#and sleeping on the floor of an abandonned barn in JANUARY

[forgondor]

Sorry for being #offline for the past 3 days i was doing hot girl shit ((digging trenches and building barricades to keep the cops out of an occupied village & prevent the construction of a coal mine))

[lizzie-is-here]

acta, non verba

tfatws- part i

summary: the clearance cap is back. and you really hate him.

wordcount: 9.2k

warnings: john walker, cussing, violence, racial profiling, reader being pissy because of john walker, psychological torture and dehumanization, john walker being john walker, did i mention john walker?

a/n: gonna start moving these up here. this is gonna be a long one, with one part per episode bc tfatws is my favorite 😌. after this is no way home tho so get hyped for that too, then the onto next series. also @loving-barnes bc the john walker slander has begun and you said you wanted to be @‘d way back in january lol. enjoy 🤍

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“Can you cut my hair?”

The question was posed to you over the phone on a rainy night around 3 am. Bucky sounded slightly guilty, but you reassured him that you were already awake. Peter had gotten himself into quite the mess some time after the battle against Thanos, and you were attempting to guide him through the school year after his identity had been revealed.

After the super-soldier’s voice had gotten watery and he’d explained that he had had a nightmare about his time with HYDRA, you were hopping on your motorcycle and speeding down the street, helmet long-abandoned and rain soaking your pajamas.

His new apartment was small but cozy. You’d helped him move in a few months prior, and visited often. You could find his room with your eyes closed.

When he opened the door for you and saw your rain-soaked clothes and incessant shivering, his posture slumped.

“I’m sorry, I just- come in, please,” he mumbled, stepping aside to pull you into his small home. You walked over to the sink before wringing out your hair and clothes, kicking off your shoes and pushing them toward the door.

Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before returning with a henley, tossing it to you. You thanked him before changing in his kitchen, curtains closed and his eyes averted respectfully.

You caught sight of a blanket on the floor of his living room, inspecting it when you saw the throw pillow alongside it. There was no way he-

“Have you been sleeping on the floor?” His lack of response said it all. ���Jamie,” you drawled. “That’s bad for you.”

“It feels right. Familiar.” You knew him well enough to know he meant that it reminded him of his time with HYDRA. And you knew that, while it may feel “familiar”, it was also reminding him of his time as a prisoner and weapon.

“Is that what the nightmare was about?” You had made your way around the kitchen counter, sitting with him on the floor. He nodded.

“I just… remembered how they used to treat me,” he said, voice tight. You waited patiently.

“They’d pull my hair, make me do… things…” He’d told you before that his torture by the organization wasn’t always physical. The dehumanization and humiliation stuck to him just as much as each scar did.

So you pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry. I never did anything, right?” Bucky had been your main source of information about your time with HYDRA. Well, ever since Wanda had gone MIA after creating an alternate reality inside of a small New Jersey town. Nat was still looking for her.

Thankfully, he shook his head. “No. They treated you similarly if you were ever around for long,” he muttered into your shoulder. “In the dream… nightmare, I guess, I was back there. I could feel it all, and I-“ His voice welled and you shook your head.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you soothed, tracing patterns on his back the way your mother used to do for you. A spiral, a constellation, a few words. He let out a strangled sound, like a sob cut short.

“I want to.”

You nodded, relaxing into his grip as he held you like a lifeline. You wondered if Steve had been in your place before.

“How about you tell me while I cut your hair? It might be easier to talk about if you aren’t facing me,” you offered, gently rising to your feet and tugging Bucky along with you. “Do you have scissors and an electric razor?”

Once you’d retrieved the items and sat on the vanity in his bathroom, back to the mirror, he stood in front of you. It spoke volumes to you how willing he was to face away from you. You laid a towel across his shoulders and readied the small pair of scissors.

“You ready?”

“…Yeah.”

You began in small snips, making sure he was comfortable before cutting larger chunks.

“I am gonna miss braiding your hair, I have to admit,” you mumbled, your lip caught between your teeth and brow furrowed as you focused on cutting the locks evenly.

“Back in HYDRA, you used to say that you wanted to braid it,” he whispered. “The handlers never let you. They’d yell at you if you tried.”

“I really wish I remembered more from back then.” You combed through the stray pieces of hair that stuck to his head before picking up the electric razor. “I’m gonna go in with the razor, okay?”

You were done in a few minutes, putting in finishing touches when you spoke up again. “Were we friends?”

“Ehh, not at first. You said I looked ‘unkempt��.”

“That sounds like something I would say.” You sprayed some argan oil into his hair. “You said, ‘not at first,’ what happened?”

“We got stuck on a mission together in the Netherlands. Somewhere out in the countryside, I think? There weren’t any handlers around and no cameras, but they were in the middle of a bunch of flower festivals.” You hummed, ruffling his hair and removing the towel.

“You snuck us into a flower field one night and braided a shit ton of flowers into my hair. They were still stuck in there when they picked us up,” he chuckled. “We got separated after that, but I remember that I felt less like the Winter Soldier that night and more… me.”

“Good. I’m glad I did something good around that time. What do you think?” Bucky turned around, eyes widening when he fully saw his reflection in the mirror. “Is it bad?” you asked, panic taking over.

“No! No, I like it, doll.” You sighed in relief, your heart racing for a different reason. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. Now, go to your bed. Not the floor, bed,” you said sternly, shoving him towards his room. “I will literally sleep with you to make you sleep on a soft surface.” The words escaped faster than you could clock the meaning behind them, and your face went red when your brain caught up to your mouth.

“Sorry, not like that! Shit, that was out of line,” you rambled, lightly slapping the sides of your face with your hands. He shrugged, turning on the TV to some drab reality show. “You can sleep here if you want. It’s still pouring out there.”

You hesitated, feet stuck in place the whole time he clambered into the bed that certainly hadn’t been slept in in at least a week. When he looked over to see you still frozen in the doorway, he lifted the covers.

“You coming?”

Reluctantly, you slid under the fluffy layers as the TV droned on quietly, making sure to stay on your side of the bed. When you both fully relaxed, you nestled into the pillow, breaths lengthening as sleep took hold.

“G’night, Jamie,” you mumbled into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. When your breaths slowed fully and your heart rate steadily decreased, the brunet let out a deep sigh.

He was in trouble. All it took was a few hugs from you and your will to listen and he was already making excuses for you to sleep in his apartment. Sam, Nat, and Steve would never let him hear the end of this one.

They had gotten worse since the latter two retired, even recruiting the Spider-Kid and Shuri to join in on the matchmaking. Bucky had nearly shot the teen on accident when he’d showed up at his apartment uninvited to give him dating advice he’d used on his own girlfriend.

He had scoffed, telling Peter that he was 106 and didn’t need relationship advice from a child. Said child had raised an eyebrow before swinging away, leaving Bucky very confused and ever-so-slightly jealous that the 17-year-old had snagged a girlfriend before him.

He let out a disgruntled mumble, causing you to frown in your sleep and shimmy closer to the source of the noise. He froze and made sure you were still asleep before relaxing again. You looked so peaceful, your breaths coming in short puffs of air that barely reached him, sending goosebumps spreading across his body. Whether from the cold or the closeness, he wasn’t sure.

Sighing once more, Bucky yanked the covers further up, closing his eyes and drifting off to the sound of rain and the soft thump of your heartbeat.

———————————————————————

It was a month later when he called you in a panic again, telling you to check the news. When you saw the articles bombarding your email, you had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to shout.

“Who the fuck is John Walker?” A few passersby glared, but you ignored them, hurrying to Bucky’s apartment. When you arrived and made it inside, he was sitting on the floor, glaring at the TV. The government’s new Captain America, John Walker, was seated before a slew of reporters, a grin on his face that made something inside you burn.

“I thought Steve retired the shield to Sam?” you asked, eyes glued to the man.

“He did,” Bucky growled. “Sam gave it to the Smithsonian, remember?”

Oh, yeah. You sat down next to the super-soldier as he seethed.

“He called Steve his ‘brother’,” he spat, arm whirring. A notification from your phone revealed a text from Sam. Something about a group called the “Flag Smashers”. When had people lost all creativity in naming things?

You sighed. “Looks like Sam needs help.” Bucky exchanged a glance with you.

“Is this a ‘suit-up’ sort of thing?” You nodded. “Do you have yours?” he asked. You jingled the gold necklace that was clasped on your neck: the suit that Shuri had designed for you.

“Of course.”

———————————————————————

You and Barnes arrived at the base before Sam did, striding past various posters with Walker’s face plastered on them, along with the slogan, “Cap is back.” It was stupid. As far as you knew, Steve hadn’t authorized the new candidate, not to mention that the government had gone behind Sam’s back to take the shield. You chewed on your lip as you ran through a list of names to call the discount captain if you ever met him.

“Don’t do that, you’ll cut it,” Bucky mumbled, watching as Sam and a young pilot came around the corner.

“Shouldn’t have given up the shield,” he called, walking towards Sam as you followed, patting down your pockets to locate weapons.

“Good to see you too, Buck. Hey, (Y/N),” he replied, walking past both of you.

“This is wrong,” Bucky continued.

Sam sighed as you both walked on either side of him. “Hey, hey, look, I’m working, alright? So all this outrage is gonna have to wait.”

“You didn’t know that was gonna happen?” the brunet demanded.

“No, of course I didn’t know that was gonna happen. You think it didn’t break my heart to see them match him out there and call him the new Captain America?” Sam asked, sounding more than mildly offended.

“Steve’s gonna have a fit,” Bucky mumbled, causing Sam to groan again.

“Oh, my God. So, what do you want me to do? Call America and tell ‘em I changed my mind? Huh?” He laughed when neither of you responded. “Yeah, right. It’s a great reunion, you two. Be well.”

The ex-Winter Soldier barreled on as you stayed silent, yanking a knife from your pocket and twirling it. “You had no right to give up the shield, Sam.”

“Hey. This is what you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna come here in your overextended life and tell me about my rights. It’s over, Bucky. Besides, I have bigger things to deal with now. Which is why I called in (Y/N). Didn’t think you’d drag loverboy along with you.” He aimed the last sentence at you. You raised an eyebrow, flipping the drop point dagger without breaking eye contact.

“What could be bigger than this?” Bucky pointedly ignored the nickname Sam had given him as the latter pulled out his phone to show you both a picture.

“This guy. His connections with rebel organizations all over Eastern and Central Europe, and he’s strong. Too strong.”

You scanned the picture, finally speaking up. “Oh, good. Someone to stab.”

Bucky shrugged. “And?”

“Well, he’s been connected to this online group called the Flag Smashers. Now, Redwing traced them to a building somewhere outside of Munich. So that’s where I’m going.”

“Well, I don’t trust Redwing. Hold on a minute.”

“You don’t have to trust Redwing, but I’mma go see if he’s right. ‘Cause I have a feeling they might be part of the Big Three.”

“What ‘Big Three’?”

“The Big Three.”

“What Big Three?”

“Androids, aliens, and wizards.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“That’s definitely a thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw stars, muttering under your breath in various languages in hopes neither of them would catch you slandering them.

“Every time we fight, we fight one of the three,” Sam insisted.

Bucky scoffed. “So who are you fighting now, Gandalf?”

“I-“ Sam paused, eyeing Bucky. “How do you know about Gandalf?”

“I read The Hobbit. In 1937 when it first came out.”

“So you see my point?”

“No, I don’t. There are no wizards.”

“Doctor Strange.”

“Is a sorcerer.”

Sam laughed and a few pilots looked over curiously. “Aah! A sorcerer is a wizard without a hat. Think about it, right? I’m right. I just came up with that. It’s crazy.” Bucky exchanged a confused glance with you. “C’mon, (Y/N), back me up.”

“I think you’re forgetting the superhero divorce we had. That’s not one of the Big Three.” He considered your statement before waving his hands.

“That’s an exception! And that’s not the point. These guys aren’t magical, alright? They use brute force, just like you. The incredibly annoying guy in front of me with the staring problem.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky shouted as San began to walk to the plane, you following a bit further behind.

“No, you’re not.”

He did. After a few more minutes of tedious arguing and you threatening to crash the plane if they didn’t stop, he suited up and the plane left. A few hours later, you arrived.

“One minute to drop off, Sam,” the young pilot said. You’d made some small talk on the way there, finding out that his name was Joaquin Torres and he was only 25. He was surprisingly optimistic for a Lieutenant, but you welcomed the change from the usual grumpiness of the military personnel you were used to working with.

You were perched atop a case of supplies as Sam and Bucky stared each other down. Sam leaned forward, which caused Bucky to do the same before twitching his head slightly to the side. When you opened the door, they both stood to join you.

“So what’s our plan?” Barnes asked, receiving no response as Sam put in an earpiece. “Great. So no plan.”

“Thirty seconds!” Torres yelled over the wind.

“Enjoy your ride, Buck.”

“No, you can’t call me that.” Ok, setting boundaries.

“Why not? That’s what Steve calls you.”

“Steve’s known me longer and Steve has plans.” Or not, just shade.

“Fifteen seconds to drop.”

Sam gave Bucky the stink eye before heading over to the open door. “I have a plan.”

“Really? What is it?” Sam jumped from the plane without another word. You rubbed your forehead and shook your head.

“You two need to behave. Or I will lock you in a room together with Peter, a pack of Red Bull, and without his ADHD meds,” you threatened into the comm, knowing the teen would have a field day tormenting the two superheroes.

You checked your grappling hook before popping your neck. “Well, see you on the other side, James.” You fell backward, cutting through the crisp fall air before shooting out your hook and activating the suit. It caught on a tree and you began to retract it, swinging around and spiraling gracefully to the ground, not even disturbing the leaves.

Back on the plane, Bucky sighed at the drop. “Where’s the chute?” he asked.

“We’re at 200 feet. It’s too low for a chute.”

“I don’t need it anyway. If she can do it, so can I.” He considered the fact that you had a grappling hook and a suit that could tank the force, but he was a super-soldier. He’d be fine. Right?

“You sure about that?” Torres asked.

Bucky let out a chuckle, failing to cover up his nervousness. He ripped off the left sleeve of the jacket he’d found before jumping from the plane with a loud yell. He really should’ve thought about this. You followed the source of the noise as he crashed through the trees, managing to slow himself before slamming on his back.

You and Redwing approached, your head tilted and a mixture of concern and amusement on your face. Redwing trilled and beeped before flying closer to the man.

“I have all of that on camera. You know that, right?” Sam asked through the device.

Bucky groaned from his place in the dirt and grass. “Get it out of my face, Sam, or I’ll break it.”

“No one’s breaking anything,” you chuckled, helping him up. “Let’s head north, come on.”

You both jogged towards the large building, following the red drone before making it into the garage where Sam was waiting. Unfair.

“You’re doing the staring thing again,” he commented, not looking up from the screen on his arm as he scanned the rooms for the Flag Smashers. “They’re in there.”

“Where’s the guy?”

“I don’t know. I think they’re smuggling weapons, though.”

“Well, I think you could be right. But there’s only one way to find out. I see a clear path, I say we take it.”

“We’re not assassins.”

You made a face. “You mean you’re not an assassin. I am.”

“What about Bucky?” Sam asked.

“He can decide that. I’m going ahead.”

By the time they’d finished chatting, you had already gone ahead to scope out the group. Bucky stalked in behind you, barely making a sound.

Sam’s voice cut through the static over comms. “Look at you. All stealthy. A little time in Wakanda and you come out White Panther.”

“It’s actually White Wolf,” he corrected.

“Huh?”

He snuck in next to you behind some shelves, eyeing the rebels as they loaded a few semis with supplies. You gave him a small smile before your eyes widened at an object on the shelf in front of him. You reached over, picking up the knife and excitedly sliding it into an extra sheath.

He let out a puff of a laugh at your antics before putting a hand to his earpiece. “All right, we’re inside. Therefore, way ahead of you. It’s not great but very doable.”

Sam then appeared from out of nowhere. You waved, pointing to the new knife you’d acquired.

“Hello. How are you?” Bucky asked sarcastically.

Sam matched his forced politeness. “Good. What did I miss? Nothing.”

“All right, let’s go.”

“No, wait.”

You grumbled under your breath as they continued to bicker back and forth. This was wasting valuable time and intel.

“I got a vibranium arm. I can take them,” Bucky hissed, holding up his left hand to emphasize his point.

Sam rolled his eyes. “And I can fly. Who gives a shit? Wait.”

“Boys,” you whispered, hand on your hip. “I’m going in…” Neither noticed as they continued arguing, but you snuck closer nonetheless. A clattering from behind you made you wince, jumping behind a pillar to glare at the two. The Flag Smashers eyed their hiding spot before driving away.

Shit. You started in a dead sprint, Bucky and Sam catching up quickly and outpacing you easily. Damn them and their enhancements.

“Sammy, care to give me a lift?”

“You should really learn to pull your own weight,” he joked, scooping you up by a strap on the back of your suit. It was uncomfortable, but far better than running. You extended a baton Nat had lent you as he dropped you onto a semi-truck as Bucky checked for a hostage.

You rolled as you fell, not making much of a sound. Your weapon thrummed with electricity and crackled a few sparks as you twirled it in your hand. The truck shook beneath you as Bucky clambered inside, and you steadied yourself.

“They’re stealing medicine. Vaccines,” he said. “Hi.”

You frowned. “Jamie, who’re you talking to-”

Before you could finish, he was kicked backward, smashing into the windshield of the semi behind him.

“Shit!” he yelled as he cling to the front of the truck. You braced yourself before taking a flying leap onto the semi behind you, tugging him up as two more Flag Smashers came up behind you both. You smirked, rolling the baton between your fingers.

They focused on Bucky first, holding him back as a curly-haired girl kicked him across the face. Hard.

“Oh, now you’ve done fucked up,” you hissed, slamming a baton into her stomach. She groaned and stumbled back, but you didn’t give her any breaks as you lunged again, lashing out in smooth strikes. Every blow you landed knocked the wind from the enhanced girl.

Then, the two rebels behind you managed to grab your suit, yanking you back and slamming you onto the metal roof of the truck. You cradled your ribs as you put away your batons. Fine, they didn’t have to make this easy. Bucky was still struggling against what you assumed were other super-soldiers, not used to fighting opponents that could match his strength.

The semi-truck that had been behind you sped up to match the pace of the one you were on. Then, a whirring noise caught your attention. Redwing came flying in for a rescue but was snatched by the leader and broken over her knee.

“I always wanted to do that,” Bucky groaned before another blow was thrown to his face. Grumbling, you ran at the offending soldier and jumped onto his shoulders with your thighs firmly around his neck, constricting his air before you flipped backward and sent him flying onto the nearby truck.

Sam swooped in soon after, kicking the redhead to the ground with a flourish.

“Took your time, Wilson,” you shouted as Bucky yelled something similar. You ran at the woman still restraining him and grabbed the mask she wore, twisting it to cover her eyes before kicking her knee inwards. She fell to the ground with a cry but you ignored her, helping the Sergeant to his feet.

“You alright?” He massaged his jaw carefully, wincing when he brushed over a small area of split skin.

Nevertheless, he nodded. “Yeah-” He was tackled by a soldier that came out of nowhere, collapsing as more Flag Smashers held Sam down. Just as one approached you, a flying blur knocked one down. Was that-

“Oh, oh fuck no…” you laughed, dissolving into hysteric cackles as you saw the new “Captain America” proudly enter the scene. He was as disappointing as you'd imagined. He leaped from the helicopter, immediately taking on the leader and knocking her back. Another man swung from a rope dangling from the helicopter, kicking her while she was distracted.

He threw the shield and Sam took the opportunity to escape from the arms of his captors, shooting you a warning glare as you reached for a knife. You shrugged and flipped it effortlessly before slicing it into the arm of a rebel. As you watched him groan in pain, you caught sight of Bitchboys 1 and 2 giving each other a fist bump.

“Aww, they're like little kids,” you cooed, deadpanning before kicking the opponent from the roof and sprawling onto the road.

“Sam,” the man greeted. “John Walker, Captain America.”

“Lemar Hoskins,” his partner said.

You smirked before yelling over to Barnes. “Cum crezi că i se potrivește capul în acea cască [How do you think his head fits in that helmet]?” He chuckled, punching an enemy before ducking to avoid a swing.

“Poate este un șablon personalizat [Maybe it’s a custom design],” he responded, causing both Walker and his partner to stare in confusion. Sam smacked your arm, hissing for you to behave.

“Looks like you guys can use some help,” Hoskins yelled. Before you could snap out a sassy remark, the girl charged Walker. You watched with mild interest before he threw the shield, which ricocheted off of a Flag Smasher. Bucky caught it midair, holding it before John snatched it from his hands. He shuddered in disgust.

A rebel in a baggy jacket ran towards you, barreling forward with all his might. You let out an annoyed huff before sidestepping his path and grabbing the hood of his jacket. “I should’ve learned my lesson with Cap that the serum doesn’t make you any smarter,” you began as you knocked his feet out from under him and swung him at another enemy. “But this is just sad. Did you become a criminal because you couldn’t make it into college?” He slipped off the edge of the semi. “Guess we’ll never know.”

As you whipped around, you caught sight of Bucky absolutely punching the shit out of someone. And goddamn, was it hot. Shit, no. You wrinkled your nose and squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them again, he was significantly closer.

“You okay, doll? Did you get hit in the head?” Sam’s wing flung out before you could half-ass an answer, knocking both your friend and a janky hobo rebel down the side of the semi. You reached out to grab him, only to find him hanging on just above the ground, head dangerously close to the wheel. As he eyed your outstretched hand in shock, the super-soldier to his left began kicking his vibranium arm. One, that wouldn’t be very effective. And two, rude.

Soon after, Sam was knocked from the truck as well, soaring above as you extended a staff. You didn’t pull your punches, taking out your annoyance on any Flag Smasher that got within a 6-foot radius of you and the vibranium pole you wielded. He winced as you struck one across the face, leaving behind a deep scratch. Then you smacked the poor dude in the throat at full force.

Walker furrowed his brows. “That seems like a bit much,” he called. You rolled your eyes again and readied your grappling hook. If he didn’t want your help, he wouldn’t get it.

“Fine. Do it yourself.” You fired without looking, the hook catching a large hanging road sign. With a bounding leap, you descended, rolling onto the road and strolling along as the trucks sped away from you. When you saw Sam tackle Bucky from under a semi and the two of them roll into a nearby field, you broke into a jog, finding them laying side-by-side.

“Have fun?” you asked teasingly. They both groaned and muttered, standing up and dusting themselves off. In the meantime, you scanned the area, eventually catching sight of a smaller road.

You snapped your fingers to catch their attention, pointing at the winding path. “Guess we’re walking.”

———————————————————————

Sam was polite enough to walk alongside you two commoners as you all trekked on the road. Rolling hills and fields passed by on either side, peaceful and quiet and empty and not having to deal with the two bickering superheroes on either side of you.

“We gotta figure out where the serum’s coming from,” Bucky said, a bruise forming along his cheekbone from where he was kicked and then punched. You fiddled with the suit-turned-necklace you wore. As soon as you three had been walking for a while, you’d decided to shed the extra layer in favor of loose pants and a tank top. You were pretty sure the top was Nat’s, judging by the plain black color and clean-smelling perfume that lingered on the fabric.

“Yeah. And how in the hell after 80 years are there eight super soldiers running loose?”

You sighed at the sound of an incoming military vehicle. “We’ve got incoming,” you sang, beginning to walk faster. The horn honked. You barely resisted the urge to slash the tires as it pulled up next to your merry trio and matched your pace.

“So that didn’t go as planned, huh?” Walker asked, opening the door on the back end of the car. All three of you ignored the invitation, continuing without even sparing him a glance. He awkwardly closed the door and the car moved forward further.

He kept trying to make small talk. “Look, at least we know what we’re up against now, huh? And we’re pretty sure it’s one of the Big Three, so…” Great. He used the dumb grouping too.

“That’s not a thing,” you monotoned.

Hoskins looked between you and his friend. “Uh, yes it is.”

“No.” You provided no further explanation.

“Aliens, androids, or wizards?” Sam asked.

“Pretty sure.”

“There’s no such thing as wizards,” Bucky half-yelled, irritation flowing off of him.

“Alright,” Walker conceded. “Then it’s aliens, or androids,”

“Or super soldiers,” Sam offered. Even in the face of idiocy, he was diplomatic beyond belief. He made polite but strained conversation with them before Walker made a proposition.

“We gotta work together.” Ha. Funny.

Bucky voiced your thoughts for you. “That’s not happening,” he stated.

“I think we stand a much better chance if we all just-”

You jerked your head at him. “What? All get along? ‘We’re all in this together’ type of beat? Sorry to say, this isn’t High School Musical. And you’re no Zac Efron.” You mumbled the last sentence loud enough for both Sam and Bucky to hear.

The brunet super-soldier nodded in agreement. “Just because you carry that shield, doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.”

“Look, I’ve done the work, okay?” Walker insisted, pointing an accusatory finger.

“Have you ever jumped on top of a grenade?” Bucky asked, still far from over the stunt Steve had pulled way back when. Johnny boy only took the opportunity to make you hate him even more.

“Yeah. Actually, I have,” he said proudly. “Four times. It’s a thing I do with my helmet. It’s a reinforced helmet.” So no, he wasn’t stupidly brave, he just had the right tech and tools. “It’s a long story, but anyway… Look, it’s 20 miles to the airport. You guys need a ride.” You didn’t. You had all walked further in worse conditions than a pleasant countryside in mid-fall.

Still, he persisted. “Guys. Gary, stop. Get in.”

Sam looked at you, and you in turn looked at Bucky, who had looked at you at the same time. You shrugged, making a variety of facial expressions that they both knew you well enough to decipher. ‘Give him a shot, but if he pulls any shit, I’m killing him.’

You reluctantly climbed into the already cramped space, sandwiching yourself between your two friends in an effort to stay far away from the other two. While Hoskins didn’t seem nearly as bad as Walker, you still didn’t want anything to do with anyone who kept the company of the government knockoff.

“Ok, so we’ve got eight super-soldiers on a bulk supply run. Why?” he asked, like a dumbass.

Sam’s patience never wavered. “They sat their mission is to get things back to the way it was during The Blip,” he explained. You turned to Bucky, slipping into Russian in hopes neither of the two men sitting opposite you were fluent in the language.

“Кто назвал его «Бутылкой»? Мне нужно поговорить с ними, потому что я чувствую, что это провозглашается всеми другими дерьмовыми именами [Who named it "The Blip"? I need to talk to them because I feel like it kind of heralded in all the other shitty names],” you mumbled. His only reaction was the tiniest laugh in the form of a sharp exhale. Anyone else would’ve thought that he wasn’t paying attention. But you knew better.

“Maybe they’re just trying to help,” Sam continued.

Bucky glanced at him. “They had a funny way of showing it.”

“That serum doesn’t have a great track record, no offense,” Walker said. You stared at him, unblinking before biting out, “Offense.” The super-soldier next to you reverted to his usual staring. Maybe it was a trick HYDRA taught all of its recruits. You, Bucky, Nat, and Wanda all had a penchant for filling uncomfortable silence with even more uncomfortable eye contact. It was made even worse since all of you had resting bitch faces.

“We need to figure out where they’re going,” Sam said, subtly turning the conversation away from the sensitive subject before an outburst happened. “How’d you track ‘em here? The Flag Smashers?”

Hoskins let out an awkward chuckle as if they’d been caught. “Uh, no, we didn’t track them, we tracked you, uh, through Redwing.” You froze, even your breathing shortened.

“You hacked my tech?” Sam asked, voice raising the slightest degree.

Walker had the audacity to chuckle. “Sorry. It’s not exactly hacking. It’s government property.” He gestured to himself and his partner. “Kind of the government.”

Your breaths stopped completely as you bored holes through his head.

Hoskins scratched his head in discomfort. “Uh, is she okay?” Sam grinned when he saw your state.

“She has a thing about governments.”

Composing yourself, your voice remained steely calm when you spoke. “The government doesn’t hold any rights over the Avengers,” you stated. “I made sure of that.”

“It’s a post-Blip clause. Allows us to bend some rules,” Walker said with a shrug. Fuck this guy.

You remained as calm as possible for the sake of everyone in the car, seething silently. When Bucky noticed your index finger twitching for the knife on your thigh, he placed a hand on your back, rubbing small circles as you continued to fume, all the meanwhile continuing his one-sided staring contest with Walker and Hoskins.

“Do they always just stare like that?”

“You get used to it,” Sam said. “It’s kind of their thing.”

Walker cleared his throat. “Okay, look, you know, things have gotten kind of, uh…”

“Chaotic,” Hoskins finished. Discount Steve agreed.

“The GRC, they’re doing the best they can to get things up and running smoothly, post-Blip.”

“Reactivating citizenship, social security, healthcare. Basically just managing resources for refugees who were displaced by the return.” You were well aware. It had caused you an extra mess to read over new treaties and laws to help Peter out.

Sam nodded. “The Global Repatriation Council does all that. I get that. So why exactly are you two here?”

“Well, they provide the resources and we keep things stable,” Hoskins explained breezily.

“Yeah, violent revolutionaries aren’t usually good for anyone’s cause.”

You said, “Except their own,” at the same time Sam said, “Usually said by the people with the resources.” Seems like you two were on the same page. The metal hand on your back began to trail up and down absentmidedly and you resisted the urge to shudder and curl into the touch.

“We got a lot of resources,” Walker admitted. “If you guys, if you joined up with us, we could-”

“No.” Bucky cut him off as he watched some goats on a farm passing by. You knew he missed the ones he kept in Wakanda. You’d have to arrange a visit soon.

“I got mad respect for all three of y’all,” Hoskins said. You sensed a “but” incoming. “But you were kinda getting your asses kicked ‘till we showed up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Those two, maybe. I was doing fine.”

“(Y/N) you were stabbing them and kicking them into moving traffic,” Sam reminded you. You shrugged.

“At least I didn’t take a tumble in a flower field.” He rolled his eyes as Bucky gave Walker’s second-in-command a once-over.

“Who are you?”

“Lemar Hoskins.”

Sam chuckled drily. “Look, I see a guy hanging out of a helicopter in tactical gear, I need a lot more than ‘Lemar Hoskins’.”

Said man obliged. “I’m Battlestar. John’s partner.”

“‘Battlestar’?” Bucky questioned. He exchanged a glance with you. “Stop the car!”

As soon as Walker realized you weren’t kidding and were actually getting out, he began running his mouth again. “Look, I… I get it, okay? I get the attitude, I do.” The brunet helped you down from the vehicle, placing his flesh hand against the metal bar to ensure your head wouldn’t hit it. Not that you needed the precaution, but the kind gesture gave you butterflies anyway.

“You didn’t think the shield was gonna end up here,” the blond rambled on. “I get it, Bucky.”

You whipped around, pointing at the new Captain. “You don’t get to call him that,” you stated, leaving the car and Sam behind for the more level-headed of you three to actually talk things out. You paid no attention to wherever the conversation goes after that, instead focusing on the bruising on Bucky’s face that had worsened over the short car ride.

“That looks bad,” you muttered, patting down your pockets to no avail.

“Wow, thanks, doll,” he mumbles sarcastically, watching Sam exit the car and approach. “You got any granola bars?”

You handed him one. “Anything for my boy.” And when you turned away to read a map, he smiled despite the ache in his face. Sam barely held in the teasing until you were out of earshot.

———————————————————————

Back on the plane, you’re gently holding an ice pack to your ribs. It had been silent for the majority of the ride, with you even being able to fall asleep despite the roaring engine and unfamiliar area.

But then Bucky spoke up. “Let’s take the shield, Sam. Let’s take the shield and do this ourselves.” The offer was more than tempting. It was by far the easiest solution and the promise of spiting John Walker was just a cherry on top.

“We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. Do you remember what happened the last time we stole it?” They kept their voices quiet as possible.

“Maybe.”

“I’ll help you in case you forgot. Sharon was branded enemy of the state, half of us got thrown in jail, and (Y/N) burnt herself out fixing the mess.” They both glanced to where you laid on a bench, facing the wall and twisted uncomfortably in your sleep.

“I don’t know about you,” Sam continued. “but I don’t wanna live the rest of my life la vida loca, and I know you don’t wanna cause more trouble for her. We just got our ass handed to us by super-soldiers, and we got nothing.”

Bucky sighed. “Not entirely true.” He slid off the box of supplies and sat next to the man he’d sent the past several hours arguing with. “There is someone you should meet.”

———————————————————————

“Hey, (Y/N), wake up.”

You turned away from the source of noise, curling further in on yourself on the uncomfortable mesh bench. Your sleep was shitty as per usual, but that didn’t mean you wanted to wake up. But you obliged, slowly sitting up and rubbing the tiredness from your eyes.

The area outside definitely wasn’t New York. You scanned around for any landmarks, eventually giving up when your sleep-addled brain couldn’t seem to string words together. “Where the hell are we?”

Bucky tugged you to your feet as you shook the last of the fatigue away. “Baltimore.”

You three wound your way through neighborhoods, eventually stopping in front of a house with a bright “No Trespassing” sign plastered behind a screen door. This felt like an intrusion of privacy.

It took a while, but after some back-and-forth, a young boy opened the door and allowed you to enter the home. As you tallied assets and obstacles, you spotted a few houseplants scattered around the living room.

A lone man stood in the kitchen.

“Isaiah?” Bucky asked. From the few details he’d mentioned, you’d gathered that they had had a battle when the Winter Soldier was still active. And seeing that the man was still alive, it appeared that he had won.

“Look at you,” he said.

“This is, uh, Sam and (Y/N). Sam, (Y/N), this is Isaiah. He was a hero. One of the ones that HYDRA feared the most. Like Steve. We met in ‘51.”

The older (younger?) man scoffed. “If by met, you mean I whooped your ass, then, yeah. We heard whispers he was on the peninsula, but everyone they sent after him, never came back. So the US military dropped me behind the line to go deal with him.” You watched Bucky’s expression carefully as his time as the Winter Soldier was discussed.

“I took half that metal arm in that fight in Goyang, but I see he’s managed to grow it back. I just wanted to see if he got the arm back. Or if he’d come to kill me.” You flinched at the harsh tone.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’m not a killer anymore.”

“You think you can wake up one day and decide who you wanna be? It doesn’t work like that. Well, maybe it does for folks like you.” Yours and Sam’s brows both furrowed. Was this about HYDRA, or about something more personal?

“Isaiah, the reason we’re here is because there’s more of you and me out there,” he warned.

The man frowned. “You and me,” he parroted sourly.

“And we need to know how,” Barnes finished. But Isaiah was having none of it.

“I’m not gonna talk about it anymore,” he bit, picking up a metal tin and throwing it. When the tin stuck halfway in the wall, you understood. An experiment to make a new super-soldier. You had heard that they’d all been unsuccessful.

“You know what they did to me for being a hero?” Isaiah asked as he approached. Even in his age, he stood tall. You should’ve suspected enhancement earlier. “They put my ass in jail for 30 years. People running tests, taking my blood, coming into my cell. Even your people weren’t done with me.” HYDRA. How had they managed to hide so well? What else did the organization manage to steal away in order to capture more recruits?

“Isaiah-” Sam began, cut off shortly after.

“Get out of my house!”

The teen ushered you three out, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Isaiah?” Sam demanded. “How could nobody bring him up?”

You let them both walk ahead, watching their six as they argued. Something felt off. You were forgetting something.

“I asked you a question, Bucky.”

“I know.”

“Steve doesn’t know about him?”

“He doesn’t. I’ve never told him.”

“So you’re telling me that there was a black super-soldier decades ago and nobody knew about it?”

You eyed a police car as it slowed down, passing down the relatively empty street. “Guys…” you muttered. An officer stepped out.

“What’s up, man?” Sam asked, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

“Is there a problem here?” One of them asked. You rolled your eyes.

Sam seemed to share your sentiment. “No, we’re just talking.” Bucky agreed as you stepped closer, hand reaching for the gun in your waistband.

“Can I see your ID?” a cop asked Sam. This was utter bullshit. You had to deal with Captain Righteous and racial profiling all in one day? Your brain didn’t have the patience.

“I don’t have ID. Why?”

“Man, seriously?”

A cop held a hand out towards Sam. “Okay, sir, just calm down.” Fed up, you glared at him.

“Do you know who this is?” you asked, waving your hands at the world-renowned superhero. After a brief exchange, his eyes widened.

“Oh, god, I am so sorry, Mr. Wilson. I didn’t recognize you without the goggles.” That was his excuse? You tuned him out as he blabbered on, still trying to put your finger on what you seemed to be forgetting. Man, you could swear your memory was getting shittier-

Memory. Brainwashing. Bucky’s therapy.

By the time you’d turned to him to remind him about his court-mandated therapy session taht you were 97.3% sure he’d missed, the other cop had already returned.

“Mr. Barnes, there’s a warrant out for your arrest.” The cop seemed nervous to even tell the ex-Winter Soldier.

Sam sighed and waved his hand. “Look, (Y/N) here got him an official pardon for all that.”

You groaned, mentally smacking yourself. “Not for that, he missed his court-mandated therapy. God, I completely forgot.”

The police officer nodded. “It’s like missing a check-in with your PO. I’m sorry Mr. Barnes, your under arrest.” as they handcuffed him (not like it would do much), you stood in front of him.

“God, Bucky, I’m sorry, I should’ve-”

He shrugged. “It’s fine, doll. Not like I’ve never been arrested before. You got me out of it last time, I can handle this one.” They led him to the car, and you couldn’t help but be paranoid. Maybe it was the whole SHIELD-is-actually-HYDRA deal, but a part of you wondered if HYDRA was still out there trying to get their best soldier back. What lengths would they go to?

“Hey, stop that,” Sam nudged you. “He’ll be fine. Even if he is a pain in the ass.”

———————————————————————

You waited impatiently in the lobby of the police station, pacing anxiously as hours passed. You had arrived long before Sam, and you were sure the poor young man at the desk was tired of you asking about “Sergeant James Barnes, ex-Winter Soldier and Avenger,” every time you lost count of the laps you’d taken around the dingy room.

A policewoman in the corner was mouthing words to her partner, something along the lines of, “Should we get someone to remove her? Maybe sedate her?”. She was right to be worried. You hadn’t touched any of the vending machines except to buy three Monster Energy Drinks that you had nursed intermittently throughout the four hours you waited. Your thoughts were probably reaching a new level by now. Maybe you had even ascended past Doctor Strange-

“Miss? Um, Sergeant Barnes is on his way.” You thanked the man profusely, chugging the rest of the can of pure caffeine. You were vaguely aware of Sam introducing himself to Dr. Raynor, Bucky’s therapist, but the humming of the lights seemed to be louder than their voices.

Then a clamoring of people along with photos being taken shook you from your post. John Walker, in the flesh and inconveniencing you again. You frowned as his footsteps approached.

Quite frankly, you didn’t care for whatever he had to say. All you knew was that he had pulled some strings and yanked Bucky out of the court-mandated therapy. It didn’t feel right. And then you picked up one sentence in particular.

“He’s too valuable of an asset to have tied up…” Maybe it was the caffeine, or maybe you were just 110% done with whatever shitshow you’d been dragged into, but you heard those words loud and clear.

“Excuse you?” you yelled over the bustle of the office. He spotted you and waved at you, oblivious to what he had just said. “I know you did not just call him an asset,” you muttered under your breath.

Dr. Raynor groaned before adjusting her bag. “James, condition of your release, session now. You too, Sam.” She turned to you. “Ms. (L/N), you’re welcome to pop in as well.”

While Sam initially resisted, you followed immediately. Extra information was always something you were up for.

The interrogation room was somehow more dingy than the lobby, everything in similar shades of grey. One harsh light hung from the ceiling. As she sat down on one side and the boys on the other, you stood in the corner.

Dr. Raynor slammed her notebook on the table. “So… Who would like to start?” A few moments of silence passed.

“All right, look, Dr. Raynor? I get it, why you want me to talk to Freaky Magoo over here. But I’m 100% fine,” Sam said.

“It is my job to make sure that you’re okay,” she said to Bucky. “And so, yeah, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it’s the only way that I can see if you’re getting over whatever’s eating at you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered. His reaction was odd to you, seeing as he had experience doing stuff just like this, almost from the other side of the table. You thought he would’ve been more open to the idea, but his expression read otherwise.

“Yeah, I agree,” Bucky grumbled.

“See?” the doctor asked. “Making progress already. So, who wants to go first?”

The silence was becoming unbearable.

“No volunteers? Wow. How surprising. Okay, we’re going to do an exercise. It’s something I use with couples when they are trying to figure out what kind of life they wanna build together.” You stifled a laugh as they both shook their heads. “Are you familiar with the miracle question?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, it goes like this. Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something that you would like to see that would make your life better?”

Bucky piped up. “In my miracle, he would… he would talk less.”

“Exactly what I was gonna say. Isn’t that ironic?”

Dr. Raynor looked at you as if to ask, “Are they always like this?” You nodded and she took a deep breath.

“You guys are leaving me with no choice. It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.” A smug grin grew on Barnes’s face.

“I like this one better,” he announced.

Sam laughed bitterly. “Oh, god. He’s gonna love this. This is right up your alley.”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Turn around. Face each other.”

“You should really enjoy this.”

“I’m going to.”

“I know you are.”

“Yeah.”

“Sam. Face each other, get close,” she instructed.

“Let’s do it. Let’s stare. This is a good exercise. Thanks, Doc.”

You raised a brow at the two. “Man, Dr. Raynor, is he this passive-aggressive in the sessions?”

“Ouch, doll, that hurts.”

“You’ll be fine.”

They both finally turned their chairs to face one another before Raynor told them to scoot closer. It devolved quickly, with Sam shoving their chairs uncomfortably close and having to interlock their legs.

“Now look at each other,” she said. “You need to look at each other in the eyes. There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.”

When neither of them broke eye contact and kept staring, the doctor looked at them confused. “Wait, what are you doing?”

You sighed, standing up and lightly smacking the backs of their heads. “Staring contest. Blink, come on.”

“Thank you. All right, James, why does Sam aggravate you?” When she saw his excited expression, she amended her statement. “And don’t say something childish.”

“Why did you give up that shield?”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?”

“Steve believed in you.” So that’s what this was about. “He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason. That’s shield, that is… that is everything he stood for. Still stands for. That’s his legacy. He gave you that shield, and you threw it away like it was nothing.”

“Shut up,” Sam growled.

“So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” Your breath hitched when his voice wavered. He slumped back in his seat, chest heaving.

Sam waited. “You finished?”

“…Yeah.”

“All right, good. Maybe this is something you or Steve will never understand. But can you accept that I did what I thought was right?” When he didn’t receive a response from the brunet, he scoffed. “You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this. We have some real serious shit going on. So how about this? I will squash it right now. We go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both can go on separate, long vacations and never see each other again.”

You huffed, blowing a wisp of hair from your face.

“I like that.”

“Great. Well, let’s get to work. Thanks, Doc, for making it weird. I feel much better. I’ll see you outside.” He tried to pat/slap Bucky’s arm, but only hit metal. He hid his wince before leaving abruptly, Bucky following suit shortly after.

“I’m worried about him,” you mumbled to Dr. Raynor. “Walker pulled him out of therapy and now we’re going on a mission… it doesn’t sit right with me.” She nodded in understanding. “I’ll see around, Dr. Raynor. Thanks for your work.”

Just before you left, she called for you. “He worries about you, too, you know? Never shuts up about it; it’s the only way I can get him to talk about his week.” You smiled at the idea of Bucky talking to her about you. Thanking her and slipping outside, you strode up to where he and Sam were standing near Walker and Hoskins.

“Well, the leader’s name’s Karli Morgenthau. We’ve been targeting civilians who’ve been helping Karli move from place to place.” Hoskins explained how the Flag Smashers evaded capture, mentioning that she was taking medicine to displaced persons’ camps. She was a Robin Hood.

“Where is she now, Walker? Do you know?” In the meanwhile, Bucky was slowly pressing every one of John Walker’s buttons he could find. He was leaning against a car, successfully blocking off an exit.

The Captain looked like a trapped animal. So he lashed out. “No, we don’t know, Bucky,” he said, voice raising. “It’s only a matter of time before we find out.”

“Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker?” His voice dropped, quieting down to prod at his insecurities.

Sam got in between the two before a fight broke out. “Take it easy. Look, Walker’s right. It is imperative that we find them and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and all kinds of authorizations you have to get.” You nodded, gesturing to your trio.

“We’re free agents,” you said, shrugging. “Plus, I have border immunity to get into places easier than going through proper borders. We’re more flexible. It wouldn’t make sense for us to work with you.”

“A word of advice, then,” Walker began, stepping far closer than you were comfortable with. “Stay the hell out of my way.”

You raised your chin. A challenge. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” He stared down at you.

“A warning.”

“You are very sensitive,” you mumbled before pushing him out of the way, joining Bucky and Sam as the three of you made your way down the street.

“So what are you thinking?” Sam asked as you left behind the duo.

“Well, I know what we have to do. When Isaiah said ‘my people’-“

Sam sighed. “Oh, don’t take that to heart. That’s not what he meant.”

“No,” he agreed. “He meant HYDRA. HYDRA used to be my people.”

“Same here,” you added reluctantly, suddenly realizing what he was implying. “You’re kidding.”

“Walker doesn’t have any leads, and he knows all of HYDRA’s secrets.”

You frowned. “Including mine.”

“Remember Siberia? Didn’t end too well for any of you,” Sam said, referencing how you’d returned in tears and the other three heroes battered and with multiple broken bones.

“He’s right, though. He’s our best bet,” you admitted.

“So you’re just gonna go sit in a room with this guy?”

Bucky hesitated. “I… yes.”

“Okay, then,” Sam concluded after a few moments of consideration. “We’re gonna go see Zemo.”

[pointandshooter]

Photo: David Castenson

"WIZZARD CLIP" (Wizard Clip)

by W. S. Laidley

West Virginia Historical Magazine Quarterly January 1904

From the "Eastern Pan-Handle" we take the following ancient ghost story.

“The earliest record of the story was written by Rev. Demetius A. Galletzen, whose memoirs were prepared in 1797, and about the same time, Mrs. Annella McSherry, wrote letters containing about the same facts, and since then there have been other papers written, all giving about the same facts, and the further fact that for fifty years the original name of the place was lost and it was only known as "Wizzard's Clipp," shows that the people there had no doubt of the facts related. The story gathered from the various publications is as follows:

Adam Livingston, becoming dissatisfied with his residence in Lancaster county, Penn., determined to remove to the State of Virginia, and carried his purpose into effect by the purchase of a house and lot in Smithfield, Va., and seventy acres contiguous thereto. This was about the year 1790. He had the reputation of being an honest and industrious farmer, of fair intelligence, and brought with him his wife and a family of three sons and four daughters, of whom Eve and Catherine are the only daughters and John and Henry the only sons who are referred to in any of these memoirs. Livingston continued to reside there without attracting any particular notice, until 1794, when a stranger, of middle age and of respectable appearance, made a visit to the place and was received as a boarder in his house. In a few days after the arrival of this traveler he was taken sick and as his illness became more threatening he called Livingston to his bedside, informed him that he was a Catholic, and inquired of him if there was not a priest somewhere in his neighborhood whose services he could procure, should his malady prove fatal, which he had reason to then fear it would. Livingston, who was an intensely bigoted member of the Lutheran church, very gruffly replied to him "that he knew of no priest in that neighborhood, and if there was one, he should never pass the threshold of his door.' The dying man repeated his entreaties for the spiritual aid of a Catholic priest, but Livingston was inexorable and refused to countenance his request. The stranger died, his name being unknown to his host, and there being nothing among his papers to throw any light upon his history.

On the night of his death Livingston employed a man by the name of Jacob Foster to sit up with the corpse. But so soon as the candles were lighted in the chamber of the dead, after giving a weak and flickering light, they went out and the room was left in darkness. They were relighted several times, supposing it to result from some remedial defect in the cradle, but with the same result. Livingston then brought two candles into the room which he had been using in his own family room, which were about one-third burnt down and which he knew to be good. But so soon as they were placed in the room with the corpse they became immediately extinguished. This so alarmed Foster that he abandoned his vigils and left the house. Fifty years ago the grave of the stranger could be distinctly pointed out.

On the night succeeding the burial the peace of Livingston was much disturbed by the apparent sound of horses galloping round his house. He frequently rose during the night - which was a beautiful moon-light night - to satisfy his mind. While he could distinctly hear the tramp of steeds, he could see nothing to assure him that it was anything more than a figment of his own imagination. In about a week afterward his barn was burnt and his cattle all died, the crockeryware in his house, without any visible agency, was thrown upon the floor and broken; his money disappeared; the heads of his turkeys and chickens dropped off; and chunks of burning wood would leap from the fireplace several feet out into the floor, endangering the building unless promptly replaced. Soon the annoyances, which were then destroying his peace, assumed a new form. The sound of a. large pair of shears could be distinctly heard in his house, clipping in the form of half moons and other curious figures, his blankets, sheets and counterpanes, boots and shoes, clothing, etc. This was all in one night, but the operation of clipping continued for upwards of three months, a small portion of it only being done at a time, but the inexorable shears never being silent twenty-four hours at a time. By this time the news of these strange proceedings was spread through the country for thirty miles around, and attracted in an especial manner the curiosity of the citizens of Smithfield. An old Presbyterian lady of Martinsburg, hearing of the clipping that was going on at Livingston's to satisfy her curiosity, she went to Livingston's house. Before entering the door she took from her head her new silk cap, wrapped it up in her silk handkerchief and put it in her pocket to save it from being clipped. After awhile she stepped out again to go home, and having drawn the handkerchief out of her pocket and opened it, found the cap cut in narrow ribbons.

Many other phenomena are stated and testified to by many witnesses. The long continuance of this mysterious clipping had now aroused the country for many miles around. Three daring and adventurous young men from Winchester came to Smithfield declaring their utter unbelief in the reports and offered to sleep in the house all night and to face the devil himself, if he were the author of these doings. But as soon as they became comfortably seated in the house, a large stone was seen to proceed from the fireplace and to whirl around the floor with great velocity, when they took to their heels and made their escape.

The condition of poor Livingston had become deplorable, he had lost much rest, and his imagination was so worked upon by his nocturnal visitor that his health began visibly to fail. He applied to three professed conjurers, but their incantations were all in vain. Shortly after this Livingston had a dream. He thought he was climbing a high mountain and had great difficulty in the ascent. He had to labor hard, catching at roots and bushes, and moving forward slowly by their aid. Reaching the summit, he saw an imposing personage, "dressed in robes," as he described it. After contemplating for some time the person in view, he heard a voice saying: "This is the man who can relieve you." His wife heard him groaning in his sleep and she waked him, thereupon he communicated to her his dream and said he did not know of any minister who wore robes, but he would make inquiry in the morning. The result of the inquiries led him to visit an Episcopal minister, who then resided in Winchester, but he derived little satisfaction from this visit, and returned home much disappointed. He was then advised to see the MeSherry family, who were Roman Catholics, and who resided in a very fine estate called "Releivement," about on mile each of Leetown, at which place the priest was often in the habit of stopping while discharging his spiritual functions in that neighborhood. Late in the evening of the same day Mrs. MeSherry saw a man coming to her home, she met him at the gate when he told her he wanted "to see the priest." She informed him that the priest was not at her house, but there would be church in Shepherdstown the following Sunday, when he would have an opportunity of seeing him. Mr. and Mrs. McSherry, in company with Mr. Minghini, went to church on the appointed day, and there they saw the man who had inquired for the priest, and who proved to be Livingston. As the priest appeared at the altar, dressed in commicles, Livingston seemed to be perfectly overcome. He wept bitterly, and exclaimed loud enough to be heard by the small congregation: "This is the very man I saw in my dream; he is the one that the voice told me would relieve me from my troubles." When the service was over, he promptly called on the priest and told him his sad story; but the priest, the Rev. Dennis Cahill, laughed at him and told him it must be some of his neighbors who were plaguing him, and that he must go home and keep a strict watch for them. Richard McSherry and Joseph Minghini, who were present at the interview, were much moved by the old man's tears and tried to comfort him. After much urgent persuasion. Father Cahill accompanied by Mr. McSherry and Mr. Minghini, agreed to visit Livingston's house and to inquire into the strange transactions which he had related. They found his story corroborated not only by the family, but by most of the people with whom they conversed in Smithfield. Father Cahill resorted to the remedy of sprinkling the house with holy writer, which did not, however, expel the troublesome visitor from the house, but it was followed by a deposit of the money, which had previously been taken away, on the doorsill. The strange clipping still continuing after that time it was determined by Father Cahill to have mass celebrated in the house, which was done, and Livingston was relieved from all annoyances of his ghostly visitor. From that time until he left Virginia he had frequent communications with the Spiritual world, and many facts are related where those communications were realized in a striking manner; but as these throw no light upon the simple historical fact which it is the purpose of this article to elucidate no further reference need be made to them.”

Note: This region of Virginia is now West Virginia, and the village is now named Middleway. 

online book: https://archive.org/details/mysteryofwizardc00fino/page/n13/mode/2up

[rinthehufflepuff]

Agent M pt. 1

Parings: Clintasha x Reader

Summary: You’ve been on the run for four years, never staying in one place too long, until you stumble across an abandoned house that seems the perfect place to bunker down in for the winter.  Just as you’re getting comfortable, however, and the seasons start to change, the homeowners appear and they are far different from anything you could have expected.

Warnings: Nothing but some mild panic and language in this part.

Word Count: 1983

A/N: So I’ve decided to try my hand at posting fanfics on here.  I’ve written on other websites, but never Tumblr and never with reader inserts.  I will have little warning tags at the start of each chapter when applicable (part six is written and edited and it’s gonna be marked to hell) so just keep an eye on those and hopefully, we can avoid any incidents.  Oh, and if you don’t have it already, I would suggest getting the InteractiveFics extension, it’ll make it just a bit easier when reading through.

You thought you had found the perfect place when you stumbled across the run-down farmhouse.  It was nearly half-an-hour away from the nearest town and situated on a fair amount of land with plenty of surrounding forest to disappear in if need be.  The house and land looked abandoned, though you couldn’t imagine why it would be when it looked like such a wonderful place.  Well, it would be wonderful once it was fixed up.

The cream paneling was more beige from the weather and was cracked in places.  The green-tiled roof had places where birds and other critters had nested and damaged the structure.  A few green window shutters limply hung where they should, but most of the windows were shattered or cracked and were missing their shutters.  The wrap around porch you had always dreamed of having had collapsed in places from rotted wood and the rickety stairs had rusted nails sticking out in the oddest places.  Nearly half the exterior had some sort of plant growing against it in some manner or another.

Inside wasn’t much better.  It looked like whoever the house had belonged to before being abandoned had gutted the place, tearing up whatever they had owned with no regard for the damage they had left behind.  Stray hooks and wires littered the wall along with random holes that you couldn't be sure the origin of.  Mold had taken a firm hold in what had probably once been the kitchen as well as the bathrooms.  The paint was chipped and peeling in every room, and there were some very odd-looking stains on the floor.  The only furniture in the house was a lumpy couch with exposed springs and a wire bed frame that looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.  The whole place smelled too, making it obvious that animals and the elements had been claiming the interior just as much as the exterior.

Still, it was better than sleeping on the ground outside with a tarp that tended to not completely shield you from the wind and rain.  With the November air becoming colder by the day, you were becoming desperate and the house was big enough you were sure you could find someplace to curl up and sleep without freezing to death.  

It took all of three days for you to decide that the house was less of a temporary situation and more of a semi-permanent situation.  You were running low on money and after finding a bike in the battered barn behind the house, you rode into town and found a job as a mechanic that would pay cash without too many questions asked.  It wasn’t the best job, your pay was lower than it should have been and you worked irregular hours because you were an unknown commodity in this town, but it paid for the bare essentials to keep you clean, fed, and warm.  Most of the money, though, you squirreled away for an emergency.  What you could afford to go without you adamantly avoided.  Most of your food came from setting up small traps around the house’s land, which also meant you could get a little more money off the pelts you skinned, out of dented cans from the dollar store, and discarded food you fished out of the dumpsters of grocery stores or restaurants.  It wasn't the most pleasant way to live, or the most comfortable, there were plenty days you had nearly nothing to eat, but it was far better than the life you had been living before.  Leaps and bounds better, and you wouldn’t change how you were living if it meant going back to that life.

When you weren’t working at the garage or scrounging for food, you were slowly repairing the house.

It had not been your intention to repair anything major, just the room you were staying in, but there was something so satisfying about fixing the dilapidated home that you found yourself doing random repairs for anything you could do without spending too much money.  At least, at first.  By January you were spending more on the house repairs than yourself and if you were in the house you were working on repairing it.  You didn’t bother to buy furniture or paint the walls or make it any more of a home, but you spent hours upon hours working on the main structure, making the fireplace functional, replacing the window panes one at a time, and fixing what you could of the roof from inside the house.  By February, the mold was gone as well as the wires and critters.  It still was not a place most people would want to live, but it looked worlds better than when you had first crept inside.  Without meaning to, you became attached to the house and you found yourself dreading the day you would have to leave and go back to camping in the woods.  At least no one else had appeared on the property while you were squatting there. 

Until one afternoon in the middle of March.

You were making your way back to the house from the river nearby when you felt like someone was watching you.  Shrugging it off and blaming the feeling on your near-constant paranoia, you left the safety of the woods and used the back door to get into the kitchen.  You hadn’t caught much, living on your own and being used to eating very little, you didn't need to, but you had managed to catch two catfish that would serve as lunch and dinner for the day.  Just as you were skinning it, you heard a creak from behind you and a smooth female voice.

“So, catfish for lunch?”  Gripping the knife, you spin to come nearly nose to nose with a very pretty, and slightly annoyed looking, redhead.  “I hope you’re making enough for all of us.”

You squeaked and tried to back up, but you just bumped into the counter where you had been working and you realized that you were effectively trapped unless you could dart to one side and run like hell.  But then you would lose all your belongings, meager as they were.  This wasn’t something you were prepared for.  Living in the woods?  Uncomfortable but doable.  Squatting in empty buildings when you thought you could get away with it?  Better than the woods when it was cold, but not by much.  Fixing things?  It didn’t matter what it was, you could make it better than before - somehow you could fix anything you touched.  A masters degree in electrical engineering and doctorate in mechanical engineering from Stanford helped.  Confrontation?  You were useless.  If it weren’t for the counter you were currently clinging to you would probably be on the floor.

“Awe, come on now, got nothing to say?  How about an introduction.”  When you don’t say anything, she grins.  It’s all teeth and harsh angles, and the woman looks like she could very easily tear you to sheds.  “Are we shy, or do we not speak English,” she purred, enjoying how your eyes darted around the space, desperately trying to find a quick exit to where you were keeping your things.

At the front of the house, you could hear the door open and close, something heavy hitting the floor, and the jangle of metal.  Chains?  Handcuffs?  She wasn’t wearing a police uniform, but that didn’t mean anything.  

“Nat, you camping in the living room?”  You flinched at the deeper voice as it echoed off the walls.

“No, it looks like we have a guest,” the woman - Nat - called back, not breaking eye contact with you.

“What do you mean- who the fuck are you,”  a man yelled,  rounding the corner, clad in combat clothing that has been torn and stained.  You did not recognize the emblem on his vest, but that didn’t mean anything either.  Burn marks and what looked like sutured stab wounds were littered across his muscular arms making him look even more intimidating.  The yelling did you in.  The boning knife you had been clutching in your hand clattered to the ground and you slid down and cowered against the cupboard, a ringing sound drowning out everything as your breathing went from a little quick to fast and shallow all at once.  The woman frowned and took a step back, yelling something in a language you didn’t understand, but it sounded harsh.  You screwed your eyes shut as a freezing feeling settled in your stomach and your throat felt like it closed off.  As the ringing got louder you clamped the heels of your hands over your ears.  But it was still there.  Ringing.  Yelling.  Screaming.  Crying.  The cold spread across your whole body as you shook.  Banging.  Crashing.  Smashing.  So cold.

And then you felt warm.  

Something heavy and warm pushed at your side and your legs, making you unfold a bit.  As soon as there was enough space, you felt the heavy warmth settle in your lap and nuzzle your face and arms.  It was soft.  Slowly, the noises subsided until you were left in silence and the numbing cold retreated.  You were still scared though.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay.”  Your eyes were still closed, but you knew it was the same male who had spoken, except his voice was much softer, barely above a whisper. 

Opening your eyes, you found both the redhead and the man crouched in front of you while a large golden retriever lay on your lap with his tongue lolling out of its mouth.

“That was one nasty attack,” the man said, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  “I promise we aren’t gonna hurt you, you just surprised me is all.  I kinda expected this place to be empty.  My name’s Clint, and this is my...friend Natasha.  That great lump there, in your lap, is Lucky.”

“This...this is your house.  Isn’t it,” you asked, focusing on the dog in your lap.  Lucky nudged his head into your hand, not so subtly asking for you to pet him.  Tentatively, you scratched his ear a little and he leaned into it.

“Yeah, though I’m guessing it’s more your place than mine by now.  How long’ve you been here?  I won’t be mad, it’s not like I’m here all that often.”

“Few months,” you whispered.  “Needed - needed someplace to keep warm.”

“So you’re homeless then,” Natasha asked, the bite gone out of her voice.  You nodded and she huffed, standing and leaving the room.  

“I’ll leave, it’s gettin’ warm out again,” you mutter, looking up a little so your eyes were trained on the bird emblem on Clint’s uniform.  “Promise I will - just don’t call the cops.  They...they…”

“Hey, I won’t call anyone,” Clint said, sitting fully on the floor and taking a quiver of arrows and a collapsed bow off his back.  “Natasha and I try to avoid local law enforcement whenever we can, makes a bit of a mess if we don’t.  Plus, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay.  Like I said, I’m not here much.  I’d have to talk to Natasha, and you’d have to, erm, agree to some terms, probably learn a thing or two while we’re here to teach you, but I’m more than fine with you keeping this place standing while I’m gone.”

“You don’t have to do any of that,” you frowned.  

“Maybe not, but you look like you’re comfortable here and I’d be a dick if I kicked you out.”

“You’re already a dick, Clint,” Natasha yelled from somewhere, obviously having been listening to the conversation.  “She can stay, but she’s gotta help clean this dump.”

“Well, I guess that settles that then,” Clint chuckles.  “So, first things first, what’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you Y/N.  Now, Nat said something about catfish…”

Tags are open!  Message me to be added.

Part 2!

[thepunisher]

A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes | E | 14765 words | 2/? |

ao3 link

Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years. (Not him. He can’t even take care of himself.) There’s names and dates and pictures. There’s quotes. Beloved mother. He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he’s still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more. OR On the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1 |  Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Haunting TW: Panic Attack

8. I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen. I don’t know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it. It’s the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment.

Doc Luben, 14 lines from love letters or suicide notes

He jolts awake, a scream on his lips, gasping for breath, heart pounding inside his chest.

He's disoriented at first, frantic, not making any sense of the bed, the room, the ceiling. It takes a few seconds to place where he is, but the realization does nothing to quiet the roar in his ears.

(He's still falling. Falling, falling, falling. There's no stopping, there's no ground beneath him, there's no air. He's surrounded by darkness.)

He struggles to free himself from the covers, their weight, their texture impossibly unbearable for his too sensitive skin. He only manages to tumble off the bed, sheets still tangled around his legs and his movements are too frenzied and uncoordinated, it takes him a minute to get them off. And then he's crawling a few paces away, throwing them off of himself as if they were on fire.

(He is on fire.)

He folds himself in half on the floor, head between his legs, arms hugging his knees, wheezing.

The taste of ozone lingers on his mouth each time he sucks in a breath.

He can hear Friday's soothing voice over the loud buzzing of his brain, but he can't make out the words she's saying. He squeezes his eyes shut.

(He's in a cave. He's in space. He's in a bunker.)

It'll pass.

(He's dead. They're all dead. He killed them. They killed him.)

Panic attacks can only last for so long. The body cannot withstand that kind of pressure for over a certain amount of time.

It's not helpful knowledge when a minute lasts a lifetime. When his hands shake so hard he has to force them into tight fists. When even breathing is a task he fails at.

He rocks himself back and forth, eyes wet.

(It'll pass.)

When it's gone, when his muscles stop spasming and he lets himself fall backwards, head dropping to the floor with a thud, each nerve ending almost fried - when it's done, and Tony is a person again and not a bundle of white noise, he lets out a long exhale and closes his eyes.

Centuries later, he becomes aware of the cold sweat drying on his skin, his threadbare tank top clinging to him like a second skin, wet and uncomfortable; the glass of water he knocked off the bedside table, shards everywhere; the digital clock blinking 2:34am in angry red. The exhaustion a dead weight on his soul.

He stands up on wobbly legs, and waits a few seconds to make sure he won't topple over before putting one foot in front of the other with uttermost care. He dumps his shirt on the floor along with his boxers as he walks to the bathroom unsteadily, the marble cold under his bare feet.

He doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't pause at the mirror. He hops in the shower and he doesn't wait for the water to reach a comfortable temperature before throwing himself under its spray. It's freezing at first, but he doesn't really register it. Soon it's so hot it's scalding, but Tony doesn't move. He stands there, water pouring over his head, pasting his hair to his forehead, and down his body, painting his skin red. He braces one hand on the wall, the contact the only thing keeping him upright and for the longest time he just watches the water drains, not really seeing it.

He's used to nightmares and he's used to panic attacks. He's good at neither.

(He's not good at much these days.)

There's no light at the end of some tunnels. No getting out of some locked rooms. Some tunnels you start to decorate. Some rooms you settle in.

Some darkness, you feel at home in.

There's no way in hell he's going to go back to sleep, nor face the mess he left in the room. The mess inside his head. So Tony gets out of the shower and grabs a fluffy white towel, doing a poor job of patting himself dry, its soft fibres still too harsh on his skin.

He bypasses the bed and goes straight for the closet, grabbing a graphic shirt at random and putting on a pair of well worn jeans over clean underwear.

Lights still off, he heads down to the workshop.

Time to tinker.

Dum-E stirs from his charging station when he enters, and greets him with a whirring sound. Tony pats him on the head, ignoring the countless cardboard boxes scattered all over, covering most worktables and moves towards one of the few free spots, sitting on a bench.

“Give me some music, Fri,” he says, and as Friday complies, the room is filled with too loud hard rock. Loud enough that he can't hear himself think.

With a flick of his wrist a project appears in a flash of blue light. He takes apart something irrelevant, something of no consequence. He just needs to keep his hands busy, his brain on stand by.

It's not long before one of the monitors that takes up an entire wall bleeps an alert. The algorithms are always running in the background and, every once in awhile, a false positive throws him off, but more often than not, though not as often as he would like, something very real pops up.

He spends some time sorting through the incoming data, analysing blueprints, confronting stats to form a half coherent plan of action, and even longer debating whether he should wait for a day in which he's not in such turmoil - why bother? - or for a moment in which his hands won't tremble anymore - a waste of time.

Fourteen missions, four months, hundreds of files, dozens of junk and memorabilia.

He put together crumbs bit by bit, and yet something is always missing. He doesn't know what will take to complete his puzzle, or if there's no closure to be had and he's just deluding himself and what he's searching for are not facts and pieces, but just a reason wake up in the morning.

But there's no choice to make, not really. He only spares a second to strip and put on the underarmor, the black fabric fitting him like a glove.

It's gonna take him a little less than two hours to reach Oregon, if he pushes it. Plenty of time to catch his breath.

----------------------

The building is massive and block-like, a monstrous thing that seems to sprout from the ground, and it's the only form of civilization hidden between miles and miles of vegetation. An iron fence circles its perimeter, with old cameras mounted every hundred yard or so, most of them busted.

Nothing looks particularly recent in terms of tech, but Tony takes no chances, Friday running every scan, keeping an eye out for silent alarms and explosives. Three of the five Hydra bases he raided between December and January had been burned down to a crisp quite recently. One was still smoking when he got there.

Tony doesn't know if Hydra is just covering its tracks, aware that someone is targeting their old hideouts, or if he needs to look out for a new player, but there's no harm in being overly cautious.

It's a child's game getting past the fence and the main gate. Getting inside the grid and looping the security cameras feed, just in case, is a couple of minutes’ job and after that he easily makes his way to the subterranean floors, quiet as a mouse, his black and golden armor almost invisible in the dark.

Nothing jumps out of the shadows and no guards appear out of thin air to attack him. The place reeks of abandonment.

Level -1 is a labyrinth he can navigate only thanks to the blueprints he acquired, each hallway the same as the one before, a long stretch of dust and concrete, the air stale.

His reactors light the way as Friday doesn't detect any heat signature in proximity, close or otherwise. The place has been deserted for at least a decade. Everything is silent except for the mute mechanical whirring of the armor joints as he moves.

The doors are big and heavy, and it'd be satisfying to blow them up with a small well placed missile, but he's not 100% sure of what's on the other side.

Tony discovered the wrong way Hydra's predilection for booby traps.

The security system is old but solid, and it takes him a good five minutes to hack into the panel controlling the lock and work his way around it. The doors slide open with a loud screeching sound of metal striding, and he holds his breath, but no alarm breeches the night.

He detects a strong smell of mold even through the faceplate filters as soon as he steps over the threshold. The room spacious, its surface almost entirely occupied by cabinets.

“Jackpot,” Tony says, using a gauntlet to lighten the place enough to see.

Some cabinets are sideways, a few on the floor, gutted, drawers spilling their contents like entrails. Most have faded labels, and he can't find any logical sorting system as he looks around.

“Friday?” he calls.

“All clear, boss.”

He lets the suit disassemble behind him. He's gonna need patience and his dexterity to find anything remotely useful in this mess.

“Sentry mode,” he says, and the armor takes its place behind him, ever vigilant.

He takes a small torchlight from one of the suit’s compartments and puts it in his mouth, teeth clicking, opening a drawer at random from the cabinet nearest to him.

All the folders are pretty much irrelevant. Contracts, properties, business transactions, some over fifty years old, paper turned yellow with age. Some corporate names look familiar, and he takes pictures, making a mental note to check on their current status. It's tedious but necessary work, and with a sigh, he moves on to another drawer, another cabinet.

He's not even sure what he's looking for, not really, but he knows he's gonna find something. Hacking his way online has been pretty much useless so far. Hydra is good at what it does, always has been. But this is one of the bases where they kept him , and if experience taught him anything, it’s that they always left something behind.

Forty minutes later, neck sore and eyes dry, he stiffens, shoulders going tight, stomach dropping under his feet, as he recognises the first name in hundreds he must have read so far.

Stane.

A large sum of money addressed to one Obadiah Stane, May 12th, 1987.

When his heart starts beating again, Tony hurries through the pages, paper whistling between his fingers. Schematics for weapons, guns, bombs. Stark Industries prototypes. More checks. 1985, 1989. 1990.

It's ridiculous how a strip of black ink has the power to turn his insides into molten lava. How a string of words and numbers can turn him into stone.

He has come to terms with Stane’s corruption a long time ago, or at least he thought he had.

But then he sees it, December 16th, 1991.

He sees it and he stops breathing, pain gripping his chest in a vice. He stumbles back, torchlight falling to the floor.

His back hits a cabinet, and the metal rattles loudly in the silence, almost as loud as his heart.

He made a working version of the serum. Barnes’ words echo in his mind. Hydra wanted it and they wanted him dead. That's why.

It has drilled a hole inside his brain for over two months cause how, how had Hydra known about the serum, when Howard was so secretive about his projects? And how could they have known when and where to attack and to take it? Howard was a lot of things, but he was not careless.

Deep down he had known. Deep down Tony had always known, the thought like a virus nagging at the back of his mind, corrupting his memories.

Was he thinking about the money when he hugged Tony in the middle of the night, whispering soothing words to a son who had just lost his parents? Did he go home twirling his moustache in glee because he had taken a threat out of the equation? A rival? A pawn.

One he had used as long as it suited him, just like he had Tony.

It’s just another betrayal he expected and yet is not prepared for. All these months hunting Hydra down, carrying his one man crusade, trying to understand, trying to erase. Trying to move forward.

(There's no moving forward. There's only the past coming full circle, eating its own tail.)

He pushes himself upright, hoping to find more files in some other folders, but the cabinet he was leaning on falls backward and finds the floor with a loud bang.

Nothing happens for the longest second, and his shoulders drop in relief, when all the lights turn on suddenly, bathing the room in white-blue neon.

Tony barely even flinches, retinas burning, before something flies over his head and starts shooting. The drawer where his hand just was, covered in holes, shredded papers exploding in the air like confetti.

The suit engages immediately as Tony runs to take cover, repulsors blasting several times, their target moving swiftly in a zigzag motion before getting hit and falling to the floor heavily.

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, as two more flying robots enter the room, spraying bullets.

“Friday!” he yells, and the armor tries to dodge and attack, several cabinets bursting in flames when it misses its mark.

Tony holds his breath and crawls his way out of the line of fire, clutching the Stane folder in one hand, so tightly he's creasing the sheets.

Two gun shots resonate loudly in the room, and a moment later he hears something hit the ground. He turns to see both robots on the floor, unmoving.

When he looks towards the doorway it's to see the snout of a rifle, gunmetal still smoking.

“What the fuck,” Tony finds himself saying in disbelief, as his gaze runs past the weapon and finds metal fingers on the trigger and one intense blue eyed stare.

Barnes advances with sure strides, swinging his rifle left and right, checking the perimeter. He's wearing his tactical gear, black from head to toe, combat boots silent as he shortens the distance between them.

For a second, Tony is half afraid he's facing Hydra’s executioner again, but Barnes doesn't shoot again.

“Take what you came here for, and hurry. We gotta go,” he says instead, voice quiet and commanding when he's a few steps away.

“What the fuck,” Tony repeats a little less breathy but no less stunned.

“They know someone's here. You tripped an alarm,” Barnes says. “There's more incoming.”

What the fuck, he refrains to say for a third time, knowing it would not be enough to convey his stupor.

“So, you are following me,” Tony manages when he finds his voice again, pointing an accusing finger.

“So not the time, Stark,” Barnes replies, eyes darting across the room with focused precision, searching for threats.

“Oh, I think it's the perfect time. What the hell is going on? Why are you here? How did you know I was here?

Barnes sighs, takes advantage of the moment of relative peace, no psychotic drones attacking. “Rhodes was worried about you.”

Tony sputters. “Rhodey asked you to follow me?”

The cabinet on his left rattles, bullets piercing it in rapid succession and turning it into a colander, the sound so loud Tony’s ears ring. He doesn't have time to react before Barnes is on him, pushing Tony behind him with enough force Tony's sure Barnes must have left a handprint on his chest. With Tony behind him, Barnes raises his left arm like a shield, bullets bouncing off of it.

Tony sees Barnes grunt and stagger back a couple of steps before pointing his rifle so fast it's a blur and shooting the bot off with perfect accuracy.

He doesn't have time to protest nor to process the fact that Bucky fucking Barnes apparently just saved his life, before five more bots appear.

Tony wastes no time and hops into the suit, taking care of one with a couple of well placed hits.

When he finishes disposing the second one, he turns just in time to see Barnes shooting one off, arm steady, aim never wavering before leaping high enough to grab another one off the air and pulling it apart with his bare hands. He throws a knife across the room at the third and last bot. It hits it dead centre, and the bot falls noisily, while Tony is hovering uselessly.

He’s grateful for his faceplate cause he's quite sure his mouth has been hanging open for the past minute at least.

There's no point in denying even to himself that it's almost fascinating watching Barnes fight, the calibrated precision with which he moves, each blow hitting its target perfectly, no wastes. Something about it reminds him of Natasha.

He heard from Rhodey that the two spar quite often together.

(He hears from Rhodey more than he would care to know.)

He's still staring when an increasingly faster beeping noise fills the room. He looks around frantic and his eyes fall on the angry red lights flashing in all the bots.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing himself on Barnes, with no hesitation, lifting him off his feet and flying as fast as he can, hoping to get away in time.

He's not fast enough. The explosion finds them when they’re almost out of the building, propelling them both forward and throwing them violently against a wall.

Tony barely has time to flip their positions to catch the worst of the impact, thinking his armor surely is better protection than combat gears.

His head hurts and the hud flickers, making him dizzier. He groans, managing to sit on all fours.

Plaster falls all around them, but the fire doesn't consume the upper levels.

Barnes grunts, gets up on unsure legs. He pauses for a handful of heartbeats, hand on the wall to steady himself, eyes closed.

When he opens them again he stands straighter. “We need to leave,” he says, already walking towards the gates. “The bots activated when you tripped the alarm. Hydra would have been alerted. They're probably on their way already.”

“See, you keep saying that,” Tony says, prissy. “But how do I know it wasn't you who tripped the alarm, Mr. Brooding Stalker.”

Barnes levels him with a stare. “I'm the Winter Soldier, Stark. I don't trip alarms. Beside, I know this base. I was kept here for a while.”

Tony doesn't say, I know. He doesn't say, that's one of the reasons I'm here. He doesn't mention the stasis room he found when he explored the building earlier. Doesn't say he got claustrophobic just by looking at the cryo chamber.

He clears his throat instead. “You still haven't said why you're here,” he says, and his left boot keeps sputtering, hud marking it in angry red.

“Flying system compromised,” Friday informs him, and he could compensate with his other boot and his repulsors. It would be an uncomfortable flight, but he could make it. He drops to the ground instead and starts walking, falling two steps behind Barnes.

“Rhodes was concerned about you. But he doesn't know I'm here. I’d like to keep it that way.” He's pensive for a moment. “He doesn't know you're here either.”

“So why are you here?” Tony asks.

“This may come as a huge surprise to you, but believe it or not, you're not the only one with a grudge against Hydra.”

Too many thoughts go through his mind too fast to grasp, too inconsistent to follow through. There's a lot he feels he should say and even more he knows he shouldn't.

In the end, Tony says nothing, and they keep on walking away from the building at a brisk pace, vegetation getting tighter around them.

“It still doesn't explain why you're following me,” he says, some time later.

“I'm not.”

Tony snorts.

“We got more in common than you think,” Barnes says cryptically, before abruptly turning left.

(He knows.)

“That's my ride,” Barnes says, and he doesn't wait for a reply.

Tony follows.

Amidst a clearing in the mass of trees, he can see some flickering, the tell tale sign of retro reflective panels.

They both board the Quinjet in silence, automatic door closing behind them.

“I'm probably gonna pass out soon,” Barnes says, as soon as they do, tone almost conversational.

Tony whips around in time to see him stumble and lean heavily against the wall.

“What?” Tony asks. “What do you mean ‘pass out’? Why would you pass out?”

Barnes is breathing heavily, both arms clutching his middle. It's eerily terrifying how wholly different he seems from the focused machine he was while fighting, he was until now. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut off. When he takes one hand away, the flesh one, it comes away crimson.

For a moment, Tony can't make sense of it. “Why the hell are you bleeding?” he almost yells, getting out of the suit and coming to Barnes fast, slapping his hands away to take a look himself.

There's several holes in the fabric of his vest.

Bullet holes.

He never noticed the blood in the dark, the black of Barnes’ uniform masking it. Barnes had never wavered inside the archive. Never stumbled once.

Tony’s mind reviews the entire fight in a matter of seconds. Barnes shooting bots, Barnes taking them apart with brute force. Barnes shielding him.

He falters, heart fluttering inside his chest like a hummingbird’s wings.

He must have been hit protecting him.

“Why the fuck is this not bulletproof?” Tony asks, distress making his voice higher than he would like.

“It is,” Barnes says, through gritted teeth.

“Does this look bulletproof to you?”

“I'll be fine. It's just superficial. The kevlar must have absorbed most of the impact.”

“Oh, sure. You look totally fine.”

“Stark,” Barnes tries, but Tony is not really listening.

“Oh my god, Steve is gonna kill me.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing the length of the plane.

How could he explain that he never even knew Barnes was with him? That it wasn't him who shot him? How can he take him back to the compound when, according to Barnes, no one even knew he left? Would anyone listen?

He knows how it would look, no matter the truth. Steve's concerned stare back at the Christmas party is still too fresh in his mind.

“Stark,” repeats Barnes, a little more forcefully.

Tony doesn't hear him. “Scratch that! Rhodey is gonna kill me first.”

He's been working so hard trying to build a bridge between all of them, trying to build a team again. How to tell him that he's been working on his own behind his back for months and he got Barnes hurt in the process?

He's not ready to give up his hunt.

“I'm gonna kill you, if you don't pull yourself together,” Barnes mutters.

It gets Tony’s attention, grounding him. He turns to Barnes.

“Yeah, you already tried that. Didn't really work out for you, did it,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he intended. None of this would be happening if Barnes had just minded his own business.

Barnes is quiet for a while. “I never tried to kill you,” he says, dead serious.

“Right,” Tony says drily.

“I never tried to kill you,” Barnes repeats. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”

Something in the flatness of his tone bothers Tony.

His breathing is labored, his left hand leaning on the wall denting the metal.

“We need to take off,” Tony says, letting go. They wasted too much time already. Barnes needs medical attention and he doesn't want to be here when Hydra shows up.

“Can you fly this thing?” Barnes ask. “I'd rather not, but I will if you can't.”

Tony scoffs. “I designed this thing.”

He reaches for Barnes again, putting one arm under his, supporting him as they advance towards the seats of the cockpit, Barnes’ long hair tickling his cheek.

It's the closest they've ever been, no murderous rage between them, no armor.

For a fleeting second he thinks he can smell a whiff of coconut. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, good for you. But can you fly it?” Barnes asks, through gritted teeth. Tony has no idea how he's still standing, let alone talking.

“Put pressure on the wounds,” he says as Barnes sits heavily in the chair next to the pilot’s. Tony helps him strap himself in before heading over to the pilot seat and starting a fast flight check.

“I can fly anything,” he says distractedly, when he's satisfied.

Barnes makes a sound that resembles a snort. He coughs after. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.”

Tony stops mid motion, he’s so stunned he turns around, mouth hanging open. “Did you just-- was that a Star Wars reference?”

“Stark. For fuck's sake,” Barnes says, but there's something that looks like a small smile on his lips. It soften his features.

“Right. Priorities. Friday?”

“All set up, boss,” comes from the speakers.

“Then takes us home, Fri. To the Mansion. Maximum stealth,” he orders, and they take off smoothly, the engines a soft humming under their feet.

Five minutes in, the Big Empty already a dot behind them, he engages the autopilot and walks to Barnes.

He's sitting with his eyes closed, brows furrowed, hands tightly gripping the armrests.

“Alright. Take your top off,” Tony says, gesturing to the uniform. He needs to assess the gravity of the situation.

Barnes opens one eye, looks at Tony up and down. “I usually require a little more romancing than this, before putting out.”

Tony blinks stupidly a couple of times, caught off guard, brain stuttering. He swallows. It's probably the blood loss, he figures. He clears his throat. “Yeah, well,” he says, lamely, but Barnes is already freeing himself from the safety belts and he's unfastening his tac vest.

He barely flinches when he lifts his arms over his head to take the black thermal off, but he doesn't make a sound even though he must be in incredible pain.

“I'll be fine,” he repeats as Tony takes in the state of his abdomen, where four tiny holes mar his skin, rivulets of blood flowing slowly, soaking the top of his pants, though not as copiously as he would have imagined. “I've had worse. I'll take care of it myself once we land.”

“How would you like ‘moron died of shock’ on your gravestone?” Tony asks. “You started healing around the bullets already,” he adds, inspecting the wounds, trying really hard not to pay attention to anything else, definitely not eyeing the angry looking scarring on his left shoulder, where the vibranium arm meets his flesh. “We need to take them out.”

His fingers hover lightly over Barnes stomach  without him even noticing. Barnes’ muscles contract when he goes to touch it and Tony halts himself mid motion, hurriedly withdrawing his hand. When he looks up, Barnes has an expression he can't read on his face.

Tony clears his throat again.

“I'm gonna get the first aid kit,” he says, and gets away as fast as he can, his heart skipping a beat inside his chest.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

(Too many things to choose from.)

It's been a long day, he tells himself.

(The sun is just rising.)

He comes back with the medical box and sets himself comfortably, pushing his seat next to Barnes’. He cleans his hands as best as he can with the hand sanitizer before putting on sterile gloves. He disinfects a pair of surgical tweezers before pouring antiseptic over Barnes’ middle. Barnes goes rigid under him, abs tensing, but once again, he makes no sound.

Tony doesn't like it. He wants to shake him, he wants to tell him to scream, to show some emotion, to react. That he's allowed to.

It's not his place though, so he says nothing.

“My hands are not very steady,” is the only warning he gives before he starts working.

One bullet is easy enough to extract, and within a few minutes, he places it into a container near the kit, where it hits the bottom with a clicking sound.

“I wasn't trying to kill you,” Barnes says, some time later, when Tony is struggling to grab the second bullet.

Tony stops what he's doing and looks at Barnes, confused. Was he so concentrated on his task that he missed the conversation?

“In Siberia,” Barnes clarifies. “I was just trying to stop you from doing something you would regret.”

He makes a sound, shakes his head. He doesn't look at Tony. “No, that's not entirely true. I was also trying not to die. I guess my sense of self preservation is something I can't turn off.”

Tony says nothing.

After a long moment he goes back to the bullet.

“Not so sure I would have regretted it,” he hears himself say, not taking his eyes off that strip of skin.

There's a fragile thing between them, a truce that feels like a glass bubble, and he knows that it would break if he were to look him in the eyes.

“I'm the killer, not you.”

Tony snorts. “Hate to break this to you, but I'm pretty sure my body count is a tad bigger than even yours.”

He drops the second bullet with the first. Dive in for the third one.

“I was a sniper. Before Hydra. I was a sniper in the army,” Barnes says adamantly. Like it's important for him to prove that he has always been a monster.

Take a number, Tony thinks.

“And I was a weapon manufacturer,” he says, a bit more forcefully than he intends, voice dripping venom.

“And how many of those weapons did you fire?” comes softly, almost gently.

Tony doesn't reply, because that never mattered. Anything he ever created is his responsibility. Has always been. He wasted decades drinking and partying, trying to fill a black hole that just kept on sucking the life out of him, uncaring of the world, of his work, of his legacy. And that legacy had only brought death, with his name stamped on, while he was too busy trying to have a good time to notice.

Tony clears his throat a third time.

“I think this is beyond my medical knowledge.”

The two remaining bullets are lodged too deep inside and he doesn't want to risk doing more damage by probing blindly. The wounds are clear, no ragged edges, no broken parts. He doesn't like leaving him with a job half done, but he'd rather not turn something seemingly easily fixed into a mess.

At least they don't seem to have hit any major organ. Even the bleeding has stopped.

He cleans the wounds as best as he can and covers them with gauze.

“You're gonna need someone more qualified to take a look,” he says.

Barnes shrugs, turns away.

The moment is over.

“Friday, call Dr Cho.”

“Calling,” Friday says, and the dial tone fills the cabin.

“Hello?” comes sleepily from the other end.

“Helen, hey,” Tony says, getting up, putting some distance between him and Barnes, tone jovial. “I'm gonna need a favor.”

[whenimawakeandwhenimasleep]

A non-exhaustive list of things that Adam Parrish loves:

-           Those Saturdays when his shift begins really late and he gets to sleep in. It’s even better if he ends up in the Barns on Friday and stays over. Ronan’s bed is really wide and for some reason it’s never cold. Many things in the Barns seem to emanate a gentle warmth: beds, blankets, the floor, sweaters, light. Ronan’s body at night when Adam holds onto him and buries his face between Ronan’s shoulder blades, the tattoo radiating heat as hot roots and talons and leaves brush against his skin. It’s a sort of warmth he never got enjoy as a child.

 -          They share clothes. Not because Ronan takes pity on him. At least it doesn’t feel like it and Adam doesn’t know whether it’s him or the world that is changing. It’s a shirt and trackies after Adam takes a shower in the Barns after work. It’s Ronan tossing him an extra sweater when they’re curled up on the sofa and playing Superhot. It’s some old parka that Adam snatches from the coat rack on their way out to see a newborn calf on a cold morning. It’s darned wool socks Adam finds in a drawer in January, all worn out and fuzzed up, but almost the right size.

 -          When Gansey brings up Noah. Finally someone does, Adam thinks and is ashamed that it wasn’t him. The absence of Noah’s sparkling, fiery, shabby humanity has been eating away everything in the edges of them and their friendship; it’s a widening singularity inside them that nobody has been able to address. Not until Gansey mentions his name again. Ronan is raw and ripped into pieces, barely holding any good days in his hands as it is. Blue cries and yells and goes to lie down in Noah’s bedroom, a taboo shrine none of them have dared to visit, pulling Gansey in her wake. Adam finds Ronan once again in the BMW, the metal vessel of grief. All is terrible then but it starts to get better after that. They get to talk about him again. Laugh about all the things they want to remember. Also seize the things they don’t want to remember. When Blue and Gansey tell Henry about him, Adam doesn’t feel so resentful because it doesn’t feel like they are giving up on Noah.

 -          After a while, the cards begin to make sense again. He doesn’t feel the violent current of Gabeswater inside his palms as he reads them. However, they don’t look like a unclear blur of images anymore, either. When he spreads the cards on the table in front of him, they align and form bodies and lines before his eyes; he sees an endless number of golden ratios, a universe that is a bit more managable. Maura asks him about them as they are looking at the cards together and he does his best to explain how sensible and cyclic it is. Maura laughs and wonders aloud how Persephone could have had such an analysist as an apprentice. Calla smiles drily and piles up her tea leaves on her saucer. Perfect circles, perfect proportions, her numbers and her figures. Adam swears he sees Persephone shine through her smile.

-          The little peculiar dream objects they find on their walks around the Barns. Sometimes they are Niall’s dream things that Ronan wants to hold and then discard; look for a while but then put away in secret hiding places. Every now and then, they stumble upon something that Ronan dreamt as a child: toy animals and small rodents, flowers that never wilt, slingshots with an impossibly long range. Adam usually knows immediately when they find something that came from the younger dreamer’s mind. They are as beautiful and kind and wonderful as Ronan and when he points that out to his boyfriend, he gets a sour glare (and later that night, a heated kiss).

 -          Come summer, most of the weight that has been pressing down his posture all his life is gone. He has graduated and got a full ride to his number one college. All he has been reaching for for years is now in his grasp. It leaves so many hours in his days that he doesn’t what to do with it. An abundance of time unknown to him. First he sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, but there is only so many days that can be spent dreaming. Especially now that his reality is so much better than anything his mind could produce. They run around the estate and take care of Ronan’s hens and sheep. They go out to Nino’s and Monmouth and 300 Fox Way and everywhere in Henrietta that they didn’t get to go on their quest. They stay up and watch films and TV series and make out on the couch. They fight and fight and fight, but never break. Somehow, the years he lost and never had is something new he’s reaching for.

 -          At times, there’s nothing tender in Ronan and him. They kiss, they caress and they touch gently, but then there’s another dimension in their relationship as well. It’s a dimension of sharpness and power. They refuse to abandon the speed and impact that forged them together by Gansey’s side and there are days when they still get bruised and bleeding on empty parking lots. They battle for the Xbox controller and end up rolling on the floor. They shove and pull each other when they race towards the driver’s side of BMW. And when Declan and Matthew come to the Barns for summer break, they have a wrestle season outside in the yard like he’s never seen. Ronan against Adam is brutal, just the right side of too competitive and he is silently so thankful that Ronan doesn’t treat him like a broken thing. Matthew is nothing like his big brother and wrestling him is like engaging in a long, confused hug that ends in a jovial handshake. Declan starts out cruel and Adam knows straight away what it is. Their match has a serious tone to it, a study of character and their love for Ronan.  It takes all he has to fare against a Lynch, but he knows how to get his message through. After a long scuffle, the tension dissipates and only then is Adam willing to give up.

 -          There is always a way back for him. Ronan never pushes him and he never pushes himself, but every time he keeps returning. Ronan is there on the porch to welcome him to the Barns, but at the same time Adam can always be sure that their lives go on while he’s away. He is needed but there’s no sword hanging over his head, just tender hands and endlessly wondrous days. Ronan and his dreams. Opal and home and safety. A future he gets to figure out on his own and with his family.  

[goldfishpainter-blog]

Yesterday in therapy I told the story of the last days with Sophie and my first days of incapacitating mental illness, just before I was officially diagnosed. I was surprised at how upset I became in therapy, and by the clarity of my often faulty memory. Timeline was:

  I started to feel like I was becoming invisible in October, right after I started dating Sophie, right when I turned 19.

  My depression increased. I started to disappear.

By Christmas, I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn’t know what. I remember saying “Something is really wrong with me,” to my mom when I came home for Christmas break. When my folks drove me to Austin at the New Year to put me on a plane back to Ohio, my dad gave me a giant teddy bear in the parking lot, and I hugged him and cried very hard. My mom took a picture of us that I have here in my house. Our eyes are red, even though we’re smiling. His arm is around my shoulder, and we both look like we’re holding our breath.

  January was something called “Winter Term,” which exists because it’s basically too cold to live in Ohio in January. The campus empties out. Everyone did an individual project during Winter Term, appropriately called a “Winter Term Project,” and you could complete your project anywhere in the world. Oberlin is mostly wealthy, so students would do their projects in Hawaii or Barbados or Portugal. Wherever they wanted, basically. A tiny minority of students would stay on campus, so the ice-laden, snow-covered campus stayed partially open. The libraries had some limited operating hours, and one of the cafeterias was kept functioning. I chose a listening/research project on mezzo-sopranos of the last century. My roommate, Laura, went away somewhere for the month, so Sophie and I had a giant room to ourselves. We hid inside, only leaving to find food or go to the conservatory to research. Baldwin had a large, round practice room on the first floor with a piano in it, directly below my own round room, so we didn’t even need to go to the conservatory to practice. There were two places near us that delivered food: a Chinese place on Main Street and a Dominos about 30 miles away. With temperatures severely below zero, it was worth the money and the wait to not have to leave the house. We binge-watched TV and movies on her laptop, ate takeout, and existed naked with the radiators cranked. The sky was only ever grey or black.

  I started to think that I would marry this girl, and soon after I had that thought, I started feeling stressed and trapped. I didn’t think I’d ever be strong enough to leave her. There were things I didn’t like, but I felt so stuck. I was madly in love, and marriage seemed like an inevitability, but I had the sense that I was too young and hadn’t been with enough people yet, seen enough of my life, or learned enough about myself to be happy making that lifelong commitment. Then I started to get sick.

  It started with stomach pain that turned into nausea and vomiting. I went to the doctor, got lots of tests done (including a CAT scan and a vaginal ultrasound), and wound up with a diagnosis of an ulcer, polycystic ovarian syndrome, and interstitial cystitis. I did have cysts on my ovaries, but one correct diagnosis out of three is a pretty low success rate. The gyno who did my pelvic exam said I had a bladder condition, prescribed legal speed, and sent me on my way.

  The first day on that stimulant was the night I became furious with myself in a conservatory practice room, blacked out (also known as having a dissociative fugue) and walked several miles out of town. When I came to, I called campus Safety and Security officers to drive out and pick me up. I got back to the dorm, popped two hydrocodone (my first attempt at self-medication), and stood outside of my room looking at the doorknob, feeling like there was a pane of glass between my outstretched hand and the door that I couldn’t possibly penetrate.

  At some point, I found out my stomach pain, combined with my psychological symptoms, could be bipolar disorder. I made an appointment with a psychiatrist, went in to be assessed, told him about my perfectly practical and achievable plan to hang myself in an abandoned barn I’d found with a ladder and an electrical cord, and he sent me to a psychiatric unit for violent offenders in Lorain, Ohio. I stayed for 4 days and then came home with a Neurontin prescription and no diagnosis.

  At 2:30 AM one night, Sophie got really sick and needed to go to the hospital overnight. The prescription speed and a missed night’s sleep started the true psychotic break, which you’ve heard all about. When I came to a moment of functionality around 4 pm the next day, I called my mom and said (again) “I’m not okay.” She told me to find someone to drive me to the airport at 5, that she would book a flight immediately, and to give her Sophie’s phone number.

  On the drive to the airport, the blue sky was heavily dotted with bright white clouds that had the same texture as my mom’s fluffy scrambled eggs.  I could hear them singing to each other. By that point in the day, my psychosis had completely enveloped me, to the point of adjustment. It wasn’t at all frightening; the heavens were singing to me. I am not a religious person, but my psychosis has frequently taken on a literalist interpretation of angels, Satan, spirits, hell, and heaven (so far).

  On the plane a few hours later, I was watching the Johnny Cash in-flight movie from the aisle seat. Next to me sat a man in his 40s with glasses, a button-down shirt, and khakis with a phone holster attached. Total white-guy dad. He was bouncing his 2-year-old son on his knee to distract and comfort the baby boy from popping ears and irritating confinement and boredom.

  About halfway through the movie, I started to see a red glow in my peripheral vision where the man was seated. I turned to look at him and his eyes glowed red. I could see red light surrounding him, and his hands grew long claws from the fingertips. He was still bouncing the baby boy on his knee, holding onto him tightly with those terrifying claws. I knew in my bones that I was sitting next to Satan. I didn’t know what to do. I called the flight attendant but was afraid to speak when she came to me. He was going to hurt that little boy, he was going to drag me to hell with him, and I thought about screaming for help, but couldn’t see how anyone else on the plane could possibly save me from Satan, himself. As I looked around in a panic, I felt the floor beneath my feet drop away, and when I looked down between my feet, I saw 30,000 feet of empty space between me and the carpet of blackness and lights that make up a city from above at nighttime. My feet were swinging freely. My seatbelt seemed a laughable precaution. No one else noticed, so I stared straight ahead with tears raging down my face. I thought it best just to try to act the same as everyone around me. Surely the judgment of the many was currently better than my own.

  I came home confused and in pain, still wanting to kill myself. My mom called every psychiatrist in town, and the nearest appointment was 6 months out. She convinced me that the fastest way to get help was to go to DePaul, the local psychiatric hospital. I seized a moment of doubt in my plan to off myself, and I told her to take me, quickly, before I changed my mind. We got in the car two minutes later. I didn’t even pack.

  I already had one horrifying hospital experience under my belt that included living with real-life murderers and armed guards stationed at locked doors holding rifles with two hands. The threat this new hospital posed was made more significant in my mind through projection. By about one hour in, I was a wreck. I went into my very first mixed-state episode. It was hell. Literal hell. Eternal, unyielding suffering. I had no idea that episodes pass. I’d never had one before. I thought this was life now, that I was finally just broken, and that I no longer had a choice to live. I was in hell.

  Suicide would make it stop. I knew that much. It was the only move I had left.

  I double wrapped my phone charger around my neck and wrapped the other end around the top hinge on the bathroom door. I kicked a chair out from under me, but the jerk didn’t break my neck, so instead, I started to suffocate. My vision started to go white when I saw a shadow and heard someone screaming “help!” Someone grabbed me around the middle and lifted me up to take the pressure off of my neck. I felt cold scissors against my throat and hear a snapping sound of then cutting my charger’s cord. I took one deep breath in and started screaming.

  I screamed. I wailed. I remember being partially removed, as if I was standing across the room, observing. I remember thinking that I sounded like a wounded wolf. I was screaming because they had cheated me. I had the answer. I even had the courage to commit to the answer. And they stole it. How could they do that to me? It seemed like the cruelest thing they could have possibly done.

           I lost Sophie a few days later when I got out of one-to-one observation. She broke up with me over the phone. When I called her and admitted to my attempt, she was rightfully terrified and overwhelmed. Mental illnesses had doomed and then ended the relationship, which is no one’s fault. I lost my mind and my first adult relationship at approximately the same time. This order of events is not unavoidable, but it’s also not uncommon. Many others who live with mental illness have experienced this themselves.

  Lately, I’m not doing so great. I’m having more severe symptoms than I’ve had in years and some of the things that are happening take me back to these memories. All of this happened over a decade ago. The 13th anniversary of my first suicide attempt is in 2 months.

  While the symptoms are becoming severe, the coping skills I have are now strong enough to provide some solace and structure. Still, even with great tools to use, it often hurts like hell, and I’m terrified of going back to the place I was in 13 years ago. I don’t want to have a full psychotic break, be hospitalized, attempt suicide, or lose my relationship.

  I have skills now. I have a support system. I have medical care. I have a partner in life. I have 13 years of experience in keeping myself alive. I have amassed a wealth of helpful components to cope with my illnesses.

  I have to fact-check. There are worse things than having a psychotic break. There are worse things than going to the hospital. There is no evidence that I will attempt suicide. There is no evidence that I will lose my relationship.

  Cope. Fact-check. Ask for help. Go to the doctor.

  I know what to do. I’ve done this before.

  Memories That Almost Break Me Yesterday in therapy I told the story of the last days with Sophie and my first days of incapacitating mental illness, just before I was officially diagnosed.