#not beta read as it is past midnight and i am sleepy

[flamingredanon]

The beginning tale of the Timeline Wilford AU is here, explaining how Wilford got void bound and how he and Henry would eventually meet.

CW for threats, mentions of past deaths (just referencing that it happened) and maybe unreality with Wilford breaking the timeline and falling into a void

[crazytwentythrees]

confessional

for @heavenlybarnes's 500 follower celebration sleepover (congratulations!!), love in verse writing challenge.

fic inspired by Confessional by Sue Zhao (@blossomfully) ~ i honestly love this poem, it's so raw and beautiful, plus i've had it bookmarked for ages so when i saw the prompt for the sleepover, i just couldn't help myself. i also listened to lovesong by adele while writing and i felt like it fit the theme pretty well.

special thanks to the lovely @ladyblack15, thank you so so much for beta reading (and being my very first beta reader ever), here's the promised resolution ;)

enjoy!!

summary: in which neither of you can sleep very much. confessions ensue. word count: 7.2k [don't look at me like that, i'm just as surprised as you] content warning: swearing, angst/hurt (mentions of ptsd, anxiety, nightmares, injury, canon-level stuff, etc.), comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, romantic relations implied character: bucky barnes (mcu) x avengers!reader fanfic masterlist | main masterlist

It always happened at night. The confessionals.

Honestly, they probably weren’t exactly confessionals, more so midnight talks—you just liked the intimacy that the word held. But one morning you looked it up anyway.

Confessional. Adjective. “In which a person reveals private thoughts or admits to past incidents, especially ones about which they feel ashamed or embarrassed.”

So maybe some of them were confessionals.

The first night was interesting. You’d been awake for hours, tossing and turning and afraid of the restless sleep that awaited you. Eventually, however, you’d succumbed to the unignorable hunger that had crawled into your stomach.

Clad in gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt with the standard Avenger’s logo, you sluggishly pulled your door open and walked down the tiled hallway and into the elevator. Once inside, you murmured a quick note to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to take you to the kitchen, remembering to tell her to turn the lights on as the elevator doors opened.

Your eyes had opened a little more, and you no longer squinted against the soft light emanating from the edges of the floor and ceiling. As you walked, the lights would glow a little brighter, before dimming behind you. The cool grey surfaces calmed you, temporarily drawing away the fatigue that lingered behind your eyes.

As you entered the kitchen, the lights switched on, brightening in a few seconds.

“Fuck,” you heard a voice curse as some objects clattered to the floor.

“Barnes?” You asked, surprised to see someone else awake, even if you’d roughly known his history with sleep.

You glanced at the clock in the room, 4:23 am.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you coming,” Bucky said. You could see him now, dressed in similar attire as you, minus the shirt, which was short-sleeved and—

“Is that an old dodger’s shirt?” It seemed your sleep-deprived mind had no filter as the question left your mouth before you could think about it.

He blinked in surprise. It was the second time that night you’d caught him unaware. It was… different.

“It is. It’s from when they were still in Brooklyn—before they moved to Los Angeles.”

“That’s cool,” you said with a sleepy smile and walked to the fridge to steal the milk jug that was always stocked up. As you did, you mentally chided your sleepy self. ‘That’s cool?’ Surely you could do better than that. But your thoughts drifted when you noticed there wasn’t any opened jug there. Huffing, you reached an arm out to grab a new one when Bucky called out to you.

“The open one’s here.” He gestured to the jug on the counter next to him, unintentionally giving you a perfect view of some spilled milk and a toppled-over glass. “Shit, sorry, wait.” He grabbed a nearby cloth and tried to clean up the mess.

You stood there blinking, before realizing you’d inadvertently caused the spill and immediately jumped into action, helping him clean it up.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’d asked F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn on the lights for me, I just didn’t realize anyone else would be in here.”

“It’s alright, I’m normally more alert than that, though. I just didn’t hear you for some reason,” he said, the tips of his ears flushing as he scratched the back of his neck, the mess all cleared now. Looking away from you, he reached into a cabinet and got out another glass, one identical to his. He held it out to you.

You tucked your hair behind an ear, taking the glass from him and turning to the counter. As you poured yourself some milk, your eyes flicked to him, and you motioned for his glass too.

“Might as well help you refill it after spilling the first glass,” you chuckled. He slid it over to you and you repeated the motions. The mundanity of it all warmed you.

Moments like these were a rarity, and there were even fewer moments like it that you shared with the rest of the team. Everyone was always caught up in their own whirlwind of action, investigation, or research. Life at S.H.I.E.L.D. was like that. But it made you appreciate times like this when things had slowed down and all was quiet.

Once you slid his glass back to him and picked up your own, your eyes dropped to your feet and a soft laugh tumbled from your lips. Bucky looked at you, lowering his glass to reveal a translucent white mustache on his face. Your laugh became louder, and you held your hand up to try and stifle your evident humor.

His brow had furrowed in confusion, though his lips had quirked in the corner at your expense. He thought you looked cute.

You thought he looked cute.

“You—uh—you have a slight—” you lifted a finger to trace the area above your lip— “right there.” Tiny chuckles escaped you again, but you blamed your inability to keep your composure on your lack of sleep. You really weren’t like this normally.

Bucky chuckled, wiping off the milk mustache with the side of his right hand. Your eyes gleamed with laughter even after you’d stopped giggling, and they flitted to his left arm for a fraction of a second as he drank from his glass. His vision was blocked, and he missed it. You were fine with that, though, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable with your staring—it could easily be misunderstood as something negative, and you and Bucky were always on good terms, relatively speaking.

Your eyes landed on your feet. To be specific, your wooly-sock-clad feet. This just widened your smile, making you chuckle, and Bucky looked at you again.

“Sorry, I just realized why you couldn’t hear me coming,” you tried to explain, looking down again as you rocked back on your heels and flexed your toes. “I wore my super thick socks.”

Bucky saw the fluffy rainbow camouflage wool that disappeared under your sweatpants, then glanced up at the rest of your monochrome outfit. Your face warmed when your eyes locked with his and his brow raised in amusement.

“That color’s not very stealthy, soldier,” he said. You fought another string of laughter, ignoring the nickname.

“In my defense, you didn’t hear me at all, and you can’t see the colors in the dark.”

He laughed. Bucky nearly forgot about the nightmares that plagued him, wondering what brought you here so late at night. He knew barely anything about you—he knew just as much as the rest of the team—but he wanted to change that. And that’s what made him ask:

“Oh really?”

And, well, you knew only what a report had to say about him—and James Barnes was so much more than a report—so you replied in kind, with the same intentions at heart.

“Really. But it’s probably the sleep talking, so don’t hold it to me later in the day.”

The sounds of your combined laughter drifted around the kitchen and softly in the hallway, the rest of the compound locked away in their respective laboratories or in deep sleep, all unaware of the two assassins prolonging drinking a single glass of milk and searching for chocolate cookies as they made terrible jokes at four in the morning; both avoiding the clutches of a too-deep slumber.

It did make for an interesting night.

And when Bucky walked with you to the elevator, and then to your door, you were more than a little glad you’d gotten up and out of bed for a midnight snack. A talk was just the distraction you both had needed.

The twelfth night was fun.

It was the last week of December when everyone and everything hovered between Christmas and the new year. No bad guys had decided to bother you with your own Die Hard special this year, and thankfully, the same applied to Bucky.

Plus, New York City was absolutely magical with the light snowfall at 3:00 am.

You’d bundled up in your regular nightwear, slipping on thermal sweatpants instead of the regular ones, and tugged on some thicker socks and snow boots before walking down the hallway and knocking on Bucky’s door.

“Wanna go for a walk?” You asked once he opened the door. His hair was adorably messy, and his eyes were half-drooped shut, but they widened at your proposal.

“Sure,” he said, “come in for a minute, I’ll just change.”

Your footsteps were audible this time, the heavy soles of your boots making your tread discernible to the average human. As you both approached his closet, you hopped onto the edge of Bucky’s bed with more energy than he expected, the sight causing a slow smile to take over his face.

“Aren’t you gonna wear a jacket or something?” He asked.

You glanced down at your torso, realizing you’d left your coat on your bed in your haste to get to Bucky. Your face warmed.

“My coat’s back in my room, I’ll grab it on our way out.”

Bucky only chuckled, your late-night meetings being the only times he’d ever seen you disoriented like this. He really did think you were cute.

You fell back onto his bed, letting your legs dangle off the end while he rummaged through the bare but organized wardrobe. Your eyes had drifted shut without you noticing, only snapping open when something fell on your torso with a soft thud. A glance down showed you a lump of black fabric but when you looked to your side, Bucky had already slipped into his bathroom with a soft click of the lock.

Sitting up so you could properly hold it out at arm’s length, you tried to turn the fabric to see what it was. It was soft and thick, and it smelled like Bucky—you chastised yourself for wanting to suffocate yourself in the scent. He’d given you one of his sweatshirts.

You suppressed the smile that threatened to permanently tattoo itself on your face and quickly tugged the sweater on as you heard the lock click open.

“You ready to go?” you heard Bucky ask as your face popped out of the neck of the sweatshirt. He looked like he was trying not to laugh at the way your hair was pulled against your head. You sent a playful glare his way, standing up as you walked back out with him in tow.

“The real question is, are you ready Sergeant Barnes?”

“May I remind you of which one of us is fully dressed to leave the compound? Because it definitely isn’t you,” he said, chuckling.

You pretended to sniff. “I suppose you aren’t bad for an old man at three in the morning.”

The response intensified his laugh and while his eyes crinkled shut, you smile fondly. He had a nice laugh.

“Seriously, though. That has to be the longest sentence you’ve said to me—and not mission-related, either.”

“It must be the sleep talking,” he’d said, and your chest warmed at the memory of you saying it to him first.

Once you’d slipped into your room and pulled on your coat over Bucky’s sweatshirt—the two of you once again in near-identical outfits, with each of you thinking the other pulled it off better—you made your way out the front gates and down the secluded driveway which led to the rest of Manhattan.

You and Bucky had talked quietly while walking, the latter not knowing the destination you were leading him to. You each felt the way the fabric of your jackets swished when your arms brushed, the vibrations flickering under your skin.

Both of your eyes were heavy as you linked your arm with Bucky’s and pulled him into the cozy diner on fifth avenue, the cashier looking up in surprise at the sound of customers this late. The surprise turned into awe once the two of you were recognized to be part of the Avengers’ team.

When the waitress came by to the booth where you were seated, fumbling with fatigue and astonishment, she took down your order for two coffees and four grilled cheese sandwiches—one and a half for you, two and a half for Bucky.

“Grilled cheese, huh? How’d you know?” He asked when she walked back to the open kitchen counter.

“You talk a lot in your sleep.”

Bucky had laughed at that, and you smiled at the way his eyes twinkled under the warm lights of the diner. The place seemed cozier than before.

You’d actually seen him go out of his way to grab some at breakfast a few times, along with gyros at lunch or dinner, and you’d put two and two together on a whim. But he didn’t have to know that; and since gyros were hard to come by at this time of night, grilled cheese would have to do.

By the time your order arrived, the two of you had gotten comfortable, with your jackets discarded on the side of the booth cushions as you sat across each other with wide smiles and sparkling eyes.

Eleven nights was a lot of time to get to know someone, especially when they weren’t consecutive, and you saw each other practically every day in between. The conversation flowed easily, from brief mission details to pet peeves your fellow teammates possessed on and off the field. It was a treasured comfort.

You ate in your own time, and it felt like the world had stopped turning for the two of you until the sun rose on the horizon once again.

Bucky threw a wistful smile at you as you gazed at the sky and sluggish commuters. The staff at the diner stared at the two people huddled in a booth across from each other, looking like they couldn’t possibly be any closer than they already were as they kept leaning over the tabletop while making hushed conversation. They were in their own safe little world, away from the nightmares that pulled them back into hell every night.

The walk back to the compound was filled with a comfortable silence, one of your arms linked with Bucky’s while the other held your coat; he walked the same way. As you strolled across the driveway, a large yawn stretched your face and your eyes fluttered. You rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder, uncaring that it was his left shoulder, and the metal of his arm was harder than most would’ve expected.

He stared down at your sleepy form as the elevator went up and whispered a goodnight after he walked you to your room.

It was a fun night, you thought as your door closed.

Down the hallway, Bucky thought the same.

Bucky remembers the nineteenth night very well. It was horrible.

Well, it started out horrible. You’d made it better.

That day had gone off to a bad start. He’d been distracted while training and nearly taken someone’s head off, and it eventually rolled into a bigger issue: his final assignment.

Bucky recalled his standard line:

“I’m no longer the Winter Soldier. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and you’re part of my efforts to make amends.”

But yet again, facing another memory of his past had triggered a whole set of other memories and it broke like a mini-dam—mini because each target had its own and since this had been the last, it flowed a little too strong.

Long story short, he missed dinner and you noticed.

You weren’t that worried, though, he had off days just as much as you did, except this time you knew what was going on. Still, you decided to give him his space. If you ran into each other at some ungodly hour of the night then so be it, but you would give him some time to process things first.

Bucky didn’t make you wait that long, however. He’d been antsy all evening, pacing the floors of his room, trying to shove down the gyro you’d left at his door earlier. There was just nothing that could get his mind off the Winter Soldier. He had a permanent reminder hanging from his shoulder—literally.

So, once he decided pacing wasn’t going to cut it, he sat at the foot of his bed—the same spot where you had occupied many times since the nightly meetings began—and thought about what to do instead. He couldn’t help the crawling feelings of guilt and helplessness and the damned cage that was a cryo-chamber.

His skin erupted in goosebumps at the distant memory of the cold. It wasn’t like the walks he went on with you when it was cold; he wasn’t cold then. The serum in his veins and the electricity you sparked under his skin when you were close to him kept him warm enough.

No, the other cold was biting and dry. It was desolate. It was empty.

It was a glorified death.

For a moment, it was as if Bucky was having tunnel vision, as if his arms and legs and organs were failing and freezing up and the only thing he could see was you.

And so he got up to go look for you. He took a deep breath, remembering the memories that kept him grounded; he remembered his time in Wakanda—the relief of finally being rid of the Winter Soldier and the incarnation of the White Wolf. He remembered the nights he spent with you. How you didn’t seem to sleep much and how you said and did things you normally wouldn’t do during the day. How you’d loop his arm with yours or hold his hand when you were especially drowsy—and how that one time you’d started swinging your joined hands back and forth between the two of you as you walked.

Bucky was a man on a mission. Only this time, his mission was to find you; fortunately for him, he knew just where you would be at 11:00 PM on a regular night.

As he knocked on your door, he drew in steadying breaths, hoping you were there and that you’d let him in tonight.

“Come in.” Your voice was muffled from where Bucky stood but with his enhanced hearing, it was as though you had said it from right next to him.

He turned the handle and pushed it open, stepping inside only to be engulfed in a sweet, citrus-like scent he knew to be yours. He closed the door behind him slowly and walked to your bed, where you were sitting cross-legged with some scraps of paper spread around you.

“Oh, hey Buck,” you said, smiling.

The nickname was relatively new, and Bucky normally hated his already shortened name getting shortened again—Steve was the only one who could call him Buck—but he liked the way you said it, especially when it was during one of your midnight talks.

“Hi,” he said, though he felt like someone had shoved a handful of sand down his throat and the sound of his voice was gravelly and rough.

Your eyes softened. You moved the papers to one side and patted the now empty side of the bed next to you. You wanted to make sure Bucky could sit wherever he chose to—if that was across from you, then you could see his face directly, and if that was next to you, then you could offer some support.

He took up the entire right side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him. You thought you rather liked it—you could get used to it.

You followed suit, brushing away the remaining scraps of paper and stretching your legs out next to his. In the futile attempts to lessen the ridiculous difference in both your leg lengths, you had slid down from a seated position to an almost-lying-down one.

Bucky couldn’t hold back the laugh that rose in his chest, you were just so adorable and so, so sleep deprived that it was difficult to imagine you had the same abilities that he did, with the training that both he and Natasha had. During the day, you could easily take him out, no question. But in the night, you seemed to almost… let go.

Bucky envied that about you.

Once his laughter and your reluctant chuckles died out, he asked, “What’s the paper scraps for?”

“Oh!” You glanced down and picked up the scraps, depositing some in your lap and the rest in his. “These are temporary tattoos. Ya’know like the ones on old bubblegum wrappers?” When he nodded, you continued, “Well, a few years ago some guys came up with a new kind of temporary tattoos. They develop in a day and stay on for two weeks.”

“Got it. But why not get the real deal instead?”

“Bucky. Come on, you really expect me to pick a design and stick with it? Forever? No, thank you.” He laughed at that, causing you to smile for a second. “But seriously,” you said, and Bucky tensed because he thought you might bring up why he was there in your room. “I wouldn’t get a permanent one because of the job. Going undercover with tattoos is a pain in the ass and Fury doesn’t pay me enough for me to constantly keep removing them.” Just like that, the smile was back on your face and Bucky relaxed.

“But now since you’re here—” he tensed again and you pretended not to notice (again)—“you can help me choose which one I should do now. Or where I should put all of them. Either one.”

Bucky really envied you. He wished he could be as carefree as you, as easygoing, as fun—

“Barnes?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“You okay?”

And there it was. The quintillion-dollar dreaded question. Bucky shifted in his place next to you, and you noticed he ever only did that—showed his tells—during your talks.

“No.” His answer took you by surprise. You were ready to give him more time and definitely hadn’t expected such a quick response. Hesitantly, you tried another question.

“Is it about the target from today?”

“Yeah.” This was good. Answers were good. Monosyllables were the first step.

“How did it go?” You tried again. But apparently, that was the wrong question because you could see the shutters Bucky drew down, the way his body shifted slightly away from yours, all things you wish you weren’t trained to see if only to spare the pinpricks of hurt blossoming in your chest.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He wasn’t looking at you.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Do you want to talk at all?”

“Not really,” he said, wincing. He was too tired to talk.

“Okay.”

“I don’t mind listening, though.” His words made you blink, and your blank face staring at him prompted him further. “I just mean that—if you want to and you’re comfortable with it—then I don’t mind hearing about you. I’m sure you knew everything about me before from my files, and you know everything else now.”

Not everything, you wanted to say, but you let it go—for now.

“I know next to nothing about you—just that you worked with Romanoff a long time ago and you know Barton.”

“Okay,” you said again, “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

And so, on the nineteenth night, James Buchanan Barnes got to know the nitty-gritty details of your morbid past.

You told him you were born to a regular American family in the late 40s, all of whom were later killed by HYDRA agents who were posing as S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were seven. Similar to the Maximoff twins, you were taken in for testing, but just not as a volunteer. You endured years of training in the Red Room in addition to training almost identical to the Winter Soldier’s. In fact, part of your training was overseen by the Winter Soldier. Your purpose was to aid HYDRA in the Cold War and further.

HYDRA cultivated your already existing superhuman abilities and shaped you into the Winter Soldier’s successor, should the original Asset fail. Sometime in the 1970s, you were first introduced to the cryo-chamber. You must have been twenty-four then, old and experienced enough to be both an asset and a threat. Just like Bucky, you were pulled in and out of cryo for important missions, yours usually coinciding with the Widows.

You were never officially a Widow like Natasha and Yelena, only working with them a handful of times in the 2000s while you were out of that glorified freezer. In the end, though, Natasha was the only reason you got out.

Natasha knew Clint who knew Fury who made the decisions for better or worse. So when Fury had called in Natasha to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., what better way for her to help clear the red in her ledger than with the name of a woman who knew no other color?

After a few years of recon missions and close calls with the slowly forming Avengers, Natasha had finally tracked you down with Yelena’s help. With some weapons curated for the great Captain Rogers himself—made only for a worst-case scenario, you promised Bucky—they managed to get you to headquarters and under observation.

Unlike Bucky’s experience with HYDRA, your “Asset” personality was not induced by hypnosis, but was rather an implant that was aimed to remain under your skin permanently. It was to ensure you were 100% under HYDRA’s control at all times.

Bucky noted how you cringed at that part, and he understood. He fought the urge to reach out and pull you close to him, instead letting you finish your story at a distance comfortable enough for both of you.

It took you years to recover, even after Banner and Stark got the implant out. The ghost of the memories lingered whenever you closed your eyes too long—you didn’t tell Bucky that, but you supposed he knew anyway.

When Thanos came to Earth and half the population went missing, you admitted that it drove you more than a little crazy. You barely liked technology, thanks to the kind that put you through decades of torture, and magic was uncharted territory. You very much did not like uncharted territory. It was safe to say you were surprised but glad when everybody came back years later, grateful for the chance to meet the rest of the team yet saddened at all the loss that the final battle had incurred.

You then pulled your knees up to your chest and told Bucky the part of the story he did know—when you met the team after the war. Then you drew in a shaky breath, because: yes, you did just tell him your life story, yes, it was a lot of information, but it was also the first time you’d recounted it all like that. Sure, you’d given Fury the run-down, but that was only parts of it, and that had just been another written report to be added to your file.

You were also not in love with Nick Fury. You cared about what Bucky would say, so you kept talking.

“I’ve done terrible things, Bucky. I killed grown adults before I was ever even legal. I helped overthrow governments and tortured people in the darkest of shadows and I can’t forget any of it as much as I want to because they didn’t let me forget. They made sure I would always remember what I did and to whom I did it.

“I’m a horrible person,” you said and for the first time since you began your story, you turned to face Bucky—but your eyes still didn’t meet his. You stared at his dog tags and shuddered as you felt your face heat like an inferno, like the darkest circle of hell, where you sometimes felt you had a place reserved.

You felt the ghost of Bucky’s hand gripping yours, tightening as he took note of the tears burning along the waterline of your wide eyes. The drops were barely clinging to your lashes, mere seconds away from spilling down your face and taking the little composure you still had with them. You fought the sobs threatening to loose themselves from your throat.

“Sometimes—sometimes I don’t want to forget.” You looked up at him for a moment, eyes piercing his blue ones. “Sometimes I don’t realize the reality of it—of my entire situation—and I think not forgetting is better. Because then I know exactly what I did and how it was wrong and the whole flood of guilt that comes with it.”

The tears had run down your flushed cheeks as you spoke and a part of Bucky broke at the sight. He wrapped his arms around you, shifting on the bed so you were entwined in each other. Your face fell into the space above his collarbone, right next to the point where his prosthetic arm began.

Bucky’s arms tightened around you, holding you close as your body shook with grief and pain. His jaw clenched above you, out of your sight, hurting from the way you shuddered, regretting asking you about your past. He hated seeing you in pain like this.

The two of you stayed there for a while, losing track of time and realizing it was the first time you ever had been that close to each other.

You pulled back from Bucky’s embrace to look at him better, one hand moving from its grip on his t-shirt to the side of his face, cupping his jaw with a feather-like touch. You felt like you were touching the most delicate glass in your hands and you wanted to make sure it wouldn’t crumble at your touch.

But what truly undid you was the sight of Bucky’s glistening blue eyes, heavy teardrops waiting to spill from those thick eyelashes and down the stubble smattering his cheeks. Your other hand followed the first so that you were now holding his face in your palms, still gentle as ever. You came back to the reason why Bucky was here in your room tonight. Your eyes flitted between his sad ones as you spoke.

“Never forget your reality, Buck.” You sniffed. “You did not make any of those choices and you were violated horribly when you were forced to hurt people. But you aren’t the Winter Soldier anymore, okay? You’re James Buchanan Fucking Barnes. The Winter Soldier is the past. He’s HYDRA’s creation. And I can tell you right now that HYDRA sure as hell didn’t make you.

“You are strong and loyal and smart. You won’t be the same Bucky from Brooklyn again, but you’re Bucky Barnes the Avenger. You get to make your own choices now. Your last ties to HYDRA are gone, you made your final amends, and you can be free, Buck. You’re free. It’s over.

“I know there’ll be nights when you feel like you’re a horrible person and the memories in your dreams are too real and too much to relive, but you need to remember that you’ll be okay. Your thumb caressed his cheek and your eyes followed the movement.

“I know I’m not a horrible person right now,” Bucky started, “Because I know you aren’t. HYDRA used you and made you do things like they did with me and I know it was much worse, but I also know you. I know you and I know you’re a good person. Your past doesn’t define you.”

Once he finished speaking, you buried your face back in his t-shirt and a new round of tears escaped your eyes. Bucky held you just as tightly, pressing his lips against the top of your head and letting his own tears fall.

I love you, you both thought, but neither of you voiced it just yet. The silence and your tangled bodies said enough. So, even after Bucky’s and your tears had dried and both of you had calmed, you each held on to the other.

You fell asleep like that, temporary tattoos and memories brushed away for the night, and knew that in the morning, things would have changed just a little.

It was all for the better.

Things changed a lot after the nineteenth night.

“Sleep doesn’t come easy without you.”

“I feel safe.”

“Just five more minutes?”

“I’ll walk you to the clinic.”

Bucky and you had said variations of them to each other since then. You’d bridged a small gap.

The confessionals became sleepovers—if thirty-year-olds had sleepovers—but nothing ever strayed past platonic. In fact, your relationship was mostly the same, just with additional physical contact and more of an understanding. Both of those factors came as a slight shock to the team when they found you laughing in the kitchen one morning, leaning into each other, eyes bleary from a good night’s sleep and twinkling with mirth.

But with this new closeness came new territory, too.

Missions with Bucky left you breathless, your heart had fallen so far so fast that your mind could only comprehend keeping Bucky safe, and Bucky could only ever think of how he never wanted to see you in pain like he had that night.

You and Bucky had just gotten back from a particularly grueling mission. The debrief and checkups were over now, and you had been back for at least twelve hours.

It was long past midnight when you trudged across the hall to Bucky’s room—you’d moved closer to each other because of renovations and hadn’t really moved back even after it was all over.

You knocked firmly on his door, needing to see him, to know he was okay. Every second you waited seemed to drag you down with the burying weight of your nightmare, but you relaxed ever so slightly when you heard a distinct shuffling on the other side of the door.

Only when it fully opened and you saw Bucky in a Henley shirt and some boxers did you fully relax.

Bucky noticed that, just like he noticed the redness that rimmed your eyes and the way you had a haunted look about you. His eyes softened in understanding and held you when you knocked into him with a hug.

He was okay. You were okay. You repeated it in your mind like a mantra.

Bucky swept you up and closed the door behind him as he walked to the foot of his bed with you in his arms. You were too busy grappling with your nightmare to fully process the new boundary that had been crossed. You needed to know he was okay and your hands were too busy gripping the back of his shirt and his hair to understand much else.

He sat on the floor with you straddled over his lap.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with his brow furrowed deeply. Bucky held your face in both his palms so he could look you in the eye. He looked like he was in pain and that just sent another wave of worry through you.

Your hands moved to his face and you could feel your throat closing up. Bucky knew you by now, he knew your tells and knew when you had a nightmare—the same way you knew all about him.

“Sweetheart,” he said with such soft, sweet reverence that your eyes burned and a sob broke from you. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

But it wasn’t about you, you wanted to tell him. It was on the tip of your tongue, but you just couldn’t get the words out. It was like the words would dry up in your mouth the minute you went to tell him. You shook your head as the tears flowed.

You couldn’t say it, so you held him closer and hoped that would be enough for now. You hoped that, since you’d lasted so long, you could last a little longer without revealing your feelings—hell, you’d never had feelings up until a few years ago, it was unknown territory.

You’d grown quieter in his hold and Bucky tested the waters, pulling you up.

“Do you want to talk?”

Fuck. Yes. But there were so many what-ifs and questions and Bucky could see your hesitation in answering the question, but you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea and your head just hurt so much—

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, breathe,” he instructed and held your face softly as you breathed with him.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Bucky nodded with you. “I… I think—no, I want to talk about it.”

Your eyes met his, the soft blue irises calming you. How had you lived all these years without someone like him? You thought. Then you remembered that you hadn’t lived, you’d been barely surviving.

“The nightmare—it wasn’t about me. Well, not entirely.” You puffed a breath, hands coming to rest on Bucky’s chest as you fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. “It started off as usual, with me and HYDRA doing their thing, but then—” your voice cracked.

Bucky’s thumb traced circles on your arm soothingly and your eyes drifted shut. He waited.

“But then I saw you,” you said, and Bucky tensed, his mind flying in a thousand different directions—had he hurt you?—but you saw where his mind was going, and it made you cup his jaw. “They had you, Buck. They were hurting you because of me.”

Bucky’s eyes burned with tears at the sheer devastation in your voice. He loved you, but god did he hate you hurting like this. Of course, neither of you were totally oblivious to the other’s affection, but both of you had been holding back. But that was before tonight.

He pulled you into him, your head automatically nestling in the crook of his neck as you took deep breaths, inhaling the scent of him. His own face found your neck, metal hand pressed over your back and the other carding through your hair, occasionally pausing to cradle your head. He broke a little more when he felt little rivulets of tears on his skin, pushing him to release some of his own as he held you.

Your hands didn’t leave his shirt and you were sure that the fabric had been overstretched in your fists but you didn’t care. You just needed to know that Bucky was here and he was safe and you were wrapped up in him.

The both of you sat there until the tears stopped and your breathing calmed. A boundary may have been crossed, but neither you nor Bucky were counting it as a loss.

Bucky got up from the floor, keeping you in his arms even after you moved to stand, and laid you down on the right side of the bed—your side of the bed—and got under the covers next to you. He pulled you closer, making sure your head rested comfortably on his right arm, wrapping his other arm around your waist and keeping you there. You slipped into a similar position as you had while sitting with him, face against his neck and arms tangled in him.

You both fell into a dreamless sleep within minutes.

Your spine cracked as you stretched on the bed, back arching just enough to relax you as you laid limp among the barely ruffled sheets and cozy comforter. You’d spent the last few nights in Bucky’s room, in his bed—specifically in his arms—and the two of you had yet to have a conversation about the underlying feelings both of you had only silently acknowledged until now.

You turned over to your side and the inside of your knee eased over the cool fabric. Bucky had woken up quite some time earlier, hushing you back to sleep as you clutched at his pillow and fell back asleep.

There was no reason for you to be on guard, you trusted Bucky, and he trusted you. In the private space that was his bedroom, there was no need for you to be calculating and all-seeing. You could close your eyes and rest, disconnected from all the bad in the world.

It was your safe space.

You turned onto your back again, arms falling to rest on top of the comforter. The pat-pat-pat-pat of Bucky’s footsteps were vibrating in your eardrums, the familiar tread lifting your lips into a soft smile.

The door to his room opened and you pushed yourself up to a seated position and greeted him with a very gravelly, “‘Morning, Buck.”

Bucky smiled at you, his eyes softening at the sight of you in his bed, wearing that old Dodgers t-shirt of his, with your hair matted on one side and wild on the other, and that gorgeous smile on your face. He was more than happy that you hadn’t bolted to your room after waking up.

“Morning,” he said back, gaze dropping to the cardboard box in his arms when a soft thud sounded from it.

You furrowed your brows at the sight, “What’s in the box?” you asked, leaning forward ever so little.

All you got in return was a cryptic—albeit sheepish—smile.

“Bucky…” you started, unable to keep the smile off your face. You pushed the covers down and shuffled towards Bucky, not getting out of the bed. “What’s in the—”

And you had never been as happy that you had enhanced senses when you heard a soft purr from the box, and you kicked away the comforter to stand by Bucky.

Your lips parted in surprise, a gasp filtering through them as you reached for the little kitten laid on top of an old shirt.

“Her name’s Alpine,” Bucky said, “Found her in this alley I was walking by earlier. There’s a note and everything. She’s been checked up and everything, the people who left her there left her medical papers too. They just wanted someone to look after her.” Bucky laid the box down by a wall and came back to you, standing closer than before.

His eyes glinted with joy as he watched you hold the temperamental feline in your arms. Alpine kept moving in your grasp for a few minutes, her short claws sticking to the fabric of your—Bucky’s—t-shirt. You giggled as she finally settled, head against your shoulder, and closed her eyes.

“She reminds me of this cat Natasha used to have,” you said, “She’d named her Liho. Russian for—”

“Misfortune,” Bucky finished it for you. He looked at you with a burning gaze, the small smile still present as you continued, face tilted to look at him.

“Though they look the exact opposite. Liho was this black cat that would follow Romanoff around back in Ukraine, and she had the prettiest hazel eyes. But Alpine has the same eyes as you.” You smiled wider, eyes flitting between both of his. “You have really beautiful eyes.”

Bucky stood in front of you, arms going around your waist, and as you looked into his eyes, you saw what was coming.

“I love you,” he said.

You smiled softly at him, because you knew.

“I love you too, Barnes.”

And you and Bucky knew, that come what may, no past memories or future villains could get in the way of what you two had.

You closed your eyes as Bucky held you close, with a sleepy Alpine still in your arms, and you both have the same thought,

Yes. This is happiness. I'm home.

fanfic masterlist | main masterlist

[mlm-writer]

Push and Pull (John Kennex x GN!Reader)

Pairing: John Kennex  x Gender Neutral Reader  Rating: PG-13 for swearing  Words: 2143 Summary: John has been distant ever since you started dating. You’ve tried to endure it in the hopes of it getting better, but, unfortunately, communication seems necessary to solve problems. John does not like to talk about his feelings tho.  Tags: Angst, relationship problems, hurt/comfort, insecurities, John’s puppy eyes, swearing, reference to violence, beta read at 2am, reader is thirsty af at one point but look at this man do we blame the reader? 

“Professor.” You looked away from the screen you have been doing data analyses at. The last of your fellow forensic scientists stood at the door with her coat on. “I cleaned up as much as I could. Please don’t forget to go home yourself.” You smiled at her and reassured her you would go home before midnight. The look in her eyes made the same inquiry as most of your colleagues had, but she did not ask why you were working so much.

At this point you did not even write down the extra hours, afraid that some MX might kick you out by five if you did. Your notes started to get sloppy, but you felt like it was worth it when you heard a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, it opened and your boyfriend stepped inside. “Hey, have you eaten yet?” You shook your head and frantically opened the file with your notes. 

“No, but I have some interesting findings about the samples from your case this morning.” It sent you down a rabbit hole of connecting dots and by the time you started mentally dozing off, you were so close to a breakthrough. Frustration filled your body as you tried to force your brain to have just one more useful thought. 

A kiss landed on your temple. “Let’s continue tomorrow. I am tired and hungry.” You let out a sleepy chuckle as you closed up for today. You kept a professional distance from John as you both exited the building in silence and walked towards the car. The moment you sat down, you started napping for just those few minutes you knew it took to get to John’s favourite noodle place. 

A soft shake woke you from your dreamless slumber. “Hey, you’ve been working too hard lately.” You scoffed and brushed it off. You knew, but you felt like John had been distancing himself ever since you two were officially a thing. Before that he was always more open and vulnerable around you than with other people, but now you felt like he was more open towards anyone but you. The only way to get him to let loose, was to work on a case with him, so you gave that little extra to spend more time with him as soon and as much as possible. 

“You must be really tired. Usually, you chat the ears off my head.” You looked up from your bowl of steaming noodles and forced a smile on your face. 

“Well, I guess working more makes me better company then,” you replied without thinking about it. You did not notice the shocked look on your boyfriend’s face, until he put a hand on your wrist. 

“I like it when you chat my ears off my head, so get some more rest, ok? You don’t have to do everything on your own. Just let your colleagues help you more.” You pull your hand away, pouting as you continue eating. 

The idea of someone else talking John through the evidence fuelled a jealousy that had been vestering in your chest for weeks now. “Take me home with you tomorrow.” John choked on his noodles. Heads turned towards him as he coughed and reached for his beer. He chugged half of it before looking at you again like he misheard you. “You heard me. We need to talk and I am too tired right now.” 

John was quiet for a moment. The air was tense as you two ate. Your bowl was close to empty when you heard his voice again. “If you want to break up with me, you can just say it now.” His voice was small and if you were not so overworked, tired and frustrated, you would have hugged him and reassured him that you loved him so much and that breaking up was the opposite of what you wanted. However, you were overworked, tired and frustrated, so that was not happening. 

You slammed your spoon into the bowl and stood up. “If you never wanted to be in a relationship with me in the first place, then you should just have said no when I asked you to be my boyfriend,” you gritted through your teeth to make as less of a scene as possible. “I’m gonna take a cab home.” Something inside you hoped he would come after you, like men did in movies, but your name stayed uncalled as you waited in the cold night air for a cab to pass you by. 

The next day, your head was even less in the game. You kept making typos, to the point someone gently suggested you took a break. Their tone betrayed how foul your mood had been and you caved. It was getting better, until a familiar face joined you. “There you are, professor,” he said upon arrival, putting way too much emphasis on ‘professor’, “I was hoping you could fill me on your findings on yesterday’s evidence.” You did not like his tone at all. Your eyes almost rolled out of their sockets as you stood up and walked past him. He followed you to your desk, keeping more distance than he usually would. 

“Here,” you hissed as you pushed the file folder into his hands, “your culprit is sprinkling Marigold pollen around like Hansel and Gretel. Dorian knows how to scan for it. You’ll have them by lunch.” You gave him a passive aggressive pat on the arm, before hopping off your desk and walking away. You caught a scrutinizing gaze from your boyfriend, but you pulled an uno reverse card on that. Maybe you were being immature, but you were convinced you had enough reason to. 

If you were not still angry at John, you would’ve thought him dragging the suspect into the precinct before lunch was really hot. You still thought it was hot, but you were too angry to admit that to yourself. You bit the inside of your cheek when you saw him sit the suspect down by force, before turning the glass translucent, blurring the inside. 

On the plus side, having a case finished so easily with little issues, put John in a good mood. You were calmed down as well by the time it was time to clock out. You got a message at two past five. It was from John, asking you to have Chinese take-out at his place tonight. You shot him a message back, something long enough to show him you were in a better mood than that morning. 

While getting the food, it was easy to slip into conversation about the case he solved today. Work-talk turned into reminiscing, talking about people, laughing a little. However, when the door of his apartment closed behind you, it felt so cut-off from the rest of the world and the air between you became thick with the masks you both have the tendency to put on in public. Eating the food had gotten way more awkward than getting the food. With no one to convince you were two happily dating adults, there was uncertainty of how much you had to fool yourselves everything was fine. 

Both of you knew there was need for serious talk, for heart-to-heart conversations about something other than work. “When the captain found out about us,” you started out of nowhere, because it had to start somehow, “she told me to be patient with you, because you had some bad experiences with your ex.” You could see tension growing in his shoulders. “John, we’ve been dating for three months now. Don’t you think it is time you tell me at least a little about your ex? I don’t need the details, but…”

“No.”

You had not even finished speaking. John was already standing up and gathering the dirty plates, turning his back towards you to toss them in the sink. “Why?” You put your hands on your hips, hoping for a very good answer. 

“What happened with her is none of your business,” he grunted as he aggressively started putting everything in the dishwasher, not leaving everything to solidify for once. 

“Well I think it is,” you replied, wanting for him to turn around, but you were not going to beg to see his face. 

“And I think not. What does she have to do with you?”

You walked around the table and stood next to him. Your proximate forced him to at least give you a short glance. Your face was hard, but your voice was fraying at the edges. “Well maybe it will help me understand why you have been such a lousy boyfriend.” You did not mean that, but you felt like you did. 

“I told you yesterday to not keep fucking around if you just want to break up with me,” he replied, not giving in to telling you anything. 

“I do not want to break up with you, but if you’re just gonna prefer talking to anyone but me, what is the point of being in a relationship with you?” You tilted your head, trying to get a look at his face, but you flinched away as he tossed a glass back into the sink with unnecessary force. It was a surprisingly sturdy glass that did not shatter. You backed away, survival instinct winning. John never gave the vibe of someone who would hurt you. He may have been rough in the bedroom, but never angry and to be honest, angry John scared you. 

You swallowed thickly, hoping he would say something, but instead he just tossed the towel lying on the counter across the room. You backed away further, tensing up at the frustrated growl he let out. You never had seen him like this. He was scarier now than when he was yelling at an MX, scarier than when he shot a suspect that returned to the crime scene, scarier than when he came back from the field with bruises and a suspect in a worse state than him. 

“Just say it already,” he roared, “there is no point of being with me, so just end it!” Your heart hammered in your chest, but you heard his desperation. He seemed angry, but his voice betrayed the direction of his anger was not you, but himself. 

“End it yourself if you want us to break up so bad,” you replied, sounding more angry than you meant to, voice raised in defence.

“I don’t want to!”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m scared!”

He looked up with horror on his face, seemingly shocked by his own words. “Goddammit, I’m a mess,” he nearly inaudibly muttered as he walked over to the couch with limp limbs. You crossed your arms, looking at him as you stayed in place. John was never keen on talking, but your silence forced him to. “My ex… she stabbed me in the back,” he admitted, but the sentence did not sound like it was finished. 

“And now you’re scared I will too, so the moment we get together you get cold feet about how much you can trust me?” He did not nod or hum, but the defensive posture was confirmation enough. “Well… I passed the background check when I joined the force.” He let out a bitter chuckle, before looking at you. He held his hand out for you with puppy eyes you could not resist. You sighed and walked over. “I assume it was more than cheating?” You asked, trying to be direct without being overly specific. Your fingers touched his rough hand and he took a firm grasp of yours. He pulled, but let you sit down next to him on your own terms. 

“Oh I wish she cheated,” he tried to joke, but his tone lacked humor. John’s thumb rubbed over your hands as you sat next to each other, distance between you, bridged by your intertwined hands. “It’s not easy to explain,” he said as his eyes stayed on the connection between you two, “but I will, someday.” He looked up to you with those same puppy eyes. “Just give me time, yeah?”

You sighed, hating yourself for being such a sucker for those eyes. “Just stop avoiding me at work. I’ve been working on your cases so you would talk to me.” 

He laughed. “For real?” You felt a little stupid, but nodded anyway. “Oh.” He swallowed down another laugh. “Then I’ll try to talk to you more often, so go home earlier, sleep more and eat well.” He patted your head, a soft smile on his face. 

“Hey, those are three things in exchange for one thing. I don’t think that’s fair.” You saw the edges of his mouth tug up against his will. 

“Ok fine, what other demands do you have?” He questioned, humor returning.

[lokidiabolus]

Offline Age - Chapter 1

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins

Pairing: Alistair Theirin x Elissa Cousland

Summary:   Alistair was never really a lone wolf or anything, but having a place only for himself had its appeal. He didn't plan on taking responsibility for anybody in upcoming years, until one fateful night his doorbell decided to wake him up at 2 AM and show him he was so, so wrong.

OR

How Alistair subconsciously harbored mother hen tendencies towards completely unknown person in five minutes and then fell in love so hard it almost broke all bones in his body.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Tons of overused tropes, Prequel to Online Age

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: No beta, we die like men!

I blame it all on the so called trailer for Dragon Age 4 that made me: 1) Feel the need to write for Dragon Age again; 2) Realize I left Online Age in disarray; 3) Re-read it and get horrified of the sheer absurdity of the middle part and so many absolutely pointless dialogues; 4) Spend a week editing it; 5) Start playing Dragon Age Inquisition again and romancing Cullen again; 6) Feel a heart ache when seeing King Alistair showing up in Redcliffe being flawless; and 7) Start to write randomly about him while playing Dragon Age Origins (because I hate myself. And Deep Roads).

So yeah, all the trailer's fault. And idk, I just really love Alistair, okay :(

Also a note: so many tropes here. SO MANY.

And another note: This is connected to Online Age, but it's sort of a prequel (aka about uh several years back, 5 or 10 or something), this time about (super young) Alistair and his one-day-to-be-wife-he-would-gush-about-to-everybody

It was precisely 2:12 AM, Alistair checked when Hell called, telling him they want their bad puns back. The coherence of apprehending the situation dropped to its lowest around midnight and dragged onward, he was glad he made his legs and arms cooperate enough to lift his sore, sleepy body off the bed, walk it to the main door of his flat and reach for the handle on the third try.

He didn’t really expect anything in particular, a half of his half functioning brain was still sleeping, so when he opened without checking first and saw a small, head to toe drenched girl shivering on his doorstep, nothing came from him apart from huh?

“Hi,” the girl greeted him with chattering teeth. Her blond hair was plastered over her forehead and around her neck and shoulders and there was an undeniable moment of oh crap, this is why I should not watch horrors late at night before Alistair woke up enough to realize the girl was not a ghost but a real, living person. Standing in a puddle, in pyjamas?

“Are those pyjamas?” his brain farted out and the girl opened her mouth, stopped, closed it, looked at her clothes consisting of plaid pants hanging on her lips too loosely and a shirt with Pooh Bear on it, and then back at him.

“Yes,” she said after. “They had them on sale.”

“K,” his brain supplied unhelpfully. “Hi then.”

“Yeah, hi,” she repeated the greeting and the shivering multiplied. “Sorry to bother you. But didn’t you, um. Left your water on or… your washing machine or something?”

“Not that I know of,” Alistair turned back to the innards of his flat, and the only noise that greeted him back was the clock on the wall, ticking its minute way through the dial. It showed wrong time but he was not able to correct it for about year and half. He looked back. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” she stared at him in the dark corridor, water dripping from her Pooh Bear shirt and Alistair could swear he saw the loading icon in front of his eyes for a second, before he raised a hand and went back to the flat to check on the bathroom.

No leaks, everything was quiet and peaceful. He double checked the taps and toilet and when nothing looked even remotely broken or dripping, he returned back to the door, now almost awake.

“Nope,” he told her with a shrug. “All dry up here.”

“I see,” she stared some more, then slowly nodded. “Sorry to bother you. Thanks for looking.”

She turned around and started padding from her puddle to the elevator, leaving wet footprints in her wake. Back to the flooded flat or something? Alistair shook his head, quickly grabbed his keys and followed her.

“Wait a sec,” he dropped his voice as low as he could to be still hearable but not enough to alert the neighbours, and she looked at him with a frown.

“What.”

“Lemme look at the leak,” he insisted despite her unhappy scowl. “Maybe I can help.”

The frown deepened and the elevator dinged, the light from it when the door slid open almost blinded him. She got in, crossed her arms on her chest and sighed.

“Fine,” she motioned for him to follow her, so he did. “But since it’s not from your place, there’s no point, really.”

“Story of my life.”

She looked even more pitiful under the artificial light and unusually pale, almost sickly. He refrained from commenting on it, but it took lots of his self-control, especially when she looked at him like he had lost his mind.

Her flat was on the lower floor right under his, which made her a lucky lady, since he was rarely at home to make any sort of noise that would bother her, at least from above. The name on the bell read Cousland and when she unlocked the door and opened, the smell of wet paint hit him right in the face. It took them only few steps inside towards the bathroom and he already saw the flood from there, dripping from the wall behind the bath, ruining the red coloured wall and tiles.

“Uh oh,” he let out, stepping in to assess the damage and the water under his feet splashed too loud in the otherwise quiet flat. “The pipe must have broken above there.”

“Oh no,” she walked in as well, her face horrified. “So, it’s not from somebody’s flat, it’s somewhere inside the construction?”

“Yep,” he stood up on the edge of the bath, pulling himself higher to the ceiling to see any cracks. “For now, let’s just turn off the water here. And in the morning, we call a landlord about this.”

“He’s going to kill me…” she buried her face in her hands and Alistair stepped down again to find the water lock hidden in the wall behind the toilet.

“Nah, it’s not your fault,” he said for the record, “This is an old house. He should let it checked anyway, the construction is ancient enough to remember dragons.”

“Are you a plumber or something?” he heard her asking behind him and it made him snort while closing the water with a quiet hiss. The wall stopped gushing out and he closed the lid and looked at the distressed owner.

“Wish I was, I heard the pay is good,” he shrugged, wiping his wet hands to his shirt. “But I know a thing or two about house stuff. And few other things around. And lots of things completely unrelated.”

“Right,” she shook her head and looked around at the mess on the floor. “Thanks for the help. I better start cleaning before it soaks to the neighbours…”

“Want help?” he offered faster than his common sense kicked in and that’s how it all began.

***

“-tair. Alistair!”

He almost fell off the chair when a slam on the table startled him from the definitely-not-dozing-off moment, just sheer luck managed to keep him balanced enough from meeting the floor.

“I wasn’t sleeping!” he announced in self-defence and then Duncan’s unhappy face came to his view.

“Didn’t I tell you not to stay up past midnight?” Duncan crossed his arms on his chest and Alistair realized it was already past eleven when he looked at his watch, and he somehow missed two hours. By totally not sleeping.

“Yeah, sorry,” she rubbed his eyes and fought down the yawn that threatened to overwhelm him. He still must have made weird face since Duncan’s scowl deepened.

“Wipe the drool away at least,” the dark-haired man sighed, handing Alistair a napkin out of nowhere, like an ultimate mum he was sometimes. “I’m making the roster now, you want the long shift this week or another one?”

Alistair was completely sure he did not have drool anywhere, but still used the napkin for Duncan’s satisfaction. For his defence he did go to sleep around eleven, but after the debacle with the flood he didn’t get back to sleep at all. When they were more or less done (actually less than more, the flat was in super bad shape, since apparently the leaks weren’t only in the bathroom) it was already six in the morning, so he just went home for shower and to brush his teeth and then kicked himself out to work. His eyes barely held up open during the morning meeting and he thanked whoever was above him for not dragging it for too long, or continue with a drill. He would fail so hard that Duncan would probably disown him on the spot.

“This week,” he mumbled, but then his hand shot towards Duncan’s forearm to stop him from leaving. “No, next week. Totally next week. Can’t this week.”

“Okay?” the older man glanced on the hand gripping him and then back at Alistair’s face. “Will write you up for a short one then. Something happened?”

Well, to put it mildly. The landlord was going to bark on a wrong tree, he was sure, and the girl would let him, probably, not really knowing where the real fault was. So he had a plan. Or part of a plan, at least, making it up as he went.

“Do we have my house’ construction plans by any chance?” he asked and when Duncan cleared his throat while pointedly looking at Alistair offensive hand, he finally eased off his grip with an apologetic quirk of his mouth.

“In the archive,” his mentor nodded towards the estimated location, then crossed his arms on his chest. “Why?”

When Alistair was looking for his own flat, Duncan helped him with choosing between three possible places by finding the construction plans, because if he could be labelled by anything, it would be precautious. Old houses are the best, he would say. So they dug into plans, found the ones that looked the best in Duncan’s opinion and Alistair moved in with light heart. No problems until yesterday, but then again, not really his problem, so that counted for something.

“Just want to look up the piping,” Alistair dragged himself up from the table. “I’ll be there if anything.”

“Do I look like your secretary?” Duncan hollered after him, but Alistair was already out of the room and only hitting his shoulder against two doors on his way. It was a small, meaningless victory, but victory the same.

***

He got out on the floor under his own because of some strange, unexplainable calling he heard in the back of his mind (or maybe it was his stomach because he was hungry). He wanted to stop home at first, take a shower and eat, but somehow his hand pressed the lower button in the elevator instead of his and he was glad for it, because when the door opened, he heard the angry voice of the landlord all the way to the cabin.

“Here we go,” he huffed, packing the copied plans under his arm and taking long strides toward the offensive voice that rang through the hallway so loud it was probably illegal.

“-for two months and you already flooded it?!” the landlord kept on barking, up until he came into Alistair’s view, standing in front of opened doors of the compromised flat, his stance all wide and up in arms. Alistair internally groaned.

The girl stood in front of him, dry for the first time he saw her, in a hoodie and khakis. Her hair was in a messy bun and she looked even more tired than Alistair felt.

“I didn’t flood anything,” she was saying the moment he finally stepped close enough for them to notice him. “I- oh, hey.”

“Hey,” Alistair gave her small salute and nodded towards the landlord. He saw him about twice since he started living here and kind of doubted the man even remembered his face. “Afternoon.”

“Are you here because of the leak?” the man gestured towards the flat, his eyes a little confused. “I’m sure I didn’t call firefighters though…”

Oh right, Alistair realized. He was still in the uniform, since he shot out of work without changing. Well, that worked too.

“I’m familiar with the situation,” he elaborated, making a show of looking into the flat like he was assessing the damage. He already did yesterday though and could tell it sucked balls for the repairs needed. The landlord was so not going to like it. “Looked over the construction plans, the pipes are damaged in the proximate area of the bathroom and living room. The wall needs to be torn down and the piping repaired.”

“Torn down?!” the landlord probably only by small margin avoided heart-attack, judging from his red face and the vein popping on his forehead. Alistair was glad he had the ambulance on quick dial.

“The bathroom one definitely, the water damaged it. I’d advice to have them checked as it is in the whole house, but of course that can be done through stacks for that part,” he handed one of the plans to the landlord who reluctantly took them and had to applaud himself for actually sounding serious so far. “The piping is old and rusty, random breaks happen all the time. I can point you out to a company dealing with these types of problems, though since the Christmas is coming, I’m not entirely sure how fast it’s going to be.”

The landlord opened his mouth, and then closed it. He repeated it two more times until it was apparent no words were going to come out, and then he settled on a nod.

“Great, glad we came to an understanding,” Alistair gave him a broad smile. “I’ll send you the company’s number in a text, in case you wanted to use their services. Happy to see landlords are taking care of their houses and tenants.”

Another nod from the poor man and then he was out of the hallway like a wind. Alistair wondered if he thought firefighter could actually send him to jail for disagreeing but he wasn’t going to try his luck.

“Huh,” the girl stared after the landlord even after he disappeared around the corner. “That worked like a charm. Good idea with the uniform.”

“What can I say, I aim to please,” Alistair commented and then took a step further to take her appearance in. “You’re dry.”

“Yeah, shocking,” her mouth quirked up in a smile. “I can do that sometimes.”

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” he sighed dramatically but then it hit him. “Wait, I really don’t know you. What’s your name?”

“Elissa,” she introduced herself just like that, in her khakis and a hoodie and looking like she went through hell and kicked her way back, and somehow Alistair expected her to have tougher name, like Boulder or Killer.

“That’s a fine name,” he gestured towards her, to her whole appearance and the abundance of the puddle under her feet. “I’m disappointed it’s not something waterier though.”

“Waterbenders don’t have water names, you know,” she shot back and Alistair crossed arms on his chest.

“Elissa,” he tried her name and she mimicked his posture like a mirror. “As a waterbender… I gotta say, after what I’ve seen tonight, you suck at it.”

“Still learning,” she opposed. “Next time the pipe breaks, I will be ready.”

“I hope there is no next time,” he nodded towards the flat. “Don’t think it can take any more.”

That made her lose the posture as she followed his gaze and her shoulders sagged. It was a sad image, really.

“This suck,” she uttered. “It had been just two months. I have the shittiest luck ever.”

“As long as you don’t wind up somewhere without your pants, you’re still alright.” He took a step closer to the door, the smell of paint still hanging in the air. He noticed a packed bag resting in the hallway with a suitcase next to it and several shirts lying on the floor, soaking the moisture from it. The hallway itself looked super bad, the water completely ruined the laminate flooring, made it look like a skateboard park for snails. “Oof.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she stood next to him, staring at the mess. “When I need a quiet place, something naturally has to go wrong. And expensive. Hope it won’t take long.”

“Yeaah, about that,” he offered her an apologetic look, even though it was not his fault, or hers, or anybody’s, and she must have understood since the groan she let out had enough frustration to lit up a town.

“You mean it’s going to take long?” she whined so loud he heard a door opening at the end of the hall, probably to look what the ruckus was.

“Well. It’s almost Christmas. And if you take in the state of the flat – and the piping – and the walls… That’s gonna take at least two months,” he checked once more, stopping at the floor. “And the flooring. And tiles in the bathroom.”

The majority of tiles fell off during their night cleaning, and most of them naturally broke in half. Elissa didn’t comment on it back then, but she definitely stomped harder when carrying the empty bucket to fill it up again.

“Okay,” she sagged even more, almost to her knees. “Alright. Okay.”

Alistair didn’t like that. Sure, he saw tons of misfortune in his life already, majority of it tied to his job and some of it not, but he couldn’t really do much about complete strangers losing their homes to fire. All he could do for them was to pat their back and wish them luck. When all of their stuff was gone.

Elissa’s stuff was not gone, but she was in similar situation. If she could at least go back to her parents or something, he’d be able to rest easy.

“You have a place to stay?” he asked in a softer tone and she nodded. Then took a deep breath. Shook her head. He took a step closer and crouched next to her. “Not even your parent’s place?”

“No,” her words were barely hearable. Then she cleared her throat and shook her head again. “I’ll manage.”

“You can stay at my place, if you want,” his mouth said.

Huh.

“What?” she looked at him as if he’d gone mad (rightfully so).

“My place,” his mouth repeated. Huh. “I’m not home that often, it’s better than nothing?”

She had big, blue eyes. She used them in full force now, staring at him so hard he was afraid a fist was going to come out of them.

“You don’t need to do all this,” she said finally and Alistair thought yes, I don’t need to do all of this. But I do. Because you look like somebody just died, good grief.

“You woke me up at ass o’clock in the morning and kept me up all night cleaning, now I feel emotionally invested in it. Sorry, I don’t make the rules,” he responded instead, light-hearted and nonchalant, and it was the first time he saw her genuinely laugh.