#dig into the flesh of life with me without your device shielding you from yourself!

[daemoncracy]

The things I would give for our smartphones to become dumb again

[aticklishtem]

Weakness of Doom

((oh boy here I go bringing my bullshit into a new decade again~ this is dedicated to @ticklishjevil bc she is 100% to blame for my descent into ZADR hell and generally inspiring/encouraging the creation of this...thing!! I hope you’re proud of yourself darling 💖

ALSO I’m very sorry if the spacing/formatting is borked tumblr mobile is terrible but I am doing my best to fix as we speak ;w; ))

***

“Give it up, Zim! You’ll never get away with this!”

Dib had lost count of how many times he’d said that by now. Eight years, countless crazy schemes, a couple near total obliterations of the galaxy as they knew it and an almost equal tally of humiliating defeats and triumphant (if temporary) victories for both sides - somehow, it always seemed to come back to the two of them. Dib, Zim, the doomsday device of the day and this seemingly endless chase that remained as frustrating yet exhilarating as it was the day the green kid first rocked up to class. Would it ever end? That almost didn’t seem to matter at this point - this was the life Dib had chosen. As long as Zim was around, he had a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning, a duty to the rest of humankind to keep protecting his planet from impending extraterrestrial invasion...even if most of them remained too dumb to appreciate his efforts.

“You’re too late, Dib-stink!” cried the bug-eyed bane of his existence, waving around some kind of remote with a red button. “Just one press of this button, and every single whiffy signal -“

“...do you mean wi-fi?”

“Zim knows what Zim means!” he barked, an antenna twitching with irritation. “As I was saying, every signal will be scrambled, and without their mind-numbing entertainment, your fellow earthworms will inevitably turn on each other! Leaving the planet defenceless for when I, Zim...figure out how to do whatever it is I need to do to destroy you all!”

“Noooo! That’s…” Dib paused mid-dramatic wail. “Actually a pretty solid plan? I mean, I can see your logic. It’s definitely an improvement on some of your others, like that one with the rubber chickens -“

“Silence!” Zim pointed an accusing claw at him, though Dib could’ve sworn he preened a little at the almost-compliment, puffing up his chest and planting his free hand on his hip. “Of course it is foolproof! And if you imagine for a second that the amazing Zim could ever become so distracted by his own ingeniousness that he could be lured into monologuing until a hypothetical opportunity might arise for someone to take - hey gimme that back!”

Fortunately, some things had changed in all those years; puberty had been at least kind enough to Dib so he could now dangle his superior height - literally and metaphorically - over Zim’s head. “Sorry, what’d you say?” he taunted, holding his prize high out of his enemy’s reach after snatching it from his claws. “I couldn’t hear because of how much taller I am!”

His moment of glory was cut short, however, as Zim launched himself at him with a hiss like a feral cat, sending them both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and antennae. They were still surprisingly evenly matched; Zim was a lot stronger than his size would suggest, but Dib now had the advantage of longer arms and legs to attempt to hold him off as they wrestled for the device. He might even have been winning - right up until Zim grabbed his side, claws digging into the sensitive spot just below his ribs.

Dib yelped, reflexively slamming his arm down to protect himself; before either could do anything, the remote flew out of his hand and across the room until it disappeared under one of Zim’s experiment tanks. Instead of running after it, Zim took advantage of the distraction to seize Dib’s wrist, pinning him to the floor.

“Ha!” Zim loomed over him, now straddling Dib’s waist so his maniacal grin filled his whole vision. “You flesh-bags really are pitiful, cowering in pain from the slightest touch!”

“That’s not what that - was…” Dib froze, heat rising to his cheeks as his nemesis bore down on him, now painfully aware of his compromising position. Zim couldn’t - did he even know what tickling was? Because this would be a really bad time for him to find out.

“...Eh?” Zim narrowed his eyes, curiosity flickering across his face alongside the usual suspicion and irritation. “What are you smiling about? Why is your grotesquely ginormous head so red?!”

“My head’s not bihihig!” Dib bit down on his lip, but he couldn’t stop a few embarrassing giggles from slipping out when Zim jabbed at his ribs again. He struggled to bat his hand away, but with only one arm free and Zim basically sitting on top of him, he wasn’t having much success. “Quihihit ihit!”

A shiver ran down his spine as he could practically see his doom unfold along with Zim’s smile, sadistic delight sparkling in his eyes, and oh god no Dib thought he was prepared for anything but please not this, anything but this, he’ll never live it down…

“Well, well - you really thought you could conceal such a glaring weakness from me?” he demanded, mercilessly prodding and pinching his way up Dib’s side. “I’d...sort of imagined more writhing in excruciating agony, but this is rather amusing too, watching you squirm like the wretched worm you are!”

“Thihis isn’t fahahahair!” Dib spluttered between peals of laughter; he hadn’t been tickled since he was a little kid, but this was so much worse because it was Zim and he hated giving him the satisfaction but was equally powerless to stop his body from reacting as those probing claws dug right into his horribly exposed armpit. “Zihihihim!”

“Yes, yes, I am Zim!” his foe cackled, releasing Dib’s wrist to attack with both hands, one even scuttling under his shirt - which was so far beyond fair - and scratching at the tender skin almost hard enough to hurt, but his gloves dulled the sensation so it just tickled even more. “If I had known you were this easily incapacitated, I could’ve built a device to take care of you long ago! Now, laugh, pathetic Dib-thing - admit your annihilation, or perish in helpless hysteria at the merciless claws of Zim!”

“Nehehehever - !” Dib had not foiled so many of Zim’s plans to let him win this one by tickling him, of all the cruel and unusual methods. There was only one way to fight back, and he had no idea if it’d even work on an alien, but what else did he have to lose, more of his dignity? Arms flailing as he tried desperately to suck in his stomach before those treacherous claws could get to his bellybutton, he eventually managed to grab a handful of Zim’s side and squeeze it repeatedly.

Zim let out a squawk like a bird having its feathers pulled out, letting go of Dib as he scrabbled to slap his hands away. “D-do not touch Zim with your fihilthy meat-sticks!”

Huh - that sounded like a game-changer, and now it was Dib’s turn to grin like a mad scientist as he kneaded Zim’s sides like his life depended on it - which it might - until he had an armful of squirming Irken trapped in an almost-hug, one arm around Zim’s waist with his PAK pressing against Dib’s chest.

“What’s the matter, does it tickle?” he asked, smirking from ear to ear as he savoured the sweetness of revenge - and possibly the most important discovery of his career as a paranormal investigator. “Is the mighty Invader Zim ticklish?”

“Lies! Cease! Ihihi’m gonna destrohohoy yooooou…!”

It wasn’t like he’d never heard Zim laugh before - only like every day since they were at skool - but this was different; less controlled and mocking, more free and almost joyful, even if it was a joy forced upon him as he writhed, kicked and cackled under Dib’s skittering fingers, exploring the surprisingly soft and smooth skin under his shirt. It wasn’t exactly an autopsy, but the thought that he might be the first to hear - the first to make Zim almost squeal when he wiggled his fingers under his arms - that was more deeply, weirdly, sadistically satisfying than anything he’d imagined. “Wow, I think you’re worse than I am! So are all Irkens this ticklish, or is it just you?”

“Zihim is telling you nohothihihihing!” Zim’s laughter seemed to jump an octave when Dib felt around his back; the skin around his PAK was slightly raised where it was embedded, which was interesting, mainly for the way he bucked and squirmed frantically as Dib traced it with his fingers. “GIR! Where are you?! Do something to make this stohohop!”

“Yes, master!”

Dib looked up just in time to see Zim’s robot assistant propelling towards him at alarming speed, his eyes blazing red. Before he could move to shield himself, however, GIR came to an abrupt stop, eyes flickering back to cyan and his metallic mouth stretching into its familiar hyperactive smile. “Ooooh! Tickle fight! I wanna plaaaay!”

“Now, GIR! Fire the - wait, no, what are you doing?! Put that back!” Both Zim’s and Dib’s eyes widened - in horror and intrigue respectively - as GIR plonked himself down on one of Zim’s legs, picked up the other and pulled his boot off. Dib had never actually seen his feet before, he realised; he had three toes, clawed like his fingers but a little shorter. Judging by how he scrunched them up when GIR prodded them, they were also pretty sensitive.

“This li’l piggy went to Foodcourtia,” GIR chirped, wiggling a toe; Zim made a strangled noise of protest and attempted to pull away, but Dib was still holding onto him. “This li’l piggy went home - aw, we outta piggies! And thiiis li’l piggy…”

“GIR - nooo!” Zim begged, and Dib could actually feel him tremble in his arms as his toes curled in anticipation of what was to come. “Don’t do this! You’re supposed to attack the intruder, not -“

“...went weeweeweeweeeeeeeee…!” GIR hugged Zim’s foot and scribbled furiously all over it, his tiny metal hands a blur as his master shrieked with laughter, helpless to escape his ticklish doom.

“How’s it feel, Zim, betrayed by your own minion?” Dib snickered along with him as it occurred to him he should probably be recording or taking photos of possibly the greatest moment of his life to date, but holding Zim captive and laughing helplessly was way too satisfying, tickling under his arms while GIR happily went to town on his foot. “Maybe I’ll just keep you like this - you’re not much of a threat to the Earth when you’re just a cute little giggly alien puddle…”

“Wh-whahahahahaaaaa?!”

The sheer incredulous outrage in Zim’s voice tore through the air, and Dib couldn’t help but wince, recoiling as the ear-splitting screech assaulted his eardrums. As his grip loosened, Zim wriggled free and kicked GIR off of him, scrambling back to his feet, and the chaos was replaced by an unusual and equally uncomfortable silence. (Apart from GIR eating popcorn out of his head as he watched them, and that was the most normal thing about this situation.)

“I - uh...“

“He thinks you cuuuute!” GIR giggled, grabbing Zim’s cheeks and squishing them together comically.

“No I don’t!” Dib felt his face flush under the spotlight of both GIR’s carefree smile and Zim’s laser-beam glare, the protest coming out just a little too quickly. “I was teasing you - it’s just a thing people say when they…”

He trailed off, because man, things had gotten weird, even by their standards. But this was still Zim, and he was still a jerk and evil and the total opposite of cute, even a little breathless with his clothes all rumpled and one foot still bare, antennae lowered and quivering and what looked suspiciously like an olive-coloured blush staining his cheeks. That warm feeling was just Dib enjoying the sight of his enemy humiliated in defeat, like anyone would. Right? That made sense.

“Give me my boot, GIR.”

“Go long!”

Zim caught the offending item without looking, but instead of putting it back on he hurled it at Dib, who dodged just before it smacked him in the face, bouncing off his shoulder instead.

“Ow - hey, that’s sharp!”

“Good! Suffer! That’s what you get for trying to taint the mighty name of Zim with your disgusting lies like…” He screwed up his face as if he could barely bring himself to spit out the word, making dramatic finger-quotes, “cute!”

“Okay, geez! It’s not like I meant it…” Dib rubbed his shoulder, shifting awkwardly - he wished they’d stop repeating the word like that. But even this momentary weirdness couldn’t change the fact that he’d just uncovered a significant weakness in his nemesis, even if he inconveniently shared it. He’d be an idiot not to exploit this for all it was worth, a smug grin tugging at his lips again as he picked up Zim’s boot. “But thanks for this. I bet I can get all kinds of useful evidence from a genuine article of alien clothing…”

“You…!” Zim’s eyes almost bugged out of his head as he let out an indignant splutter - only to break into a dangerously familiar smile before activating his PAK legs, towering over Dib with a renewed gleam of vengeance in his eye. “Enjoy your last few seconds of freedom, Dib-worm - we shall soon settle who is cute!”

“I’d like to see you - wait, what?!”

Dib didn’t have time to figure out what Zim meant by that as he darted for an escape route, still clutching Zim’s boot - but when he was quickly seized and hoisted into the air by a pair of metal spider legs, he was pretty sure things were only about to get a whole lot weirder.

But this was the life he’d chosen - and would he really want it any other way?

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 11 of ?)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 3200

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug for giving me mouth to mouth when I fainted from writer’s block those five times

Requested Tags: @deraniel @iamverity@yasnooshka24@wegingerangelica@themusingsofmany @dark-night-sky-99@tarynkauai@stuffandstuff-stuff @angelicshinigami@my-current-fandom-is @geekysimmerthings

Something has changed between you and Loki.

You can’t describe it exactly, other than as a shift in understanding. A fundamental change in cognition. Somewhere along the way, he became not a burden, but a friend. You go to see him when you aren’t required to, even if it’s just to tell him about the annoying temp who spilled a full cup of coffee onto your lap. He never seems to mind. You go out of your way to try and make him laugh. He calls you Witling without the harshness in his voice or contempt in his eyes, and now the nickname makes you smile. You smile a lot around him, actually, especially when his eyes ever so slightly light up when he sees you in the doorway.

It’s strange until it isn’t, and you ponder it until you don’t. Somehow your relationship- friendship, whatever- has slotted itself so seamlessly into your life you can’t remember a time when you didn’t favor your green hoodie over the other ones just because it makes him smile and tease when you wear it, or falling asleep without his stories playing lazily in the back of your mind.

You can tell your coworkers think you’re a bit crazy, but who ever cared what they thought, anyways?

“Hey, Trickster.” You bound into the room with a little more energy in your step than normall, toting an unassuming bag over your shoulder. “I’ve got something for you, I think you’re gonna like it- Trickster?” You’re accustomed to him sitting up in his bed, straight as an arrow, maybe a soft smile on his face as he waits for you. He is in his bed, but rather than looking pristine and regal he’s laid underneath the thin piece of fabric that passes for a blanket, curled in on himself. It’s incredibly weird, seeing him in a semi-vulnerable position. A pang of worry shoots its way through your chest, but that’s absurd- it’s not like anything could have happened to him in here. “Did you fall asleep on me?”

There’s movement, but it’s subtle. You wait for him to sit up, but he doesn’t even make a move to look at you or acknowledge your arrival. “Trickster. Hey. You’re scaring me.” You set your stuff down and carefully tread over to the glass wall separating the two of you, and place a gentle hand against the barrier, since you can’t place it on his shoulder. “Is something wrong? Are you sick? Can gods even get sick?”

The blanket gets pulled up over his head.

Alarm bells are going off somewhere in the back of your brain. Why, you can’t be sure, but something is wrong. You can feel it. The air has some sort of heaviness to it, weighing on you and the man in the cell, and you don’t like it one bit. “Loki,” you say gently, trying to coax him out. “What’s going on?”

You can almost hear the indecision coming from him. But eventually, he does come out, and force himself into a sitting position with apparent difficulty. You take him in- same raven hair, same pale skin and emerald eyes, though they’re duller than you’ve ever seen them.

But then you freeze, blood turning to ice. Because covering the lower half of his face is something completely and utterly vile.

It’s a mask of some sort, made of metal, chained around his neck and the back of his head by heavily tied restraints. It completely covers his mouth and chin, turning his handsome face into something from a B-roll horror movie. “Loki?” You whisper. He shakes his head mutely, and with one finger taps the mask- the muzzle- with horrific defeat.

He can’t speak.

They chained his voice away.

You see absolute red when you notice scraped flesh around the edges of the contraption from where it’s been digging into his skin. “What. The FUCK.” Loki’s eyes widen, and your other hand goes to the glass like you can phase through the wall and rip that thing right off of him. “Loki? What did they do to you?” His eyes are so, so sad and so, so tired.

“GUARDS!” You shriek, but you don’t even wait for them to thunder in. You go to the door yourself and fling it open, bodily dragging the pair on duty into the room with you. “What the hell is that,” you snarl, pointing at the ugly device strapped to Loki.

“The prisoner?” One says, confused at your obvious rage.

“Oh, yes, thank you, I thought you had swapped him out with a different Asgardian prince while I was away. On his face.”

“He required restraining.”

“I wasn’t aware restraining involved one’s voice. What was the reason?” You channel as much ice into your voice as you possibly can.

“He was attempting to conjure some sort of spell.”

That stops you short, and you glance at Loki, who is pointedly not looking at the confrontation. “He- was he?”

The agent nods. “He was humming something we couldn’t identify, and based on his history-”

“He was humming,” you say faintly. “Just… humming.” Another nod, but hesitant this time. “And how was it any different than the literally dozens of times he’s done this in the past few months?”

“Um…”

“Right. My guess is, it wasn’t, and you absolute idiots just wanted to jump at the chance to tie him down further.” They don’t argue with you, which is probably wise considering the daggers your eyes are throwing. “Open his cell.”

“Agent, I don’t think you have the authority-”

“Does it look like I care? I am so very, very close to unlocking his manacles and letting him blast you into oblivion with the scariest magic he can possibly muster.” You didn’t have clearance to do that either, but you sure as hell aren’t going to tell them that. “Open it. Now.” At any other moment, the thought of intimidating two SHIELD agents that are nearly twice your size would be laughable to you, but now you’re fairly sure you could snap their necks with your bare hands if you wanted. When he just stares at you, your hand darts around his wrist and you bodily drag him over to the access panel inserted into the cell door. Finally, after a millennia, he keys in a code.

“It changes every four hours,” he warns, but you aren’t even looking at the numbers he types in, just Loki. Only Loki. The panel pops open with a pneumatic hiss, and you sigh in relief.

“Now get out.”

“You-”

You throw him a look so fierce some of the color drains from his face. Without another word, he hightails it from the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He’s already forgotten.

You rush to Loki, who hasn’t moved from his position on the bed. His eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen, like he’s genuinely- surprised. At you. And maybe a little… scared? Whatever, you can deal with that later. All you’re focused on is getting this horrible thing off off off-

The locking mechanism is complicated and may as well require six hands to press all the right buttons at the same time. “Jesus fucking…” you’re mumbling all sorts of colorful expletives to yourself as you wrestle with the thing, and you’re probably pulling some of his hair, but you don’t get an ounce of protest from the man sitting quietly in front of you.

Clang. It falls to the floor. With it, words fall out of your mouth so quickly your brain can’t even keep up with them. “Oh my god, are you okay? How long have you been like that? I shouldn’t have skipped our last meeting, I take one weekend off and this is what happens. Christ, when I find out who ordered this I’m going to murder-”

“Witling.” You freeze, as does your frantic babbling. His voice is hoarse and dry, so far from the honeyed accent you’re used to. “I am fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you grumble, gently taking his face in your hands and inspecting the raw outline imprinted onto his skin. There’s a few flecks of dried blood crusted around the corners of his mouth. Your finger traces the angry flesh. “Does it hurt?”

He licks his lips. “A little.”

“Okay. Okay. Just- stay here. Don’t move.” You back away slowly, trying to convince yourself he won’t die on you if you leave him for a minute, then flee the room.

In your haste, his cell door remains open.

You’re back in an instant, toting supplies- damp paper towels, a bottle of water. You hand him the drink wordlessly and he drains it, looking a little embarrassed when the plastic crunches under his grip. It gets set on the bed beside him. You fold a paper towel carefully, then inspect him a little more closely before going in. “Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

You’re expecting a scoff, some retort about a puny mortal hurting an Asgardian- but nothing comes. So you focus on your task, blotting away dried patches and soothing angry marks. You have to change towels twice, and you put that thought away in the very back of your mind so you don’t scream right here and now. “Oh, here.” You pat your pockets until you find a tube of chapstick and hand it to him. He looks at you, mystified. “It’s- chapstick? For your lips? So they don’t- hurt.”

Loki uncaps it, and tentatively puts a little of the product on his fingertip. Apparently satisfied it isn’t poisoned, he rubs a little on the corners of his mouth and gives it back to you.

You let out a breath. He looks a little better, at least. But his eyes are still incredibly lackluster and you hate it so, so much. You want that spark back, the one that keeps you on your toes and makes you laugh and promises endless tales of wonder. You just don’t know what else to do to help.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I should have been here, and then this-” you press a light touch to his cheek.

“Darling.” His hand steals up to yours, and at first it seems he’s going to push you away, but instead he gives you permission to cup his cheek in your hand, letting you reassure yourself he isn’t seriously injured. “It is not your fault.”

“I’m going to kill them,” you say tonelessly.

“Now, Witling. We talked about this: no picking up my bad habits.”

That makes you smile a little, at least, and some of the light filters back into his eyes. Something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye, and when you glance behind you, your heart stops for a few beats.

You had left the door open.

“I left the door open,” you murmur, eyebrows drawing together.

“You did.” His reply is casual and nonchalant.

“And you-” you turn back to Loki and study him. Not his face, this time, but him. “You didn’t leave.”

“Well.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face. “You told me not to.” Those few words take something in your chest and twists it into so many knots it physically hurts. It must have shown on your face, because Loki lets his hand slide up and gently presses his fingers against yours until they’re lightly entwined together, still against his cheek. And you look at him, trying to memorize all the lines on his face you’ve never gotten to feel, while watching his eyes come alive again with every beat of your heart.

“You said you have something for me?” It takes you a moment to connect his words together, and you pull away, embarrassed. You’ve been standing there staring at him like an idiot for who knows how long.

“Yeah, I- well, you can borrow it at least.” You go to retrieve a lovingly worn book from the bag forgotten on your desk, then bring it back to him, showing him the cover. His fingers trace over gilded lettering- The D’Aulaires’ Book of Norse Myths. “This was my favorite when I was a kid,” you say, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice. So many nights were spent with this and a flashlight, hidden under the covers from parents who thought you were asleep. “It’s a little… tame, I’m sure. It is meant for children. But a classic nonetheless.” You push it into his hands gently. “Don’t turn the corners or anything, I don’t want it creased.”

A vaguely horrified look passes over his face. “I would never.” You wrinkle your nose at him, which makes him smile. Based on the way he’s talked about his own books, you have a feeling creasing a corner in one of Prince Loki of Asgard’s novels is nothing short of a capital offense.

He opens the cover reverently, and you realize it’s probably been months since he’s had a book in his hands. “I am not quite as adept at translating written word through Allspeak. Yet,” he adds. “But I suppose I have all the time I should need in here.”

Your eyebrows furrow a bit, wondering how magical god powers could require practice, but nevertheless, you take back the book and settle onto the floor next to his cot, resting your back against the cold wall. Skimming the pages, you turn to a tale that very specifically does not mention Thor or Odin. They’re few and far between, but they do exist. Before you can clear your throat- “what are you doing?”

“I would be very surprised if his highness had never been read aloud to,” you tease.

“I believe they all assumed- quite correctly I might add- that I could manage perfectly well on my own.”

“Tough,” you say nonchalantly, and suppress a smile when he laughs like he’s forgotten the days events. Which is of course your goal. “Piss me off and I’ll read you the one with the horse.”

“Spare me,” he says drily.

“Then shut up and listen.”

                                                           XXX

You don’t know how much time passes. You also don’t particularly care. Everything in these moments is too perfect to mess up- your voice echoing in the cell, Loki’s steady breathing next to you as he listens. Occasionally, you glance up at him, only to find him more relaxed than you’ve ever seen: hands folded loosely in his lap, leaning against the wall with a slight smile barely on his lips. Once, he catches you looking, green eyes staring straight into you, and it takes a large amount of effort to nonchalantly turn back to your book and keep reading rather than blush up a storm.

Eventually, you’re on the last page of the last story and you don’t realize it until you stammer out the last line with a hitch in your voice. The pages fall closed as you release them from your grip. A few moments pass in silence; the hazy atmosphere of contentment and safety that has descended amongst the tales slowly floats away.

“Is that all?”

“Mhm. In this book anyways.” You rub the back cover, as if more stories will magically appear under your touch. “I’ll have to bring you another, there’s loads more.”

“I would like that very much.”

You eye the cell door, which has been cracked open the entire time you’ve been in here. You couldn’t very well lock yourself in with him, that’d be a bit hard to explain- of course, this whole ordeal was already going to be a nightmare to handle. But oh gods was it worth it. So very, very worth it.

“Do you need anything? Before I go.” You push yourself up off the floor and look at him, still lounging on his cot like having you next to him is the most natural thing in the world.

“No. Thank you though.” You nod and turn to go, even though every single nerve in your body is screaming don’t leave him here, take him and that silver tongue of his and fucking run as fast as you can- “Witling?” You pause. “Thank you.” The genuine warmth in his voice makes it all the more difficult to step out of his room. Your hand lingers on the door as you do battle within yourself. Locking him back in feels so wrong. It feels like you’re a conspirator against him, condoning how he’s being treated-

“Y/N.” Your name in his voice draws you from your thoughts. He nods once, briefly, giving you permission almost. It’s okay. I understand.

And with that, you try to ignore the little piece of your heart that shatters as you snap the door closed with a soft click.

                                                            XXX

“Thor?” You find the god in a training room, practicing hand to hand with a lady who may or may not have be the Black Widow. You purposefully don’t look up from your shoes to find out. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

“But of course.” He steps off the mat and follows you into a side corridor you know for a fact is rarely used. Based on the way you’re looking around to make sure you’re not overheard, you definitely raised some concern. “Has my brother done something, my lady?”

“No, no of course not. Um, it’s me,” you confess, wringing your hands in front of you. “I might have, like, broken a ton of rules?” Your voice pitches higher than you’ve ever heard it. “And I need a big favor?”

There’s a rumble low in the god’s throat. “If my brother has convinced you in some way to make mischief, I swear, I will-”

“No, I swear he hasn’t! It was me, all me.” Very briefly, you explain the previous day’s events, with the muzzle and the guards and the aftermath.

“You were in his cell,” Thor repeats, confirming what you’ve said.

“For quite a long time.” You give him a weak smile. “I locked it back when I left, of course.” Even though you really hadn’t wanted to.

“And you want me to terrorize the guards into keeping this little tryst of yours a secret?”

“Um, no, I may have taken care of that myself, actually.” He looks at you, vaguely impressed. “I’m worried about the security footage. I wasn’t supposed to be in that long, so I doubt anyone would check it, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. I just know they’d spin it back on him somehow.”

“I see.” You stand there, wondering if you’ve just made the biggest mistake ever asking him for help, when he pats you on the shoulder with brotherly affection that makes something in your chest unknot. “I shall see what I can do, little one. Fear not, I will not let you be discovered.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, really. But thank you.” You turn to go, but before you can, his voice stops you, softer than you’ve ever heard coming from the big man.

“Lady.” He has a wistful smile on his face, and he’s studying you with… something, in his eyes. You can’t quite put your finger on it. He is so very different from his brother; being able to read one doesn’t really help with the other. “I give you my thanks. Truly.”

You shrug. “I just… needed to help.” You go before his gaze dissects everything you aren’t saying.

A/N: Fun fact time!

- This is the second chapter I wrote of this fic (I’ll mark the first when we get there) - “it’s strange until it isn’t, and you ponder it until you don’t” is one of my favorite lines I’ve written, I think

- You are canonically terrified of Natasha Romanov

- All-Speak does not require practice with written word, Loki is just desperately trying to think of anything to keep you from leaving 

Moving in Wednesday, so hopefully this long chapter will keep you guys tied over if I have to disappear for a bit! Love y’all bunches! 

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Safe with me (9)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.    

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Blood and descriptive violence. Descriptions of bombing aftermaths, explosive devices, drug usage and associated effects.

PLEASE READ A/N: When I said this story would get more explicit, I was serious, so please understand the above warnings before you proceed. Seems fitting this chapter is more Bucky-centric, since today’s his birthday, however it’s not exactly a nice birthday present since there are flashbacks and we all know Bucky does not have nice memories. Sorry Buckaroo.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST  PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Instead, he lays a tentative hand at your back, and weaves a path through the clusters of people lingering out front, guiding you toward the waiting car. His sharp profile is utterly serious as he scans the crowd, searching intently, committing everything he sees to memory. He feels you lean a little closer, and looks down to find you watching him, a hopeful little smile beginning to curve your lips, and he feels his mouth move in response, before he suddenly snaps his head up, meeting a pair of nervous hazel eyes.

And for the third time that evening, Bucky Barnes smells the bitter tang of lemons, right before the bomb explodes.

*****

Memory is a strange thing, the way it links and connect words and sensations and emotions.

When you were little, one of your favorite things to do each summer, was visit the local swimming pool. Finding a quiet corner to yourself, you would flip onto your back and float, letting your mind drift away, finding that relaxing feeling of blank nothingness. Eyes closed, ears dipped below the surface of the water, it was the oddest contrast of sensations, the fiery orange sunlight burning behind your eyelids, tempered by the coolly muted silence of blue waves.

Memory is a strange thing, and it's so hard to understand the triggers that bring it rushing back.

You haven't thought about those lazy summer days in years. Suddenly the remembrance arrives with the force of a hurricane, orange light tattooing designs behind your eyes, the feel of water dripping down your face, the world around you bizarrely muffled.

Memory is a strange thing, and opening your eyes right now requires an impossibly inhuman effort.

Open, open, open.

There are a thousand needle pricks digging into your face, a thousand pounds pressing on your eyes, and your brain fights to obey this one small command.

Open, open, open.

Nothing is working, nothing is happening. Your body feels like lead and terror begins to set in.

Open, open, open. Come on, OPEN.

Air pours into your lungs as you jolt awake with a gasp, searching wildly for something, anything, to hold onto.

Bucky is crouched on his hands and knees above you, the breadth of his body sheltering you from the debris raining down. He has you pinned beneath him, one arm curled around your shoulders, while his metal arm bends awkwardly behind him, shielding his head from the chunks of falling stone.

The world is crumbling into chaos, but all you hear is the steady thump of your heartbeat, curiously wet and slow as you stare up at him. He's covered in concrete dust, the thick powder accomplishing in ten seconds what seventy years of slave labour couldn't, and Bucky Barnes finally looks his age. Dust settles in the tight lines around his eyes, his dark hair a shock of white hanging forward.

Blinking dully, you see his mouth move, recognize the way his lips twist around the sound of your name, but the silence remains. His eyes glow fever bright, a sizzling electric blue against the pale dust on his skin, and the desperation in them is unnerving.

He ducks his head again, his mouth touching the shell of your ear. You feel his hot breath puffing against your skin, but still, you hear nothing.

What a peaceful sensation, this silence. Maybe it’s preferable to reality.

It doesn't last.

There's a faint, metallic ringing in the distance, like marbles clattering on tin as it pings, louder and louder and louder until the world suddenly roars back to life, exploding in a deafening burst of sound. Overwhelmed, you cling to Bucky's jacket in panic, while your ears pop and crackle, readjusting to the madness around you.

Sirens pierce the air, shrill wails echoing through the night, swirling blue and red lights flashing, and the only sound louder than the arrival of help, are the shrieks of people around you.

"Bucky?"

You can barely hear yourself say his name, but he must catch it, because his face sags in relief. He removes his arm from your shoulders and simply points to his face, wordlessly telling you to focus on him. When he pushes his hair back, you notice a clear device tucked into his ear, which lights up at the touch of his finger. When he speaks, his voice is loud and fast.

"I'm here, she's okay. I need confirmation, what the hell is this?"

He listens intently, eyes never straying from your face, as you grip his jacket so hard your fingers begin to ache. His expression transforms before your eyes, growing progressively darker, filled with tense fury, before he suddenly snarls. Slapping the comms device in frustration, he jerks himself upright and slides an arm behind your back, another behind your knees, rising effortlessly with you in his arms. Keeping you tight against his chest, he spins in a desperate circle, trying to orient himself in the fog of dust and smoke, searching for the black sedan that provides a ticket away from this disaster. As the haze begins to shift and clear, he finally sees Happy parked on the opposite side of the street, frantically waving both arms. Bucky pushes forward, shoving his way through the crush of people bumping and bouncing against him, panicked screams coming from every direction.

Curving an arm around his neck, you curl into him. He is perfectly steady, strong bands of flesh and metal wrapped securely around you, so you close your eyes, bury your face in his chest, and inhale the scent of clean laundry and cologne, of safety.

The backdoor is open when Bucky reaches the car and he barrels inside, still holding you tight, while Happy slams the door and sprints to the driver's seat. The engine revs when he turns the key and throws it into drive, and Bucky is shouting directions.

"Route three, use the back entrance, go, go, go!"

He looks over his shoulder, searching out the rear window for the familiar man among the sea of bodies, but he sees nothing, and then the tires are squealing and Happy hits the pedal, spinning the car around and throwing you both against the door.

There's a steady stream of curses under his breath, as Bucky regains his balance. Grudgingly releasing his grip, he places you on the seat next to him. Ripping off his jacket, he drapes it over your shoulders, the silky lining warm and slick against your skin, and you sink gratefully into the sweet heat.

Pausing to assess the damage, his rough scan confirms no life-threatening injuries exist, so he taps the device at his ear once more, reconnecting to the scene.

"I had him Steve, I saw him," Bucky reveals hoarsely, eyes still locked on you. "He looked right at us. White male, about 6'0, mid-forties, hazel eyes, light brown hair, long over his forehead. Wearing black jeans and a dark blue hooded sweatshirt."

Everything seems to move in slow motion, and you stare at Bucky in confusion.

He saw him? How did he know?

"No, I'm sure it was him," Bucky is saying, still watching you closely, and he flinches at the last admission. "Could smell him a mile away."

*****

Between the maze of shortcuts and miraculous openings in traffic, Happy reaches your apartment in record time, but he doesn't pull up front. There's an alley in the middle of the block, so he navigates here instead, reaching the freight entrance behind the building.

"Stay here, I'll come around," Bucky orders brusquely, jumping from the car.

Upon his exit, the only sound left is the harsh panting of your breath, still coming in disjointed rushes. Staring at your hands, you try to modulate your breathing, going for those slow, deep breaths, just like he taught you.

The door is quiet when it snicks opens, and Bucky silently crouches to his knees, looking up at you. His body is coiled tight, but he doesn't say a word. He simply waits, letting you find the necessary composure, before he reaches for you.

"Ready?" he murmurs, slipping his arm behind your back.

"I can walk, you know," you whisper peevishly, finding your voice.

"Indulge me," he says quietly, the hint of a smile dancing on his lips. Gathering you in his arms for the third time that evening, he lifts you carefully from the car, kicking the door shut and striding to the back entrance.

The heavy metal door screeches when it swings open, and you see a tall woman in dark jeans and a green turtleneck, her blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She steps aside to let Bucky pass, clearly waiting for instructions.

"Get back to the front, there's another agent coming. Lock down all traffic into the building, no one gets by unless they prove they live here. Two forms of ID, I don't give a shit if they complain." Looking back to Happy, he indicates the metal door. "Same here. No one comes in."

They both nod and move into position without another word. Bucky glances to the elevator bank in front of him.

Jesus, he hates the elevators in this building with a passion.

"Fuck it."

Turning to the stairwell, he begins the dizzying ascent up. Floor numbers tick by, higher and higher, but he never slows, three stairs covered with every leap. He moves so gracefully, you barely feel the movement, his smooth gait lulling you into a daze.

Warm in his arms, it's almost like being rocked to sleep.

*****

Bucky bypasses your security system with practiced ease, heading straight to the bathroom. He moves methodically, the accustomed motions of clean-up and recovery that follow every mission, an automatic response.

Cranking the sink faucet, he lets the water heat to near boiling before removing his cufflinks, dropping them in the soap dish, and quickly rolling back his shirt sleeves. With surgeon-level precision, he scrubs hard at his hands, until every trace of grime is washed clean, leaving the metal sparkling, the skin rosy pink.

Throwing a fresh washcloth under the water, he starts digging in the sink cabinets, knocking over bottles of hairspray and body wash, stacks of towels and bags of cotton balls.

"I don't have a first aid kit Bucky. I don't even have band-aids," you mumble, rubbing your eyes wearily. When you open them, you're surprised to find him unzipping a black case, pulling out a handful of bandages and antibacterial ointment.

"I left one here the first time I came, just – in case you ever needed it."

Snatching up the cloth, he wrings it out and drops to his knees before you, lost for a moment as his eyes roam, debating where to begin.

Clasping your hands in your lap to stem the trembling, you follow the path of his gaze, moving from your hair, down your arms, resting on your hands. That feeling of warm water appears again, sliding down the side of your face. When you reach to rub it dry, you start in surprise when your knuckles come away, sticky red with blood.

Bucky clenches his teeth at your shocked expression, and snatches up his phone, tapping in a long string of code. Looking intently to the silver tracking bracelet on your wrist, you feel the thin vibranium band heat your skin, before it emits three silent pulses. A wave of tingling warmth spreads through your nervous system and a flood of data instantly transmits to his phone, checking your vital signs and scanning for internal injuries.

When the screen turns bright green, signifying an 'all clear' result, he visibly relaxes.

"You're okay, you're okay," he repeats under his breath, as much to you as to himself.

Stark technology isn't enough to allay his fears though, and he insists on checking further. Reaching gentle fingers to your scalp, he searches for bumps, pressing lightly here and there.

"Does it hurt? Here? What about here?"

His soft questions elicit the same answer each time, a sluggish shake of the head, a quiet no.

When he lays his hand on top of the blood-caked fingers tangled in your lap, you latch onto them gratefully, the temperature a soothing balm cooling the throbbing ache in your palm. Bucky folds the washcloth and wipes it over your face, cleaning dust from your cheeks, dabbing gently at the blood still oozing from the gash in your forehead. The only sound in the bathroom is the slow drip of the faucet, the absurdly loud tick of the wall clock, and the occasional hitches in your breath.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, wincing at every sound of pain. The thin trickle of blood won't stop leaking from the cut, and Bucky huffs in frustration. "Motherfucking head wounds. They never fucking stop."

Gripping his metal fingers harder, a shaky laugh escapes at his irritation. The black humor of the situation forces a bleak grin, and he gives your hands a comforting press in return.

"If it hurts, squeeze my hand as hard as you need. Hell, kick my ass if you want, won't bother me."

"Probably gonna rain check the ass kicking, if that's okay. Wait until I'm back in prime form," you joke softly.

"Duly noted," he says, his lips quirking up.

Several minutes later the bleeding has stopped and Bucky reluctantly removes his hand to apply a smear of ointment and a clean white bandage. His fingers trail down your cheek, his thumb resting briefly on the bump below your eye, where the skin is beginning to swell.

"Jesus," he whispers to himself. "I knocked you to the ground, that's my fault."

"No," you say fiercely. "Don't be an idiot Bucky, I mean it. You did everything right. I'm here and I'm safe. Because of you."

His anguished expression melts at your words, his face lighting up at your unexpected defense.

"You're always safe with me," his voice cracks faintly on the declaration, but his eyes are steady, burning with an intensity that steals your breath.

"I know," you promise.

Dropping his hands to your lap, he drags his fingers delicately over your palms, until he's pressing his fingertips to yours. Curling your fingers inward, you lock your hands together and look up at him.

"You're okay," he confirms, one last time.

"You're okay," you reply softly.

You see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you stare at each other, both standing so precariously close to the edge, daring the other to speak.

Bucky clears his throat.

And then he looks down, gently releasing your fingers, rising quickly to his feet.

"I'll – I can leave you alone for a bit. Take your time, take a shower, whatever you want. I just need to make some calls."

Willing him to look again, you watch him for a moment longer, but he stares resolutely at his feet. You slowly lower your eyes.

*****

The lock catches with a slow click, and Bucky pauses outside the bathroom, leaning his head against the door. When the shower turns on, the sound of rushing water muffles the shaky sigh he's been desperately concealing. Doubling over, he rests his hands on his knees and let's his control off leash, the wild panic racing through his body, lighting his nerves on fire.

How the fuck, how the fuck, how the fuck? The internal voice howls repeatedly.

He wants to punch someone, kick something, slam his fist through the god damn wall. He's so fucking wound up he can barely contain the furious scream threatening to erupt any second.

Shoving away from the door, he strides into the living room, pacing back and forth, running anxious hands through dirty hair. He stops short when he catches a grim view of himself in the living room mirror, covered in a coat of concrete dust. Toeing off his shoes, he quickly unbuttons the black dress shirt, peeling it carefully away and folding it inside out to trap the dirt.

The pang of self-doubt cuts through him as he considers the sleeveless black undershirt he's left with. It does nothing to conceal the thick ropes of scarring lining the seam of his metal arm, the skin a dull, angry red, but before he can tip too far into that familiar pit of self-loathing, he feels his phone vibrate.

"Any update?" He foregoes the niceties with Steve, moving toward the front window and dropping the blinds as he speaks, plunging the room into darkness. Cracking one of the slats, he peers into the street, eyes sweeping back and forth.

"We're going through camera footage, focus is on your description. Nothing yet."

"Injuries?"

Steve pauses, and the deliberate silence makes Bucky's heart plummet.

"Twelve injured. Three critical. One dead."

"God dammit," Bucky swears, his voice breaking. "It's on me. That's on me."

"No," Steve says sharply. "Stop. This is not on you."

"He was right there, I should've figured it out sooner –"

"It wouldn't have stopped him, the explosive was rigged to a separate device, he probably had the trigger in his pocket. Tony thinks it might’ve been PETN."

"PETN?" Bucky repeats slowly. The letters feel familiar, something from a past life. "Why do I know what that is?"

Steve sighs. "Same shit we had in the war, takes an electric current to detonate. We used it to blow those Hydra bases in Austria."

His words prompt an old memory to resurface. Steve laughing hysterically, goggles strapped to his head as he jumps on a motorcycle, the building behind him erupting in white flames while Bucky roars at him to hurry the fuck up, you stupid fucking dumbass.

Both men go quiet, swimming in their own thoughts for a moment.

Something feels – wrong.

It's a niggling feeling, picking at the edge of his brain, and Bucky rubs the back of his neck, trying to make sense of it before he speaks.

"This whole thing, doesn't it – doesn't something seem off?" he asks. "Nothing in his letters gave a single fucking clue he'd do this Steve. Nothing."

"Sure, but – he's crazy, right? Isn't this the kind of shit crazy people do?"

"He might be crazy, but he loves her – or he thinks he does," Bucky amends. "What would this accomplish?"

Steve is silent, the lack of response loaded with innuendo, and Bucky grips the phone tighter.

"Just say it," he grinds out.

"He's jealous. It was a way of getting you out of the picture," Steve replies instantly.

Bucky doesn't respond, but goes perfectly still. A full minute passes, before Steve's quiet voice comes through the speaker.

"Do you want to talk - "

"No," Bucky interrupts. "No, I do not."

"Buck –"

He hears the sound of the shower turning off, and glances behind him. "Nope. I need to go. Send through pictures as soon as you get them. I have his face burned into my fucking brain right now, but I'm not confident that shit won't disappear."

*****

Sometimes a hot shower does wonders for resetting perspective.

Dressed in sweatpants and your ratty blue Georgetown sweatshirt, you bend slowly, collecting the pile of dirty clothes and dropping them in the sink.

The dress is destroyed. The soft ruffles down the skirt are shredded along the side, where you slammed into the ground; the elegant lace sleeves are ripped and torn in pieces; the beautiful blue is a mix of rusty red and powdery grey, blood and dust now the most noticeable features.

It's a dress, nothing more, and it makes no sense, but suddenly the world is blurry, your eyes are burning with unshed tears, and great heaving sobs rip from your throat as they spill over.

"Are you okay?" Bucky's voice comes through the door immediately, as though he was standing guard the entire time.

Wrenching the door open, you launch yourself at him, and he stumbles back, catching you in surprise.

"What happened? Does something hurt?"

"No, I'm not – it doesn't – nothing is – Jesus C-Christ, it's a f-fucking dress, what the hell is wrong with me?" You stutter angrily, pointing in frustration at the sink, trying to speak through the tears.

"Alright, hey. Look at me," he says calmly, leaning back and tapping your chin. "Look up. It's not the dress. It's too much champagne and the whole bleeding from the head thing, and the fact that someone set off a bomb in front of you tonight. You're allowed to freak out, so go for it."

Dropping your forehead to his chest, you curl your arms around your stomach and let go, a steady stream of tears punctuated with the occasional shuddering sniffle. Bucky's arms wrap hesitantly around you, his hands rubbing slow strokes up and down your back. You cry and cry, and cry a little more, until blessedly, the well runs dry. Vaguely, you realize he's removed his dress shirt, and you've now drenched his undershirt in an unattractive mess of tears and snot.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, pulling away and wiping a runny nose on your sleeve. "I'm a god damn disaster."

"No, you're not," he chuckles softly. "Come over here, sit down."

Guiding you to the sofa, he bundles you in your old patchwork quilt, hands lingering on your arms as he stares down. Sudden awareness of him, of his bare arms and cautious expression, takes over everything. When your eyes drift to the joint of his shoulder, you see the jagged scars puckering his skin, and he shifts slightly at the scrutiny.

What the hell happened earlier?

Before bombs and blood morphed the evening into a waking nightmare, you were spiraling into a realization that was frighteningly unexpected, one with the potential to change your entire world. You want to say something, you want Bucky to say something, to figure out together what the hell is happening between you, but you can already feel yourself beginning to retreat.

This is real and terrifying and something, but you're not ready to say it.

"Can you just – stay for a little while?"

Looking down, so the vulnerability in his face won't confuse your emotions, you tense at the long silence that follows. Bucky's voice is barely audible when he answers.

"Of course, I'll stay. I'm not leaving you."

Nodding sluggishly, you rub puffy eyes with the soft fabric of your sleeve, trying to stifle a massive yawn.

Apparently overreacting is exhausting.

Without another word, Bucky falls to the sofa, tugging you down with him, and you curl into a ball next to him. The adrenaline dissipates at an alarming rate, and your body tingles, a heavy lethargy as it fights to shut down. Burrowing deeper into his side, your eyes begin to flutter.

The question surfaces, almost as an afterthought.

"Bucky? How did you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"Tonight, you told Steve you recognized him. How did you know?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he tucks the quilt snuggly under your chin and pulls you closer.

"It's nothing to worry about, I'll tell you later."

Right before sleep pulls you under, you feel him slowly link his fingers with yours.

*****

Propping his feet on the coffee table, Bucky crosses his ankles, turns on the TV, and waits.

Flipping idly through the channels, a black and white picture catches his attention, and he grins when he sees cursive writing dashing across the screen. When he first came home, Bucky spent a week huddled in a blanket fort, binge watching every season of 'I Love Lucy', mesmerized by the exaggerated acting and the happy simplicity. It was a world that seemed easy and carefree, an innocently poignant reminder of everything he lost the day he left Brooklyn.

Keeping the volume low, he slouches down comfortably. He watches Lucy trotting circles around a giant wooden vat, smashing grapes with her feet, and with you nestled securely at his side, he begins to think.

Memory is a strange thing.

Bucky does remember. Not everything. But more than anyone knows.

In the months after he came home, he spent the dark hours of every night with a towel stuffed in his mouth, muffling screams of agony as memories of his old life cracked his skull open. Hours of horrific life footage fast forwarding through his head, until he passed out in his bathroom, covered in sticky sweat and salty tears, clinging to the cold tile floor.

Sparks of old memories are re-surfacing tonight, charred remnants of his past suddenly vibrant and alive. They exist indefinitely, something no amount of time or alcohol will bleach from his brain.

Gripping your fingers tight, he shuts his eyes and lets the vicious riptide pull him under.

*****

LATE 1940s

The Soldier sits on the damp floor of the locked cell, his harsh panting echoing in the small space. He is cold, so god damn cold, but the room contains nothing more than a ragged blanket and a metal bucket.

For three straight days, they kept him strapped to a chair, his shiny new arm hanging disconnected and useless, while doctors shot icy liquid in his veins, pressed chalky pills under his tongue. Every possible variation of medicine was pumped into him, sending him flying to inconceivable heights and crashing him into the terrifying depths of bone-weary depression.

Now the drugs have worn off, but the effects linger, and the sickening feel of withdrawal begins to ravage his body.

On the first day, the Soldier is crouched in the corner of his room, sweat running rivers down his chest, hot flashes rippling across his skin in suffocating waves. He yanks the rough wool shirt over his head, moaning in relief when he feels cold stone against his bare back. He tries desperately to breath, to force his body to relax, but the effects come harder and faster.

Muscle spasms skate through him, the entire right side of his body jerking and flailing, his legs kicking out, his head twitching so hard he slams his cheek into the wall.

Frustration courses through him at the helplessness. He sinks his teeth into his tongue, hard enough for blood to fill his mouth. Holding tight to the pain, he relishes the metallic taste, because it's the one thing in this world he can control.

It continues non-stop, for the next two days. Flashes of heat, wracking chills. At one point, he loses complete control of his muscles, unable to do more than lie on the floor and writhe.

On the third day, the hallucinations start.

"Steve? Stevie! Where have you been, why didn't you come sooner? Don't leave me here again, please please please, I don't wanna stay, I wanna go home, please Stevie, please!"

"Should we try to help?" There's no sympathy in the voice, only a hint of curiosity, as the two men peer through the iron bars on the door to the soldier's room.

"No," another voice dismisses, bored with the discussion. "Let him ride it out, he can take it."

On the morning of the fourth day, his body is his own again, and he crawls weakly to the metal bucket and pukes his guts out. The sour taste of acid and bile stays stuck in his mouth all day, until they come to collect him.

And it begins all over again.

*****

Bucky remembers this. The first taste of the 'oblivion' is a nightmare from which he never thought to wake.

*****

EARLY 1970s

"Open your mouth, Soldat."

The Soldier obeys instantly, dropping his jaw without question. Rough fingers shove a small yellow pill inside, and he feels it dissolving, the bitter chalky flavor absorbing into the meat of his tongue. He can feel splotches of burning heat spread across his skin, followed by that familiar cold numbness as the drug slices through his body.

That night, when the bomb detonates, the resulting boom rattles the foundation of the building, sending colorful orange flames licking up the clean grey exterior. Screams tear through the night air, crowds of people fleeing the scene in a desperate bid for safety.

Framed in a dark window high above the street, stands a man dressed in a wrinkled brown leisure suit. Watching the chaos below, sweat covers his forehead, plastering shaggy blond hair to his skin, itching as it beads beneath his unkempt mustache.

He knows what this is.

He knows what they're doing.

He knows who's coming for him.

From the corner of his eye, the man sees a shadow silently detach itself from behind his door. His trembling hands are still scrabbling for the gun under his desk when the knife whistles through the air. The blade slices through his skin like butter, embedding to the hilt in his windpipe, the worn handle wobbling lazily as his throat works against it. He tries to scream, but the only thing that comes is a gurgle of frothy pink blood staining his lips.

There's no pity in his face when the Soldier stalks forward, raising his arm mechanically and firing two bullets between his eyes. The body slumps forward, splashing the neatly organized desk with slick smears of blood. The Soldier's nostrils flare at the warm smell of raw iron.

Mission accomplished, he eases from the office, closing the door and turning down the hallway. He passes a woman holding a pile of folders to her chest, her steps heavy and exhausted. She glances at him, but her eyes never pause, sliding smoothly past him.

That night, the police question her for five straight hours – who did you see, what did he look like, what was he wearing, why can't you remember anything?

"I don't know, I can't remember! There's was someone, but I can't remember!" she sobs, over and over.

In the morning papers, the black ink blares the headline to the world:"Former Hydra operative, turned Federal agent, found murdered in his office"

*****

Bucky remembers this. Hydra is a life sentence. Once you're in, they will never, ever let you go.

*****

MID 1990s

The room is clean, nicer than most Hydra off-sites, but Alexander Pierce is still annoyed.

Sitting at a large wooden desk, he rubs his chin while he reads the latest mission report, the neat, block-letters as simple and concise as they've been since 1950.

The Asset stands silently before him, legs slightly spread, hands folded behind his back. His pose is automatic, classic parade rest for any soldier, even one who has no idea he was ever more than the machine he is today.

When Pierce finally looks up, his glasses have slid down his nose. His light blue eyes are pure ice as he looks over the rims.

"New Head arrives today. He wants to meet you."

The Asset nods once, demonstrating he understands. He's been here before, decades of service meant plenty of change in leadership. Sometimes it was frictionless, other times harsh and chaotic, but a glimmering thread of consistency has always remained.

The Asset obeys.

"Procedure will change, you'll be blindfolded for all meetings. Only top-level personnel are face to face."

The Asset nods again.

Pierce returns to his paperwork, summarily ignoring him, and the Asset returns to waiting, frozen and unmoving.

He hears the sound first, a rustle at his back, and he shifts imperceptibly, lifting blank eyes to Pierce.

At the quiet cough, Pierce looks up, immediately jumping to his feet when he sees the silhouette outlined in the doorframe. Walking past the Asset, he gives a low welcome to the visitor.

A long silence follows, before a firm hand presses between his shoulder blades and a heavy cloth bag is draped unceremoniously over his head. The Asset fights the natural urge to lash out, instead keeping his eyes wide open, his ears straining for sound, but his world has turned pitch black and muted behind the thick fabric. Laying his tongue flat against the fabric, he tries to orient himself with the lack of other senses, and tastes the dirty flavor of dust and wool.

The door behind him creaks shut, and the Asset is alone with the new Head. Although his senses are dulled through the rough cloth, he hears the quick breaths, smells the hint of expensive vodka. Silence reigns for several minutes, and the Asset knows he's being scrutinized as the man circles him.

"Look at you," the voice finally says quietly, quivering with excitement. "All these years, and still perfect. Strong. Beautiful. You're all mine." He runs his hand possessively down the silver arm, and it takes every ounce of the Asset's restraint to stop his fist from swinging forward.

As the man speaks, there's a flicker of recognition, not for the voice, but rather the cadence of his speech. For some reason it dredges up a staticky image of a woman in a bright red dress, something ancient and achingly familiar. The thought snags tantalizingly in the Asset's brain, before it recedes into the dark abyss.

The voice hums delightedly when he hears the arm whir to life, and the Asset feels him back away. When he speaks again, amusement colors the muffled words.

"We can fix that soon enough. I really am looking forward to breaking you in."

There's a knock behind him, and Pierce opens the door.

"Team are assembling for the Algeria mission. Did you want to send him?"

The voice is dismissive when it responds. "No, it's an easy job, don't waste him. Put him back on ice."

The Asset doesn't even flinch. The cold is infinitely preferable to his time spent awake anyway.

"Let's go," Pierce says, and the Asset turns obediently, his head still covered with the thick cloth.

The crackle of electricity warns him a second before it happens. He screams when the taser bites into his neck, his body crumpling to the ground.

The voice gives an ugly laugh.

"You should pay more attention, Soldier. Don't ever turn your back on me again." The voice drops lower, close behind him, and the Asset falls motionless. "I own you now, don't you ever fucking forget that. You were made to suffer for me, and I'll make certain you do."

*****

Bucky remembers this. In all his years, above everything else, the voice was the one thing he ever truly feared.

*****

Yes, memory is a strange thing.

Bucky hasn't spent time with these memories in years, but each one elbows forward tonight, clamoring for attention.

Drugs. Murder. Torture. Pieces of memory begin to click together, an unconscious response to the evening's events.

He ruminates on the voice, the wizard behind the curtain. Bucky never knew his name, never saw his face. He was a vague shadow, who poured pain over the Asset with boundless enthusiasm, always whispering in his ear of the greater horrors to come. The voice went silent after Washington DC and SHIELD assumed he was dead.

There's something, something, something there. He knows there's something, it blisters like acid in his brain, this idea, this realization, this –something.

And then a sick swoop sets his stomach churning, the impossible thought knocking him sideways, as he remembers the words, remembers the letters.

"All these years, and still perfect. Strong. Beautiful. You're all mine."

HE CAN'T HAVE YOU, HE CAN NEVER HAVE YOU. YOU'RE MINE.

"You should pay more attention, Soldier."

YOU REALLY SHOULD PAY MORE ATTENTION.

Bucky feels his heart stop.

It wasn't possible.

It couldn't be possible.

It was a coincidence.

It has to be a coincidence.

Terror whites out his vision as the idea lands.

*****

When the phone vibrates quietly, Bucky stirs from his self-induced trance, his heart pounding with the insanity of his thoughts. Without looking, he knows the sky is still dark, caught in that brief interlude of night when the moon has fallen and the sun still sleeps.

Steve's text is short and to the point.

"Bike, back entrance. Go now."

Bucky looks down to where you lean against him. Wrapped in your patchwork quilt, your arm is wrapped tightly around his, your face buried against his shoulder. He feels your slow, even breaths heat his skin, feels his fingers still tangled in yours, and it takes every last drop of willpower to let go of that comfort.

Rousing you gently, his stomach lurches when you blink slowly, contentment in your eyes when you recognize him.

"I need you to wake up, quickly. We're leaving," his voice is low and urgent, but perfectly calm.

Still half asleep, you struggle to follow. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe."

 *****

Next Chapter 

*****

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[imaginetonyandbucky]

Things We Relive: Part 2

Also on AO3! 

When he appeared back in the lab Natasha pulled him into a hug, tugging his head down for him to bury it in her neck. “I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry you had to be there for that.”

Bucky allowed himself to take the comfort she was offering for a few minutes, letting himself shake after holding himself so tightly while he was there.  Finally he lifted his head and dried his face with his sleeve, sheepishly drying off Tasha’s neck too. “Ok. So now what?”

Natasha touched his face gently before she went back to the controls.  “If he didn’t go back to save his parents, I think there’s only one other time he would have gone.”

“Afghanistan.”

Natasha nodded. “At this point, he’s been gone so long that we have to hope he made some of the same mistakes we did, and that he hasn’t actually managed to change anything yet.”

Just then the door to the lab slammed open, and Steve stormed in. Or, he would have, if he wasn’t holding on to the wall for support, dragging an IV stand and still wearing a hospital gown. “What did he do?”

“Sorry, guys,” Sam called out from the hallway, blocked from view by Steve’s bulk.  “But you know how he gets.”

“I’ll handle this, James” Natasha said, and she hit the button and everything went black.

(Watch out for the break!)

When the world returned, it returned in a rush of noise and flashing lights, making Bucky wince and cover his ears. He had appeared in the middle of a party so he squinted and looked for an exit to escape the screaming synthesizer and seizure-inducing light show.  Thankfully there was a balcony right next to him, and he fled into the chill night air gratefully.  He wasn’t alone out there, but it was a hell of a lot less crowded than the room he’d fled from.  He took a deep breath and started to call Natasha when he saw Tony leaning against the railing on the far side of the balcony from the doors, head in his hands. Bucky hesitated but eventually put the walkie away, approaching Tony cautiously.

Whatever was going through Tony’s head, he didn’t notice Bucky’s approach until Bucky cleared his throat. Then he jumped and scowled at Bucky, so drunk he had to squint to focus on Bucky. “Who the hell are you? Go away, this corner is taken.”

“Are you ok?” Bucky said gently, and Tony’s scowl deepened.

“Always. What’s it to you, anyway?” Tony reached for the drink he’d set on the railing but Bucky tipped it over the rail and it disappeared, crashing onto the concrete below.  Tony gaped.

“You’ve had enough for right now, Tony.” Bucky fished out a bottle of water he’d stashed in the deep pockets of his jacket and handed it to Tony. Tony stared at it like Bucky was handing him poison.  Bucky rolled his eyes. “Have some water already. It’s not going to kill you.”

After a moment of Tony eyeing him and the water suspiciously, Tony took it from it and, after inspecting the unbroken seal, opened it and took a few large gulps.  “Ok, one more time,” he said, screwing the top back on the bottle. “Who the hell are you?”

“A robot from the future, here to save your life,” Bucky said with a small smile.

The bottle of water dropped to the ground as Tony stared at him. “Holy shit.” Before Bucky could react, Tony grabbed his left hand and shoved up the sleeve. “I knew it,” he breathed. “I didn’t just make it all up.”

“You remember me?”

“Uh, how do you forget a guy with a metal arm? I talked about you for months until my dad yelled at my mom for indulging me in my ‘silly fantasies.’ She used to tell me a story about the time she saw a man with a metal arm standing over my crib one night.”  At Bucky’s guilty look, Tony took a few steps back. “Holy shit, that was you, too?”

“Um…” Bucky’s mind blanked on how to respond.  He really, really wanted to hit the button to take him back to the future, but there were too many people around for that.

“Are you like the Terminator? Do I save the world from Skynet?”  Bucky’s heart twisted at the heavy dose of sarcasm in Tony’s voice that didn’t quite disguise the look of hope in Tony’s eyes.  No way he was going to say that Tony kinda sorta helped create Skynet aka Ultron and then had to destroy his own army of robots.

Instead he took a deep breath and put his hands on Tony’s shoulders.  “In the future, the man you are going to become will save the world a lot.  You will save countless lives and inspire generations to come with your passion, resilience, ingenuity, and generous heart. But someone” you “is trying to stop you from becoming that man, and I’m trying to keep them from succeeding.”  Bucky wanted so badly to cradle this Tony’s face in his hands and press a kiss to his temple, to his forehead, to show him the gentle affection that his Tony was starved for.  But he’d done enough, apparently, from the way Tony’s face had gone blank with shock.

Tony opened the bottle mechanically and drank more, never taking his eyes off of Bucky. “Apparently in the future I’m also bi, because you and me, we’re a thing, aren’t we?”  He said after a moment, gesturing between them with the half-empty bottle of water.

Shit. “Uh…” For lack of any better options, Bucky vaulted over the balcony and sprinted away, pressing the activator button on the walkie talkie as soon as he was out of sight of the party.

“When were you this time?” Natasha asked tiredly, rubbing her temples as Bucky reappeared.

“New Year’s Eve, 2000,” he answered confidently.  Lots of people had been wearing those goofy glasses at the party, he had noticed that much before he got distracted by Tony.  “How were things with Steve?” he asked before she could think to ask if anyone had seen him.

“Not great, but I did get him to go lay down.  He’s blaming himself for, you know,” she said, gesturing at the time machine.

“Yeah, lots of that going around,” Bucky said with a sigh.  

“Alright. This is it, if he isn’t here…there…then?“ Natasha scowled. “Whatever, we are back to square one.”

“No, I think this is it.  I think I know what he’s trying to do.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said softly.  Bucky recognized the careful way she was holding her shoulders and he put a hand on her back, suddenly realizing that while maybe a few hours had passed for him, she had been here for almost twenty-four hours without sleeping, sitting at the console with nothing to do but wait and think.

“Tasha, it’s not your fault either.”

She took a ragged breath, refusing to look at Bucky. “I should have seen it,” she said fiercely. “It’s what I do.” Bucky opened his mouth to argue but she shook her head sharply and her hand hovered over the button to activate the Eye. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” He patted her back one more time and then stepped away so that she wouldn’t get caught in the time field.  When he emerged from the blackness this time, he had to shield his eyes against the harsh glare of the desert sun, reflecting brutally off the pale sand and rocks.  He spun around when he heard the roar and sharp whistle of a missile being fired, just then noticing the gathering of military officers about a hundred yards away.  Tony’s dark suit stood out amid the pale greens and browns of the Army desert camo.

“Natasha, I’m here,” he said urgently as the missile impacted with a loud thump miles away.  “They’re doing that big weapons demo. He hasn’t been kidnapped yet!”

“James,” she said sharply.  “This is it.  You know what to do.”

“I know, I know.” Bucky took a deep breath and fastened the walkie talkie to his belt so he wouldn’t lose it.  If he were Tony, the best time to intervene would be during the ambush, when the chaos of battle would help confuse the issue.  In the minutes while Tony smiled, shook hands, and handed out drinks Bucky got ready, shifting everything he would need to stop Tony so that it was easy to reach.  As the convoy started to head back to base, he hid himself and managed to grab on to the rear bumper of the last Humvee and pull himself up, careful to stay out of the driver’s line of sight.

If he hadn’t been looking for it so carefully, he would have missed the glint of Tony’s armor in the sky above the convoy.  He was high, way too high for Bucky to reach him before the ambush started, so Bucky gritted his teeth and waited for the first explosion that marked the start of the attack.  Sure enough, Tony came closer at that, close enough for Bucky to see that the armor that he was wearing was painted in desert colors instead of his characteristic red and gold.  How long had he been thinking about this, planning what he would do?

Shaking his head, Bucky set aside the plans he had of kicking his own ass soundly for not paying more attention to Tony and got out his grappling device. As soldiers started to stream out of the vehicles and bullets started flying, he shot the hook at Tony and reeled him in as fast as possible before he could pull the hooks out of the plating on his leg.  When he was close enough Bucky climbed to the top of the Humvee and tackled him to the ground, rolling them out of the line of fire for the ambush.

“Don’t do this, Tony!” Bucky pleaded, prying off Tony’s face plate so he could look him in the eyes. “Please. I’m so sorry for what happened to Steve, but it wasn’t your fault.”   And he was sorry, so, so sorry, beyond words, that he hadn’t seen how far and fast Tony had been spiraling until this happened.

“Let go, Bucky,” Tony spat. Bucky heard the sound of a repulsor warming up and pushed Tony’s arm away so it blasted harmlessly into the desert sand.  “This is where it starts! I have to stop it!”

“I’m not going to let you erase yourself! I know you are hurting but this is- this is suicide!” Bucky pinned one of Tony’s arms with his flesh hand and dug his metal fingers into the plating around the arc reactor, trying to rip it out and kill the suit.

“I’m not going to die, Bucky,” Tony said, lip curling. He hit Bucky in the side of the head with his free hand and twisted his hips, trying to throw Bucky off his chest.  Bucky just set his mouth in determination and kept digging at the arc reactor, hoping that Tony wasn’t truly willing to hurt him in order to go through with this insane plan.  “I’ll just be- everything will be different. It will fix all of it, Ultron, Steve, everything!”

“No. This world is a better place because of you, because of Iron Man. I’m not going to let you change that, change you.” Bucky closed his hand around the arc reactor and hesitated before he ripped it out. Then he let it go and sat back, letting his hands fall down at his sides.  Defeating Tony now only meant that Tony would try again in the future, he was determined like that. “I love you, Tony,” he said instead, staring steadily into Tony’s eyes. “We all do. This Tony, not some Tony that never became Iron Man. Your life, our lives have been hard, and shitty, and painful, and we’ve made mistakes, but they make us better, not worse. So please, please, don’t do this.  Don’t…don’t leave me,” he finished, voice raw.

Tony was silent for so long that  Bucky climbed off his chest and stood, heart heavy, explosions and gunfire still going off in the distance.  After a moment, Tony raised his hand for help climbing to his feet, and Bucky went weak with relief. Bracing himself, he took the hand and pulled Tony up in his heavy-ass Iron Man suit.  When he stood, Bucky’s forehead creased with confusion when he realized that Tony was staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

“You were my guardian robot this whole time,” Tony finally said. The suit opened up and he stepped out of it to pull the leather glove off Bucky’s metal hand, just like Bucky had done Tony’s lifetime ago.

“Yeah, Natasha and I have had some, uh, technical issues with that Eye of Amarillo time machine you built.  I bounced around a lot.”

“Agamoto,” Tony corrected absently and Bucky rolled his eyes.  “I-I broke my arm when I fell off that playground…” Tony rubbed his temples as tried to concentrate, memories overwriting themselves as they tried to catch up with the changes Bucky had made to his past.  “And in 2000 I almost died of alcohol poisoning.  But instead, you…saved me.”

“Well, yeah. You saved me first,” Bucky pointed out.  After Siberia life had been a stone cold bitch, even with the safe haven in Wakanda.  It had been Tony that had pressed the issue on the Accords, pointing out all of the Secretary Ross’s heavy-handed, extralegal activities and gotten the warrants against everyone rescinded.  Tony had given them a home at Avenger’s headquarters and then with equal parts sarcasm, sympathy, and screaming matches, forced Steve and Bucky to take steps to start their healing process.  “Come here.”

Then Bucky finally got to put his arms around Tony like he’d been wanting to do for both decades and hours. The feeling of Tony’s warm body against his own had Bucky sighing deeply with relief, from what felt like his bones.  He pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

[brainrattlers]

Alloy Allies, Pt 2/?

Summary: Realizing your life is pretty ho-hum, you get an opportunity to start a new job in a new world for you.  You just didn’t realize how ho-hum life was until after you started working there, and meeting a lot of new people. Characters: Avengers, Female reader, and I have no idea who else may show up yet. Word Count: 5,965 Warnings: Hmm. Nothing much, other than a big issue with motion sickness.  Being awkward with strangers.  (This is pretty much the story of my life, minus being in NYC and the actual characters.) Author’s Note: No seriously, I get horribly motion sick on airplanes and in elevators.  And me meeting new people? It is a disaster.  Since it is taking me so long to write, have a ginormous chunk :)  I haven’t given up on IHICHI, I just needed some time to regroup.

(Part 1)

After a day of lining up a backup for you at work, in case any of your clients have issues, you packed up what you thought you might need for a couple of days. Laptop, headphones, camera, chargers for everything. Couple pairs of clothes, including some slacks and a nice blouse, despite the previously mention of being overdressed during the Skype interview.  All the necessities for travel were stowed away in your backpack.

And a ton of Dramamine.

Flying in airplanes. Roller coasters. Being in cars with other people driving. It wasn’t your thing as you dreaded something even as simple as an elevator ride.  Some people love amusement park rides… but there are some people who just don’t.  Take a wild guess as to which side you fell to? Yeah.  The joke in your family had always been “Oh, going on vacation? We’re buying stock in Dramamine!”  It was the only thing that kept you from being sick all the time during car trips growing up.

Being the planner you were, you went to bed early in hopes you’d get some sleep. Instead, you just stared at the ceiling for several hours, seemingly falling asleep right before your alarm went off.  Since sleep really wasn’t happening, you hopped up and made some breakfast so you’d have some food in your stomach before the flight.  Cleaned up the place a bit too, not sure why, but there was a nagging feeling in your stomach about it.  You did feel better afterward, seeing all the dishes washed and laundry put away.  Texting one of your colleagues, you snagged a ride to the airport.  

The scenario was a bit surreal.  Your airport certainly wasn’t huge like O’Hare, it had A check-in counter. For all flights. One gate. One security line. Just one.  You hesitantly approached the counter, and provided your ID and itinerary.

“Oh, hello Miss Y/L/N, we were informed of your flight plans today.  I have your paperwork right here, we’ll just need you to go through the security lane, and we’ll get you boarded.”  You were ushered to a table and a metal detector.  You opened your bag, pulling out your electronics so they could be scanned, and sauntered through the metal detector. Once past it, you retrieved your items and repacked up your backpack.  The desk attendant brought you to a doorway that was not the gate, but would take you to the tarmac.  Shielding your eyes from the sun as you followed close behind, leading you to the small jet parked.  The door opened, steps accordioning down to the ground, meeting your feet.  The attendant assisted you into the jet, while the desk worker wished you a good flight.

Once inside, the attendant latched the door, and offered you a seat.

“Your choice!”  The attendant swept her hand around, “You’re the only one on this flight, any of them are yours.  Just be sure to secure your bag and buckle in for take-off.”

You stared, wide-eyed, at the cabin.

“First time on a private?  I get it, it can be a little overwhelming. My name is Anna, once we’re in the air, if you need anything, just press this button on your seat and I can get you what you need.  Looks like the pilot is signaling we’re good to go, if you are?”

You nodded as you chose a seat with a table, buckling your seatbelt and stowing your bag under the chair.  A wash of nerves came over you as you hoped the Dramamine was going to do its thing correctly.  Anna disappeared to the front of the jet, strapping in for take-off.  

The engines revved  up, and you felt the jet begin to move, fingers gripping the armrests tightly.  As you taxied to the runway, the color of your knuckles went from flesh to white with your speed increasing.  Leaning back, you closed your eyes and held your breath and the jet released contact with the asphalt below.  Looking out the window wasn’t an option, you knew you were going to get dizzy if you did.

A few minutes later, the death grip you had on the chair released itself, and you began breathing normally again.  Anna popped in to see if you needed anything right away.  Still unsure if your Dramamine was going to hold out, you asked for ginger ale, if there was any.

Anna returned with a fancy glass filled with bubbling, champagne-colored liquid, and a fancy ginger curl garnish, placing it on a coaster in front of you.

“If you need anything else, please do not hesitate to ask!  Feel free to get comfortable, and move around if you’d like.”

Cold beverage in hand, you took a sip, relishing the sensation of the cool liquid in your mouth.  It tasted divine.  Your anxiety about the flight subsided, you pulled your bag out from under the chair.  Digging around you found your laptop and headphones, and pulled up a program with multiple windows, along with some tunes to code to.  As things were running, you received a notification that you could connect to a wifi network.  Unsure if you were allowed to or not, you paged Anna to question that, along with getting a refill on the ginger ale.

“Absolutely, to both of those!  Your potential employer wants you to be comfortable as possible during your flight.”

Connecting to the wifi signal, you didn’t do a whole lot with it, other than shoot a photo out the window and post it to Instagram, and check Facebook quickly.  With the tunes playing in your ears, another ginger ale with curly garnish in front of you, coding was back on your mind.  Clicking away on the keys, you sent a line of code to the various windows you had open, showing different virtual robotic arms.  Three of the four virtual devices responded accordingly, with the fourth remaining still.  You bumped your head with the beat of the music, trying different snippets of code, with three of the four responding still.  Multiple tries, same result.

It wasn’t until Anna came by and tapped you on the shoulder, letting you know it was nearly time to land, that you realized you’d been working for quite a while without realizing.  Taking off your headphones, you packed up your laptop, and kept your thoughts with the program, trying to figure out what was causing the issue.  Finishing the last of your ginger ale as the jet landed, you were relieved to be on the ground. But then a new wave of nervousness washed up.

You were in New York City.  Interview time. And you still didn’t know what the job was.

The jet came to a halt, and Anna opened the door, leading you down the stairs.  Expecting to be at a busy airport like LaGuardia, you actually found yourself at a small landing strip, with an amazing view of the skyline.  You shielded your eyes as you stepped out, turning circles to take it all in before quickly being whisked away by a woman in a business suit with a tablet.

“Miss Y/L/N, glad to have you here.  Your interviewer is ready, and is excited to meet you.  Based on what we’ve seen of your work, he is very excited to get things started,” the woman prattled on as she guided you toward a large black SUV, opening the back  door for you to step in.  You scooted in, putting your bag down beside you, getting quite a fright as you looked up to see an attractive man in sunglasses sitting in front of you.

“Oh, uh, I.. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Y/N.  Can I call you Y/N? Or should I stick with Miss Y/L/N?”  The man stuck his hand out, and you reached yours out to shake it.

“I just didn’t expect anyone else, I’m sorry. Yes, you can call me Y/NNNNNNN—” You drew out the name as you also weren’t expecting the man to take your hand to kiss your knuckles in an oddly formal/romantic/possibly creepy greeting.

“Excellent, Y/N.  I’m glad you’re here.”  The man took off his sunglasses.

You suddenly realized you were in the presence of one Tony Stark.  Words started failing you, and Tony simply chuckled.

“Sweetheart, can I call you that? I know I’d be in awe of me as well, but we’ve got a lot to talk about today.  So you’ll need to get over your fangirling so we can chat about your work.  Now what can you tell me about NFCs?”

You blinked a few times, trying to form words again.  Finally they started spilling out, especially as Near Field Communications was something you toyed with a few years ago.  The most popular current use for NFC devices are cell phones - think paying for items with your phone, tapping the credit card terminal and your debit card gets charged, without having to swipe your card.  There are other uses as well, it is a growing field.

After feeling like you just spoke for way too long, Tony smirked as he opened the door to the car.

“We’re here, and I’m glad you talked that long because I didn’t have to make up anything to sound smart.  So let’s show you where you’ll be working at.”

“Um, what now?”  You were a little lost, other than you were aware you were in a garage filled with fancy cars sporting license tags like FE MAN1 and STRKMBL. “I’m still not sure what the job is.”

“That’s the thing, sweetheart, we just want you to do what you’ve been doing.  Hold on, let me just show you some stuff, and I think you’ll love it.”  Tony guided you, along with several other employees that joined you in the garage, to an elevator.  

You flinched stepping in, hoping that your Dramamine from the flight was not going to fail you now.  Grabbing the railing inside the elevator car, you closed your eyes and held on tight as the car began to move.

“Are you still with us, YN/?”

Doing your best to hide your motion sickness, you took a deep breath and opened your eyes as the elevator whooshed upward.  Your stomach felt like it was pushed to the floor and your hopes dropped when you noticed you were going up nearly 70 floors.

“Ye-ah, I’m here. I just don’t care for elevators,” you managed to get out before the car came to a quick stop. Inhaling deeply, you blinked hard and swallowed everything back down before exiting the lift.

“You’ll get used to them, promise.  I don’t think you’re going to want to take the stairs, as going up 70 flights of stairs every day may not be your favorite thing in the world.  Plus, I heard you were a fan of the ginger ale on my jet… I can make sure your fridge is stocked.  Anyway sweetheart, shall we?”  Tony guided you toward a large room that was like a grand entrance to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Inside was rows of workstations, touchscreen tables, and most impressive, projected displays suspended in mid-air, where people could “touch” items and move them around. You’d only seen such things in movies and didn’t believe they were real.  Your eyes were glassy and wide like marbles, and Tony couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Oh kid, I love showing this stuff off to everyone.  But I think I need to call a friend over to show you a few other things,” Tony turned away, scanning the room. “Hey, Bruce! C’mere!  I want you to meet Y/N, and tell her what you’re working on.”

You froze up immediately.  Dr. Bruce Banner was an idol of yours for quite some time, despite that whole turning green and enlarging with rage bit.  He’d mainly been successful in meditating and keeping it in check, and was able to continue his studies.  It wasn’t something you normally did, but you started fangirling again and not sure what to say.  You stuttered. You shook his hand probably too long. It was just awkward, but you were sure that these guys got that often.  After letting go of the insane grip you had, Bruce started talking about the projects he was working on.

“So is this something you could see yourself collaborating on, Y/N?” Bruce looked hopeful.

“I’d love to be working on this sort of thing, Dr. Banner, but what does that have to do with my skills? I’ve never worked with this sort of tech before.”

“It’s Bruce, and that is why I said ‘collaborating,’ because we’d be taking what you’re going to be working on and blending it in.”

“That sounds interesting but, I don’t know Dr. Banner. I mean Bruce. Sorry. Agh! I am just.. Ahhh!” You flailed a bit and tried to get it all under control.  Both Bruce and Tony looked at each other and shrugged.  Getting the anxiety back in check, breathing in and out, you continued.  “I just don’t know if I’m the right one for the job, as I’m still not even sure what it is.”

Tony took control of the conversation.  “We’ve been seeing what you’ve been working on with languages with the legacy robotics, and we think it is something that could come in very useful. You’re also very versatile, so we’ve got plenty of upcoming projects for you to work on here in the science and engineering sectors.  But what you’ve been working with currently, that is what we’re super excited for.”

“You know this is just a hobby for me, right?”

“Those are the best sort of jobs though, working with what doesn’t feel like work - Iron Man never would have been a thing if I didn’t enjoy it. And look what I’ve been doing with all the suit designs?  That reminds me, I’ll have to show you the latest iteration of it.  Maybe give you an old one to play with to see what you can program it to do.”  Tony smiled and grabbed your hand.  “Please work with us? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

The look on your face was one of confusion, excitement, horror, worry, and general not-knowing-what’s-up.  Someone approached Tony from behind you, turning to face you.

“Tell you what, kid.  HR is going to give you a tour of the building, and you can make your decision. But think about how HAPPY you would make us if you joined our team!  Please sweetheart, make the right choice.  Alright,” Tony turned to the HR rep, “Take good care of our Y/N here, and convince her this is the right job.”  He patted the HR rep’s shoulder as he and Bruce went back to work.  She simply chuckled and smiled warmly at you.

“Alright,  Y/N, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of questions, but I’ve been told to give you the tour first.  Feel free to ask any questions though that come up while we’re taking a look around.  First, I see you have an acquaintance over at the Maria Stark Foundation, I thought we’d drop by there first and maybe you can say hello real quick before we head off on this adventure.”

Oh boy, another elevator ride, all the way to the 3rd floor.  You got your bearings and followed the HR person through a row of cubicles and knocked on the cube wall.  Y/F/N’s chair turned around, and she shrieked, jumping up to hug you.  The two of you chatted for a few moments, until her phone rang, stating she should get back to work.  She wanted to meet up with you that night if you were available though.  The HR person smiled and nodded as you said you’d text her when you were finished up.

Continuing on with the tour, you took multiple elevator rides to seemingly opposite ends of the building constantly.  The Dramamine was wearing off, and the HR person could tell.

“We’re almost done, Miss Y/L/N, actually we’re going to meet with Mr. Stark again here shortly. Did you have any questions?”

“Actually, I do, and I hate to just put it out there, but what sort of pay am I looking at?  Y/F/N was telling me about her rent situation and I am very concerned about not being able to afford it.”

“Fair question, and I am glad you asked.  First I wanted to show you the fitness area you’ll have access to… it is up on floor 82.”  You groaned at the thought of another elevator ride.  Stepping out slowly, you were brought into a darkened room that was unlike the normal cheery gyms with music pumping and rows of cardio equipment. Instead, there was more open area, lots of mats.  A rack of weights was along one wall, and a handful of treadmills, ellipticals, and bikes were on the other side.  A punching bag was in a dark corner, and some movement caught your eye as a figure was doing situps.  The figure stopped, and you could feel eyes on you as a low grunt emitted from the shadows, going back to working out.

“Oh, I am so sorry sir, we didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The man continued working out as she lead you out of the gym.

“You never know whom you’ll run into around here.  This gym is a little different from most, but Mister Stark has requested that you have access to this particular one.  Anyway, where were we, oh yes, compensation.  I think Mister Stark has created quite compensation package. I know you were concerned about rent, but rest assured, he has you covered.”  The representative handed you a packet with the top sheet indicating pay.

Your eyes widened in shock.  The breakdown included “rent”, and you asked what that entailed.

“Actually Mr. Stark has you slated to be living on the 86th floor. Suite 4.”

“Like... here?”

“Oh yes, he figures you’d want to be near the action.  I believe his words were ‘I’ve seen her posts on forums, and when inspiration strikes she runs with it, no matter the time of day.’”

You couldn’t disagree with that statement.  Sleeping wasn’t always something you did at night, and more often than not, you’d work into the wee hours, only to take naps and sleep later.  You might have to work on that schedule a bit though.

The elevator doors opened, and Tony sauntered through the doors.

“So Y/N, tell me you’ll work for me. Seriously I think you’re going to love it.  I tell you what, give me 2 weeks, and if you don’t love it, no hard feelings and you can go back to your hum-drum job you had earlier.”

You flinched at the thoughts running through your head.  Were you flinching at the fact he called your job hum-drum, or was it the fact you were agreeing with him? Nothing in particular was keeping you there, other than all your stuff.  The amount of pay you were going to get was way more than you were making at home.  And apparently rent was taken care of?  You couldn’t believe this opportunity that was falling into your lap.  You’d be crazy to say no.  The only trick was getting yourself to say yes.  It was far from home, it was somewhere new, where you only knew Y/F/N.  Sure, you’d meet new people, but this would be a huge change.  Plus all of your stuff was neatly tucked away at home. Somewhere familiar.

Internally, your brain shot back arguments at itself for one side or the other.  You took a deep breath trying to quell the inner dialog.  Before your brain could send another thought through, you opened your mouth.

“Okay.”

Tony took a step back, clutching his chest in surprise.  “Is… is that a yes?”

You gulped down the nerves that suddenly erupted. “Yes.”

Tony damn near squealed as much as a guy can, and got up close, grabbing your hand and twirling you around in a celebratory dance.  

“This is the best news.  Alright, well then, I’m going to let you finish up your new hire tour, and get things going.  YES… I must go tell Bruce the good news.  I will see you soon, Y/N… I hope you’re excited, I can’t wait to see what you do!” Tony nearly skipped back to the elevator, giving a thumbs up as the door closed in front of him.

Your mind and heart were racing, a feeling of being overwhelmed washed over you as the HR rep continued talking. Most of it went in one ear and out the other.  Finally getting your attention, you were snapped back into reality.  Following the explanation, you were going to finish up paperwork, get your ID badge made (“Really? I’ve been traveling all day and am motion-sick from the elevators, and you want to take my photo?”), and your last stop on the tour, your new home.

Home.  It was weird to say that.  The final elevator ride took you to floor eighty-six.  The two of you walked down the hallway, showing off the communal kitchen that was stocked full of food, a common room with couches and a giant television, and finally, your space.  The representative handed you your ID badge, and had you swipe it in front of the sensor, unlocking the door.  

As you heard the door lock clicking, you noticed a brown-haired man walking down the hall in a henley and jeans, although you didn’t have a chance to really see who it was.  He dug a key card out of his pocket and swiped it, stepping inside almost immediately without looking over your direction.  Something glinting in the light of the hallway caught your eye, but you couldn’t figure out what was shiny.  Maybe it was just your imagination playing with you, as tired as you were.  Your attention was regained quickly as you felt the air shift as the door opened in front of you.

“It is small, but should be more than adequate to fit your needs.”

You started laughing as soon as you walked in.  Your tour guide looked at you with concern to your sudden outburst.

“Small? The living room is nearly the size of my whole apartment back home… er...  that is going to take some getting used to not saying.”

“Mr. Stark has set you up with some necessities to get you through the next few days, although I’m seeing that the movers will be at your old apartment tomorrow at 5am to pack and move you, and things should start arriving around noon.  And I see you start work on Friday, so you will have a day of work and then the weekend at least.  Just remember, Mr. Start works hard, and expects to play hard too, so at least you’ll have some time to rest before Monday again.  Should be fairly quiet this week though, some of your neighbors work off-site often, and are currently out working.  I’m sure you’ll get to meet them soon enough though.”  

You were halfway listening as you looked around the space, with a living room, a small kitchenette if you didn’t feel like using the communal kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom.  

“You’re welcome to keep your furniture, but if there is anything already here you decide you like more, we’re more than happy to store your things until you decide what to do with them.”

Nodding, you wandered toward the window, with a view overlooking the city.  You couldn’t look down as everything started to spin, but looking out at the expanse, you felt very small.  It was all setting in, especially when your guide started having you mess around with F.R.I.D.A.Y., who was like Siri on steroids.   F.R.I.D.A.Y. was tied into the whole building, and depending on your security level, you could access other people’s info or at least figure out where they were.  After explaining a few features, you were given a few small tasks to get you used to talking to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to set up things, get information, and just generally not be weirded out that you were talking to a computer.

Satisfied that you were good to go for the night, the representative provided her contact info in case you were needing anything immediately, and wished you the best of luck.  

You set your backpack on the chair in the living room, and sat on the bed.  Exhausted, you fell backward, plopping your head on a pillow.  A soft groan left your mouth as your body seemed to meld with the mattress.

“I might just have to put my old bed in storage… this bed is WAY better than my own,” you thought to yourself.  Grabbing your phone, you texted Y/F/N that you were done for the day, but exhausted.  

“Can we do something low-key tonight for dinner? I seriously feel like I’ve been running all day and hit with the exhaustion stick.”

“Sure. I’m just finishing up for the day.  I know the perfect place.  Where are you right now?”

“I’m in my ‘room’ for the next few days.  I can come meet you, I need to get used to the layout of the place.”

“Sure thing. Meet me in level 3 of the parking garage.  My spot is #313. See you in a couple! EEE!”

Wandering the hall to the elevator, you took a deep breath and stepped inside the car, and told FRIDAY to send you to level 3 parking.  The feeling of weightlessness took hold as you whooshed toward the ground, gripping the rail tight with eyes closed.  Once you came to a stop, the doors opened, and you inhaled slowly trying to regain your bearings.  You wandered up and down some rows of cars, and finally saw Y/F/N coming toward you.

“OH MY GOSH Y/N!” She hugged you tightly. “I can’t believe you’re really here.  It is about time you made it out here.  You have to tell me ALL about it!  I need details!”  Y/F/N was nearly shaking you all while jumping up and down in excitement.  Dragging you to her car, you hopped in the passenger side, zooming out of the garage.

“I know the perfect place to eat, not too far from here.  Italian okay?”

You nodded as the car pulled up to the curb in front of a tiny little restaurant tucked in amongst storefronts.  Once seated inside the quaint mom-and-pop eatery, the questions were flying at you fast and furious.  Y/F/N wanted all the details.

“WAIT, you’re LIVING in the tower? THAT IS INCREDIBLE!  I’m so jealous!  Ugh, my apartment is a damn shoebox and you, you’re in the tower!”  The squeals never stopped as you tried to explain the situation of you were there temporarily until you made a full decision about the job. “YOU KNOW THE AVENGERS LIVE IN THE BUILDING TOO RIGHT? DID YOU SEE ANY OF THEM?”

Trying to calm her down, you tried to explain you hadn’t, but your realized you actually had… both Stark and Banner.  But you knew that wasn’t what she was angling at - she was in love with Captain America.  Since he broke loose from the ice a few years back, she was smitten.  You heard about it all the time.  About how he could show up at the building, on her floor even, any time… yet never did.  You’d heard stories about how she had hung around trying to get invites to Stark’s soirees, anything so that she could meet Star-Spangled Steve Rogers, but hadn’t.  She insisted you help her.

“Pretty sure I won’t likely be seeing him.  From what I can understand, I’m working in the lab with Stark and Dr. Banner, and I’m not even sure really WHAT I’m doing.”

Continuing on with a rundown of the day and what to expect the next few, your dinner arrived and you ate while talking about feelings with everything, if it was even something you wanted to do even.  But you were going to give it a shot, see what comes of it, considering how excited Stark was.  With dessert plates being pushed away and the finishing of a bottle of wine, your eyes were drooping. Y/F/N realized what time it was, and put it all together, taking you back to the tower.

“We gotta do this again sometime, Y/N.  Housewarming party?”

“HA.  Let’s give it a while before we go that far with it.  Thank you for dinner, and with that, I’m going to bed. Love you!”  You hugged Y/F before getting out of the car.  “We’ll keep in touch, maybe this weekend we can hang out if I’ve got some time off.”  She nodded, and you waved as the car zipped off.

Flashing your ID badge at the door, you headed inside to the dreaded elevator, and took the quick upward ride to the 86th floor.  As the door opened, the man you came across earlier was walking toward you, stoic look on his face.  Clad in gym clothes, he swapped places with you in the elevator as you exited, and gave you a small nod as passed. You waved and attempted to say hi as the doors closed.  

“Hmm. I probably should introduce myself the next time I see someone walking around here…” you thought to yourself as you unlocked your room’s door.  Stepping inside, you kicked your shoes off, and grabbed your bag, pulling out your toiletries and some pajamas, which apparently were an old tee and some boxers.  Climbing into bed, you snuggled into the blanket, asking FRIDAY to turn off the lights, and to make the windows dark.  

Sleep wasn’t a thing to be had apparently, as you tossed and turned. Too many lights, too many sounds that you were not used to.  Finally around 1am, you rolled out of bed.

“FRIDAY? Is there cereal in the kitchen?”

“Yes, Y/N, Mr. Stark said you are more than welcome to utilize the kitchen.”

Pulling your hair back, you quietly exited your room, heading down the hallway toward the communal kitchen.  The lights were dimmed in the hall, but a single light shown near the sink in the kitchen.  Padding silently, you looked for a bowl and a spoon, and found the cereal cabinet.  Looking off into the lounge, you could see the soft glow of the television on, showing a documentary with footage in black and white.  You went back to pouring milk in your bowl, trying to not disturb whomever was sitting in the neighboring room, top of head peeking over the sofa edge.

The intention was to head back to your room, but in a moment of clumsiness, you dropped your spoon, clattering against the ceramic tile floor.  You froze as the head hiding behind the back of the couch whipped around.  Blue eyes were boring into yours, you felt like a deer in headlights before you finally reached down to grab your spoon.  All sorts of thoughts came into your mind, mainly how beautiful this man was.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” awkwardly fell from your mouth. “Um, uh, good night.”  Feet making an about face, you took off for your room, bowl of cereal in tow.  You were starting to kick yourself, remembering your whole plan to start introducing yourself to people.

“Wait, come back...”

You froze again, unsure if the man was speaking to you.  Slowly turning, you mouth “me?” as you point to yourself.

“You’re new here, yeah? I saw you earlier.”

Feet with a mind of their own, they shuffled you back toward the voice in the lounge.  Finally to the side of the couch, you realized it was the man you crossed paths with at the elevator, and earlier, the one that was going into his room when you were finding out about your own.

“Oh, yeah, when I was being shown my room, I remember.”  Smooth.

“Naw, earlier than that.  You were being given the tour of the gym, but I’m not sure why you were at that particular gym.  Or on this floor either.” He eyed you up and down, smirking.  

It then hit you that you were in your pajamas, and you felt awkward as hell.

“Er, yeah.  And uh, um, yeah I’m new,” covering yourself with your arms holding the bowl of cereal.  “I guess my stuff gets here tomorrow, hence my spectacular pajamas.  I start working with Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner on Friday. Oh, hi,” you stuck out your free hand, “I’m Y/N.”  You finally did it.

The man stared at your hand, and then slowly took it in his, shaking it slowly.  “James.”

“It’s uh, nice to meet you James.  I should let you get back to your documentary, I should probably sleep.  Maybe I’ll see you around though.”

A small smile graced his face.  “You don’t have to leave.” There was a twinge of loneliness in his voice.  “I know things can be a little overwhelming here, us rookies gotta stick together, y’know? I do hope I see you around though, Y/N.”

Your fingers were still being held by his, and it was realized by both that it might be a tad awkward as you pulled apart  It then also registered what he said, and you felt your cheeks turning a bit pink at his statement.  A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  

With a tiny nod, you took your cereal bowl and spoon with you back to your room.  As you opened your door, you glanced over at the lounge again, seeing James peeking over the top of the sofa at you, his eyes crinkling with a hidden smile behind the cushions.  A small grin and blushed cheeks appeared on your face as you looked down at the door knob, before turning it and going inside.

With the cereal on your desk, you pull out your laptop and start working on the project you were working on during your flight.  Still struggling with one model of virtual mechanical arm not responding correctly, you leaned back and pinched the bridge of your nose and tightly squeezed your eyes shut.

“Miss Y/L/N, may I interrupt?”   F.R.I.D.A.Y. scared the hell out of you, but you realized it was something you’re just going to have to get used to.  “I have two messages from Mr. Stark.  First, he said to tell you to check how the particular model was deprecating your character strings, try extending it with the snippet of code I have just emailed you.  Second, he says that you should stop working, you don’t start until Friday morning.”

You stared at the screen, lines of code blurring your vision.  After tapping a few keys, all four virtual arms articulated their fingers into peace signs.

“ F.R.I.D.A.Y., how did Mr. Stark know I was working on this?”

“He said to remind you that there is no such thing as a free lunch. He saw you working on the jet, and knew you’d probably be working tonight.”

You laughed.  “Thanks F.R.I.D.A.Y., I should have known.  Tell Mr. Stark that his code worked, and that if I am not supposed to be up working this late, either is he.”  Eyes beginning to get heavy, you decided to call it a night.  “Goodnight, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Goodnight, Miss Y/L/N.”

You facepalmed yourself, realizing you just said goodnight to a computer.  But you didn’t care at that point, you were going to need a few hours of sleep before your things arrived first thing in the morning.