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deliciouskeys · 17 days ago

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Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024 prompt #27: Temperature Play

Butchlander; Rated... G? But honestly has horror elements so probably not G. TW: I'm not going to say agere, but some kind of unhealthy mental state is portrayed.

This was originally supposed to be a joke fill of this prompt and ~500 words. Instead, it became >4k words and not funny at all, I'm sorry to report.

Just a quick (needless) note: This is set presumably some time after S4E5 where they get Stan Edgar out of prison for a hot minute, but in some sort of alternative timeline where all the turning points of S4E8 either haven't happened yet, or won't ever happen because of a canon divergence. Aaand that makes it sound more complicated than it needs to be. Carry on.

Butcher isn't sure if there's anything new he could learn about Homelander by going to the compound where he grew up, but it can't hurt to check. Stan Edgar tipped him off about the secret location, a nondescript office building with a largely empty ground floor and sham offices to act as a front in the windows, but underground there is a facility that goes six stories deep. It's close to the landmark Edison Labs in West Orange, NJ. It's not a long drive from the city for Butcher to make. An afternoon trip-- he can be in and out. Stan assured him there was only one security guard on every floor and Butcher has a bulletproof vest and several guns hidden in his coat, so he's prepared to breach the facility, maybe grill the scientists he finds in there, although he has doubts he’s find many who worked there in the era he’s interested in. But right now the parking lot is completely empty. Odd, because Stan said the facility was still in pretty heavy use, though nothing like the heyday of the seventies and eighties.

It's too risky to park in the lot and be that conspicuous sole car, so Butcher leaves his car far away and walks. Something feels off. There doesn't seem to be a single person anywhere on site, although maybe he's doing something very stupid by just walking up to the facility's door in broad daylight. Maybe he's about to be snipered off of some other building or even the roof of this one.

There's no one anywhere that he can see. He tries the door and it opens, against his expectations. There's a security desk behind what looks bulletproof glass, but it's smashed or melted on one side and there's no one there. There’s caution tape in a lazy X across the elevator which Butcher doesn't even tear away before pressing the only button, the one with the down arrow, because he has no expectation that it will do anything. But the elevator dings and its doors open. And against his better judgement, Butcher pulls the tape off the wall edges and enters and goes straight for the lowest floor. B6.

His instinct says something is seriously wrong. Stan described a very different scene to him. This building looks abandoned and as if something violent happened. When the door opens to the B6 level a strong smell of bleach hits Butcher hard. The place looks empty, but there's still scientific equipment. Butcher can't tell whether it's modern or not, but something about the scene looks like people have been here recently. He steps out cautiously, half expecting a gun to cock and press into the back of his head, but there's no one around. Where's security? He saw a camera on the way in, and it wasn't obvious if it was on or not. There aren't even any cameras visible on this level.

Butcher's not one for getting scared, but there's something decidedly creepy about the place and how empty and silent it is, aside from the hum of some machines that are apparently still on, and the air being circulated through the ducts. Yet more evidence this building is in use, at least occasionally. It looks hastily abandoned, but there's no way it's been abandoned for years. He approaches the wall where there's a framed picture hanging up. Three scientists in lab coats, maybe four, if the woman with the big 80s hair is also one, although she looks like someone from corporate. But what Butcher's eye is drawn to is the child in the middle, dressed in a white nightgown. He stares at the face, at first not even certain whether it's a boy or a girl, but slowly coming to recognize the features that would later morph into the face of the man he's been so obsessed with over the years. It's completely uncanny. It was one thing to hear Vogelbaum wax sentimental about Homelander as a five year old, but it's quite another to actually see a picture before puberty really hit. His expression looks pouty, sullen. He's certainly more than five years old here, which means they had already "gone to work on him" for a few years, whatever Vogelbaum meant by that ominous sounding phrase.

Butcher takes a picture on his phone and looks around for more. He's got his curiosity to find more on the one hand, but he's also quite sick to his stomach. This all feels wrong. The place is hideously depressing, and Butcher's mind is starting to play tricks on him, thinking he hears someone or something lurking, maybe on some floor above. He wishes he'd brought someone else along. He can't believe he's chickening out but he doesn't think he can take any more of this. There's a heavy red metal door that's ajar, almost inviting him to look inside, but Butcher has never had such a strong premonition to leave without investigating any further. He heads toward the elevator, is about to press the button to go up when the elevator suddenly starts ascending, making a ding noise as it passes each floor.

Maybe it's just programmed to return to the ground floor, Butcher tells himself, but there's cold sweat running down his back. He presses the button anyway, sees the elevator reach the ground floor, pause, and then head back down again. It feels like it takes forever. Butcher cannot wait to get back up, leave this claustrophobic stuffy underground hellhole behind, go back to his car and never ever come back here again.

The metal elevator doors open and Butcher steps back when he sees none other than Homelander standing in the elevator.

"Long time no see, William. I'm so flattered you decided to investigate where I grew up!" Homelander walks out, effectively blocking Butcher's path to get inside, so Butcher stands still.

As scared as he should be to see Homelander catch him in the act of snooping around this lab, he's almost relieved to not be alone in here. He'd prefer to be on the highway, hauling ass back to the city, of course, but this is how it's playing out.

Homelander raises his eyebrows dramatically. "Or at least that's what I assume you were doing. Hm?"

Butcher shrugs. "More or less."

"If you're wondering how I knew you were here, Vought Analytics kindly tipped me off when they caught you on camera. Pretty ballsy, just walking right in." Homelander grins, then takes a look around. "Wow, they really cleaned this place up since I last visited. Although the bleach fumes don't seem to air out very well from this level."

Butcher has no idea what to answer, or where this conversation is meant to be going.

"You want a tour? Or… what, a dramatic reenactment of my childhood, or…?"

Butcher stands still, mulling over whether there's any chance he leaves here alive, and whether what he says has any bearing on that.

Homelander takes it upon himself to start narrating some kind of demented walk-through without waiting for an answer. "Well, here…" He spreads his arms and gestures around. "Is where I spent all my conscious childhood years until they finally started letting me out at sixteen."

"You lived here?" Butcher asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Oh yes, all my time. In here. I don't remember seeing the sun or open skies until I was probably ten years old, and very rarely. I had books about the outdoors, I dreamed about it. But I never saw it." Homelander's smile falters, then reanimates itself. "So yes, not only did I spend most of my life on this floor, I actually spent quite a bit of the time just locked away in here…"

He gestures toward the ominous red door. Butcher follows him inside even though he takes one longing look at the elevator, knowing there's no way Homelander would let his captive audience just walk out.

The room seems blindingly bright compared to the rest of the floor, white walls everywhere, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. It feels cold and clinical, and Butcher has a suspicion that the white paint is a thin layer over reinforced metal. It's completely empty.

"Yes, this room is where I slept, ate my meals, did my studies, took my shits. And if they felt like it, where I was just abandoned for days when they working on something else and couldn't be bothered with me." Homelander stops roving the room with his eyes and fixes them on Butcher, standing akimbo. "Well? What do you think?"

Butcher wonders if Homelander actually expects an answer. It seems like he's really waiting. "Mate… I think the whole thing is fucked up beyond belief. That's what I think."

Homelander smiles, and the smile almost looks genuinely friendly. "That's what I say! But as a child, I didn't know anything else, you know? They told me I was special and this is what they needed to do, and that this was an acceptable way for me to live, and who was I to argue with them? They didn't like it when I complained about anything. It was frowned upon. Moving on…"

Butcher is all too happy to obey Homelander's beckoning gesture and follow him out of the claustrophobic little room. Butcher was never a believer in vibes, but the whole place makes him uneasy.

"Here's the table where the scientists who worked on this floor took lunch. They used to talk and joke and laugh, and I think listening to that banter was probably how I learned to sound like I was raised in a normal family. I could watch them out of the window in the door if they didn't cover it up with metal because they wanted privacy. I never got any privacy. There were four cameras in that tiny room, one in each ceiling corner, and my whole life was recorded. I wonder if they kept all those tapes. Must be the most boring footage in the world, so they probably recycled them unless I did something interesting. I should say that every birthday they did allow me to sit with them at the table and have my piece of cake and they'd all pretend we were friends and that we were celebrating my birthday and not their own milestone that they were congratulating themselves for. Back then they might have even been celebrating my real birthday, before the corporate one they came up with in committee that fit the television schedule well. Not that I remember what my real birthdate was. They didn't really emphasize dates or give me access to calendars or anything… I never had a good grasp on how much time was passing…."

Homelander really sounds like he's talking to himself at this point, processing something, face twitching as his efforts to smile keep drooping into a more sinister expression with bared teeth. He trails off and sighs at some point. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

Butcher just stares at him.

"Sorry, am I boring you?" Homelander asks, and his face is cold and collected again.

"Not at all, unfortunately," Butcher answers. "I don't know what the fuck they were doing to you, but it's sick. A company can't own a child."

"Oh it's completely illegal," Homelander says, laughing, and his face is friendlier again, an amiable smile playing on his lips. "But you don't make trillions of dollars without breaking a few people, am I right?"

"Why are you still working for Vought?" Butcher asks, suddenly feeling angry. It feels like anger on Homelander's behalf, which is a new emotion for Butcher and he's not sure he likes it.

"I'm not working for them," Homelander says. "I took over the entire thing. They're working for me."

"Keep telling yourself that. How do you know they're not raising another little supe like you, somewhere out in some other secret facility. Maybe tens of them. Maybe torturing them until only the strongest survives?"

"I- I'd know about that, as a board member."

Butcher hears the falter in his voice.

"Anyway. Sometimes Barb- the head of the lab would let me walk around the lab and sit at this table when the rest of them weren't having lunch and working. She used to give me pen and paper to draw and write, but… I guess eventually they didn't let me anymore when I kept drawing things they didn't like… One of the lab members, Joe, I think was his name, Joe Nesbitt, yes. I should remember them all, but it's not like they wore nametags and didn't always introduce themselves depending on how closely they worked with me. But Joe had this dog he'd bring in. I thought it was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. You have to remember, I didn't ever get to see other children or pets or anything except these labworkers and janitors. Everything else was just from books. Well Joe was bringing his dog in, even though I don't think Vogelbaum or Barbara approved at all. He'd let me play with the dog, which was… pretty remarkable if you think about how little they trusted me to control my powers back then. I wasn't supposed to touch the dog of course. But if I sat on my heels in the middle of the floor, the dog would usually come and want to play, and pounce on me, and even lick me. And I wanted to pet it so bad, but I just kept my hands behind my back to remind myself not to ever touch it. I played fetch with it, even though they weren't happy that I was making the dog run around the room. Eventually they told Joe to stop bringing the dog, that it was inappropriate and distracting to everyone. He was an actually kind guy. I remember they were discussing it, maybe thinking I couldn't hear behind the door of the Bad Room, but the Bad Room only blocked my vision, not my hearing. He said he wasn't bringing the dog in for himself, that he was bringing it in for me. That he thought I desperately needed a pet to take care of, to develop my personality properly. I remember when I listened, my breath hitching, wishing so hard they'd let me have a pet. But they said no, that it was an unnecessary distraction for me too. But he was right of course. A pet would have been so good for me. I should have told them I wanted a pet. I should have insisted. But instead I thought I shouldn't ask for something if they didn't want me to have it."

It's a bit bewildering to hear so much sadness pour out of this cruel, deplorable shitstain of a supe, but it's so hard not to feel something for him. Being here is creepy, and it's bringing out strange memories in this guy.

"I don't know what happened to Joe. I think he ended up getting sick. Died of cancer or something, even before I was twelve. Wouldn't be surprised if working here wasn't good for a mudperson's health, and yet so many people seemed to work here forever and carry on with their pointless little lives just fine."

"Maybe we should go upstairs…" Butcher says, cautious about saying anything that will make Homelander snap out of whatever mood this is, and maybe snap completely.

Homelander smiles. "No, we can't leave before we see the oven."

Butcher has had the sinking feeling all along that this is all one prolonged monologue before Homelander executes him, and now he knows the method by which he will die. Well, it was a good run, he guesses. He eyes the elevator, but there's just no way. Maybe getting lasered in the back is going to be less painful than whatever Homelander has planned for him, but he just can't force himself to make a break for it, his legs feeling strangely leaden. Maybe he's become hypnotized by the story, being able to imagine it all the more vividly now that he's seen the childhood photograph on the wall.

"This is where they burned me, to build up my resistance to heat damage. Probably weekly if not more often. I don't know why they had a window. I guess to watch the progress inside? Not sure they would have seen anything happening other than me crying my little eyes out. All the window allowed me to do was watch how people were just going about their work, except for the couple who were directly involved in baking me in the oven. No one gave a shit that I was suffering."

Butcher raises his eyebrows when Homelander leans down and starts taking off his boots. By the time he's taken off his cape and starts opening the magnetized flap of his top half, Butcher can't help himself any longer. "What the hell are you doing right now?"

Homelander turns toward him sharply. "I want to show you. I want to show you exactly what they used to do to me. It won't hurt me now that I'm an adult. It hurt back then, but it won't hurt now. They got rid of my sensitivities that way."

Butcher can barely follow what he's saying. "Are you … going into the oven?"

Homelander nods nonchalantly.

"You completely off your rocker? There's no way it's still operational anyway. What the fuck's the point?"

"Oh it's operational," Homelander says. "I saw it in action a few weeks ago."

Butcher is so confused he finds himself literally scratching his head, trying to make sense of what's happening. It feels like that fairytale where someone has to trick the witch into looking into the oven to push her in, except this witch is hopping into the oven himself, fully aware of what he's doing. Or maybe not fully aware, since he seems to be in some weird giddy nostalgic fucked up spiral.

Homelander is already naked by the time Butcher shakes those thoughts away.

"Why the hell do they still have this oven? Doesn't that mean they're still doing this to other kids?" Butcher asks.

Homelander shrugs. "Maybe they use it to bake glassware now. You know, to sterilize it? I have no idea. They were using the Bad Room to store all their old broken and outdated equipment, so who knows. It's empty now though. They cleaned it out pretty thoroughly…"

Butcher doesn't like the smile on Homelander's face. It looks crazed. And it's not surprising, since he's determined to do something absolutely nonsensical. Butcher really needs to leave this building. There's some terrible energy or feng shui or juju or whatever people call it in here. Butcher felt better energy in the Tower of London as a child.

Homelander walks in through the oven's door.

"Why do you have to be naked for this?" Butcher asks.

"Because this thing gets over 1000 degrees inside. There's literal gas flames that come through the panels. My suit's built against the elements but I don't know if it'll hold up to that."

Butcher just can't help himself anymore. "And why the fuck do you feel the need to get in there, again?" What is he saying? Why is he offended by the idea of Homelander doing something so stupidly reckless. He probably knows he won't be hurt. And what if he is? Since when has Butcher ever worried about a supe hurting himself by doing something moronic? But something about spending his time down here, listening to Homelander's disturbing stream of conscience, makes Butcher feel like he's the designated driver, like he's strangely responsible for whatever happens next.

"I just want to show you." Homelander motions him over. "Shut the door and turn on that button on the side. The numbers above the knob tell you the temperature it's set to reach."

Butcher shuts the door, staring at Homelander's face through the thick transparent window, made of who knows what material.

"Well? Go on." Homelander's voice sounds very faint and muffled from inside.

Butcher stares at the panel. "1200C" is what the knob is set to. What the hell is he doing? And why is he hesitating? He hits the button, surprised at the immediate swell of guilt he feels. He hears the door automatically bolt locked, and watches as the back wall splits like some heavy duty metal Venetian blinds, revealing a wall of flames right behind them.

Homelander's expression is manic. "Doesn't hurt like it used to," he announces, loud even through the thick glass, and yet when Butcher approaches the door to watch what's going on inside, Homelander is hugging himself and cowering and wincing a little bit, scrunching his eyes shut. Doesn't look painless.

Butcher glances back at the elevator. Well, here's his fucking chance. Even if Homelander is capable of breaking the door open, Butcher might have time to take the elevator and bound across the lot and be long gone before he manages to do that.

He starts backing up, still watching Homelander inside, flames all around him. Butcher doesn't believe in Heaven or Hell, but it certainly looks like Homelander is in one of those two places. Butcher's so close, so close to just turning around, walking towards the elevator, and getting the hell out of there. But Homelander looks up at him and his eyes widen when he sees how far Butcher has distanced himself. It looks like it finally dawns on him that he gave Butcher the perfect escape while trying to relive his demented childhood traumas.

Butcher can't do it. In spite of every rational thought telling him not to walk back, he walks back to the panel and shuts the oven off. The door remains locked, probably a safety precaution since the inside temperature is still scorchingly hot. Homelander stands near the window, eyes big and round, and it's fucking uncanny but Butcher can't unsee the child version of his face etched into his current features.

Maybe he should leave now. At least he's turned the oven off, right? That has to be enough. "Is the door gonna unlock on its own?" Butcher verifies, hoping the answer is yes and that he can leave with a clear conscience.

"You have to override the safety from the outside. It won't open from the inside after being powered up." Homelander says, and Butcher can't tell if he sounds sheepish because of how quiet and muffled he is behind the glass, or because he's embarrassed about trusting that Butcher will stay and do all the honors.

But Butcher does stay and do the honors, mad as it all is. The door unlocks and opens, a rush of extremely hot air blowing into the rest of the room, fortunately far enough away from where Butcher is standing that he only feels the air gust and not so much the temperature. Homelander traipses out of the oven, arms still wrapped around his torso.

"Looks like it still hurts from where I'm standin'," Butcher says. Homelander is looking at the ground and says nothing before picking up his suit and trying to put it back on, hissing quietly when anything touches his skin.

"You're an idiot." Butcher can't help himself. He's in complete disbelief. "Why on earth did you think that was a good idea?"

"It hurt more as a child," Homelander declares, as if that answers the question. But he seems to be regaining his composure. No harm no foul with these supes, even if you stick them in an inferno. "I just needed to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as I remember it."

"I'm sure it was as bad," Butcher says. He still doesn't know what happens next. As much as he's calling Homelander an idiot in his thoughts, he might be the bigger idiot for staying down here and saving him from himself. Now he might pay the ultimate price.

"I think that's all I have to say about this place…" Homelander says. "Funny. I killed a lot of the people who could verify that all the stuff I'm saying they did to me is true. Now maybe no one will ever know. And I'm fine with that. You don't have to remember anything I told you here. It's dead and buried in the past and has nothing to do with the present."

"I think it has something to do with the present…" Butcher can't help but counter.

"Doesn't matter. I'm thinking about the future, About Ryan and all that. And how I'll make sure he never goes through anything like I did." Homelander's face twists into anger again. "Did I even need to go through all that? It still hurts. It still fucking hurts. Maybe they didn't inure me to anything. Maybe they just told me they did and I believed them. Maybe it was all one big waste of time that could have been avoided."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Butcher says.

Homelander sniffs something like a laugh without any mirth, walks towards the elevator and presses the button to go upstairs. Butcher hesitates to follow, not quite believing that his ordeal is over.

"Well?" Homelander sound impatient after he walks in and holds the elevator by sticking out his arm, waiting for Butcher to make his way in. "Or were you planning on trying to find secret documents or something?"

"Nope," Butcher mumbles. Maybe he should, but he's not about to stay down there any longer than he has to.

"They took all the important documents once they cleared the place out. They had to do a bunch of cleanup anyway after my visit. Think they took everything important and stashed it away from busybodies like you."

"Left that picture on the wall," Butcher says, not sure why he's engaging in this conversation, but it's surreal to stand with Homelander in an elevator and openly discuss his efforts to get intel on him. "Maybe you should have taken it with you."

"Oh that thing, with Barbara and the rest?" Homelander makes a sour face. "Should have thrown it out. That's a chapter of my life I don't ever want to think about again."

Butcher doesn't know who Barbara is but guesses she must be the woman in the picture. He, for one, is glad he has a copy on his phone. Something about it is haunting but very very evocative, like he sees the man in front of him in a new light, and he didn't think that was possible after all the research and study he's already done on him over the years, and how crystallized his hatred has become.

Butcher is tempted to get down and kiss the ground when they finally walk out of the building, grateful he's no longer six floors down below.

"Don't come snooping around Vought properties," Homelander tells him His tone sounds official, like the voice he uses to give PSAs on TV. Not at all like the broken, slightly stuttering voice that was recounting his childhood down in B6.

Butcher flinches away when Homelander takes off without any warning, pushing off the asphalt and launching himself into the sky with a completely unnecessary sonic boom. He watches him fly towards Manhattan and slowly makes his way to where he left his car, checking his phone to make sure he did save the photo from the lab wall.

For safekeeping. Nothing stranger than that.

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#butchlander #billy butcher #homelander #homelander's disturbing past #cozy corner kinktober 2024 #cozy corner kinktober #the boys #the boys tv #fic #mystuff

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badnewswhatsleft · 9 months ago

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2023 september - rock sound #300 (fall out boy cover) scans

transcript below cut!

WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE

With the triumphant ‘So Much (For) Stardust’ capturing a whole new generation of fans, Fall Out Boy are riding high, celebrating their past while looking towards a bright future. Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump reflect on recent successes and the lessons learned from two decades of writing and performing together.

WORDS: James Wilson-Taylor PHOTOS: Elliot Ingham

You have just completed a US summer tour that included stadium shows and some of your most ambitious production to date. What were your aims going into this particular show?

PETE: Playing stadiums is a funny thing. I pushed pretty hard to do a couple this time because I think that the record Patrick came up with musically lends itself to that feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. When we were designing the cover to the album, it was meant to be all tangible, which was a reaction to tokens and skins that you can buy and avatars. The title is made out of clay, and the painting is an actual painting. We wanted to approach the show in that way as well. We’ve been playing in front of a gigantic video wall for the past eight years. Now, we wanted a stage show where you could actually walk inside it.

Did adding the new songs from ‘So Much (For) Stardust’ into the setlist change the way you felt about them?

PATRICK: One of the things that was interesting about the record was that we took a lot of time figuring out what it was going to be, what it was going to sound like. We experimented with so many different things. I was instantly really proud. I felt really good about this record but it wasn’t until we got on stage and you’re playing the songs in between our catalogue that I really felt that. It was really noticeable from the first day on this tour - we felt like a different band. There’s a new energy to it. There was something that I could hear live that I couldn’t hear before.

You also revisited a lot of older tracks and b-sides on this tour, including many from the ‘Folie à Deux’-era. What prompted those choices?

PETE: There were some lean years where there weren’t a lot of rock bands being played on pop radio or playing award shows so we tried to play the biggest songs, the biggest versions of them. We tried to make our thing really airtight, bulletproof so that when we played next to whoever the top artist was, people were like, ‘oh yeah, they should be here.’ The culture shift in the world is so interesting because now, maybe rather than going wider, it makes more sense to go deeper with people. We thought about that in the way that we listen to music and the way we watch films. Playing a song that is a b-side or barely made a record but is someone’s favourite song makes a lot of sense in this era. PATRICK: I think there also was a period there where, to Pete’s point, it was a weird time to be a rock band. We had this very strange thing that happened to us, and not a lot of our friends for some reason, where we had a bunch of hits, right? And it didn’t make any sense to me. It still doesn’t make sense to me. But there was a kind of novelty, where we could play a whole set of songs that a lot of people know. It was fun and rewarding for us to do that. But then you run the risk of playing the same set forever. I want to love the songs that we play. I want to care about it and put passion into what we do. And there’s no sustainable way to just do the same thing every night and not get jaded. We weren’t getting there but I really wanted to make sure that we don’t ever get there. PETE: In the origin of Fall Out Boy, what happened at our concerts was we knew how to play five songs really fast and jumped off walls and the fire marshal would shut it down. It was what made the show memorable, but we wanted to be able to last and so we tried to perfect our show and the songs and the stage show and make it flawless. Then you don’t really know how much spontaneity you want to include, because something could go wrong. When we started this tour, and we did a couple of spontaneous things, it opened us up to more. Because things did go wrong and that’s what made the show special. We’re doing what is the most punk rock version of what we could be doing right now.

You seem generally a lot more comfortable celebrating your past success at this point in your career.

PETE: I think it’s actually not a change from our past. I love those records, but I never want to treat them in a cynical way. I never want there to be a wink and a smile where we’re just doing this because it’s the anniversary. This was us celebrating these random songs and we hope people celebrate them with us. There was a purity to it that felt in line with how we’ve always felt about it. I love ‘Folie à Deux’ - out of any Fall Out Boy record that’s probably the one I would listen to. But I just never want it to be done in a cynical way, where we feel like we have to. But celebrating it in a way where there’s the purity of how we felt when we wrote the song originally, I think that’s fucking awesome. PATRICK: Music is a weird art form. Because when you’re an actor and you play a character, that is a specific thing. James Bond always wears a suit and has a gun and is a secret agent. If you change one thing, that’s fine, but you can’t really change all of it. But bands are just people. You are yourself. People get attached to it like it’s a story but it’s not. That was always something that I found difficult. For the story, it’s always good to say, ‘it’s the 20th anniversary, let’s go do the 20th anniversary tour’, that’s a good story thing. But it’s not always honest. We never stopped playing a lot of the songs from ‘Take This To Your Grave’, right? So why would I need to do a 20-year anniversary and perform all the songs back to back? The only reason would be because it would probably sell a lot of tickets and I don’t really ever want to be motivated by that, frankly. One of the things that’s been amazing is that now as the band has been around for a while, we have different layers of audience. I love ‘Folie à Deux’, I do. I love that record. But I had a really personally negative experience of touring on it. So that’s what I think of when I think of that record initially. It had to be brought back to me for me to appreciate it, for me to go, ‘oh, this record is really great. I should be happy with this. I should want to play this.’ So that’s why we got into a lot of the b-sides because we realised that our perspectives on a lot of these songs were based in our feelings and experiences from when we were making them. But you can find new experiences if you play those songs. You can make new memories with them.

You alluded there to the 20th anniversary of ‘Take This To Your Grave’. Obviously you have changed and developed as a band hugely since then. But is there anything you can point to about making that debut record that has remained a part of your process since then?

PETE: We have a language, the band, and it’s definitely a language of cinema and film. That’s maintained through time. We had very disparate music tastes and influences but I think film was a place we really aligned. You could have a deep discussion because none of us were filmmakers. You could say which part was good and which part sucked and not hurt anybody’s feelings, because you weren’t going out to make a film the next day. Whereas with music, I think if we’d only had that to talk about, we would have turned out a different band. PATRICK: ‘Take This To Your Grave’, even though it’s absolutely our first record, there’s an element of it that’s still a work in progress. It is still a band figuring itself out. Andy wasn’t even officially in the band for half of the recording, right? I wasn’t even officially the guitar player for half of the recording. We were still bumbling through it. There was something that popped up a couple times throughout that record where you got these little inklings of who the band really was. We really explored that on ‘From Under The Cork Tree’. So when we talk about what has remained the same… I didn’t want to be a singer, I didn’t know anything about singing, I wasn’t planning on that. I didn’t even plan to really be in this band for that long because Pete had a real band that really toured so I thought this was gonna be a side project. So there’s always been this element within the band where I don’t put too many expectations on things and then Pete has this really big ambition, creatively. There’s this great interplay between the two of us where I’m kind of oblivious, and I don’t know when I’m putting out a big idea and Pete has this amazing vision to find what goes where. There’s something really magical about that because I never could have done a band like this without it. We needed everybody, we needed all four of us. And I think that’s the thing that hasn’t changed - the four of us just being ourselves and trying to figure things out. Listening back to ‘Folie’ or ‘Infinity On High’ or ‘American Beauty’, I’m always amazed at how much better they are than I remember. I listened to ‘MANIA’ the other day, and I have a lot of misgivings about that record, a lot of things I’m frustrated about. But then I’m listening to it and I’m like ‘this is pretty good.’ There’s a lot of good things in there. I don’t know why, it’s kind of like you can’t see those things. It’s kind of amazing to have Pete be able to see those things. And likewise, sometimes Pete has no idea when he writes something brilliant, as a lyricist, and I have to go, ‘No, I’m gonna keep that one, I’m gonna use that.’

On ‘So Much (For) Stardust’, you teamed up with producer Neal Avron again for the first time since 2008. Given how much time has passed, did it take a minute to reestablish that connection or did you pick up where you left off?

PATRICK: It really didn’t feel like any time had passed between us and Neal. It was pretty seamless in terms of working with him. But then there was also the weird aspect where the last time we worked with him was kind of contentious. Interpersonally, the four of us were kind of fighting with each other… as much as we do anyway. We say that and then that myth gets built bigger than it was. We were always pretty cool with each other. It’s just that the least cool was making ‘Folie’. So then getting into it again for this record, it was like no time has passed as people but the four of us got on better so we had more to bring to Neal. PETE: It’s a little bit like when you return to your parents’ house for a holiday break when you’re in college. It’s the same house but now I can drink with my parents. We’d grown up and the first times we worked with Neal, he had to do so much more boy scout leadership, ‘you guys are all gonna be okay, we’re gonna do this activity to earn this badge so you guys don’t fucking murder each other.’ This time, we probably got a different version of Neal that was even more creative, because he had to do less psychotherapy. He went deep too. Sometimes when you’re in a session with somebody, and they’re like, ‘what are we singing about?’, I’ll just be like, ‘stuff’. He was not cool with ‘stuff’. I would get up and go into the bathroom outside the studio and look in the mirror, and think ‘what is it about? How deep are we gonna go?’ That’s a little but scarier to ask yourself. If last time Neal was like a boy scout leader, this time, it was more like a Sherpa. He was helping us get to the summit.

The title track of the album also finds you in a very reflective mood, even bringing back lyrics from ‘Love From The Other Side’. How would you describe the meaning behind that title and the song itself?

PETE: The record title has a couple of different meanings, I guess. The biggest one to me is that we basically all are former stars. That’s what we’re made of, those pieces of carbon. It still feels like the world’s gonna blow and it’s all moving too fast and the wrong things are moving too slow. That track in particular looks back at where you sometimes wish things had gone differently. But this is more from the perspective of when you’re watching a space movie, and they’re too far away and they can’t quite make it back. It doesn’t matter what they do and at some point, the astronaut accepts that. But they’re close enough that you can see the look on their face. I feel like there’s moments like that in the title track. I wish some things were different. But, as an adult going through this, you are too far away from the tether, and you’re just floating into space. It is sad and lonely but in some ways, it’s kind of freeing, because there’s other aspects of our world and my life that I love and that I want to keep shaping and changing. PATRICK: I’ll open up Pete’s lyrics and I just start hearing things. It almost feels effortless in a lot of ways. I just read his lyrics and something starts happening in my head. The first line, ‘I’m in a winter mood, dreaming of spring now’, instantly the piano started to form to me. That was a song that I came close to not sending to the band. When I make demos, I’ll usually wait until I have five or six to send to everybody. I didn’t know if anyone was gonna like this. It’s too moody or it’s not very us. But it was pretty unanimous. Everyone liked that one. I knew this had to end the record. It took on a different life in the context of the whole album. Then on the bridge section, I knew it was going to be the lyrics from ‘Love From The Other Side’. It’s got to come back here. It’s the bookends, but I also love lyrically what it does, you know, ‘in another life, you were my babe’, going back to that kind of regret, which feels different in ‘Love From The Other Side’ than it does here. When the whole song came together, it was the statement of the record.

Aside from the album, you have released a few more recent tracks that have opened you up to a whole new audience, most notably the collaboration with Taylor Swift on ‘Electric Touch’.

PETE: Taylor is the only artist that I’ve met or interacted with in recent times who creates exactly the art of who she is, but does it on such a mass level. So that’s breathtaking to watch from the sidelines. The way fans traded friendship bracelets, I don’t know what the beginning of it was, but you felt that everywhere. We felt that, I saw that in the crowd on our tour. I don’t know Taylor well, but I think she’s doing exactly what she wants and creating exactly the art that she wants to create. And doing that, on such a level, is really awe-inspiring to watch. It makes you want to make the biggest, weirdest version of our thing and put that out there.

Then there was the cover of Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’, which has had some big chart success for you. That must have taken you slightly by surprise.

PATRICK: It’s pretty unexpected. Pete and I were going back and forth about songs we should cover and that was an idea that I had. This is so silly but there was a song a bunch of years ago I had written called ‘Dark Horse’ and then there was a Katy Perry song called ‘Dark Horse’ and I was like, ‘damn it’, you know, I missed the boat on that one. So I thought if we don’t do this cover, somebody else is gonna do it. Let’s just get in the studio and just do it. We spent way more time on those lyrics than you would think because we really wanted to get a specific feel. It was really fun and kind of loose, we just came together in Neal’s house and recorded it in a day. PETE: There’s irreverence to it. I thought the coolest thing was when Billy Joel got asked about it, and he was like, ‘I’m not updating it, that’s fine, go for it.’ I hope if somebody ever chose to update one of ours, we’d be like that. Let them do their thing, they’ll have that version. I thought that was so fucking cool.

It’s also no secret that the sound you became most known for in the mid-2000s is having something of a commercial revival right now. But what is interesting is seeing how bands are building on that sound and changing it.

PATRICK: I love when anybody does anything that feels honest to them. Touring with Bring Me The Horizon, it was really cool seeing what’s natural to them. It makes sense. We changed our sound over time but we were always going to do that. It wasn’t a premeditated thing but for the four of us, it would have been impossible to maintain making the same kind of music forever. Whereas you’ll play with some other bands and they live that one sound. You meet up with them for dinner or something and they’re wearing the shirt of the band that sounds just like their band. You go to their house and they’re playing other bands that sound like them because they live in that thing. Whereas with the four of us and bands like Bring Me The Horizon, we change our sounds over time. And there’s nothing wrong with either. The only thing that’s wrong is if it’s unnatural to you. If you’re AC/DC and all of a sudden power ballads are in and you’re like, ‘Okay, we’ve got to do a power ballad’, that’s when it sucks. But if you’re a thrash metal guy who likes Celine Dion then yeah, do a power ballad. Emo as a word doesn’t mean anything anymore. But if people want to call it that, if the emo thing is back or having another life again, if that’s what’s natural to an artist, I think the world needs more earnest art. If that’s who you are, then do it. PETE: It would be super egotistical to think that the wave that started with us and My Chemical Romance and Panic! At The Disco has just been circling and cycling back. I remember seeing Nikki Sixx at the airport and he was like, ‘Oh, you’re doing a flaming bass? Mine came from a backpack.’ It keeps coming back but it looks different. Talking to Lil Uzi Vert and Juice WRLD when he was around, it’s so interesting, because it’s so much bigger than just emo or whatever. It’s this whole big pop music thing that’s spinning and churning, and then it moves on, and then it comes back with different aspects and some of the other stuff combined. When you’re a fan of music and art and film, you take different stuff, you add different ingredients, because that’s your taste. Seeing the bands that are up and coming to me, it’s so exciting, because the rules are just different, right? It’s really cool to see artists that lean into the weirdness and lean into a left turn when everyone’s telling you to make a right. That’s so refreshing. PATRICK: It’s really important as an artist gets older to not put too much stock in your own influence. The moment right now that we’re in is bigger than emo and bigger than whatever was happening in 2005. There’s a great line in ‘Downton Abbey’ where someone was asking the Lord about owning this manor and he’s like, ‘well, you don’t really own it, there have been hundreds of owners and you are the custodian of it for a brief time.’ That’s what pop music is like. You just have the ball for a minute and you’re gonna pass it on to somebody else.

We will soon see you in the UK for your arena tour. How do you reflect on your relationship with the fans over here?

PETE: I remember the first time we went to the UK, I wasn’t prepared for how culturally different it was. When we played Reading & Leeds and the summer festivals, it was so different, and so much deeper within the culture. It was a little bit of a shock. The first couple of times we played, I was like, ‘Oh, my God, are we gonna die?’ because the crowd was so crazy, and there was bottles. Then when we came back, we thought maybe this is a beast to be tamed. Finally, you realise it’s a trading of energy. That made the last couple of festivals we played so fucking awesome. When you really realise that the fans over there are real fans of music. It’s really awesome and pretty beautiful. PATRICK: We’ve played the UK now more than a lot of regions of the states. Pretty early on, I just clicked with it. There were differences, cultural things and things that you didn’t expect. But it never felt that different or foreign to me, just a different flavour… PETE: This is why me and Patrick work so well together (laughs). PATRICK: Well, listen; I’m a rainy weather guy. There is just things that I get there. I don’t really drink anymore all that much. But I totally will have a beer in the UK, there’s something different about every aspect of it, about the ordering of it, about the flavour of it, everything, it’s like a different vibe. The UK audience seemed to click with us too. There have been plenty of times where we felt almost more like a UK band than an American one. There have been years where you go there and almost get a more familial reaction than you would at home. Rock Sound has always been a part of that for us. It was one of the first magazines to care about us and the first magazine to do real interviews. That’s the thing, you would do all these interviews and a lot of them would be like ‘so where did the band’s name come from?’ But Rock Sound took us seriously as artists, maybe before some of us did. That actually made us think about who we are and that was a really cool experience. I think in a lot of ways, we wouldn’t be the band we are without the UK, because I think it taught us a lot about what it is to be yourself.

Fall Out Boy’s ‘So Much (For) Stardust’ is out now via Fueled By Ramen.

#the cover is so funny. like theyre cute but that is genuinely bug angle. that is bugs under a rock angle. THEYRE ALREADY SHORT KINGS #fall out boy #pete wentz #patrick stump #andy hurley #joe trohman #time capsule #read the charts #ANYWAY GO HERE. GO READ HERE. BECAUSE I SPENT A LONG TIME TRANSCRIBING EVEN THO TRNASNCRIBING SUCKKSSS #i looped the spell soundtrack like 5 times and got jusmpscared by track9 every time. and then i put on smfs<3 #patrick's comments about the mythologising of fob lore is so interesting #listen baby i know ur fed up and it's not ur fault but u have to understand. the story of ur band is on some genuine fanfic ass other level #the way they talk about neal avron is sooo funny #imagine being producer for this young band. and theyre brilliant but theyre also twentysomethings(derogatory)#also the way pete talks abt swift. lol. also why does he answer the q when patrick was the one in the studio lol???#ALSO also. pete being afraid of british ppl (valid and true)#and patrick pretty much taking to the uk like a duck to water (also valid and tru) is sooo funny #i rlly liked this interview i wiiiiish i got the bundle w the photobook and whatever but i was way too late :(((((((((

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ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

Text

Bulletproof - Alternative Ending

Summary: Starts immediately after Chapter 5 where you unwittingly sacrificed yourself to keep Wanda alive.

Word count: 5k+ | Tags: Angst and character death(s) | Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Author's Note: This was suggested by @dogsandlife, and I'm super glad for it because I was already toying with this idea. I just couldn't bring myself to hurt most of you so I went ahead with the other plot. But for my angst-loving readers, I hope you enjoy this alternative ending :)

Series Masterlist

The compound is anything but quiet.

One can hear hushed whispers, the shuffling of feet, and the distant drones of machines. It's not loud, but there's a heavy feeling in the air. Grief. Everyone's dealing with the recent destruction—surgeries, reports, nights where sleep just didn’t come. Death.

Today's supposed to help them find some closure, but it's obvious a lot of them aren't there yet.

Steve stands at Wanda's door, fist raised. He hesitates, almost knocking a few times, but eventually just taps softly with his knuckle on the wooden panel. “Wanda?” he asks, trying to sound as normal as possible.

Nothing.

She hasn't been seen since the first night they arrived at the other base, where Wanda went straight to the room she was assigned to. The only clue that she's still managing is that Vision leaves food outside her door every day, and when he returns later in the day, most of it remains untouched, but he can tell Wanda has taken at least a bite or two.

It’s far from the ideal diet of an Avenger, which leaves Wanda being indisposed in the meantime; though the rest of the team was successful in neutralizing and the people who masterminded the attack on the compound two weeks ago.

Out of concern for how she might react, especially given how deeply your loss affected her, the team has kept this news from Wanda. They want to ensure the prisoners are safely relocated to a hard-to-track location before she learns of it. There's a shared apprehension that if Wanda discovers this prematurely, she might take matters into her own hands.

Steve senses that Wanda might already be aware, and her chilling silence may not just be due to grief. Part of it could stem from her resentment towards the team for withholding the information, preventing her from seeking the second thing she desires most after having you back—revenge.

(What Wanda yearns for the most is your return, but that's a reality no longer possible in this universe.)

Despite this, Steve pushes on, “The ceremony's about to start. Everyone's waiting. We don’t want to start without you. They were important to all of us, but I get that they were even more to you.”

The stillness from the other side of the door is almost suffocating.

Steve’s voice becomes impossibly softer as he tries again, “Wanda, I can't imagine how you feel right now. But we're here for you. We're family, remember?”

Steve strains his ears, hoping to catch the faintest whisper from Wanda, but the only sound that meets him is the steady hum of the central air conditioning. Time drags on awkwardly, and just when Steve is about to leave, a faint, broken voice emerges from the room.

“They're gone, Steve.”

Swallowing hard, Steve nods, voice thick. “I know, Wanda. I know.”

He does know. Perhaps more than anyone on the team, save for Natasha. He's experienced profound losses throughout his life: his best friend, the woman he loved, even time and an entire era.

He wants to impart all of these to Wanda, but he’s afraid of invalidating the pain that Wanda’s feeling right now.

And so, a brief, quiet moment passes between them before Steve rejoins the others.

The scene is chaos—the aftermath of unimaginable power unchecked.

Dust fills the air, and broken debris is scattered everywhere. The once-familiar corridors of the team's quarters are now unrecognizable. Everything is obliterated. The structure has been reduced to fine dust, making it impossible to discern that the remnants were once beds or lamps. Not even sound escaped her wrath.

The others soon rush in, Steve, Natasha, and Sam at the forefront. The sight that greets them is unlike anything they’ve ever seen before. Everything is utterly pulverized, and at the epicenter is Wanda, holding your limp body close to her.

For a moment, the scene before them leaves them at a loss for words, until Steve's gaze locks onto you, covered in blood with your arms hanging lifelessly. Steve radios the others, quickly outlining the situation. He struggles to describe it without revealing the full extent of Wanda’s powers, of which they were previously unaware.

Sam surveys the area for potential threats. “All clear!” he announces, not realizing the hidden danger masked by the visage of a mourning ally. Steve, however, spots it immediately from a distance.

The situation isn't volatile due to enemies nearby.

It's volatile because of Wanda.

“Wanda, what happened?” Natasha ventures, attempting to cut through the escalating tension. Yet Wanda's eyes stay locked on you, murmuring unintelligibly under her breath.

“Wanda!” Natasha's voice sharpens with alarm. “Snap out of it!”

But Wanda refuses to budge, ensnared in her own maelstrom of anguish and remorse. As her hands begin to glow with a familiar red hue, she whispers, her lips curling in a crazed half-smile, “I can save you.”

Recognizing the imminent danger of Wanda's erratic powers, Natasha lunges forward to intervene. “Wanda, no!”

Her plea is met with an almost tangible wave of force. The sheer power from Wanda's emotions sends Natasha hurtling backwards, taking her off her feet. Recognizing both the immediate peril and a fleeting chance, Steve reacts without hesitation. He gathers you into his arms, holding you close to shield you, and makes a break for the Quinjet's safety.

Sam, after a momentary stagger, hurries over to Natasha's side. He extends a hand, helping her to rise. Together, they turn their attention back to Wanda, eyes fixed as they witness the raw display of her struggle, the internal battle to regain control over her formidable powers. Eventually, as if a storm subsides, Wanda's energy recedes. She collapses, emotionally and physically spent. Her eyes glisten with tears that soon spill over.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry…” Wanda stammers, bringing a hand to her mouth in horror at her actions.

Natasha cautiously approaches, ignoring the lingering pain from her fall. She carefully wraps an arm around Wanda, offering what comfort she can. “It’s okay,” she whispers, trying to sound more confident than she feels.

Sam surveys the scene, taking in the devastation and recognizing that not all of it was the enemy's handiwork. “We can't stay here,” he warns urgently. “We'll have company soon, and not the kind we want.”

Emerging from the Quinjet, Steve's motions for them to hurry. “Let’s go. Y/N needs help. Now.”

Natasha quickly takes in Wanda's dazed state and knows she needs to act. “Come on, we need to move,” she says, gently guiding her friend by the arm toward the jet.

As they get closer, Natasha throws a glance over her shoulder at Sam. “You coming?”

He hesitates, scanning the area. “I'm staying. Someone's got to help out here.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but with everything going on, she just nods, helping Wanda up the ramp. As the jet's engines ignite and they ascend, Sam's focus shifts back to the ground, the sheer magnitude of Wanda's episode hitting him. A distance away, he spots a few incinerated bodies, possibly caught in the sphere of Wanda’s wrath. Walking cautiously among the fallen, a chilling realization dawns on him: he can't tell who was with them and who was against. Allies and enemies, all indistinguishably mixed in the wake of Wanda's powers.

He feels a knot in his stomach. “Oh, Wanda,” he murmurs to himself, “what happened here?”

Though the clear skies suggest fair weather, the ceremony feels grim, leaving behind an eerie atmosphere that steadfastly clings to the hallways and corners you once roamed. All attendees are dressed in their finest black attire, but the pristine garments can't hide the profound sadness of the occasion.

Everyone is present except for a seat in the first row. Every now and then, Steve's eyes would drift toward the entrance, half-hoping, half-dreading that Wanda might walk in. The funeral begins with a brief sermon from a priest, despite no one being certain of your religious beliefs. Yet, it's protocol. It has always been the manner in which they bid farewell to a comrade, so everyone quietly follows suit.

Each of the Avengers, save for Wanda, takes a turn at the podium, sharing humorous and touching stories about you. They all wear the same regret and guilt on their faces, wishing they could have done more, could have treated you better, could have gotten to know you more. The eulogies are largely light in tone, and it's unclear whether it's because they wish to remember you fondly or if their bond with you was merely superficial and insincere.

Except for Daisy, the last person to speak, who seems to be taking it particularly hard. She gets choked up talking about how you took her under your wing, always sharing what you knew and helping her train. And when she needed a place to sleep, you gave her your own bed. She returns to her seat, tears silently streaming, and there's a brief, uneasy moment when no one steps in to comfort her.

They all glance around, seeking out Wanda. Their eyes eventually land on Steve, who simply responds with a solemn shake of his head.

The entire ceremony lasts just under an hour. As the last notes of the eulogy fade and people start to head out, everyone gradually returns to their routine. For many, it's the last time they'll reflect or speak about you.

That same night, as Steve is about to wind down in his office, lost in thought, Vision phases through the wall. There's a resigned expression on Vision's face, momentarily making Steve forget that he isn't human. Reflecting later, Steve appreciates how Vision's virtue and outlook are more human-like than many individuals he's encountered throughout his life.

“Captain Rogers,” he starts, “Wanda has…chosen to sequester herself in Y/N's former cell.”

Steve looks up sharply, a crease forming on his brow. “Why would she do that?”

He had anticipated something like this might occur, but he's baffled as to why Wanda would choose your old cell over your bedroom, where all your belongings still remain.

“I can't say I fully grasp the intricacies of the human heart, but maybe she's looking for a connection or a spot to grieve. Y/N’s room, with all its memories, might just be too overwhelming for her,” Vision offers, seemingly reading Steve's thoughts.

Hearing this, Steve glances at the approval document he must sign, allowing the compound's admin office to begin clearing out your bedroom. He's been putting off signing it, thinking Wanda might need more time with your belongings around. But now he wonders if erasing traces of you might help her come to terms with the loss.

Steve considers Vision’s words for a moment before nodding slowly. “Thanks, Vision. I'll go see her.”

Wanda is glued to your side, her fingers so tightly interwoven with yours that it's hard to tell where one hand ends and the other begins. Every now and then, she gently squeezes, perhaps hoping to feel a reassuring squeeze back. Her face is contorted, every line etched deep with raw pain, her eyes wet and reddened from endless tears. She looks at your hand, pale and devoid of its usual warmth, resting lifelessly in her grip.

But it's the faint, almost timid pulsation under her touch that keeps her from completely breaking down. Each breath you take is slow and labored, barely noticeable. But the quiet beep of the monitors serves as a constant reminder that there's still life within you. From time to time, she leans in, pressing her ear close to your chest, cherishing the gentle thud of your heartbeat, willing you to hold on just a little longer.

A while later, a group of nurses and doctors rush in, ready to prep you for surgery. Their hands move with purpose, reaching for various instruments and adjusting the array of machines beside your bed. That’s when, as if propelled by an invisible force, equipment flies off tables, and a few of the medical staff are pushed back against the walls. A nurse, caught off-guard, drops a syringe, its contents spilling onto the pristine floor.

Natasha, having been alerted by the commotion, slips into the room, swiftly placing herself between Wanda and the medical staff.

“Wanda,” she implores cautiously, her eyes seeking the sorceress's, “let them do their job. He needs them.”

For a moment, it seems like she might snap, but then her gaze drops to the floor, tears spilling. As soon as they feel it’s safe, the medical staff decide that they need to move you immediately. The wheels of your bed squeak in protest as they begin to shift it out of the room.

Wanda's grip tightens on your hand, her knuckles white. She tries to follow, as if an invisible cord binds her to you. She mutters, almost inaudibly, “I won't leave them.”

One of the nurses, recognizing the precarious situation and the potential for Wanda's powers to erupt again, glances around hesitantly. They're all clearly apprehensive about telling Wanda she can't accompany you. It’s just in time that Steve finally arrives, quickly taking in the scene before him.

“Kid, it’s okay,” he murmurs quietly.

She turns to him, her eyes a storm of emotion, as she pleads, “No, it’s not. I need to be with them.”

“It’s not,” he confirms, offering her a sympathetic look. “But right now, they need to do their job. We have to trust them.”

But her grip on your hand doesn't loosen.

With a deep breath, Steve gently pries her fingers away from yours. It's a slow, agonizing process, each finger unlocking a fresh wave of sobs from Wanda. She resists, but Steve’s reassuring grip gives her no choice. Finally, as your hand slips away from hers, the reality of the situation hits anew.

As the medical team wheels you out of the room, Wanda collapses into Steve's arms, her cries a haunting sound in the tenebrous hallways of the hospital.

The long hours of surgery find Wanda staring into the void, her eyes wavering yet alert, even as exhaustion begins to bear down on her. A few feet away, a wall clock ticks on, displaying the agonizingly slow passage of time. She's acutely aware of each second, each minute, as they stretch into what feels like eons. Occasionally, her fingers would twitch, itching to do something, anything, to change the course of events. But they remain clenched in her lap, her knuckles white from the pressure.

Wanda isn't accustomed to the drawn-out dread of potentially losing someone. Her parents were taken away in an instant. Pietro saved Clint in a split-second, paying with his life. So, when the surgeon finally emerges, the expression on his face already giving away the news, Wanda can't stand it. She bolts.

Outside, the cold night air hits her, but she hardly feels it. Her feet carry her to a secluded spot in the hospital's garden, where the shadows from the trees envelope her. She sinks to the ground, her hands digging into the grass, seeking some form of grounding.

The rest of the team, still in the waiting room, exchange worried glances. Steve takes a step forward, as if to follow, but Natasha places a gentle hand on his arm.

“She needs a minute,” Natasha says quietly.

While they give Wanda time to process, the surgeon starts explaining the details, the clinical terms merging with the reality of what happened. The Avengers might face world-ending threats on a daily basis, but this personal loss, this kind of pain, hits different.

Little do they know that in the distance, Wanda's grief is causing ripples that are about to change everything.

Making his way through the maze of hallways, Steve's steps slow as he approaches the familiar penitentiary. He nears the familiar cell door, taking a moment to brace himself before nudging it open just slightly.

Inside, the room is dim, with just a small lamp fighting off the darkness. It's chilly, the sort of cold that seems to seep into your bones. There, on the simple bed, is Wanda, curled up and looking so small and vulnerable. Pushing the door open just a touch more, Steve walks in silently and sits beside Wanda. He doesn't say anything, instead he allows Wanda to acclimatize to his presence, to give her space and time to figure out that she’s not alone in this, never was.

After what seems like an eternity, Wanda, without looking at Steve, simply murmurs, “It's cold here.”

Steve just nods, at a loss for words. He takes off his jacket, trying to wrap it around her shoulders for comfort. But Wanda pushes it away, letting it drop to the ground. Steve clenches his jaw, recognizing that right now, reasoning with Wanda might be impossible.

Several beats pass before Wanda finally speaks up. “It should have been me,” she says, her voice as steely as the temperature of the room. “I should be the one in that grave.”

“Don't say that,” Steve insists, carefully placing a hand on her tense shoulder. “You couldn't have known.”

Wanda's eyes blaze with anger and sorrow. “I allowed it, Steve. I allowed Y/N to help me, to heal me. I let them drain their life to give to me.” Her voice wavers, and she trembles visibly. Steve can feel warmth where he's holding her but trusts that she won't lose control. “If Y/N hadn't found me, I'd be as good as dead. But now... they're gone, and I'm here.”

“Wanda, look at me,” he mutters, placing another hand on her other shoulder and twisting her gently so she can properly face him. His blue eyes seek out hers but she refuses to meet his gaze, eyes transfixed on the floor, lost and empty. “We make choices everyday. Choices that we think are for the best. You couldn't have predicted this outcome. None of us could.”

She angles her head, strands of hair partially covering her face, but one eye peeks through with a dangerous glint. “I let them step into danger, more than once. So try and tell me it's not on me.”

Steve, visibly unsettled, takes a ragged breath. “Wanda, I know it’s hard to understand now, to accept that what happened to Y/N is beyond your control. But we're all here for you, and if you need—”

“I don't want or need your help, Steve,” she retorts with an icy edge. “What I need is to be alone.”

Seeing the resolute, almost manic determination in her eyes, Steve hesitates before nodding slowly. “Alright,” he says.

“But remember this, Wanda,” Steve says, pausing at the threshold of the cell, a deep sadness in his eyes. “Y/N wouldn't want you to be alone, especially not like this.”

Wanda's lips twitch into a bitter smile. “What Y/N wanted doesn't matter now, does it? They're gone.”

Steve doesn't say anything else. He gives Wanda a long look, then walks out.

The pain is worse when she dreams.

In one of them, she relives a reality from before. She's transported back to a familiar morning. She remembers waking up in your room, the warmth of the sheets reminding her of the night before. Trying to push away her burgeoning feelings for you, she recalls inviting a stranger into her room, sharing some wine. But as he got closer, she pushed him away, realizing he wasn't what she truly wanted.

In her dream, she does things differently. Instead of slipping away like she did in reality, she lingers. She takes the time to study every detail of your face as you sleep—the freckles on your nose, the subtle movement of your lips as you mumble incoherent dreams, the occasional twitch of your eyelids. She gives in to an urge she had suppressed for the longest time, wrapping her arms around your waist, drawing you close.

After what feels like hours, you stir. When you open your eyes, there's a brief moment of surprise before your lips curve into a soft, genuine smile, happy to see she's still there. Your fingers reach up, gently caressing her cheek. She leans into it, eyes closing for a moment as she takes in the sensation. “You stayed,” you murmur, your voice soft and filled with wonder.

Just as she's on the verge of promising to always stay by your side, Wanda jolts awake. Her smile fades the instant she grasps that it was all an illusion, a fleeting could-have-been.

The knife in her chest buries itself a little deeper after that. It does so again the following morning when she dreams of another memory, and in every version, she doesn't turn away from you.

One day, a woman approaches Wanda, offering to help her uncover the secret to inhabiting her dreams.

“Not merely dreams,” the woman clarifies, “but alternate realities.” Her name is Agatha, and she persuades Wanda that these realities are rightfully hers, waiting for her to claim them. Desperate for a way to be with you again, even if it's in another reality, Wanda listens intently.

“Each reality is like a page in a book. Some might be nearly identical to yours, with just a slight deviation. Others could be drastically different. The key is knowing how to navigate and control them,” Agatha explains.

"How?" Wanda questions, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, walking alongside Agatha on a nondescript street in Westview, New Jersey. She'd made her way there upon discovering you'd purchased property, curious to envision the life you'd planned for yourself, had you lived.

“It's not as simple as snapping one's fingers,” Agatha says. “But with the right guidance and knowledge, you can access these realities, live in them, even mold them to your desires.”

Wanda hesitates, sensing the potential dangers of meddling with the fabric of existence. “What's the price?” she asks.

Agatha doesn't look too pleased with Wanda's display of intelligence and her knack for spotting the early signs of manipulation. But she gets the feeling that Wanda might not care if she's being used, as long as she gets what she wants out of it.

“Every powerful spell comes with its costs,” Agatha replies cryptically. “But isn't a chance to be with Y/N, to have a life where grief doesn't consume you, worth any price?”

Living day to day, clutching onto moments of happiness in her dreams, only to be jerked back into a reality she can't stand—it's wearing on Wanda. The dreams are great, sure, but they're just that—dreams. And when they're over, it's back to the harsh light of day, and the reality that you’re gone. She's stuck in this loop, bouncing between what she wishes her life could be and the real world that just won't let her catch a break. Every dream feels like a tease, a brief escape before she's pulled back into the grind.

“So? I don’t have all day, dear.” Agatha's tone is dripping with impatience, her sharp eyes fixed on Wanda.

Wanda swallows hard, her gaze darting around the empty street, as if cautious to anyone who might be eavesdropping on the conversation, before settling back on the older witch. “What do you want in return?”

A slow, sly smile spreads across Agatha's face, making the air around her grow even colder. She takes a deliberate step closer to Wanda, their faces now mere inches apart. “You’re a sly witch than I made you out to be, aren’t you?”

Wanda holds her ground. “I need to know.”

Agatha chuckles softly, her breath caressing Wanda's face. “We'll get to that,” she purrs, drawing the moment out just to relish Wanda's discomfort. She then leans in even closer, her voice dropping to a hushed, almost seductive whisper. “First, let's talk about how we can make your dreams come true.”

Wanda hesitates, torn between the desperation of her desires and the voice in her head urging her to decline the offer, to grieve and move forward like anyone else would.

To forget you.

“And why would I trust you?” Wanda counters instead, buying herself more time.

Agatha straightens up, her smile unwavering as she finally takes a step back. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t. But sometimes, our wants make strange bedfellows. And right now, I'm the best chance you've got.”

Wanda's footsteps are hesitant as she approaches the rubble-strewn site, each broken brick and twisted piece of metal echoing memories of that fateful day. The boundaries between realities have always been thin for Wanda, a mere whisper away. And on the 436th day since your sacrifice, she finally musters the courage to cross them.

Witnessing it all from this vantage point—that of an observer—feels utterly surreal.

She remembers the pain, the slow dimming of consciousness, and the sensation of life slipping away. But in this reality, it was her other self who had been impaled, left to bleed out beneath the rubble. And you, who she loved dearly in every universe, had been spared.

Or at least, that’s how she intends it to happen for this reality.

Wanda's fingers twitch, and with a fierce concentration of her magic, she lifts the heavy boulder trapping her other self. A bright crimson glow surrounds it as it's lifted and tossed aside, revealing the horrific sight beneath.

The other Wanda is a haunting reflection of what she might have been, pale with trails of blood smeared across her lips. The fabric of her clothes is stained with the vivid red of her own blood, which pools around her. It's a sight that should send a wave of nausea through Wanda, but truthfully she feels nothing.

Gently, Wanda cradles the injured version of herself, her hands shaking as they brush away the dirt and blood from the other's face. She can't stop herself from checking for a pulse, even though ironically, she’s there to make sure it stops beating.

“Hey,” she murmurs, patting the alternate Wanda's cheek softly, urging her to focus. “Look at me.”

Slowly, those familiar eyes flutter open, clouded with pain. The shock and fear in them are palpable when they take in the sight of her savior—especially the distinct headpiece that marked her transformation into the Scarlet Witch.

“Who... are you?”

“I'm you,” Wanda says, and without waiting for a reply, sparing her other self the pain of speaking, she continues, “Y/N sacrificed so much for you. For us. They became our greatest pain, and our love. And they will be here any minute now.”

“W-What are you talking about—”

“They will be here to save you and make themselves vulnerable in the process. And they will die,” Wanda's breath hitches at that, causing her to pause momentarily. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Her fading counterpart shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

“Good,” Wanda says, offering a comforting smile. “Then let go, and I’ll take care of Y/N. Okay?”

Without waiting for a response, Wanda turns the body in her embrace into red wisps that dance around her in the air.

Then, aware that it'll only be moments before you reach the scene, Wanda morphs into the likeness of her younger self. She looks just like the other version, but without any injuries that might spur you into action.

“Wanda!” she hears your voice from a distance and her eyes water at the sound.

She's done the unimaginable, claiming the identity of this universe's Wanda, seconds after she erased her very existence. She takes deep, shaky breaths, trying to get into character. She needs you to believe it’s her, even though she’s forgotten herself how she used to be.

Your steps quicken, shoes crunching on rubble, until you're right in front of her, surveying her from head to toe, searching for any signs of injury. “Wanda...how?” Your eyes are wide, filled with disbelief and relief. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“I managed to shield myself just in time when—” She doesn’t get to finish her practiced response when you pull her into a tight embrace, and she leans into it, her body shaking with genuine sobs. Her face buries into the crook of your neck, feeling the warmth and familiarity of your smell and touch. It's a grounding sensation amidst the madness she has just endured and inflicted.

“It's okay,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You're here now, and that's all that matters.” You can feel the dampness on your shirt where her tears have soaked through, and you tighten your grip around her.

“We need to get out of here,” you say, casting a glance around the ruins. “Let's find safety first, then we'll figure everything out.”

She nods, taking a deep breath to steady herself, wiping away her tears. “I'm sorry,” Wanda says, her voice catching in her throat.

“For what?” you ask, confused.

“For making you worry,” she says, avoiding your eyes. The guilt she feels is so much deeper than what you perceive, but now isn’t the time to delve into it.

She only recalls the next moments when the bullets are headed your way minutes later. But this time, they don't touch you. Wanda swiftly neutralizes the assailants, and you stare, a mix of shock and awe at the display of her powers that appear to have been amplified overnight.

You blink, trying to process what you just saw. “Wanda, what was that? I've never seen you...”

“We need to move. Now,” Wanda interrupts, a hint of panic in her voice. She grabs your hand, tugging you forward roughly.

You resist for a moment, glancing around. "Don't we need to wait for the others?"

She glances back at the devastation she caused, her face drawn. "There’s no time. They're not coming.”

“But—”

“Please," she pleads, her eyes darting to the oncoming imaginary threats in the distance. “We'll figure it out once we're safe.”

It’s your weakness, your inability to say no to her, that makes you yield to her wishes. With one last uneasy look around, you let Wanda pull you away, but a slew of questions bubble up in your mind, waiting for a safer moment to be asked.

Wanda leads you somewhere faraway.

In time, you cease to question her actions.

Gradually, the dreams stop haunting her nights.

But she finds herself unable to stop hunting for them every now and then.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #captain america civil war #the avengers #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #vision #daisy johnson

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ultraintrovertedgryffindor · 2 years ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 - Javier Peña

"you've got me in a...CHOKE. HOOOOLD. even if it huuurts meee, even if I can't sleep. show me the waaaaaaaaayyyyy" - Chokehold, Sleep Token. Mood for my Pedro Pascal era

Summary: It seems the only way to get Javier to talk about his feelings is by having the person he cares about having a near death experience. Not the most healthy way to confess your feelings for someone, but hey, it works.

Warnings: unrequited but not actually unrequited love, inaccurate descriptions of how the DEA operates, Javier needs a therapist, bad wingman Steve, character study ish? that's mostly in Javi's POV, gun wounds and violence, hurt/comfort, whump, kinda forced proximity, eventual fluff, sexual refences but no smut this time (shocker, right?)

word count | 7.7k🤙🏻

Javier’s team had found out where one of Escobar’s men was. This was huge. If he and his team could catch him, get him to flip on his boss; he could snag the man that week.

The whole building was hustling and running around, preparing to go after this guy as soon as possible, just as soon as they got word everybody was in position. Javier’s nerves threatened to overflow, just the thought of being one step closer to catching Pablo Escobar and taking down his cartel after evading justice again and again, his body was set ablaze and his fingers twitched with excitement.

There was just one problem.

As Javier was putting on his bulletproof vest, from across the office, you caught his eye. That wasn’t abnormal in the slightest, you had always unknowingly begged for the attention of Javier’s gaze ever since he met you years ago; but this time, seeing you put an unwanted pit in his stomach. To everyone else, you looked normal, getting ready for this upcoming battle like the rest of the people on this mission. But all Javier saw was you preparing to meet your demise.

Javier wasn’t normally so nervous about things like this. In this line of work, people get hurt, some even die, that’s just what happens unfortunately. But the thought of it possibly happening to you didn’t sit right with him at all. If it was his call to make, he’d make you stay here away from all the action. You wouldn’t be in a ten mile radius of a single cartel member. But of course, that wasn’t his call to make, all he had was his convincing charm and his history with you to get you to even consider sitting out. Before thinking about it any longer, Javier started taking the steps it took to make it to your desk, the one that was always just a couple feet away from his but somehow always felt too far.

From the reluctant expression on your face as you looked up at him, Javier could already tell this conversation isn’t going to go the way he wants it to, as most conversations with you; but it was too late to back out now. “Almost ready, Peña?” Peña, always fuckin’ Peña. You made a point never to call him anything other than his last name. Though, he couldn’t blame you, not after everything he’s done to you. But it still made a tiny dagger go through his heart every time you refused to call him Javi.

You clearing your throat awkwardly made Javier suddenly aware of how creepy he was being, just staring at you, lost in his own thoughts. He cleared his own throat to avoid any possible voice cracks or stutters before finally responding to your very simple question. “I am.”

You raised an eyebrow, a look of amusement gracing your features which Javier always found adorable and would’ve still thought that if it wasn’t for how goddamn humiliating it was to have that expression directed at his being an idiot. “That’s it? You walked over here to tell me you’re ready?” A ghost of a smirk played at your lips, your very kissable lips.

Fuck, Javi, be professional. “No.” He stuttered briefly. “No.”

“Just out with it, man, we don’t have all day.”

Javier sighed in annoyance, placing his hands on his hips and looking down at you with a frown. “Look…, we all know how dangerous this guy is-”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “No, no, no-”

“So, I was thinking you’d be of more use here. Hold down the fort while we try to bring this guy in.” He tried to keep his heartbeat under control as you stood up from your sitting position on the top of your desk, standing at your full height, obviously trying to come off as a bit intimidating; but you weren’t, not in that way, at least. Javier was more afraid of what was about to come out of your mouth.

“Will you be staying here?” You asked, looking him straight in the eyes; he could practically see all the obscenities floating around in your head that desperately wanted to come out, but couldn’t as to be somewhat professional.

Javier sighed quietly. “No, obviously not.”

“Why not?” You shrugged nonchalantly. “If this guy is so dangerous, you should stay here too. With me. Right?”

Ignoring the butterflies swirling around in his stomach as with me kept repeating over and over in his head, he grit his teeth to mask his expression into subtle anger. “It’s different.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against your desk. “Okay, Peña, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go on this mission.”

Peña, his thoughts screamed at him. You used to call him Javi. Because I can’t bear the thought of losing you… “Because you’d be a liability. You’d only get in the way, and we can’t afford that right now.”

“Remind me, who was one of the first women to ever get assigned this case?” You asked, trying not to sound smug as everyone in this office knew the answer to that question.

“You were…” He replied with a scowl, his words sounded pained like they were being ripped out of him.

“Exactly. So, there’s no way in hell you’re gonna keep me from trying to catch this motherfucker. Okay? I can take care of myself.” You shoved your pointer finger directly on his chest, pushing him back a tiny bit.

Javier tried to ignore Steve’s shit eating grin as he walked back over to his desk dejectedly. That fuckin’ asshole. “Shoot. I’m surprised you ain’t dead as a doornail, with the way she’s lookin’ at ya.” Steve started as soon as Javier sat back down in his creaky old chair, massaging his temples from the oncoming headache that was surely going to feel like he was being bludgeoned with a hammer. “What did you do this time, Peña?”

Javier scowled and rolled his eyes, pouring himself a drink. “I just told her, I think she’d be better off staying away from the front lines.”

Steve snorted obnoxiously. “And what? You think she’d stay here? God, Peña, you really ain’t yourself when you’re smitten.”

Javier resisted the urge to throw his glass of whiskey right at Steve’s hillbilly face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, you wanna get in her pants do bad it makes you look stupid. And makes you act even stupider, no offense.”

“Offense taken. Asshole.” He growled. “And I’m not smitten. It’s just…this mission is dangerous.”

“She’s a big girl, Javi. She can take care of herself. I’m sure she told ya as much after chewing you out.” More like tearing me apart into itty bitty pieces until I was nothing but ground fuckin’ dust. “You know what you need, Javi?” Oh, this should be good. “A therapist. I’ve recently been seeing one and man, let me tell ya, there’s stuff I’ve learned about myself that I didn’t even know.” Javier laughed. Like, really laughed. “I’m serious, man. Might help you figure out those commitment issues.”

“I already have a therapist.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to laugh. “Oh, yeah? Who?” Steve’s amused grin quickly turned into an annoyed grimace as Javier held up his bottle of whiskey that read: Jack Daniels.

Nah, Javier didn’t need a goddamn therapist. He was just fine…

He was, in fact, not fine.

Javier couldn’t stop the nervous twitch in his hands as everyone filed out of the office as soon as one of their undercover officers finally gave the signal that the cartel member was in place, rushing to the trucks to get to the place in town as soon as possible. He gave one last glance over to you as you got into a different truck that was going to be part of the surrounding force to make sure the member couldn’t escape. Honestly, Javier would’ve felt better if you were on his team instead, but things just didn’t work out that way. You’d be fine…you were going to be fine.

The drive over felt like forever when in reality it was probably around a few minutes. Javier knew he never should’ve talked to you before this mission, conversations with you always put him on edge, for various reasons. But he also knew he’d curse himself later if he didn’t try to talk you out of it once. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about all the possible outcomes of this attempted arrest. What would happen if they fail? What would happen if this cartel member had a machine gun on him? What would happen if, god forbid, you get shot and killed? Would Javi be able to live with himself?

God, I’m so fucking stupid.

Javier couldn’t escape the onslaught of memories that flashed through his mind, each one causing a heat to rise to his face and guilt chew at him from the inside out.

It was only several months ago that you confessed your attraction to him. The office was celebrating a recent successful mission and people were drinking. You had gotten drunk, Javier being a little buzzed. You both did teasing dances around each other ever since you met, but Javier never thought you’d want to take things further. But with a few shots loosening your tongue, you told Javi that you really liked him. You loved dancing, but your legs were threatening to give out in exhaustion if Javi kept spinning you around in his little tango. You were gorgeous, of course, but Javier didn’t really know what to say and you noticed that. For a drunk person, you were very astute.

It’s not that Javier wasn’t attracted to you, he was, very much so. He enjoyed your company, he loved the back and forth that seemed to come so naturally to the two of you, he could actually imagine dating you and maybe even more. But Javier didn’t date, not anymore. He fucked. He had one night stands. He didn’t have time for dating. He didn’t have commitment issues, he was just…okay, he was afraid. Javier wasn’t afraid of much. He was a DEA agent, he got shot at on a regular basis, putting his life on the line every day to keep drugs off the streets. And yet, somehow, you managed to be the one thing he’s scared of the most and he can’t even tell you why.

Your face when he turned you down would be forever etched into his mind. It wasn’t even noticeable, it was a split second of sadness crossing your features that he almost missed it. But he didn’t. Every smile you ever gave him, your flustered expression whenever he flirted with you a bit too hard, all burned away by that one subtle despondent look. It sobered you up pretty quickly. You said you didn’t take it to heart, that you understood and apologizing if you made things awkward. He was your carpool that night, so the ride home was…tense, to put it lightly. You lived in the same apartment building, hence the carpool, but you lived a floor up. Javier thought about walking you to your apartment, like he usually would do just to spend that extra time with you when he didn’t have to, but he just couldn’t. Little by little, that mask of nonchalant withered away as you got more tired, unable or just unwilling to keep up the façade. Javi couldn’t look at you anymore, not if he wanted his heart to stay intact. His friendship with you would never be the same after that night.

He fucked up. He really fucked up. But he thought it was the best response at the time. He couldn’t get into any type of relationship, much less with a coworker. How unprofessional is that? How stupid would he be, in this line of work, to potentially put a target on your back by being someone he cares about? But of course, the way you slowly distanced yourself from him after his rejection made the wall he built around his heart melt away like acid and he couldn’t stop himself from caring about you even if he tried. And try, he did. He kept telling himself it was for the best. Even when you stopped carpooling with him to work, he tried not to care. Every time he felt jealous when he noticed someone else flirting with you, he told himself coworkers don’t feel the urge to put thirteen bullets into another person’s skull just by smiling at you. Because that’s all you were and would ever be: a coworker.

A coworker.

But coworkers can care about each other’s well being and want what’s best for them though, right?

…fuck.

Javier was losing it. He was fuckin’ losing it, and at a time like this? When he was about to try to catch a highly dangerous criminal? At a time where he was being counted on? No. He couldn’t think about you now. He cleared his mind. All images of your face were being shot out of his brain by a M16 assault rifle, just in time for the trucks to arrive at their destination.

The cartel member tried his best to escape, shooting plenty of rounds at every officer and agent that came into view. But it was proven all for nothing, for him and the police. The motherfucker shot himself before they could arrest him. Of course. They could never catch a fuckin’ break, could they?

Everyone was in low spirits, some now spiritless. To think, being in this field for so long that Javier might get used to seeing the dead bodies. To a point, but he couldn’t help but frown when he saw the lifeless faces of people he knew, people he worked with. Hijo de puta, Javier wishes that cartel member was still alive so he could torture information out of him himself. He’d get over it, same as everyone else. But Javier found himself a secret weapon that always made him feel better after a mission went wrong, he’d just look at you, safe, and all stress would leave him in that moment to know that you made it out alive at least. It was so secret that Javi didn’t even know he did that, not until he tried searching for you after the dust cleared and everything settled down a little bit. Steve was with you, so you’d be easy to find. All he had to do was look for a bright blonde redneck sore thumb.

Javier’s frown deepened when he found Steve, only to not find you standing with him. The look on Steve’s face as he saw Javi coming didn’t bode well either. Where were you? “Javi.” Steve acknowledged in a soft voice…way too soft.

Javier looked around before fixing his gaze on Steve’s downcast expression. He was just upset about the mission failing, right? “Where is she?” He didn’t even have to say your name, anyone who knew Javier would immediately know who he was talking about. Steve sighed heavily, unable to meet his gaze. Javier burst like a dam, scowling and enraged, pulling Steve to him by his collar roughly. “Where is she?” He yelled, forcing the man to make eye contact with him.

“Javi, Javi, calm down.” Steve pleaded, placing his hands on his shoulders to try and soothe him. “She got shot, but she’s gonna be fine. Okay? She’s on her way to the hospital right now.”

Javier’s heart jumped into his throat, making his next words come out shaky and desperate. “Drive me there. Now.”

“But Javi, we gotta-”

“Now!” There was no arguing with Javier whenever he got this way, this angry, this violent. Steve would’ve had better luck fighting a bear.

Javier almost punched Steve when he kept giving him worried glances as he drove. Javi could not keep still. His hands were twitching, his leg was bouncing, he bit the dead skin on his fingertips, and when he started biting the not so dead flesh, he moved on to his lips, which wasn’t much better. It didn’t take but a minute until he tasted copper spreading across his tongue. Anything, he was doing anything to keep himself from screaming, resorting to pulling at his hair. No, there was no way you were leaving him like this. Steve said you’d be fine, but Javi didn’t even know where you got shot, he didn’t know how deep the bullet wounds were or if you were already being treated in the ambulance. He didn’t fucking know. God, please, he just wants to hear you call him Javi again. He doesn’t even care if you say it how you say his last name, full of annoyance and resentment, it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters until he sees you alive in a hospital bed.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Steve all but had to hold Javier back as he tried to check in, the impatient attitude and short fuse threatening to get them kicked out. Besides, it’s not like they could visit you now, you were still in surgery and it would take another hour or so before you’d get out. Javier could tell Steve just wanted to yell at him, say some stupid phrase like “hold your darn tootin’ horses” or some bullshit like that. Javier didn’t want to wait, he wanted to see you. He didn’t want to sit in some uncomfortable plastic chair for an hour not knowing if you were okay or not. So he stood, and he paced. He paced and paced until his legs started to wobble. He would stay here, he would stay all night if he had to. There was no way he was going home without seeing you. But in actuality, he wouldn’t have to wait that long.

It was only an hour and some change until the doctor finally came out into the waiting room, Javier and Steve shooting up from their chairs instantly. “She’s okay. The bullet didn’t go too deep into the abdomen and we managed to remove it without doing any more damage. We’ll keep her here for about a week and then we can send her home if there aren’t any more complications. She’s still under anesthesia but it’s wearing off now, so she should be awake soon. We’ll let you know when she’s ready to see you.”

“We can’t see her now?” Javier almost growled, causing Steve to place his hand on his shoulder before turning to the, quite frankly, startled doctor.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Such bullshit.” Javi grumbled under his breath, sitting down in the same seat, not even standing up long enough before his ass stopped tingling from being numb. His back hurt like a bitch, and his joints felt all stiff. God, he hated hospitals.

“Don’t worry, Javs, you’ll be able to see your girlfriend soon.”

“Shut the fuck up, Murphy. She’s not my fuckin’ girlfriend.”

Steve wasn’t phased by his hostility, only shrugging with a smirk. “But you want her to be.”

Javier groaned, running his hands over his face as his headache came back in full force. “Now, Murphy? You wanna have this conversation now?”

“If not now, when?”

“Never.”

“Exactly.” Javier rolled his eyes, wringing his hands together and avoiding eye contact with the other man. “You like her, man. It’s nothing to be ashamed about. You know, before I met Connie, I never thought I wanted a girlfriend either, much less a wife. I thought I’d be…tied down, I guess. I wanted the freedom to do whatever I wanted. But now…I can’t imagine life without her.”

I already can’t imagine a life without her… “She’s our coworker.”

“Hey, you can’t help who you fall in love with, man.” Javier cringed at the word love. He wasn’t in love with you. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, pendejo, his inner thoughts told him. “As far as I can tell, and I do have better vision than you, I think she feels the same way.” Oh, buddy, you have no idea. “I say go for it. We get this extremely short life once, a chance of it being even shorter in our line of work, you can’t take things for granted and you can’t risk missing out on something that can be beautiful.”

Javier looked over at Steve with a raised brow. “Getting wifed up has made you way more sentimental, man.”

Steve shrugged. “But you know it’s true.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“You know what, this conversation is making me miss my wife. Let me know how this whole thing goes, okay? Seriously. I care about her too.” And with that, Steve took off, leaving Javier alone with his thoughts, along with the occasional cough or sneeze from other waiting room patients. But other than that, deadly silent. One of the things Javi hates most about hospitals. The silence. The people waiting to hear if their loved ones have survived or not, or waiting to see if they live or die themselves. It reeked of death and he thought: you don’t belong here. You’d never belong here. This place isn’t lively enough for your standards. You shined most working with other people, making others feel at ease with your attitude, caring and compassionate, one of the reasons you even got into this job in the first place. You cared about what happened to people, and you wanted the best for everyone. Maybe that’s why Javier was so drawn to you, ever the pessimist, your light was like a breath of fresh air. Being in the DEA hardened him as a person, seeing the worst in people almost on a daily basis, it can make a person jaded. But you never let the stuff you see change who you were; you still loved, you still cared, you still tried to find the fun in any situation and Javi admired you for that, not that he’d ever admit it.

“She’s ready to see you now.” The doctor’s voice knocked Javier out of his thoughts, his reminiscence being replaced by nervous eagerness.

It was only then, a few steps away from entering your hospital room, that Javier realized he was still clad in his bulletproof vest. He hadn’t gone home to wash off the light splatters of blood or his sweat coated body, and his hair was a tousled bird’s nest. He surely looked like a hot mess. But then he started to wonder when he ever got nervous about his appearance. Jesus, you really fucked him up. He couldn’t help but fix his hair a little before entering your room, hopefully managing to pat down some wild curls. But the smile on your face as he finally came into view told him he didn’t look as bad as he thought. That smile also pierced right through his hardened exterior, a breath of relief when he saw that you were okay.

“Hey, stranger.” You spoke lazily, clearly still a little loopy from the anesthesia.

Javier took a seat next to your bed, looking you over and frowning when he saw all the tubes attached to you. You could’ve lost her…

“Where’s Steve? The doctor said he was with you?”

She’s asking about Murphy when I’m right here? “Oh, he uh, went home, to make sure Connie knows he’s okay. He did want to see you though.”

“Yeah, I believe it. You should’ve seen the look on his face when that bullet got me. I’ve never seen him so scared shitless.” You chuckled. Again, always finding humor in a situation even when you literally got shot. It almost infuriated him, but the mental image of Steve freaking out did make him smirk a little.

“How are you feeling?”

You shrugged. “Tired. No, I'm exhausted. Who knew getting shot would make you wanna sleep for a week?”

“Are you hurting at all?”

“Just a little sore. They’ve got me on a shitload of painkillers right now, so I’m unlikely to feel anything at the moment. Embarrassment, however, I do feel.”

Javier furrowed his brows. “Why would you ever feel embarrassed? You got fuckin’ shot.”

“Exactly. I told you I could take care of myself and yet, here I am.” You huffed. “I never thought this would happen to me. I guess…I just got too comfortable.”

Before he could stop himself, Javier reached out to place his hand over yours, almost gasping when he felt how cold your skin was. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed, okay? You’re alive, that’s all that matters. Some of us don’t get so lucky. I’m relieved.”

He didn’t miss the subtle flustered expression on your face. “Oh…so, you’re not gonna say I told you so?” You smiled weakly.

Javier grinned. “Well, I can’t exactly say that when you’re laying in a hospital bed.”

“Eh, you could. You’d just be a massive asshole. But then again, you already are.” He knew it was just a joke, but it was true. He was an asshole, especially to you. Maybe it was the medication you were on, but he had no idea why you were being so friendly to him. If he were rejected by someone he likes, then that person proceeded to talk down to him when they were annoyed, he’d have little kind words to say. In fact, he was surprised you weren’t currently punching him in the face. You frowned, and Javier wanted to curse himself for giving his feelings away. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who’s-”

“Visiting hours are over.” A nurse interrupted, rather rudely.

You both frowned. Javier nodded to the nurse as he reluctantly let go of your hand, giving you a double take at the door, imprinting the image of you weakly waving goodbye with a small smile on your face to memory so he had something to hold onto before the next visit.

The week went by way too slow. Not even a week. You were recovering really well, so the doctors cleared you to go home sooner than expected. Javier found himself being anxious all the time, even at home after work was over. He drank a bit more than usual, until Steve came over one night and saw the state of his apartment and quickly intervened. He’d never admit this, but Javier was thankful for his partner. He was a good man, he supposed that’s why he made such a good DEA agent.

Javier had implicitly volunteered to be the one to look out for you when you were allowed back home, since you two lived in the same apartment building. Couldn’t really have been anyone else, and he wanted to. He wasn’t there for you when you got shot, but he sure as hell could be there when you recovered. Though, after a long conversation, you both decided it would be best that you stayed in his apartment until you could walk around on your own. The doctor had put you on a strict bedrest regime, to make sure you didn’t tear any stitching and reopen the wound. You lived alone, so staying with Javier just seemed like the most logical choice. Though, it put him in a near stupor.

Javier never cleaned so much in his life. He wanted everything to be perfect, nothing out of place and he’d be damned if there was even one speck of dust on any surface. It only increased his anxiety to the point he almost considered punching a hole into his wall. It’d be okay, he told himself, you were just staying until you could walk. That wouldn’t take that long. Yeah, he could do this. He could be professional while being in close proximity with you for more than the usual work hours. You’re fucked, man.

Steve helped drop you off at your apartments after picking you up from the hospital. Javier quickly put out the cigarette he was smoking as he heard the knock on the door, opening it to see you in a wheelchair with Steve behind you. “Someone order a damaged DEA agent?” He joked, only to get a slap on the arm from you. “Bad joke, sorry.” He coughed nervously, Javier stepping away so he could push the wheelchair inside. “Anyway, take real good care of her now.” He winked, earning a glare from Javier. “Alright, I’ll be going now.”

“Idiot…” Javier mumbled, earning a quiet giggle from you. Thankfully, Javier had a spare bedroom that he never used. He mostly used it as a storage room but cleaned it up a little and bought an extra mattress to use for the time being, while he insisted you stay in his own bedroom. “Sorry, it’s not much.” He spoke as he helped you to his bed.

“Don’t worry, it’s great.” You huffed as you laid yourself down, a small wince on your face. The doctor had been weaning you off the pain meds, so you weren’t the most comfortable. “Thanks again for letting me stay here until I get my bearings. I really appreciate it.”

Javier shook his head. “No problem. Just, uh, let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you…Javi.” You spoke softly as he turned to exit the room.

He almost ran into the door as soon as you said that, his heart fluttering inside his ribcage. He closed his eyes briefly to just savor the sound of your voice when you finally said his first name, finally after so long. He knew it was just out of appreciation, but he could take the little victories. He stiffly nodded before closing the door on his way out, letting out a sharp exhale when he got to his living room. How was he going to survive you staying with him for a couple weeks when he gets flustered within just a couple minutes around you in general? He hated to admit, but Steve was right.

Javi was fuckin’ smitten.

With this newfound acceptance, Javier found himself just standing at the island in his kitchen doing nothing but blankly staring into space. You were here. You were safe. You were just in the other room. And yet, Javier was itching to go back and make sure you were doing alright, even though, logically, he knew you were probably just sleeping. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes and figured it was difficult trying to find any sort of peace inside a hospital. He knew he wouldn’t, but then again, he always had trouble sleeping. Even more so after you got shot.

For the first time in a while, the nightmares he was plagued with actually got to him. It wasn’t like all the other times he was shot or stabbed, betraying his own department, or Pablo always managing to escape when he was just within reach (although, that was more reality bleeding into his dreams). He almost always saw the dead bodies of the people he’s killed, especially the innocent ones. But then he started to see you.

It was always the same. You were calling out for Javier, begging for help. He ran to you, but it was like he was trying to run through mud or quicksand. He tried so hard to get to you before you were shot, but he was always too late. As soon as he reached you, you were already dying in his arms. Over and over again. To think those dreams would’ve stopped once you were home from the hospital, but nope. He went to sleep that night waking up in a similar cold sweat and racing heart. He almost couldn’t bear to look at you, guilt eating away at him even though it wasn’t his fault. He absolutely hated the fact he still had to go into work. This mission was put on hold for no one, not even you.

He was always anxious at work, to the point everyone noticed. He still did his job, but his eyes were vacant and it seemed anything he did was just instinct. He just kept thinking what if you needed him and he wasn’t there to help you? It didn’t bother Javier that everything figured out his affection for you, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He just hoped it didn’t get back to you before he could tell you himself.

But after he came home, he went back to his old behaviors. It’s true what people say: habits die hard. He did attempt to act more warm and accommodating, for both your sakes. But he made sure to never cross that line of professionalism. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or be forced into a situation when you were practically still dependent on him to move around. He didn’t want to cross any unspoken boundary. No, he’d keep his feelings to himself a bit longer. After you can walk on your own, or maybe even after you come back to work…or maybe when the mission is over and Pablo is dead or behind bars.

But after another gruesome nightmare, Javier got into the habit of peeking into your (his) bedroom. Just to make sure you were still there. Even when his nightmares mellowed out, he still did it. He even started to sit by your bed and just watch you sleep peacefully. God, he felt like such a creep. And what was it he said about boundaries?

Javier thought he’d just stay quiet, pretend like he never memorized every part of your face as you slept. Like how he noticed your nose twitched like a bunny sometimes, or how your lips pulled into a tiny and almost unnoticeable smile. But of course, he couldn’t do that forever. You started to be able to move around on your own, albeit extremely carefully. But still, that just meant you could go back to your own apartment soon…

Javier had a really bad dream that night after seeing you take baby steps into the living room, a giant smile on your face as you finally were able to do things yourself. And of course, it was the same exact dream. He went to your bedroom right after, anxious to see your peacefully sleeping form that would instantly calm him, only to find you whimpering and slightly stirring in your sleep. Ah, so he wasn’t the only one plagued by nightmares.

He thought about leaving you alone, letting you wake up on your own, but when he heard you whispering mumbled “nos” and “stops” with tears trailing down your cheeks, he couldn’t just let you suffer.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Javier slowly sat down next to you, brushing a hand over your cheek delicately, the action only slightly stirring you. “Hey, sweetheart.” Fuck, the name just came out naturally. He’s so glad that it didn’t wake you. He called your name, gently shaking your shoulder until you shot up with wide eyes, winding back your fist to punch him before he caught it. “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

You slowly relaxed, bringing your hands down with an exhale. “Javi…” You whispered his name like a prayer, like you almost couldn’t believe he was actually there with you.

“Must’ve been some nightmare.” Javier guessed, and you winced.

“Was…was I loud?”

“You were crying in your sleep…” He didn’t really answer your question, it was true, but Javier never would’ve heard you if he wasn’t creeping around your room in the first place.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I usually don’t get nightmares like this.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Javier could’ve probably guessed, and from the expression on your face when you looked at him, he was right.

“I haven’t had nightmares about it before. Not even the nights right after. I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I guess…my theory, now that I can walk around without tearing myself apart, I guess that means I can go back to my apartment. And I'm glad I’m better. It’s just, you’ve been so kind and made me feel safe here, and the thought of having to live all alone again, even if I know you’re just downstairs…” You shook your head, curling in on yourself in embarrassment.

“Then…you can stay here a bit longer.” That felt like a confession, to Javier anyway. And he almost regretted saying it until…

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that to you. I know you’ve been counting down the days until I could handle walking myself again.”

Javi furrowed his brows, his heart dropping to his stomach. “What? I haven’t-”

“I’ve made things awkward, Javi. I know that. I know I haven’t been handling that whole rejection thing very well, but I’m trying, okay? I really am trying.” You sighed. “I never should’ve told you then, but I figured, you can get over a person a lot quicker if you just confessed early on. I’m sorry but, it hasn’t been working much. That’s not your fault, of course, it’s my problem. Living with you these past couple weeks have not made it any easier though.” You chuckled bitterly, wiping away a few shed tears as soon as they fell over your cheeks, making Javier’s heart clench painfully. “God, I’m such an idiot.” You whispered to yourself.

Javier exhaled shakily, turning away from you, looking down at the floor. “You remember back at the hospital, you called me an asshole?”

“It was a joke, and I apologized, Peña.”

Javier winced at the sound of his last name. No. No, no, no, he was not going to go through this. Not again. Just swallow your pride for once, man. “I didn’t get to finish what I was gonna say back then, 'cause that bitch nurse told me I had to leave.” He growled.

You chuckled weakly. “And what were you going to say?”

Now or never, right?

“I was gonna say you’re right. I am. An asshole. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

You made a confused noise. “What’re you talking about?”

Goddamn it. “I’ve been an asshole to you since that night…”

You sighed. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Peña. I get it.”

“Please, just let me talk.” He begged, and Javier never begged. The pleading look in his eyes finally got you to shut your mouth. His heart was racing. He thought about taking a deep breath but he was just afraid it would turn into hyperventilating, so not helpful. “Sorry, I’m no good at this. Talking. Damn it…” He whispered. “Fuck it, I like you, alright?” He spat, sounding more angry than he meant.

“W-What?” You stuttered, suddenly sounding much more awake and sitting up against your pillows.

“You heard me.”

“I did, I just…” You shook your head. “I don’t understand. Are you saying this to…mess with me or something?”

“No. No, I’m not. I mean, I’m-” Javier groaned in frustration. He wasn’t used to this, he never really did this, talk about his emotions. He didn’t know it would be this hard. Man, maybe he did need a therapist. He flinched when you placed your hand on his shoulder, but you didn’t pull away.

“Hey, it’s okay, Javi.” You spoke softly when you noticed how on edge he was. “Calm down. Just take a deep breath.” He did as he was told, for once. Taking deep breaths while focusing on the heat radiating from you, using it to ground himself before he even tried talking again.

“When Steve told me you were shot…” He stuttered shakily, his voice betraying him. “I feared the worst. I thought…I thought there was a chance I’d never see you again.”

You frowned, your bottom lip trembling. “Oh, Javi, come here.” You pulled him to you, allowing his head to rest on your shoulder, gently running your hand through his hair while your other hand guided his hand to rest over the pulse point on your neck. “I’m safe. I’m alive. See? I’m not gonna be so reckless again, I promise.”

Javier closed his eyes, snuggling further onto your neck, breathing in your calming scent, spurring him to keep talking. “I thought that I didn’t want to be with anyone. I convinced myself that I don’t need anyone but me…then I got to know you and I started to realize, I’d rather give up this case than see you get hurt. That night you told me how you felt, I thought I was sparing you. But I was just afraid, a coward. The truth is…I fuckin’ need you.” From where his hand was laying on your neck, Javi could feel your pulse quicken. He called out your name in concern, more of hesitance. He finally lifted his head to look at you, immediately noticing the tears in your eyes but a bashful smile on your face.

Letting go of his restraint and not worrying about the consequences for once, Javier surged forward, capturing your lips with his. The little gasp that came from you was probably one of the cutest sounds he’s ever heard, besides your laugh. Your lips were so soft, moving against his languidly. He smiled into the kiss as he felt you rake your hands through his hair, bringing his body to yours as close as humanly possible. Javier wasn’t the best with words, but this he knew how to do. He tried to pour every single emotion he had for you into this kiss: adoration, care, frenzied lust, and maybe even love. The only reason he finally pulled away is because he heard you wince.

Oh, he’d pressed against you too hard and put some pressure on your stitching. Damn it, of course, your first kiss with her and you have to fuck it up somehow.

“I’m so sorry.” He spoke, panicked, wildly looking over your expression to make sure you weren’t in any more pain.

You shook your head with a grin, a mildly dazed gleam in your eyes. “You’re okay. You’re more than okay.”

“I got…a little carried away.” He blushed, having to forcefully put a little bit of distance between you. “God, I’ve thought about doing that for so long.” He admitted.

You smirked, trying to cover up your nervousness. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

More than you could ever know.

“I probably should’ve asked this before I kissed you, but…do you wanna go out with me sometime?” He didn’t know why he sounded so nervous, like you’d ever say no, but he didn’t know that. His body untensed as you gave him the most bright smile he’d ever seen from you.

“Of course, Javi.” Javi, Javi, Javi. The beautiful sound repeated in his mind.

“Say my name again, please.” You leaned forward to kiss him again, repeating it after you broke apart. He never thought his name could sound more alluring than when you said it. God, he wanted to absolutely ravish you, but he’d never risk hurting you. He was a patient man, he could wait, however long you needed. He was already planning it in his mind. He wasn’t the most romantic, but rose petals did come into mind, making him chuckle to himself. “I guess I’ll…let you get back to sleep now.”

Javier moved to stand from your bed, but you stopped him by grabbing onto his wrist. “Would it be too much if I asked you to stay?” Your best puppy dog eyes were on full display, making his heart swell. He could never say no to that face.

“Mi tesoro…” Javi whispered as you both settled in for the rest of the night, him laying on his back while you leaned your head against his chest, a protective arm wrapped around you. Yeah, he could get used to this, especially with you. The both of you fell fast asleep pretty quickly. And what d’ya know? He didn’t have another nightmare after that.

You decided to stay at his apartment for a little while longer. Well, it was more of an insistence from Javier. He was almost always on you like a leech, but he never heard you complain. From the constant stream of giggles and smiles you threw his way, Javi was pretty sure you enjoyed his company. Now that the tension finally broke, it was back to how it used to be between you, only more intensified. That damned gunshot wound was the only wall between you, but that wall wound was broken soon enough. Of course, when that happened, you also had to get back to work, which you were missing greatly. You wanted to catch Escobar just as much as everyone else, so you were ecstatic to get back on the case.

Javier tried his best not to helicopter you around, he knew if someone was doing that to him he’d want to claw their eyes out. He gave you your space, but that anxiety came back in full force whenever they’d try to make an arrest. From then on, you were always right by Javier’s side whenever the guns had to come out. Maybe he was overprotective, but he didn’t care; he needed you safe.

It wasn’t really a shock to anyone that you and Javier got together. Some even made bets, which infuriated him. Steve was the worst about it, teasing Javi whenever he got the chance. At least no one teased you, not that anyone would be stupid enough to try.

As the team had gotten word about where one of Pablo’s men were hiding out, the station started to shift into that similar tension, much too similar to that day you were shot. Javier felt like he was going to have a panic attack. But at this point, you had been around each other so constantly that you developed a sort of sixth sense to whatever he was feeling. You didn’t hesitate to grab his hand, bringing it up so his palm could cup your cheek. “Hey, we’re gonna be fine.” Javier forced himself to nod. “You’ve got my back?”

He cracked a smile. “Of course I do, cariño.”

Javier leaned down to kiss you passionately, taking you by surprise. PDA in the workplace wasn’t really strictly forbidden, but it was common courtesy not to lock lips with your partner. But Javi didn’t care, he needed you when he needed you.

No one was going to take that away from him. No one was going to take you away from him. Never again.

like i said...chokehold. he has too much power. someone save me.

#narcos #javier peña #javier peña imagine #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña fanfiction

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willowsfanarts · 6 months ago

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an army strong as one - latest artwork

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suzukiblu · 6 months ago

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wait hang on

rereading the sugar baby one rn and just got to the part outside the mall discussing power armor--

Kon said: TTK only works on skintight clothes.

yet anyone standing on the same floor as him is as bulletproof as he is

???

is it a matter of how much concentration or something? Anything skintight is passively protected, anything further away needs to be safely wrapped up in the TTK, which takes at least a little bit of attention?

I generally assume there's a subconscious layer of TTK on Kon himself that's just, like, effectively always active, same as Clark was depicted as having at the time of his creation, or otherwise early-era bb-clone Kon would NOT have survived his squishy-human-level-body stage, but extending it out to other people/things is an active choice and a deliberate skill that has to be trained up. So like, in the museum situation Tim was only bulletproof because Kon was actively concentrating on MAKING him bulletproof in response to a direct threat, not just as a passive effect from being in the same room.

( arguably you could MAKE that a passive effect of Kon's powers if you wanted a logical but cool way to upgrade them for an older version of him or something, just I think that'd be something he'd either have to grow into or get supercharged for )

#nonbinary-octopus #rintalk

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babiedemon · 1 year ago

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THE GREAT WAR . . . katniss everdeen / reader

genre . . . angst, hurt/comfort, mockingjay era, movie-based

tw . . . major character deaths, pstd, slight gore

district thirteen was boring, to say the least. you’d been there for weeks following the destruction of your district. a bunker underground was your last choice for comfort, but it was a lot better than the ashen shambles of the home you’d escaped from.

the only bonus you counted was the presence of katniss everdeen, the mockingjay for all intents and purposes. she was complicated, to say the least, and especially as a roommate.

there wasn’t a single night where you weren’t woken by her tortured screams, by her delirious sleepwalking through the compound. and there wasn’t a single night where you weren’t clambering up to her bunk, sinking in beside her, following her through corridors.

“i’m sorry you got stuck with me,” she’d rasped one night, both your heads submerged in a private world beneath a blanket. you’d chuckled, brushed a few dark hairs from her eyes.

“it’s not stuck if i signed up for it,” you’d whispered back. she’d smiled then, a half smile that hardly reached her eyes.

“i signed up for a lot of things i wished i hadn’t.” the words had hurt your heart, the large portion dedicated specifically for her.

“if i hadn’t, i would’ve spent the rest of my time here wishing i had.” she’d sighed, fought the smile on her lips, avoided eye contact.

it was that night that you first entertained the idea that, perhaps in an ideal world, you could care for katniss. that you could love her in ways other than camaraderie.

katniss looked good in grey. you acknowledged this from the other side of the atrium, your gaze crossing dancing bodies and gleeful faces to observe her steely expression. you could see the contemplation on her placid visage, the slight crease of her eyebrows, the frown tugging just barely at the corner of her lips.

she was planning, brainstorming, setting her sights on a new goal. you could tell from the sea of thoughts swarming in her grey seam eyes. you could see the hint of pain on her face, either from her recent exposure to the shambles of peeta mellark or the bruised ribs occupying her chest.

johanna approached her, the shadowed cheekbones and shaved head only adding to her dismaying persona. she and katniss spoke for a few long moments, johanna’s free facial expressions a stark contrast to the guarded feelings of katniss. it left a bad taste in your mouth, a dread in your stomach. you didn’t like it, especially as katniss seemed to let relief wash over her for the first time in weeks.

something was happening, and it was bound to be a train wreck.

you were right, as your gut typically was. you gave yourself no time to triumph your infallible intuition, the plane jolting as it touched down in rebel headquarters, as it touched down within a half mile of katniss’s whereabouts. you were the first to leave as the doors opened, a bulletproof vest hanging off your shoulders and a rifle weighing on your fingertips. finnick lingered meters behind you, and after him were boggs, pollux, castor, messalla, and cressida.

you couldn’t stop the smile from breaking on your face upon spotting katniss’s dreary face hidden amongst her squad members. you were struck with tunnel vision, briskly walking to your brunette comrade, ignoring the burn in your calves in favor of reaching her.

“y/n?” she inquired, face confused and eyes lit up, already bounding towards you. you opened your arms for her, slowing your pace and letting her fall into you. you could feel the relief settling into her bones, her muscles relaxing into your chest, a troubled sigh heaving from her bruised lung. “what are you doing here?”

“i think the better question is what are you doing here? you’re supposed to be back in thirteen,” you chastised, voice stern despite the aching dread fleeing your stomach. she chuckled breathily, muscles tensing back up, your words chasing every drop of sudden joy from her thin frame.

“i had to kill him. i had to kill snow,” she whispered, loud enough for only your ears.

there was another suspicion of yours confirmed. she’d signed herself up for certain death under the smallest inkling of a chance to murder her worst enemy. so much for being selfish, you mused. there wasn’t a selfish bone in her entire brittle body.

the pods were a nightmare. you decided this as you watched a stream of flame erupt and a peacekeeper vehicle explode, shrapnels of molten metal flying in every direction. they were deadly, unpredictable, unable to be entirely safe from.

somehow, you found peeta mellark’s arrival to be more of a nightmare. he was muttering to himself, trampling over the marble ruins of the capitol, clearly out of his mind as he made his best effort to join your unit. you’d been given the grand responsibility of cuffing him, the battered look on his haunted face sending wave after wave of sorrow wracking through your body.

he was once kind, a sweet baker’s boy with a talent for paint. he’d hugged you once as a child, after helping you up from your uncoordinated trip over uneven pavement. he hadn’t known you then, and he didn’t know you now, the recognition absent from his hollow eyes. that was what pained you the most. he was an empty shell of the kind soul he once was. you could see the pain on katniss’s face, too.

nightfall had arrived, and your watch had finally ended, leaving you exhausted in the wake of your eventful day. katniss sat upright behind your head, her thigh just barely brushing the ends of your hair, her fidgeting sending shockwaves through the cement and into your body. you let your eyes crack open, squinting up at her in the dark ruins of what was once a home.

her eyes were far away, reflecting some distant feeling of chaos and dread. you had a feeling it wasn’t so distant from her, not with the source of all her stresses slumbering a few feet to her left. her hand had begun absentmindedly twirling your hair, her face showing no signs of awareness. it was enough to lull you to a restless sleep amidst all the chaos.

you awoke to her body clambering from the floor and her boots snapping with each quick step from you. you arose drowsily, sweeping your gun into your hand, and followed her outside. she was brittle, as was shown by the tortured contortion of her freckled face. she barely cast a glance your way in all of her inner turmoil.

the most you could do was rub her shoulder and hope for the best.

boggs was in less than top working condition, his legs having been blown off mere moments before. your hands shook as you struggled to secure a tourniquet around what was left of his left leg. he wasn’t going to make it, and you knew this in your core, but you couldn’t live knowing you hadn’t at least tried to save him.

the blood rushed out in copious amounts, staining your hands and the marble ground of his final resting place. wails and cries of one of the leeg sisters, leeg two of you weren’t mistaken, were merely background noise, your hearing taken by the rush of your heart in your chest and your own desperate, whimpering sobs. you were only pulled from your frenzied haze by castor’s hand grasping your shoulder, a somber look on his face as he shook his head.

the grief was short lived, leeg one setting off a pod in her attempt to tend to her sister. you were the first on your feet upon seeing the courtyard closing in, your feet carrying you to the nearest building. katniss lay at the back of your mind, your adrenaline kicking in and your survival instinct prioritizing your own self-preservation.

it was your gun that shattered the glass door, and your footsteps that echoed first in the empty shell of a townhouse, and your mangled cry that carried down the stairs upon finding the stairs dismantled. you made your best attempt at finding a way up them, somehow tugging yourself up onto the crumbling stone by exposed metal braces.

you waited for only a few moments before katniss appeared in view, face red and eyes darting, searching the small crowd of her unit. you noted the absence of holmes alongside boggs, and your heart sunk. you’d lost not one, but two.

“where’s y/n?” you heard, her voice frenzied and dripping with her anxiety. the black goo had infiltrated the building, gushing in at such high velocities you were scared you’d all drown in it. it kissed the edge of the stairs, climbed up them slowly, slowing to a complete stop just as it touched the top of the staircase.

“shit,” gale muttered, his face crestfallen as he mourningly gazed out to the sea of black flooding the courtyard. it was then you remembered you had a voice, your throat having been closed the entire duration of the short lived conversation. you peaked around the corner from where you’d climbed up to the next landing, now sobered from your adrenaline rush and realizing just how far of a jump it would be to get yourself down. how had you gotten up here?

“up here, kat,” you called, voice breaking mid sentence, breathy and terrified. relief leaked into her not because of the lethal goo draining from the building, but from the realization that you had in fact made it out.

“how in the hell did you get up there, sunshine?” cressida breathily chuckled, her nose scrunched as a crooked smile took her face and her head tilted. you shrugged, eyes darting as you attempted to plan your descent.

“i haven’t the slightest clue. can someone help me down?” you asked timidly, slowly inching to the edge of the decimated staircase. gale and pollux made their move, both being the largest men, with finnick ready to support if need be.

you got down, but not without a few bruises and a hefty amount of brute force. you’d jumped to save time, gale barely catching you and ending up slamming into the plaster behind him. it was katniss who settled you on your feet and it was katniss who pushed you behind her.

“give me the pod, everdeen,” jackson demanded, her face somehow harder than usual. katniss was defiant, refusing the give up the pod, a lie tumbling from her lips faster than the rate at which all weapons were lifted. you were just as steely as jackson, rifle lifted to your chest, aimed for her head, eyes narrowed and fierce.

“it’s true,” cressida interjected, stepping in the direct line of fire. you admired her bravery, the gall she’d never hesitated to make use of, remained unfazed by the barrel of a weapon aimed at her head. “coin wants it televised.”

you all knew it was a lie, every last one of you. the mission from the start was to film propos until the rebels took president snow into custody. it was common knowledge amongst both the soldiers and district thirteen’s film crew. katniss was a terrible liar, but with more against her than supporting her, jackson had no choice but to back down. it was an outnumbered match and there were peacekeepers minutes away. your unit had to move, and quick.

seeing your face paired with a canon was the last thing you’d expected to see broadcast in a capitol home. you and gale had made quick work of devouring handfuls of snacks left by the homeowners, a frown on your face as your mind struggled to wrap around the events transpiring moments ago.

the leeg sisters were dead, blown to bits by peacekeepers nearly an hour before. boggs was dead, holmes was dead, and there was no way out except down. you knew this, and you knew it well. your numbers were dwindling, and if your unit had any chance at survival, the best way to proceed would be through the sewers and underground railways.

katniss was in a worse state than you, her entire body down to her eyes dissheveled and frantic. she hadn’t stopped shaking since you’d arrived in the townhouse across the courtyard, a distracted gleam in her grey eyes. you hoped she could make it through this alive.

sewer water was surprisingly cold, chilling you to your core. you lingered just behind katniss, the light of the holo guiding your way, your hand braced against the hem of her vest. the water reached your shoulders, smelling rancid and leaving a grimy feeling against your skin.

“i don’t like this,” you whispered to katniss, your voice echoing in the flooded pipes. she let out a shaky sigh and nodded, a smile hardly lifting the corner of her mouth.

you reached a resting point at last and you were hot on her heels, just behind her in clambering up the ladder. you were panting as you collapsed on the lifted platform, chilled as the dirty water dried to your skin and protective clothing.

“get some rest,” katniss heaved, eyes darting to meet yours, knuckles brushing yours. a jolt of electricity jumped through your arm. you could feel the heat of your face in your eyes. she smiled, a small gesture that barely stretched past the small curl of her lips and the slight crinkle of her eyes, but it was enough for you — enough to show she cared.

“i don’t think i could if i wanted to,” you whispered, punctuating your statement with a chuckle. you looked down at yourself, at the other rebels hidden away with you. your gaze lingered on peeta, the exhaustion clear on his dozing face. “besides, our watch starts soon. we’ve still got peeta to look after.”

“still, get some rest ‘til then.” you nodded hesitantly, letting your head lean back against the concrete railing. she sighed, a soft sound that echoed in the crowded space. her forearm slid behind your head, hand curling to cup your cheek, and guided your temple to her shoulder. the scratchy gear was uncomfortable against your skin.

you hadn’t realized you’d fallen asleep until your watch started. katniss jolted, waking you with such suddenness that a violent gasp escaped your lips and your hands automatically came to grip your rifle. your eyes darted around, finally piecing together the situation, and you let yourself heaven a soft sigh of relief.

peeta and katniss exchanged a few words as you sat, words you couldn’t bring yourself to eavesdrop on. your eyes, instead, scoped the dark enveloping your unit. there wasn’t much to see, wasn’t much to hear beyond the drip of water and the faint light rippling in the sewer water.

it was a long while until there was something to hear, screams of avoxes echoing distantly in the sewer system. katniss was quick to descend the steel ladder into the murky abyss below. you followed diligently, rifle up and aimed at the dark tunnel she shone a light down. your own light was on, shining a bit further than the holo’s, casting a white glow on the walls and water a hundred meters away.

“what is it?” you whispered as quietly as possible. katniss was equally as confused, eyebrows furrowed and eyes large. it wasn’t until peeta jolted awake that you realized there was something truly to fear lingering in the tunnels.

“we gotta go,” he gasped, horrified, eyes as wide as saucers and face paler than you’d ever seen it. he practically jumped down from the platform, using only one rung to guide himself down. “they released mutts!”

all was well, until it wasn’t. you’d been the second person to climb through the small concrete window, joining pollux on the other side. gale crept across next, then katniss, and peeta, and finnick, until jackson remained. she swept over her surroundings with a piercing light, turned to face you, and froze. you didn’t need any other sign, taking hold of pollux’s hand and dragging him along with you. your warning bells were going mad, adrenaline flooding your muscles and sending you into overdrive.

an explosion lit the passageway behind you, and gale’s fiery shots illuminated your way through the winding sewers. the mutts were gaining, castor’s agonized screams echoing hauntingly loud in your ears. you pushed down your tears, your sorrow, and ran. you ran until you reached an opening, until you reached a ladder, and swung around with your rifle in hand.

“go! go!” you shrieked, shooting down every grotesque capitol creation you could aim for. katniss disappeared into the water, dragged off the metal platform by a mutt. you felt like you couldn’t breathe, shooting anything that moved, even after katniss had ascended, until you and finnick were the only soldiers remaining in the convergence. finnick shoved you, breaking your spell, a mutt only barely missing your jugular. its teeth sunk into your shoulder, ripped apart by finnick’s small dagger. your scream echoed, tearing through your throat.

“christ, y/n, go!” he bellowed. it took nothing more for you to spin on your heel and begin your ascent to your unit, to katniss. her eyes jumped between you and finnick, her arm outstretched to help you up. the pain radiated into your spine, your rib cage, your elbow. it was blinding and it was everywhere. you finally grasped katniss’s shaking hand, letting her and gale rip you away from the opening quicker than the mutt had ripped into you.

“oh my god, y/n. oh my god,” gale gasped, fingers applying pressure to the gaping, bloody wound stretching into your nervous system. you smacked his hand away, a hiccuping sob shrieking from your chest. you dragged yourself onto your feet, scooping up your weapon, tugging pollux’s hand with teary eyes.

“please. pollux, please, we need out,” you wailed, eyes blindly darting for an exit. you pushed through once you’d found it, rifle up and aiming the second you passed through. you were running, the footsteps of your comrades sounding behind you. you saw the peacekeepers before they saw you, a gut feeling guiding your aim. you’d shot down as many as you could see, bullets whizzing past.

circular panels in the ceilings began lighting, dread sinking into your stomach. upon a glance over your shoulder, you realized messalla hadn’t noticed in time. an unidentifiable mass of smoking cubes made up what was once a dear friend, another piece of your heart breaking as the capitol stole yet another life from your grasp. you turned your attention back forward, pushing against the wheezing in your lungs and the ache in your shoulder and the burn in your legs. you reached the stairs before the others, pausing to let them catch up.

peeta lay crumpled on the floor, rotating saws having broken the tile floor where you’d all ran mere moments ago. you struggled to catch your breath, the adrenaline proving to be the best natural stimulant. if it weren’t for the pure terror coursing through your veins, you were sure you wouldn’t have made it out of the sewer. you were certain finnick would’ve had to leave you.

where was finnick?

you gave yourself no time to dwell, cressida’s body pushing past you, darting up the stairs and leaving nothing but a gust of wind in her wake. you followed closely behind the others, holding up the rear, your rifle aiming in every direction.

“open the door!” cressida was shouting, slamming her hand repeatedly against the glass door. “open the door! let us in!”

the shouting didn’t stop until you filed in, slamming the door shut with your injured shoulder. it sent a violent wave of agony through your body. you collapsed with a hand cradling your bleeding wound, tilting your head to the ceiling.

“come on,” katniss breathed, thumb stroking your cheekbone. you shook your head, sob after sob wracking through your body. you’d never felt such a horrible pain in your life, stretching to your very core, leaving all your organs aching in its wake.

“i can’t, i can’t,” you wheezed, struggling to find your airway again. katniss was grounding, her fingers stroking yours, her hand settling on your chest above your vest. you found your breathing that way, with her palm reminding you where your lungs were.

“one more ladder. i promise,” she spoke, voice calm despite the alarm you spotted in her eyes. you crawled to the edge of the trap door. your hands found the railing. you managed to drag yourself down, to plant yourself on the concrete ground. katniss landed seconds after you, her arm wrapping around your middle. she helped you to the nearest unoccupied wall, the two of you collapsing together.

“i’m so sorry,” she wailed. “there was no plan. coin didn’t send me to kill snow. i killed them. i killed them all — finnick — oh god, i’m so sorry, pollux.”

“we knew,” you gritted out, vision growing black around the edges. “we all knew you were lying. we made the decision to come with you.”

you blacked out seconds later, the blood loss finally getting to you as your adrenaline dissipated.

you awoke late the next day to a quiet shuffling about. your shoulder was still painful, but it was a bit less excruciating now, and your head was absolutely killing you. you sat yourself up slowly, letting the blood flow slowly move through you as you situated yourself. you found that you were the only person remaining in the hidden bunker, soft chatter carrying through the open hatch.

“hello?” you called, voice croaky and hoarse. all movement on the higher floor stopped, heavy shoes trekking over top of you until cressida’s mop of blonde hair sunk over the edge. she looked relieved to see you awake, in all your undressed glory.

your top half had been undressed to your undergarments, a thick layer of gauze holding pressure to your wound, your skin prickling as cold air wafted over it.

“morning, sunshine,” she breathed, a bit more relief in her tone than you were comfortable with. gunfire sounded in the distance, hardly loud enough to touch the underground bunker, but loud enough to alarm cressida. “shit.”

“katniss is out there, isn’t she?” you asked meekly, an unsettling dread weighing on your stomach like a boulder. the blonde gave a nod, worrying her lip between her teeth. her head disappeared and her feet appeared, scaling down the ladder to join you in your underground prison.

“she and gale went together, disguised themselves as refugees. they were hoping to infiltrate the manor, but it sounds like the rebels got there first.”

you sighed as you settled back onto your makeshift cot, wincing as the uncomfortable floor brushed your shoulder the wrong way. cressida shook her head with a faint smile, touching her fingers to the white bandaging.

“you’re lucky you’re even alive, sunshine. we almost lost you. the blood loss got to you before i had a chance to let you decide how much of your clothes i cut off,” she mused, her eyes alight with pain.

“i’m sorry about messalla,” you croaked. “i know you guys were close. castor too.”

“don’t worry about them. it wasn’t your fault. we knew what we were getting into. we were all willing to die for this cause. we made this choice.”

you let out a sigh, eyelids growing heavy. “i’m falling asleep again,” you muttered. you were out before you’d had a chance to hear her response.

district twelve was quaint as ever. the seam was in shambles, the merchant square in scarcely better shape. you’d finally been given permission to return home following correspondence with katniss and haymitch, gifted a spare room in katniss’s home. you knew she needed the company. lord knows how suffocating it must be in that vacant manor, without her mother, without prim.

“i missed you, kat,” you sighed as she finally wrapped you in the embrace you’d missed painfully. she let out a chuckle, the first authentic laugh you’d heard from her since the seventy-fourth games.

“missed you too, sunshine. let’s get inside,” she breathed, cupping your face as she released you from her gentle grasp. she smiled at you, and it was different this time. there was something different shining in her eyes — something different from the way gale looked at her, from the way haymitch looked at effie, from the way finnick looked at annie. there was something different, but something so similar.

“let’s go home.”

the great war was over.

the great war was over, and with the end had come peace. you still held the scars as a reminder, as most of panem did. you held them in your heart, in your mind, in the skin of your shoulder. katniss held them too, in the occasional wheezing, the tormenting nightmares, the fragments of her heart.

“your scars are healing nicely,” she murmured, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, a soft smile lingering on her full lips. you gave a weak smile, tracing the raised, grotesque bite marks spotting your bare shoulder.

she was right. they were healing nicely. but they were a reminder, of finnick, of castor, of messalla, the leegs, primrose, boggs, holmes, jackson. they were a reminder of all those you’d lost, all the lives taken in the great rebellion. they were a reminder of johanna, finnick, annie. a reminder of cruelty and unnecessary bloodshed.

“i wish the inside ones would heal too,” you hummed, tugging a loose shirt over your head. katniss heaved a great sigh, past memories reflected in her granite eyes.

“i do too, sunshine.”

her hand found yours, and your faces found the sun, and your bodies finally found the relaxation they’d craved for generations.

all was at peace.

the peace lingered until the dreams came. they were suffocating, torturous, unbearable. katniss had them worse than you ever would, but she’d never vocalize that. she’d never belittle your suffering because hers was greater.

instead, she’d crawl into your bed, wrap her thin arms around your waist, cradle you until the crying stopped. she usually hadn’t gotten to sleep yet anyways.

your bed had become hers. she spent more time curled around you than settled in her own sheets. it was reminiscent of your days in district thirteen, of the bunk beds and the grey clothing. it was different now, though.

the hesitation in her movements had gone, along with the hefty wall she’d used to guard her inner workings. it was all gone, and she was revealed to you, unraveled before your eyes like some sacred scroll only you had access to.

“remind me why i let you sleep in my bed, again,” you mused late one night, your fingers stroking her cheekbone, your eyes unable to leave the sun kissed skin of her round face. she chuckled, rolled her eyes, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“because you love me.” a pause. “and i love you.”

you captured her lips in a chaste kiss, rested your forehead against hers, took a deep breath.

“i love it when you say that.”

“then i’ll keep saying it, every single day until you grow tired of it. and then i’ll keep saying it, every single day until i can no longer speak.” her nose brushed yours, her breath fanning over your face, her lips just barely brushing yours as she spoke.

“that sounds like a long time.” she kissed you, firmer, longer, until she couldn’t breathe and you couldn’t think, until you could no longer distinguish where your skin ended and her skin started.

“i’m hoping for forever.”

#the hunger games #katniss everdeen x reader

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