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millyh23 · 26 days ago

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Seams of Ambition

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Katie McCabe’s birthday had arrived, and the Arsenal locker room was buzzing with excitement. The air was filled with the anticipation of celebrating the team’s most fiery and fun-loving player. Everyone had prepared thoughtful gifts—trinkets and items they knew Katie would appreciate. Y/N, the newest and youngest transfer, sat quietly in her corner, feeling a little out of place. She hadn’t been at the club long enough to know exactly what Katie liked outside of football, and she’d been struggling for days to figure out the perfect gift.

Being a naturally quiet and private person, Y/N hadn’t shared much about herself with the team. Sure, she was talented on the pitch and had impressed during training, but outside of football, she was a mystery. Little did they know, Y/N had a secret that no one at Arsenal had uncovered yet.

After practice, everyone gathered in the lounge area, where a small celebration was set up for Katie’s birthday. There was cake, drinks, and laughter echoing through the room. Katie sat in the middle, grinning from ear to ear as she opened gifts from her teammates, each one bringing more joy than the last.

When it was finally Y/N’s turn, she nervously handed Katie a sleek black gift box wrapped with a minimalist bow. She hadn’t overthought it, but the pressure of being new made her wonder if she should’ve gone with something more personal.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Katie said with her usual warm smile, clearly trying to make her feel welcome. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Y/N simply nodded, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than necessary.

Katie untied the ribbon and flipped open the box, her eyes widening as she pulled out an oversized black hoodie with striking white embroidery on the front. It was a design unlike anything she’d ever seen before—cool, edgy, and impeccably detailed.

“Holy sh—this is incredible,” Katie gasped, holding the hoodie up to get a better look. “This is from Immortal!”

The entire room suddenly fell silent. Everyone stared at the piece of clothing in Katie’s hands, their jaws dropping. Immortal was one of the hottest streetwear brands in the world, known for its limited releases and jaw-dropping prices. A single hoodie from them could easily set someone back several thousand pounds.

“Wait, you got her Immortal?” Leah Williamson asked, blinking in disbelief. “How on earth did you manage that?”

Y/N shrugged casually, a small smirk playing on her lips. “I didn’t really know what to get, so I just gave her one of my pieces.”

“One of your pieces?” Vivianne Miedema echoed, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Y/N glanced around at her teammates, realizing they still didn’t get it. “Yeah… It’s my brand.”

The silence that followed was almost comical. Everyone stared at her, eyes wide as they processed what she’d just said.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Beth Mead burst out laughing, unable to believe it. “You’re telling me you own Immortal? The brand that celebrities can’t even get their hands on?”

Y/N nodded, completely unfazed by their shock. “Yeah. I started it when I was 16. It just kinda blew up from there.”

The room erupted in disbelief, with everyone talking over each other in excitement. Leah and Viv looked at each other, trying to wrap their heads around the fact that their new teammate was not only a football prodigy but also the brains behind one of the most exclusive fashion labels in the world.

“No way,” Katie said, standing up to properly admire the hoodie. “This is insane, Y/N. How did you even manage to keep this a secret?”

Y/N chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “I don’t really talk about it much. It’s just something I do on the side.”

“On the side?!” Alessia Russo exclaimed. “This is huge! Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Y/N shrugged again. “Didn’t think it was important. We’re all here to play football, right?”

The team stared at her like she had two heads, but in true Arsenal fashion, the surprise quickly turned into admiration. They bombarded her with questions, demanding to know how she managed to juggle running a global brand while playing professional football.

“Wait, so when’s the next drop?” Katie asked, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve gotta get in on this before it sells out.”

Y/N grinned. “I’ll hook you up. Don’t worry.”

“Well, I feel like my gift’s completely outclassed now,” Leah joked, shaking her head. “Who knew we had a secret fashion mogul in our squad?”

As the laughter continued, Y/N couldn’t help but feel more at ease. It had been a risky move, revealing her secret, but seeing the team’s positive reaction made her feel like she’d finally found her place among them.

“Alright, alright, no more questions about my brand,” Y/N said, standing up. “This is Katie’s day. Let’s focus on celebrating her.”

Katie slung an arm around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her into a side hug. “Nah, this is your day too, mate. You just became the coolest person in this room.”

Y/N chuckled, her usual reserved nature melting away under the warmth of her new teammates’ acceptance. “Thanks, Katie. Happy birthday.”

And as the celebration continued, with everyone gushing over the hoodie and planning to beg Y/N for more gear, she couldn’t help but smile. Being at Arsenal was already feeling like home—and now, she wasn’t just the new transfer. She was Y/N, the player who had taken the football world and the fashion world by storm.

As the laughter and birthday festivities continued, Y/N found herself enjoying the team’s company more than ever. She hadn’t planned on revealing her secret, but now that it was out, the weight of keeping it hidden was lifted. Plus, seeing how excited the team was about her brand made her feel more connected with them.

As the chatter continued, a thought struck her, and she leaned back on the couch, watching the girls animatedly talk about Immortal.

“You know…” Y/N began, her voice casual but catching the attention of a few of her teammates. “I’ve been planning an ad campaign for the next drop.”

The room quieted down slightly as the girls turned to look at her with interest. Leah raised an eyebrow, catching on to where this was going. “Oh yeah?”

Y/N nodded, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Yeah. I was thinking it could be cool to have a few footballers involved—people who actually know how to move in the clothes, not just stand around looking pretty.”

Katie perked up immediately, a grin spreading across her face. “You saying we’re not pretty, Y/N?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Nah, Katie, you’re gorgeous, don’t worry. But I mean—imagine some of you modeling the new collection, showing off how it looks in action. You know, like moving around, doing some tricks, making it feel real.”

Leah crossed her arms, already intrigued. “You want us to model for you?”

“Yeah, why not?” Y/N shrugged like it was no big deal, but her excitement was obvious. “You’re all familiar with the brand now. And I’ve seen how some of you dress outside of training. You’d fit right in with the vibe I’m going for.”

The room erupted again with a mix of excitement and disbelief.

“You’re serious?” Katie asked, her eyes practically sparkling at the idea. “You want us to be in an ad for Immortal? That’s massive!”

Y/N nodded. “Dead serious. I’ve been looking for people who’d bring the energy I want, and who better than you lot?”

Leah, who always had an eye for fashion herself, looked intrigued. “What would it involve?”

“Just a photoshoot and a short video campaign,” Y/N explained. “Something to show how the clothes hold up under movement, some lifestyle shots too. We’d keep it casual, nothing over the top. You’d just be doing what you do best—being yourselves.”

Katie, still holding her new hoodie, grinned like a kid at Christmas. “Alright, I’m in. I want first dibs on the new gear, though.”

Beth laughed from the other side of the room. “You better give us all free clothes after this, Y/N!”

“Don’t worry,” Y/N replied, chuckling. “You’ll all get your pick.”

Leah leaned forward, excitement gleaming in her eyes. “Count me in too. This sounds epic.”

Beth, Viv, and Alessia quickly chimed in with their agreement, clearly excited at the prospect of modeling for Y/N’s brand. The idea of blending their love for football with street fashion was something none of them had expected but now couldn’t wait to be a part of.

Y/N smiled, feeling a sense of pride and belonging she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Alright, then. Let’s do it.”

Katie clapped her hands together, grinning widely. “I’m already thinking about my poses.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile. “Just make sure you look good in the clothes and don’t steal the spotlight.”

“Oh please, Y/N, you know I was born for the spotlight,” Katie teased, tossing the hoodie over her shoulder with dramatic flair.

The rest of the team laughed, and Y/N felt the warmth of camaraderie wash over her. It was no longer just about fitting in at Arsenal—she was building real friendships, and now, they were about to share another part of her life.

A few days later, Y/N arranged for the photoshoot at a sleek warehouse-style studio in London. The setting was perfect—industrial, modern, and in line with the edgy aesthetic of Immortal. The girls arrived excited, dressed in their fresh new pieces from Y/N’s upcoming collection. Oversized hoodies, cropped jackets, joggers, and bold accessories—they looked every bit the part of a streetwear campaign.

Y/N watched as her teammates took to the camera like pros. Leah was effortlessly cool, flashing her trademark smirk, while Katie went full energy mode, making the photographer laugh with her playful poses. Viv and Alessia leaned into the more laid-back vibe, while Beth threw in a few trick shots with a football to show off the functionality of the clothes.

“This is insane,” Leah said during a break, grinning at Y/N. “I feel like a proper model.”

“You look like one too,” Y/N teased, nudging her. “You lot are killing it.”

Katie swaggered over, spinning a football on her finger. “When this ad drops, we’re going to break the internet. Arsenal, fashion, and football—what more could people want?”

Y/N laughed, her heart swelling with pride. “You’re right. This is going to be huge.”

As the shoot wrapped up, and the girls exchanged jokes and compliments, Y/N realized how much things had changed since her arrival. She had come to Arsenal as just a new player, a young transfer, but now she was a part of something bigger. Her brand, her football career, and her friendships were all coming together in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

“Alright,” Y/N said as the girls gathered their things, still buzzing from the shoot. “Next time you see yourselves on a billboard wearing Immortal, just remember—it’s all because of me.”

Katie laughed, throwing an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “You might’ve started this, Y/N, but we’re definitely the ones who are going to sell it.”

Y/N grinned. “Fair enough. Just don’t forget where the free clothes come from.”

The team laughed, and as they headed out of the studio, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. Arsenal wasn’t just her team anymore—it was her family. And now, they were part of her brand’s story too.

As the team left the studio, buzzing with excitement from the shoot, Y/N couldn't help but feel a rush of contentment. The photoshoot had gone better than she’d imagined, and seeing her teammates so effortlessly embody the essence of her brand filled her with pride. They had no idea how much their support meant to her, and now, she was even more excited for the future of Immortal.

A few days passed, and the buzz around the shoot continued to grow among the team. Katie, of course, couldn’t stop bragging about the fact that she was now not just a footballer but a “fashion icon” too, as she dramatically put it. She had practically worn the Immortal hoodie everywhere since the shoot.

During a team breakfast one morning, as the girls sat around the cafeteria table, Leah was scrolling through her phone and grinning at something.

“Oi, Y/N,” Leah called, catching Y/N’s attention as she bit into a piece of toast. “Did you see this yet?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “See what?”

Leah held up her phone, revealing an early sneak peek of the campaign images that had been sent out to the Immortal email subscribers. Katie, Leah, Viv, Beth, and Alessia were all featured in different shots, looking effortlessly cool in Y/N’s designs.

“You look badass,” Leah said with a grin, pointing at her own image. “Look at me. I’m a model now.”

The girls leaned over to see the images, gathering around Leah’s phone with excited murmurs.

“Wait, is this live already?” Katie asked, her eyes wide. “I thought we’d have more time before this hit the internet!”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “Nah, those are just preview shots. The real launch is next week. But I had to give the subscribers something to hype them up.”

“I’m not gonna lie,” Alessia said, still staring at the photos. “We look incredible. You’re about to break the fashion world, Y/N.”

Beth chimed in, smirking. “And the football world too, when they realize we’re basically models now.”

The team erupted in laughter, and Katie playfully tossed her napkin at Beth. “As long as I’m the face of the brand, we’re good.”

“Oh, is that right?” Y/N teased, raising an eyebrow. “I think you’ve already taken over enough with that hoodie, Katie.”

Katie gave her a cheeky grin, tugging at the hoodie she still hadn’t taken off. “What can I say? It’s comfy.”

“Comfy and expensive,” Viv added with a smirk. “Y/N, you’re going to ruin us all with how much we’re going to want from your next collection.”

Y/N laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you all hooked up.”

The conversation flowed easily, with the girls still buzzing about the campaign and their newfound status as fashion models. It wasn’t long before Jonas Eidevall, Arsenal’s manager, strolled into the cafeteria. His usual no-nonsense expression softened when he saw the team gathered together, laughing and chatting.

“Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them, grabbing a cup of coffee.

“Morning, coach,” they all chorused, but Katie wasn’t about to miss her chance to share the news.

“Coach, you have to check this out,” she said, turning her phone screen toward Jonas, showing him the preview images from the shoot. “We’re officially fashion models now.”

Jonas gave them an amused look, sipping his coffee. “Fashion models, huh? Is this why I keep seeing those hoodies around? You’re all part of Y/N’s brand now?”

Y/N tried to downplay it, shrugging with a small smile. “It was just a fun campaign.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “I didn’t realize we had a fashion mogul in our ranks. Should I be worried that you’ll all switch careers?”

The team laughed, and Y/N shook her head. “Don’t worry, coach. Football comes first.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jonas said with a chuckle. “But I’ll say, it’s impressive what you’ve done with the brand, Y/N. It takes a lot of work to balance something like that with a professional football career.”

Y/N felt a wave of pride wash over her at the compliment. It wasn’t every day that she received recognition for her work outside of football, and hearing it from her manager made it all the more meaningful.

“Thanks, coach,” she replied, feeling her teammates' supportive gazes on her.

As Jonas walked away to take his coffee elsewhere, Katie turned to Y/N with a proud smile. “Look at you, getting compliments from the boss. You’re killing it, Y/N.”

Y/N chuckled, trying to brush off the attention. “It’s just a side thing.”

“Oh, please,” Leah teased, “stop being so humble. This is massive, and you know it.”

The girls continued their conversation, hyping up Y/N more than she could handle, when suddenly a notification buzzed on her phone. She glanced down and her eyes widened slightly.

“The preview just went live,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh my god!” Beth practically squealed. “Everyone’s gonna see this now.”

Seconds later, a flood of comments and messages started coming in from her brand’s social media. Fans were going wild, especially since Immortal had teased the involvement of Arsenal players in the campaign. Photos of Katie, Leah, and the others were already making rounds online, and the excitement was palpable.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, watching the chaos unfold as her teammates excitedly checked their phones, reacting to the flood of comments. She couldn’t help but smile at the whirlwind of excitement around her. This campaign was going to be bigger than she’d anticipated, and she was glad she had her teammates by her side for the ride.

Katie, of course, was the loudest, shouting to anyone who would listen. “I’m famous! Look at me, Arsenal’s number one model!”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, leaning over to Katie. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Katie slung an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, pulling her into a side hug. “And you love it. Admit it, Y/N, this campaign wouldn’t be half as cool without me.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late for that!” Katie shouted, making the whole team laugh again.

As the team celebrated their newfound fame in the fashion world, Y/N realized just how far she’d come in such a short time. Not only had she found her place at Arsenal, but she had also shared a part of herself with her new teammates—a part that she hadn’t even been sure they’d care about. And now, they were fully on board, embracing her passion with the same energy they brought to the pitch every day.

For the first time, Y/N felt like she wasn’t just the new girl anymore. She was truly part of the Arsenal family.

The next morning, Y/N walked into the Arsenal training center with her usual laid-back swagger. She was already feeling the weight of her phone vibrating in her pocket, notifications flooding in from her brand’s social media. It was a lot to take in, but she was buzzing with excitement. The campaign had taken off like wildfire, and she couldn’t have asked for a better response from fans or her teammates.

As she strolled into the cafeteria, she found most of the team gathered around the breakfast table, laughing and chatting. Katie was, as usual, at the center of it all, gesticulating wildly as she told some story Y/N didn’t catch the beginning of. Alessia and Leah were both giggling beside her, while Beth and Viv watched with amused smiles.

“Y/N! The star of the show!” Leah called out when she saw her, waving her over to their table.

“Oi, come sit,” Katie added, patting the empty chair beside her. “You missed the best part of my story.”

Y/N smirked and slid into the seat, playfully bumping her shoulder against Katie’s. “I’m sure it was riveting.”

Katie rolled her eyes but grinned. “You’re lucky you missed it; I’ll save the details for later.”

As Y/N grabbed some breakfast, she casually brought up something she had been mulling over all night. “So, I was thinking about the next step for Immortal.”

The table went quiet with interest, and everyone’s eyes were on her.

“I want to drop an exclusive line in collaboration with one of you,” Y/N said, nonchalantly sipping her coffee. “Something custom, something that really fits your vibe.”

Instantly, the table erupted into chaos.

Leah, Alessia, Beth, and Katie all started talking over each other, vying for Y/N’s attention.

“Obviously, it should be me,” Leah said, leaning forward, her tone teasing but with a competitive edge. “I’ve got the perfect aesthetic. Sporty and clean, you know? It’s what your brand needs.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Katie interrupted, her voice loud and confident as usual. “You’ve got to do it with me. Think about it—bold, unapologetic, fearless. I’m literally the face of this brand already.”

Beth chimed in, her smile mischievous. “I’d bring a bit of chill energy, you know? Something for the laid-back fans, the ones who want comfort without compromising style.”

“And I’m telling you,” Alessia cut in, pointing to herself, “a collaboration with me would be killer. I’ve got that girl-next-door thing going on. People would eat it up.”

Y/N watched the chaos unfold, trying to stifle her laughter as her teammates pitched themselves one after the other. They were all so animated, throwing out ideas and trying to convince her why they’d be the perfect collaborator.

Katie, of course, was the loudest, almost standing up in her seat as she went on about how much influence she’d bring to the brand. “Come on, Y/N, you know I’m the obvious choice. Imagine it—McCabe x Immortal. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Y/N chuckled, looking around at the group. “You guys are really making this hard.”

Before she could say anything else, Kyra wandered into the cafeteria, grabbing a banana from the counter. She hadn’t been part of the pitch battle yet and seemed oblivious to what was going on.

Leah leaned over toward Y/N, lowering her voice with a smirk. “You know if you pick Katie, we’ll never hear the end of it, right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes good-naturedly, knowing Leah was probably right. But as she watched Kyra casually walking past the table, her mind sparked with an idea.

“Hey, Kyra,” Y/N called out, causing her to stop mid-step.

Kyra raised an eyebrow, looking a little confused but amused. “Yeah?”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at her lips. “How do you feel about doing a custom line with Immortal?”

The room went dead silent. All eyes snapped to Kyra, whose expression morphed from confusion to surprise in an instant.

“Me?” she asked, pointing to herself. “You’re serious?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got a unique style. I think we could come up with something sick together. What do you think?”

Kyra blinked a few times, then broke into a grin. “Hell yeah! I’d love to!”

The rest of the table stared in stunned silence, and the moment the reality sank in, Katie’s jaw dropped.

“What?” Katie spluttered, glaring at Y/N like she’d been betrayed. “You picked Kyra? What about me? We’ve been best mates for years! I’m the obvious choice!”

Leah snorted, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter, while Beth and Alessia exchanged amused looks.

Y/N gave Katie a calm smile, trying not to laugh at how genuinely offended she seemed. “It’s not like I won’t do something with you eventually, Katie. I just thought Kyra’s vibe would be perfect for this particular line. Plus, she hasn’t been hounding me about it like someone has.”

Katie crossed her arms, pouting in her seat. “You’re breaking my heart, Y/N. I thought we had something special.”

Y/N snickered, leaning over to nudge her playfully. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ll get your moment.”

But Katie wasn’t letting it go. She turned to Kyra, narrowing her eyes. “You better not screw this up, Kyra.”

Kyra, now fully caught up in the moment, just grinned at Katie. “Don’t worry, McCabe. I’ll do the brand justice.”

Katie muttered something under her breath, still pouting as the rest of the table laughed at her over-the-top reaction. Leah and Alessia were practically crying from laughter, while Beth was already planning how she could poke fun at Katie later.

“You’re so jealous, Katie,” Leah teased, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s actually hilarious.”

“I’m not jealous,” Katie shot back, though the fire in her eyes told a different story. “I’m just saying it should’ve been me. You’ll regret this, Y/N.”

Y/N raised her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, maybe next time. But for now, it’s Kyra’s turn.”

Kyra beamed, sitting down beside Y/N and slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Y/N. We’re gonna kill this collab.”

Katie huffed dramatically, but there was a playful glint in her eye now. “Fine, whatever. But if you make a second collab without me, we’re done.”

“Deal,” Y/N said with a grin, enjoying every second of Katie’s theatrics.

The rest of breakfast was filled with teasing banter, and despite Katie’s initial jealousy, she couldn’t stay mad for long. The excitement over the potential collaboration with Kyra soon took over the conversation, and by the end of the meal, even Katie was throwing in ideas for what Kyra’s line could look like.

But as they left the table, Y/N couldn’t resist leaning over to Katie and whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got something special planned for you. Just wait.”

Katie’s pout disappeared, replaced with a sly smile. “You better, Y/N.”

As the team headed off to training, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a wave of excitement for what was to come. The collab with Kyra was going to be epic, but she also knew Katie wouldn’t let her forget that her time in the spotlight was still coming.

The collaboration with Kyra had been a massive success, with Immortal’s custom line selling out within hours of its release. The bold, daring designs had been a perfect reflection of Kyra’s personality, and the fans had loved it. But, as promised, Y/N hadn’t forgotten about Katie. In fact, ever since Katie’s dramatic reaction at breakfast, Y/N had been brainstorming ideas for what their collaboration would look like.

She wanted it to be something special, something that reflected not just Katie’s style but her fiery personality and leadership on the pitch. And, after weeks of planning, the perfect concept had come to mind: Fearless.

Now, it was time to pitch the idea to Katie.

Y/N found her sitting in the locker room after a particularly grueling training session. Katie was sprawled out on one of the benches, half-drinking from a water bottle while chatting with Leah, who was equally wiped out. The sight made Y/N smile—Katie looked so relaxed compared to her usual high-energy self.

“Katie, you got a minute?” Y/N asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Katie glanced up, her face lighting up instantly. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this. What do you have for me?”

Leah nudged Katie with a smirk. “I’ll leave you two to it. Can’t wait to see what Y/N comes up with this time.”

With a wink, Leah left the room, leaving Y/N and Katie alone. Y/N walked over, sitting beside Katie on the bench and pulling out a folder filled with sketches and mood boards.

“Alright,” Y/N started, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what our collab should look like. I want it to be something bold, something that screams Katie McCabe. You’re fearless, both on and off the pitch, and I want this line to reflect that.”

Katie’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she sat up straighter. “Go on…”

Y/N opened the folder, revealing the first set of designs. The theme was striking—sharp, clean lines with edgy details like ripped denim, leather accents, and bold color schemes. The central piece was a black leather jacket with “Fearless” embroidered on the back in fiery red letters, alongside an abstract design that looked like flames.

“I’m calling it the Fearless collection,” Y/N explained. “It’s inspired by your personality. The kind of confidence and boldness you have when you step onto the pitch. I want people to feel unstoppable when they wear this.”

Katie’s jaw dropped as she flipped through the designs, her hands running over the sketches like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Y/N… this is unreal,” Katie muttered, clearly in awe. “This is exactly what I wanted, but better. The jacket, the color palette—it’s so me.”

Y/N smirked. “I know, right? I thought it’d be perfect. We’ll also have custom cleats, streetwear pieces, and accessories. All of it ties into that fearless energy you bring every day.”

Katie was quiet for a moment, still taking it all in, but Y/N could tell she was thrilled. Finally, she looked up, her usual cocky grin returning.

“You nailed it,” Katie said, standing up and pulling Y/N into a hug. “This is gonna be epic. The fans are going to lose their minds.”

Y/N hugged her back, laughing at how excited Katie was. “I’m glad you love it. Now, I just need you to model a few pieces for the promo shoot.”

Katie pulled back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You mean I get to show off? Count me in.”

A few days later, the team gathered in the studio for the Fearless collection shoot. Katie was buzzing with energy, strutting around the set in the pieces from her collection. She was wearing the signature leather jacket, paired with ripped black jeans and boots that screamed “badass.”

The other players were there, too, watching the shoot unfold. Leah, Alessia, Kyra, and Beth were all leaning against the wall, throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment as Katie posed for the camera.

“You’re loving this way too much, McCabe,” Leah called out, laughing when Katie dramatically flipped her jacket’s collar.

Katie shot her a look. “Jealous, Williamson? Don’t worry, maybe Y/N will let you model in the next shoot.”

Leah rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the amusement on her face.

Y/N, standing behind the camera with the photographer, couldn’t help but smile. Katie was completely in her element, commanding attention with every pose. The theme of the collection suited her perfectly, and it showed in how effortlessly she wore each piece.

As the shoot continued, Y/N found herself feeling proud. This collaboration wasn’t just about making clothes—it was about showcasing the side of Katie that everyone admired. She was strong, fearless, and unapologetically herself, and now, her personality was immortalized in fashion.

“Alright, Katie, that’s a wrap,” the photographer said after the final shot.

Katie strutted over to Y/N, grinning like she’d just won a match. “That was amazing. You’re a genius, Y/N.”

Y/N chuckled, giving her a playful shove. “I told you I’d make it worth the wait.”

“You definitely did,” Katie agreed, glancing at the jacket she was wearing. “I can’t wait to see people walking around in this.”

As the rest of the team gathered around to check out the final shots, Y/N caught sight of Katie watching her. There was a rare softness in her expression, and she stepped closer, her voice quieter now.

“Hey,” Katie said, bumping Y/N’s shoulder. “Thanks for this. I know I was a pain about it, but you really nailed it.”

Y/N grinned, bumping her back. “You’re welcome. But I wouldn’t call you a pain. More like… passionate.”

Katie laughed, shaking her head. “Whatever you say.”

She slung an arm around Y/N’s shoulders, and as they walked back toward the rest of the team, Y/N felt a sense of contentment. The Fearless collection was going to be a massive success, but more than that, it had brought her and Katie even closer.

And as they joined their teammates, with everyone buzzing about the new line, Y/N couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was only the beginning.

The match against Chelsea was a high-stakes one, a clash between two of the best teams in the league. It was fast-paced, with tackles flying in and tension building as the clock ticked down. The atmosphere was electric—fans roaring, adrenaline running through every player’s veins, and Y/N right in the thick of it. She’d been in brilliant form all season, and this game was no different.

Y/N had always prided herself on her speed, agility, and ability to weave through defenses effortlessly. She’d just danced past two defenders when she spotted a gap in the Chelsea backline. With the ball at her feet, she charged forward, eyes locked on the goal.

And then it happened.

In the blink of an eye, as Y/N was about to take her shot, a Chelsea defender came in with a hard, mistimed tackle. Y/N felt the impact before she even realized what had happened. The crack in her knee echoed in her ears as she collapsed to the ground, clutching her leg in agony.

Time seemed to slow. The roar of the crowd dimmed, replaced by a ringing in her ears. All she could feel was the searing pain shooting through her knee, every nerve on fire. Her heart raced, panic settling in as she tried to move, but her leg wouldn’t respond.

"Y/N! Oh my God, Y/N!" Katie's voice was the first she registered, followed by the concerned faces of her teammates rushing over.

Y/N's breath came in short, shallow gasps as she lay on the grass, her vision blurring from the pain. The medics were on her within seconds, their hands gently prodding her leg, but she already knew. Something was terribly wrong.

“Katie…” Y/N whispered through gritted teeth, tears filling her eyes as the reality began to sink in. “I can’t move my leg.”

Katie knelt beside her, her face pale as she reached for Y/N’s hand. “Don’t say that. It’ll be fine. The medics will fix you up, yeah?”

Y/N tried to nod, but the pain was too much. She could barely focus as the medics worked around her, their concerned expressions doing little to comfort her.

The stretcher arrived quickly, and as they carefully lifted her onto it, Y/N’s heart ached more than her leg. The crowd’s cheers faded into background noise, and she could only focus on the tears that slipped down Katie’s face as she walked beside her, holding her hand tightly.

“Stay with me, okay?” Katie whispered, her voice shaking. “You’re gonna be okay, Y/N. You have to be.”

Y/N wanted to believe her. She wanted to hold on to that hope, but something deep inside her told her otherwise. The way her leg had twisted, the way her knee had buckled—it felt catastrophic.

The ride to the hospital was a blur. Y/N drifted in and out of consciousness, the painkillers numbing her enough to dull the physical pain, but nothing could touch the growing dread in her chest.

Hours passed before the team doctor finally approached her after the MRI. Y/N sat in the sterile hospital bed, Katie at her side, fingers still intertwined.

The doctor sighed, his expression grim. “Y/N, I’m afraid the damage is extensive. You’ve torn your ACL, MCL, and PCL, along with significant damage to the meniscus. The recovery time… well, it’s going to be long. And even then, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to return to professional football.”

Y/N’s world shattered with those words.

She stared at the doctor, unable to speak, the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on her like a physical force. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All she could do was replay the moment over and over in her mind—her foot planted, the crack in her knee, the way she had fallen. How could it all end like this?

Beside her, Katie stiffened, her grip on Y/N’s hand tightening. “No… no, there has to be something else. Surgery? Rehab? Y/N can’t just—she can’t just stop playing.”

The doctor’s sympathetic gaze shifted to Katie. “There will be surgeries, multiple, but the extent of the damage… it’s unlikely she’ll return to her previous level of play. I’m sorry.”

Y/N’s chest constricted, her pulse hammering in her ears. She’d dreamed of playing at the highest level since she was a kid, sacrificed everything for it. And now, it was being ripped away from her in a single moment.

Katie looked at her, her own eyes red and puffy, tears threatening to spill. “Y/N…”

“I…” Y/N swallowed, her voice hoarse. “I don’t know what to do.”

Katie pulled her into a tight hug, burying her face in Y/N’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We’ll figure it out together. You’re not alone.”

But Y/N couldn’t bring herself to believe that. Football was all she’d ever known, all she’d ever wanted. Without it… who was she?

Days passed in a blur of surgeries, hospital visits, and endless hours of rehab. Y/N’s teammates visited often, bringing flowers and cards, but nothing could lift the crushing weight in her chest. The reality of her situation hung over her like a dark cloud.

Katie was with her every step of the way, never leaving her side, but Y/N could feel the strain it was putting on both of them. There were moments where Y/N would catch Katie watching her with a sadness in her eyes, as if she didn’t know how to fix the situation.

And the truth was, no one could fix it.

Months into her rehab, sitting in the gym, watching her teammates train from the sidelines, Y/N felt the full force of her loss. Watching them run drills, laughing, and playing the game she loved, it hit her all over again. She would never step foot on the pitch as a player again.

As she sat there, her leg in a brace, Katie came up behind her and gently wrapped her arms around Y/N's shoulders, resting her chin on Y/N's head.

“I’m so proud of you, you know that?” Katie whispered softly.

Y/N blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Proud of what? That I can barely bend my knee?”

“No,” Katie said, squeezing her tighter. “For getting through this. For staying strong when everything felt impossible.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, leaning back into Katie’s embrace. “I don’t feel strong, Katie. I feel… lost.”

Katie kissed the top of her head. “You’re not lost. You’ll find your way, and I’ll be right there with you, whatever that looks like.”

And for the first time since the injury, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could still find a way forward—even if it wasn’t the path she had envisioned.

The weeks following Y/N’s injury were some of the hardest days of her life. Rehab was grueling—slow and painful, both physically and emotionally. Every day was a reminder of what she had lost, and even with Katie constantly by her side, it felt like an endless uphill battle.

Y/N spent most of her days in a daze, going through the motions of physical therapy, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt detached, like she was watching her own life from a distance. Football had been everything to her, and without it, she didn’t know who she was anymore.

Katie could see the toll it was taking. Y/N wasn’t herself. She was quieter, more withdrawn, her once fiery personality dulled by the weight of everything she was going through. Katie hated seeing her like this, and she knew she had to do something to help pull her best friend out of the darkness.

One evening, after another long and silent day of rehab, Katie sat beside Y/N on the couch, watching as she absentmindedly scrolled through her phone. She noticed Y/N was lingering on some photos from her clothing line—the one she had kept secret for so long.

Katie nudged her gently. “You know, your clothing line is pretty incredible,” she said, keeping her tone light.

Y/N barely looked up, shrugging. “It’s just a side thing, Katie. It doesn’t really matter now.”

Katie’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t matter? Y/N, it’s a huge deal. Do you know how many people would kill to be able to create something like that? And you did it while playing football at the highest level. That’s insane.”

Y/N let out a sigh, still not meeting Katie’s eyes. “Yeah, but football was always the priority. The clothing thing was just a distraction.”

Katie sat up straighter, her voice firm but gentle. “Maybe it started as a distraction, but it’s more than that now. You built something that people love, Y/N. People respect your work. And now, you’ve got all this time… Maybe this is your chance to really focus on it.”

Y/N finally looked up, her eyes heavy with doubt. “You think I can just switch from football to… fashion? Like it’s that easy?”

Katie smiled softly, placing a hand on Y/N’s knee. “I think you’ve got talent in both. And I think you need something to pour yourself into right now. You love fashion, Y/N. Every time you talk about your brand, you light up. It’s the only time recently I’ve seen you excited about anything.”

Y/N frowned, her mind racing. The clothing line had always been a passion project, something she did on the side, never something she imagined focusing on full-time. But Katie’s words stuck with her. Could this really be her new path?

“I don’t know…” Y/N muttered, her uncertainty palpable.

Katie gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to know everything right now. But just… try. Start designing again. Get involved in your brand like you used to. You’re still Y/N—the girl who built something incredible out of nothing. You’re more than just football, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

Y/N stared down at her hands, the weight of Katie’s words slowly sinking in. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think about her clothing line seriously. The injury had consumed her every thought, every worry, and she’d pushed everything else to the side.

But maybe… maybe Katie was right.

The next day, Katie took matters into her own hands. She surprised Y/N with a visit to the small design studio where Y/N used to work on her brand. Y/N hadn’t been there in months, too caught up in football and then her injury to even think about it.

As they walked in, Y/N hesitated, glancing around at the racks of clothes, the sketches pinned to the walls, the mood boards she’d abandoned in the chaos of her life.

Katie nudged her forward. “Come on, Y/N. This place used to be your sanctuary.”

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding as she stepped inside. Memories flooded back—late nights designing, the excitement of launching new collections, the thrill of seeing people wear her clothes. There was a spark inside her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Katie grinned, watching Y/N’s eyes light up as she walked around the studio. “You still love this, don’t you?”

Y/N nodded slowly, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Yeah… I do.”

“Then do something about it,” Katie urged. “Start designing again. Release something new. You’ve got the time now, Y/N. And you’ve got the talent.”

Y/N stared at the blank sketchpad on the table, her fingers itching to pick up a pencil. She hadn’t designed anything since before the injury, hadn’t let herself even think about fashion. But now, standing here, in the space she’d created, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Katie leaned against the table, her arms crossed, watching Y/N closely. “You could do an exclusive line or something. Work with one of the girls, make it special. Hell, you’ve already got half the team wearing your clothes, so you know they’re fans.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling a bit of the weight lift off her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess I could.”

Katie’s smile widened. “There’s the Y/N I know. The girl who takes risks, who’s not afraid to go after what she wants.”

Y/N glanced at Katie, her heart warming at the sight of her best friend’s unwavering support. “What would I do without you?”

Katie shrugged, teasing. “Probably wallow in self-pity and eat all the ice cream in London.”

Y/N laughed, the sound a little lighter than it had been in weeks. She picked up the pencil, the feel of it familiar and comforting in her hand. Maybe this was what she needed—a new direction, a new purpose.

And she had Katie by her side, pushing her forward, believing in her even when she didn’t believe in herself.

With a deep breath, Y/N sat down at the table, flipping open the sketchpad. Her mind buzzed with ideas, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt excited about the future.

Katie moved to stand behind her, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got this, Y/N. I know you do.”

Y/N smiled up at her, feeling the warmth of Katie’s words wrap around her like a safety net. “Thanks, Katie. For everything.”

“Always,” Katie replied softly, her eyes full of affection. “Now, show me what you’re working on. I might just have to be your first customer.”

Months after Y/N had rediscovered her passion for fashion, her clothing brand had taken off in ways she never imagined. With Katie’s constant encouragement and the support of her teammates, Y/N was back to designing full-time, pouring her heart and soul into every piece. She had launched a new collection, which had been met with rave reviews, and her reputation in the fashion world had only grown.

Then came the call that would change everything.

Arsenal’s board reached out to Y/N with an offer she never expected: they wanted her brand to collaborate with the club to design next season’s kit. It was an opportunity most designers could only dream of—a chance to combine her love for football with her passion for fashion, and to leave a lasting legacy with the club she’d once played for.

When she first got the call, Y/N was speechless, her mind racing with possibilities. Arsenal was her home, even though she could no longer play. This was her chance to stay connected with the sport and the team in a new way, while showcasing her brand on one of the biggest stages in football.

Katie was the first person Y/N told, of course. She nearly tackled Y/N in excitement when she heard the news.

“No way! You’re going to design the next Arsenal kit? That’s massive!” Katie exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement as she paced around their living room. “Do you know how many designers would kill for this opportunity?”

Y/N grinned, still processing the magnitude of it all. “Yeah, it’s pretty surreal.”

Katie stopped pacing and grabbed Y/N by the shoulders. “You’re going to crush this, Y/N. I know it.”

With Arsenal’s backing and a tight deadline, Y/N threw herself into the project. She wanted the kit to reflect not just the club’s heritage, but also the culture and creativity her brand had become known for. She spent weeks sketching, designing, and meeting with the Arsenal team to perfect the kit. It had to be bold, yet timeless. A symbol of strength, unity, and the passion of the fans and players alike.

Finally, the day came to unveil the design to the team.

Arsenal had arranged a private meeting for Y/N to reveal the kit to the players and staff before the official release. As she stood in front of the group, holding her breath, Katie sat at the front of the crowd, her grin encouraging Y/N from across the room.

Y/N cleared her throat, nerves buzzing through her body. “Alright, so… this is it,” she began, gesturing to the sleek cover over the mannequins that stood in the center of the room. “I wanted this kit to represent Arsenal’s legacy but also bring in something new, something fresh. A mix of tradition and the future.”

With a swift pull, Y/N uncovered the kits. The room went silent for a beat, and then a collective gasp of awe rippled through the crowd.

The home kit was stunning: a deep, rich red with subtle geometric patterns woven into the fabric, representing the architectural lines of the Emirates Stadium. The sleeves and collar featured sleek, modern white accents, while the famous Arsenal crest was outlined in gold, giving it a touch of elegance. It was bold yet classic, a perfect blend of Y/N’s fashion-forward designs and Arsenal’s storied history.

The away kit was a statement in itself—a striking black with intricate detailing of North London streets subtly mapped into the fabric. The fluorescent accents in Arsenal’s gold and red lit up the design, adding flair without losing the focus on its sophistication.

The third kit was more daring, with abstract patterns that paid homage to the diverse cultures and streetwear influences that inspired Y/N’s brand. It was an explosion of color—vibrant and fearless, just like Arsenal’s fighting spirit.

The players erupted in excitement.

“Mate, that’s unreal!” Leah Williamson shouted, her eyes wide with admiration as she stepped closer to the mannequins, running her fingers over the fabric. “This is next level, Y/N.”

Alessia Russo nodded in agreement. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s fresh, but it still feels like Arsenal. You nailed it.”

The entire room buzzed with energy, players exchanging excited glances and murmuring about how amazing it would feel to step out on the pitch in Y/N’s designs.

Katie, of course, was practically vibrating with pride. “I told you! I told you, you were going to kill it!” she shouted, beaming at Y/N.

The team’s excitement filled Y/N with a deep sense of pride, and for the first time since her injury, she felt like she had a place again. She might not be playing on the pitch, but her contribution would live on in a way she’d never imagined.

The collaboration was set to be one of the biggest talking points of the upcoming season, with fans eagerly awaiting the official release. But behind the scenes, the players couldn’t contain their excitement about the kits they’d soon be wearing.

After the reveal, Jonas Eidevall approached Y/N with a genuine smile. “You’ve done something special here, Y/N. This isn’t just a kit—it’s a part of Arsenal now.”

Y/N blushed, overwhelmed by the response. “Thanks, Jonas. It means a lot, especially coming from you.”

Katie bounded over and threw her arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “We need a party to celebrate this, right?” she asked, winking at the group.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “It’s just a kit, Katie.”

“No, it’s not just a kit,” Leah interjected, grinning. “It’s the best kit Arsenal’s ever had, and you’re the genius behind it.”

Y/N smiled as the room erupted into applause, her heart swelling with a sense of belonging. She hadn’t lost everything after all. This was her purpose now. Her legacy, not just in football, but in a way that allowed her creativity to shine through.

And through it all, she had Katie by her side, pushing her to be more, reminding her of who she really was—even when Y/N had forgotten herself.

After the success of her Arsenal kit collaboration, Y/N had been riding a wave of inspiration. Her brand had grown exponentially, with new collections flying off the shelves, and her next big project was something she’d always dreamed of: an upscale luxury party wear line. Sleek, elegant, and designed for people who wanted to make a statement—this collection was her chance to branch out beyond streetwear and athletic fashion into something more high-end.

The timing couldn’t have been better. With the FIFA Best Awards coming up, several of Y/N’s Arsenal teammates were nominated, and they were all buzzing with excitement. Katie had been going on for weeks about what to wear, while Alessia, Leah, and the rest of the girls teased her relentlessly.

Y/N, of course, had an idea.

“What if I dressed you all for the awards?” she casually suggested one day during lunch at the training ground, her eyes glinting mischievously as she looked around the table.

The entire room went quiet for a moment as her words sunk in.

“What do you mean?” Alessia asked, wide-eyed.

“I mean, I’m working on a new line. Upscale, luxury party wear,” Y/N explained, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “I could design custom outfits for each of you to wear on the red carpet. Trust me, you’ll look incredible.”

The girls stared at her in stunned silence for a few seconds before Katie practically jumped out of her seat.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Katie asked, her eyes lighting up. “Y/N, you’ve been holding out on us!”

Leah raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Luxury party wear, huh? I didn’t know you were venturing into that.”

Y/N shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. And what better way to debut it than by having you lot wear it to the FIFA Best Awards?”

Katie shot out of her chair, throwing her arms around Y/N. “This is brilliant! I’m going to look so good, I’ll steal the show.”

Alessia grinned. “You mean we will steal the show.”

The excitement spread quickly as all the girls clamored for details, eager to hear what Y/N had in mind for their looks. Over the next few days, she met with each of them individually to discuss their style preferences, and soon the designs were underway.

A week before the awards, Y/N had the final fittings ready. She had converted part of her flat into a makeshift studio, where she could work on the dresses and suits and ensure they fit perfectly.

Katie was the first to try on her outfit, and she looked absolutely stunning. Y/N had designed her a sleek, black velvet jumpsuit with a deep V neckline and gold chain detailing at the waist. It was edgy, classy, and had just the right amount of boldness to match Katie’s personality.

“I feel like a bloody movie star,” Katie said, grinning as she looked at herself in the mirror. She turned to Y/N, giving her a playful wink. “You’ve outdone yourself, Y/N.”

“You haven’t even seen the others yet,” Y/N teased, adjusting one of the chains on Katie’s outfit. “Trust me, you’re all going to look incredible.”

Alessia’s dress was a soft champagne-colored satin gown with a high slit, delicate straps, and a low, open back. It was elegant and sophisticated, fitting her calm, graceful demeanor. She twirled in front of the mirror, the fabric flowing around her as she beamed at Y/N.

“This is gorgeous,” Alessia whispered, almost in awe. “I never thought I’d wear something like this.”

“You pull it off better than anyone,” Y/N replied, smiling as she watched Alessia’s reaction. “You’re going to turn heads for sure.”

Leah’s outfit was a tailored white suit with silver embellishments on the blazer. It was sharp, powerful, and oozed confidence—just like the woman wearing it. Leah glanced at herself in the mirror, the corners of her mouth curling into a pleased smirk.

“I like it. Strong, but not too much,” Leah said, turning to face Y/N. “How did you know this was exactly what I wanted?”

Y/N shrugged. “I pay attention. You’re a natural in it.”

One by one, the rest of the girls came in for their fittings, each one stunned by the craftsmanship and attention to detail in their custom looks. The excitement in the room was palpable as the FIFA Best Awards drew closer, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride as she watched her teammates react to the pieces she had created.

The night of the awards arrived, and Y/N’s designs were finally revealed to the world.

As the team arrived at the red carpet, photographers’ flashes lit up the night, capturing every moment. Katie strutted confidently, her black velvet jumpsuit catching the light with every step. Leah walked beside her, radiating power in her white suit, while Alessia’s satin gown shimmered under the camera flashes.

The media went wild, and the questions started pouring in.

“Who are you wearing?” one reporter asked Katie.

Katie grinned, pointing to Y/N who stood at the back of the group, dressed in her own chic black ensemble. “It’s all Y/N’s brand. She designed everything.”

Y/N couldn’t help but blush as the attention shifted to her. “I just wanted them to feel as confident and amazing as they are,” she said, trying to stay humble as the cameras focused on her.

The girls laughed and pulled her into the spotlight, posing with her for the cameras. They were all glowing, not just from the glamour of the night but from the bond they shared and the confidence that Y/N’s designs had given them.

As the night continued and they mingled with other players and celebrities, people kept stopping them to ask about their outfits, praising Y/N’s designs and her talent.

“You really knocked it out of the park,” Katie whispered to Y/N at one point, her arm slung around her best friend’s shoulders. “Everyone’s talking about your line. This is going to blow up.”

Y/N smiled, her heart full. “Thanks, Katie. I couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

Katie grinned. “Yeah, but don’t forget—I looked the best tonight.”

Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, McCabe.”

As the night went on, Y/N realized that her journey was far from over. The success of her brand was only just beginning, and with her friends by her side, she felt unstoppable. Fashion, football, friendship—she had it all, and she couldn’t wait to see where it would take her next.

The FIFA Best Awards night had barely wrapped up, but the buzz surrounding Y/N’s luxury party wear collection hadn’t died down. Social media was flooded with photos of the Arsenal girls in their custom outfits, and fans were clamoring for more. Y/N was overwhelmed with messages—praise for her designs, inquiries from fashion insiders, and countless new followers. Her brand had already made a name for itself in the streetwear scene, but this was something else entirely. This was a whole new level.

A few days after the awards, Y/N received an unexpected message. A famous fashion designer, someone she had admired from afar for years, had reached out.

"Would love to meet. I have an exciting opportunity for you. Let me know when you're free. — Adrien Duval."

Adrien Duval was one of the biggest names in high fashion. Known for pushing boundaries and creating art through clothing, his shows were the talk of every major fashion week. Y/N had grown up admiring his work, and now, here he was, reaching out to her.

Excitement coursed through her as she replied, setting up a meeting at a high-end café in central London. The anticipation was almost unbearable, but Y/N kept it cool as she arrived at the café, trying to hide the fact that she was, in fact, completely starstruck.

When she walked in, she immediately spotted Adrien sitting at a table near the window, sipping on an espresso. He looked exactly as she’d imagined—tall, impeccably dressed, with an aura of effortless style and authority. When he saw her, he stood up and offered a warm smile.

“Y/N, it’s a pleasure,” Adrien greeted, shaking her hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” Y/N replied, trying not to let her nerves show as they sat down. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this. You’re… well, you're an icon.”

Adrien chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re too kind. But I have to say, I’ve been keeping an eye on your work. Your collection at the FIFA Best Awards—it was spectacular. The perfect combination of boldness and elegance. You’ve got something special, Y/N.”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck, but she nodded. “Thank you. I’m just trying to push the boundaries a little.”

“And you’re doing it brilliantly,” Adrien replied, his tone sincere. He leaned in slightly, his expression more serious now. “I’ve come to you with an opportunity. London Fashion Week is approaching, and I think your brand would be a perfect fit. I’d like to offer you the chance to host your own show.”

Y/N blinked, not quite sure if she’d heard him right. “You’re serious?”

Adrien nodded. “I don’t say this lightly. Your work is fresh, innovative, and it's time for the world to see that on the biggest stage. Your brand is already turning heads, but a show at London Fashion Week could catapult you to another level.”

Y/N sat back in her chair, trying to process what he was saying. A fashion show at London Fashion Week. The pinnacle of high fashion, where the most elite designers showcased their collections. It was an opportunity she had always dreamed about, but never imagined would come so soon.

“What do you think?” Adrien asked, watching her reaction closely.

“I… wow, I don’t even know what to say,” Y/N admitted, still in a bit of shock. “It’s an incredible offer. I’d love to do it.”

Adrien smiled, clearly pleased with her response. “Excellent. I had a feeling you’d be up for the challenge. The logistics can be worked out later, but I wanted to make sure I extended the invitation personally. You’re going to do great things, Y/N, and I want to be a part of it.”

The rest of the meeting was a blur of excitement and planning. Adrien explained the process, how the show would work, and what Y/N would need to prepare in the coming months. He offered advice, tips, and even suggested a few big-name models who could potentially walk in her show.

By the time Y/N left the café, her mind was racing. London Fashion Week. She could hardly believe it. The opportunity felt surreal, but she knew she was ready. Her passion for fashion, the endless nights of designing, and her dedication to her brand had all led to this moment. Now, it was her chance to take it to the next level.

As she walked down the street, her phone buzzed with a message from Katie.

Katie: "Heard you had a meeting. What’s up?"

Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she typed back her response.

Y/N: "Just got asked to do a show at London Fashion Week."

Katie: "SHUT UP. Are you serious?!"

Y/N: "Dead serious."

There was a pause, and then her phone rang. Y/N answered with a laugh. “You couldn’t just text?”

Katie’s voice was practically vibrating with excitement. “London Fashion Week? Y/N, that’s massive! I knew you were killing it, but this is next level. We’re all coming to that show, no question.”

Y/N smiled, her heart warm at the support from her best friend. “Thanks, Katie. I’m still wrapping my head around it, but yeah, it’s happening.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Katie said, her tone softer now. “You deserve this. You’ve worked so hard.”

Y/N felt a lump in her throat at Katie’s words. “Thanks, McCabe. You’ve been there every step of the way.”

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Katie promised. “You better make me something killer to wear to the show.”

Y/N laughed. “You know I’ve got you covered.”

As she hung up, Y/N looked out at the city around her, her heart swelling with gratitude and excitement. The journey had only just begun, but she knew, with Katie and the rest of the team by her side, there was nothing she couldn’t achieve.

London Fashion Week, here she came.

The night of London Fashion Week had arrived, and the buzz surrounding Y/N’s debut show was electric. Backstage, the energy was palpable—models getting last-minute touch-ups, stylists tweaking outfits, and assistants running around to make sure everything was perfect. Y/N stood off to the side, watching the chaos unfold, her heart pounding in her chest. She had spent months designing this collection, pouring her soul into each piece, and now, it was finally about to be shown to the world.

But something else weighed heavy on her mind.

For so long, football had been her identity. It was the only thing she knew growing up, the only thing she ever dreamed about. But after her career-ending injury, it was as if a part of her had died. She’d been searching for a way to fill that void, and while her clothing line had given her something to focus on, she had never fully accepted that she could truly leave football behind. It was still there, haunting her in the background, a reminder of what could have been.

Katie and a few of her Arsenal teammates were sitting front row, all dressed in pieces from her collection, cheering her on. They’d been her biggest supporters through everything, but Katie had always been the one to push her, to remind her that there was life beyond football. Tonight felt like a culmination of all the hard work, the sleepless nights, the creative struggles—but more than that, it felt like a chance to finally let go.

The lights in the venue dimmed, and the music began to pulse through the speakers. It was time. Y/N took a deep breath, nodding to her team, and the first model stepped out onto the runway.

As each look made its way down the catwalk, Y/N felt a strange mix of emotions. Pride, relief, excitement—but also a sense of closure. The crowd was in awe, their eyes glued to the collection she had crafted with her own hands. Every piece told a story, not just of her as a designer but of her journey—her pain, her growth, her evolution.

Katie caught her eye from the front row, giving her a thumbs up and mouthing, “You’re killing it.” Y/N smiled, feeling her heart swell with gratitude. This was her new purpose, her new path.

The final look came out, and the applause was deafening. Y/N could barely hear herself think as the models lined up for the final walk. She stepped out onto the runway with them, feeling the weight of the moment hit her. The crowd stood up, giving her a standing ovation, but all Y/N could focus on was the sense of peace settling over her.

She walked the length of the runway, giving a small wave to the audience, but when she reached the end, she found Katie’s eyes again. There was a knowing look in them, as if Katie understood exactly what Y/N was feeling. And in that moment, Y/N knew.

She could finally let go.

As the applause faded and the lights dimmed, Y/N stood there, taking it all in. Football had been her first love, and losing it had broken her in ways she never thought possible. But standing on that runway, basking in the glow of her success as a designer, she realized she didn’t need football anymore. She had found something else, something that allowed her to express herself in ways she never could on the pitch.

Backstage, as the models and crew celebrated the success of the show, Y/N found a quiet corner to sit down. She needed a moment to breathe, to process what had just happened. Katie found her shortly after, sliding into the seat next to her, nudging her playfully.

“You did it,” Katie said, her voice full of pride. “That was incredible.”

Y/N smiled, leaning back against the wall. “I can’t believe it’s over.”

“It’s only the beginning,” Katie reminded her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “But I think you know that.”

Y/N nodded, exhaling deeply. “Yeah. I think… I think I’m ready to move on.”

Katie’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

Y/N looked down at her hands, feeling the weight of her words. “For the longest time, I was holding on to this idea that I couldn’t be anything without football. But tonight… I felt like I found something that fills that part of me. I think I can finally accept that it’s okay to let football go.”

Katie squeezed her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Y/N. You’ve come so far. And look at what you’ve built. It’s incredible.”

Y/N smiled, feeling lighter than she had in years. “Thank you, Katie. For everything. I don’t think I could’ve gotten here without you.”

Katie grinned, pulling her into a side hug. “You’ve always had it in you, mate. I just gave you a little push.”

Y/N laughed, but there were tears in her eyes as she hugged Katie back. For the first time since her injury, she didn’t feel like she had lost anything. She had gained something new—a purpose, a passion, and a future.

And now, she was ready to embrace it fully.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End

#offside story #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso #woso soccer #leah williamson

187 notes · View notes

shurisneakers · 4 months ago

Text

saturn

summary: close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for. (OR) you die. bucky tries to bring you back.

warnings: angst. death. body horror (being revived from death and the processes that follow). sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan. The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower.

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life."

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again.

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds.

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of.

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no.

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating. Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?”

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious.

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning.

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door. The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound.

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice– staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation.

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep.

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even. But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones.

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now.

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be.

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor.

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red.

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots.

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon.

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones.

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan.

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup.

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips.

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time.

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two.

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him.

“I was dead.” But this was new.

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did.

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe.

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute.

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees.

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly.

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day. He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time.

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature.

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly.

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?"

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?"

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures.

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut."

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck.

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively.

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move.

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need.

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now.

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade.

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good.

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share.

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply.

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there.

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should.

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?"

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night.

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand.

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent.

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand.

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up.

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest.

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.”

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child.

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real.

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum.

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this.

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always."

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love.

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better.

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie.

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried.

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance.

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like.

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else.

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side.

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons.

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water.

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror.

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling.

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his.

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do.

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live.

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying.

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be.

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed.

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening.

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding.

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less.

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake.

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch.

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently.

You look up at him.

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak.

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him.

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask.

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line.

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him.

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free.

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers.

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile.

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself.

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either.

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you.

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about."

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask.

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters.

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink.

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen. When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins.

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door.

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find.

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you.

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae.

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his.

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him.

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave.

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything.

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving.

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead.

It feels all too familiar.

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time.

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed.

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin.

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him.

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying.

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance.

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry.

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together.

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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thehopefulraincoat · 6 months ago

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foundress0fnothing · 4 months ago

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what lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why

Summary: Elain and Lucien make a bargain. When it's time to call it in, however, neither of them remembers what it is—or that they made one in the first place.

Part 1/2. 4.5k words. Read here on ao3 or below the cut!

For Elucien Week 2024. Thanks to the organizers @elucienweekofficial for putting together such a wonderful event!

Title from Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem of the same name. So many thanks and hugs to @areyoudreaminof for betaing this and assuring me that the vibes were good!

By all accounts, it had been a perfect ceremony. Nesta looked beautiful in an elegant gown of ivory lace and silk and Cassian had gotten misty-eyed when he saw her. The two of them professed their love and fidelity in a heart-wrenchingly tender exchange of vows. They had commandeered the River House for the day, turning the front lawn into a lush expanse of trees and fae lights and flowers. There had been heartfelt speeches and strong drinks and delicious food, and now everyone was on the dance floor, celebrating all that they loved after coming so close to losing everything. Nesta and Cassian held each other as they danced slowly, lost to anyone other than their mate; Feyre and Rhys had left Nyx in the care of Nuala and Cerridwen, so they too were smiling happily (if tiredly) as they swayed to the music; even Nesta’s new friends Emerie and Gwyn had managed to make it to the ceremony despite all they had endured, apparently escorted by Mor and Azriel, both of whom hung closely to the females as they moved through the party, talking and laughing together easily.

And there was Elain. Sweet, simple, quiet Elain, who, hovering at the edge of the dance floor by herself and looking at all the happy couples, wanted nothing more right then than a drink and to be miserable all by her sweet, simple, quiet self.

No one had noticed her fade into the background of the party as she moved across the lawn, straightening the flower arrangements she had put together early that morning until she reached the doorway that would lead her back into the River House. She stepped through without looking back to see if anyone was watching. No one would be, but still—she didn’t want anyone to think her behavior strange if they did happen to glance her way. After all, there was nothing strange about her ducking into the house for a moment. Even if anyone saw her, they would forget her in a moment. As usual.

Once inside, she walked down the hall toward Rhys’ office. The door was closed over, but a quick push with her hip opened it easily. Rhys rarely locked it nowadays; the worst had happened and he still had his happy ending—why should he worry about an unlocked door?

But since he was the reason she didn’t have her own happy ending—not with Graysen, not with Azriel, not with anyone else—the least he could do was supply her with some disgustingly expensive alcohol of his to get through an evening of mated couples menacing her with their sheer presence.

He kept his best liquor in the shelf behind his orrery, and she let her fingers ghost over intricately wrought planets as she gently pushed the model aside to survey the bottles in his collection. They came from all across Prythian—ice wine from Winter, blackberry brandy from Summer, coffee liqueur from Dawn, fire whiskey from Autumn, honey mead from Day. He even had a few scant bottles of elderflower and lilac wine from Spring and a sloe gin from Illyria that she knew from past experience was better as an antiseptic than something to ingest.

Her eyes caught on a bottle in the corner. Its label was richly colored with maroons and browns and golds, and featured an illustration of a rushing waterfall in the middle of an autumnal forest. The bottle was mostly full, and the amber liquid inside seemed to burn with a fire that seemed to match the inferno Elain felt raging in her chest.

Making her decision, she grabbed the bottle by the neck and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She wended her way through the house to a small staging room that was just off of the kitchen. It was very rarely used—what use was a staging room in a house where the food just appeared with a snap of the high lord’s fingers? But it was lovely—the walls were painted a soft, muted green, and there was a comfortable loveseat tucked into the back corner behind the counters and tables. Elain had quietly, unofficially, claimed it as her hiding place, shifting plants and a small vanity a few favorite books into it until it resembled an oasis that she could retreat to when Feyre’s nosiness and Rhys’ highandedness and Nyx’s infant chaos grew to be too much for her to handle.

And today, more than ever, Elain wanted some sort of escape.

She flopped ungracefully down on one of the loveseats, not caring if the silk of her dress got wrinkled. So what if it did? It’s not like Elain was going back out there to try and find some male for the night. With her luck, they would all be mated anyway. Sighing, she pulled out the stopper on the whiskey and lifted the bottle directly up to her lips, taking a long sip and relishing the way it burned as it went down her throat—fire and smoke and peat and honey all at once.

She waited until the sensation went away, and then she took another sip. And then another one. And then—

“You’re missing the party.” A voice from the doorway stopped her from taking another drink.

Elain didn’t have to turn to look at who it was. She knew his voice, and his scent, and his heartbeat, alluring and intoxicating and branded into the very marrow of her bones.

And she was too tired to care to guard herself against his pull.

“Well done.” Elain finally turned to look at her mate, her eyes taking a moment to focus after she stopped moving. Lucien was lovely, she acknowledged petulantly. He was tall and surprisingly broad, facts highlighted by the close cut of the forest green suit he wore in honor of the festivities. His hair had been pulled away from his face in an array of intricate braids, and she noticed a few earrings winking at the tips of his pointed ears. Even the scar that cut across his eye, brutal as it was, only added to his allure and gave him a rakish look whenever he smiled. All together it was unfairly disarming, and Elain channeled some of her frustration into her tone as she continued sarcastically. “You caught me.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Another brilliant observation.” For a male with one eye. Not that she would ever say that to his face. That would be rude.

He raised an eyebrow. …Had she said it aloud. She grimaced slightly. Maybe she was much drunker than she realized.

“Do you want me to—should I leave?”

“Everyone always does.” She raised the bottle in his direction before bringing it back to her mouth and taking a long pull, deciding that the sharp sting in her eyes was from the burn of the whiskey and nothing else.

He hesitated in the doorway, clearly uncertain. Not that Elain could imagine why—it’s not like he had made any effort to stay in the same room as her before, always flitting off to see Feyre or Rhys or the humans he knew outside of Prythian. “Is it better if I stay?”

“Do what you want, Lucien.” Elain said it dismissively, but she saw him shudder as the sound of his name washed over him.

“And what do you want, Elain?” He whispered the question, but she still felt it resonate inside her, the sound of her name and the offer of a choice foreign and familiar and far too exhilarating all at once. Half-consciously, she rubbed at her chest where the resonance felt strongest.

She didn’t want to let go of that feeling. Not yet, at least.

“Have a drink.” She held the half-full bottle out to him as she shifted on the loveseat, making just enough room for his larger frame to perch on the chair without having to touch her.

He sat down and studied the bottle, huffing slightly in pleased surprise. “I haven’t had this in years.”

Elain didn’t say anything at all as he continued turning the bottle of whiskey over in his hand, lost in the past for a moment. It wasn’t her place—and she didn’t trust drunk Elain to approach any revelations that prying might reveal with anything even approximating tact.

He roused himself after a few moments. “Cheers.” He took a long sip, leaning against his side of the chair and closing his eyes as the whiskey hit his tongue to savor the flavors. She wondered if it tasted the same to him—a smoky, peaty, cleansing burn—or if it was more to him somehow.

Elain thought about asking, but he interrupted her musings with a wry, “Tastes like home,” and she snorted. That was her question answered, then.

She waved for him to pass the liquor back to her, and they sat in silence for a while, taking turns with the whiskey until only a few fingers remained.

It was easy being there with him—a fact that Elain relished and resented in equal measure. It was nice and objectively the best day she had had in far longer than she’d prefer to acknowledge. But it wasn’t fair—she had made her choices about love. Twice! And both times she had ended up with nothing but hardship and betrayal and shame.

And this, sitting and sipping whiskey silently with Lucien, was easy. Because he was her ‘mate.’ Well, fuck that, Elain thought petulantly. She was sick of mates. And how annoying it was that he of all people was the only one to offer her any kind of choice? Honestly.

“It’s just that,” Elain started, feeling the need to voice some explanation as to why she had been hiding and drinking, “I wanted a choice. And this is what I get.” She held the bottle of whiskey in her hand and gestured vaguely in the direction of the party before taking another sip and slumping against the arm of the loveseat.

Lucien motioned for the bottle, and she passed it back. Her head swum as she leaned forward, and she giggled at the way the room seemed to shimmer golden at its edges.

He raised an eyebrow and said, before taking a drink, “We’re alike in that, my lady.” He swayed slightly, and Elain was glad to see that he was catching up to her. “What choices have I ever had?”

“That’s very bleak,” Elain chided him.

“Sorry, did you expect that this,” he said, gesturing to his face, “came from a happy story?”

“I don’t know the story.”

“Surely you’ve heard—”

“Not from you.”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “Another time.”

She nodded easily, happy enough to let the story remain unspoken. She did know it—or knew as much as Feyre knew, anyway—and besides, she didn’t want to push if it would disturb the peace that had settled between them.

But she was still thinking about bonds and love and choices, and so she asked, quietly, “Would you choose this?”

Lucien tilted his head, blinking to focus his eyes as he tried to make sense of her question. “Choose what? You? The mating bond?”

Elain hummed in agreement.

“It’s a mating bond.” He looked at her like she was stupid, and she scowled slightly, irritated at his answer.

“But you…there have been—there are—others? Right?”

“I’m 300 years old. Of course—”

“And that’s another thing!” She exclaimed, unsteadily pushing herself to sit upright. “I’m only 24! What time have I had?”

Lucien snorted and took another drink from the now almost-empty bottle, muttering, “Enough time to fuck it up twice, apparently.”

“Oh, fuck you.” She shoved his shoulder and yanked the whiskey out of his hands. She was done sharing if he was going to be like that.

But she wasn’t mad, not really. The whiskey had made her brain a little too floaty to harbor any real irritation. And it’s not like he was wrong exactly. Although she was mortified that he apparently knew about Azriel.

He smirked at her as she settled back against her side of the loveseat, aware that she was more amused than angry.

Elain wrinkled her nose at his smug expression and titled the bottle of whiskey up to finish off the last few swallows. It still burned going down, although the sensation had dulled since her first few sips. She lazily extended her arm to set it on the ground with a gentle clink, and when she looked up, she saw Lucien watching her curiously.

“Would you be ready?” He asked.

“For what?”

“To accept the bond. If you’re tired of being alone.” He said it casually while looking up at the ceiling, as if he had no real stake in the answer.

She wondered if he was trying to avoid scaring her off. She didn’t want to leave—she was too comfortably boneless and warm and hazy to really want to get up. And where would she go anyway? It’s not like she had anywhere else to be except the party. Besides, she couldn’t fault him for asking the question—she had brought up the topic of them being mates in the first place after all. But she didn’t know how to answer him. Was she ready? Tonight had been…good…but still. “I—would you?”

“I don’t want it gone. So–I could be.” Lucien glanced at her and shrugged.

Elain rolled her eyes. “But are you? Actually?” He opened his mouth to answer, and she sat up, raising her finger in his face and cutting him off before he could start. “And don’t lie, I’ll know.”

“I have—” He paused and looked away from her again. “There are the humans.”

“Oh?” Elain studied his face carefully. He still hadn’t looked back at her, but she could see something fond and hopeful in the corner of his eyes and the set of his mouth. His next words weren’t a surprise then.

“They make me happy.”

She wanted to be glad for him, truly. He had found love—he had chosen love. But his statement made something jealous and possessive spark in her chest. He was hers, that jealousy inside her seethed. And she hated that he made her feel this way because of the stupid mating bond. But she was drunk and bold and pissed, so she bit out, with a tone that would have made even Nesta cringe at its coldness, “Then why aren’t they here to celebrate with you?”

Lucien turned his gaze back to her and frowned. “You know why. It would be…impolite.”

“Because of me,” Elain finished, slumping backwards into the loveseat again until she was almost horizontal. She could feel the brush of his legs against hers from where she had splayed them out to encroach onto his side of the chair. The feral possessiveness ebbed slightly at his acknowledgement of their bond and the physical contact, but she was still angry. And she hated how good it felt to touch him. And, gods, she wanted another drink. The edges of her vision were still fuzzy, but she needed something that tasted like fire going down and could burn away the angry ache in her chest when she thought of Lucien and the humans.

He visibly swallowed, and Elain couldn’t tell if it was from their touching or some guilt about the humans in the face of her anger. Her stupid, mate-and-whiskey-clouded brain refused to move past them, and so she probed. “So you’re here alone.”

She must have sounded too pleased at that fact, because Lucien raised a judgmental eyebrow and smiled meanly. “As alone as you are, my lady.”

Elain scowled at him. “Well, I’m tired of being aloneeeee.” She let herself draw out the last word into a whine, savoring the petulant tone that she knew her sisters would have smacked her for if they had been there in the room with them. It had always annoyed them when she used it to get her way growing up.

And it clearly had the same effect on Lucien, whose judgemental eyebrow shifted into a full sneer. “You’re telling me that you’re tired of being alone? I’m your mate. You could say the word and not be alone today.”

She sniffed at his tone. “That makes you sound pathetic.”

He shoved her legs away from his and said, as she tried to avoid slipping off the loveseat, “I thought you were supposed to be the nice one. You get mean when you’re drunk.”

She smiled fakely as she kicked her legs back out, making sure to connect with his shin before letting her calves settle against his. “Just with you.” And, she thought to herself as he scowled and rubbed at what would certainly be a bruise on his leg, that’s what you get for falling in love with someone else but coming to drink with me.

A ribbon of satisfaction burned through her at the spiteful thought, while at the same time, some rational part of her brain cringed. She hated how nonsensical it all was—wanting a choice and wanting him all at once.

And then she had a brilliant idea. She had read about it in one of the novels that Nesta had left lying around the townhouse—a couple that agreed to come back together after taking time apart. The book had been silly but the plan? It would be perfect for them.

“Okay, what if,” she said, hauling herself to a more normal sitting position, although she mourned the loss of contact between them. “What if we made a bargain?”

Lucien was still rubbing his leg, but he asked, “A bargain? Why?”

“For each other.” He looked at her skeptically, and she huffed. “And they call you the cunning one.”

“How would a bargain—we’re already mates, Elain. We can just accept the bond.”

She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips again, but ignored it to explain, “But we would choose it.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“Well, you’re not listening.” She leaned over to him and put her hands on either side of his face to draw him in close to her until their noses were almost touching so she would know he was paying attention.

But seeing his face like this captivated her, stilling the words in her mouth for a moment. His right eye, although it was a little bleary from the whiskey, burned with a fire in its russet depths, and the golden one seemed to glow lightly in tandem. From this close, she could count the barely-there freckles that were dusted across the bridge of his nose, so light that they almost blended into the deep brown of his skin. And his scar—she could feel the grooved edges of it under her fingertips as she held his face, and she longed to raise her hand and cradle the damaged skin—

“Okay?” Lucien interrupted her enraptured perusal of his face, confusion lacing his question.

She blinked back to awareness, quickly shoving aside all thoughts of tenderly holding his face or seeing how hot his eyes could burn if she just—no. “So here’s the plan. Because—I want time, Lucien. Time to choose. Time to get to know other males. And you have whatever it is you have with your—with Vassa.”

“And Jurian.”

Elain frowned at him. “Stay focused.”

He snorted but stayed quiet, so she continued. “And this—” she waved her hand between the two of them. “Gets forgotten. But not rejected.” She paused for a moment, and then said, quietly. “It’s just—I don’t want to be alone. At the end of it all. If—if…” She trailed off.

Lucien scoffed. “If you don’t find anyone better? Okay, princess.” He started to pull away. “I don’t want to be your last chance gamble because you’re drunk and lonely tonight, Elain.”

“No—no.” She kept her hands pressed to either side of his face, squeezing slightly until he stopped trying to move and just scowled at her. She knew he could shake her off if he really wanted to, if he decided to go back to the party or winnow home to his humans and laugh with them about his silly mate who came on to him because she was lonely and couldn’t find love on her own like them. But she didn’t want him to think that it was him she disliked. Then he could leave if he wanted to, and she would steal another bottle of Rhys’ to forget the whole humiliating affair.

He stayed, so she said, “It’s not that. It’s not you. Obviously. Don’t be an idiot. I just—I don’t like the obligation of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Do you like the obligation of me?”

“Not at this moment.”

Elain scowled and removed her hands from his face to gesture at the doorway. She had said what she needed to. “You can leave.”

But Lucien just looked at her for a few moments and sighed. “No, I really can’t. Not if this might be something—” He stopped himself from saying anything else, and impulsively, Elain grabbed his hand.

“I just want a chance to choose. I just want time. Not to give it up completely. And I want—you to have time too. To choose.” That was a lie—Elain would much prefer it if he just waited for her to figure it out, but she couldn’t ask that of him. Not fairly.

He nodded, so she continued. “So we make a bargain. For time. And then, if we reach the end of the time and we haven’t committed—officially—to someone else, we do it. The whole thing. Accepting the bond, the frenzy, the big ceremony and the family and all of it. Because maybe the Mother or the Cauldron or fate or whatever was right all along.”

“How long?” Lucien asked.

“How long what?”

“How long until we call in the bargain?”

Elain titled her head, considering.“Ten years.”

“And if there’s no one else—”

“Yes. We do it. Mates.”

Lucien hesitated for a moment, and Elain let go of his hand to grab his face again. “Say yes, Lucien.” Saying his name felt like magic and music and possibility, and as she watched the sound of it affect him again just like it had when he first came in the room, she knew he would agree.

Was it fair, using his name like this to get what she wanted? Maybe not. But it felt right—a way to bind them together without taking away their choices. Elain only hoped that it didn’t end with a repeat of her situation now—left alone while he found all that he was looking for.

She hiccuped slightly.

Lucien smiled at that and then nodded. “Then, yes, Elain. It’s a bargain.” He leaned in and brought his hand up between hers to cup her chin, a smirk dancing across his face. “And sealed with a kiss.”

He tilted her lips up to meet his, and Elain burned.

She didn’t know what she had been expecting—something gentle, perhaps? Courtly and courteous, even. But Lucien kissed with a fire that reminded her that he was a son of Autumn, his lips blisteringly hot and insatiable, searing through her until she felt herself melt into him.

There was a brief spark of pain in her head, just behind her ear, but she ignored it, lost as she was in his embrace. It was bliss and agony and ruination and heaven, and Elain privately wondered if she would ever feel something quite like it again.

After a few more moments, he pulled away, breathing heavily, and Elain too found herself gasping as she unconsciously lifted one hand to her lips as if it could soothe the bruising ache his kiss left behind.

They stared at each other, blinking. And then Elain smiled. “Wait here.”

She ran back to Rhys’ office, ignoring Lucien’s confused shout as she left the room. This—the bargain and the day and that kiss—required a drink. She grabbed one of the bottles at random, not really caring what it was, and then returned to the staging room. Lucien had spread out across the loveseat, with one arm thrown over his eyes.

She nudged him and he moved his arm. “Why did you—” But then he saw the bottle she grabbed—the mead, apparently—and smiled, understanding flashing in his eyes.

“Move over.” He shifted slightly, but not enough that she could sit upright on her own side of the bench, so she was forced to sit between his legs, leaning back into his chest.

“Happy, Lucien?”

He hummed in response.

She rolled her eyes, not that he could see, and pulled the cork out of the bottle, savoring the honey-rich scent that immediately drenched the air around them. “A toast?”

Elain took a sip before passing the bottle backwards to Lucien, who laughed, “To stupid bargains with beautiful women.”

“To beautiful bargains with stupid men.”

She didn’t turn around to look at him, but she knew he was smiling. “Whatever you say, Elain.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Elain found herself sprawled out on the loveseat in her staging room with her feet dangling off the side. Her head was pounding and her tongue felt cottony and thick in her mouth as she blinked blearily awake and tried to remember what had happened last night.

She remembered leaving the party and stealing Rhys’ whiskey, and then Lucien!—she glanced around in a quiet panic. Was he here? What had she said to him?

But she was alone—Lucien had apparently left at some point in the evening, although she couldn’t quite place when, and so she didn’t have to face him and whatever alcohol-fueled nonsense they had said to each other.

They had shared the whiskey—that she remembers. And they talked about…something. And she could feel the ghost of some fire on her lips—the whiskey, most likely. But everything else was lost in a blur of liquor and warmth and … pain? Had she gotten hurt somehow?

There was a small, pulsing burning behind her ear, and Elain tentatively raised her hand to it. It was slightly warm, but it didn’t feel like an injury.

She hauled herself up off the loveseat to walk across the room to the vanity, hoping she could see whatever it was in the mirror. She angled her neck and swept her tangled hair to the side and—there!—she could just make out the silhouette of a flower tattoo behind her ear.

Leaning in closer, she tried to make out the details. It looked like … a larkspur, maybe? But why—

And then Elain gasped and closed her eyes. A bargain. Drunk Elain had made a bargain with someone—Lucien? Gods, she hoped not—and because it was the fucking Night Court, she bore the evidence of it on her skin. It was a small tattoo, and she thanked the mother that it wasn’t some giant monstrosity like Feyre’s arm bargain tattoos—at least she could hide this. Whatever this was.

#elucien #elucienweek2024 #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #elucien supremacy

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