#apparently after a year with this therapist i never mentioned my finger picking until this week

[youremyonlyhope]

Living with Body Focused Repetitive Behaviors

Me: *Is super stressed over life.*

Trichotillomania: Time to pull some hair! C'mon. You won't even notice you're doing it. It'll make you feel better.

Me: NO. *Spends 4 days putting hair in a mini twist protective style* There.

Dermatillomania: Hey. Your hands are free. And restless. And dry... Pick your skin. Bleed. Bleed.

Me: Stop! *Starts up a new crochet project to keep hands busy.* Ok cool.

Onychophagia: Hi hi. Your nails are.... perfect biting length... you should do that.

Me: Noooooooooooo *Paints nails.*

Dermatillomania: Oh look, you got some nail polish on your skin. Pick it off... now pick some more...

Me: SDJAKFDSJFKLDKAFDJKLAFJDKSAKLFDASL

[arambleaway]

Okay, so like Ace Attorney recently ate my brain. And I have never played any of the games. This is the true potential of the internet at work people. Anyway.

I keep thinking about my very specific images of Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, and the relationship therein. This is gonna be a long one because I can't be assed to make it more coherent than the mess it is in my brain.

So. Phoenix is obviously from a very loving and supportive family except they absolutely loathe the law and law professionals. Phoenix is trans and his family is super supportive, allowing him to express himself even from a young age. Unfortunately, Phoenix's new teacher isn't so great. Is actually a bit of a piece of shit and has been isolating Phoenix and so the poor boy has spent the first couple months of being out being harassed by his teacher and classmates. And that is part of why the trial sticks with Phoenix so much. Because Miles stands up to not only the students, but the teacher and all of the vitriol they've been leaking as well. And he doesn't just drop Phoenix after. He still wants him around and as a little kid that shit sticks with Phoenix far longer than it does with Larry and Edgeworth. Also, unfortunately, if you've got one asshole teacher, you've likely got a few nearby, so Phoenix's family does their best to support him and they offer to transfer him and do what they can, but Phoenix as a child is afraid to move and never see Edgeworth or Larry again so he doesn't. And then when he starts writing letters, he finds he can't stop because they become confessionals of a sort and a place where he doesn't have to be on guard and can know that the person he is writing to is accepting of his identity even if he does wonder from time to time if maybe Edgeworth no longer accepts him.

Anyway, then canon, yada yada. Lets talk about Miles now. Miles is depressed, okay. And he writes that note (you know the one) completely literally. But here's the thing: Miles knows the trauma of finding dead bodies. Has probably seen the mess they leave, and doesn't want to cause more harm than he already has. So he writes the note and packs the pills/blade/etc into a suitcase and takes a flight to Europe where no one that knows him will have a chance to stumble upon him. The turnabout is this: on the plane over he gets into an argument with his seat buddy. Its no one important, but the key info on him is that he is in therapy and sort of off hand brings it up and Miles, who was not raised with a pleasant idea of therapists and such starts an unholy row with him, blatantly projecting his own insecurities and perceived weaknesses on this poor man. The flight attendants have to separate the two and the man spends the rest of the time in first class. Miles spends the rest of the flight getting dirty looks from everyone else. By the flight's end he is frothing at the mouth and the man's assertion that therapy is not something for the faint of heart has been burrowing under his skin. He gets off the plane and rather than immediately commit he thinks he might as well make the source clear and winds up at the empty von Karma estate. He spends the night with a blade on his wrist and voices in his ears. But he doesn't move.

He falls asleep and he wakes from a nightmare he can't recall and it is noon the next day. He doesn't eat, he doesn't move. He just lays there and thinks. He thinks about Phoenix, Franziska, His Father, von Karma, all the lives he's sent to prison after measuring them against a false scale, and he thinks of the man on the plane. He thinks of the things he said, the ring he noticed on his finger, and the husband that was brought up at some point in their altercation. He thinks a lot about what it means to be and Edgeworth and what it means to be a von Karma. He picks up the blade and he puts it in his suitcase. He starts to research Therapists. Because he is going to have the best therapist in the business if he is going to do this. (He just kinda goes for the one with the most academic accolades that is willing to do home visits or move of some shit, anyway) Miles Edgeworth starts therapy and it goes horribly. Miles hates it viscerally and he doesn't feel like his therapist understands. (Which they don't. They keep trying to convince Edgeworth to see and actual trauma specialist and find someone that he clicks with rather than coming back to them). His therapist is worth their name though, and Miles is actually hospitalized due to being a danger to himself. For all that he loathes this, it does eventually allow him to meet with an actual trauma specializing therapist and finally maybe understand what the big deal is. He still hates it, but he finds the therapist that actually suits him and things get a little better.

The first thing is he stops living in the von Karma estate. He admits its a bad place for him to be at the moment and so he moves closer to his therapist and gets a rental flat. Second he gets a new wardrobe. He's been using his stuff left at the von Karma home and all of it is his flashy very "von Karma" wear. So he goes and gets new suits tailored in his preferred style and he pays for them and wears them because he realizes he likes them and not because he is trying to emulate his Mentor. This step is especially a big deal because it is the first moment where he is able to really define who "Miles Edgeworth" is outside of the confines of the courtroom. In all this, of course, he is also figuring out who he is within the courtroom as well. After committing to his therapist and recovery, he goes back into Law in Germany and really tries to define why he still wants to be there. I like to think he spends some time in small courts as a defense attorney assistant while trying to redefine his place. Anyway, eventually Miles decides he wants to remove his old stuff from the von Karma estate. He might move in his new stuff but for now it is merely removing the old, giving him the space and option of a new start. In clearing his stuff he winds up in the storage space on the household and there he finds an old suitcase.

The suitcase is Miles's from when he first came to the household. Von Karma had told the staff to pitch it when they first arrived and apparently whoever was on duty that day was kind enough to save it for later. Miles has a bit of a breakdown on seeing it and has a rather sharp set back in his improvement. He finds himself staring at the knife again. Because he never put it away. He still doesn't. But he doesn't touch it, just looks. Miles fights his way back out of the hole and in doing so removes all of his things from the estate except that little suitcase. Its the last thing and he opens it to slowly deal with the contents. Most of it is children's clothes, some expired toiletries, but buried in the deepest part of the case, wrapped lovingly in an old bowtie is his Father's defense attorney badge. Miles doesn't have a breakdown this time (yay!) but he does spend the next week unable to sleep for the sheer intensity of his nightmares. He carries on though. He slowly and surely patches together who exactly Miles Edgeworth is and what he wants to stand for. And that little gold badge stays folded in the bow tie and tucked in the deepest corner of his latest suitcase. He throws out the knife.

Once again back to canon, he returns doesn't tell anyone shit, and slowly relearns Phoenix Wright and what that man means to him. Hazakura temple, all the gay vibes, until the disbarment era. Lets stop by Phoenix again, shall we?

Phoenix is disbarred and for the first so many years he is genuinely friends with Kristoph Gavin. None of this "oh i always suspected shit", he believes in Kristoph, because that's who Phoenix is. At this point Edgeworth is still in Europe and a large part of that is so that he can continue with his therapy. But he does drop everything to talk to Phoenix once he hears the news. He immediately knows that something is up because Phoenix would never and he believes in him more than anyone else and he is offering to do everything in his power to make this better because Phoenix is worth it and Miles love-- woah. that's a new emotion. what the fuck is up with that. So anyway Miles realizes that he has some less than platonic feelings and he wants to run back to Europe and his therapist and figure out what it all means, but above all Wright is his Friend dammit and he owes him so much. But on Phoenix's side, he sees how far Edgeworth is offering to go and he turns down all of the things that would cause Miles's life to be disrupted. He does accept the knowledge and shoulder to lean on that Edgeworth offers, but Edgeworth doesn't need to move continents or anything. Besides he has Kristoph here to help. And Miles kind of hates all of this situation, but he knows that he truly doesn't have the kind of knowledge and pull to really be of service not to mention his new discovery is not doing his health any favors. So he goes back to Germany and Phoenix stays with Kristoph.

Now Miles is in Germany figuring out how to manage complex emotions and romantic relationships, while Phoenix is working with Kristoph, who becomes Kris, who could maybe be more except Phoenix isn't sure it would be fair to him since he has become more than a little hung up on Edgeworth since he came back from Europe. And because when Edgeworth asks him to Europe he jumps with no forethought. He gets Kris to watch Trucy and jets off to spend time with Miles. They do their amazing duo routine and Edgeworth comes away from the encounter knowing that yes, he very much would like a romantic relationship with Phoenix. Okay. Now how to go about it. Meanwhile Phoenix gets back and sees Trucy and this is when he realizes that Kristoph is dirty. Trucy tells him about something she saw while she stayed with him and something clicks and Phoenix has a mild breakdown because of how much danger he just realizes she might be in. He calls Miles at some point during this and Miles talks him down. He falls asleep and in the morning he doesn't shave. He smiles and gets Trucy to school, then sits in the office and tries to figure out where he goes from here. That afternoon there is knock at the door.

Miles Edgeworth does nothing half way and has flown to Phoenix just to be able to help him figure out the next steps and comfort him. Phoenix is officially gone for this man. The two talk and scheme and eventually hatch their mad plan to rebuild the entire fucking system. Miles will use his distance to research and provide information, Phoenix will keep an eye on Kristoph and start building what he can here. In all of this Trucy's safety comes up. Phoenix actually considers sending her with Miles. Miles puts that idea to a stop real quick, though he does mention doing more visits and such. Trucy is very happy to hear about this and demands to go every time. Phoenix says something along the lines of it being more expensive for two people to fly and joking that it would be cheaper if they just let him keep her in his suitcase. This is how Miles Edgeworth returns to Germany with a solid plan for the future and one Magician more than planned. Trucy obviously sneaks into his luggage and somehow makes it with him to Germany. In doing so she finds the badge in his bag, and despite the intense scolding she gets, the two are finally able to really connect and bond as Miles opens up to her a bit about his Father and what he has gone through.

Eventually Trucy gets back where she belongs and despite a few more hijinks over the years things progress via canon. Edgeworth and Phoenix have both accepted their feelings but have yet to act on them as neither is in a position to properly be with the other as they wish. So they flirt and argue and love each other intensely as only the best of friends and trauma buddies can. It all pays off and Kristoph is arrested. Phoenix is innocent, but he is unsure about going back into law. In this case, Kris was kinda the last proof of where blind belief will get you and it isn't just a façade, Phoenix is a lot bitter at the larger world and himself. So he isn't in the greatest place mentally, and Edgeworth sees it. And for the first time he thinks about reaching out to someone. Especially because this is Phoenix not just a random stranger on a plane. Then he finds he has the option to take the Chief Prosecutor position, and he finds himself staring at his Father's badge. He thinks on the years and his growth, and he talks with his therapist. And he decides to move. He takes the new position and seeing Phoenix struggle so close he finally shares about therapy. Not all of it. Nothing really just that he goes and has since the year-they-do-not-speak-of and that he is looking for a new one in the city and maybe Phoenix would like to help him. Because he values Phoenix and his opinions. Phoenix does eventually wind up in a therapists office and it is a mess, but it helps.

The two reconnect more strongly than ever and shortly thereafter Phoenix agrees to take the Bar again. Miles supports him in this and watches as he struggles and groans but makes it through. And at the same time he watches him heal a bit from the atrocities of the past 7 years. When Phoenix passes he is over-joyed and that night finds him holding his Father's badge and slowly thinking. Turning the idea over and over he can't bring himself to ignore it. He walks up to Phoenix in the office the next day and with all the drama of a marriage proposal give Phoenix his Father's badge. Apollo starts to realize exactly what sort of shit he signed up for. Especially when Miles turns up a couple weeks later and attempts to strangle Phoenix with his own tie and demands having the badge back because What The Fuck. An Orca. You Absolute Dumbass.

This is the point where my ideas dry up. Because where I leave them is pining idiots that are actually doing pretty ok. I figure they eventually get their shit together, but only after inflicting immense suffering on their co-workers and the legal system as a whole with their obvious pining and flirting. I barely know Apollo but watching him suffer is just more amusing than it should be. Also Miles is Autistic and it actually is part of what allows him to bond with Trucy.

[iam93percentstardust]

Any kidfic recs where they have a lil kid but not a teenager? 🥰 Love ya!

Definitely! Kidfics tend to be very hit or miss for me since child development can be very hard to get right but the ones that I do like, i tend to positively love and frequently reread

You didn’t specify a ship so I went with Stevetony, Winteriron, and Stuckony, but I’ve separated them by ship so you can easily pick and choose which ones you want to read:

Stevetony

Of Strippers and Snow Shovels by @betheflame

Tony has some questions about what Peter's dad does for a living after Peter draws an ... interesting picture about why his dad is his hero.

Practically Perfect in Every Way by @betheflame and @hogwartstoalexandria

Tony Stark is a lot of things - billionaire, former playboy, professional philanthropist - but a few years back he added two more titles: widower and single father. As Peter keeps growing, Tony can't seem to keep a nanny. Thankfully, his employee James Barnes has a solution.

Art therapist Steve Rogers is really tired of living grant cycle to grant cycle, but is wary when he gets an opportunity from his best friend's boss to be his child's live-in caregiver. He hates Bucky's boss. But then he meets the kid and then he gets to know Tony and then...

And then they all live happily ever after.

Rockabye by @bladeofthenebula27

Cute alphas didn’t appear out of nowhere to help ruined omegas. That was a widely accepted fact.

Tony Stark had always known his life wouldn’t be easy as a genius omega in an alpha’s world. But not even he predicted getting knocked up and forced to move to a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Some things can’t be hidden by @s-horne

“What?” Peter sat up in the booth, suddenly alert. “Dad, what is it?” He followed Tony’s eyes right to a man in the doorway of the restaurant. A big, blond and young man that even Peter could admit was attractive.

“Is that him?” Peter asked. “He’s young.”

“He’s 32,” Tony argued, though he was still pale and didn’t shift his gaze.

“Have you actually seen proof of age? Because he looks young, Dad. Like not that much older than my age. Have you checked his ID? There are some good fakes out there, just warning you.”

“Will you be quiet?” Tony hissed, lifting his hand and waving to the man. “He is perfectly legal, thank you very much.”

Peter watched as the guy lit up as soon as he noticed Tony, awkwardly dodging the lunchtime crowds as he tried to make his way over to their table.

“Hi,” he said when he reached them, a beaming smile on his face. He made a motion to kiss Tony before his eyes flickered to Peter and he changed his course, pressing his lips to Tony’s cheek instead and stepping away quickly.

Adventures in Babysitting by @s-horne

Bucky babysits Peter for the first time on his own. There are cuddly toys, tears, cupcakes, and bedtime stories.

It Takes a Village (or a team of superheroes) by aven_garde

Three months after the Chitauri attack, Tony received a phone call that changed his life. (Or, the one in which a group of remarkable people come together and balance battling villains and raising a child).

In Trouble Deep by @festiveferret and @sirsapling

"Whoever did this has a reason, and Stark needs to be with someone who can protect him. He won’t exactly be able to protect himself like this.” Fury looked at the baby consideringly. “No, it’s you, Steve. Besides, he likes you. Suck it up, soldier, you’re stuck with him.”

Tony, Please by @festiveferret

Steve is doing just fine nursing a painful crush on his most captivating client. That is, until his babysitter has an emergency and drops Steve's six-year-old daughter off at his work. Somehow, everything goes off the rails.

like-like by nanasekei

Morgan doesn’t really know Captain America.

And honorable mention cause even though it’s just a pregnancy fic right now, I’m holding out hope for a sequel with a baby:

Baby’s Breath by @s-horne

Wow. Tony’s mind went blank when his eyes moved involuntarily and focused in on where Nurse Rogers was pointing something out on the computer screen. It was nothing, really. It was a blob roughly the size of a jelly bean. The picture wasn’t even clear. It was black and white and so ridiculously grainy that Tony couldn’t see clearly.

Oh. Actually, the reason he couldn’t see clearly was because of the tears in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said, voice breaking on the short words. “That’s…”

“Your baby. Right here.”

Tony fell silent again, just taking it all in. That was his baby. His child. A whole little person living inside of him, ready to grow and stretch and make his body do all kinds of weird things. Nine months of his baby inside of him and then eighteen years of them living in Tony’s house.

Somehow, it already didn’t seem like long enough. Seeing it on a screen wasn’t enough either. Tony wanted to reach out, to trace the tiny image with his fingers and try and feel what little extra he couldn’t inside of him.

After a long moment, he licked his lips. Shit. He was having a baby.

“Steve would love this,” he breathed out.

Winteriron

High Noon in Sandbridge (part of the Nights in Sandbridge series and does rely on some of the other works in the series, so make sure you read those first if you haven’t already) by @tisfan and @27dragons

Life is pretty good for Bucky and Tony these days. The restaurant is doing well, and they’re happy with their little family. Then Bucky’s sister meets an untimely end and Bucky and Tony are suddenly guardians to a niece they’ve only met a handful of times. Their attempts to make a home for the bereaved child are complicated by Tony's mother, Bucky’s ex-lover, and the man who claims to be Billie’s father. But whatever her parentage, Billie is a Barnes through and through -- stubborn and hot-tempered and not remotely interested in making a life in the one place that her mother had sworn never to return. Will she ever learn to call Dockside and Sandbridge home?

Place in Your Heart by potrix

They try to hide it, Bucky can see the effort they all put into making him more comfortable, but Bucky isn’t stupid, he knows they’d rather have him somewhere else, somewhere far away from their home, the place where they’re supposed to feel happy and safe.

The Long Way Round by potrix

“Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore,” Tony blurts out in a rush. “It’s—I think it’s for the best. If we stop.”

It takes a moment for the meaning of the words to register, but when it does, Bucky turns cold, stomach sinking. “Are—are you breakin’ up with me? Tony—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony hurries to reassure, reading Bucky’s mind. “You were perfect, Bucky, I swear you were. Are. This. It’s not. It’s really not you,” he says with a small, humourless chuckle, “it’s me.”

Bucky looks at the tense line of Tony’s shoulders, at the sad set of his mouth, the defeat in his eyes, and he knows it’s the truth. Or, at least, what Tony believes to be true.

 Or; sometimes, people mean well, but that doesn't always mean they know best. Bucky and Tony, unfortunately, have to learn that the hard way.

Letters to a Soldier by CityofAngels

When Peter Stark, son of the famous tattoo artist Tony Stark, signed up for a program to write letters to a soldier, he didn't know what Bucky Barnes would change in his and his father's life...

Boys Will Be Boys by NotEvenCloseToStraight

When Peter and Harley can't stop fighting at school, Dad!Tony and Dad!Bucky meet up to try and figure out a way to keep the peace between their kiddos, but end up falling for each other instead.

Stuckony

‘Til the End of the Line by Avengers_Whore

“Steeeeeve!”

“There’s the lil devil now,” Bucky murmured fondly. “Lemme see ‘im.”

Steve laughed and nodded his head, walking out of the kitchen and heading towards the bedroom. He opened the door and sighed when their omega was nowhere in sight on the bed. He made his way towards their closet and opened the door, pointing his phone at the brunet curled up in all of the clothes.

Fennel Root & Super Soldiers by @betheflame

Peter hasn't stopped crying for weeks and Tony is nearly at his whit's end. Thankfully, Steve and Bucky have a plan.

Forging Bonds by Huntress79

Just when Tony thought that his relationship with Steve and Bucky is safe and stable, he learns of a son he apparently has. How will “his” soldiers react to the sudden addition to the household?

[golden-barnes]

Divinità

Prologue: Salvezza

Bucky Barnes X F! Reader

Description of the series: Au! Divinità. A deity. A goddess. One that Bucky has only seen 3 times before and now he can’t get Y/N out of his head. So he decided to put an idealized version of Y/N in his books. But what will happen when he gets to meet the real Y/N? Will you still be his deity?

Summary: (Salvation) The three times Bucky has seen Y/N and how his life changed because of that.

Warning: Curse words, grumpy Bucky, ptsd attacks and war mentions

Word count:1.5k words (I think that’s a lot for a prologue but I got carried away) 

A/N: I (loosely) based this off the Dante Alighieri and Beatrice Portinari story but with a modern twist. This is my first series in years, so I am a little rusty but I am very excited about it.

Past:

The first time he saw her: 

James Buchanan Barnes hated the center. And he made it goddamn clear that it was the worst and that he rather be anywhere else than there. After coming home from his last tour, with one less hand, Sam and Steve decided it would be for the best that he went to the Military Rehabilitation Center. He understood why they wanted him to get help and it wasn’t like they forced him, he truly wanted to get better. He was grateful that they cared about him so much to help him. And the center helped him a lot. He was getting fewer nightmares. The nurses were nice. He likes his physical therapist, even though he thinks that she underestimates him. But he is making some progress, more than anyone in the center. The food is decent, a lot better than what he ate when he was stationed. He liked going to the small library that they had in the center. There was a little park next to the center that he likes to go for a run in the mornings. He was finally starting to feel normal, or rather as normal as he could possibly get. 

His psychologist, on the other hand, is a nuisance. It wasn’t that he is a bad guy, it’s just that Bucky hates talking about himself and he swears the psychologist is out to get him.Sam thinks that he is just being dramatic but he still claims that he hates him. He recommended (even though Bucky says that he ordered him) to keep a journal. To fuck with him, Bucky decided to write some random things. They were borderline poems but Bucky would never admit that. In one of his journal entries, he wrote  about some french fries he ate in Belgium. One time he just rambled about a blue bird. Doc wasn’t pleased with that one in particular.

“You have to write about your feelings, Mr Barnes. That is what the journal is for.” He reprimanded  him in one of his sessions. But Bucky wasn’t going to go down without a fight. That is until today.

His session with the irritating physiologist started normal. The whole "How do you feel Barnes?" and "did you have any nightmares last night or any anxiety attacks?"  Which the answer was yes. He didn't particularly wake up on the right side of the bed. Meaning that this session was getting on his nerves more than usual.

Then there was a knock on a door before he could answer the doctor's questions.

"Excuse me, doctor. The director told me to come get you. Apparently there's a situation in the lunchroom." From the door emerged the most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. Her presence just filled the room, in a way he has never seen. It was as if she was radiating calmness. For a few minutes, all of his worries and his fears just vanished. His mind was only focused on her. On the way her eyes were warm and made him feel comfort. On the smile she was giving him. Oh that smile. He knew that he was now addicted to it and would do anything to see it again.

“Behold, a deity stronger than I; who coming, shall rule over me.”

 Was the first thing that came into his mind when she left the room with the psychologist. That night when he wrote in his journal, he wrote about her. 

A month later;

The second time he saw her

Veteran’s day in the center wasn’t as fun as a lot of people think it is. It would be crowded with family members. Kids would bring their toys to show them to their grandparents. There would be a cookout outside for all the vets and their families. Even fucking games, there were little challenges and shit for the families to have fun with. The ruckus was too much for Bucky. Bucky always made it a point not to celebrate this holiday.

 “First of all, it’s dumb. If you wanted to do something for the veterans, maybe you should give the centers more money to operate. And, I don’t know, make more fucking centers. Second of fucking all, why make so much noise? Seriously, can’t we have ONE silent holiday?” He once told Sam and Steve. To which Sam replied with a “stop being such a grumpy motherfucker”.

This year, he decided to hide in the library instead of his room. He wanted to finish this new book Steve brought him in peace and quiet. And since the library was on the other side of the rehabilitation center, he knew it was gonna be his little safe haven. What he didn’t expect was to see her there.

He stopped at the entrance, astonished and amazed. With a flowy flower dress and peonies in her hand. She was looking at the books that they had. Running her fingers over the spines of the books. Why would she have flowers? Why was she here? Was she staying?

She turned around to see him and gave him the same addicting smile that she gave him the other day.

“I thought I was going to be the only one here. I was just looking at the books. Don’t worry I’m going to leave.” Bucky swears her voice is like honey to his ears. His senses were overpowered by the smell of her perfume. Was that vainilla? Or was it cinnamon? He couldn't guess. He was stuck there. He couldn’t talk or move. She gave him another warm smile, one that made her eyes crinkle a bit. Bucky would bet anything to have her permanently smile like that.

“Oh before I leave, here’s a flower. Happy veteran’s day. Thank you for everything” She gave him one of her peonies. Their fingers slightly touched and Bucky felt a small shock. He probably looked super dumb to her. With widened eyes and his mouth slightly opened, he probably looked like an idiot. Damn it Bucky, she might think that you are a creep. 

She smiled again and pointed at the door. Fuck, I haven’t moved from the entrance. She can’t pass. Way to go Barnes! 

“Thank you soldier.”She winked at him. But little did she know that he wouldn’t stop thinking of her wink. 

Another one for the journal, I guess. He thought letting his mind run wild with the image of her.

Two months later; 

The third time he saw her

James Buchanan Barnes was consumed by two thoughts. Number one, he had finished all his physical therapy and his nightmares and panic attacks were less, but he was much better at dealing with it. So that means that it was his last week at the center. He was so happy. He has already said goodbye to all the nurses, his doctors and he even said a nice goodbye to his insufferable psychologist, who he in the end grew to like. He was packing all his things and was waiting in the reception area for Steve to pick him up.

His second thought was her. He hadn’t seen her since that Veteran’s day where he acted like an idiot in front of her. Fucking damn it. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Almost every night since then, he kept writing about her. It was like his brain was trapped in a box, captured until he wrote out everything he could about her. He never even formed a formal conversation with her, but he still couldn’t help but think about her. About how her presence soothes him. How her smile filled him with joy. How the flower she gave him was the most important thing he has ever received. Hell, he learned how to press flowers and made it into his bookmark. 

“These last entries were really good Mister Barnes. It is like something I would see in a poetry book.” His psychologist once noted. And he couldn't help to agree with him. She had become his muse. And I don’t even know her name.

His train of thoughts was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. As if Bucky called her with his mind, she appeared. With the same heart melting smile and the brightest aura. The receptionist even smiled when she saw her. She walked in, and the room got lighter. Can a human glow? Because Bucky thinks that she is glowing, as if small specks of glitter were emanating from her body and reflecting back at him. Did it make sense? Not one bit, but Bucky couldn’t describe it any other way. 

“Good morning Y/N. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to show up again.”  Y/N let out a soft chuckle at the receptionist’s words. She reached to sign in the sign in list. 

“Buck! Hey buddy, ready to go?” Steve had walked in and Bucky hadn’t even noticed

“Ye-yeah. Let’s go” Grabbing his bags, he started to walk out the center. But not without giving Y/N one last look.

If salvation had another name, Bucky would bet his life that it was Y/N.

[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.)

[spidercakes]

First off, I love all your abo rica (and everything else you write). Would you mind writing something about an angelic little omega peter who mob boss or biker tony takes a liking to. I just love the contrast of cute innocent little peter in skirts and scarred tough tony in leather.

Thanks :) I went with mob boss Tony because I’m a real sucker for that trope. I went in kind of a different direction with this, so I hope you like it!

Warnings: underage (Peter), infidelity, mentions of stony but like no actual stony.

*

Tony doesn’t bother listening to Sam and its not because he doesn’t like the guy, he’s actually pretty funny when he isn’t in therapist mode. Its because he doesn’t give a shit about Steve and yeah, that might be an asshole thing to think but its true. Steve doesn’t give two shits about him either, its just that he decides he’s a traditionalist when it suits him and apparently that means trying to save their tattered marriage like either one of them have a genuine interest in that. Tony isn’t a fucking idiot, he’s pretty sure Steve and that irritating best friend of his have been fucking around for years and Tony can’t exactly be mad about it when he’s got his own thing going on.

God, Peter. They ran into each other totally by accident and Tony had been in a bad mood too, so he’d been prepared to tell off whoever ran into him but then it was Peter. And he’s so soft and sweet and he was wearing this pretty pink skirt that made him look a little younger than he actually is and he’d been smitten right away. Peter less so, it took him a little work to win him over but he’s not opposed to that assuming he actually cares enough to put in the effort. Made it all the sweeter when he finally managed to get Peter into bed and fuck, he’d been perfect. Everything about Peter is perfect.

“-Tony,” Steve says, probably not for the first time if the way he’s glaring at him is any indication.

“What?” he asks, disgruntled. Not to give Howard any credit but he’s glad he all but forced Tony to make Steve sign a prenup now. Fuck if he deserved half of everything Tony built. That, and he’s pretty sure parsing out half of the assets he acquired committing crimes in court would be something else.

“Are you even listening?” Steve snaps.

“Not really,” Tony tells him honestly and isn’t that what Sam said the other day? Something about honesty being important? Pretty sure he’s choking on his words now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve asks, clearly pissed.

Tony rolls his eyes and turns to Sam, “you know what I think? Steve here hates failure, refuses to admit he’s failed even when he’s shat the bed real good. I think he’s playing at being a traditionalist because he doesn’t want to admit this relationship is fucked seven ways to Sunday because that’ll mean he has to admit he didn’t do something right.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve asks, eyes narrowed.

“Funny things are,” he says, shrugging.

“Like our marriage?”

“Yeah, fucking obviously. What the hell else would you call this shit,” he says, waving a hand around the room, “that you’ve set up like you haven’t been fucking your best friend for years?”

Steve turns bright red and Tony knows he’s pissed him off good this time. “Well maybe if you showed me a modicum of affection the way he does I wouldn’t have cheated on you!” he snaps.

“Maybe if you were worth a modicum of affection you’d get it,” Tony mumbles back.

“Oh holy shit- this is not going to be professional at all but shut the hell up, both of you. Steve, what the fuck? Tony is right, you just want a way to stick it to him because you know this relationship is done and you don’t want to admit it until it blows up in a way you can’t deny anymore. And Tony, you’re a million miles away even when you’re sitting right in front of people no matter how much you care about them. You ever want a relationship to work you need to get out of your head and stop pushing everyone who gives a shit about you away. And get a god damn divorce, you two are wasting my time when I could be with patients who aren’t assholes like the pair of you,” Sam tells them, shaking his head.

“Thanks for the advice, I’ll file the papers this afternoon,” Tony says, all but fleeing his seat because he's already late to pick Peter up and he doesn’t like leaving him waiting. Besides, Sam already told him he was a bad choice in therapist anyway- he knows them both outside of the who therapy thing, apparently that makes things unethical or whatever. But Steve insisted on account of what other therapist knows all of Tony’s business? Thankfully for him this finally wen bad enough for him to get out of it entirely.

*

When Peter spots him he grins, all but running over to hug Tony. He hugs him back tightly, burying his face in Peter’s neck and scenting him lightly. He lets out a soft moan, curling into Tony with no care that they’re in public. “Hey, baby,” Tony murmurs, “missed you.”

Peter pulls back and smiles, arms wrapped around Tony’s neck. “I missed you too,” he says like he didn’t see him this morning when he’d left the hotel room. He lets Tony pull him off towards the elevator, laughing when he unceremoniously removes a bellhop from the elevator before pushing Peter inside of it and up against a wall. Tony’s kisses are fast and frantic and they make Peter want more, leg lifting up to curl around Tony’s waist. Tony lifts it a little higher, hand running up Peter’s leg to his ass before he squeezes.

“Sorry I was late,” he murmurs into Peter’s mouth as they get to their floor.

He shrugs, shoving Tony out of the elevator and toward their room. They barely make it inside before he’s pulling at Tony’s jacket and Tony is pushing him towards the bed. “Someone’s in a hurry today,” he murmurs as Tony lays him out on the soft bed.

“Told you I missed you,” Tony says, hiking his skirt up around his hips. Peter grins as he spreads his legs- he knows how much Tony likes his skirts, especially the short pleated ones even if he doesn’t much care for pink. But Peter doesn’t really like red so he gets to suffer with what Peter likes. He moans as Tony presses two fingers into him, head falling back against the fluffy mattress as Tony smiles down at him. “Move in with me after you graduate,” he says and Peter huffs a little.

“What?” he asks, having a hard time concentrating through Tony moving his fingers just right, just the way he likes.

Tony leans in and scents him, teeth nipping at his neck. “I said move in with me,” he murmurs.

Peter smiles as Tony’s teeth graze his neck again and he tangles his hand in Tony’s hair, directing his head where he wants it and moaning when Tony licks at that sensitive spot under his jawline. “Mm, already moving in with Ned and Liz,” he says. MJ decided to go to school halfway across the country so she gets to be the odd one out.

“You’re trading me in for two roommates?” Tony asks, lifting his head just enough to look offended.

“Baby, I already agreed and no, no, no don’t stop,” Peter tells him, grabbing his wrist before Tony can pulls his fingers out al the way. “Don’t want you to stop,” he says, pouting at him. “Besides, pretty sure your husband would notice,” he points out.

“Yeah, filled for divorce so that doesn’t matter. You’re moving in with me,” Tony tells him, leaning back in and licking at his neck again. “Its non negotiable,” he says playfully.

Peter laughs, back arching a little and he lets go of Tony’s wrist, satisfied that he’s not going to leave him high and dry anymore. “Mhm, so you think. Its a year, you can manage,” Peter tells him.

Tony shakes his head, “oh, but I really can’t. Need you around, baby. You make me happy.”

Its soft, genuine. Peter frowns for a moment because he hadn’t taken that divorce comment seriously. “Are you actually leaving Steve?” he asks. Because he assumed he wasn’t, MJ has already told him like a million times that he’s never going to be more than the mistress and he’s fine with that, really. But if he can get more...

Tony nods, “yeah, baby. I only stuck around as long as I did to make sure I had my shit together legally. Would have moved you in forever ago if not for that and you aunt.” Yeah, May doesn’t really know about him so that’s for the best probably.

“And you want me?” Peter asks, not meaning to sound as confused as he does.

“Baby, you’ll find that I don’t put my time and effort into things I don’t want and I’m selfish, I’ll take everything you’re willing to give me,” Tony tells him, leaning in and kissing him softly.

“A collar?” Peter asks tentatively. They’ve never talked about it and Peter never brought it up because of the whole mistress thing, he kind of assumed this wasn’t built to last even if he was in way over his head forever ago. God, he loves Tony. Probably always will.

Tony grins, “I’ll get you a collar to match every damn outfit you own if you want that. Anything you want at all Peter, I’ll give it to you,” he says, eyes soft and caring and Peter wiggles in happiness.

“I love you,” he blurts, maybe stupidly but the thought is fleeting.

“I love you too, Peter,” Tony murmurs.

[vhenadahls]

bend but never break

Rory Stern, a civilian contractor on the Normandy, has her physical examination from Dr. Chakwas. The doctor takes one look at her chronic pain and gives her the first answers she’s had in seven years.

G, 2100 words.

(This is a fictionalized account of my own getting diagnosed with hypermobility spectrum disorder!)

Rory steps through the airlock, breathing in the familiar recycled air of the Normandy’s CIC. It hasn’t been long since she’s been on the ship - she was here just last week, doing the final pre-shakedown calibration of the drive core’s integration with the cooling system - but she wasn’t carrying a duffle bag then. And there were people at various stations around the CIC, but not like this. A lot more swearing at code, then, compared to the current introductions and shouts to old friends and salutes. Not everyone who’s going to be on the shakedown cruise is on the ship now, either, but it’s certainly got a different feel than it did with a bunch of nerds in coke-bottle glasses just like hers.

Those glasses slide down her nose a bit, and she smiles. Okay, everyone else’s weren’t bright blue, but still.

She steps aside to let someone in uniform with a cart full of supplies past, then heads purposefully down the center aisle. She’ll know his name eventually, and the thought of knowing everyone on a ship again sends a thrill down her spine. The galaxy map isn’t turned on, of course, but she still looks over as if it might be before heading down the stairs. Her right hip twinges as she walks down, and she huffs in frustration when she’s on level ground again. Already acting up, apparently. Maybe it’ll prefer artificial gravity the way she does, but she’s not hopeful.

The elevator, still just as slow and irritating as before, takes her down to the crew deck, and she finds the bunk she’s been assigned. Someone else will be sharing with her, of course, but there’s a footlocker just for her, and she’s able to fit her few belongings into it. The familiar lack of creature comforts and even personal space is a friendly reminder that she’s on a ship again. She’s been planetside far too long.

Once her things are packed away neatly, her next stop is the med bay. Other people are bustling around and familiarizing themselves with the ship’s layout - no one wants to get lost during shakedown - but she’s been here for years working on interfacing the Tantalus drive core with standard (and not-so-standard) Alliance tech. And that means skipping that step, and getting her introduction to the ship’s doctor over with.

Sighing again, she takes the elevator back up, mulling over what to say. I’ve had chronic pain in my shoulders for seven years, it’s been appearing in other joints, they always say it’s unrelated. She snorts. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that this military doctor with a battalion of marines to take care of is going to take a second glance at the achy civilian engineer.

The mess hall is a bustle of activity, with marines stocking their gear lockers and crew members squaring away food, medical supplies, and other necessities. Rory weaves her way through the chaos towards the med bay. It smells clean and sterile, even more so than the rest of the ship. A woman with chin-length grey hair leans over the desk to the left of the door. She looks up when the door slides open, giving Rory one of those bland doctor smiles.

“Hello,” she says, reaching out a hand to shake. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Chakwas. You are…?”

“I’m Rory Stern.” Rory shifts from foot to foot after shaking the proffered hand, trying not to belie that her hip is bothering her. “I’m a civilian, one of the engineers who’s worked on the Normandy the whole way through.”

Nodding, the doctor turns back to her desk, swiping a finger over her datapad. “Ah yes, I remember that name. I believe I was looking at your medical record earlier…” she trails off, focusing on what’s on the datapad. She gives it a decisive tap. “Yes, I remember now. It says here you’ve been suffering from chronic pain in your shoulders for about seven years now, and your hips and knees for some of that time?”

Sighing inwardly, Rory nods. Yet another doctor who’s just going to treat the description in her file of years-long pain as just a random note. Another doctor who’s going to be less likely to treat her properly. She tries not to get lost in memories of the string of physical therapists acting like she doesn’t want to get better, trying not to hope that Dr. Chakwas will be any different.

Dr. Chakwas is talking again, so Rory drags her attention back to the present. She studies the way the cabinets are built into the wall to avoid looking the doctor in the face. “We’ll definitely take a look at that. But first I have to do the standard physical exam, which I’m guessing is why you’re here?”

Rory nods again.

“Hop on up on this bed here, then.”

The doctor goes through the standard physical health checks - vitals like blood pressure, heart rate, weight, height. But after that, and after recording all that data into her datapad, she sits back on her stool with the pad and a stylus poised as if to take notes. “So your file has some descriptions of your pain, but I’d like to hear it from you and see how it compares to this.”

“Okay.” Scrolling back through her memories, Rory tries not to roll her eyes. Thirty-one years in this body, seven with the pain, and barely anyone listening. The one doctor on a ship of soldiers isn’t going to care about the chronic pain of a random civilian any more than anyone else is.

“My first year of grad school, towards the end, I started having issues with my left shoulder.” The words spark a sliver of pain in the shoulder, almost like a sense memory. She rolls first that shoulder, then the other to prevent them feeling uneven. Her neck complains, but she tries to stretch it more surreptitiously. “I figured it was just weak from sitting poorly at a computer console all the time. I tried to sit better or prop it up. Didn’t help. I finally got some physical therapy and exercises that seemed to help, but the way the school health system worked I couldn’t keep going. The pain was fine for a while, but it comes and goes, moreso if I do stuff like carry bags with that arm. I went to a chiropractor for a bit, and they did some sort of nerve test? I never really understood the results from that. But I kept getting bounced around between physical therapists and stuff. I don’t remember when it got as bad as it is now, but I can’t wear a messenger bag, or stand for long, or lie on that side for long.”

Dr. Chakwas is nodding along, sometimes scribbling new notes on her datapad and sometimes crossing something out. Rory squints, trying to make out whether she’s crossing out her own notes or old notes from previous doctors.

“My hip is more recent. And my back, I guess, I can’t quite tell. That’s been maybe two years, and often affects my right knee I think? Sometimes my hip feels like it catches when I walk. I did physical therapy for a little while for that, but it didn’t seem to be helping. And sometimes my elbows and hands hurt, and maybe my wrists? I haven’t really had much physical therapy or anything for any of those, though. It hasn’t felt worthwhile, because I’ve been trying therapy for the other pain and not really gotten anywhere.” It all comes out in a rush, and when she finishes she realizes she’s massaging her right wrist. Her instinct is to stop, to move her hands apart and put them in her lap, but she lets herself continue. Maybe the self-comforting motion will endear her to Dr. Chakwas.

A minute passes without words, the only sound the doctor’s stylus on the datapad. Eventually she looks up, tapping the stylus against her chin thoughtfully. “You mentioned a nerve test. Have you had other tests done?”

“Hmm, let me think.” She squints in thought. “I’ve had a lot of blood tests done for various things, but I’m not sure anything was for this. Or maybe there was, and there was one positive value but it wasn’t indicative of anything? And I think there was an MRI once. But everything seems to have come back normal.” There definitely was an MRI, but you couldn’t pay her to remember what it had been for. And it’s not like any of the tests had helped.

More tapping, then Dr. Chakwas puts her datapad back on her desk. “Okay. I have a thought, and I’d like you to do a few quick movements for me.” She reaches out one hand, bends her wrist down, and presses her thumb back towards her forearm. It’s about two or three inches away. “Can you do that? As far as you can.”

Rory does, sticking her right arm out in front of her and pushing the thumb back until it touches her forearm.

“And the other hand?”

She does, touching the two together again, wondering what this has to do with anything.

There’s what looks like the beginning of a smile on Dr. Chakwas’s face now. She picks the datapad back up. “Extend your left elbow for me, all the way, then the other, out to the sides. As far as you can again.”

One after the other, she stretches her arms out to her sides.

“One last thing. Can you put your palms flat on the floor when you bend over, with your legs straight?”

Bending over, Rory flattens her palms on the ground. “Wait,” she says, tilting her head to look up at the doctor. “Are my knees straight already? I can’t do it if I push them back any further, to lock them.”

“No, you’re fine.” She takes another note on the datapad. “You can stand up now, and sit back on the bed if you like.”

Climbing back onto the bed, Rory has a brief moment of embarrassment realizing she’s using her hands to support at times when it seems her core muscles should be able to handle it. But once she gets settled, she looks back up at Dr. Chakwas - trying to keep herself from getting too hopeful that these weird new tests will say something, trying not to get too cynical.

“Do you know what double-jointed means?”

There’s a twinge in her right hip, so Rory shifts to sitting cross-legged on the bed before answering. “It means there’s more of a range of motion in a joint than normal, right?”

“Yes, that’s it.” That’s definitely a smile on her face now. “You’re hypermobile. Double-jointed. Your ligaments and tendons are looser than normal, so you’re prone to overuse injuries, especially when your muscles are weak. With pain, it’s hypermobility spectrum disorder.”

“What?” Rory’s mouth drops open in shock. She’s certainly sitting up straighter now, leaning forward to listen.

Laughing lightly, Dr. Chakwas nods again. “Your joints like to move a lot. You might’ve gotten frequent sprains as a child, or felt more flexible than others. But now you’ve got so much pain going on, and we need to start working on building your strength up. There’s a physical therapist here on the Normandy -”

Rory wilts. It’s not even worth trying to hide it. Dr. Chakwas notices immediately.

“I know you haven’t had great luck with physical therapy before, but please try this. His name is Sergeant Patrick Travers. He’s used to working with stubborn marines who think they’re invincible - and our very stubborn pilot - so you’ll be a nice change of pace for him. You can usually find him in the gym on the crew deck. Should I send him a message that you’ll be along to see him?”

The doctor sure is pushy, but it’s not for nothing. Rory muses over that word hypermobile before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll try it.” Maybe she even will. She’s got a lot of research to do first.

“Great.” Dr. Chakwas slides her stool back towards her desk. “That’s all I need from you now, I think. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I think I’m good for now.” Rory hops down off the bed. “But I’ll swing back by if there’s anything else I think of that I need some help with.”

“That works. Please do see the physical therapist, Ms. Stern, I think you will find it valuable.”

Rory doesn’t answer that, but when she gets to the door and it hisses open, she turns back. “Thank you, Dr. Chakwas. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Stern.”

[silvcrlining]

finley, self-para: back to the beginning

Finley had only lived in the Valley for a little over a year. DC shouldn’t feel that different to them when they come back, but it does. Something about that angers them, but they can’t quite place it, so they sigh, lean back against the park bench, and pull their hat-- a beanie with a T-Rex stitched onto the front-- further down their head.

“They’re not selling ice cream because apparently ‘it’s winter and no one wants ice cream during winter,’ so I got us some hot chocolate.”

They glance up as Levi, their stepfather, comes bumbling down the street from the hot chocolate stand in front of the Smithsonian, wearing a similar beanie with a triceratops on the front along with a goofy smile. He takes a seat beside them, handing them one of the styrofoam cups.

“We’d get hypothermia if we got ice cream.” Finley mumbles, staring down at the line of steam that rises from the cup. It had been three days since they had hitched a ride on Sloane’s van so fae could drop them off at their parents’ house. Three days of catching up with their family, plastering on a fake smile, pretending everything was fine. Three days until Levi all but forced a stepfather/child bonding day. Early on when him and Finley’s mother were still just dating, he had tried to bond with the Martin siblings by taking them out to a museum every other weekend and getting ice cream after.  Finley had left soon enough for college, though-- guess he wanted to make up for lost time. And dinosaurs were cool.

“But we’d have ice cream. I think that’s a fair exchange.”

Finley lets out an exhale of a chuckle that dies as quickly as it came. They sit in silence for a few minutes, taking sips of their drinks, letting their bodies warm up against the chilly weather.

“So... do you want to talk about it?”

They hold back on reacting, “About what?”

Levi glances at them out of the corner of his eye, takes a long sip, “Jillian... that’s her name, right?”

“... Mom told you?”

“Reese might have overheard your conversation... She might have mentioned a thing or two.”

Damn it. “Hm.”

Levi is a therapist, which means he’s patient, which means he never pushes too much. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” Finley appreciates it, but it also irritates them. He knows what he’s doing. Reverse psychology little--

They settle into silence once more. It’s comfortable enough; though Finley and Levi never got to spend too much time together before they left for college and then for Stardew Valley, Levi was a people person, in a similar way that Finley was. He was friendly, caring, genuine-- it was hard not to like him. But among that comfortable silence, there’s an underlying tension. Finley hasn’t slept that much lately, and they haven’t stopped thinking about Jillian, and they haven’t talked to anyone about it. And they want to. They’re tired of being in their own head. They finish their hot chocolate and sigh.

“... You know Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts?” They mumble, looking down at their lap and picking at a loose thread on their jacket. David, their biological father, who they haven’t seen in quite a while.

“Mhm, they were.“

“For the longest time, I thought they were-- not made for each other, but, like... something like that, you know?” Their brows furrow, “But they weren’t, and that’s... fine.” He’s a piece of shit, anyway. “And then they got divorced, and...” They pull at the thread, snapping it from the fabric, “... Mom just fucking... lost herself.”

Levi nods patiently, and if he’s heard this story from his wife already, he pretends not to know, “How so?”

“She... I mean, you know her. She has a strong personality.” Levi smiles at that despite himself. Softie. “But for so long, that was just... gone. And then she tried to get back into dating, which I thought would help, but... honestly, it kind of made things worse.” They couldn’t have known it back then, and maybe they still weren’t fully aware of it now, but it had planted a seed of fear within them that had only kept growing, “It was like she became someone new for every single person she saw... I love her, but it was so hard to be around her back then. I-- Reese and I barely recognized her anymore. I don’t think she recognized herself. It was... it was so fucking scary.”

“Why?”

Their brows furrow deeper, the corners of their lips curling downwards. They’re trying to hold back tears, “I thought I’d lost her.” Finley and her mom never had the closest relationship. Her mother was headstrong, stubborn, bad at showing emotions, and Finley quickly took after her. They butted heads often, but... despite it all, Finley looked up to her. And when she fell that hard, Finley was at a loss of what to do.

Finley has Maisie had temporarily broken up by then. The fear had begun seeping into their relationship-- what if I’m just pretending to be someone for her?

“You and Maisie were high school sweethearts too, right?”

Their shoulders tense, and they rub at their ring finger and huff out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

“Were you afraid?” He asks carefully, his gaze settled on them, worry etched into his features, “That you’d lose yourself?”

Finley nods. How couldn’t they? They were a carbon copy of their mother and father’s relationship. The more similarities Finley saw, the more red flags they conjured up in their mind.

“Are you afraid that’ll happen with Jillian?”

They pause, find another loose strand to tug at. “... I don’t know.”

“Well... how did you feel with her?”

Flashes of Finley and Jillian at their house. Their eyes closed as music filtered through the living room, stupid banter exchanged like they always did-- though it felt gentler this time around--, dumb pinky swears, a sudden urge. “Is this fine with you?” muttered in between them in a moment that shifted everything; an answer with a kiss. They melted into it.

“Safe.”

“Is safe good?”

It was October, and in the midst of chaos, they looked to each other for comfort. They let each other into spaces few traversed. They knew each other. They believed in one another. They trusted each other. In the midst of chaos, there was a momentary shelter from the storm in her. In them, together.

“Safe is dangerous.”

Levi’s brows furrow, “Why?”

“Because...” There’s a lump in their throat. Their chest feels tight.

“You’re a frightening woman, Jill.” They mumbled to her on the floor of the vacant general store, a wine drunk smile on their lips.

The two of them, dancing like idiots in the Saloon, recreating a moment that didn’t happen a year ago-- because it was meant to happen now. Finley didn’t think about the people around them staring.

The feeling of Finley’s heart the moment Jillian exited the mines-- when the firecracker they thought could have been snuffed out came out, still shining. Weak, but shining. Relief flooded their body and they drowned in it.

That night in the forest, Finley lending her their jacket after seeing she was cold. Seeing her tiny smile. It smelled like her when she gave it back. They didn’t know why they didn’t mind it. They should have known.

They huff, rest their elbows on their knees and blink back tears, “Because it makes me feel so... vulnerable.” The moment they began to feel comfortable with someone, as much as they did with her, they couldn’t help but the thoughts that eventually came rushing in: it’s not going to work out-- you’re not good at this, anyway-- you’re going to lose yourself-- you’re going to repeat your mother’s mistakes-- just keep your distance-- maybe you’ve already found yourself, and you’re just an asshole.

“And vulnerable is... bad?”

“Yes.” They answer like it’s supposed to be obvious. “That’s when all the bad shit happens-- when you... let your guard down.” The words feel wrong in their mouth now, the guilt buries itself deeper within them. They made her go through that. They made her... the image of Jillian’s face, red from the cold and the anger, her cheeks wet from crying. Finley can’t help it anymore-- they break. They tip their head down until their forehead knocks against their knees. It’s quiet, and then a sob breaks through, “Fuck.” It’s one, and then another, and then another, until they can’t keep the tears from streaming down their cheeks. Levi is silent, his brows furrowed. He rests a hand on their back, rubbing small circles there, and lets them cry.

“I’m so scared.” They mumble through their tears. “I‘m so scared that... I damaged everything beyond repair again, and--” A small sob, “And I... I hurt her so fucking bad. I just keep seeing her face, and...” They uncurl themself. Their hands go up to their face, rubbing at their eyes even though the tears keep coming. “... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m so scared of going back and seeing her, and seeing everyone and knowing they all know what a piece of shit I am now, and... fuck.”

When they lost Maisie, they lost most of their friends here too. And maybe it was selfish of them to be thinking about this too, but they didn’t want to lose their new friends. Though they feel like they probably already have, and the thought sends another pang into their chest. After a moment, they rest their head on Levi’s shoulder, “I don’t know what to do...”

He wraps an arm around them and rests his head on top of theirs, “Well... you go back.”

They sniffle, “And do what?“

“You try.”

Cue the humorless laugh, “That’s what I was doing, and it all went to shit.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” He pats their shoulder and turns to look at them. Carefully, he uses his sleeve to wipe away the rest of their tears, “It seemed to me like you were running. Maybe one of us is looking at it the wrong way, hm?”

He retract his hand, and Finley just stares at him, eyes tired, jaw tensing and slackening until: “Can you go back to nice therapist step-dad mode?”

He grins. “That is my nice therapist step-dad mode. If you have a problem with it, you’ll have to talk to my wife about that.” With a small pat to their shoulder, he stands up, beckoning them to follow, “Now come on-- let’s head back home before we get hypothermia.”

-----

It’s the fourth night, and Finley lies in their childhood bed, staring up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. Through their earbuds, the playlist Ben sent them unexpectedly-- this small bit of hope that maybe not everyone hated them-- plays... Yes, they have a box of tissues next to them.

“And what happens if I try and I fail anyway?”

The song finishes, and while they wait for the next one to begin, they start scrolling through their contacts. First, they stop at Dr. Ali’s number. They tap on the message button, write out several versions of the same text, then delete it and go back to their contacts. They go to Ben’s contact and write out a text to him.

[ to: Ben ] thank you.

[ to: Ben | unsent ] i’ll try to come back soon

“Have you taken the time to entertain the thought that maybe you won’t?”

They sigh, go back to their contacts. This time, they stop at Jillian’s. Their finger hovers over the call button for an entire song. And then another. And then another. Their heart thumps against their chest like an alarm. They can’t do it. They lock their phone screen and sigh, turning to the side and curling into themself as the rest of the playlist drawls on. They don’t sleep much. They keep staring at their backpack strewn in the corner, wrap the blanket Malia had given them closer around their body. They listen to the noise of city life outside. They wish it was quieter.

“But what if I do?”

“Then you try again. However many times it takes.”

[beyondconfessor]

Principle Decisions [8/24]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Lilith/Zelda Spellman

Summary: It’d been over eight days since she’d seen Lilith, and her eyes had wandered over the therapist’s card twice before she managed to throw it out in recycling. 

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. This is pure fantasy, please suspend your disbelief. Double chapter to be released today :)

Zelda tapped her pen, listening to the meeting drone on as Faustus flicked through his PowerPoint presentation. She hardly cared, outside of somehow managing to volunteer to complete the meeting minutes, only because Constance had turned and looked over at her with big, pleading eyes.

Unlike with Shirley, Zelda respected Constance. Somehow she managed to juggle all of her classes, run the University’s choir and look after her twins.

Both of the twins were being cared for by an au pair at the moment, and with the thought of them, Zelda felt an ache in her chest before she snuffed the memory down. It wouldn’t do well to dwell on things that had long-since occurred.

Her chest still hurt. It seemed to ache over the last week constantly. Even Sabrina had withdrawn from biting comments to just tentatively asking if she wanted a cup of tea.

“––ay my thanks to Zelda for covering Shirley’s classes. As we all know, Shirley has been caring for her dying mother.”

Zelda blinked. She’d thought it was a dying friend? Perhaps she’d been unreasonably cruel towards her then.

No, despite how hard that must be, Shirley was still a raging cow.

“And Zelda has kindly taken over her classes to ease the transition.” There was a polite clap, and Zelda smiled tightly, fingers squeezing around her pen. Although the praise was well deserved, the half-hearted clap from the staff ( though she noticed that Constance’s was genuine) was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Perhaps she was just reading into it. It had been a long presentation, and a longer week, if she was honest.

It’d been over eight days since she’d seen Lilith, and her eyes had wandered over the therapist’s card twice before she managed to throw it out in recycling. She’d felt guilty for her attitude at the end of the session, but the truth was, the woman had overstepped her authority.

What had it mattered if she wanted to press her boundaries, request harder and harder strikes until she was a sobbing mess? As she understood it, it was her services she was paying for. She could ask for whatever she damned like.

The pen made a hole in on the page she was on. Flipping the page over, she began fresh as Faustus enquired if there was anything else on the meeting agenda. Zelda listened as a few members of the faculty enquired as to funding changes that were meant to be released, on top of the request for TAs and GAs, but the discussion was quickly shut down, leaving them to adjourn the meeting.

Tea and coffee were laid out, and the faculty began chatting with one another about the coming end of the semester. As Zelda made her way to the cups, she noticed Constance moving to stand next to her. “Faustus is running another program next year,” she advised, setting the biscuits onto her plate. “I…understand Prudence is looking to be a front runner?”

“I’m not certain,” Zelda said, “But she has the highest marks in my class so that I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She requested to be your TA, didn’t she?” Constance enquired.

“She did,” Zelda agreed, curious to the sudden line of questioning. “Was something the matter?”

“Do you know much about her?” Constance asked. “Faustus has her in his class and was enamoured by her––until the most recent semester, and now he seems to grow tense at the very mention of her.”

Zelda paused, “Constance, what are you getting at?”

“I’ve never known him to provide such extensive funding for a TA in this department before. Have you?”

Zelda’s eyes narrowed, looking over her shoulder to where the head of the department stood with some of the other professors, laughing over a joke. “Are you implying that he might be having an…affair?” she asked, whispering the word low so no one would overhear.

“No, no. I’m not saying that, not without proof. He’s just…been so distant since the birth of the twins. He’s a proud father…but since the summer holidays, he seems so far away, all of the time. Especially around Leticia, and I just wondered if he was feeling guilty over something.” Constance paused then, embarrassment colouring her cheeks as she stirred sugar into her tea. “Don’t mind me. I’m exhausted. Even with the nanny helping out, the twins take up so much time.”

It was a flippant addition, Zelda could see the root of the issue clear on Constance’s face. She was lonely and certain that her husband was withdrawing because he found someone else.

“I remember how difficult it was with Sabrina. Having two children who need your attention on top of your own work must be difficult to balance. Perhaps you need to find time for yourself?” she suggested. “Have a weekend away?”

Constance nodded in agreement. “You’re right, and I’m just making something out of nothing.” Constance drew in a deep breath and gave a tight smile. “But if you were to see anything…”

“I assure you, I’ll let you know,” she agreed with a nod. “But Faustus has always been devout to you.”

Constance gave a tight smile but didn’t speak any further.

It did leave Zelda with the seed planted in her mind. Although she’d never known Prudence or Faustus to interact, it wasn’t to say that they didn’t. After all, Faustus was their department head, which included overseeing things such as applicants for scholarships. As Zelda understood, Prudence was on a scholarship that covered her classes, textbooks and board while she was here.

She didn’t want to think the worst, but it wouldn’t be the first time that there were rumours of professor-student dalliances across campus. She’d just hoped that Faustus had been above that.

Zelda drew her thoughts away from it as she felt a headache form.

She returned home that evening sore, the muscles in her neck and shoulders felt tight, which was causing a headache to form behind her eyes as she entered her home to the sound of loud arguing.

“––fault! It’s not like…” Sabrina’s voice drifted off as the door opened and Zelda looked up to see her on the stairs, yelling down at Hilda, who was standing in the foyer.

Wonderful.

“What is going on here?” she asked, looking from Sabrina’s tight, furious expression to a baffled Hilda.

Hilda turned on her heel and began stuttering out utter gibberish before she ended up dropping her hands with a shake of her head. Zelda turned and looked to Sabrina, eyes drawing over her for a clue. Her niece was still in her cheerleading clothes, and had her bag slung over her shoulder as she stood defiantly on the stairs, but whatever it related to remained a mystery.

“Nothing,” Sabrina said tightly, giving her Aunt Hilda what looked like a warning before walking up the rest of the stairs and disappearing to her bedroom.

Zelda paused, before looking back to a sister with a sneaky feeling that this was somehow about her again. She wasn’t aware of any charity events, outside of Sabrina’s community service that was completed on the weekends.

Hilda shook her head. “She brought a letter home. Apparently, she’s failing french. She didn’t want me to tell you because she knew that you’d blow-up at her.”

“Blow up at her?” Zelda echoed. “What a preposterous idea. It is, however, a sign that she needs to focus more on her school. I mean, how could she fail french?” Zelda asked. “I speak over a dozen languages for Christ’s sake. Perhaps she’s spending too much time with this cheerleading thing?”

Hilda frowned, looking at Zelda like she was trying to bite back from saying something nasty.

“Spit it out.”

“It’s not like you're there to help her with homework. You just sort of expect she’ll have the same aptitude as you and Edward. Maybe she doesn’t care for language, and there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s doing well with almost all of her other classes.”

“Nonsense. It’s not that difficult, and once she learns one language, it’ll be far easier for her to pick up other languages.” Zelda stated. “Not to mention the college benefits it will bring. Sabrina’s got a talent for many things, but I hardly think she’s going to get a scholarship for cheerleading. It’d be better if she pursued an academic scholarship.”

“She could get it for cheerleading,” Hilda argued. “She’s pretty good.”

“Honestly Hilda,” Zelda said, giving her a look as she passed by. It was like her sister had no idea how the real world worked. Sure, if Sabrina wanted to attend some community college, she could put all of her eggs in cheerleading. Realistically, she needed to focus her attention on school.

Heading to her office, Zelda set her stuff down on the desk. She heard the sound of Hilda turning to the kitchen and starting dinner as she pulled out her computer––newly repaired but at the cost of losing all of the academic journals she’d downloaded––and began the administration work for her classes, placing their grades up to be viewed by midnight.

No doubt, she’d have a dozen emails by morning, begging her to allow a re-do of the assessment or to complete extra credit. Still, with how thinly spread she was between classes, she didn’t have time to oversee any of that, and she doubted Prudence would want to review any of it.

She was halfway through uploading her first year’s marks when Hilda knocked on the doorframe of her office, summoning her to dinner.

“I’ll be right out.”

“Zelda,” her sister warned.

Zelda drew in a tight breath before pausing, pushing up from her desk and following her sister out. She took her seat at the table and gave a soft greeting to Ambrose before noticing that Sabrina still hadn’t come down.

Zelda watched as Hilda gave a glare up the higher floor before serving the food, sitting them one-by-one in front of Zelda, Ambrose, the seat where Sabrina usually sat, and then herself.

When it looked like Hilda was about to sit down, Zelda rose from her chair. “I’ll call Sabrina down, shall I?” she asked tightly, not giving her sister time to speak to her as she walked out of the kitchen. If she had to interrupt her work to come to a family dinner, then by God, her niece needed to attend as well, despite her sour mood.

She rose the flight of stairs, down the hall and then knocked on Sabrina’s door, where she heard an odd noise of shuffling before her niece opened the bedroom door, crossing her arms defiantly. “Yes?”

Zelda blinked. Once upon a time, her niece would receive compliments from her teachers about being well-mannered and polite. ‘A delight to have in the classroom’. Zelda’s eyes narrowed at the disrespect. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you like then,” her niece responded. “I’m not coming down. I have work to do. I already know that you’re going to cut my allowance and refuse to let me see my friends, so why should I come to sit at dinner where you and Aunt Hilda are just going to get into an argument over this.”

Zelda drew in a deep breath, trying to quell the rising anger. “Sabrina,” she began with a steady voice. “Family dinner is something we do as a family. I am asking you to come down and sit with us.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re a family, and we share meals.”

“How can we be a family when you’re never here,” Sabrina pointed out. “And in the few times, you are home you’re always in your office.”

“That’s why we have family dinners.”

“You don’t even take me to and from school anymore, Harvey does! It’s like you don’t care, so as long as I’m doing well at school. The only time you took an interest was when I got into trouble for that fight. Otherwise, you’re too busy to do anything!” Sabrina snapped, her eyes welling up with tears. “You don’t care what I have to say, or what I do so as long as I’m not failing or in trouble.”

Zelda felt her heart clench. “Is that how you feel? That I don’t care?”

“Do you?”

“Do you think I’m working twelve hours a day, six days a week because I want to? I’m doing it because I have a job that’s putting food on the table and paying for the roof over your head. I am working to pay for your education and your extracurricular activities, or did you forget who paid for your cheerleading uniform? It doesn’t come for free, Sabrina. I work to give provide for our family.”

“We have an inheritance. You don’t need to work this hard!”

Zelda laughed, absolutely stunned by her nieces' words. “How much money do you think we have? We could not live off the money for all these years, and yes while it is more than most families have, all of that goes very fast if anything were to happen to your Aunt Hilda or I.” She took a breath, watching her niece scramble for a retort. “What this has shown me is that you have no idea how money works. Consider this me cutting you off. If you want to go out with your friends and see movies together or pay for school excursions, you need to pay for it yourself. I expect you to get a job by the time the winter holidays come.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can and will,” Zelda said with a glare. “I think it’s time you learnt some financial responsibility.” Zelda turned quirked an eyebrow, watching as Sabrina’s cheeks turned pink with fury.

“I’m not coming to dinner,” she said.

“Fine. But don’t expect the food to be there when you do get hungry. If you want food, you will sit with your family.”

Turning on her heel, she walked away. The door slammed shut behind her, and Zelda considered walking back and having the door removed.

But no, that was not something she felt was fair. Sabrina had been slamming doors since she was toddler, it was an offence she would continue to look past and treat like it was. A toddler throwing a tantrum, and as such, needing to be ignored.

Fury bubbling inside of her. Sabrina’s insolence had gone too far this time. It was clear she needed to be firm and set a tone. If her niece was going to make wild accusations about her not being family, and not needing money, then she could find out for herself how difficult it was when you didn’t have money.

Zelda returned to the kitchen, sitting at the table where Ambrose and Hilda both sat awkwardly across from each other, their food untouched before them.

“Is Sabrina coming down for––?” Hilda began

“Does it appear that she’s coming down? Or did the slammed door perhaps lead you to believe that our interactions were peaceful, sister?”

Hilda’s jaw slammed shut, as Ambrose began to stare down at his food, hands in his lap. Zelda rolled her eyes, picking up her fork and knife and began cutting into the food. If an uncomfortable silence was what dinner would involve, so be it.

All she’d wanted was a family dinner, and now she had anger sitting like a stone in her stomach, burning its way through any enjoyment she could have.

Perhaps she’s snapped too tightly at Hilda, but honestly, it seemed like her sister left her to be the bad person constantly. She was left saying no to Sabrina, drawing lines in the sand whilst Hilda would dally around niceties.

“I’ve decided that Sabrina needs to learn the value of money,” she said. “We will no longer be funding her extracurricular activities, nor her outings. If she wishes to spend copious amounts of money on clothes and dates, she can earn money through handwork, as we did.”

“Well, we hardly worked while we were in school. Father only made us work through holidays.”

Zelda placed her knife and fork down, taking the napkin she cleaned her fingers and face and then looked to her sister. “Perhaps you did not, but Edward and I both worked at the school. Edward worked with the librarian if you recall. And I assisted Mr Rutherglen.”

“‘Assisted’,” Hilda said, making air quotes. Zelda stared at her. Where on earth had such disrespect risen from today? Sabrina was one thing, but Hilda?

“Did you have something you wanted to say, or did you prefer making veiled comments?”

“Just that…we all knew…” she said trailing off. “That you and Mr Rutherglen, you know?” she implied as if Ambrose wasn’t well aware in the ways of implication.

“That we were what?” Zelda asked because the anger was curling inside of her, and if Hilda continued to dance around the words, she was going to slap her.

“Sleeping together, sister. Not that it mattered. I mean, in retrospect it was absolutely horrible to form his part, he was over a decade older than you, but it’s not at all your fault, just that obviously he…paid for––“

“He certainly did not!” Zelda snapped. “We were not, as you say, sleeping together.”

“Zelds, it’s fine. It was decades ago now, and Edward saw—“

“I have no idea what he thought he saw, but we were not sleeping together. For Christ’s sake, he was married, Hilda. With a daughter.”

“Because we know that’s stopped a man before,” she said, commenting out of the side of her mouth. “Look, if you say nothing occurred then fine, I believe you.”

“You do not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said a damned thing,” Zelda snapped before taking a breath, feeling a wave of dizziness struck her. “Rutherglen took an interest in me due to my language aptitude. Never had anything sexual passed. He often remarked how he hoped his daughter would grow up to be like me.” Zelda felt her chest tighten, thinking on it.

She hated how Hilda was trying to taint the memory of one of the few teachers who had taken an earnest interest in her for no reason other than to mentor her into a path of her choosing. She couldn’t imagine why Edward would have thought they were sleeping together. He’d always been sure to keep a professional distance with her.

Except once. When she’d been crying about––

Zelda paused the thoughts and pushed them away. It didn’t matter. There had been from so long ago, and Edward was dead.

Not finishing her dinner, she set the napkin down on the plate and stood up, walking away. Nausea settled in her stomach. Had Edward truly thought that of her––Hilda had, easily. Is that what was to them? A girl who slept with her teachers for money and extra credit?

She returned to her office, pulling the door tightly shut behind her and sat at her computer, feeling the hollowness consume her.

Why did it matter what a dead brother thought of her? Of what a sister who earned minimum wage cared? It was nothing new. Certainly, others had thought it of her. Throughout her undergraduates years, she’d had similar rumours thrown about her. It shouldn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

She continued to upload the grades, feeling the numbness of the task take hold until she came to the last one, realising that it was all done and nearly midnight.

Exhaustion pulled at her and then Zelda was making her way to bed, clicking lights off behind her and making her way up the stairs. Hilda’s light was off, Sabrina’s light was off, Ambrose’s light was on, but that wasn’t unusual––at least his music was off.

She changed into her pyjamas, completed her night skincare routine despite the exhaustion pulling at her, and then climbed into bed. But despite the exhaustion itching at her eyes in the darkness as she clicked off the lamp, her mind buzzed as she traced over old conversations between Edward and Hilda.

Did the university think the same thing? Did Shirley whisper amongst the staff, behind her back, gossiping about how she slept her way into position?

Zelda stared into the darkness, feeling the discomfort creep over her. It seemed that the more she had tried to grow as an adult, shape herself into something of sophistication, the more people were determined to think that she was just some wanton hussy.

Perhaps they always would. Perhaps there was nothing after this.

Thunder seemed to roll outside, threatening a great storm.

She drifted into a restless sleep.

_______________

[gvbejvmes]

Drabble: The Present

Title: Fridays with CeCe Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Bella James-Michaels, Constance James, Miss Alison, Andrew James, Maxxie Turner, Jonathan James-Michaels (mentioned), Velvet Starr (mentioned), Tommy “Kid” Kidderro (mentioned) Relationship: Implied Gabriel James-Michaels/Jonathan James-Michaels, Andrew James/Maxxie Turner, past Andrew James/Velvet Starr Warnings: Implied drug use and child endangerment, mentions of canon murder and incorrect medical diagnoses  Summary: Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services.

Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services. She called it her ‘CeCe Day.’ He or Jay would take her down there, and she would bounce excitedly in their arms as she told them about all the things she wanted to do while she was there. It was always on a Friday, and it was always four hours in the morning. When they picked her up, she would either chatter on and on at 100mph about what she and her CeCe had done or she would be mopey because her CeCe showed up late or forgot about their playdate. Mostly she loved Playdate Days. Gabe, on the other hand, despised them.

While he and Johnny called them ‘Playdate Days,’ they’d never actually explained to Bella what they were. They would when she was older, but for now, she was too young to understand. All she knew was that her Mommy’s name was CeCe (well, Constance, but she chose to call her CeCe), and she had a standing playdate with her every other Friday. She never asked why it was always in the same room. And she never asked why Miss Alison, their caseworker, was always there. She only knew that she only got to see CeCe in a certain place at a certain time - the specifics didn’t bother her yet. Bella was three months old when Gabe got the call from social services asking if he could take custody of his granddaughter; she didn’t know any other life than this one.

Like most ‘Playdate Days,’ Gabe arrived a half hour early to pick Bella up. He didn’t know why he did it. Sometimes it was because he was already in the area and didn’t want to stray too far away. Other times it was because he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today it was a combination of the two. He still needed to go to the art store to pick up a couple of brushes he had custom ordered, but something in his gut had told him to stop by the social services building first.

Instead of going in right away and sitting in the waiting room, he went around to the back of the building to the designated smoking area first - and that was when he saw her. 

Constance James was skinny in a way that didn’t look natural. She had definition around her collarbone and chest that reminded Gabe of bird bones. It was like her body didn’t know how to retain fat or muscle tissue on that part of her body. She almost looked concave, but Gabe wouldn’t go quite that far. Her skin didn’t sit quite right on her bones - like she’d lost weight too quickly and her skin tried to conform to her body, but failed. It didn’t hang, but it didn’t look entirely normal either.

Her long blonde hair was streaked with black dye and was pulled back into a severe ponytail at the crown of her head. A cigarette was dangling from her lips as she texted rapidly on her phone. Her nails were short, and the cuticles looked picked at. Chipped nail polish caught the sunlight as her fingers moved across the screen. 

She must have seen him approach because she suddenly groaned and put her phone away. “Did they call you?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Her foot was pressed against the side of the building, which made Gabe think of a flamingo for some reason.

“Should they have called me, Connie?” He asked his daughter as he pulled out his own cigarette and lit up. He leaned against the wall near her, knowing better by now than to try to have direct eye contact with his estranged daughter.

She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked better than the last time he had seen her. A lot of the time she ducked out before Gabe could get a good look at her. Today she was wearing jeans that actually fit without falling off her hips, and a thick gray sweater that fell off her shoulder, but that looked like it was the style and not the size. She looked healthier than the last time he’d seen her. Of all the things to have inherited, she inherited her mother’s terrible parenting and her grandfather’s temper and addiction.

“I dunno. They always seem to call you when I fuck up.” She admitted. “Ari kicked me out of the room.”

That was going to be a fun conversation with the case worker. He nodded and took a drag, using the time to think about what to say to that. “She prefers being called Bella.” He finally settled on.

Connie finished her cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground before pushing off the wall. “No, you prefer Bella. She’s three. She’ll answer to any name I call her.” And with that his daughter started walking back towards the street. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He watched his daughter walk away before finishing his cigarette and sanitizing his hands. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but they both knew she wouldn’t listen.  Pushing all thoughts of his daughter away, he went inside to pick up Bella. And sure enough, as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the receptionist led him into a conference room to wait for the caseworker.

“Mr. James-Michaels.” Miss Alison greeted him.  And it was Miss Alison. He’d tried just calling her Alison once and she nearly bit his head off. His husband said it was a Child Services/Social Worker thing and to just roll with it. 

“Miss Alison.” He greeted in return, watching as she sat down at the table across from him. “I ran into Connie outside.”

The younger woman’s face paled. “Did she tell you what happened?” She pulled out her tablet and Gabe knew from experience that she was pulling up their file.

“Just that Bella threw her out of the room. And that she’s trying to make ‘Ari’ happen.”

Miss Alison sighed. “I put in a call to the judge. We may have to terminate her visitation for a couple of weeks.” It looked like she was looking for the best way to explain to Gabe what happened. Technically there was video footage, but Gabe hated watching it and Miss Alison knew that. 

“Miss James has once again refused to follow the rules of visitation. She was thirty minutes late, she insisted on referring to Bella as Ari, even after both myself and Bella asked her to refrain, and she once again told Bella she was going to buy a house and take her away from you. It was at that point that Bella screamed and asked her to go away. We escorted Miss James out immediately. It’s become very clear that the current arrangement is not conducive to Bella’s wellbeing. You and your husband will likely get a summons within the next week or so with a court date to meet with Judge Murphy again.”

Before Gabe could respond, there was a knock on the door, and one of the assistants popped their head into the room. “Sorry, Bella kept asking me to call you. When I let her know you were already here, she demanded to see you because and I quote ‘the connatution says so.’” And he looked like he was trying so hard not to laugh.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “That she definitely got from my husband.” He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a package of freeze dried apple slices and tossed them at the assistant before pulling off his beanie and tossing that to him as well. “Those should tide her over until I’m done in here.” He promised. “I have to go over my and my husband’s availability for the next couple of weeks with Miss Alison.” 

By the time Gabe finished his conversation and went to the other room to collect Bella, she was standing by the door, coat on and his beanie shoved down over her wild hair. “Took you long enough, GG.” She complained as he signed her out and carried her out of the building. “You dunno what I had to deal with today.”

His granddaughter was definitely three going on forty-seven.

After going to pick up his custom brushes, they headed over to the Collective so they could drop them off in his studio and because there were some orders he apparently needed to authorize. As soon as they walked inside, Bella told him she wanted to watch ‘the spinning’. He had no idea what she was talking about, until they walked to the classroom and he saw Maxxie running his beginning pottery class. Bella scampered off to sit near Maxxie and watch him move his clay around. Somehow he had a feeling she was going to wind up covered in clay - again. Shaking his head, he walked out of the classroom to find Andrew James sitting at the reception desk.

His son was twenty-six years old and all dark hair and tan skin. There was something about his hair that reminded Gabe of how his hair had been when he was his age. It was long and hung in his eyes - all the damn time. He was broad-shouldered, but was constantly hunching in on himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller everywhere he went. If he had to describe his son in one word, it would be skittish. 

He spent years on medication he didn’t need after he claimed that he saw aliens take his aunt away. It wasn’t until he was older that he finally saw a therapist who saw his story for what it was: a way for his brain to comprehend a horrible thing he’d witnessed. Unfortunately by that time, he’d already spent years on medication he never needed and the side effects were irreversible. Thankfully the worst of it was memory loss and shaky hands.

“What are you doing working today?” He asked curiously as he gestured for his son to let him onto the computer. His son had been working at the Collective since he moved to New York. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any handouts, but he’d connected so well with the others at the Collective that it was strange to think about him working anywhere else. “I thought you refused to work on days Maxxie and Velvet were working.” 

He’d dated both Velvet and Maxxie and now tried to avoid both of them whenever he could. His relationship with Velvet hadn’t been all that serious. As soon as he found out Velvet slept in a coffin, he was out. Maxxie, on the other hand, had been very serious. They’d dated for six months, which was the longest he’d ever seen his friend in a relationship. It had ended badly, to say the very least. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened between them, but fire had been involved somehow. 

Drew made a face as he perched on the desk, shoulders hunched over and ankles crossed. “That’s not true.” He lied. “I traded shifts with Kid. He had his first GED prep class today.”

Gabe smiled at that. It had taken Tommy long enough. He pulled up the order he needed to review. There were still things he needed to do up in his office, but knowing that his son was working made him want to stay downstairs with him for as long as he could get away with it. 

“CJ texted me.” Drew said after a long moment. “She wanted me to talk some ‘sense’ into you.” 

He rolled his eyes. “And how’s that going for you?” While Connie didn’t talk to him, she still talked to her brother, but mostly only when she needed something. Drew, for his part, didn’t take sides. He loved his sister despite her faults, but he also knew how she was and what was best for his niece.

Before Drew could respond, Maxxie’s voice came from the classroom. “Pookie! Can you come get your little sister?! She’s throwing clay on the ground.” And nothing about that surprised him except for…

“Pookie?” He mouthed at his son, eyebrow raised. Maybe there was more to Drew working today than just taking Tommy’s shift.

His son blushed as he hopped off the desk. “That’s the part you’re focusing on? Not the fact that he keeps calling my niece my sister?” He grumbled out. “I’ll watch Bella; just go work.” He waved a hand in his dad’s direction. 

As his son disappeared into the classroom and he could hear Bella squealing in delight, he couldn’t help but to mouth out again: “Pookie?”

[penninstitute]

CASE #0140719

Statement of Emma Livingston, regarding her colorblindness and her artist neighbor. Original statement given July 19th, 2014.

Everything I see is a shade of grey. Trees are grey, the sky is grey, et cetera, et cetera. I was born like this, unable to experience color from the moment I was born, but it never hindered my ability to function as a human being. 

I can tell colors apart by the different shades, but it truly is quite hard to when some are so similar. I know yellow is lighter than red, but in my eyes, red and blue look almost completely the same. Well, looked. 

I’ve come to learn what colors look like. I know red is warm and blue is cold. But I came through to this knowledge in quite a… strange and rather scary encounter. I mean, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think it was that bad. But I saw color. And not with those fancy glasses that they make nowadays. But with my own eyes. 

I recently moved to New York for a job. I’m just a simple temp, but I wanted out from my parent’s home in Alabama and to move in with my girlfriend, who my parents despised. I think they despise me too, especially now that they know I have an interest in women.

My girlfriend and I lived in a surprisingly decent building for the price of the rent. It was homey but a little tired looking, but nothing a little bit of redecorating couldn’t fix. We had a neighbor to our left, a little old woman named Belinda, who was probably more of a mom than mine ever was. She made Ari and I cupcakes every other week. Ari is my girlfriend, by the way. Belinda was a sweet woman. She isn’t dead or anything, but Ari and I don’t live there anymore. I’ll get to that soon.

The apartment to our right was empty for about six months after we moved in. Apparently a single mom lived there, but moved out to live with her family in Florida after the death of her nine year old son. Tragic accident, I heard. But this isn’t about that woman, but the man that moved in.

He was weird. I don’t like to be rude, but he really was. Ari told me his pale skin had an almost green, sickly tone. She said his hair was a strawberry blond, whatever that means, and had blue eyes that were puffy and red as if he was always crying. He looked like a disaster to her, and also to me. I felt pity for him.

Oh, I should mention his name too, shouldn’t I? I think it was Frank. Frank Cyrus. Or Sylvester. But I’m pretty sure it was Cyrus. From my limited interaction with him, I learned he was an artist. He worked as a curator at the Met, he said, and was often so inspired by all the works there that he incorporated a lot of things in his own work.

I appreciate art as much as I can. I can look at a painting and appreciate the handiwork or realism gone into a piece of work. But I can’t exactly appreciate the use of color in something like the Mona Lisa or whatever.

Frank would show Ari and I whatever knew creation he’d make whenever we’d see him. It wasn’t very often, but we’re good neighbors, and we try to communicate as much as we can with our neighbors to let them know that we’re good people.

But something about Frank made me want to not be nice to him. I know, I know, it’s really mean of me to just dislike someone because of their vibes or whatever, but God was he unsettling. One time, I was coming home from work, tired and in pain from my new heels I got for my birthday. 

The hall was quiet, the fluorescent light illuminated the decades old carpet and the paint that began to peel from the walls. A light that was just above Frank’s door was burnt out which unsettled me even more.

As I pulled out my keys, movement in the darkness caught my eye. I blinked and shook my head. It was nothing, probably something in my head. I fumbled with placing the key in the lock, now that my hands began to shake with unease. 

The voice from the darkness is what made me drop them. It sounded like Frank. But… different. Something was off. 

“We should call Edward to fix this light, shouldn’t we, Emma?” Frank asked. 

“Y-yeah, we should,” I said, in an attempt to not sound alarmed. But I was pretty alarmed. I bent over to pick up my keys, only to see them not there. There was a familiar jingle to my right. 

I turned to see Frank holding my keys in his hand. It looked wrong. It.. It looked like how in movies, hands look when smashed by a hammer or something. It was so strange. It made me feel nauseous. 

“You dropped these.” He smiled widely and stretched out his arm. I heard a sickening pop in his elbow. His wrist made a soft click as its fingers bent unnaturally to dangle the keys between his thumb and index finger. I gingerly accepted them from him. 

“Thank you, Frank.” I gave him a quick smile, shoved the key in the lock, and bid him a good night. My heart beat thunderously in my chest as I closed the door behind me. I’d never had such a peculiar encounter before in my life. When I told Ari about it, she almost got up to go have a very strongly worded conversation with Frank, but I stopped her. Maybe I should have let her. 

A couple weeks passed and I hadn’t seen him. I was thankful, but there was something in the back of my mind that made me feel bad for Frank. I don’t know why. 

It was about two weeks ago when it happened. I had a day off that day, one that I was going to spend lounging around the house as I awaited Ari to come back so we could have a date night. There was a soft knock at the door around five. It was odd, as Ari didn’t get off until five-thirty. I guessed she might’ve gotten off early, and I eagerly hopped up and headed to answer the door. But when my hand closed around the doorknob, turned, and pulled the door open, no one was outside. I blinked and furrowed my brow. 

I leaned my head out of the doorway and looked around. Nothing looked amiss. Then there was a creak of a door slowly opening. Frank’s door. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but with a sudden urge I stepped out of my apartment and walked to the entrance of my neighbor’s apartment. It was pitch black in there, and I know that this next thing sounds so stupid. Something an idiotic horror movie protagonist would do. It’s a decision I don’t even remember making.

I walked into the apartment. As my foot touched against the wooden floor the dim lights flickered on. I didn’t touch a switch at all, it just… happened. I looked around the living room of Frank’s apartment, which seemed so strangely bare. Only a television and a couch, nothing more. I remember I called out for Frank, but I didn’t get a response. Every feeling flowing through my body was telling me to get out of there but I just… couldn’t. My body was almost moving on its own. I slowly drifted towards the bedroom, my heart pounding heavily in my chest. When I pushed open the door, my eyes almost popped out of my skull.

Color. It was full of color. I don’t know how else to explain it. There were canvasses everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Colors. I felt nauseous, it was so… overwhelming. But it was beautiful. There’s no other way I could describe it, I’d never seen anything like this before. Can you imagine going through life without seeing such beauty?

My eyes flashed across the room, taking in each grotesque, surrealist painting. The imagery itself was unappealing to me, hideous bodies bent in unfathomable ways, patterns covering all of them or behind them in the background. But the use of color astounded me and left me sobbing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I spent standing there, crying, trying to name all the colors I saw. But my attention was interrupted as I saw him.

Frank. On the floor. I don’t know how long he’d been there, I didn’t notice him. He was naked, every inch of him covered in that colorful paint, his body bent in unhuman angles. His spine was twisted, his legs tied into a knot. His face was long, distorted, the jaw crooked, almost resembling Picasso’s “the Scream”. He was still breathing.

I screamed. I ran out of there as fast as I could, my fight or flight, finally kicking in. I sped to the phone and dialled 911.

Ari came home soon and helped me through the police’s questions.

They did find Frank’s body in a similar state as I did, but dead. They said there were no paintings, though. The only paint was the stuff on Frank’s body, painted in patterns. They still don’t know how it all happened, I’ve called the station a few times but never got a word. Nothing on those paintings, either.

I feel like I’m crazy, but I’m not. Ari and I moved to a new building later that week. We’re fine now, I’m fine now. Got a therapist and everything. Ari bought me those colorblind glasses after I’ve rambled about the colors for hours on end. I haven’t touched them. I don’t think I want to see any other colors but those impossible ones again.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Quite obviously, a colorblind individual cannot just suddenly start seeing color like this, which makes me doubt the statement to an extent.

- Ms. Livingston refused our request for a follow-up interview.

- Frank Cyrus did exist, although records on him are minimal (save for an extensive criminal record). He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: This statement was rather difficult to digitalize. The scanner refused to work properly, and had to be transcribed the old-fashioned way from paper to computer. When the scanner was used, flashes of headache-inducing, swirling colors would appear on the screen of the computer. Blair and I had to unplug the scanner and the computer to get it to stop.

[areasontobreathe]

The Miys, Ch. 56

This one got away from me.  I meant for it to just be some filler, but it turned into a serious conversation, somehow.  Those wily OCs keep getting away from me.  *Spots one sneaking out the door* Hey!  Get back here!

By the virtue of having to proof the pizza dough, Maverick managed to dash into our quarters with just enough time to shower and change before sitting down with us for dinner.  He gulped down a glass of wine before even reaching for any food, nodding his thanks to Antoine as he handed the glass back. Conor and I glanced at each other, concerned: Maverick rarely drank with dinner, and if he did it was usually sparingly.

He must have caught our glance. “My hands are shaking and my back is a mess of knots from checking – and I quote – ‘everything in the lab that may have had anything to do with the construction of the platforms, along with any equipment that may have interacted with them after construction’.  So sayeth Grey Hodenson.” He paused to stuff a fish-laden slice of pizza in his mouth. “Mmph. Sorry. Hey, Zach.”

“That’s literally every piece of equipment in BioLab 2 and the fabrication lab,” Conor interjected.  “Grey is making you do all that?”

Maverick shook his head. “Huynh is coming down on everyone with this, Con. Grey’s just protecting their technicians and researchers.”

“What about Xiomara?” I asked, waving my hand to grab their attention before glancing at my sister. “I mean, the platforms being unsafe would fall under her department, right?”

Tyche picked up on what I was hinting at. “Does she even know about this issue?”

Conor glanced back and forth between us for a moment. “I – I honestly don’t know,” he admitted.  “I’ve been so caught up in defending myself that I didn’t even think to ask.”

“If Councillor Hodenson knows, would they not think to pass the information on to her?” Antoine asked reasonably.

It was my turn to shake my head. “Don’t you remember on Level One?  Grey gets incredibly forgetful when they’re under extreme duress.  With the recent gravity increase, I don’t think anyone has been sleeping all that well. Derek told me earlier that he’s been having nightmares.  I know the three of us haven’t been sleeping worth a damn.” I gestured between myself and my two partners-cum-guard dogs.

“Surprised you can sleep at all, the way Maverick snores,” Zach snickered, earning a half-hearted glare and the confiscation of a slice of pizza from his plate. “Hey!” he protested weakly.

Still staring him down, I took the biggest bite I could manage of the slice in my hand before sliding the rest of the pizza on the table toward him. “Be nice,” I admonished around my stolen mouthful.  “The point is, Xio may not know about the situation.  I’ll touch base with her tomorrow, first thing.”

Later, Tyche and I were sitting in the living room while the guys were cleaning up and joking around in the food-prep area. “Does he do that often?” she asked, referring to the earlier situation with Conor.

“Hmm? Oh, umm…. No? Not really?” I scrunched my nose. “This is the first time I’ve known him to do it while someone else was here?”  

She looked at me skeptically. “Mon soeur…” she started with the same fond tone that she usually reserved for calling me ‘silly bitch’.

“I’m not lying, you can have Noah check the recordings later. I swear. Yes, he does lose his temper sometimes, but he makes a point to ask me and Maverick to leave while he calms down or warns us before we get home that he had a bad day and needs some time to himself.  I can’t really think of any time that it’s been something one of us did that set it off – usually it’s work or a hydroponic project that gets him that frustrated.  We didn’t even know that he was throwing things until we came back for something once, thinking he was just laying in bed or reading a book or something, and we caught the mess he had made while he was cleaning it up.”

She seemed reluctantly mollified. “I really thought for a second that… Anyway, assuming you are telling the truth – and I will check – it makes sense that he was so upset when you walked in earlier. But if I check with Noah, and he tells me a different story…” She left the threat hanging as she gave me a pointed look.

“Check all you want,” I assured her. “Cross examine, be specific, grill them. If I’m blind to something, let me know.”

Before we could say anything else, the other four joined us.  Tyche left the couch in favor of sitting with Antoine in the armchair, while Maverick took her seat next to me.  Surprisingly, Conor let Zach sit on my other side, in favor of sitting on the floor and resting against mine and Maverick’s legs. It wasn’t unusual for him to do after losing his temper – I wasn’t even sure he realized that he acted like he had to earn back his spot on the sofa – but I hadn’t expected him to do it in front of other people.

My favorite source of never-ending surprise didn’t stop there. “Antoine,” he asked, clearing his throat. “Do you have anyone on staff who, uh, helps with… anger management?” He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment when Antoine’s eyebrows shot up.  “I got… mad as hell today, and I was throwing things in front of Zach.  And it’s not the first time I’ve tossed a room ‘cause I was pissed off.” Leaning forward, he shoved a hand through his hair and forced himself to keep talking. “I’ve never raised my voice or threw things at Sophie or Mav, and I try to make sure that no one is here when I do it.  But today… Zach was here, and Sophie and Tyche got home and the door was open, and I could’ve… Even if it had been a accident, someone could’ve got hurt, and – “

“No one got hurt?” Antoine cut in, glancing around with concern. I could see his fingers digging into Tyche’s hip where his arms were around her, his professional façade cracking just a hair at the idea that she had been in potential danger. The three of us who had been there shook our heads, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am well aware that Tyche will likely be checking the recordings to ensure that you are save, Sophia and Maverick.  I will be checking them with her, just to be sure.  And yes, Conor, we do have some people on the Ark who are trained to handle anger management.”  When Antoine removed his hand from his face, I caught him clenching it in a tight fist for a brief moment.

Apparently Conor wasn’t the only one with an unexpected temper. “Antoine,” I said softly. “I already told Tyche, go ahead and check the recordings. Grill Noah. Conor really has always made a point to make sure we weren’t here when he knew he was going to lose it, and he tried as hard as he could to make sure we didn’t realize how badly he was handling it. But I do think he could use some help learning a more… productive? Way to handle things.” I stroked Conor’s hair and smiled slightly when Maverick moved my hand so he could do it, instead. “I did suggest boxing,” I pointed out, glancing up.

“The last thing I want to do is graduate to hitting things,” Conor grumbled.  “That doesn’t seem like a good idea at all.”

“Actually, boxing is an effective outlet for aggression,” Antoine argued. “It has proven to provide a safe outlet for violent urges, especially if it is not an activity you have ever taken up before.  Over time, it reprograms the same physical impulse that causes you to throw things to instead channel that aggression toward hitting something that is designed to be hit, or toward a sparring partner who is consenting to engage and is physically protected.”

“There has to be something else. Something non-violent.”

“Any physical exercise can provide an outlet, but it may not be as satisfying,” our resident therapist relented.  “Running, aerobics, or dance are found to be the most effective due to the high cardiovascular output they provide.”

Conor nodded, taking that into more serious consideration.  “Running sounds better.”

“Awww, you don’t want to start taking dance classes?” Maverick teased, grunting when I elbowed him. “What? You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be a little funny.”

I glared at him as Tyche cleared her throat. “Um, Maverick? Sweetie? Sophia took dance lessons for years.  Believe me, just the stretches will have you pouring sweat when you first start.”

“It takes about the same amount of discipline as martial arts,” I picked up from there. “Precision, and complete focus on what each part of your body is doing at any given time. Not to mention the amount of strength you have to build up, depending on what you’re doing – at one point I could squat close to three hundred pounds. Not for long,” I admitted. “But I could do it.”

“Maybe you should start dancing again,” my sister mused. “It was good for your anxiety.” I tilted my head, conceding her point, but didn’t say anything.

“I am tempted to make the entire ship start taking up more cardiovascular exercise,” Antoine sighed.  “Since the most recent gravity adjustment, the reports of anxiety, paranoia, and insomnia have far exceeded what we anticipated.  As Sophia suggested at dinner, it seems that very few on the Ark are unaffected.”

I snorted before descending through giggles and into outright hysteric laughter.  I glanced up briefly to see everyone staring at me, waiting for me to explain the joke. I managed to pull myself together long enough to gasp, “Ten-thousand-person flash mob.”

One by one, the entire room descended into laughter, the seriousness that had settled upon us temporarily broken by the mental image of everyone on the Ark dancing their hearts out.

<<Prev    Masterpost    Next>>

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark: part fourteen sneak peek

...hi. 

so I know it’s been about 84 years, but the good news is that part 14 of wsitd is still going (slowly but surely) and the last scene of this chapter is still as vivid in my head as it was last year when I first envisioned the fic. it’s coming, I promise. it was my ride or die shawn bff @bluerroses‘ birthday on the 30th and I gifted her an extra scene from wstid, one that isn’t included in the original fic. @mendesftoakley also asked for a jetlag!shawn thing the other week which I’d wanted to write and then got totally distracted – all that’s to say, here’s a deleted scene that ended up being so massive it’ll probably stay, set in the middle of the night post-part 13.  to everyone who reached out to me after my minor rage freak out re: shawn and the state of his fandom and wsitd, much love. every time I think my love for this boy’s faded to something reasonable, he comes out with tour videos that make my chest ache cause he moves me so damn much. happy belated, to both grace and my darling one. I love you.   new york; now It’s 2:24 am.  You’re wide awake.  Shawn, of course, is fast asleep. His fingers are still curled into the edges of your t-shirt and the part of you that isn’t annoyed at his peaceful slumber aches a little at the innocence of the gesture. Just a boy. You toy with the idea of just laying here a while longer, but now that you’ve thought about it a trip to the bathroom is in order and it’s not as if you’re going to fall back asleep anytime soon.  Stupid jetlag. 

So you get up. You reach for Shawn’s Harvard hoodie tossed to the end of the bed (because it’s closer than yours, obviously, not because it smells like him) and pad as softly as you can to the door. From the bathroom you head down the stairs, following a wash of light into the kitchen.  Taylor whirls around from the open freezer, holding a pint of ice cream and looking guilty. “Oh god, I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” you reply quickly. “I was already up, you’re fine.” Her shoulders relax and Taylor grins a little sheepishly, as though this isn’t her house and she’d be caught doing something illicit.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “I don’t get how he’s just...out like a light. So annoying.”The unspoken intimacy is already out before you can even think to take it back, but she just laughs lightly. “His body’s used to it.” Taylor reaches into a drawer for a spoon. “Want some? Mint chocolate chip.”

It’s probably a bad idea, but you shrug and accept the utensil as Taylor gathers another spoon, two shallow bowls and an ice cream scoop. “How was your party?”

Taylor scoops you just enough for a couple bites and you smile gratefully. “It was fine. I mean, good. But I haven’t been out in a while and it’s kinda draining being really social for a long time, you know?” You think of all the times Shawn’s opted to sit in companionable silence with you instead of a last round or a second after party. “Yeah, sure.” “I’ll make you a warm turmeric milk,” Taylor offers. Even the way she twists her wrist to pick up ice cream seems graceful. “Worse case, I have melatonin somewhere.” “You’re not tired?” “Not yet. Takes me a while to wind down. How was your night? You guys have fun?” It’s an innocent question, but a flush crawls up your neck all the same. You shove a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth and “Mhmm!” Taylor’s smille crinkles around her eyes; she doesn’t press you. “Tell me about tour,” she says instead. “What’s been your favourite place? Your favourite show?” It takes a moment of consideration. You tell her about Paris and its glittering lights and birthday sparklers and candles. You tell her about Manchester and Youth. You tell her about Morgan on the barricade in London. You hardly mention Shawn by name and yet he’s there, lingering at the edges of all your sentences and inside your pauses.  Taylor makes you a warm golden milk with turmeric and you drink while you talk. When you yawn, surprising somehow like you’d forgotten how, she presses melatonin into your hand. “Get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  So up you go. Equally surprising is the strip of light at the bottom of Taylor’s guest bedroom door. Shawn’s slouched against the headboard, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face while the bedside lamp casts a long, warm veil over the rest of the room.  “Hey,” you say softly, closing the door behind you. “Did I wake you?”  He shakes his head. “Woke up and you were gone.” Something about the edge of sleep still in his voice makes it sound oddly vulnerable. “You okay? Is Taylor back? I thought I could hear you talking.”  “Yeah, I am. And she is. I couldn’t sleep and she was getting ice cream.” He’s staring a little as you put down the mug of warm milk on the bedside table. “What?” Shawn blinks. “Nothing.” His eyes linger on the place where his hoodie meets your shorts and you flush.  “Sorry,” you blurt, suddenly self-conscious. “It was just closer, I–” “El.” He drags your gaze back up. “I don’t mind. It looks good on you.” Shawn’s smile is tilted in that familiar, teasing way; you roll your eyes, but you let him reach across the bed and pull you closer to him until you sit up facing each other. You let him help you tug the sweater over your head and you let his eyes catch on your stomach, your ribs, the shadowed curve of your breast before your t-shirt falls back down. You turn out the light. Shawn presses his face into the slope of your neck and breathes deeply. “Loonie for your thoughts,”  you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, kneading gently over his neck with your fingertips until he groans. Shawn’s so quiet at first that you think he may have fallen back asleep sitting up. “Can I ask you something?” In the moonlight he’s more pale than ever. You hum in reply. The hand pressing tiny circles against the small of your back goes still. “About Hannah?” You don’t mean to flinch; Shawn’s grip tightens, just a little. You swallow and speak before he can take it back. “What about her?” Shawn straightens to look you in the eye, equal parts calm and unsure. “You get this look on your face when you talk to her, or about her. Even way back in Ottawa.” The realization that Shawn’s apparently been looking at you since the night you met is disarming, to put it mildly. It’s suddenly hard to focus on the conversation. “I know you guys haven’t–” he pauses– “talked in a while, but...” Shawn reaches forward with his free hand and thumbs gently at an unconscious furrow between your eyebrows. “I still see that look.”  Something like shame burns in your throat. You look down at the bedspread. Shawn waits patiently as you pick up his swallow hand, tracing the lines of its wings.  “I don’t have that big of an ego to think this is all about me,” he continues wryly. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I just...” You’re expecting him to tilt your chin up, to force you to look at him, but Shawn ducks his head a little and doesn’t look hurt when you can barely meet his gaze. “I was just wondering where you go when you look so far away.” You’re genuinely stunned into silence. A response, as much as you want to give him one, refuses to surface. And Shawn seems to be able to see the blank panic in your expression, because he just leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Never mind,” he says gently. “Just forget I asked.” You can feel him about to lean back, to give you space, to seek silent permission before he tugs you back beneath the covers so you can actually try to sleep. No disappoint, no malice, no distrust. You think, I am truly and deeply in love with you. You say, “She gave me a marker.” Shawn doesn’t say anything. He folds his hand around yours. “When my parents died the therapist said that routines were good, so I went back to school but everyone was like, weird, you know? And then one day we were supposed to make Mother’s Day gifts but I didn’t know what to do. My teacher said I could make something for my sister, but I’d left my colours at home.” You haven’t thought about that day in a long time. Shawn’s left hand touches your wrist; you follow the lines of his right palm. Comfort; comforted. “Hannah gave me her marker. And then everyone just stopped looking at me and we all coloured flowers. The next day I helped her learn long division and we’ve been best friends ever since.” You try to smile but you’re fairly certain the curve isn’t quite right. Shawn brushes your hair back as it falls forward. The gesture is so familiar now that it feels strange to remember he hasn’t always been doing it, that his touch hasn’t always been a tender, thrilling reminder: you’re here. this is real. you’re alive. His own smile is a little better formed, encouraging instead of patronizing. “Sometimes she’s awful,” you continue. “She can get petty and jealous.” You don’t mean to say what comes out next. “The week before Ava brought me to Ottawa we’d gone to a party and she made out with my one and only real ex boyfriend.” Shawn’s eyes widen, but still he stays quiet. It’s the only way you’re able to keep talking. “She was drunk, and she says she doesn’t even remember. He says she tried to take his clothes off, but he’s also a piece of shit, so…” You let out a tiny, bitter laugh. “And I forgave her, because what else was I supposed to do? And then Ava sent those tickets and you–“ Shawn’s fingers freeze, just for a breath, behind your ear. You try to smile again and it’s like lifting a weight you can only just barely get off the floor. “You were so wonderful and part of me was still so mad at her.” That earlier shame presses a knot in your throat. “And I knew I had to keep the secret but part of me was awful, too. I wanted to. It was something that was just mine, that I never had to share or have her judge or want for herself.” “I don’t think that’s awful,” he says softly. You shrug. Tears slide past your nose. He thumbs them away but doesn’t otherwise move. “I know she didn’t leak the news about us.” Now that you’ve gotten this far you’re determined to finish. “But I don’t know if I can forgive her for the way she made me feel about it. Or if I can forgive myself for letting her make me feel that way.” Shawn’s edges are a little blurry when you finally lift your chin. “I still love her, isn’t that fucked up? What kind of person does that make me?” He doesn’t speak for a long time. You have no idea how one drags themselves out of the emotional hole you’ve dug. Before you can let Shawn off the hook, or apologize for dumping seven years of emotional baggage onto him, he pulls you forward and folds you into his arms. “Do you want me to say something,” he asks, pressing his chin against the top of your head. “Or do you just want this?” The weight of this confession is so heavy that no longer having to carry it alone pulls you off balance. You slip your hand underneath his collar to pull Saint Christopher out. When you can speak without a sob swallowing your words, you let go of the chain. “You can say something.” Shawn kisses the crown of your hair. “You can feel however you want, whenever you want. You shouldn’t have to hide it. And you don’t have to, not from me. Okay?” You can’t reply. You just sniff into the collar of his t-shirt. His hand smooths up and down your spine. “I don’t think that forgiveness is a bad thing, El. Especially for yourself.” You’re shuddering with the effort of breathing normally instead of hiccuping. Shawn just gathers you closer. He doesn’t shush you, but just murmurs softly in your ear, “It’s okay. I’m here. I got you.” You’re still clinging to him when you fall asleep. 

[laurasinele]

Magpies

Prompt 4: “I know you didn’t ask for this”

Fanfic from: the Harry Potter series

Tags: preslash Drarry, epilogue what epilogue, heavy dialog, seven years post Battle of Hogwarts, ofc, Harry & Draco’s friendship, mental health, guilt

Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of abuse, mentions of war, mentions of death

Ao3

Outside the window a couple of magpies were fighting over an apple, effectively distracting him from his reading. Not that he was very focused to begin with. One of the birds had picked a rotten apple from the orchard ground and the other was trying to steal it. They cawed angrily and flopped their wings in ampulous, threatening motions while clashing talons. Draco was engrossed by their belligerent dance, open book forgotten on his lap.

The hinges of the reading room door screeched as it opened. All the elfs in the Manor had left to work at Hogwarts or the Ministry immediately after Draco informed them of that possibility, so there was no one left to oil the joints nor announce visitors. Not that there was any need. The only visits he got regularly were Ministry’s agents on Ministry’s business or his designated/volunteered auror, checking weekly on the conditions to his house arrest. Mother wasn’t allowed to leave St. Mungo’s and his aunt Andromeda, who was trying to forge a family bond with him, was always sensible enough to owl before coming. By the works of the DMLE, the doors and floo system would not open for anybody else. 

Aware of this at all times, Draco didn’t pause his keen observation of the magpies’ strife. It was Friday after all, and Auror Appleworm made always her appearence on that day at the time of her best convenience.

“I would have prepared lunch for us both, had you come half an hour earlier”, said Draco as he rose and put the book aside, still looking out the window.

“Thank you Malfoy, I’ve already eaten”. 

Malfoy startled at the male voice, and then startled again when he realised who it belonged to. He turned slowly, disbelieving, his aristocratic training supplying a small surge of nonchalance thanks to which he managed to pocket his hands and look calm. 

“Excuse my surprise, I was expecting Mrs Appleworm, as usual. To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?”

Harry remained near the door, politely waiting for an invitation to sit. His auror robes were impeccable, their maroon bringing back to Draco’s memory their quidditch matches.

“Mrs Appleworm’s daughter went in labor this early morning. She is going to take some months away, although we are trying to convince her to retire and enjoy her grandchildren. Septuplets”, he added at Draco’s curious expression. 

“Oh, my. I thought she wasn’t due until next month. I trust they are all healthy and well”

Harry nodded, “I paid a visit on my way here. They are all well and Agnes and Mr Appleworm are over the moon”.

“I’ll have to remember to send them a present”. 

An awkward silence settled between them while Draco reigned his nerves and Harry looked around the room, taking in the elaborate shelf-cases, the light upholstery and drapes, and the yellow wallpaper. It was nothing as he remembered the Manor. 

“I made some changes”, offered Draco, guessing Harry’s train of thought. “Now that I am the only inhabitant I figured I could make this house, eh, more welcoming. Please, do sit down”, he finished gesturing towards the armchair next to his, by the other side of the window. “And please excuse my manners earlier, I was caught in two magpies fighting over a piece of apple in mid flight right outside the window”

Harry looked perplexed at that confession and a small smile graced his face while he approached the window. “They don’t look like fighting now”, he said as he spotted them through the window, resting atop of an ornamental stone cornucopia, grooming each other. 

Draco followed Harry’s pointing finger and he couldn’t contain a delighted exclamation upon finding the two birds. 

“They must have learnt to share, then. Now, what can I do for you, Auror Potter?”

--

They fell in a comfortable routine. Every Friday at precisely 2 o’clock, Harry appareted outside the reading room door and knocked before entering. Draco would put aside whatever book he had picked from the list the Ministry had provided as one of the conditions to keep him out of Azkaban and, after the compulsory questions and tests, they’d settle in an easy conversation that could go on until dinner time. Draco would always politely extend an invitation to stay and Harry would always politely refuse. They’d talk about quidditch, muggle culture —a big part of Draco’s assigned readings—, recent news, what were the Manor’s elfs up to…

Over time, more than seven years if he wasn’t mistaken, Draco had struck a sort of friendship with Mrs Appleworm. He had started to forgive himself for his acts of war and his past arrogance upon learning how she saw him. A veteran auror and elderly mother, when she looked at Draco Malfoy she saw an abused child never too rotten to mend. Draco might not think as benevolently about himself yet, but he was willing to get there someday, which was a huge step forward from the self-deprecating, self-harming depressive state Agnes Appleworm found him in. This days he barely indulged in regret and sadness and fear. He stayed firmly attached to calm and apathy. 

After five weeks of Mrs Appleworm leave, eagerness joined those two main emotions. Draco found himself eager for Friday afternoon well early in the week, and Saturdays and Sundays were usually filled with a peaceful sensation akin to happiness. It felt good to face Potter once a week for a few hours. It gave his before and after a certain continuity. They never talked about school or the war, not even a passing mention, but the fact that Harry Potter existed, and acknowledged Draco’s existence, made all the memories and every movement away from them and past his prior ways, somehow more real. 

That afternoon, however, Harry’s dark mood was all over the place, making it impossible for Draco not to ask if everything was alright. 

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing important. I just had a tough session with my therapist last evening”, said Harry with an apologetic smile. 

“A therapist? Like a muggle psychotherapist?”, Draco couldn’t refrain to ask, surprised as he was. Harry scoffed.

“A muggle psychotherapist, actually, yes”. 

Draco made a very polite, very English face of understanding and promptly looked through the window in search of and urgent change of topic, for he could not possibly fathom a non-personal, prim and proper way to continue this conversation. Providence delivered in the form of two magpies landing on the windowsill. 

"Oh!", softly exclaimed Draco, inexplicably delighted. "Would you look at that!" 

"Are they the same two?" 

"I couldn't tell…"

Both young men fell silent, watching the birds. They had landed side by side with a fraction of a second between them. They had looked around with that avian sort of movement that made most corvids look offended, and then started to skip all along the windowsill, apparently without purpose but very pointedly ignoring each other. 

After a while, Draco could not take the ominous feeling that scene had sparked in him, and turned to Harry, who was still transfixed by the magpies' bizarre dance. 

"Should I ask? About your therapy". 

Harry smiled as if he had been expecting the question, and didn't say anything nor looked away from the birds for a little while. 

"Why, Malfoy, what would you ask?", inquired Harry, finally looking at him with a placid expression, devoid of any hostility Draco might have anticipated. At this, Draco shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly and gave a spontaneous response that seemed to be aching to be spoken.

“What is it for. Although I can imagine. How is it going. Or whether it helps or not”. After a very brief pause he added: “How are you”. 

Harry laughed softly, throwing his head backwards. He covered his face with his hands and sighed. 

“I am fucked”, he declared meeting Draco’s gaze. “I’m a child soldier with PTSD, abandonment issues, identity issues and claustrophobia. I’m an abuse victim and have a deep distrust towards any authority figure. This, added to my natural tendency to bend rules results in ‘severe misanthropy and incapability to work within a hierarchy’”, he said, signing in the air the quotation marks before dropping his hands on his lap with mild frustration. “Every fatherly figure I ever had aside from Hagrid and Arthur Weasley is dead. All my friends are war heroes with similar issues, so we barely talk about normal stuff. So to avoid feeding each other’s neurosis we barely talk, full stop. My adopted family was so invested in actually making me one of them that they unconsciously pushed a relationship that ended up feeling unsettling close to incest and finished awkwardly and dramatically, distancing me from them. Oh, and right when a single month had passed without the press pestering me, tomorrow the Prophet is going to be all about me being queer because the guy I met at a muggle gay pub last Friday happened to be a squib, and he knew exactly who I was. So, uh, yeah. I’m fucked”.

Draco’s eyes were wide in shock and concern. He hadn’t known what to expect when he had enunciated the hypothetical questions he would make, but he was pretty sure he’d have been shook even if he had imagined the half of what Harry had just said. 

“I am deeply sorry, Potter. I shouldn’t have brought the subject up”.

“I wouldn’t have told you if I hadn’t wanted to”.

“Nevertheless, it is none of my business”.

Harry scoffed, this time a tad irritated. When he spoke it was patent that he was trying to refrain from lashing out completely onto Malfoy:

“How is this not your business? My psychopathic tutors certainly aren’t, but all the rest? My parents’ death? Voldemort’s return? The war? You were a part of it ever since you were born!”. Draco only managed to mouth like a fish, watching as Harry grew more and more indignant. “You conspired and helped to set on the battle at Hogwarts. At a bloody school!”, he boomed now. “You put a cursed necklace on a student! You let the Deatheaters into the castle! You were a bloody little soldier just like I was!”.

Draco rose from his seat, trembling with rage and shame: 

“I didn’t have a choice, Potter! I was born into it! I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t ask for this!”

From his armchair, Harry was looking up at him, at first with defiance. Upon hearing this, watching Draco looming over him, eyes wet and breathing deeply, his features softened. 

“I know you didn’t ask for this. It was uncalled for. I am on edge since I knew about the Prophet, but that’s not an excuse. I am very sorry for yelling at you and bringing up the past. For the record, I think you’ve already done more than enough to repay your debts and change your ways”. 

Draco was still staring, still looming, still breathing heavily and holding back his tears with all his power. He stood there for a few beats, and then he sat back down slowly, not taking his eyes off of Harry. A few moments of silence elongated between them, faces flustered, bodies tense, eyes locked. Finally, Draco relaxed into the backrest and spoke calmly:

“I never knew you were mistreated as a child. It’s an abomination”.

“I never knew you would be learning about muggle culture willingly”. 

“It’s part of my sentence”.

“Hermione told me you wrote her like six feet of an apology letter and asked for books, music and films”, shot back Harry with a mischievous grin. Draco rolled his eyes, mocking annoyance:

“You can’t keep secrets anymore”.

“Not between Hermione, Ron and I, no”.

They smiled at each other with something warmer than the pleasant politeness that had grown between them during the past weeks. Harry broke eye contact first to look out the window. Draco kept looking at Harry, letting the list of his presumed flaws sink in. They both spoke at the same time: 

“The magpies are gone”.

“Did they know?”.

Harry looked at him, seeming at loss.

“Sorry, who knew what?”.

“The new head of Muggle Relations and her husband. About you being queer”.

Harry avoided Draco’s eyes and bit his lower lip. “No they didn’t. If I don’t tell them today, they’ll find out tomorrow and they’ll be pissed I didn’t tell them. Luna Lovegood was the only one that knew besides my therapist. We had a one night stand some years ago. In the afterglow we were talking about this and that and I told her I liked guys. She said that people is people no matter what they pack, and love is love. Honestly we were high and I’m derailing. You’re the third person I tell this and I’m not getting any good at it”. 

Draco smirked. He rested his elbow on the armrest and his face atop his open palm, his little finger tracing the corner of his smile.

“I used to think I was asexual. Many honorable wizards were by birth or choice. Something to do with amplifying magic with your ‘life drive’”. Harry stifled a laugh and Draco smiled wider. “I used to think I’d marry Pansy Parkinson, or Millicent Bullstrode or one of the Greengrasses, force myself to produce one single heir and dedicate my life to study potions and being a socialite. Then I saw Cedric Diggory on a broom”.

Harry gaped, completely pleased with this piece of gossip, and maybe also with the fact that he and Draco Malfoy were talking about Hogwarts and it was not a sensible topic.

“Cedric whispered in my ear that I should bath with one of the clues for the Triwizard Tournament and I still get the chills when I recall it”. 

“He was stupidly handsome”, murmured Draco looking away, suddenly aware of the cause of Cedric’s death. “And stupidly brave. Like you”. He looked back at Harry just in time to notice he was flustered. He told himself it was because they’d been talking about Cedric. 

“I have to go soon. I have owls to send”, stammered Harry standing up to take his cloak and leave. Draco stood to see him out.

By the door they stopped and looked at each other, not knowing exactly what to do. In the end Draco offered his hand and said:

“Thank you. For telling me all that. And acknowledging that I’ve changed. And volunteering to be my counselor. I know nobody else beside Agnes was willing to come here and not beating me up”. 

Harry ignored Draco’s hand, his earnest look of gladness invading all of Draco’s range of sight. He pressed his lips together and dove for a hug. It was a tight, deliberate embrace, oozing sincerity and the true, deep affection that only likeness invokes. Draco wrapped his arms loosely around Harry, completely dazed by such gesture.

“Thanks to you”, whispered Harry on Draco’s ear. “For trying, getting there, and leveling me all the way up to here”. He stepped away and out the door, and a muted snap confirmed that he was gone until next Friday.

Draco stood there, the chills running through his spine. 

[peytonhudson]

Girls After Dark || Peynah

tagging: @doveporthannah & @peytonhudson

location: hannah’s house

timeframe: Jan 10 midnight-ish. 

warnings: none. 

notes: it’s a sleepover. they’re obviously in their underwear and having pillow fights. 

hannah

Hannah stepped out of her large shower and wrapped herself in a towel, she'd piled her hair on top of her head, figuring it could wait to be washed until tomorrow, before stepping out of her bathroom and into her adjoining bedroom, where Peyton had already started making herself at home. "Is this an open a bottle of wine kind of night, or are you actually tired?" She asked, unfazed by her presence in the room. She crossed over to her dresser and removed the towel, patting the remaining droplets from her arms and legs before throwing on a tshirt and pair of booty shorts.

peyton

Peyton was mid pulling a t-shirt over her head when she heard Hannah’s familiar voice, “Every night is an open a bottle of wine kind of night.” She replies with a slight smile as she climbs on into the same side of the bed she’s slept on for the last eight years. “I’m definitely not tired.” Without Lexi home, and without Puck in her own bed it was apparently far too easy for Peyton to do everything besides sleep. There was a tendency to overthink that came when she was by herself.  Sighing she props herself up on the pillow with her elbow to watch as Hannah got herself ready to join her. “As it turns out, I hate going to sleep by myself these days. Go figure.” She comments with a shrug before pausing and smirking. “Sooo... how was Micah? You’ve seen him twice in two days, that has to mean something.”

hannah

Hearing confirmation that wine was necessary, Hannah stepped out into the kitchen and opened a bottle of red and a couple of mugs, because no one wanted to worry about precarious wine glasses while having a snug-sesh, and brought everything back into the room. "I knew it." She said, setting everything down on the dresser and pouring two generous helpings. "I knew you were going to get all Peyton on me over Micah." She handed Peyton her mug and slipped into the bed next to her with a shrug. "He's just easy, we have good chemistry in bed, he's no frills but always gets me off, and if he's not tired he can get really into what I like." She took a generous sip of her wine. "But there's nothing more than physical there."

peyton

Feigning shock, Peyton takes the mug of wine and sits herself up in the bed just enough to bring the drink to her lips. “I am not going all Peyton on you, that’s not even a thing, thank you very much!” She says jokingly, though with the knowledge she may have had a habit of reading too much into Hannah’s sexual encounters in the past. “But chemistry in bed, can lead to chemistry in... other places. I’m just saying. And Micah is a nice boy.” After taking another,  larger, sip, Peyton places the mug next to her and bites down on her lip for a second as she snakes her arm around Hannah’s shoulders, tugging her in towards her side and squeezing tightly. “I’m not sorry, I haven’t seen you in three weeks, you have to deal with my tight hugs.... Don’t spill your wine on me though, this shirt isn’t technically mine and if it smells like wine it’s going to be hard to return it and pretend like he’s just misplaced it for a few days.”

hannah

"Perhaps if he ever grows up, or at the very least changes his sheets more than once a month, I'd consider it, but until then, he's just a fuck buddy, plain and simple." Hannah leaned into the hug, secretly loving when Peyton got all lovey dovey like this. Though she did clutch her wine mug protectively. "I seriously doubt Puck cares if you have his shirt." She teased. "Speaking of which, enough about my sex life! You're really going to talk to him?"

peyton

Groaning playfully she pulls away from her bestie’s side, “But your sex life is sooo much more exciting than my life at the moment.” Actually always. It’s something Peyton had always admired about Hannah, the way she was so bold and carefree when it came to putting herself out there, while still being one of the most independent and caring people she knew. “Yeah... I’ll talk to him. I just hate talking about that night. And what if bringing everything up again when there’s finally a small resemblance of normality just ruins us all over again?” She admits, hating that a night which was her decision was still something she had to think about. “Would it be weird to just... do it over text?”

hannah

Taking another sip, Hannah nodded. "Peyton, you have to trust him to be able to handle an adult conversation if you ever want to actually be able to move past this. Look at it this way, would you rather constantly have this thing between you, forever, while pretending to feel normal, or would you rather know that you genuinely put yourself out there and fought for him, regardless of the outcome, and have an actual chance at a real, healthy, functional relationship with him." She knew she was slipping into therapist mode, it was a habit she found hard to break unless she was naked. "I think face to face is better, but if you can only handle it through text, then.... at least that's something?"

peyton

After this long, Peyton had accepted that sometimes when she spoke to Hannah she didn’t just have a best friend, she had a therapist. And right now the therapist was actually a welcome addition to the conversation. Sighing, she picks up her mug and takes a few gulps before replying. “Don’t use the word relationship to Puck.” She chuckles sadly, her fingers circling on the side of the cup. “But you’re right. You know, I hate that you’re always right sometimes. I will be an adult and talk to him about it face to face... That way if it gets really bad I’ll just get naked.” Peyton was half joking, but sometimes when it came to serious conversations it paid to really know the other person. “Seriously though... Can you not go away for that long again? It’s like you leaving just causes a domino effect of stress in my life, and talking to you on facetime is just not the same.” Peyton puts the mug back down and frowns a little as she lays down into the bed and rests her head in Hannah’s lap. “Never again, okay? You can have a fantasy threesome here.”

hannah

With a sigh and a smile, Hannah took one more generous sip of wine and put her own mug down, turning her attention to playing with Peyton's hair. "I promise, never again. From now on, a week TOPS, even if I have to fly back and forth to take care of you between holidays." She smiled fondly at Peyton. "What else do you need to tell me about? Something's happening with KJ?" She asked, her finger combing lightly through Peyton's soft hair. She knew how close the other girl was to her brothers, and she knew it must be killing her that KJ was mad at her, no matter the reason. Though she couldn't really think of anything Peyton had ever done to make anyone in her family mad before, so it must have been something big.

peyton

Peyton’s eyes flutter shut as Hannah’s fingers comb lightly through her hair, it was a comfort she felt like she’d needed for three weeks. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.” She responds softly, and eyes squeezing tighter at the mention of her little brother. It was a topic she’d tried not to talk about, even more so than the one with Puck. KJ was her blood and her whole life it had just been her and her brothers. “KJ had... something happen to him.” Peyton begins to tell her, feeling a lump in her throat growing saying the words out loud. “I didn’t know how to cope, so I told someone... I know it wasn’t my story to tell, but he’s my brother, you know? Every time I thought about everything I couldn’t breathe and I needed to breathe again. But KJ doesn’t see it like that, he just sees it as me betraying his trust?” She shrugs. “I don’t know... I have no idea how you deal with other people’s problems all the time. It’s draining.”

hannah

Hannah breathed a laugh at Peyton's last statement. "Well, for one, I don't become emotionally attached to my clients, it's a lot harder when it's someone I love." She kept her hand moving through Peyton's hair. "And as for KJ, I can pretty much guarantee you he's not really mad at you, oftentimes when we are feeling lost or overwhelmed by emotions or situations we can't control, we take it out on the people we love. It's easier for him to be mad at you than at himself, or at whoever actually deserves it, because he knows that no matter what, you will always love him and be there for him. His anger, as misplaced as it is, is his subconscious way of telling you he trusts you with it." She really needed to get ahold on not turning into a therapist with her friends. "Give him some time and a little space, when you feel the time is right, just remind him that you love him, and you're sorry for overstepping a boundary."

peyton

“See, this is just another reason you’re not allowed to leave me.” Peyton turns into her lap to look up at her best friend, quickly wiping the loose tear from her eye. “I clearly can’t function without you.” She tells her with a sad smile and reaches up to bop her nose. There were perks to having someone constantly in her life who knew human emotions much better than she ever could. “Tell me something exciting about your life to make me feel better... And it can’t be about Micah because I already know all about that.”

hannah

"Hey..." Hannah frowned, she knew Peyton had missed her, but the idea of her being so upset, she'd never imagined the other girl needed her this much. Or maybe, she told herself, it just happened to be a rough few weeks and it had nothing to do with you not being around. Either way, she shifted, wrapping her arms around Peyton and pulling her in so her head rested on her chest, Hannah pressed a kiss to the top of her taking, taking in that Peyton smell. "I promise I won't leave for that long again." She said, holding out her pinky so Peyton could take it without moving. Then she sighed, trying to think of something exciting, to her, life was pretty standard. "Well, you know about my holiday threesome, and you know about Micah, and... that's been pretty much it..." She tried to think of maybe something non-sexual. "Oh! Did I tell you one of my cousins lit himself on fire with my Nana's birthday cake?"

peyton

With the kiss to her head, Peyton felt like she could finally relax into the girl’s embrace, all the talk about feelings was done, and with Hannah here she didn’t have to overthink everything. Hannah was, and has been for a long time, her logical voice of reason. “You don’t know this, but there’s a secret recording device in here that i’m going to bring out if you decide to go again.” She joked, extending her pinky to link with her friend’s. She wrapped her arms around her, and settles comfortably into her chest. “Oh my god! Honestly? Really glad it wasn’t your nana. At 102 the last thing she needs is to get lit on her birthday.” Peyton laughed to herself, finding amusement in her own terrible jokes. “Thanks for ditching a boy’s bed for me tonight.”

hannah

Hannah chuckled softly. “And here you are threatening to straight up move away from me.” She teased, giving Peyton’s arms a squeeze. “Trust me, if you added up all of the hair product my Nana has used over the course of her entire 102 years, it still wouldn’t be half as much as this kid had in his hair. You ask me, he had it coming.” She laughed. “But he’s fine! His eyebrow should grow back eventually.” Shaking her head, Hannah opted not to remind Peyton that she had been planning on leaving Micah’s anyways because they did not do sleepovers. “Anytime, babe.” She said instead.

peyton

“Shhh, you’re coming with me, we’ve established that. Give me three to five years to convince you.” She chuckled tiredly. Her head shook against Hannah as she imagined one of the girl’s cousins suddenly with no eyebrows. “When I move to LA I’m determined to meet every single one of your cousins. They’re all stuck with me,” Peyton tells as her eyes start to feel heavy now — possibly from the wine, though more likely as a result of no longer feeling alone. “You know you’re always welcome to crash at my place... if you’re feeling lonely, that is. mi casa es su casa. My shower isn’t as good, but I have the best tub around.”

hannah

Closing her eyes, Hannah just let Peyton relax into her arms, her thumb grazing gently over the soft skin of the girl's arm. "My family will love you as much as I do." She said softly, not mentioning the fact that she had already talked their collective ears off about her best friend, showing them pictures and everything. She rarely felt lonely at night, honestly preferring to sleep alone, but it did make her feel warm and safe that Peyton was willing to offer.

[batwake]

Come in From the Cold - chapter one

I realized today that I never posted the full first chapter on here so I figured while I work on chapter two I might as well post it! You can read it here on ao3.

pairing: Clint Barton/Bucky Barnes

tags: fight club au, canon typical violence, deaf clint barton

description: Years ago, the United States government passed a law banning enhanced people, mutants, and superheroes, forcing them into prisons and graves. Newly reformed and no-longer brainwashed Bucky Barnes heads underground, into a fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative, and learns to make a living there using his specialized skills. Clint Barton isn't an enhanced person, per se, but hung up his bow and arrow for good with the passing of the accords. It’s only when his best friend introduces him to the world of The Avengers Initiative does he start to get sucked back in.

“We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.”

—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Dodge. Dodge. Punch, miss. Dive, go for the legs. Go for my legs , he said. Jump back up, punch when he isn’t expecting-

Clang!

Metal fist connects with shield. Backpedal, recalibrate. Push the shield away, kick at the chest. He throws the shield— dumb move — catch it. Throw it, don’t bother looking as it cracks the closest wall and stays there.

Punch, punch, punch.

He goes down, does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, but hardly audible over the clear and crisp announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

Clint doesn’t remember when the news broke.

Lots of people will tell you that they remember exactly where they were: drinking coffee on their balcony, listening to the radio. Or in the waiting room of a hospital, nervously watching the tv while their wife gives birth. A high school soccer game, where the announcer told everyone during halftime. Kate swears up and down that she heard it from a random twitter account before the story had even broke.

All Clint knows is that one day, enhanced individuals were outlawed, and he put he and Kate’s bows and arrows in the back of his closet, hidden behind boxes of Christmas decorations and clothes he refused to get rid of. It must’ve started as a normal day; put hearing aids in, drink an entire pot of coffee, take Lucky for a walk, go to the roof and shoot some arrows. Text Katie funny pictures of pigeons on the street and maybe call his therapist, if he’s feeling up to it. But by the end of the day, the world had practically ascended into chaos. People arrested, some killed in their homes, or in the street. Kate said that two kids at school were picked up and never seen again.

The accords, they’re called. Clint didn’t, and doesn’t, keep up with politics. But even he understands just what they meant. No mutants, enhanced persons, superheroes . At best, you’re put on a watchlist and have to swear to never use your powers. At worst, jailed or sentenced to death, if you’re considered especially dangerous.

And as for why these accords were introduced?

No one really knows.

But Clint often wonders.

~

“If you were really my friend you’d go with me,” Kate is saying. Clint is busy pretending he’s busy, the most of his torso hidden underneath his sink. It’s been leaking for months now. Today seemed like as good a day as any to fix it. She continues, “Darcy’s taken me a few times.”

“How did Darcy know how to get in?” The pipe is giving Clint just as hard of a time as Katie is. It won’t go any tighter, but maybe if he had a different tool…

“Someone she knows, knows someone, I guess. I don’t know.” He can practically hear the shrug and eye roll in her voice. “Can’t we just go together, this once? If you hate it you never have to go again.”

Clint hauls himself out from underneath the sink, starting to dig through drawers in pursuit of something he can better fix his sink with. He spares Kate a look, which is returned by an expression Clint can only describe as cross . “Why can’t you just go with your friends again if you’re so eager?”

The smile that Kate probably uses on her father to get more money is slapped onto her face. “Because you, Clint Barton, are my best friend. The peanut butter to my jelly, the apple to my eye. The Romeo to my Juliet, but without the romance and the death-”

“I think I get your point.”

Kate circles around the counter that had been separating them and steps in front of him. “Come on, Clint. We have fun, they get paid. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Sure, Clint thinks, these people get the shit kicked outta them every night and we get to sit back and watch, hell of a lot of fun . He buries his face into his hands and leans against the counter, momentarily forgetting about his shitty sink. “Fine.”

Kate thumps her fist gently against his face, nudging his hands away until they’re resting at his sides. The expression on her face is telling, her eyebrows raised and lips pressed firmly together. Clint can see his reflection in the purple sunglasses that sit on the top of her head, so he pushes them down and over her eyes. Her stony expression doesn’t falter, even as Clint feels Lucky forcing his way between their legs as if sensing trouble. Kate’s hand moves from his face to his bicep. “You worry me sometimes, Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes and moves away, pulling a wrench out of the drawer he was digging through and getting back onto the floor, rubbing Lucky behind the ear as he makes his way back under the sink. “Changing the subject won’t get you anywhere.”

The last thing Clint sees of Kate before he’s back under the sink is her arms thrown up exasperatedly. “I’ll be back at ten, bring cash.”

He barely gets the word “okay” out before the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes through his apartment.

~

Once the accords were put in place, enhanced people were out of jobs and essentially forced into hiding, assuming you hadn’t been arrested or killed. Some went to trial, but they were fruitless efforts. You stopped seeing the announcements of verdicts, always guilty , on the news after a couple months.

Around this time, a wise guy named Nick Fury had the brilliant idea to put these enhanced people to work, with the help of genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Tony Stark, allowing them to use their powers, let off some steam, and get paid while they’re at it. This was the birth of an underground fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative . Stark buys the building, and all surrounding ones, builds a pseudo-arena in the basement and keeps them out of the eye of the public. Fury finds the people; fighters and workers and people in police forces and governments with grey morals. Together they built what has essentially become an empire , with fans and gamblers keeping the place in business.

Clint’s never been, but it’s been sitting in the back of his mind for months, ever since Kate first mentioned that she knew someone who knew someone who knows a place— whatever that really means. But now that he’s really going , he realizes that he’s never really considered what it all meant. They’re betting on real people .

Kate tells him not to think too hard about it.

They enter a tall building, clearly abandoned with the windows boarded up, grimy furniture left behind to rot. It looks like it was once a hotel, with a front desk sitting in front of little compartments which may have once held room keys. A large mouse-bitten rug covers most of the floor, swirls of deep red and gold starting to fade as dust gathers. Directly across from the door is an elevator, covered in graffiti. As they get closer, Kate leading the way, Clint can get a better look at the actual art, things like a spray-painted red spider outlined by a circle, red and white O ’s with a star in the middle like a target, a bright purple A with an arrow through the middle, among others. Clint says nothing as Kate steps up to the elevator and holds down the up arrow.

A few moments pass, and nothing happens. Clint opens his mouth to say something like seems like no one is home when there is a light-heartedping! and the elevator doors open to a high-tech, seemingly new elevator, the bright lights making Clint squint for a second. Kate steps in without a second thought, turning and crossing her arms, a smirk on her lips. “You coming or what?”

Clint promptly snaps his mouth shut, scrambling to get into the elevator before it closes.

The doors shut behind him, but it doesn’t move yet. On the wall are upwards of fifty buttons, all with various symbols and numbers that don’t appear to have any meaning.

To Kate they apparently do, reaching forward and pressing a series of buttons in a particular order, the buttons lighting up after each press. Clint counts thirteen buttons pressed when she finally stops, stepping back and standing next to him. He gives her a long look, only met with a half-hearted shrug as the elevator finally starts to move.

Clint stares at their reflections as the elevator descends. They tend to match, most of the time on accident , and tonight is no exception. Their purples stand out in the stark grey elevator, like Kate’s headband and pants, or Clint’s shoes and hearing-aids. It had always been their color.

His pointer finger twitches at his side. He balls his hand into a fist, trying to push that thought away. They know better.

The elevator stops, another lighthearted noise announcing their arrival. A few seconds pass and then the door opens, revealing them to the underground world of The Avengers Initiative .

The first thing Clint notices as they step out of the elevator is the giant hole in the floor.

It’s surrounded by bleachers filled with people, yelling at the fighters below. They’re too far away to be able to see down into the ring, but whatever is happening is clearly causing an upset. Clint takes a step forward to get a closer look but is stopped by Katie grabbing his arm. “Easy tiger, we gotta go over here first.”

They move towards a booth of sorts, where a man sits behind a counter covered in various papers and underneath a giant screen that almost resembles a chalkboard, titled “BETTING POOL”, listing names and figures in neat penmanship that Clint can’t make sense of. The man is busy counting something that Clint and Kate can’t see, and doesn’t look up when they approach. Behind him are several safes, whatever they’re holding is anybody’s guess.

“Hi,” Katie announces, slapping a hand onto the table, “We’d like two please.”

Two pamphlets are slid towards them. Clint takes the one Kate hands him, glancing down at it, then back at her. “What is this?”

Kate is too busy opening the trifold to answer. The cover reads The Avengers Initiative in big font, followed by the same purple A that is graffitied on the elevator. Clint cautiously opens it all the way, glancing between the new information that each page has to offer.

The first page appears to be a schedule of the night, starting with Black Widow vs. Madame Mask and ending with Thor vs The Hulk , listing fifteen fights in total. The middle is a description of the rules of the fights and how the betting works, and the third is the top ten fighters, reading:

Winter Soldier

Captain America

Thor

Scarlet Witch

Captain Marvel

Black Widow

Miss America

Ms. Marvel

Quicksilver

Black Panther

Clint reads through the rules a few times, glancing up at Kate every few seconds as she talks to the guy running the thing, counting her cash. The names are a bit ridiculous, he thinks, then remembers that he and Katie didn’t exactly have the best “code names” either. He flips to the back, frowning at the large black text.

BURN WHEN DONE.

Kate, pausing to turn and look at him expectantly. “You gonna bet anything?”

Clint glances at the list of names and the upcoming fights. Winter Soldier vs. Captain America is set for tonight, the top two names on the leaderboard. “Sure,” Clint decides in a split second decision, “why not.”

He fills out a sheet of paper while Kate finishes hers, filling in the blanks, such as the date of the fight, how much he’s betting, his contact information. (Kate says this is so if any info leaks they know who was betting that night)

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier.

“Good choice,” comments the man as he takes Clint’s papers and money, writing on something and putting the money somewhere they can’t see it. He does the same for Kate. “ Safe choice.”

Clint wonders if that’s an insult.

They move away from the booth after that, towards the bleachers at last.

They’re not completely full, people scattered among the three structures, some in groups and some by themselves. They sit at the bottom of the second bleacher, directly across from the elevator they came from, able to overlook the fighting ring below without anyone blocking their view. The ring is about two stories below them, and there’s a huge gap between the ring and the walls. “They can expand the ring for bigger, more powerful fighters,” Kate explains, pointing to the empty space between the walls and the ring. “They don’t have too many, but if you get a fight like…” she glances at her pamphlet as she crosses one leg over the other, “Thor versus Hulk, they’re gonna need a big space.”

Clint nods, glancing over her shoulder at her open trifold. No one is fighting currently, and there was a fight that was going on when they came in. “How many d’ya think we’ve missed?”

“That upset we heard coming in was probably Scarlet Witch related. From what Darcy told me, magic users don’t get a lot of respect from the crowd. Well, her type of magic, anyway. Telekinesis.”

“Ah.”

Kate nods, running her finger down the list. “Scarlet Witch versus Shocker is tricky because he would usually be a pretty good match for, like, Black Panther or someone, because they’re combat fighters. She can just pick you up and throw you somewhere.”

“There’s a reason she’s ranked number four.”

She throws her hands up. “I know right!”

Clint leans back and surveys the people around them, who are either talking amongst themselves, digging through their wallets, or furiously making notes in their pamphlets. “So, Katie-Kate, who’d you bet on?”

He almost misses it, as she covers her mouth with her hand. Kate is blushing . Clint stares at her, then prods at her shoulder. “What have you been hiding from me!”

Kate covers her face with her hands, uncrossing her legs and leaning on on his shoulder. “Miss America.”

“And?”

“She’s so fucking hot, Clint.”

The gears turn in Clint’s head. “Katie, you’ve only seen this girl fight in a fight club .”

“She’s still hot!”

She’s about to say something else, but the lights dim and a voice cuts her off, loud and booming throughout the makeshift arena, but oddly robotic and calm, and British?

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. The eighth fight of the night is one of the most anticipated ones of the week, with our top two seeds, The Winter Soldier versus Captain America.” Two people enter the ring from the entrance, walking up the steps to the slightly elevated ring. One is clad in red, white, and blue, Captain America , Clint thinks, and carrying a shield. The other, the Winter Soldier, is dressed head to toe in black except for his left arm, which is entirely silver, and his dark brown hair is long. It’s hard to make out any more features than that. “As always, the rules of the ring are as follows: No leaving the ring, no guns or knives, and finally, the fight continues until one person says the codeword or is knocked unconscious.”

Captain America and the Winter Soldier walk to opposite sides of the ring and step into what can best be described as a battle stance , staring each other down. The Soldier’s left side is facing them, and only then does Clint realize that the silver is his arm .

“You may begin,” chimes the voice, followed by a buzzer sound, signalling the beginning of the fight. Immediately the two fighters are lunging at each other, Captain America punching with the shield, the Winter Soldier blocking with that metal arm, occasionally managing to get a punch or a dodge in.

People are yelling, no surprise there really, mostly encouragement to their preferred fighter or anger about a missed punch or failed dodge. The guy a few seats above them is up on his feet and gesturing wildly, screaming something about his kids’ lunch money and grandmas.

They’re nearly an even match for each other, Clint thinks as another punch is blocked. They carry on for a few minutes like this. It’s an entertaining fight, he must admit. Clint is nearly on the edge of his seat, and Kate is biting her thumbnail. The Winter Soldier dives to the side to avoid a shot with the shield, and punches, his metal fist colliding with the shield and producing a clang! noise so loud that some people cover their ears. Clint isdeaf and he almost felt the reverb.

“Jesus,” Kate mutters. Clint is inclined to agree.

There’s some distance between them, now. Captain America throws the shield, bad move , Clint thinks as the Soldier catches it and throws it, almost recklessly . It connects with the wall across from where Kate and Clint are sitting, and stays there, cracks webbing from the incision.

They’re at it hand-to-hand now, and it’s clear who’s winning. The audience grows even louder as the Soldier lays down relentless punches, to the stomach and to the face.

Clint’s stomach twists.

Captain America falls to the ground after one final punch, and does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, so Clint can hardly hear the announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

“I told you to go for my legs,” Steve is saying.

Bucky wants to bash Steve’s face in for a second time that night. He won’t stop talking, even after Dr. Cho asked him to while she gave him stitches on his lower lip. She pokes his forehead to shut him up again, gently applying some sort of ointment to his shoulder. Bucky’s already gotten the Doc’s five star treatment, now trying to fix one of the plates on his hand by himself. He’d rather not visit Stark this week, not after last time when he had all but removed the damn thing after an interesting fight with Scarlet Witch when she had fucked up all of his inner wirings.

“Too easy,” Bucky says around the flashlight he’s holding in his mouth, “if I wanted the fight to end in a minute and successfully half our pay, thenI’d go for your legs.”

Cho gives Steve the go-ahead to jump off her table, moving back to her equipment and beginning to sterilize, getting ready for whoever will come after their fight next. He approaches Bucky, taking the flashlight from his mouth so he can dig into his hand with the screwdriver more easily. It doesn’t seem to be doing much. “Besides,” Bucky continues, refusing to look up at his best friend, who is surely smirking despite that fat lip, “maybe you oughta learn not to throw that shield at me. You know what I’m gonna do with it.”

“Too easy,” is all Steve has to say on that particular matter.

They walk through the winding halls of the Facility together until they get to the locker room, where only Black Widow remains from the previous fights. A few others preparing for their upcoming fights linger. She greets them with just a raise of her eyebrows, likely because of the cut on her lip.

“We’re matching,” Steve fumbles. Bucky tries to hide his snort in the sound of the locker opening, but probably fails. The Widow doesn’t point it out, but Steve is already turning pink. Flirting has never been his forte.

“So we are,” she says. “How was the fight?”

“Good,” Bucky shrugs at the same time Steve says, “he won.”

“What about you?”

Black Widow waves a hand in a so-so motion. “I won. I don’t think that Madame Mask will be around for much longer.”

“That was what, her third fight?”

“Something like that.” She stands and pulls on the sweatshirt that had been sitting on her lap, covering the bruises and cuts that are exposed in the tank-top. The hood covers her red hair, and her hands are shoved into the pockets. “See ya around, boys.”

Bucky waves without looking as Steve stammers his way through a goodbye.

“You gotta get better at that, man. It’s been years.” Bucky shrugs on a t-shirt, then a sweatshirt. He digs around in his backpack for a few seconds before he can find what he’s looking for, a glove that looks like a hand, nearly identical to his right one. You can’t tell its fake, unless you’re actively looking at it like it is. He slips it on as Steve sits down to start putting shoes on, wincing as it nudges the plate he just fixed.

“She’s just so…” Steve trails off.

The hand settles into place as he wiggles his fingers. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “She is.”

They say hello to a few others as they leave, to Ms. Marvel braiding Miss America’s hair, and to Thor swinging his hammer in the hallway, and to Bruce, carrying a huge stack of papers into Fury’s office.

Hugging each other tightly despite the injuries they themselves caused, they split and go down different hallways, towards different exits. Bucky knows Steve will go home and nurse his injuries some more and drink tea and maybe sketch something, whatever it is Steve does when Bucky isn’t around.

Bucky leaves and takes the long way home, down streets he doesn’t have to and on subways he wouldn’t normally, losing the tail he is always worried will some day follow him home. It’s unlikely, Stark and Fury have a pretty foolproof security system, but…

He locks the door behind him, and begins the long and complicated process of checking every door and window, all the light fixtures, underneath cushions and inside cupboards. He finally collapses onto his uncomfortable mattress and sleeps a light and unsound sleep, the sun only just beginning to rise.

~

If Bucky could go back and do one thing in his life differently, he never would’ve joined the army.

It was the catalyst for what would become his life. Join the army, get captured by some Nazis, pumped full of steroids, get rescued by your best friend, coincidentally also pumped full of steroids but by some secret branch of government rather than Nazis, join his band of merry men, fall off a train, become a brainwashed assassin with a metal arm, get saved by your best friend, again. All in the span of a few years.

Then the accords happened and SHIELD got shut down, leaving Bucky in a state of limbo.

James Buchanan Barnes was legally dead to most people. So Bucky holed up in a shitty apartment in Brooklyn, near where he and Steve grew up, with a fake name and a new backstory, effectively going under the radar of the government. Steve wasn’t so lucky, having been SHIELD’s golden boy for years before the accords. He was arrested but released soon after, having been deemed unlethal and his name added to the watchlist.

They managed fine by themselves for a few weeks. Bucky did things for money that he’s not exactly proud of, but that’s not new. Steve tried to remain God’s righteous man, attempting to speak out against the accords but just getting himself into more trouble.

And then Nicky Fury showed up at Bucky’s door.

No one except for Steve knew where Bucky lived— yet there he was, with his dumbass eye patch and a job offer.

So now Bucky and Steve get beat up four out of seven days of the week, earning barely enough money to cover the bills and working the only job that people of their kind could ever hope to get in this political climate.

Bucky’s had worse jobs, he supposes.

~

It’s a rough few weeks, after the fight with Steve.

The decline starts with a match against Quicksilver, who he barely beats, managing to trip him as he passes. Captain Marvel catches one of his punches and essentially melts the metal of his left arm, calling for the end of the fight and a trip to Stark’s workshop. Scarlet Witch destroys him in an embarrassing fight, twisting his arms until he can’t move and essentially forcing him to call uncle.

He doesn’t bother going to see Dr. Cho or Stark, grabbing his bag and leaving behind a confused Steve and Black Widow in the hallway.

The exit that leads to the alley behind the building is the one Bucky chooses that night, climbing up the ladder and exiting through a small panel in the floor, closing it behind him and walking onto the alley as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

He shoulder checks someone and winces as his left shoulder lets out a mechanical whine. The guy stops and turns to stare at him, frowning. “What was that?”

Bucky protectively holds his left arm against his chest, and clears his throat. “Bad cough.”

The guy steps forward. “That sounded like-”

Bucky turns and sprints in the other direction, not listening to whatever the guy is yelling after him, or looking back to see if anyone is following.

It’s nearly three am by the time he gets into his apartment, having crossed more streets than usual and ridden more buses and subways than he can count on both hands. A paper is taped to his front door, asking for rent ASAP. Crumpling it up in his hand, Bucky slips inside.

He locks his door with a shaking hand, his metal one still tucked close to his chest. The series of locks all click into place with a finalizing snap . Bucky leans against the door, allowing himself to loosen his shoulders and breathe for a moment. Maybe he overreacted— but getting arrested wouldn’t have been a good end to what has already been a shitty few weeks. He checks the windows and the cupboards like he usually does, and only then does he let himself completely calm down, collapsing onto the dingy old mattress that sits in the corner of the room. On the floor next to it is a record player and a cardboard box full of miscellaneous tools, which Bucky stares at, then reluctantly sits up. He puts a record on first, grabbing one from the stack at the foot of the bed at random, then sheds his shirt and sets to work at his arm.

The Andrews Sisters sing cheerily about a famous musician going to war. Bucky’s head already hurts from the Witch’s magic, but he rolls his eyes and almost makes it worse.

“But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft, he's in the army now blowing reveille.”

The music is turned up as loud as the old record player will go in an attempt to force Bucky to listen to it instead of his own thoughts, whether or not it really works is to be decided.

Bucky flips open a few panels on his bicep, shining a flashlight on the inner wires and craning his neck so he can get a good look inside. A few are disconnected and tangled, explaining the pain, but others are completely fried. Which means Bucky has to see Stark, again .

“Dammit,” he mutters, snapping the panel shut and tossing the flashlight and screwdriver back into the box. No other fighter saw Tony Stark as much as Bucky did— in the few years he’d been fighting, Bucky was getting tired of the guy.

The bathroom is the only part of the apartment that is in a seperate room from the rest, but is barely big enough to fit a shower, sink, and toilet. Bucky showers in the cold water, letting blood and grime wash away from his skin. With only one arm, the shower lasts longer than it needs to, but he relishes in it, for the time being.

The bed isn’t comfortable by any means, nothing more than a lumpy mattress with some threadbare blankets thrown on top, but to Bucky’s tired and worn body, it feels like the softest bed in the world.

-

There are three hundred and twenty-seven arrow holes in Clint’s apartment.

A hundred and two are in Clint’s bedroom, sixteen of those are on the ceiling, seventy-five are in the kitchen, one hundred and thirty-nine are scattered around the living room walls, ten are in the various furniture around the house, and one is in the bathroom. (that one had been an accident)

None had been added to the collection since the accords broke the news.

Clint stands in front of his closet, hands on his hips. Lucky sits next to him, head cocked to the side and tongue hanging out, his tail thumping happily on the floor. Clint doesn’t dare open the closet, has barely touched it in years, but now feels strangely drawn to it. He’s been frequenting the Facility , as Kate calls it, over the last few weeks. He doesn’t have a ton of money to gamble, but he’s fascinated by the process, and knows that it helps the fighters get paid. It’s a whole new world, seeing these people in action. Magic users, and super soldiers, and demigods . Kate’s still obsessed with that girl, bets all of her money away no matter the odds.

And of course, there’s the Winter Soldier.

Dressed in black, with that lethal silver arm. He seems to be wearing thin, is what Kate had said, the more fights they watched of his. He went from the top seed to barely staying in the top ten, now ranked number nine.

The bow and arrow in the closet feel like they’re yelling his name. Take us to the roof, Clint. No one can see you from up there.

Instead, he leaves his apartment and makes his way to the abandoned building by himself, punching in the code to the elevator and entering the code he now knows. He descends into the facility, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

Coulson is running the info booth like he usually is, typing something on a laptop. There are a few people lined up, so Clint grabs a pamphlet and waits in the queue, scanning the lineups for the night.

The eighth fight of the night. Iron Fist vs. Winter Soldier.

Clint steps up in front of Coulson when it’s his turn. He passes over the papers without a word, which Clint fills out quickly. He’s starting to have the pages memorized, able to fill them out without much thought.

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier, and hands the paper back over to Coulson. His eyes skim it, then his eyebrows raise.

“That’s a lot of money. You’re betting on losing dogs, Barton.”

“Just take the damn money.”

Coulson does without another word, letting Clint walk to his normal spot on the bleachers.

There’s a fight already in progress. Black Widow has her thighs locked around Captain America’s head, and sends both them topping to the ground. The shield rolls sideways and lands a few feet away. Captain America shoves Black Widow off of him roughly, diving after the shield and attaching it to his arm, jumping towards the Widow once more to knock her down.

He misses, the shield cracking the floor of the ring. Black Widow kicks at Captain America’s legs, sending him to the floor on his back. She straddles his chest, lifting a fist to punch—

Something must happen, because her hand lowers and she crawls off him, that British voice coming over the speakers to announce:

“The Black Widow wins!”

She holds out a hand to help him up, which he accepts. The man next to Clint isn’t yelling very nice things, but Clint refrains himself from saying anything. The dude looks like he could hold his own in the ring.

Several fights go by after that, Clint unable to pay much attention to them, his mind elsewhere. Miss America wins her fight against Black Panther, Clint tells himself that he’ll have to tell Kate about it later.

Finally the voice announces that it’s time for Winter Soldier versus Iron Fist, the two fighters stepping out of the entryway and into the ring. The Soldier is dressed in his usual getup, all black with the arm exposed, while the Iron Fist stands out in greens and yellows. While the announcer drones through his usual speech, the Winter Soldier spins his metal arm to stretch it a few times, then flexes his metal fingers, as if unsure of himself.

There’s the buzzer, and the two men go for each other—

It’s a brutal loss, for the Winter Soldier.

Clint has to give him credit, the guy didn’t tap out even when people were yelling at him to. He goes down and stays down with a final glowing fist, hitting the ground with the painful sound of his metal arm hitting the floor.

“The Iron Fist wins!”

A few people come out of the doors as the Iron fist exits, laying the Soldier on a stretcher and exiting unceremoniously.

Clint stands just as the same guy says to his friend, “what a pussy. Can’t even handle Iron Fist .”

Turning away from him, Clint balls his hands into fists, the temptation to punch the guy getting stronger the more he hears. Still, he forces himself to step away, moving towards the elevator and waving at Coulson as he passes. He doesn’t get any response except for a look that feels something like I told you so .

Once on the ground floor, Clint glances around the sparse room. The fighters must exit from somewhere, right? Kate had mentioned that Stark owns this building and all surrounding ones…

The street outside is mostly empty, no one to watch as Clint slips into an alleyway next to one of the buildings. There isn’t much— a few trash cans, a pile of blankets and clothes that Clint figures is from a homeless person, and a doorway to the adjacent building. First Clint moves to the door, prodding it, then moving to the handle. It doesn’t budge.

No surprise there— Clint moves to the trash cans, lifting the lids and finding nothing but garbage, rotting food and wrappers and probably drugs, knowing New York. Nothing there.

He moves to the blankets, toeing them away with his foot to avoid touching them. Clint frowns, crouching down and running his fingers along the crack in the ground, a faint light coming from beneath the surface.

“What are you doing?”

Clint spins around, half expecting to see a police officer. Then he’d be really and truly screwed . But it’s just a guy, with a grey sweatshirt and a backpack and long hair and holy shit .

It’s him.

Clint splutters, which seems to annoy the Winter Soldier. He takes a step forward, clearly threatening. Clint finally gets a good look at his face, which is battered and bruised from his fight twenty minutes previous. Stony grey-blue eyes, a cleft chin covered with stubble. Both cheekbones bruised, and a split lip. Clint witnessed the fight— it doesn’t take a genius to picture what the rest of his body must look like.

Thinking quickly, Clint throws his hands up in surrender. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The Soldier glances between Clint and the pile of dirty fabric behind him, unwavering.

“Okay, maybe it’s exactly what it looks like.” The Winter Soldier takes another step forward. “But I can explain!”

“You should probably start.” His voice is low and gravelly, but Clint wonders if that’s circumstantial.

Clint isn’t sure what to say for a moment. “I’m a big fan of your work,” is what comes out of his mouth when his mouth catches up with his brain.Jesus Christ , Clint can practically hear Katie saying.

“You’re what? ” The Soldier is suddenly in Clint’s space with his fist in his shirt, lifting Clint up until they’re nearly nose to nose, even though Clint is taller than the other man. Clint blinks rapidly, his hands going to the Soldier’s wrists. Right hand, he notes.

“I should’ve worded that differently,” he manages. “I’ve seen you fight. I’m into it.” Clint winces and wonders if he imagined the Soldier’s grip loosening. “I mean— I want to buy you a drink, or something.”

Jesus Christ, what is he doing? Kate’s gonna kill him.

Clint stumbles as the Winter Soldier drops him and steps back. He keeps talking, even as the Soldier walks to the edge of the alley and looks out, left and right, as if about to cross the street, but doesn’t leave yet. “I know that’s weird but…” You fascinate me, is what he wants to say. Instead, he whispers, “you seem like you need one.”

The Soldier slowly turns back towards Clint, holding his gaze. Something passes between them, Clint can’t quite say what, but it breaks when the Soldier looks away again. “No,” he mutters, then repeats it again, louder. “No.”

Then, he steps into the street, leaving Clint in the dust, left to wonder what just happened.

-

Bucky thinks of the guy who confronted him in the alleyway three nights previous.

He thinks of his shaggy blonde hair, and the silly purple hearing-aids. The purple band-aid that was on his nose, and the feeling of his hands on Bucky’s arm as he said I’m into it .

Bucky lands another punch to Drax’s face, but is roughly shoved to the ground again. The shouting of the crowd rings loudly in Bucky’s ears as Drax kicks his stomach. And then the man’s voice again, offering to buy him a drink. He forces himself up, can feel the metal creak of his arm throughout his body, and grabs at Drax’s body, slamming his head down onto his knee. Drax’s body crashes to the ground, as Bucky’s had done just seconds ago.

The man in the alley’s face sticks in Bucky’s mind as he punches one last time, and stays there as JARVIS announces:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

Remorsefully, Bucky thinks it feels good to win again.

~

It doesn’t surprise Bucky when he goes back to that alley and find the man crouched over one of the facility exits. He’s feeling better than he has in weeks, even fresh out of a brutal fight. He needed the win, and the cash.

“Thats a bad idea,” calls Bucky, causing the man to spin around and stand abruptly. He’s disheveled, his blonde hair flying in every direction and shirt wrinkled. “It can only be exited from. Try to enter and you’ll get yourself killed.”

The guy’s eyes flick around Bucky’s person, from his hood, to his hands, to the backpack, and to his face again. “Noted,” he says cautiously.

Bucky shifts from foot to foot, and sniffs awkwardly. “I’ll take you up on that drink.”

-

The Winter Soldier is… odd.

He nurses cheap whiskey, and his eyes are constantly moving, sweeping around the bar, constantly on guard. His left hand, the one that Clint knows is metal but is currently masked with a glove that resembles a flesh hand, taps nervously on the table.

Clint stares at him, studying his features and trying to get a read on him. Tonight he sports a black eye with a heavy gash over the eyebrow, clean and stitched up already. The bruise from a few nights ago is almost faded on his cheekbone, and the gash that was on his lip is scabbed over. Every second that passes Clint thinks of another question— but keeps his mouth shut. He’s finally got the guy here, he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

Finally, half way through his own drink, he says, “I’m Clint Barton.”

The Soldier’s blank expression does not falter, but his eyes stop their sweep and land on Clint.

When he doesn’t say anything, Clint clears his throat. “This is when you tell me your name.”

The Soldier snorts as he lifts his drink to his mouth. There is a ghost of a smile on his features, and Clint realizes that he is handsome . The thought is gone before Clint can really focus on it, because the Soldier is talking.

“Not many people know my real name.”

“Awfully cryptic of you.”

He huffs something out that sounds close to a laugh, and moves to stand. “Thanks for the drink, but you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Wait!” Clint all but yells. The Soldier looks at him, tilting his head slightly. “Come on, man. I’ll do all the talking, how about that? I have nothing better to do.” The I’m sure you don’t, either is left unsaid.

The Soldier sits back down, raising his eyebrows and leaning back in his seat.

Clint takes that as the go ahead, and launches into the story of when he picked up Kate from school a few years ago and they ended up on a roadtrip to Orlando, Florida.

“You’re friends with a high schooler?”

“I used to be friends with a high schooler. Now she’s in college.” Clint wrinkles his nose. “Or so she claims.”

“How did that happen?”

Clint often wonders the same thing: how did he and Kate become friends? She was sixteen and good with a bow and arrow, Clint’s brother had just died and he was great with a bow and arrow. He had been in a bad place, Katie had been in a bad place, high school . They had just seemed to fit. The two of them and Lucky were their own little family.

“I crashed into her living room.” The sound of the Soldier putting his glass on the table signifies his surprise. “It’s kind of a long story.”

The story of running away from the mafia that killed your brother is a third or fourth date kind of story, anyway. It ends like how most of Clint’s stories end, with Kate saving his ass. The Soldier didn’t need to know that quite yet.

The front door of the bar opens and closes. Clint hears it rather than sees it, but the Winter Soldier tenses up, removing his arms from the table and shoving them into the pockets of his sweatshirt, forcing his shoulders down in a way that doesn’t look incredibly inconspicuous. Clint glances over his shoulder at whoever just walked in.

A police officer is moving to sit at the bar, holding a hand up to signal the bartender. Clint glances back to the Soldier, who looks two seconds from bolting out the door.

“Hey, my apartment isn’t too far from here.”

The Soldier is up and moving towards the door, apparently not needing any more convincing. Clint scrambles after him, leaving some bills on the table. The Soldier pushes the door open, Clint close behind him, sparing a glance at the cop. He’s watching them, but it’s not the kind of I know you’re secretly enhanced persons look, it’s more like, I sure hope these drunk idiots don’t become a problem. At least, Clint thinks it is. He’s never liked cops.

~

“Make yourself at home,” Clint announces. Lucky is happy to see them, his tongue rolling out of his mouth. The Soldier slips in and snaps the door shut quickly, as if afraid that the police officer had followed them to Bed Stuy and would be able to sneak in through the crack of the door. Lucky noses at the Soldier’s left hand.

“You didn’t mention a dog,” he says, pulling his hand away protectively, but allowing his right one to gently scratch Lucky behind the ear.

Clint shoves his shoes off and moves to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. “What, you allergic?”

The Soldier follows, notably not removing his shoes (rude), trailed by Lucky. “No.” He glances around the kitchen, at the seventy-five arrow holes, frowning.

“Arrows,” explains Clint, hopping up onto the counter. He watches the Soldier poke at the holes with an odd feeling settling in his stomach.

“Arrows?”

Humming, Clint looks at the contents of the kitchen counter. He spots a bottle, grabs the cap, contemplates his surroundings for a moment, then flicks it. It bounces off the bubbling coffee pot, the fridge, and into the trash. The Soldier’s eyebrows shoot up in question. Clint shrugs. “Just can’t seem to miss.”

The Soldier leans back. “You’re enhanced?”

Clint waves his hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m deaf,” he taps his hearing-aids, “working theory is that my senses are heightened. But I like to think that I’m just really cool.” Kate’s aim is just as good as his and she’s not deaf.

“And that explains the arrow holes how?”

“Bow and arrow is kinda my thing. Was my thing.” Clint winces. “I’m not on an enhanced list, but…”

The Soldier sits down at the kitchen table, his shoulders loosening. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I don’t know if you can even call a deaf guy with a penchant for pointy sticks enhanced, but me and my sidekick hung up our bows for good when the accords happened anyway.”

“Sidekick?” The Soldier asks, the barest hint of a smirk in his voice. The corner of his mouth is slightly upturned, Clint notices. “You seem more like the sidekick-type than this Kate.”

Rolling his eyes, Clint hops off the counter to pour them two mugs of coffee. “Partners in heroism, whatever you want to call us.”

Two steaming cups of coffee are placed on the table. The Soldier drinks his quickly, while Clint nurses his own.

“So,” Clint starts after a few minutes of silence and coffee drinking, “if I can’t ask for your name, can I ask for your phone number?”

“Real smooth, Barton.”

Clint stands and digs through one of the drawers, pulling out a pen and notepad.

To his surprise, the Soldier takes it, and slides the notepad towards himself, looking contemplative. A brief moment passes, followed by the faint sound of pen on paper. “I don’t have a cell,” the Soldier explains, “so you’ll just have to stick with calling the landline that came with the apartment.”

Clint is tempted to make a joke about this being the 21st century, but refrains, just watches the Soldier’s neat numbers as they appear on the page.

The Soldier stands after leaving his final mark on the page. “Thanks for the drinks, Barton. And for paying me.”

Following him to the entryway, Clint watches the Soldier crouch and pet Lucky a few more times. “No problem man.” After a second, Clint adds, “I promise to call.”

The Soldier opens the door and looks at Clint with soft eyes. “Don’t bother,” he says, but it lacks venom, and comes across as a joke more than anything, promptly shutting the door.

When he returns to the kitchen, Clint picks up the notebook, running his fingers over the numbers, and the letters underneath them. My friends call me Bucky, is written in the neat handwriting.

Bucky.

Before he goes to bed that night, Clint programs the number into his phone under that name, and burns the trifold that had been folded and stuffed in his back pocket. He crawls into bed, running the events of the night through his mind. As he falls asleep, Lucky at his feet, Clint makes a mental note to call Kate in the morning. She’s going to hit him so hard.

-

Bucky feels like he’s about to fall over.

Tony Stark has him propped up on a table, left arm supported by some sort of stirrup, keeping it in place while Stark delicately takes it apart. Every panel is open, exposing the skeletal wires and inner workings. Bucky averts his eyes, not comforted by the fact that his left arm can so easily be taken apart and put back together again.

“This is what, the fourth time you’ve broken the thing this month?”

“ I didn’t break it.” Bucky shrugs his right shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to force the incoming headache away.

“Coulda fooled me,” remarks Stark, pulling out what looks like a fried microchip, connected to a coil of tangled wires. “How does this even happen?”

The fingers of the arm twitch violently as Stark disconnects the chip, letting out one sad whine before the arm totally loses power. Bucky can feel the weight sagging and pulling down the left side of his body. If he wasn’t already close to exhaustion, working to keep himself straight is going to become a chore. “Ask Thor,” he groans, digging his right hand into the edge of the table. “There isn’t a better way you can do this?”

“Unfortunately not. You ask Thor to stop frying all your systems.”

Bucky winces as he remembers the fight that occurred an hour ago. He won, of course, he was finally starting to get his mojo back, but his arm suffered a fatal thunderous blow, barely able to wiggle the fingers. So here Bucky sat, in the company of Tony Stark, for the last thirty minutes. His whole body was tingling from the lightning, and a cut that had only just begun to heal had been reopened on the side of his face.

Stark glances between whatever he’s doing and Bucky’s face. “You want someone to fix that?”

“No.”

He shrugs, going back to the arm. “Your loss.”

Bucky just closes his eyes and tries not to pass out, listening to the whirring of Stark’s machines and his occasional mumbling to himself. An indefinite amount of time passes until the door whirs open, making Bucky snap his eyes open. Stark is still sitting next to him, but now wears a mask over his face while he blow-torches something. Bucky tries to wiggle his fingers, feels nothing. So they’re not done yet.

Steve approaches, glancing between Stark and Bucky and Bucky’s arm, raising an eyebrow.

“Thor,” is all he can say. Stark flips his mask up and leans back, looking at him.

“He awakens!”

Ignoring him, Steve leans against a table nearby. There’s a freshly sewn gash that extends from the center of his forehead, moves over his eyebrow, and disappears into his hairline. Bucky reaches over to touch the dried blood where the cut stops. “Black Panther?”

Steve shrugs. “He’s got some mean claws.”

Bucky is well aware of how those claws feel on skin. He drops his hand back to the table, looking over at Stark. “How much longer?”

“Depends on if this works.” Stark lifts the chip that he had been working on with a pair of tweezers. “Hey, Cap, where’s the Widow? Aren’t you usually on her tail?”

The look on Steve’s face is funny enough to make Bucky huff a soft laugh. Stark isn’t exactly wrong— Steve’s been smitten with the woman since she first joined the Initiative. If he’s not with Bucky, he’s probably hanging around Black Widow. Their last fight ended with Steve tapping out and letting her win. Bucky can’t imagine she took that too well.

Steve chooses to ignore Stark’s comment. “How are you, Buck?”

“Peachy.” Stark places the new and improves chip wherever it’s supposed to go. It feels like a needle is poked into Bucky’s nonexistent skin, causing him to grit his teeth and inhale sharply. “Never been better.”

A hand is placed on Bucky’s right shoulder, a steadying force.

Stark finishes up, placing wires where they need to be and chips back into their panels. Bucky regains feeling in the arm slowly, like cold water trickling up the fingers, through the faux veins, and into the bicep until it feels like it’s a part of Bucky again. He can flex the fingers, and move the wrist, lift the arm out of the stirrup and stretch it, just as he had been able to do before Thor wrecked it. “Thanks, Stark,” Bucky says, as genuinely as he can as he jumps off the table.

He has already flipped the mask back down and has moved on to a different project, waving a hand absently. “Just tell Point-Break to be careful with my things, next time.”

When Bucky gets home nearly two hours later, his wallet barely any more full than it had been when he walked into the facility earlier in the night, he goes immediately to the phone on the wall after locking the door, instead of to the windows and cupboards like he usually would. Clint has left two more messages since Bucky checked that morning.

He holds the phone to his ear with his newly fixed hand, closing his eyes as he listens to the message.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s Clint. You probably knew that already. I just got home from lunch with Katie. She’s good, thank you for asking.” Bucky laughs. “I’ll tell her you say hello. I took Lucky to a dog park today but he refused to play with any of the other dogs, just laid at my feet and slept. Dumb dog, probably dreaming of pizza. It made me feel nice, though. Apparently he prefers my company to other dogs. What does that say about me? Anyway, I’m planning on going tonight. Just thought you’d like to know. Call me back whenever you feel like it— or not, if. You know. You don’t.”

The second one is shorter, and probably left not too long ago.

“Good job, tonight. Hope you get that checked out.” It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Clint is referencing the arm. “You should take a break. Seems like you need it.” There’s a pause so long that Bucky wonders if something is wrong with his phone. Then, Clint continues, “I’ll call you tomorrow. And the day after that. You can’t ignore me forever.” The line clicks when he hangs up.

Bucky doesn’t really know why he hasn’t called Clint back. Clint clearly seems interested in him. Every night he promises himself that he’ll call back, but he never does.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Bucky realizes that half of it is covered in blood from the side of his face. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping it and letting it hang on the line. Bucky wanders to the bathroom to clean himself up, telling himself that he’ll call Clint back. As soon as he’s clean. Maybe.

-

Kate throws herself through the door, scaring Lucky out of the room and Clint off the couch he was peacefully asleep on.

He doesn’t have his hearing-aids in, but the sound of the door hitting the wall was just loud enough to startle him. Kate hovers over his body, saying something he can’t make out.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, groaning as he hauls himself from the floor back onto the couch. He keeps his eyes on her, even as she rolls her eyes and signs, get your aids then, this is too important.

Clint sighs. He forces his body off of the couch and into the bedroom, grabbing the hearing aids from the nightstand, putting them in his ears and turning them on. He walks back into the living area where Kate is now sitting on the couch with Lucky on the couch and half in her lap. “What could possibly be so important?” He glances at the time on his phone. “Don’t you have class?”

She waves a hand. “Not important.” Clint sits on the other side of the couch as Kate continues, “The Winter Soldier and Miss America are fighting tonight.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

“Darcy told me.”

“How does Darcy know that?”

“Do you ever listen to me? Darcy has a friend who knows a fighter.” Kate kicks her feet up on the coffee table an throws her arms out. “We’re going tonight.”

Kate has been oddly fixated on Bucky ever since Clint told her about the evening they spent together. He left out most of the details, like his name and fascinating mannerisms. She had her crush on Miss America, too, and was adamant that Clint could hook them up somehow. Clint hasn’t even been able to talk to Bucky since that night. Still, Clint had promised that some day he’d mention it, just to make her feel better. He already talks endlessly about Katie in the messages he leaves. He would never tell her that, though.

She nudges his foot with her own. “My girl’s gonna destroy your guy.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Not a chance,” Clint says, his lips spreading into a smile and then a laugh. Kate laughs too, one of her hands falling on top of Lucky’s head and the other on Clint’s shoulder, a steadying force that reminds Clint why he loves her so much.

~

They place their bets with Coulson and make it into their seats just as the usual announcement is starting.

Bucky and Miss America walk out and go to opposite ends to the ring, which is pretty standard. Kate cheers as America steps to their side, Bucky across from her. The rules are announced, the buzzer plays, and the fighters go straight for each other.

Miss America hits the ground first, Bucky landing a solid push at her chest. She takes advantage of being on the ground to grab at Bucky’s legs, sending him toppling after her. His left hand grabs for her wrist but she gets to him first, grabbing ahold of it and twisting it behind his back.

America’s advantage doesn’t last too long as Bucky throws his head back, knocking their skulls together and pushing himself free from her grasp. He throws a punch that hits Miss America in the chin.

“Here we go,” mutters Kate from beside Clint, leaning forward in her seat.

Miss America gets some punches in as well, literal stars flying, like sparks from metal, as they connect with Bucky’s head and stomach. A glowing white star starts to appear around America’s head, resembling a halo. Clint’s seen the girl fight enough to know what’s about to happen.

Just as it seems like America’s going to deal the final blow of the fight with her star-power, Bucky grabs her roughly by the hair, the star fading away instantaneously as she hits the ground. Kate yells something, as do a number of other people in the crowd. Bucky plants his knee to her chest and punches straight across the face, lifting his fist once more, but going no further when America finally taps out.

“Dammit!” Kate shouts, shoving Clint’s shoulder.

“The Winter Soldier wins!” announces the voice as Bucky extends a hand to help the girl up, which she accepts. It’s a little hard to see from so far away, but Clint thinks they’re both smiling, despite the blood running down their faces.

“I told you,” Clint boasts, smiling from ear to ear. Kate shoves him again.

~

Kate passes out on Clint’s bed when they get back to his apartment, Lucky following suit. Clint stays up, not tired yet because of his nap from earlier, staring at his phone.

Is he going crazy? He feels like he’s going crazy.

The phone rings five times, as per usual, before the automated voice tells Clint that he can leave a message after the tone.

He’s quiet for a moment, trying to decide what to say, then, “I sure hope you’re actually listening to these. Kate would be so disappointed to find out you haven’t really been saying hi.” Clint taps his hand absently on the table, thinking about how Bucky does that, too. “Maybe I’d be a little disappointed, too. We came and visited you at work. Oh, Kate really likes your coworker, is there any way we— you , could get her number, or something? She’s been bugging me about it but I didn’t want to bother you— although I guess I should’ve thought about that before I started leaving you multiple voicemails a day.”

Clint leans back in his chair, staring at the few arrow holes above the fridge, forming a perfect circle. “I wish I could get back to work,” he mutters. “I miss it so much. Kate is always saying that we could but— it scares me. You know that.”

Clearing his throat, Clint continues, “anyway. You should call me back. Sometime. I’ll make you more horrible coffee and you can pet my dog some more. And meet Katie, you’d like her, I think. She’s a bitch and I like her so much. Okay. I’ll let you go now. Goodnight.”

When he finally crawls into bed next to Kate, she mutters, “you make me depressed.”

Clint huffs a laugh, taking out his hearing-aids and pulling the covers up and over the head. If she says anything else, he doesn’t hear.

~

The only reason Clint realizes his phone is ringing is Lucky nudging him in the face, his wet nose prodding Clint’s eye. He groans, rolling onto his side, pausing when he sees the light on his phone flashing. It’s still dark in the room, no sunlight pouring through the curtains or annoying birds outside. Sighing, Clint grabs his hearing aids and picks up the phone. “This better be good, Katie.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” says a man’s voice.

Clint sits up so fast his head spins. “Bucky?” Lucky looks at him quizzically. “Took you long enough, asshole.”

Bucky’s end of the call is staticy and hard to hear, but Clint can barely make out, “sorry. Can I come over to your apartment?”

Something is up. “What’s wrong?” Clint asks, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. The hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet as he leaves his room and goes to the kitchen, Lucky following close behind.

“I’ll explain later. Can I come or not?”

“Yes, yes of course you can.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, just hangs up. Clint stops in his tracks, staring at the screen. The number Bucky just called from wasn’t his home one, which Clint has programmed into his phone. Lucky whines at his feet, looking up at Clint with his one eye like he’s pissed they’re not in bed.

“Me too, bud,” Clint mutters, patting the dog affectionately on the head and continuing into the kitchen.

Clint has barely turned on the coffee pot when there’s a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole shows that it’s Bucky, standing stock still.

“You look like shit,” says Clint as he opens the door. Bucky pushes himself between Clint and the door, shutting and locking it himself. Clint takes a long stride back, looking his new visitor up and down. He’s wearing the same thing he wore the two times Clint has seen him outside of the ring, a baggy grey sweatshirt, worn black jeans, a backpack, and that fake hand. His face and hair is bloody, clearly fresh from a fight.

Bucky turns and looks Clint up and down, humming. Clint blinks, looking down at himself in his purple pajama pants and white t-shirt. “I have… coffee,” he mutters, making his escape to the kitchen.

It takes a few minutes for Bucky to make his way into the kitchen after Clint, apparently wandering the apartment. Clint hardly notices him when he does, turning and nearly dropping the coffee pot to find him sitting at the table. He’s washed the blood off his face, and is digging through a first-aid kit with his right hand. “You know how to sneak up on people,” Clint comments, sitting down and pouring two mugs of coffee. Bucky has discarded the fake hand and shrugged off the sweatshirt, leaving him shirtless in Clint’s kitchen.

“Don’t you guys have an infirmary, or something?” Clint asks, gesturing vaguely to Bucky. He’s covered in bruises and scars and cuts, especially around his arm, where the scar tissue is thick and red, extending from his shoulder across his pec.

Bucky pushes the kit away from himself, exhaling through his nose and speaking up for the first time. “We have a doctor. And a glorified mechanic. Speaking of which,” he holds up his left arm. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix a cybernetic arm, would you?”

“Unfortunately no.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky flips open a panel on his wrist and digs around in it. “My  hand isn’t working, but luckily I can move the arm.” He rubs the stubble around his mouth with his right hand, closing his eyes. “The mechanic, Tony, he’s not in New York for a little while.”

“So he can’t fix it.”

“No,” Bucky confirms. He opens his eyes, looking at Clint for a moment, then flipping the panel closed. He takes a long drink of his coffee before saying anything else. “I won’t be able to fight until he can get back.”

Clint mulls this information over, running his finger around the rim of the steaming mug. “No fighting, no money.”

Nodding, his gaze far away, Bucky purses his lips and doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t know much about Bucky’s personal life, but Clint can imagine. He moves closer, scooching his chair until they’re practically side by side, their knees brushing. Clint grabs the first-aid kit, pulling out the disinfecting wipes and opening the package. Bucky doesn’t say anything as Clint brushes it across his face, over the cut on the cheek, and the one on the eyebrow, on the hairline, and so on. His right eye is black and almost swelling, both eyes closing when Clint gently runs his finger over the bruise.

“I’m no doctor,” Clint whispers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky breathes.

The cuts are bandaged with whatever Clint has in the first-aid kit, including a purple band-aid over the eyebrow.

“We match,” Clint teases, gesturing to the various purple bandages covering his arms and fingers.

Bucky looks at them, raising his eyebrows in a fond expression. “What’s with you and purple?”

The best thing Clint can do is shrug. “It’s just always been… our thing. Kate and I.” He rubs awkwardly at his face. “It’s a little leftover. From before.”

They sit in silence, after that, drinking their coffee and sneaking glances at each other.

“You know,” Clint finally says. "You can stay here.” Bucky stares at him, his face blank. Quickly, Clint adds, “just for a few days. If you need it—”

“No, I. Thank you, Clint.” Bucky sniffs, looking down awkwardly. “Steve offered, too, but I. He can’t be keeping me at his place.”

Clint doesn’t ask who Steve is, or what the situation is there, but can feel the sincerity in his voice. “As long as you need it,” he says softly. “Seriously.”

A soft smile sits on Bucky’s face, the corners of his mouth slightly turned up. Clint is reminded again how handsome he is, his long hair hanging around his face and his stubble accenting his chin. When he isn’t frowning or keeping his expression blank, Clint would go as far as to say beautiful . He can’t even imagine Bucky unscarred and bruised, or what he looks like under all the wounds.

Lucky breaks the moment, nudging Bucky with his nose and barking.

Bucky looks down at him, raising his brows. His voice gets higher when he talks to lucky, saying, “hello again.”

“His name is Lucky.” Clint leans his hand on his fist, watching them. “He likes you.”

Bucky runs his hand along Lucky’s head, scratching behind his ears and at his nape. “I bet he likes most people.”

“Maybe. But that’s kind of what dogs are for.” Lucky tips his head back and looks at Clint, his tongue rolling out the side of his mouth in a goofy grin. “Yeah, you know we’re talking about you.”

More silence passes as Clint stands, putting their now empty mugs in the sink. “You can have the bed.” Bucky starts to argue, but Clint cuts him off, “at least for tonight. Rest those bones.”

He accepts reluctantly, letting Clint lead him to the bedroom. “I listened to all your messages, you know.”

Clint tries to hide whatever emotion is boiling in his stomach at that moment, pushing the door to his bedroom open. “Really?” he asks, feeling like his voice has gone up a few octaves.

Bucky seems to take in the sight of the bedroom, disheveled sheets and rumpled clothes on the floor. Lucky has followed them and has already jumped back up into his spot on the bed. “Yes. They were.. A nice thing to come home to.” Bucky shrugs his sweatshirt back on, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaving Clint standing in the doorway. “Your coffee isn’t shitty.”

That wasn’t what Clint was expecting— but takes it anyway. “Thanks.” He turns to go, then, “oh, by the way. That girl you fought—”

Maybe Clint’s imagining it, but it looks like Bucky is smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Something boils over, a sudden rush of emotions. He covers it by letting out a low, quiet, “goodnight, Bucky,” and shutting the door.

-

Soft sheets, warm blankets. There’s a long, blissful moment where Bucky doesn’t realize where he is, just keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow and deep, embracing the warmth and the sunlight on his skin. It doesn’t last long, the unfamiliar feelings settling in his skin soon after waking.

He sits up quickly, blinking hard and fast as his body shifts into defense mode, analyzing his surroundings. Clothes that aren’t his own on the floor, a window letting in sunlight across the bed, holes in the walls, a nightstand covered in sticky notes, wrappers, and plastic bottles, and a yellow dog at his feet.

Right. He’s at Clint’s.

Upon closer inspection, the sticky notes are all from Kate, all addressed to Clint, saying things like “took lucky for a walk before i left, dont forget to text me when you wake up” and “get new batteries for hearing aids” . There are hundreds of them all over the table and on the wall above it and in the drawer. Some are simple, just some numbers and dates, while others take up four notes attached to each other. All signed xoxo Kate .

It’s cute.

Clint isn’t on the couch when Bucky exits the bedroom, or in the kitchen or bathroom. In fact, A sticky note is left on the fridge that wasn’t there the previous night.

Bucky—

Will be back soon

Kate will come to take Lucky out at some point, because I have no idea what you get up to while the sun is up

Be good

Clint

His handwriting is small and curly, the letters pushed tightly together like they might fall off the page. Bucky takes the note and sticks it into his sweatshirt pocket, moving away from the kitchen to wander around the rest of the apartment. It’s different in the sunlight, from when Bucky had arrived last night and had checked all the windows and doors while Clint was making coffee. There’s a pizza box on the coffee table, and a crack running through a tv screen. Dog food bowl on the floor next to a leash. Two toothbrushes on the sink next to an empty orange pill bottle. The whole apartment is quaint , Bucky decides, noting the blankets thrown everywhere and the silly mugs in the cupboards and some pictures on the walls or on tables. Photos of Clint and a dark haired girl who must be Kate, or of the two of them and Lucky. There’s one of Clint and a man that somehow looks more put together when side by side with Clint, his auburn hair hanging over his forehead and his green suit ill-fitting. They must be related , Bucky thinks, looking between their scruffy square jaws and the way their matching crooked smiles don’t really meet their eyes.

Bucky sets the photo back down on the windowsill, looking down at Lucky from where he has emerged from the bedroom. He stretches, the front of his body getting close to the floor and his tail up in the air, then straightens and looks at Bucky. “Good morning,” Bucky says to him, even though it’s more likely well into the afternoon. He doesn’t usually sleep this late, especially not in a place he’s unfamiliar with, but maybe being in an actual, comfortable bed for once forced his body to succumb to sleep. It also helps that Clint, apparently a retired superhero, was asleep just outside the door. A deaf, clumsy superhero who only uses bows and arrows, but a superhero nonetheless.

Lucky jumps up onto the couch and goes right back to sleep, apparently content to wait for Kate to arrive.

The thought of Kate reminds him of Steve— he should probably go to his apartment. Brooklyn Heights isn’t too far away from Bed Stuy. He could catch the C train.

That’s the plan Bucky comes up with, heading to the bedroom to grab his things, shrugging on his shoes and jeans, followed by the stiff fake hand over the fingers that don’t work. It’s uncomfortable, feels like something is freezing his fingers in place while also wrapping them in a hundred layers of saran-wrap. He can hardly use the hand with the glove when his fingers are working , but now that they’re not it looks even faker than usual.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pocket as he walks to the subway and all the way to Steve’s apartment building, until he is knocking on the door. He knocks rhymically; three knocks, a pause, one knock, pause, then two more.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says as he opens the door not long after Bucky knocks. “Did you—”

“Yes,” Bucky cuts him off, shutting the door behind himself and pulling the hand off, immediately breathing a sigh of relief. “I stayed there last night.” He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know what his face looks like, his eyebrows raised high and his jaw loose in a smirk. “Don’t even start with me.” Bucky holds up a hand as he moves up the stairs to Steve’s kitchen.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your silence speaks a thousand words.” Bucky tells him, opening the fridge and grabbing his orange juice, pulling off the cap and drinking straight from the jug.

“Why’d you come here instead of hanging around your new bff’s house then?” Steve grabs the juice from him. “He doesn’t have juice you can steal?”

“Can’t I enjoy the company of my best friend?” Bucky turns to get a good look at him finally. His blond hair is damp from a shower, and a fresh bandage sits over his nose. “Did you break your nose again last night? Maybe it’ll get smaller this time around.”

Steve rolls his eyes, touching the bandage gently. “Stop changing the subject. How’s your guy?”

“You know, for a long time if someone asked me that question I’d assume they were asking about you.”

He gives Bucky a flat look.

Bucky throws his arms up, his left hand hanging limply at the wrist. “I don’t know what to say, okay! He went somewhere this morning and wasn’t back by the time I woke up. His friend was coming to take out their dog and I’m not exactly ready to meet her—”

“Girlfriend?”

“More like a sister, I think.” Bucky continues, “and I hadn’t seen you since before you went on last night, so.”

Steve reaches over and thumps Bucky on the shoulder. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Bucky looks at Steve’s hand where it now rests on his shoulder. There’s a nasty bite mark on the webbing between the thumb and pointer finger. “Who almost took your finger off?

“Bucky.”

“Was it Drax? No, Hulk.”

“ Bucky .”

“It wouldn’t be safe here, you know that. You’d get arrested, I’d probably be killed. It’s a miracle I’m even able to visit once or twice a week without a SWAT team storming the place,” Bucky stammers, shrugging Steve’s hand off his shoulder.

Something odd passes Steve’s face, but it passes soon enough. He looks at Bucky softly, maybe fondly. He notices just then that the purple under Steve’s eyes aren’t fading black eyes, like they’re both used to, but just bags. Fatigue. Bucky runs his fingers over them, like Clint had done the previous night, but it’s less intimate. More… familiar. Tracing what’s already known. Reminds Bucky of when they were kids and he was saving scrawny little Steve from bullies on the playground. Who knew one day it’d be the other way around. Except the bullies were Nazis and the playground is a highway in Washington DC. And maybe Bucky was the bully a little bit in that situation.

Still.

Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and this time Bucky lets him hover close.

“So, this guy …”

Bucky groans, lifting his hands to cover his face, hardly managing to shield anything when his left refuses to comply. “He’s nice , Steve.”

“What, and I’m not?”

“Not nice like you, Captain America. He’s nice like…” Bucky thinks for a moment. “He and his best friend used to be some crime fighting duo who fought enemies with their bows and arrows. And he bought me a drink after I won my first fight in a while, and is letting me stay at his place even though he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know about the shit I’ve done.”

Steve knocks the sides of their heads together affectionately. “If he can get past the underground fighting ring I think he might be okay with the brain washing thing.”

Bucky pulls away, just slightly, enough to raise his eyebrows at his best friend. “Not exactly the same thing.”

~

When Bucky gets back to Clint’s apartment, its nearly evening, the sun setting on the New York skyline. Clint is sitting on the couch eating pizza, Lucky at his side eating his own slice. Bucky stares at them, frowning.

“Should a dog be eating pizza?”

Clint shrugs, not looking up from whatever he’s looking at on his phone. Bucky rounds the couch, sitting on the chair beside the couch to avoid sitting next to Clint. “It’s his favorite food. What did you get up to today?”

“Visited Steve.”

Around a mouthful of pizza, Clint asks, “who’s Steve?”

That’s a great question. “Captain America.” Clint chokes and drops his phone. “My best friend.”

“Your best friend is someone you beat the shit out of on a regular basis?”

Bucky waves a hand. “Our relationship seemed to dwindle down to that even before the accords. Now we just get paid for it.”

The frown on Clint’s face is unpleasant to look at. “What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pass me a slice.” Clint complies, and seems to accept that Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it.

They eat their pizza in relative silence, the only thing breaking it being the sounds of Lucky’s slobbery munching. Clint eats most of the box by himself, leaving it on top of the one that was already discarded on the table when it’s empty.

“You can have your bed back,” Bucky says eventually. “I needed that sleep last night, thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I have every reason to.” Bucky plays absently with his limp metal hand, running his fingers along the panels that he can’t feel as he talks, avoiding looking at Clint, who surely is looking at him. “Steve’s on the enhanced person list, so I can’t stay with him ‘cause he could get arrested. And, well, lets just say that I’m not the safest person for an enhanced person to be harbouring.”

Clint reaches forward suddenly, wrapping his hands around Bucky’s, both metal and flesh. He holds them in such a way that forces the metal one to curl in on itself like a fist, the flesh one cupped over it. His own hold them on top of that, enveloping them almost completely. His hands are surprisingly big; Bucky hadn’t noticed. Archer’s hands.

There’s almost certainly a flush on Bucky’s face, which he can’t even cover because Clint has his hands wrapped up. Maybe his mouth is hanging open a little. He forces himself to look at Clint, his brown eyes meeting Clint’s blue ones. Bucky wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. He snaps his mouth closed, his teeth clicking loudly and filling the air between them.

Clint’s eyes leave Bucky’s, looking down at their hands. He separates them slowly, not pulling away, but leaning in close and studying the metal. “Can you feel it?”

It takes a moment for Bucky to realize what Clint means. “Right now, no. But usually, there’s some sort of sensation. Not exactly touch, but…”

One of Clint’s long fingers runs up the nearly flat plane of Bucky’s left middle finger, catching on the rim of the panel where a fingerprint should be.

Bucky desperately wishes that the hand was up and running properly, just so he could feel the sensation of Clint’s delicate fingers running along it and treating it like it might fall apart in his hands if he doesn’t handle it properly.

Clint stands suddenly, letting go of Bucky’s hand. “Bed,” he mutters, licking his lips and running a hand through his shaggy hair. He turns and looks at Lucky, who jumps off the couch and goes into the room, like he knows exactly what Clint said. Bucky feels cold, like cold water is trickling down his arm and into his body. “Good night,” Clint rushes out, and disappears.

It is only once Bucky is alone, the ghost of a touch along his fingers, that he realizes that his right hand was gripping the seat of the chair so hard that some of the seams have ripped, spilling out cotton.

~

Things get less strange, after that.

Tony is back after a few weeks to fix the arm (“Seriously, Terminator, have you no respect for this fine piece of machinery on you?”), and Bucky is back in the ring. He pays the rent and sleeps in his own bed for the first time in what feels like months but has in reality only been days. Bucky tries not to think about it, but while he lies awake at night worrying about whether or not he really locked his door (he always does), he thinks about how soft Clint’s bed was, and the warm presence of Lucky at his feet, and falls asleep quickly.

And maybe he wonders what it would feel like if Clint held his newly restored metal hand like he did that night, and what kind of sensations that would cause. He rubs his fingers together, staring at the peeling wall absent of any arrow holes, and knows that it doesn’t feel the same.

~

Bucky gets to Clint’s one evening after a fight, in considerably better shape than he would usually be. Someone newer, apparently, not as experienced.

The door swings open almost as soon as he knocks, revealing a pale and tired looking Clint. His eyes are rimmed with purple, like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep the past few days, his hair sitting flat and sadly on his head.

Bucky steps in and around him, venturing further into the apartment. Once the door is closed and Clint has followed Bucky into the living room, he says, “do you want me to ask?”

Clint gestures vaguely.

“Are you okay?”

Another motion, followed by a deep sigh. He flops back onto the couch, an arm thrown over his face. Bucky sits beside him, enough distance between them so they’re not touching but not so far that Bucky can’t reach forward if he needs to.

Finally, from behind his arm, Clint speaks up. “My brother died six years ago around this time.”

Bucky glances over at the photo of Clint and the man on the windowsill. “I’m sorry,” is all he can say, sitting still and watching Clint carefully.

“He wasn’t the greatest brother,” Clint admits, shrugging. He sits up, wrinkling his nose as he reaches forward and grabs something from the coffee table. “But today, I got a letter from him.”

“You what?”

Clint holds up what must be the letter, five or six pages stapled at the corner with creases where they were once folded. “It’s definitely him. He used all our codes, and apologized for—” Clint cuts himself off, clearly holding back something, then continues, “for what happened. Among other things.” Clint adds that last part somewhat grumpily. He flips through the pages of the letter absently while Bucky stares at him.

Bucky knows a thing or two about dead men coming back to life. He just doesn’t know how to apply it here. “Did he explain how…?”

“Not really. Something about wanting a better life away from the shit I was getting up to, which, frankly, wasn’t any better than what he was doing, but whatever.”

Seizing the opportunity, Bucky reaches forward and grabs Clint’s hand, dark metal stark against Clint’s pale skin. He seems surprised by the action but doesn’t pull away, much to Bucky’s relief. He just sits, unmoving, holding onto the letter in one hand and Bucky with the other.

“I’m not very good at comfort,” Bucky says.

“You don’t need to be.” Apparently Bucky doesn’t need to be a lot of things, to Clint. Maybe that’s okay.

At some point they’ve managed to move until they’re shoulder to shoulder, hands held together. They’re not really looking at each other, Clint down at the letter and at their hands, Bucky around the apartment and at the photo across from them, hardly visible from where they sit, just the green of the brother’s suit, the purple of Clint’s shirt, the starkness of their hair against a dark background.

Bucky isn’t even paying attention when Clint brushes his fingers along the gash on Bucky’s forehead with his fingers. His head snaps back around to find that Clint is close and looking at him strangely, his eyes flicking around Bucky’s face. “Did you fight good today?”

“I always fight good.”

Clint laughs. A decent, hearty laugh that makes him tip his head back and move a little bit away from Bucky. He realizes, looking at the soft smile that falls onto Clint’s lips after he gets the laugh out, how much he’d like to kiss him.

He does, when Clint rocks back forward, opening his mouth to say something. They’re still, for a moment, their lips pressed together, but then Clint moans, just a small, quiet thing as he drops the papers, and Bucky presses forward even more, his right hand moving up to hold the side of Clint’s head. His fingers press into soft blonde hair at the same time Clint’s hands are reaching up to hold onto either side of Bucky’s neck, underneath his curtain of dark hair.

Clint pulls away first to get a breath, diving back in before Bucky can even say anything. He wants to get his hands everywhere, they move up and down the side of Clint’s face and side, pulling their chests together. It doesn’t seem like they can get close enough, like this is something they bothneed , finally something they can agree on.

Bucky’s mouth moves to the side of Clint’s, then down until he’s pressing his face into the soft skin of his neck. “We should’ve done this a while ago,” Clint breathes, one of his hands now at the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky just laughs, hot air against Clint’s neck as he does so.

A moan follows the laugh soon enough as Clint manages to slip a hand between them, digging underneath Bucky’s shirt and near the hem of his pants. “Okay, bedroom,” Bucky gasps, separating themselves. When he looks at Clint, with his pink lips and rumpled hair, he looks closer to himself than he had earlier, somehow. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Bucky again, hauling them both up and pulling them towards his bedroom.

They stay close throughout the short walk to the room, getting distracted a few times by each other, finally shutting the door behind them after way, way too long.