#maybe i'd get fired up again if someone left some nonsense in my notes

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

I died in the trenches and now I just lie here watching clouds

Pro-Jedi? Or Pro-Sith?

Would you mind if I ask what this is about? I mean, are we talking preferences, or a pretend election, or a cage match, or a hot-dog-eating contest? I have no idea which would win a hotdog-eating-contest. ...no wait, wasn't there a legends sith who ate planets? that guy would win a hot-dog eating contest I think.

[astro-rain]

delicate; b. barnes

chapter thirteen - “sober desires & the reminiscence of a winsome smile”

delicate masterlist

word count: 4k

synopsis: wakanda gets a visit from our favorite captain, two drinks is too much rum for a reticent psychologist, and bucky knows (& feels) more than meets the eye.

pairings: bucky x fem!reader

[A/N]: this took so long to write but WHEW this chapter!!!! pls let me know what you think >:D

The knock on the outside of his hut was followed by a deep accented voice, one that he had heard before.

"Sergeant Barnes?" it called.

Quickly enough Bucky was outside, facing the king of Wakanda himself. He wasn't sure exactly what to say. You see, the majority of their past interactions included the Black Panther trying to kill him. T'Challa was kind and Bucky trusted him. It was just... a little awkward given the history.

"Your highness," he greeted.

He smiled bashfully at the title.

"I have some news for you."

Bucky's head cocked to the side, curious. News? Should he be worried? He hadn't been expecting anything.

"Captain Rogers is on his way here. He was alerted about our recent complication with N'Jadaka," he said, referring to who Bucky guessed was who Y/N called Erik Killmonger, "and he asked to come check in, make sure you're okay."

Steve was coming. His mood was immediately uplifted. He hadn't seen his oldest friend for months. It was weird to have Steve feeling the need to make sure Bucky was okay; it was usually the other way around. Nonetheless, he was excited. And he had the sudden urge to tell Y/N.

- - -

READER

"Sharon. Hey," she said into the phone.

The friends hadn't spoken since Y/N left for Wakanda - security measures since Sharon helped Steve and betrayed the... well everyone.

"Y/N!" Sharon greeted. "How is everything? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no I'm totally okay. The Killmonger thing was more the royal family's deal than mine. I was just hiding out in some bunker with Barnes."

Concerned weaved its way into Sharon's voice. "Oh my god. Did anything happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, historically, stress hasn't affected him well..."

She wasn't sure why she almost got offended. "No... he was completely fine. He doesn't lose control out of nowhere and turn into the winter soldier. It's a lot more complicated than that... We were fine."

"Oh, that's good. Listen... I'm actually on my way to Wakanda right now."

"You're-... what?"

"Steve needed to check in on Bucky after Killmonger. Wilson and I are coming too."

They must all be together. It makes sense considering what happened after the disaster in Berlin, and then the airport fiasco in Germany and then... everything in Siberia.

Aw, they're in hiding together, Y/N joked in her head. She almost laughed out loud.

"Oh. Is that safe? For you? For everyone?"

"I've been careful. We've all been careful. But, things don't always go as planned. And T'Challa feels bad about putting you guys in a dangerous situation when he was supposed to protect you."

"It wasn't his fault."

"I know. We all know. But, it's kind of his way of making up for it: letting us stay so that Steve can check in on Barnes and we can cool off for a bit."

"Was Rogers mad?"

"Well, he wasn't thrilled that his best friend was trapped alone in a country that just got taken over..."

He wasn't alone.

"...he was mostly worried," Sharon continued. "Still is."

"Right."

"Alright, well I got to go. We'll be there in a couple hours."

"I'll see you. Be safe."

"See you."

- - -

BUCKY BARNES

"Hey Buck," the happiness in Steve's voice was genuine as he patted his oldest friend on the back in the middle of an embrace. "How you been?"

"A hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you, that's for damn sure," Bucky smiled.

Sam Wilson stood next to the star spangled man with a plan. Bucky briefly glanced at him.

"Wilson," he deadpanned.

"Barnes," he returned the greeting.

"I was worried when T'Challa told me about Killmonger," Steve said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that they let you stay here, but I just didn't think I'd have to be worried so soon."

"It's alright. Everything turned out okay and I was fine the whole time. You don't have to lose your head."

"I'm not losing my head."

"You never had it in the first place."

The blonde changed the topic of conversation.

"You were with that therapist right?"

"Yeah."

"What do we think about her?" he asked with equal parts caution and suspicion. "Do you trust her?"

Bucky wasn't sure why he was almost offended.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you know what happened the last time you were with a psychiatrist..."

"Yeah well, this one doesn't have a personal vendetta against the Avengers."

"You sure she's alright?"

He looked serious, and Bucky could see the genuine concern etched into his friend's face. Steve was truly wary.

"I'm positive. She's helped so much since I've been here. I really trust her."

"Okay, if you say so. I trust you."

Bucky smirked. "Hey uh... is Sharon with you?"

Sam said nothing but radiated a smirk to match Bucky's perfectly, a kind of smirk that only a ball-busting best friend cracks.

"She is..." Steve replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh nothing. Just wondering, that's all."

"She said she wanted to talk to a friend."

"Oh, she's probably with Y/N."

"Who?"

"Y/N. Dr. Y/L/N. 'The therapist.'"

"I didn't know they were friends."

"Why do you think Sharon recommended her?"

"She said she knew 'the best' person to help."

"That true. She's crazy smart."

"As long as she can do the job, I'm all for it, no matter whose friend she is."

In a short-lived thought, Bucky wondered what Steve Rogers would think of who else Y/N was friends with. He wondered if Steve would think it was strange to be friends with your doctor, or if he'd be pleased that Bucky had gotten close to someone, anyone else in this world.

"How long are you guys staying for?" Bucky asked.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "Honestly, we were only planning on staying for like a week or so. We've been moving throughout Europe, and the other day, when we were in Prague... it was almost really bad."

"We need to stay low for a while," Sam added.

"What did you do?" Bucky asked, used to Steve getting himself into trouble.

"It's a long story..."

"What did T'Challa say about it?"

"He said to take as much time as we needed," Steve filled him in.

"You know, I'm startin' to really like this guy," Sam nodded, smiling. "Obviously when he went all cat murderer on you, he was a bit of a pain in the ass. But now? Guardian angel."

Bucky shook his head at Sam's nonsense. What an idiot, he thought. He wondered what Y/N would think of Sam, but then a more pressing question popped into his head.

"Where are you guys gonna stay?"

"I'm guessing there," Steve said pointing behind Bucky.

When he turned around, Bucky was shocked but he also wasn't. Behind and around his hut stood three more just like it, but slightly smaller. He could've sworn those weren't there yesterday, but that's the beauty of Wakanda. They were ten steps ahead of the rest of the world and he guessed that included speed building as well.

"I will never stop loving this place," he admired.

-

He tried not to sound too eager when he knocked on her door. She looked shocked but didn't really try to hide it.

"Oh," she sounded confused. "Hi, Bucky..."

"Hey," he grinned. "I have a proposition for you."

Her eyebrows lowered as her lips twisted into the most devilish smirk. She could communicate an entire joke with just her face.

"Not like that!" he exclaimed.

She laughed, smirk morphing into an endearing smile. "Like what then?"

"Steve wanted to have like a bonfire sorta thing to catch up since we're all together for once. You know, just like drinks and stupid stories from the forties. D'ya think you could part with your paper work to grace us with your presence?"

"Oh, uh... are you sure?"

"Of course. I'd love to have you there."

She wrung out her hands. "I don't know, Buck. Is that really appropriate? To have your doctor hangin' out with your friends?"

"That may be, but that's not what I'm asking. I want my friend to 'hang out' with my other friends."

Out of her composure seeped a meek smile. The air felt softer to him.

"And maybe you can analyze Wilson and tell me what his biggest fear is later," he added.

She snickered.

"Okay. Lead the way, James Buchanan."

-

The fire was a monster, roaring and crackling with all the life in the world. Bucky loved it. He loved the warmth, the heat, the lack of cold.

"I'm gonna get another drink," Y/N said. "You want anything, Buck?"

"I'm all set," he smiled, gaze lingering for only a second too long.

"Sharon?" she turned. "You?"

The blonde shook her head. "Oh, I think I've had plenty."

Surrounding the fire sat five chairs. All but one was empty as Y/N went to get her second drink. Of course they were in Sam's hut, Bucky thought. After all, even though it was Steve's idea, Sam was most excited about the whole thing, actually sitting down and just relaxing instead of fleeing from belligerent governments.

"Therapist's pretty," Sam noted with a smirk once she was out of hearing range.

"Y/N," Bucky corrected, mind going completely elsewhere. "She's so smart."

"Smart enough to call you Buck..." Steve said, catching on to Sam.

"What?"

"She calls you Buck."

"Yeah, so? You do too."

"Yeah, but I've known you longer. And I'm your friend."

"She's my friend too," he shrugged.

"She's your doctor..."

"And I'm a hundred year old man with one arm trying to get un-brainwashed in a country that the rest of the world doesn't even know exists. None of this is conventional."

"...fair," Steve said, with only a little bit of skepticism. "Are you guys close?"

Does spending hours alone talking with someone in a hidden bunker make you close? Does them comforting you after a nightmare and then subsequently allowing you to get the best night sleep you've had in forever? What about making daring voyages to quaint waterfalls and laughing a kind of laugh that makes your heart swell? What about-

"Buck?"

He shrugged. Again. "I guess so."

Sam narrowed his eyebrows. "How close?"

"Wilson," Sharon admonished exasperatedly. "Y/L/N's his doctor, come on. That's inappropriate to suggest."

Sam put his hands up in mock surrender. Briefly, just briefly, Bucky imagined kicking the leg of Sam's chair and watching him fall back. He didn't, obviously. But it would have been funny if he did.

The seemingly never ending conversation was cut short when Y/N returned, drink in hand, and took her seat next to Bucky.

"What'd you get?" he asked, demeanor subtly but swiftly changing into something lighter, something happier.

"I don't know, but it has rum in it," she shrugged sardonically before clinking her glass with Bucky's.

"Cheers," Sam raised his glass, trying to engage.

Y/N wordlessly, and with a half-smile, raised her glass in his direction.

"So," Steve started, comfortably crossing his legs and leaning back into his chair before asking Bucky, "you wanna know what actually happened in Prague?"

"Do enlighten me. I've been waiting all night."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

The rest of the night went on sort of like this. The group took turns telling stories and then listening. Cracking jokes and then laughing. Everyone but Y/N, Bucky noticed. She just... sat and drank, livelihood only extending to the borders of her seat.

He hadn't seen her like this before, and he found himself stuck halfway between confused and worried. Had something happened? Had something wrong been said?

He kept an eye on her as dusk melted into night. He told himself it was because he was concerned, but that was only in addition to the way he was magnetized to how she looked with the light of the fire gleaming on her skin.

After she would finish a drink, she'd stare into the fire for a little while, before leaving to get another. When he made sure no one was looking at him, he'd look at her. Discretely. At her eyes. The reflection of the fire in her pupils made him wonder if she would burn the fire before it could ever burn her. He was all too aware of the heat that accompanied her gaze. It was a ravishing burn that made him ache for the searing feeling as soon as it was taken away.

He didn't dare think of it for too long or else he would get distracted. And someone would call his name, pulling him out of a trance he didn't want to be caught in. A trance he wasn't sure he wanted to admit that he was in.

The night remained as such until someone - he couldn't remember who - said they were tired, and everyone bid their farewells, and wished their good nights.

Y/N spared about a side hug to Sharon before walking off on her own. Bucky half volunteered, half insisted on tending to the fire to make sure it went out, only to ignore it as soon as everyone was gone and follow after his psychologist.

He caught up to her as she was in the middle of opening the door to her living quarters.

"Y/N."

She turned around in the spot, door wide open, staring up at him.

He bore into her eyes, looking at something, noticing her dilated pupils and hazy stare.

"You're drunk," he said, but it sounded more like a question.

"Yeah."

"But you don't seem drunk?"

"I'm not wasted," she padded into the room, carelessly leaving the door wide open for him to walk through. "Just drunk enough to remember why I didn't drink in college."

She rubbed her eyes.

"Think I want another one," she sighed, heading for the door with a bitter smile. "More rum."

Bucky gently closed the door, maneuvering himself in front of it, and blocking her from exiting. Another drink is definitely not a good idea.

He changed the subject. "Why didn't you drink in college?"

Her eyebrows raised, introducing a look that said Really? You think I don't know what you're doing?

"Wow, look at you being the voice of reason for my otherwise inebriated brain."

Nevertheless, she cooperated.

She sighed. "It just... makes me miserable. I'm a sad drunk."

"Better than a mean drunk," he offered.

"Possibly. It's a real mood killer, though."

"That why you were off all night?"

"Off... ? I don't know, I guess so... I'm usually pretty inconspicuous when I'm drunk. Didn't think anyone would really notice."

There was no hesitation when he spoke.

"I did."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry. Just... why did you keep drinking if it only makes you miserable?"

"Alcohol is a depressant," she breathed mechanically, as if speaking was difficult. "It depresses your nervous system, then you get disinhibited. Then you don't care about rationality and just drink! Then in the moment it feels kinda good... but then it makes you sad... and then you need more to blur the feeling away. It's like... the worse you feel, the more you need to drink... but then the more you drink... the worse you feel..."

"How are you drunk but still talking... sorta still like you usually do?"

She smirked, looking like she was trying not to laugh. He was glad she was smiling.

"Maybe you're not the only one with heightened metabolism as a result of the serum..."

He looked at her quizzically, amused. She wasn't making total sense, but he couldn't find it in himself to give much of a damn. She smiled, again.

"Kidding. I just have outstanding self-control."

She plopped down on the floor, deciding that she no longer wanted to use her legs. Fine motor function was overrated for intoxicated people.

He sat down with her, next to her.

"If I tell you a joke will you be less sad-drunk?"

"I already am 'less sad-drunk.' I wasn't before, but," she took a breath in, "now you're here, so... improvements have been made."

"That's good 'cause I was worried before."

She glanced up at him with brazen eye contact. Her face held a mixture of what looked like a confused and pained expression, as something changed. Some sort of realization or reality check.

She wiped her hands over her face. "God, this is so ridiculous. I'm sorry. You shouldn't be worried about me, that's not your job. I'm sorry. I should just go to bed, and you can leave..."

"I know it's not my job. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I was alright- it... it's not like I was crying at the fire or something. I was fine."

"After your second drink, you were silent almost the entire time."

"You were counting my drinks?"

Not exactly.

"I was paying attention."

"To what?"

To you.

"You completely turned into yourself. Your elbows and legs were drawn in close to your body: unrelaxed and almost apprehensive posture. You were nonverbal, didn't make any jokes, no sarcastic commentary. I was literally purposefully saying things I knew you would correct or tease or laugh at and nothing. I was waiting for a 'smartass' or a 'there's a reason behind everything' explanation or anything science related. But there was nothing."

Her face was blank. It took her a second to catch up. Blinking slowly, she shook her head, eyebrows furrowed, all emphasis on the word. "Why?"

Her tone was truly confused. It was like she, in her heart of hearts, for the life of her, could not believe he was concerned.

"Y/N you're my friend," he chided. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She averted her gaze. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know."

"Look," his voice was soft. "I know you know everything and you know my mannerisms and micro-expressions and you know when I'm lying and whatever else 'cause you're a genius psychologist. But is it really that hard to believe that, after all the time we've known each other, I know you a little too? That I saw you for once instead of you always seein' me?"

"I think you're the only person who sees me."

The words leaked out before he thought to analyze them, tone lower than a whisper.

"Well I can't seem to look at much else."

He had never felt such potent silence. Did he just fuck up majorly? They just sat, on the floor, eyes glued to each other like twenty year old dried cement. He didn't think he could move away if he tried.

"I see you now," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Blue," she breathed. "Your eyes are so blue. I don't... think I've ever seen that shade of blue."

It happened exponentially slowly, but the closer her face got to his, the more his chest felt like it was going to burst in the best way possible. As if liquid light poured into his lungs, inflating his chest and igniting every nerve with adoration.

Her lips hovered over his so lightly it was as if it wasn't even happening, like her affection was a ghost. But it was happening, and he could feel it. He could feel the softness in her lips and the smell of the rum she drank as they combined into the wondrous dual sensation that permeated throughout his brain.

They weren't kissing by any stretch. Their lips were hardly touching. However, in that moment, he was at her mercy. He was prepared to bend the laws of nature to her will if she would allow the continuation of this feeling for even a fraction of a second more.

Until it stopped and she waned away like the moon bidding adieu to the morning sky.

Her voice shook. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't... it's-"

"No. It's not okay. It's not okay."

He leaned back, examining her face. She looked confused and embarrassed and scared.

"Y/N, it's fine. It's okay, seriously, don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry, I'm... I'm drunk and I'm disinhibited and it's affecting my judgement and making me impulsive. I'm sorry."

He couldn't be exactly sure, but it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him.

Neither of them moved a muscle.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

She was silent, frozen. It reminded him of a past conversation about the fight or flight response.

Bucky stood up and offered his hand to the woman sitting on the floor in front of him. "Here."

She took it gingerly and stood up with him before wide eyes stared into his apologetically.

"Please don't feel bad," he pleaded. "Barely anything happened."

"Still..."

"Why don't you just get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow. I promise it won't seem like such a big deal when you're sober."

She nodded but they both remained motionless, hands still together. He knew they needed to let go, but her hand didn't move, and she just kept looking into him.

"Okay," she whispered.

She walked him to the door, hand still in hand, and until he was forced to let go of her to open it. He stepped, ever so slowly, out of her room and onto the grass outside. He looked up at her, the doorway between them suddenly feeling like worlds of distance. They stood on opposite sides of the open door like statues. Bucky didn't know what to do and he wasn't sure what to say.

He settled on a, "Goodnight."

He tried not to make it sound so weak and timorous but he failed entirely. He didn't want to leave her like this. Guilty and alone. God knows he knew what it felt like.

Her voice was dry and quiet. "Goodnight."

He wasn't sure when the door shut or which one of them had shut it. The only thing he was sure of was the feeling of formidable regret pooling in his stomach.

On one hand, there was regret for letting her lean in and get so close because now he was scared that their dynamic was ruined and worried that Y/N felt awful. On the other hand, there was regret that he just let her pull away. Regret that he didn't lean in more and shamelessly drown in her. Regret that he didn't unapologetically suffocate himself with the softness of lips, the inebriating smell of rum on on her tongue, and the utterly bewitching taste of her he was sure would follow.

He wasn't sure what he felt, to be honest. He was a muddle of emotions of which he had no idea how to sift through. Momentarily, he wished he was drunk so he wouldn't have to think so hard. Then, he remembered the saying, "drunk words are sober thoughts," and he was damn glad he was stone cold sober; he could only imagine the things he would say to her if he was drunk.

This lead him to pondering, it got the gears in his brain turning. It made him wonder. Maybe... just maybe... if drunk words were sober thoughts, then what if drunk actions were sober desires?

Thinking like this could cause him read the situation completely differently. Thinking like this could make him read the situation in such a way that conceived the slightest sliver of hope for emotions gone repressed. Hope is dangerous...

Hope is dangerous, so Bucky shoved it down into the deepest cavern of his brain, the very same cavern where his feelings for her resided. It was a monster in a cave, growling and hissing menacingly. Intensely.

It scared him, this intensity. It scared him so much that the only way he could fall asleep was by thinking about the way James Buchanan sounded when she said it with a winsome smile.

delicate taglist: ​@bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @nickkie1129 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @quxxnxfhxll @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf

[cool-guysyndrome]

(I was gonna post this to Instagram first but the story got too long so here sees it first skkdhdh)

Title: dammit why do i always give the angst a resolution

TW: anxiety attack, heckloads of angst, swearing because virgil+stress=i get to write swearwords

Patton paced the dimly lit room, becoming more agitated with every step. He didn't know where he was, why he was there, how he got there, anything. It was awful being completely in the dark, thrown randomly into some foreign place with no forewarning or instructions. He had so many questions that it was hard to think at all. Where were his friends? Were they okay? Were they even in the same place as him? What if they were across the country or something? How would he find them? Where even was this country? Was he in a country? Why was he in a weird castle thingy on a mountain? It was scary up so high. What were these weird clothes he was wearing? What was wrong with him? Why could he suddenly create a weird green fire with his hands? Was he going crazy?

Patton sat down and leant against the cold stone wall, trying to steady his breathing. Was this how Virgil felt when he had an anxiety attack?

He looked down at his hands, scared to accidentally replicate the spectacle he had made when he went outside and set a tree on fire.

"Maybe i can control it?" He thought aloud. Worth a try.

Patton shut his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts on the tingly feeling that had spread through his fingertips when he made the fire the first time. Sure enough, he felt a soft heat begin to emanate from where his hands were outstretched, and when he opened his eyes he saw the small green flame dancing across his fingertips.

He found that he could make the flame larger or smaller by mentally compressing it, like a camera's focus lens. It was amazing, but at the same time it scared Patton more than any fear he'd ever felt before. This wasn't a kind power. This was something destructive, something dangerous. If this power was any clue to why he was in this strange place, it was not a comforting one.

Patton released his mental hold on the fire and it dissipated into nothing. He realised with a start that he had been crying while watching it, and he wiped his cheeks dry with a sleeve.

Whatever this was, it wasnt going to be easy, and how his heart ached every time he thought about the others was really not helping. Especially Virgil. Sweet, lovely Virgil, who was always kind and worried for Patton as much as his mother did, was probably hurting just as much as he was. That thought would have killed Patton, but his thoughts were mercifully interrupted by a-

---

-'CRASH!'

"Fuck. Just when i thought my day couldn't get better huh."

Virgil glared at the fallen ornament like it was personally responsible for all the wrongs in the world, which it probably was in his eyes.

He crouched down with a sigh and picked up the broken pieces of ceramic. There were far too many breakable things in this stupid palace for someone as clumsy and lazy as him to be around.

He found some servant to give the pieces to, waving off their apologies and persistent praise. It was exhausting, all this social interaction. Virgil wondered how Roman ever wished for this kind of thing, but he supposed Roman was the only person crazy enough to like it.

He kept walking, slow enough to still pass as a walk, but fast enough that he could escape to his room as quickly as possible. Finally he reached safety, locking the door behind him. He sunk to the floor, exhausted.

"This place is fucking crazy. I think im going crazy." He told the empty room.

"I dont know what they want me to do half the time, and they treat me like the fucking king of the universe more than some stupid prince. I just want to go home and not have to deal with this stupid, stressful, nonsensical place and its mad inhabitants!"

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Inhabitants? What am I saying? Fuck, i sound like Logan."

Logan. The others. Shit. "Great now thats just a whole other problem as well. Wonderful. Fucking fantastic!"

Virgil stood up and took his cape off, tired if the heavy and unnecessary clothes. He started to anxiously pace the room, caught up in a flurry of thoughts that were making it a little hard to breathe.

"Shit. Shitshitshit. The others. Are they safe? I need to go find them. Are they even here? What if theyre in trouble? Logan and Roman might be okay on their own, but Pat..."

Virgils voice trailed off as his mind thought a horrible, terrible thing. Patton. Gentle, bubbly Patton, the light of his life, could be in danger. Or worse, already hurt. Virgil fell back to the floor, every inhale more of a struggle than the last. His whole body filled up with an overwhelming sense of dread that drowned out any of his attempts to calm himself down. His heart began to pound like it wanted to escape his chest, and he pulled at his hair like he wanted to rip it out. He thought he heard a strangled scream from someone nearby. Why were they screaming? He should be the one screaming. Then he realised that it was his own voice, and he was the one emitting the heartbroken cry. He managed to stop his screams but there was no ceasing the sobs that wracked his body as he lay curled on the floor, his mind repeating a single horrible thought a million times-

---

-over Patton's head flew a tiny streak of black, and it seemed to be hurt because it wasnt flying in a very coordinated fashion. One wing was flapping a lot less than the other.

Patton waited for the little animal to settle, then he stood a few feet away from where it had landed on the table.

"Hey, hey, I'm not gonna hurt ya. You look like you need a bit of help, actually, little guy."

He started moving towards the table very slowly so he didnt startle the creature.

"Hey, its okay, im gonna help you, alright? Lets have a look at that wing."

Patton continued to talk soothingly to the little creature until he was close enough that he could reach out and touch it. He saw that the animal was a small black bat, and one of its wings had a splinter of wood in it, not enough to do bad damage, but enough to affect its flying ability.

Patton slowly outstretched his hand, and waited for the small animal to make a move first, as a kind of permission. The little bat looked up at him with big black eyes with a shine of blue in them, and if it were human Patton would have sworn it was studying his face.

Then, all of a sudden, he heard a voice say, "Help?"

He nearly fainted.

"What?! Did you- did you just speak?!"

He watched the bat carefully, but its little face didnt move an inch even though he heard the voice clear as day. "Help wing?"

Patton couldn't help staring at the little creature.

"How are you doing that?!"

"Person help wing? Yes, no?"

"Oh my goodness gracious. And i thought the fire was weird."

"Help wing, yes, no?"

"Yes, yes, sorry, yes, ill help you. May i?"

Patton held out a hand to the bat's wing. The little creature obliged and lay its wing across his hand.

"If i ever see him again, i will definitely tell Virgil about this. He'll hate me for it because he's always wanted to talk to animals."

"Vir..gil?"

"Yea, hes my boyfriend."

"Oh. Boy Friend Virgil." The little animal seemed to think for a second, then it spoke again.

"Boyfriend, Virgil. I, Jazzy. You?"

"What?" Patton took a second to realise what the little creature meant.

"Oh, is that your name? Oh! Its lovely! I'm Patton!"

"Pat..ton. Patton. Patton help Jazzy."

"Yes, thats right, im helping you! By the way, are you a boy or a-

---

-Gurl you are a mess. You're lucky i can pick locks hun."

Remy closed the door quietly and went to sit beside where Virgil still lay on the floor.

"I heard you scream. Good thing i convinced those other losers that I'd handle this." He glanced down at Virgil again, noting his fists still clenched in his hair.

His voice was a bit more firm as he continued. "Virgil. Can i touch you?"

The purple-haired boy hesitated a moment, then shakily nodded through his hands. Remy gently pried his hands down from his hair.

"Can you sit up for me?"

Virgil did.

"Okay. Can you copy my breathing? 4-7-8 yeah?"

Virgil nodded.

Once Remy was sure that Virgil was no longer in such a bad state, he got him to sit on his bed and gave him a glass of water.

"Thanks." Virgil managed as Remy handed him the glass.

"Youre fine, gurl, i get this kind of thing a lot. The staff here get stressed all the time and someones gotta help calm 'em down, y'know?"

"Yeah."

"Besides, gotta have you in top condition so i can 'scold you' as Perce puts it, or as i like to say, roast your sorry ass."

"Really? What did i fuck up this time?"

"Oooh gurl you wouldnt believe it. So much that the cat wants your hide."

"The cat?"

"The cat."

Virgil wasn't quite smiling, but his eyes werent as sad any more.

Remy lay back on his bed like he owned it.

"Nah, I'm messing with ya."

"I know." Virgil couldnt help a small smile.

"Its not the cat, hun, its the rats that cat's chasing that want your blood. Have fun arguing with rodents."

"That bad huh?"

"Nah not really. Percy wants to help you with some stuff you were struggling with today."

"Struggling?" Virgil raised an eyebrow at the other man.

Remy chuckled. "Gurl, you and i both know you aren't really the prince. Gotta have someone in on the secret to help before everyone is."

"Touché."

After Remy left, Virgil lay back on his bed, realising just how exhausted he was. This wasn't going to get any easier. But maybe it could, at the very least, be possible.