sorry that i still haven't introduced kath—she will get here in the next chapter and she will play no small role in this fic, i promise!! we've just got a lot to get through leading up to that. anyway, thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed so far, and if you're still here despite my questionable reliability (or lack thereof) i love you, personally. tws for this chapter includes a minor panic attack, mentions of vomiting but it's pretty brief, and that's about it.

read it on ao3

MEDDA IS SINGING when they get to her apartment. 

Even through the closed door, Jack can hear her voice lilting down the corridor, a bittersweet melody that he can’t quite remember but loves all the same. It makes him falter, makes his throat close up as warmth and the ache of missing her spread through his chest in time with each other. He doesn’t know what she’ll say when she sees him, and the thought of her viewing him as a killer nearly makes his knees buckle. Distantly he thinks that it doesn’t matter what the world has been told as long as she believes him.

“Is this it?” the older boy says behind him, gesturing to the door that Jack is staring at. He’d mostly been quiet the whole walk here, but now he’s looking at Jack expectantly.

Jack nods and pushes back the tide of emotions swelling in his chest. If he waits any longer he might never be able to do this. He knocks twice on the door, and her singing cuts off abruptly; he hears her voice saying “Coming!” and then the lock clicking as the door swings open.

“Hi, Miss Medda,” Jack says hoarsely. 

She stares at him. For this brief, terrible moment, he thinks she’s going to turn him away, and then she’s crying and oh, she pulls him into a hug. Something he’s been trying to hold back since he found himself running in the streets hours ago spills forth. In her arms he can’t stop the tears; he feels suddenly twelve years old again, scared and small but not alone, not anymore.

“You’re alive,” she’s saying, over and over, like a mantra. “Oh, baby, you’re really here.”

Jack clings to her tightly. “I didn’t do it,” he breathes, desperate for her to know as she runs a hand through his hair. “The fire—that wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t believe them for one second.” Medda pulls him back at arm’s length. “But where have you been?”

He winces, looks away. “The Refuge. I just escaped.” Her mouth opens again but he shakes his head slightly and she nods, understanding immediately. 

“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll talk later,” she says, and cups his cheek with a gentle hand. He leans into it, starved of positive contact like this for so long. “Jack Kelly,” she says warmly, her eyes shining—he’s gotten so used to hearing his name spit at him like a curse—“I thought I’d never see you again.” She huffs a laugh and smiles at him, wiping at his eyes with her thumb. “Don’t you ever disappear on me like that again, you understand?”

He gives a watery chuckle, maybe his first in months. “I’ll do my best, Miss Medda.”

She pulls him into another hug, squeezing his shoulders tightly, before her eyes come to rest on the two boys still standing awkwardly in the hallway. “And who are your new friends?” she asks.

“Oh, this is—” Jack breaks off, realizing abruptly that they had never gotten to introductions. The younger of the two steps forward and puffs his chest out.  

“I’m Les, and this is my brother, David,” he says brightly. He’s been solemn since Jack met him, no doubt jarred by his experience with the Snatchers, but Medda’s warmth is notoriously infectious. Even the kid’s older brother—Davey—cracks a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says politely, and Medda beams and waves a hand.

“None of that. It’s Miss Medda to you, darling. Come on in,” She steps out of the doorway and gestures inside, placing a gentle hand on the small of Jack’s back as she ushers him in. He’s grateful for it, a grounding presence that reminds him he’s really here in front of her. “Stay as long as you like, boys.”

In the last few hours alone, Jack has felt like he’s been thrust into an entirely different world. Entering Medda’s apartment is a burst of shining familiarity; there’s the elegant wooden piano in the corner, the blooming plants lining the windowsills, the photos of the theater and the paintings Jack has done over the years hanging on the walls. The faint smell of cinnamon in the air. He may never have lived here, but it feels like coming home all the same.

“I’ve still got the clothes you’ve left here, if you want to change,” Medda tells him. “I’ll get something going for us to eat—how does Sancocho sound? I don’t have any plantains, and now I know it’s not quite the same without them—”

“That sounds incredible, Miss Medda,” Jack says, his mouth already watering. For as long as he’s known her, Medda has always made it a point to give him and the other boys a taste of home however she can manage. She’d tested recipes for Sancocho for months until she’d perfected the warm, rich stew that always drew up distant memories of Jack’s mother. 

Medda smiles at him and bustles into the kitchen, pulling vegetables from the fridge. “David, Les, is there anything you two don’t eat?” she calls to them.

“Oh, we keep Kosher, so no pork, shellfish, or meat and dairy together? And Les can’t have peanuts. Sorry,” Davey responds quickly.

“No worries, darling, this recipe doesn’t call for any of that anyway. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours—Jack, why don’t you go clean up and get some rest? You look exhausted, baby.”

It’s one of those things he doesn’t fully realize until she points out, and then it hits him full-force; he thinks his legs will give with the impact of it. He’s tired and starved and wants absolutely nothing more than to take a hot shower and eat and sleep through the next day—and in truth the only thing holding him back is the still-stinging bite of the cuffs around his wrists. 

“Uh, Miss Medda—you got a screwdriver somewhere around here?” he asks tentatively, rubbing at the skin underneath them.

Her gaze drifts to his hands and she winces in sympathy. “In the office down the hall. There’s a toolkit on the shelf—you need some help, Jack?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve got it,” he says as he heads into the room.

It turns out to be harder than he expected. He spends a good ten minutes hacking at the cuffs with a screwdriver, but all he really succeeds in doing is scraping his wrists raw. He’s getting desperate, though—the longer he’s stripped of his powers, the less he feels like himself, and the silver steel is nothing but a jolting reminder of everything that’s happened. He needs to find a way to get these stupid things off. 

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got it.”

Jack’s head snaps up to see Davey standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. His expression is hard to read, half-concerned but laced with something else, and he’s sort of tentative as he steps into the room and kneels down beside Jack. “Here, let me.” He holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

Jack gives it to him and splays his hands out in between them. Davey switches out the head of the tool for a tiny flathead and gets to work on the right cuff, astonishingly careful. His slender, practiced fingers pry open a tiny panel on the side of the cuff, exposing the circuit board underneath.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Jack notes.

Davey pauses his movement for a split second and then continues without looking up. “I was captain of my high school robotics team for two years,” he responds. “And I’m an engineering major.”

Jack clings to this small piece of information; it’s the first thing he’s learned about Davey since they met, and he’s already desperate for more. “Where do you go?” he asks. At this, Davey tenses up, and Jack bites back a wince. “I’m not trying to interrogate you,” he says flatly, after a moment. “Guess I just...thought you’d changed your mind about me.”

Davey’s dark eyes latch on to Jack’s for just a moment before darting away. “I don’t know yet,” he answers finally. He prods at the wires of the cuff; there’s this crinkle in his brow that Jack can’t help but think is sort of endearing. “Miss Medda seems like a really good person,” he continues, still barely looking at Jack. “And she clearly loves you a lot. It’s possible you could be lying to her, too, but the way you were when you saw her—no one’s that good of an actor.”

“So what’s your holdup?”

“I’m not sure what to believe.” Davey twists the screwdriver and bites his lip, then meets Jack’s gaze at last. “After you—after the hospital burned down, the whole city was in chaos. No one knew what to think or who to blame—the police revealed that the sprinkler line had been damaged, and that some of the exits had been sealed, and that the fire started because the power box had been tampered with.”

Jack’s stomach twists. “I don’t understand...you—you’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

“I think if it had been, it would’ve been contained a lot faster,” Davey says darkly. “It hadn’t even been a week before The World published a full story about how it was Strike’s doing. Jack, there were witness statements, sources explaining how your powers could’ve caused this—”

“I was trying to save people,”

“A lot of people thought you had done it by accident. Or that you’d...snapped, or something.”

“I nearly died in that fire.” He isn’t entirely sure he hadn’t, to be honest. Everything since then is blurry and out of place, and he feels like he’s been set right back to grappling desperately for a handhold, like he’s in the center of an inferno all over again—

There’s a click of metal on metal and the cuff on his right hand clatters to the floor. 

“Got it,” Davey says, and suddenly Jack can breathe again. Even with the cuff still circling his left hand, he feels electricity surge through him, that familiar hum of lightning beneath his skin. A part of him he hasn’t felt in so, so long. 

Sparks dance over his fingertips, and the air fills with static. He can see the hairs on Davey’s arms standing on end and despite everything, fights the urge to laugh. Davey looks at him, eyes wide with amazement, and Jack wonders if he can taste the power in the air, too. 

“Thanks,” Jack says, breathless as he runs his hand over the torn skin of his wrist. 

Davey nods and gently takes his left hand, starting the process again and evidently more sure of what he’s doing now. “Jack,” he begins, but whatever he’s going to say next, Jack doesn’t let him finish.

“Someone set me up,” he says fiercely, trying hard not to sound as desperate for Davey to believe him as he really is. “Whatever evidence and witnesses they had—it was fake.”

“Okay, but why?” Davey presses. “Why go through all this trouble to frame a dead man? How did they get The World to publish a bunch of false information? And if someone really is trying to pin this on you,” there’s a click, and the cuff around Jack’s left hand pings against the ground, “who set the fire in the first place?”

-

Jack can’t remember the last time he’d had a hot shower. Even before the fire—and god, Jack is really about to start categorizing his life events as before and after his death, like that’s not absolutely insane—the lodging house never really had a surplus of hot water, especially with so many of them. Standing under it now, though, everything else melts into the background. There are scars and bruises along his skin that he hadn’t even noted before, but the water is like instant relief; he doesn’t have to think, just lets it wash him clean.

By the time he gets out, the effects of the drugs, which have been weaning away for hours now, seem completely gone. Everything is sharper, like he’s been thrusted into high-definition, his thoughts clearer and his memories—well, his memories becoming more painful by the second.

It’s not easy, trying to push it all back. As he pulls on fresh clothes, Jack stares at himself in the mirror, at the jagged scars raised against his chest and the tiny spots that pockmark his forearms where he remembers needles going in, and tries to reconcile this picture of himself—exhausted and hollowed out and afraid—with the identity he’d spent so long building up from the ground. He doesn’t look like Strike, New York City’s favorite vigilante. He looks like a scared kid.

He doesn’t know what to do. Something bigger than himself is brewing in the city, he knows it, he has to stop it. But he doesn’t know how. People are counting on him and Jack just wants to forget any of this ever happened.

There’s so much noise. Davey’s questions are ringing in his ears and behind them there are voices telling him he’s never, ever going to get out, and he thinks he might be on fire. Everything is too hot and too loud and hurts.

There’s nothing in his stomach to throw up, but he dry heaves over the toilet anyway.

Jack sits back on the cold tile floor and drags his knees up to his chest. He could just go—break out the money he’s been saving and skip town, hop on a bus all the way to Santa Fe. Crutchie could come with him, and he could change his name—again—and start fresh. Never see this place again.

Except there’s an arsonist on the loose in the city. There are Snatchers all over the streets, and maybe Jack wants nothing more than to leave it but New York is still his city, still his place to protect. He can’t just leave.

Jack tilts his head towards the ceiling, biting back the urge to scream. The unsteady silence is broken by a tentative knock at the door, and then Medda’s voice—“Jack, honey,” she says, “Dinner’s ready. You okay in there?”

Slowly, he picks himself off the floor, pulls the loose hoodie hanging on the door on over his clean t-shirt, takes a shuddering breath. “I’ll be right out,” he calls through the door, and glances at his reflection one more time. He can be Strike again. He can do this. 

And even if he can’t, he has to.

-

The Sancocho is perfect, warm and spicy and brimming with the taste of home. By the time he’s inhaled maybe three servings and helped clear the dishes, Jack is so exhausted that he doesn’t even make it to the guest room. He just stumbles towards the couch and collapses there with the sunlight still spilling in through the windows, falling hard and fast into a heavy sleep.

It’s dark when he bolts awake. He feels hot and breathless, his heart racing against his ribcage, and whatever awful memory had invaded his dreams left the sharp taste of metal in his mouth. Sparks flicker across his fingers, blinding blue-white in the darkness, and Jack curls his hands into fists to quell the lightning brimming in his veins. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall; it’s just past one in the morning. He doesn’t think he’ll get back to sleep any time soon.

He maneuvers around the coffee table to stumble blindly towards the kitchen instead. A dim glow catches his eye, then; Davey is sitting at the bar stools, hunched over his laptop.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jack says, and Davey starts and then swears.

“Jeez, you gave me a heart attack,” he huffs as Jack chuckles lightly and fills a glass with water. “I thought you were still asleep. And...no. You?”

Jack shrugs. “I slept okay, got a few good hours. But I don’t think I can go back to bed. What are you doing?” he asks, nodding towards the open laptop.

Davey hesitates. “Miss Medda let me borrow her computer. I’m trying to contact the rest of my family,” he replies, his gaze flitting between the screen and Jack’s eyes. “When Les and I ran off there were already Snatchers at our house. None of them have powers, though. Just Les.” He works his lip between his teeth. “They said not to contact them in case the Snatchers found some way to trace it back to us, but I set up a separate email account and sent them a vague message, hoping they’ll know it’s me. I just need to know if they’re okay.”

Jack’s chest twists in sympathy. Davey’s family is just one more example of all the lives the Snatchers have torn apart—and Jack is the poster boy for their whole agenda. He has to fix this, for Davey, and for the rest of his city. “You’ll see them again soon, Davey,” he says—yet another promise he can’t afford to break—“I’m gonna make this right, okay?”

“How?” Davey scoffs. “You don’t even know where to start.”

Jack slips his hands into the pockets of his clean hoodie and feels the familiar weight of the flash drive he’d placed there. Actually, he might have some idea. “Can I use the computer?” Jack says, barely waiting for Davey’s nod before taking a seat on the barstool beside him and plugging the flash drive in. 

“What is that?” Davey’s brow furrows.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. I took this from a computer in the Refuge’s control room, hoping I’d find something important. Maybe something here could give us a clue of what’s really going on.” There’s only a handful of files on the drive, and they’re labeled with numbers instead of actual names. Jack opens the first one and feels his heart sink. “Shit. It’s encrypted.”

“Let me try,” Davey says, pulling the laptop towards him and typing furiously. The computer makes a few error noises in protest as he works through the code, but Davey is laser-focused, seems to know exactly what he’s doing. He’s some kind of genius. “Got it,” he announces after a few minutes. Sure enough, the screen flickers, and rows of text begin to replace the numbers and symbols from before.

“That was incredible,” Jack tells him.

Davey shrugs and ducks his head, smiling just a little before turning back to the screen. “They look like email exchanges. Between some guy named Snyder—” Jack feels a cold trickle of shock run through him at that name, “—and...Joseph Pulitzer.”

“Wait, Pulitzer?” Jack leans forward to read over Davey’s shoulder. “As in the CEO of The World?”

“He’s running for mayor in next month’s election,” Davey explains. “It looks like he’s trying to get Snyder’s support? He’s promising money to fund the Refuge. But why would—shit.” There’s something dawning on his expression as he looks up at Jack, eyes blown wide. “Jack, a lot of his campaign has relied on anti-super propaganda. And...The World was the one who first published the story about you setting the fire.”

The realization crashes into him, hard and fast. “He’s the one who framed me.” Jack feels a hot rush of anger surge through him. “For what, a political platform? So that he could give the people a common enemy? Holy shit, did he set that fire for this...twisted agenda?” 

“I can’t believe this,” Davey shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and tugging his hands through his dark hair, shell-shocked. “How could he do something like this?”

How could he?

“I’m going to kill him,” Jack says fiercely, and the lights above him flicker. He stands up, feeling wild, brimming with untamed fury—innocent people died for Pulitzer’s insane power grab, and he has to pay for that. He can’t get away with this, he won’t; Jack can’t find it in himself to mitigate his anger right now, he needs to find Pulitzer and fix this.

“Jack—Jack!” Davey’s hand latches around his wrist and a shock like static electricity bursts between them, making him pull back. “Wait. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“What, you just want me to let him walk? He killed people, Davey. Innocent people.”

“You don’t actually know that yet.”

“I know enough,” Jack snaps, pulling back. “This can’t all be a coincidence, it makes too much sense. He has to be behind this, behind everything.”

“I’m not arguing that.” Davey is astonishingly calm; Jack doesn’t know how he can keep his resolve right now, after finding out something this sick. “But what are you going to do, break into his house and murder him? What is that going to solve? Things are only gonna get worse for supers.”

Jack hesitates. Davey is right—a personal attack on one of the most influential people in New York would make him even more of a villain than he already is. And every super in the city would suffer from it. He can’t make this some sort of revenge plot; he has to be smart about it. He takes a shuddering breath. “Then I’ll expose him. These emails—”

“—aren’t enough. All you have from this is a theory. Pulitzer would just find a way to spin it, make you look like the bad guy here. Again.” He shakes his head. “He holds all the cards right now. We have to find hard, indisputable evidence. What we need is a way to get close to him.”

“We?” Out of everything, that’s the word Jack gets hung up on. Davey’s making it sound as though they’re partners. 

Davey looks at him for a second. “I believe you, Jack,” he says finally. “I’m sorry I didn’t before. I don’t think you set that fire, and if we’re right, and Pulitzer did frame you, and we can find proof...we might be able to stop everything. Shut down the Refuge for good.”

“No, no—I’m not dragging you into this any further than I already have,” Jack stops him before he can go any further. His whole time as Strike, he’s been a solo act for a reason—not for lack of Race or Specs or Elmer trying to get him to let them join him—but because he can’t bring himself to pull someone else into this life. Especially not someone like Davey, who’s an engineering student, and a genius, and has a family. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me so far, I really do, but I can take it from here. You and your brother just lay low and stay out of trouble.”

“You can’t do this by yourself,” Davey argues. There’s something hardening behind his eyes, something bright and sharp and determined. “I’ve already shown you what I can do, so let me help you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

He snorts, defensive. “I can handle it.”

“You think so?” Jack stares him down, skin buzzing. “I almost died because of this, and I may not remember everything about the Refuge, but I can tell you that it wasn’t pretty. If we try to take Pulitzer, there’s a good chance we don’t make it out alive.”

Davey doesn’t break his gaze. “But if we do it together, we double our odds,” he says quietly. When Jack snorts and turns away, Davey keeps going. “This is so much bigger than you or me, Jack. If we can pull this off, we could make New York safe for supers again. I promised that I would protect Les, but I can’t do that as long as there are Snatchers roaming the streets and as long as Pulitzer has power. And you can’t protect this city if you’re dead.” 

Jack wishes he didn’t have a point. “You could get hurt,” he counters. “You don’t even have powers.”

“You’ll protect me,” Davey replies swiftly, and something in Jack’s stomach twists.

“You have an awful lot of faith for someone who didn’t trust me an hour ago,” he says grimly, eyes darting away from Davey’s fierce ones.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Davey presses, unrelenting, and god, the offer is tempting. Davey clearly knows his way around his computers and technology, a skill that could be really helpful here, and more than that, Jack stupidly, selfishly doesn’t want to do this by himself. He wants a partner. He’s tired of being alone, and he hates himself for it. 

“We do this on my terms,” Jack says finally, and in the corner of his eye, he can see Davey smiling. “I say get out, you get out. You’ve got to be smart about this. Got it?”

“Understood,” Davey nods. “I’ll be okay, Jack. I promise. So where do we start?”

“It’s like you said, we have to get close to Pulitzer.” Jack sits back down, racks his brain for anything that could help. Pulitzer is a private person, watching the rest of the city from high off the ground; getting close to him would require someone who already knows him well. He can practically see the lightbulb over his head when it hits him—he knows the perfect candidate. He just hopes she’ll be willing to join them.

“I know someone who might be able to help,” Jack says, already drafting an email—coded words like the two of them used to use when he was just starting out as Strike. “She interned as Pulitzer’s personal assistant for a while when she was in high school, but the last time I saw her she was a journalism student, working for The Sun. She may not work for him anymore, but she knew Pulitzer as well as anyone.” Jack takes a deep breath and pleads silently that she’ll believe him, then sends the message. 

“And you think she’ll know what to do?” Davey asks.

“I’m sure of it.” Jack has always had faith in her; he knows she’ll come through, will fight for what she believes in. “If cards are what we’re playing,” he tells Davey, suddenly brimming with a newfound sense of determination, “then Katherine Plumber is our ace.”