#found this in my drafts so just gonna go ahead and post this sob

[callofloony]

As fate would have it. (141)

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Very long HC post up ahead!

Tags: Fluff, angst, mentions of death and violence, 141 headcanons, hurt/comfort, everyone is hurt, Price is the comfort, semi proofread, found family dynamics… with an asterisk, i guess? Lmk if i missed any!!

A/N: This literally took me so long to type out auagwhhwhw!!!!! It’s been in my drafts for SO LONG. The premise is Price slowly realizing the ways 141 wormed their way into his heart. Hope you likeyyy!!!

~ Post begins under the cut ~

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Maybe it’s because I’m really into found family, or because I’m in love with the idea of a stoic, serious man, having soft spots for those he’s closest with. But I’m having thoughts, so now it’s everyone else’s problem.

I am the absolute firmest believer that Price wasn’t all that close to his team when they first joined, with the only exception maybe being Gaz. He only saw them as coworkers, nothing else beyond that.

He recognized their capabilities, understood where their limits were, and treated them like the assets they were. But that’s all he saw, assets. Of course, he still cared about them, but it didn’t go as far as to call them friends, let alone family.

But things started to change when he heard something slip from Soap while staring at a calendar, muttering that he missed someone… It was the anniversary of his mothers death, and it had him feeling a bit more worse for wear than usual.

Price felt a sudden pang in his heart hearing that, one that he’d never felt before. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one, especially a parent, and his heart ached for Soap.

He’d never felt such empathy towards a teammate before, let alone someone he was literally fighting tooth and nail with, risking their lives, and getting their hands dirty… So the world stays clean.

He decides after some internal debate to give Soap the day off, he didn’t have any work or missions to be completed, and he was mostly just making his way around base anyway. Training, looking for a distraction.

When asked why, Price didn’t have a clear answer. He didn’t want Soap to know he’d accidentally overheard him speak about his mother, so he simply said, “You’ve earned it.”

That was the catalyst to Price beginning to loosen up more, show a little more affection to his team. He kept that date in his mind, often allowing Soap a little more leeway on things during that month, before turning back to his no nonsense boss persona.

He wrote it off internally as just comradery, giving Soap some room to mourn while also getting his work done, it’d help him out in the long run! Simple as that…

Then, he walked in on Gaz having a panic attack.

Gaz was horrified when he saw Price, snapping his gaze towards the reports he was supposed to be working on, trying to hide the shaking in his hands and the tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes, giving his Captain a slight wave before brushing him off. But the air in the room was tense, and obvious.

Price hadn’t experienced a panic attack before, but he knew what the signs looked like, and had helped people through them before. He wasn’t just gonna leave Gaz like this… What was he thinking? When had he started empathizing so hard with the other man?

He just sighed and shut the door behind him, walking over to Gaz with a stern, yet soft gaze on his face, making Gaz whimper and tense up with worry. But when Price reached out to him, he simply placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Gaz flinched and turns to Price who had a look of understanding on his face, like he understood, and wouldn’t judge Gaz for whatever it was that caused this. And that made Gaz break.

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed softly, trying not to make too much noise or being annoying in fear that Price would think less of him. That just made Price shake his head, wrapping his arm around Gaz’s side and pulling him forward, allowing him to rest his head on his Captains shoulder. And that only made him cry harder.

He pulled Price into a hug, grip loose so he could pull away whenever, but he didn’t… He just waited until Gaz was calm, he was already struggling, Price didn’t want to add onto that.

After a minute or two, Gaz finally calmed down and was able to catch his breath, feeling way better as he’d been holding that cry in for a while. And Price smiled at him, asking a simple question… “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

And the question shocked Gaz, he didn’t expect his Captain would be so open eared about this, but if he was offering… Gaz figured he had nothing to lose here.

He began opening up, hands continuing to tremble as he recalled having to put an injured dad and his kid to sleep, the kid looked at Gaz with such fear and panic, but the father was practically begging for it to be over, they both knew it was for the best, but… He couldn’t get the kids face out of his head.

He’d put a fatally injured child out of their misery after a bombing, their eyes and begs burned into his mind like a bad scar, and the report was for that mission… He was crying again, looking away and apologizing.

Price looked shocked when he’d heard that, Gaz never mentioned anything like that when they’d headed back to their getaway. Price saw that Gaz looked slightly shaken up, but he chalked it up to nerves… He hadn’t known.

He shook his head and firmly told Gaz not to apologize, that these were circumstances he couldn’t have controlled, and that anyone would’ve preferred a quick death rather than a slow one, comforting the other man.

He took the report from Gaz’s desk after, making the Sergeants eyes widen in shock, and upon questioning why, Price says, “I don’t need you getting more affected than you already have, I’ll finish this up. Go rest.”

And Gaz nods, not wanting to argue with him.

Price feels exasperated with himself as he finishes the work Gaz had been assigned, why had he just done that? When had these feelings of neutrality, turned into ones of concern?

He shook his head, brushing it off again. He was just giving Gaz a break from the stress of missions and work, nothing more. Nothing like this would ever happen again, he had to promise himself…

Then, he had a smoke with Ghost.

Ghost was probably the most reserved person on his team, and Price didn’t mind keeping it that way. It was just easier to keep work, work. And personal shit, personal.

It was the only way he’d keep from completely caving, anyway.

That was until he noticed Ghost outside base, leaning against the wall, mask rolled up in order to have a calming smoke. Looking up at the sky in seemingly deep, intense thought.

Price knocked on the wall to let Ghost he was there before walking over, tilting his head at the other man. Ghost just gave him a nod of acknowledgment before returning to smoking. He didn’t mind Price being there, the man had already seen his face anyway.

“Mind if I smoke with you?” Price had asked simply, leaning against the wall Ghost was on. He could see the faintest flicker in Ghosts eyes when the other man spoke, he hadn’t looked at the Captain, he just exhaled the smoke before nodding again. Allowing Price in his bubble.

Price smiled slightly and pulled a cigar out, lighting it while looking up at the sky like Ghost was, a vein of curiosity spreading through his body as glanced at the other man, once, twice, thrice… He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t hold his tongue anymore.

He took another huff of the cigar, releasing the air as he prepared for whatever response might come from this.

“What’s on your mind?”

His voice was soft and genuine, giving Ghost a full look as he definitely noticed the glances Price gave him before, he’d just been waiting for his Captain to say something.

Ghost paused for a moment, contemplating his answer before sighing and shaking his head, putting out his cigarette against the wall, a soft sizzle being heard as it died out.

He said he wasn’t required to say anything, which made Price chuckle and nod. The other man was right, he didn’t have to say anything if he didn’t want to, and Price wouldn’t interrogate him for it, however… That didn’t mean pestering wasn’t on the table.

Price continued to lightheartedly press about the things going on in Ghosts mind, Price already knew about some of the things the other man had been through, life altering and ruining things that didn’t look like something anyone could bounce back from… But Simon did.

Or so he thought.

Ghost huffed and rolled down his mask, crossing his arms and looking away from Price right after. Truth be told, he wasn’t necessarily in the mood for Prices insistent attempts at getting him to speak. Though, he couldn’t help but appreciate the effort.

After a bit of contemplating, he sighed and gave Price a slight glance. Tensing up a little before beginning to speak. He trusted Price, he knew he wouldn’t be judged for everything that was on his mind.

He spoke in a low, slightly softer tone than Price was used to, which caught the Captain off guard, but it only made him listen more intently. Simon revealed he was reminiscing about his family, his mother, Tommy, Beth, and his adorable nephew, Joseph.

He never showed it outright, but he missed them dearly. Nightmares plagued his mind about finding their dead bodies, the grief and horror he felt was something he’d never been able to let go of. How it still hurts to think and remember, and the haunting realization that’d he’d forgotten what even his own mothers voice sounded like.

He gets a bit choked up while speaking, his voice laced with a slight quiver, a tremble in his hands as he reminisces. He blamed himself for it, deeply.

Prices heart and face softened when Ghost said this, he knew part of what the other man had been through, but he didn’t know the full extent, let alone the amount of trauma and scars that had been inflicted onto him.

Hearing all this now? It made his heart break, and he knew he had to do something. He’d pressured Ghost into opening up, he wouldn’t just leave the other man in heartache.

He looked at Ghost with a somber gaze, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder, a comforting gesture that he’d allow Ghost to pull away from. But he didn’t, he just looked at Price with his eyes slightly widened.

Prices expression read, “It’s okay to cry, mate.” And that’s exactly what he did, Ghost couldn’t remember the last time he had a good cry. He looked down as the tears begin to stream out of his eyes, he barely made any noise, but with the waterfall of tears, the impact was there, and it meant a lot to him.

Price just continueed to be there, patting Ghost on the shoulder, eventually moving to his back. He was encouraging Ghost to cry, everyone cried. Everyone needed to cry. Even Price sometimes.

Price wouldn’t pretend to understand what Ghost had gone through, or even how bad it affected him, because he knew he’d be wrong. But, when Simon turned to him with slightly puffy eyes, giving his Captain a nod and a quiet, “thank you.” He smiled, knowing he did something right.

After those instances, he started to notice some changes. Everyone seemed to be acting a bit more casual and chill with him. Striking up small talk, engaging in banter, hell… Even smiling more around him. And like the man he was, he indulged them.

Soap got him small gifts and trinkets as a way to show his gratitude to Price. Perhaps a kind of chocolate he ate when he was younger, that he thought wasn’t being manufactured anymore. He mentioned it in passing, feeling nostalgic. And Soap had found it again.

Gaz began offering to help comfort and calm Price down whenever a mission goes to shite, because that’s the same thing Price had done for him. He offered a shoulder to cry on without judgement, and Gaz wanted to show he’d be there for his Captain as well.

Ghost began to strike up more conversations and show his true colors to Price, after generally being a bit more reserved than anyone else, and it showed Price just how comfortable the other man had become around him, even after just that single interaction.

And all of it, makes him crack a smile.

It frustrated him, why was he like this? He’d made a promise. A promise that he wouldn’t become attached to anyone on this team, that it would remain strictly professional… But he failed. What was wrong with him?

It���s only when 141 plans a surprise for him, does he find out why.

They’d been scheming for ages for the perfect plan, holidays were usually spent working. Whether it be missions, paperwork, training the recruits, they were always busy… But that day, his team had their chance.

Gaz knocked on his office door, gesturing that there was something he needed help with, and Price followed, feeling confused when the other man had brought him into a dimly lit room, was this a trick? A prank? He’d be on his ass if it was…

And then Gaz flipped the light switch, and everything made sense. In front of him were 3 presents (one from each member), a cake, and Soap and Ghost standing there, yelling out, “Happy birthday!”

He stood there stunned for a moment as Gaz chuckled, giving the other man a pat on the shoulder with an eyebrow raised, asking, “So… What do you think? Are you surprised?” He certainly was, he’d forgotten it was his birthday, and he didn’t even realize the others knew.

He continued to stand there shocked before chuckling, a smile creeping onto his lips, he couldn’t express his gratitude properly as an affectionate, “You muppets…” Escaped his lips. And they all celebrated.

It was a small party, sure, but they all had the time of their lives. Bonding, joking, and all around just being happy. Price never could’ve expected this to happen in his over three decades of living, but he could honest to god say… This was the best birthday he could’ve asked for.

And that’s when it hit him, the reason why he was being so affectionate and understanding towards these men, the men he set out to only view as subordinates, and nothing else… He’d always had it in his heart to love ‘em.

He didn’t want to get attached because subconsciously, he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle losing them, even if he never got close to them. But… Life has a funny way of twisting fate, so this destiny was his, and he had no choice but to accept it. With open arms might I add.

They were his family now, a family he knew would stick by his side, and always be with him. No matter what came to tear them apart. Rain or shine, life or death, they’d be there to support him until kingdom come…

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

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A/N: WOOOOOO IT’S DONE!! IT’S OUT!!!! SCREAMS! A lot of this is prolly very very unrealistic but SHHHH LEMME BE AUTISTIC… ty for reading hehe !!

[amaranthinepride-archive]

character info sheet

stolen from @devilsxson    >_>

name of your muse: Leon Trabocchi

aliases: Leon Bray

one picture you like best of your character’s fc: This shoot is what made me pick him in the first place tbh.

two headcanons you have for your character that you never told anyone:

✘ He’s honestly slightly shunned by a lot of the Wizarding community. Not on purpose most of the time, but there’s just this big disconnect. Like they’re all waiting for him to fail and betray them. So he generally doesn’t “hang” with them other than for purely professional purposes. Cuz he sure as hell isn’t going to hide Who or What he is. 

✘ Along the same vein, I feel like this has been hinted at but never really said: He’s lonely. He never actually shows it or admits to it out of pride, but he missed his Siblings and being together back when he was still actively trying to do evil. Even now he still tends towards lonliness since he has a hard time connecting with others and just showing he cares in a way most would see. 

three things your character likes doing in their free time:

✘ Messing with spells. ✘ Reading - especially about philosophy and theology. ✘ Caring for his plants and insects.

seven people that your character loves/likes:

They’re all other OC’s I haven’t really mentioned yet tbh + his parents + his Siblings so no one to tag quite yet.

✘ N/A

two things your character regrets:

✘ Unleashing death and entropy into the world. ✘ Not being a better son and forcing his family to move multiple times when he was younger due to his pride.

two phobias your character has:

✘ Being alone forever. ✘ Find out he’s truly unable to change Who He Is.

tag ten people to do the same: Do it if you wanna!

[botwstoriesandsuch]

hey Kip! I’m sending asks into different writer’s askboxes, inquiring about cool themes/development facts/stuff the author wants to share about their personal favorite work of their own. What’s yours? :)

Ok so this ask is old and when I first got it I was like “dang I don’t really have a lot to talk about, what should I talk about I could those revalink headcanons the Kip Cut that turned into a working fic uhh hmm maybe I’ll just make something new to talk about real quick” and then I did and now there is a 12+ chapter Revalink fic in my drafts and I’m gonna talk about that now, whoopsie doopsie [click "j" to skip]

aHEM, OK so allow me to break out the primary school white board because yeah, I have a lot of thoughts and the oxford comma has not yet made it’s home into my brain. oh and spoilers for paraphrase. for both all of Chapter one and future events in later chapters, but it’s really nothing you couldn’t surmise from the AO3 tags

so I really wanted to tell the story of Revali and Link learning and struggling to love again after the less-than-fortunate events of Botw, but I wanted a...how you say...fresher, approach on the subject? Like I know we always say that fanfic writers writing the same tropes and stories time and time again is good because we eat that shit up--but at the same time I had asian parenting as was told never to half ass anything ever, no matter what. So now I'm gay and extra and have depression maybe and oh would you look at that @motherhyrule has dropped a beautiful revalink prompt right into my lap

Great so now that we have, that, I shall take you on the step by step process on how to make a :sparkles: story. So step one is to spend at least five to eleven business days for your white board to dismantle your genre and themes and work them around your character arcs. Luckily I have prepared one ahead of time

s*breaks out those laser pointers that uni professors use* So let's start with defining genre. As define because I HATE you, fuck you. I want you to suffer and writhe on the ground, motherfucker. How dare you think that I would give you nothing but pure predictable fluff, fuck you and yours

is the set of expectations that your audience has when consuming a piece of media

And the great thing about fanfiction is that unlike movies or book where the genres are more vague like, "oh it's a noir mystery genre. so there's a crime, maybe a murder, and a detective and a criminal." or "oh it's a teen romance. so there's some white people and a morally questionable six-pack 18 year old love interest that will be painted as desirable for some reason" BUT with fanfiction HALF of the work out the window, because as soon as you see those #revalink #aro sidon #zelpha #revali is an idiot and #found family tags you already know what's up.

Now what's so great about genre and expectation? Well the fun thing about it is that

I will use it to fucking break you.

... ... ...

<3 For example! <3

In Chapter 1: Holes, you already expect there to be revalink, you already expect them to be soulmates with the soulmarks and there's angst and yadayada ya. Revali and Link have to match because thatttss what this is all about, this is about them! This is about cute, little soulmarks and romantic words!

But whoooopsie doopsie [disney channel laugh track plays] they DON'T match anymore! Link's got a different mark! The number one rule of this entire genre has been broken whoooooooooooooooops. *ba dum tiss*

You might notice with a lot of my writing that I do this a lot, this whole..."oop but there's one little thing that's different." TebaSaki sick fic? Ok cool, but what if Teba burns an irreplaceable relic of the Rito champion to fight a wizzrobe first to characterize why his dumbass clicks with Saki. Mipha deciding to persue Link? Ok what if she chases after a dragon to externalize this conflict as she pierces it's flesh for a scale. Link fighting a Lynel? Ok but what if it's actually a sidlink angst fic in disguise and it's also world building on how Link deals with the bloodmoon that erases all of his efforts which is sort of similar to how his existence was erased from Hyrule 100 years ago mwaahahaha! Ok now that I say this outloud I think I just have a pattern of using fight scenes to externalize character growth. I like fight scenes...anyways.

I think another great thing about the realm of fanfiction is that with the tagging system, I can basically use a chekhov's gun sort of deal, without doing any writing. You know I'm gonna use that gun marked "soulmates" but you don't know when I'm gonna shoot it, and you SURE as hell don't know how.

And huzzah! One of the main points of conflict both drives the tension between Revali and Link, solidifies the unique genre and setting of this world, while also creating a new mystery that will carry over for the next few chapters.

Is Revali right in that Link's rebirth makes him destined for someone new now? What will Link do with the information that his soulmark has changed? Why did it change? Did Revali's change as well? How does anything fucking work right now?

And sure, you might be able to tell where things will end with them, but you sure as fuck will not know how because I HATE you. Fuck you. I want you to suffer and writhe on the ground, motherfucker. How dare you think that I would give you nothing but pure predictable fluff. I am not your goddamn fairy godmother, I will do as I fucking please. You will suffer as you fucking deserve, fuck you and your little tiny--

/j

Oh! But you might have noticed on my little planning whiteboard thing that there was a little T-Chart! For Revali and Link! That's because the next important thing besides plot (and in a lot of cases, including this one, it's argued to be even MORE important than plot) is

~CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT~

[to the tune of that history of the world video on youtube]

So yes, it's a little T-Chart outlining their character views in relation to the themes. And the great thing about themes is that they're not something you can necessarily predict in the same way you can with the genre and plot.

But now see, I'm very lazy so I'm just gonna plagiarize @hyrule-kingdom-updates thingy [that you should read btw] because they said my point quite clear enough

Now I don't really need to care about those points about bond and relationships and being understood, because I'm dealing with already established canon characters. I'm not some NERD who dabbles with entire casts of ocs who even cares about ocs not me that's for sure ahaahahaahahahahahaahahahahahAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH *cries in my orphaned WTTU fic* AHAHAHA*sobs*DONT FUCKING LOOK AT ME THAT WAY I SWEAR--

/j I love ocs

But the points I do wanna focus on is the idea that characters provide new perspectives on the theme, and that characters growth can be tracked based on their wants, lies, and needs.

So see, themes can be predicted the same as genre/plot because while you can have the same fanfic plots and tropes, theme will always vary!

Sometimes it's a journey of selfworth with Revali! Sometimes it's an exploration of trauma with Link. Sometimes it's about how you deal with the vulnerabilities of love with Mipha. Sometimes there's straight up NOOOO theme, and people just be fucking, and kissing, and baking, and having a good time. And that is totally fine too!

But I'm not a fucking coward.

I'm gonna weave in themes with my plot, because I fucking can.

I'm not a weakling like you.

Do you hear me, 2019 Kip? Do you hear me Demmers? Do you hear me Quill? I'm coming for your ass. You think you're so great, but I'm coming for you. Rest assured that your graves will be as deep as your sculptured pride--

Heeeere is that T-Chart again, plus more!

yyyyyYou might notice that Revali and Link are quite parallel, to paraphrase. Ayoooo, see what I did there? *dabs* I'm a genius. Anywho

They both start off the same way: 100 years ago they were in love and happy. Basically the equivalent of childish naivety. For the first time in their lives, life is whimsical and charming, and they make each other happy. In fact, it's almost a flaw with how they perceive this happiness. But don't worry! It doesn't last long!

You know what happens.

I think the chart is pretty self explanatory. Revali builds walls fast enough to give a republican a wet dream. Meanwhile Link makes every aromantic in the chat groan with his doubled down sentiments in the idea that his chances of being truly happy again are gone.

Now, I can't exactly describe the full on process of the inbetweens, and where Revali and Link are gonna go from here, because...you have to read it for yourself! Heehee...but something I did think was fun was how these character views on the themes are revealed. Because you'll notice that, I never give exposition. Ever.

Ok well, let me rephrase that. I never give exposition scenes. I will never give you a big LOTR fancy wizard scene explaining the ins and outs of a character's question or the world's magic or whatever. I'm a very impatient Kip, and I value efficiency. Nonono, it's all about multi tasking, baby!

Chapter 1: Holes is divided into three parts.

Post 100 Years - Medoh (Establishes Ghost Rev/Bonk Head Link's view)

100 Years Ago - Flight Range (Establishes old Revalink views)

Post 100 years - Mark (Develops Ghost Rev/Bonk Head Link's view in contrast to who they once were)

I think the way that you structure flashbacks is incredible vital, as it's a very quick way to characterize people without having them say stuff like "I used to be like you, until I took an arrow to the knee" or whatever.

And with the main structure of the chapters and the fic as a whole is focus on their characters, that means I can hide whatever other stuff I want in those scenes, becuase you're too busy absorbing the fun character stuff to realizing I'm giving you boring exposition. Like for example:

Post 100 Years - Medoh and Mark

Foreshadowing for the end of the fic

Set up connection to Medoh with Revali

Link has defeated Windblight

Link has been visiting Revali every night for the past few days

Link has already met Kass and presumably Teba

Link doesn't have the Mastersword

Revali's Gale is still an ability that needs master and practice on Link's end

And that's just some of the stuff.

And see, the only reason I can efficiently give all of this information regarding character, and even exposition, is because of the theme. The themes make everything relevant, and everything circles and encompasses one another, so there's absolutely no wasted space. I mean don't even get me started on how it's gonna be to characterize the other characters around this

I don't wanna talk about the other characters too much either because that's spoilers, but you can probably take a gandar based on my notes.

And oh my god this is just on the theme of the faults that come with "soulmates" and "true love" and all that, and how even magical destined relationships still require work and effort, and that no one thing or person solves all your problems. And that's not even TOUCHING the shit on trauma and scars. I didn't think it was even possible for me to talk about botw without touching on that, ha. Ah well, I've been talking for too long.

Revalink has a lot o' writing potential so das pretty cool yeah, I am excite

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mr. Self Destruct

Warnings: Bucky’s a bastard, control, PTSD and other lovely mental issues, eventual noncon

This is dark!Bucky Barnes and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary:  Bucky has been left by his closest friend. With no other choice, he works for Stark Industries in the name of both Stark and Rogers but before he can begin his new position, he is mandated to attend counselling. With you, the company’s resident therapist.

Note: This is gonna be a two-parter because this one shot got a bit beyond my control. But I hope you guys like this. If you’re wondering what’s going on with me is I have no focus and this is what I decided to do instead of anything useful. Love y’all.

Anyway :) Please like, reply, and/or reblog if you read.

Since it all ended, since the lost were found and the ash returned to sunlight, life had grown hectic. Your line of work became all the more important. New patients, new problems, new hours. 

For those dark years in between, it was grief counselling for the lost. Guiding others through the stages as you worked through them too. But how was one to cope with the loss of time? To cope with displacement in a world that had gone on without them. To come back to not only a different world, but different people. 

Those they had known before changed, but they’d stayed the same. To them, it was a blink of the eye. In their minds, they were never gone. They didn’t know the world after them. The flecks of dust that floated through the air, the startling silence that overtook the streets and stilled the leaves. They couldn’t know and they couldn’t understand.

Stark Tower bustled. It was like before, not that you’d been there then. You were hired during the blip. Steve Rogers organized sessions for the mourning and you accepted the chore of guiding them. Of teaching him how to address issues of grief and death. Of facing the unknown and the uncontrollable. Something he never quite managed to do himself; never really managed to let go of what he lost.

He was gone now. In the media, he was dead, like Stark. You were of the privileged to know that he chose to leave this world. His one goal achieved, he left behind all he’d fought so hard to restore. He left behind those who depended on him for his fantasy. For the life he refused to let go of. For her.

You couldn’t blame him but in your opinion, professional and otherwise, it would not ease his doubts. Not quell his fears of a life squandered. He was still running. He’d always be running. But he made his decision and chose the same plight in another time. There was nothing to do about that.

You were anxious. A new patient. You knew of him but you’d never met him. Would you call Steve a mutual friend? Maybe just an acquaintance; a colleague. As much as your relationship with the man had blurred lines, so to had it with this man. His oldest and closest friend, rather ally. The one he’d laid his life down for and yet left behind just as impulsively. The man with a plan had never truly had one.

You stared down at the city through the window. Behind you, your pad and pen rested on the round table just beside the dark green chair. A couch sat across from it, grey but cozy. Long enough to recline but your patients rarely did more than sit stiffly or pace. Maybe hug a pillow as they sobbed.

You gripped the window frame. You were rarely so nervous about your job. You couldn’t be. Your task was to put people at ease, not rile them. Bucky’s file was there too. Hidden in the drawer of your desk. You’d pored over it. Military records and censored Hydra documents. A puzzle with missing pieces.

You heard footsteps in the hall. They paused before your door and you peeked over your shoulder as the frosted glass darkened. The figure on the other side was still. You waited. When they finally knocked, you flinched. You turned and stepped around the couch. Your heels were loud as the carpet dissolved to hardwood. 

You opened the door. “Come in,” You greeted, unsurprised by your visitor. Early but long-awaited. Long-dreaded. Why? He was just a man.

He blinked and nodded as he stepped past you. The canvas jacket hid his metal arm and he seemed like any other man. His hands were tucked into his jeans as he hesitantly entered and looked around the office. The lights were dimmer than the usual fluorescents of the tower; the space cozy compared to the sterile labs.

“Would you like something to drink?” The door clicked as you closed it and he glanced around to look at it. His jaw clenched.

“No...thank you,” He walked along the back of the couch and you passed along the other side.

You took your notepad from the table and twirled the pen between your fingers. It hit your thumb and bounced off the leather folder in your hand. It landed at his feet as he halted suddenly. He picked it up with his vibranium fingers and considered the shiny brown plastic trimmed in gold. He offered it back to you without a word. You took it and he went back to investigating with his eyes.

“Would you like to sit down?” You asked. Your voice sounded brittle and you nearly choked on the pieces as it cracked.

“No,” He said curtly as he gripped the back of the couch.

“Do you mind if I do?” 

“Go ahead,” He shrugged.

You sat and the green leather felt unwelcoming. He stared down at his metal fingers and they tightened around the grey upholstery. His long lashes shrouded his eyes and his thick beard was laced with shadows. His long hair was drawn back in a tie but strands hung loose and untamed around his face.

“You don’t want to be here.” You said.

“What gave it away?” He rolled his eyes. You didn’t reply. “I have to be here, because they say I do.”

“And if you weren’t here, what would happen?”

“Then I couldn’t work.” His tone suggested you were stupid. 

“And what would happen if you couldn’t work?” You prodded.

He looked up at you and his blue eyes burned hotly. “Then…” He began and tore his gaze from you. “I wouldn’t work, I guess.”

“Is there anything else you could do besides this? Besides fighting?”

“Not since I put my name down in 1941,” He grumbled and turned his back to you. “Can you just tick the box so I can go?”

“No, because then I wouldn’t be working,” You insisted. “So...you gonna sit down?”

He sighed and circled the couch. He considered the cushions but carried on. He passed your chair and went to the window. He stood as you had only minutes before.

“Why can’t you do anything else?” You asked. He was quiet as he played with the cord of the blinds. “Mr. Barnes--”

“Bucky,” He corrected you.

“Bucky, why can’t--”

“Because I don’t know how. I know how to kill and that’s it.” His voice was heavy and wrapped around your throat. “I just wanna kill the right people this time.”

“You enjoy it?”

Silence. He pushed himself away from the window and the cord brushed against the frame noisily. He stayed behind you, pacing just around your chair.

“It’s my job.”

“And you enjoy your job?”

“It’s work.”

“You’re not answering my questions.”

“Because they’re stupid questions.” His hands were on the back of your chair as he loomed over you.

“They are relevant questions.” You insisted, fighting not to flinch. If he sensed the rise in your nerves, it wouldn’t help. “So, do you enjoy your work?”

“I’m good at it,” He shoved himself away from the chair so hard it moved. “It’s what I know, what I do.”

“You never wanted to be anything else? To do anything else? Surely, as a child, you didn’t foresee war--”

“As a child, I was stupid. And as an adult, worse.” He walked along the wall and looked at your degree. He leaned in as he read the cursive font of your name and said it allowed. “I was never smart enough for all that.”

“According to your records, you were top of your class.”

“In a Brooklyn public school. In the 30s. Surely not the peak of education.” His eyes remained on the framed certificate.

“Your grades were good enough to qualify.” You suggested. You began to scribble notes softly, recalling that he was a patient. That you needed to record this all. 

“I qualified for enlistment, too. They still had to draft me, though. Maybe if those universities had too, I’d be just like you, doc.” He touched the glass of the frame with his real hand. “Maybe I’d have spent the last half of the century at a desk pushing a pen, unaware of all the bullshit in this world.”

“If you could go back and do it that way, would you?”

“Like Steve. Like the hero, huh?” He stepped away from the wall and kept his back to you. “He was always braver than me, or I thought so. What kind of bravery is it just haul ass back to the past? I didn’t ask him to keep me out of prison, to keep Stark from killing me, but he did that out of his vainglorious honour. Then he left me and where was his honour then?”

He kicked the couch with a grunt and crossed his arms. You watched him as he kept his face hidden from you. He paced along the far wall, back and forth as he steamed.

“You’re mad at Steve for leaving?”

“No.” 

“But you are mad.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m stuck here. With you, talking about...nonsense.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I have to be.”

“No, Bucky,” You stood slowly and set aside your notepad. “Why are you here?”

He stopped and turned to you. He crossed the room until he was right before you, glaring down. His lips twitched but he quickly pressed them together and shook his head. He scoffed.

“Because I always do what I’m told.” He backed away until he was right before the couch. He sat and clamped his hands down on his knees. “Like a good soldier.”

-

The sessions turned to silence. A pattern at first. Each a face off between you and Bucky. Vague answers, if any. Then he stopped talking at the end of the first month. You sat, talking to the walls of your office,no response as he checked his watch and waited. But you didn’t stop. 

As he sat, you took your notes and went over them after he left. The bulk of his issues were intertwined with deep post-traumatic stress and feeling of abandonment. Not just that Steve left him, but that he’d been left to Hydra for decades without a thought. A sense of powerlessness left him wanting control and the one thing he could control was his own voice. He told you what he wanted and the rest, he kept to himself.

After your last meeting, you poured yourself a glass of wine and stared at the blank page. You’d acted as if you’d been writing but the pen was dead and merely left embossed scribbles in the paper. He was your only new patient so far and the others didn’t have any problem talking. If anything, they talked too much. They didn’t stop and reflect on what they said, even when prompted.

You set aside the leather folder and packed it away. You finished the warm red wine and left the glass beside the sink in your small bathroom. You pulled on the plaid blazer hung over your desk chair and hooked your bag over your shoulder. The New York sky was dark outside your window. You couldn’t spend another night in your office.

You hailed a cab and watched the blur of the city. Your little walk-up beckoned you inside and you dropped your bag atop your disposed shoes. You stopped inside the living room. Dark and grim. You flipped the switch and the antique sconces shone deep yellow in the small room. Empty.

The mug you’d left on the coffee table was still there and the book you tried to read was closed and forgotten on the corner. Everything was in order and yet it felt as if something was different. As if someone had been there before you. You walked the perimeter but found nothing amiss. Nothing but the tickle at the base of your skull.

You removed your blazer and folded it over the back of the armchair. The summer was fading and autumn slowly crept up in the evenings. You sat on the couch and took the book from the corner of the table. 

It looked worn though you still hadn't gotten more than halfway through. Though every time you opened it, the spine seemed weaker as if you'd been contorting it to fit your hand. But it didn't fit your hand. Not quite. 

You dropped it and sat back. You were due to see Bucky again at the end of the week. You'd seen him a couple times beyond your office. In the halls with his co-workers, with the authority he disdained so much.

You didn't know how to get through to him. Couldn't, you were sure. Perhaps, you didn't need to. Maybe he only needed to. How could you ever help a man who wouldn't help himself?

You brushed aside your flurry of thoughts. You weren't at work. Your notepad stayed in your bag and rarely did you mull over it at home. It was too easy to let it consume you.

You clicked on the television and laid back. The white noise filled your ears and you closed your eyes. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. You'd figure something out.

-

Friday. You were due for your next session with Bucky that afternoon. The tower was at a peak, the crowds flurried in and out of the revolving doors as you opted for those doors hidden at the side of the building.

You stopped by the small kiosk that sold overpriced caffeine and ordered some seasonal favourite with an extra shot of espresso. You dropped a tip in the bowl as your eyes fixed on the gift shop nestled between the newspaper stand and a tiny realty office. The lobby was a microcosm of the city itself.

You'd never been in the shop despite having passed by it for several years. You took your cup and crossed to the little store. You stepped inside and nodded at the cashier who didn’t seem to notice you over their phone screen. You glossed over the shelves of stuffed bears and dogs, beyond the trail mix and tees, to the small rack of notebooks in the back corner.

You took a small one and ran your finger over the hide cover. Lined pages and a single ribbon to keep your place. A loop inside the cover with a pen through it. It would be a start. You went to the counter and purchased the overpriced journal. In the scheme of life, what was a few dollars?

You tucked the book into your bag and sipped from your latte carefully. You wove through the lobby of people and stepped onto the packed elevator. The ascent was slow and tense. The bodies lessened with each floor and along with two others, you departed on the top floor.

Your first patient for the day was a press secretary still struggling to make sense of the world after the blip. Along with everything else, the media had changed and so not only her life, but her work had transformed with the dusting. She was slowly regaining her feet and her position in Stark Tower, learning from her former apprentice who had taken her place during those long years.

When she left, quite happily, you sat at your desk and shuffled through your folders. Despite your early successes of the day, you dreaded your next client. Bucky was never easy to decipher and time didn’t help that. Each time you saw him, it only seemed harder to get through to him.

You rose to stretch your legs and filled a carafe with water and set it on the round table beside the couch, two glasses with it. You peered out the window as taxis honked below and the streets glared in the afternoon sunlight. You went back to your desk and sat, a folder open before you but unread. You couldn’t focus. Not lately.

Was it you? Something was off. The order of your life, established after the devastation of that singular day, had dissolved in its undoing. Chaos returned when the world had. The change was so subtle you couldn’t place it. Every room you walked into seemed amiss, disordered and yet nothing was different. All was as it should be. Or looked to be.

A knock came at the door and jolted you. You straightened in your chair and called to the frosted glass. “Come in.” You watched the handle turn, the broad shoulders as they entered, the head of dark hair pulled back lazily, the observant blue eyes as they found you at your desk. “Good afternoon.”

Bucky only grumbled as he closed the door behind him. He stood by it, daring not to come any further. This was how it always began. His reluctance kept him unsettled. He’d hover there by the exit, hoping for his dismissal, then he’d pace, trapped in his cage. Silent, almost unresponsive as your words bounced off his stony veneer.

“Water?” You offered. He followed your gesture to the pitcher and shook his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his eyes explored the room. By now, he knew every inch of the place. “Will you sit?”

You waved to the seat across from you and he squinted. He tapped his toe and tore his hands from his jeans. He shrugged and crossed the office to sit where you bid. Not a word. A defiant obedience. He’d sit, he’d act the part, but he wouldn’t give you anything.

“Our session will be short today, but you will have homework,” You began. “Mr. Hogan called me last night. I’ve been sitting here staring at these.” You took the stapled pages from the top of your mess. “Go on.” You urged as you held them out.

He took the paper and read quietly. His thumb went to his mouth but he resisted the urge to chew it. He forced his hand down and tossed the forms back on his desk. “You haven’t signed off.”

“I haven’t.” You confirmed. “But I will. I want you to know why I’m signing them.”

“To get rid of me.” He stated. 

“No. Not that. Because you won’t be rid of me,” You assured him. “As it says, I will only approve your return to the field with the mandated sessions still in place.”

“Impossible. I’ll be away. Can’t say for how long. Missions are...unpredictable.”

“So we will schedule around them. This unpredictability is exactly why we need to continue.”

He stared at you. His nostrils flared and he leaned back in the chair, his fingers twined across his stomach as he rested his elbows on the wooden arms. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Well, you haven’t done much of that, have you?” You bent and pulled your bag closer behind the desk. You reached into it and took out the notebook. “So, I don’t want you to talk. I want you to write.”

You set the notebook down before him. He sniffed and his eyes focused on the journal.

“For you, not me. Write whatever you want to. Make a grocery list, write a poem, a story, put your thoughts down, draw a picture. But put something in there.” You explained as you stood and reached across for the pitcher. 

You filled a glass and sat down to sip it. He looked up at you. He watched the way your throat contracted as you drank and you placed the glass down before your hand could shake. Something about the way he looked at you was startling.

“You want me to keep a diary?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” You allowed. “It’s all for you. I will never ask what you’ve written in it or any secrets you hide inside of. I’ll only want assurance that you’ve been using it. That’s all. Simple enough?”

He pursed his lips and took the notebook from the desk. He flipped through the untouched pages and sighed. “Will you sign off?” He lifted his gaze to you.

You grabbed a pen and the forms. You flipped to the third page, scribbled across the line and added the date. You slid them back across the desk. “There. Take ‘em to Happy and he’ll get you started.”

He blinked. His hand tightened on the journal as he stared at the papers. “We’re done?”

“For today,” You said and stood. “I suppose you’ll be deployed sooner than later. Don’t forget the notebook. We’ll arrange a session upon your return.”

He tapped his thumb on the notebook and reached for the forms. He stood and held them together in his hands. “And if I don’t return?” You looked at him but didn’t say anything. He nodded and chuckled darkly. “You’re right, I always come back, don’t I?”

“A single line a day is better than nothing.” You told him as you rounded the desk. He followed closely as you neared the door and turned back to him with your hand on the knob. He was nearer than you expected. “Manageable.”

“I’ll be fighting. Killing. Should I write in blood?” He challenged wryly.

You sighed. “If that is what you need to do…”

“I’m kidding.” He shook his head.

“I realize that, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bucky,” He corrected as he did every time you called him by his surname. 

“Bucky.” You turned the handle and pulled open the door. You stepped back as you did if only to escape the unyielding warmth radiating from him. The smirk that peeked through was unsettling. The way his eyes followed you like a prey. “Don’t hesitate to stop in on your return. Or any time. My office is always open.”

The smirk broke through entirely and he rubbed his thumb along the notebook as he peered through the door. “Alright, doc.” He turned and stepped into the doorway. He paused and looked back as he raised the papers and journal in half-salute. “Thanks.”

With that, he left you. You closed the door behind him and exhaled. It might’ve been too soon but keeping him pent up and prodding him incessantly was doing him little good. Perhaps a mission would open his eyes. Shake him. Make him realize that five years in the ether had changed him further and exacerbated the untouched issues that had consumed him before. Or maybe, he would get himself killed.

You knew that wouldn’t be the case. He might be reckless and self-loathing but something deep inside had kept him hanging on. He wanted to live, you knew that but he didn’t. And that was the core of his issues.

-

Bucky

There was an odd rush of nerves as Bucky sat in the jet. It was like the day he’d gotten the letter. The day he was drafted. The day he decided his life was over. And it was. His former life cracked down the middle and it would never be the same again. Dead or alive, it was over.

Sam sat beside him, strapped in, arms crossed, eyes closed as he softly snored. They had hours to go before they landed. Bucky was restless. It wasn’t unusual. He didn’t sleep much since his return. Since Steve had said goodbye. That short, heartless goodbye.

He shifted in his seat and unbuckled the belt. He stood, arms out to keep him from swaying with the motion of the flight. He rounded his chair and went to the luggage bay to fetch his canvas duffel. He unzipped it and the notebook rested atop his gear, as if waiting for him. He took it and sealed up the bag and tossed it back in its place.

He sat but didn’t buckle in. The flight was smooth to this point and he’d survived worse than a little turbulence. He held the notebook closed as he looked up to the cockpit. The windshield cut through the dark clouds. He clenched his jaw as he looked down at the hide cover. Already, his fingerprints were worn into the journal.

He was reluctant to open it that first day but after tossing and turning for a few hours in bed, he turned on a lamp and cracked the spine. He tried to write his life story but couldn’t get past the first line, then he’d tried to recount his friendship with Steve but that made his stomach churn. Then, on the fifth page, he’d started drawing.

It was a poor caricature but to him, it resembled her. The doctor with her stern expressions and her piercing eyes. She always looked at him as if she were reading him. As if she could see right through him. He hated that. He wanted her to close those fucking eyes. To stop looking at him. Stop asking him her stupid questions.

The next page was a schedule. A date marked the top and hours kept track of her movements. Several hours in her office, patients and co-workers dropped in now and then, and occasionally, she ventured out to get a coffee or snack. He followed her home. 

He’d been there before that. Several times. He knew about the book on her coffee table, the unwashed mug in her sink, and the toys hidden in her top drawer. He also knew about that folder she had on him. If she was to know everything about him, he only deserved the same. To know every facet of her almost hermit-like existence. Outside of work, she lived a lonely life. Pathetic.

After she’d signed his papers and given him the book, he thought of her more often and so found himself tailing her almost daily. It was a game in his mind. It made him laugh. She was so unaware, so naive. It was so easy for him and she didn’t even have a clue. Didn’t know that he was in the next aisle of the grocery store or just on the other side of her window.

And it made him feel good. Dared to think, though he quickly pushed away the thought, that it gave him a purpose. A focus for the storm inside of him. She was right, he was angry. Time and again, he’d was left to rust like an old shovel. And he was only good for one thing. The monstrosity attached to his left shoulder was his only use. 

A degree on her wall couldn’t make her understand that. Couldn’t make her understand him. She could pretend to know but she never would. She didn’t know pain, didn’t know loss, didn’t know the resent that burned in his chest. She didn’t, but he could show her.

The notebook fell open in his hands as he snapped back to the present. To the humming jet and his snoring comrade. He glanced down at the journal in his lap. His poor rendering of her face stared back at him. He felt it again. The nervousness. He clapped the notebook shut and cleared his throat.

He warily looked around. Sam was still out and the pilot distracted by his flight plan. Bucky let the pages flutter open again. He slid his finger along the inside of the cover and pushed the pen from its loop. He turned to a fresh page and ran his hand over the paper. He relished the possibility on the blank surface.

He pressed the top to paper and his hand moved without thought.

-

Reader

It was two weeks since your last session with Bucky. He was away on a mission; top secret. Intelligence not for the likes of a company therapist. It gave you a much needed break. You barely looked forward to his return, not even certain if he’d check-in willingly. He’d have an excuse now; work, training, briefings, reconnaissance.  Another tug-of-war to be had.

You got to the tower, your eyes still heavy with sleep, and yawned on your elevator ride. You didn’t have any appointments that day but paperwork and the recovery program funded by Stark Industries was enough to keep you busy. A quiet day in your office was something to relish.

Your office door was unlocked. Odd. You were meticulous about securing it nightly. Your own issues of paranoia and safety. When you worked at the inner-city youth centre, a lock was your best friend. One night, one lapse, it was nothing. You were tired and the nights weren’t growing any easier.

You only opened the door a few inches before it was pulled the rest of the way. You were stunned to find Bucky on the other side. Speechless. You righted yourself quickly.

“Mr. Barnes.” You greeted him. “You’re back.”

“Doc,” He waited for you to enter. “You said you’re door was always open.”

“Locked when I’m away, I believe,” You stepped inside warily. “Was it not?”

“Picking a lock isn’t so hard,” He assured you. “I got tired of waiting in the hall.”

“How was your mission?” You changed the subject. His tone suggested an urge for confrontation. You wouldn’t feed it. His intrusion in itself was a cry for conflict.

“A mission.” He closed the door. The lock clicked. You didn’t show that you noticed. “The usual.”

“When did you get back?” You went to your desk and set your bag down behind it. You removed your jacket and passed him again to hang it on the rack. His own was on a peg already.

“Just this morning. Before sunrise.”

“And you came here first?”

“No.” His footsteps moved from hardwood to carpet. “Not first.”

You turned and looked around. His notebook was on your desk, beside an open folder. You glanced at him as he watched your eyes flit around the room. He stood just beside the desk.

“Can we talk?” He asked. You were surprised by the question.

“Of course,” You assured him. “Would you like some tea? Coffee? It’s early, I usually--”

“I want to talk,” He insisted. “Will you sit?”

He waved to your green chair. He was only feet away from it, just between it and your desk. He was determined. He had something to say. It seemed like progress.

“Alright,” You crossed the room and sat. You were stiff and straight in the chair. 

He didn’t sit himself. He turned and closed the folder. He took it and turned back to you. 

“Do you think this is me?” He held it up. “This shit? This list of orders? What they made me do?” He dropped the folder in your lap and it nearly fell to the floor before you could catch it. “None of it is me. My decisions. My actions.”

“I know that,” You assured him as you held the folder steady. “I never said, nor thought, that it was.”

“No, what you said, what you wrote,” He reached over and picked up another sheet. Your writing scrawled across it. “‘Issues of defiance… combative… compensation for loss of control.”

You stared at him. He was visibly angry, his voice was like a razor. 

“These are not bad things, merely observations. To help you.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” He crumpled the paper up and threw it so it bounced off your chest. “I do have issues...with control.” He retreated and grabbed his notebook from the desk. “I don’t like being controlled but I do like control.”

He neared as he opened the journal and turned it to you. He held it out until you took it. You looked up at him. “I don’t want to read this. It’s yours.”

“Read it.” He growled.

You slowly glanced down and your eyes skimmed the page. A roster of times, places, and activities. Your office number, your address, an account of your route home. Below a full detail of your day. Your heart felt as if it stopped and you gulped as you let the notebook close and lowered it to your lap.

“Just that for now,” He bent and took the book from you, the folder too. “Don’t want you reading too far. That would spoil all my plans.”

He set the folder and journal down on the round table beside your chair. You stood. You felt weak.

“Mr. Barnes, you should go.” You stated. He chuckled.

“Sit down.” He said quietly.

“Mr. Barnes--”

“My name is Bucky.” His voice rose suddenly. “And I said ‘sit down’. Now.”

“Bucky, you need to go or I will be forced to report this--”

“To who? Hmm? If they even believe you, what are they going to do? Fire me? Fine. All the better. I don’t need handlers. And that won’t keep me from you.”

“I could have you arrested.” You didn’t move.

“You can try. What exactly could I be charged with? You think you’ll get out of here with that?” He pointed to the journal and you peered past him to the door. “You think you can even get around me, doc?”

You looked at him again. He gripped your shoulder with his vibranium hand and leaned in. 

“So, doc, you gonna sit or did you need some help?”

You relented, though your knees buckled easily without thought. You sat as he released you and backed away. You clasped your hands together and watched him as he neared the couch. He sat with a smirk and stared back at you.

“So, I want to talk about control and my issues,” He began. “Is that good? I’m talking.”

You nodded but couldn’t find your voice. You could barely breathe.

“You know, I was thinking about it. On my mission, ya know?” He spoke easily. Taunting you. “I’d much rather kill a man with my hands than a gun. That’s real control. To rip a life away from someone else with one’s own hands and not some disposable weapon. To see the light fade away because you willed it so.”

You struggled to keep from trembling. He stared you down, challenging you to look away. You kept your eyes on him if only to keep from getting dizzy. Slowly, he let his gaze drift and he sat back as his focus descended.

“Take your blazer off.” He ordered. “Get comfy, doc, we got a lot of talking to do today.”

“Mr--Bucky,” You hissed. “Really, this is--”

“Off.” He snapped his fingers. “Everything.”

You blanched. You pushed your legs together and crossed your arms protectively. “You don’t want to do this. This isn’t...you.”

“You don’t know me, doc, but I know you,” He said. “So go on and let me see what’s hiding under that little costume you wear every day.”

You blinked. He didn’t flinch but you did. You looked to the door. 

“Ah,” He warned. “You’re either going to comply or I’ll tear it off myself.”

You lowered your eyes. He’d won. You slid to the edge of the chair and pulled of your blazer. You stood and laid it over the table atop the notebook. You couldn’t face him entirely as you bent to unzip your heeled boots. You set them aside with your socks and straightened to unbutton your blouse. You put it with your blazer and undid your fly. Your pants fell to the floor almost without guidance. You bent to gather them and placed them on the pile. You stood and stared at the floor.

“Everything, doc,” Bucky said. “As cute as those little panties are…”

Eyes down, your head felt like a brick, you trembled just a bit as you reached back to unclasp your bra. It loosened and you let it fall down your arms. You tossed it onto the table without looking. Your fingers clenched the grey cotton and you willed yourself onward.

You should scream. You inhaled but a tut kept your voice within. “You scream and I’ll break your jaw.”

You peeked up at him. He’d sat forward, ready to rise, ready to charge you and snap your neck with a flick of his wrist. You dragged your panties down and stepped out of them. You looked away and dropped them on the table.

“Now you can sit,” His tone lightened. Almost a song. “And we can continue, doc.” He paused. “Wait, you need to take notes or something?”

You shook your head and locked your legs together as you crossed your arms. You forced yourself to look at him. He sank back against the couch with his arms stretched across the back. 

“Tell me about the man you killed.” You prompted.

[asupernaturalgirl]

Like A Child Stubbing A Toe

Request: Can you do a sister winchester fic where she doesn't like talking about her feelings with her brother's but something traumatic happens to them (you pick what it is idk) and they boys try to get her to talk but she just says she's fine. Then at school later on somethings triggers her and she runs to the bathroom and breaks down. So the boys get a call saying she skipped all her classes and she has to come clean to them but feels weak n shit. Just real like fluffy / angsty thanks :)) A/N: I hope you all like this one! It’s pretty long but I felt like it fit. The title comes from a quote later on so it seems random but I promise its not! Thanks for reading!

Warnings: panic attack, wounds, mentions of torture, school (bleh), angst

...

You sat on you bed in your room, looking over the cuts on your skin. The sore bite on your neck ached as you bent down to inspect a swollen wound on your leg. Wincing slightly, you move back up and rest your back on the headboard, memories of the last hunt coming back to you.

    Two weeks ago, you were captured by Vampires and traumatized until you brothers came to save you, only to get caught themselves. For an entire week, you were with Sam and Dean in the den while the vampires took turn feeding off you, only for Dean to threaten them loudly. For an entire week, you were scared to death by the vicious creatures. They always seemed to be one step ahead of you all. They even made sure to use chains to shackle you so there was no way you could break it.

    Eventually though, Bobby realized Dean or Sam hadn’t contacted him for a while and called some of his hunter friends to go check on you. After seven days of being chained to a post and used as a vampire meal, hunters found you and your brothers helped clean up your wounds. Unfortunately, it didn’t help any of the wounds left on your soul.

    Dean realized you weren’t taking it well when you didn’t sleep on the way home in the Impala. Sam caught on that something was wrong when you had refused to go on a morning run with him for the past few days. They both knew you didn’t like to talk about your emotions, so this would have to be handled themselves.

    As you reached up to feel your neck wound, you heard a knock on the door. Quickly, you pulled your sweatpants on and muttered, ‘come in.’

    Your brothers walked in, serious expression on their faces as you looked up to them. You heart lurched as you realized they were going to try to get you to talk. For the last week, nightmares had been keeping you up all night and you didn’t even have the energy to leave your room. Tomorrow, you would have to go to school and get through the day.

    Sam sat on the side of your bed and pulled you into him, knowing that even if you wouldn’t talk to him, you always enjoyed his tight hugs. “Y/N,” He sighs out. “Tell us what’s bothering you.”

    You look up at Dean’s concerned eyes and shake your head. “I’m fine. Just still a little sore.”

    Dean looks at you doubtfully and you can feel Sam’s comforting arm around you. “It’s fine, guys. I promise, I’m okay.”

    Sam nodded and laid a quick kiss on the side of your temple before standing up and walking to do the door with Dean. “Just remember we’re here for you.”

…

    You slowly slip on your skinny jeans, the wounds on your legs feeling slightly sore. School. Dean and Sam were able to get you out of a few days, but they could only do so much and it was now time for you to get back. Because it was halloween, it would most likely be a fun day anyway.

    Dean is waiting for you in the library, keys and a cup of coffee in his hand, ready to take you. He holds out the coffee and you thank him silently before walking out the door, Dean following behind you. He opens the impala door for you and you slide in, setting your large book bag down next to you. Your brother crosses to the other side of the car and get in, turning up the radio almost immediately.

    “You going out tonight,” He questions as he drives out of the driveway and down the empty roads. As much as Dean usually refuses to allow you to go to any parties, any semblance of normalcy in you would be a relief to him.

    You look out the window and shake your head. With everything that just happened, halloween parties were at the bottom of your list of things to worry about. The idea of even showing up to a place with a lot of alcohol and loud music made you want to go to sleep. “I’m just gonna stay in tonight.”

    Dean nodded and got quiet suddenly, resulting in a very awkward ride the rest of the way to school. Sam was always better at dealing with kind of situation, but Dean usually showed his love for you by protecting you. He had no idea how to make you feel better. After a few minutes, you could see your school come into sight and Dean pulled up in the front, stopping to let you out.

    “See you later,” You muttered out quietly as you grabbed your bag and shut the door behind you. While you were walking to the front doors you heard Dean’s voice behind you.

    “Y/N,” He said, head poking out of the window. “I love you, okay?”

    Dean never acted this way towards you and you nodded. “Love you too, Dean-o.”

    School started out boring as usual. Even though you didn’t know many people, students had noticed you were missing over the last week and several talked to you to make sure you were okay. Of course you were kind and assured them it was just a family emergency and you were just fine. The kind gestures warmed your heart.

    As you were changing from your first block class to your second, you glanced over everyone’s costumes. They all seemed rather creative and many dressed up as various meme’s and other pop culture references. Your heart stopped as someone right in front of you jumped, turning to scare whoever was behind them. In front of you was someone dressed as a vampire, teeth out at you, hissing. Your mind took this seriously though, and once you saw the teeth, your heart sped up, sending adrenaline through your entire body.

    As quickly as your limbs would take you, you ran to the bathrooms, slamming the stall door behind you. The girl who was checking her hair in the mirror soon left after the bell rang and you let out a sob, unable to hold it in any longer. Memories of that creepy vampires hands on you as he dug his teeth into your neck sent you to the floor, unable to even hold yourself up any longer.

    …

    Dean leaned on the kitchen counter as Sam cooked lunch for the two of them. The smell of bacon cooking drafting through the entire bunker. Just as they sat down to eat, Dean’s phone rang loudly and he jumped up to grab it, hoping it wasn’t another hunt so soon. His heart stopped when he saw the familiar number of Y/N’s school.

    “Hello,” He said gruffly as he held the phone up to his ear.

    “Hello, Mr. Winchester,” The voice of the principle came through the phone. “I understand we had decided to have Y/N in school today and I just wanted to know if you planned on bringing her late or not at all?”

    “What are you talking about,” He said, his heart hammering heavily in his chest. Sam had taken notice to his nervous demeanor and crossed the room to hear what was going on. “I dropped her off this morning.”

    “Well,” He hesitated on the phone. “She must have skipped classes because none of the teachers have seen her today.”

    A thousand things ran through your brother’s heads as they imagined all the things that could have happened to you. “I’ll be there in a few.” Dean mutters angrily through the phone.

    The impala stops abruptly in a spot in front of the school as both the brothers jump out the car, running into the high school, worries rushing through their heads. The young principal meets them at the door. He must be around their age and shakes their hands quickly. “Nice to meet you. You guys can help us look. We watched the security tapes while you were driving and we saw her enter the school but not leave so she’s here somewhere.”

…

    You wanted to get up and get back to class, but your arms and legs were so weak from your panic attack, you couldn’t even lift yourself up. Once you realized you were desperate, you looked up to the ceiling. “Cas, I need your help.”

    As soon as you muttered his name, Cas was there, looking around for danger. When he sees you on the floor, his eyes soften. “Y/N, what happened?”

    “Cas,” Tears poured out of your eyes. Cas was like one of your brothers and now that he was here you felt safe. “I had a panic attack and my limbs are really weak.”

    “Are your brothers here?” He asked as his arms move towards you, helping you stand on your shaky legs. You shake your head and lean against him as he helps you out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

    You heart jumps as you see your brothers walking quickly down the hall, only to run towards you when they see you being supported by Cas. “What happened?” Dean asks angrily as Cas hands him over to his arms.

    “She had a panic attack and ran to the bathroom. She feels really weak and couldn’t get up so she called me,” He says quickly.

Sam nods and thanks him. “You should probably get out of here before the principle sees you.”

    Cas nods and before you can even blink, he’s gone, just in time for the principle to walk down the hall. “Is she okay?”

    “Yeah,” Sam says as they walk towards the exit of the school. “She’s just having some anxiety issues. We should probably get her home.”

    He nods as Dean carries you out of the building and sets you in the car. “I’m sorry,” You mutter out as the impala starts up. Sam turns to you and shakes his head.

    “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Y/N. We’ll talk about this at home.”

…

    Half an hour later, you sit cross-legged on the couch, a coffee in your hands, the warmth spreading through your entire body. Dean sits next to you and puts his arm around you as Sam stands in front. “What actually happened?”

    You bite your lip embarrassed. “I got scared.”

    “That was more than a little fear, Y/N,” Dean says, looking you in the eye. “That was full panic mode.”

    You close your eyes as you let a few tears out. Living like a Winchester meant you weren’t supposed to show emotion, or you were weak. That rule was coming to bite you in the ass right about now. “Someone was dressed like a vampire.”

    Nothing is said for a few moments. “And it sent you into a panic mode?” You hear Dean’s voice say.

    “I’m really messed up, guys,” You sob out as Sam takes your coffee and puts it on the table. You bring your knees up to your chest as you cry loudly, wiping the tears from your eyes as they came. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat... I feel like I’m going to die.”

    Dean can feel his heart break as he takes in your crying form. He brings you into his chest as you cry it out. “We’re here for you, Y/N/N. We’re here. Let it out.”

    You felt like a child stubbing your toe as Dean brings you in to his chest. He hadn’t done this since you were eight years old and for some reason, it felt comforting. “I’m so scared all the time, Dean.”

    “We’re here. We’re gonna protect you from anything out there,” Sam says as he rubs your back slightly.

    As the brother’s watch you like this, they suddenly wish it was them who chopped those vampire’s heads off, instead of the hunters. Dean wishes he had had time to torture each and every one of them slowly for doing this to his little sister, but it was too late now. All he could do was show you that you could confide in him whenever you needed it.