#man. the survivor's guilt compounded by needing to pull the trigger himself this time on one of his packmates coming back wrong

[elguritch-art]

Just Like Then

Days. Days and nights both. Listening to it- her- scream. Scream like it was that same night, reverberating in his head, in his chest, just like it had done over a hundred years ago as she died. And he'd done nothing.

(Short Story of Session Events Under the Cut)

Virgil was still doing nothing. Curled up on the indistinguishable void floor in front of the locked door of- Of whatever Warlock hellscape he'd willingly walked into. Because he thought he saw her. Saw Crowbait. Saw the kindred who'd become a sister to him after his embrace, who'd been the bridge between him and the rest of the pack's languages, who'd seen how damaged and hurt he was and showed him tenderness and compassion-

And here she was. But wrong. It wasn't her. It was her. A mismatch of flesh, a face that wasn't her's. A harmony of voices that spoke as if she were in there, but too wrong all the same…

…

…

…

His pack had always talked about what if one of the Warlocks got them. Or a Fiend. The two most dangerous to be caught by. Because they wouldn't just give any of them the Final Death. They'd use them. Change them. Just like now.

…They'd always talked about what to do, if it happened. Virgil had felt it. Every one of them having a rippling sense of pain at the words spoken, "Put them down with mercy and kindness. We'll know. They'll know. All of us will understand." Just like a horse with a broken leg, or a dog caught in a hunting trap. Quickly. Cleanly. With mercy. With love.

Virgil slowly, shakily pushed himself up, the screaming still ringing in his ears, dried and fresh blood running down the side of his neck from his eardrums that had rebuilt and burst numerous times over.

Get up. Do it quick. Do it clean. She'd know. She'd know.

He slowly stood, clutching her sawed-off in his left hand, his right drifting to his own right thigh. He only took one step towards her when the screaming stopped.

Virgil slowly drug his eyes up from the void to meet the wretched, misshapen face, with too many eyes, too many jaws, flesh barely clinging to bone. He met the eyes of a creature knowing it was lame, and wanted to die, and it made his gut wrench in a way that made him want to throw up. Not because of the creature's face.

Because when he looked into the eyes, he finally saw her. He couldn't ignore it, tell himself it was just a Warlock trick, because that was her. That was the way she looked at him a hundred years back, whenever she wanted to pry him to do something for her but she didn't want to voice it until he himself voiced the question for her.

Virgil shakily pulled out his Walker, spurs softly jingling as he crossed the space back over to her. His hand was shaking so bad, he almost wondered if he'd drop the damn thing and it'd fire off on itself. Maybe hit himself in the head by accident and finish what he himself couldn't do. But he leveled it at her forehead, staring down the barrel, his trigger finger going numb.

"I always… Hoped it would be this gun… That did me in…" The jumbled voices quieted, making one voice distinct enough to pick out, speaking in Spanish this time instead of the American words she knew he never fully liked.

He wanted to throw up again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to let La Bestia go and take care of this for him so he didn't need to do this with his own hands.

Virgil let out a breathless, haunted half-laugh, not able to find much else he could do.

"Enjoy those three minutes, Snakebite." She said, a hint of a tease in her voice. Just like then.

"...Least I'm not in the middle of a goddamn firefight to do it." He quietly replied back, returning to his first language himself, barely keeping the tremble from his words. Words he'd said to her a hundred years back, sitting at camp after a raid.

"They… Were wrong." She softly croaked.

His hand had gone cold, the barrel wavering. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.

Words came out of Snakebite's mouth instead, "...What do you mean by that?"

"It wasn't your fault… None of that was." The tattered corners of the jaws and teeth turned up into a smile. Her smile.

Red tears welled up, finally coming forth, and he fought to keep them from fully pouring over. Not yet. "Last damn time I'm going to disagree with you, on this one." He said, a weak smile on his face. Just like a hundred years back. Disagreeing with her, but he never meant it with vitriol. Never. "I'm sorry." His voice faintly cracked.

"What does that make it then…?" She asked back, that hint of a taunt in her words. Just like then.

"I don't know… It…" His throat closed up, the warmth of the tears trickling down his sun-worn cheeks. "It makes it so you all aren't here with me." He bitterly, emotionally croaked out.

Crowbait mused for a second, claws twitching on the floor. "Your heart- Well… Your heart doesn't beat anymore, but it's still in there…"

Snakebite shook his head. His arm was cold. "Scarcely feels like it." His voice was breaking each time he spoke.

"But it is. 'Cause you'd be dead, chucklehead." Crowbait returned, shifting forward, onto her knees, closer to the gun barrel.

He couldn't keep looking at her, lowering his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry." He barely got the words out, the tears nearly burning at his skin.

He heard her shift again, then felt the tips of her claws graze his wrist, his fingers. She gently cupped his shaking hand, steadying it, and he felt her forehead press up against the barrel of his gun. "Don't be, I'm glad it was you."

Just like a hundred years back. His first kill. The first time she helped him feed. With a bullet instead of his teeth. Steading his hand, just like then, because she knew, he knew, that he'd pull the trigger. He wouldn't walk away. Couldn't walk away. The gun was already in his hand, the hammer cocked back.

Virgil drew in a shuddered breath, keeping his head down. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't see it again. Her fingers curled around his hand, squeezing it, reassuring him so he could follow through with the promise the entire pack had made to each other. "Wish it didn't have to be." He croaked, finger curling once.

The gunshot echoed longer in his head then it should have. The smell of the powder didn't bring him comfort this time. The weight of the Walker feeling a thousand times heavier then he knew it was.

He opened his eyes, staring down at his boots, slowly dragging it across the ground to her form. Still. Quiet. Unmoving. Slowly crumbling to ash.

The door at his side clicked.

Virgil turned, holstering his Walker, the tears streaming freely down his face. He hadn't pulled the trigger on them all a hundred years back. It were the Law that did that. But it'd been his fault they'd been able to take aim at all. And now this time, he'd had to take aim himself. Pull the trigger himself.

Virgil Lawrence. The Cursebringer. Everyone died around him. Be it his fault, or his own hand. It always happened. Just like then.

[cake-writes]

In Your Atmosphere (Part Four)

Pairings: Steve x Reader & platonic Bucky x Reader (mostly)

Warnings: PTSD / Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, Panic Attacks, Mental Health Issues, Survivor Guilt, Eventual Smut 18+

Summary: The first time you met Steve Rogers, he kissed the hell out of you. It wasn’t the first time he met you.

Part Three / Master List

—

You didn’t wake until the early afternoon.

It felt like you’d been hit by a truck. Your head was throbbing, your body was aching, and you were nauseous, not to mention the embarrassing fact that you'd very likely made a fool of yourself after drinking so much. Of course, you should have expected all of the above after somehow polishing off nearly two entire bottles of wine. How Natasha was able to hold her liquor the way she did, you weren’t sure, but you liked to think she wasn’t human. In some ways, she wasn’t.

Your showers normally took about ten minutes, but today it took half an hour. You moved in slow motion as you washed up, brushed your teeth, and got dressed into something more presentable than your rumpled clothing from the night before. You were sorely tempted to just go back to bed, both to sleep and to avoid the embarrassment of running into Steve in the hallway, but your sleep schedule was screwed up enough already as it was and you didn’t want to make it worse. There was at least a small comfort in knowing that that he was likely still out on his mission with Natasha.

The trek downstairs to the kitchen was uneventful. You pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water: your breakfast, for the very thought of food make you want to puke. Then you popped a couple ibuprofen into your mouth and swallowed them down, before you flopped down onto the sofa you’d used last night and turned on the TV.

There was something on the news about a bombing in the Middle East. That was nothing new. The loss of lives was certainly devastating, but it no longer had the same impact on you as it used to when you were younger. Once upon a time, you’d gone on missions to prevent those kind of tragedies, and for the most part you'd been successful. Then, on one particular occasion, you had failed and the loss of young lives was so significant that you hadn’t been in the field since. Instead, you went to therapy.

The coffee table was clean. It seemed that Steve had made good on his promise to clean up after you and Natasha, despite needing to rest before his mission. That made you feel guilty. You drank far too much and wound up not being able to clean up after yourself, let alone make it back to your room on your own. For some reason, probably because of the alcohol, you felt like you could trust him, and in the end you completely let your guard down. It was strange and a little unsettling, the effect he had on you: you wanted to trust him, as stupid and naive as it was. Even though he'd since apologized, the fact remained that he hadn't had your consent when he kissed you.

Frowning, you changed the channel, trying to distract yourself from your thoughts.

While you couldn’t really remember the specifics, you could definitely recall how secure his muscular arms felt around you when he’d lifted you into them. You could still feel the lull of your head against his strong shoulder as he carried you up the stairs, the clean, spicy scent of his cologne – or laundry detergent, or deodorant, even, you weren’t exactly sure – wafting through your nose. He’d been so gentle, so careful in setting you down upon your bed that you didn’t even know you’d made it there until you woke up again.

Your face heated up. Whether it was due to the fuzzy memory of him taking care of you or the realization that you were an idiot, you weren't entirely sure.

Wanda took a seat beside you on the sofa, then, but you lacked the energy to even startle. Instead, you regarded her with a single weary nod. In the muted sunlight streaming into the room, you noticed that her makeup was flawless, a stark contrast to your bare face and dark circles and you felt a pang of envy. She was gorgeous.

“How are you settling in?” she asked you kindly.

“It’s better than I could have hoped for. Everyone’s been so welcoming.” Especially Steve, and you couldn’t figure out why. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

She shook her head. “After everything you’ve done, you deserve a reprieve.”

Your service history wasn’t exactly a secret, but it still surprised you that Wanda knew about it. Although it certainly made sense - anyone who came to the compound would have been vetted prior to their arrival. You were no stranger to Tony Stark, but he still would have done his homework.

Of course, you didn’t feel like you’d done much during your tenure with SHIELD: rescue missions, mostly, with the occasional infiltration and every now and then a snatch and grab. It was on one of the former when the school was blown to hell, and only by sheer luck did you survive. Twenty-eight students and teachers, along with your partner, had not. You still received phone calls every now and then from the two little girls you did manage to save, but those only served to trigger memories that you’d rather forget.

Just like Wanda had done now. Despite that, you gave her a half-smile in thanks so as not to be rude.

She seemed to sense that it wasn’t exactly a topic you liked to discuss, and turned her attention to the TV. You appreciated how perceptive she was. The silence that fell over you both wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward or tense. You know that she, just like you, had gone through some terrible things and in some way Tony had saved her once, too.

He was the reason why, one and a half years after the worst day of your life, you were still here, still working in the intelligence community. For that, you’d forever be grateful.

---

The rest of the day seemed to drag, until, well, it didn’t. Because your sleep schedule was a mess, you were still awake at half past one in the morning when you heard it. The soft sound of the Quinjet's landing didn’t draw your attention nearly as much as the shouting, just barely audible through the small gap in your bedroom window. You’d only cracked it a little as you started to settle in for the night, wanting to feel the cool evening breeze as you slept, and thankfully, it offered the perfect amount of leeway to hear the commotion on the landing strip.

You peered out the window and saw six people, all clothed in black, in the midst of a heated argument as they exited the plane. One of them was on a stretcher, writhing in pain, shouting louder than the rest.

There was no medical team to greet them.

The adrenaline instantly seemed to dull your soreness and nausea as you sprang into action, snatching up your first aid kit, a small red duffel bag that you’d always kept for emergencies. Perhaps it was overkill to have it here at the Avengers Facility, but you were still in the process of unpacking and you hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.

The trip downstairs seemed to take just seconds before you were outside, the chunky heels of your boots ripping into the soft grass as you ran to their location.

Natasha was the first to spot you sprinting across the field in the darkness. Their communications array had been damaged during the mission, and they hadn’t been able to call ahead for medical. Clint had sustained a deep wound to his thigh, a gunshot, and of course someone hadn’t replenished the Quinjet’s first aid kit. While his injury wasn’t a matter of life or death, it was severe enough that the tensions had been high amidst the team’s return to the compound. Add that to the fact that the mission had been a complete and utter failure, and everyone was at each other’s throats. Even Steve hadn’t been able to keep the peace.

As Natasha pushed the stretcher toward the building, her voice rang clear over the argument as she called over to you, “Gunshot wound, right thigh.”

You slammed your bag down at the bottom of the stretcher and then hopped atop it in one fluid motion, settling yourself above Clint’s lower legs. This allowed your friend and one other person you didn’t recognize to continue pushing the stretcher along. In the heat of the moment, you’d spotted Steve among the team but you were too focused on Clint’s injury to care. Your apologies and embarrassment from last night would have to wait.

“For fuck’s sake,” you snapped, ripping into the first aid kit for supplies, “Quit waving your dicks around, and—” you nodded at another guy you didn’t recognize, “put some pressure on it, would you?”

He quickly did as you asked, pressing his gloved hand against Clint’s wound to stop the bleeding.

“Sorry, kid,” Clint winced but his tone was playful, “I’m a little busy here.”

It had been probably six months since you’d last seen him, and he looked like hell – not that being shot helped any. You weren’t as close to him as Natasha, but the two of you had a good working relationship and you’d always trusted him to have your back. Tonight, you had his.

You grinned down at him and popped the cap to some sterile solution. “Come on, Barton, don’t tell me you’re getting too old for this.”

He let out a soft snort at your attitude. "Of course not."

Then he hissed as you squirted the solution into his wound.

Tearing open a packet of gauze with your teeth, you glanced over at Steve. “I take it things didn’t go too well.”

Steve was walking alongside the stretcher as the last man in the group radioed in about the incident, finally having enough reception now that they were on the ground. He met your eyes for a moment, and then he looked away, staring straight ahead. A muscle ticked in his jaw before he tersely answered your question, “Sure didn’t."

He blamed himself for this. If he'd done his job properly, it never would have happened. Still, seeing you there, seeing your determined face, made him feel like everything was going to be alright. Your very presence was a balm, and watching you sass Barton and the rest of his team reminded him of the many situations the two of you had once survived together.

You easily noticed Steve's tense demeanour but forced yourself to file it away for later. There were more pressing matters to address, so you brought the gauze to Clint’s wound and eyeballed the guy who was putting pressure on it for a moment. He immediately lifted his hand just long enough for you to slide it under, before he replaced his hand and added a bit more pressure when you made a small gesture to indicate as much. Then you did the same with another couple of pieces, ensuring the wound was fully packed.

Steve very much liked the fact that you were able to command respect with a single look. It wasn’t often, but when the shit hit the fan, it was clear that you knew what you were doing. He’d seen it before, the way people gravitated toward you and put their trust in you to take care of a bad situation. This was one of those times, and he found himself doing the same.

“Stay with me, Barton,” you barked, snapping your fingers in front of his face. It looked like he was starting to go into shock, if his pale skin and unfocused eyes were any indication. “Listen to me. Come on.”

Clint grunted, but he didn’t respond any more than that. You were in the building, now, being wheeled toward what you assumed was the medical wing. The lighting here was much brighter, and you could immediately tell that his pupils were dilated. That wasn’t a good sign. You leaned over more to gently palpate his scalp, feeling for any sign that he may have hit his head. Sure enough, you found a large bump and took in a sharp breath, doing your best to keep him conscious.

When you lifted your eyes to peer ahead, you saw that the medical team was finally starting to arrive, and you sat back on your heels to address them.

“GSW, upper right thigh. Single entry point, no exit. Bullet’s still in there.” Then you added grimly, “Possible TBI.”

Natasha’s eyes immediately shot to you. She wasn't a doctor, but even she knew the lingo. Clint had been just fine on the way back to the compound, but you'd just said that he might have a brain injury.

“Got it,” the doctor, a small Asian woman, told you and you hopped down from the stretcher, slinging your half-zipped duffel back over your shoulder. “We’ll keep you posted.”

You nodded as she and her team wheeled Clint to the operating room. Then you released the long, unsteady breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The rest of the group had taken a step back, and a couple of them started to take seats nearby, in order to wait it out – but not Natasha or Steve. No, they stood with you.

“How serious is it?” Natasha asked you quietly, staring down the hallway where Clint had been taken. You knew that she wanted the truth, not fluff.

“Not good. He must have hit his head pretty hard.” When she started to chew her lip anxiously, taking in the information you provided, you placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He’ll survive, Nat. He’ll make it through.”

Steve’s voice drew your attention away from her. “How did you know?”

"About what?"

“His head,” he clarified. “He was talking to us just fine. He seemed fine until we got here. How did you know?”

“His pupils. And the huge knot back here.” You gestured to the back of your head, and then crossed your arms to address the root of the issue. “The hell were you guys even up to? Why wasn’t his wound dressed? Where was medical?”

Steve didn’t look too pleased with your observations. “Comms were shot out. We couldn’t call ahead.”

“Don’t forget about the bastard who didn’t replenish the first aid kit,” Natasha spat angrily. “If I ever find out who it was, they’re dead.”

You didn’t blame her, but part of the blame fell on them, too. Someone should have double checked that it had been stocked prior to the mission, along with the rest of their supplies - but it would be crass to mention that right now. Instead, you silently waited with them until Clint was out of surgery.

---

The sun was just starting to rise when you finally heard some news: Clint had made it through, just like you all were hoping for. While the doctors were concerned about his head injury, from what they could tell it was relatively minor but they unfortunately wouldn’t know for sure until he woke up. He would still be out for the next few hours, and no visitors would be permitted until then – so you, Steve, and Natasha slowly made your way back to the main building where you prepared a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.

For the most part, it had gone uneaten. None of you had an appetite. Instead, the three of you were sitting around the kitchen table in complete and utter silence.

Natasha had perched herself at the edge of her seat, elbows resting on the table with her hands clasped in front of her worried face. Steve, on the other hand, was leaning back against the backrest of the chair, arms crossed, jaw set.

It hadn’t been a good day.

The fabric of your shirt stuck unpleasantly to your skin as you slowly peeled back your bloodied sleeves. What's worse was that you’d already washed your hands three times and Clint’s blood still remained under your fingernails. This wasn’t a memory that you’d forget anytime soon. You’d been certified as a field medic a couple of years ago, and only a handful of times had it actually bothered you to use your training like this.

Steve watched as you anxiously picked at your nails, your lips pressed into a grim line. His voice was gravelly when he said, “Thank you.”

You met his eyes briefly, and then you looked away, back at your hands. “You don't need to thank me. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“That’s not on you,” Natasha said quietly, barely above a whisper. She knew your history, your struggles - why you hadn’t been back in the field for over a year. You'd made a choice, and she didn’t blame you for it. Not after what you’d experienced.

“Yeah, it is,” you argued. “I should have been there.”

This time, the silence that befell the three of you was uncomfortably tense.

You were making the same basic mistake as last time, after the very incident that took you out of the field to begin with. You were stuck on the what-ifs. You blamed yourself for not being able to do more, and it was especially stupid now because you hadn’t even been on the mission. There was nothing you could have done. Instead, you were making this entire situation about yourself and that made you feel even worse.

Maybe it was a bit presumptuous of you to assume that you’d even be able to keep up with them in the field. They were Avengers, after all, although that didn’t change the fact that Clint had been wounded and left without a lick of medical assistance until the team arrived back at the compound. It was only by chance that you just happened to overhear their arrival.

“Come with us next time.”

Your head immediately shot up and you looked over at Steve, feeling a mix of emotions as you processed what he said. He wanted you to come along on their next mission. Captain America wanted you to join him.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek as you considered his offer, at least until you realized the path you were going down. Then you couldn’t even believe that you were even considering it at all. Not after what you’d been through. No, you couldn’t do this to yourself again.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

It was a simple question, but you bristled at it. He knew why. He must have. If Wanda had known your history, there was no doubt in your mind that he did, too - and when Natasha shot him a look of warning that plainly said not to press the issue, it only confirmed your suspicions.

You winced, then, and glanced back down at your fingers to find that you’d just ripped at a hangnail. If you kept this up, your fingertips would be raw and bleeding by the end of the night. It wasn’t worth your mental health to do this again. You stopped picking and instead crossed your arms around yourself, both to prevent yourself from doing it again and to protect yourself from this conversation.

“The last time I was out in the field, a lot of people died. Children.” A lump formed in your throat at the memory, and you couldn’t bring yourself to even mention your partner. Instead, your tone became more heated, irate as you rounded on him, “But you knew that already, didn’t you, Steve? Why would you even ask me that?”

In that moment, Steve knew that you couldn’t see the good you had done, not really. The facts were there – you’d kept two children safe, and saved countless more by rendering aid to whatever survivors you could find – but you refused to see that. All you could focus on were the lives that had been lost. What stood out to him the most was how you didn’t even acknowledge that yours had nearly been one of them.

His voice was soft, not accusatory, when he followed your question with one of his own. “Why did you come here?”

“To bring down Hydra,” you replied automatically. That had been your mission since Tony had pulled you and those two little girls from the debris on that fateful day, and you wouldn’t stop until you succeeded. You had come here, to the Avengers compound, because he’d offered you a place to stay in exchange for your assistance in finishing Hydra off for good.

“I didn’t ask for your assignment, Agent,” Steve said sharply, and your back immediately straightened in reflex to the authority in his voice. “I want to know why you’re here.”

As you stared into his striking blue eyes, you felt a bit unsettled and anxiously brought your hands back atop the table. Your clammy skin stuck unpleasantly to the wood. It sounded like he was asking the same question in two different ways, but your answer clearly wasn’t the one he was seeking. He wanted to know something else, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Then it hit you.

Even after everything that had happened, you still couldn’t seem to run away. You’d seen too much death, too many horrors throughout your career and despite it all, you continued to fight. Even if it was from behind a desk, you continued to find yourself in the thick of it, just in a different way.

Just like tonight. Tonight you had, without hesitation, gone back out in the field.

A literal field.

It was that sudden realization that made you start picking at your nails again, but Natasha gently placed her hand atop yours and you turned your eyes to her. Her kind, reassuring smile was what helped you reach a decision. It was time.

“I want to help,” you answered finally, looking back at Steve with fierce determination. “Put me to work, Captain.”

---

Tags: @jennmurawski13, @hermionesalvatore84, @patzammit, @fairytaleprincess8314, @isysen

Part Five