#his karaoke song is old town road prove me wrong

[foxy-knowledgeseeker]

rip Jesper Fahey you would have loved Lil Nas X

[lynyrdwrites]

long story short (KC)

This is based off the request for frienzoline + Klaroline, and long story short by Taylor Swift from @ofthedirewolves. It’s more Frienzoline than anything, but really? That should be expected.  It’s sort of disjointed, but I hope you enjoy.

---

Pushed from the precipice

Clung to the nearest lips

Wrong story short it was the wrong guy

“My story can be split into a series of losses.”

Enzo blinked at the solemnly spoken words.  He hadn’t thought vampires could get drunk, but he and Caroline had spent the past twelve hours proving that, actually, they very much could.  Apparently they had moved from the karaoke singing stage to the sad reminiscing.

“My story basically just consists of an Augustine cell and a lot of bloody, bloody experiments,” he said after a beat of silence, figuring that he needed to give an appropriately serious response.  Caroline moved her gaze from the roof, where she’d been staring as he spoke, to look at him instead.

“That’s sad,” she said at last.  “Forget my story.  Yours is just sad.  You deserve French fries to make up for that sad story.”

“Will they actually help with anything?” Enzo mused, and Caroline wrinkled her nose and shrugged.

“I dunno.  But they’re tasty.  Do you think Matt would bring us some, if I called him?”

After a long debate, they decided that, no, Matt Donovan wouldn’t deliver French fries to his ex and the crazy vampire he hated.  But it turned out there was a bag of frozen wedges in the Forbes’ freezer, and Caroline declared they were good enough.

Another debate then occurred, where he convinced her to bake them in the oven, instead of heating up the deep fryer.  Enzo had been in an overly destructive building fire once before, thank-you very much. He’d rather not repeat the experience.

So it was, twenty minutes later, Caroline was perched on the counter, nibbling on a still frozen wedge as the rest heated, while Enzo sat on a chair, bottle of tequila dangling from his fingers.  He had decided he hated tequila, but it did do an awfully good job of getting one drunk.

“Okay, so back to your series of stories.”

Caroline blinked at him, gaze fuzzy with alcohol, and Enzo sighed.

“Remember? My story can be split into a series of losses.” He gave the sentence the proper intonation, one of surly seriousness.  

“I didn’t sound like that,” she muttered, reaching for the tequila.  Enzo handed it over. After all, getting drunk had been her idea.

They were at almost thirteen hours after her mother’s funeral.  

“You kind of ruined my sad story,” she said at last, after swallowing a mouthful of the alcohol.  “With your whole sad, locked up vampire schtick. No one can stand up to that level of tragedy.”

“We’re not playing a game of who’s trauma is bigger-”

“Yeah, cause you would win.”

Enzo ignored that and pushed on, “We’re playing a game of share the trauma.  Share yours, Gorgeous.”

“I don’t have trauma.”

“The dead mother says otherwise.”

Caroline looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Did you know that she tried to kill me once? After I was turned.  Mommy tried to kill me and daddy tortured me.  I’m not sure what that says about me.”

“Probably that your trauma is much larger than you think.  Okay, dead mommy and daddy.  What would your other losses be?  Hit me.”

The timer of the oven went off, and Caroline pulled the wedges out.  She immediately grabbed one, and hissed, tossing it between fingers as it burned her skin, until she finally got it in her mouth.  She followed it almost immediately by more tequila.

“Be careful.  They’re hot.”

Enzo snickered, but helped her dish the wedges out onto plates.  Once they sat at the table, Caroline spoke again.

“I mean, my humanity.   That’s a pretty big loss, right?”

“Meh.” Enzo shrugged. “I think humanity’s overrated, but if you want to say it’s a loss-”

“No, you’re right!” Caroline poked a victorious finger at him.  “You are so right!  Like, how was being human really so great for me?  I was Damon’s dumb, compelled blood bag.  Everyone lied to me.  No one took me seriously.  But Stefan is all sad eyes about vampirism, and Elena is absolutely miserable, even if she tries to lie about it.  And I’m like, okay, maybe I’m missing something.  Maybe it is the worst thing… but see, you get it!  You’re, like, the only person who gets it.” She looked thoughtful for a second, and gave her head the slightest shake.  “Maybe, like, the second person who gets it.”

“Okay, so that’s a loss that’s not really a loss.  What else?”

“Mommy and daddy,” Caroline pointed out around a wedge, she reached for the tequila, then wrinkled her nose again.  “We need actual glasses for this.  Back wash is gross.”

In just a few moments, they both had glasses filled to the top with just tequila, because that was apparently who they were as people, and Caroline was brandishing a wedge again.

“Okay, so then there’s my relationships.  Matt and Tyler, and the total demise of my friendship with Stefan, because he is such a dick.  And did you see how he looked at me during the funeral? Like, really?  I bare my heart to the guy, and he can’t be bothered to care until he decides I look hot next to my mom’s casket?  Who does that?”

“Wankers,” Enzo replied, when Caroline paused and he realized she actually wanted an answer.  “Absolute wankers.  Of which Stefan is one.”

“Thank-you.  And I mean, we also lost Bonnie in there, even if we got her back.  And Jeremy. And Alaric.  Those are the fake deaths.  They probably get their own sub genre.  And there was Klaus, who fake died and then left, but I couldn’t really be sad about his fake death, you know?  Like, I was, but I couldn’t show it. Can I tell you a secret?” She leaned towards him, and Enzo leaned in as well, because that was what you did when there was a secret.  “I cried. When I thought he was dead.  When no one else was around.  I cried.  But if you try to tell anyone, I’ll lie, and say you’re a dirty liar who knows nothing. So don’t tell.” She leaned back in her chair, and gazed up at the ceiling again.  “I cried when he took off for New Orleans, too.  And a little bit after his bang and run. But it’s not because its, like, him in particular.  I just… hate not being good enough.”

“Gorgeous, if Klaus thinks you’re not good enough, he’s as big a wanker as Stefan.”

“I mean, he’s a bigger wanker.  He’s Klaus.  But he left. So obviously I can’t be good enough, right?”

“I dunno.  Maybe he thought he wasn’t good enough for you?”

Caroline threw a wedge at him, and looked vaguely impressed when Enzo managed to catch it between his teeth.  He smirked at her as he chewed on it.  They were surprisingly good.

“Really? Would you choose to abandon someone because you felt you weren’t good enough for them?”

“No, but I’m not a wanker. I thought that went without saying.”

Caroline laughed, and Enzo would admit it did his old heart some good, to see her actually show genuine mirth after all the tears and sadness that had followed her since her mother had died.

“That’s lame,” she said at last.  “Anyone who does that is lame.”

“And a wanker.”

“We already figured that part out.”

She looked out the nearby window, thoughtfully nibbling on a wedge, and Enzo finally nudged her knee with his foot, drawing her gaze back.

“Have you ever considered telling him that he is worth it?”

She looked away, and shook her head slowly.

“Well, maybe you should. I won’t help you with Stefan.  We both agree that he’s the biggest wanker, but I’ll help you with this other bloke.  Consider it a road trip.”

“Are you trying to get me laid, Enzo?”

“Of course, Gorgeous. That’s my job,” he gave her a careless grin that made her laugh again, before giving her knee another nudge.  “Or maybe I’d like to get you out of this hellhole of a town.”

“That would be nice.” Caroline closed her eyes, and laid her head on her arm.  “That would be nice.”

“Just say when.”

She didn’t respond to that. She didn’t acknowledge their conversation in the days that followed as Enzo followed her about, helping her to finish settling her mother’s estate.

She didn’t say anything as the rest of them made plans that, to Enzo, seemed entirely too insane.

She didn’t say anything until he took her out to the graveyard, with some daisies that made him think of Caroline, so he thought Liz would appreciate them.  He hadn’t known the woman, but he figured she must have loved her daughter, even if there had been that awkward attempted murder.

As he put the daisies down, Caroline knelt next to him, tracing her mother’s name on the stone.

“When.”

Send me a ship + a song

[tisfan]

All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room

Chapter Three: (You’re Gonna) Sing the Words Wrong

I told a girl that my prospects were good And she said baby, it's understood Working for peanuts is all very fine But I can show you a better time Baby you can drive my car Yes I'm gonna be a star Baby you can drive my car And maybe I'll love you

--Drive My Car, The Beatles 

There were a lot of things that Steve Rogers had missed about his best friend, Bucky Barnes, when Bucky had been lost to a combat mission. Had fallen from the train and in that one instance had taken everything -- everything -- in Steve’s life that had been good and constant and true.

He’d missed Bucky’s wit; the man was far too clever for his own good. Which had been a real morale boost during the war. Even when Bucky was suffering (and Steve had known that he was, but hadn’t known how to help, and Bucky had been so desperately trying to pretend that everything was normal, so Steve had just… let him) he was able to make quips and jokes and kept the men entertained.

Steve had missed Bucky’s steadfastness; there’d been something unbreakable between them. Neither of them would ever, could ever, leave the other behind. Steve knew, always, Bucky had his back. Which was good, because quite frankly, Steve had needed that when he was younger and smaller and couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up. His need to prove himself had gotten him into more trouble than it had ever gotten anyone else out of. And Bucky had kept him alive, almost despite himself. (There were times when Steve had legitimately wondered if he’d been suicidal the whole time; wanting some back-alley thug to take him out, rather than choking on his own blood in a bed somewhere.)

He had not, however, missed Bucky’s singing.

Dear fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

More Below the Cut or read the whole thing on A03 [x]

Sam had found some music -- Steve was never going to reconcile modern artists to being musicians -- and the start of his gap-toothed smile had crept out as he hummed along. Sam had a nice voice, soothing, sort of like molasses-dark and a little burr in the way he dropped certain words that made Steve feel warm and happy.

And then Bucky started singing from the back seat.

The way he was sitting put Bucky’s face -- and therefore his mouth -- right next to Steve’s ear, which was completely unnecessary, since Steve could hear him perfectly well. Could have heard him pretty well if he’d been in the car behind them. In fact, that might have been preferable.

And the way he was sprawled in the backseat -- Natasha had once called it man-spreading -- and Steve had to admit when he twisted around to look, Bucky was taking up way more space than he needed to. Steve had seen the man’s bits and balls before, and he was pretty sure that even pumped full of Hydra’s knock-off version of the serum, Bucky didn’t quite need enough room between his thighs for an entire women’s volleyball team. It was distracting as hell once Steve noticed it, because then he kept wanting to look back there. That vee between Bucky’s thighs, the way the denim pulled over his legs and clung to his muscles, was a bitter temptation.

That was something else Steve had missed about Bucky, still missed about Bucky, since Bucky hadn’t yet made any sort of indications that their physical/romantic relationship was something Bucky wanted to pick back up where they’d left it off. Not that Steve blamed him; God only knew what sort of trauma Bucky had endured. Steve wasn’t going to be the one to start it. When Bucky was ready, he’d let Steve know. And if he never was? Well, Steve’s hand worked perfectly well.

Which did not, apparently, mean he was immune to Buck’s physical charms. Didn’t mean his eyes weren’t constantly wandering over the man’s body, storing up images and impressions to use at a later time.

Except for right now.

Because Bucky was singing, and how the fuck did he even know the words to this song?

“Seriously,” Steve said, finally, after the fifth or sixth song in a row that Bucky had known, word (if not note) perfect, “this is what you remember? How do you only know half of your life and yet you can sing Miley Cyrus?”

Buck shrugged one massive shoulder. “Don’t know. Just know.”

Steve didn’t want to say anything. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror a few times trying to see around Bucky’s head and failed miserably, but maybe that was okay, because he could check traffic behind them in the sides and watching Bucky’s face while he was singing was almost worth the terrible noises coming out of his throat. Bucky was singing. And he looked… happy.

And that was enough for Steve.

Except that after a while Steve was starting to look forward to commercials. Anything. Because dear sweet Mary, Bucky’s voice was terrible. And loud.

Bucky’s happiness, however, did not seem to be enough for Sam.

Just a small town girl Livin' in a lonely world She took the midnight train goin' anywhere Just a city boy Born and raised in south Detroit He took the midnight train goin' anywhere A singer in a smoky room A smell of wine and cheap perfume For a smile they can share the night It goes on and on, and on, and on --Don't Stop Believin', Journey

Sam punched the silver button, cutting Barnes off mid-note. For just a moment, the abused and tortured syllable lingered in the empty air while Sam scrolled through the available FM stations, trying to find something else.

He paused on a country station -- not that country music these days was anything other than pretty boys and girls with carefully cultivated hick images that sang songs specifically to pander to a middle-aged white audience and was therefore one of Sam’s most hated sorts of music on the planet -- but as soon as Barnes caught the rhythm, he was right back to singing. And if there was something that Sam wasn’t going to tolerate, it was the fucking Winter Soldier telling him that his tractor was sexy.

Just no.

Sam kept scrolling through the dial. Rap. Two beats and Barnes was rapping along, which was almost tolerable. Sam was pained by the theory of a white man rappin’, but it was somewhat better than the singing, in that Barnes’s I-just-had-the-most-amazing-sex-ever voice was better suited to rap than to any actual melody (Sam would have killed for an in-car karaoke set that had auto-tuner) but there was still back up singing, and Barnes’s voice wandered in and out of the proper range.

Sam couldn’t take much of that, either. Bad enough listening to Barnes butcher music, it was worse when it was music that Sam liked. Which meant he skipped right over the Motown station that Sam was familiar with from mid-state. Because just. No and some more no.

He stopped briefly on a hispanic station, the immediately identifiable sounds of a mariachi band coming out of the speakers. Surely, at least this would be something Barnes was unfamiliar with.

No such luck.

“How th’ hell do you even know Spanish?” Sam demanded, turning all the way around in his seat and the belt cutting into his neck.

“Forty million people in the United States alone speak Spanish,” Barnes said, “and four hundred million worldwide.” He paused, tongue flicking out to wet his top tip. “A sixth of the world’s population speaks Chinese, mostly Mandarin. The pervasive, slow power of American culture has not yet nudged English past third place as the most commonly spoken language, half a billion world-wide, most of them as a second language.”

“Well, that’s some good old-fashioned propaganda comin’ out of your mouth, Barnes,” Sam said, eyebrow quirking.

Barnes actually smirked. “You think American culture ain’t propaganda, I got bad news for you, pal.”

Sam sighed and fiddled the knob again, finally coming across a classical station with no words, which was boring, but at least easier on his ears.

Right up until Barnes started humming.

Seriously. How the fuck was he even doing that?

“What’s the next turn?” Steve asked. The way his hands were on the wheel, ten and two, you’d think the man was a proper driver. He wasn’t. He tail-gated and passed with inches to spare, and generally acted like the other drivers were combat enemies rather than people doing their daily commutes.

“We close enough now, there should be road signs,” Sam sighed. He hated looking at maps. Even if Steve had let him draw all over them with highlighters. He traced their route… gave the next turn.

“After this, we eat,” Barnes piped up. “I ain’t carin’ about any dead author’s house, Stevie, but if you don’t feed me soon, I will kill an’ eat the weakest member of our party.”

Sam did not look around to see if Barnes was staring at him, because if he was, then Sam was just going to have to punch him, and supersoldiers were notoriously hard-headed.

Also, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that Cap would back his play, this time.

“There’s snacks in the footwell,” Steve said.

“Not anymore, there ain’t,” Barnes said.

“What?”

“I ate ‘em all,” Barnes reported. “What of ‘em you didn’t eat. In case you hadn’t noticed, been handin’ em to you for the last fifty miles at least.”

Steve took his eyes off the road for a heart-stopping moment to verify that, yes, there were snack bar wrappers scattered all over the front seat’s foot wells. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

Sam did turn to catch that expression. Barnes was angry, exasperated, but under that, a touch scared. There was fear in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted around the tiny car. Knowing he was trapped in the back seat, that getting out past Steve would be an effort.

“Dude’s hungry,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat. “Best feed ‘im or it’s goan be your Irish ass on the line.”

“All right,” Steve said, his fingers tightening on the wheel for just a second, long enough for the cheap plastic to creak before he eased up. “Let’s catch this museum, and then we’ll have some lunch?”

Sam let Steve get ahead before getting out of his seat and pulling it forward so Barnes could clamber out of the back. The man’s spine looked painfully twisted already and he stretched mightily, showing off a brief flash of skin as his shirts pulled free.

Sam spoke quietly, both hoping that Cap would hear him and hoping that Cap wouldn’t. There was this destroyed look on Steve’s face every time he was reminded of what Barnes had been through. “You know, we ain’t your handlers. If you’re hungry, say so. You’re allowed to eat. Or sleep. Or take a piss.”

“Seventy year’s habit, hard to break,” he said, patting Sam’s arm hard enough to knock him two steps sideways. “If you’re feelin’ so sorry f’r the poor little Winter Soldier, y’could let me ride shotgun a while.”

“Hey, fuck you, man,” Sam said.

Barnes flashed him a barely there grin. “Buy a book, while we’re in’ere, okay? I’ll read it. Better’n singing.”

“Anything’s better than your singing, man,” Sam said and that wasn’t nothing but the truth. So help him Jesus.

“An’ I get shotgun.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine.”

Well, me and Mark Twain were having us a ball Telling each other lies, floating down from Hannibal With a bottle and a worm and a cane pole We were fishing for secrets where the catfish crawl And the Mississippi River's flowing downstream Meet the Gulf of Mexico somewhere downstream Meet the Atlantic Ocean somewhere downstream Gonna meet you in the water somewhere downstream Well, we picked up Harry Truman floating down from Independence We said "What about the war?", he said "Good riddance" We said "What about the Bomb, are you sorry that you did it?" He said "Pass me that bottle, and mind your own business" --Downstream, The Rainmakers

He wasn’t sure why Steve insisted on the stops; visiting the homes of famous people long dead had been barely interesting even before they were both older than the person in question. Now that he had lived -- sporadically it was true -- through a century, he found himself utterly uninterested in history.

Fashions had changed again. He’d been trained to blend in, so his eye was drawn to the differences in clothing between the older tourists and the younger ones. Brightly dyed and oddly cut hair was back in style; he hadn’t missed that when the eighties had passed, but at least this time he was old enough to not be expected to blend into a punk scene.

The tour attendant had noticed Steve. Of course she had, it was impossible not to notice Steve; the man was blinding in his grace and beauty. He shone so bright it was hard to look away; everything was dingy and smaller after he’d walked into the room. Using the distraction to slip away, avoiding the useless and somewhat tidied up historical information, he’d found his way to an employee break room.

No one was about, so he took the opportunity to raid the fridge. Someone’s turkey sandwich went missing, along with two bags of chips, a soda, and a bottle of exceptionally sweet tea. Yuck. Oh, look, cake. Only a day or two old. Not that he’d really care about that, he’d been known to eat food from bins on really bad days. This time, at least, he had a few twenties in his pocket; he left two in the employee fridge. Hopefully it would do.

Steve hadn’t even noticed the few moments that he was missing; that was good to know. If he decided that he needed to leave, he might get a few minutes lead before Steve was tearing the world apart looking for him again.

“Where’d you vanish off to, Barnes?”

Well, maybe not. Wilson had eyes; probably not so keen as his namesake, but good enough. Sneaking away and around on him was going to be like dodging the Black Widow. Possible, but he’d have to chose his moment carefully.

Why are you still planning to leave?

He pushed that aside. The habit of more than half a life’s span was hard to break. He always, always had an exit plan. He hadn’t stayed alive as long as he had by getting soft and complacent.

“There was cake in the breakroom,” he reported. “Still is.”

“Man, I ain’t eatin’ someone else’s cake,” Wilson said, eyes rolling up. “You--”

“Michael Phelps.”

“What now?”

“Olympic swimmer--”

“I know who Michael Phelps is, man,” Wilson interrupted. “What’s he got to do with you stealin’ someone’s cake.”

“For performance quality health, Phelps consumes twelve thousand calories per diem,” he continued. “Similar to functionality as an enhanced individual.”

“You eat twelve--”

“Steve is more efficient,” he said, shrugging. “Twelve is enough for him. My required intake on mission is more like eighteen.”

“Dude, you’re goan starve to death on this trip if Cap doesn’t up his game,” Wilson opined.

He shrugged. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t on mission, so his needs were less. And it’s not like they were road tripping in Siberia, where food was hard to find. The amount of high-intake food in American cities was obscene.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think I’d need to tell you this,” he said, “but you are Cap’s whole life. Suffering in silence isn’t goan cut it with him. You saw what that man did to protect you; don’t you be makin’ it all for nothing.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat. Of course he knew Steve had given up so much to protect him. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Annoying as it was, because he’d been doing fine without Steve around; things had actually been easier when Steve wasn’t around. Steve had a way of making everything louder. More urgent.

“Man, I don’t,” Wilson said. “I care about Cap, let’s get that straight. I near to made myself an exile for life to give him a chance of having you back again. That’s the smallest item on the tally of what you owe that man, so don’t you forget it.”

He scowled. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“Since when did that ever matter?”

Fuck.