#and when you ask what therapy can do you only get vague gestures in response

[korovamlecznybar]

wishing i never tried to get an autism diagnosis

[whirlybirbs]

          (  this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan​ from this beautiful set !  )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

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You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

                                      ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, ��You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness.  

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, “Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

[between-two-fandoms]

Infections

AO3 LINK Rating: Teen Words: 2,003 Fandom: Stranger Things Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson Tags: Stranger Things 4 Spoilers, S4 E7 Coda, Missing Scene, Steve Harrington Angst, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Alternate Universe, Not Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Angst AO3 LINK

STRANGER THINGS 4 SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

Steve woke up to the warmth of another body pressed against him in bed. At first he didn’t think much of it. He often found himself in the presence of beautiful women in the mornings. In fact, Steve wouldn’t have even thought anything was wrong with the picture until he opened his eyes.

Eddie Munson was staring back at him.

“Morning beautiful,” Eddie said with a smirk that could only mean one thing. Steve's mind flashed back to the night before. After they got rescued from the Upside Down Steve felt… a connection between them. Eddie was the one who invited him over - under the guise of not wanting to be alone. There might have been some truth to the statement but Steve wasn’t stupid. Steve squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his arm. When he opened them again Eddie was still lying next to him wearing nothing but a muscle shirt and a pair of boxers. Come to think of it, the only thing Steve was wearing was a pair of shorts. “You can relax man, nothing happened last night.”

“What?” Steve asked, wincing as his dry and cracked morning voice filled the air. Eddie yawned as he rolled over and stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “What do you mean nothing happened last night?” Steve tried to stand up as well but was met with a splitting pain in his abdomen. He let out a groan and shifted to sitting up, leaning against Eddie’s headrest. Eddie let out a chuckle then walked to his closet. He opened it then dug around for a few minutes. When he turned back around he was holding an old pillowcase and a first aid kit.

“Your brain’s going a million miles a second Harrington,” Eddie said. He kicked his closet door shut then walked back over to the bed. He sat off to the side, leaving Steve enough personal space. “We didn’t fuck if that’s what you’re thinking.” Eddie used scissors from the shitty first aid kit to cut off the fabric Nancy tied around him in the Upside Down. Steve let out a choked cough and flushed a deep shade of red down his neck. 

“That’s not what - I mean I - um -” Steve hated how easily he got tongue tied around Eddie. He could talk shit all he wanted but he knew the truth, hidden in the depths of his soul. He was bisexual and Eddie constantly sent him into a painic. At first he thought he was jealous of Eddie because Dustin took an immediate liking to the man. Eventually - through many biwakening therapy sessions with Robin - Steve realized he had a repressed crush on the dude. 

Waking up next to him wearing barely any clothes after a traumatic incident definitely didn’t help him much. “Hey princess, take a deep breath for me,” Eddie said as he cleaned Steve’s wounds. Steve’s mind short circuited at being called princess but he managed to find enough self control to not freak out. “Robin will be by in a few hours. She said she had to ditch the kids. She figured you wouldn’t want them to see you like um…” Eddie gestured vaguely up and down Steve’s chest. Steve chuckled weakly and nodded in response.

“Like I got mauled by a colony of Demon Bats?” Steve let out a hiss when Eddie pressed an alcohol pad against one of the open wounds. Steve tried to remember what happened in the Upside Down leading up to getting rescued but most of it was a blur. The Demon Bats really did a number on him - he still felt woozy thinking about it. “Nancy,” Steve said when the memory flashed across his mind. “Nancy fuck we have to -” Steve tried to stand up but Eddie pushed him back into the bed. The mattress squeaked under the shifting weight.

“Nope, you’re staying right here. Doctor’s orders,” Eddie said. He saluted Steve with a wink. Eddie chucked the now bloody chunk of cloth into the trash then cut himself a new piece out of the pillowcase. “Just sit still and let me do this Captain Crazy.” Eddie was more gentle this time around. At least, as gentle as he could be while cleaning out Steve’s wounds. “Nancy was… she wasn’t killed by the wizard dude. It was different with her. Dustin said the dark wizard has was interested in Nancy ‘cause she was smart or whatever.”

“So she still might be alive,” Steve said with a hint of hope in his voice. Where the Upside Down is concerned, hope could be a dangerous thing but it was Nancy. Steve couldn’t let Wheeler’s sister die because she jumped into the hellhole to save him. Steve let out a heavy sigh and leaned back into the flat pillow between him and the trailer wall. “Where are we? This isn’t your place is it?” Steve asked, realizing Eddie’s house must still be swarmed by cops. Eddie shook his head with a small smile on his face. He reached up and combed hair away from Steve’s eyes with his fingers.

“Nah this isn’t my place. It used to belong to a friend. We’re in the west end of the woods right now. Only Robin and I can find it at least for now. I’m sure your kids will figure something out. Fucking little genius’s they are,” Eddie mumbled the last bit. He set the first aid kit on the ground and took a swig out of an open alcohol bottle on the small bedside table. Steve laughed then let out another pained groan.

“Oh don’t make me laugh,” Steve said as he defensively wrapped an arm around the patches of missing flesh in his stomach. “How bad does it actually look? It can’t be worse than when Max’s brother laid it out on me.” Eddie froze slightly at the mention of Billy then finished up cleaning off the wounds. Eddie threw the bloodied gauze patches into the garbage can. “Eddie?” Steve asked softly, suddenly a bit more concerned.

“I’m not a certified nurse or anything,” Eddie started. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking a bit stressed. “Whatever those Demon Bats did to you… I think it’s spreading. Or maybe it’s some kind of an infection?” Eddie asked hesitantly. He grabbed an old dusty mirror and held it up for Steve to see himself. 

He’s definitely looked better that’s for sure. Steve could also be one hundred percent certain he’s going to get an earful from Robin for not telling them how much it hurt. To be fair he only felt pain when the first bat attacked him. Afterwards Steve’s adrenaline was stronger than his pain tolerance. “Damn,” Steve winced when he gently ran his finger over an infected looking area. “Eddie I can’t die,” Steve said. His voice sounded sore and weak. 

“Relax Harrington, I'm not going to let you die,” Eddie promised. He reached out and squeezed Steve’s shoulder reassuringly. “If I do then I’ll take over as babysitter alright?” Steve hesitated then nodded. He let his eyes flutter shut and relaxed the best he could. The patches of flesh the bats ripped out of him were turning a ghastly shade of purple and yellow around the edges. “The bright side is that the Demon Bats must have cauterized the wounds when they clawed at you with some freaky demon power stuff,” Eddie reported. He took a few pictures using an instant photo camera then set them on the alarm clock to set. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sound of crickets filling the air. Steve let out a heavy sigh and reached out to wrap his fingers around the hem of Eddie’s shirt. “I don’t want any of them to know,” Steve said quietly. Eddie glanced up from rooting around in the first aid kit. 

“Steve, they'll find out anyway. I don’t want to -”

“No, listen to me.” Steve curled his fingers around Eddie’s shirt tighter. “I’m not worth worrying about. They’ll get too caught up with me and lose sight of the bigger picture.” Steve took a shaky breath as he pulled himself up, hanging his legs over the side of the low mattress. “Eddie, I know it’s a lot to ask. Hell you’re probably still processing the fact that monsters are real.” Steve held Eddie’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Max, Nancy, everyone else - they’re more important. Once we defeat Vecna I’ll tell them.”

“If you’re still alive by then,” Eddie said with a dark expression on his face. Steve looked at his wounds and saw the infection was already spreading throughout his veins. “Dude it’s your call but if Robin finds out you’re keeping secrets she’ll kill me.” Steve shook his head with a soft smile on his face.

“I know you’ll keep Dustin safe if I’m gone. Robin will go through hell and back before anything happens to the kids.” Steve took a few deep breaths to control his breathing. “They can’t afford to lose anyone else. I don’t know how the hell we’re going to defeat Vecna without El.” Steve hated how childlike and whiny he sounded but honestly he didn’t know what to do anymore. Eddie helped coax Steve back into the bed, laying him down on the lumpy mattress. 

“Judging by the fact you guys have fought creatures from this Rightside Up place for the past four years I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re King Steve afterall,” Eddie said with a hint of bittersweetness. He wrapped gauze and cotton around Steve’s stomach, careful not to make it tight around his ribs. “Look if I’m being real with you… you’re nothing like you were back in high school. I may have judged Henderson too harshly. He talked about you all the time during Hellfire. “What would Steve do? He’d kickass with his nail bat. No he’d spend twenty minutes doing his hair Then kickass.” Eddie wedged himself onto the bed next to Steve. 

“They don’t need another thing to freak out about,” Steve repeated. He wasn’t budging on his choice. They were sixteen year olds for crying out loud. The kids should be worried about Turnabout or Homecoming, not whether or not a nightmare demon monster will wreak havoc again. “I’ll tell them eventually just… not right now.” Steve winced in pain when he tried to sit up more. Eddie sighed and shook his head, but he wrapped an arm around Steve and tugged him closer.

“Well we better get used to the idea of seeing each other around. How’s your wrap?” Eddie asked, sticking on the last piece of medical tape. Steve shrugged and waved his hand from side to side horizontally.

“Eh, I’ve seen better. Not bad for a Boy Scout,” Steve joked. He leaned into Eddie more, letting himself slowly relax after a stressful morning. Eddie frowned slightly and nudged him with his elbow.

“What do you mean not bad for a Boy Scout?” Eddie asked, actually sounding confused. Steve laughed and pressed his face into Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember us being in the same Boy Scout Troop.” Steve smiled against Eddie’s shoulder. “You know, that’s about when I had my first queer panic too.” Steve bit his tongue and burrowed himself as much as he could into Eddie. After a few agonizingly long seconds passed Eddie sighed and pressed his lips to the top of Steve’s head.

“I’m honored I was your queerwakening Harrington.” Eddie gently pulled Steve out of his hiding spot. “We can talk about this later,” Eddie promised. He seemed like he actually cared about Steve’s well being. It was strange, having someone who cared about him. Nancy was good but she… as much as Steve hated to admit it she was more of a fling if anything. After how she treated him Steve couldn’t bring himself to care about what she thought of him anymore. Eddie was… different. More than being new Munson actually made Steve feel loved. 

[codename-adler]

...dance 'til you find someone to die for...

What if instead of Seth, Riko tried to get rid of Aaron?

Chapter 19 ♟️ [table of contents]

(CW: implied mental health issues, mention of group therapy, angst, mention of Drake Spear)

Kevin quietly closed the door to their dorm behind them. Them being him and Aaron, and Katelyn. Kevin had rarely felt more out of place than he did now, in the shared area between the living room and the kitchen, but he had nowhere else to go. Still, he tried to make a move to leave, towards his room, but was stopped before he could disappear completely.

"Where are you going?" Aaron spoke up, his eyes seeking Kevin's.

"...Bed," was all Kevin could manage, his hand vaguely gesturing in the air, looking nowhere in particular. When their eyes finally met, a tension established itself. Aaron's eyes were almost... pleading. For what, Kevin couldn't seem to grasp.

"You can... stay," Aaron said, throat thick with some emotion. "I want... I... Let's make lunch. We're all hungry."

He didn't ask if they were hungry. It didn’t seem to matter, though. Without missing a beat, Katelyn moved towards the fridge and proceeded to look through its content. With her back purposely turned to them, she gave them a chance to communicate.

Why do you need me to stay, Kevin's eyes asked.

I'm afraid, Aaron's answered.

Kevin nodded. When Katelyn turned back around and deposited the ingredients she'd found on the counter, she quietly asked them, "Soup?" Kevin nodded, again; Aaron washed his hands. While he innocently had his back turned, it was Kevin and Katelyn's turn to communicate. It was a strange experience, to be able to do that with a stranger.

Who are you, Katelyn's eyes asked, Who is he? her gaze moved to Aaron’s figure.

Talk to him, Kevin's answered.

Katelyn closed her eyes, exhaled, agreed. Kevin nodded, once more. "Aaron," Kevin spoke aloud. "I'll go looking for an apron. You know you need it."

Aaron's only response was to lower his head, knuckles white around the sink, defeat and resignation weighing down on his sagging shoulders.

Kevin walked backwards for a few step, making sure he was doing the right thing, before turning away completely when Katelyn showed him a small, sad, but grateful smile.

"He's so not subtle, the stupid asshole," Aaron mumbled.

"He's looking out for you," Katelyn replied.

"He's looking out for himself," Aaron corrected her.

"You can't really believe that–"

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do."

Katelyn closed her mouth with a pop. She let Aaron cool off before answering. "I deserved that."

"No, I– No, you didn't," Aaron said.

She let him calm down some more, before speaking up. "I'm okay, Aaron. Are you?"

"I– How long have you been back?" Aaron chose to reply.

"Two days. Callie gave me the news as soon as she heard, and I was able to go early."

"Oh. So you know."

"So I know."

Silence filled the room. Aaron broke it, unable to withstand its deafening presence. "Are you really okay?"

"I– No. I'm not fixed. I don't think I'll ever be fixed. But I'm better. It's... I can talk to you about it, some other time, if you still wanna know. Right now I don't think I can... And I don't think it's a good time for you either. I have, uh, group therapy, starting in a few days, now that I'm out... I– I'll be okay. I just... really wanted to see you..." Katelyn said.

"Katelyn. I took a life."

"And you saved mine."

Aaron's eyes widened. He hadn't expected her to be okay with what he'd done. What he'd done to Drake, but also what he'd done to her. Putting her there, leaving her there... There was a reason he doubted his helpfulness with Kevin's problems.

Not that it's the same situation.

Like, at all.

"Do you... Do want to tell me something? Not that you have to! Like, now, or later, or, um, never... It's just– I do. Have something to tell you. Things, plural, actually. But. I don't want to... overwhelm you. Or be a bother," Katelyn managed to say.

Aaron looked at her. Really looked at her. "You're not a bother, Kate. You could never be. You never were. I think... Yeah, I'll listen."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Okay. Okay. Tell me when to stop. I'll stop, promise,” Katelyn rushed out, breaths shallow. “The first thing I need to tell you is... I'm sorry. I know, I know. Neither of us had control over what happened that night, and it's not my fault, I know that. But it wasn't yours either. You didn't deserve that. I hate that I put you in that situation. So I'm saying this because you deserve the recognition, the gratitude, the respect. So I'm sorry. I can only hope for your forgiveness, but that's not what I'm aiming for here. I just want you to be free... I have many, many things I'd like to apologize for... I wrote you some letters, you know? A hundred and five. I never intended to send them to you, or to even show them to you, yet thinking about it now... You deserve to have the choice. To know or not. Just say the word and I'll hand them over. For now, though, I'll leave it at that: I'm sorry."

Aaron felt the lump in his throat grow with each word Katelyn spoke, but he didn't dare interrupt her. He’s not sure he could have even if he'd tried. He wanted to hear.

"The second thing is... Well, I'd like to help. What's been happening since I've been gone... It's... It's scaring me, because I know something is going on, and it's hurting you. Callie always told me what she knew when she came to visit, but I know she didn't have the whole story. Not that you have to tell me anything! I'll back off if you want me to. I just... I'm on your side. Always. I want to help you in any way I can."

Aaron stared at her, debating involving her or not in the mess of his life... There was too much to consider. "I'll... talk with the others. That's all I can say right now. But maybe... Stick close to Callie? She's fine, she's not a threat, but if you're up to it... Watch over her," Aaron offered.

"I will. I will."

Katelyn started playing with her fingers, her eyes cast down. Although he wished he didn't know her so well, Aaron knew these were the tell-tale signs that Katelyn's eyes were about to water.

Like clockwork, Katelyn looked up, to the ceiling, trying to stop her tears from falling.

"Kate... What is it?"

"It's... I don't want to ask, but I– I just need to know. So I can breathe."

Oh.

Oh no.

Please don't ask.

Please, please don't ask

"Are we still us?"

Why did you ask.

Why did you have to ask.

"I–" Aaron started.

"Tell me, no bullshit. I don't need to know why or why not. Just yes or no."

Aaron watched her, this impossibly tough and breathtaking woman, this infinitely kind and selfless woman, and thought that he'd be a fool to let her go. But not as much of a fool as holding on to her when he knew, in his mind, in his poor heart, that when this upcoming storm of his would hit, really hit, he wouldn't look for her. Not anymore.

So he had no choice.

"No," Aaron answered her.

It hurt less than it should have, but still more than he thought it would.

"Thank you. Thank you, Aaron. For everything. You were amazing," Katelyn whispered, her tears finally falling and choking her up.

"That doesn't mean I'm shutting you out, though. You could never not be part of my life. I'll always... care for you. It's just gonna be a little different from now on, right?" Aaron said.

"Yeah... Yes, of course. You're right. I just... Oh god, I'm gonna sound so selfish... Can I– Can we have one last kiss? I don't– I don't remember the last one we had... I wish I did, so I didn't have to ask for this–" Katelyn started to ask before being interrupted.

"Come here," Aaron said.

Aaron stepped closer, and delicately lifted her chin with his thumb. He looked into her beautiful ocean eyes, where deep blue mixed with salted water, and found it himself to give her a proper goodbye. He found her nose first with his, gently nuzzled against it, before his lips found hers.

It was like tearing a wound open to make it heal better. He gave her one deep, selfless kiss, before breaking apart. Katelyn rested her forehead against his, her eyes still tightly shut from the kiss.

"I love you," she said. It was Aaron's turn to close his eyes, his face scrunching in pain. "Don't say it back. This is for me. For you," she added. Then she let herself fall into his arms and bury her nose in the crook of his neck.

For the last time, Aaron smelled her hair, her soft, cherry-scented, red hair. For the last time, Katelyn squeezed him tighter. For the last time, she kissed him behind his ear.

And there, she whispered, "I love you, Aaron Minyard”, for the last time.

Then she was gone.

Aaron was beyond exhausted. So exhausted, he entered his room without remembering Kevin had been hiding there.

"Ah! What the fuck, man?" Aaron yelled.

"I live here, dude! You saw me like, half an hour ago!" Kevin yelled back.

Aaron only glared in response.

"You cried," Kevin observed.

Aaron lifted his hand to his cheek, wiping of the foreign tears. "They're not mine," Aaron mumbled.

"You made her cry?" Kevin asked in disbelief.

"Shut the fuck up or so help me–"

"Are you such a bad kisser you made her cry?" Kevin taunted.

"Kevin..." Aaron's voice broke.

"What?"

"We're not talking about this."

Kevin looked like he wanted to push some more, but decided against it when he saw the look of pure fatigue on Aaron's face. "I'll be right back," he said instead.

He went into the kitchen and found a promising can of tuna, mayo, some not-crunchy-at-all celery and 3 remaining slices of wheat bread.

He hadn't heard a thing of what Katelyn and Aaron had said, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious, but it was mostly because, well, he wanted to know how to deal with Aaron.

What are you hiding, Aaron?

Just tell me everything.

After slicing the sandwich in 4 triangles, Kevin tossed some baby carrots on the side of the plate and called it a hors-d'oeuvre. However, when he stepped back into their room, Aaron was rolled up into his covers, his arm clutching his pillow, his face buried in it.

Kevin went to sit beside him, and nudged Aaron's form with the plate. "Eat," he commanded him

"Don't wanna," Aaron replied, his words muffled in his pillow.

"You big baby. I'm not gonna feed you," Kevin said.

Aaron lifted his head at that, looking Kevin in the eye and clenching his jaw.

"Why are you so difficult," Kevin sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just eat the damn thing, Minyard. It won't kill you."

Kevin didn't know it was possible, but Aaron clenched his jaw even tighter

"Oh my god, fine!" Kevin grumbled.

He took one piece of sandwich and lifted it to Aaron's mouth. Aaron didn't open. Kevin, emboldened and annoyed, pushed the triangle piece right against Aaron's lips. Aaron still didn't open up.

"I will not sing you a nursery rhyme. I will not do the airplane. Just fucking it eat already, you shithead. You absolute–"

Kevin was cut off by Aaron biting into the tuna sandwich. Stunned, Kevin could only watch him finish the whole piece in two bites. Then Aaron waited.. And then, Aaron opened his mouth, expectant.

"You man child," Kevin cursed.

But he kept on feeding Aaron the little triangular sandwich bites, until he'd eaten the whole thing. Aaron flat-out refused to eat the carrots, because vegetables. Kevin ate them himself, cursing Aaron under his breath as he angrily bit into the sticks.

After they were both finished, Aaron spoke up. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what."

"You know what."

"Because no one will ever believe you if you tell them."

"You enjoy my frustration," Aaron stated, morose.

"I do," Kevin admitted, and after a while, he added, "But I don't enjoy your sadness. That's why."

(read on Ao3 here !)

[nat-20s]

what’s poppin everyone please have this fun lil writing warmup/short story inspired by me thinking “Dancing in the Moonlight” was definitely 100% about werewolves

~*~

“So, this your first transformation?”

The counselor? Leader? Tour guide? Asked this with a perfectly jovial tone, as if the typical social mores surrounding, ugh, lycanthropy, didn’t apply to her. They didn’t know what exact title to call her, and her name tag just said “Luna”, which, reflecting on it, either was a joke on her part or a reflection of her parents’ sense of humor.

Picking at the scabs from last month, they cringed and replied, “No. Uh. Second.”

Luna lets out a low whistle. “Oof. That sucks. Guessing you got bitten rather than inherited the ol’ wolfman gene?”

“That’s...kind of personal?”

Unlocking the front door of the log cabin that served as King Harvest’s Headquarters, Luna shrugs and says, “Shit, sorry. Forgot the whole weird stigma around your source of the once monthly nightmare, as if it fuckin matters. Also, I know, I know, ass out of you and me. Hey, you got any dietary restrictions? Gluten, peanut allergies, the like?”

Voice flat, they tell her, “I’m vegetarian,” and waits for the obvious response.

As they wander through the cabin towards the kitchen, Luna flipping on the light switches, generic club music starts to filter in. Instead of the obvious response, Luna asks, “You like veggie burgers? Or maybe pasta? I’d offer salad, but that’s really not gonna cut it for tonight.”

“I ate before I came.”

With a snort, she tells them, “Oh yeah? Did you have about 4000 calories?”

“No? Why would I have?”

Sweeping out her arm, she gestures at the food laying out on the counter and tells them, “Then eat up! 4000 is really a minimum for the night if you don’t want to feel like someone physically beat out all of your energy in the morning. 6000 is more the target area, but we got, hmm, about 15 minutes before things get uncomfortable, and half an hour max before things get dire.”

They glance down to the food, and, admittedly, the broccoli alfredo does look pretty appealing. Still, they have to ask, “Is this a cult?”

Luna lets out a bark of a laugh that has nothing to do with her (maybe) being a werewolf. “Okay, first of all, what kind of cult is like ‘fuck yeah, we’re a cult’? Secondly, despite the first thing, I can say that we’re not a cult. I know how “King Harvest: Center for Movement Therapy” sounds, both clinical and vague enough to be suspicious as hell, but I didn’t come up with the title, blame my long deceased dad for that one. Plus, ‘King Harvest: Bitchin’ Wolf Dance House’ probably wouldn’t look good on the grant applications.”

“Grants?”

“Oh yeah. This bad boy’s been publicly funded since its opening in 1972. Hence no membership fees.”

“Is that why animal control is giving out your business card? Are they one of your sponsors?”

“Nah, that’s just Jack. Me ‘n’ him go way back, hell, to his park ranger days.  I mean, yeah, I think he’ll campaign for us, but mostly I think he just hates capturing a wolf in the night only to have a naked, trembling human in the morning, and he knows that our program significantly reduces the odds of that happening, at least in this neck of the woods.”

They let out a hum, then glance back down to the food. As appealing as it down look, they’re still about..30% convinced this is an elaborate organ harvesting operation. Or sketchy sex thing.

Apparently sensing their hesitation, Luna says, “You got a favorite chip?”

“Salt and vinegar.”

Grabbing a sealed family sized bag from the overhead cabinets, Luna tosses it to them. “If you come back next full moon, either eat enough in advance or have a real meal here. That being said, excuse the turn of phrase, you should wolf that down. It’s sure as hell better than nothing.”

They catch it, and the bag opens with a puff of air that speaks to a reassuring lack of tampering. As they toss a chip into their mouth, Luna grabs a water bottle from the fridge and places it down next to them. “So? Any questions for me? We’ve still got about ten minutes before we have to go out there.”

Rolling their eyes, they tell her, “No. None at all.”

“Great! Soon as you’re done eating we’ll get you started.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Yeah, no shit, smart-ass. Seriously, what are your, we haven’t got much time.”

“I don’t know? The whole..thing? I mean, how is it supposed to..work? Like? At all?”

“You ever see Amok Time?”

“Is that relevant?”

“It’s a yes or no question babe.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then the explanation is going to be a lot more technical and take a lot longer, ultimately to likely make less sense.”

“...I’ve seen it.”

“Great! So, Pon Farr is basically this chemical blood imbalance that results in fuck or die disorder, yeah? But then Spock neither fucks nor dies, and eventually the vulcans get their shit together and find out that an intense fight can serve the same function, and the blood fever chills out. Lycanthropy operates on a similar enough basis for comparison. You’re compelled to act out on energetically heavy base instincts, returning to the ways of the wolf or whatever. Traditionally, that’s done through running and hunting, which has, historically, been a crapshoot at best. Theoretically, sex can also get the job done, but I’m sure you can imagine how that gets extremely dicey extremely quickly. Either restraints or isolation has been implemented for a while, but, c’mon, they’re bandaid solutions, and they’re far from foolproof. Luckily for us all, my grandmother decided to connect back with her ancestors, and there was a handful of stories having huge festivals to deal with ‘moon violence’. She tried it out, and, yeah, dancing works.”

“That sounds…”

They don’t know how that sounds. Made up, mostly.

“Like a bunch of hippie bullshit? Yeah, it kind of is, Grandma Josephine was a huge hippie, but it’s hippie bullshit that works. In fact, let’s go see the others, it almost always makes things clearer.”

Figuring that whatever they’re about to see can’t be worse than their transformation last month. They head through the sliding glass door out the back, the thump of the music suddenly loud enough to be felt in their chest. The sight that awaits them makes them drop their chips and let out a gasp. Barely able to speak, they exhale out, “None of them...they’re not wolves. How..how??”

Indeed, the roughly forty people jumping to the pulse of whatever they’re listening to (some to the in house DJ, some, apparently, to what’s playing over the large headphones they have adorned), resemble the image of a wolfman much more accurately. They bare claws, fangs, elongated snouts, upright ears, and  serious amounts of hair, but they’re on two legs, and moving like humans. Some of them are even singing along to the lyrics, which really shouldn’t be possible.

Luna grins, making it obvious that she’s used to this level of shell shocks. “Ultimately, you do have to give into some damn rigorous instincts. But dancing is a human instinct, not a canine one, so you end up, well, humanoid. Pretty nifty, huh?”

“And they all..they all keep their minds? I didn’t...they don’t blackout?”

“Not since we banned alcohol in the 90s! Here, watch this.”

Luna nods her head at the DJ, and the DJ, obligingly, turns down the music for a moment. The members of the crowd not listening to their own music pause, then look towards the door. She cries out, “Hey gang! HOW WE ALL DOIN’ TONIGHT?”, and gets a mix between a howl and “WOO!” cried back. The DJ then turns the music back up, and the general movement of the crowd resumes.

They should be more skeptical. They want to be more skeptical, they were just minutes before, but it’s hard to disagree with something right in front of you. “This will work for me? I just..have to dance?”

“Well, it’s not guaranteed. Few things are. But we have yet to have someone turn violent on us. If you start to fell yourself slipping from consciousness, though, I do ask that you start heading further into the woods, as to not hurt other guest. If you find yourself just getting tired, there’s beds inside, and a fair amount of pillows around the edge of the quote unquote dance floor, if you end up in more of a nesting mood. Also, I recommend taking off your shoes before you start.”

“What? Why?”

Luna gives a pointed glance at the dancers’ feet, which, ah. They’re about twice as large as normal and at least twice as sharp. The converse on their feet would be no match. “Ah.”

“Ready?”

They shove off their shoes and place the remainder of their chips aside. “As I’ll ever be.”

Good thing, too, as they’re starting to feel an uncomfortable pressure in their chest that was the prelude to disaster last month.

Luna strides to the center of the dance floor, which is really a plush lawn surrounded by forest. The crowd naturally moves around her, and she yells out, “Aiyana! Play my song!”

Aiyana gives a nod, and the opening notes of “Dancing in the Moonlight” start to sound out. “Seriously?”

Luna shrugs, grinning like a fool, and says, “It’s a classic!”

“It’s cliché at best.”

Luna shrugs, and then begins dancing. She’s hardly elegant, but she is dazzlingly joyful in her uncoordinated movements. As the song reaches the first chorus, she gives a twirl, and in the split second it takes, she’s transformed. They blink in shock, not knowing you could transform that seamlessly, that quickly, that painlessly. Luna in half wolf form is just as expressive as the human Luna, and she gives a nod over her shoulder as if to say Come on.

Feeling somewhat foolish, they start to bop their head to the tune. Luna lets out a huff and grabs their hands, spinning them around and forcing them to get moving. At first, it’s them indulging Luna, but as they let themselves get lost in rhythm, they feel a stretching sensation in their face and limbs. It’s not unpleasant, more like when you wake up and work out the tension in your spine. They open their eyes and look down at their hands, now covered in fur in and made for slashing. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt, and they’re still themselves, and they had no idea that full moons could be like this, maybe for the rest of their lives.

They turn their head to the night sky, and their body can’t help but continue to dance. Despite all their fear, all their dread, “movement therapy” worked, and they can admit, at least to themselves, that they feel warm and bright.

[fruitcoops]

Please do more truth or drink I am OBSESSED

Your wish is my command! Thanks for the amazing response to Truth or Drink, everyone! These are so much fun to write and the Sirius/ Regulus dynamic is unparalleled <3 

Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

There is more cursing in this one, just fyi

“Bonjour!” Sirius and Regulus said in unison as they waved at the camera.

“Welcome back to Lion Pride Truth or Drink! I’m your captain, Sirius Black, and I’m here today with my brother Regulus.” Sirius reached for the unmarked bottle on the table. “Since he’s un bébé—”

“I’m nineteen, you fucker.”

“We’ll be drinking apple juice today instead of alcohol.”

“I can legally drink back in Quebec,” Regulus scowled as he took a sip of juice.

“First question, petit enfant! Have any of your friends thought I was good-looking?” Sirius tapped his card on the tabletop and grinned as Regulus grimaced.

“Not that I know of. They have taste.”

“Rude.”

A slow smile spread across Regulus’ face as he read his own card. “Who’s the smarter sibling?”

“Me, obviously.”

“Liar.” He turned to the camera. “It’s me. The younger sibling is always smarter.”

“That’s such bullshit.” Sirius flicked his first question at Regulus and took a new one. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

Regulus pulled a face. “None. That’s really not my thing. What’s the worst fight we’ve ever had?”

“That’s a tough one.” Sirius thought for a moment, biting his lip. “We don’t usually have big blowout fights. If I had to guess, I’d say you were most pissed at me when I left for Gryff.”

“Yeah, but you were really upset after the interview.”

“True. C’est la vie, I suppose.“ He read the next card and snorted. “Is there something about our childhood that we don’t like to talk about as adults? If so, should we talk about it now?”

Regulus laughed at that, short and sharp compared to Sirius’ low chuckle. “Uh, everything? And no, that’s what therapy is for.”

“Santé,” Sirius said with a grin, clinking their glasses together. “Alright, your turn.”

“Oh, I’d love to hear the answer to this one. Which one of us is the most successful and which one of us is the fuckup?”

“In whose opinion?” They sipped their juice at the same time. “I think we’re both pretty successful, but I know several people who would say we’re fuckups.”

“Like who?” Marlene asked off screen.

“Our parents,” Sirius said with a snort. “Alright, next question. What’s your biggest complaint about my current partner?”

“He’s quiet,” Regulus said without hesitating.

“You’re literally the quietest person I have ever met in my life.”

“Remus sneaks up on people, even when he isn’t trying!” he protested. “You need to put a bell on him. I came downstairs for water the other night and nearly had a heart attack when I turned on the kitchen light and he was already at the table.”

“Have you tried this amazing thing called a normal sleep schedule?”

“Shut the fuck up.” A balled-up wad of paper hit Sirius smack-dab in the forehead and he laughed. “What’s my biggest flaw?”

“Hmmm. You’re kind of bitchy sometimes.”

“Aw, thanks.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It is coming from you. I thought you were going to say something much worse.”

“Do you want me to? I can. You leave your laundry all over, you don’t know how to cook, you never text me back—”

“D’accord, I get it, I get it.” Regulus rolled his eyes.

“Have you—” Sirius sighed and covered his face with his hands. “Come on, Marlene, I can’t ask him this.”

Regulus kicked him lightly under the table. “Ask it, coward.”

“Have you ever heard me having sex? Please drink.”

“I lived with you for almost three months, of course I have,” Regulus scoffed as he took a sip of juice. “Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as the sappy flirting. That was gross.”

“It’s called ‘being in love’.”

“It’s called ‘being gross’, and I stand by that. Donne-moi les cartes. Who is stronger?”

“Noodle arms.”

“Fuck off, I’m stronger than you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sirius set his elbow on the table and Regulus immediately grabbed his hand. “On three. One, two—”

He started pushing before he reached one and Regulus clenched his jaw; determination that usually only came out on the ice was etched on both their faces, though Sirius looked significantly steadier as he pressed down more and more. Finally, the back of Regulus’ hand hit the table with a low thud and Sirius whooped. “I’m still smarter,” Regulus grumbled as he flexed his fingers to get blood flow back into them.

“Sure you are, petit bébé. Well, I guess you can get your vengeance here: what’s your most mortifying memory of me?”

Regulus steepled his fingers under his chin and narrowed his eyes. “This is difficult, I can think of so many. Probably the time a seagull flew at you on the beach and you startled so bad you shoved your ice cream into your face. That was a beautiful moment.” Sirius cringed and Regulus looked back at the camera. “He was fourteen, if anyone was thinking this was a cute little kid moment.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

“Ooh, this one’s morbid.” Regulus raised his eyebrows at the final question. “If you had to choose one of us to die right now, who would it be?”

Sirius was visibly taken aback; he started to answer, then stopped and pressed his lips together. “Uh, me.”

“Really?” Regulus was clearly surprised.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That…was not the answer I was expecting.” A more somber tone took over as he fiddled with the edges of the card.

“No?”

“No. You know, you’re—” He made a vague gesture. “Happy. Getting married. We didn’t talk for six years, and we weren’t exactly close before that.”

“Hey.” Sirius’ voice was soft as he squeezed Regulus’ hand. “Reg, you’re my little brother. I don’t want to even think about being in a world without you now that I’ve got you back.”

Regulus’ nose twitched and he took a long drink of apple juice. They sat quietly for a couple seconds until he cleared his throat and squeezed back. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Can we—are there more embarrassing questions?” he asked the camera crew, blinking rapidly. Sirius quickly wiped the edge of his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Please tell me I can be nosy and invasive again or the car ride home is going to be so uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a few,” Marlene laughed, though her voice sounded a little tight. “This is a speed round, so I’m going to ask a question and you’re both going to answer on the count of three.”

“Sounds good,” Sirius said, shifting slightly in his seat.

“First one: who is your favorite cousin? One, two, three.”

“Andromeda,” they said in unison.

“Name your favorite parent. One, two, three.”

“Neither.” The two men high-fived.

“What’s your favorite drug? One, two, three.”

There was an awkward pause. “Uh, Claritin?” Regulus said at last, making Sirius laugh.

“Last one. You two are notorious for looking similar and being mistaken for twins. Have you ever slept with the same person?”

“Merde, I hope not,” Sirius blurted before she counted down. “I’m gay and he’s ace so there’s really no crossover.” Regulus’ shoulders shook with silent laughter, and his eyes widened. “What? What did you do?”

“I thought he told you,” Regulus practically cackled as the color drained from Sirius’ face.

“Who told me what?”

“You had gone out to walk the dog and didn’t tell Remus, and I was—I was in the kitchen getting lunch out of the freezer,” he snickered. “He thought I was you and smacked me right on the ass.”

“No.” Pure delight overtook Sirius’ horror as Regulus nodded.

“The look on his face when I turned around was priceless. Went sheet-white, like he’d seen a ghost.”

Sirius dropped his forehead onto his forearms, wheezing with silent laughter. “Regulus, can you sign us off?” Marlene giggled behind the camera.

“Yeah, sorry.” Regulus took a few deep breaths, but almost lost it when Sirius looked up again. “I’m Regulus Black and this is my brother, Sirius. Thanks for watching!”

[wizkiddx]

the worst case scenario 2

i did decide to make this a little parter thing, but really want to be as sensitive as poss (honestly using this as a sort of therapy for what I see myself ah). So please   do not read if anything in the warnings may trigger. I very much am not trying to ‘romanticise’ these sorts of situations in any way but also be aware medically this is NOT accurate.This part is short but I think there will be more.

warnings: hospital - ICU, respirators / mention of death , maternal mortality / talk of family dynamics and abandonment of a child

[previous part]

The sight Nikki walked into is something that as a parent you never want to see. Walking into this cold and otherwise empty ��relatives room’ to see her son collapsed in a world of pain onto his best mates chest. Tom was too busy sobbing to even notice her entrance but her and  Harrison instantly locked eyes . Not even able to muster up a greeting smile, Harrison just nodded her in, admitting her entrance to the most horrific situation. 

It was about half an hour since she had been texting Haz, arranging when they’d be able to come and visit the newborn in hospital or whether it would be better to just wait till the new family got settled back at home, when Nikki had got a call from Tom’s number. With an excited grin she had instantly whipped her phone off the kitchen counter within one ring- a facial expression that didn’t last long at all. 

Met with the distant sound of crying first, Harrison’s deeper voice then emitted itself from her phones speaker, alerting her to the fact everything was very not right. He’d asked her to come to the hospital, said it was Y/n, that the baby was fine and then hung up. Dom immediately agreed to come with her but right now he was still parking the car, having dropped Nikki off right at the front. It had sounded that bad. 

Now, she knelt down infront of Haz and Tom, the latter who still was leaning over the arm rest and currently silently crying into his friends chest. Haz didn’t miss Nikki’s hands shaking as she reached out and rubbed up and down her sons back, the action prompting him to suddenly lean up to face her. He was broken. Totally and completely broken. Wordlessly, Nikki looked up for a second, communicating with Harrison so as if rehearsed he stood up and Nikki took his place in the chair - giving him a break from being Tom’s support. Beyond appreciative of how well Nikki could read a situation, Haz quietly but still in a hurried fashion made his way to the door. 

Because he was about to crack too - Tom couldn’t see him like that, not right now at least. And so his legs, completely of their own volition, carried him down the hallways. He had absolutely no idea what time it was, all sense of time passing had completely been thrown off earlier in the morning. He was oblivious to a lot, very much in his own thoughts and only realised where he had ended up when a nurse he vaguely recognised managed to garner his attention. 

“You’re here for baby Holland? She’s just round here.”

“I-“ He couldn’t respond but the nurse just nodded and then started off down the hallway, practically forcing the blonde to follow a couple of meters till they got to a perspex viewing window. 

“She’s the little cutie in the far corner over there.” The brunette middle aged lady softly spoke as she pointed through the glass to the incubator in the corner. “ Don’t worry about all the equipment, the doctors already come round and cleared her. She’s good to go home when you guys are…are ready.” Her words had trailed off, Harrison guessed she didn’t know how to phrase the current ‘situation’ Tom and Y/n were in either. After a couple of moments, the nurse placed a gentle hand on Harrison’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You want to have a cuddle? I know your not dad but…”

“Yeh-yeh…please.” 

Harrison just felt awful. The little girl was barely hours into life and yet she wasn’t receiving nearly as much as love as she should be. Instead unnamed and alone in a cold and clinical setting. So he silently nodded away, taking in all the instructions the nurse gave as she sat him down in the arm chair next to the incubator. 

Once she placed the little blanket wrapped bundle in his arms the nurse smiled gently up at Haz “You want to feed her? I’m sure she’d prefer it from you than me love?” Ah. Now Haz really was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She’d never been given a feed before - except presumably the midwifes. 

“I-uh Y/n hasn’t even  so I probably shouldn’t…”

“I can promise you Miss Y/l/n would probably want her baby to be cared for by someone that loves her and that Miss Y/l/n trusts herself.” Ooof. How were nurses so intuitive? She literally read his mind and broken down all the ill-founded ideas Harrison had built up. 

“I’m not her Dad.”

“But you care.” Looking down once and briefly at the squished little face that wormed herself into Harrisons broad chest a little more, he then immediately nodded in agreement. Looking almost relieved, the nurse handed him a bottle and directed him as to how to hold it. After mere moments she gasped happily, leaning back whilst the blonde boy waited for her input. 

“She’s latched on easy peasy. You’re doing great, I can leave you to it if you want - I’ll only be round the corner.”

“Can you check if there’s any news on Y/n?” The kind lady nodded, before promptly exiting the room - leaving the two actually alone for the first time ever. 

He didn’t even think about it, whilst Haz cradled her in one arm and held the bottle up at the angle shown by the nurse, he quietly spoke to the little bundle. 

“I’m sorry you were lonely… your mum and dad love you lots and lots… we all do.” Not realising he was crying, Harrison almost scared himself when a single strangled and repressed sob escaped from his chest. “ You’re mum…. She’s a pain in the arse right?” Haz laughed a little wetly “ She’s sarky as hell and she always has an answer… you’d probably think she’s a badass… she is. And-and…. Your dad is just scared… He loves you I promise, he just… he’s worried about you mum.” Now there was actual tears welling up and overflowing his lower lash line, not matter how much he tried to blink them away. “But whatever… whatever happens. You got all of us kiddo… you got me.”

Jolted out of his thoughts by the ladies knuckles rapping twice on the door, Harrison immediately shook himself out of it, wiping his face on his arm to hopefully remove all the evidence of the slight emotional breakdown. 

“Mr Osterfield… the doctor wanted me to let you know he’s on his way to talk to Mr Holland.”

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Harrison managed to get back to Tom, Nikki and now Dom before Dr Webber returned, so with a greeting nod to Dom he too took a seat opposite Nikki and Tom. His best mate wasn’t crying anymore, which could be considered a positive were it not for the sinisterly empty look in his eye. He looked almost robotic, staring almost straight ahead at the light grey wall, sat straight and rigidly except for his one hand clasped in Nikki’s. 

“You went to see the baby?” Nikki broke the silence, making Harrison smile sadly over at her with a nod. It didn’t even look as though Tpm heard his mum speak, even if he was sat right next to her. “She’s okay?”

“Yeh…I gave her a bottle. She-she’s very cute.” Harrison could see Nikki’s face morph into one of kindness before she looked left toward her son. Nikki was still yet to see to unnamed girl but just thinking about her made her heart flutter. And then stop when she thought about what that little girl was already going through, barely hours into existence. 

“You hear that Tom? Maybe you could go down and see her soon? After we’ve spoken to the doctor?” Nikki was only trying to do the best thing, Harrison knew it and deep down Tom did know it too. But now really really wasn’t the time for some gently encouragement from his mother, it wasn’t just Tom being a little stubborn. This was his whole entire world falling apart around him. He didnt have the energy or focus to even shoot down his mother, instead Tom chose to stay completely still - engrossed in his own thoughts. 

From the outset, when you take that leap and say to a person ‘I think we should try for kids now’ you are completely putting yourself at the mercy of the other. But when they agree? Then it’s a commitment. Not it the same way marriage is - because that’s a completely selfish gesture, you get married because YOU want to be married to each other. Rather, agreeing to have a kid is a promise, a promise of something more. Promising that you are bringing this life into the world - and half of that life is yours. You create it together and it becomes a joint responsibility. You can never, no matter what people think, ever stop being a parent. At the end of it all there will be another person that knows, scientifically, it is half you. Even if they never met you - they still ‘knew’ you. They would know you had to exist, they would see things in themselves that cannot be explained rather than the influence of their creator. 

And sure, it didn’t always work out that way. A parent would up and leave, a child always with questions and a sense of betrayal. But that child… they know you. Because there is half of you in them. 

So it was Y/n and Tom together that was slumbering blissfully on a ward downstairs. That was the scary thing. Tom was so sure he didn’t have it in him. He  wouldn’t do this without her. He couldn’t be a dad to a baby without a mum. He couldn’t be a parent without Y/n. 

Almost thankfully for the atmosphere in the room, a soft know had them all snatching their heads up the very same grey slightly potato like doctor waddled in, this time followed by 2 others; a tall, dark haired woman with a soft and empathetic smile; then another man but this one tall and slender, unlike the other two who were wearing professional clothes, he was donned in scrubs (with the scrub hate too).

“Mr Holland and uh… family” Dr Webber awkwardly greeted the new arrivals of Nikki and Dom, somehow apparently sensing they were Tom’s and not Y/n’s parents who were hours away. Oh fuck, Tom hadn’t even phoned them yet. 

“This is Dr Alison Goodwell and then Dr Rohan Avinash, he is Y/n’s surgeon.” They filed in and took seats surrounding them, Dom and Harrison standing up to stand off to the side, not wanting to get in the way of the doctors. All Tom could do though was overanalyse everything. Why was the surgeon here? What was this other lady doing here? A  pathologist? — no, he wasn’t going to think like that. Then the taller and most scary looking of the three inched forward, commanding the attention of the whole room.

“Mr Holland, I just wanted to go over what happened. Ms Y/l/n developed plactental accreta, which was the cause of the what we call here a post partum haemorrhage. When you raised the alarm she had already lost, at best guess, 3 pints of blood which is a lot, there’s no denying. Dr Webber and his team quickly brought her up to my team in surgery. We transfused her with blood but we couldn’t stabilise her and the bleeding didn’t show any signs of stopping so we had to perform emergency surgery….” Dr Avinash slowed down as he took in how close Tom looked to bursting out in tears once again, offering him the chance to have a moment to collect himself. Vehemently shaking his head in refusal, Tom crung his hands together furiously. He just needed to know. “Okay… Now the nature of the surgery, because we had to be so quick…it is quite invasive and is a lot of stress to put on anyones body. That and the amount of blood she had already lost makes the situation very dangerous. Sometimes when this happens a persons heart-“ Tom’s breath halted in his throat at the mention of her heart, Harrison sharing the bleak trigger which made him shift uncomfortable between his two feet. “-notices this, it goes into what we call hypovoloemic shock, this just basically means its not getting enough volume of blood to pump properly. So we have had to stimulate Ms Y/l/n’s heart with electricity to keep it pumping-“

“You shocked her?” He felt so numb and now adrenalin was coursing through his own veins, images like you see on TV shows of her body arching up not he table from the volts of electricity.

“I’m afraid we did have to but it meant we could keep her stable enough to fix the bleed. I am sorry to say this but we’ve had to remove her whole womb because it was so damaged.”

“But Y/n?” Again Harrison lost all willpower of control, though to be fair he wasn’t sure if he was being impatient or not -  this doctor appeared to be delivering this news painfully slowly, as if to torture everyone as much as possible.

“Your fiancé lost a lot of blood and her body went through a lot” The towering doctor kept his focus on Tom the whole time, Harrison’s interjection seemingly falling on selectively deaf ears. “We’ve had to use a machine to control her breathing  and for the moment she is still in a very dangerous place. Right now she is stable but I don’t want to make any promises to you. We are nowhere close to out of the woods yet.” Seemingly, feeling compelled to add in, the brunette doctor spoke for the first time since entering.

“But it’s still one hurdle she has got through… Now that the surgeons are finished with Ms Y/l/n me and the other intensive care doctors will be keeping a very close eye on her okay? We are all going to be working with you and your family 24/7, to keep Y/n as comfortable as possible.” Her soft smile managed to somehow break through to Tom, who jerkily nodded while Nikki squeezed his hand tight. There had been a lot of that going on  today and even if Tom would say he wished nothing more that it was Y/n rather than his mums grip - he still appreciated it. The doctor continued, leaning forward so her elbows were resting on the tops of her thighs. “Right now she’s asleep and probably will be for quite a while. We first want to be sure she’s not in any pain, so she is sedated. Now assuming everything goes okay tonight and she stays stable we might want to think about possibly reducing that sedation, however for right now I hope you are all in agreement that we just want to make sure she’s comfortable?” The whole room nodded steadily in response which the doctor acknowledged with a satisfied smile. 

“And we are all aware this is a lot to take in so if you have any questions or think of any please just let us know - it’s important that you guys are all fully in the know… How is your daughter?” Dr Webber started off so well, Tom was almost going to smile thankfully at him, until he mentioned it. Instantly, the cold and empty look reappeared behind Tom’s eyes as the room was held in silence for long enough to be uncomfortable. To be fair, the doctor wasn’t to know that recently Tom had taken to refusing to acknowledge he even had a child. 

“I-she’s really good… the nurse there said she’s ready to leave whenever” Harrison had to show that at least someone was looking out for her, he couldn’t not. 

“Okay” sharing a knowing look with Harrison, Dr Webber pitifully clasped his hands together, before looking back to Tom. “Would you like Dr Alison take you up to see her, sir?” 

again pls let me know if anyone is very not okay with this, i can take it down and not write any more!

[matchasprouts]

The Walls - Chapter 3

[ couldn't write for a while but [ hands you a glimpse into Felix's gay brain ] come and get your juice ]

First || Next || Previous || Last

It took a while after getting upstairs for Felix to grab everything he needed (literally just the clothes he was going to change into, he was just easily distracted), but finally he was in the bathroom.

He didn’t shower in the mansion bathroom very often, since he lived in the cabin on the property, so he was immediately worried about the thing in the walls.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

Slowly, he made his way over to the most uncluttered wall that would have the crawl space attached to it. He knew it wasn’t omniscient, so if it were far enough away, it wouldn’t hear him. Hopefully it would be attached enough to Greta that it would be downstairs.

He paused for a moment, let out a breath, and lightly knocked three times on the wall. Three knocks was a greeting, or a goodbye between them. The thing usually only took a few seconds to respond.

…

Silence. Felix let out a sigh of relief, making his way over to the shower and turning it on. It was an old shower, but comfortable. He really did enjoy any chance he could use it without worry.

After a few seconds of making sure the water was at the right temperature, he started getting undressed. The overalls were off first, followed by the sweater he wore in the colder seasons. And then there was his binder.

He used to struggle a lot more with taking it off when he first started wearing it, but now he pulled it over his head without a fight. He draped it over the sink, away from his dirtied clothes, since he only really washed it when he absolutely needed to.

The water was almost scalding when Felix stepped into it, but that was on purpose. He’d basically shot his nerves when it came to hot water, barely feeling it if it wasn’t hot enough to leave marks on his skin.

He’d been told multiple times to go to therapy because of this. He assumed his nerves were so fucked because of the arson. Who fucking knows, he refused to go to a doctor.

The shower didn’t last very long, Felix just took as long as he needed to get the dirt off him and be done. The longest part was his hair, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he’d even gotten all the soap out of his hair by the time he stepped out of the shower.

It was while he was drying off his hair that he noticed the change in the room. Next to the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d laid out to change into sat a dark green, and very large, cardigan.

Felix knew for a damn fact that he hadn’t put that there. He didn’t even own cardigans- just an assload of sweaters. So where did this come from? It was too large to belong to Greta, too tattered too.

After a few seconds, it clicked. It belonged to the thing in the walls. The thing that always heard him complaining about the cold, or how it was hard to hide when he wasn’t wearing a binder.

And, it seemed, it finally did something about it.

Theoretically, he enjoyed the gesture. He was definitely going to wear it, the warmth was worth it, but still… this meant that it had come in while he was showering, and he hadn’t heard it. That didn’t imply good things.

He got dressed quickly, pausing before pulling on the cardigan. It was huge on him, even though he was average height and pretty well built. It smelled like wood, and smoke. It was… incredibly comfortable too.

After quickly glancing in the mirror, the green of the cardigan making the green of his eyes really pop. It probably helped that he was extra pale from the blast of hot water, bringing his freckles out as well.

He didn’t look too long. Felix didn’t like his face, and staring at it would make him shut down.

---

Greta had already started on dinner when he made it to the kitchen, and he was pleased to find Brahms sitting at the kitchen table.

“Hey. Sorry if you’ve been waiting long,” he said, rolling up the cardigan sleeves and jumping right into helping. She was making a soup apparently, probably because they didn’t have much at the moment. Malcolm was supposed to deliver some groceries tomorrow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Greta replied, handing him a knife and some vegetables to cut. He didn’t hesitate before getting into it, making quick work of them. “I hope soup is okay. We really need groceries.”

Felix hummed in response, keeping most of his focus on what he was doing. “Soup is always good, I’m just glad we could make something at all.”

Silence fell after that. They weren’t friends, they really didn’t have all that much to talk about. So they worked. At least it made the cooking go faster.

---

“So, where’d this come from?” Greta asked after they were finished and sitting down to eat, gesturing to the cardigan. He was surprised she could tell that it wasn’t his, especially because she knew next to nothing about him. Maybe it was because it was so big, or because of it being a dark colour.

Felix shrugged at the question, not willing to scare her off when Brahms clearly liked her. “It just kind of showed up. I’ve probably had it for years without realizing it. I can be forgetful like that sometimes.” No, he couldn’t. Distractible? Sure. Forgetful? Unfortunately, his memory was near photographic.

But Greta accepted it without question, just like he thought she would. It seemed like she was doing everything she possibly could to not question anything about this house. He vaguely wondered if she had seen Brahms move yet, but he doubted it.

When they were finished, it was Brahms’s bedtime. After making Greta promise she would follow the bedtime rules properly, he let her go to put the doll to bed, cleaning up the kitchen for her.

He heard rustling in the walls as Greta headed upstairs and smiled slightly to himself, knowing that the wall thing was making sure that she followed the rules.

The thought made him pull the cardigan tighter against himself, surprised at his own fondness toward the thing. Six years was a long time to grow attached to something, and he was honestly fine with being attached to it. After all, he never truly interacted with it. It probably wouldn’t hurt him.

Probably.

He shook those thoughts away, finished cleaning, and headed upstairs for bed. Greta’s door was already closed, Brahms was in bed, and the walls were quiet. Felix inspected his temporary bedroom once arriving at it, only laying down when he was satisfied that it was empty.

For once, sleep came easy.

---

The next morning, Felix woke up before Greta, and about an hour before Brahms needed to be woken up. Happy for the chance to get something done without Greta in the way, or needing to look out for Brahms, he wasted no time in getting up and dressed. He laid the cardigan out neatly on his bed for the thing to take back, making sure to close the door when he left the room.

Once downstairs he did some cleaning to take a bit of the workload off of Greta. Before heading out to do his gardening, he paused, glancing around the kitchen. They really needed that grocery delivery today, but he figured he could make breakfast before becoming the garden cryptid again.

So, he made something simple and wouldn’t need to be warm, put it in the fridge, and left a note for Greta. Once satisfied, he grabbed his gloves and headed outside. He’d probably come back in when Malcolm got there, just because there was something he’d need for later that he needed to ask him to grab.

It was time for Brahms to be woken up by the time Felix had started his gardening, a small smile crossing his lips when he looked up at the window and saw the light click on, followed by Greta opening up the curtains.

Well, maybe she was finally taking him seriously. He hoped so. He would sure hate to hate someone like her. She was nice and all, and really the only off thing that she’d done so far was not take care of Brahms right.

How unfortunate that that would change.

Felix happened to walk in during a conversation between Greta and Malcolm, relieved he hadn’t missed the man. He only caught part of the conversation, something about going out tonight. He didn’t hear Greta’s response, so he wasn’t annoyed yet, but it was getting there.

“Hey Malcolm,” he said as he grabbed a bottle of water, taking a sip before continuing, “could you grab something for me next time you go out? Nothing time sensitive or anything, it would just make my life a little easier.

Malcolm, sensing the change in conversation, replied without hesitation. “Sure man, what do you need?”

“A new pair of garden gloves, mine are falling apart. I’d get them myself but I don’t have a car and you know I don’t like leaving the grounds.” Felix was a little surprised when Malcolm nodded and wrote it down, but relieved. He really did need those gloves.

“I can grab ‘em for you today, I’ll be coming back tonight anyway,” Malcolm said as he tucked the small notepad back into his jacket. Felix immediately narrowed his eyes at him, his expression asking the “why” that he didn’t vocalize.

That’s when Greta cleared her throat and stepped in. “Malcolm offered to take me out to see the town tonight, and I accepted,” she explained, cringing at the harsh glare Felix sent her way. Before he could say anything, she continued, “Brahms will already be in bed by the time I leave! So there’s nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? She was breaking the rules! And it would know!! It was significantly more dangerous than Felix was!!!

He let out a sigh that bordered dangerously on a growl, before running a hand through his short hair and deciding that this was a battle he shouldn’t fight. “Whatever. Don’t say shit to me when something bad happens because you chose to break the rules.”

“Oh, come on man, she shouldn’t be cooped up in here-” Malcolm tried to step in, only to be cut off by Felix’s shears hitting the table hard enough that it shook.

“Don’t try to tell me what should or should not be happening here!” he snapped, the rage bubbling over before he could stop it. It was his fatal flaw- shortest temper in the Shaw family. “All I know is that she’s breaking the damn rules, and we’re all gonna get hell because of it!”

He hated arguing. He did. So, with that, before they could continue, he stormed off. Before he knew it, he had slammed his bedroom door and fallen heavily onto his bed. It took a godly amount of self control to not break anything, but he managed.

This was slowly but surely turning into a fucking nightmare.

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, warnings, and notes here!

chapter two: limbic resonance

limbic resonance: the idea that the capacity for sharing deep emotional states arises from the limbic system of the brain. these states include the dopamine circuit-promoted feelings of empathic harmony, and the norepinephrine circuit-originated emotional states of fear, anxiety, and anger.

PATTON

“My best guess, Patton, is that I think you’re just very social, in sensate terms.”

Patton blinks. They’re sitting in his apartment, this time, a variety of writing practice sheets spread out on his carpet that he really should be grading, but Emile had popped in, and, the same way he has for the past five days, Patton immediately turned his attention to him, in hopes of figuring out what’s going on.

“Well,” Patton says, unsure of what to really say, before he just settles on, “that’s not new.”

Emile smiles, reaching over to pat his hand.

“What we’re doing right now, we call visiting,” Emile explains. “Sharing is something you can only do with your cluster; parents of a cluster, like me—”

“And our psychic grandpa Harley?”

“And your psychic grandpa Harley is to me,” Emile agrees, “is a bit more of a fuzzy area. I can share a bit with you, though—” he gestures to the mostly-finished meal he had made for Patton, the dirtied pot, pan, and utensils sitting on a countertop in Patton’s apartment, “so that’s nice! Harley could only share with us a little, memories, mostly. Young sensates, like you and your cluster, tend to have very little control over it at first. It usually comes with practice. You seem to be visiting almost everyone in your cluster.”

“Well, I don’t even know if I’m controlling it,” Patton says. “I just find myself in places sometimes.”

Emile nods in understanding.  “Visiting isn’t like calling or texting someone. It’s not something you make happen, it’s something you let happen.”

“...I’m not sure I understand the difference,” Patton admits.

“It usually takes a while to get,” Emile says affably.

“And I never really stay for long,” Patton says. “I kind of had a conversation with one, I think, but I don’t know how much I imparted hi, I’m one of your psychic partners in life now, you know what I mean? The longest I’ve ever stayed is about five minutes, and I’m pretty sure he was out camping and asleep.”

“You’ve got time to figure it out,” Emile says encouragingly. “And I’m here to help, or explain questions you have, whenever I can. None of that vague you are more than yourself then whoosh, disappearing into thin air thing Harley pulled for our cluster. I want to be a helpful parent, thanks.”

That’s mostly what they’ve been doing over the past five days—Patton’s been trying to figure out what on earth is going on.

He’s already figured out that Emile isn’t a hallucination—his kindergartners had only been too eager to shout “HI MR. T’S AMERICAN FRIEND!!!” into his cellphone, and they’d all heard Emile’s responses back, so the is this really happening or am I seeing things? question has been resoundingly answered.

It’s the whole surprise! You’re not exactly human! thing that’s been tripping him up. Emile’s been trying to explain it in scientific terms, but honestly. Patton is a kindergarten teacher. He has no idea what epigenetic factors means. He just knows that Emile’s been throwing around the term homo sensorium a few times. That sounds like not exactly human to Patton.

“Have you gotten through to anyone else in the cluster like you have with me?” Patton asks Emile, rather than think about that a bit more. All he gets is another headache.

At least the migraine’s fading.

“Not quite,” Emile says, frowning. “You’ll probably connect with them sooner than I will; you have been connecting with them much more than I have. I just see glimpses.”

“So, just to make sure I get it,” Patton says. “I’m now psychically connected through—what’s it called again?”

“Psycellium,” Emile prompts.

“Right. I’m now psychically connected through something called psycellium, a psychic nervous system that we have because we are sensates, or homo sensorium.” 

Emile gives him a thumbs-up.

“Sensates are a species of humans that are telepathically connected to each other. Every sensate is part of a group or cluster of sensates and members of a cluster can connect and communicate with each other wherever they are in the world.”

“Got it in one,” Emile says.

Patton huffs, flopping onto the bed.

“Honestly,” he says. “I’m so glad I’m the one blinking to you most often. I’d hate to try figuring this out without anyone who knows what’s happening.”

LOGAN

It’s been a demonstrably strange past five days. Logan has been keeping notes.

He typically carries around a small notebook as a virtue of his profession—it’s very helpful to jot down things like observations of unusual penguin behaviors, supplies he needed to put in a request for, or potential questions to ask scientists within other disciplines, rather than relying on remembering it all by rote.

He usually does remember it all by rote, but he thinks that’s greatly helped because he bothers to write it all down anyway. Handwriting information has been proven to help send information to the hippocampus, where the decision is made to either store the information long-term or let it go. If he writes something by hand, all that complex sensory information increases the chances the knowledge will be stored for later.

Anyone who happened to crack open his notebook and look at his notes for the past five days would surely think he was going mad.

May 8th—Migraine @ approx. noon; strange man in pajamas @ approx. 4 pm. 

May 9th—tasted savory (meat?) when drinking tea @ 6 am; strange man (codename consideration?) cursing loudly in spanish @ approx 10 am; diff. man on computer pages that should have been locked to him @ 3:21 pm; saw a flash of sunny road @ approx 5 pm; migraine persists.

And so on, and so on. The frequencies have been growing over the past two days; he’s filled up the entire page allotted for usual day-to-day notes with just the strange things he’s been hearing, smelling, tasting.

Seeing.

He’s seeing things. That is rarely a good sign for one’s brain chemistry. And it’s not like there’s a proliferation of therapists, brain surgeons, or MRIs in Antarctica.

Now, he jots down May 12th at the top of the page, adding migraine persists, 6.5/10 pain @ 7 am, which is at least a little bit better than days past. He taps his pen on the desk, wondering if the dream he’d had about sitting on a couch beside a man as he proselytized a cartoon amid couple’s therapy warrants notation. It had all been people he’d never seen before. 

As he taps, he frowns and pauses his movement; then, he gently nudges the notebook aside, in case of shadow.

No. There is a pile of dirt under the notebook.

Logan glances around the barracks, and moves to sweep the dirt off his desk; even as he is trying to be tidy about it, the dirt gets under his fingernails, and Logan scowls down at it. The dirt’s very stubborn. He sweeps at the dirt again, and again, but the pile only seems to grow, and he sweeps and manages to knock his notebook off his desk—

Logan groans, getting down on his knees to retrieve it, And then he puts two hands down, to press himself back up, and—

He looks up. The scent of spices, familiar and yet unplaceable in his mind, is in the air. The sun is beating down on his back. 

Logan’s lips part slightly with surprise; for one thing, he is in Antarctica, and sunny hot days are not something he experiences particularly often there.

For another, a man is staring at him. His lips part, too, his hands in the dirt, fingertips bare centimeters away from Logan’s; it’s as if they’re looking into a mirror.

They stare.

The man is black, his hair freshly cut, by the look of the clean, fresh shave along his sideburns, his hair buzzed short. He has a strong jawline, and thick eyebrows, set into his face to make him look as if he’s perpetually furrowing them. His mouth is set in a thin line as if he’d been pressing his lips together in concentration. 

His skin is clear and glowing in the light. He’s rather handsome, Logan thinks nonsensically, and then firmly attempts to set that thought aside. There’s a slight smudge of white from where he has not rubbed in his sunscreen along his cheekbone. 

His bare hands are buried in the dirt; he’d been planting something before Logan showed up, Logan knows it.

“Where am I?” The man asks, in a language that Logan does not speak and yet still understands; they are back in the barracks in Antarctica, Logan sitting at his desk and the man kneeling on Logan’s bed, and yet simultaneously they are in that sunny garden, fingernails encrusted with dirt. “What is this?”

“Antarctica,” Logan says, confused; if this was a figment of his mind, surely the man would know where he was? “Where are you?”

“Pretoria,” the man says, and they’re kneeling back in the dirt. He looks as confused as Logan feels.

“In South Africa?” Logan says, befuddled. Of all the places his mind could place him—why somewhere he’d thought about studying, but never actually gone?

The man’s eyebrows actually furrow, now. “Do you speak Xhosa?”

Logan shakes his head. He returns, “Do you speak Polish?” 

The man snorts, but he shakes his head too.

“Then how are we understanding each other?” Logan murmurs, and jots down in his notebook, language differential? Research Xhosa.

“I don’t know,” he says.

They stare at each other a bit more. Then:

“Logan,” the man says, suddenly certain with it.

He knows my name, Logan thinks, something in his stomach fluttering with what he’d like to think is unease. It would be much more appropriate if it was unease.

But a hallucination would know his name.

“You drink black tea in the mornings,” he continues. “With raspberry in it.”

Logan blinks rapidly because suddenly he can place the scent of spices in the air—the meat he’d tasted.

“Umngqusho,” Logan says, the word rolling smoothly off his tongue despite never having said it or heard it in his life. And then he recoils, because—

“This cannot be real,” he says, rapidly scrawling it in his notebook, even though he can feel the dirt under his fingernails, see the street filled with people out for walks, smell the dinner’s spices lingering on the air, feel the heat of the sun. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to visit my psychologist again,” he agrees gloomily.

Virgil. Virgil agrees gloomily. His name is Virgil.

Fantastic. Now his mind is naming these hallucinations. Isn’t there some saying about not letting children name animals because then they’d get attached? Would there be a similar philosophy with hallucinations?

He notes it anyway—PRETORIA, VIRGIL—and swallows, looking to the door of the barracks. He’d be expected to do some kind of work within the hour, and to get some kind of breakfast before that.

“I don’t understand this,” Logan says, and if that isn’t terrifying, “So, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to assume you are a very vivid hallucination.”

“Sure,” Virgil shrugs, gesturing to the pile of dirt. “I’m busy transferring a new jacaranda tree anyway.”

“Now that’s resolved,” Logan says, heart pounding, “I’m going to resume finishing off these notes and get some tea.”

“Of course.”

“And I’ll be pretending you’re not there.”

“Same,” Virgil says, and he returns his attention to his jacaranda sapling.

Logan swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and adds a starting time to this hallucination before he closes his notebook, gathers his bag, and walks in the direction of the dining hall.

Or, he tries. Because—

There is a fence in his way. Logan scowls, turning to face Virgil, who has turned his attention away from the jacaranda.

“Sorry,” Virgil mutters. “I don’t know how I came here, or how to go back.”

The hall, again, Virgil still crouched, looking suddenly absurd attempting to plant something into the tile. The absolute lack of any sensation to note the transition is more of a surprise than the transition itself.

“Maybe it’s some kind of calling system,” Virgil muses. “Like a subconscious call we can’t control, in case of danger or changes in our environment—like pisum satvum, they communicate stress cues via their roots to allow neighboring unstressed plants to anticipate an abiotic stressor. Falik found that unstressed plants demonstrated the ability to sense and respond to stress cues emitted from the roots of the osmotically stressed plant.”

“Perhaps,” Logan says, then, “You’ve studied this?”

“Well, I’d hope so,” Virgil says. “I just got through defending my thesis for a botany doctorate.”

Logan blinks. “Congratulations.”

Virgil gives him a curt nod, then says, “You’ve got a doctorate too, don’t you? Astronomy.”

“How did you know that?”

“No idea,” Virgil says, examining Logan. “Just did.”

“Well, our respective doctorates aside,” Logan says. “I don’t detect any stresses in my environment apart from this.” He gestures between them.

Virgil frowns at him, before he says, “Have you had a migraine lately?”

“...yes,” Logan admits. “A dreadful one.”

“Well,” Virgil says. “Maybe that’s our stress.”

Logan frowns. “Maybe. I don’t see how that would cause me to start hallucinating someone an ocean away, though. Or sending stress to you. Surely we aren’t the only two people in the world with a migraine at the moment.”

Logan focuses so much on attempting to continue what he usually does in the mornings that he doesn’t notice a woman lingering in the shadow of the dining hall, frowning thoughtfully after Logan.

“Larry, honey?” she says, to what anyone else would see as thin air. “I might have one.”

A pause.

“Well, that’s always the question with these science types, isn’t it.”

JANUS

Janus pulls back from his home PC with a slow exhale, rubbing his fingers along his brow. Well, the migraine hasn’t been solved, but at least this question has been, even if it raises an entirely new one.

Bright side: he’s found a name.

Dark side: Why on earth is a fugitive Mexican murderer blinking in and out of his life?

And a New Zealander, and an American, and an African, but he thinks the murderer should probably be at the top of the list of why on EARTH.

Janus examines the admittedly scant description; no one seems to know what this R.J. Duke person looks like, or even his real name, but Janus does, somehow. He knows that R.J. Duke’s real name is Remus, even if R.J. Duke’s legal name is different from that. He idly toys with the concept of messing about with the Mexican equivalent of the DVLA to swap over his gender to the proper one, but he figures hacking a foreign government and especially hacking a foreign government concerning the information of a wanted murderer even if no one seemed to know that this name listed is the wanted murderer.

That seems quite confusing. Janus turns to the legal notepad on his desk—writing things down longhand is a pain, but even as secure as his home setup is, he doesn’t necessarily trust this information falling into Key’s hands. He doesn’t even trust Key with his normal cell phone number.

REMUS REGIO Trans man—deadname in system hasn’t legally transitioned? Remus=RJ DUKE, no one seems to know?

Janus pauses. He drums his fingers on the table, staring at the latest ID photo of Remus Regio. There are a few notes of juvenile delinquency in his record. He could crack it, if he wanted, to get the full reports. He’s about to when he feels a soft, slight gust of wind; like someone’s walking up behind him.

And then there’s a hand on his desk, someone leaning in to stare at the screen with a look of longing on his face so agonizing it makes Janus look away.

He knows who this is, too: there’s a segment on his notepad labeled ROMAN REGIO, stage name Roman Prince. He looks very similar to Remus, enough that if anyone got them side-by-side the familial resemblance would be undeniable.

Good thing R.J. Duke wasn’t the type to add an about the author section in the dust jackets of his books.

“Are you looking for him?” Roman asks, brusque. He has an accent, one a casting director would request as a “sexy Latin accent.” 

Janus chances a look at Roman; the longing is gone, as if he’d imagined it, replaced by a mask of general indifference, with a slight look of contempt in his eyes at the sight of Janus.

“I suppose,” Janus says. “Are you?”

Roman’s face twists up again.

“You aren’t?!” Janus says. 

“He hasn’t told me where he is, he didn’t bring his phone—” Roman says, anguished.

Janus stares at him.

“Are you stupid?” He says incredulously. “Of course he didn’t bring his phone, it could be tracked.”

“Stcheww-pid,” Roman says, in a frankly ridiculous attempt at mocking Janus's accent.

“Oh, very mature,” Janus huffs. He should have figured an actor would be the bratty, stuck-up type.

Roman sticks out his tongue. Janus rolls his eyes.

“Why am I hallucinating a tiresome family of famous Mexican creatives,” Janus asks the air.

Roman’s face screws up into a scowl. 

“Why am I hallucinating a snobby colonizer?”

He turns, just to be sure. Roman is gone.

“Rude,” Janus says loudly to the suddenly empty air, in case he can still hear him. 

EMILE

Emile carefully folds his top lip over his teeth after years of practice, engaging in his maybe-once-a-month shaving routine. He’s never really been able to grow a beard or mustache, but he does grow stubble, very slowly, which makes him look rather scruffy if he just leaves it.

He taps the razor on the sink to shake off the foam, rinses it, before he returns his attention to the mirror and beams.

The face that isn’t his own meets his eyes a moment later and jumps in fright, before whipping his head around to check if there’s anyone behind him.

It’s not strange to see another face looking out of a mirror at him—honestly, he’s a little surprised Linny hasn’t shown up to make faces at him in the mirror before now, like she usually does—it’s just that this isn’t the face of one of his cluster.

The man frowns, confused, which pinches the scar on his face, which—

“Oh!” Emile says excitedly and puts a hand to the mirror. “Oh! Hello! You’re, um—you’re Janus, yes?”

“What the hell,” the man mutters in a distinctly British accent, and reaches for the edges of the mirror; Emile thinks he’s trying to prise it open, as if to see if there’s some kind of device behind it to project Emile’s image.

“I’m not actually there!” Emile says brightly. “Oh, this is wonderful, this means that you’re all going to start breaking through a bit more—I think, it’s not like there’s a parenting book for this kind of thing. Anyways, you’re not going crazy, or whatever you might think, it’s just that your brain is built a bit differently, and it turns out to be the exact same type of different as five other people, so you’re all psychically connected now!”

There’s a very long pause. Then:

“The fuck?” 

REMUS

“Don’t eat that.”

Remus twitches, which honestly, is the best reaction he’s had to all these weird hallucinations so far. If this is some kind of form of demon retribution from Miguel Contreras, one would think he’d send the demons after his actual murderer who poisoned him, rather than the person who wanted to kill him but didn’t. 

He can imagine the way Roman’s face would twist up if Remus freely admitted to wanting to kill someone, which is how he knows it’s maybe not normal to admit that he wanted to kill someone, outside of the slightly joking, oh, I’ll kill him! thing people say.

But hey. Remus didn’t kill him. The didn’t part has to count for something. Right?

“That’s a hallucinogen,” the man continues.

Remus stares at him. Is that meant to sound like a bad thing? Because going on some kind of mushroom-induced trip would be awesome right now. He slowly raises the plant to consider it.

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” the man adds hastily.

This does not sound like a bad time at all. He brings the plant closer to his mouth.

The man slaps it out of his hand.

“It also might kill you,” he scolds, looking at the plants that Remus has managed to gather. “I’m assuming you’re going to try to eat all of these?”

“Yes,” Remus says.

The man stares at the plants. He nudges one aside with his foot to survey the pile.

“So there’s like a sixty percent chance you would have died if you ate all of this in one sitting,” he says.

“A forty percent chance I would have survived this mind-meltingly great time, though, and I’ve taken worse odds,” Remus points out. 

The man pinches the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache. Remus is very familiar with seeing people perform this gesture at him.

“How do you know all this, anyway?” Remus continues.

“Botanist,” the man says, crouching slightly to press his hands against the dirt, rubbing it between his fingers. “Where are we? Seems like a tropical climate.”

“Mexico,” Remus says, refusing to give a more specific location than that. 

The man gestures vaguely, and Remus looks around—he’s in a dark bedroom, lit only by a desk lamp that’s busy shedding most of its light on a tray full of what Remus thinks are maybe flower saplings.

“South Africa.”

The man rises to his feet, hands planted on his hips.

“Right,” he says decisively. “You’re in a forest environment, it should be easy enough to gather enough edible plants to form some kind of meal. Maybe not an appetizing one, but a meal. C’mon.”

And so begins a very odd day, even by Remus's standards.

The man—Doctor Virgil Wright-Nkosi, Remus spots a diploma waiting to be framed sitting on his desk—starts teaching Remus about stuff called quelites, which are edible sub-products of other crops, usually vegetables, as well as a variety of edible flowers, which cacti are safe to crack open and use as food, and which plants need to be tossed into a fire and which are fine to eat raw.

All the while, even as they’re hiking through the forest, Virgil occasionally reaches back to his bedroom in South Africa, pulling down thick textbooks to show Remus pictures of the various growth stages of plants, or googling things on his laptop to double and triple-check his knowledge (he does that for literally almost every plant, and somehow Remus knows it’s because Virgil absolutely wants to be sure Remus isn’t poisoned) or just to check on his little flower saplings.

So by the time the sun is setting in Monterrey, and by the time it’s the witching hour in South Africa, Virgil and Remus survey their little pile of plants.

“Do you know if this is a hallucination or not?” Virgil asks him abruptly, a sudden about-face from his day full of somewhat normal behavior.

Remus shrugs, spreading his hands.

“Maybe I ate one of those hallucinogens—”

Virgil winces, almost on instinct, as if the thought of shrugging away concerns and popping a random plant into his mouth is giving him heart palpitations. It probably is.

“—and my brain’s trying to give me a plant expert to, I don’t know,” Remus says, smiling humorlessly. “Get some knowledge about rosary peas. Free me up from that pesky murder charge.”

Virgil turns to him, his jaw dropping.

“That what?!” He says, and then, as if the shock of realizing he’s been educating a fugitive all day is just too much for him, he pops away. Gone.

Remus looks at the plants.

“Thanks for dinner, I guess,” he says to the empty air and goes about sorting all the plants they’d plucked together.

VIRGIL

Murder charge. A murder charge.

Virgil’s mind is spinning even as he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. He is making absolutely no attempt to fall asleep.

Murder charge.

That is not the type of thing someone should just casually drop in the middle of a conversation!

Virgil had, obviously, figured out that this was kind of a strange dude; very specific types of people tended to camp out in caves without in-depth knowledge of the plants around them. Campers who overestimated their hunting capabilities, for instance. Hikers waiting to see rare animals. 

Also, Virgil had just kind of figured that he was in an extended hallucination, and, to quote an American comedian he’d been introduced to in college, he’d been in one of those days where you’re like...this might as well happen?

He’d made an appointment with his psychologist, regardless. So he was a little less stressed about the whole hallucinating strangers thing, if only by the virtue of figuring he’d know what was going on with his brain soon.

And also maybe because the nice Polish scientist in Antarctica had been a strangely settling presence, simply by virtue of how solid he’d seemed, but Virgil’s very carefully not thinking about any feelings that could have been inspired in him at the sight of a Polish man with very nice hair and a deep voice and very blue eyes. Not even the thought of how it had felt like Virgil had been straining to reach something and meeting the scientist felt like some kind of blessed release.

But now this stress has ratcheted up even higher, way past his original stress levels.

Murder charge.

But—wait.

A Mexican accused of murder whose weapon of choice was rosary peas?

Virgil rolls onto his side, knowing before he even stands up to go to his bookshelf that he’s going to be researching all night.

ROMAN

“Honey, I’m home,” Roman calls out wearily, dropping his keys into the bowl on top of the entry table. They clatter against the ceramic and rest side-by-side with their twins.

“Welcome back, beloved!” A much perkier voice calls from their living room, completing the joke. Roman traipses into the room.

Sasha is lying on the floor on her stomach, feet kicked up in the air, eyes narrowed at scripts spread across the floor. 

“Hey,” she says. “My agent says I should probably post something, people have been resorting to pap shots of us to create buzz and I’m trying to pick new projects. I hope I get another slasher film, I’ve wanted to do another one ever since I finished my last one. Scroll through our prepped shots and pick one for me, will you?”

“I can take a selfie and put it on your story, the Roshas loved that last time,” Roman says.

“Mm, repeating ourselves, too close to the last one we did,” Sasha says. “Nah, I think a throwback one would be better. If you wanna do a story, get over here and I can kiss you on the cheek.”

“I’m all gross and sweaty,” Roman says. “Hardly swoon-worthy.”

Sasha mutters something under her breath about that working for some people, but Roman shakes his head. He looks at the floor to peek at a script. He immediately sets it out of her reach.

Sasha raises her eyebrows at him. “No?”

“No,” Roman says, flicking aside the script for good measure. “He almost always writes a homophobic role in there. Early on, I got called in to do stunts for the scene where…” He tilts his head slightly, trying to recall the exact line. “Oh, right. The Hispanic coke dealer is about to give another kind of blow job when he finally gets the bullet he deserves.”

“Jesus,” Sasha says. “Yeah, keep that one far away from me, thanks. Oh, here—”

She unlocks her phone, goes to the photo album she’s entitled Rosha PR Shots and hands it to Roman.

Roman scrolls through. They’re all very posed, but they don’t look like it—a virtue of two actors together, he guesses—shots of them lounging on the couch, shots of Roman and Sasha at a romantic dinner, shots of Sasha fixing his tie before a red carpet.

“This one,” he says at last, coming across a more candid shot of Roman cooking dinner (for Sasha, it is implied by the candles on the table and the low lighting of the room.) “Nice and romantic. Domestic, even.”

“Perfect,” Sasha says and sends it off to her social media manager to be posted, surely with some kind of caption like dream guy, dream dinner, or something like that. It’ll drive the Roshas crazy, and maybe it’ll help things die down. 

He also knows he’s hoping in vain. They’ve been living together a year and a half, “dating” for another year before that, and it’s never died down. Last time he went to a grocery store he’d seen a tabloid with the pair of them out getting coffee on the front, speculating about what they’d done the night before by the state of Sasha’s hair (they’d eaten only egg rolls for dinner and watched a lot of The Good Place together and she’d fallen asleep on the couch) but the unsettling part was he hadn’t even seen the pap that snapped it.

Roman thought it would die down, but naturally Roman and Sasha have stumbled their way into the nationwide favorite couple. 

Shame the whole nation doesn’t know they’re rooting for roommates bearding for each other.

It’s a mutually beneficial relationship—they have a default red carpet partner in each other, the fact that they share an apartment (Roman’s bedroom is converted into an office whenever a magazine invites themself over for a profile) means they can afford a suitably glitzy place with very good security, and they also don’t get blacklisted from the business for being gay.

People writing fanfiction about them is a bit weird, though. Roman’s all for creativity, and he wrote some back in his day, but reading it about himself is a trip and a half.

Sometimes Roman and Sasha have nights where they drink lots of wine and read particularly graphic paragraphs out to each other. It’s honestly way funnier than any comedy movie they could pick—the concept of either of them would have heterosexual sex alone. Let alone the widely-spread fan theory that Roman has a heart-shaped mole on his ass.

It’s very weird being famous.

“You wanna order in tonight?” She asks him. “That place that does that really nice chicken dish down the street’s running a pretty great deal.”

“Yeah, I’m not up for cooking,” Roman says.

She frowns at him, rising up to put a hand on her forehead, the way she has for days. “Migraine still?”

“Migraine still,” Roman agrees. Her hand feels cool, but not cold, the way it would if he was feverish. 

Sasha sighs. “And you’re sure you don’t know why? No other symptoms?”

Roman feels a little twist of guilt in his stomach.

“No,” he lies.

Sasha believes him at his word, the way she always does because they know everything about each other. He knows about the long-term girlfriend she’d had when she was in college in San Diego and the nasty end; she knows about Roman’s lactose intolerance and how little he heeds it; he knows about her line memorization techniques; she knows about his parents’ messy divorce.

She’s his best friend. They know everything about each other. Everything.

Or, at least, they did, before Roman’s mostly-hermit brother got accused of murder and Roman got a horrible migraine a week later. And the hallucinations.

Sasha would probably send him straight to a hospital if she heard like a good friend would. But he can’t go to a hospital now—not in the middle of a shoot, not when his brother’s on the run, not now. And that’s not even going into what the tabloids would say if he suddenly got shipped off to a hospital because he was seeing things.

Roman rolls over on the couch and smashes his face into a pillow, blocking Sasha’s face from his sight. She’s a good friend, a great friend, the best friend he’s ever had. And he’s lying to her.

Sasha makes a sympathetic noise and pats his ankle. “I’ll grab dinner this time, okay? You go ahead and take a nap.”

It’s very sweet of her to try and make him feel better, but it makes him feel just a little bit worse.

[ellewritesathing]

Ten Things    VIII

Summary: If there’s one thing you have to know about Harvey Kinkle, it’s that he rarely thinks things through. So when he meets (and falls for) Sabrina Spellman on his first day of Baxter High and finds out that she can’t date anyone until her tempestuous sister does, it seems like the obvious solution is to get someone to date her so he can go out with Sabrina. A not so obvious choice for the challenge is Caliban, but, hey, it’s not like Harvey thought that far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 8

Word-count: 3.8k+

A/N: ahh i can’t believe this series is completed!! it’s been super fun to write these characters and their relationships and i hope you guys like how i’ve done this (endings are not my strong suit lmao) 💕 thank you for reading!!

A few months ago, your and Sabrina’s relationship had been strained at best. She had been so young and all she wanted to do was experience everything, and you were older and a bit more jaded because you’d already experienced it all. And thanks to your wild days of experiences, Hilda and Zelda set a rule in place when you cooled down: Sabrina could only do something if you did too. 

A part of Sabrina had always resented you for it, even though the rule wasn’t your fault. It was just incredibly frustrating to always be asking you for favors and you consistently refusing because you were done ‘pretending to be someone you weren’t.’ She hadn't understood what that meant back then. 

And Sabrina had to admit, even though Hilda and Zelda would crucify for her saying it, that your relationship got better after Caliban and Harvey came into your lives. Those two idiots had a way of making Sabrina more forgiving and you less hard-headed and, slowly, your relationship improved. 

But then prom happened and everything exploded. 

No matter how many times you promised that you were fine, Sabrina couldn’t shake the memory of picking up from the mines with Caliban’s car smashed in and abandoned in the background. Nor could she forget how she cradled you in the backseat while you sobbed and asked her why he didn’t like you.

So, when you rejected Sabrina’s thirtieth offer to join her and Harvey for some retail therapy (or vandalism - Harvey could wait in the car), Sabrina did what any good sister would: She canceled her plans with Harvey and hunted down Caliban. 

She thought finding Caliban would be the tricky part, but talking to him turned out to be the hard part. The second Sabrina saw him at Dr. Cerberus’ looking for a book, her entire speech that she’d been preparing since breaking Nick’s nose just disappeared into thin air. It wasn’t fair that he was perfectly okay while you cried into a pint of ice cream, but she couldn't find the words to yell that at him. 

Despite being at a loss for words, Sabrina stormed over and tapped Caliban on the shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Looking for a copy of Pride and Prejudice.” Caliban straightened up and bumped Sabrina’s arm lightly to get to the bookshelf. “Do you mind?” 

“Do I mind?” Sabrina repeated, crossing her arms and stepping closer to him. Even though he was easily a foot taller than her, she was determined not to be intimidated. “Yes, I mind. I mind that you’re here book shopping while my sister's turned into Boo Radley!” 

“Oh, spare me the dramatics, Blondie,” Caliban said with a roll of his eyes. He turned his attention back to the bookshelf. “Firstly, you were just as involved in all this as I was. More so, actually - it was your gentle manipulation that pulled Harvey into all your bullshit. And secondly, your sister is far too strong to get her heart broken. By me or anybody else.”

Sabrina faltered. She had been working very hard to block her part of this whole mess out of her head. “Are you gonna tell her?” she asked, in a very careful voice. 

Caliban knelt to get a better view of the shelf. He was in the totally wrong section if he was looking for Pride and Prejudice, but Sabrina didn’t want to point him in the right direction just yet. “Now, why would I do that?” he asked, tilting his head up at her. “So that she can hate us both?” 

Tapping her fingers on her arm, Sabrina was forced to admit that Caliban was being a frustratingly good guy about this all. “Well…” Sabrina tried to figure out something to be mad at him for. “What’s your plan?” 

“My plan?” Caliban didn’t take his eyes off the copies of The Great Gatsby and Catcher In Rye in front of him. 

“Your plan to fix this,” Sabrina said. She put her hand on his head and turned it to in the direction of the British Lit two shelves down. “You’ve got a plan, right?”

Caliban was quiet. He stood up and looked down at her, seemingly figuring out how much Harvey would mind if he pushed Sabrina over. “No,” he said eventually, trying very hard to keep his voice level. “I don’t have a plan.” 

He turned to go to the British Lit and Sabrina grabbed his arm to force him to turn around. “How can you not have a plan?” she asked. 

“Because-” Caliban shook off her arm and kept walking “-nothing I say will fix this. Your sister hates me.” 

“My sister hates everyone!” Sabrina stormed after him, practically knocking him over when she closed the distance. Awkwardly, she added, “But she hates you a little less than everyone else.”

Over the dusty copy of Lord of the Flies, Caliban looked at Sabrina with an almost unreadable expression. Unnerving, yes, but surprisingly unguarded. Sabrina was sure he could set someone on fire with that look alone. 

Caliban dropped his gaze and pulled out the last Pride and Prejudice on the shelf. “Well, thanks, Blondie, but I think she hates me most of all right now.” 

“That’s just because she doesn’t know!” Sabrina grabbed Caliban’s arm before he could leave. Giving him her best set-you-on-fire look, she said, “If you just talk to her - explain what happened - then I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” 

“Because ‘forgiving’ is the first word that comes to mind when one thinks of your sister,” Caliban said quietly, staring at Sabrina’s hand on his arm. He looked back at her with a hard expression. “Whatever happens between me and your sister, I want you to know one thing.” 

“Anything,” Sabrina said, caught off-guard by his intensity. 

“If you ever hurt Harvey, I’ll break into your house and shave your cat,” Caliban said. 

Before Sabrina had the chance to even begin formulating a response to that, Caliban gave her a tight smile and walked away.

Sabrina could see now, after one very frustrating interaction with him, why you liked Caliban so much. He was impulsive, vaguely threatening, and very clearly in love with you. 

---

“Okay, let’s open up our books to page 73, Sonnet 141. And listen closely,” Wardwell said. She ushered in a scrawny freshman who rapped the first four lines of the sonnet and then excused him with three quick taps to his shoulder. “As Toby has just shown us, there are multiple ways of engaging with Shakespeare. It wasn’t always bad actors in stuffy period clothes, you know.” 

She said it knowingly, as if every dumbass teenager in the class had seen a Shakespeare play and thought wow, this stuff would be great if it weren’t for the poorly done accents and garish clothing. 

When no one responded to Wardwell’s attempt at humor, she took a breath and walked in a little circle around her desk to reboot. “I’d like for all to write your own versions of this sonnet,” she said. “A poem riddled with contradictions and the struggle between the physical desire and mental …” she paused when you put your hand up. You knew you should have known to wait until she finished her sentence, lest she forget her original point. “Um, yes, Ms. Spellman? Do you have a problem with the assignment?” 

“No problem. Do you want this in iambic pentameter?” you asked, pen ready to write down whatever convoluted answer Wardwell gave you. 

Wardwell narrowed her eyes and walked around to the front of her desk again to get a better look at you. “To be clear, you don’t have any problems whatsoever with the assignment?”

“Whatsoever,” you echoed. Your voice had a slight edge to it thanks to your thinning patience. You tapped your pen on your notebook.

“Are you sure?” Wardwell crossed her arms over her chest. 

You sighed and put down your pen. With your best attempt at one of Sabrina’s polite smiles, you said, “I’m sure that it’s a great assignment, Mrs. Wardwell. Now, iambic pentameter: yes or no?”

“You know, I’m not sure I like this new attitude of yours,” Wardwell said, pushing herself off her desk and turning to look for a notepad. She scribbled something on it as she walked to your desk. “Take this and go see the nurse. I think you may have a fever.” 

“A fever? Wardwell, what the hell is this?” you asked. 

“A note. To see the nurse.” Wardwell tore the note off her notepad and handed it to you before gesturing toward the door. “Go.”

“But I-” 

“Now, Ms. Spellman.”

You let out a listless breath and slammed your notebook shut. Shoving all your things into your bag and ignoring Nick’s snickering, you grabbed the note from Wardwell and stormed out of the class. 

When you turned to flip Nick off while Wardwell had her back to the class, you saw Caliban reaching over his desk to flick Nick’s neck and whisper something in his ear that made him a few shades paler. It filled your heart with a funny feeling and you adjusted your bag and fled before you had a chance to start crying in the middle of your English class. 

Once you were in the safety of the hallway, you had no idea which way to turn. The nurse’s office wasn’t an option because Pollit was deeply against any student seeing her unless they were bleeding and you didn’t feel like getting detention for supposedly faking an illness. It was too bright outside to throw rocks at the soccer team. You found yourself heading for the library before you even realized that you’d decided not to ditch. 

The smell of coffee and freshly microwaved lunches mingled with old books and teenage angst when you stepped through the threshold. It was surprisingly busy for the sixth period, but luckily your spot in the back corner by the window was open. Slipping on your headphones, you drowned out all the others and started working on your stupid sonnet. 

If the writer’s block wasn’t annoying enough, someone slid into the seat across from you and jostled the table in the process. Lifting your gaze from your newly marred page, you were intent on giving the offender the harshest glare in your arsenal until you saw it was Harvey. 

He was nervous, spouting some apology that you couldn’t hear over your music, and wearing a football helmet. You took your headphones off to hear some of the ten billion words he was saying.

“Why are you wearing a football helmet?” you asked, setting your headphones aside and doing your best not to glare at him. 

“Oh, uh-” Harvey tapped the helmet like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “I wanted to talk but I thought you’d still be pretty pissed at me.” 

You tilted your head to the side. “And you thought a helmet would protect you?” 

“I mean, I feel a little dumb about it now but yeah,” Harvey said with a shrug. 

You laughed at him and leaned over to take the helmet off his head. He looked ready to run for the exit, but he held still as you took the helmet in your hands. Collapsing back into your seat, you sighed and looked at the red Greendale High football helmet. “I’m not angry with you,” you said. “I tried but it’s like being mad at a puppy.” 

Harvey shifted uncomfortably and frowned. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment but thank you.”

“No problem, Harvey.” You sighed and set the helmet on the table. Both of you stared at the helmet for an awkwardly long period of time. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Either his seat was very uncomfortable or you still managed to unnerve him because Harvey kept shifting in his seat and starting sentences but never quite finishing them. Eventually, he sighed and said, “It’s not Caliban’s fault. It’s mine.” 

“No, you only think it’s yours because you’re sixteen and more easily manipulated than most,” you said. 

“Yeah, I know all that but-” Harvey shifted and tapped your notebook as he tried to figure out how to word what he was about to say. “I liked Sabrina, right? But everyone told me that she couldn’t date unless you did. So, I started talking to Caliban because he seemed like your type-” 

“Caliban is my type?” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Harvey said, completely missing your offense at his assumption of your type. Sure, he’d been right but still. “Anyway, so, like I said it, was my idea. He had feelings for you already and then Nick offered him money and … I don’t know. I told him to go for it anyway.”

You picked at the rings of your notebook in silence, mulling over Harvey’s words and trying not to punch him. 

“He was going to tell you but I said it would just hurt you,” Harvey continued. He took a deep breath. “So, if you’re going to be mad at anyone, then be mad at me.” 

You hoped you’d see something outside that told you what to do, but everything outside stared at you ambivalently. Letting go of your notebook, you turned back to Harvey and shrugged. 

“He lied to me, Harvey. I get that you were selfish and messed up, but Caliban lied,” you said. “That’s worse than what you did because it feels like I can’t trust anything he says.” 

Harvey looked like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. Gut-punched and disappointed. In a slightly smaller and more strained voice, he said, “But it’s not his fault.”

You reached out and touched Harvey’s hand on the table. “I know you’re just trying to help your friend but it’s not that simple,” you said. “Do you understand?”

“No,” Harvey said lamely. He sank back in his chair and sighed. “But I’ll stop bugging you about it.”

“Thank you.” You squeezed his hand before letting go entirely. You pulled your notebook out from under Harvey’s helmet. “Are you gonna keep staring at me like that or do you have work to do?” 

“Oh, I’m supposed to be in chemistry right now,” Harvey said. 

Again, a bit of your bad mood dissipated and you laughed. “You should probably go to chemistry.”

“Yeah, probably,” Harvey said. He looked at the door and looked back at you. “But, uh, is it cool if I sit here for a while?” 

You wanted to say no and to tell him that he was still an idiot for his part in this whole mess, but he was looking at you with those dumb lost puppy eyes. “Okay,” you said. “But don’t distract me or I’ll kick you under the table.” 

Harvey laughed and settled into his seat. “Got it. Next time I’ll bring shin-guards.” 

---

All things considered, Caliban had been handling your blind hatred quite well. Though, technically, your hatred wasn’t blind anymore because you knew the truth about him. Your hatred was all-seeing, all-encompassing, and everlasting. Caliban expected no less, considering the remnants of his smashed-up car found on the edge of the mines, but it still felt like he was falling apart every time he saw you. 

Before, your almost exactly replicated schedules had been a convenient way to spy on you until Caliban finally worked up the courage to ask you out. Then, it had been the ideal opportunity to pass notes and make fun of Billy. Now, it was the perfect torture session where the two of you pretended not to notice one another.

It had gone on for almost a week before Caliban couldn’t stand it any longer. He had a plan, a very shaky plan, and Ambrose’s assurance that he could treat any of Caliban’s bones that you broke. 

Caliban had waited the whole day and all he had to do was get through English, and then he could talk to you. Regardless of whether or not you broke his nose, phase two of the plan would commence with red carnations and one of those cheesy acoustic songs you liked.

“Okay, children,” Wardwell said in her disturbingly chipper voice. Her heels clacked against the floor as she scurried to the front of the class. “You’ve had plenty of time to work on your poems and I’m very excited to hear your takes on this classic sonnet.” 

She was met by the silence of two dozen over-tired teens. Awkwardly, Wardwell fiddled with her hands and started walking around again. She paused at the window for a second and turned back to the class with wide eyes. 

“Any brave souls willing to read theirs aloud?” Wardwell asked it like it was a dangerous question, like she was asking them if they wanted to rob a bank later. 

Again, she was met with uncomfortable silence. Then your hand shot up and the air felt slightly more electric. 

“Oh, Ms. Spellman … um, would anyone else like to give it a try?” Wardwell asked, looking out at the crowd with hungry eyes. “No? Well, alright then. Come on up, Ms. Spellman.” 

Wardwell waved you over and placed you next to her desk in the front. She gave your shoulders an uncomfortable-looking squeeze and hurried back to her spot near the window. When she stood like that, she looked like a spindly bird watching over her chicks. Or maybe over her prey; it was hard to tell. 

Once you were standing in front of the blackboard the way Wardwell liked, you took a deep breath and looked down at your notebook. “Here goes nothing,” you mumbled. Glancing over at the Caliban, his heart stopped as you dropped your gaze and started reading in a tight voice. “I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare.”

At the mention of his staring, Caliban’s heart stuttered annoyingly. He was staring at you now, along with the rest of the class, but this was different. He’d told you once that he stared because it gave him a chance to figure out what to say, but this time he was staring so that he’d never forget this moment.

“I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind … I hate you so much that it makes me sick-” You let out a short laugh and looked out at the window as you shook your head. “It even makes me rhyme.”

The whole class laughed and you took another breath to prepare for the next stanza. There was no laughter in your voice when you spoke again. “I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie.” Your voice cracked and you looked up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you make me laugh.” A stray tear ran down your face and you wiped it away roughly. “Even worse when you make me cry.” 

Caliban leaned forward in his chair. Whatever you said next, he didn’t want to miss a word. 

“I hate the way you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call,” you said, voice trembling between the tears that Caliban knew were eating you up inside. As if this moment couldn't twist him up any more, you looked up from your notebook and made eye contact with Caliban for your final lines. “But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close … not even a little bit … not even at all.” 

With a breath, you shut your notebook and started walking out of the classroom. In a show of remarkable self-control, you didn’t slap Nick on your way out as he asked what on earth that poem could possibly be about. 

Wardwell called after you, teetering on her heels as she scurried after you, but she stopped when she was almost run over by Caliban bolting out of his seat. She held onto him until he promised that he would make sure you were okay. 

Thanks to the Wardwell delay, you were long gone by the time Caliban made it to the hallway, but he had a pretty good idea of where you’d gone. He raced out of the school and tracked down your car. 

You were glaring at your car when Caliban found you, or more specifically glaring at the dozens of red carnations in your backseat. Reluctantly, you picked up the apology note on your windshield. 

Technically, it was more of an excerpt than a note. Caliban had ripped out one of the last pages of the Pride and Prejudice he bought the other day, the page where Darcy proposes to Elizabeth (which was your favorite because ‘he promised to leave her the fuck alone if she didn’t feel the same’), circled your quote, and scrawled out an apology.

Caliban didn’t even know you’d seen him standing there until you balled up the note and threw at him. “You know you can’t just keep buying me red carnations every time you mess up, right?” you asked. 

Seeing as amusement outweighed the annoyance in your voice, Caliban walked closer to you. “Yeah, but that’s why they have roses…” Closer- “tulips…” Caliban stopped in front of you and let out a shaky breath. “Hell, if I get that desperate, I'll even buy you some peonies.” 

You bit the inside of your lip and cast a look at your car. You shrugged. “How do you plan to afford all that, huh? Going to keep dating girls so the cash keeps coming?” 

It was a cheap shot but one that Caliban deserved. He dropped his gaze. “No, I, uh, messed up the last time. See, this girl was … something else. And I fell for her.”

You frowned for a second but then gave him a very hesitant smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Caliban repeated. “It’s not every day you find a girl who’ll steal your car and then leave it absolutely wrecked without leaving so much as a note for your insurance company.” 

You laughed and covered your face with your hand. 

“In her defense, she did leave my tires alone,” Caliban said with a mischievous smile. 

For the first time, Caliban’s heart didn’t wrench at the sound of your laugh. You knew the truth and you seemed to care about him anyway. “Shut up,” you told him. You grabbed a fistful of Caliban’s shirt and pulled him closer. 

Your first kiss was rushed and clumsy - you wanted to kiss him and Caliban needed to kiss you. After a shared laugh, your second kiss was less frantic and a little smoother - your hand cupped his jaw familiarly and his arms held you without having to think. Then there was your third kiss, your fourth … each one better than the last.

by the way, loves, here’s the quote in case any of you were wondering: Elizabeth was much too embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

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[florenceandthemachine]

TUMBLR FUCKED UP SOME OF MY ASK POSTS I AM SO SORRY ANYWAY 

@buckleydiazs​ asked:

talk to me about eddie and chris asking buck to move in, pls and thank u ��

Their first unplanned night together starts off with a text message.

Ironically enough, it’s not even a message between Eddie and Buck—it’s between Buck and Maddie. Eddie is all smiles as he pulls his truck onto the highway, Buck in the passenger seat, laughing easily at some story Eddie was telling. It was nice. It was easy, easier than most of the relationships Eddie had ever had before, but that wasn’t surprising—at least, not anymore, not with Buck.

Once Buck had gotten the stick out of his ass, Eddie realized how easily the two of them would get along almost immediately. Buck was... well, he was a far better person than Eddie was, and Eddie would be the first to admit that, but Buck seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he could basically out shine the sun with one of his big toothy smiles.

Their relationship was unique, certainly; they had survived things that went beyond the real of “regular people”; tsunamis, earthquakes, bombs, and most stressful of all (weirdly enough), a lawsuit. somehow, the lawsuit was the straw that broke the back on their friendship—Eddie had finally pulled his head out of his ass, realized how miserable his life had been without Bucky, and asked him out on a proper date a week after Buck's first call back on the team.

Though they spent a lot of time together as friends, and that had only grown after their first official ‘date’, they had been carpooling out of necessity for the week—Bobby had been good enough to match their schedules up while Buck’s Jeep was in the shop—and Eddie insisted that it wasn’t too much of a detour to shuttle Buck back and forth to work.

The mood in the truck was easy and light, and Buck was still laughing when he pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping at the screen a few times—and like someone had switched on a vacuum, the good mood was sucked through the window in less than a second.

“It’s Maddie. She says Taylor Kelly is at my apartment complex. Apparently there was a pretty big drug bust in the building across the way, she has her van camped out in our lot.”

And, well, Eddie wasn’t about to tolerate that, wasn’t about to tolerate anything that made Buck unhappy, anything that could suck the joy out of him in an instant, for reasons that he chose not to dive too deep into. He focused instead on the problem (and yeah, Taylor Kelly was a problem with a capital B), and what he figured was the easiest solution.

“Oh. Well, then you’re staying at our place tonight.”

As expected, Buck started up a whole litany of protests. It was a little sad, Eddie thought, how eager Buck was to talk himself out of a good time, and if he didn’t have the backup of a year of knowing Buck as well as he did, Eddie might have actually taken his ramblings at face value.

As it was, though, he had an ace in the hole. A surefire way to get Buck to shut up and accept some good in his life. He didn’t like to play it, but he knew that he had to as soon as Buck mentioned “I’ll just stay at the firehouse tonight, it’s really no issue, I’ll order take out, and—”

“Buck, it’s fine. Chris has been begging me to invite 'his Buck’ over for dinner for a week now anyway.”

“...oh. Okay.”

Was it wrong for Eddie to use his son so easily, knowing that Buck was as wrapped around Chris’ finger to the degree that nearly rivaled himself? Probably. Could Eddie bring himself to care? Nope.

Especially not when Chris basically launched himself into Bucks arms, completely overjoyed that Buck was here for a “surprise sleepover”. 

Dinner had gone off without a hitch, with Chris easily dominating most of the conversation, rattling off facts, figures, stories from school, information about his friends, and Buck had eaten it up. 

Eddie had found himself staring at Buck—more than once—with a little bit of a dopey look on his face, he was sure, as Buck got more and more animated, making Christopher laugh, telling stories of his own, and he hadn’t even bothered to look away when Buck caught him staring.

Buck was a blusher. Eddie loved it.

Now, though, Chris had disappeared to brush his teeth and put on his pajamas, and Eddie and Buck were working in companionable quiet as they started to clean the table.

"You know, if Taylor being at my apartment means I get to spend the evening with my two favorite guys...” Buck said with a smile, closing the fridge as he leaned against it, keeping an ear out for Chris as he turned the faucet in the bathroom on. “...I’ll have to invite her over next time.”

Eddie shrugged, gesturing vaguely with a spoon, though he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face as he rose a brow. “Buck, you know you don’t need excuses, right? You’re allowed to like this. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am as wrapped around your finger as you are Chris’s.”

Buck was blushing again, and that was all the encouragement Eddie needed to step forward, his arms wrapping around Buck as Buck started to speak again. “You... you know the feeling is mutual, right?” he asked, and Eddie felt himself light up. “And I... don’t really want to wait for a next time to spend some time with you either.”

Buck wasn’t sure which God was on his side, but either way, he was immensely thankful that Chris didn’t barge in until long after Eddie and Buck had separated, even if they were still breathing a little heavily.

--

The next unexpected visit, it turns out, was only four weeks and three planned dates later. 

Buck had had many a sleepless night after the tsunami, but after the lawsuit, his nightmares had become even worse, more intense, more real. There were nights where he had to tell himself, ten times, that Chris was okay, that he was alive, and then there were nights like tonight, where he let the fear outweigh the guilt and he called Eddie.

(It was probably telling that he was never afraid of his own death—only Chris’. If he had a therapist, he would probably bring that up, but... well, therapy had never been a great idea for Buck before.)

To his credit, Eddie hadn’t let it ring even twice before picking up. 

“Buck, Chris is okay. He’s okay. You saved him, Buck, and I can never thank you enough for that.”

“Ed—he was right there, and I lost him, and I—”

“He is okay. Buck, seriously, he’s okay. Here, you should come over. See for yourself?”

“What? No.” Buck may have been coming out of a nightmare, but even then, he knew not to risk disturbing Eddie more than he absolutely had to.

“Buck, whatever thoughts are swirling around in that head, you better, get your admittedly very attractive ass over here right now.”

...well, he couldn’t argue with that. 

Eddie could feel his heart break when he opened the door, though, and got an armful of puffy eyed, apologetic Buck in response. They quietly made their way over to Chris’ room and then to Eddies own, where he made no short work of Buck’s apologies, kissing him soundless every time he tried.

At the end of the night, Buck wasn’t sure what had helped him sleep better—seeing Chris alive and well, or spending his night in Eddie’s arms, wrapped up tight enough that he couldn’t break free even if he tried.

Not that he would.

--

“Hi Buck!”

“Hi Christopher!” 

Buck was all smiles as he swooped in to scoop Christopher into a big bear hug, leaning over to kiss Eddie’s cheek as he let Chris back down to the ground and they started walking back to the car. “How was school, buddy?” He asked, easily going into idle listening mode as Eddie’s hand slipped into his. It was an early release day for Christopher, and he had all but demanded that they spent the afternoon hanging out together—and it was moments like these that reminded Buck about how lucky he was, swinging his hand in Eddie’s like a teenager as they walked back to the car, Chris eagerly leading the way.

Honestly, if anything, the fact that a date night for Buck was now spending a night at the museum with his boyfriend and his kid (instead of in a club, or at a bar, or doing something he probably wouldn’t remember the next day) really was a testament to his own personal growth. No drinking, no drugs, no questionable sex with questionable people in questionable locations—just a nerdy firefighter and his kid.

Dinner consisted of hot dogs and pretzels and soda, and somehow Chris was outpacing them on energy as they wandered through the exhibits. Buck never quit being amazed at just how much Chris knew—hell, Buck was an adult and he still didn’t know the difference between a Monet painting and a Manet painting—but Chris was like the little brainiac Energizer bunny, his energy only weaning after they got home and demanded Buck read him two whole stories for bedtime, and Buck was feeling selfish enough to allow himself a few moments with Chris, sleeping on his shoulder, before he tucked the boy in for the night. 

“I’m gonna get going.”

“You don’t have to, you know?”

Eddie kept his voice low as Buck slid Chris’ door shut, his arms finding their way around Buck’s waist on autopilot, easily masking the twinge of annoyance he felt when Buck had the audacity to look surprised.

“What do you mean?”

If he ever met that Abby chick, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. 

“I mean you don’t have to leave. You can stay, sweetheart. I… well, I want you to stay, but I always want you to stay, so I’m a little biased. But you can stay as long as you want, whenever you want.” 

It was better, he hoped, to be direct, because Buck obviously didn’t get the hint after so many subtle cues. Hell, Eddie had given him a key after their third official date, and all Buck had commented was how glad he was to have it, in case of emergencies. Unfortunately, the fact that Buck seemed dumber then a box of rocks didn’t seem to count as an emergency. 

His argument seemed to be well received tonight, at least, because Buck smiled shyly as he looked up to Eddie, his own arms sliding around the other males shoulders. 

“You’re sure I won’t bother you and Chris, right? You really want me to stay tonight?”

“Of course I do.” Eddie said. For the rest of your life, he managed to keep inside. 

--

“Buck, you know you’re always welcome here, right?”

“Yes, Eddie.”

“And you know we love having you here, and we generally hate it when you leave.”

“I get it, Eddie.”

“So you know—“

“Eddie, will you please let me in?”

If Buck wasn’t soaked head to toe, standing on Eddie’s doorstep, he’d probably start to think that the universe was playing a cruel joke on the both of them. It was certainly playing a cruel joke on Eddie, to be honest—they had finished a particularly grueling overnight shift just three hours ago, and he had all but begged Buck to come and get some rest at the house while Christopher was out with Carla that day, and Buck had politely but firmly refused, not wanting to trample on any of the time that he got to take for himself. It was driving Eddie crazy, to be honest—he had really thought that they had made progress on that front, that they had finally gotten to the point where Buck didn’t think he was intruding, or interrupting, or distracting, or whatever. He really had thought he had made his stance clear—that he always loved spending time with Buck, period. 

Well, he was certainly never one to back down from a challenge. 

“What even happened, Buck?”

“The pipe burst in the apartment above me. I got soaked through in the middle of a nap.” 

“Oh, Buck.”

“It’s not funny, Eddie! I was trying to be considerate!”

“Baby, I’m not laughing. I’m just very distracted by how good you look soaking wet.”

“Eddie, I swear to god—“

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“….oh. Oh!”

--

“I meant what I said, you know?”

“Hmm?”

They had gotten down to the lazy, delighted moments of the evening, standing together in the shower, Buck slotted easily into Eddies arms. They were taking advantage of the last twenty minutes they had together before Chris came home, and needless to say, neither of them were exactly jumping at the idea of wearing pants again.

“We love having you here, Chris and I. And we really do hate it when you leave because you think that you have to, or you think that you’re intruding, or you think… well, whatever else that you’re thinking.”

“Eddie…”

Buck turned in his arms, pushing his wet hair back, but Eddie smothered any chance of a self depreciating comment by pressing their lips together. He didn’t pull back until he knew Buck would be breathless, panting, and dazed, and it probably wasn’t fair to fight that way, but Eddie couldn’t handle another comment about how much of a bother Buck perceived himself.

“You’re home to me, Buck. Chris too. He loves you and he looks up to you, and you drive me crazy thinking that you could be anything but welcome in our lives. Buck, I want you to move in with us. Stay. Forever.”

There was a time and a place where Buck’s self doubt would have run rampant faced with a confession like that—hell, Buck 1.0 wouldn’t even have allowed a relationship to get that far—but somehow, looking up at Eddie, nothing could be more perfect. 

“You’re home to me too, Eddie.” He started, softly, a smile on his face. “And if you and Chris really wouldn’t mind—“

“It’s not just that we wouldn’t mind, though. It’s what we want. We want you to live with us, sweetheart.”

“… well, I’ve never been good at denying anything my Diaz boys want, have I?”

--

(Over dinner, Buck had nervously approached the topic with Chris, because no matter how sure Eddie was, Buck had to hear it for himself. 

Chris got so excited he almost threw up. 

Eddie considered everything about that night as a win—but the best part of all was the price, Buck, beautiful Buck, waiting for him in his—no, in their bed.)

[smarchit]

Poetry for an Heiress, Chapter 6

Word Count: 5.8k (omg!!!)

Summary: When a duchess and her children are abandoned far from home, they must rely on the kindness of one stranger to guide them home. 

Warnings: None! (for this chapter)

A few weeks after Ezra had come to your daring rescue, you had begun to venture outside by yourself again. Your foot was feeling worlds better, allowing you to join your children back on the farm. The bruising was nearly gone as well, though after he'd thoroughly examined it once he was sure you were well, Ezra retracted his original statement that you'd merely twisted it. 

"Hairline fracture, Princess," he explained as he held your foot in his lap. "Quite common, really. Not technically a break."

Currently, you were tending to the herb and flower garden you had so lovingly brought back to life since you'd arrived here. Large blossoms loomed over your head, set to bloom any day now. The herbs had been in use for some time now, and since you'd gotten injured, you hadn't been able to do much in the way of caring for the poor garden. The children had watered it per your instructions, but the ground was covered in weeds that needed to be cleared.

You'd tried to supervise the children and instruct them on what to pull and it very nearly resulted in the savage murder of a tiny oregano plant by the hand of your youngest. After that, you relied on Henry and Aiden to pull up the larger weeds that threatened the tender plants. 

Now you were elbow deep in dirt, in a veins attempt to yank out a large blue-leaf spore plant by the taproot. It was the best form of therapy, you'd told Ezra. And he was inclined to agree with you once he saw your smile. It seemed to draw him closer to you as he approached and handed you a glass of water, which you heartily accepted. 

He lowered himself to the grass beside you and hummed at the pile of weeds beside you. "Busy today, I see?"

You nodded and sat back, groaning softly at the way your back protested at the lack of movement. "This one's giving me trouble," you said, gesturing to the spore plant.

Ezra chuckled. "You're going at it the wrong way, just trying to tear it straight out. See, the Caeruluncus Sporangium has these hook-like roots that kind of dig into the dirt like a claw. Wiggle it from side to side -- see if that does the trick."

Sure enough, as you wiggled the plant around in the dirt, you could feel its grip loosen. Soon, you were able to pull it free, including the long tap root that was nearly as long as your arm. You could see the hooked roots and grimaced at how horrifying it was. "I'm impressed you knew that," you replied. "I've never dealt with a weed quite like that."

Ezra smiled and picked a tiny clover you'd missed. He examined it for a moment before he tucked it into your hair. "The hooks worked surprisingly well in a pinch to close a suture when nothing else was on hand. I only know the old Latin by chance, it seems. A partner I had some years back was a botanist. He knew all the scientific names for every damn plant we came across. I think he made some of the names up."

You touched the clover in your hair and blushed slightly. These past few days, Ezra had somehow gotten softer with you, if that were even possible. You often wondered if he thought he was going to lose you that day in the river. The same thought had crossed your mind once or twice. Would he have taken care of your children? Or would he try to get the back to your family without a thought?

Henry ran over to you just then, clutching a section of a heavy chain in his hands. He showed it excitedly to Ezra, nearly bouncing out of his skin. "What is it? Is this from a dig?"

Ezra studied the chain for a moment, turning it in his hand to inspect the links. He nodded and handed it back. "I suspect it was part of a dig at one point. That's Federation-forged extraterrestrial steel. You can see the stamps here. Some of the fields around here were dig sites a while back. They turned it all into farm land when they were finished. Settled the land they tore up."

Henry grinned and crouched down beside Ezra to look at the tiny Federation stamp on a few of the links. He lifted his glasses so he could see the tiny details that had been branded into the metal. "Not pirates?"

"Now don't sound so disappointed! But no, son, not pirates," Ezra chuckled. "Though I imagine someone called prospectors and harvesters similar terms at some point in time."

You sat back to watch them both, a warmth spreading through you at their interaction. The children really did love him. They never once had a bad thing to say about him. He never got upset at them, never raised his voice. He had been patient from the start. And you had been so nervous that he might have ulterior motives. 

No, you thought, Ezra would care for the children if something had happened to you. If you had not survived your tumble, he would most certainly love the children like they were his own. He did it right from the start, even when he had little to gain. 

As if he were tuned to your thoughts like it was his favorite radio station, Ezra lifted his head to grin at you. He looked back at Henry and advised him to be careful in the fields before he sent him off.

"Something weighing on your mind, Princess?" he asked, moving a bit closer to you. He brushed a leaf from your sleeve and held the tiny thing in his hand for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the waxy texture.

"Oh, I was just thinking," you murmured, looking back down at the much-improved garden. You sighed when Ezra pressed you to continue. "I was thinking about... what would have happened if I had- if something had happened to me and I couldn't look after the children anymore."

Ezra raised a brow, intrigued by your question. He scooted closer on his knees so that he was directly in front of you. "You're asking me what I would have done with your children had I not been able to save you from the river?" He waited for you to nod before continuing. "I would have done everything I could to give them a proper life. I would have continued to provide for them as I have been, all the while searching for their family."

You took a deep breath and nodded, satisfied with his response. You had known it all along, but hearing it come directly from him felt different somehow. It felt more real this way.

"Shall I continue to keep you company, Princess, or would you like to continue your work in private?" Ezra smiled and nudged you with his shoulder. "I would offer to help, though I fear you would be dissatisfied with my work."

"I'm sure I would find proper use for your handiwork," you hummed. A dark blush crept across your face at his salacious grin. Realizing the double meaning to your words, you gasped and covered your mouth with your hand. "Oh, I apologize!"

Ezra let out a loud laugh and reached for your wrist. He gently pulled your hand from your mouth and held it in his own. "No need to apologize. I'm sure you're right. I suppose I wouldn't be too rusty." He let go of your hand and brought his own up to cup your cheek, swiping some dirt away with his thumb.

Your face grew even hotter at his gesture and you tried to look away to compose yourself. Ezra gently tilted your chin back up so you were looking at him. This time, you didn't look away. It felt right.

"Princess, I--" Ezra was leaning closer to you now, his eyes flicking down to your mouth. 

"Mama!" Marie screeched from the other side of the yard. "Aiden pushed me in the mud!"

You both abruptly pulled away and looked around, hoping the children hadn't seen. The two of you were still sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off of each other. Ezra coughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"I'm sorry," you said softly as you stood up. 

Ezra grabbed your hand as you turned to go and you looked back at him, more than surprised. "Princess, I'm going to the market tomorrow. Would you care to join me?"

You smiled and then nodded. "Of course. I would like that very much. But what about the children?"

"Would they be alright on their own?" he asked. He stood up with a grunt of pain and leaned down to brush his knees off. "We could always bring them with us."

You glanced over your shoulder to where the children were playing before nodding. "I suppose we could bring them with us. With you, they'll be on their best behavior."

Ezra smiled and nodded, his expression almost boyish. He had that crooked smile on his face when he turned towards the children. 

You bit your lip and smiled at the thought of him wanting to care for and love the children even in your absence. The entire idea of him loving and caring for them made you admire him even more. Suddenly, you realized that perhaps you'd felt this way about him for quite some time, and not just in the past few weeks. 

A slow smile made its way across your face as you saw him scoop Marie up and tuck her under his arm. He spun around with her in a circle before he crouched down and examined an apparent bruise she'd sustained from where Aiden had shoved her. 

He was the only thing that even vaguely resembled a father that Marie had ever known. Ezra had stepped into the role so easily it felt as though he were the missing page to a book that you thought had been completed long ago. 

"Now, children," you said as you walked beside Ezra, your arm in his. "What are the rules?"

"Don't touch things that don't belong to us," Aiden mumbled. He was tossing a rubber ball back and forth in his hands, keeping himself occupied on the short walk to town.

"Keep our hands in our pockets or behind our backs," Henry said, clasping his own hands behind his back.

You turned to look expectantly at Marie as she skipped along beside you. When she didn't acknowledge you right away you cleared your throat to get her attention.

"Oh! Keep our voices down and mind our manners!" she exclaimed. She reached for your hand and tugged on it. "Is that right, mama?"

"Yes, little bug," you praised with a fond smile. "That was perfect."

You approached the town and warned the children to watch their step on the uneven path. The glass that had littered the ground on your first trip though had been mostly cleared, save for a few sparkling pieces left in between the cracked asphalt. 

"The Emporium is first," Ezra said, nodding at a nondescript yellow brick building. The front window had been blown out long ago, with a translucent tarp over the hole. "U steel, I shoot" was written in at least three languages on the tarp, as well as a simple picture that portrayed the same message. 

"Oh, relax," Ezra said with a chuckle when he noticed your apprehension. "Marta loves kids. She's got two grandbabies of her own a couple cycles' travel from here. She'll be thrilled to have your flock in her store."

"And we'll be well behaved," Henry promised. "Won't we, Aiden? See, mama. Don't worry!"

You sighed and then nodded. "Alright, but you see the sign! You understand what it says! Come on, little ones."

Together, the four of you entered the shop through the squeaky door. You winced at the grating sound it made against the metal floor.

You poked around the shelves as Ezra meandered his way around the clutter on the floor as he made his way to the counter.

The store itself had a wide variety of goods to choose from: housewares, tools, bulbs. Staple proteins for harvesters to toss into their clips, ammo, a few items of basic thermal clothing. Everything that would be needed for a scavenging expedition on the far reaches of a hostile planet.

Ezra was chatting with an older woman at the counter. She was at least seventy, her gray hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her right hand was missing two fingers, you noticed, as she reached on a shelf to grab a jar of starter for baking. When she turned back to Ezra, you saw the long jagged scar that cut up from her lip to her eyebrow, marring her weathered face.

"Oh, Marta," Ezra said with a wide smile as he turned to you. "You have royalty in your store today. A duchess and her three children. They're staying with me while we hatch a plan to get them home."

Marta chuckled and smiled at you. "And here I thought Hosea was spewing more cow shit when he told me. Guess I owe him some money after all. My apologies for the language. Marta Davis, your highness."

You blushed at her formality and gave her your name, at which she smiled broadly. "Please, you don't have to be so formal. I find that I enjoy the more genuine company. These are my three children, Aiden, Henry, and Marie." The children bowed and clumsily curtsied as you introduced them. 

Marta beamed at them and walked out from behind the counter to stand before them. She greeted each of the children individually and asked them a few questions to try and get to know them. 

Ezra had been right. She loved children, and they were at least minding their manners when they spoke with her. 

You smiled and stood beside Ezra and helped put some items in his backpack while he crossed them off the list and scribbled the prices down in the margins. There were a few more things on the paper and you weren't sure if you could get them here or not.

Marta turned back to you and smiled, nodding at the children. "Politest customers I've ever had, miss. I don't get much civility from farm hands and miners. Never got it with aurelac harvesters either. I'm sure Ezra can attest to that."

Ezra chuckled and nodded. "They can be a rough and tough bunch, that is true. Though I would hope that you never had an issue with my company."

Marta playfully rolled her eyes and nodded. "Never. It's gonna be fifteen today, Ezra."

He nodded and handed her the money from his pack before he grabbed his list from the counter. He swung it onto his shoulders with ease and nodded to you. "Onto the next, Princess."

You corralled the children by the door and gestured for them to say thank you to Marta before you opened the front door and ushered them out.

Ezra was already chatting with someone by the time you made it outside. You suspected much of Ezra's time in town was spent talking to people, and it made you wonder why he didn't live closer to town. He enjoyed people's company, so why live in a near exile?

The man he was talking to was about ten years or so Ezra's junior, with shoulder length red hair, half pulled back and sharp, steel blue eyes. He crossed his arms and nodded at something Ezra said before he laughed.

"I'm finally finished with it, Ez," the man said with a sigh. "I put a rush on it for you. No one had any parts to spare, but I made it work. Rix has that old combine collector that I took the belt off, but that only gets you to the Northern Vivicomb Belts."

"Thank you, Charlie," he said. "That is plenty far enough for her. I simply wish it didn't have to be over so soon." Ezra sighed and shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped when the younger man nodded in your direction. He turned to face you with a warm smile. "Princess, this is Charlie, I recently enlisted his help to get you a ship home. No one on Muir has a better hand for fixing pods and ships."

"My head is already big enough, Ezra," Charlie teased. He bowed his head towards you. "Duchess. Good to put a face to the name."

"It's nice to meet you too," you said with a smile. "So you have a ship for us?"

"I do indeed," he chuckled. "Little in terms of an actual ship. I finished it earlier this afternoon. Fit together and with many additional parts, not to mention countless hours of love and care to get you and your, ah, flock, as Ezra puts it, back home."

Ezra smiled and offered his arm to you once again. "Keep me posted. I expect our fair Princess is weary of our little hovel."

"I'm siphoning fuel off of the Veskar - Darla's crew's vessel. Should be a few days more. Maybe tomorrow at the earliest."

You frowned and touched Ezra's hand as you looped your arm through his. You hoped that he wasn't under the impression you wanted to leave so quickly. You'd actually grown fond of Muir, or at the very least the small part of it you had seen.

Charlie waved you off as Ezra led you down the street to the next store on the block. Judging by the sign, it was a little butcher shop. The sign out front had a few items listed for the day, with a few already crossed off. 

"You can wait outside if you'd like," Ezra offered, letting your arm drop. He smiled at you and then the children. "I will only be a second."

You nodded and held onto his backpack while he entered the tiny shop. The children had found a little family of large bugs crawling on the street and followed them with a stick in hand. Marie stood beside you, one fist holding tight to your dress, the other hand against her mouth as she sucked on her fingers. 

A few moments later, Ezra emerged with a brown paper wrapped bundle in his arm. You held open the bag for him and he dropped it inside before he took the bag from you.

"One more, Princess," he hummed. He gestured for the children to join you as he walked down the street. The children followed him happily and you quickly caught up with them. 

Ezra didn't seem particularly bothered with the statement he gave Charlie. Did he really want you gone that badly? It had felt like he genuinely enjoyed your company, but now you weren't so sure. The very thought upset you and you found yourself lagging behind.

The last stop was a tiny shop, unassuming and signless. Through the tinted glass window, you spotted a few stacks of worn yellow books, well read and well loved. Ezra turned to you and smiled. "I have a few to trade in, do you mind?"

You shook your head and offered a small smile of your own. "I don't mind, please take all the time you need."

"I won't be long," he hummed as he opened the door to the shop. "I know exactly what I'm looking for."

A few minutes later, Ezra emerged from the bookshop with a handful of new stories. He handed them to you so you could put them in the backpack with ease.

"I got something for you as well, Princess," he said with a smile. "You'll love it."

"Oh?"  you blushed a bit and reached for Marie's hand so you could begin your walk back. 

Ezra nodded and patted the front pocket on his jacket. "I will keep it here, safe, until I can present it to you properly."

"I look forward to it," you hummed, ducking your head so he couldn't see your smile in the fading light of day. The thing about Ezra, you found, was that he knew if you were smiling whether or not he could see your face. 

He chuckled and led the way for you all back to the farm. He held your hand when you crossed over the little brook at the edge of the property so you could step over with ease. 

The children giggled when you slipped on the gravel and toppled into his chest. You blushed and looked at him as he righted you on your feet. 

Ezra smiled and apologized for his arm at your waist, but you dismissed his apology with a shake of your head. His hand felt warm at the small of your back and even when he took his hand away, you could still feel the warmth there.

"Go take this into the house," Ezra said. He slid the bag off his shoulders and handed it to Aiden. "All three of you. Go on now."

When the children stood there, still looking expectantly at you, you nodded your head towards the house. "You heard him. Go on."

The three of them giggled and slowly walked back towards the house, throwing occasional glances over their shoulders at the two of you. Marie stood by the front door to watch, but Henry ushered her inside. 

"Princess, I... Duchess," Ezra corrected himself with a cough. "I was wondering if perhaps you and I could talk?"

You felt yourself pale slightly. A talk was never a good thing, and though Ezra didn't strike you as the type to be serious, it still made you nervous. What could he possibly want to talk about? Maybe you were too big a burden on his farm? Perhaps financially, he couldn't cope? Or was it that encounter in the garden yesterday? That almost kiss? Did you over step? "What is it?"

"Now you look like you've seen a ghost," he chuckled, touching your hand lightly. "It's not a serious talk, though I suppose one might consider it so." He trailed off at the end and looked down at his boots.

If you hadn't been before, you certainly were curious now. He never seemed so nervous in conversation. Normally, he was always so steady and confident in his words. You nodded for him to continue.

"Would you like to take a little picnic with me?" he asked. "Just the two of us? Not that I mind the company of your flock, but I feel you and I should have some time to ourselves as adults to--"

"I would love to," you said softly, bringing your hand up to touch his shoulder. "But who will watch the children? We can't leave them alone, they're just little."

Ezra shook his head. "You're right, it simply isn't in the cards for you and I, I suppose." He sighed and turned away from you to go back towards the house.  

You frowned and reached for his hand. "Ezra, wait. What about supper - after the children go to sleep?"

He turned back to you and smiled at your idea. He seemed relieved that you'd had your own suggestion, and that you appeared eager to go with him. "That seems a fine idea to me, Princess. I would be more than happy to honor that request."

"Tonight?" you asked softly. It felt as though your heart was going to burst into a thousand stars. You only hoped Ezra couldn't hear how fast it was beating.

Ezra stepped closer to you and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Tonight sounds wonderful, Princess. I will need a while to get everything ready, but I am sure that by the time you put your flock down, I will be finished."

You nodded and looked towards the house where you could still spot the children peeking through the doorway, eagerly waiting for you both.

A few hours later, after the children had been fed, bathed, and read to, you found yourself in your room, staring at your reflection in the tiny mirror beside the door. You had no fancy dresses like the ones back in the palace, but you admit you had grown accustomed to the simple wardrobe you had here at the farm. You didn't know what to wear for your evening picnic with Ezra, but you selected a plain white sundress that he'd complimented the first time you wore it. 

You checked on the children one last time, making sure they were fast asleep, before you crept down the stairs and into the garden. Ezra had promised you would know where to find him.

The garden was dark, lit only by the blue tint of the moon above. You followed the fence to the edge of the garden, keeping one hand on the posts. At the edge of the property, you found Ezra beneath a willow tree, bent low to light one final candle.

As he turned to you, his face was illuminated by the soft yellow light of candles and lanterns. He moved aside and gestured to the quilt that he had laid on the grass against the tree. 

"It's not much, Princess," he admitted, "But I still hope it is as good as a garden party in your palace."

Your eyes welled up with tears as you looked at everything. He'd set out a few pillows on the blanket to make it comfortable. There were a few books he had brought as well, though you didn't recognize a few of the titles. A little basket of food was off to the side, filled with a little bottle of wine and some pastries you had offhandedly mentioned weeks ago. It was perfect.

"Oh, Ezra," you breathed. "This -- this is far better than any garden party. I can't believe this! You did all of this?"

Ezra chuckled and looked at everything he had set up. "I admit I didn't do this on my own. I did have some pointers from your flock. I enlisted their help a few days ago."

You laughed and nodded because, of course he would have asked the children. Looking back, they had been acting a bit odd these last few days. It all made sense now, of course.

He took your hand and helped you sit down on the quilt. He offered you a glass of wine, apologizing for its poor quality, before he joined you on the ground.

You looked around once again before you bit your lip and leaned against him, resting your head on his shoulder. It was a cool night, and you suddenly regretted not bringing an extra blanket as you cuddled against him. Ezra, it would seem, had come prepared. He pulled a knit blanket from a basket beside him and covered your shoulders with it.

You hummed in appreciation and closed your eyes, listening to the nearby brook that bordered the property. The symphonic cacophony of nightly insects filled the air as the moon rose higher in the sky, nearly lulling you to sleep. 

Suddenly, Ezra spoke, the deep timbre of his voice breaking the otherwise easy silence. "Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments. Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no! It is an ever fixed mark."

You looked up at him, slightly confused. He had his eyes closed, his head tilted back and resting against the tree. There was a waver to his voice, as if what he was saying frightened him. It took a moment for you to realize it was a poem. You smiled and pressed your head against his chest. His heartbeat was so loud against his ribs you were almost worried for him as he continued the poem. You reached for his shaking hand as it rested between his thighs to calm him. 

"If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved." The closing line of Ezra's poem was nearly a whisper, breathed out like a holy prayer meant only for you. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked at you, and moved his hand to raise your chin so he could look at you. He sat up a little straighter, his dark eyes scanning your face, searching for hesitation or uncertainty. When he found none, he slowly pressed his lips against yours, savoring the warmth of your mouth against his.

You closed your eyes and smiled against his lips. A warmth exploded in your chest, flooding you with emotions you hadn't felt in so long. A tear slid down your cheek and Ezra quickly pulled away when he felt his cheeks grow damp.

"Princess, I am so sorry," he breathed, an apologetic expression on his face. He brushed your tear away and bit his lip, waiting for you to say something. Or to storm off.

"For what?" you asked, a little confused. You still felt the electric buzz of him against your lips.

"If that was untoward or uncalled for, I cannot apologize enough," he replied. "Forgive me. I merely--"

You surged forward and kissed him again, hoping this cleared up whatever he was about to say. It would be a complete lie if you had said you didn't want it.

After a few moments, he broke free, panting softly as his lips brushed your cheek. His sharp nose traced your cheekbone as he pressed little kisses to your jaw.

"As much as I wish to continue and take this further, Princess," he hummed, his lips pressed to your ear. "I do believe we have an audience." He gestured with a nod behind you towards the house. 

You turned to see three little heads peering at you from the kitchen doorway. They tried to duck out of the way, so you couldn't see them, and you turned back to Ezra with a smile. He caught your lips again and hummed appreciatively when you moved to deepen the kiss.

"Thank you," you whispered breathlessly when you pulled away. "This was perfect, Ezra. I truly can't thank you enough for this. I wish this moment would never end."

"Then stay," he murmured. "Here on Muir, with me. Don't go back."

"I wish we could," you said softly. "You offered us your home when we needed it. You were right there for us. And this place is so wonderful. I've never seen the children so happy."

Ezra beamed and settled back against the tree. "Your children, Princess, they love it here. And I have grown quite fond of them myself."

"They love you," you said with a small smile. You lay your head on his chest and closed your eyes. "They simply adore you."

"And, you know," he said softly. "They do need a sort of father around. I must admit, the thought never occurred to me before I met you. Me, a father - could you imagine?"

You lifted your head to look at him with a fond smile. "Would it surprise you if I said I could?"

Ezra blushed a bit and looked away sheepishly. "You realize what you are saying. I am not a liar, Princess. Not in this instance, anyway."

You sat up a bit and turned his face to look into his eyes. "Ezra, I admit it would be absolutely wonderful. I would love nothing more than to stay here with you. It would make me so happy. But the children and I, we must go home - back to the palace."

He looked at you and then nodded. It seemed as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. At the same time, however, he looked ashen and scared. You knew that expression on his face - he had poured out his own emotions to you and you had to turn him down.

"It doesn't change how I feel about you, Princess," he said softly. "You or your children. And as much as I wish you could stay here, I know you need to go."

"Come with us? Please?"

Ezra shook his head. "I can't. A court is no place for a scoundrel like me. You know that as well as I do. Think of what they would say. No, this is where I belong. And you - well you deserve the best. Fancy dresses, and lavish parties."

"But who will read me poetry?" you asked softly. 

"I am sure you will find someone who deserves you, Princess," he murmured. He opened his jacket pocket and presented a palm-sized, cream colored book. "Romantic poems: 1600-2100. I had to pick it up when we were in town. I want you to have it so you know you are truly deserving of someone who makes you feel every emotion in that book."

You held it close to your chest and let the tears flow down your cheeks. It was going to crush you when you woke up every day to a cold room larger than the house you had stayed in over the past few months.

The two of you sat there long after the moon had disappeared behind the house. You had started to fall asleep, warm and safe against Ezra's chest, but he gently woke you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

"Princess," he said softly between feather light kisses. "I would like nothing more than to stay suspended in this moment forever, yet I fear we would both fall ill should we stay till morning. Shall we go back home?"

"Oh, must we?" you asked, voice heavy with sleep. You sat up when Ezra shuffled to stand. 

He gathered the pillows and basket in a bundle and offered his hand to help you up. "I'll clean this up later. Come on, let's go back."

You took his and stood, making sure the poetry book he had given you was in your hand, should it get ruined. As you both walked back to the house, you spared one last glance at the willow tree where now your heart resided.

Ezra guided you up the dark staircase to your bedroom, softly counting the ten stairs to the top. He gently took your hand when you reached the door and pulled you back to him.

You kissed him sweetly, wrapping your arms around his neck. A fire began to burn in your belly and you pulled him closer.

Ezra pulled away with a hum and smiled, gently bumping his nose against yours. "I am sorry, Princess," he murmured, giving you another kiss. "I must decline, if only tonight. One day, I will draw constellations on your skin and whisper poetry between your thighs."

"Oh, do you promise?" you whispered, cupping his face in your hands.

"With my whole heart, I do."

******************

TAGLIST: If you want to be added, please let me know! @the-feckless-wonder @gallowsjoker @phoenixhalliwell @huliabitch @lestrange2703 @miscellaneous-mando

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Eleven

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 8th, 1996

“Remy? Remy, I know you’re in there,” Toby said, knocking on Remy’s closet door.

Remy just shoved a fist against his mouth, forcibly holding back the massive sobs that threatened to break loose. “Go away!” he choked out.

“No,” Toby said. “Listen, Rem, what those kids did was scummy. It’s not fair by anyone’s standards. If you told someone, maybe—”

“No one listens to me,” Remy said. “They all say I need to ‘walk it off.’ Well, I’m tired of walking it off! No one asks me if what everyone else does is hurting me, they don’t care! All they care about is that the school’s precious reputation remain unscathed.”

“Remy...” A beat. Toby sighed. “Would you be willing to come out to play a couple video games? No talking, just playing.”

With a grunt, Remy stood in his closet and pushed the door open. “Can we please play on the Genesis?” he asked.

“Yeah, whatever you want on the Genesis is fair game, buddy,” Toby said, wrapping a reassuring arm around Remy’s shoulders as he guided Remy out of the closet.

  December 13th, 2000

Remy sat in the waiting room with his right leg bouncing like a jackrabbit. He didn’t like this, but he knew he had to do it if he wanted to stay Emile’s friend. That was the only reason he hadn’t left the office yet. The thought of therapy still made him tense up, but at least he could stay Emile’s friend, and they could continue the process of moving in together.

When the woman came out of the office and said in a soft voice, “Remy?” he stood, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do.

She smiled at him and Remy shifted where he stood. “My name is Kim. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

“I...okay,” Remy said, following her inside.

“Take a seat wherever you like,” she said, gesturing to the couch and chairs scattered around the small space.

Remy sat down in a corner on the couch and Kim sat across from him with a clipboard. “Now, usually I don’t write things down during sessions, but in order to get to know you, and keep some information on you, I’ll need to write a few things down. Nothing serious, just general background information,” Kim assured him. “I keep any notes in future sessions vague enough that even if your information was subpoenaed, they wouldn’t learn much of anything from it.”

“Okay,” Remy said. It didn’t help him relax much, but he supposed that in the future it would be good to know that his deepest, darkest secrets couldn’t be seen by police for any reason.

“Now, basic things. I know your name, date of birth, insurance, and all that, but I want to know a bit more about your background that doesn’t come with all the insurance claims,” Kim said. “Can you tell me about your family?”

Remy stiffened. “Well, they’re kinda why I’m here. My roommate insisted I try this, but it’s because of my family. I don’t really...like talking about them.”

“Well, let’s start with some easy questions then, nothing too deep. Mom and Dad together or separated?”

“Together,” Remy said.

“Any siblings?”

“Two, an older sister and brother. I’m the youngest,” Remy said, relaxing a little. These questions were easy to answer, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected it to be.

“Any history of alcohol or drug abuse, in you or your family?”

“Never,” Remy answered.

“Okay,” Kim said, writing a few things down on her clipboard. “Let’s move on.”

“Okay?” Remy didn’t know what to expect, and he tensed up again.

“Have you ever been to a therapist before?” Kim asked.

“Uh, no. I’ve never really thought I needed...one...” Remy cleared his throat, looking away.

“So why are you here, today, if you think you’re fine?” Kim asked.

“My roommate, he...uh...disagrees. About me being fine. He’s a psych major in college, and he says he recognizes symptoms of PTSD in me. He also says I’m suicidal,” Remy said. “Which, I disagree. I’m not about to go and jump off a building. I just wish that I could...not exist sometimes.”

“Your roommate is very perceptive, then. I can see certain signs that may point to PTSD, but of course I’ve known you all of five minutes. Wanting to not exist is a sign of suicidal ideation, it’s typically the first step in the process. Not enough to send you to the hospital, unless you believe you are going to harm or kill yourself between now and the next time we meet?” Kim asked.

Remy mutely shook his head.

“Then we won’t be sending you there,” Kim said, continuing to write. “What do you think the problem you’d like to solve in therapy is? You’ve said your roommate’s view, what about your own?”

“I...I mean, everything’s fine,” Remy said, sitting on his hands. “I’m dropping out of college so I feel less depressed, I have a steady job to help with rent, I don’t have any reason to come here, I don’t think. Life’s...life’s good.”

“Life may be good, but how do you feel? Do you feel good? Do you feel like your life is going in the right direction?” Kim asked.

Remy looked around the room, desperate for an escape, but he couldn’t see one. He didn’t know how to trust this woman who he had just met, but he knew that if Emile were here, he would want Remy to be honest. “I...I don’t know what to feel,” he admitted. “There’s...just...so much...and I can’t handle it all, at least, not on my own, but then Emile said he would stop helping me if I didn’t come here, and...and I need his help. So here I am.”

Kim kept writing and nodding. “I think then, that most of our treatment at the start will be helping you to identify and process your emotions. Beyond that, though, is there a long-term goal you’d like out of therapy?”

The words were out of Remy’s mouth before he could stop them. “Make me feel like a normal human being for once?”

Kim’s writing stilled, and she looked up at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Remy was shaking, and he stammered out, “I-I-I...I guess I-I don’t...I don’t know...”

“Well, what is a ‘normal human being’ to you?” Kim asked.

“Someone who isn’t scared to make friends,” Remy said with a shrug. “Someone who doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night from a noise that they can’t identify. Someone who can smile and actually mean it most of the time. Someone who just...who just acts normal, you know? Someone who’s not scared.”

Kim put her pencil down. “Remy, based on what you just told me, I think you realize on some level that you do have symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress. You recognize that your responses aren’t the norm for most people, and these responses are generally distressing to you. We can work on helping you process these feelings and others, but you’ll need to place some trust in me, and acknowledge that you’re safe here.”

Remy took a shaky breath. “That...that could take a while,” he admitted.

“I’m willing to wait as long as needed,” Kim said. “No matter how long it takes for you to trust me with the bigger things, I am willing to wait and help you tackle smaller problems in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Remy said.

They talked for the rest of the forty-five minutes, mostly about Remy’s mood as of late and how the move was going. Remy didn’t truly relax until the time was up and he left the office to find Emile in the waiting room, reading a magazine. He looked up with a smile. “Hey. Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Y-yeah,” Remy said. “I think so.”

Kim retreated to her office as Emile and Remy walked outside to Emile’s car. Snow was starting to drift down from the sky. Remy looked up and sighed. “I’m still not sure about this whole thing, Emile.”

“But you’re trying, and that’s what counts,” Emile said, sending Remy a smile. “And I’m really relieved that you’re trying.”

“I still don’t know, Emile...it just takes...”

“Time?” Emile asked.

“Trust,” Remy said. “It takes a lot of trust that I don’t have in her. I trust you.”

“I’m not a licensed therapist, not yet,” Emile said. “And even if I were, I wouldn’t be able to have you as a client.”

They got in Emile’s car and Remy attempted to warm his hands as Emile got on the road to their apartment. “But it’s...I mean, she just...I don’t know her, Emile!”

“Remy, that’s the point,” Emile said. “She’s there to hear what you have to say, and to offer you new perspectives on how you perceive the world around you. If she knew you, like, really knew you, personally, she wouldn’t be able to offer you an objective view.”

“I told her I wanted to feel like a normal person,” Remy admitted. “I didn’t want to, it just sorta...happened. And she said she was willing to wait until I was comfortable around her to go into what my parents did, but...I don’t want to. I don’t need to. I don’t need a therapist.”

“No, you don’t need a therapist,” Emile agreed. “You need the tools that will allow you to process the emotions you’ve bottled up all these years that will sometimes overflow and cause you to self-destruct. You know who will teach you those tools? A therapist.”

“Emile,” Remy whined. “I don’t feel safe talking about what happened all those years. No one who I told ever believed me before I told you.”

“Well, then Kim will help you feel safe, and then she can help you with your trauma. This is what therapists do, Rem. Give her a chance to do her job. You might be surprised with the results.”

Remy sighed. “I just...I want to talk to you, Emile. Not a stranger. I want to talk to you.”

“You can still talk to me, Rem,” Emile said. “But you can’t use me as your therapist. That requires an actual therapist, who, I will repeat, doesn’t know you personally. That’s what the whole point of therapy is.”

“Emile! You’re not listening to me!” Remy exclaimed.

“I’m listening to you fine, Remy. I’m just not giving you the answer you want. And no, that answer will not change,” Emile said, pulling into the parking lot of their apartment complex.

Remy huffed and got out of the car, following Emile inside. “Why? Why won’t you help me?”

Emile turned and stared Remy dead in the eye as they walked inside their sparsely furnished apartment. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question, Remy? Do you really want to know why I can’t be your therapist, outside the fact that I’m not licensed?”

Remy nodded.

Emile took a breath. “Okay. You? Telling me that stuff about your past? Hurts me badly. There isn’t a night that goes by after you’ve told me a deep, dark secret that I can sleep easily. You trusting me is great. It’s fantastic. I’m honored, and I would never break that trust. But it still hurts. Because I know you. I want to help you. I want to go back in time and change the past so you never have to deal with what you did. But I can’t. And that kills me. I’ve been learning how to distance myself from clients, for whenever I can start seeing people, but that’s the thing. You’re not a client. You’re my friend. I’m already attached. And I don’t want to distance myself. But it hurts me to hear about all the things you’ve been through. So to keep my sanity intact and hopefully restore some of yours, I’m having you see a therapist. It doesn’t even have to be Kim, if you think she’s a bad fit. You just need to see someone.”

Remy was stunned into silence. “I...I hurt you?” he asked softly.

Emile nodded. “It hurts knowing what you went through, and knowing that every time someone brings something up that triggers a memory, you’re just going through it again. Not badly enough for me to show it, and not badly enough for me to see a therapist myself. At least, not yet. But I know my limits when it comes to someone confiding in me. And Rem, you’ve been toeing those limits since Thanksgiving.”

Remy felt like he might cry. “I didn’t mean to...”

“Ssh, I know, I know,” Emile said hugging Remy close. “I know you didn’t. But that’s why I’m getting you a therapist. Because you need a healthy release. And I need to be there for you in other ways.”

Remy clung to Emile like a liferaft. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried over hurting another person; he had taught himself to not care in highschool when the bullies got meaner, and he had to fight back. Caring enough to cry wasn’t a pleasant feeling in the slightest. But he hoped it was a good sign. After all, if he felt remorse for hurting other people, maybe he would do it less, and he could see if any of Emile’s friends would be willing to get closer to him. Maybe he could expand his support system. Maybe he could get more help.

Maybe he could learn how to ask for help in the first place.

[bloodfromthethorn]

The Weight of Legacy

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Tag to 1x03 Power Broker, written pre-episode 4. Also on AO3. 

Sam knew he should leave it alone. He really, really should. It wasn’t like he and Bucky were on the best of terms and he certainly wouldn’t consider them friends, not the kind who trusted each other with their fault lines. Worse, they were both exhausted, Zemo was still sitting barely three feet away like some ghoulish spectre, and ‘trapped in a tiny tin can several miles above the ground’ was not on Sam’s top ten list of ideal situations to start a conversation that could turn violent but-

But.

Bucky hadn’t said a word in over two hours.

More telling was that since taking himself off to the back of the plane, as far away from all of them as he could get, he hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d tucked himself low to the ground in a tense crouch like he was willing himself to take up less space. Sam wasn’t even sure he’d blinked in the last ten minutes - at first glance, it was as if he’d simply turned to stone while they sat and watched. Stillness and silence were hardly outside of the man’s usual MO, but there was something dark in Bucky’s eyes that went well beyond his normal stoicism and Sam couldn’t deny that it had gotten under his skin. 

It could be anything, really. There were a thousand things from just the last few days that could be bothering him: his return to being the Winter Soldier, being poked and prodded like cattle at a market, any number of fights, the way a man had been violently executed two feet in front of his face, the explosion that had followed seconds later… The list went on and on. It had been a shitty few days for them both, but even Sam could admit that Bucky seemed to have got the raw end of the deal during their stint in Madripoor.

And maybe it was none of that either. Nearly a century’s worth of horrifying memories slowly trickling back into his consciousness no doubt gave Bucky plenty of things to keep him up at night, things that would put that blank, desperate despair in his eyes. 

But Sam didn’t know and Bucky wasn’t talking. Whatever else Sam might be - whatever else Bucky might be - Sam had worked with a lot of veterans who had shit to deal with and he might be perhaps the only person in the world currently in any position to help the man in front of him. It was the same reasoning that had led to him trying to keep in touch with Bucky when he was settling down in New York - not that it had amounted to anything in the end. The man had never once replied to his texts, no matter how directly he was asked a question. Maybe Sam should have taken the hint. 

He had enough sense to wait until Zemo had absorbed himself with whatever it was he was reading - Sam thought he should probably care, but he was about 12 hours past exhausted and honestly the details were just going to have to wait a while - before he climbed achingly to his feet and wandered over to sit opposite his silent companion. 

“You doing okay?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to him, not quite meeting his gaze. He gave a sharp nod and said nothing. 

Sam should really leave it alone. He sucked in a deep breath and reached for calm. “Any injuries I need to know about?”

A head shake. He couldn’t more obviously be looking to be left alone, and in any other circumstance, Sam would listen to his instincts telling him to back off and leave the highly dangerous predator to his business. As it was, he scrambled for a topic that seemed like it might be safe ground. “That book of yours. That was Steve’s right?” 

They both knew that it was, even though Sam had barely caught half a glimpse of it when Bucky had snatched it back from Zemo, never to be seen again. Wherever the man had squirrelled it away on his person, it seemed pretty clear that no one else was going to be able to get anywhere near it again for some time. 

This time the look Bucky shot him was measured, assessing, and his nod more curious. 

“Steve gave it to you?”

“He thought I might need it,” Bucky said eventually, his voice much too quiet to carry over to Zemo. 

“To help you integrate with the 21st Century?”

Bucky’s gaze dropped, his expression souring. “Maybe.”

Honestly, Sam had only asked about the book because he’d thought it might act as a decent stepping stone into a conversation on what was really going on, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d managed to somehow hit upon the problem with his first shot. “You think it was something else?”

Bucky twitched, then his expression went blank like a veil had been drawn across his face. “What is this? I said I was fine.”

“Yeah, that was a thing that you said. What, you want me to pretend I believed you?”

For a tense moment, it looked very much like Sam was about to either get yelled at or hit, but Bucky’s therapist must have been doing something right because he backed himself down less than a heartbeat after the irritation had risen in his eyes. He took a measured, slow breath and fixed his eyes on Sam’s chest instead. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I was just talking.”

“Then, if it’s all the same, I was hoping for some peace, okay?”

It was likely hopeless. Sam had been good at helping the folks at the VA, but those were people who had wanted to be helped; Bucky- he looked like he didn’t have the first idea what he wanted. 

He still had to try. 

“C’mon man, what’s eating at you? I don’t need superpowers to know something’s up, and we both need to be on our game for this one.”

Playing the duty card was a low blow, but it had the intended effect: Bucky didn’t soften at all, but he didn’t get any angrier either. “I’m just tired Sam. Drop it.”

He sighed. “Alright then. Tell me about that book of yours.”

“It’s just a book.”

“It was Steve’s, you carry it with you, and you nearly crushed Zemo’s throat when he got his hands on it. It’s something more than just a book.” There wasn’t an immediate response, so he pressed. “He said there were names in there?”

Bucky didn’t look as though he had any intention of replying, but despite himself his mouth twisted. “My sins,” he murmured. 

“People you hurt when you were the Winter Soldier.”

“Yes.”

“People you’re looking to make amends to?”

Bucky twitched again, looking deeply unhappy for a split second before he smoothed out his expression. “Or for.”

That was- a lot, honestly, and it was far too much to try to get into when they were on Zemo’s plane, of all places. So instead, Sam went for the path of least resistance. “Does it help?”

He shook his head very slowly, eyes far away. “I don’t know.”

“So why do you do it?”

“Part of my court-ordered therapy.”

It was clear he wasn’t lying, exactly, but Sam had an idea it wasn’t nearly as simple as he wanted to make it sound. No doubt whatever it was was something tangled up with Steve and even if Sam had any idea how to even begin to help him work through that, he could not have more obviously been the wrong person to try. From the moment they’d set out Steve’s legacy had been lying between them like a field of broken glass, and Sam had exactly zero intention of tearing himself to pieces trying to cross it just to help a man who didn’t want him around to begin with. 

Maybe this conversation really had been a bad idea after all. 

“I meant to say,” Bucky said suddenly into the uneasy quiet that had descended upon them, his eyes finally landing on Sam’s face and sticking there. “Thank you, for before. I know how much you hate this.” He gestured vaguely towards where Zemo appeared to still be enraptured by his book. 

It would have been easy to use the admission to hurt him, to make a dig at his rusty personability, the way Bucky was very obviously expecting him to, but even in his worst moments Sam hoped that he wouldn’t ever be that cruel. Instead, he blinked in surprise and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Well, you weren’t wrong. We did need him. And his help has been invaluable, even if I don’t want to admit it.”

Bucky dipped his head in acknowledgement of the indirect praise. He didn’t look better than he had before Sam had approached him precisely, but his shoulders had at least relaxed back down from around his ears and he was no longer trying to press himself into non-existence in the corner. In the face of it, Sam felt himself softening. 

“How are you holding up?” He asked quietly, tilting his head in Zemo’s direction. “Having him around sucks for me but I’ve gotta assume it’s worse for you.”

Bucky shrugged. “He’s a means to an end.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

“I don’t. But that’s the job.”

Sam hesitated for a split second, trying to weigh up his options. A large, loud part of him wanted to grip Bucky by the shoulders and shake him, remind him that it didn’t have to be any part of his life if he didn’t want it - in fact, there was a not insignificant number of people all around the world who had been desperately hoping that when James Barnes shook off the mantle of the Winter Soldier, he’d get out of the game altogether and retire to civilian life. If he’d had to bet, Sam would have guessed that was the very reason Steve had given him that book. 

But Bucky had already spent far, far too long living in a way that other people wanted him to. 

“Maybe it is. But if we’re doing this, it’s gonna be our way, alright? Walker, Zemo, Morgenthau, all of it.”

Bucky’s mouth curled up in an unamused smirk, his eyes cold. “Like Madripoor was?”

He leaned back, out of Sam’s space, to pillow his head against the wall behind him. The dismissal was obvious, but Sam wasn’t about to let the defeated belligerence of his tone stand without comment. 

“Okay, yes, we made mistakes. A lot of them. But we also found out what we needed to know and because of it, we’re a step closer to keeping people safe. That’s not nothing.”

Bucky didn’t reply, just watching Sam as he considered what he’d said. Unreadable as he was, it was impossible to know if he was swayed by the argument, but either way it was obvious that he was done talking. Convenient, really, since Sam was pretty sure his own patience was just about to run dry. 

“Good talk, man,” he said, clapping a hand against the immovable curve of his metal shoulder as he pushed himself as upright as he could get in the cramped space and headed back towards his seat. He’d tried; if Bucky wanted to spend the rest of the flight uncomfortable on the floor then that was his decision. “Get some rest.”

Still and silent, Bucky just watched him leave. 

[differenceonlyyoucanmake]

I need to hear what you’d think a polyamorous relationship between Nori, Elina, and Sunburst (Fairytopia) would be like. I want to see these three’s dynamic would be, especially when it comes to Sunburst’s secret soft side (cause let’s face it she has one) so if you have any headcanons please share.

Nori/Elina/Sunburst Polyam. Triad Headcanons

My first thought was that Sunburst would probably need therapy before being in any sort of romantic relationship. She came around towards the end of the movie, but she definitely had issues with projecting her own insecurities onto other people. This, and the fact that Laverna kept her powerless and trapped. That was probably really disorienting and scary.

Ohohoho WATER RELATED ANGST

Sunburst was hesitant around water anyway, but after the events of the movie it would turn to a full-on phobia.

Which, understandably, could make being in a relationship with a mermaid quite difficult.

Nori and Elina were probably in a relationship first, with Sunburst added later on.

Sunburst came to Elina after the Flight of Spring/Graduation. She wanted to apologize and become a better person.

Elina is really forgiving, so the bully to close friend transition wasn’t a huge jump.

It wasn’t a huge jump, because she’d done some version of it before: the one-sided rivalry to girlfriend transition.

Elina works with Starburst, and starts to see some real progress.

All the while, Elina and Nori are in a relationship, splitting their time together in various aquatic and semi-aquatic locations.

Elina gushes to Nori about the progress Sunburst has made. Nori asks Elina if she has romantic feelings for Sunburst. Elina didn’t understand the nature of her attraction quite yet, and admitted this to Nori.

Having had experiences with something similar, Nori suggests Elina invite Sunburst to spend a day with them.

Elina takes her advice. 

When Sunburst and Nori meet, they are both like “character development erased. Time to be mean again”.

Though this time, they stay kind to Elina.

Maybe it was the inherent clash of their Sparkle Fairy and mermaid attributes, or maybe it was their shared competitiveness. Whatever it was, the conflict initially made Elina regret introducing them.

Then she figures out this is their way of flirting, a tactic they both dropped in their relationships with Elina.

Sunburst and Nori know they can banter and tease as much as they like with each other, so they don’t hesitate.

They do have to remember that banter is mutually understood and lighthearted, so they aren’t as harsh as they were when they first met Elina.

What’s that one meme?? A mean lesbian and an even meaner bisexual? Yeah...

Elina loved them, and grew to appreciate their dynamic. The triad solidified itself in a nicely organic way

There’s a lot of historical animosity between Sparkle Fairies and mermaids. This mostly shows itself as little examples of culture clash between Nori and Sunburst. They of course use these as excuses to debate.

Though Nori and Sunburst were very appreciative of how much Elina helped them grow as people, they do make it clear that it was not her responsibility to “fix” them, and that she deserves to get just as much love and understanding out of a relationship as she puts in.

Elina has to remember not to carry everyone’s problems on her shoulders. Her girlfriends try to help her remember that she doesn’t have to save everyone she meets; it’s okay to take breaks and prioritize herself.

Sunburst takes longer than the others to become overtly physically affectionate, partially due to the whole water situation.

They are all patient with one another’s boundaries.

They learn quickly that this involves direct communication. Especially when they all have a stubborn streak, being vague and pretending to be passive does no good.

Mermaid royalty often took on multiple partners in the olden days, so these connections are often drawn when it comes to Nori.

Since her partners are famous and magically gifted in their own right, other merfolk whisper of how afraid they are to cross Nori.

She says that’s a good thing too. Otherwise, they would notice how she’s gone “soft” for her partners.

There was talk in the mer community that Prince Nalu would see Nori’s relationships as a betrayal, and revoke the status he had given her, as she was born a commoner.

This didn’t happen and Nalu was super chill. (”Gee Nori, who let you have TWO girlfriends?”)

The other Sparkle Fairies in Sunburst’s community were less accepting.

This was not so much about Sunburst having two partners. They weren’t pleased that one of them was a mermaid. Sparkle Fairy culture had a tendency to hold grudges and value competitiveness. 

Ultimately though, Sunburst was renowned for her power and accomplishments. Open opposition to her relationships died down.

The people in the Magic Meadow gave up on judging Elina a long time ago.

When Elina finds a way to transport both her girlfriends to her home, the go into culture shock.

“YOUR HOUSE IS SENTIENT???”

“DID YOUR HOUSE RAISE YOU????”

“You’re acting like that’s not normal.”

Both: “IT ISN’T.”

It’s okay. Peony forgave them for their ignorance.

Though she found it unnatural at first, Sunburst grew to be more affectionate and loving. She started by only being this way in private, but all partners were eventually comfortable showing their love with other people around.

Elina showed love through touch, Nori through gestures, and Sunburst through quality time. These weren’t strictly defined, and they tried to keep the ways they showed their love fresh and new.

[omgjasminesimone]

Okay but... how did Raleigh win Cadence back? Greedy and curious minds want to know!

A/N: Raleigh’s song is actually Think About You by Jojo

Word Count: ~1300

...

Raleigh knew their paths would cross again eventually. With his tour over, and her press run for that terrible Chadley Fortnum movie completed, they’re both back in Manhattan. It was inevitable that Raleigh Carrera and Cadence Dorian would end up in the same place on an island of only 22.8 square miles.

Still, despite the inevitability, Raleigh is not ready to talk to her. Especially not after baring his soul in his new single, which has already shot to the top of the charts in the five days since it’s been released.

He steals another look at her from across the crowded lounge. It seems everyone who’s anyone has turned up for Ozone’s newest artist’s launch. But in a room full of stars, she still shines brighter than anyone else.

She’s so beautiful, especially in that dress. Raleigh’s eyes drink her in greedily, thinking about all that perfect unblemished skin beneath her clothes. She laughs at whatever Avery is saying, playfully pushing against the singer’s strong shoulder. Raleigh laments the fact that he can’t hear her tinkling laugh from across the room over the music.

As if she can feel him staring, Cadence suddenly looks right over Avery’s shoulder and meets Raleigh’s gaze.

Raleigh quickly breaks eye contact, downing the rest of his tequila. This was a bad idea. He should get out of here.

Before he can escape, Ryder Kohli claps him heartily on the back. “Raleigh Carrera! Long time no see! Where you’ve been?”

Raleigh shrugs. “Around.” He answers vaguely.

“Come on man, talk to me. How’s your foot? The paparazzi shots were gnarly.” Ryder tries to keep the conversation going.

Raleigh looks down at his recently un-casted foot. “I still have a couple more weeks of physical therapy, but it feels pretty good. And it gave me an excuse to sit through the rest of my tour, so that was a nice perk.”

Ryder laughs, clapping Raleigh heartily on the back again. “That’s one silver lining. Bet it also got the creative juices flowing. Congrats on the number 1 by the way. Think about you is definitely my favorite song of your’s since Famous.”

“Thanks.” Raleigh replies, glancing at Cadence again. She’s talking to Ozone now.

“All my friends keep telling me I just need to fuck someone new. Whatever I, ever I do, I’m gonna, I’m gonna think of you.” Ryder sings, concluding with a smile. “That shit is fire man.”

“Glad you liked it.” Raleigh mutters, looking for a way out of this conversation.

“Freedom, Ozone’s new artist, she did a cover which went viral. Did you hear it?” Ryder keeps talking.

“Nah, I’ve been avoiding the internet.” Raleigh answers. He knows the fans are likely picking the song apart, looking into the charred remains of his and Cadence’s relationship. He’s not ready to dive into all that just yet.

“Well, you’re in luck. Looks like she’s about to sing it now.” Ryder gestures up to the small lounge stage, where Freedom is getting set up.

“Wait, she’s what?!” Raleigh asks, just as the lights go dark and the stage is illuminated.

“Thank you so much for coming out tonight New York! This is an amazing introduction to so many people in the industry who I’ve looked up to for so long. I really can’t believe I’m here in the same room with such talented people. I mean, it’s insane. Ozone is such an amazing producer, and he has such great things he’s working on for me. But none of those things are ready yet, so tonight I’d like to cover one of my favorite songs of the moment, Think About You by Raleigh Carrera.” Freedom introduces.

Ryder leans over to whisper. “I don’t think she knows both you and Cadence are here man.”

Raleigh can’t help but wonder if Freedom does in fact know. Maybe she cut some deal with some trashy gossip site who’s going to film both him and Cadence during this very awkward moment. They’d have a field day if he stormed out now before it started. He’s trapped.

“I’ve been trying to move on, and it’s obvious that I can’t. It was my fault we’re broken, but I can’t let go of hoping, so I leave my door wide open.” Freedom sings.

Raleigh can’t help but glance over at Cadence as Freedom gets to the chorus. “All my friends keep telling me I just need to fuck someone new. Whatever I, ever I do, I’m gonna, I’m gonna think of you.”

Cadence is looking at him too, and he sees a whirlwind of emotion behind her penetrating eyes.

“So if it seems like somebody took your spot well that’s just not true. Whatever I, ever I do, I’m gonna, I’m gonna think of you.” Freedom continues.

Tears start to well in Cadence’s eyes. God, there’s nothing Raleigh hates more than to see Cadence cry, especially when he knows he’s responsible for her tears. ‘I’m sorry.’ He mouths to her.

Freedom finishes the song, and as everyone is distracted Cadence takes the opportunity to slip out of the room.

Raleigh ignores whatever Ryder is saying, hurrying after Cadence. He just catches her rounding the corner and sneaking onto an unoccupied balcony. He follows her frenzied path out into the cold air.

She shivers as she stands at the stone railing, but she makes no move to return to the warmth inside. Raleigh shrugs out of his leather jacket, slowly making his way over to her. She spots him out of the corner of her eye, her gaze remains steely. He offers her the jacket, but she makes no move to take it.

“Were you thinking about me when you were grinding on that model on top of the bar?” Cadence asks. He can’t tell from her flat tone if that’s even a serious question.

“Yes.” He decides to answer honestly.

Cadence scoffs, turning to head back inside.

Before he can think better of it, Raleigh reaches out to stop her with a firm grip on her delicate wrist. And damn, it feels good to touch her again. “I’m always thinking about you. And about how it was so fucking stupid of me to ruin everything just because I wasn’t ready to be that vulnerable with you.” He elaborates.

“You could have called me you know. Or returned any of my calls. Hell, a text would have been better than five months later, out of the blue, hearing you tell the whole world things you never told me. For what exactly? Clout?” Cadence counters, attempting to wrench her wrist away.

“That song isn’t for the world. It’s for you. I didn’t know how to say any of those things to you. Music is easier, it’s always been easier.” Raleigh explains.

He releases her wrist since she’s no longer trying to get away from him. He automatically misses her smooth skin. “Cadence, I’m in love with you.” Raleigh finally admits, to both her and himself for the first time.

Tears well in her eyes, again. But this time, he’s pretty sure they’re happy tears. He’s completely sure they’re happy tears when she reaches up to cup his stubbled cheeks, pulling him down into a kiss.

Raleigh lets out a relieved sigh into her parted mouth as he deepens the kiss, one hand tangling into her hair.

By the time they pull away from each, just barely, he’s kissed away all her supposedly kiss proof lipstick. “I love you too.” Cadence reveals, eyes shining.

She buries her face into his chest, and lets him slip his jacket onto her before he hugs her tightly. “But I’m still releasing the angry break up song I wrote about you. It’s totally going to knock Think About You down to number 2.” Cadence insists.

...

Companion pieces here

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