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averagejoesolomon · 3 years ago

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We're back! Here's 5,000 words of our boys absolutely dominating the world of espionage. Should you feel so inclined, this chapter pairs well with The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy. Do with that information what you will.

If you're new around here, welcome to Full Circle! I know this post says it is chapter one, but this story actually starts in 1978, and I recommend starting there first. You can read all of Full Circle on Ao3. Enjoy gang!

TW: Violence; Blood

Chapter One

Even at the end of winter and even as the sun sets, this part of the States is always warmer than he expects. A dry breeze crawls across desert sands, catching on every cactus in its path until it lands square on Matt’s shoulders. He’s only just begun to shake the snowy misery of a Virginian March, but most of it melts away easy in a place like this. “I’m not saying we’ve gotta make a whole day out of it.” Dust smears against his fingertips as he slams the trunk of the car shut, leaving smudged prints behind. “I’m just saying it’s been a while.”

He hands Joe a fresh magazine to slide into the nearest available pistol. It zips into place with a resolved click. “It’s three hours east,” Joe counters. “And way too far south.”

Matt’s got a clear view of the horizon just beyond the edge of the parking lot and across the nearby highway. The straight lines and clear shots remind him of home. “So we spend a night in Austin.” The last of winter’s ice rests along the edge of his own pistol as he tucks it into the small of his back, but the Texas heat wins out and soon enough, the chill subsides. “We can afford a little detour.”

Joe’s silhouette is the only thing that breaks up the scenic view. It’s a stark shadow against a backdrop of purples and pinks cast along the underside of each cloud. Streaks of sunset catch in the shoulders of his leather jacket, but the body of it swallows the colors whole. Joe’s the sole spot of blind blackness in a night full of spectacular sights. “Nothing in Texas is a little detour,” he says. “This state could eat half of Europe for breakfast. Your idea of a little detour is a four-hour drive.”

Matt tightens up a strap at his ankle, checking for the knife that hides along the seam of his boot. “A four-hour drive is a hell of a lot closer than we usually are.”

“Yeah, it’s still four hours, cowboy.” Joe’s sunglasses catch a glare from the rapidly falling sun—a sharp starburst that flashes in Matt’s eyes, then flickers away. “Y’see, this kind of thing isn’t a problem in Manhattan. The city’s got everything a guy could need in a five—”

“—five-block radius,” Matt finishes for him. “I’ve heard that one before. But we ain’t in Manhattan. We’re in Texas, and when a buddy of yours wins an election, you stop into town and you buy him a beer. That’s the rule.”

The last time Matt saw Fitz, it was two elections ago on a dry campaign trail. It’s a rare occasion that Matt gets to offer his congratulations, rather than a consolation, but it’s likely he won’t get to offer either this time around. His old friendships keep fading faster than he knows how to patch them.

“Fitz doesn’t have time for us to buy him a beer,” Joe reminds him. “And, coincidentally, we don’t have time to buy him one.”

The world’s shadow creeps across sand, inching straight toward the two of them. “What’s so urgent, Joseph?” he says with a grin. “Got a hot date?”

“Yeah, and so do you.” Joe hikes his thumb over his shoulder toward an aging building across the lot. “There’s at least five guys named Vladamir standing on the other side of those doors and we’re about to dance with all of them.”

The sun finally winks over the horizon and as the world dozes off, a nearby sign flickers awake. It stands high above the rooftop, calling out to the few daily drivers that pass it by. The grinding buzz of pink and blue neon soaks into the dry Texas heat, outlining big, white letters that read ARCADE. “Y’think they know the Electric Slide?” Matt says. “Because we could really get a party going in there if they do.”

The harsh, florescent hues settle along Joe’s skin. These colors suit him better than the sunset ever could. “We get in, we get our information, we get out,” he says, holstering his own gun on his hip. “I don’t want to be around when the Circle decides to send backup, got it?”

That’ll be the end of it. There’s no room for jokes where the Circle of Cavan is involved, so Matt doesn’t make them. He just runs through his final checks the way Rachel Cameron taught him years ago, then nods. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “Let’s boogie.”

It’s high time to fish or cut bait, as his pops would say. Without another word, the pair of them scuff up their shoes as they start towards yet another tussle on yet another night, stuffed to the seam with personalized arsenals. Joe flicks the butt of a cigarette into the rocky gravel at their feet, letting the last of the embers burn themselves into extinction. Matt pulls a pair of dark, fingerless gloves over his palms, trying to spare his knuckles of any new bruises. Each footstep kicks up a new cloud of dust at the base of their steady strides.

They ain’t quiet. They ain’t trying to be. If there’s anything they’ve learned in the past few years of off-book brawls, it’s that they’re stronger than most, faster than most, and maybe—just maybe—they’re a little bit unbeatable.

Because the truth of the matter is that Matt’s a good spy. Joe’s an even better one. They’ve each got their individual place in espionage, but it don’t hold a candle to the way they work when they’re together. Something about them just seems to snap into place, every time and without exception, in a way Matt’s never quite felt with anyone else. When they’re out in the world, only one another at their backs, the pair reach a greatness that not even the meanest agents can match.

They’re as dynamic as a duo can get. They’re more in sync than most of the artists on MTV. They’re the ‘27 Yankees playing triple-A ball and if their missions were ballgames, they’d have mercy-ruled out of the majority by now.

But Joe ain’t in the business of mercy. So these days, neither is Matt.

The door squeaks on its rusted hinges. Matt’s the first one in, because Matt’s always the first one in. One look and he’s already got the entire building figured out. It’s all flashing lights, wood-paneled walls, and carpet worn down to its roots. Hulking arcade games line every available wall, their screens screaming out for quarters, and the room’s lone jukebox has been used and overused until the buttons have been scrubbed blank. There’s an exit toward the back. A storeroom to the right. Not enough windows. The entire space is buzzing with a low and constant hum.

Joe was wrong about one thing—it’s seven guys, not five, and half of them are smoking thick, gaudy cigars that fill the room with broad ribbons of wispy white smoke. Most stand along the edge of a pool table, game in progress with cue sticks at the ready. A few others huddle around a high top, laughing and joking in a dialect that brings Matt straight back to Leningrad. One of them even entertains a game of pinball, and seems to be doing pretty well for himself. The moment he steps inside, all conversation stops and all eyes land on him.

This ought to be fun.

“Howdy, fellas,” he jeers, easily sauntering into the room as though he was invited. As through these enemy agents are his very best friends. “Nice of you to clear the place out for us.”

Absent the cover of a crowd, Matt’s second-best weapon is his Nebraskan charm. Something about his smile disarms even the toughest of agents. The tone of his voice makes even the meanest men hesitate. He wears them both with a confidence that trumps the confusion in the room. This unthreatening uncertainty only earns him a few extra seconds, but when it comes to spycraft, a few seconds is all it takes.

It only takes two seconds to march straight into the center of these Russian goons. It takes another to find a spot just beside the Skee-Ball machine and dig his heels in. Seconds four, five, and six give him just enough time to grab a single ball from the machine’s return chute and toss it once in the air, catching it again in his other hand.

But soon enough, his time is up, and there’s a gun trained on him.

Matt’s hands fly up into a surrender. He loses track of whether the gunman speaks in English or in Russian, but the general sentiment boils down to, “Who the hell are you?”

Matt glances over at Joe. There’s a second gun aimed in his direction, but Joe’s got the kind of grin that makes people nervous—like he knows more secrets than they do, and they ought not to kill him before they can find out what they are. “Easy, boys,” he says, glancing over his sunglasses. “We’re just looking for a good time.”

“That’s right,” Matt cuts in, hands still held high. “What do you say, gentlemen? Anyone up for a game of Skee-Ball?”

What happens next is quick enough that no one sees it until it’s over, and it starts with the simple toss of a ball. It starts with Matt, and his few stolen seconds, and a perfect pitch.

The weight of the ball leaves his hands, heavier than he’s used to.

It curves to hit the underside of the barrel, smacking it towards the sky.

A bullet snaps into the ceiling just a little too late, and the entire room erupts.

The sound of shots fired triggers everyone into action. Big guys with grizzly scars charge straight at him, taking swings left and right, so he takes a step back until his calf hits the hard edge of the machine. He pops up onto the height of it and kicks one, two, three of them in the chest as they come. It’s two against seven, but Matt ain’t worried. It’s two against seven, but across the room, Joe Solomon is still smiling.

One of the taller Russians collects himself enough to make a focused effort towards Matt, cue stick thrown over his shoulder and ready to swing. Matt’s old peewee coach would have a few choice words to share about this guy’s form, but something tells Matt that he ain’t looking for tips. “I take it you’re more of a billiards guy, then?” he says, just as the guy takes a swing at him. It’s easy to dodge. “Alright, alright, all you had to do was say so, sweetpea.”

On the second swing, the heavy end of the cue stick lands straight against Matt’s palms, slapping against the leather of his gloves. It stings, but it doesn’t compare to the hurt that his dance partner is about to feel. “Do you want colors?” he says, cracking a grin. “Or stripes?”

The tall Russian curses in his native language, but Matt ain’t listening. Instead, he lands the long side of the cue stick across the Russian’s chest and shoves. He shoves until the Russian loses his balance, and then he shoves some more. Matt hops back down from his place atop the Skee-Ball machine and shoves the Russian straight across the room, knocking down another attacker in the process, until they land against the edge of the pool table.

The Russian is strong, but Matt is stronger. He holds his stance with the Russian backed against the table, squirming and wrestling against Matt’s grip. Just when Matt thinks he’s winning, he spots a flicker of recognition in the Russian’s eyes, and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

On instinct, Matt ducks.

A right hook flies over his head and lands square in the Russian’s nose. When Matt looks up, he sees another attacker with even more scars than the first, cursing over a punch that was meant for Matt.

The two squabble and bicker, which gives Matt just enough time to sweep the legs out from under the first guy. Before the second attacker even realizes what happens, Matt pops back up, wraps his hands around the guy’s neck, and flips him straight over his shoulder.

Crack. Russian Number Two lands flat on his back, splayed across the green velvet of the pool table. The wood splinters under the weight and splits the table into two, easy as a dried-up log on a cool autumn day. The guy groans, but he ain’t gonna be getting back up from that.

Dense billiards balls jump from the tabletop and squeeze out of their pockets, scattering across the stained carpet. Matt scoops up two of the striped ones just in time to feel a hand yank him upright by his shoulder.

In one swift move, he finds himself face-to-face with a shorter, stockier guy, cradling a ball in each hand. “Wasn’t aware you wanted to play too, sugar pie,” Matt says. “How about you get next round?”

They say the third time’s the charm, which is probably why this guy is able to land a solid hit, straight across Matt’s jaw. Bright, bold pain spreads up through Matt’s chin, cheek, ears, then down through his neck. A crack. A jolt. Throbbing.

Matt shakes off the strain, rounding his jaw in its socket once, twice, three times to make sure it’s straight. With the easy, strategic crack of his neck, he spits the fresh taste of blood from his mouth and sighs. “Alright,” he says. “If you insist.”

Heart pounding in his ears, Matt doesn’t hold back. He’s only playing by the same rules as the Russians when he brings the billiards balls up to each side of his attacker’s head and whacks them into each ear. This guy doesn’t fall as fast as the first two, but he’s disoriented enough that Matt can throw his knee straight into his groin. This, finally, brings him down to the knees.

Matt lays a hand on the Russian’s shoulder. “Sorry, buddy,” he says. “That’s a tough break—oh man, see that? I didn’t even mean for that one to be a pun. I just can’t help my—”

A pair of gunshots ring out over Matt’s shoulder.

The blaze of his blood suddenly runs cool. The throbbing in his jaw turns to ice. For the very first time, he imagines all of the ways that this night could go horribly and terribly wrong.

Matt’s quick to sprint towards a fight that isn’t his own, but by the time he turns around, Joe’s already knocking the pistol straight out of some guy’s hand, sending it skittering out of reach. “It’s not nice,” Joe says through a grunt, “to bring a gun to a knife fight.”

Joe ain’t a fan of patterns, but a person wouldn’t know it by the way he fights. A trained eye can spot every calculated dodge. Every expert strike. Joe does twice as much thinking with his gut than Matt could ever do with his head, and he fights like he sees the future. Matt can get himself out of any situation, sure, but Joe never makes the mistake of getting caught in a situation to begin with.

Still. Joe’s dancing with two angry Russians, both with knives aimed straight at vital organs. One of them charges and lands a lucky strike that grazes Joe across the cheek and Matt doesn’t much care for that.

So he makes an even fight of it, rushing up behind one of the attackers and grabbing them by the collar. The rigidity of the denim jacket scrunches in his hands as he pulls.

“I had him,” Joe calls out, easily stepping outside of the range of another swing.

“Sure you did,” Matt calls out. “And now I've got him.”

The man in Matt’s hands flails against the grip, swinging his knife around in an attempt to hit some sort of flesh. Matt much prefers to keep knives outside of his body, so he makes quick work out of finding a place to land. He bangs this guy’s head onto the closest available surface, shoving him face-first into a pair of bright yellow buttons, just narrowly avoiding a joystick.

The arcade machine lights up, spitting out a familiar melody that reminds him of late nights and the smell of new coins. “Oh sweet, they’ve got Galaga here!” The screen lights up his face with pale greens and bright yellows. “I’ve got the high score back home.”

Joe’s swinging fists with the raw end of a knife, but he still manages to point out, “You haven’t been home in a year.”

The guy under Matt’s hand groans, so Matt slams him into the buttons again. The machine lets out a charming pew pew in response. “So what?”

Finally, Joe’s able to knock the knife out of his attacker’s hand, grabbing hold of the wrist and twist, twist, twisting it back behind the back. He knocks the guy out with a single touch to the neck, leaving him to fall limp to the floor. “So,” Joe says, “you really think some nerd with a bag of quarters hasn’t knocked you off the board since then?”

“Nah, I’m buddies with the owner’s son.”

Joe takes off toward the last few guys. “Of course you are.”

“He says my initials are holding strong,” Matt calls out, loud above the sounds of a fight nearly at its end. “And not just on Galaga—I’ve got Frogger, too.”

“Right.” In the distance, Joe throws one guy into a claw machine, shattering the surrounding glass. It scatters and sparkles along the floor, catching every blinking light in the place. “And you’re under the impression that this makes you cooler, somehow?”

“Whatever, Wise Guy,” says Matt. “How many high scores have you got?”

Joe doesn’t respond, because Joe’s flipping another guy twice his size over his shoulder, slamming him straight across the Skee-Ball lanes. Awfully convenient timing.

“That’s what I thought,” Matt says, then offers the unsolicited advice of a champion. “The trick is to get the second shooter.”

“Uh-huh.”

Spy that he is, Matt senses that Joe may have stopped listening. He tries again. “Do you know about the second shooter?”

Joe’s perched atop a downed Russian, landing one, two, three punches to his face until they stop moving. “I can’t even begin to emphasize how much I do not care right now.”

Matt looks down at his own guy, barely conscious. “He just doesn’t understand the second shooter,” he laments. “If he knew how much easier the bonus stages were with two guns, he’d be on my side.”

Matt’s own Russian looks up at him with absolute bewilderment, so he just sighs. No one can keep up with the two of them, and these guys are no exception, so he slams his guy’s head in the Galaga machine one last time, and lets him fall to the ground.

Seven guys down. Two left standing. Just as it always is.

A quiet fills the arcade once more, interrupted only by the uncoordinated chirps of various unplayed games. They both clamber toward the center of the room, a little more beaten and bruised than when they first began the evening. Matt steps over the hunched body of one of the Russians, flexing his fists free of any lingering pain. Joe tries to swipe the blood from his nose, but it doesn’t do the job. The blood on his knuckles leaves behind an even bigger smear than the one he started with.

Matt looks around the room, scanning the bodies before him. He wonders if this is what his father’s battlefields looked like. “Looks like we’ve got our pick of the litter.”

Joe doesn’t waste time on wondering, his mind always moving toward the next step. Eternally trying to survive a war he wants no part in. “Start with any conscious ones,” he says. “If there are any left. See what they know.”

It’s as good a plan as any. When it comes to the Circle, there’s no way to tell a solid lead from a dead end. Time and time again, they find pockets of information that dry up before anything comes of them, and it’s hard to deny the feeling that this night is just more of the same. Matt and Joe could fight through entire armies but it still wouldn’t change the fact that the Circle isolates information to such a degree that not even agents twenty years their senior could identify it all. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack—if one haystack suddenly became hundreds, and if each of them were located in entirely different countries all across the world. And if some of the haystacks had been burned up, others moved, and others shot outright for sharing information that ought not to be shared.

It sends Matt and Joe to Texas when they’re supposed to be in Istanbul. It lands them in an empty arcade, fighting guys twice their size, when they’ve got paperwork piling up on their desks at Langly. Sooner or later, they’ll have to face the fact that it’ll take more than a two-man team to take down something so immense, but for now, it’s Matt and Joe. It’s just Matt and Joe. They’ll interrogate the men they do have, rather than search for the men they don’t, because anything more is sure to paralyze them.

Matt takes a step forward towards the nearest available Russian, but he is stopped mid-stride by an unexpected sound. It doesn’t fit in with the rest of the noises pinging around them and with one glance at Joe, Matt knows he hears it, too.

They hear the click of a latch. The turn of a knob.

And a battle cry roaring at their backs.

They don’t think. They don’t have to. As soon as they hear the voice, the pair of them turn in perfect unison toward the storeroom. It’s the draw of their guns. It’s the pull of their trigger. Without a single shared word, both land a bullet to a kneecap of their surprise attacker—Matt to the left. Joe to the right.

Eight. A grand total of eight Russians, not seven.

The man’s screams turn from anger to agony, devastated that his sneak attack from the storeroom has only landed him a worse fate than his brothers. He falls to his knees first, but soon realizes the mistake he’s made and rolls onto his back, crying out toward the ceiling. His partners must hear him, but they do not dare face any additional wrath.

Matt stares at the pistol in his hands, no longer cold to the touch. It burns against his palm, even though the gloves, and for the first time, he registers the man on the other end. “Oh my god,” he says, distant and awed. He tests the weight of his pistol in his hand, then turns to Joe. “That was just like Galaga.”

Joe tucks his gun away. “Don’t start.”

“You were the second shooter all along.”

Joe doesn’t entertain this thought, which is just as well. They don’t have the time to spare on it. Instead, he approaches the man splayed out before them, squatting down to the right level. Joe’s voice is a quiet threat against outright screams. “What do you know about the Circle’s mission against the NSA?”

The screams continue, louder now. The part of Matt’s mind that is trained to translate realizes that the man is praying.

Joe speaks Russian nearly as well as Matt does, but he’s waiting for English. “My buddy and I,” he says, “got a lead from one of your friends about an upcoming attack on some very important data. I’d very much like to know why, how, and when that is going to happen.”

The man’s words dissolve behind tears. His god will be of no use to him now.

Joe cocks his gun. He doesn’t hesitate before placing the barrel straight against the roof of the man’s mouth. “It’s important you know,” he says, “that I’m not the sort of man to ask three times.”

“I know nothing,” the man says, words wrapped around a gun and an accent.

“You have three seconds,” Joe warns. “One.”

“I know nothing, I know nothing,” he pleads.

“Two.”

“You kill me or they do,” he says, but there’s a crack in his voice, and he’s close to a full break. “Please, they will kill me if I tell you.”

“And I’m going to kill you if you don’t,” Joe promises. “Would you rather take your chance with me now, or take your chance with the Circle down the road? Decide quickly.”

The man calls out, but Joe simply moves his gun to the chest now. It’ll be a slower death this way, and all three men know it. The tension of the possibility is enough to squeeze an answer out of the man. “Cameron,” he spits. “It will be an analyst named Henry Cameron. This is all I know. Please.”

Pistol unwavering, Joe glances up at Matt. It doesn’t take a single word between them to share the same thought. In this business, there’s no such thing as coincidences.

Matt nods. “I’ll call the girls.”

“Make it quick,” Joe agrees.

It feels dangerous, leaving Joe alone in the arcade, but not for Joe. If anyone can handle themselves against eight injured Russians, it is surely Joe Solomon. Matt's concern lies more with the other men, and all the ways they may come to regret landing on the other side of Joe's gun.

But that ain't none of Matt's concern. As he leaves the arcade, Matt hears Joe switch from English to Russian, trying to fish out any more information he can gather before they take off into the night. Matt doesn’t let himself listen.

Instead, he shoves through the same metal doors he entered through. The neon sign illuminates the edges of a payphone, jutting out from the side of the building. Matt brushes past the grime and graffiti to drop some dimes into the slot, dialing a number he knows by heart.

Her voice is a welcome familiarity beside the rush of the night, crackling across the distance between them. “Go for Bombshell.”

He doesn’t start with his name. The girls never need it from him. “I’ve got a question for you,” he says. “But when I ask it, you can’t panic.”

Abby’s easy on the other end, collected and calm in all of the ways an agent should be. It’s perfect. Not a word out of place. “Oh, but you know me,” she says. “Always panicking.”

It’s her typical tease. If Matt had the time to spare, he’d let himself sink into it, throwing it right back in her direction. Things being as they are, he doesn’t get the chance and cuts straight to the heart of the matter. “Do you know a man by the name of Henry?” he tries. “Henry Cameron?”

It ain’t often that Abagail Cameron is rendered speechless. Even when she is, it’s never out of a lack of words to say—rather, Abby often has too much to say, and she has to stop herself. Think. As silence fills the line, Matt knows that she’s filtering through the kind of classified information that he’s not supposed to hear.

So she starts simple. “What do you know?

And Matt lets her lead. “Very little.”

"How did you find out?"

"Haven't found out yet," he says. "That's what I'm calling you for."

She hesitates, but this is Matt. And Abby. It’s Matt and Abby, and there’s not much they can't say to one another, even when there is. “How do you know about the attack?” Her voice is just a touch lower than before, seeping with admission. “How did you know that someone broke into our father’s office?”

Espionage has a nasty habit of striking when least expected. No matter how much he prepares for a right hook, this business will always swing with the left. Matt just fought off a crew of highly trained agents, but Abby’s sentence is the first thing to truly punch him in the gut.

“I’m flying out to you,” he says, and maybe he ought to hide the urgency, but he doesn’t have the same filter Abby does. “Tonight.”

At once, her careful tone dissolves. Whatever cover she was hiding behind is lost to a barely concealed apprehension. “Matt, what’s going—?”

This isn’t a secure line. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hey, Matt?”

“Yeah.”

He finally hears his friend, more than he hears the spy. “Should I be panicking?”

The answer is no, because girls like Abby don’t panic. The answer is no, because Matt can’t draw a logical line from an arcade in Texas to a robbery in Maryland. The answer is no.

But something about this stinks like stables in late August. So maybe Matt’s not sure what the right answer is. “I’m flying out to you.”

He hangs up the phone before she can get another word in, slamming it into the cradle with enough force to trigger a faint ring. In his mind, he’s already doing the math—time zones, flight costs, travel plans. Director Smith will expect them back in the office by Monday, and they can’t afford to raise his suspicion any more than they already have. It’ll have to be quick. They’ll have to be smart.

Matt’s hand still rests on the body of the phone when a shot rings out behind closed doors, assuring him that their work here is done. He doesn’t scare. He doesn’t even flinch. Some part of him knew that a bullet was the only way to end this evening.

One second passes. Then another. They're stealing slices of time anywhere they can get them.

Joe pushes through both double doors, chin up, making his grand entrance into the night. He’s got a fresh cigarette bouncing between his teeth and he brings the snap of his Zippo up to light it anew. “What’s the plan?” he asks into cupped hands, features lit aglow by the flame.

Matt fishes in his pocket for a set of car keys. “You win,” he says, starting back across the lot. “We’re not going to see Fitzy tonight.”

#Full Circle #welcome back boys #I hope yall are ready for some sisters

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brockadoodles · 4 years ago

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The CN Tower and Chocolate Chip Pancakes - w. nylander

AN: I swear before whipping this out I was complaining about no writing motivation and how I was going to finish my Christmas wips when this like came to me. So here’s a quick little story about one of our favorite blondies for @puckinghell and all of you. There is mention of losing a parent, which is something I closely relate to from losing one of mine recently, if that’s a trigger, I wouldn’t read this. It’s not an angst piece at all, I just think that warning is necessary. This also may or may not be self indulgent and based on an actual experience I had two years ago with a boy in NYC, but like, you didn’t hear that from me. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 3,337

Warnings: Mentions of death of a parent

Christmas was usually your favorite time of the year. You loved how the city lit up during December, the white lights twinkling from the streetlights and trees, the fresh snow that usually littered the city of Toronto, and the constant smell of gingerbread and spices whenever you entered a building were all things that brought you comfort. This year, however, was different. It was the first year without your mom, without a lot of the traditions that the two of you would do together as you grew up.

You tried though. You went through all of the motions of the holiday. You decorated a tree, blue and silver just like she always loved. You went skating, an experience that was far less fun without your mom to laugh with you when you fell. You went to the Christmas Market, buying a new small knick-knack, like every other year you had done since you were five years old. All of it felt forced, but you were hopeful. You were hopeful that one last Christmas tradition would bring you the sense of comfort you had been searching for during the entire month of December.

The fleeting feeling of comfort and your mom were how you found yourself spending nearly $60 to go up CN Tower on Christmas Eve. A tradition that was usually entirely reserved for tourists visiting the city, a romantic setting with the tower lit up for the holiday and the nighttime skyline view of the entire city providing a cinematic backdrop for people’s perfect holiday moments. You weren’t a tourist, you had grown up in Toronto for your entire life, but your mom had always believed in the idea that it wasn’t a bad thing to be a tourist in your own city, so every year on Christmas even she would bring you up here and the two of you would sit on the observation deck and make a Christmas wish. No matter how lost you felt, it was the one tradition that you didn’t think you could ever give up.

You wandered around the observation deck, the dark beanie on your head keeping your ears warm and your hands were securely tucked in your wool coat pockets as you watched the various people scattered around. It was getting late, the families with children were long gone, probably at home tucked into their beds, and most people that were left were younger couples. You glanced to your right, spotting a boy on one knee holding a ring out for the girl standing in front of him with tears in her eyes. You watched them for a moment, finding yourself wrapped up slightly in how happy they both looked. It gave you an idea for your Christmas wish, and you found yourself smiling softly as you closed your eyes and wished.

“I love you, mom, Merry Christmas.” You whispered as you opened your eyes, the feeling of comfort not quite sinking into your chest yet. As you walked the familiar route to the elevators, you decided that once last stop before heading home for pancakes certainly couldn’t hurt.

You walked down the street with your eyes focussed on your phone as the snow was falling a bit harder than it had been previously. You were searching for anything that was open on Christmas Eve, your stomach growling a bit as you scanned through the search results.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Someone exclaimed, grabbing your arm slightly to prevent you from falling into their chest. You looked up, seeing a boy that must have been around your age looking down at you with a concerned look in his blue eyes. You must have ran into him, too focussed on your phone to watch where you were walking properly enough. You studied his face for a minute, wondering if you had somehow met him before from the feeling of familiarity you were getting in your stomach.

“Do I know you?” You blurted out, adverting your eyes a bit when you realized how rude you must have sounded to this boy immediately after quite literally bumping into him. It didn’t seem to phase him though, and he just smiled.

“I think so? I’m William. You know Steph right? Steph LaChance?” And that’s when it hit you, you did know this boy, well sort of. You had met him maybe once before, at a mutual friend’s birthday party at least two years ago.

“Ah, I do remember you. Wow, you look different, I mean, good.” You stumbled out. It was true, he did look a lot different than he did when you met him. His hair was longer, his face a bit rounder, and a short beard that definitely wasn’t there before. You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment a bit as he laughed softly at your statement.

“So do you. Hey, this may seem a bit forward but, are you busy right now?” He asked. Part of you wanted to tell him yes, that you were busy. That way you could just get on the train back to your apartment, curl up with a warm cup of tea and your slippers, and fall asleep to the snow falling outside of your winder. But the other part of you was dreading going home, the sinking feeling of your first Christmas without your mom settling into your stomach and making you not want to go home. Because if you went home to your empty apartment, you’d have to fully confront your reality. So instead, you nodded up at William, taking a chance on the stranger in front of you that wasn’t quite a stranger.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked softly.

“Come on.” He smiled at you and held his hand out for you to take, your question going unanswered as you hesitantly wrapped your hand in his, letting him lead you in the opposite direction you had come from.

The walk was short and quiet, and your stomach grumbled once more when you stopped in front of what appeared to be the destination he was leading you to. You glanced up at the neon pink sign, the diner clearly out of date and straight from the 1980’s. You smiled to yourself, appreciating that somehow this stranger that wasn’t quite a stranger had instinctively known exactly what you needed at the moment.

“I hope you like pancakes,” He smiled as he opened the door for you, gesturing you ahead with his hand. The diner was relatively empty, just a few other patrons sitting in the various worn-out leather booths. There were decorations everywhere, garlands wrapped around the posts holding up the ceiling and a small Christmas tree lit up in the corner of the diner, multicolored lights strung throughout but no ornaments.

You followed William to a booth in the corner and watched carefully as he smiled at the waitress, her saying hello to him by name. You wondered if this was a place he went to frequently enough to be on a first-name basis with the people that worked here, or if perhaps they were just Toronto Maple Leafs fans who happened to recognize him.

“I come here all the time, usually after bad games. I just really like the people here, and something about diner food is comforting after a loss.” He explained before you had the chance to ask. You nodded at him while you shrugged off your jacket and pulled off your beanie, fixing your hair slightly as William handed you a menu from the side of the table. You grabbed the menu and let your fingers brush lightly against his, causing you to pull your hand back quickly.

“Why did you want to come here tonight?” You asked softly, hoping that your question wasn’t taken out of context or as too intrusive for him to answer. William didn’t seem phased by any of it, instead offering you what would have been the fourth or fifth reassuring smile so far that night, if you were keeping count.

“Just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas Eve, I guess.” He admitted. You were almost taken aback by his honesty with you, finding yourself wondering if he had asked you the very same question that you asked him if you’d answer as bluntly as he did. You felt oddly settled with him though, there in that shitty diner looking at a worn-out menu that probably hadn’t been updated in fifteen years and you found yourself wanting to give him the same openness that he gave you.

“Me neither, I guess.” You commented, holding back and giving him just enough that hopefully he understood that on some level you felt how he felt, even if you couldn’t entirely admit to him why.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a few moments as you both scanned over the menu. The waitress came over, sliding two pale brown mugs filled with coffee in both of your directions and noting that she would be back in a minute to check if either of you wanted any food. You scanned over the pancakes and peeked over at William, his eyes also scanning the page with concentration and you found your mind wondering about him once more. You watched as he bit his lip softly and wondered if he was the type who liked pancakes with fruit on them, or chocolate, an inconsequential fact that most people wouldn’t be phased by but to you said everything you needed to know about a person.

“You said you hoped I liked pancakes, right, William?” You asked, breaking the silence between you as you closed your menu in front of you. He looked over the menu in his own hands at you, raising an eyebrow quickly and smiling softly before looking back down at the pages.

“You can call me Willy if you want, and yeah. I like most kinds, but if you try to tell me fruit on pancakes is better than chocolate, I might have to leave.” He teased as he closed his menu, now looking fully at you with a smirk on his face. For a moment you went wide-eyed, wondering if he somehow crept into your mind and heard exactly what you were thinking. You recovered quickly though, and folded your hands quickly on the table, sending your own smirk back to him.

“I’m not going to argue with that, it’s obviously the correct answer.” Willy didn’t say anything, instead, he nodded at you before taking a sip of the diner coffee, seemingly not phased by its lack of strength or flavor. You grabbed your own mug and the two of you settled into a much more relaxed conversation as you waited for the waitress to come back. Nearly two hours of conversation passing through you without either of you realizing just how personal you were being with each other.

“Usually this place is faster than this, I’m sorry.” The boy in front of you commented, his head tilting toward the large analog clock on the wall that had shown it was nearing midnight, nearing Christmas. You weren’t worried though, glancing around the small diner as the snow fell harshly outside. You smiled softly at William,

“We haven’t even ordered yet, and I’ve got nothing but time tonight.” Willy just smiled back at you, nodding a bit and catching the eye of the waitress.

“Sorry guys, been a long day. What can I get you?” She smiled apologetically. You nodded at Willy to go first.

“No problem, Grace.” He started, referring to the older woman by her first name. He glanced at you quickly, taking a leap of his own as he spoke,

“Can we just grab two orders of chocolate chip pancakes and more coffee?” he asked.

“Confident, what if I wanted strawberry?” You teased, raising an eyebrow quickly. Willy laughed, a genuine laugh that somehow hit you in your chest as comfort settled into your system, a soft smile lingering on your lips as he started leaning into his hand that was resting on the table. He looked at you at that moment like you were more than just a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger to him, and you would be lying to yourself if you tried to ignore the butterflies that it was giving you. Willy felt familiar in an unfamiliar yet exciting way. It didn’t feel like you had only met him once, instead, it felt like you had known him in passing forever, your comfort level and trust quickly rising in him in just a few short hours of really knowing him.

“No chance, you said I was right about chocolate, and I pay attention.” He threw back at you.

“Okay, tell me the real reason you’re alone on Christmas Eve.” Willy pressed as he set his fork down, scooting the nearly empty plate away from his body and toward the center of the table. It was nearly 2 am at this point, and you weren’t sure if it was the few hours you had spent with him giving or the tiredness weighing you down that gave you the false sense of closeness with him, but you found yourself giving in anyway, wanting to tell him everything about yourself in hopes that he would for some reason be taking notes to remember you by.

“It’s my first Christmas without my mom, she uhm, passed away earlier this year and I spent the whole day doing things by myself that we used to do together. So, when you asked if I was busy, I said no, because going somewhere with you felt better than going home to my empty apartment and my thoughts.” It felt good to get it out and Willy’s reaction confirmed what you had already assumed about him, that he wouldn’t judge you for not wanting to spend Christmas Eve alone. After all, before you ran into him, he was set on being alone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He frowned. You just shrugged, you were used to the apologies, no one really knew what it was like when a parent passed away unless they had dealt with it themselves. The apology was an expression of sympathy, and you didn’t mind it coming from Willy.

“What about you? Have a sad story to tell me?” You inquired. Willy sighed and for a moment you wondered if you had pushed too hard if you had overstepped some boundary that he had put up between you that you missed. But the sigh came with a nod as he continued, opening his mouth to speak quietly as you looked at him with eyes that you hoped indicated your willingness to take in whatever he had to say without any judgment.

“I guess I’ve just been having a rough year, I’m not sure how closely you follow hockey, but, a lot of people are doubting if I belong here. I guess with not being able to go home and see my family, it was getting to me. Didn’t even really have any plans until you ran into me and I just felt comfortable asking you to do something.” His voice wavered as he spoke and his eyes dodged your own a few times as he went through what you could only gather were insecurities he didn’t like to talk about. You reached out and put your hand on his wrist, running your thumb slowly across his skin and smiling softly at him.

“You belong here, Willy. I’m not sure how much that means coming from a stranger, but you belong here.” He lit up at your words, turning his hand to grab yours. Your heart pounded in your chest as he laced your fingers together and gave your hand a soft squeeze before letting go, a silent thank you that didn’t need words. You knew what he was trying to say, you didn’t need him to verbally thank you for it.

The two of you started putting your coats back on, the night coming to a close that you weren’t sure you were ready for. You hadn’t expected to have a good Christmas, and while it certainly couldn’t compare to the ones of your past, as you sat in that diner with Willy for hours you felt like you were soaking in the comfort you had spent the entire month trying to find. Each time he laughed at something you said you melted further into the old booth.

Willy set some cash on the table, ignoring your protests as he paid for the meal, and grabbed your hand, once again lacing your fingers together as he tugged you out of the restaurant, this time not letting go once you stepped outside.

“I’ll drive you home, I’m just parked a bit far. Is that okay?” He asked. You smiled and nodded in response, too focussed on the warmth of the feeling of his hand in yours and how it sent waves of feeling straight to your heart and butterflies to your stomach.

The two of you walked in silence for about a block, his hand never wavering from yours until you were standing at a crosswalk. He stopped and looked around a bit. You were near the Christmas market, some of the lights were still on despite how late it was. The decorations were visible from where you were standing on the street, and the only light was coming from the reflection of the twinkling lights reflecting off of the snow. He turned to face you, squeezing your hand gently as he stumbled through his next few words,

“I know this is so abrupt and we just sort of met, and maybe it’s the over romanization of Christmas getting to my head but I really want to kiss you right now.”

You looked up at him, his eyes were warm and the snow was settling into the hair sticking from his beanie. It might have been exactly what he said, the romanization of meeting someone outside of a shitty diner on Christmas Eve and somehow spending the whole night with them sharing things that you hadn’t even entirely shared with your closest friends.

The more you thought about it the more you felt like it was a bad Christmas movie. But bad Christmas movies always ended in a kiss, and you weren’t about to stop the tradition now. So you grabbed him by the collar of his stupidly overpriced pea coat and crashed your lips to his before you could stop yourself. Willy settled into the kiss quickly, wrapping his hand around your waist and tugging your body into his chest. When you pulled apart, the puffs of cloudy air from your breath filled the space around you, and he smiled at you like you were the best thing he could have hoped for this Christmas, a feeling that was unspoken yet mutual.

You buried your face into his chest, stomach in knots as you overthought exactly what had just happened and what it all meant. Willy took his hand and tilted your chin up so that your eyes were looking at his, smiling at you before leaning in to kiss you again, his lips brushing yours softly.

“You never told me what you wished for.” He commented when you pulled apart.

“You somehow gave it to me, Willy.” You smiled and kissed him again, tangling your hand with his once again. You didn’t need to elaborate, because Willy understood what you meant. He had given you comfort, a feeling of not being alone on the one holiday where no one should have to be alone. He didn’t know what the future held, or what this would mean to you by the time the enchantment of the holidays wore off, but he knew that right now you were what he wanted, and he could only hope that you felt the same as you kissed him for the third time that night in the snow.

#8 weeks of christmas #william nylander #willy nylander #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #leafs imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #william nylander x reader

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years ago

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The Great Madripoorian Snake Off - ch. 2

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: E Chapter count: 2/2

Read ch. 1 on Tumblr.

Chapter two summary: Sam and Bucky get tossed out of Selby’s bar and it’s the perfect (more or less) opportunity to discuss their kiss.

Sam sincerely believed that, between the three of them (including Zemo with his pompous swanning and Bucky with his identity a single glove away from being revealed), he wouldn’t be the one to mess this up. But there goes his phone, ringing away in his jacket pocket.

He reaches in and presses a thumb to the screen, swiping desperately as his heart rate climbs. Selby’s eyes on him are nasty things; she doesn’t rise from her seat and yet it feels like she’s bobbing and swaying, hypnotizing him how a snake would. The thought provokes a nauseated rumble from Sam’s stomach and maybe Selby hears that now that his phone is silent. Or maybe she doesn’t, what with the ominous sound of the handful of armed men in the room adjusting their grip on their guns.

“Answer it,” she orders.

Sam extracts the phone from his pocket and holds it up to show that the call’s already been declined.

“Well,” Selby says, unswerving gaze on his face, “call back.”

“I don’t think I better…” Sam hedges nervously.

“Listen to me, Smiling Tiger. I don’t trust you and my tolerance of your presence is really beginning to wear thin.”

“I know what you mean,” Bucky mutters, standing next to Sam.

“What was that?” Selby asks.

“I said, uh, don’t be mean. To him.” After an awkward pause, Bucky lifts an arm (thankfully not the Vibranium one, though based on how badly this encounter is going, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised) and wraps it stiffly around Sam’s shoulders. “My husband.”

What Sam would like to do is call Bucky an idiot, but what he does is lean slightly into Bucky’s hold. On the inside, he’s cursing Bucky to Steve’s rumoured moon base and back. This is how you do it, he thinks. This is how you exorcise your feelings about what a bonehead your associate is without running your mouth in front of the person clearly itching to shoot you.

“Call back on speakerphone,” Selby instructs, ignoring Bucky because she doesn’t seem to consider his fumbled response worth addressing. “Now.”

Sam redials Sarah. He better not be sweating. He can just fucking imagine a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead while he’s bent over his phone, visibly splashing the surface. Bucky’s shared anxiety is obvious in the way he hugs Sam more securely to his side. Not really a hug though. Feels more like Bucky preparing to yank them both to the floor when this terrible cover story goes to hell and the bullets start to fly.

By what honestly feels like a miracle, Sarah does the thing she always does, which usually irritates Sam, but today he loves her for it. She ignores his call. They’ve been doing this forever. It’s a subtle sibling fuck you to the other person whenever one of them returns a call only a minute or two after being called. It says, Oh, so you were close enough to your phone to call me back fast, but couldn’t bother answering it when my name popped up? Knowing Sarah, she’ll be standing in the same spot she was when he dismissed her call, staring down at his name on her screen, with that damn expression of sisterly superiority.

To Selby, Sam shrugs and pockets his phone when Sarah fails to pick up.

“I really have had enough of you. You too,” Selby says, looking pointedly at the pain in the ass who has his arm draped around Sam. “Get out of my sight while I have a discussion with Baron Zemo. In fact, get out of my bar. Someone’ll show you the way.”

“Easy,” Sam says in a low voice when a member of Selby’s security team puts a hand on his shoulder to hustle him towards the back exit. The guy does it to Bucky too, but Bucky says nothing. Sure. Being manhandled by an employee he could easily drop? Silence. Hearing a comment made by the boss and not even directed at him? The perfect opportunity to insult Sam. Bucky’s such a dick.

“Yeah, we got it,” Bucky finally says after Selby’s guy has the door to the alley propped open, prepared to shove them through it.

The guy backs off, but Sam and Bucky still step outside quickly to avoid the closing door.

Sam glances up and down the alleyway, then up the grimy walls. No sign of cameras and only one end of the alley is open to the street a dozen yards away. The other dead-ends at a hulking dumpster. With this very un-luxurious, private place to talk won at the cost of them pissing off an extremely dangerous player in a game to which Sam is still fumbling to open the rulebook, Sam rounds on Bucky. He jabs a finger towards his chest without actually touching him because he doesn’t actually want Bucky to feel threatened. Also, the last touch he instigated between them was firm contact between his palm and Bucky’s ass. So. He doesn’t really know what to do about that, or his hands, or Bucky standing before him in what’s seriously too narrow of an alley. Who designed this place?

“You can’t act like that,” Sam says. “Are you trying to get us killed? This is a mission.”

“You think I forgot? I’m not confused, Sam,” Bucky contends with a frown. “I know I didn’t accidentally go on vacation to fucking Madripoor, ok?”

“Well, then you better prove it by watching your mouth.”

“I was thinking about your mouth!”

The words erupt from Bucky and Sam nearly backs into a wall in surprise. He only stops himself because he remembers the expensive suit and that keeping up appearances is the best they can do at this point, since their acting as soon as they speak is a disaster.

“Now?” Sam asks when annoyance overtakes shock. “When I said we’d talk about it later, I was thinking hours, maybe days. Not while we were still on the premises!”

He motions at the wall, but Bucky cocks his head, looking unconcerned.

“We’re beside the premises, if you wanna be technical about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad. Say what you wanna say,” Bucky encourages with a wave before planting both hands on his hips. “About us kissing.”

“I don’t have anything to say about that either.”

Despite the straight length of wall at his back, Sam’s feeling cornered. He wasn’t expecting Bucky to be the one willing to introduce a dialogue about this. He didn’t really think Bucky would have anything to say about the kiss period. But now the asshole has decided that the best way to spend their time exiled from Selby’s is to talk about their act of intimacy. With his face flooded by blue neon light and his stance sexy in how self-possessed it makes him look. They kissed and now Bucky Barnes—world champion of menacing, wordless staring—wants to talk.

The thing is that they kissed while Bucky was pretending to be his husband and Sam was forgetting to pretend anything. It felt too good. He’d wanted it too long. He wants it again, now, still, with Bucky against a backdrop of dirty bricks, dipped in light so blue it almost vibrates Sam’s eyes. Bucky looks like he’s trying to sell Sam designer cologne and Sam shouldn’t feel drawn in by this, but he wants to buy the danger this cologne model is selling. He wants to get a good grip on Bucky’s black jacket and hear him whisper “Madripoor Pour Homme” in his ear on a warm exhale.

“You gotta go first,” Bucky insists. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about it.”

“Because I thought you would want to explain yourself.”

“We’re supposed to be married, you looked like you were gonna upchuck looking at that snake, I ran interference in a way that seemed appropriate for our cover.”

Bucky’s method of laying it out so straightforwardly is absolutely infuriating.

“To stop me from throwing up,” Sam clarifies angrily.

“Yes.”

“If you were really worried about that, you wouldn’t have kissed me.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you woulda been afraid that I’d throw up all over your face.”

“So what are you saying?” Bucky demands. “That I was hoping you’d throw up on my face?”

Sam laughs.

“God, I hope not. Just that your reasoning is bullshit and you must’ve kissed me for some other reason that you haven’t said.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks to the ground, then back up. His face is angled slightly differently and the blue light does his bone structure favours that it was already too beautiful to ever need to ask for.

“Like what?” he asks softly. And the noise of the people talking and shouting on the street at the end of the alleyway dims below the volume of Sam’s heart thudding in his ears.

Sam doesn’t get a chance to answer; the door they came through bangs open—a hollow clang as it hits the wall and the security guy sticks his head out to check on them, looking the wrong way first. Rougher than he was at the bar, Bucky grabs Sam’s face. Sam closes his eyes as Selby’s man glances towards them, cutting off sight to be hit all the harder by the urgent feeling of Bucky’s mouth moving against, then with, his own. It’s a mess because Bucky kisses like he’s being awarded on most vigorous performance, his tongue prodding eagerly between Sam’s lips in a motion more commonly seen in bullet extractions.

By the time he hears the door shut again—without the guy bothering to even try to interrupt (meaning Selby must not want them back in the negotiating room that badly)—Sam feels as if he’s had his mouth more thoroughly fucked in thirty seconds than the rest of him’s ever been.

Bucky’s even gotten him against the wall and Sam acts like he’s pissed about that, shooting Bucky a look as he gently pushes him back and brushes at the sleeve of his jacket. His first breath free of that kiss is a pant.

“Man, do you only know one way to solve a problem?”

Bucky looks back challengingly.

“I only need one way if it’s the best way.”

Sam attempts to ignore Bucky’s gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips as he says, “Based on what criteria?”

“Selby’s guy left us alone, didn’t he? That means Zemo’s in there flailing without us, without being able to… to rip the rug out from under me by telling her who I really am—”

“Were.”

“—or blowing your cover to see what kinda information she’d give up in exchange for an Avenger.”

“And kissing me was the best way to accomplish that.”

“Well… yeah,” Bucky decides. But his expression is squirrely, so Sam narrows his eyes at him.

“We coulda left the neighbourhood if you wanted to leave Zemo high and dry after flying all the way out here.”

“We still need him to help us get answers on that serum. If he didn’t think we were around, he’d go to ground. Wouldn’t be hard to find him again, just a waste of time.”

“You’re just… committed to our story then,” Sam tests.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not difficult for you.”

“Obviously,” Bucky agrees.

“Better or worse than having to take on everybody in that bar with your bare hands?” Sam asks. When Bucky just stares at him, he goes, “What? You know that’s what Zemo would’ve wanted from you if you’d consented to play the part of the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky exhales heavily and nods.

“Yeah, this is better.”

“Just the lack of violence or having to make out with me?” Sam pushes, grinning.

“I don’t have to.”

“Oh, so you want to then.”

Sam’s trying to be playful, finding loopholes in the slack rope of Bucky’s words, trying to make room for some humour, some levity, between these filthy walls and the beam of neon from above. There is something in Bucky’s eyes right then. Something understanding, something kind. Whatever it is, Bucky immediately shores it up with a metric tonne of intensity. His look now could pull Sam from a burning building while simultaneously being that burning building. It’s almost physically disorienting. The temperature rises inside Sam’s suit like the heat’s being trapped at every seam.

“So what if I do?” Bucky fires back.

“You don’t.”

Sam says it almost angrily, too warm and too confined in his Smiling Tiger disguise. At least the guy he’s impersonating isn’t into weighty coats with ostentatious fur collars like some barons Sam knows. Still, it’s too hot—the suit and Bucky’s stare.

“I don’t?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t think so,” Sam confirms, though he’s dizzy now. Needing to remove a layer of this suit, needing Bucky to step back to let him breathe.

“Why would you think that I wouldn’t want to make out with you?”

“Because you’re… you!”

“That explanation sucks.”

“Because,” Sam tries again. Bucky lifts his chin in a questioning gesture and Sam just wants to propel him back into the far wall and kiss his neck. “Because you’re an asshole.”

“Since when am I an asshole?”

“Birth, probably, but I wasn’t there when it happened three hundred years ago, so I can’t say for sure.”

“I was born last century, same as you, and you know that!”

“Can’t confirm it. Wasn’t part of the backstory.”

“Now who’s the asshole?” Bucky gripes. “You’re not supposed to know my fake birthday because you’re my fake husband, you’re supposed to know my real birthday because you’re my real friend.”

“I do know your real birthday,” Sam promises, taking a step closer regardless of the flush of heat he feels to be moving towards Bucky’s rigid posture and pinning stare.

“You my real friend?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Bucky repeats, quieter, barely looking away from Sam’s mouth now.

“We’re not telling the story out here,” Sam says. He glances up and down the alley again. “No witnesses.”

“Good. I don’t wanna pretend.”

Sam’s shoulders relax—not in relief but in disappointment—because that sounds like it’s the end of that. After all that talk, culminating in a short debate of which one of them’s an asshole: pretty much peak flirting, Sam would say, measured against their history of interactions. But then Bucky takes a step too soft for Sam to hear and hits him with a look too soft for Sam to misinterpret.

“Or we could say it was the snake drink’s fault if we want an excuse later on,” Sam offers.

Bucky quickly wets his lip with his tongue.

“We could.”

Sam’s hand goes to the buttons on his suit jacket. It’s a motion of self-consciousness, grasping the overlap of fabric between the buttons, but Bucky knocks his hand away with an easy backhand that skims over Sam’s fingers. Eyes locked on his, Bucky undoes the buttons while Sam’s arms hang tensely at his sides. Although the jacket wasn’t restricting his breathing, Sam inhales fast—a swimmer breaking the surface of a pool between strokes.

When he slowly guides Bucky in, hand on his hip, the open jacket doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference in what’s separating them. That’s what Sam thinks. Bucky’s cyborg brain has evidently done some data-crunching and come up with a different assessment; there’s more than just the length of a knife in the front of Bucky’s pants now as he presses up against Sam.

“You undid one button,” Sam teases. “Is that indecent by forties’ standards? That why one button’s enough to get you going?”

“Let’s see how you feel about one button.”

Sam’s abs seize when Bucky’s hands go—abruptly and confidently—to his belt. He’s as efficient getting it open as Sam’s seen him when dismantling and reassembling an assault weapon or tugging the straps on a tac jacket to secure his knives. Following the jingling and the slap of leather, Bucky opens the button of Sam’s dress pants with a single, silent tug. Sam’s cock jerks.

“Ok, I get it,” he says, breathing too hard over the way Bucky’s chosen to make his point.

He smiles and clasps Bucky’s shoulder, smoothing up to the back of his head, ready to pull him in for a kiss, but Bucky raises a hand between them. A hand concealed by a leather glove. As Sam watches, Bucky bites the tip of the glove’s middle finger between his teeth and pulls his hand out. It comes easily, the Vibranium experiencing little friction against the lining of the glove. He then retrieves the glove from his teeth and jams it into the back pocket of his pants, out of Sam’s line of sight.

“Keep going?” Bucky asks in a rough voice.

Is his tone sexy despite or because of it being choked with desire? Sam can’t decide, but he can nod and provide a “Yeah” while longing for Bucky to just press his hips closer.

Continued eye contact is too fucking much to deal with, so Sam does pull Bucky in now, angling his mouth to meet his. The kiss isn’t anything wild. It’s steady and apparently allows Bucky to concentrate on untucking Sam’s shirt from his unbuttoned pants. Sam’s cradling the back of Bucky’s neck, rubbing his thumb up and down behind his ear (after almost immediately discovering the way it makes Bucky subtly shiver) when the Vibranium hand slips up under his shirt to touch his skin.

The initial surprisingness of the texture is enough to reinforce how unexpected this whole thing is and Sam breaks the kiss. It’s like waking up from a really lifelike dream, except he opens his eyes to see Bucky’s right in front of him. Around them is an alley, a bar where Zemo’s trading money and ass-kissing for super-soldier secrets, and the terrifying lawlessness of Low Town, Madripoor. This is where they had to be for Bucky to look at him like that.

“We’re not done,” Sam states.

“Thought maybe you…”

Sam shakes his head.

“I want to too,” he assures Bucky. “Even if you are a bad husband.”

“What? I am not!”

“You didn’t get me out of swallowing a piece of snake.”

“And I’m damn sure we agreed that you forcing me to join you evened the score. You can’t decide now that it wasn’t enough.”

Sam squints at him, slowly blinking half a minute into the eye contact to prove that it’s not a staring contest. (If it were, he would’ve won.)

“Maybe you didn’t really drink it,” he says.

“Like hell I didn’t drink it. I know you can taste it on me.”

“You know what?” Sam says, fingers rubbing against the grain of Bucky’s hair as they skate up from his neck. “It’s fucked up that I still want to kiss you after you said that.”

“You want me to find a place to buy mints first?”

Bucky’s huffing a laugh as Sam leans in to kiss him. His mouth smothers the sound and by the time their lips part again—both Bucky’s hands up Sam’s shirt as far as his burgundy vest will permit—a quavering groan slips out. Sam wants to attribute it to Bucky, but he can’t be sure. Kissing him harder, Sam puts his free hand squarely on Bucky’s ass, bringing his hips in snugly, feeling the assertive swell of his erection.

“They’re gonna come looking for us again,” Bucky warns, forehead pressed to Sam’s as he pulls his mouth away to speak. “We probably only have a few minutes.”

Sam breathes, listening to the noise from the street, before saying, “How would Smiling Tiger’s husband spend them?”

“Since he’s not a real guy,” Bucky starts, “and I’m just making him up… I’m pretty sure he’d do this…”

His hands come out from under Sam’s shirt, only to settle on his fly. Bucky unzips him and Sam’s head falls back with a laugh of disbelief because they’re not doing this. No way, not here. But this bold motherfucker convinces Sam he’s serious when he pulls the front of his pants and briefs down; Sam looks downwards, alert and aflame, to watch Bucky crouch with one knee on the pavement, eyes level with his exposed groin.

“This seem in character to you?” Bucky asks nonchalantly, forehead wrinkling with the question as he looks up at Sam.

“As if I’m gonna start critiquing,” Sam says while grabbing the waist of his pants with one hand to keep his ass covered as he rotates to put his back to the open end of the alleyway—and the door, if anyone else comes through it.

Bucky repositions to be in front of Sam. His hand’s gliding up Sam’s thigh when Sam speaks again.

“Remember, the story is that you do this so well that I’ve postponed wearing a wedding ring.”

“No pressure then, huh?” Bucky checks in a tone full of complaint.

“It was your story!”

Bucky’s mouth is abruptly too occupied to shoot off a retort. All the air goes out of Sam’s chest with the warmth of Bucky’s mouth around him, his tongue making Sam fight not to twitch his hips forward and sink deeper. Glancing down, yeah, it’s not tough to appreciate the deal Smiling Tiger struck in that story of Bucky’s. This is not a sight Sam hates. He thinks it could only be better if Bucky would look at him while bobbing his head forward and back, but, first of all, being on the receiving end of a Bucky Barnes stare in this moment might actually be more than Sam’s ready to handle and, second, Bucky with his eyes closed in apparent pleasure is a damn nice view.

The door slams open behind them just as Sam’s raising a shaky hand to scrape his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky freezes and Sam straightens, hand aching with how tightly he’s suddenly holding onto his pants.

“James? Sam?” Zemo calls out. “You’re going to need to— What are you doing?”

“I dropped my… glove,” Bucky shouts back, looking up into Sam’s eyes in unfamiliar panic.

“Yeah…” Sam says, too slow but consistent with his subpar ability to lie. “…his glove. He lost—”

“Found it!”

“He found it.”

Sam glares at Bucky as he gets to his feet and withdraws the glove from his back pocket, waving it out to the side. He leans around Sam and gives Zemo a nod. Sam doesn’t turn his head far enough to get Zemo in his peripheral vision—and doesn’t turn his body at all because the only way he could hate Zemo more is if he had to live with the knowledge that he’d seen his dick, shining with Bucky’s saliva—but he’s plenty aware of the long silence the Baron does not fill following the delivery of the lie about the glove.

Eventually (and the wait is excruciating), Zemo says in a smug little voice, “Well, gentlemen, I await your return,” and closes the door. Sam doesn’t trust the Baron to have shut the door, but he does trust the sag of Bucky’s posture. They’re alone.

“Zemo’s gone,” Bucky says, returning the glove to his pocket, “and he knows.”

“Of course he knows, Buck! Did you just forget how to lie?”

“I…!”

Clearly floundering, Bucky motions to Sam’s cock with both hands. It’d be easy, and truthful, for Sam to admit that he was also too distracted to react well, but he’s not gonna throw Bucky that kind of lifeline.

Sam hitches his briefs up at the front; the discomfort of the band pushing against his shaft is worse than the awkwardness. Thinking about how many hours it might be until he and Bucky have an opportunity to continue this in a more private, Zemo-less space makes Sam want to do something really stupid, something Bucky would do, like punch the brick wall in aggravation. Problem is that Bucky’s Vibranium fist would go clean through while Sam might break his hand.

“Sexually frustrated?” Bucky asks bluntly.

So the punch-the-wall plan must’ve shown in Sam’s face.

“I’m fine,” Sam lies, belt buckle clinking as he starts putting his clothes in order.

A steady hand lands on his wrist and Sam glances up and into Bucky’s eyes. He swallows. Rather than help—refastening what he undid before—Bucky worms his hand into Sam’s briefs and wraps warm fingers around him. No, not again. Sam is not going to be the only one standing here with his dick out a second time. He runs his hand over Bucky’s chest and presses, turning them so Bucky has his back to the wall. Bucky’s hand stays loose on his cock until Sam grips him through his pants. Then, Bucky’s pumping away as Sam’s jerking his belt open—the material a sharp, ropey weave like Bucky’s tac straps in contrast to the buttery leather of Sam’s belt. Hastily, Sam gets into his pants, stretching and pawing, twisting his wrist to reach in and smooth his palm down Bucky’s length.

Their eyes meet and it’s holding hands in the car all over again.

It’s a race to the first grunt, the first groan, the first involuntary buck of the hips. Bucky’s zipper scratches at Sam’s forearm but that’s nothing, not worth letting go when he can see the glistening sweat at Bucky’s temple. Sam adjusts his grip to make a firm fist, completing long, merciless strokes that rip a rough gasp from Bucky. Of course, then he’s gotta retaliate and Sam can barely keep his shit together when Bucky pulls his hand out only to spit in the palm before thrusting it back into Sam’s pants.

“We can’t,” Bucky grits out.

“I know.”

But they keep going, Sam mentally crossing his fingers and his toes that Bucky won’t get to watch his knees wobble or his legs fold. He could swear he has Bucky on the ropes when that idiot starts pulsing his grip, tensing and relaxing his hold. His eyes are dark and unblinking as blue light seeps over them.

Sam’s overwhelming desire is to come all over Bucky’s hand, but the more responsible part of him reminds him that he’s going to have to walk back into Selby’s bar to somehow assist Zemo with the information negotiation and letting Bucky jerk him off in these expensive pants won’t help him accomplish that. He doesn’t want to bring what’s happening out here back in there, doesn’t want this thing between them reduced to part of Smiling Tiger’s fiction.

“Fuck, ok, stop!” Sam blurts.

Bucky stills immediately, not hiding his smirk when Sam takes his hand back. Bucky’s stays down the front of Sam’s pants until it’s in the way of Sam tucking his shirt back in. He clenches his teeth as he fixes his underwear, zips his pants to strain over the bulge he was so close to letting Bucky take care of. He catches Bucky with the same look on his face.

“The serum,” Sam says, attempting to refocus them both.

“Yeah. Maybe Zemo’s coaxed a lead out of Selby by now.”

Sam can’t contain his laugh.

“You better hope he has or else the only thing you achieved by breaking him out of jail was having him as a witness while you blew me.”

Bucky turns away from him so quickly that Sam knows he’s not mad; he has to be hiding his own smile. They stand there, shuffling in place for a couple more minutes. Right when Sam’s about to propose that they head inside, the side door flies open for the third time and Zemo staggers out, chased by the rapid, overlapping pops of several guns.

“Are you serious?!” Sam demands. The three of them sprint down the alley, heading for the crowded street.

Bucky channels his annoyance into a wordless shout at Zemo.

“I don’t know what went wrong,” Zemo yelps when Sam grabs his arm, hauling him around the corner as they emerge onto the street. “People usually find me very trustworthy, very persuasive.”

Sam glances at Bucky, who looks away guiltily.

“I don’t know…” Zemo pants. “…how to make this small… misunderstanding… up to you.”

“Just run!” Sam suggests. Feet pounding alongside Bucky’s as they dart down a side street, he says, “You think it’s time for you to use that knife?”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky says, like he only just remembered he has one.

Without breaking his stride, he slides the knife from his pocket, half-turns, and zings it backwards. Sam doesn’t turn to look, but he’s satisfied when the closest source of gunfire cuts off abruptly.

“This isn’t so bad,” Bucky says when they take a quick right, Zemo straggling slightly behind.

Bullets chase the three of them around the corner, ringing as they strike a fire escape and shatter a sign. Raising an arm over his head to protect himself from falling shards of glass, Sam glances at Bucky incredulously.

“I want a divorce!”

#rating has changed!#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #sambucky #Sam Wilson #Bucky Barnes #Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes #Helmut Zemo

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electroluxe01 · 2 years ago

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elle-smells · 3 years ago

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The list of proposals I would say "no" // "try again, honey" to, that no one asked for (this is all light hearted ofc):

- something too elaborate and corny. Don't get me wrong, that stuff is great to an extent but if I walk in the to see some sort of photoshoot backdrop set up with a big neon "will you marry me" sign in the middle, I'm walking away (hot take: bro that's so lazy. Like, it takes time to set up I know, but...it's so much better if you just find a cute spot. If you have to set up blankets and flowers, whatever, it won't feel authentic (?) to me idk)

- anything in front of lots of people. Maybe our closest (emphasis on closest) family/friends, MAYBE. but I don't want a whole bunch of my relatives/people staring at me.

- in like a theme park photo opportunity spots. You know how there's like places in theme parks where they have professional photographers ready to take photos of you as souvenirs. Yeah... don't do that. I will straight tell you to try again lmao (maybe I will reconsider if u propose in front of Mickey mouse bcs that's iconic)

- at a restaurant. Once again, I don't want strangers staring at me, and like.. we're not gonna be alone after?? What're we gonna do? Just continue eating like nothing happened? Djdjdhdhd

- If I'm in a really bad mood that day or just down in general, I hope whoever I'm with has the common sense to cancel all plans zkjdhfd

- If you get me a really big ring. You could propose with no ring idc. But don't buy me a huge ring that's gonna weigh my lil finger down. That shit sounds uncomfortable to wear

#a good example of an elaborate proposal I would say yes to is a lil scavenger hunt #that sounds fun as fuck lets do it #jdjfhsjdjd #wow ok I had more opinions than i thought lmao

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goodlucktai · 6 years ago

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the way you move ain’t fair, you know

final fantasy xv pairing: promnis word count: 1595 summary: Ignis and Prompto, and three times they danced. read on ao3

It doesn’t help that their audience is laughing. Ignis levers a stern look at them and tightens his grip on his dancing partner’s waist before the inevitable escape attempt can be made.

“Ignore them, Prompto,” he says. “Don’t go slinking off now, you’ve almost got the hang of it.”

“The hang of stomping on your feet?” Prompto says miserably. “Yeah, I’ve got that down.”

There’s a ball coming up, the first one that Prompto will attend as the prince’s royal guard rather than the prince’s personal guest. There’s a certain level of etiquette he was trained in already, along with the other recruits that were going into regular Crownsguard services, but with higher clearance comes additional requirements.

At least, that’s how Clarus pitched it. It was a kinder, more professional way of saying “your best friend threw you under the bus.” Because if Noctis had to dance, by Shiva, so did Prom.

He’s not the clumsy teenager he was in high school. He’s grown into his wide shoulders and long limbs, leanly muscled from training, lithe and flexible and strong. Ignis is certain he’ll be a beautiful dancer, if only he manages to learn the steps.

“You’re much better at this than Noctis,” Ignis says plainly, making no effort to lower his voice. It carries easily across the polished surfaces of the airy ballroom. “It took him weeks to learn a simple waltz, and that was with a handful of royal tutors. He may appear graceful now, but appearances are deceiving.”

It surprises Prompto into laughter, the first unselfconscious sound he’s made all evening. Noctis looks betrayed. Gladio looks as though he’s happy just to be alive in this moment. At least they’ve stopped making fun.

“Well,” Prompto says, “I guess I can think of worse ways to spend my time.”

His posture is relaxed, his body radiating warmth against Ignis’ hands where they’re holding him. He’s been sized for a formal tux for the event, and generally Ignis has a proclivity for the sharp and elegant lines of suits and gowns-- but Prompto looks good like this, in paint-stained sweats and one of Gladio’s T-shirts. Ignis almost prefers it to the tailcoat he’ll wear at the ball.

“As can I,” Ignis says, and he signals Noctis to start the music again, and away they whirl.

“Aw, come on, Iggy,” Prompto says, “I know you’ve gone clubbing before. Don’t lie to me.”

Twenty-four and ludicrously charming, Prompto leans languidly across Ignis’ desk like a cat that caught a canary. There’s a smile tugging at his mouth that is almost a smirk, knowing and self-satisfied.

Ignis shuffles paperwork around for something to do with his hands, well aware of their friends’ hawk-like eyes following the verbal volleys.

“It’s been several years,” he says stiffly. It’s the wrong thing to say when Prompto shoots upright, hands planted on the edge of Ignis’ desk, victory in every light and line of his body.

“So you have gone!”

Gladio is looking at Ignis like Ignis just did a backflip over his desk. Sometimes the prince and the Shield seem to forget that he does have a personal life outside of his professional one. It’s just that the lines between personal and professional are perpetually blurred, considering how much of his heart his comrades and his liege take up.

“Prompto, no.” Ignis uses the tone he usually uses to shut things down. It usually works. “I’m much too busy to take a weekend off for no other reason than you want an excuse to make me wear eyeliner.”

The silence that follows is weighted. Prompto blinks, and looks at Noctis, who gently palms his face as though he can’t bear to look at them. Gladio says, “You know your birthday is on Saturday, right, Specs?”

Ignis pauses. Glances down at his ever-present planner, open to the current month, and finds the unmarked date looming back at him.

“Ah,” he says.

“So, you realize you just rendered your entire argument obsolete now, and there's no way you're getting out of this?” Prompto asks gently.

“Yes, I realize that.”

Which is how Ignis finds himself at a club on Saturday, with Sunday off as well. Ignis has to wonder how in the hell his friends managed that, because he hasn’t had two consecutive days free in-- frankly, he doesn’t want to think how many years.

Prompto, at least, is in his element. He’s confident here the way he isn’t in most other places. The neon lights of the club wash over his pale skin and fair hair, turn him technicolor and violet-eyed, and he attracts more than one lingering look as he walks backwards toward the dance floor, fingers curled stubbornly in the belt loops of Ignis’ jeans to pull him along.

“Just one song,” Prompto shouts over the thumping bass, a beat Ignis can feel in the soles of his shoes. “No, two. Three.” He grins crookedly, at himself or at the two of them or at their friends drinking themselves stupid at the bar or at the ridiculousness of all of it combined.

He’s lovely, Ignis thinks, not for the first time. Vivid and wild when he forgets to box himself in. Built for movement, for action, a runner’s body and an artist’s core. His eyes are fixed points in the dark room, like a path for Ignis to follow through the gyrating crowd and dizzying music. His hands are a constant warmth, searing through the thin material of Ignis’ borrowed shirt.

And a strange shiver of delight shoots through Ignis’ stomach at their closeness, when Prompto presses in to say, “Dance with me, Iggy! It’s your birthday!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Ignis says, and holds Prompto where he is, where there’s barely inches between them. “I’ll follow your lead.”

By the end of the night, Ignis’ feet are sore and his eyes feel bruised from the strobing lights and there’s a headache forming at his temples; but none of these things stop him from following Prompto’s gentle tug on his collar, and leaning in to kiss him while they wait for the valet to bring around the car.

“Thank the Six you’re so persistent,” he says. “I’d hate to have missed this.”

“I’d’ve gotten you one way or another,” Prompto assures him, grinning. Ignis believes him.

Noctis and Prompto are spinning around in circles on the dance floor, both of them turning thirty this year and behaving like the children they were when they first met. They haven’t knocked anyone else over, by the grace of Shiva, but it probably has more to do with the wide berth other dancers are giving them than their own observational skills.

“It’s nice to see the two of them behaving with the due dignity and decorum of their offices,” Ignis remarks mildly, setting aside his champagne.

Gladio claims the chair beside him, since most of the organized seating has gone out the window at this point in the evening, looking a happy mix of amused and proud. He’s a little pink from the alcohol, and his eyes are still a little puffy from his emotional speech at dinner. The glance Ignis gives him is unrelentingly fond. He figures he can get away with that today, of all days.

“This is the rest of your life,” the Shield says. “Aren’t you glad you signed up for this?”

“I signed up for this when I was six,” Ignis replies dryly. “Had I had any idea then what my future would look like, that might have influenced my decision.”

Gladio huffs out a laugh, not buying it. They’ve been friends for too long. “Yeah, influenced you to sign up faster. You wouldn’t trade a second of this for all the Michelin stars in the world. And that’s not what I was talking about.”

Ignis lets his eyes wander across the rolling garden. The lanterns and string lights are a warm glow, rocked gently by the summer breeze, and the clinking of cutlery and glasses is a pleasant backdrop, and the live band was replaced by an energetic DJ hours ago, a friend of Prompto’s from his favorite nightclub. The music is energetic, and the people on the dancefloor are having a good time, and Ignis has suddenly had quite enough of his cake and champagne.

He stands, folding his napkin over his plate politely.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, with playful severity, and heads away from one of his closest friends and towards the two of them currently making a nuisance of themselves among people too polite to say so.

“Specs!” Noctis cries gladly, without the good grace to look apologetic. He and Prompto both are shining with joy, they have been all night. “Here to steal your husband back?”

The word sends a thrill through him, and he smiles inwardly. What he says is, “Here to stop the two of you from mowing down everyone within a five foot radius, yes. Now hand him over.”

Prompto’s hair is a mess, and his tie is undone, and his suit jacket is gone to parts unknown and probably won’t ever be recovered, and Ignis has never loved anyone more.

“How much longer do we have the DJ?” Ignis asks against his hair. Prompto hums, muffled in Ignis’ chest.

“Ace’ll stay all night if I ask ‘im to. Why?”

“That’s how long I want to dance with you,” Ignis says.

Prompto looks up at him, eyes shining. “Everyone else’ll probably get bored and go home.”

“All the better,” Ignis says, and Prompto laughs, and they dance.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #promnis #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #my writing #ffxv fic

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supportforindieauthors · 5 years ago

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Purple Sky by Dinara Tengri

Late November 1993. The Soviet Union had fallen apart two years ago, and I’m taking a night class so that I can learn English and get a job at one of those foreign companies that have been setting up shop in our newly independent country.

My husband got laid off last year, and when the hospital started handing out boxes of household soap in lieu of salary I knew it was time to move on.

It’s a little past seven, and I’m on my way home with my friend Raikhan. We met in class, and since we both take the same trolleybus home, we agreed to brave the dusky streets of Almaty together.

On the way to the trolleybus station we stop by at a kiosk. The air is thick with rush hour exhaust fumes, and my head is throbbing.

“Do you want anything?”, Raikhan asks as we’re standing in line, behind a mother with her shrieking offspring, and ahead of two businessmen in fancy overcoats.

“Aspirin.”, I say.

The kiosks have sprung up around Almaty like mushrooms after a hefty rain. Bright yellow, dirty blue, these wooden boxes stick out of the familiar landscape, alien but comforting.

Open until the ungodly hours of the night they sell everything from chocolate to cheap vodka to tampons. You can usually find a tired college student or a former housewife tending to business.

I end up buying a bottle of Aspirin, and Raikhan gets herself a well-deserved Mars bar.

The purple sky is hanging low over the city tonight, with promise of more snow. The clouds have come apart in places, there are tears in the fabric through which you can see fragments of the night blue, and - if you strain your eyes hard enough - an odd star.

We hurry down the busy sidewalk, past a homeless man, past a newly opened tae kwan do dojo, past a billboard that says, “Independent Kazakhstan: Join Us in the Future!” in bright yellow letters against a mountainous backdrop.

There are billboards everywhere now. And bright neon signs fighting for your attention: night clubs, casinos - places where people can gather where they couldn’t before and talk about things they couldn’t talk about before.

Raikhan is talking somewhere on the fringes of my consciousness, as I compulsively list all the things I still have to do before my day is over, hoping to God that Berik helped the kids with their homework. Otherwise I’ll do it tomorrow.

We hurry to catch our trolleybus, while watching out for open manholes. Rumor has it people sell the covers for scrap metal. I heard of a girl who fell in once, and she only survived because she was too big to fit through the shaft.

All around us the city is transforming, shifting from day to night. It’s even less recognizable at night now. With the power going off and on periodically you can sometimes pass entire city blocks shrouded in darkness.

We take a shortcut through the alley. Long and lonely it swims in the ghostly green light of the Victorian-like streetlamps. The trees flanking the alley are old, their trunks covered in a coat of white paint, to protect them from parasites. In the summer, the they provide a green sanctuary from the relentless Central Asian sun. Now, their branches - crooked and naked look like bars of some medieval cage against the purple sky.

“Maybe I’ll take the kids to the park tomorrow”, says Raikhan as the snow is squeaking under our feet, “The news promised more snow, and the kids would love to go sledding.”

“That sounds like a good idea”, I want to say, but in that instant, the lights go out.

Blinking on and off for a few seconds, every light in the alley goes out with a loud hiss, leaving Raikhan and me in complete darkness.

As my hand reaches out to take Raikhan’s so does hers, and we grab onto each other, interlocking stiff fingers. Every muscle in my body is a wound-up spring when I feel - not hear but feel something approaching.

I try to squeeze Raikhan’s hand tighter but find myself paralyzed. I feel everything that is happening to my body: the icy wind on the skin of my face, the sweat pooling up between my shoulder blades, and the rabid beating of my heart as it’s attempting to escape through my mouth. Yes, I can feel my body, but I have no control over it.

People disappear all the time. Every night, the nine o’clock news wraps up with sports, weather, and a list of missing persons, their descriptions, and who you can contact should you ever see them.

“This city is like a damn Bermuda triangle!”, Berik said once, before turning off the TV.

In the old Stalin days, they say a black unmarked car would come for you and take you away, and your family would never hear from you again. Nowadays, you could be shoved into the back of a van to be sold for parts. Or your child could be lured away by some pervert on their way home from school.

Is this how I am going to disappear? Swallowed by darkness in the most populated part of the city? Will they find my body? Will my family ever learn what happened to me?

A shallow ragged breath rips through the thick silence - mine, followed by a strangled whimper - Raikhan’s. Her fingers are claws, her twisted profile in the corner of my eye is mine.

And then, a wave of calm washes over me. This feeling isn’t mine - it’s as if somebody is telling me to not be afraid, and I - having no reason to do so - believe them.

The last thing I remember before shadows envelope me is the tear in the purple sky, and a bright-green star pulsating slowly.

***

Amorphous shadows are floating before my eyes. I know I should be afraid but I’m not. I’m calm but not enough to forget that I am somewhere I’m not supposed to be.

“Where am I?”, I ask no one in particular.

In that instant, I am flooded with images. Memories as vivid and tangible as they were my own.

Huge chambers; walls curving up to a ceiling so high you have to crane your neck to get a look. Intricate geometrical patterns etched into walls with great care.

There are machines there. Hundreds of them. Strange, alien things that are part mechanical and part organic. Their strangeness is at once frightening and beautiful.

There is noise and light, and excitement. Excitement about the future, about all the wonderful things these machines will produce. These memories bear with them an echo of a noble purpose. A sacrifice in exchange for a promise. It feels good, but hollow.

“Who are you people? What are you going to do to me?”, is what I should be saying.

I don’t know where I am except that it’s so far away from home. From my children, and from my friend.

Raikhan’s terrified face appears before me but before I can call her name someone out there is telling me to not be afraid again. That all I have to do is to relax and listen.

Listen to what?

A new sensation. A collective memory of a great distance traveled, of a people leaving their home in pursuit of something great, but also vague. Too vague for my subdued mind to grasp.

And then, my mind clouds over, and becomes opaque like my mother’s ivory earrings.

Awareness comes back to me as cold air is pinching my cheeks and hands. I lift one hand to my face and make a sound, not unlike a laugh, realizing that I can move my body again. I get up to my feet. The air smells like old rags and dust.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I take a look around. I have been here before. Walls curving up to a ceiling so high it disappears in the shadows. There is mildew on the walls. The intricate patterns have faded in some places, and destroyed in others, smashed to bits by an angry hand.

The strange living machines that were humming and gyrating now stand silent and motionless. Loose wiring is sticking out from their open frames. I crouch next to one, touching the wiring, running my fingers across its slick surface, and I’m suddenly overcome with grief.

These machines - these creatures were working tirelessly for a purpose they didn’t understand, for a promise of something grand. But the promises were empty, their sacrifice in vain. And now their parts are scattered across the cracked dusty floor. So much wasted time.

Suddenly, I’m very tired.

“Let me out!”, I say to the beings hiding behind the broken machinery. I cannot see them, but I can hear them whispering amongst themselves, their voices almost human, and it’s the “almost” that is making the hairs on my back stand up, “Take me back to my friend! Whatever it is you want I can’t give it to you.”

Maybe I’m in a state of shock, or maybe I’m dreaming this whole thing, but there something about the descendants of a powerful ancient civilization hiding from me that makes me want to laugh. So, I laugh. A nervous bark that comes back to me like a boomerang.

I hate the sound of my own voice. I guess my captors hate it too, because they cease their whispering, and all I hear now is my own shallow breaths.

“What do you want from me anyway?”, I say, louder than I intended.

Again, I’m flooded with images and memories of more distance traveled, more time spent looking for somewhere to settle down, to rest and to think. I’m overwhelmed with dreams and hopes about a life outside of this moldy dark cave, and of giving my children a place they can call home, where they can be safe. So, they won’t know what I know.

My silent captors are bombarding me with their fears, their despair, and it’s like thousands of voices wailing and lamenting, and I’m being crushed under their wails, until my knees buckle, and I sink to the dirty floor, unable to stop the tears from pouring.

What does this have to do with me? Or with Raikhan? At my lowest, I’m crying out my friend’s name, the sound of my voice reverberating in the ancient chamber. And then, a gentle hand is caressing my mind, straightening out the wrinkles and creases like my mother used to do with her old dresses. With the last stroke my mind clouds over, and the crying stops.

***

It’s snowing. Tiny white flakes are slow dancing in the green light.

I’m sitting on a bench in the alley. My left hand moves up to my face so that I can look at my watch. It stopped at seven-thirty. That’s funny: I had the battery changed last week. I don’t know what time it is now but judging by the faded footprints in the snow, it’s now at least nine.

Shivers run through my fully clothed body. The air smells like rusting metal and something alien. My headache is back.

A shadow in the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I whip my head around.

“It’s me.”, says Raikhan.

She’s standing next to me, looking exactly the same as when I last saw her, but there is something about her that’s different. Is it her posture? Or the way she’s tilting her head when she’s looking at me? Or is it the way her eyes are traveling up and down my frame as if she’s studying me?

“Are you alright?”, she asks not taking her eyes off me.

“Yes. Are you?”, I’m not taking my eyes off her.

“I think so. Do you know what time it is?”

“My watch stopped.”, I say, lifting my hand.

She mirrors my gesture,

“So, did mine.”

After a long pause, I say,

“Do you know what happened? To us?”

A slight shrug.

“The lights went out, and, I guess we got really spooked. Kind of silly, isn’t it?”, she finishes with an embarrassed chuckle.

“But, how long-”, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. What to ask her.

Did she see what I saw? Feel what I felt? Do I regale her with my adventures on board an ancient star craft before finishing off with a very earnest “And that’s what happened to me, I swear!”? Perhaps all that lack of sleep is finally taking its toll on me.

“We should get going.”, I say.

Raikhan nods.

We make it out of the alley, walking in silence.

Spotting a kiosk that’s still open, we walk towards it. Its soft yellow light is nice look at. A young woman with droopy eyes is sitting there, listening to American pop songs.

“Do you want anything?”, Raikhan asks me.

“A Mars bar.”, I have sudden craving for something sweet and sticky.

An ambulance rages by.

The droopy-eyed girl takes my money and hands me the chocolate bar.

“What time is it?”, I ask her.

“Almost nine.”, she says and shuts the little window, muffling the sound of the catchy pop tune.

Almost nine. I’m thinking about all the things I should have done tonight: laundry, dinner, dishes. But my head is also filled with other images. Alien memories from a world that once lived for a grand promise and built for a future that never came to be. A world that was now trying to find itself again, picking through the rubble of its own collapsed civilization, looking for something to salvage. Looking for somewhere to settle. A place to call home.

I can still feel their despair, their bitterness. But it’s their despair, not mine.

The snow keeps falling, as a temporary quiet settles over the city.

We catch the last trolleybus home and sit in silence. The upside of riding so late is that you can finally get a seat.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and maybe I will follow Raikhan’s lead and take the kids to the park. There’ll be plenty of snow for them tomorrow to build their own igloo. Later, we can go to that new supermarket, and get potato chips and the peanut butter that Berik has developed a taste for. Then I’ll help the kids with their homework before doing mine.

Purple clouds are hanging low over the city, but when I close my eyes, I can see that bright-green star pulsating slowly in the night sky.

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