#i wrote the better chunk of this in like an hour and a half right now

[perpetualcynicism]

…𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: In which replying to a mysterious letter leads you back to the one place (and person) you could never quite forget. …𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Childhood friends to lovers. …𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: None. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 2,256 words. …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader; renga is a collaborative form of Japanese poetry which consists of a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable scheme; Heizou Hasegawa is a character from the novel series Onihei Hankachō by Shōtarō Ikenami, who acted as possible inspiration for Shikanoin Heizou, who was inspired by a real figure—an interesting and more comprehensive explanation of this can be found here. Reblogs and comments are appreciated.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

𝙰 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚛𝚊.

It is a letter which appears under your door, written in an elegant hand on a plain slip of paper, left unsigned. You are addressed by your pen-name at the top; the rest reads as follows:

I have heard countless tales of your famed verse, and read many of your novels on my travels—no, I will be honest; I confess that I’ve read all of them. I cannot help myself. Such wit and mastery of words as you possess is simply astounding. In particular your most recent tale, A Thousand Boughs of Sakura, was exceptionally engaging in how you utilised verse to leave hints in the text towards the true identity of the culprit; and I must say that you almost fooled me with the shocking conclusion! 

In the spirit of your skill, and my current being in town—entertain a poor soul with a game of renga, will you? I’ll start:

—Secrets tossed on wind

The rest of the paper is blank, as if the author has already anticipated your compliance to the proposal with complete confidence. 

The letter’s arrival itself is nothing out of the ordinary: you often receive such messages from fans, offering praise, questions and comments regarding your publications. It is, however, one of the rare occasions where the subject of interest has been yourself, rather than your work, and the first where a request has so specifically, not to mention so directly, been made of you.

Indeed, from the request to the manner of writing, the letter initially strikes you as terribly entitled, and you have the mind to toss it away and forget about it—but, skimming your eyes over the message again, you hesitate. 

Despite the novel being released a few weeks ago, this is the only letter you have received to pick up your writing technique: using differences in the pronunciation of kanji to suggest alternative meanings to the phrase; implying hidden messages through synonyms which, though identical in meaning, contain different radicals to the alternative word. Whoever the sender of the message is, they must have an acute eye for detail—a quality you can respect. Perhaps this mystery reader of yours is worth a moment or two.

You walk to your desk and unthinkingly pen another verse:

—All one must do is listen

You hardly know where to leave the reply—it is not as if your messenger has indicated their whereabouts, beyond ‘currently being in town’—yet somehow you trust that it will find its intended recipient. You pin it in a corner of the local noticeboard, and think no more of it for the rest of the day.

——————

—To hear the rustle.

Penned in the same elegant handwriting, this is the new line which has joined the previous verse when you pass by the noticeboard on the following day. You remove the letter and take it back to your home, where you spend a few moments considering how to respond. 

Your reply, as you pin it back up, reads thus:

—Verses penned by unknown hand 

The next day, another line:

—Anonymity’s respite.

And so is your first complete stanza concluded. You thumb the edge of the translucent paper, considering how next to proceed. 

Of course, the first thought to arise is that there is no need to ‘proceed’ with this game whatsoever: you have fulfilled this reader’s request at no great benefit to yourself, and there is no obligation compelling you to elaborate upon it further. You could end this playful exchange now and feel hardly the worse for it. 

And yet, that peculiar hook, on which your career and passions are founded—that irresistible inclination named ‘curiosity’—has taken hold somewhere within you, is tugging you gently in the direction of the mystery. You wish to know more of this enigmatic admirer of yours; you wish to know why something about him (you feel, somehow, that it is a ‘him’) feels almost familiar. If nothing else, you enjoy the creative interplay. 

You raise your brush to the page, and continue the poem. 

—Where is respite found?

—Asks the cowering sinner

You read over the line once, twice. Something, a niggling feeling in the deeper recesses of your mind, is beckoning to you, inviting you to wonder at this choice of words.

It feels like your partner is hinting at you, playing with you much in the same way you do with your own audience. You wonder what the clue may be, return to the previous lines you have composed together, come to a tentative hypothesis. 

You think you know the direction in which to guide this inquiry. 

—Shed of virtue’s mask

—Like young blossoms in summer

—Trembling in fear of cyclones.

You return the letter to the noticeboard. Over a week has passed already; what began as a favour on a whim has grown into a routine, even a commitment. 

There is room yet remaining on the paper for one more stanza; one final chance to crack the code, to solve the puzzle laid out for you. This method itself, you acknowledge, is a clue. 

You feel much like Hasegawa, the protagonist of A Thousand Boughs of Sakura; reading between the lines and hunting down scant hints to identify the criminal before it is too late. (In your novel, the criminal turns out to be an old acquaintance.)

The difference is that you are no detective; merely an author, a poet. Your skills reside in capturing the immaterial, not assimilating the real. 

Even so, the opening line of the final stanza gives you confidence that you are on the right track.

—What is a cyclone?

—But that which intuits vice 

—Wielding intellect 

—Catching arrows with bare hands

—Leaving no buds to fester.

My, what a beautiful poem we have composed! Our hearts must truly beat in harmony with one another. Your intellect is as sharp as I remember. 

Midnight, tonight. I will see you at the usual spot.

——————

The letter does not specify where you are to meet, nor does it need to. Since childhood, there has only been one location you frequented enough for its significance to become instinctual. You head toward the coastline, where there grows a certain sakura tree overlooking the shore, identified by its gnarled trunk which is twisted with age. 

There is a reclining silhouette already outlined against the tree when you arrive. Perhaps the details have changed here and there—the height, the clothing—but the figure itself, you could not mistake for the world. 

In unmarked silence, you join Shikanoin Heizou beneath the sakura tree. 

For a time, neither of you speak. What is there to say? You have not seen each other in years. Circumstances, not to mention your own selves, have altered within the rift of time you have spent apart. The last time you met was in the early moments of adulthood, when he took on the mantle of a detective and your aptitude for writing began to raise you into company higher than anticipated. 

Thinking back on it now, you never said a proper goodbye; he simply had to leave one day, and subsequently you drifted out of each other’s lives through no devices of your own, as a cloud disperses into smaller fragments and is scattered on the wind. You never received any letters from him, either; it did not occur to you to send one of your own (and if you had, how were you to know where to send it?). But you never forgot him—Archons, never. 

The fact that he is here now gives you hope that he did not forget about you, either. 

The silence grows, deepens, becomes uncomfortable. Somebody will have to take the first step; and this time, it is your turn. You run your tongue over dry lips. 

“What a surprise it is to see you here, Heizou.”

For all of your usual eloquence, any skill with words has abandoned you now. You feel exposed and frightfully inexperienced, like you are sitting at an empty page in your father’s study, wondering how to compose your first haiku. 

He smiles, and the world is stable again. “Not much of a surprise, I’m afraid. You figured me out.”

“You wanted me to,” you reply, and you find yourself falling into a rhythm of effortless exchange similar to the renga game—except this time, you are not separated by ink and paper, but face to face. The interaction feels easy, like the rift of time between you is nothing at all. 

You ask, “What were your reasons for approaching me through letters, rather than directly? Diverting as your puzzles were, surely it should have been far simpler to greet me in person, not wait until now.”

“I couldn’t risk speaking with you any earlier, for both of our sakes. Until recently I was part of an undercover investigation, and had I been recognised, the confidentiality of the case may be compromised. And on your end, I figured it would be embarrassing for somebody of such high standing as yourself to be seen hanging around somebody like me.”

Something is off. His explanation is sound, but there’s a matter he hasn’t addressed. “A letter signed with one’s name alone ought to be privacy enough—yet it was your choice to remain anonymous,” you point out.

Another smile lifts the corner of his mouth, this time a touch meek. His eyelashes lower as he glances downwards. “Would you rather the honest answer, or the one which will flatter me?”

“Offer me first the flattery,” you propose, “and only the honesty if I fail to decipher the truth myself.”

“My intention was to test your discernment. I remember our childhood battles of wits fondly, but after such a long time, I wasn’t sure how your character held up. So much time spent in high society can change somebody; I wanted to know whether you were still the same person I knew before taking any action to introduce myself.”

“Am I still the same person?” you ask out of interest. 

“Of course you are.” The reply is so quick, comes so naturally, that it warms you. 

So, that is the flattery. 

You scrutinise the man in front of you; his posture (the way he leans against the tree trunk, yet drums his fingers on the wood), his expression (how his eyes glance between you and the floor, like he’s just as shy and skittish as you are, perhaps even more so), his explanation (which is obviously false—he read your works, meaning he must have been aware at least to an extent of your personal development).

“And the truth,” you conclude after a careful period of reflection, “is that you were afraid. Afraid that, after all this time, I would hold towards you feelings of contempt for leaving so abruptly. You did not sign your name in fear that my knowing your identity would provoke me to be hostile, or to rebuke your advances.”

“And would you have done so?” 

“I never thought ill of you, Heizou,” you say. When you say his name, his eyes widen by a touch, brighten a little. “Not once, even if I tried to. And…” You sigh, leaning back against the tree beside him. “You may comfort yourself with the fact that I was afraid, too.”

Heizou looks away, in thought. Silence settles upon you once more. This time, you are comfortable in it. Yes; there is comfort in having Heizou standing beside you once again, close enough that, should you wish, you could…

(He flexes his hand, and you know you are thinking of the same thing. Neither of you act. It’s still too soon, too hasty, to go there yet. You want to get to know him again, from the beginning, before going there.) 

“Is it really true, that you read all of my novels?” you blurt. 

“Every single one,” he replies in earnest. 

You scratch your neck. “Was it… ahem, was it obvious that Hasegawa was based on you?”

“I did notice some similarities, yes,” Heizou admits with a chuckle. “In fact,” he continues, a smirk beginning to creep onto his face, “if my memory serves me correctly, you describe him as handsome no less than seven times.”

Heat rushes to your face. You cough into your first, and Heizou laughs again, the sound full and bright and everything you’ve missed in the last few years of your life. 

“Don’t worry—you were subtle in every other part of the story. I wasn’t exaggerating in my initial praise, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such attention to detail in the narration as well as the plot itself. It really is extraordinary.” 

You’re accustomed to receiving praise from fan letters and colleagues, but getting it from Heizou feels different, somehow; it feels more valuable, more real. “Thank you,” you smile, suddenly all bashful and self-conscious again. He smiles back. You have to look away.

“What do you plan to do now, then?” you ask, changing the subject to something less involved with yourself. “I assume your incredibly-confidential, undercover-agent case is over.”

“I’ve been considering staying here for a while—until another case comes up, at least.” Now he’s the one to look away. A slight hint of red dusts his cheeks, a shyness reveals itself in the upturned corners of his lips, and his voice takes on a softer, more self-conscious note. “This might be a little presumptuous of me, but… I was thinking that I could stay with you. If you’d have me.” 

Your reply is so quick, comes so naturally, that it warms you. 

[lollytea]

Therapy

(Wrote this in five hours without stopping. Nothing fancy. Maybe sloppy and unpolished. Bon appetite???)

"Leave it alone, Darius," Hunter snarled, slamming down his chisel and wooden shape on the desk as he whirled around to face him.

"I'm doing a load anyway!" Retorted Darius, one hand gripping the laundry basket against the hip and the other holding a graphic tee with the solar system printed on it. "You know it bothers me to walk in here and see dirty clothes tossed all over the floor."

"I can do my own laundry!"

Hunter internally winced at his tone the second it burst out of him.

He sounded like the cranky, whiny child that he had once been, always gnashing nonvenomous teeth in an effort to be taken seriously.

Being treated as a child was one of his most explosive buttons. And the worst part was that if pushed, he always acted up in a way that proved them right.

He reeled himself in, filling his lungs to steady his wrung nerves before turning back to his work.

There was a pause.

"I know you are," said Darius, his voice softer than it had been a moment prior. "But considering you've been letting it pile up for the last few days, I figure I'd lend you a hand."

"I don't need a hand." Hunter took furious chunks out of his hunk of wood. "I'm gonna do it myself. I'm just....busy. Right now."

Hunter was "busy" a lot lately, leaving things such as laundry overlooked, as he focused on one obsession after another. Darius referred to his bouts of productivity as "manic episodes."

It was preferable to the other half of the time when he went borderline unresponsive. Those days weren't fun.

He heard a fwump, which was presumably the sound of Darius dropping the shirt back on the floor.

"Ocellena called," He said.

Hunter's rough attempts at whittling went still. "That's...the therapist's name, right?"

"Yes. Your first session is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. 3pm."

"Right. Okay." Hunter intoned. "Thanks."

When he offered nothing else, Darius pushed a bit.

"I know you're scared."

Hunter wanted to hotly declare that he wasn't. But he felt like the blood of a lie would seep through his words. He said nothing.

"But you haven't been doing well, Hunter."

He wanted to argue that he was actually doing awesome. But Darius was a lot better at arguing than he was, so he'd probably just end up looking stupid.

"And I promise that this is a step in the right direction."

"I said I was sorry," Hunter found himself uttering in a quiet, scratchy voice.

There he was again, that whiny difficult child inside of him. And in that moment, he had touched Hunter's throat, letting out one final plea to be forgiven.

He didn't know what he expected to happen.

Maybe deep down, he desperately wanted Darius to soften up and say to him, "Oh Hunter, what am I thinking? I shouldn't send you to therapy. You don't deserve that."

Darius said nothing of the sort.

Instead, he sighed. "You have nothing to apologize for,"

Hunter felt fingerpads gently drill against his temple. "How do I get that through your stubborn skull?"

His insides writhed with empty dread.

So, apologizing was worthless in this case. Noted.

Before Darius left the room, Hunter's hair was affectionately ruffled. He slid his eyes shut and savoured the feeling.

Every day for the last few months, Hunter was handled with such gentleness by the people around him. It had become so frequent that he had come close to taking it for granted.

He once caught himself wondering if maybe one day he'd forget how it felt to be treated.....the other way.

Well, it certainly wouldn't be anytime soon.

Hunter was, quite possibly, one of Bonesborough's most insufferable roommates. The number of times Darius and Eberwolf were awoken at untitanly hours by the sound of him suffocating on his own serrated screams was embarrassing.

The memories still seared raw and achey, nowhere close to scabbing over.

He couldn't forget.

And now, he was about to experience it all over again. But for morally correct reasons this time.

Hunter exhaled, irritated by the way it rattled. He leaned forward and hung his head in his hands.

There was a persistent gnaw of guilt in his abdomen that he was doing his damndest to ignore.

He did not want to go to therapy. But he knew he'd be a coward to admit that.

This was supposed to be a noble thing, right? Atonement. He was supposed to be owning up to his mistakes like an adult. But, being faced with the imminent appointment made him feel more like a spineless child than ever.

"Do you know what therapy is?" Darius had asked a few weeks ago when the topic had first been broached.

His tone made made Hunter bristle. He felt patronized. Nothing made him shrink in humiliation more than being confronted with the fact that he still didn't know a lot of things.

"Of course I do!" He snapped, not bothering to mention that he had only learned of the concept a few days prior when Steve brought it up in conversation.

"It's so chill, dude," He had explained. "It really made me reflect on all the bad stuff I did as a scout, y'know? And now I feel like I can finally move past all that business without the ol' baggage wearin' me down."

"But what is it?" Hunter prodded. "What happens in therapy?"

"Well it's...y'know,"

Hunter frowned, impatient. He did not know.

"It's just you and them. In a room together. Alone. And...you talk. About stuff..." Steve shrugged airily. "It's just that, man."

The last words Steve uttered sounded like they were underwater because Hunter had mentally blipped out after hearing the words 'In a room,' 'Alone' and 'talk'

His blood had frozen over.

Steve's wrist was promptly squeezed by Hunter's jittery fingers. And when the older scout curiously met his eyes, he said solemnly, "Steve. You don't have to go there."

Steve smiled his pleasant, lopsided smile. "I want to, Hunter."

His voice was so soft, so sure of itself, that a heavy weight of devastation unloaded in Hunter's stomach.

"Sure, it's scary at first." Steve continued, giving Hunter's knuckles a comforting rap. "But over time....it helps."

And then, he said the words that Hunter selfishly wished he had never heard.

"I go to therapy, and I think I'm now a better guy than I used to be."

The rest of the interaction had fallen flat because Hunter suddenly felt very disconnected from his body, and Steve could not reel him back.

He remembered the curt businesslike knock on the door of his castle bedroom. He knew it as the sound of guards delivering a message. A slip of paper from the Emperor himself, requesting his presence in the throne room. To talk.

He remembered the soft-spoken echoey order once he entered.

"Close the door,"

Hunter would obey. And then, they were alone.

'In a room'

'Alone'

'Talk'

Hunter knew how to read between the lines.

He felt stupid. Naive. They had told him that the things Belos had done to him were wrong.

They promised him that it was wrong.

But it seemed as though Hunter had severely misunderstood.

The actions themselves were not wrong, but the reasoning.

Hunter did not deserve to be punished for failing to carry out the dirty work of a vile, depraved man.

Every punishment was undeserved by default, on the grounds of it being delivered by Belos.

But Hunter, idiot that he was, had foolishly believed that he was never going to be hurt like that again.

And if he was, he would at least take comfort in the fact that it was wrong.

The realizations were crashing over him in overpowering waves. He felt pathetic for not being able to take it.

I'd like to leave the Emperor's Coven and never set foot in that throne room again

I go to therapy, and I'm now a better guy than I used to be

There were people on the Isles who hurt you and....and it was right...?

You face the consequences of your actions, and you allow them to hurt you in a way that was ethical, and then....you were a better person.

Of course.

Of course that was how it worked.

How could he possibly believe it worked any differently?

It had struck him the moment Steve had said it, that nobody on the Isles deserved therapy more than Hunter.

The actions of the Golden Guard had been unspeakably cruel. All the times he had stood there, turning a blind eye, as his uncle tore open a living creature. All the carnage Hunter had allowed to happen directly in front of him.

It was borderline brainless of him to ever assume that he could escape consequences.

He desperately wanted to be a good person. He would start ripping his own innards out if it meant he could be deemed a good person.

He'd do anything. Really.

Which was why he had decided to steel his nerves and agree to therapy.

He would walk into that room and his legs would not shake.

He would tilt up his chin, close his eyes, and stomach the consequences he had earned.

And then, Titan willing, he'd be one step closer to being good.

And yet...he would rather be dismembered than admit it, but...

Hunter was scared. He was scared to receive his punishment.

After everything he had done to innocent lives, Hunter had the audacity to be scared of the punishment.

He disgusted himself.

_______________________________

With the Emperor's Coven dismantled, the vacant police precinct currently had a plethora of uses.

Most notably, it was a research facility that Darius frequented. The current project was working on a safe sigil extraction procedure. Hunter gave Darius a headache by asking for updates every damn day, despite the latter's insistence that it would probably take years to perfect.

But today, when Hunter visited the building, he and Darius did not turn right towards the lab, but they ventured down an entirely foreign hallway.

Hunter was doing everything in his power to keep his breathing steady.

"Would you like me to sit in the waiting room?" Asked Darius.

"No," Hunter answered.

They continued to cut through the hallway in silence.

"Yes," He corrected himself, so quiet he worried Darius wouldn't hear it.

He did hear it. "Alright. I think we'll pick up some fatty junk from the market for dinner tonight. I don't feel like cooking."

Darius hated fatty junk.

Despite the terror teething his insides, Hunter's lip still quirked upwards, feeling the tiniest surge of warmth.

He loved fatty junk. And Darius knew it.

His therapy session was not the end of the world. Life would continue afterwards, and there would still be little pleasures.

And he would be a better person than he was now.

Once Darius checked him in, Hunter tried not to squirm in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, debating whether he wanted to pick up one of the trashy magazines on the rack.

According to the front cover of one of the tabloids, a star grudgby player had an organ eating scandal. Typical tabloid stuff.

"Hunter?" Called a soft, docile voice that nonetheless made him glad he didn't eat breakfast because he wanted to puke.

Darius tapped his knee to signal him to stand up, which Hunter did. He managed to not cave in.

He crossed the waiting room and pushed the door open, pretending that he wasn't experiencing alarming flashes of hands and eyes and dripping green blades.

He was ready. He was going to be a good person.

"Hello, Hunter~" Singsonged a small pudgy woman, who was in the process of donning an ankle length cardigan. Occellena. "Do you find it chilly in here, by any chance?" She asked.

Taken aback by the question, Hunter dumbly shook his head.

"Guess it's just me, then. It's a curse. Cold blooded n' all."

She had a head of plump indigo tentacles, and her bright amber eyes were magnified by jar-like spectacles.

"Well, let me know if you catch a chill and I'll turn up the heater."

The heater in question was a crystal ball the size of an ottoman with a blazing flame contained in the glass.

Occellena swept across the room to where Hunter stood and put a hand to the door. "Let's just close this and we can get--"

As far as he was aware, he did not do anything. But something made her take pause, and when she glanced his way, he felt himself jot.

"Or would you prefer to keep it open?"

The question initially escaped his comprehension. It seemed out of the realm of his own reality.

Hunter's throat tightened. And when he tried to speak, he failed.

He nodded again.

"Okay!" She said cheerily, like this was the best thing she had heard all day.

Out of the thousands of tangles in Hunter's stomach, one of them spread loose.

It was faint, but he distinctly felt the way that tangle relaxed itself.

"So, we'll leave the door open for now," said Occellena. "And if you decide at any point that you don't want that anymore, you can just pop right up and give it a swing shut."

Defenses still scaling high, Hunter had no idea what to make of this.

"Anyway," She made to walk towards her own chair, politely beckoning him to follow with one of her tentacles. "Shall we sit? I recently got a new couch. I'd really like some feedback on how comfy it is."

_______________________________

Darius would never say it, but his heart was hammering like a jackalope with worry for that ridiculous kid. His legs kept crossing and uncrossing in the waiting room chairs that seemed specifically designed to be uncomfortable.

Darius had bumped into Occellena on a few occasions in the upstairs kitchen. He had spiked his apple blood while she grounded oyster shells into her tea. He had never been one for chit-chat, but she had been nothing but bubbly with him, in spite of his less than enthusiastic responses.

He couldn't determine her skills as a therapist from just a few conversations, but the extensive research he had done to find a qualified candidate had promised that she was highly competent

But was she 'Golden Guard as a client' competent?

Was anyone?

If all else failed, she was sweet. Hunter loved sweet people.

He needed this to go well. If Hunter had a bad therapy experience, it would both stunt his recovery progress and leave him far less willing to try again for the foreseeable future.

Darius resisted the urge to stand up and pace the room, knowing his footsteps would probably disturb Hunter's session.

He noticed that the door remained slightly ajar, which he found peculiar.

Were they not supposed to keep the doors closed? Client confidentiality and all that mumbo jumbo?

Granted, he could not make out the words being said. The pitch of two voices, definitely, but it was all muffled nothingness.

His nerves were barbed during those first few minutes, in which Occellena carried on speaking for several seconds at a time, while Hunter only offered singular sentences as a response.

It was fine, he convinced himself. They were just warming up.

The moments passed, and the session seemed to take a turn in a positive direction.

The seconds in which the slightly lower pitched voice stretched a little bit longer every time he spoke. Louder too.

At some point, he seemed to take off babbling, presumably having one of those obsession buttons pushed.

Darius could only imagine that Occellena had asked about one of Hunter's many passions. That would certainly work wonders.

He had such terrible control of his own volume when he got too eager, so this was a promising sign.

After that, the conversation took a subdued dip, the silences hanging for longer.

And then, he heard footsteps. He straightened his posture, startled by the session seemingly wrapping up so soon.

But no. It was the door clicking shut.

From then on, total silence. Thirty minutes of just Darius, his trashy tales of organ eating athletes, and the vacant uncertainty of how Hunter's first therapy session was going.

And then it was over.

When Darius saw Hunter emerge from the room with Occellena's hand on his shoulder, his eyes were strikingly rimmed with red.

"So I'll see you next week. Don't worry yourself with telling Jewel, I'll have her put it down in the system. Be sure to take it easy for the rest of the evening, alright?"

Though he looked like every ounce of energy had been sapped out of him, Hunter still pulled up a smile for her, and Darius recognized sincere warmth on that face when he saw it.

"I will. Thanks, Occellena,"

And when he approached Darius, he looked relieved, ashamed, and dazed all at once.

"Hey," He greeted, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Hey," Darius responded, softly incredulous. "Shall we go ruin our skin with your accursed bag of grease now?"

His reddened eyes glinted with light boyish amusement. He nodded.

Hunter did not say much during their quest through the Bonesborough marketplace, and Darius vaguely wondered if he should be concerned.

As much as he complained about the boy being an incurable chatterbox, his silence unnerved him.

Hopefully, the session had used up too much of his blabbering muscles.

It wasn't until they were home and seated on opposite ends of the dining room table that Darius understood.

One of his most strictly enforced household rules was that dinner must be served on an actual plate. No takeout containers allowed on his property.

His nose wrinkled in distaste at the atrocity known as deep-fried eyeballs that were making a greasy mess out of his ornate lilac dishes.

Hunter was rolling the unsavoury little orbs around with his fork.

He seemed relaxed, if distracted, so Darius decided to pop the question, only to fill the silence, if anything.

"Do you want to tell me how it went today? With Occellena?"

Hunter's fork went still, but his eyes never dared to draw away from the fatty dinner in front of him.

When he opened his mouth, his bottom lip wobbled, searching for a voice that he did not seem to possess right now.

"It's alright," said Darius. "What happens in therapy stays in therapy. Isn't that what they say?"

Hunter did not respond to that, not even with a glance or a nod or anything of the sort.

He remained hung up on the struggle of getting his initial words out. The bump of his throat bobbed.

Finally, with a small, feeble voice that cracked around the edges, Hunter said, "I didn't think she was gonna be nice to me..."

The silence that fell was born of complete and utter bewilderment. Darius was so flabbergasted by the statement that he spoke before he fully thought it over.

"Well, that is to be expected from therapy," A touch of laughter rose and fell between the words. "I mean, surely you didn't think she would--?"

Darius cut himself off, his smile dropping as he noticed the visible tremor of Hunter's mouth, which he had forced into a thin line.

"Hunter?"

The boy lifted his head, bright brown eyes already pooling with an open, lost, childlike anguish. Then he blinked and it spilled to his cheekbones. He looked to Darius searchingly, like he wanted to ask something, but he could not utter a sound more.

"Hunter...? What did you think was going to happen...?"

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Insomnia and allergies are killing me (they aren’t anymore cause i wrote this part a week ago) so prepare for a bunch of Angel Dust facts that no one needs to know about and Vivziepop will probably end up ignoring!

Some of these are headcanons and some of these are canon facts so they will be colourcoded as such! Headcanons will be blue and canon facts will be red. Anything that relates to real spiders will be listed with a 🕷️! Some of these will also get a little doodle from me

Much like an average spider, Angel can feel and sense when storms are coming. These freak him out and will make him curl up on the ground.🕷️

Angel is sensitive to vibrations and especially sensitive to stronger ones like lightning and earthquakes. (Hell does not have earthquakes.) Stronger ones make him paranoid and nauseous from his organs moving around.🕷️

He definitely needs glasses to see far away but doesn’t bother since it hardly becomes an issue in daily life.🕷️

Jumping spiders change how they see btw! Less light = more detail, More detail = less light.

Vision Examples:

He can also see behind him but I don’t have that angle so this is the best you get

Sleeps curled up.🕷️

Also follows lasers! Not in the same way a cat would, but any interesting movement in his peripheral vision will cause him to turn toward it to see it better.🕷️

Can see ultraviolet light.🕷️

Has a tree nut allergy (Hazelnuts and walnuts. He is unfortunately a very big hazelnut fan.)

Dresses up Fat Nuggets on Halloween. And basically every other day. Seems to have a preference for the witch hat

Owns a skateboard??

Why do his eyes glow pink why can he do that on command

Can dialate his pupils at will I guess

Molts. Basically like shedding but if you also had to scrub a chunk of your skin off. Lasts 1-2 days.🕷️

Very often used to say slurs without knowing they were slurs and probably still does sometimes

Currently still under the impression his sister is alive. She also probably found him after he overdosed.

Struggles to keep track of time

No idea what half the letters in LGBTQIA+ mean

Recently learned what a pride flag is

Angel has small retractable hooks/claws inside his palm that he can use to hold onto surfaces.🕷️

Angel hates people crying around or on him and will push them away or distance himself.

Examples:

Angel is very skittish around fire even though it cannot hurt him.

Hates the smell of citrus fruits.🕷️

Angel has two fangs (primary for injecting and liquifying food) on the roof of his mouth, much sharper papillae in the back of his throat and a second set of venomous fangs near the deeper in his throat that are to inject larger food and paralyze it but there is the rare occasion where the fangs stab his own throat and he collapses for a few hours after getting the fangs unstuck and he just lays there until it wears off and it kind of looks like he's dead cause there’s probably blood in his mouth but hes fine /hj🕷️

This is more of a food safety precaution. If he ate something live he would inject it with venom if it wasn’t dead yet, but he does not do this so these fangs are basically pointless and he might as well just get them removed at this point

Angel DOES have lungs! I know this seems like a very basic fact but some spiders have book lungs! Different from ours they don’t breathe the same way we do, just like how spiders don’t have blood like humans. This is me being a nerd, but we have seen that Angel has mentioned his lung capacity and he has the ability to cough as seen in Episode 5 (I think its 5 dont quote me on that) This means he cannot have book lungs since if he did he would not be able to cough, nor would he be able to sneeze or hiccup.🕷️

Angel is likely right handed in his top pair of hands, left handed or ambidextrous in his middle pair, and as for the bottom it seems like either ambidextrous or he just doesn’t like to use them for actions at all.

This is like half headcanon but also I pay way more attention to this shit than Viv does so Im basically right all the time

It doesn’t get super cold in hell Id assume, but on the rare occasion it gets colder or the AC in the hotel is on really high that is one of the few times Angel will use webbing and will wrap himself in it and crawl under a blanket and stay there. If it’s really cold or he plans on being in a cold area for maybe a week or month or so he might go into diapause to conserve energy, warmth, and food. (This can also happen when he has sudden sharp changes in diet and during daylight savings)🕷️

This will be updated again I can feel it in my bones. Hopefully this can satiate you all while I move house 🫶

[chilli-talks-a-lot]

doing thing tips from a gifted silly who's on the edge of sanity but can't seem to break

1. find that balance of "enough to keep you engaged, but not distract you"

Taking away all distractions is dumb because then you get distracted by your brain because of boredom. Make your space a nice place to be! Then, put on music or background noise or have fidget toys, something for stimming so you don't get bored and don't wanna do the thing. Math fucking fucks so I always blast rock music in my ears (it does take me a lot longer to get it done when I do this, but I enjoy it and it's better than never getting it done)

2. if procrastinating, acknowledge why you're procrastinating

I like this Ted-ed video:

It validated my experience with procrastination and helped me to realize what was causing it, which made the task (my assignments) feel less scary. Thinking about this and rewatching the video every once in a while helped make my work seem not so bad.

3. half-ass now, half-ass later

this isn't really good if you have an assignment that's due in like 2 hours or something, but if it's not due right away or something like cleaning this tip applies

sometimes you just don't have the energy. so half-ass it. put only a little bit of effort into it. get some of it done.

half-ass is better than no-ass. then, you do the other half. or just continue to do little chunks of your task until it gets done.

you sweeped the kitchen, but didn't vacuum the carpet? great! you got some of it done, take a break, and do the vacuuming later.

you wrote the intro paragraph of your essay? awesome! it's not finished, but you're making progress. take that break.

4. help others

i don't know, but i like helping others more than helping myself. i use that to my advantage. (feynman technique)

you don't wanna do it? well your friend needs help doing it, so go do it so you can help them.

you don't wanna do it? show your kid how to do it. or think about how you would explain it to your kid if you don't have one yet. or explain it to your cat. or think about how you would explain it to your cat if you don't have one yet.

[theladyofshalott1989]

I'm working on a story right now and struggling with where to go with it. I saw in one of your recent posts that you're currently outlining a story. If you don't mind sharing, how do you go about doing that? Thanks!

HELLO!!! Okay, so I panicked when I saw this Ask (in a good way, I promise hahaha), because while I do have a process, it's hard to describe. So, I went to my BFF @heyitszev to help me formulate my thoughts. Quoting him here, coming up with a quote for what I should say (LOL): "I follow Save the Cat! and then Bash does whatever he wants and I go with it." ^ So... THAT. 😂😂😂

But, to clarify that a bit... Save the Cat! is an outlining process used by screenwriters that can also be applied to novel writing. Here's a link to the website for it with a lot of wonderful resources that can help you on your writing journey. As wonderful as this process is, I do find some downsides to it as a writer of fanfic. 1. If you use this process, it's tough to write anything more than say, 100k+ words per story. Mapping out a story with specific beats that must be hit and resolved within a certain percentage of the story typically means there's a hard stop for the plot to be coherent. BUT, that's what series are for, so there you go.

Side note: I do think I would have a lot more engagement if I had just stuck to one overarching story (lots of readers on AO3 don't tend to follow along with a series, from what I'm finding), but it is what it is! 2. Sometimes the outline is a bit too constrictive for my taste. That's where Bash comes in. I've found over time that loosely outlining is much better than say writing 30+ pages worth of plot beats (yes, I did this for Like Moths to a Flame - it was very time-consuming - LMAO). When I plot loosely, it also leaves room for inspiration. While writing You Cannot Put a Fire Out, I had a general idea of where I wanted the story to go, but then Sebastian (my POV character) took over entirely, and the story went in a completely different direction than I was expecting. And, tbh, I loved "his ideas" even more. I guess what I'm saying here is to trust your instincts. You never know where they'll take you.

That's my writing process! From a routine perspective, once my outline is complete, I write every morning for an hour before work, and sometimes during my lunch break (also an hour). I also write during my toddler's nap time (roughly two hours) on weekends. I don't typically take a day off when I'm writing a story, unless I absolutely have to. Using that process ^, I wrote the first draft of Like Moths to a Flame in about three and a half months. Burning Bright took two months (it's a bit shorter and it didn't require me to watch a million YT playback videos to make sure the dialogue from the game was correct LOL), and You Cannot Put a Fire Out took me four months because Bash wouldn't let me use my outline and I had to move around (and remove!!! massive sigh) huge chunks of stuff I'd already written to make the story make sense. Then there's editing, lots and lots of editing, followed by sending to my lovely beta readers (yay), and then perhaps another draft or two before I start posting. It's quite involved, I will admit. But then, that's that! Thank you so much for asking. I wish you the best of luck with your story! :)

[weirdestbooks]

The Frozen State (Wattpad | Ao3)

This was co-written with a good friend of mine, @lost-islands. This was originally her oneshot, but she was having trouble writing it, and I didn't want to let it be abandoned, as I really loved the premise and what she had written so far. So, it was her idea, and she wrote a good chunk of it. I just made it a cohesive thing.

I should’ve known better, seen the warning signs, and docked when possible. Or just never left the shore at all. But it’d been a gentle east wind and a beautiful day, and I’d naively thought I could handle whatever the Big Lake threw at me. 

I cursed myself for that. One of these days, thinking that way would get me killed. The lake changed too quickly to be underestimated like that. 

It was too dark and foggy to see the coastline. The wind whipped around so loudly I could barely hear the motor; my jaw ached from keeping it clamped shut. I could only use my own judgment and familiarity with the area to guess where I was. I hoped the shore wasn’t too close. If I was correct in guessing, the jagged sandstone cliffs would destroy my boat ages before I got to land safely. 

The best idea would be to go a little further to where I knew a small bay was and attempt to land there. After landing, I’d leave and go back home, where I could change into a dry set of clothes and complain to Illinois about my ruined evening. 

The thoughts did little to distract from the biting cold. The frozen rain felt more like sleet, my skin and hands stinging from the temperature and ice spray. I was half tempted just to leave now and abandon my motorboat and belongings to the mercy of Lake Superior before I went completely stiff.

A shape loomed out of the fog that I, unfortunately, recognized: a half-fallen tree barely hanging onto the cliffs. My heart sank at the sight.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” I said, fear spiking. “It’s too far- I’m past it.” I spun around, looking behind to see what I missed. This situation was suddenly a lot worse than I’d thought. 

Turning around now would be a lot harder than going forward. 

“No worries,” I forced a sigh, trying and failing to calm myself. I could barely hear my voice through the storm, but it was easier than thinking. “I know where I am; been in worse places than this and made it out all right.” 

I just needed to figure out a way to reorganize myself and- 

My eyes widened when I saw what was in my way: a giant wave, already whitecapping. Before I could think, it’d hit my boat and tilted her side against the waves, suddenly exposed in the open water. I cursed. I needed to move before the boat could capsize. 

Before I could do that, another sudden wave hit me, splashing over the side and somehow drenching my already-soaked clothes worse than they’d been before, The cold feeling like needles jabbing deep into my skin. There wasn’t time to worry about that; an enormous third wave was already bearing down on me. 

My mind blanked, staring up in shock at the wall of water in front of me. There was a lurch of the boat as it started climbing up the wave.

I should’ve expected it to be that cold, considering I’d been breathing the lake for the last half hour, But being in the water somehow made it worse. The pain felt like a frozen fire I couldn’t escape. Kicking upward, I barely managed to break the surface and get a breath of air.

The last thing I saw was my boat rise above as the wave flipped over. The cold of the second largest lake in the world made my clothes and feathers feel like an iron weight chained around me, trying to drag me down into its depths, seeping the little remaining warmth out. Something metal slammed into my head, and everything went dark.

—------------------

Everything hurt, But hopefully, that meant I wasn’t dead yet. My limbs could’ve been made of stone just from how cold, numb, and stiff they felt. My head spun as I tried to focus and understand what I was seeing and hearing.

Voices seemed to echo distantly; a bright light from somewhere hurt my eyes. I winced. Everything felt too sharp.

”He’s awake!”

“Get away from there. You’re going to burn him!”

”Someone go get Dad!”

A face I vaguely recognized as my brother’s seemed to swirl in front of me. His eyes widened.

“MICHI! It’s me! Noi! Can you hear me?” His voice was mixed with concern and fear.

I tried to blink, but the numbness and the overwhelming sense of exhaustion were too strong to string a sentence together. Feeling too scattered to process anything that was happening.

‘Uggghhhh-” I managed to say, still struggling to focus.

Indiana pushed into view, her face red, clearly furious. “DO YOU KNOW HOW WORRIED WE WERE?” she yelled. I flinched from the sudden noise, “WHERE WERE YOU? WHAT HAPPENED?”

As a response to my sibling’s loving concern, I rolled over to the side of the bed and threw up.

A few hours later, I was feeling a lot better. Feeling was barely starting to return to my hands and feet, my brain freeze of a headache was clearing up, and I didn’t have such a huge risk of dying of hypothermia. 

Clean, warm clothes never felt so nice. My hands were still blue and shaking, but it was a significant improvement. I just wished I could be alone for a minute. I doubted the constant stream of people crying and yelling at me was doing any good for my recovery. At the very least, it would worsen the already painful headache.

 “So you’re saying-” I said, pausing to take a sip of the hot apple cider they’d given me “-that I was stuck in the ice for six months straight, and none of you knew where I was in that time.” 

Indiana rubbed her neck, “More or less, yeah. I think it was closer to five, though. Had a general idea of what happened, but-” She shrugged, “Didn’t know how to find you.” 

I thought for a second, then slumped back in my pile of blankets as a realization hit me, 

“This means I have a ton of work overdue, don’t I.” 

“Michi, that's hardly the most important thing to consider right now.” 

“Says you,” I grumbled,

“You don’t have half a year of political shit to catch up on.” 

A faint, amused smile crossed her face, and she punched me in the arm, “I'm glad you’re back. I know many people have said it in the past hour, but don’t ever pull a stunt like that again, or I'll freeze you in ice permanently.”

I rolled my eyes, “Flattered to know you still care.”

“Oh, you wanna see someone who cares? You should’ve seen how Ohio was freaking out. He missed you a lot, ya know.” Indiana then lowered her voice to a whisper, a conspiratory grin on her face, “Now, don’t tell him I said this, but I once caught him saying he’ll give you Toledo if you come back.

I smiled, albeit a bit sadly. Ohio was willing to give up Toledo. That’s how badly I worried my family.

“It’s not your fault Bitchagan. We know you didn’t want to be under the ice. Also, Indy, I told you to keep that a secret, and I will have my revenge.” I heard Ohio’s voice from the doorway. Turning my head to face him (an action that took far too much effort), I smiled. Ohio saw it and returned a small, sad smile of his own.

“I’m not afraid of you, Ohio. But, I’ll let you have your Michi time.” Indiana said, giving me one last pat on the shoulder before leaving. Ohio walked over and sat on the chair Indiana had just vacated.

“I…I missed you, ya know? This country’s not fun without you to fight.” Ohio said, fiddling with his fingers. I smiled.

“Aw, thanks, Hio. Can I have Toledo now as a get-well present for your poor brother?” I asked. Ohio snorted.

“Michi, your own stupidity made us nearly lose you forever. There’s no way I’m giving you Toledo,” he said, wiping something that looked suspiciously like tears out of his eyes. I didn’t call attention to it. 

Some things were better left as a peaceful quiet.

Well, it was peaceful until my Dad barged in.

“Michigan, don't you ever do that to me again!” Dad said, rushing into the room, tears streaming down his face as he held me tightly. 

I leaned into the warmth of Dad’s body, somewhat surprised by my dad crying, as it was a rare sight, “Sorry, Dad…”

“Kid, I love you so much. I know you didn’t mean to do that, but…god, it was so hard waiting, knowing where you were not, but being able to do anything to help. S’not your fault, but…Michi, I don’t ever wanna lose you.” Dad said, voice thick.

“None of us do,” Ohio added quietly.

“I know…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be…just focus on getting better, Michigan, not anything else. I’ve been taking care of your things for you. Don’t worry about having to apologize to us, or doing paperwork, or anything. Being here, alive, is far more important than anything else.” Dad said. I nodded, then let my heavy head drop, feeling the exhaustion I had been fighting back.

Rest and get better. I could do that.

[xkv8r]

Macro Aggron Day Stuff

Friend of mine on Discord has an Aggron/Corviknight hybrid character so because it's Aggron day and marco March, I wrote him being a collossal fatass and eating buildings. Contains Macro, fat, and object vore. Aprox 2600 words, esitmated reading time: 13 minutes.

Demolition isn't exactly exciting work for someone like Mint. One would think knocking down a building would normally be fun, but steel types were usually relegated to "processing" which meant he would be eating the concrete and rebar that was deemed too expensive to bother recycling. Most of the good steel would be cut out and recycled, Mint was there to serve as little more than a glorified trash compactor. Still, for a corviknight aggron hybrid who would normally need to stake out a large chunk of an iron rich mountain to sate their hunger, it wasn't a bad deal. Getting paid to eat was a much better job than most people ever got an opportunity at, so long as he brought his appetite, job security was assured, and Mint always brought his appetite.

Every hour or so, a front end loader would dump another pile of reinforced concrete in front of his trailer and Mint would happily chew through the stone to get at the delicious rebar inside. Even as old, dry, and tough as these condemned buildings were, the concrete still held a rich texture to it, and once one got past the rust, the inside of the steel rebar was still plenty sweet. The Corvaggron's beak had only slight trouble crunching through the stuff, but his stomach had no difficulty breaking it down. Giving his belly a few pats, Mint popped the next chunk of rubble into his beak and gulped it down whole, feeling the heavy clunk as it was deposited into the pit of his gut.

A few unintelligible shouts from the demolition site caught Mint's attention, and having cleaned his plate so to speak, he figured there was no harm in taking a walk. Heaving himself off the trailer and into the dirt with a heavy thud, Mint was once again reminded of the consequences of his job. A career of sedentary eating had left its mark around the Corvaggron's waistline, pudgy belly, stuffed with rubble, bulging far enough forward that he could see it below his chestplate. Even if old buildings were relatively low calorie, Mint had always been a big eater, and while steel types were not known for being light, Mint was certainly up there for his species, no doubt the result of many years of demolition work.

Approaching the site, Mint found the site foreman and a couple other workers in the now exposed basement, staring at half a dozen black 55 gallon drums, one of which had been opened. The foreman was swearing up a storm and shouting angrily into a cell phone before slamming it back into a carrying case and turning to the other two workers. "What do they think we are, a brownstone cleanup operation? It's gonna take months for us to get the permits to deal with this!" The other two workers avert their gaze from their furious boss and try to avoid provoking him further before one of them spots Mint and gets an idea.

"Hey, why don't we see if the big guy can deal with it?" The other two give him puzzled looks before he elaborates on his plan, "The Corvaggron, he eats basically anything, right? He can probably drink the oil, we don't have to worry about getting a permit, and we're back on schedule." The foreman thinks for a moment before relenting with a sigh and a shrug. "Fine, bring him one and see if he eats it, I'm gonna go make some more calls." He says before walking off.

The two workers load up the open barrel into a handcart and wheel it over to Mint, who gives the contents a few experimental sniffs before shrugging and picking up the whole drum. The heavy liquid sloshes around inside and he has to adjust his grip on the drum a few times before tipping it back into his open maw. Thick, black, and surprisingly sweet oil pours from the barrel, which Mint happily chugs down, each gulp causing his dark blue underbelly to swell outward and hang low on his frame forcing his stance outward a bit to accommodate the his rapidly distending stomach, and pushing his armored chestplate into his neck ruff a bit. Each swallow packs away more than a gallon of the liquid, slowly but surely emptying the drum into his gut. When the last drops spill from the drum, Mint is bloated heavily and panting from exertion even as he licks the last drops of sweet crude from his beak.

The two workers look relieved at this development, thankful that they have a way to dispose of the problematic waste, but with five other drums stacked up and awaiting disposal, Mint has his work cut out for him. He turns the empty barrel sideways, crushing it like a soda can before biting through it like a cookie, scarfing down the flat metal disk in a pair of massive chomps before waddling forward to the remaining barrels while the workers roll another towards him. The second drum goes down as easily as the first, Mint simply lifts it over his head and lets the oil glug out of the barrel and into his open beak. One of the two workers gives Mint's heavy, swollen stomach a hearty slap in celebration, letting a few bubbles of air tumble out of his maw as a deep, resonant belch. "Alright big guy, you polish those off, we're going on break." The pair of workers walk off in the direction of the foreman, looking immensely pleased with themselves for having resolved the problem.

Meanwhile, Mint is left trying to chug drum after drum, panting and belching as his stomach distends into a sphere, clutching his belly with one claw while tipping back a drum with the other. Ominous metallic creaking echoes from his armored plates as Mint tries valiantly to complete his task, having gorged himself to the bursting point. It's when Mint starts to feel as if he can't take another drop that the sensation of fullness suddenly starts to abate. Shrugging at his newfound capacity, Mint makes his way back to the half demolished building at the center of his jobsite, a barrel under each arm, somewhat surprised to find his hips brush against the sides of doorway, and that he has to duck his head to avoid whacking his horns.

Returning to his job of devouring the rubble, the first few chunks of reinforced concrete slip effortlessly down Mint's lubricated throat, splashing into the pool of oil in his belly. He alternates between sipping from a drum and biting off bits of building, chomping through steel girders and gulping down gallons of crude with equal voracity. His hybrid metabolism works quickly, digesting the rubble almost as fast as Mint can cram it in. If not for the fact that he was completely engrossed in his meal, Mint might have seen that he was steadily growing bigger, rounder, and even taller, but the ravenous need to consume more and more is so distracting that even when his horns bump into the floor above him, Mint hardly notices.

A chunk of rubble tumbles loose from the ceiling above, smacking into Mint's belly, but fails to even scratch the thick armored plates of his torso, succeeding only in knocking loose a rumbling belch from his swollen stomach. Mint rips steadily larger and larger pieces out of the building, scarfing them down with reckless abandon, tearing the dilapidated structure asunder with each bite. As quickly as he clears the area around himself of metal and concrete, his body, and his reach grow in kind, letting him engage in further acts of unrestrained gluttony without even having to stand. Sat on his widening rump, Mint eats away every last bit of structural integrity the building has, letting it collapse into a pile that he scoops into his greedy maw.

Soon, all that remains of the building is a concrete pad, picked clean of everything save for a few pieces of bent rebar protruding at odd angles, and a bloated, gigantic Corvaggron, easily three times the size he was this morning. Mint heaves himself back up onto his feet, feeling the rubble grind and clunk together inside his gut before giving the misshapen mass a hearty pat and letting out a low belch. Despite having devoured a whole building, the sudden growth has only left Mint feeling even hungrier than before and he waddles off, looking for more to eat, stomach swaying with the weight of a building, each ponderous step leaving marks in the earth where his mass has packed the dirt flat.

Mint doesn't even make it to the road when his hunger strikes again, lifting a car off the side of the street and folding it in half, glass shattering and metal squealing before shoving it into his maw and taking bite out of the crushed heap of metal like a massive hamburger. In seconds, the crushed sedan is devoured and Mint is already eyeing his next snack. He grabs hold of another car, rolling it up before stuffing the compacted automobile into the open back of a construction van to make the metallic equivalent of a burrito. Mint takes massive bites out of his latest creation, letting leaking fuel dribble down his chin as he crams the crushed cars into his stomach. Before long, he is licking spilled gasoline off of his claws as he savors his meal. Mint belches out a few scraps of rubber tire, the release of air causing his gut to clamp down like a car compactor on its contents, crushing the twisted wrecks into a tight ball, belly echoing with the sounds of squealing and creaking.

By now, there is panic in the streets as everyone watches the building sized hybrid devour entire cars whole. Dozens of vehicles, abandoned by their drivers line the street, leaving behind a veritable buffet for Mint. Whatever isn't crushed flat under his ponderous footsteps or plowed into the trench left by his belly dragging along the ground quickly finds itself vanishing down his throat. Spotting a tanker truck amid the pileup, Mint lifts it out of the road, giving the tank a gentle shake to confirm the presence of liquid within before extending a claw, and effortlessly piercing a hole in the tank. Black gold pours from the truck by the ton, and the lumpy shapes of wrecked cars in his belly quickly soften and vanish as oil floods the pit of his stomach. By the time Mint has polished off the contents of the tanker truck, he has grown tall enough to see over the tops of all but the tallest of skyscrapers, and his doughy gut is too big to let him waddle down even the widest of roads without knocking down buildings.

Undeterred by the prospect of having to wade through buildings, Mint gets to work eating his way out of the city, ripping off chunks of skyscraper and shoveling them into his maw. To him, the city is one big buffet, and Mint has every intention of glutting himself on every delicacy it offers. Massive tail wagging back and forth, cutting down buildings like grain before a scythe, belly oozing into the streets and pancaking anything unlucky enough to be unable to get out of the way. Claws crushing concrete like it was chalk, nothing is spared Mint's relentless destructive appetite, anything that doesn't make it to his stomach is buried beneath the mountainous hybrid's ever expanding body.

Mint had almost made his way to the city outskirts when he spots another prospective meal, a cargo train barreling along the tracks, unaware of the danger until it is far too late. The train turns a corner to spot Mint, laying on the tracks, maw open wide, the operator slams on the brakes, but it's impossible to stop that much train that quickly, unless you are, of course, Mint's stomach. The train careens into his open maw, inertia forcing it deep into his belly. The cacophony of squealing brakes and crushing metal only serves as a dinner bell for mint as he greedily gulps down the train cars like sausage links, savoring the delectable flavors of all the different cargo. Half the train was still outside the Corvaggron when it stops pushing its way in on its own, but that does little to deter Mint, who simply starts to slurp down the remaining cars one by one, rubbing his belly as they coil up inside his stomach. Hauling himself back into a sitting position, Mint runs his talons over the blocky shapes of train cars that push outward against their prison, feeling his stomach compact them into a ball as he swallows the caboose whole. A deafening belch, many times louder than the train's horn was serves as a fitting epitaph for the doomed locomotive, and a sign for Mint to keep moving, knowing that even this won't sate his hunger for long.

Despite his slow, ponderous waddling, at his new size it takes Mint mere minutes to leave the city proper. Following his nose out and away from the more populated areas, the smell of more oil carries him towards more sparsely populated areas. The houses out here are mostly wood, and so small now that Mint barely notices when he crushes one flat underfoot. With each step, the scent of distant oil grows more powerful, as heavy and dark as the belly it will no doubt soon be filling. Mint is drooling at the smell, stomach grumbling at the thought of drinking his fill. The empty fields around here are totally barren of the metal he has grown used to being able to snack endlessly on, and Mint is left to waddle as fast as he can in the direction of the smell that has him enthralled. His feet press deep into the soft earth, and his belly dragging along the ground leaves a massive trench in his wake, but Mint is persistent, and this persistence is rewarded when he spots the drilling rig towers in the distance.

Breaking into as much of a sprint as the flabby colossus can, Mint makes a mad dash in that direction. Spotting a field of pumpjacks all working in unison to drain the oil field below his feet, Mint unceremoniously rips the head off one of the wells, and a dark geyser shoots out for a few seconds before Mint clamps his metallic beak down on the flow. The pressure is so high, he doesn't even have to swallow, the heavy liquid is simply forced into his stomach by the ton. Mint takes the opportunity to lie down on his belly and get as comfortable as possible, mindlessly gorging himself on the thick black bounty, even as his stomach bloats out far enough to lift his legs off the ground. Face pressed against the well by his rapidly expanding body, a distant part of his brain recognizes the tingling of clouds blowing against his taut hide, nearly spherical from the incredible volume of delicious oil. Every minute, more is forced inside his creaking belly, expanding outwards in every direction to contain the dense, sweet liquid. Mint is a veritable ocean of dark, armor plated blubber, engulfing everything around him at a steadily increasing pace, far and away the biggest single thing on the planet and still getting bigger.

[chicken2potato]

6/29/23

Chunks, Mk’s cat, was rubbing his face on my phone wanting to be pet. Out of habit I almost said “Hi Mr. Bean”... I really miss him... I caught myself at the last second.

A part of me wants to be your friend. Forget everything. Just so I can laugh with you again and see the cats again. 

But I need to remind myself of what happened. How you lead me on so many times. How a real friend wouldn’t do that. 

Maybe in another life we could have been friends. Maybe in another life... none of this would have ever happened... 

I miss you. But I’m still so mad at you... It’s hard for both of these to be existing at the same time... Because then I get mad at myself for missing you. But I do. I know I said I wouldn’t. I know I said I wouldn’t give you another thought... But the thing is, you’re always on my mind. Was I too harsh? 

Perhaps not. You really did hurt me. So fucking much. But that doesn’t change the fact that I miss the good times. I think it’s possible to simultaneously miss you and hate myself for it.

I got a notification a few days ago that my Tumblr is five years old. When I first created it, I used to write on it about you. And then I would look up your old username in hopes that maybe you wrote to me, too. Even now, I find myself looking, checking, to see if there’s anything. But why would there be?

I have a job interview tomorrow. My August is filling up fast with weddings, baby showers, bridal showers, trips, and so much more. I can’t afford it on this one income. I need something else. 

I don’t really want to work two jobs. But I want to be there in Alabama and North Carolina for my friends. I want to see them. I want to be there for them. I want to help Cheri and Mk. Mk still hasn’t gotten her disability for her back surgery. She’s been without income for almost a month and half now. Anthony was back to work. But then he went and got a second opinion and found out that his arm is still broken, even though Ant was cleared to go back. So he’s out of work now and waiting on disability, too.

I want to help them. I want to secretly put money in their mailbox and help them pay rent. I want to help them pay groceries and pay their vet bills. I want to be there for Mk because she’s been there for me through so much. Whether it was guy problems or girl problems or family problems or telling me what I needed to hear in the moment, or picking me up when my car died on the side of the highway and still driving me around so I could do the things I needed to, or helping me get through a break up, or helping me financially... She’s quite literally has been like a sister to me. I know I could never truly repay her for everything that she has done for me, but I want to try. I want to give her some kind of peace of mind throughout this terrible situation. 

She’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. She’s sent me money before without ever asking for a penny back. She’s always had my back. She’s always loved me, whether I was here in Maine, or living in Kentucky, she was there. 

I’ve had so many people walk out on me. She never has once. I want to get a second job, not just because August is crazy busy and I won’t be able to afford it, but also because I want her to be able to afford the basic things she needs in life right now. 

Her dad literally gave her money to fill her gas tank up so she could go to the gym this morning. Afterward, we went to Subway and before we went in, Ant and her were talking about how they were going to pay for it. She’s the kindest person ever. She didn’t deserve to be in that car accident. She didn’t deserve to be out of work since January. She deserves so much more and I want to be able to help her. 

My plan is to work the morning shift at one job, the night shift at another job (which I just got promoted for, so I will be getting a nice pay raise; I’ve heard it was like $1.60 more an hour), and perhaps dog sitting for my uncle over the weekend. 

I’m going to be exhausted. But it’ll be so much better than sitting here on my days off, trying to do fun things with her, trying to go try new restaurants like we always do and seeing and hearing her talk about being able to pay for it.

I know life isn’t just about money. I get that. I try my best to be there for here in other ways, too. 

I went to go see her the day after she had back surgery. She was up in Bangor, and it was an hour away from my place. At the time I was just starting a new job after not having one for a month and a half, and I still had no money. She doesn’t know it, but I spent my last $8 to fill my tank up just enough to go see her. I didn’t want her to be alone on the day after. Sure, Ant was up there, and he was going to go see her. But I wanted to be there for her as her friend. I wanted her to know that no matter what I’m always there for her. She’s my best friend. I would do it over again. Even if it meant I didn’t have money for food. Just to be there... I know it must have meant a lot to her.

I want to be there for her now, too. 

And another thing... My brother has a tendency to get drunk and call me. He gets all sentimental and it’s a little weird. Anyone who knows my brother knows that he is not the type to show his emotions. He’s said on multiple different phone calls that he wants to help me pay off my debt. When I was without a job, I used my credit cards to pay for groceries, Soba’s cat food (which is $80...wtf), and gas to get to interviews. But no one would hire me. They always said, “We’ll get back to you.” Then I didn’t have money to pay off my credit cards. But I still needed to use them to get gas and eat. 

My credit score tanked, and I owe a bit on my credit cards. Not a whole lot. I think like just over $2000. I also owe my landlord $1200. That’s another reason I need a second job. I want to be out of debt. I hate having money in my bank account knowing that it’s not really mine because I owe money to others. I want financial freedom. My brother told me that once he becomes a journeyman and starts making money being an electrician, he’ll send me however much I need to pay it all off, and that he doesn’t expect anything in return. I already owe him $300 because he helped pay part of my rent earlier this year... 

My mother used to always hold things over my head. She would do something, and you would think that it was very sweet, but then a week would go by, and she would shove it back in your face if you got into an argument. That taught me to never rely on anyone. And, if for some crappy reason, I did need someone’s help, I always paid them back or did something for them in return. My relationship with my mother was very much like a constant business transaction. Now, I hate asking for help. I hate asking for money. You want to give me money? Okay, but what can I clean to work for it? Can I babysit? Can I do something for you so you won’t hold it over my head later on?

I don’t want my brother to give me three grand in money. I don’t think he would hold it over my head, he said that he wouldn’t. But for the rest of my life, I would know that he helped me out tremendously and I never repaid him. I can’t do that. I can’t be needy. I can’t need help. I need to just put my ass into gear and work jobs and get the money I need. From me, myself, and I. 

I’ve always been that way. I think ever since I was young. Mostly from my mom holding things over my head, but also because she was never there. She worked crazy ass hours. If I wanted to do something or needed something, I did it myself. 

One time in college I had no money. Well, actually on multiple occasions, but this one time in particular it was really bad. We had laundry on campus; a dollar fifty for wash and a dollar fifty for dry. I had no money. My bank account was in the negative. I desperately needed to do laundry. Like, no clean clothes, taking out ones that don’t smell bad, need to do laundry. My friends wanted to help. But I wasn’t going to rely on them for something as simple as laundry. So, I washed all my clothes in the bathtub and hung them up to dry. I then blow-dried them and they were clean. I did the math, and it took about two days for them to be completely dried unless I just sat there for forever with the blow-dryer. I did that for almost two weeks before I finally got my check from my job. (I hate bi-weekly jobs.) 

I’ve always done what I needed to do to get money. To make things work. I once baked cookies and sold them on campus and paid over half of my $710 room and board. It was mostly in quarters and on Cash App, which was kind of embarrassing, but I was also proud of myself that I didn’t have to ask anyone to lend me over three hundred dollars. 

Maybe this makes me proud. Maybe I think I’m above everyone else, but I don’t believe that to be the case. I think that just with not having anyone in my childhood, and those who were there hanging things over my head, made me this way. Which I can be happy in one way, because it has made me strong and resilient. But sometimes I wouldn’t mind asking for help without feeling like a complete failure. 

But maybe that’s good. Because maybe if I didn’t have the shitty things from my childhood I would have turned into a spoiled moocher. 

I could ask the “what if” questions all night long about how I would have turned out if things were different. But things aren’t different. This is how things are. Mk got into a terrible accident. She can’t afford bills. I didn’t have a job for almost two months. I’m trying to catch up on my bills. Rowan was a jerk and yet, I still miss him. This is life. This is how it is. I can’t mope around and feel sorry for myself. Then I would be wasting this life. But I also know that I can’t work three jobs for the rest of my life, because I would also be wasting my life. 

Life is about balance. The good and the bad. The hard and the easy. Sometimes we get a little bit of one or the other. Or so it seems. But that doesn’t mean that the other isn’t present. 

For example, Rowan. There was good and bad. And the ending was really shitty and bad. But there’s still good. I had the privilege of meeting his wonderful cats. (Especially Bean, who may or may not have been my favorite.) I learned how to walk away from someone who wasn’t healthy for me. I learned how to deal with it without it ripping me apart. I’m like ninety percent sure I have BPD. I’m not diagnosed but I have a lot of the symptoms and I relate to the people that have it. I have the early childhood trauma to cause BPD. I’m just too poor to go to a therapist and get properly diagnosed. With the BPD, I tend to get overly emotionally attached to someone, and then when they leave, it’s like my entire world is falling apart. It happened when things ended with John and I. I quite literally felt like I didn’t know what to do and that everything sucked and nothing was worth it anymore. Just because of a guy I didn’t even date and hadn’t even known for a year yet. Looking back, I know it was way over exaggerative, but that’s how I get sometimes. My emotions are uncontrollable sometimes. I think it’s partly to do with the potential BPD and the PCOS.

I didn’t do that with Rowan. I don’t know if that was because I knew deep down in the beginning that things weren’t going to work out, or if I’m actually making some sort of progress. I’d like to think it’s the latter. I’d like to think I’m becoming more self-aware of my problems, what triggers them, and how to solve the issue. Would this be easier with a therapist? Perhaps. But I’m like three grand in the hole right now. Therapy is out of the question. That’s part of the reason I have this Tumblr. It allows me to let my thoughts escape out and be free. It’s my private little bubble. Is it public? Duh. But no one knows me on here. No one knows who Mk is or Rowan. No one knows who I am or what I do. I could be a 40 year old creepy guy making this all up. Or I could be a 13 year old girl who is creating a life to escape her reality. No one really knows. 

I like having this little journal. My mother used to read all the journals I wrote in when I was younger. All of them. Everything. Even the things that I wrote about after I was 18, so she couldn’t use the whole “I’m worried about my young daughter.” I know I would have still been considered young, but I’d still be considered an adult and it was wrong. Either way, I think that it was wrong. I never talked to her because she was never there. And when she was there, she was either wrapped up in her cellphone or condescending me for the very thoughts I would have. Why would I want to tell her anything? 

I like that no one personal to me knows about this. One person does. But I don’t really think they read these anymore. And even if they did, I don’t really care. 

I like having a place to freely express myself. It’s nice to be able to read what used to go on in my head. Sometimes my head even clears up by then end of an entry and I can tell within my writing that I’m feeling better. I burned all my old journals. That way my mother could never read the again. Never use them against me again. I like that no one can use this against me, because no one knows about it. It’s nice hiding behind a username. Honestly, though, I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find, if anyone in my personal life paid attention, they would find this. But I don’t think that they care that much. Which is totally fine with me. 

I ought to go to bed. I have that interview in the morning and I’m kind of nervous that I’m going to accidentally sleep through it. I need another job. My cat might have some medical issues, too. Which is going to cost in vet bills and possibly in more medication for her. There’s a potential that the medicine she is on for her skin condition could lead her to diabetes and/or organ failure. So, the vet wants to talk about alternatives. Which is going to be an expensive vet visit and maybe even more expensive things for her. Did I mention that her cat food was $80? For an 8lb bag. It’s ridiculous. Also, my car is shitting the bed. It leaks oil and coolant, hardly starts most of the time, and died on me going down the highway about a month ago. And I do not have the credit to go buy another vehicle nor do I have the savings to buy a cash car. I’m screwed. I need money. I need another job. So, I have to make sure that I wake up for this interview. 

Life is weird. Life is complicated and messy. Life is hard sometimes. But it’s also very nice and beautiful and full of amazing friends and family and people who become your family. Also, cats. I love my cat. I wouldn’t trade her for anything. I’m so thankful I adopted her. 

[doublel27]

A while ago I asked for an AU setting and I would write a three sentence fic. I wrote longer than 3 sentence fic and one of them (Bodyguard AU) has blown into a full WIP and not just a writing exercise.

This is a FSOTUS + Bodyguard AU - excerpt from what I have so far.

~*~

TK chews at his lip, picks at his fingers and practically shakes out of his body the whole ride up. He wants to be alone. He wants to be high. He wants Alex to have been faithful and with him. He wants.

It’s nothing new, the aching want that he can’t fill. When the elevator opens, he bolts. The hallway is lined with agents. It’s not a surprise. He doesn’t really have neighbors on his floor. It’s part of the way they set things up to keep him safe. The net of things to keep him from falling apart, breaking, are extensive and impressive. TK hates all of it right now.

He throws himself into his apartment not caring if the door closes behind him. This is what people are for. He storms to the kitchen, throws open the fridge and grabs a tall blue bottle of mineral water. He wishes it was whiskey or red wine, at least then he wouldn’t feel anything in the end as he unscrews the cap and gulps. The bubbles burn down his throat. He sets the bottle down hard on the stainless steel countertop.

It takes a moment to realize he’s shattered it, leaving nothing in his hands. The counter is covered in fizzing water, blue glass and a few drops of blood.

“TK. God.” Carlos takes his hand and opens it looking at the blood smearing across his palm. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not that bad,” TK mutters, relatively glad that the pain in his palm is taking over somewhat for the pain that’s consumed his heart and his head.

Carlos takes his hand and shoves it underneath the water in the sink. The cut is shallow. TK is glad he wasn’t wrong about the depth of the cut. The chunks of glass are honestly so large, he’s surprised they did any damage at all.

“Could you bring over the first aid kit?” Carlos says, and TK looks up to see him touching his earpiece.

TK snaps back into the moment as Carlos’s words circle around his brain. He glares at the agent. “Seriously, Carlos? You had them take away my fucking first aid kit?”

Carlos looks at him with clear brown eyes. Any emotion that TK thought he heard earlier seems to be gone, like he imagined it. Carlos is fully a suit as he says, “We cleared the apartment of anything that could be used as a controlled substance. It’s part of the protocol.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No. I’m not.”

“What the hell did you think I was going to do?” TK argues, well aware of what he had wanted to do the moment he stood up at the restaurant. He hates that anyone else would know. “You don’t know me.”

Carlos looks at him and there’s something in his eyes that is like a sister to pity. “TK, anyone who had…” Carlos swallows, his jaw clicking. “Anyone who proposed to their partner and was rejected would be having a shit night. To find out that someone you love has been cheating on you, for months, with someone you trained for their position, would be enough to push anyone over the edge. To have it happen in public with photographers outside is a reality most people wouldn’t know what to do with. Most people in your position would want to do anything and everything to erase tonight from their memory. Even if they weren’t in recovery.”

TK feels his own jaw click in response to Carlos laying it out so bare. He knew that Carlos was nearby. That they had agents stationed around the room and at different tables. He knew they knew the proposal had gone wrong. That they knew…

Carlos goes back to looking at TK’s hand, his thumb rubs over the back of TK’s hand. “You deserve better than Alex, for what it’s worth.”

“He was my soulmate.” Just a half hour ago, Alex was TK’s future. Now…now he has no idea what the future holds.

[suckerforsaikik]

Okay so @gentrychild got this ask last year about her fic anyone and I wrote something for it but then I forgot about it and it's been in my drafts ever since so now i'm posting the (unedited) story!

~

description: Hawks realizes that to infiltrate Anyone, he needs to come up with some more creative strategies

----

Izuku was online a lot, nowadays. After leaving his old school and having more time with his new one, he spent around two or three hours just looking at articles for people who might need Anyone’s services. He would also check if there were any information leaks about the organization.

This process, while important, was just him searching up ‘anyone’ and any related phrases, like members' names, with a VPN and an incognito tab. He went onto different browsers and social media sites, all the way down to the most obscure links. This whole thing was repeated every week, sometimes sooner, since he started the group.

Unfortunately for him, because of the rough week he’d had, he hadn’t checked for a while. It had never been a big priority, thinking there wouldn’t be anything too important out there.

That assumption was quickly defenestrated when Dabi sent him a link with the accompanying text: “watch this now.”

At first, Izuku thought Dabi was going to rick roll him, even though the link wasn’t one he was familiar with. Not that he would put Dabi above creating his own video, just to get at Izuku.

He clicked on the link, mentally preparing to scold Dabi after he confirmed his suspicions.

Except.

This wasn’t a rick roll.

The title of the video proudly claimed “eating an onion every day until Anyone talks to me (day 1!)’. Maybe proudly was the wrong descriptor, because the thumbnail was a picture of Pro Hero Hawks, presumably after he had just taken a bite, tears in his eyes. The video was only two minutes long, but as he looked at the newly made channel, titled IAmMyOwnFursona, he could see seven videos of the same title and similar thumbnails.

With dread starting to consume him, Izuku clicked on the video.

“Hey Guys!” Hawks started off, as cheery as his usual persona. In his right hand, he was holding a large, bulbous onion.

“As you probably won’t know, I was assigned to infiltrate this enemy organization called ‘Anyone’ by my superiors. And don’t tell the Commission this, but it isn’t going as well as I hoped.” He added in an awkward chuckle.

“So I thought, since Anyone’s main goal is to help people, wouldn’t they also want to help me, by letting me stop eating all these onions? Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, my favourite vigilante organization!” With that, he bit an enormous chunk out, the tiny little crunches for each layer playing through Izuku’s speakers.

“Fuck, Shit, ah fuck it tastes so bad-” He went in for another bite. “Fuck!”

Izuku could only stare in horror as Hawks bit through the layers, one bite after the next, even swallowing the roots that were at the bottom. He… he hadn’t even unwrapped the skin. Who would do that to themself? Harm themself in that way?

With shaking hands, Izuku clicked on the next video.

“Here I am again!” Hawks waves at the camera, “No updates since last time, but it’s only been a day! Now, let’s get to it.” The onion was held in both hands, and his lips and teeth wrapped around a giant chunk. There was a small bit of hesitation, like his rational brain was talking to him, but then he bit through the skin with a sloppy wet crunch.

“Ah fuck. FUCK okay okay i got this”-another bite-”FUCKKK.”

Izuku clicked through each video, all of them starting with a chipper hawks, and devolving into madness.

“Hey guys! No more updates, but we’re only two days in! Okay, let’s go.”

“Welcome back, no updates again, so let’s keep it up!”

“I think I’m getting better at this. No one’s contacted me yet, sadly.”

“And we’re back again. Unfortunately, Anyone’s still not reached out, so time to feast-”

“I think half my taste buds have fallen out. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

The videos hurt to watch, but Izuku couldn’t drag his eyes away from the screen, and couldn’t stop his hand from clicking on each one after the next. The more hawks consumed the onions, the faster he got, and by the seventh day, he swallowed an entire onion in less than thirty seconds. Izuku could feel bile rising in his throat, threatening to jump out.

He moved slowly, almost in shock, as he picked up his phone and called Kurogiri, putting him on speaker when he answered.

"Kurogiri, can you warp me somewhere? I need to help a hero in need."

[aliwritesfic]

The Night Shift part 11 (F!Reader x Frankie Morales)

WC: 3.3k

AN: Yall I'm so sorry this took ages to be updated, my laptop screen broke and the repair place had to wait over a week for a new one, I hope the end of this part makes up for it <3 Parts will also be slower to come out as I'm starting my next semester of uni on Monday and that's going to take up a large chunk of my time, but I'm still going to try and put out a new part at least once a week

Spotify

Part 1 Part 12 (coming soon) Masterlist

Friday arrived far too quickly for Frankie’s liking. So quickly he had gotten himself into a routine of being with you, and it felt like it was being ripped away from him. Of course, he knew that it would happen, he hadn’t deluded himself into thinking it wouldn’t, but still . . . still he had grown so used to your presence that when it was finally time to “get your shit from that ugly ass motherfucker” (Will’s words, not his), he felt almost depressed.

You were perched on his couch when he woke up late Friday morning, a cup of steaming coffee clutched in your hand, your gaze fixed absently on a point on the wall. He called your name gently, not wanting to scare you. You blinked a couple times, as if coming out of a trance. He knew the look well.

“Didn’t sleep?” he poured himself a cup and sat down next to you. You shook your head.

“Not great. I think an hour, maybe. But like, really shitty sleep.”

“Not fully asleep but not fully awake?” Frankie suggested, having become very accustomed to the feeling during his military time. You nodded, giving him a tired smile. He understood your exhaustion. You had spent every waking moment stressed about the move, online shopping to replace the things that you were leaving at Kurt’s, and then stressing some more. You had picked up the keys on Wednesday and Frankie had gone with you to check the place out.

It was a bright, airy place, seven floors up with huge windows and a tiny balcony off the living area. Frankie had noticed your eyes shining as you took it all in, almost like you couldn’t believe it was yours. You had wiped away a tear, taking in the view of the lake by the apartment complex.

Frankie had come with his measuring tape and notebook from his mechanic days. He measured each room, each alcove where a piece of furniture would sit, and wrote them down diligently with a messy scrawl on a page labelled with your name.

When you had gotten back to his place, you set to work writing down a list of what was yours and what you needed to replace. At the top of that list was a bed, heavily underlined and circled.

“The bed’s mine, technically,” you explained as you clicked on a display photo of a wrought iron bed frame, “but he can keep it. I want a fresh start, and I think I need a new bed to do that.”

“Makes sense,” Frankie said sitting down beside you, “is that the one you’re going with?”

You had nodded, clicking add to cart. The store had next day delivery, and for a small fee would even build the bed for you. You opted for this, despite Frankie’s protests.

“Please, you’re doing so much already, and putting my whole bed together for me . . . it feels like a very unfair trade,” you told him firmly. Once again, your stubbornness had won over. Frankie, rather grudgingly, had to admit to himself that the delivery people were much quicker than he would’ve been at assembling the bed frame, especially after he had taken a quick look at the instructions.

He wasn’t about to tell you that though.

It was almost midday when a knock sounded on his door, followed by the three men he called brothers piling into his kitchen. You emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed and a shy smile on your face. It struck Frankie that this was the first time you were meeting these guys, truly meeting them without the inclusion of alcohol.

“You’re all really excellent for helping me with this,” you said fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt. You had opted for long sleeves throughout the whole week. “Sorry you have to give up your Friday for this.”

Benny was the first one to make a move. He strode forward and enveloped you in a tight hug. Frankie could see the initial shock on your face before it was replaced by a hesitant kind of happiness.

“You like Taylor Swift?” he asked, and you nodded. Benny craned his neck to look at Frankie. “She’s riding with me, if that’s okay?” he turned back to you and you nodded again. Benny grinned and whispered something in your ear, causing you to snort out a laugh.

Santi stood beside Frankie and pressed an envelope into his hands.

“The photo,” he explained. “Again, remember I have several copies, so if you plan on destroying this one, imagine it like a hydra.” Frankie rolled his eyes and put the envelope in his back pocket. You were too busy chatting with Benny and Will to notice, and he was glad. He wanted to surprise you with the photo when you needed it.

Benny and Will had taken a particular soft spot for you since Frankie gave them the bare-bones rundown of how Kurt had treated you. Frankie noticed it now, in how Will stood like your own personal bodyguard, in how Benny had slung his arm around your shoulders, like you were old friends. Frankie felt the briefest flash of jealousy before he stamped it down. Just because he couldn’t – wouldn’t – touch you, didn’t mean no one else could.

“Quit staring Fish, you look like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes turn to hearts,” Santi muttered, elbowing Frankie in the ribs. Frankie elbowed him back, annoyed.

“Alright, gang! Let’s get this show on the road!” Will clapped his hands together. Benny raised an incredulous brow at his brother.

“What are you, fifty?” He turned to you, linking his arm through yours. “Don’t worry, Fish, I’ll drive extra carefully.”

Frankie felt envious of Benny then, even though he had basically had a week straight with you. But knowing it was coming to an end, that tonight you’d be sleeping at your own place, instead of just down the hall. Well, it made him almost sad. He pushed that aside though and forced himself to be happy for you.

As he drove to your old apartment, everyone else following behind, he focused a little too hard on the radio, just to give his mind something to do. A newsreader was talking about how a quick-thinking pilot had landed a plane in a field after something went horrifically wrong with the engines. Zero casualties, minor injuries. People were already calling for the pilot to be given a medal.

Maybe I should renew my licence, Frankie thought. He didn’t want to be a commercial pilot, or a hero of any kind, although the uniforms were nice. But it couldn’t hurt to have it.

He pulled up outside the building, gripping the steering wheel tightly. This was it.

Will and Santi parked behind him, but Benny’s ridiculously lifted pickup was nowhere to be seen. Frankie squinted towards the end of the street, knowing he couldn’t have gotten lost. He had you with him.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of you. “Where the fuck are they?” Frankie grumbled, now worried that you and Benny had gotten into a car accident. He trusted him, but Benny was the worst driver of all of them. He pulled out his phone to text you but was interrupted.

“That’s his truck,” Will said, pointing to the end of the street, where Benny’s truck had just pulled in. The sound of heavy bass reached them before the truck did. As Benny pulled up outside the apartment, Frankie recognised the song as Gimme More by Britney Spears.

“Sorry we’re late,” you called, clambering out of the truck, a tall plastic cup in your hand. “We stopped for frappes.” Benny sipped innocently at his, giving Frankie a look that said he needed to speak with him.

“Where’s my fuckin’ frappe,” Santi grumbled, looking envious. Benny grinned and handed his over to Santi for a sip.

You stood, looking up at the building, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Guess we better go up. I sent him a text telling him I was doing this today, but he didn’t reply, so I don’t know if he’ll be here.”

“Want us to jump him if he is?” Benny offered, but you shook your head.

“Not right away,” you said, “but if he starts up maybe slap him around a little.” Frankie knew you were joking, but the look in your eyes was one of fear. He took your hand gently and lowered his head to talk to you.

“You can wait out here if you want,” he murmured, “we’ve got the list of what we need to get.” You squeezed his hand and shook your head. Yours was cold and slightly clammy in his own, but he didn’t mind.

“No, I need to do this.” You said. Frankie nodded, understanding. You didn’t need to explain the nitty gritty of your reasoning, all he needed was for you to know that you had him, in whatever way you needed.

You kept a firm grip on his hand as you lead the way upstairs to your old apartment, only letting go when you stood outside the front door, fumbling in your bag for your keys.

At first, the apartment seemed empty of life. All the lights were off, the curtains closed, and the place was eerily silent. You stepped over the threshold, followed by the rest of the boys, who immediately got to work.

As it turned out, Kurt wasn’t there. He remained gone for a good half hour while the boys carried your heavier shit down to their trucks. You set to work stuffing the rest of your clothes into plastic trash bags you had picked up from the grocery store.

Benny joined Frankie in carrying a loveseat downstairs.

“Fish, I need to tell ya,” Benny started, grunting as they made a turn. “She’s as into you as you are her.” Frankie shook his head.

“Don’t do this, man.”

“I’m being serious. I talked to her in the truck. She didn’t say it outright, but you should’a seen the look on her face when I talked about you.” Benny waggled his eyebrows. “And her friend Sara agrees, she’s ‘smitten’ with you. Whatever the fuck smitten means. If you want my advice-”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“-Go for it. Tonight, once we’re all gone. Shoot your shot my guy. Don’t waste anymore fucking time. Sara said she wasn’t even sad about the breakup, like she’s been checked out mentally for months now.”

“Wait, did Sara tell you about me punching Kurt?”

“All I’m saying is, she likes you a lot, you like her a lot, don’t waste this.” Frankie mulled over what Benny was saying. There had been more than a few moments that week when he had spied you looking at him and wondered . . . but each time he had pushed the thought out his head. Old insecurities, respect for you, held him back.

Historically, Frankie had never been very good at telling when someone was into him. He could be literally balls deep and he’d still be questioning it. Even sometimes with Portia, he’d wonder if she really felt the same way he did. Santi, who knew Frankie as a kid, chalked it up to Frankie having a rough go of puberty, not growing into his features until almost the end of high school. By then, whenever someone had showed even a slight bit of interest, Frankie had dismissed it as a cruel joke. Unfortunately, those insecurities had followed him deep into adulthood.

The mood in the apartment had become relaxed, all the heavier stuff, like your couch, TV, furniture, and fridge had been taken care of, and now all that was left was to gather all the small shit. Frankie found you in the bathroom, unscrewing the shower head. You tossed it into a box filled with other bathroom items, the loud clang making him grimace. He opened his mouth to speak to you when yelling from the front room interrupted him.

Your face fell instantly, going from focused to almost afraid. Your eyes met Frankie’s own, and he reached out to touch your arm. It’s okay the touch said, he can’t do anything to you. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and walked out with Frankie to the commotion.

Kurt was being held back with a single hand on his chest by a bored looking Will, screaming a string of expletives and struggling to land any kind of hit on Will, Santi stood behind Kurt, ready to jump in if needed. Benny was hunched over, clutching his sides in laughter. Kurt finally caught sight of you, standing a little in front of Frankie.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” His tone made you wince slightly, but Frankie was proud of the way you didn’t shrink away.

“I told you this was happening today, Kurtis, it was your choice to come back while we were here,” you said calmly.

“You’re taking all my shit!”

“I paid for every single thing I’m taking,” you said. “It’s not my fault you never put anything of monetary value into this place.” You stepped forward, so you were facing Kurt head on, but still behind Will. “You need to calm down, you’re acting like a fucking child.”

“I’M ACTING LIKE A CHILD?”

“Yes. You are. You’ve acted like one almost our entire relationship. So you can either calm down, leave and come back later, or my friends will force you to calm down.”

“Are you threatening me?” Kurt spat.

“Yes. You’ve already been smacked down before, any one of these guys would love to be the one to do it again.”

“I’d like to see them fucking try!” Kurt pivoted and lunged at Benny. Big mistake. With a simple, yet effective, punch to the head, Kurt was out cold on the floor. Benny looked up, almost apologetic. You grinned at him, silent laughter shaking your shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard,” Benny said, flexing his fist. “But I also did.”

Santi dragged Kurt’s unconscious body to the now empty living room, carefully posing him so he was curled in the foetal position, sucking on his thumb.

“He actually arrived at the perfect time,” you said to Frankie, standing back beside him. “Cause we’re done here.”

“We’ve got everything?” Santi called, overhearing you. You nodded.

“We’re finally done here.”

~*~

Frankie was glad you had decided to ride with him back to your new place. You were buzzing with a new energy, unable to keep a nervous grin off your face. You didn’t speak on the drive to your new place, but Frankie hoped he wasn’t reading into how much closer you sat, your thighs almost brushing his. Benny had gotten into his head, he knew, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation.

You were the most beautiful person he had met, both inside and out, and the very idea that you could like him the way he liked you . . . well fuck, it didn’t seem feasible. But then he thought back to the previous week spent with you, and maybe it wasn’t such a ludicrous idea after all.

He pulled up at your new building, parking in the spot designated for you. You turned to him, unlatching your seatbelt as you did.

“Frankie . . .” you started, then leant over and pulled him into a tight hug. Frankie felt like everything you wanted to say was in that hug. You pulled back slightly, so your faces were almost touching. He could’ve done it then, he fucking should have done it. Crossed that miniscule amount of space between you. But then the moment passed, and you pulled away entirely.

You climbed out of the truck, moving to the back to grab some of the garbage bags that held the smaller stuff. Frankie’s phone buzzed in the cupholder, a message from Will in the group chat.

Ironhead: Pussy

Frankie turned and saw Will staring at him. Fuck offhe mouthed. Will flipped him off with a grin. The effort of getting all your stuff up to your new place was considerably easier than it had been the first time around. For one, your new place had an elevator. So even though they had to take turns using it, it was worlds above struggling up seven flights of stairs. The mood was also improved by the fact Will had knocked Kurt out cold. Frankie had begun to wonder if that had become the main highlight of your day.

It was well into the night by the time everything was in its new place. Benny and Will flopped down onto your loveseat, drinking beers that you had kept in an ice chest you had brought in yesterday just for this. You sat on the floor, drinking a fruity vodka thing that Frankie thought looked and smelt like a melted popsicle. The balcony door was open, a breeze that held the promise of summer drifted through.

“Where’s Santi?” You asked looking around.

“He had to get something from the truck,” Will said. As if on cue, which if Frankie knew these boys as well as he did, it was, Santi burst through the door, one arm stretched wide, the other behind his back.

“My dearest,” Santi began, and Frankie groaned inwardly, “over this past day, the gentlemen and I have grown quite fond of you.” What is this, regency England? Frankie rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. “And as such, we wanted to present you with a housewarming gift.” With that, he whipped his arm around and held out a vase of sunflowers. Your face softened, then broke into a grin.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you pushed yourself up and pulled Santi into a hug, motioning for Will and Benny to join. You hugged the three men as tight as you could, smiling at Frankie over the tops of their shoulders. Frankie smiled back, raising his beer in a silent toast.

You placed the flowers on the kitchen counter, facing them toward the window. It was just past ten when the three boys left, Benny carrying the ice chest along with the promise to bring it back as soon as he could. It seemed like it was only moments before only you and Frankie remained.

Frankie’s phone buzzed.

Benny: Don’t fuck this up.

Frankie saw you move outside onto the balcony, leaning against the railing, silhouetted by silver moonlight, your face turned towards the breeze that coasted off the lake. Everyone else was gone, and he wondered if he didn’t take this chance, would he ever?

He moved to stand next to you, standing so close your arms were touching. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat. He murmured your name.

“Frankie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of his beating heart. Before he could stop himself, chicken out like he had before, he closed the distance between you. One hand cupping your warm cheek, the other encircling your waist, he tilted his head down until his lips met yours.

It was everything.

Your lips were soft against his, hesitant at first, but then you were wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. You tasted like candy and those sugary drinks you insisted on bringing. Your touch was like tiny jolts of electricity shooting down his spine.

Fuck.

His tongue darted against your bottom lip, and you let him in almost hungrily. Frankie deepened the kiss, wondering just why the everloving fuck he waited this long.

He whispered your name, the word like poetry on his lips. You were poetry, you were art, you were every beautiful thing wrapped up into one person. He was in love with you.

Taglist: @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @1800-fight-me @annathewitch @darnitdraco @frankiecatfish @punkerthanpascal @nakhudanyx @gracie7209 @quica-quica-quica @pintsizemama @phoenix-of-loki @procrastinationstationnation

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Xuexiao Goes to the DMV

Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen go to the DMV (aka Where Hope Goes To Die) and share a kiss.

That’s it. That’s the fic.

Xuexiao - T (just for some cursing) - Read on AO3!

*

“If you hear about someone going berserk in a DMV on the news, that’ll be me,” the mechanical text-to-speech voice reads aloud, and Xiao Xingchen turns to Xue Yang questioningly.

Xue Yang reaches over and turns the volume down on Xingchen’s phone. “Meant to send that to A-Qing.”

“Are we going to be escorted out? Again?”

Xue Yang grins and looks around the room. They’ve already been at the DMV for over an hour. Dozens of people are draped limply over the hard orange seats, eyes glazed, going down for the third time in a sea of government bureaucracy.

“Ticket 4352, now being served at window thirty-three,” announces the robotic voice over the loudspeaker.

“It would take an alien invasion to wake these people up,” Xue Yang says as a man in overalls shuffles past. “You should see these people. This must be what a lobotomy post-op recovery room looks like.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Like the world’s most incompetent deli, filled with zombie customers waiting to eat the brains of whatever the opposite of employee of the month is. Well, ‘brains.’ They work at the DMV, after all.”

Xiao Xingchen adjusts his sunglasses. “Let's not be mean.”

“And we can all hear you,” adds a woman on his left. “Not that it made much sense.”

Xue Yang makes a face at her and turns back to Xingchen. “If they make me come back a third time, I’m going to go postal. You know, going postal should be called ‘going DMV.’ It’s catchier, for one thing, and I’ve never so much as stepped foot in a post office—”

“I’m keeping you far away from post offices. Those poor people have suffered enough.”

“How so?”

“Well, there must be a reason they go postal, right?”

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “If the post office has the same taste in music as the DMV, I don’t blame them. Who picked this station? If it’s not Justin Bieber it’s whoever inflicted ‘Kiss Me Through the Phone’ on the world. I’d like to do something to them through the phone, and it won’t be a kiss, I can tell you that much.”

Xiao Xingchen takes a Snickers bar out of the fanny pack Xue Yang has vainly begged him not to wear. “According to the television commercials, this will improve your mood.”

“My mood?” Xue Yang takes a bite. “If I have to hear ‘Baby’ one more time—”

“Ticket 9753, now being served at window fourteen.”

“ ‘Served.’ Ha. As if.”

Xiao Xingchen feels around for another Snickers bar but comes up empty. He should have planned this better. He’d sensed Xue Yang’s mood coming on last night as Xue Yang went through his documents. He’d been cheerful enough until he found his birth certificate in the bundle of papers he’d been given after leaving his last group home.

Then he’d grown strangely quiet, and wandered aimlessly around their apartment for an hour, carrying his phone around with him and switching between a half-dozen different YouTube videos before deciding to bake brownies at 1am and burning them when he got distracted playing video games. He wasn’t paying much attention to the video game, either, going by his cursing as he got repeatedly blown up by what Xingchen suspects was a twelve-year old somewhere in Japan, and eventually gave that up to go take apart their toaster in the interest of “fixing” it.

Now he sits beside Xingchen, jiggling his leg. Xiao Xingchen wants to ask him about his birth certificate, but he hadn't dared to last night, and doesn’t dare now.

“Ticket 9755, now being served at Window 26.”

“Weren’t you 9754?” he asks Xue Yang.

“Oh, crap—” Xue Yang jumps to his feet and rushes to Window 26, brushing past a mohawked man holding a ticket marked 9755. “I’m 9754.”

The woman behind the glass may as well have been carved from wood. “You missed your number.”

“There was no announcement!”

“Or your number isn’t working. It’s not showing up on my computer.”

“What the hell does that mean? I’m on the screen! Look!” Xue Yang jabs a finger at the screen above the booth. At the bottom of the list it reads Ticket 9754 – Window 26. “9754! Window 26! All you need to do is take my picture—”

“Get back in line. Get a new ticket. Window 13.”

“Get back in line?” He looks over at the line for Window 13. It wraps around the entire room. “I already have a number! I’m on the screen!”

“Back. In. Line.”

“Just take the damn photo—”

Xingchen lays a hand on his arm. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll get back in line.”

“Like hell we will! I’ve been here since 5 o’clock—I made an appointment! I even brought my own pen! You ever watch Monsters Inc.? You know Roz? Are you her evil older sister? Because you look exactly like—”

“Back of the line.”

“Younger sister, then. Happy?”

The woman doesn’t bother shrugging. “You’re blocking traffic.”

Xingchen begins to move, heading in the wrong direction. Xue Yang has no choice but to follow or else let him walk into a column plastered with posters emblazoned with, Make your visit easy - download the forms at dmv.gov! , Streamline your visit - make an appointment online today!, and We’re here to help!

“Let’s just go home,” says Xue Yang. “The gray, water stained walls are starting to close in. At any second I expect a giant ball to roll towards us. Well, wrong movie—whatever. I’m sick of this place. It’s cursed.”

“We’re just going to have to come back, and you’ll have wasted the hour we already spent here.”

Xue Yang groans and gets in line behind a woman with three small screaming children. “This whole thing is stupid. We can barely afford rent, let alone a car."

"We will, one day. Besides, it's good to have a license."

"We’ll just take trains and buses everywhere, or you can learn to drive. We'll fudge the vision test."

Xingchen laughs. Xue Yang relaxes slightly at the sound. After a moment, Xingchen slips his hand in his. He’s not one for public displays of affection, but there’s an edge in Xue Yang’s voice that has nothing to do with his return to Window 13.

Xue Yang’s hand tightens in his, and Xingchen rubs it reassuringly with his thumb.

“You again?” says the woman at Window 13 when they finally make it there, twenty minutes later.

“That power-mad dictator at Window 26 wouldn’t take my picture.”

The woman tilts her head at Xue Yang. “She wouldn’t?”

Xue Yang tilts his head back at her, as if to say, I know! Who wouldn’t want to photograph me ?

She smiles, a synthetic smile that reminds Xue Yang of his friend Lan Xichen’s dimpled little fiance. “Strange.”

“ ‘Strange’? I knew she could have just done it had she wanted to—”

The woman blinks at him, her smile growing faker by the minute. “I’m sure what she told you was accurate.”

“Sure, and there is no war in Ba-Sing-Se—”

Xiao Xingchen squeezes his hand, and Xue Yang stops talking and passes her his form. She stamps it a second time and hands him another ticket.

He and Xingchen return to the waiting area. Xue Yang puts his boots up on the seat next to him, resting his head on Xingchen’s shoulder.

“Describe the room to me again,” Xingchen says, trying to distract him from his brooding and, with any luck, keep him from taking out his Swiss army knife and carving his initials into the seat and get them kicked out again. Xue Yang has a talent for describing things, and Xingchen has been trying to encourage him to start writing.

Xue Yang begins to play with his long sleek ponytail. “Purgatory’s antechamber. Humanity’s lost-and-found. A void where time has no meaning. Pit of despair and industrial cleaner.”

Xingchen chuckles, making sure it’s loud enough for Xue Yang to hear.

“If their posters were honest, they’d all be in Comic Sans font, with things like, Where hope goes to die; This is your home now; Nothing escapes our pull, not even time; Human sacrifices while you wait—”

“Human sacrifices?”

"Yeah, I think so."

A crackle of static over the speaker as a new song comes on. “You know you love me, I know you care...Just shout whenever and I'll be there….”

Xue Yang starts up violently, but Xiao Xingchen gently pulls him back down beside him. “Some kind of cannibal conspiracy?” he asks, hoping Xue Yang’s knife has remained in his pocket and is not seconds away from being embedded in a blaring loudspeaker.

Xue Yang settles back against his shoulder. “I’m positive Overalls Guy never returned from Window 17. He’s probably in the office barbecue pit.”

“This must go all the way to the top. Shift supervisor too, I’d guess.”

“Baby, baby, baby oh….Like baby, baby, baby no….”

Xue Yang stops playing with his hair and starts picking at his black nail polish. He’s feeling a bit better, Xingchen’s shoulder warm and solid. “I swear that Roz lady put a curse on me. They all probably dance in a circle around a stack of burning Social Security cards every night, chanting.” He squirms, suddenly bored. “You got any more food? I’m starving.”

Xingchen rummages in his fanny pack. “Just a burned brownie.”

“I swear I set a timer!"

The timer had gone off while Xingchen was in the shower last night. Xue Yang had simply ignored it, too absorbed in trying to virtually blow up his twelve-year-old nemesis. He tends to ignore timers while cooking, usually followed by a mad rush to the kitchen to salvage dinner. “You know dinner is ready when the smoke detector goes off,” he likes to say.

Xue Yang sniffs the crumpled foil surrounding the charred black brownie chunk. “Is this the same foil I wrapped your tuna sandwich in yesterday?”

“We only have one earth!”

“Xingchen, I swear—” Xue Yang stops, rolling his eyes fondly. He’s never met anyone who can be so annoying and endearing at the same time.

Xingchen takes the brownie back. “I'll eat it. I like the burned bits.”

"It's all burned bits."

"Exactly. Perfect."

“She knows she's got me dazing, 'cause she was so amazin'....And now my heart is breakin', but I just keep on sayin'....”

“Who wrote this? I swear I won’t hurt them. I just want their address.”

Xingchen knows he shouldn’t laugh at that, but he can’t help it.

They sit there for another half hour, talking. Xue Yang has succeeded in denuding the nails of his left hand when his number is finally called. He gets his photo taken by a man with glazed eyes and no chin, and is shuffled off to the next waiting area.

“They refused to show me my photo,” he says as they settle back down. “I swear the camera stole my soul and is using it to power the fluorescent lights. I feel at peace now. Kind of floating.” He discovers a piece of gum in his jeans pocket and begins to loudly blow bubbles, making full eye contact with the annoyed Bluetooth Guy and irritated Woman With Facial Tattoo Of Bugs Bunny. “I am one with the DMV demigods, part of something larger than myself.”

“Like joining the army.”

“Or drowning in the ocean.” He lays down with his head in Xingchen’s lap, boots on the edge of Bluetooth Guy’s seat. “Why does your fanny pack smell like patchouli? Have you been burning weird hippie incense again? You promised you’d stop after you set fire to your curtains.”

Xingchen would rather Xue Yang didn’t semi-cuddle him in public, but Xue Yang’s energy is calmer when he’s touching Xingchen, and he lets him stay. “It’s that new candle you bought me, remember?”

“Right. Bought you.”

“What do you—”

“I thought it was peppermint.”

Xingchen bites his lip. Xue Yang is…well, he can read well enough to pass a driving test, but his education was…slipshod at best. Next on Xingchen’s list is encouraging Xue Yang to get his GED.

“You smell like a music festival,” says Xue Yang. “I must have grabbed the wrong one in the store. I sniffed all of them. My picture is probably hanging beside the register of every Bath & Body Works in town: ‘Beware the Candle Perv’—”

“At least someone was willing to take your picture.”

Xue Yang laughs. Xingchen rests a hand on his chest, heedless of the people around them. He likes how Xue Yang feels when he laughs, his whole body shaking, making no attempt to hide his feelings. Xue Yang makes him laugh so often, it’s a special joy for him to return the favor.

They’ve been there almost two and a half hours when Xue Yang’s number is finally called. As if the DMV curse is kicking in again, the loudspeakers creep up another few decibels.

“Like baby, baby, baby no, like baby, baby, baby oh, thought you'd always be mine, mine….”

“Xue Yang—” Xingchen starts before Xue Yang can say anything.

“I know, I know. This is penance for my putting that egg in Song Lan’s shoe last week. The DMV knows all. The DMV was here before us, and will be here after we are gone. The DMV—”

“—The DMV will make us wait in line again, if we don’t hurry.”

Together they go to Window 10, where a drab little man sifts through Xue Yang’s documents. “Fifties, balding, completely dead inside,” Xue Yang whispers to Xingchen.

“I’m thirty-nine,” says the man in a monotone, not looking up, “and you’re missing a birth certificate. And what’s this stain on your Social Security card?”

“Definitely not blood.”

The man stares at him with eyes that, had his life force not already been sucked out of Xue Yang by an afternoon at the DMV, would have done the job. “Current passport, or birth certificate.”

Xue Yang hesitates, then slips a folded piece of pink paper under the glass partition.

The man unfolds it with the sterling speed of a drugged snail and spreads it over the counter. He lines up Xue Yang’s Social Security card, bank statement, and birth certificate, and examines them line by line as if he’s a Bletchley Circle analyst and Xue Yang’s documents are intercepted enemy transmissions.

He looks up at Xue Yang. “Is this a valid birth certificate? There are no parent names listed, and the date of birth has an asterisk—”

“I know what it has!”

“What’s your date of birth?” The man slowly pushes his chair back. “I’m going to have to get a supervisor—”

Xue Yang slams the counter. Xingchen lays a hand on his arm. It’s a miracle Xue Yang’s knife isn’t out. “Don’t you fucking dare! This is what they do when—just Google it, okay? I don’t know what day I was born, they just put whatever date they thought was accurate—”

Xingchen swallows hard.

He had known Xue Yang had grown up in foster care, but had assumed he had been given up by his parents as a child when they could no longer take care of him.

Not—not abandoned as an infant—

“And change the fucking station!” Xue Yang adds. “If I have to hear that stupid fucking song one more time I will go fucking berserk —”

The man’s dead-eyed stare intensifies. “Sign here,” he says after a moment, pushing a slip of paper at Xue Yang.

“You want my love, you want my heart….And we will never, ever, ever be apart…”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Xingchen asks as they step outside. The words sound hollow, and he wishes he had simply remained silent.

Xue Yang takes a deep breath. It’s almost cool out, a welcome change from the week’s heat. “Well, we escaped. Now we just have to get help for the others. Or do we abandon them to their fates? I vote we abandon them. You should have seen some of the looks I got. It’s like they never saw someone threaten a DMV employee before, something I’m willing to bet happens a dozen times an hour.”

Xingchen takes his arm as he begins to walk. It’s easier than using his stick in the crowded city. “Xue Yang…”

Xue Yang’s muscles tense beneath his arm. “What?”

“Nothing.” He bites his lip. He’ll have Xue Yang feeling better soon enough. “What street are we on? Turn in on 33rd.”

“What’s on 33rd?”

“Just let me know when we’re there. 33rd and 7th.”

“The train’s on 36th.”

“But the restaurant’s on 33rd.”

“The what?”

Xingchen wants to smile, but is afraid Xue Yang might take it the wrong way after what happened at the DMV. For someone who does his best to project an I-don’t-care attitude, Xue Yang is surprisingly sensitive.

“What’s today’s date?” He already knows the date, of course. It’s been on his mind for weeks now.

Xue Yang’s arm grows even stiffer. “Is this a ‘you-don’t-know-when-your-birthday-is-so-every-day-is-your-birthday’ thing? Because—”

“Not at all… Remember the day we met? You made fun of my shirt—”

Xue Yang frowns at this sudden change of subject, but goes along with it. Better than talking about that damn birth certificate. “It was white, and ruffled. You looked like an escapee from a high school production of Hamlet. What was I supposed to do?”

“You crashed a motorcycle not three feet from me. An unregistered motorcycle with stolen plates.”

"I bought you coffee to make up for it, didn’t I?”

“You had them put four sugars in my cappuccino. It was undrinkable.”

“One was a Splenda, and anyway I took you to dinner to make up for the coffee, didn’t I?”

“Pizza at one of those dollar-a-slice places you have to stand at a counter to eat. I paid for it.”

“And I paid for your kombucha, whatever the heck that is.”

“And I paid for the band-aids we had to go buy after you cut yourself after playing catch with your knife.”

“You were distracting me!”

“I was quietly eating my pizza.”

“The light reflecting off your shirt ruffles got in my eyes.”

“Four dollars for the band-aids. You insisted on Hello Kitty.”

“Spongebob was also on the table." He wrinkles his nose. "I've got about three-fifty in my pocket, if you want it. But what’s your point, exactly?'

Xingchen smiles. He enjoys winding up Xue Yang, and it’s by far the most effective way to distract him when he’s in a dark mood. “Just that you better not put extra sugar in the fondue.”

“The what?”

“A-Qing read me the dessert menu. Chocolate fondue with bananas, blueberries, pineapple, and cherries. Strawberries, too, I think, and marshmallows, maybe even non-charred brownies—”

Xue Yang stops walking. “Xingchen—”

Xingchen lets go of Xue Yang’s arm, takes his hand instead. Kisses him soundly, right there on Sixth Avenue.

“Forget your birthday," he says. "We have a new date to celebrate every year." He gives Xue Yang's hand a little squeeze and kisses him again. “Happy anniversary, Xue Yang.”

*

Liked it? AO3 👉👈

Ruffle shirt reference

Obviously, Xue Yang was simply distracted by how pretty Xingchen was.

[bookwyrminspiration]

Do you have any tips for nanowrimo?

I'm not sure how useful I'll be as everyone has a different approach, but I can share what's personally most useful for an enjoyable and productive month! This is my fifth year doing it, and there's definitely a lot more I could say about it, but these are the main tips I would give. I hope this helps!!

Space out your writing.

For me, the most critical aspect is to spread out your writing. All those rushes clumped together at the end of the day are so stressful and just make me dread the month as a whole, so try to avoid having big chunks of time right next to each other. Instead, I have several smaller times planned throughout the day so I can slowly make my way to that daily goal. I might have a 15 minute writing session at 9, half an hour at 12, etc. I know I have an unorthodox school schedule and more freedom to schedule things, but the same principal applies to time after school. Take it in small chunks!

Start early.

I know it's super easy to put off NaNoWrimo to the end of your day after everything is done, but the sooner you get started the easier it will be to finish. Because this opens up the chance to say fuck it and come back to it later. When you get stumped, it's a lot less stressful to step away for an hour to think about it when it's 2 in the afternoon than at 8pm. The more of the day you can use, the better. I personally like to get started as early as possible (with school that means around 10 on the weekdays, 7-8 on the weekends). But that's because I'm more productive in the mornings, so that won't be as effective for everyone.

Treats!

I don't know about you, but my brain loves rewards. If you have the discipline, set up a little reward system--it doesn't have to be consistent. Maybe you'll grab a cookie after writing 500 words, and another something at 1000, etc. This can be as low or as high as you want it to be! And the reward doesn't have the be candy; it can be things like watching a video you like, listening to a song you like, etc. Anything that's rewarding! Note: rewards are not things like basic necessities such as meals, hygiene, water, sleep, etc. They're extra little fun things, so please don't punish yourself to get through your writing.

Neat numbers.

This one is more to get just a few more words each session, and it'll only work if you're more predisposed to this kind of thing. I personally love to update my wordcount with satisfying numbers, so use whatever that means to you! If i'm 27 words away from the next hundred, I might as well just write the 27 right now and enter a 500 word update instead of a 473 one. It's so close! Just a little more effort and it'll be so much more satisying. This could be making your update a fun number, making the total word count of your doc/chapter a fun number, etc. I personally go for the hundreds with this one, but there have been times where I go for all the same number--like a 777 update. Those little details get me to write just a little bit more before stopping, and every word now is a word I don't need to write later and is progress.

Move past being behind.

This one is specifically if you get behind: it's okay. You don't have to make up all those words the very next day--you can, but that's also a big task to take on, doubling your word goal! it can feel like a continuous failure when three days ago you missed a day and fell behind, but just keep approaching it the same as you always did. If you get the 1667 the day after you wrote zero words, you've still met that days goal, that's just yesterday still bugging you. Make it up slowly. Depending on how many days you have left, add a small number of words to the 1667 total until you've made it up. Could be 200, 300, etc. There's no rush! One of the years I had a 10 day period where I was under the path to success, but I'd written all 1667 words each day since I'd missed and that's still good!

Don't look at other's word count.

This is only if you tend to compare yourself to other writers. But if looking at those other word counts makes you judge yourself, stop! you don't need to know where others are. I stopped looking at my buddies' (my partner is my only buddy on the website atm but I would do the same if I had others!) word count last year until I could stop comparing myself. Seeing people have a higher word count than me just makes me unhappy and judgmental of myself for no reason when I know I should be happy for their progress, so until I could better control that I tend to avoid it for the most part! You're not required to look or know, so put yourself first!

Break the rules.

i know that there's technically a traditional way to do NaNoWriMo, but if that doesn't suit you, ignore the rules! The point of this challenge is to get you writing, so find that motivation however you can and use it how you want. Want to start the fifth draft of a novel you've started? Go for it! Want to write a collection of short stories that instead add up to the word count? Do it! Want to restart half way through and still add the words from your other project? I've done that too!! Want to just apply this new word count goal to a project you were already working on? No one's stopping you!

I hope your month goes well and that you enjoy your project!! Writing is definitely not easy and a challenge doesn't make it any easier!

[lucienballard]

The Velvet Underground’s 30 greatest songs – ranked!

30. Ride Into the Sun (1969)The Velvets recorded two versions of Ride Into the Sun: a fabulous 1969 instrumental laden with fuzz guitar and a hushed 1970 vocal take backed by organ. Somewhere between the two lies one of their great lost songs; Lou Reed’s disappointingly flat 1972 solo version doesn’t do it justice at all.

29. Run Run Run (1967)For all the shock engendered by the lyrics of Heroin and I’m Waiting for My Man, the most malevolent-sounding track on the debut album might be Run Run Run, a powerful R&B groove lent a gripping darkness by Reed’s noisy guitar playing and the screw-you-I-take-drugs sneer of his vocals.

28. Beginning to See the Light (1969)The title suggests awakening, the melody is bright, but the lyrics are dark and bitter. They may have been directed at John Cale, who played on an initial version of the song, which was subsequently re-recorded after Reed sacked him, against the wishes of his bandmates. A ferocious 1969 live version amps up the tension.

27. Foggy Notion (1969)Reed was a lifelong doo-wop fan. His passion usually found its expression when the Velvet Underground recorded backing vocals for their ballads – as on Candy Says – but the tough, rocking Foggy Notion went a stage further, gleefully stealing a chunk of the Solitaires’ 1955 single Later for You Baby.

26. The Gift (1968)In which the band set a two-chord grind that may, or may not, have been based on their instrumental Booker T in one channel and a blackly comic Reed short story read by Cale in the other. “If you’re a mad fiend like we are, you’ll listen to them both together,” offered the producer, Tom Wilson.

25. Guess I’m Falling in Love (1967)Recorded at the White Light/White Heat sessions, but never completed, the April 1967 live recording of Guess I’m Falling in Love – taped at the Gymnasium in New York – will more than suffice. It boasts three chords, a distinct rhythm and blues influence, Reed in streetwise, so-what punk mode and explosive guitar solos somehow potentiated by the rough sound quality.

24. Temptation Inside Your Heart (1968)“It was not Mein Kampf – my struggle,” the guitarist Sterling Morrison once reflected of the Velvet Underground’s career. “It was fun.” A delightful late Cale-era outtake that inadvertently captured Morrison, Cale and Reed’s giggly backchat as they recorded the backing vocals, Temptation Inside Your Heart bears that assessment out.

23. New Age (1970)New Age comes in two varieties. Take your pick from the world-weary, small-hours rumination found on 1969: The Velvet Underground Live, or the more epic studio version that the Velvets biographer Victor Bockris suggested was “an attempt to present some encouraging statements to a confused audience as the 70s began”. Both are superb.

22. After Hours (1969)The Velvets’ eponymous 1969 album ends, improbably, with the drummer, Moe Tucker, singing a song that could have dated from the pre-rock era. The twist is that her childlike voice and the cute melody conceals an almost unbearably sad song, ostensibly a celebration of small-hours boozing, but filled with longing and regret.

21. I Can’t Stand It (1969)Amid the Velvets’ songs about drugs and drag queens lurked the plaintive sound of Reed pining for his college sweetheart, Shelley Albin, the subject of Pale Blue Eyes, I Found a Reason and I Can’t Stand It. The latter’s cocky strut is disrupted by a desperate lyrical plea: “If Shelley would just come back, it’d be all right.”

20. The Black Angel’s Death Song (1967)There is something folky and vaguely Dylan-esque at the heart of The Black Angel’s Death Song, but by the time Cale had finished with it – alternately strafing it with screeching, insistent viola and hissing into the microphone in lieu of a chorus – it sounded, and still sounds, unique.

19. I Found a Reason (1970)It is one of the ironies of the Velvet Underground that the most forward-thinking, groundbreaking band of their era could occasionally sound like old-fashioned rock’n’roll revivalists. Buried on side two of Loaded was one of the loveliest of Lou Reed’s loving homages to doo-wop, complete with spoken-word section.

18. Some Kinda Love (1969)Musically straightforward, sensual in tone, Some Kinda Love is a complex business, part seduction soundtrack, part refusal to be hemmed in by standard categories of sexuality – “no kinds of love are better than others … the possibilities are endless / and for me to miss one / would seem to be groundless”. Killer line: “Between thought and expression lies a lifetime.”

17. European Son (1967)European Son isn’t a song so much as an eruption. It sounds like a band overturning the established order of rock’n’roll, almost literally: after two brief verses, it bursts into thrilling frantic chaos with a verbatim crash, like the contents of an upended table hitting the floor.

16. Rock & Roll (1970)It is hard to see Loaded’s driving, joyous hymn to music’s redemptive power – “her life was saved by rock and roll” – as anything other than disguised autobiography on the part of Reed. The suggestion that music will endure “despite all the amputations”, meanwhile, seems to look forward to his departure from the Velvet Underground.

15. Candy Says (1969)No one else in 1969 was writing songs remotely like Candy Says, a stunning, tender pen portrait of the transgender Warhol superstar Candy Darling set to a gentle doo-wop inspired backing. Its melancholy seems to presage the note Darling wrote on her deathbed in 1974: “I had no desire for life left … I am just so bored by everything.”

14. Sunday Morning (1967)Sunday Morning was written at the behest of Wilson. He wanted a single that might conceivably get on the radio; he got a haunting, melancholy sigh of a song, its battered wistfulness and undercurrent of paranoia – “watch out, the world’s behind you” – the perfect encapsulation of morning-after regret.

13. What Goes On (1969)Morrison maintained that the studio incarnation of What Goes On wasn’t a patch on the live versions the band performed with Cale on organ. Maybe, but the studio incarnation featuring Cale’s replacement, Doug Yule, is great. It prickles with nervous energy, Reed’s guitar playing is amazing, its churning coda takes up half the song and it still feels too short.

12. Femme Fatale (1967)Apparently provoked by the damaged, doomed Warhol superstar Edie Sedgwick – with whom Cale had a brief affair – Femme Fatale is as beautiful and fragile as its inspiration. The story of a wary, ruined former suitor warning others off the titular anti-heroine is lent a chilly edge by Nico’s delivery.

11. I Heard Her Call My Name (1968)In the Velvets’ early days, Reed purported to be “the fastest guitarist alive”. A berserk claim, but his Ornette Coleman-inspired solos on I Heard Her Call My Name are some of the most extraordinary and viscerally exciting in rock history, frequently atonal, spiked with ear-splitting feedback and pregnant pauses.

10. Ocean (1969)The Velvet Underground recorded Ocean several times – one version is supposed to feature the return of Cale on organ – but never released it in their lifetime, which seems extraordinary. It is among the greatest of their later songs, its atmosphere beautiful, the epic ebb and flow of its sound completely immersive.

9. I’m Waiting for the Man (1967)An unvarnished lyrical depiction of scoring drugs tied to music on which Reed’s rock’n’roll smarts and Cale’s background in minimalist classical music – the pounding, one-chord piano part – meld in a kind of relentless perfection. Amusingly, there is now a pharmacy at the song’s fabled location of Lexington 125.

8. I’ll Be Your Mirror (1967)A song about Reed’s affair with Nico that could just as easily be about Andy Warhol’s approach to art, I’ll Be Your Mirror is one of those Velvet Underground tracks that makes their initial commercial failure seem baffling. How could a pop song as wonderful as this fail to attract attention? Nico and Morrison on stage at the New York Society for Clinical Psychiatry annual dinner in 1966.

7. White Light/White Heat (1968)A delirious paean to amphetamine, its subject reflected in the lyrics – “I surely do love to watch that stuff tip itself in” – and the turbulent, distorted rush of its sound. The band appear to be barely in control as it careers along; the chaotic finale, where Cale finally loses his grip on the bass line, is just fantastic.

6. Heroin (1967)Heroin was the deal-breaker at early Velvets gigs, provoking a “howl of bewilderment and outrage”. The shock of its subject matter has dulled with time, but its surges from folky lament to sonic riot still sound breathtaking. Oddly sweet moment: Reed’s chuckle as Tucker loses her place amid the maelstrom and suddenly stops playing.

5. Pale Blue Eyes (1969)“High energy does not necessarily mean fast,” Reed once argued. “High energy has to do with heart.” Hushed, limpidly beautiful and almost unbearably sad, Pale Blue Eyes’ depiction of a strained, adulterous relationship proves his point. In its own vulnerable way, it is as powerful as anything the Velvet Underground recorded.

4. Sweet Jane (1970)Sweet Jane started life as a ballad – see the versions recorded live at the Matrix in San Francisco in 1969 – but, sped and toughened up, it became as succinct and perfect a rock’n’roll song as has ever been written, based around one of the greatest riffs of all time.

3. Venus in Furs (1967)For a band who inspired so much other music, the Velvet Underground’s catalogue is remarkably rich with songs that still sound like nothing else; they were as inimitable as they were influential. Venus in Furs is a case in point: umpteen artists were galvanised by its dark, austere atmosphere; none succeeded in replicating it.

2. Sister Ray (1968)A monumental journey into hitherto-uncharted musical territory, where a primitive garage-rock riff meets Hubert Selby-inspired lyrics and improvisation that sounds like a psychological drama playing out between Reed and Cale, all at skull-splitting volume. Fifty-three years later, it is without peer for white-knuckle intensity.

1. All Tomorrow’s Parties (1967)Ninety per cent of the Velvet Underground’s oeuvre consists of no-further-questions classics. The astonishingly high standard of almost everything they did makes picking their “best” song a matter of personal preference, rather than qualitative judgment. So let’s go for Warhol’s favourite, on which the sour and sweet aspects of their debut album entwine faultlessly. The melody is exquisite; the music monolithic and unrelenting, powered by Cale’s hammering piano and Tucker’s stately drums; Nico’s performance perfectly inhabits the lyrics, which turn a depiction of a woman choosing what dress to wear into a meditation on emptiness and regret. It is original and utterly masterly: the Velvet Underground in a nutshell.

source

[fiddlepickdouglas]

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 1 - Ribbit

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, THE meetcute of meetcutes. 2.1k

Edit: thank you so much @trevor-wilson-covington for the pretty edit!! I'm in love with it!

Alex drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat in the van. The drive from Los Angeles to Vegas was just short of four hours, but it had been an early morning and it was going to be a long day. He was feeling the carsickness sit just under the threshold of dangerous and rolled down the window.

“Whoo! Twenty miles boys!” Luke called out as they passed a sign on the freeway, clapping Bobby on the shoulder from behind.

“Woohoo!” Bobby responded in excitement.

“Think you’re gonna make it, buddy?” Reggie looked over at Alex. Alex turned only a fraction of the way toward his friend and gave a half-hearted nod.

“Hey man, let us know if we gotta pull over,” Luke said.

He simply nodded. Next time he wasn’t going to sit in the back.

The other three were jamming to whatever Luke was riffing on his guitar. Bobby thankfully drove at a slower pace as they approached the final stretch toward their destination. The ache in his stomach didn’t get better, but it also didn’t get worse so he was banking on it calming down once they stopped.

“Hey, guys, we wanna stop somewhere and get breakfast first?” Bobby called out to the rest of them.

“Oh yeah!” Reggie said. “I think I could go for some pancakes.”

“Oh, pancakes sound real good right now.” Luke echoed.

“Alex?” Bobby peeked into the rearview mirror at him.

Looking up from the view outside, he just shrugged. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure he could handle food no matter what it was.

Eventually they pulled off the freeway and kept their eyes peeled for an open restaurant.

“I see pancakes!” Reggie cried, pointing at his target.

“They’ve got an arcade next door, I second that vote!” Bobby said.

As they parked and clambered out of the van, the boys stretched and shook their limbs. They entered the diner and found a booth, practically collapsing together on the table. Alex placed his face in his hands and tried taking in deep breaths to calm his stomach. A sudden voice was heard beside the table.

“Good morning starshines, the earth says hello! How are we doing today?” Sounded like a waiter. Alex felt rude, but didn’t bother to look up. He felt Luke nudge a menu under his elbow.

“Oh, we’re hungry!” Reggie responded.

“Awesome, guys,” the waiter said. “Anything I can get started for you?”

“We’ll go with water,” Luke spoke for everyone at the table. “And, sorry about him, he’s not feeling good.” Alex assumed this was about him and sighed.

“Okay, so water for everybody? Alright, I’ll just grab those for you while you prepare your orders.”

As the waiter left, Luke tapped Alex’s shoulder.

“How you doin’, Alex?”

“Not blowing chunks, I guess,” he groaned.

“Hey, guys,” Bobby started saying. “How about we pick what we wanna eat, and then I want to check out the arcade while we wait for our food.”

“That’s a good idea,” Reggie said, perking up. “I hope they have Galaga.”

“I’m down,” Luke said. “Alex, you wanna wait here for us? You can give the guy our orders and then just chill.”

“Maybe that stomach will settle down,” Reggie added.

Alex lowered his hands and rested them on the table.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I need the space anyway. Thanks.”

“Cool,” Luke hopped up from his seat. “Uh, I’ll just do the buttermilk pancakes.”

“Make that two buttermilk pancakes!” Reggie said, holding up his fingers.

“Eggs and sausage,” Bobby told him. “And buttermilk pancakes.” He patted Alex on the back as the three of them ventured next door.

At least they were easy to remember. Alex looked around the restaurant as he kept breathing in and out slowly. He was the only person there. That was surprising for a diner just outside of Vegas around ten in the morning. He didn’t mind the quiet, though. Having all this space to himself was already helping him feel better.

A guy with long dark hair approached him with a tray carrying glasses of water. Alex gulped as he watched, his breath catching in his throat. He took in the tie-dye shirt, the ripped jeans, and puka shell necklace and guessed he was probably from California as well.

“Whoa, where’d they all go?” the waiter asked, smiling a little in confusion.

Alex blinked.

“They, uh, they went to the arcade,” he managed to get out. He couldn’t help it, this guy had a nice smile.

“Ah,” the guy raised his eyebrows and began placing the water on the table. “And they left you behind? That sucks.”

“I’m okay,” Alex said. “We’ve just been on the road for a bit and I got kinda carsick, so I needed some space anyway.”

“I’m sorry, man,” the waiter said. “Did they decide what to eat before they bailed?”

“Uh, yeah,” Alex shifted to face him better. “They all want buttermilk pancakes and then one guy also wants eggs and sausage.”

“Three buttermilks…” the guy muttered as he wrote them down. “Eggs and sausage. And do you know what you want?”

He looked directly into Alex’s eyes as he rested the tray under his arm and it took everything Alex had not to melt right there. Don’t look at his lips, he thought. He was pretty sure his eyes had betrayed him but he forced his gaze downward as a cover.

“I’m sorry,” he said, flustered. “I actually forgot to look at the menu.”

“Right, ‘cuz you were carsick, sorry” the waiter chuckled, running a hand through his hair. Alex bit his tongue.

“I should probably get some food still,” he managed to say. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Right on. I could recommend some toast - that’s always easy on the stomach. That comes with eggs, and I could add in some banana for you.”

“That actually sounds great,” Alex told him. “I’ll just do that, then.”

The waiter smiled and bit his lip.

“‘Kay!” He lifted the tray from under his arm and headed back toward the kitchen, doing a little skip before disappearing inside.

Alex felt his hands shaking and he sat on them for a minute. Looking around the empty diner, a thought occurred that somehow with just him and the waiter it had seemed full. The strange feeling crept all over him, like a new exhilarating energy, and he moved his hands back up. The waiter popped back out of the kitchen and came back toward Alex in a cavalier fashion.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “I don’t exactly have other people to help and I feel bad leaving you all by yourself in here.”

“Make yourself at home,” Alex said, gesturing to the seat across from him. Make yourself at home? What is that? he berated himself.

The guy extended a hand for him to shake. “I’m Willie, by the way.”

“Alex.” As he took it, Alex returned the firm grip he received and they both chuckled a bit at noticing each other’s strength. Willie sat down and immediately grabbed a napkin from the dispenser.

“So you said you and your friends have a long day ahead of you?” he asked.

“Oh right,” Alex couldn’t believe he had forgotten about the guys for a minute. “We’re a band, so we’ve got a gig opening for Julie Molina tonight.”

“Wicked,” Willie smiled and nodded, folding the napkin into something Alex wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be. “Who’s Julie Molina?”

“Oh, she’s just a good solo artist - does a little bit of everything. My buddy Luke is really into her.”

Willie nodded some more, continuing to fold the napkin.

“And who are you guys?”

“We’re Sunset Curve,” Alex said. “I’m the drummer.”

“Right on! You guys just becoming a thing?” Willie raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, I guess so,” Alex hadn’t exactly thought about it. “Opening for Julie is a big step for us.”

He watched Willie’s hands work until he finished. It turned out to be an origami frog.

“Ribbit,” Willie said, pressing on the top to make it look like it was moving. The napkin material didn’t exactly lend to bouncing up and down, which made them both giggle. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be distracting.”

“I don’t mind,” Alex said. “It’s entertaining.”

He realized how widely he was smiling and laughed to himself.

“What about you?” he asked.

Willie straightened his posture and ran a hand through his hair again. He flailed his arms and blew out his cheeks before holding one arm with the other and leaning on the table.

“Making it on my own for now. I just do whatever feels good, you know? Make a few bucks, get out and enjoy what I find. Don’t need a whole lot to be happy.”

Wow, Alex wanted that kind of chill. He picked up the origami frog.

“What do you do when you’re not here? Besides these, of course.”

Willie shrugged.

“Skate. Be free.” He smiled, but sighed heavily. Alex saw a distant look in his eyes, but knew now wasn’t a time to address it. “I see Vegas in all its glory. You should see the lights at night.”

“Won’t I see them tonight?”

Willie shook his head.

“Not the right way,” he told him. “Not at the right angle. I would show you, but you’ve got your gig and everything.”

Alex opened his mouth to reply, but a head stuck out of the kitchen door. A man with dark hair and chiseled features looked at Willie and all he did was glare authoritatively.

“I’m - coming,” Willie stammered, rising from his seat.

Alex realized his mouth was still open and he shut it, unhappily swallowing what he’d wanted to say.

“That was my boss,” Willie said, already in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I’ll be back when your food’s ready.” He rushed off and the diner felt empty and cold again.

As if on cue, Luke, Bobby and Reggie burst back through the door. Luke and Reggie were celebrating while Bobby seemed a little less enthusiastic.

“Dun-geon slay-er!” Reggie proclaimed in a mock deep voice. “Too bad we can’t stay longer and go for that tournament today; I would have whooped everyone.”

They all sat and immediately gulped down their waters. Bobby remained quiet.

“How was the arcade?” Alex asked.

“It was sweet,” Luke reported. “Bobby’s mad because Reggie mopped the floor with him.”

“The joystick wasn’t working right, it wasn’t a fair outcome,” Bobby defended.

“Oooohhh,” Reggie made a silly face and wiggled his fingers. “Bobby only loses when the game doesn’t work, ooohhh!”

Alex shook his head and laughed mildly. He only noticed then that his stomach had stopped bothering him completely. He hadn’t even felt it when he’d been talking with Willie. He finished his own water, and was happy not to feel anything as it went down. The origami frog was still on the table.

“Hey, Alex,” Reggie said, picking it up. “Did you make this?”

“Oh, no, Willie did,” he told him.

“Who’s Willie?” Luke asked.

Speak of the devil - the kitchen door opened and Willie came out carrying their plates.

“Alright, we got pancakes, pancakes, more pancakes,” he said, placing them where they belonged. He glanced at Alex quickly, but it was too quick to read. “Who had the eggs and sausage?”

“That was me,” Bobby said, raising his hand.

“Okay,” Willie passed it over to him. “And toast and eggs with a banana.” He smiled as he set it down before Alex. “And it looks like you all need more water, I’ll be right back!” He was gone too quickly again.

The change in his mood unsettled Alex, but maybe it was because Willie was working. As he saw Willie returning with the water pitcher he had an idea.

“Hey Luke,” he said. Luke turned to him expectantly as Willie silently poured water in their glasses.

“Where are we playing again?”

Luke looked confused. Willie was listening intently.

“The Pearl, why? How could you forget?”

“And what time do we play?”

“Eight o’ clock. You sure you’re feeling better?”

“Yeah. I was… I was just testing you, cuz sometimes you don’t remember.”

Luke looked around the table defensively.

Reggie shrugged. “He’s right. But you remembered this time!”

Alex felt bad about starting Luke in an argument as he listened to them continue, but he knew it would blow over quickly. He caught Willie looking back at him and nodding as he walked away. As he returned to his food, Bobby smirked at him and shook his head. Heat rose in his cheeks and he focused on his toast.

[sunlightdances]

Time Has Brought Your Heart to Me (Soulmate!AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, feat. platonic Steve, platonic Tony and a brief cameo by Agents of SHIELD. Rating/warnings: T (for language), mentions of PTSD and anxiety, a little angst. Many of our characters being adorably dense. Words: 14,418 (literally why am I like this) Summary: Bucky Barnes’ soul mark appeared on his left arm when he was seventeen years old. His injury and HYDRA took it from him, but does the mark have to physically exist for the connection to take hold? Author’s Note: Post-CA:CW. Assume Tony helped Steve and Bucky get out of Siberia and finds out the truth about his parents from Steve. AU after that. This idea literally came to me when I was shampooing my hair and I wrote a good chunk of it immediately afterwards. This idea has been done before, but I hope you like my take on it! Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky Barnes, or canon elements from the movies, tv shows, or comics. All of that belongs to Marvel. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites without my permission. Reblogs are encouraged!

When Bucky Barnes is seventeen years old, a charcoal black swirl of ivy and leaves appears on his left arm.

He spent a lot of time panicking and then trying to find his soulmate, feeling disappointed almost every time he left a date with flushed cheeks and a charming smile only to remember that they didn’t have a mark, or had one that didn’t match his.

He forgot about it as soon as the war was on - bigger things to worry about then.

He enlisted because he wanted to make something of himself, but there was always the possibility burning in his mind that he might meet them. No matter what persona he tries to put on, he’s a romantic at heart. The singing under his breath, buying flowers for pretty girls, romance paperbacks in his back pocket type.

There’s no semblance of romance in war.

His days are never ending - walking, walking, brief bursts of combat. Shouting orders at his platoon, all of them trying to pretend they were feeling more courageous than they were. Still, he spares a few thoughts for his soulmate. When he takes a bullet to his shoulder in France, he hopes they can’t feel it.

He thought that was the worst it could get. He was wrong.

When he’s half conscious in the snow after falling from the train, praying for someone, anyone, to come looking for him, he feels guilt, and regret, and then doesn’t feel anything at all.

It happens in flashes - a medical exam table, a German accent, a shock to his entire body when all he does is repeat his name, rank, and serial number.

In a brief moment of lucidity, he lifts his left hand. He tries to see the mark, one more time, tries to orient himself with the one thing that’s remained constant for almost the last ten years of his life.

It isn’t there.

His arm, gone. The leafy scrawl with it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, to no one, to someone, and then it all goes black.

.

The sun streaming in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest room you’ve been assigned is the first thing that wakes you, followed shortly by a disembodied voice calling your name. You have a brief moment of panic, sitting upright in bed, until you remember where you are.

Avengers Tower.

“Miss?” The kind voice inquires again.

“Sorry. Yes, I’m here, sort of,” you reply, looking-- where do you look when you’re talking to an AI?

“Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the third floor kitchen.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a half hour,” you reply.

“He said to tell you no matter your response that you have fifteen minutes.”

You scowl. “Awesome,” you mutter, swinging your legs over the side of the plush mattress. “Tell him I’ll get there when I get there, and he’ll just have to deal with it.”

FRIDAY is silent, but you suspect the message has been delivered. Yawning, you walk to the en suite bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. Hair? A rat’s nest. Skin? Could not look more dull. You really need to get more sleep, you think, but apparently that’s not going to start today.

Twenty minutes later, you step out of the glass elevator and into the brightly lit kitchen. There’s not many people milling about, and you discover why when you come across a clearly agitated Captain Steve Rogers at the large table, leg bouncing and chewing on the end of a pen.

“Morning,” you say when you get within earshot.

“You’re late.”

“You never told me we had an appointment,” you point out, swiping a muffin from the large plate in the middle of the table where he’s sitting, and slide into the seat across from him.

“I asked you to come here for a few days, didn’t I?” He looks up, revealing dark circles and day-old stubble. He’s got a pile of papers on the table in front of him, and a cup of half-drank coffee off to one side.

You hum in agreement, “And you’ve been very secretive about it all. Barely gave me time to pack a bag.” A wink, so he knows you’re (mostly) joking. “Not very gentlemanly, Captain.”

“Bucky’s arriving today.” He blurts, and your mouth falls open in surprise.

“Steve--” You breathe, suddenly understanding his nervousness.

“I sent Sam to get him a week ago, if he even wanted to come back to New York.” He smiles, but it’s weak. “Figured it might do some good to have someone… non-partial around.”

“This is…” You shake your head, “Wow, Steve. This is good, right?”

He exhales. “It’s-- yeah. More than good.” He meets your eyes, “I need you to give him a physical, just a regular check up. Protocol.”

You’re already nodding. “I’ll get the lab set up, although are you sure you don’t want Dr. Cho--”

“I want it to be you,” Steve explains, “You’re-- well, I think he’d like you, that’s all.” You must be blushing because he quickly backtracks. “I just mean that you’re a friend! My friend. He’ll trust you because I do.”

“Jeepers, Steve,” you tease, “Getting my heart all aflutter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll have FRIDAY let you know when he’s settled? Don’t want to overwhelm him.”

You nod. “I get it. Just let me know.” Impulsively, you get out of your chair and hug Steve from behind, sort of wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m really happy for you.”

He squeezes your hands, a long breath leaving him like he’s been holding it for awhile. “Thank you.”

It’s hours before you’re summoned, and you feel strangely nervous. You don’t really know what to expect. Sure, as trauma-nurse turned Avengers in-house care, you obviously know who Bucky Barnes is, and what he means to Steve Rogers. You were beginning to think you’d never meet him, though.

You follow voices until you get to your “office”, which is really just an open-air lab not dissimilar to the one Dr. Banner has for himself down the hall. Yours is less tech-savvy, though. You have office hours like any other doctor, and typically don’t live at the Tower unless a mission is wrapping up, or you’re on call.

You semi-retired after everything went down with SHIELD, but had been part of Steve’s team there, so you’re sort of contracting for the Avengers whenever things are scary enough that they need a full time physician.

Turning a corner, you see the back of Steve’s head as he sits in a chair across from the imposing figure that must be James Barnes.

You clear your throat and try to make your footsteps a little louder so you don’t interrupt them, but then remember they’re both super soldiers. They definitely have already heard you coming.

Steve greets you by name and introduces you to Bucky, who surprises you with a quick smile and a handshake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, his voice somehow gruff and gentle all at the same time.

“You too,” you say. “Steve’s filled me in on the basics, but this is just a physical so we have your information on file. Nothing invasive, no needles, and nothing gets touched unless you say so, okay?”

He looks like he wants to smirk at your wording, but you can tell he’s a little tense and nervous too. You’ve thought about what to say to him and how to do this exam. You know he’s spent most of his life doing things without his consent, including receiving whatever poor medical care he was given.

“Whatever you say,” he agrees, and hops up on the exam table when you ask him to.

The entire exam only takes about ten minutes, until the only thing you have left to ask about is the arm. You sneak a glance at Steve, who’s chewing on his bottom lip. He gives you a small nod, so you take a deep breath and turn back to Bucky.

“I have to ask you a few questions about this.” You tell him, gesturing towards his left arm.

He flinches, barely noticeable if you weren’t standing right in front of him. “What do you want to know?” He leans in, voice conspiratorial, and whispers, “This isn’t my real arm.”

You’re momentarily stunned, but a breathless laugh escapes. Okay. Maybe this isn’t going to be as awful as you worried it might be, for him or for you.

.

Later, you’re in the kitchen with Steve and Sam, a glass of wine in front of each of you as you pick at your dinner. The rest of the Avengers are on a small mission, Falcon and Cap staying behind to look after the newest member of their team.

They don’t say it, but they’re worried.

“Captain Rogers,” FRIDAY interrupts, “Sergeant Barnes is experiencing some distress.”

The three of you stand, but Steve waves you off. “It’s a nightmare,” he says. “I’ll take care of it.” He takes a few steps and stops, not turning around. “FRIDAY will let you know if I need help.”

Sam’s face is tight with worry when he sits back down with you.

“What’s your take on this, Sam?” You ask, “Really. Honest assessment.”

“I think he needs help,” Sam says, and for a second you’re not sure if he means Steve, or Bucky. “He’s been through a lot. He’s a lot better physically, and some mentally, too. But there’s still-- it’s PTSD. He’s been a combat soldier for 70 years of his life, a POW. You can’t recover from that in a few months or even a few years.”

“I’ll try to help if I can,” you reassure him. “If he’ll let me.”

Sam stands up to leave, probably to check on Steve. He squeezes your shoulder as he walks behind you. “I know you will. Thanks, kid.”

You don’t respond, not even to dispute him acting like he’s so much older than you. Your brain is too busy trying to figure out what to do next.

.

The next few weeks go by in a similar fashion. You take up semi-permanent residence at the Tower.

Bucky sticks to his room a lot, though you see him sparring with Steve or hanging out with Sam in the common room a few times.

He doesn’t seek you out, and you don’t bother him except for subtly asking FRIDAY to let you know if he’s experiencing any distress that requires medical attention.

Now, you’re in the kitchen with Steve, eating at the large island and watching him warily. “Steve. You’re pacing.”

“I know I’m pacing.”

You set your fork down. “Why are you pacing?”

“I’m taking Bucky to Brooklyn today.”

You blink, eyes wide. “Whoa. That’s-- wow, that’s great! Was it your idea, or--”

“It was his, actually.” Steve stops pacing long enough to meet your eyes. “I’m a little worried it might be too much once we get there. Once he sees how much has changed…” He trails off. “I remember when I first went back. It was too much all at once.”

“Can I offer you some non-professional advice? As a friend?”

Steve still looks wary, but he nods.

“You gotta have a little faith in him, Steve. He’s been through a lot, yes. You’re still learning who he is right now. But he was in Wakanda for a year. Recovering only half of that time. He’s had time to catch up, to figure out how to be a person with agency. If he says he wants to do this, he probably does. You have to trust him.”

A movement from the doorway catches your attention and you flush when you see Bucky come into the kitchen slowly, looking a little sheepish. Damn these supersoldiers and their stealth. “Uh-- sorry to interrupt. Bad time?”

Steve smiles, though it’s a little shaky. “No, just talking to Doc here about coming with us to Brooklyn today.”

Your eyes widen as you whip around to face Steve, who sends you a pleading look quickly before Bucky sees him.

“Oh.” Bucky looks a little disappointed, but you don’t take it personally.

“I don’t want to intrude,” you say, “I know you had plans with Steve,”

Bucky waves a hand, “No, it’s fine, really. Could probably use someone around to make sure we don’t kill each other.”

You and Steve both freeze, and Bucky looks back and forth between you. “That was a joke.”

You’re the first to smile, and you’re doing it mostly for Bucky’s benefit, but also in hopes that Steve will relax a little bit. You know it’s not healthy for him to be this worried all the time. You also know that Bucky will never truly be at ease if Steve doesn’t start treating him like his friend again.

“I guess if I’m going to get a tour, I couldn’t ask for better guides,” you say, heading out to grab a jacket and your wallet.

A half hour later, you’re getting off the subway and heading into one of Brooklyn’s old neighborhoods. Bucky appears outwardly calm, but you could see how tense he was when you were on the train, and the way his eyes darted around cooly, mapping out all the entrances and exits. It’s the same thing you see Sam and Steve do, maybe more subtly, when you go out with them.

They all do it, really. The Avengers are battle weary already, and you wish you could give that sense of calm back to them.

“I’m going to grab a coffee,” you tell Steve and Bucky as you mill about on the street. You get the idea that neither of them has thought this through very much - they don’t really know where to go first. “Do you want anything?”

“Two black coffees. Is that okay?” Steve says, looking at Bucky.

“Add a little sugar to Steve’s. He won’t complain but he’ll make a face every time he takes a drink.” Bucky says, and you snort.

“Good to know.”

Five minutes later, you’re interrupting what looks like a serious conversation between the two men with a cautious smile, and with Steve scrambling to grab the coffee carrier out of your hands before you have to juggle three cups.

“Where to?” You ask once they’re both happily sipping hot coffee, Bucky only looking mildly uncomfortable.

“I don’t really know,” Bucky admits. “Guessing our old building isn’t there anymore?”

Steve smiles. “It is, actually. We can go there first if you want.”

You follow behind them on the sidewalk as they reminisce about places they used to go, people they used to know. It’s not sad, more nostalgic, and you’re content to listen to them talk as you sip your coffee.

Bucky shoves Steve lightly as he starts to point out all the places he used to get beat up. “That alley,” Steve points, “and behind that butcher shop--”

“I think she gets it.”

You laugh, “Tony should make landmark signs. We can put them in all your favorite places,” you tease, and Steve glares.

“You’re hilarious.”

You pull on his arm when Bucky suddenly stops right in front of him, keeping Steve from plowing straight into his friend’s back. You feel the mood shift and know this must be the place.

Bucky rubs at his jaw thoughtfully. “Huh. Smaller than I remember.” His voice is a little less confident than it was this morning. You stare at the building with him, trying to picture what it might have looked like decades ago. “This place was a shithole when we lived here--”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, but he’s laughing too, turning to face his friend almost for the first time all day. You’re giggling too, and Bucky shakes his head, his smile a little smaller, but still there.

“What? We were poor.” He shuffles his feet a little. “I loved it here. No better place than that apartment.” He inhales sharply before meeting Steve’s gaze, “Wait, no one-- we don’t know anyone who still--”

“No,” Steve says quietly, carefully. “No one we know still lives here. I checked when I first got out of the ice.”

Bucky nods. “I don’t-- I don’t want to know about them yet. Any of them.”

You assume he’s talking about his family, and whoever might still be alive. You feel like you’re intruding on a private conversation, so you busy yourself taking a few photos for your Instagram -- you’re not too shy to admit that this neighborhood is lovely. Old brick buildings and shops with lots of flowers blooming.

(And if you sneak a photo that has the back of Bucky and Steve standing there, shoulder to shoulder… well that’s nobody’s business)

In hindsight, you and Steve should have seen this night coming. The memories prove to be too much for Bucky, and the entire floor nearly shakes over your head when he has an episode in the middle of the night, spurred by nightmares and twisted memories of his family.

Footsteps speed by your doorway and you hear FRIDAY asking you to stay in your room, but you don’t listen. You’re too worried, despite the racing of your heart telling you that this is a bad idea.

You open the door just in time to see Steve sprinting down the hall towards the stairs. He must hear your door (or your heart, you think idly), because he turns to you. An authoritative, “No,” is all you get from him before he’s gone, apparently taking the stairs four at a time.

Not content to be left on the sidelines, you head downstairs to the lab, pausing just long enough to throw your hair into a bun and slip your glasses on, grabbing a sweatshirt off a hook by your door. You have no idea if you’ll be seeing Bucky tonight, but you want to be prepared just in case, even though you think Bruce and Dr. Cho are going to take the lead on his care while he’s here.

Forty-five minutes go by before you hear footsteps, and Steve and Bucky come trudging in. Steve has a black eye, and Bucky seems content to stare at his own feet.

“Steve--” You’re about to ask him to let you look at the bruising, but he holds up a hand to stop you. You’re suddenly filled with dread, wondering if Bucky is wholly himself, but you find it hard to believe Steve would have brought him down here at all if he wasn’t.

“I’m fine.” He smiles at you weakly, “Can you…” He trails off, looking at his best friend.

“I need something to help me sleep.” Bucky finishes, voice rough. “Preferably without dreams.”

You pause, “I can’t guarantee anything,” you give him what you hope is a reassuring smile, “But I can try.”

“Thanks.” Steve sounds exhausted, but Bucky looks worse.

“Can I have a minute alone?” You ask Bucky, but the question is really for Steve. Bucky tenses, and you rush to clarify, “Just want to chat about how we can help you get better sleep. Figured you might be more comfortable without an audience, but Steve can stay if you want him to.”

The two men have a silent conversation before Steve nods, reaching for your hand to give it a squeeze before he leaves you and Bucky alone.

It’s a few minutes before Bucky relaxes enough to talk. You busy yourself taking his vitals even though you know you could just ask FRIDAY to give you the rundown. It gives you something manual to do, so you don’t have to just stand in front of him.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.”

You look up in surprise. “Me? No, I-- you--”

“I know it-- I woke you up.”

You shake your head. “I was awake anyway.”

Bucky cocks his head in question, so you keep talking.

“I have a hard time sleeping. Did Steve tell you much about me? What I did-- before?”

“He said you’re a nurse.”

You nod. “I was a trauma nurse at a hospital nearby. That’s how Steve and I met.” You hesitate before the next part, but you feel like he’ll handle it okay. “I was working the day SHIELD fell. When he was brought in, I was in the ER.”

Bucky meets your eyes, and you can see the guilt swimming there.

You smile, “Turns out a nurse isn’t super necessary for a super soldier.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I suppose not.”

“My job mostly turned into babysitting. He kept trying to leave before he was fully healed, and we really had no idea how long he was going to be there. None of the rules applied to him, and he was way more focused on getting out to look for you.”

Bucky looks down, gunmetal hand whirring slightly as he fiddles with it. “Sounds like Steve.”

“Anyway, after I managed to put up with Steve and Sam for a whole two weeks,” you wink at Bucky, “Steve offered me a job. Thought they could use a medic around. I’d been wanting to get out of the hospital anyway. Some days were… hard.” You try your best not to let the memories get the better of you. “Turns out Bruce is a great doctor but not when he’s-- the other guy.”

Bucky nods, seemingly finding his resolve. He takes a deep breath, “I thought I could handle today. I felt good when we were there. Like I could almost forget--” he waves his hand around vaguely. “You know.”

You nod slowly. “In my experience, recovery isn’t always a straight line.”

Bucky is quiet, but you take that as a signal to keep going.

“I definitely still have days where I can’t see the lights of an ambulance without my heart rate speeding up. I have nightmares, and sometimes when the team is gone on a mission, I’m so anxious thinking about what’s happening to them I can barely breathe.” You force yourself to keep talking, “And then there’s some days where I’m calm. I can handle it, and I feel fine.”

You look up at him so you can look directly into his eyes. He’s already looking at you, and for a second, you feel a zip of awareness hit you in your gut.

“I’ve got something for you. It’ll help you sleep, but it’s really strong.” Quieter, you add, “Don’t tell Steve, but Bruce and Tony developed this for him years ago. He won’t ever admit to having nights like you’ve had. This seemed to help him.” You reach over on the table for a pill bottle and press it into Bucky’s palm. “Read the directions. Don’t take more than one.”

“Yes ma’am.” He murmurs. “Thank you.”

After a brief awkward moment, he leaves the room, and you can hear his quiet footsteps down the hall until the ding of the elevator signals him going back upstairs.

A few moments later, Steve is in your line of vision, and he doesn’t say anything, just gives you this look and it completely breaks your heart.

Wordlessly, you hold out your hand, wiggling your fingers, and he takes it willingly, threading your fingers together. Pulling him close, you stand shoulder to shoulder with the super soldier, squeezing his hand in reassurance as you both pull your thoughts together.

“I knew this was going to be hard,” he says, voice low. “I just didn’t-- I hate seeing him in pain and not being able to do anything about it.”

“I know, Steve.” You don’t have any answers, so you don’t try to give him one. “You need to try to rest.” You tell him instead.

“So do you,” he replies stubbornly.

“One day at a time, Steve.” You remind him.

“Yeah.” He sighs, wiping his free hand over his face. “Yeah, I know.”

When you get to your bedroom that night, you’re exhausted. It’s quiet above you, and you keep replaying the night’s events over and over.

Out of everything, one moment stands out to you - that potent moment of eye contact with Bucky Barnes. You can still feel the electricity crackling through you as you remember it.

That can’t be good.

.

“Any time, Cap,” Tony’s voice, out of breath, comes through the comms. You’re watching anxiously from your lab in the Tower, wondering again how you got roped into this.

“I’m busy,” Steve replies haughtily, and you hear the sound of two bodies hitting the floor. “On my way.”

The sound of fighting rings out, and you try to subtly eye the man next to you, his posture similar to yours - arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“Do they always argue this much on a mission?” Bucky wonders aloud, and you snort.

“I’ve only been involved in a few, but in my experience: yes.”

The mission is otherwise pretty smooth - Steve and Tony are more than capable of handling a few rogue Hydra thugs on their own, and you’re relieved when Tony lets you know over the comms that they’re headed back, objective complete.

You glance at Bucky next to you, who still stares at the screens.

“This must be a little overwhelming…” you start, not really sure how much you should press.

He shrugs. “Just different. The last time I planned any type of mission I was in olive drab and all I ever had to do was say yes, sir.”

You’re still surprised with how candid he’s being, willingly offering up details about his past, those he can remember, at least.

“Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers have docked.” FRIDAY’s voice interrupts your musing, and you nod at Bucky, who leaves the room to go meet them. He brushes past you, and you feel another zip of awareness when he does, shaking your head to get rid of the feeling.

He’s your patient. You absolutely cannot, will not allow yourself to feel anything other than a clinical attraction to the man. He deserves better than that, and you can’t afford to be distracted, not when he needs your help and is depending on you to get better.

Just earlier that day, you sat down with Steve and Tony for a quick briefing to better plan for the days ahead in terms of Bucky’s recovery and his place with the team.

Steve is tense, rightly so, and Tony is firm, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark as he looks at the files in front of the three of you.

“You’re saying there’s no way to know if the trigger words are actually deactivated.” Tony asks, though it’s not really phrased as a question.

“I’m saying there might be other triggers. Not just the words, though Shuri insists those are moot. He’s got PTSD, Tony.”

“Yeah, well. Join the club.” Tony mutters, looking out the window. You can’t imagine how difficult this is for him. You know as well as everyone else does that Barnes was responsible for the Starks’ deaths. You’re surprised Tony okayed Bucky’s arrival here at all, though he does have a heart. He knows Bucky was brainwashed, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Steve doesn’t say anything. You get the idea he’s worried to say the wrong thing -- he admitted to you once that he’s obviously biased where Bucky’s concerned. He doesn’t know how to be Bucky’s ally and Tony’s friend at the same time.

“All this is, is a plan for if the worst happens.” You hold up your hand quickly, stopping Steve before he responds, “I’m not saying we’ll ever have to use this, but we have evacuation plans for everything else, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be prepared for him to relapse. Even if the Soldier is out of his head, there’s still a chance his memories will get the best of him and he’ll have an episode.” You say the last part quietly, meeting Steve’s concerned gaze.

“We don’t even know if he’s going to want to have anything to do with the Avengers,” he acknowledges. “After all this time… for all I know he wants to lay low.”

Tony nods. “If he does… we won’t have him on any field missions until we’re sure he can handle it. Until then he stays here, helps Hill with the comms and he can…” Tony gestures wildly, “I don’t know, be strategic backup or something.”

That option had proved to be more than okay with Bucky, though he acknowledged he didn’t really have any say in the matter. He just wanted to be useful.

In the weeks that follow, he fills in for Maria Hill when she’s called away for other Stark Industries work, and takes to running the team like he was born to do it.

“It’s the squad leader in me,” he tells you one day, a grin on his face. “Though the lot of you are a lot easier to deal with than Army brats.”

He even helps Steve train some new recruits when the opportunity presents itself. Overall, his recovery is on track to be even shorter than you expected. Sure, there are still moments where he loses himself in a memory or has to be shaken awake in the middle of the night when things get to be too much. But you know every single other person in the Tower struggles that way too.

You’re mostly enjoying getting to know James Barnes the person, and not The Winter Soldier, the enigma, even if it is getting harder and harder to ignore the butterflies that take flight in your stomach every time he enters a room you’re in.

You’re killing time in the lab when Tony saunters in, startling you with his Iron Man gear half-on.

“What are you doing?”

“Need a hand,” he says, drawing out the word as he waves at you, thruster firmly in place on his left hand.

“Terrible.” You mutter. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just miscalculated the power of the new thruster and sort of… fused it to my hand.” He says the last part quickly, and you blink at him.

“I’m sorry. I heard that wrong.”

He grins cheerily. “Nothing wrong with your ears! Now--” He claps his hands together with a metallic clang, “-- You got anything for burns?”

Bucky wanders in sometime after you’ve finally gotten Tony to sit down. He watches warily, stopping before entering the room completely, a little curious. “Don’t mean to interrupt,” he says quietly, “but what the fuck is going on?”

Even Tony smiles at that, Bucky’s blunt tone a sure sign he’s had a decent day, as far as moods go. “Experimentation gone wrong,” he says brightly. “Doc’ll get me sorted.”

You glare at him. “I’m not a surgeon. Stop giving me surgeons’ work to do.”

You’re gently trying to pull the round piece of metal from Tony’s palm without completely frying his nerves. Coincidentally, the entire thing is destroying your own nerves in the process.

“Need a hand?” Bucky asks, pulling up a stool.

Tony snorts. “That’s what I said.”

You’re very aware of the heat emanating from Bucky’s side as he watches you work. Normally you wouldn’t let someone this close while you’re essentially performing surgery, but you think idly that it might be a good idea to have a third party here in case Tony starts complaining that you’re trying to butcher him.

“What I need--” you say through grit teeth, “-- is for both of you to shut up and let me work.”

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky says with a smile.

Tony raises his eyebrows in delight at the exchange, but you ignore him.

“Hold still,” you murmur after a few minutes, and when you glance up, relieved that there’s quiet finally, you see a few beads of sweat on Tony’s brow. He’s frowning at his own hand, and you think he’s finally starting to grasp how serious this could have been. “Honestly--” You huff, “Now you’re getting squeamish?”

“I didn’t think about the part where you’d actually have to yank it off,” Tony says defensively.

“I’ve got as much of the metal out as I can, so hopefully I can just…” you mime ripping it off with your free hand.

His eyes widen. “No you will not.”

Bucky sits back, arms folded across his chest with an amused grin at the billionaire.

“There’s nothing for it, Tony. Like a bandaid.”

“Can’t be worse than when I had to give myself stitches in the middle of the woods in Belgium with some dental floss,” Bucky says off-handedly, and both you and Tony stare at him, mouths agape.

“This is the twenty-first century!” Tony protests, gritting his teeth, “This isn’t the fucking Battle of the Bulge, Grandpa!”

“And, three.” You say with finality, lifting the remnants of the Iron glove off Tony’s palm, having used his outrage at Bucky’s bad attempt at bedside manner as a distraction to do the hard part. “Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.” You say primly as he hands you a piece of gauze that had been waiting nearby.

“Devious.” Tony remarks as you wrap his palm. “What’s the damage?”

“You need to keep it clean or it’ll get infected. No more experimenting.”

You let Tony go with the promise - or threat - to tell Pepper about this, and then it’s just you and Bucky there as you clean up.

“Does that happen often?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, “More often than I’d like. He thinks he’s invincible.”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth tilt up. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

You’re momentarily fascinated by how much younger he looks when he smiles, but you force yourself to look away and go back to cleaning up the tray you had supplies on. “Did you need anything?” You ask, remembering how he wandered in on his own nearly an hour ago.

He flushes, scratching the back of his neck. “Just some company.” He admits.

It sends a thrill through you.

“It’s nice to talk to someone who has no idea who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be.” He says, the last part barely a whisper.

You feel so much for him at this moment. You can’t imagine what he’s been through, and still, the man manages to crack jokes whenever he can, and is, on the outside, not completely overwhelmed with being in a new place, finally in his own head.

“I think I’ll head back to bed.” He says, a small smile on his face. “This was… interesting.” He grins. On his way past you to the door, he reaches out briefly and squeezes your free hand. You think he might not even realize he’s done it.

You almost drop the tools in your hand when you realize what’s happened -- the mark on your arm, the one you try so diligently to cover up, is burning.

“Oh, shit.” You murmur to yourself.

.

You avoid Bucky for weeks after that. You see him in a strictly professional capacity, and you feel like the biggest bitch on the planet for it, but you have no idea what to do with yourself.

After he left you in the lab that night, you inspected your well-hidden mark, trying to figure out why it was suddenly coming to life after years. It was a dull pink color, like you’d been rubbing at it, and even though you refused to accept it, you knew deep down what that meant.

You have no one to ask about it. No one at all.

Soul marks are rare, and they’re rarer still among the bunch you live with. Steve doesn’t have a mark, nor does Sam. You don’t feel like putting up with the shit you’ll get from Tony or Pepper if you try to ask them about theirs.

You’ve read enough about the bond to recognize it for what it is, but your brain is still stuck on one fact - Bucky Barnes doesn’t have a mark. Not that you’ve seen, and not that he’s mentioned.

It occurs to you then that the worst case could be true - you could be his, but he might not be yours. What a nightmare. As if he doesn’t have enough to deal with after quite literally coming back to life. Throwing an unreciprocated soulmate into the mix? No. You won’t do it.

So you avoid him.

You even go out of your way to liaison with the new SHIELD for two weeks, as part of a new partnership Steve and Tony were reluctantly part of with the recently-still-alive Phil Coulson.

“Are you sure you want to go? They have a doctor.” Steve asks as he carries your duffel to the dock as you await the arrival of SHIELD’s quinjet.

“They have a scientist,” you remind him. “They wouldn’t have asked for help if they really didn’t need it.”

Steve scowls, still a little perturbed that a man he considered a friend couldn’t even let them know he was alive, let alone that he was resurrecting SHIELD.

“We need to know what they’re working on, anyway.” You say. “Plus, it’s good networking.”

Steve shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. Still. What if--” He stops himself, looking away as you reach the hangar. “What if we need you?”

“Then you’ll call, and I’ll have them fly me back.”

You hear what he’s really asking - what if Bucky needs you? You considered it. But you think you need the distance more than being around and avoiding him. He hasn’t needed you in any urgent way in weeks, anyway.

“Fine. But make sure Coulson knows he’s still on my shit list.”

“Steve Rogers!” You gasp. “He’ll be broken-hearted to hear that.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but you’re interrupted by incoming engines, and watch as the quinjet flies smoothly into the hangar.

You’re surprised at how young the team is. Not much younger than you, sure, but still. They’re watching Steve with something like awe in their eyes.

“Captain Rogers.” Coulson says, descending the ramp and holding out his hand tentatively. “It’s good to see you.” He’s sincere, that much is obvious.

“Coulson.” Steve’s tone is curt, but he shakes the man’s hand anyway.

After an awkward pause, Steve turns to you, introducing you.

“This is Agent May, Fitz, Simmons, and Daisy.” Coulson says, and you smile at each member in turn. “We’re looking forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” You grin at him. It seems impossible to be anything less than genial with Phil Coulson, though Steve is doing his best to prove otherwise, and Tony hasn’t even bothered to leave his office to greet the new arrivals.

“I’ll bring her back in one piece.” Phil tells Steve.

“The alternative isn’t an option.” Steve replies, and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, that’s enough. Bye, Steve. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

His expression softens, and you know he’s just being protective in that big-brotherly way of his.

As you’re boarding the jet, you see movement out of the corner of your eye, and see Bucky back in the shadows, leaning against the wall as he watches you leave. You bite your lip in frustration, knowing that leaving after ignoring him is a cowardly move. Still, it’s the only option you can think of while you try to sort this out.

After taking off, Phil turns to you.

“He hates me, doesn’t he.” There’s something like despair in his voice.

You sigh. “They thought you were dead.”

“Technically I was.”

He fills you in on the whole story as you fly to their base, and when you land, you take the first minute you can to get Jemma Simmons alone.

“I was hoping you could tell me more about soul marks. I know you’ve done some research--”

She smiles at you, putting you at ease. “What questions do you have?”

.

Bucky watches the jet take off, a hollow feeling in his chest. He can’t figure out what he did to drive you away so thoroughly.

Steve stands there with his arms crossed for a few minutes before turning back, shaking his head.

“You trust them?” Bucky asks, and Steve pauses.

“I do.” He sighs, then looks at his friend. “Are you worried?”

Bucky scoffs. “Am I worried that she ignored me for two weeks and then fucked off with a bunch of people I don’t know?”

Steve’s grin is slow, lazy. “Careful, Buck. Sounding awfully protective.”

Bucky scowls. “Shut up.”

One thing that has absolutely not changed since the 40s is Steve’s propensity to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, and lately that’s been evident in the way he’s been trying to needle out what exactly Bucky is feeling for the good doctor.

He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling.

She’s-- smart. She’s smart and she’s funny, and she’s beautiful, but it’s not like he would ever act on it. She’s his doctor. Probably the closest thing to a best friend Steve has. Bucky’s not going to fuck that up just because he’s noticed that she smells like vanilla and when the sun hits her face just right-- well. He’s not going to fuck it up.

Besides, he clearly made her uncomfortable when he told her it was nice to be around her. That she understood him, in some way that Steve didn’t. That clearly freaked her out.

He would laugh if it wasn’t happening to him. Scared a woman away so thoroughly that she literally got on a jet and took off.

He sighs and follows Steve back to the common area where a few of the others are lingering. They want a report on SHIELD, no doubt.

Bucky is going to do some digging of his own. SHIELD, for obvious reasons, has left the taste of ash in his mouth, and he’ll never forgive himself if it turns out that they’re some kind of HYDRA cell using a familiar face to get close to the Avengers again.

Not to mention his favorite doctor would be caught in the middle of it, and he can’t have that.

He feels… he feels good. It’s unfamiliar. But really, minor episodes and nightmares aside, he feels more like himself than he has in decades. There were brief moments when he was lucid enough in Hydra to remember who he was and where he was, but he thinks being brainwashed was… not a blessing, he’s not stupid enough to consider it that, but the alternative… having to be himself while he did those things… it would have killed him.

Now, he finally has choices.

His first choice was deciding to accept Steve’s help and friendship, and his second choice was to trust you.

He thinks that should mean something.

He thinks back to a moment from a few weeks back, shortly after the Brooklyn trip. You didn’t treat him like he was broken, and he appreciated it more than he could say. So much so that he invited you back to Brooklyn with him, to one of his favorite diners from when he was growing up.

He’s so happy to see it still exists that he can’t wait to have a meal there. Steve is busy, and you just-- the way you smile at him when he asks you to go, he knows he’s made the right call.

“James Barnes?” The older woman at the counter looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“That’s me,” he says, trying to smile. He has no idea how people are going to react to him wherever he goes.

“I’ll be damned,” she whispers. “My grandmother… she used to tell me stories about you and Captain Rogers.”

He smiles. “Good ones, I hope?”

“Only good ones. My grandmother was Ruth Kelley.”

The name fires some synapse in Bucky’s brain that hasn’t been used in years. Suddenly he’s nineteen, sharing a malt with Ruthie at the counter while she was on her lunch break, trying to pretend he’s not pulling out all the stops to make her laugh.

“You look just like her,” he stutters, and she does - the same eyes, the same kind smile.

“Thank you.” She whispers. “Anything you want, on the house today.”

Bucky tries to protest, but you stop him.

“Let her do this for you,” you say quietly.

Bucky nods and the two of you sit in a booth, his mind still working overtime trying to believe that all the pieces of his life could come full circle like this.

“An old flame?” You ask, lifting a mug of coffee to your lips, and Bucky finds himself entranced by the playful look on your face.

“Something like that.” He murmurs. “She grew up in the same building as Steve and I. Used to come bother her while she worked. That family was the best. They’d give us free slices of pie every so often…” He trails off. “Never saw her again before I shipped out.”

You’re quiet, a look on your face he can’t identify. “You must have meant a lot to her. If she told her granddaughter about you.”

He turns to watch Ruth’s granddaughter busy herself behind the counter, her movements so similar to Ruth’s that for a horrible moment, he thinks he might cry too.

On the way back to the Tower, you loop your arm through his, so casually, the touch coming so easy for you, it throws Bucky for a loop. It’s not unwelcome - you’re warm through your jacket, and Bucky hasn’t realized how much he missed human contact until this moment.

He thinks it should be concerning, how quickly you’re inserting yourself in his life. He tells himself it’s purely professional, but he knows it’s a lie.

The annoyingly knowing looks he’s been getting from Steve and Sam seem to suggest that too, not to mention the not-so-subtle threatening from Tony.

He’s drawn to you, and it scares him a little, while at the same time it feels like it’s just… right. He tried to surreptitiously get a look at your left arm the first time he thought… but to no avail. He hadn’t seen a mark. Certainly not one like he remembers, not one that he hoped to see, as fleeting as the thought had been at the time. But he told himself it didn’t matter. His own parents weren’t soulmates, but they loved each other.

Peggy and Steve didn’t have marks either, but they loved each other til the end. It doesn’t matter. Although, truth be told, it won’t matter at all if you stop talking to him completely.

Trying to get his mind off you, he seeks out his friends, finding them in the common area. No sooner has he made himself comfortable on the couch next to Sam then there’s an alarm blaring somewhere, and all his senses fire to life.

Steve is on his feet immediately, as is Tony, tapping away at his tablet as he tries to figure out what’s wrong.

“Steve?” Sam asks, body rigid.

“Suit up,” Steve says immediately. “Tony and I will do threat assessment.”

“Already done,” Tony chirps. “Fun - intruders!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s already moving, striding towards the doors to the command center and sliding a headset on his head - he feels more at home here than he thought he would.

“Check in when you’ve got comms,” he says distractedly, tapping away at the screen in front of him until he pulls up a couple cameras of the lower floors.

He spares a thought to be grateful that you’re not here right now, as he watches a team of men in black bust through the doors to the lab. “Lower two floors. I count eight, maybe ten operatives.”

“On it,” Steve says in his ear, and Bucky watches as his friend skips the elevator and instead launches himself down over the railing.

“Idiot.” He mutters.

“I can hear you.”

He smirks. “Tony, there’s a few more on the outside trying to get in,” he confirms, hearing the now-familiar sound of thrusters as Tony takes off from the launchpad outside the penthouse.

“More company incoming,” Tony replies, and Bucky can hear the sound of an engine through the comms.

Gunfire suddenly erupts almost directly outside the room Bucky’s in, the reinforced glass holding, but Bucky still throws his metal arm above his head and ducks out of instinct.

He knows this is Hydra. This was bound to happen, with Bucky living here. The Asset would never be allowed to live with everything he knows.

Bucky grimaces. “I’m going to need to get to the armory.”

Sam’s voice is next, “Negative, big guy. You’re going to stay right where you are, or else no one else has eyes on us.”

“Seconded.” Steve says firmly.

“I’m kind of a sitting duck up here.” Bucky protests. “This is seventy years of sniper training going to waste,” he adds, and Steve audibly sighs in his ear.

“Take an MG, that’s it.” He says, and Bucky snorts.

“You think I’d try to grab an alien gun? I’m not as stupid as you remember.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he heads out the door, eyes scanning this way and that for any potential threats. He hears the fight going on a few floors below, but so far he’s in the clear, and he heads towards the hangar where he can slip in a back entrance to the armory (hopefully) undetected.

“Two headed to you, Buck.” Steve says, sounding out of breath.

“Copy that.” Bucky says, steeling himself for the inevitable fight. He lets himself feel exhausted for approximately one second before he gets to work - his training taking over like he’s on autopilot.

He makes it to the armory door before he’s jumped from behind, though he heard them coming. He knows he can’t let them get inside. He uses their momentum to propel himself forward, flinging one man off his back and sending him careening into the opposite wall.

His other hand rears back out of instinct, delivering a sickening blow to the second man’s face.

Warily, he watches the first man struggle to his feet, a sneer on his face. “Longing.” He says, and Bucky sees red, though not for the reason he suspects the man hopes. “Rusted.”

Bucky pulls back with his metal arm, and delivers one solid punch. “Eat shit.”

Steve comes skidding around the corner a moment or two later, watching the scene in front of him. He clearly heard what the man was trying to do over comms - his face is a mixture of terror and concern.

“Bucky?”

“It’s still me, Steve.”

“Just checking.” He steps over the two men on the floor. “Didn’t need the MG after all?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Bucky reaches down, straightening the man’s jacket so he can see the insignia for himself. He sighs. “Not going for stealth these days.”

“They’re done fighting in the shadows, or whatever.” Steve replies with a roll of his eyes. “We’ll get them all to lockup - Tony’s got the rest on the roof.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is going to keep happening. As long as I’m here. You know that, right?”

Steve’s face hardens. “Then we’ll keep fighting them. They’re not going to take you again.” The fierceness in his voice makes Bucky want to weep. This is the Steve he remembers.

He helps get the Hydra agents rounded up with the rest of the team, and then retreats to his bedroom. He feels exhausted, even though he didn’t have to do much - even the fight itself wasn’t as awful as it could have been.

He’s just tired of being hunted. He just wants to-- he doesn’t know, really. Be free? It sounds so trite. But he’s got a chance at a better life now, and he’s not going to let anyone take that away from him. Not Hydra, not whoever they decide to send after him next.

That night he has another nightmare, but this time, it’s about you. The look on your face after you see him in action - it sends you even further away from him, and Bucky knows he’ll never get you back, not after this. Not after you’ve seen the Soldier.

When he startles awake, the shame burning in his chest is a living, breathing thing.

He realizes then what you mean to him, or what you could if given the chance.

It doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

.

Jemma Simmons is infinitely patient as she explains the research about soul marks to you. It helps that she has a soulmate of her own, one who has a reciprocating mark.

It doesn’t do a thing to quell your guilt about Bucky, though. You still feel like you’d be trapping him into something. He’s never had much of a choice about anything in his life before, and you don’t want to take this away from him, too.

Trying to distract yourself, you throw yourself into research and analysis with Fitz and Simmons. In the few days you’ve been with SHIELD, you’ve helped them learn more about Daisy’s power and biology, your experience working with Avengers helpful as they try to catalog what she can do and what her limits are.

You plan to head back to Avengers Tower by the end of the week, and head to bed that night feeling like the time away from everything was just what you needed, even if you do have two letters to Steve from Phil in your bag that you’re almost certainly not going to give him.

The man is desperate for his apology to be accepted by his hero.

You’re asleep nearly the minute your head hits the pillow.

Annoyingly, you dream of Bucky. It’s not the dream you’ve had before - holding hands at the diner, or making some grand declaration. This is… darker. More real. It scares you.

Someone is hauling Bucky out of the Tower, and Bucky is nearly incapacitated. Drugged or… worse. You feel a shudder run through you as you watch him smuggled out in the dead of night, knowing there’s nothing you can do to help.

You wake with a gasp, and when you pull up your left sleeve, the mark on your arm is an angry red.

Panic slides through you like ice in your veins, and you’re reaching for your phone before you can begin to make sense of anything.

“Hey. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I need you to check on Bucky.” You tell Steve, your tone urgent.

“What?”

“Just do it, Steve.”

“What’s going on?”

“Steve.”

You hear movement on his end, and listen intently as he leaves his apartment and heads across the hall. “It’s been quiet all night,” he assures you. “We had a run-in today, but other than that…” He trails off, and that’s what sets your heart pounding. “FRIDAY, what time did Bucky leave his apartment?” Steve asks the AI, and you feel your heart plummet.

You don’t hear her reply.

“Steve, listen to me. I think he’s been taken.”

“How the hell did you--”

“I can’t explain it. I need you to come get me. I don’t want to worry anyone here, but I can help.”

“I’ll be wheels up in ten.”

A click, and then the line goes dead.

It feels like hours before you hear a knock on the door in the base, and Phil Coulson is there, looking as worried as you are, though you’re sure he’s picking up on the anxiety coming from Steve, and from having an Avenger in his secret base.

“Steve!”

“He’s gone.” Steve says rapidly, “We had a… brief infiltration today--”

“A what?!”

“Don’t worry about it now. Point is - I think they were a distraction. They needed to figure out how to get in and how to get to Bucky.”

“I can find him.” You grab your bag, trying to push past him and Coulson both to get to the door.

“Wait a minute, slow down, how did you even know he was gone? I don’t understand.”

“We don’t have time for this right now, Steve. Who knows what they’ve done to him or are planning to do.”

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is sharp, drawing you back into focus. “I need you to slow down. Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

You glare, but force your breathing to slow. “Something’s wrong. I just-- I can feel it, Steve.”

“How?”

“I think I’m-- his,” you choke out. “I-- he doesn’t have a mark, I know that, but I have one. I’ve had one my whole life, and I’ve never felt--”

Steve exhales hard. “Jesus Christ.” Hands on his hips, he looks back at you. “So… you can sense him? Is that it?”

You nod. “Sort of. I noticed it when we first met. An awareness, really. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought I was being overprotective while he was recovering.”

Steve’s expression clears. “The night he had an episode after we went to Brooklyn. You knew something was wrong before I heard him.”

“Steve, I-- I don’t want him to know. We just need to find him. Everything else… it doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is that I can help you find him, and we can help him.”

“Okay.” Steve’s voice is sure, full of conviction. “Okay. We get him back, and we worry about the rest later.”

.

“Where are the others?” You ask as you, Steve, and Phil walk as quickly as possible towards the quinjet.

“Tony’s on standby. No point in bringing the full team until we know what we’re up against. I don’t even know where to start looking.” He exhales hard. “What do they even want with him? Without the triggers, there’s no point--”

“Hydra’s been trying to pop up all over the world,” Coulson says. “They’ve taken over several old SHIELD bases, some that we didn’t even know about. They could be trying to use the Asset to bring out whoever’s still in hiding.”

“But he’s not the Soldier anymore.” You say, fierce.

“They don’t know that.” Coulson points out.

At this point, other members of his team have gathered, and you try to keep it together before you have to explain yourself in front of everyone. You’d rather suss this out with Steve, first.

“We’re ready to help if you need it, Captain.” Coulson says, shoulders straight.

Steve watches him carefully, hands on his hips. “We don’t even know where to start looking.”

“Any chance Sergeant Barnes would try to send a signal?” Daisy asks, her voice quiet as she interrupts. “If you know what to look for, we could try to hack into any outgoing Hydra communication channels we know about.”

Steve’s expression clears. “Yeah, he might. If he’s not--”

“He’s not compromised, Steve. I can feel it.” You tell him quietly. Steve stares at you, trying to decide if he can trust this. You don’t blame him - you have no idea if this is going to work either.

“Alright, let’s get to work.” Steve says finally.

“You got it, boss.” Daisy says, with a lazy salute, and you watch, amused as her gaze snaps to Coulson. “No offense, Director.”

“None taken. I’m outranked.” He says agreeably.

You sigh in relief at finally having some help. You can’t let anything happen to Bucky. For Steve’s sake, and for your own.

.

Bucky opens his eyes slowly - his eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. Immediately he’s on edge. He has a hazy vision of someone breaking down his door, a cloth in his face and him trying to fight them off before he passed out.

Shit, he thinks, Steve’s going to be so pissed. He takes a minute to assess the situation. A dingy, dark room. He’s shackled. Not the most original way he’s ever been held against his will, but whatever.

He spares a thought for you. Do you even know he’s gone? You’re with SHIELD. Steve’s probably trying like hell to keep this from you, so he doesn’t worry you. Bucky feels himself getting angrier the longer he thinks about it - he finally thinks he might be able to work up the nerve to ask you out, or to at least tell you he thinks you’re-- well, it doesn’t matter.

None of it will matter unless he gets out of here.

He feels a little woozy. He wonders what they used to knock him out, because he knows it would take nearly five times a normal amount of anything that would render a normal person unconscious. It makes him a little nervous, but again, it mostly pisses him off.

He tests his left arm - and can’t move. A brief flash of panic runs through him, but he grits his teeth and tells himself to calm down. There’s something in the room - an EMP maybe? Something that’s taken his arm out of commission.

He tests the shackles, and his right arm pulls free.

“Huh.” Suspicious.

The door opens, and in comes one of the two men who greeted him near the armory at the Tower.

“Oh, hello.” Bucky greets.

“Soldat.” The other man says, and Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“What was it I told you earlier? Oh, right. Eat shit.”

“So the rumors are true? The trigger words no longer work. That’s alright, there are other ways to make you comply.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m done taking orders. So you’re wasting your time.”

Bucky does, under it all, wonder what the play is here. He’s basically not held down any more, and they had to know the restraints wouldn’t hold him. So what’s the point? He doesn’t know enough about the Avengers to be a threat to their security, and he’s ninety percent sure that the brainwashing won’t work.

He’s banking on it.

In the back of his mind, there’s a buzzing that lets him know he’s still not completely with it. He also has a gut feeling that Steve is already assembling, or whatever it is he calls it when the Avengers get a mission, so he just has to stall enough to catch this goon off guard and get the hell out of here.

“Well, go on then. Tell me about your nefarious plans.”

That earns him a punch on the jaw, and while it doesn’t hurt really, it pisses him off.

“Alright. I’m tired of this. Tell me what you want, or I’m going to leave, and if I have to kill you to do it, well, that’s just too bad.”

His smile is just a touch too wild to be sane, Bucky thinks, right before he presses something in his right hand. Not an EMP, then, Bucky has a second to think before it feels as if his entire brain is being electrocuted, and then he blacks out.

.

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” Tony asks Steve the second he lands in the hangar at SHIELD HQ. “Hello,” he says distractedly to the small crowd that’s gathered.

“Bucky’s in trouble.”

“Barnes has been in trouble his entire life.”

“Tony.” You growl, a warning if he’s ever heard one. “We have to help him.”

Tony sighs. “This place is pretty cool, if a little low tech,” he says finally, looking around, his gaze landing on Phil Coulson. “Phil. You’re not dead.”

“Neither are you. Heard it was pretty close for the both of us.”

Tony turns back to you and Steve. “Why am I here but Wilson isn’t?”

“Sam’s already doing recon.” Steve says, his expression hard. “I need you to help with the hacking.”

“Hey!” Daisy protests, not looking up from her laptop. “I don’t need help--”

“I know you,” Tony says. “You hacked SHIELD. They called me about that. I think you owe me an apology.”

She raises an eyebrow. “... anyway. We were able to narrow it down to these two previously unknown SHIELD bases. They’ve been silent for months, but recently had a string of outgoing communications, one of which can be tracked to a location in New York not far from the Tower.”

“He’s around the fucking block and I flew all the way here?”

Steve glares at Tony. “That doesn’t mean it’s where they’ve taken him. Just that they’re operating there.”

“They’ve probably had eyes on him ever since he came back to New York,” you say quietly.

“Christ.” Tony runs a hand over his face. “Alright, get Wilson over there and see what he can shake out. Doc, do you have a plan if Barnes is… compromised?”

You’re quiet. Steve’s quiet. No one really knows what to do if that’s the case. You’re not sure if it’s even possible, not after all the work Shuri did with Bucky’s recovery in Wakanda, but there’s still the possibility… no. You won’t let yourself think about it.

“We could use the containment module.” Agent May says quietly, one of the first things she’s said since you’ve been with SHIELD. “It’s meant to hold the strongest inhumans.”

Tony gets out of the suit eventually and you all start pouring over audio files from the last few days to try to find Bucky.

Eventually, Steve turns to you. “He’s alright?” He asks, softly, worriedly.

You sigh, but at the pained look on his face, you have no other choice. You concentrate as hard as you can, feeling your connection with Bucky like a tether. You’d know if he was gone. Even if it was just his mind.

“I think so.”

Tony gapes. “Does someone want to fill me in, here?”

“They have a connection.” Steve says, flat.

You watch as Tony connects the dots. “Oh, sweet Christ. That explains a lot.”

You glare. “Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes, turning back to the monitor in front of him, muttering. “Making heart eyes at each other across my lab--”

“It could be that only she has the mark. But it shouldn’t diminish the bond,” Simmons says quietly across the table, her eyes not leaving the papers in front of her.

“You told SHIELD before you told me?” Tony asks, incredulous. “I’m wounded.”

“Are they always like this?” Fitz asks Coulson, not so quietly. You can relate - there’s something about seeing that your heroes are just regular people.

“Got him.” Daisy says suddenly, voice hard. “There.” She points at the map.

“Let’s go,” Coulson directs, “we’re wheels up in five.”

“You’re staying here.” Steve tells you, and you immediately stop in your tracks.

“I’m going with you. Are you--”

“This is a rescue mission.”

“And I’m a doctor!” And I’m his soulmate, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Argue later, on the jet now!” May says sharply, throwing a bulletproof vest in your direction. You catch it before you get knocked over with the weight, and slip it on as quick as you can.

On the jet, you watch as Steve Rogers slowly disappears and Captain America takes over, giving orders and preparing for the possibility that the person they’re going to find might no longer be his best friend.

“You’re going to stay on board while we clear the place, got it?”

You scowl, but don’t argue with him, knowing it won’t do you any good. He goes around handing out comms, and everyone checks that they’re working, giving him a thumbs up. Daisy Johnson looks absolutely delighted to be on a mission with Captain America and Iron Man.

It seems like it’s only minutes before you land. Sam is waiting for you when you get there, and squeezes your shoulder as he passes you to confer quietly with Steve and Tony.

“Alright, we’re going to split up into teams.”

While Steve is talking, you’re barely listening, too focused on trying to concentrate on your newly-discovered bond with Bucky to figure out if he’s alright.

“Don’t get any ideas, Doc.” Tony says to you on his way out the door, tapping the comms device in his ears for emphasis as he goes.

You sigh - you hate being sidelined, even if you know Steve is right - you can’t provide the kind of help that they might need.

“Be careful,” you tell the three of them, plus the SHIELD team.

They go down the ramp quickly, leaving you alone with Simmons and Fitz.

.

Bucky hasn’t really been thankful for his advanced hearing in the short time he’s been fully in control of his faculties, but even in the short time he’s been back with Steve, he’d recognize the sound of a quinjet landing anywhere.

He feels like he’s been knocked over the head with a hammer. His energy has been totally zapped, and he knows he needs to fight, needs to figure out how to get the hell out of here, he just can’t summon the will to get up.

There’s a commotion in the hallway near the room he’s being kept, and when the door finally bursts open, his face falls when he sees Tony Stark.

“Did you disable the power?” Bucky asks immediately, not giving Tony a chance to make what he’s sure was meant to be a dramatic entrance.

“What? No. Why are you on the ground?” Tony asks, irritated, taking a few steps towards Bucky before a now-familiar buzzing fills his ears. Bucky watches, un-amused, as the lights flicker, and Tony freezes, his suit shorting out.

It’s not the same bone-crackling energy that had rendered him virtually useless earlier, but Bucky still grits his teeth at the feeling of it ripping up whatever sensors are left in his metal arm.

“Oh, god dammit.” Tony curses. “Steve is here. He’ll figure it out.”

“They’ve got a device like an EMP. Shorts out everything electrical.” He winces, “Makes me feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears.”

“That’ll mean Wilson down for the count too,” Tony mutters.

Overhead, the lights flicker once more and then they go out entirely. The walls seem to shake with the force of an explosion, and Bucky and Tony barely have a chance to exchange worried glances before they’re plunged into darkness.

.

Inside the quinjet, it feels like an earthquake.

Jemma doesn’t look up. “That’ll be Daisy,” she says casually.

Fitz is frowning. “That didn’t feel like a quake.” He stands, heading over to one of the monitors where he tries to get in touch with the rest of the team. “Daisy? Coulson?”

You try too, pressing your finger against the comms device in your ear. “Steve?”

You get no response, not from him, and not from anyone else. You start to feel dread prickling up your spine, and you surge to your feet, not able to just sit there anymore.

“I have to go help them.”

Simmons looks up at you, “You don’t have any way to defend yourself! If they’re not responding--”

“What, we’re going to just leave them in there?”

Fitz looks like he’s weighing his options. He moves quickly, digging into his backpack. He pulls out his sidearm, thrusting it at you. “You know how to use this?”

You swallow thickly. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” He shoulders his backpack, and you tuck the gun into your waistband.

“Fitz!” Simmons protests. “The Captain said to stay here—“

“Tell him it was my idea,” you say. “He can lecture me after we save his life.” You take off down the ramp before either of them can say anything else, but you’re relieved when you hear their footsteps following.

Inside, you’re immediately on edge at the lack of guards. You’ve got your borrowed gun at the ready, Fitz and Simmons silently behind you. “First floor is clear,” you whisper. On a whim, you press your finger to your ears again, just on an off chance. “Can anyone hear me?”

“Daisy!” Simmons exclaims before racing towards a figure slumped against a far wall. “Daisy? Can you hear me?”

Daisy groans, opening her eyes slowly. “Shit. Simmons?”

“What happened? We thought it was you--”

“It was me, but then there was this-- I don’t know. It felt like it was scrambling my brain. Took the power out. I tried to quake a few of the guards, but it knocked me out.”

“It only knocked out the powered people?”

“It shorted out my gloves,” Daisy says, getting to her feet. “It’s like it reversed the energy I was exerting and put it back at me.”

You blanche. “Steve and Bucky.”

Fitz echoes your worry. “Falcon and Iron Man have powered suits. Might have had the same effect on them, too.”

All you can think of is what Bucky might have felt - his arm literally is fused to his nerves - and you’re suddenly angrier than you’ve ever been. Forcing yourself to take a few deep breaths. You have no idea if Bucky’s realized your connection yet, but even if he hasn’t he’s got to be feeling some residual panic. You force yourself to calm down.

“There.” Fitz says suddenly, pointing towards the one room in the building with a light on. You can hear voices inside. “It’s Coulson.”

You walk up to the room slowly, gun drawn, the three SHIELD agents at your back. Peering around the corner, you can hear what almost sounds like a casual conversation between Coulson and some Hydra lunatic.

“-- what exactly is the grand plan? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s four Avengers here.”

The man scoffs. “A lot of good they are, aren’t they!” He laughs, “Captain Rogers here doesn’t look like he’s much up for anything right now.”

You take a deep breath when you see Steve slumped against the doorway. Slowly, you reach down, checking his pulse. Still alive, you reassure yourself.

“So you’ve got a device that can take out inhumans and the enhanced. What comes next?”

“Don’t forget it disables any man-made technology that aids the enhanced. Gives us a much more level playing field.”

“This is boring,” Coulson says, dry. “There’s no grand plan? You kidnapped Bucky Barnes to… what? To get Steve Rogers here? To get SHIELD here? You had to know someone would come.”

“The more Avengers we can take out at once, the better. And once we build this machine to its full potential, we can take out entire countries' worth of inhumans and the enhanced.”

You’ve heard enough. “New plan.” You say firmly, stepping around the corner, gun raised. Your eyes narrow. “Where’s Sergeant Barnes?”

The man looks unruffled. “I assume he’s in the cell where we left him, considering he’s only got one fully functioning arm.”

You glance over your shoulder at Fitz and Simmons. “Figure out a way to power that down.” Daisy stays out of sight, but you appreciate knowing you’ve got at least one superhero at your back. Gun still pointed at the Hydra agent, they hurry around him, analyzing the panels and buttons in front of them.

“I wondered if you’d come too,” the man says. He holds out a hand. “Alex Harrison. We haven’t met yet. Well, not officially.” He smirks, “Seen you around though, with the Asset.”

“He has a name.” You growl.

“Two minutes,” Fitz says, and you’re aware of Coulson reaching for his waistband, too. Behind you, Steve starts to rouse, and you fight off the panic at him immediately springing into action.

“Even if you destroy this machine, the plans won’t be stopped.”

“You talk too much,” Coulson says, lunging forward and hitting Harrison hard with the butt of his gun, sending him collapsing to the ground.

“Why didn’t you do that sooner?” You ask, and he shrugs.

“Had to find out about their evil plan.”

“What-- what are you doing here?” Steve asks groggily.

“Hate to break this up, but we need to find the others.” Daisy says. She looks at you, “Can you tell where he is?”

You concentrate on the bond.

“I’ve got him.”

.

Bucky thinks if he could avoid spending any extended period of time with Tony Stark again, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“All I’m saying is… have you noticed her?”

He’s been needling Bucky about you for the last half hour, and Bucky’s about had it. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get the hell out of here?”

Tony glares. “Well, considering I can’t move…”

The door to the cell suddenly bursts open, and both Bucky and Tony flinch.

“Took you long enough!” Tony crows at the unfamiliar woman, holding her hand up not unlike Bucky’s seen Tony do.

“Bucky!”

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice. You’re there, in front of him, real and alive, hair escaping your ponytail in tendrils, clad in a bulletproof vest and a pair of jeans that he thinks he’ll be dreaming about for days to come.

Also, a gun.

He’s never pondered the attractiveness of firearms until now.

“This seems backwards,” Bucky says. “I should be the one attempting a daring rescue for you.”

“He’s not good at being grateful,” Tony mutters.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the woman says, interrupting. “I’m Daisy. I’m with SHIELD. It’s an honor to meet you.” She grabs his good arm, hoisting him to his feet.

“Brought the calvary, then?” Bucky asks you, over Daisy’s shoulder.

Daisy snorts. “Actually, yes, but don’t let Agent May hear you say that.”

“We have to go quickly.” You say, moving to Bucky’s side. “Are you hurt anywhere else? What did they--” your voice is getting increasingly panicked, and Bucky stops you.

“I’m okay.” He says softly. “Let’s go.”

Getting both himself and Tony oriented is a struggle as they fight off the effects of the EMP, but out in the corridor, he finds the rest of the team including Wilson and Steve congregating. He fights not to notice the way you stay close to his side, close enough to touch.

“How did you find me?” Bucky asks Steve.

Steve glances at you. “It’s a long story.”

Outside, on the quinjet, you busy yourself checking everyone for injuries and any signs of trauma from the Hydra device. You’re in your element, and Bucky can’t take his eyes off you.

He realizes how close he came to being done for. If not for the quickness of the team - however they found him - and for the fact that the trigger words don’t work anymore, he would have been lights out without ever telling you that he thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

They land quickly, promising the SHIELD agents a chance to rest up at Stark Tower before they head back to their base.

You head to the infirmary with Bucky, whose arm is still shorted out.

“Let’s see if we can’t get you back up and running, okay, Sergeant?” Your smile is gentle.

“Yes ma’am.”

He watches you work, watches the way your forehead creases as you concentrate and the way you have tiny flecks of light in your eyes.

He wonders if you’ve got someone. You’ve never mentioned it, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining all these little moments the two of you have had together. There’s the matter of the mark. He hasn’t seen if you have one. He’s put off thinking about his own - or the lack thereof - for… decades.

He decides he doesn’t care. Not when you’re smiling at him like that, and indulging his bad jokes, and making him feel like he’s a normal person, not someone to be afraid of.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” He blurts.

You look startled. “Uh-- no, I don’t think so.”

“Do you want to go out?” He takes a minute to relish in the surprised look on your face. “With me?”

A myriad of emotions flash across your face. One he doesn’t expect to see is sadness. It makes a lead weight settle in his stomach.

“Bucky…”

He’s afraid of what you’re going to say. He finds himself rushing to reassure you. “It’s not-- it doesn’t have to be anything serious. I just-- I want to spend time with you. Just us.”

You’re so still. It doesn’t track with anything he knows about you - the way you’re always moving, always taking care of everyone else.

“You want to go out with me?” You manage. “Like, a date?”

He smiles. “Yeah, like a date.”

“You want to go out on a date with me?” You ask him again, and he laughs, unable to believe that he has to explain why he thinks you’re so extraordinary.

“I’ve felt a connection with you since the minute we met. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. And the way you burst in there to rescue me, all guns and glory…” a wry smile twists his mouth. “How was I supposed to not want you?”

“Oh, Bucky.” You say, watery through your tears. But you’re smiling now, which is a far sight better than when he thought you were horrified by the prospect of being with him romantically.

He continues, feeling a burst of confidence. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, so I’m sorry if I’m out of practice. I just-- I feel like I know you. I need you to know that even if-- if we’re not soulmates, even if you don’t believe in that shit, I still want you. I don’t see that changing any time soon.” Bucky’s voice is filled with conviction, and he watches as tears pool in your eyes and start to spill over. “Oh, honey, no.” He reaches for you, but stops halfway. “Don’t cry. I’ll-- what do you need? If you need me to fuck off and never be seen again, I know a guy who can make that happen,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

A choked sob leaves your mouth, but now you’re smiling, so Bucky takes it as a good sign, though he’s still terrified you’re going to turn tail and leave him standing here. “What is it? Why are you-- please don’t cry.”

You don’t say anything, but it happens almost in slow motion. You lift up your left arm and slowly push up the sleeve, and start to take off your watch. Underneath, in faded black ink, is a vine of ivy, trailing around your delicate wrist, small leaves dotting your veins.

His entire world stops. He’s speechless. He has absolutely no idea what to say. His brain is just screaming, you belong to her, you belong to her over and over again.

“I knew I was yours, but I thought that you didn’t belong to me.” You’re saying. “I-- I didn’t want to trap you, I--.”

“Why would you think that?” His voice cracks.

You look confused. “You don’t have a mark, Buck, I’m your doctor, I saw your arm--”

“My left arm.” His voice is hoarse.

“What?”

“My mark was on my left arm. It showed up in 1934, before the war, before… everything.”

The air whooshes from the room.

“What did it look like?” You ask timidly.

He smiles, stepping closer. “Why don’t you tell me?” He takes your hand, slowly, like he’s afraid he’s going to spook you.

“If this is a joke--”

“I would never joke about this.” He says, hoarse. “I got my mark when I was seventeen years old, and all I thought about for years was finding my match.” Feeling braver, he reaches forward, cupping your face in his palm. “They took that from me,” he says. “Kind of fitting the one to rescue me from Hydra was also the one to bring my mark back to me, right?”

You laugh, a little choked through your tears, and he leans down, tracing the pattern he knows so well with his fingertips on his good hand. “There’s a pale pink flower,” he whispers, looking you dead in the eyes. “Right about here.” His thumb presses lightly at the crook of your elbow, where you know a flower sits.

“It’s how I found you.” You tell him, and the pieces start to click into place. “I dreamed about you, but I think it was more of a vision.”

“You were the one to realize I’d been taken?” He asks, feeling his heart squeeze. “Jesus.”

“Called Steve in the middle of the night. Demanded he listen to me and he came to get me from SHIELD.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, a smile growing on his face. “In a good way,” he adds. Then, quieter, “I’ve dreamed of you too.” He whispers.

You’re both quiet for a few minutes. “What do we do now?” You ask, and he shrugs.

“Don’t know. I haven’t done this before.” HIs eyes are filled with mirth.

“Oh… you-- shut up.”

He grins - he has a feeling riling you up is going to be one of his favorite pastimes.

“Let me get your arm up and running, and then we’ll talk.” You eye him carefully. “I might have to get Tony for the hardwiring.”

Bucky lets his head drop back as he groans. “Anyone but him.”

You cackle delightedly. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

He brightens at the use of the endearment. He feels - it’s a dream. Seventy years of waiting, and somehow, in the back of his mind, he knew you were different the minute he met you.

He knows you have a lot to talk about - a lot to decide, a lot to work through. He feels almost invincible, though, especially after thinking for so long that he would never find his match if he didn’t have his mark anymore. He still can’t fathom how he got so lucky for it to be you.

.

You feel like you’re walking on clouds for the rest of the day. After some good-natured ribbing from the team, and from SHIELD - you promised to stay in touch with them, if only to convince Steve and Tony to come around and start working with them again; you quite like Phil Coulson - they mostly leave you and Bucky alone.

You hole up in his apartment for nearly the entire day, talking about everything you can think of. Your childhood, his childhood, even the rough parts that make his voice catch and harden… you sit right there and hold his hand through it.

You can almost feel your bond like a living, breathing thing now. It’s electric when the two of you touch, something that you’d always noticed but tried not to put any weight on.

Now, it seems so obvious.

He kisses you goodnight. It sends a flare of heat through you and nearly makes you dizzy, and you want him to do it again as soon as it ends.

He reminds you that you’ve got a lifetime to sort out what this all means.

A lifetime with Bucky Barnes sounds like a dream.

You can’t wait.