#i just think that steve would end up with some really depressing doodles

[fandomfluffandfuck]

You ever think about the raw, unfiltered political unrest, near rage, that must come out in Steve's art sometimes, the shit that he's sure no one else will ever lay eyes on, deep in his sketchbook? Because I do.

[magniloquent-raven]

31 and 42 for any character(s) you want

eyyy ty for the ask 🥰

31. most prized possession

billy has one picture of his mother.

he managed to keep some of her stuff hidden from neil. a few small things. a filigree dolphin ring she’d left by the bathroom sink, a rinsed out jam jar full of her favourite bits of sea glass, and a paperback novel with curling edges and a broken spine. he used to pester her while she was reading, ask her endless questions until she relented and read out loud for him. didn’t matter what she was reading, he barely paid attention to the stories anyways, he just liked to hear her do the voices.

and all of those things are important to him. (he keeps them in separate hiding places, in case neil ever goes looking through his things, he doesn’t want them all thrown out at once, if it comes to that.) he’s read the book dozens of times. he used to wear the ring when he was alone in his room, but he outgrew it years ago. when he has the house to himself he sorts through the sea glass, lays it all out on his bed and tries to remember the stories she told about each piece.

and he treasures all these little keepsakes, but none more than the single, faded photograph he has of the women herself. a polaroid he took when he was too young to hold the camera properly. it’s crooked, and at a weird, unflattering angle, the sun blotting out a whole corner of the photo, but her smile is still clear and visible, and that’s all that matters.

because she left when he was so young. and he worries that one day he’ll forget what she looks like.

so he looks at the picture every day. sometimes just a glance, to remind himself, and sometimes, when he’s snuck in through his window after a party, drunk and woozy and in his feelings, he’ll sit on his floor and look at it til his eyes get tired and he can’t blink away the tears anymore.

and i think that steve would have a weird relationship with possessions. like. as a teenager, stuff feels like a burden sometimes. all the things his parents bought. he isn’t allowed to complain about his parents not spending time with him because they’ve given him things instead. that they’re at least somewhat invested in keeping him alive. his dad would definitely be one of those “you’re so ungrateful, and after we fed and clothed you all these years” kind of parents.

so he has all these things that are supposed to mean something to him, but they just. don’t.

then when him and billy become tentative friends, billy decides he’s deeply and personally offended by steve’s taste in music. and he makes him a mixtape. it’s just. songs billy likes. music that doesn’t suck scribbled on the label, with a dumb little winky face drawn on the corner. it is in no way a romantic gesture, except. excep steve’s already got a massive crush on billy so, really, he couldve handed over a fucking math textbook and steve still would’ve gotten butterflies over the fact that billy thought of him at all.

and then billy listens to it with him. talks to him about it. it’s not just that billy thought of him, made something for him, but it’s an excuse to spend time with him too.

and when they start dating billy starts to give him other stuff. little things. a wonky little stuffed turtle he snagged from a claw machine while steve paid for their pizza. a piece of sea glass he found when they took a trip to the beach (he looked real serious when he handed it over, his eyes a little distant, and steve didn’t quite understand why, but the frown was easily kissed away). and a couple more mixtapes over the years. that steve would keep even when they couldn’t be played anymore.

he keeps these things in a fancy little wooden box on his dresser, all polished and shiny with gold plated hinges. full of all the things billy’s ever given him. and maybe it’s a little fucked up that sometimes he thinks he keeps these things because he needs the tangible proof that he’s loved, and that without all the little tokens of affections he’d just float untethered and unsure, but. they aren’t just things anymore, they’re memories, and love

42. hobbies

i absolutely adore the idea of post s3 billy just. doing a bunch of grandma activities lmao. his lungs and his heart are all busted up and there’s residual chest pain and he just can’t be as active as he used to be. plus he’s not as social anymore. being possessed and traumatized will do that to you. and then people start to notice that he’s stuck at home, bored and depressed. max notices. steve notices. word gets around.

and somehow their campaign to help him leads to him learning how to bake (max starts taking out cookbooks from the library and giving them to him) and taking care of plants (steve buys him cacti and herbs and anything that blooms blue) and eventually mrs henderson teaches him how to knit. (doc owens says it’ll be good for his hands, keep his fine motor skills sharp. and he doesn’t laugh. which helps)

and all of it helps keep him occupied. keep him from wallowing too much. and it’s nice to make things. keep things alive. feels like a step forward

and idk about in canon, but whether it’s an au thing or not, i love steve as an artist. he’s not great with words, and he just feels. dumb a lot of the time. he’s not intellectual. not good at school, things that his dad and his teachers tell him he’s supposed to be good at if he wants to amount to anything. but when he gets bored in class, when he just doesn’t understand the book he’s supposed to be reading, or he can’t follow along with the complicated formulas up on the board, he doodles. his notebooks are full of little drawings. caricatures of his classmates. landscape snapshots of what he can see through the window. he gets restless and his mind wanders but when he’s drawing he focuses.

and he doesn’t really show people. doesn’t tell anyone. he doesn’t think of himself as an artist, he just can’t concentrate in class so he doodles. it’s a shameful thing.

but maybe a teacher notices. takes an interest. encourages him a little. and its not much but it’s a start. lets him think about it a little more positively. he still hides it from his parents, he knows it’d just end with a lecture from his dad, but he feels less shitty about himself when he flips through his notebooks that are full of more pictures than words.

headcanon asks

[troop-scoop]

Mistakes & Regrets VII

Summary: When a trip to your Dad’s hometown of Hawkins goes wrong, you end up in the year 1983, and have to learn how to cope with being stuck in the past.

Pairing: Steve Harrington / Future!Reader (like, a really slow burn)

Warnings: Swearing, name calling

•••

You could feel the sunlight on your eyelids, making everything behind your eyelids appear as a dark red. But almost as soon as the sun was on your eyes, it was gone. The side of your bed dipped down when weight was added to the mattress and a gentle hand was holding your shoulders, a familiar voice coaxing you awake. 

“Y/n. . . c’mon, wake up.”

Opening your eyes you could see Jonathan sitting next to you, Nancy next to him, looking down at you, holding a cardboard cup of coffee in her hands. 

“Wha?” You didn’t have enough energy to pronounce your ‘T’ in the word, knowing that they understood what you were trying to say while laying down in your bed, early in the morning with your hair sprawled out around your head. 

“Get up, c’mon. Get dressed.” Jonathan was being gentler than he had been the day before. Instead of barging in and making a ruckus while you were just waking up, he was being nice about it. 

“Why?” You asked, leaning more into the pillow underneath your head, pulling the duvet closer to your shoulder that were exposed to the cold air. 

Jonathan avoided the answer to the question. “I’ll explain in the car. C’mon, we got you coffee. Rise and shine.” With that he stood from the bed and you grumbled a bit at feeling the sunlight back on your face. The door to your room, wide open. 

Nancy placed the cup on the bedside table, and she stared for a moment at something on the table by the lamp. Something you didn’t have enough effort to even look at. 

You sat up, grabbing the coffee and taking an unsure sip, testing the dirty bean water to see how hot it was. 

“What’s this?” Nancy asked, picking up what she’d been looking at. You turned your head, feeling your knotted hair move across your bare shoulders. She held up your long dead phone, the black screen smudged with your finger prints and a bit of dried goo by the home button. 

It’s not that you couldn’t charge it, you had the charger for it. You supposed out of all of the moments you could have gone missing and end up in the past, you chose the right one, with all of your essentials being in your bag when you ran off. But charging your phone, only to see the photo your Uncle took of a place called Balboa Park in California, made you nervous. The thought of seeing photos in your camera roll of your family scared you. 

“That’s uh. . .” You struggled for a few seconds for words. “My phone.” You answered. 

“ There’s only one button.” Nancy observed. “Oh, sorry, four.” She corrected herself upon seeing the volume and power buttons. 

“Nancy, we don’t know how future technology works.” Jonathan told her, going to the open door and closing it, returning the room to the dim lighting you usually kept it in whenever you went to bed, or wanted to lay in bed and be depressed. 

Your attention turned to Jonathan as he turned back around and saw you staring at him. 

“I believe you. You left this at my house.” He said reaching into his bag and pulling out your sketchbook. With everything going on, you hadn’t even noticed you’d left it at the home when you’d left. But that meant he’d had it for since before the funeral. and hadn’t mentioned it. 

He flipped to a page where there were different doodles you and your Dad had done while eating pastries and drinking warm cafe beverages. He usually always got a coffee, you always got a hot cocoa when you went with him. It was tradition every Friday. 

“That’s not his DnD character. It’s one of his friends.” Jonathan pointed to one figure on the paper, that was colored in with crayon, because yes, you and your father still used crayons. 

“It’s Mike’s. He doesn’t know you, there’s no way you could know his character, so that means you’re not lying” Nancy spoke, placing the dead phone onto the bedside table again while you got out of bed, placing the coffee on the table, not caring that you were wearing a tank top and underwear, with no bra. 

“Y/n-” Jonathan started, only to get cut off by you.

“Why would I lie? What would the benefit be for me, huh?” You demanded, walking to the dresser, pulling out a pair of pale blue jeans and pulling them on over your underwear. “Oh, yeah, I’m Y/n Byers, haha, jk, jk, just fucking with you.” You said in a mocking voice, mostly to yourself as you zipped up the jeans and grabbed your belt. “As if I’m not gonna be talking about this shit in therapy ten years from now, in- oh wait, not my year, but rather fucking 1993! Mean Girls won’t even be out yet, the fucking IPhone won’t be invented yet! I’ll have to continue going to a fucking payphone every time I wanna call someone if I’m not here!” 

It was all getting on your nerves, it wasn’t very late in the morning, meaning they woke you up way before you were supposed to, and while the coffee would help, you didn’t appreciate them somehow finding the spare key you had to the room. 

“Oh, and I’m gonna have to keep saying Czechoslovakia instead of the Czech Republic and Slovakia because they won’t separate for another ten fucking years!” That was directed in Jonathan and Nancy’s way, and they both blinked in surprise, staring at you as though you’d lost your mind, and if a stranger had heard you, they would think you did. 

But Jonathan was the one who stuttered his way back into conversation. “Al- alright. . . Any-anything else?” He asked, holding the strap to his bag that was resting on his shoulder. 

“I have plenty of shit to complain about, Jonathan. I’m choosing to not start a fight right now.” 

Jonathan was stunned back into silence, watching as your demeanor was now that of a sad toddler. Your moods always fluctuated for about an hour or two after you’d woken up. Pulling the belt through your belt loops you reached into another drawer, pulling out a sweater and bra and walking to the bathroom. “Can’t even change in peace, in my own damn room.”

•••

“No! No, we’re not going off of a theory that this thing is like a Lion, Coyote, fucking Bear hybrid in behavior!” You yelled from the backseat, still holding the coffee. “It is 7:52 am, guys! I should be in bed, not yelling at you two for a stupid idea, a- a- a fucking hunch!”

Nancy turned in to face you from her seat, He blue eyes intense with determination as she stared at you. “If Will’s your dad, you want to find him, right?” 

“That’s not fair-”

“If you want to make sure you’re still born, this ‘hunch’ is all we have.” Nancy shot back, silencing you as you sunk into the carseat, holding the cup closer and taking a slow sip, intentionally making the annoying slurping noise, only to be disappointed and even more annoyed when Nancy turned away and faced the windshield again. 

“You’re both gonna get me killed.” You commented lazily, propping your feet up on the center console, continuing to drink your unflavored and unsweetened coffee, grimacing at the taste every time, but hoping and praying that you hadn’t built up a tolerance to caffeine. 

Jonathan pulled into a spot that wasn’t ‘technically’ a parking spot, and turned off the car, turning to face you like Nancy had. 

“Okay, do you- do you know of any way you could possibly get back to, you know. . . your time? I’m sorry what year?” 

You stared at Jonathan for a moment, because he had such a familiar face, and yet, he felt like a stranger. “I think I’d have to go back to that place. And although I really do love being able to say things other people understand, I think I’d rather live through history than go back there.” 

Your attitude changed, going from light-heartedly bitter about being woken up, and annoyed with their plan to get the monster that you called a Wendigo, to sad and down. Because it made it real. 

You’d never fall asleep in the back of the car listening to your Dad and Pa playfully argue and banter while your brother blasted his music so loud you could hear it with your own headphones on. 

Long days where you went to school, your brother’s orchestra performance, and then dinner would no longer be a thing. Your nights wouldn’t end with your Dad putting your music on for you. Because no matter how old you’d gotten, your Dad was still your Dad, and he’d always been there, even if it was for something as simple as turning your music on for you. 

Looking down at your lip you fought against the tears, refusing to cry in front of them. That was only something you did alone. 

“I’m gonna get some food.” You said quickly getting out of the car with your bag in hand. Jonathan followed suit.

“Y/n-”

“Stop.” Your voice shook as you looked at him. Holding the top of your backpack with a death grip, “You two go buy your fucking Sam and Dean Winchester bullshit, I’m gonna get something to eat. It is eight in the morning, on a Saturday! I am tired, I am hungry.” You told him. “So, I am going to go to the cafe down the street and get a muffin or a breakfast sandwich, and I will meet you back here!”

You didn’t mean to constantly be yelling at Jonathan, after all, he was one of your only uncles. But this wasn’t your uncle. He was just Jonathan Byers, whose brother was stuck in a dark and scary place, hiding like you had.

And you were just a kid. A teenage girl who didn’t know what to do. Who felt as if your world was crumbling all around you, pinning you to the ground so you couldn’t get up.

The only thing you could do right now to make anything around you seem even remotely okay, was to eat, try and pretend like you didn’t just choose your fate in the back of an old Ford while a sixteen year old version of your uncle stared at you. 

So you’d gone down the street, fighting against tears until you heard people talking, verging on hushed arguing. So you looked up and saw the movie theatre sign, the letters put into place to say ‘All the Right Moves’ but right after, red spray paint saying ‘Starring Nancy The Slut Wheeler’ 

You knew the hand writing, with Steve having once convinced you to look over Tommy’s English paper. You’d given up barely halfway in, the spelling getting on your nerves and the grammatical errors hurting your head a bit too much. You’d told him to go to one of the tutors in the library. 

Looking down the street a bit more you saw the culprits, Carol, Tommy, Nicole and of course Steve. 

There wasn’t a reason in the world for this. And although you’d never been in a relationship, you knew how a boy's mind worked. Especially a boy like Steve. Who was turning out to be the biggest asshole in disguise. 

The group of four slipped down into an alley, and as if on auto pilot, you followed them, now ignoring your original plan of getting something to eat.

“Steve!” You shouted when you finally reached the alleyway, watching as Tommy was taking a can of red spray paint from inside his jacket. Their attention turned to you as you made your way over the older male, who’s facial expression and body language was unreadable. “What the hell was that?” You demanded.

Tommy uncapped the can and stepped up a small set of stairs that only took him up off the ground about a foot, and started working on a cruel message on a piece of plywood. 

“Y/n, just go home.” Steve said firmly when you reached him. Shaking your head you stared up at him. You didn’t know why you were angry. You had no right to be. He wasn’t your problem, and your dads always told you to ignore men and boys like Steve Harrington. 

“Steve, just tell me what happened.” You urged. You shouldn’t be giving him a chance to explain himself, you could have just turned him and his friends in as the vandalizers of the theatre. You should’ve, because you should still be angry over Jonathan’s camera. 

“What does it matter?” He questioned while you grabbed the sleeve to his navy blue jacket. 

“It matters because that’s public humiliation, not only in general, but to the girl who I’m pretty sure you’re dating?”

Steve only huffed and pulled his arm away from you. “This is why it doesn’t matter. Cause see, you have this little soft spot Jonathan Byers, you’ll defend him no matter what I say.” He huffed, looking away from you and at the letters Tommy was writing with the spray paint. 

“Steve, that’s not fair. You were being a grade A cunt when you broke Jonathan’s camera, okay? And now? You’re acting like a little bitch. Your little feelings are hurt because of something Nancy did, so you’re gonna humiliate her? Stay classy, Harrington.” 

He turned his gaze back to you, glaring. Now his feelings were evident, he was angry and sad. And wouldn’t tell you why. 

“Hey, L/n, wanna know something that even my little sister knows?” Tommy asked, pausing for a brief second and looking down at you, a cigarette between his lips. You quirked up an eyebrow. “Little girls should be seen and not heard.” 

You scoffed a bit at Tommy’s comment, a bitter and fake grin coming across your face as you put your hands on your hips. “I wish I could say I’m surprised that you're a misogynistic piece of shit, but I’m not.” You looked back at Steve, taking a step back from the group. “God. Steve, I thought you could be a good person. But you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met”

You went to leave but the moment you turned around, you saw Nancy, close to angry tears as she walked down the alleyway to where you all were. You stood in place, not leaving her side, and not Jonathan’s either as he followed after Nancy. 

“Aw, hey there, princess!” Carol said with feigned happiness as Nancy finally reaches her spot in front of Steve. 

“Uh oh. She looks upset.” Tommy stated the obvious while you gave the couple space, leaning against a parked car and watching as Steve turned to face Nancy. As well as watching while Nancy raised a hand to slap him against the side of his face. The only causing you to flinch being the sound that the three other teens made in reaction to their friend being hit. 

You’d seen worse at school before. Having watched a fight go down where a kid tried to brace his fall after being pushed, and broke the bone in his forearm. You still got shivers whenever you remembered the large bump in his skin where the bone was presing gainst. 

“What is wrong with you?” Nancy inquired. 

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? I was worried about you. I can’t believe I was actually worried about you.” Steve’s voice trailed off at the end, being followed by a scoff, as if he was disappointed in himself. 

“What are you talking about?” It was clear that Nancy was just as clueless as you were as to what was going on with Steve’s sudden betrayal against Nancy. 

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you. You don’t want to be known as the lying slut do you?” If there was anyone at Hawkins High who you hated more than Tommy, It was Carol. 

“Speak of the devil,” Tommy hopped down from the top of the small set of stairs. “Hi.” He said with a smile, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and wrapping an arm around Carol. 

Turning you saw Jonathan coming closer, his presence finally being registered by the others. It finally clicked. And it seemed to click for nancy too. “You came by last night?” 

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Does she get a prize?”

“Look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t like that.” Looking over to Jonathan he was holding out a hand for you to come over and take. You removed yourself from the situation and went over to your uncle, grabbing onto his sleeve. 

Because at times, he was just the face you knew as your uncle growing up, who bought you your first camera in fifth grade, and bought you lightroom and photoshop in sixth when you were thinking about going into photography in highschool. And right now, he was that familiar face, who could see how uncomfortable you were and was offering comfort. 

“What, you just let him into your room to. . .” Steve gave Jonathan a quick glance before looking back down at Nancy. “study?” 

“Or for another pervy photo session?” Tommy laughed, your grip on Jonathan’s sleeve tightening. 

“We were just-”

“You were just what?” You wished you could intervene, but you couldn’t. Because you didn’t know what happened last night after you left the Wheeler household. “Finish that sentence.” 

You looked up at Jonathan, and saw the way he was looking at the couple. And it slowly made you realize, that this was your aunt. You’d never called her ‘Aunt Nancy’ she was always just ‘Aunt Nan’ to you, and no one ever bothered to correct you. And maybe you were looking too much into things, but she did look very similar to your aunt. 

“Finish the sentence.” Steve challenged. 

Nancy just took deep breaths to stay calm, while you stood and watched as Steve shook his head at her response of choosing silence. “Go to hell, Nancy.” 

Jonathan stepped forward and grabbed onto Nancy’s arm and pulled her back a bit. “C’mon, Nancy. Let’s just go.” 

You went to turn around but Steve began to talk again. “You know what, Byers? I’m actually kind of impressed.” Jonathan and Nancy turned away, beginning to walk to the street again, with you following after until you saw Steve give Jonathan a harsh shove to the back of the shoulder. 

“I always took you for a queer, but I guess you’re just a little screw-up like your father. Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah that house is full of screw-ups.” 

The words were getting to you. Because that was your family. Your grandmother, your asshole for a grandfather, and your uncle. And you’d never let words get to you, but these were striking you deep, and hard. But you didn’t turn away, you just kept taking steps like Nancy and Jonathan who tried to ignore the shoving, and Harrington’s cruel words. 

“You know, I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised. An bunch of screw-ups in your family.”

“Steve, walk away.” You snapped turning to him while Nancy told Jonathan to leave it alone. 

“I mean, your mom. . . I’m not even surprised what happened to your brother-” 

You threw the first punch, your dominant hand balling itself into a fist and colliding with Steve’s nose. And the moment you heard the thud of bones cushioned by skin hitting each other, and the deep, yet dull and constant pain in your knuckles you knew you’d made a mistake, even if it felt satisfying to hit him. Because the moment you pulled back swearing and hissing at the pain in your fist, Jonathan had followed your lead. 

Jonathan’s punch had a bit more weight behind it, and made Steve grab onto a pole to regain balance. You started something, but you didn’t know what.

You screamed out at Steve to stop the moment that he tackled Jonathan to the car you’d leaned against, and so had Nancy. 

When Steve had pushed Jonathan onto his back and on the ground, you felt as if the pain was your own, your spine tensing up the moment you heard the thud. 

“Steve!” You yelled while Jonathan switched their positions, rolling them over so he had the better position to hit. You hated that Steve’s friends were encouraging it. Well, at least Tommy was. Carol and Nicole knew when things had to end. 

It happened fast, with barely any time to process it. All you knew was that Jonathan had Steve on the ground a second time, Steve’s face bloodied and already swelling and bruising when the cop car came. Nicole and Carol running off when Tommy told them too. All you knew was that Jonathan hit a cop, and Steve and Tommy ran.

•••

@disneyprincessbuffyannesummers​​​​ @jxnehxpper​​​​ @yllwtaxi​​​​ @songofcosplay​​​​ @potatopooper05​ 

[charactersadvocatechimata]

Fata Morgana

Here is a preview of the WinterIron I’m working on. Full chapter should be uploaded on Ao3 by the 31st.

People will lie. There is no avoiding that. Nod on cue and politely smile. Think nothing of it. People will lie. When to be cautious, is not at a lie, but at a deflection. Those that distract with blinding smile or a song or an extravagant gesture. Be wary. Fae will bait you away with desires and dreams. Spirited away. Never to return. Be wary.

At least that’s what Ma would say. On loud nights, when the men of Brooklyn would gather to drink and sing. Loud to chase away dark idealizations. She would cuddle him close. Whisper stories of beautiful people who lead good Catholics astray. Of heroes that braved enchanted towers and won against seduction.

Of course, that memory could have been its own seductive dream. Memory was a tricky beast even for the day-to-day people. Having your brain cooked sunny side up by Hydra doesn’t improve things either. Not that anyone thinks it would. Late night television is not selling electroshocks as the cure for old age memory loss.

So Bucky was on the fence about his current situation. Did Tony Stark really kidnap him? If anyone were crazy enough to abduct the Winter Soldier, Stark would be on that list. Well, in his humble opinion. Crazy people never seem to think things through, either. Take, for example, Bucky’s bindings. Rope couldn’t stop an assassin. The Winter Soldier is a super assassin. Rope was cake on a silver platter of escape.

Escape. Right. The hero always struggles to escape. But he has lived far too long to be considered a hero. Heroes hope for humanity’s salvation. Not eternal sleep.

“Boss, I think the Princess is awake.”

Princess?! Oh, that was close. A slight twitch might go unnoticed but slamming his fists against the floor would not.

“Are you sure?”

Something jabs him twice in the shoulder. By some mercy, it was the shoulder attached to the meat arm. Even so, it’s still a jab into sensitive squish parts. But his body remains still. Thank Hydra for unparallel pain tolerance. Ha!

“Friday. How do you tell if a possum is playing dead?”

“It depends on the possum, I think.” A static hum consumes the quiet of the room. “You could draw something unflattering on his forehead.”

“Oh, love it.”

Something pops, and the stick of non-drinkable alcohol tickles his nose. Stark wouldn’t? Would he? Fuck crazy people and their unpredictable tendencies.

“Is this necessary? Couldn’t you just kill me? No reason to desecrate my body.” Bucky slams his hands between himself and the red marker. A wall to protect him from whatever Stark wanted to draw on his face. Probably something worse than the standard dick drawing.

Stark’s eyes trail from Bucky to the marker. A marker that’s only an inch from Bucky’s face. Then pouts. A full pout only found in cartoons with sings birds and large reflective eyes. Seriously. What is so exciting about drawing on a tired man’s face? Or putting starfish magnets on his metal arm?

“We're not going to kill you, Barnes.”

Bucky shifts his eyes around the room. Empty except for the crazy rich man with a marker and himself. No woman, he can’t help but imagine as a redhead. Stark does not voice a comment or give any indication of the location of the third human. In the security office? Remaining far away from Hydra’s favorite killing machine. Perhaps, some who isn’t crazy.

“Right now.”

Stark continues to fiddle with the marker refusing to put the damn thing done. To give up the grand opportunity to use Bucky’s forehead as paper. Not even the quality stuff. No, the scraps an artist uses to doodle.

“Has anyone told you that you resemble a depressing sandwich? And despite what the fire department may tell you, or Pepper for that matter. I know what I'm talking about. I have made my share of depressing sandwiches. Mostly, with mustard.” Stark makes a sweeping motion with the marker- still uncapped. “I tired honey dijon once because a random website told me too. I must say, I prefer mustard.”

The marker jumps up and twirls with the rhythm of Stark’s words in complete sync. A remarkable feat considering he had forgotten all about said writing utensil. Or that’s what Bucky hopes. He’s nice like that.

“What does food have to do with any of this?”

The marker is finally capped, and Stark frowns. Yet doesn’t say a thing. Did Bucky actually say anything? He is far too used to keeping any thought to himself. Stark dropped the marker. Bucky grabs it, just to make sure, while Stark turns away. More silence. Hardly illuminating to what the rats running Stark’s crazy brain thinks.

For a single heartbeat, Stark stilled between one step and the next. In that one thump of his heart, Stark stand between two thoughts. Is he turning his back on a weapon or a monster? Hydra handlers were quick to dismiss the Asset as a simple weapon. Yet he was required to present a gun to the handler if they were alone. As protection from a monster. Which will Stark choose?

Bucky doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t get one either. Stark simple takes his next step then another. Until he completely leaves Bucky’s line of sight.

Free from the ropes, and, as far as he can tell, alone in an empty meeting room. Bucky plots. Or at least takes another look around. There is a large table and a lot of chairs. Too many chairs. And windows blacked out. Standard stuff for the business life.

Except.

“Please, remain inside the room.”

The voice. Again. He does not like voices without bodies. There is nothing to stab if there is no body. “Do I have a reason to leave?”

“To destroy. As is your nature.”

“Is that why you will be deactivating and destroying me? For my sins? Or for Stark’s grudge?”

“I think justice is more appropriate. Don’t you, Barnes?”

“Is it just me or did this whole room get several degrees more depressing?” Stark returned holding a plate that looks like a mini Captain America shield with two sandwiches. Another was between his teeth. Already half eaten. He blinks, nose twitching and the sandwich disappears with the last bite. “Are you having a showdown with My AI?” The plate is held high even as Stark tilts his head to the side. “You shouldn’t. She cheats.”

{Comment about AI}

“I do not. I am a proper lady.”

“That cheats and starts fights with cyborgs.”

“I didn’t start anything. But I will finish it.”

Friday, as Stark called the ceiling, ends the sentence with enough implied judgment to anchor an entire fleet of ships. During a heavy storm. But Bucky didn’t start shit. No matter how the ceiling paints it.

Well…

There was the whole thing with Steve.

“I made you depressing sandwiches.” Stark shoves the plate into Bucky’s personal bubble. It is presented with the same pride a child presents a gift to their mother. “There is mustard and tomatoes. Salami. Maybe. The evidence is uncertain.”

Well, the sandwiches look innocent enough sitting on the mini shield. The bread is white with seeds. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just different. There is definitely the strong fatty smell of salami. More of a last meal than what Hydra would offer. Looks good, too.

Taking the food incites Stark to grin, small but bright, like a star off in the distance. How easy it would be for Stark’s blinding smiles to hide all sorts of grime. Pierce could disarm anyone with a smile as well, even Fury.

Stark gave him a sandwich at least.

“Now, according to personal experience, it’s time for the evil monologue. The fun part.”

Bucky takes a bite. Otherwise, etiquette would dictate that he respond. And Stark has a crazy sparkle in his eyes. Never respond to the crazy. That and silence is easy. Nodding is easy. People usually just continue when he nods.

“Right! So last night or the prior evening or something. Not important. What is important is that a waking dream gave me an idea. And no it wasn’t a dream. I was definitely awake. Dreams usually have someone screaming.” Stark’s hand smacks the notion away. “Nor was I hallucinating. You can’t trust hallucinations. But this is a good idea. A genius idea!” His other hand shoots straight into the air.

“What idea?” The fucking moron asks. You’d never figure Buck’s been around for hundred years. He knew not to engage the crazy. Bucky blames the second sandwich. Didn’t get into his mouth fast enough. Fucker.

Stark is too crazy to catch Bucky’s mental stumble. But the AI. The AI is judging him. Judging and laughing it up. Silently. Like a dick. Dick.

“Revenge! Because what else can I do? It’s either this or a time machine. And I promise I was going to go with the time machine. But Pepper vetoed that. Which fair. No one wants me running around in the time stream. I wouldn’t be able to help myself even knowing I’d probably fuck it up.”

Stark flexes his right hand. He stops to stare at the fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something. “I keep having that same dream. It only got worse after. Zombie Steve with the shield. Blaming me. For fucking up. Not doing enough. Always saying the wrong thing. I work and go to therapy. But the dreams remain. The bodies piling up.” His eyes slide shut. One last time those fingers curl then clench tight.

“So I kidnapped you.” Stark spreads his arms out wide. “Part of it was panic. Rhodey may have destroyed the ancient technology that might have been a mobile phone. Hard to say, archeology isn’t my strong suit. Whatever. I do know he dropped it down the Mariana Trench. But I would be surprised if it survived. And Steve.”

The stars vanish from his eyes. His arms are slammed from the air by gravity. “No, it’s Rogers now. Rogers.” Stark’s mumbling to himself now. His audience forgot.

Because what? Bucky’s just chopped liver. Not the intend audience. Fuck that. He’ll just be stupid and blame it on Hydra. Hydra played happy sack with electricity and his brain. He has earned at least using them as an excuse.

“Why would ‘Pepper’ nix the time machine?”

Bucky could actually see Stark remember he had an audience. His eyes blinking and tilting. His gaze landing on Bucky. And the ‘oh’ formed on his lips. Like prose on a page in a fairytale book for children.

“I told you.”

“Yeah, I got that. But there is no way you could build a time machine that goes back in time. Pretty sure Einstein nixed that.”

“I could.”

Sure. Maybe if he had another hundred years or so. But Bucky ain’t holding his breath.

This whole thing is a farce. Like Stark’s the only one hunted by ghosts. Everyone’s got nightmares. Bucky’s got seventy years to fuel his phantoms and shadows. World War 2. Hydra. The Red Room. But he fucking buries it. Right next to the bodies. Smiles and grins instead. Fucking telling stories from the 1930’s he isn’t sure he remembers or read in Rogers’ file. Writing broken dreams in journals that switch from Russian to English to Italian to German.

And for fucking what. To be used against Stevie. Again. “I refuse.” And fuck him.

“Okay.” Stark nods. Takes back the plate, gripping it to his chest. Takes a step back. Grins and bows. A grand gesture indicating the open door. A showman’s bow ending the play, waiting for the curtains to fall. But for all it’s supposed glam it’s dull. All the color that made Stark shine shut away. With a delicate slam. Something that might even go unnoticed.

Again there is that silent laughter. Mocking him.

But sunlight is pushing itself inside. Bucky follows the light out. Stark had been right. The room was depressing. The blinding hallway wasn’t much better.

Bucky wants his goggles.