#even thoughts it’s like 95% angst 5% fluff in a twisted way

[skylarksof]

taping this to my eyeballs

That’s so real and Pokey of you

[kashimos-hajime]

demons | amaranthine (5/6) | b.b.

summary: As his sight darkens and her face disappears before him like grainy film, he realizes she has always been the one he’s been searching for.

WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of death, vomit, blood, injuries, hospitals, angst, they get into bed but nothing explicit, ends in fluff!!! we on the road to recovery boys! pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 8.2k

a/n: written for @the-omni-princess​ as per usual and this chapter is dedicated to @forever-trapped-in-my-dreams​ for her writing challenge as well! my prompt and also the vibe for this chapter is demons by imagine dragons. a lot of character revealing since 40 years have passed since the last chapter. enjoy!

amaranthine masterlist

When you feel my heat, look into my eyes It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide Don't get too close; it's dark inside It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

It is as if the floodgates have opened and he has been torn apart. He is nothing but a shell, everything he knows pouring out of him as he drives. He can taste the blood in his mouth, the shift of what he thinks is broken: bones, mind, heart. He wonders how long he can last before he passes out behind the wheel. He has been bleeding for hours and every bone aches, his muscles torn, his legs crushed. His shoulder popped back in by force, the ligaments screaming at him to stop. His knees and chest are shattered from being crushed underneath that metal beam and he barely has the strength to push down the gas as he speeds up the I-95.

Washington is a burning memory behind him as the sweet cold of the Potomac seeps down his neck, a river of sweat that makes him look at his rearview mirror every two seconds. They’ll track him. After his breakdown in 1972, they’ve tracked his every movement and he knows they want their asset back. 

He can’t. He’s done being someone’s reaper of war and he can’t recall why he walked back into their arms when he remembers the light of escape, the temptation of safety. When he remembers a time when his head was full of memories.

Somewhere between leaving Washington and driving past the state line of Delaware, he cuts the tracker out of his neck and half-hopes he nicks the carotid. 

He doesn’t and keeps on driving.

He doesn’t know what he searches for in New York but with every passing second behind the wheel, there are flashes of smiles, of warmth and roses. He thinks he can taste something besides the iron in his mouth and when he stops to fill up the tank of some old Ford sedan he wired, he takes the chance to rinse the taste out of his mouth in the tiny bathroom of the convenience store. The owner sent him a strange look when he entered but he doesn’t care as he locks himself in. Running the water cold, he washes the blood off his hands and cools the swelling bruises on his face. Now that he’s out of the car, blood rushes everywhere in his body and his boots skid along the floor.

He didn’t realize how truly exhausted he was.

I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.

Water dripping down his face, he twists the faucet off and raises his head wretchedly up to the mirror. As he stares at his own haunted reflection, his stomach curdles, his whole abdomen clenching in an effort to avoid what happens next. 

He throws up into the toilet, knees hitting the floor fast. Blood stains whatever else he throws up as he sucks in a hot breath, trying not to let out a guttural groan that pries him open. He wipes away the saliva that drools down his lips with a disgusted sigh and falls back onto his ass, back pressed against the wall. His head tilted to the artificial light, he lets his eyes close.

His neck aches as he lets his head roll but he can barely breathe. With every breath he takes, his chest seems to collapse and he can barely see when he pries open his eyes again. Black edges at his vision at every turn and he falls to his side, the pressure on his side enough to break bones. Tucking his knees in, he wraps an arm around himself and closes his eyes.

Darkness by choice is better than darkness by submission. 

He wonders how long he stays there against that disgusting toilet floor that is more comfortable than any bed he’s ever slept in. He is certain he dreams but he’s not quite sure of what. He can feel it, something warm and soft, the gentle weight on his chest, words he can’t quite make out.

Please. Please, Bucky. Please. 

The voice of an angel, the skin of a child, poetry written in charcoal, tears, so many tears.

“Are you alright in there?”

He lets out a soft sigh as the dreams dissipate, grains of sand that slip between his fingers and he opens his eyes blearily. 

Death had been so close.

“Hey, man, do I need to call an ambulance?” Sitting up, he knocks his head back against the wall and blows out a breath as his insides scream in protest. Someone has taken hold of every part of him in their fist, and they are twisting with a malicious grin on their face. 

Managing to lean forward, he gets back onto his knees despite the strange sensation of not quite feeling any part of his body numbing his senses. His chest is fuller and his lungs struggle, but he fights to stay on his knees with a hard hand gripping onto the seat. 

Flushing the toilet, he stumbles to his feet although his knees are nothing but smoke and crumbling stone. He can’t go on, not like this. He’s still wet, and he begins to shiver despite the sweat that has streaked across his face ever since he got into the car. His hands are crusted with blood beneath his nails and his skin is see-through as he shakily turns on the faucet.

He can see the shadow of the convenience store owner underneath the door and, splashing water on his face, he gasps against the cold and his mind short circuits as he tries to find a way out of the mess he has created. How can he get out of here without getting himself into federal prison, or worse…

Nothing is worse than this.

Bucky.

Every breath hurts but he swallows the pain anyway, flushing the toilet once again and glancing at his reflection. He does the best he can to stand upright, leaning heavily on the counter, and cranes his neck to examine the incision he’s cut into himself. He hopes some deer has eaten that piece of shit tracker and has thrown H.Y.D.R.A. for a huge loop, if H.Y.D.R.A. even exists anymore. Everything he knows has been a lie, but somehow, he knew that already. Somehow, he knew it was only time before he broke again. Perhaps it is the fear that made him stay, but now… there is carnage and he has hours to disappear thanks to him.

Steve.

Steve broke him and brought him back. Brought everything back. It is as clear as yesterday, like he has been sleeping every day and only now has woken up, although he remembers everything he’s done while he’s been asleep. Asleep with his eyes open. Like he has been a witness for decades and only now takes control of his hands, his bloody hands. He could laugh if he didn’t feel like his chest was about to burst.

Bile pushes up his throat again. His blue eyes unfocused, he touches the site wearily and he hears a gentle voice chide him not to touch an open wound as the dried blood begins to crack. 

How many more hours until he can stop running? What is he even running to? His heart and mind say New York, the site of his break in the seventies, and the very thought of it brings him pain. A pain that splinters him in two, crushes him with regret, guilt; he broke for a reason. 

He is agony unshackled as he is wrenched forward and spits blood into the sink. His hands clutch onto the edge of the porcelain sink and he drops to his knees, the pain demolishing the very pillars of what he stands on. His world jilts, his vision plunges into black, and his mind goes blank as he sinks to the ground, nothing but blood and ruins.

Everything is tingling. Everything is cold. The door is kicked open and he thinks he might see the light as he lets out a dying gasp. Hands grab at him, something rips. His stomach lurches one more time before he disappears.

.

When he wakes, he is hooked to I.V.s, monitors, trapped beneath a white sheet and a voice talks to him but he can’t hear. Trying to move his hand, he grunts when it doesn’t move. Pulling harder, a spear of panic, fear, pierces through his stomach and he tries to wrench himself up.

“Woah, there. Calm down.” 

Beeping goes erratic. Something tears inside him. Explosive pain splits him into pieces and he lets out a terrified shout. They’ve found him. They’ve found him. No, no, no.

“Sir, calm down. You’re in a hospital! You’ve been out for a few hours.” 

“Let me go!” The words come out, torn out and raw, and he thrashes his head, teeth bared in a snarl. More hands swarm, taking him by the shoulders, pushing him down, but his metal arm whirs, a warning that comes too late as it rips free of whatever shackles him to the bed. He swings before he can see. His hand comes into contact with flesh and there is a clatter that rings his head like a bell. Twisting, he pulls off the other manacle and wrenches free of the bodies that surround him, too close. Too close. They want him. Want him back in the chair.

He needs to leave.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he feels the I.V. in his arm twist and with a painful grunt, he rips it out, the tape pulling at his skin. Blood wells up, the sight of it, ruby red and dripping, oddly comforting as he takes a deep breath, eyes darting to the other occupants of the room. The convenience store owner stands in the corner, eyes wide with new found horror while doctors and nurses help place a man onto a gurney. A destroyed cart, its contents spilling on the floor is what is left behind as he looks behind him. Orange light streams onto the floor and onto his face as the sky burns amber and purple.

He can barely feel the dusk light that hits his face as one of the doctors left in the room speaks to him but he cannot hear. Everything is muffled except for the pounding of his beating heart. His tac gear is most likely down a trash chute but a set of clothes rests in a plastic bag on the table at the end of the bed.

The doctor holds out his hand but he can see the syringe the man grips onto like a knife in the other he nearly hides behind his back. He’s nothing but an animal to be put down. He can see it in the doctor’s eyes.

Fear. It’s all he’s good for.

Fear.

I’m not afraid to die.

“We just want to talk to you,” the doctor says and he would’ve laughed if his world wasn’t on fire.

No one wants to talk to him. They can talk at him, order him around all they’d like. He’s done listening to orders that have trapped him away from his past.

It’s always been fire first. No room for questions. Comply or die. Survive. That’s all his life has ever been. Survive. He is not about to fail now.

He grabs the bag of clothes with his flesh hand, twisting to pull his metal hand into a fist. The glass shatters as he punches through and he does not look back before jumping. 

He doesn’t know how long he falls, but it’s long enough for the instinct to roll to surge through his body. As soon as he lands, he is rolling to his feet and running, although he doesn’t know where. Bare feet slapping against concrete, he runs no matter the stares, despite the pain that blisters, and until he finds what he’s looking for.

Down the alleyway, there are two dumpsters pressed together and he pushes them apart, standing in the space between that offers protection from both ends of the alley. He rips the bag open, changing into civvies that are slightly too big on him. Tugging up the hood of his jacket, he throws the hospital gown into the bag and tosses it into the dumpster, shoving his metal fist into his pocket before walking out the other side of the alley.

It isn’t long before he finds a car and he’s on the I-95. He drives into the night, the fine layer of sweat beginning to reappear as pale blue-green light shines through his windshield. He remembers to cut off the hospital wristband before anyone notices he’s a runaway, although at this point, he’s running from more than one thing.

He doesn’t stop this time, doesn’t want to take the risk. With driving, it keeps him awake to have something to do, keeps the pain constant in his shoulder that always snaps him awake. Keeps him aware of his breathing problem and keeps him sharp to regulate each breath. With every moment, it feels like his lungs shrink in size. Although his stomach convulses and he is forced to press his lips together and swallow his vomit down, he’d rather taste acid that choke on his own sick in his sleep.  

It only becomes too much as he pulls off by the tunnel to New York. Stumbling out of the car, he gives himself five minutes to retch air, water, blood, and whatever’s left in his stomach, cars speeding past him as it lands in the grass and nearly stains his shoes. No one asks to help, he doubts anyone notices him without thinking he’s nothing more than a drunk. He’s thankful for that. Only one car honks at him before he gets back into his car and enters the City of Dreams. 

He doesn’t know where he drives to until he’s stopped, somewhere in Brooklyn, before a brick house that looks rustic and lovely and warm, and he stumbles out of the car, nearly falling to his knees when his stomach completely overturns but he doesn’t care. He needs to find whatever his heart searches for, whatever keeps him away from death. Stumbling up the steps of the brickstone house, he holds his flesh arm to his chest to ease the ache in his shoulder, his metal fist rapping knocks into the wood.

There is silence.

And then, the knob twists and metal hinges creak as the door is pulled open to reveal a woman who looks like she’s seen better days. Bucky ducks his head immediately, keeping his arm bent to his chest as she sighs.

“Can I help you?” she asks before she can get a good look at him and he hears the kids inside yelling. A grimace pulls at his lips as he raises his head, the shadow cast from his hood fading to reveal his bruised face. He needs a good look to know what he’s looking for, and when his eyes find some blonde woman with eyes too unkind when she soaks in his face, he knows it isn’t what he is searching for. “What do you want?”

“I’m…” His throat burns and he clears his throat, ducking his head again. “Who lived here before?”

“Sir, I can call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need one,” he rasps. “I just want to know where… where is the owner?” Agony cracks his skull open and he winces, drawing a sharp breath between his teeth. His mind searches for a name, any notable thing about her, and he closes his eyes tight for a moment, hissing out, “The woman… she was a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Oh, she was a legend, but she passed away years ago. They said something about a mission going wrong overseas but I don’t know. I only know what my dad told me.” Something drops in his stomach. Eyebrows knitting together, he blinks away the pain that pushes down on his stomach as he tries to think. Tries to clear his head. “He bought the home back in the seventies.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. Did you want to find her?”

“Yes. I—” He coughs and tastes the iron on his mouth but he barely keeps his lips shut, the blood warm against his lips as he swallows it down— “I’m sorry for causing you trouble.” He barely manages to catch her sympathetic frown and he wonders how pathetic he looks. There is no longer fear, just pity for what she might think is some homeless drunk, or some crazy man. He doesn’t know which, but he does know she thinks he needs help, and he does. 

“I know S.H.I.E.L.D. has an exhibit at the New-York Historical Site and they are having a special exhibition about her because it’s the anniversary of her passing. Maybe you can find something about her there,” she says quietly above the sound of her children playing and he nods numbly. “Do you need directions?”

“No. I can handle it on my own.” He knows the place. It’s been there before he was born and he thinks there was a time he used to go there with his classmates for school. He remembers reading something about a war. He can see Steve’s face, thin and pale, smiling as he hid behind a stone pillar in some exhibit he can’t remember the name of as they played hide and seek. “Thank you.”

“No problem, and get some help, when you can,” the woman adds in farewell. He turns around just as the door closes and nearly slips down the stairs, walking on rocking legs back to the car. He wonders how many more steps he can take before his aching body gives him up.

.

The exhibition is a series of conjoining rooms, one for each major part of her life: birth and enlistment, war and time as a Howling Commando, and the founding of S.H.I.E.L.D. Dark oak creaking beneath his feet, he reads every word of biographies printed into the walls as he hugs his stomach tightly. He feels like his guts are about to spill into the floor and black dots have begun to speck his vision once more but he doesn’t care.

He’s searching and the hunger in him won’t be sated until he finds what he’s looking for. Whatever he���s looking for.

A bunch of kids run past him, and he notices they’re all more than eager to read about the woman’s childhood as they stand by an enlarged print of her saluting. The Hippocratic Oath is printed onto another wall along with a glass case that protects a certificate and half his lip twitches into a smile when he sees it is her certificate proclaiming her to be a certified doctor. Raising his head wearily, he soaks in the warm peach tones of the walls, the lamplights that cast the room golden, before walking through an archway into a warzone.

The sounds of guns, artillery shells exploding, men dying, it all rattles his ears as he is plunged into a grey room. Images of the war are projected onto a blank grey wall, and he barely sees any other wall print, the text this time displayed on stands as each document, every picture, every scrap of her in the war is illuminated by orange light. People are mostly congregated around a long display, the biggest one in the war room. They sit down on the benches, soaking in the sound of batlle. He thinks he can almost smell it, the gritty taste of sand, the smell of blood, sweat, shit, piss, mud, vomit. A whole plethora of body fluids and natural grime. 

He can see the orange-yellow light on their faces as they soak in whatever it is preserved behind the glass. The few that take their time to read look devastated.

For a moment, he forgets about the pain and pushes himself forward. The display is double sided, each document numbered and arranged by date, and he barely catches the first words before someone wraps a hand around his wrist. For some reason, he does not fight it as he turns to whomever has grabbed him and he nearly collapses when he, for what feels like the first time in his life, recognizes a face from his past.

She wears a cap over her head, a hood pulled over that, but he can still see her gentle eyes, the curve of her lips, the smooth expanse of her cheek. Haggardly, she smiles and soaks in his bruised face before her eyes travel down to where he holds his abdomen.

“Don’t you remember the last time you read those letters?” she whispers, meeting his eyes again, and he doesn’t know what to say, to face her startling beauty and remember it all. It rushes at him, faster than a hail of bullets, as she touches his cut cheek. “And when did I teach you to run out of hospitals?”

“Was looking for you,” he whispers, gasps, and the weight of it all hits him then. Of what he’s searching for, of why he gave up his chance for freedom. As his sight darkens and her face disappears before him like grainy film, he realizes she has always been the one he’s been searching for. A hint of a smile pulls at his lips and he keens over just as her arms take him by the shoulders. 

“Stay with me. Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

The adrenaline that has been burning through his blood drains away, leaving him a hollowed out vessel of blood and bone. He falls to his knees, lurching forward and throwing up at her feet. Blood splatters between his hands, splashes against his skin hot as acid. He feels her hands take him and ease him down onto the floor but he can’t help the painful groan that rips through his chest.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he breathes. Her fingers make quick work of his jacket, ripping open his shirt with a soft grunt. He lets out a wet breath and his abdomen clenches painfully as he coughs hard enough to make his head wrench forward. Blood spurts down his lips and cool fingertips wipe it away as a towel is placed against his burning forehead. “Compromised. Not safe.” He can barely see besides the glow of orange light and he blinks, trying to wipe away the sweat with his flesh hand but she stops him, placing it gently back on the floor.

“I know. I know. Just stay awake for me, love.”

Her fingers tap his abdomen and he hisses against the pulse just as someone else straps an oxygen mask to his mouth. The mask fogging up before him, he sucks in a deep breath and he can barely hear her over the racing of his heart. Something beckons him towards the dreamless sleep that looms over his head but her voice, sharp as ever, breaks through the haze.

“Weak breath sounds.”

“That’s a massive contusion.”

“Yeah, it’s cardiac tamponade.”

“God, how is this guy not dead?”

“Can we not have this discussion now? Give me an eighteen gauge and man the doppler.” Her eyes are the only thing he sees as he lets out a muffled groan. Widening his eyes, he knows he shakes when her hand touches his soaked cheek. He is covered in cold sweat, every inch of him paler than snow as she smiles although he can see right through what she hopes is reassurance. “This is going to hurt, but you can’t pass out on me, alright, Sergeant?” A ring of white surrounds his irises as her smile fades and she presses her lips together. “Sergeant Barnes, am I understood?”

“Please,” he gasps, his mask fogging up with a sticky heat. “Please.” 

“Alright. Going in subxiphoid.” Just as soon as she leaves his view, sharp stabbing pain pierces through his chest and he screams despite the heaviness in his chest, despite the bomb about to implode in his heart. His back arches off the floor but hands push him down. The longer whatever’s inside him, the lighter the pressure begins to ease off his chest and he lets out a tired groan, melting back into the floor. “I know, I know. You’re so strong, love.” 

She pulls it out just as someone sticks something to his chest. “I’ve got monitors up.”

“Good. Tamponade has been excavated. Do we have the chest tube ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Betadine.” Coldness washes over his side. “Make sure transport is prepared for a swift exit. Scalpel.” As fingers gently press against his heaving ribs, he sees her again.”This is going to be a lot worse. We’re about to insert a chest tube and get you out of here.” Something frigid and stiff presses against his chest and she turns back but he raises his head weakly, metal hand stalling her wrist.

“Wait.” The word barely passes his lips but she turns to him anyway. He can barely see, his head swaying against the floor as he tries to keep his mind focused on staying present. With every passing second, it gets harder and harder to do. “Wait.” He removes the oxygen mask shakily and cold, ventilated air sweeps against his lips and cheeks. “Angel.”

“We don’t have time to wait, love.” She brushes hair out of his sweat-slick skin, her fingers barely brushing his lips before she turns back to his ribs. “Put that mask back on, Sergeant Barnes.” He listens just as a stinging sensation pushes into his ribs. “Okay. This is going to hurt but I promise, you’re going to feel a lot better.”

Something shoots through him and he lets out a hoarse groan as it shoves itself even deeper into his chest, twisting and wriggling inside him. Squirming away, he tries to pull it out but she keeps him down, her fingers cold against his burning skin. Tiny little bites prickle his side around the tube and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Good output.” 

“You’re going to be okay, Bucky.”

Bucky. Hearing his name from her lips… it most assuredly tells him he’ll be fine. He can rest, now.

“Bucky, stay with me.”

I will, he whispers. Just let me close my eyes. I ran. I’ve ran for so long back to you. You.

His eyes slip shut. A high-pitched beeping begins to nag at him to keep them open but they weigh heavier than the stares of a hundred dead men and he can’t bring himself to waste what little strength he has left to only prolong what is inevitable.

“Bucky? Bucky!”

“We need one of epi.”

“Get the paddles. Where’s that transport?” 

“Charging to 200.” 

“Do not give up on me, Barnes.”

“Clear!”

Everything snaps black.

.

“How was your flight? That’s good. I’m glad Pepper could be with you to do damage control. I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you, Tony. No, it’s not because I don’t like ‘Washington scum.’ Something came up. No, of course I’m fine. How’s Steve? Good. And Nick?” A pause. Bucky blinks with a soft groan and he nearly chokes on air when he tries to speak. “Okay. Look, I have to go. I’ll see you when you land? I will. I love you, too. Bye.”

Metal clatters against wood before a button is pressed and the bed beneath him begins to move and he lets out a strangled cough, clearing his throat. Slowly rising into a half-sit position, he blinks and rubs at his eyes with his metal knuckles.

“Careful not to move your other shoulder. I didn’t put it in a sling because it should be back to standard shape soon, but it’d save you some pain since you’ve been putting so much strain on it.” She is perched carefully on the edge of his bed, a cup of water held in her hands. She looks run ragged, like she was dragged through hell and fought her way back as she carefully places the water by his lips and guides the straw into his mouth. Sipping slowly, he lets out a sigh at how the coldness of it settles in his gut like ice before he pulls back. “I sent the others out for dinner. They should be back in an hour or two.”

She sets down the cup on the table at the end of his bed beside a phone and he stares at her, soaks her in. The longer he does, the more he can note the differences between this version of her and the version of her in 1972. 

She’s no longer as put together or clean. Her hair is chopped shorter and her clothes are more loose. She looks older, more mature, but somehow still young. Frozen in her thirties. Frozen, he repeats dully. How?

“Where am I?”

“Outside of New York. No one knows about this place except the people who work for me, and I trust them. You’re safe.” He blinks dazedly, trying to figure out which question he wants to ask next. “I thought I lost you,” she whispers, thumbing over his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and she gently scoots closer towards him as he flexes his flesh fingers. A dull throb in his shoulder is his answer as she gently slips the remote between his fingers. Pressing a button, he feels the bed move up into a full sit and he takes a deep breath, dropping it to his side. He can breathe easier now, and he glances warily at a clock hanging on the wall. Nearly seven in the evening.

“That woman… she said you were dead.” His eyes dart back to her, confused. “I thought you were gone.”

“I had to fake my death. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead.” His hand rises shakily to touch her jaw, to make sure she’s truly alive before him and not some other hallucination his mind has made to ease the pain. “I searched for you everyday since you’ve left. All I’ve ever wanted was to free you from them and keep you safe.” When his fingers finally brush her jaw, her eyes close and tears slip down her cheeks, crystalline in the low light. “Now that you’re here, I-” She looks down and his hand falls weakly to his bed. “I don’t know if you’re planning to stay, but with S.H.I.E.L.D. and H.Y.D.R.A. collapsing, they’ll look for you.”

“How are you… young?” He doesn’t know a delicate way to phrase it. Not with the aches beating in his body. “I thought you’d age without cryogenics.”

“Science finds a way,” she says and it sits uneasily inside him. It is a hard stone on his gut. “It doesn’t matter. What matters now is that you’re safe.” He swallows the hard knot at the flat smile etched onto her face. Dread is a monster inhabiting her face as she looks up at him again and he can see a darkness stirring behind her mask. “What matters is that you get to choose what happens next.”

He frowns. “Choose?”

“Choose to stay or go.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised. You should go,” he replies and she smiles although he can tell there is no heart in it. Lips pressing together, he remembers who sits before him and a vile taste fills his mouth. His next words come out hot, twisted and laced with poison. “How did you not see this coming?”

“I was dead to the world. I have been for decades.” Her tone is bitter, frigid, and he watches as the cracks in her mask spread across her face. He’s hit her in a weak spot, concerning Washington was only days ago, but he can’t bring himself to feel sorry just yet, not when his whole body is sore from the helicarrier falling on him. “I apologize if I couldn’t stop something I wasn’t a witness to. When I stepped back from S.H.I.E.L.D., I left it in the hands of people I trusted.”

“But you knew.” The words spill out of him unprompted, unbidden. Anger at where he is, rage at how he cannot move, burns through his stomach as he glares at her. He’d give anything to be able to merely embrace the woman he loves like how he’s sure it is in the movies, but the woman he loves is the reason he sits here now, battered, broken. Broken again, his mind pried open for secrets. “Like no one else. You knew what H.Y.D.R.A. was, how infectious they were.”

“Yes, and H.Y.D.R.A. was supposedly extinct the minute Captain Rogers drove that plane into the ocean.”

“But it wasn’t! Operation Paperclip gave them a chance to be reborn. You gave them a chance—”

“What would you have had me do?” Her voice cracks like a whip and she wipes the escaped tears from her cheeks angrily, pulling away. “Tell the president to rescind his approval after sixteen months of deliberation? Fight against three other founders simply because I alone personally knew the horrors they have inflicted? We were preparing for another war as soon as the last one was finished. Just because you have been asleep for decades doesn’t mean I was. I wasn’t given that luxury.”

“You want to call what I was given a luxury?” he snaps, his metal hand gripping onto the sheets below the blanket in an effort to prevent himself from tearing anything else. Jaw clenching, he shakes his head. “Killing people without knowing the reason, just a witness to crimes I didn’t want to commit, being handled like some weapon because that was all I was—all I am. There is no luxury in seeing decades pass by and living in a blur when I could’ve been here, with you. At least you got to live your life.” 

“Live?” A hollow laugh comes out of her, almost crawling out of her mouth in how uncomfortable it crackles in the air. “I barely survived the war, and I barely lived through losing you again, and there was not a single day that I did not wake up and think I can’t do this before I did. I did everything. Without you.” There’s a pause before she looks into her lap, the tiniest smile on her face. It is a hollow, dark thing. “You know I found my brothers, made good on our promise to do it a few months after I arrived in New York. One of them died in Brooklyn because the war got him anyway. He was shipped back overseas because being a soldier was better than being homeless.

“My other brother got away. He lived in Pennsylvania… and he… he wished that I was dead the moment he heard what I’d been through because he thought I was a monster. Because of what they did to me. Your family was dead. I couldn’t speak to Rebecca lest they find out where she was. My parents lived on the other side of the ocean. My youngest brother had to stay home to take care of them and I had no one but S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“You walked away from S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway.”

“Well, we all leave the things we love, don’t we?” she whispers coldly and he freezes, eyebrows together as he narrows his eyes at her. There is dangerously thin ice beneath their feet. “If you want to fight about whose life was harder, I am more than welcome to it.”

“You let me go.” His voice struggles to remain steady as she looks up again, her head tilted back to take a deep breath. He turns away to examine the room he lays in to prevent himself from lashing out and saying something he’ll regret. She is burned into his memory either way. He doesn’t need to look at her to know the expression inhabiting her face. “I had to protect you. You’re the one who could’ve moved on, found someone else, settled down and had a family.”

“And you’re the only one I have left. There is no moving on.” Freezing water washes down his back and she stares at him with the misery of a deity. He supposes she is. Time has only elevated her beauty to one worthy of a god. No longer a girl, certainly more than a woman, and eternally sad. That is how the gods are—sad, and broken, and stronger than any living man. “There is no going back from the things I did. From the things you did.

“I know you killed Howard, Bucky,” she says. His eyes dart to hers, lightning striking him and sending him into a shock. There is something unforgiving lurking in her eyes despite how much her edges have softened. There is no accusation, only the hard truth. “I know you stole the serum from him.” He sits up straighter as his lips part to speak but she turns her head away, standing up. “I love Tony more than most things in this world. There isn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do for him. What am I going to do when he asks me about you?”

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the wall echoes in his empty chest as he tries to tell her he doesn’t know.

“In the decades we’ve been apart, did you ever realize that we’re no good for each other?” Bucky whispers instead, thinking of that tiny boy that had slept against her chest as he slipped out of her bed. He’d been tiny then, eyes sparking with a fire that burned bright with love and wit. He’d seen the same eyes as he squeezed the life out of his mother. The same blazing intensity, but at that time, of grief for her dead husband. 

Sergeant Barnes.

“That all we ever do is cause each other pain.”

“I think about it every day.” She yields to him then. Perhaps she is tired of shouting as he is, and cannot stand being furious. A wrathful silence fills the air. 

This is how every one of their arguments goes. It starts with a spark that cracks the air, a fire let loose, devouring too quickly before suffocating itself into an eerie silence. His head aches with the intensity of his heart throbbing between his eyes.

“But I didn’t survive all these years just to give up on you.” She clears her throat, turning to the chair sitting in the corner of the room where a messenger bag sits. She lifts up the flap to reveal a sleek laptop and pulls it out, setting it on the table at the foot of his bed and opening it up. It feels strange to see her with modern tech, but he reminds himself that they’re nearly a century old and the times have changed, whether they liked it or not. 

“I think… of how I love you so much it aches,” she says quietly, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. Her eyes train on the screen and he watches the way the blue light places on her face and in her hair. “And how whenever I’m with you, nothing else ever matters.” She taps the Enter key forcefully and something changes in the light as it dims and brightens again. “How, in the past four decades, I have searched every corner of this earth for you not even knowing if you were alive or dead. How Howard asked me to step back from S.H.I.E.L.D. after what happened in 1972 and instead offered me my own task force to help search for you. I didn’t step down, Bucky,” she confesses, finally looking at him with a sorrow he understands. “Howard asked me not to come back until I found you, dead or alive.”

“But, he must’ve understood—”

“He understood nothing but war. Always preparing for one, trying to improve mankind so we could rise above it all.” A bitter smile graces her lips then. “He was a terrible father, but a brilliant man. I’ll never forgive him for the former, but for the latter… it’s the only reason I stand before you today as I do.” There is a decisive click of the mousepad before she turns the laptop around to face him and pulls the table closer towards him. His eyebrows knit together and she sits beside him as if they weren’t at each other’s throats mere minutes before. His metal arm whirs and clicks softly as he raises it to wrap a gentle arm around her waist and she nearly melts into him. Her eyes study his expression intently as he reads the title, and he jerks his head to meet her gaze.

“Test subject,” he whispers. His words come out flat, forced between gritted teeth and she merely stares at him, infinitely full of sorrow. He is sure that that is all they’re made of. Sorrow and science with nothing human left of them. “He tested the serum on you?” His eyes search hers, and he hopes it’s not true. He doesn’t want to see her broken apart like the other Winter Soldiers sleeping in Siberia. He can’t. “Please don’t tell me you let him.”

“Would it hurt less if I told you I volunteered?”

“You could’ve died,” he whispers, and the bite in his eyes comes unexpectedly. He presses his lips together and the hand around her back shifts to her waist when she twists in his grip, and she smiles in defeat. It is a numb smile, one with barely any life, and she forces it deeper into her cheeks.

“I’ve died a thousand times over,” she tells him. He feels boneless when her palms gently press against his cheeks. “The blood on your hands is like the stain on my soul. Neither of us can wash it away.”

“What did they do to you?” An angel with burning wings sits in his arms and she smiles tenderly. It does not chase away the shadows haunting her, roaming behind her eyes. 

“I killed every single H.Y.D.R.A. agent I found,” she whispers, leaning in close to him. 

“You promised to do no harm.” His eyes nearly flutter shut and he can taste the sin on her tongue as his metal hand rides up her back, hooking on her shoulder. His fingers dig into her flesh and he can’t help the primal urge that stirs in his stomach—he doesn’t understand it. 

“Times have changed. So have I.” Her smile is so devilish, so empty, he barely recognizes her, and he wonders if it is he who has tossed her into the abyss or she has simply dragged him to the light and sacrificed herself instead. He fears it—he is insanely in love with it. “You make a demon out of me, Sergeant Barnes.”

Before he can utter a response, that feral urge pushes forward to snag her lips in his. It is a hungry, powerful thing and she submits to him wholly as his hand rakes through her hair and her fingers scratch against his scalp. He is so full of wanton need for something familiar that he doesn’t know anything but the insane desire for her weight on him. Eager to explore the darkness tainting the wings of his angel, he watches as she straddles his hips, his hand tracing up the side of her waist and her shirt is on the floor, scars etched into her side like brush strokes.

He’s hypnotized. His flesh fingers reach for a scar that stretches as she leans over him and kisses his mouth slowly and the ache in his shoulder is nothing compared to the ecstasy of her soft mouth as he lets out a muffled moan. Her fingers in his hair gently pull and he sucks in a stilted breath when his back arches to her whim, his hands flat against her hips.

“Forty years,” she whispers, a mournful thing as he traces where a cicatrix has punctured a hole through her abdomen. The next kiss she presses against his mouth is bruising, punishing for the both of them, and he loves the pain because it is good. “Forty years, love.” His fingers dig into her waist, hook on the waist of her sweatpants and she grins against his insistent kisses as his flesh hand reaches up her back. His fingers don’t snag on wings like they snag on her bra, but he doesn’t care as he undoes the clasp.

Angelfire burns through his skin when she takes hold of his neck with her hands, her thumbs barely pressing into the pulse points. She glances down at their hips pressed together and then at him. Her eyes—they are his saving grace. They remind him that this is real as she kisses him again, her nails leaving crescent moon indents into his skin.

He trails away from her mouth, sitting upright as his hands run up her back, his lips latching onto her collarbone as she twists away to close the laptop and push the table away. When she faces him again, her back arches beneath his grasp and he kisses the tiny scar, a fading pink mark a few inches to the right of her heart. Where he’d shot through her. Just another reminder of how wrong they’ve been.

“Are you feeling okay?” she murmurs against his ear, sounding like the girl of 1945, so concerned, so tender. Her finger plays with the baby hair at the nape of his neck. He purrs at the gentle touch, ignoring the dull pain flaring up in his abdomen and he noses at the smooth expanse of her chest, smiling with eyes closed in bliss. 

“Perfect, angel,” he mumbles. “God, you’re perfect.” Pressing his forehead against her collarbone, he can hear her heart beating to the pulse of his own in his throat and he wonders if it is simply one heart beating in two bodies—if soulmates really do exist.

A wonderful burden, a terrible blessing.

Her fingers flatten into a palm that slides down his back, smoothing over his waist and reaching for the sweatpants he’s in and tugging on the drawstring. Their lips meet, then, ferocious, wet, biting, and he gasps against her mouth, eyes closed, submitting to her taste and tongue. She devours him completely, leaving him lightheaded as they part just to breathe. Their noses brush and their lips catch as he simply bathes in her touch, fleeting little things along his waist that dare to travel further.

This is his absolution. 

“Make it hurt,” she hisses in his ear. The feral animal inside him snarls at her voice, prowls in his stomach as she raises her hands and takes him by the cheeks, forces him to stare into the darkness of her gaze. His metal arm clicks as he traces the smooth lines of her back and her smile is a dangerously sharp thing. It tastes sour in his mouth, like she isn’t quite there. He can hear desperation bleed through her voice, and he knows the feeling. It is the same one that has seized him. The same terrible fear they will be left alone in this world again. “I need it to hurt.”

“Okay,” he whispers, his lips leaving marks of his own on her skin as his teeth graze her neck, travel to the smooth expanse of her navel, find the delicacy of her inner thigh as soon as he pulls down her pants. 

He agrees because the agony of their love is too good to pass up. It is an all-consuming, monstrous beast that lurks in their heads and in their hearts, and he is certain that one day it’ll kill the both of them. The torture that is a split soul will one day become too much, and one of them will pull the other into death’s embrace with them.

She needs the pain to forget the agony of living life as a ghost. 

He needs the pain to remember how to come back to life.

.

“I’ll stay,” he whispers in the depth of night. 

Her hands hold into his arm draped over her waist and the sheets are twisted around their bodies. His whole body aches for a different reason this time, and his mind is sedated with the smell and taste of her everywhere. She doesn’t give the indication that she’s heard, and by the slow pulse of her heat, he knows she must be asleep. Smiling wearily, slightly, he kisses a tender mark on her neck and traces shapes onto her stomach, sinking into the pillow. 

The heat of her body wraps around his bones, drives itself into his muscles, and he holds her closer, holds her tighter.

Forty years, he thinks to himself as she lets out a soft sound, wiggling against him. Tomorrow seems an impossible task, to face the world outside of her arms and realize the extent of Washington’s damage. There’s so much we have to figure out about us, about everything. It is an insurmountable feeling of hopelessness and he doesn’t know how to fill the hollowness that carves pieces out of him, but he’ll figure it out, whether it takes another decade or not.

She rolls around and tucks underneath his chin, her hands grabbing at him in her sleep. His smile eases and he closes his eyes as her breaths puff gently against his neck.

As long as she is with him.

Perhaps they’re on their way.

[maxattack-powell]

Slow Hands

***This is an original fic built to fall inside The Freshman 1-5 in my masterlist***

 Masterlist - go here for other chapters and related original fics

Disclaimer: The following are fics (adaptations from actual game chapters AND original works) to Choices: The Freshman and The Sophomore stories. It is a fictional adaptation. I (we) do not work for Pixelberry Studios, the game developer or own the rights to the characters Chris Powell, Nicole or any other IN GAME character. All of the ORIGINAL characters, storylines and events were developed for my adaptation of The Freshman story.

Comments: I enjoyed playing Choices The Freshman… and then I found this awesome group of people and their works - I’ve loved it all, very much so. Deciding that I wanted more interaction than the options allowed, I’ve gone through the first book, chapter by chapter (omg painfully slow) to follow the story (95-99% I’d say) and add to it as I felt would benefit.

Basically, I wanted to include certain things that weren’t really full fic size worthy, adding to the story. However, I did add some full size fic moments also… some are included in cannon chapters, some are their own full chapters in between. I wanted to see MC and Chris through their freshman year… with more angst, fluff, sweetness, real life and overall detail. So, if you like that pairing then you’ll be satisfied, otherwise sorry James & Kaitlyn fans lol. I even added some parts from Chris’s POV, so that we have a chance to see what he’s thinking, knowing what she experienced.

There will be ADULT and/or NSFW moments in certain chapters - this is a warning lol. I will try my best to make it obvious as it occurs…

Paring: MC x Chris

POV: ~MC~ or ~Chris~

~MC~

Later that evening…

MC is in her room, finally finished with her Study Buddy™ session with Zack and Tyler. The three of them had spent most of the evening working on their assignment for Professor Atiyah while Abbie was in her room painting, Chris was at practice and Kaitlyn was at her late class for the week.

Zack and Tyler had decided they were done for the night and called it, each going back to their rooms. MC decides to do the same, attempting to lay down and relax, but she felt energized and unsatisfied with her surroundings. Deciding she needs a distraction and a change of scenery, she grabs her current read off of her nightstand and heads for the roof.

As she opens the door and climbs the stairs, she realizes there is music coming from the roof. ‘Maybe Kaitlyn is home and listening to the radio up here..?’ She begins to wonder as the rooftop comes into view.

She pauses then, frozen at the top step, her eyes fixed on the couch fifteen feet away. She realizes that it wasn’t the radio she heard, but instead a live guitar. And the singing she heard… it was coming from her roommate. It was Chris’s voice.

He had yet to notice her, but had stopped singing, switching from words to humming as he focuses on the chords of the song. He pauses and backs up, repeating a section that he didn’t find satisfactory, before continuing again.

MC quietly stands there for about a minute, watching him in awe. She had no idea he could play the guitar, forget that her mind is unable to wrap around the fact that he could also sing. Realizing that she was probably gawking at him now, she struggles to come up with a plan to announce her presence, or run - whichever would work better in her favor.

She must have made enough noise to disrupt Chris’s concentration while trying to decide, as his eyes snap towards the stairs and immediately onto her. She instantly swallows hard, suddenly feeling very hot and cold at the same time. “Uh, hey… sorry.” She takes the last few steps up onto the rooftop and pauses, her face twisted into an apologetic grimace.

She grips her book tightly, her eyes fall to focus on it, as she stammers. “I�� I was…” She pauses and clears her throat. “I thought I could hide up here and read my book for a while… I didn’t realize you were up here though.” Her eyes lift to his. “I’m sorry I interrupted you.” She stands there awkwardly, gripping her book as if she had talons, unsure if she should leave.

Chris shakes his head, his shoulders showing exhaustion, as he gives her a weak smile. “It’s alright.” When she doesn’t budge he insists. “Seriously, MC. You can interrupt me whenever you like… I was up here for the same reason.”

He gestures for her to sit on the spot next to him on the couch. Her shoulders melt as she lets out a deep breath, quickly padding across the rooftop in her socks to join him on the couch. Once she settles next to him with her legs bent in front of her, she studies his face.

Chris is no longer acknowledging her, his eyes hidden under the bill of his baseball cap. He’s focusing on his hands as they glide across the guitar strings, lightly playing some of the same chords she heard him use before. It felt familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place it yet, so she just sat quietly and watched him.

After a moment he remembers she is there, but not making a sound. He looks up at her, his blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness under his hat. “What’s wrong?” He asks self consciously.

She smiles at him then, watching as his eyes search hers for more information. “I had no idea you played guitar… or that you could sing.” She raises an eyebrow and lowers her head to her knees, wrapping her arms around her folded legs after she places her book down next to her.

“Uh, well…” He coughs, a slight blush creeping up his neck as he shakes his head a little. “I wouldn’t say I’m very good at either. It just helps me relax sometimes… I guess. Like after a particularly rough game… or practice.” He gives a weak snort laugh as he references their earlier conversation during practice.

“It sounds pretty good to me…” She gently disagrees, tilting her head to flash him an honest smile.

“Ah well, if you say so.” He bashfully grins and looks towards the strings as he begins picking at them again, unwilling to look into her eyes as his neck flushes red.

“What are you playing? It sounds familiar, but I didn’t hear enough before you stopped before…” She almost whispers.

Chris takes a deep breath, deciding how to respond. “Um, it’s called…” He rubs his face roughly and lets out the breath of air, almost like a sigh as he decides to embrace the situation. “It’s called Slow Hands. You’ve probably heard it… it’s all over the radio at the moment.”

Her face lights up as she recalls the name of the song. “Oh, yes! I know that song. Niall Horan, right? It’s one of my favorites actually.”

He stops playing his guitar and looks over at her. “It is?”

She crinkles her nose a little, trying not to become embarrassed as she attempts to hide her smile. “Yeah…” She looks into his eyes. “I didn’t take you for a One Direction kind of fan though…” She playfully jabs at him.

He gives a hearty laugh. “Well, technically he’s a solo artist. He just used to be in that group.” He laughs again when he sees her eyebrow raise. “Okay, I guess you know my dark secret now, huh?”

MC nods. “Yeah, I’ll have to remember that for later.” She laughs then pulls her bottom lip in and begins working on it. “Are you going play it again?” She asks hopefully.

“Uh…” He pauses, not really confident in his abilities, but unable to tear his eyes away from hers as she continues to smother him with pleading looks. “I don’t usually play for anyone, but sure. If you want me to.”

She sits up straight, tilting her legs to lean against the back of the couch as she faces him, burrowing into the cushions, ready for his performance. She tries to contain her excitement as he shifts the guitar to face her, his fingers already playing some of the songs intro chords. After a moment, his voice joins in, firm but not too loud, as if he was singing only for her benefit.

“We should take this back to my place

That’s what she said right to my face

‘Cause I want you bad”

He shakes his head briefly, as if trying to escape something, causing MC to wonder if she even saw the action correctly.

“Yeah, I want you, baby

I’ve been thinking ‘bout it all day”

His knuckles look almost white for a moment as he grips the neck of the guitar with more force than necessary, his eyes still not meeting hers as he tilts his head to hide behind his hat.

“And I hope you feel the same way, yeah”

His voice sounds shaky through the first verse, as if he’s not entirely comfortable singing in front of her. She remains silent and absolutely still, not wanting to disrupt him if so.

“'Cause I want you bad”

He looks up then, his eyes burning into hers.

“Yeah, I want you, baby”

She sucks in a breath as he pulls his eyes from hers, focusing back on the guitar, continuing to the chorus.

“Slow, slow hands

Like sweat dripping down our dirty laundry

No, no chance

That I’m leaving here without you on me”

He closes his eyes and almost appears to be in pain from the words as he sings.

“I, I know

Yeah, I already know that there ain’t no stopping”

He looks up at her briefly, a faint smile crossing his lips as he submits, his eyes falling back to his hands as he continues to play.

“Your plans and those

Slow hands”

She chews on her bottom lip as he closes his eyes and strums the strings a few times, pausing the words for a moment before he continues.

“Slow hands”

Before starting the next verse, he takes in a deep breath and raises his eyes back to hers, his gaze unwavering as he holds her attention, consuming her.

“I just wanna take my time

We could do this, baby, all night, yeah

'Cause I want you bad”

His eyes narrow slightly, but don’t break their grip on hers.

“Yeah, I want you, baby”

Her heart beats faster as she listens to his words and feels the intensity coming from his person. She swallows hard as she becomes conscious of his burning intentions, each line spoken with an underlying promise or request. He ducks his head again, his emotions becoming too real, causing him to break eye contact with her as he continues, his voice becoming more husky with each line.

“Slow, slow hands

Like sweat dripping down our dirty laundry

No, no chance

That I’m leaving here without you on me

I, I know”

He takes a quick deep breath, closing his eyes as he continues.

“Yeah, I already know that there ain’t no stopping

Your plans and those

Slow hands”

His playing speeds up slightly as his voice becomes lighter.

“Fingertips puttin’ on a show”

He looks over at her again, his eyes peaking out under his ruffled bangs currently crushed under his hat, his head tilted slightly downward.

“Got me now and I can’t say no”

She sees him visibly swallow as he continues.

“Wanna be with you all alone”

Chris takes another deep breath, almost gasping as he pleads with her.

“Take me home, take me home”

He draws out the last word, his eyes basically begging her.

“Fingertips puttin’ on a show

Can’t you tell that I want you, baby, yeah”

He clenches his eyes shut and turns his head away from her as he continues.

“Slow hands

Like sweat dripping down our dirty laundry

No, no chance

That I’m leaving here without you on me

I, I know”

He looks up at her again, this time clenching his jaw as he seems to stare through her.

“Yeah, I already know that there ain’t no stopping

Slow hands

Like sweat dripping down our dirty laundry

No, no chance

That I’m leaving here without you on me

I, I know

Yeah, I already know that there ain’t no stopping

Your plans and those slow hands”

He looks away from her one last time, closing his eyes as he turns his head down towards his hands, finishing the last few chords of the song.

“Yeah, those slow hands”

His voice becomes even quieter, almost a whisper as he finishes, thick with emotion.

“Woo, slow hands”

As he strums the last chord he relaxes his grip on the guitar and leans back a little on the couch, not meeting her burning gaze. They sit there together, quietly for a moment, neither sure what to do next. His right hand lightly picks at the strings, his nervousness beginning to dissipate.

MC finally takes a breath and gathers her courage. “Chris…” She pauses, waiting for him to acknowledge her. When he shifts and gives her a slight smile without making eye contact she continues, “…that was… I had no idea… I mean…”

He lets out a horse laugh and turns to her finally. “Didn’t expect a quarterback that plays guitar I guess, huh?”

She grins back. “Honestly, not really. Especially one that does it so well.”

He lifts his hat off to run his right hand through his hair and rubs his neck before jamming it back on and letting his hands fall down to his sides as he lets out a huge puff of air. “Yeah… I’ve been practicing it a lot. I guess I kinda like that song.” He laughs and shakes his head.

MC falters then, thinking about the meaning of the song. “Oh, I guess you probably have some memories to go with it…” She lets out a nervous laugh and scolds herself for not thinking about that sooner, suddenly feeling very awkward around him.

He picks up on her hesitant tone and turns to look at her, his brow pinched. “No. No, I uh…” He hesitates, his hands grasping in front of him as he tries to find the words. She instantly becomes more uncomfortable as she rethinks his behavior, assuming she was incorrect again.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” She covers her eyes with her hands and turns away bashfully. “You’re probably referring to uh…” She laughs and shakes her head, turning her legs away from him and off the couch, clearly uncomfortable as her mind pulls her towards Becca. “Ah, nevermind.” She waves off her thoughts.

Chris looks at her incredulously for a moment before putting the pieces together. He turns to place his guitar next to him on the other side, carefully leaning it back on the cushions, he quietly speaks. “Not exactly. I uh…” He pauses and faces forward, mirroring her position on the couch, clasping his hands together firmly, focusing on a distant point across the roof before he continues.

“It’s more like…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out with an embarrassed smirk. “…well, it’s like I’m on the other side.” He turns his head slightly so his eyes can easily see MC, keeping his body extremely still, trying to gauge her reaction.

She looks confused for a moment, unsure what he means by that, so he continues. “In my scenario, I’m the one the song is about. I’m her. And he’s…” He takes in a deep breath. “I’m the one who can’t stop thinking about… who’s wants to…” He swallows hard and blushes then, his eyes moving down to his clenched hands as he shakes his head, his determination wavering.

MC feels her heart rate speed up, suddenly feeling anxious as she realizes he might be referring to her. “Chris…”

He looks up at her then, a playful expression crossing his face. “Yeah sorry, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m not normally like this…” He laughs again.

“I know.” She bites her lip. “Me either.” She looks up to find him staring intently at her, his eyes focused on hers.

He sighs. “It sounds so superficial. But it’s not… I’m not like that.” He turns to look at her again. “MC, I know I’ve said this already…” He lets out a huff of air. “A few times now…” He frowns. “…actually. That, that I’m not looking… I’m not ready…” He sighs as frustration takes over, making it difficult to form complete sentences. “I just, I can’t stop thinking about… And part of me wants to…” He groans and takes his hat off to rub his face with both hands.

MC scoots closer to him while he’s distracted and places a hand on his wrist, gently pulling his hand from his face.

He stares at her then, their faces so close they can feel the heat of the other’s breath on their own lips. Chris shakes his head again, as if he’s in a fog, but his eyes remain locked to hers.

MC leans in and runs her fingers through his hair, fluffing it up from its flattening hat experience, his eyes focused on her face. Before she pulls away, he grasps her face softly between his hands and closes his eyes as he brings their foreheads together. His thumbs rub her cheeks tenderly as they both focus on breathing in and out. She feels him tilt her face up, raising her lips to meet his, but is interrupted before they make contact.

Just then a flood of noise comes from the stairs as some of their roommates make their way up to the roof. Chris quickly lets go of her face and she scoots back, grabbing for her book as he swings his guitar around to lay it across his legs, ready to play.

Kaitlyn stops at the top of the stairs, Zack right behind her, both staring at the pair on the couch. They both grin, knowing things are not what they seem.

“Oh, hey guys…” Kaitlyn begins, slowly creeping towards them and taking a seat across from the couch, eyeing them suspiciously.

Zack does the same and sets a small cooler of drinks down on the table. “We didn’t know you guys were up here.” He gives them a ridiculous grin.

Kaitlyn laughs. “Whatcha doin..?”

MC and Chris simultaneously shrug, causing Zack and Kaitlyn to snicker.

Chris clears his throat and pats his guitar. “Just trying to unwind. It’s been a long day.”

MC nods, trying to hide her red face behind her book. “Yeah I came up here to avoid my schoolwork. Thought I could read a little.”

“Ah, well…” Kaitlyn eyes them both cautiously. “…now you guys can hang out with us. Today sucked. We need to commiserate and make each other feel better.” Zack shoves the cooler across the table and Chris reaches in, pulling out two Sprites, handing one to MC.

Their eyes meet for the first time since they ripped apart only minutes before, her fingers running across his as she takes the can. His eyes seem to flash at the contact. “Thank you.”

He gives her a smirk and nods, deciding to remain quiet as he turns back towards their roommates, Kaitlyn already deep into her tale. They continue on like this, conversing with their friends, as if they had been doing exactly that all night.

MC tries to focus and listen to Kaitlyn and Zack as they laugh and carry on, but she keeps replaying Chris’s voice in her head. The song, his guitar, and the words he spoke after. She didn’t realize she was chewing on her bottom lip until she caught him looking at her with concern.

A cool feeling floods her body from his attention. She forces herself to relax and give him a reassuring smile, which he seemed to accept, flashing her one back before turning back and answering something Zack just asked him.

The night continues like this for a while longer, before they all realize how late it had become. Rising from their seats, everyone cleans up and goes back downstairs, each going their separate ways to their bedrooms.

MC pulls her clothes off and changes into a tank top and shorts before turning off the lights and climbing into bed. She lays there for a moment before reaching for her phone. After she unlocks it she pulls up her music library and selects a single song to play.

She sits it back down on her nightstand, smiling to herself as Niall Horan’s acoustic version of Slow Hands plays for her. She sighs and melts into the mattress, completely relaxed.