#first the busted ankle then the concussion THEN he pulls out the doe eyes and lip bite? jared there are other people here

[mlentertainment]

saved to my hard drive as "jared babygirl keeso.mp4"

[nxghtangel]

18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath. (with micah:))

Interactions; Accepting

She ran. The horrible, adrenaline spiked running of the hunted. Kylar could see the prinkling between her shoulders readying for a blow in the back, the daring angle of her head to catch the quickening slap of the phantom's footfalls echoing off the rooftop cement and into the alleyway bricks behind her. He pulled out the gun, twisting the silencer onto the barrel. The chase was on.

High, night blackened buildings flashed past on either side, windows doors, neon signs, and fire escapes. People too, shouting as they dived out of the way or flattened themselves against the walls. He had no idea where she was going, what part of town they were in, but he cannot lose her. Not this time. A man stepps out of a doorway right in front of her. They almost crashed, he almost jumped down to tackle her. Ducking and flipping, she skids past and Kylar curses sharply.

Her legs must be starting to burn--and he wasn't even out of breath. Boots skidding, he braces and lines up for the shot-- sparks shooting off the wall on the other side, just short of blowing out her knee cap. "Fuck!" She charges through an archway up and to the left and the night angel sprints after her, head down, boots flying across the rooftops, skidding as he turns the same corner. A great shadowy space, dilapidated double doors clinging to their hinges having been thrown open, layers of graffiti almost completely obscuring the sign above the doorway. From what he could see up on the roof, there was a faint light inside, sparking like a busted bulb. Kylar jumps down, nimble as a cat, tucking the gun back into its holster, replacing it with a curved dagger and the short sword Curoch that manifested from the palm of his hand. He grips the weapon like the hand of a familiar friend and stalks bodly into the dark. Annabel was just beyond him, turning round slowly, breathing hard. The two of them were in the middle of a wide open area, cobweb covered chairs stacked along the walls, used water bottles and beer cans and discarded plastic baggies littering the greasy concrete floor.

He knew where they were now. There were people everywhere, bumping to house music. Servers crawling amongst the throngs, trying to make rent via tips from the rowdy clubbers. He had worked here, as a security guard, undercover for a job. Kylar stalked towards a bloodied Annabel, bent at the knee, blades shimmering against the black fire that had begun to consume and lave his arms, shoulders, and eyes. Light flickers, his head snaps to the right--

"--Micah?" The dark fire gutters as if strangled.

His chest hurt, his mouth suddenly sour. There's a coldness in his stomach, a feeling he hasn't felt for the month since he's come back. It pours out of the mangled corpse on the ground, seeping out and spreading across the floor like a low fog. Kneeling next to it, their ripped open face twisted in a foreign rage, gaped down at it, smoke still curling from the burnt hole where the sternum used to be. Bloody moths and static swarming their torn clothes, pouring out of their slobbering, disfigured maw. Beyond Micah, Kylar caught the outline of Candle in a heap against the far wall. Even draped in long shadows, he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the startling red of congealing blood that trailed from her temple to the floor.

The sudden slap of shoes against the concrete startles Kylar, but his dagger is already flying. By the time his eyes catch up, the dagger was lodged in the trim of the doorway next to the stage. Annabel is nowhere in sight. Before he can even curse his lapse in focus, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Micah’s eyes were already on him long before Kylar turned back around.

“Micah…” he tried, voice hoarse and heavy but not from the chase, “it’s okay, it’s me.” Purposefully, his movements became slow and deliberate, the Curoch gradually liquifying and slinking back into his hand, disappearing up under the sleeve of his mottled jacket. Step by step, he inched closer towards Micah, watching the glazed fury fall away, the light returning to his increasingly bewildered expression. “Micah--” he barked sharply to keep their attention, trying to keep the other from hyperventilating as realization began to come crashing down. More gently, still firmly, almost within arms length of the corpse now, “Just focus on me. Focus on my voice, nothing else. I need you to tell me you understand--can you do that? Yeah? Okay, okay good….”

Moisture squelches under his boots as he squats down on the other side of the mangled body, feels the sticky liquid rippling out, ignoring it since it could only be one thing in this concrete coffin. His gaze flicks to Candle’s prone form and back, “Micah, Candle is hurt-- no, no she’s fine,” he cuts off the wild panic before it can surge up into his stricken lover’s throat, “I can see her breathing from here, but she might have a concussion. I need you to go check on her--you need to open one of her eyes and see if it constricts against the light and then I need you to tell me if it does. Can you do that?” He watches Micah’s face, reading the emotions pushing through the shock until he gets a nod out of them. “Alright then. Go do that now and stay with her for me. I need to take care of…” he glances down, just a flick of the eyes, “of this.”

If one has never seen the transition from human to corpse, the moment the soul passes on, it is a very moving experience. If it is one you love there is a moment of grief, as if all the love you ever felt for them, every good memory sparks up, as if the soul makes this SOS for them to return. The cadaver, the corpse, the body without them is so very different. If one is responsible for the passing of that soul, it is a very different, horrific feeling. Especially when it’s the first one. As he set to grabbing the corpse under the back of the shoulders, dragging it across the room towards the stage, he remembers not the first kill, when he tied a rope secured to a stone to Rat’s neck and threw the stone off the wharf, but his first mission under Durzo Blint. He had succeeded in killing the man who robbed the Sa’Kage, but ended up fighting with an innocent woman who had walked into the room at the wrong time. He’d been fifteen at the time, barely a man, when he drove the dagger into her mouth, staked her to the floor to keep her from screaming for help. Durzo had been there, watching, always watching to make sure his prodigy didn’t fuck up his reputation, and when the woman had finally stopped twitching under Kylar, Durzo baptized Kylar in her blood. Proclaimed him a ‘real’ wetboy as he smeared coppery red onto his forehead. With a grunt, Kylar heaves the body up onto the stage, dark smears trailing up the wall onto the platform. Hopping up, he grabs the body by the ankles this time and drags it into the darkness behind the partially drawn curtains to the left of the stage. What followed was the tearing of fabric, the shuffle and thump of meat being rolled- ‘thwump...thwump… thwump!’-followed soon after the quiet pad of his boots as he came back into the meager bit of light from the caved in ceiling illuminating the center of the open dance space. He’d have to come back for it later and properly dispose of it. His fingerprints would never be found on the body and while he was back behind the stage he made damn sure neither Micah’s or Candles DNA would show up in a forensics screening should the police stumble upon it before he could finish the job. Already a mental list of the chemicals he’d need, the contacts he would be soon calling to assist with the task, were being filed away in his brain as he approached Micah and Candle.

Cautiously, he crouches down near them, but far enough away so that he could dodge should Micah still not believe he’s real. Black fire still flickering about his shoulders and arms. The slash wounds he'd received from Annabel during their brief fight before the chase close to healing entirely. “Listen to me, this is not your fault, Micah,” he wished Durzo had told him that back then, even though he knew it would have been a lie in that scenario, “something… something dark possessed that body. I can still feel its power even from over here.” A bout of nausea attempted to surface, but he quickly swallowed it down. “We need to get Candle home, okay? I can treat her there if she does have a concussion, but we have to go now. Think you can carry her?” It’s safer for them both to keep his hands free, weapons at the ready, senses fine tuned in case the night has more in store for them. “Come on, get up, we gotta move.”

[repulsivepangolin7]

SEAL Team fic. Crush pt1

A/N: So, I recently fell into yet another wormhole and binged the first two seasons of SEAL team in less time than I should have used to watch it. I figured out a few things: 1. This show is freaking awesome once you get your bearings. 2. Sonny is cool, I dig him. 3. I love Full Metal (Like seriously, what a highly qualified dork!) And 4. There is NOT ENOUGH Scott Carter (Full Metal) fanfiction.

Oh, and as some of you MIGHT know… I’m too hung up on H/C and whump… Word count: 1860

You forget to be scared after a while. That was the truth for some of them at least. The problem wasn’t when you were neck deep in a FUBAR situation, it was when you were trying to get some shut-eye at home in your own bed. You took a deep breath and pushed the fear down and moved on.

But one thing was for sure, life had an impeccable way of telling you to take a breather every once in a while. Nature’s way of telling you to slow down a bit. A sucking chest wound, an arterial bleed, blood loss, a massive concussion. You know, stuff like that.

He tried getting his bearings as the dust settled. Last thing he remembered was someone yelling ‘incoming’ and diving for cover.

His sight was blurred and all sound seemed warped. His ears was ringing and his head was spinning, but it was nothing compared to the immense pain that was his left leg.

He forced himself up on his elbows, positive he was going to hurl as the world tilted on its axis. The sight that met him didn’t help too much.

One of the concrete walls had caved and landed on his leg. He barely stopped himself from trying to tug his leg free, he knew damn well it wouldn’t budge and all that would happen was that the pain would tenfold and he would probably do more damage to his leg than there already was.

Blood was soaking his tactical pants right above where the concrete block ended. First thing needing to happen was a tourniquet, then he had to get that thing off of his leg.

He barely noticed Bravo 1 ordering a radio check and sit rep before the fifth time he called him up by his nickname.

“Yeah. I’m here. Hear you Lima Charlie.” He sucked some air through his teeth, “My leg’s stuck under some rubble. Think I busted it.”

“Do you need assistance getting loose?”

“A-firm.” he took a second look at the bloody mess under the block of concrete, “Gonna need a tourniquet and help moving as well.”

“Okay, you’ve got it.” Jason paused, “Bravo 4, this is Bravo 1, you’re closest to Full Metal. Can you get to him? Out.”

“Bravo 1, Bravo 4. Sure can! Out.”

 *          *          *

 “Oh, damn…” Trent grumbled as soon as he had a visual on Full Metal, “How bad is it brother?”

“Think my leg is crushed.”

“Actual crushed?”

“Worse than just a break…” Metal gave a minimal shrug, but the pain written all over his features spoke volumes, “Hurts like hell.”

Trent nodded as he sat down beside Full Metal. “Tourniquet first. Then we’ll figure out how to move this.”

Full Metal nodded a bit, “I will be of minimal help during that part of this OP.”

“What? When we’re moving the block of concrete?”

He grimaced, “Something tells me whatever pain I’m experiencing right now is just a taste test of what’s to come once the initial shock wears off and my leg actually gets jostled.”

“I think you might be right, buddy.” Trent nodded, “You might want to administer at least 10mg of morphine before we start.”

“Already did.” Metal answered and reached for the spent auto-injector pen in order to wave it around and show it to Trent.

“Is it enough?” he asked as he dug a tourniquet out of his gear.

“Look at my leg. What do you think?” Full Metal growled, “Not gonna take anymore just yet, I’m gonna need it later as well.”

“Pretty sure the rest of us will be willing to share ours.”

“I don’t want to take so much one of you will actually have to keep an eye on me, to monitor for overdose.”

“I think you’re big enough to handle 20mg of morphine.” Trent shrugged as he leaned forward in order to wrap the tourniquet around Full Metal’s thigh, “This is gonna hurt…”

Full Metal nodded and placed his gloved knuckled between his teeth.

Trent wasn’t surprised when Full Metal suddenly went lax. He didn’t know the full extent of his injury, but one thing was for sure, it had to be painful as all hell. Full Metal wasn’t exactly one to fuzz over nothing, actually, he wasn’t one to fuzz over anything as far as Trent knew him. And syncope was a natural response to pain.

“Bravo 1, this is Bravo 4. We need additional manpower here to get Full Metal loose. Out.”

“Bravo 4, good copy. You think you’ll get him loose if Bravo 2 and 3 join up?”

Trent looked over the rubble and Full Metal, “Might need more. I estimate this block of concrete weighs 2.5 metric tons. We also need someone to drag Full Metal free once we’ve got that weight off his leg. He passed out when I put on the TQ. Think he’s coming back around now…”

“Okay, Bravo 5 you keep watch on the south corner, alert us of any movement south or east. The rest of us, help Bravo 4.”

The confirmations came in one after another.

“Havoc, this is Bravo 1. We are forced to divert from our plan, please alert us of any movement close to our position. Out.”

“Bravo 1, Good copy. Do you need anything else? Out.”

“Might need medevac. Out.”

“Site is considered a hot-zone. Is it critical? Out?”

“Haven’t got eyes on yet. Stand by for further information. Out.”

 *          *          *

 Clay, Sonny, Ray and Jason managed to lift the concrete block enough for Trent to pull Full Metal out from under it. None of them surprised when the big guy passed out for a second time.

The guys let go of the slab and it fell down, resting on some other rubble 3 or 4 inches off the ground.

“Let’s try to check and stabilize his leg while he’s still unconscious.” Trent called out as he started cutting away at the fabric of Full Metal’s pants. “Clay, find quickclot combat gauze, tape and regular gauze. Sonny, find cravats or anything that can be used to splint his left leg against his right leg. Jason and Ray, anything that can be used as cushioning between his legs and between his left leg and the cravats.”

They all hurried to their tasks.

“How does it look?”

“Open fracture above his ankle and below his knee. Multiple deformities from knee down. Lots of soft tissue damage. He needs to get proper medical attention, he’s at high risk for crush syndrome.” Trent rattled off as he took the things Clay handed him, “Clay, can you find Sodium Bicarbonate, a peripheral IV line and a FAST1.”

“Sodium Bicarb, peripheral IV line and FAST1.” Clay nodded, “Got it.”

*          *          *

 He woke up to one of Trent’s thighs on each side of his head, not exactly his favorite position.

“Heya buddy, really hoped you would be out for 30 seconds more…” his teammate winked down at him. “I’m just gonna place a FAST1. Already have an orange IV running in your left arm. How are you feeling?”

“-Like I got run over by a wall.” Full Metal answered, trying to mask a grimace, “How’s my leg?”

“Crush injury, like you predicted. You’ve still got a pulse distal to most of the injuries, if you wondered about that. Have sodium bicarb trickling into that IV you have in your arm. We’re waiting for medevac, tricky situation with this still being a hot-zone.”

Metal nodded, “But I guess you think I need it?”

Trent nodded, “The sooner the better. But, I also think you could handle a couple of hours delay. I just want to avoid that if possible. We managed to cover the worst gashes and stabilize your left leg against your right while you were out of it.”

Full Metal nodded a bit, taking in the information. “So. Crush injury. Muscle mass gets damaged, releases toxins. Clogs up kidneys. Renal failure. Am I right?” Full Metal met Trent’s eyes.

“Kinda. But that’s what the sodium bicarb is for.” Trent winked, “That, and they’ll probably load you up with saline once medevac gets here. How’s your pain?”

“Way too damn high.” he rolled his eyes a little, “7, I guess.”

“I’d guess 8 or 9…” Trent shrugged, “You passed out. Twice.”

“Probably won’t be the last time either.”

Trent nodded, “But, just looking at you and listening to you. I’d guess about a 4.”

“That’s why we call him Full Metal…” Sonny winked as he came into Metal’s view as well, “Seriously man, you are allowed to show that this hurts. I would’ve sounded like an air-raid alert. How are ya?”

Full Metal shook his head a bit, “Not good.”

“Maybe you should take that second injector…” Trent said as he readied the FAST1 introducer, “No need for you to suffer more than necessary.”

“You said it yourself. This is still a hot-zone. Medevac has unknown ETA.” Full Metal swallowed hard, “Might be here in 15 mikes, might take 6 hours. Or more. Have to save some for later.”

“We’ve got plenty.” Sonny said as he squeezed his shoulder, “You’re in pain. A lot of it.”

“I’m nauseous enough already.” Full Metal shot back, “Can’t remember morphine helping any in that department.”

“No, but it’ll help with the pain. And that might ease nausea.” Trent quipped back as he placed the introducer against Full Metal’s skin, “Ready?”

He got a short nod in return and pushed the introducer down.

The operator on the ground let out a single expletive and gritted his teeth.

“Sorry about that…”

“We’re good.” Full Metal nodded and held his fist up for Trent to bump it.

All of the sudden their earpieces buzzed on, “Bravo team, this is Havoc. Looks like we’ve a group of 4, potentially 5, Tango’s headed your way in a pickup with a mounted machine gun.”

Jason replied. The guys got their orders and quickly followed through.

“Bravo 1, this is Bravo 5, I have eyes on the pickup. Should I engage? Out.”

 *          *          *

 By the time Trent, Sonny and Clay had carried Full Metal to safety, the building they were in was once again taking heavy fire.

This time, Full Metal hadn’t passed out due to pain from being jostled. Probably because the injection had been given the time to reach full effect.

“You think you’ll be okay down here by yourself?” Sonny asked as he helped Metal lean up against his backpack.

Full Metal nodded slightly, his eyes squeezed closed as he prayed for the pain to pass.

“Hey, Full Metal…”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to be okay down here by yourself?”

He nodded a bit more, “Yeah. As soon as I stop feeling like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Do you want me to stay here with you?” Sonny asked, “Or Clay, or Trent…”

“No-NO…” Full Metal shook his head, “I’m a big boy. Can take care of myself.”

Trent raised an eyebrow, “Alright, big boy… Just radio if you change your mind.”

Full Metal raised his thumb in order to show that the message was received and understood.

[ellay-gee]

The Important Things

Ayy check it out, I’m figuring Tumblr out.  What a way to spend a sick day.  It was weirdly ominous that i got very ill the night I posted a sickfic. o.O

also, apologies to mobile readers, as the ‘keep reading’ thing apparently does not transfer over, and I just don’t have the energy to mess with it at this time.  damn fever.

Prompto should probably not be left on his own ever, but especially not when he's running a fever and can barely form coherent speech.

Ignis sighed in frustration as he pinched the bridge of his nose, nudging his glasses up a little as he did.  “Prompto, ginger ale is not medication.”

The voice on the other end of the line was closer to gravel than sunshine, and Ignis winced in sympathy for how painful it must’ve been for the blond to speak.  “Sure id is, Ig.  S’tha cure-all fer what ails you.”

Ignis tapped his foot on the marble floor as he checked his watch. It was difficult to tell if Prompto was just laying it on thick, or if he’d actually somehow gotten worse in the two hours since Ignis left that morning.  “I’ll be home in about six hours.  Do you think you’ll be alright till then?  I can probably send Gladio or Iris over—“

A harsh cough interrupted him before his boyfriend’s voice came back, weaker and a little wheezier.  “Dodo, s’ok.  I probbiss. I got…gidger ale. Add oj with the pulp, so, y’dow…healthy.  And that coddedsed soup; also healthy. I’m juss gonda sleep, Ig.  Just.  I’ll be ok, kay?”

“Condensed soup.” Ignis scoffed, but couldn’t keep the soft smile from his voice. “How you ever made it to nineteen is a mystery.”

“I’b tellig you, s’tha gidger ale. Goddds, Iggy. Feels like I’b swallowig glass.  This is not gonda be good for our sex life.”

Ignis clucked his tongue affectionately. “As if I’d touch you in your current state.”

Prompto let out something between a hack and a laugh.  “Y’dow you cad’t resist me. Lubb you, hab a good daaaay.”

Ignis returned the sentiment and hung up.  He had a feeling that he’d have his work cut out for him when he got home.

Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

When Ignis next found himself with an extra moment, it was two hours and eleven texts later.

Prompto →  hey wheres canpoter?

Prompto →  canopner*

Prompto →  the thing that opens cans

Prompto →  im hungry and everything is working abaingst me.

Prompto →  nm its a poptop

Prompto →  stove hates me. Everything hates me. All but you ig. U r bust.

Prompto →  best*

Prompto →  fuck it going back to bed.

Prompto →  shit ur at ur meetings. Sorry.  Gods hope ur shit is on slient.

Prompto →  forvige me?

Prompto →  fuuuck. FORGIVE* me???

Me  → Always

Me  → Please do get some rest.  I will be home as soon as I am able

Me  → And the can opener is in the drawer to the left of the sink

Me  → Where it always is

Noctis groaned next to him, rolling his eyes as he read the messages over his adviser’s shoulder.  “Prom’s sick, huh? He’s the living worst when he’s sick.”

Ignis frowned down his charge. “Yes, he can be a bit much.”

Noctis laughed at that, “Yeah, that’s how you know he’s really ok.  It’s when he starts lying and getting quiet that you have to be worried.

“One time he got the flu and refused to admit he was feeling bad. Kept himself going with energy drinks and cough syrup.  He was loopy as hell and fucking bit it on the track during gym; completely blacked out while running pretty fast and basically ended up with road-rash and a concussion.”

Ignis winced in sympathy. “Hmm, yes. I thought I was successfully keeping him under wraps, but yesterday he slipped out before I woke and went to training.  Cor had to call me to come collect him from the men’s room floor.  Apparently he didn’t make formation and the marshal found him ‘vomiting up everything he’d ever eaten’.  He’s been mewling in bed ever since.”

Noctis gave Ignis a sympathetic expression.  “Poor dude.  Just make sure you don’t get it and give it to me.”

“Of course, Highness.  I wouldn’t dream of getting you ill.  You’re a thousand times worse than Prompto.”

The adviser chuckled as the prince seemed to consider this, finally nodding in agreement. “You’re right. I’m definitely worse.”

The second time Ignis was able to pull away from the meeting long enough to glance at his phone, another hour had gone by. In that time, Prompto had managed to send him seven links to songs he’d apparently listened to and wished to share, a rambling text about how much he ‘lurvd’ the adviser, and an article about how ginger ale could, in fact, settle one’s stomach.

Rolling his eyes, Ignis sent off a sweet text, wishing his boyfriend well and promising he’d be home as soon as possible. With real medicine.

By the time Ignis was finally able to go home, it was three hours and zero texts later.  This was a little disconcerting, so he placed a call to Prompto’s phone as he headed for the garage.  Receiving no answer, he waited for the cheery greeting to end and left a message.

“Darling, I am on my way home.  I need to stop by the pharmacy to collect your medications.  I’ll be there soon, though.  Love you.”

He slipped his phone back in his pocket and hurried his step. He didn’t like being away from Prompto for this long when the freckled youth was sick or otherwise incapacitated.  Ignis learned early on in their relationship that Prompto never wanted to ‘be a bother’, and would instead try to soldier on as if nothing were wrong. He could have a high fever and a sprained ankle, and he’d still insist on going on his morning run and completing his chores around their small house.

Ignis loved him endlessly, but there were times in which he would like to throttle the boy. Prompto’s self-deprecating/self-destructive streak could be rather irksome at times.

He stopped at the usual pharmacy and picked up cold medicine and a few other necessities, doing his best not to tap his foot impatiently as he stood in line. It would still be at least thirty minutes before he’d actually get home.

Though he’d been the one to insist that they get a place near the outskirts of the city, he did find himself regretting it from time to time, if only in instances such as this. But, he’d wanted to give Prompto something beautiful. The boy had been raised in the city, and though they could not move outside the Wall due to Ignis’ duties, the adviser could give him new scenery to explore. So, he’d found a small rental property situated on its own acre of land, nestled in among the rolling hills near the wall. Sure, it was a longer commute, but they spent it together most days which made it bearable.

He enjoyed their late afternoons in their little home; Prompto would wander the hills and the thicket of woods at the back of the property, taking photos while Ignis prepared dinner. They were even considering getting a dog, though Ignis himself would prefer a cat.

He was not going for Prompto’s ‘compromise’ of getting both.

As he turned onto the three mile stretch of gravel road that led to their little home, Ignis pressed the button on his dash to connect the Bluetooth, hoping Prompto would pick up this time. He had several bags and was hoping the other man could unlock the door for him.

He breathed a quiet relieved sigh when the phone was answered.  Prompto sounded awful, not even able to make intelligible sounds on his end.

“I’m almost home, darling.” He said when Prompto gave up talking in favor of hacking up a lung.  “I know you’re not feeling well, but could you—“

Prompto gasped into the phone, his voice ragged. “Iggy.  Ig. S’hot.  I dunno—“

Ignis swallowed hard. It sounded like Prompto had only gotten worse in their hours apart. “I know, darling, I know. It’s probably just because of your fever—“’

Prompto hissed through the line, whining little when he couldn’t stop another string of coughs.  “Nooo Iggyyy.  S’hot. I…the sto..the soup…” he trailed off as he wheezed desperately. “S..ss..smoke.”

With that last sibilant word, Ignis pressed his foot firmly on the gas pedal, his tires spinning in the gravel before gaining purchase, spitting rocks as he sped down the road. “Are you saying there’s a fire, Prompto?  Prom? Can you get out of the house?”

But there’s only coughing and a small thump quickly followed by a larger one from the other end, and Ignis’ stomach tightens considerably.  He brakes only slightly when their driveway comes into sight, the end of his town car fishtailing as he swerved into it. He shut the engine off and snatched the keys from the ignition before stumbling from the car and bounding up the porch stairs.

Smoke was indeed beginning to rise from the small building, and his hands shook as he shoved his key into the door, unlocking it and rushing inside.

Luckily for him, the living room was mostly clear of smoke, though it was heavy in the hall leading to the kitchen. Ignis called Prompto’s name before covering his mouth with his shirt and plunging into the haze.

He tried calling Prompto’s name, but quickly gave up as the smoke penetrated his lungs. His first stop was the kitchen, where he could barely make out the fire was licking up the cabinets above the stove and across the counter for all the smoke. Luckily he was able to spot a flash of Prompto’s bright blue pajama pants on the floor behind the dining table before he moved on in his search.  

Of course he would be as close to the fire as he could possibly get. He would not be Prompto, otherwise.

Ignis shoved this thought aside as he lept into action, kicking a flaming chair out of his way as he rushed towards Prompto. He crouched down, gripped Prompto under his arms and dragged him from the room.

Once far enough from the flames, Ignis scooped the boy up in his trembling arms and strode back out into the early evening air.  He laid Prompto in the grass and crouched down again, this time checking his breathing and pulse.

Thankfully, both were there and at near-normal levels, all things considered. He quickly checked the blond over for more injuries, finding some small burns on his arms and hands and a growing lump on his head where it had presumably struck the floor when he fell. The adviser fished his phone from his pocket and quickly dialed for emergency services before planting himself down on the ground next to his lover, pulling the other’s small frame into his lap.

His throat tightened as he gazed up at their perfect little house while it spat flames into the darkening sky. Ignis swallowed down his panic as he pressed gentle kisses to Prompto’s slack brow, running his free hand in circles on the smaller man’s chest as he rocked them both.

“Just stay out of the kitchen, Prompto.” Ignis said from the doorway as the freckled youth headed inside.  It had been three days since the fire, and they were just now being allowed to come back in and collect anything that may be salvageable.

“I know, I know.” Prompto’s voice was still rough; not only from the cold, but also from the smoke inhalation. He stepped lightly through the living room, heading for the hall.

Ignis followed, taking the same path; both men giving the kitchen a wide berth. Prompto was heading towards their bedroom, finding it mostly intact; just light soot stains covering everything. The adviser pulled out a notebook and began making a list of everything they would need to have packed up and delivered to their storage unit while Prompto began gathering the things they needed right then.

It was a short trip; they collected a few bags of clothing and some of Ignis’ important files. Most of the trunk was filled with Prompto’s camera equipment and various other electronics. While the blond carried the last of their things out to the car, Ignis found himself wandering towards the kitchen, though he was careful to remain outside the room.

He couldn’t help the sadness that swept over him. They’d spent so many mornings in this room, talking softly over breakfast. This was actually the first room they’d made love in when they had moved in. Now, the room was riddled with half-burnt debris and there was a clear spot outlined in soot where Prompto had been laying while fire raged all around him.

What remained of the interior was mostly black, but great chunks of the outside wall were missing and daylight shone through in cheerful juxtaposition to the destruction it illuminated. The fire had began due to a faulty light on the stove; it had not come on to indicate that it was heating when Prompto had put the soup on, and in his sickly stupor, he simply gave up--leaving it on as he went back to bed, believing the stove to be broken. After a few hours, the soup had cooked down and began to burn; the inspector reasoned that the curtains above the stove had probably been the first thing to actually catch fire and it had quickly spread from there.

He supposed he’d been lost in his melancholy longer than necessary, for he was startled out of his thoughts by a hesitant arm encircling his waist.

He wrapped his own arm around Prompto’s shoulders, pulling him closer, smiling a little at the warmth that rose in his chest when the smaller man leaned bodily into him.  

“I’m so sorry, Iggy.” Prompto ground out, rubbing his face into Ignis’ side. “Looks like all your stuff is ruined. Kinda unfair that my stuff’s ok, but you couldn’t save anything of yours.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Ignis squeezed Prompto’s shoulder and dropped a kiss into his hair.  “I saved you, didn’t I? You’re all the ‘stuff’ I need.”

Prompto chuckled, poking Ignis in the side playfully. “The only kind of ‘stuff’ I am is hot stuff.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the adviser, who groaned and rolled his eyes in response.

“I love you dearly, but please save the puns for me.” He laughed a little louder, a little more freely, as Prompto pulled him towards the door.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t own puns, Igs.” Prompto quelled any further argument by pulling Ignis down into a passionate kiss.

It was a cheap way to win the impending playful exchange, but Ignis couldn’t bring himself to mind.

[gripefroot]

Midnight in the City

The mission could not have gone worse.

At least, that’s the presumption you make, taking in the sight of the bodies sprawled around the Avengers Tower common room. They must have arrived sometime in the last half hour or so; you’d only been gone downstairs for less than an hour, filing some reports in a public tech room.

You hadn’t gone on this mission. Should’ve.  

Quirking a brow, you take a slug out of a bottle as one of the figures on the couch groans. 

“Come on, Wilson,” you say lightly. “I’ve seen recruits take defeat better.” 

Sam lifts an arm and a finger, as if to reply with some witticism, but he only groans again and his arm flops back down. 

Huh. That bad.  

Wandering into the kitchen, you open the freezer and grab several ice packs, and when those run out, bags of frozen vegetables. Back into the common room, and you plop some peas on the back of Sam’s head. His response is muffled by the pillow his face is buried in, but you guess it’s gratitude. At least, it had better be. Casting your eyes over his limp body, you lay an ice pack on a bruised elbow, and on a swelling ankle where his dirty and torn pants have ridden up.  

Natasha is draped over a reclining chair. She, at least, mumbles out where she’s sore when you approach. Left hand, right eye. A bright bruise is blossoming across her pale skin, and she winces as the cold hits her eye.  

“Thanks,” she mutters.  

Clint hadn’t made it further than the floor, lying face up. You examine him for a moment, and then drop some corn on his ribs and peas on his bleeding nose. It looks broken. Again. 

“You’d better stop bleeding before you stain Tony’s floor,” you tell him.  

Clint’s lips move, but no sounds comes out. His eyes are squeezed shut, as he tenderly lifts a hand to adjust the peas on his nose. His bow and arrows are scattered on the floor beside him; evidently he’d been too beat to even lay them nicely on the coffee table, which Stark insists on. Good thing Stark isn’t there.  

Last of all is Bucky, legs hanging off the loveseat as he clutches at his belly, eyes screwed shut. There’s blood on his lips, dried beneath his nose, and his knuckles are bruised. You bite your lip, tenderly pressing a hand to his jaw as he moans pitifully. It would be ideal to give Bucky a better examination, but… 

It’s a secret. The clandestine relationship. That you’ve seen him naked, that sort of thing. 

“Hey,” you say softly as he stirs. “Where’re you hurting, Sarge?” 

Eyes still closed, Bucky touches his mouth, his forehead, his stomach, his groin. There go the last couple ice packs and a bag of frozen corn. He hisses as the cold hits his face, finally peeking open a bright blue eye to glare at you. 

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” he asks. Crotchety enough to be his age. You smile.  

“Yes,” you say plainly.  

Bucky grumbles. 

“Thanks, 28,” Natasha says weakly from across the room. “You should’ve been there. But then again, maybe you’d be just as busted up as we are, with no nursing attendant.” 

“Nonsense,” you brush that away. “We could’ve called in Fury to apply bandages. He’s not busy tonight.” 

Clint groans from the floor, his voice nasally from the peas on his face. “I do not want Nick Fury as my nursing attendant,” he says. 

“Fury is a great nurse,” you sass back, curling your fingers around Bucky’s boldly, as everyone else is too absorbed in their own hurts. He squeezes back weakly as you add, “His bedside manner is especially fantastic.” 

“Only if he has cartoon band aids,” Sam mumbles.  

“I think he has collects Avengers packs, so yeah.” 

“Does your nursing extend to drinks?” Natasha asks, interrupting the banter. 

“Sure.” You stand from Bucky’s side, dropping his hand regretfully.  

When you return to the common room a few minutes later with several beers in hand, Natasha has managed to sit forward in the chair, though she’s holding her face in her hand. Sam is slouched upright over an armrest, and he even cracks a pained smile as you pass him a bottle. Which cracks his lips, and he winces.  

“Er, thanks,” he says.  

The image of the Avengers, so pathetic after a bad mission is a little disheartening - they’re your teammates, after all - but a bit amusing, too. Natasha accepts a drink without looking up, and you place a cold bottle by Clint’s head. Blindly he grabs for it, holding it to his cheek as he tries to roll over to sit up.  

Biting your lip to keep from laughing outright, you hand the last beer to Bucky, who groans as he gently swings his legs over to sit up. To keep from being obvious - you retreat to sit on the floor in front of Sam’s couch. At least you can watch Bucky from there. Restlessly you tap your fingers on your knee, suppressing the urge to run them through the tangles in Bucky’s hair.  

Secret. Secret.  

“What’s going on here?” The exhausted silence is broken as Stark walks into the room, distracted by the device in his hand until he looks up to take in the scene. Natasha is the first to answer. 

“Bad intel,” she says, lifting her head to look at Tony. “There were triple the guards we expected. Barely made it out. Extraction failed.” 

Tony presses his lips together. “Okay. We’ll...do better next time.” 

There’s no response. Nat dips her head back down again, and Sam places his empty bottle on the coffee table.  

“You should go to medical, Barton,” Tony says after a moment. “Your nose looks nasty.” 

“Yeah. Okay. I’m going.” Clint tries to push himself to his feet, but sinks back down to the floor. Stark steps forward, and so you do - each holding an arm to help him up. Clint teeters slightly before finding his footing. His face is drained of color. 

“Concussion?” you suggest to Tony. 

“Probably. I’ll take him down.” 

“I’ll stay here,” you say, glancing at Bucky’s slumped form out of the corner of your eye. “Keep the drinks filled. Make sure no one bleeds out. That sort of thing.” 

“If any blood gets on the couches - ” Stark starts to say. 

“I know, we’ll all be indicted.”  

“Out of your paychecks. Every one of you.” With that threat coupled with a severe stare around the nonresponsive room, Tony heaves Clint back towards the elevator.  

“I’m gonna go,” Bucky rumbles, standing with a wince. He drops his ice packs on the table.  

“Where?” you ask, unable to stop yourself. 

“Anywhere.” 

“You should stay and rest,” Natasha says. Privately you agree, but say nothing. 

“I’m going.” Without looking your way, Bucky walks stiffly towards the door, grabbing his jacket which had been slung on the back of the love seat. Several guns are left behind. Pursing your lips, you gather up his weapons to take back to the tactical room underground. The elevator dings. He’s gone. You have to wait for the next one.  

This is unlike Bucky.  

When you return to the common room, Natasha and Sam are talking quietly amongst themselves. They’re less limp than before, so you write them off as just fine. You pick up your coat from where you’d left it in the kitchen, pulling it over your shoulders and tying your scarf tight around your neck.  

“Tell Stark I went home,” you say to Nat, tugging on a thick wool hat.  

“‘Kay. Will you be back tomorrow?”

“For the debriefing of this?” you ask, quirking a brow. “Wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Why do I feel like it’s going to turn into a slag-fest?” Sam grins. 

“Because you’re learning from experience,” you tease back. “See you later.” 

“Have a good night, 28.” 

“‘Bye, Agent.” 

The Tower is quiet. It’s after hours, and nearly everyone is gone. Stepping out of the empty elevator, your eyes flit over the empty front desk, the closed ground-floor coffee shop. Dark, and quiet. The clock above the front doors of the Tower read 11:12 p.m. 

Shivering as JARVIS gives a polite farewell, you tense as the chill night air strikes your cheeks. You set off at a brisk pace towards the subway, shoving your hands in your pocket to ward against the cold.  

Really, you should’ve insisted on going on this mission. Even if it had still failed. Feeling so useless when the team had suffered so much is not pleasant.  

Your thoughts stray to Bucky; the haunted look that had shadowed his eyes, his abrupt departure. He usually isn’t one to leave on his own when you’re around. You might have expected that he would whisper in your ear to beg you to stay at the Tower that night… 

A smile begins to curl your lips. At the end of the block, you see a dark figure standing outside a convenience store. Hands in pockets, just like yours, and one foot propped against the wall behind him. His head tilts towards you as you approach. The bruise curling around his nose has deepened to a brilliant and unsettling purple, dotted with green and black. 

“Hey there, stranger,” you say, when you’re near enough. “Need a place to sleep tonight?” 

Bucky lifts his head, a little grin tugging at his lips. His shoulders are less tense now, though there is still darkness in his eyes as they settle on your face with fierce warmth.  

“You offering, ma’am?” 

“Thinking about it,” you tease. 

“Don’t care where I sleep,” he says back, his voice low. “Long as it’s with you.” 

“How sweet.” You offer one of your mittened hands to him, but when Bucky takes it he winds it through his elbow, falling into lazy steps beside you down the sidewalk. It’s empty, since it’s getting near midnight. The few people braving the winter night are bundled and walking fast. Taking a deep breath, you tilt your head towards the dark sky.  

“That bad?” you ask, keeping your tone light. 

“Worse.” Bucky’s eyes are on the ground again. There’s a tick in his jaw, and after a moment he pries his lips apart to say, “There were kids.” 

A knot forms in your stomach, and instinctively your fingers clench on his arm. 

“I...remembered,” he says slowly after a moment. “I remember in Siberia. In Petrograd. I remember there were always kids. And then...” Bucky’s voice cracks. You lean your head against his shoulder, keeping pace as he takes a shuddering breath.  

“We can go back,” you tell him softly. “Stark’s already planning on another extraction. We’ll make sure the entire team is there - I’ll be there. We’ll get those kids out.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and in tandem you take the steps down to the brightly-lit train station. The cold fresh air is replaced by the warmer, though stale scent of underground. There are only a few other people around, and finding a lonely place to stand out of earshot, Bucky wraps his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.  

“I love you,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?” 

You grin, lifting your gaze to examine his expression. Still haunted. “Well, I am offering you a place for the night, aren’t I?” you tease. “Don’t pretend I’m not buying your love.”

Bucky chortles. Some of the shadows disappear from his face.  

The whoosh of the train arrival brings the acrid scent of fuel and metal. In tandem you and Bucky step onto the train, and have no trouble locating seats. It’s mostly empty; only a group of young girls at the other end of the car break the silence. Idly you twist your fingers in Bucky’s as the train rumbles on.  

“Hey, um . . . are you the uh, Winter Soldier?” 

You glance up. The girls, college-age by the looks of it, have crept across the car, eager smiles on their faces. Bucky stares blankly back for a moment as you suppress a laugh, and he stutters, 

“Er, yeah.” 

A squeal from one of the girls, hiding her mouth behind her hand.  

“Can we get a selfie with you?” the first girl asks. Evidently she’s not put off by the cuts and bruises on Bucky’s face. You have to give her credit for that. 

“Um, sure.” 

“I’ll take it,” you volunteer, as the first girl pulls a phone out of her pocket. She bats her eyes at you.  

“Thanks.” 

Four girls. They all crowd around Bucky, huddling close to his bruised face. He blinks quickly, startled into looking at you as you hold up the phone. His lips form an urgent plea, Help me. 

You grin. “Say cheese.” 

“Cheeeeeeeese,” in tandem.  

Bucky’s breath of relief as the girls retreat, a chorus of thanks. You snicker a little as you wave them goodbye, returning to their side of the train car, taking your seat beside Bucky again.  

“You didn’t have to abandon me like that,” he mutters, taking your hand again.  

“I was just trying to be nice,” you say with a little laugh.  

“And to not get your picture taken and spread across the internet, right?” Slanting his gaze towards you, Bucky lifts a brow.  

“Oh, please,” you brush this away. “The SHIELD algorithm program that protects my identity works on any digital picture with my face. I could’ve been in the picture just fine - but I’d be erased out of it already.” 

“That’s depressing,” Bucky says, after a moment of thought. “So...there aren’t any pictures of you. Like, with your family.” 

“Well, childhood pictures,” you point out. “And it’s just a sacrifice for the job I chose. Most people have to give up something.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“And I get to enjoy so many perks.” With a wink you nudge Bucky’s arm, and he smiles as he obligingly sling it over your shoulder, tugging you close.  

“You talking ‘bout me, babe?” Bucky’s husky voice says into your ear. 

“Mmm. I bet you’d like that, huh?”  

He nips at the sensitive skin behind your ear, and goosebumps break out in heady streaks across your skin. “Mmhmm,” his voice vibrates. Your fingers tighten on his, and Bucky shifts awkwardly in his seat.  

Back on the city sidewalks, the neighborhood where you live is much quieter than around Avengers Tower. The street lights flicker, and only a few cars can be heard a few streets over.  

“Well,” you say lightly, turning to Bucky with a smile. “At least this time you won’t have to climb through the window.” 

This earns you a laugh - a real, belly laugh, and as you punch in the code for your building Bucky sinks into chortles, shaking his head. 

“Are there security cams around here?” he asks. “Stark’s probably watching them, if you live here.” 

“There sure are, and he sure does monitor them,” you say. “Or at least, a peon at SHIELD does. Remember? I don’t show up in security cams. They’re not looking for me - they’re looking for threats.” 

“And the Winter Soldier?” 

You grin down at him, hopping up the stairs as he trails behind. “Well, he’s just a big ol’ softie, posing for selfies with starry-eyed girls. I ain’t in danger from that.” 

Bucky’s eyes darken as he passes in the shadows of the stairwell. The smile that curls his lips is best described as - feral. Wild. Promising - in one way or another. “You sure about that?” he purrs, his voice low and sending little tremors through your limbs as you arrive at the door to your apartment.  

“Well,” you say in a murmur. Bucky stands very close as you unlock the door. “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself against some big, bad, scary soldier man.” 

The spell is broken. Bucky’s laugh echoes in the hallway, and quickly you usher him inside. Once on the doormat, however, as you deadbolt the door behind him, he looks distinctly awkward - hands in his pockets, and looking around as if unsure.  

“This is my front door,” you say dramatically, waving your hand in demonstration. “This is how normal people enter someone’s home.” 

“Ha, ha,” Bucky says, but he cracks a grin.  

“Do you need the rest of the tour?” you tease, shrugging off your coat to hang up.  

“Maybe just the shower. I think I stink.” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…” 

Bucky glares, and you laugh. “Need any help cleaning up, soldier?” you ask, batting your eyes in imitation of the girls on the train. He rolls his eyes in return.  

“No. I think I know how to shower. We used to bathe back in the 30s and 40s, you know. Weren’t always savages.” 

“Just sometimes.” 

“Just sometimes,” he repeats. And smiles, as you take his coat for him.  

“Well, you know where everything is,” you say, tugging off your boots next. “You’ve made my home yours. Go freshen up, then we’ll talk.” 

“About what?” 

“Anything you want.” 

Bucky tilts his brows suggestively, but you merely smile and wander off towards your bedroom as he makes for the bathroom. A few minutes later, and you can hear the shudder of pipes and rush of water. Should you have insisted on staying with him? In this mood? Maybe. But he seems to be doing better so far, so you shed your clothes for the day as the clock ticks towards midnight. Setting your thigh holster on the dresser, you yawn and listen idly to the water.  

He doesn’t take long. Only a few minutes later the water stops, and you hear Bucky’s plaintive voice through the door, 

“Um - can I have a towel?” 

Chuckling to yourself, you poke your head (and an arm) into the steamy bathroom to fetch one from the cupboard. “Here,” you say, grinning at the wet, dark hair plastered to Bucky’s woeful face as he peeks out from behind the curtain.  

“Thanks.” 

“You’re very modest tonight, aren’t you?” you tease. 

“I’m not in top form,” Bucky deadpans. “Now shoo so I can dry myself.”

Keeping your eyes locked on his, you pretend to sidle out of the room, but pause, looking him up and down as he glares, bumping into the curtain as he tries to dry his limbs. You bite your lip to hide a smirk, and shut the door behind you.  

When Bucky at last emerges, he has deigned to wrap the towel firmly around his waist, but is otherwise bare. Reclining casually in bed and pretending to read a book, you peek up, thoroughly admiring the crystal droplets of water left on his naked chest. Then your eyes descend to the purple and black bruised ribs above his stomach.  

“You need those wrapped?” you ask, swinging your legs over the bed and abandoning your book. “I have a med kit here.” 

“They’re fine,” Bucky shrugs as he runs his fingers through his damp hair. “They’ll be healed by morning.” 

“Optimistic of you.” 

“I prefer to think of it as experienced.” 

You quirk a brow, both admiring and recognizing the glint in Bucky’s eyes as he saunters towards you. Hooking a finger into the waistband of the towel, you lift your gaze to his, smiling.  

“Well. You’re probably experienced enough to know that rigorous activity in this state will only delay healing. Too bad.” 

Bucky’s brows pinch together in clear exasperation. “Really, babe? All that teasing and now you’re afraid of hurting me?” 

“I’m always a little afraid of hurting you,” you sass back. “You may not look a hundred years old, but...” 

He gives a huff of laughter, nudging his knees between yours. “Oh, that’s how it is?”  

“That’s how it is.” The words are barely a breath, as Bucky leans over with glittering eyes and a hard expression, his lips hovering above yours for a tantalizing moment. His fists press into the bedspread on either side of you, and you smirk. “How much pain are you in?” you ask softly.  

“Not enough.” 

“Good.” 

With a tug, the towel falls to the floor.  

There’s no more teasing. Bucky’s lips crash into yours with a groan, and you feel his arms flex under your hands as you try to keep yourself from falling over entirely. Breathlessly you pull away.  

“You lie down,” you say, scooting over. “I won’t be worsening your wounds tonight, Buck.”

“Okay.” The severity of his discomfort is shown in his dogged obedience, crawling over and collapsing on his back, his head buried in the pillow as he squeezes his eyes shut. But obviously Bucky isn’t too uncomfortable. Your eyes rake up and down his body, and you smile to yourself. Throwing a leg over his hips, you brace yourself as you lean down to nuzzle his ear, breathing in deep the scent of your soap clinging to his musky skin.  

“Where does it hurt?” you purr.  

“Ugh - everywhere.” 

“Then I’d better get started.” 

Taking only a moment to press a tender kiss to his lips, you sidle downwards to kiss next the molted skin of his belly and ribs. Every inch that’s swollen, every inch that’s discolored. Bucky sucks in a breath as you nibble gently back upwards to his throat.  

“Better yet?” you ask, paying special attention to the bruises around his eye and nose.  

“Er, yeah. A bit.” His voice is strained.  

“Should I keep going?” 

“Uh...please.” 

Bucky is quivering. Whether it’s pain or something else, you study his face briefly to make sure there’s no hidden agony there - he seems alright - so you next stroke your fingers down his flesh arm. Lifting his hand to your face, you keep your eyes on Bucky’s as you kiss every scratch marring his skin. His breathing is a little ragged as he watches you with hooded eyes.  

“Better?” you whisper.  

“So much better.” 

You lay his hand on your thigh, his fingers immediately pressing into your flesh as you tug your shirt and bra over your head. Discarded. And your pants and underwear next. Bucky watches your awkward movements with a fond smile playing on his lips.  

“No dance for me?” he teases lightly.  

“Oh, you’re getting a dance.” You throw a leg back over his hips, grinning at the sight of his widening eyes. It only takes a little finagling and a sigh of contentment to feel him sheathed so fully within you, and Bucky throws his head back with a groan.  

“Good dance,” he manages to say, his voice hoarse. You laugh a little, but don’t stop - and more mumbling words fall from his lips as white hot pleasure begins to swirl lazily in your veins and coil in your belly. Bucky’s fingers dig into your hips, urging you on. The blazing light in his eyes as he watches your every movement - every roll of your hips, every stuttered breath, every little involuntary moan as the quivers of building euphoria streak through your trembling limbs. Bucky isn’t faring much more coherently - he licks his lips, biting back more groans. 

It doesn’t take much longer. 

With sweat beading on your bare back, with Bucky’s huffing breath breaking the silence of the room, you let your eyes stay closed for a moment. It’s not often that you have the chance to savor making love with him. You’ll take what you can get.  

Eventually you feel the gentle pads of Bucky’s fingers tracing up your arms - goosebumps break out beneath the cold metal ones, but you don’t mind. With a sigh you climb off of him as he winces, and collapse at his side, snuggling in close.  

“You didn’t exert yourself, did you?” you murmur, burying your nose into his flesh shoulder to savor his scent. Bucky chortles. 

“You did all the work there, babe. I kept perfectly still.” 

“Good. I’d hate to explain to Tony or Steve why you didn’t heal overnight like you said you would.” 

He laughs again, curling his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer. With his metal hand, he reaches down to tug the bedspread up to cover both of you, and you sigh again.  

“Do you need to go back?” you ask after a moment, a coil of dread twisting your stomach. In Bucky’s embrace - in a warm bed after a long day - it’s hard to be the conscience. Propping your chin up on his shoulder, you study his expression as he frowns at the ceiling.  

“No. I don’t think they’ll notice I’m gone.” 

“Hmm. Well, Steve’s supposed to be back in the morning from his mission. I don’t think you’ll be able to slip past him.” 

“Sure I will.” Bucky tilts his head, grinning at you that charming smile that makes you feel cozy and warm all over. “Believe it or not, I’m an adult and I’m allowed to sleep away from my residence if I so choose.” 

“Uh huh. So what will you tell Steve?” 

“That I spent the night riding the train and feeling depressed.” The joke only lasts a split-second - Bucky starts to chuckle, and spluttering giggles burst from your lips.  

“The worst thing is, he’ll probably believe it,” you tease. 

“Yep. Now, are you going to turn off the light, or are you going to make the man with dislocated ribs and a black eye get up out of his comfortable position to - ” 

You groan, interrupting his spiel. “Oh, please. You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” 

“Yep.” Bucky’s smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and you roll yours fondly in return. But all the same, you quickly kick back the covers, run (still naked) over to the light switch, and flick it off. Rushing back through the sudden darkness to the warmth of the bed, you snuggle in close to Bucky, placing your cold toes on his feet. He groans, squirming away as far as his injury will allow.  

“Payback?”

“You know it.” 

But he’s not bitter. Idly his fingers tangle in your hair as you close your eyes with a yawn. The scritch-scratch against your scalp puts you in a trance, and the distant sound of traffic below fades faraway. Here, there’s only Bucky.

~

“Hey, you ready to go?” 

Bucky glances up from lacing his shoes towards Sam, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom looking more than ready for the charity half-marathon Stark had signed the Avengers up for. The prospect is...alright, really. No real complaints. Except that it’s six a.m. 

“I’m ready,” Bucky says, and stands, rolling back his shoulders to ease out the stiffness of sleeping.  

“What’s this?” Sam has been distracted, and he takes a step into the room to pick up a new picture frame that sits on the bedside table. Sam stares at it for a moment, then looks back up at Bucky, his brows twisted in bafflement. “You keep a picture of yourself on your nightstand?” he asks.  

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t you?” 

“Nah, man.” Sam sets the frame back down, shaking his head. “Let’s go.” 

“After you, Wilson.” 

Sam’s back turns as he heads towards the door, and Bucky smiles a little to himself as he takes a clandestine peek at the picture. Himself, of course, with his arm slung over an empty upholstered seat to his side, grinning broadly at the camera.  

“See you at the race,” he murmurs to himself, and follows Sam out.