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bromcommie · 9 months ago

Text

moving like a river of trouble crossing

Rating: M | Word count: 10,260 | Tags: Set in the lead up to and right at the end of CATWS, Character Study, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug (And A Friend), Wait No Not That One, Going Down Memory Lane, SHIELD Has Shitty Therapists, Horrible People Still Acting Like People, Captain America Politics, Natasha's Love Language Is Surveillance, Folks Trained For Violence Engaging In You Guessed It: Violence | Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff, implied Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (non-explicit, but still reasonably fucked up by virtue of Rumlow being Rumlow)

(belated) fic for @catws-anniversary, day 2. Thank you so much for putting it together, guys! | march 27th theme: steve rogers | prompts: guilt, "it kind of feels personal" | on AO3 here

and because I apparently can't help myself with the music-fic thing, playlist for this here

Good morning Captain Rogers. It is 05:15 AM, EST. Up 'n' at 'em. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 04:41 AM, EST. Would you like me to set the blinds to a lower density? Don't you nuh-uh at me, sunshine - get your lazy ass out of bed. You're gonna be late. Good morning, Captain Rogers. I understand you are under some duress right now, but please do not be alarmed. It is 2:32 am, EST. The year is 2012. You are in New York City. You are safe. Please try to take a breath. Would you like me to call anyone?

Good morning, Steve. Good morning. You're gonna be late. You awake? You awake yet?

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

That afternoon he packs his bag, the single duffle that fits all of his earthly possessions. He tries to ignore the vaguely smug tone of Fury's voice when he tells him they already have an apartment set up for him in DC: ten minutes from HQ, real convenient, and has he ever been to see Lincoln Memorial? He'll love it, it's a nice spot for a walk, especially in the summers, or so Fury's been told.

Steve's been to DC, but he's never beeen to the memorial, never seen much of the city outside the confines of the hotel the USO booked for them. He thinks he can count the grand total of places he's gotten to see up close on his right hand, and half of them were in the European Theatre. The other half he's running from now.

He's sure it'll be grand, he tells Fury. Beats the smell of moldy brick in the heat and a patchwork city manifesting ghosts out the corner of his eye, he doesn't say. ii.

They get him a therapist as a part of his onboarding at SHIELD. It’s due diligence, they say, in the aftermath of New York – someone to help him transition into his new role. But it’s been almost nine months now, and Steve’s learning their language, the words that get caught up in between all the red tape: saying assistance when they mean overwatch.

“This is supposed to be a safe space, not an interrogation,” the woman says at the start of her first evaluation, meeting all of his unease with a reassuring smile, and something about the misplaced quality of it puts him on a knife’s edge.

He only pieces it together the second time he’s called in to meet with her, when he's a bit more clear-headed and a whole lot more impatient than during their initial encounter. It only takes a few perfunctory exchanges before he starts registering the image as a whole: the painstakingly nonthreatening, gentle demeanor, the conservative clothes she’s wearing; the pale complexion and the sharp features and the unmistakable lilt to her voice, soft and rolling and decidedly more old country than east coast.

It would feel almost perverse, he thinks from a distance, if it wasn’t already painfully transparent and tactically inept to boot: this attempt at the same trick that didn’t work in their favor the first time around. He supposes he can’t blame them for trying to fill in the gaps between what they could scrounge up from paper and old photographs with something predictable and comforting, something expected of his background and what is now probably regarded as an antiquated time period.

He also knows that going off of little information when dealing with a potential threat is dangerous. What’s even more so, he thinks as he nods politely along to the lady's explanation of their work together, is believing you know more than you do, and that’s the easiest mistake to exploit.

Here's a fact probably still recorded somewhere on a faded death certificate: Sarah Rogers never lived long enough to get gray in her hair like that.

Here’s another, probably only still recorded in his memory and nowhere else: his mother had been fiercely caring, yes, and compassionate to a fault, but her kindness had never translated to docility, and it sure as hell had never translated to softspoken dishonesty.

So when the shrink bearing a near-painful resemblance to her starts asking incisive questions enshrouded in unoffensive words and indulgent tones, Steve packs his entire reality into a series of half-truths without batting an eye and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Yes, he’s eating. Yes, he’s sleeping well. No, he’s not on edge – sure, it gets hard, sometimes, but exercise helps, meditation, music. Going out into the world, meeting new people. Trying new things. Yes, he’s ready to be back in the field. No, not so much so that he’s itching for it. Yes ma’am, he’s doing fine, just fine, thank you for asking. iii.

“I heard Hannah’s single,” Romanoff's saying, and it’s not the first time his brain is latching onto the fact that she’s keeping pace with him without losing too much breath, without any discomfort in the cool air that's just starting to roll in as fall bleeds into the city, painting it in darkening evenings and dimming colors. “You know, from forensics? Glasses, leggy, science-y type. Blonde – you like blondes, right?”

“I’m starting to think you only have one thing on your mind,” Steve pants, pushes harder ahead until his calves start burning, just to see if she'll allow herself to follow. Keep moving, keep moving. You awake yet? “Gotta admit, it’s making it kinda hard to enjoy all this quality time we spend together.”

“What, you’re going to stop inviting me on runs? Aw, Rogers. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”

“It’s not really an invitation if you just show up without me letting you know where I’m going, you know.”

She shrugs. “I needed to burn some energy, and you’re not exactly the most unpredictable person in this city.” Her ponytail whips over his shoulder as she follows his sharp right turn around the War Memorial and passes him towards Constitution Gardens, too close and competitive. “Brunette, then? There’s a girl in operations, real tough, good with a gun – at least your propensity for that type has been well documented, but I guess you didn't really have enough time to enjoy it, y'know, all the way –”

Steve knows she’s talking about Peggy, he does. It doesn’t help the hard-wired alarm bells going off in the back of his head any. He digs his heels in, skids to a stuttering halt over the wet pavement, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he’s quietly pleased that it catches Romanoff off guard a little.

“What, too far?” she jokes, but her eyes are quick over his face; cataloguing the boundaries, the places she can still push.

He's sure it's well-meaning, as much as a blatant handler can get. But some habits are just harder to shake than others. That, he's intimately familiar with.

“If I say yes, will you stop? Or at least stop tailing me?”

“I don’t tail you. That’s below my paygrade,” she says, mouth quirking up at the corner like that’s all the punchline she needs as she types something into her smartphone. “I’ll text you her number. She likes spicy food and old movies.”

“Sure, fine. Great.”

“It is. You'll see.” The phone disappears back into one of the many hidden pockets of her skin-tight leggings. The marvels of modern technology, Steve thinks. Natasha quirks a challenging brow. “Now can we start the actual run finally or have you reached your limit, grandpa?”

He's all but ready to chicken out of the date all week, fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute, but he figures the girl doesn't deserve his bad manners just because he feels like spiting Romanoff when she tries to play his puppetmaster.

In the end it goes...surprisingly well. As Romanoff described, Lina’s beautiful and sharp and a little closed off, tough as nails and maybe even more rigid in her approach than him, but once they get over the initial hurdle of awkwardness and expectations the conversation flows with relative ease. They swap the basics, they talk interests and habits and what moving to DC's like, fun little stories from growing up; he tells her about the butcher on his block when he was a kid that kept a rooster in the backyard, and she tells him about the kid on her floor at community college that set the dorm on fire trying to boil an egg. They talk SHIELD and her work training the new recruits and there’s a spark in her eye as she dives into giving him a breakdown of what he should look into, BJJ and MMA and gyms around town that would be discreet enough to take him in.

“SHIELD’s got plenty of hand-to-hand experts,” she says in a pensive tone over the dessert, “but it can get a little…”

Steve chuckles around his spoonful of the sticky rice, the sweetness of the mango across the back of his palate soothing the previous burn of the spice. Turns out he likes Thai food, too. Who would’ve thought. “Intense?”

“Testosterone-riddled, I was gonna say,” Lina grins, conspiratory. “And paranoid. Not the best scene if you just want to learn,” and he nods along because it’s true, and because it’s a relief to have someone else say it for him.

So it’s nice, and sweet, and ultimately entirely impersonal. He walks her to her door and she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and when she explains how she’s not really looking for anything right now her dark eyes are warm and honest but not overly apologetic. It’s a gesture he’s grateful for.

“Besides, not to be blunt, but you don’t seem all that…” She trails off, waving her hand.

He winces. “Interested? I am, really, but...” And that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s interested; she’s wonderful, just his type, seems to like him well enough. But.

“Look, I get it. We’ve all been there. Can’t really avoid it in this business.” She shrugs as if to say what can you do, smiles up at him knowingly. “Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

And Steve thinks, yeah. Yeah, something like that. iv.

“–piece of shit, every time, sand all up in the fuckin’ thing. Goddamn Kandahar all over again,” Rumlow’s muttering, agitated and half to himself, and Steve doesn’t ask about the last part, just dumps his own gear on the rack and drops down onto the bench. They might be friendly, but they’re not friends – Rumlow doesn’t owe him his history. “I get sent to the fuckin’ desert in this weather one more time, I’m gonna start missing New York winters.”

The jet’s engines hum at his back, adrenaline leaving his body in slow pulls as he watches Rumlow work, notes the intermittent scarring over his hands as they strip the jammed gun down like it’s muscle memory, quick and capable. There's not a spot on him that seems unmarred, really - the scars are a continous, scattered motif up to his face, moving faint in the dim light of the jet.

Loved being in the ring, he'd said once, as far back as I can remember. Might've gotten the shit kicked out of me more than was strictly necessary, though. Accounts for me ending up here, in any case.

He’s drawn this exact scene, it occurs to Steve before he can push it away; down to the boxer's shoulders, down to the complaining, and more than once.

“You from the city?” he offers, an easy distraction that Rumlow seems grateful for.

“Yeah. Yeah, born and raised right off of Arthur Ave.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. Good old Belmont.” He looks up, gaze turning sharp at whatever he catches on Steve’s face before he can look away. “Wouldn’t think you’d know where that is. You ever even been past Central Park?”

Steve gets a flash of washed-out color and brilliant light, of Art and Charlie and the rest of them from the Y dragging him up to Harlem; thinks of the queens with their elaborate glamour and loud, unapologetic laughter and that last wet spring before the cops started shutting everything down, of stumbling tipsy towards the A down 155th Street with empty pockets and Jeanie giggling into his shoulder about some honey-eyed daddy that gave her a sweet kiss goodnight. A well-insulated secret, a fleeting memory of feeling like he could swallow the world whole.

It’s not what Rumlow’s talking about, he knows. He nods anyway.

“Loved that neighborhood. My folks moved us out to Staten when I was in high school, though,” and Steve must make an involuntary face at that because Rumlow chuckles and says, “Alright, tough guy. Not all of us had the privilege of living within two blocks of Prospect Park.”

“Neither did I, but it sure beat Staten," Steve snorts. "And it wasn’t even as much of a privilege, back then.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll notice a lot of things’ve changed.” He tilts his head, scratches contemplative at his stubbled chin. Steve wonders if he’s projecting the bitterness in Rumlow’s voice. “A lotta things’ve gone to shit in that place. Food’s still way better than fuckin’ DC, though. Not nearly enough Italians over here.”

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters more than anything. “Should put that on the tourist brochures.”

It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised. The sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding.

One morning in November he gets a phone call from a Washington Post journalist asking for his statement on the newly planned Captain America exhibit, and then in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feat of persuasion it’s three days later and he’s somehow been roped into a grand opening ceremony, a speech and a press conference at the Smithsonian.

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

By the time he's back in his neighborhood his ears are ringing with leftover noise and applause, his cheeks sore from a constant smile that'd felt more like a slashed tire than a friendly gesture even as he was forcing it. He'd reverted back to the Best Foot Forward, Always mentality of the bonds circuit quick enough - but at least back then it felt like it had a marginal purpose, no matter how flimsy or false. Back then it didn't drain him this much, he doesn't think.

Best Foot Forward these days feels more like sleepwalking his way off a cliff than anything else.

The second he's through the door he shrugs out of the tie and starched shirt chafing at his neck, tries not to think about how he still would've preferred all the commotion and the pretense to the unfamiliar silence of the otherwise big apartment building. Tries to give the feeling resurfacing in him now that he's got attention enough for it a name other than unbearable.

Here's the thing: pain, Steve knows on an intimate level, is something you get used to. It's not to say you forget it exists completely: you just subsume it, you learn to expect it. It’s less about it becoming a habit and more that it becomes a part of you when you’re not looking: fills up all the empty crevices it can find and creates a mold, and that’s the shape you start to take if you live with it long enough. The problem with that is that the longer it goes on, the less space in you there is for other things.

He was five the first time he got really sick. It'd started simple enough – the winter of ’23 came early and sudden, and New Year’s Eve found him in bed with a fever that earned the dreaded prefix scarlet soon enough when the spread of dotted red started taking up more and more space on his body. He'd spent two weeks feeling like someone's dangling him off the edge of the unknown, and much longer than that after with his mother's watchful eyes following him from the window whenever he left the house, like she couldn't force herself to look away.

But he made it. Despite all indications, little Stevie Rogers didn't die, and it was a miracle with a capital M. All he had to do is make peace with having a somewhat faulty heart as a keepsake of all that survival and maybe never playing for the Dodgers, which is not to say it stopped him from trying.

But then next year it was the whooping cough so bad it cracked a rib, then his left ear giving out on him after a prolonged sinus infection, then the asthma he barely even noticed amidst everything else until it layed him out flat midway through a game of stickball bad enough it landed him in the hospital. The minor league dreams dissolved fairly quickly after that.

In ’25 he missed more school than he attended. The kids from down the block came round to call on him less and less, and it wasn't too long before they forgot completely and it was just him and a handful of toy soldiers left, with names like Joe and Jack and occasionally if he allowed himself, Steve. Their neighbors started smiling at him more. The grocer started handing him a fistful of candy under the counter every time they came in, looking at his mother in a way that said sorry for your loss and that Steve hated with a passion, least of all because he couldn't even enjoy the pity because hello, here comes diabetes. Then it was the pernicious goddamn anemia and months and months of the liver-fucking-everything diet followed closely by its sworn enemy the ulcers, and then the growing pains, and then the bad back, and then the bum joints – And then, and then, and then.

Here’s the thing about pain: the longer you carry it, the more you forget you’re doing it in the first place. You ignore it because it’s the only way to survive it, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? And that’s when you start thinking you have it under control. You start to think you’ll be ready when it comes for you again.

Here’s the other thing about pain: you’re never ready. It comes as a surprise each time. He wasn’t ready in ‘30 when the neighborhood suddenly started reeking of despair and death and he wasn’t ready in ’36 when his ma went and he wasn’t ready in ’44 when he got shot in the neck and thought oh, so it can still hurt like this. I can still bleed.

Then '45 rolled around and a new thought followed, a miserable dot at the end of a sentence: maybe bleeding out would've hurt less. At least it would've made us even.

None of that experience and understanding stops him feeling it now, again, still, like an uninterrupted line from that first fever chill to here, standing in the middle of his living room with a glossy brochure full of dead faces in his hand and an exhaustion so deep it roots him to the spot.

And then there’s the anger, of course: equally familiar but much more muted, less expressive than it used to be, dancing around the edges of everything else. He looks back down at the crumpled pamphlet, to where the folded-unfolded-refolded creases cut through the title:

Captain America’s team: the top tier of the World War II effort and a leading example of integration!

As if they were somehow Captain America's or even the US army’s to begin with; as if it was encouraged and Steve didn’t have to stand around in moldy tents arguing his brand-new, star-spangled ass off with Major Whatshisname and Colonel Whoever-the-fuck for days on end just to keep them eating in the same mess hall and sleeping in the same barracks. Nothing about any of the ugly parts, about the blood and the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Nothing about any of them, either - no mention of Dernier's politics or Gabe's professorship or Morita's writing. Not a single inch of space left for their families or their own stories except as a footnote in Steve's own, a way to make it picture perfect.

Nothing about Bucky other than the barebone facts: he was Steve's friend, he was a good soldier, he died. The meat and blood and soul of the person, left out; the fact of whose fault it ultimately was, conveniently gone.

And that name – the Howling fucking Commandos. The bunch of them would’ve busted a rib laughing at it, laid out all grandiose like that. For one, it’s still as ridiculous as it was back then – sounds more action novel than historical account and distinctly less bureaucratic and arbitrary than the Specialized 107th, which is what they were strictly called in the paperwork. Personally, Steve always thought that out of the variety of nicknames they’ve been awarded, the Invaders was by far the most fitting. Truer to wartime, to what it was they really did, and far more threatening if it ever reached the other side of the line. Then again, from what he’s gathered so far, it seems like America’s done far more than its fair share of invading since. It definitely accounts for the 180 degree change in branding.

Turns out it’s still all about selling comic books and war bonds. And Steve, too caught up in his own sorry wallowing, is just going along with it.

Jesus, he thinks, the tone of it coated in a wry, familiar voice nestled in the back of his brain but much harsher than it ever was in reality, drop the philosophy for one goddamn minute. Anybody ever tell you idle hands are the Devil's playthings? Get moving, Rogers. Trade the speeches in for something useful.

So he does: chucks the paper into the empty white fruit bowl collecting dust on the countertop, turns the TV on to a random channel to break the silence. He doesn’t recognize the title of the movie playing but it’s soothing, the background awash with static and the accents just familiar enough to make for pleasant white noise. He heats up his leftovers, sprawls out on the couch and gets to reading the reports Fury had unloaded on him, tuning in every so often to the witty back-and-forth dialogue. It’s maybe half an hour of squinting at indecipherable bureaucratic jargon before he finally gives up, lifts his head to rub the sleep from his eyes.

One of the men on screen – Nick, Steve thinks, or maybe that one’s Mikey, he hasn’t been following along all that well, to the work or the film – is trying to dissuade the other from visiting his mother’s grave in the dead of night. Comedic, he thinks, for all its grim setup.

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

It doesn’t make it anything, Nick. A grave is a grave. There’s not a religion in the world that says a person’s soul is buried with them in their grave, the man argues, and it’s like whiplash pulling him out of the serene lull; the unasked for memory of a name over a plot in Greenwood he’d never gone to visit, and he thinks, a little disoriented – of course there’d be no soul in that patch of land. The grave itself is empty.

They’d given him reports in the beginning, too: a neat stack of papers, most of them stamped DECEASED in glaring red letters, and the single mocking MISSING IN ACTION. At the very end there’d been a laughably short list of contacts, among them a phone number and address for one Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

God help us all, he can imagine the voice of George Barnes saying even now, jokingly abject, our Becca’s married a Proddie.

But there had been briefings, then, and the shitshow over Manhattan, and in between all of that the days where he couldn’t even find the will to leave his apartment block, let alone go to Brooklyn. Over and over, he’d given himself the same excuses as with Peggy – it would be too much, too soon, too selfish to usurp her life like that.

Of course, the truth of it all was much simpler. All too cowardly, too, in a way that has the guilt blooming with a vengence somewhere in the pit of his stomach: he didn’t have the guts to look Bucky’s baby sister in the eye, no matter her age, and say, I’m sorry you didn’t get a body to bury. I’m sorry the one time he needed it I didn’t do the job he spent his whole life doing for me. I’m sorry I left him behind when it should have been me down there in the first place.

He watches the two men stumble around in the muddy dark of the graveyard and yell and bicker in a way that strikes Steve as bitterly melancholy all of a sudden, the familiarity of it unmooring.

Mike, y’know what? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do, Nick finally admits at the foot of the tombstone, wild-eyed and devolving into a rambling laugh, and ain’t that a kicker. Welcome to the club.

It’s very hard to talk to a dead person, we have nothing in common. Hi, ma.

Nick, you’re making me forget the kaddish, Mike chides with mounting frustration as Nick keeps giggling and it’s not funny, it’s really not, the whole premise of it deeply morbid, but Steve finds himself laughing right along with Nick’s hysterical hiccups, his childlike plea of I don’t wanna die, ma.

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with a more concrete concept of death for the first time, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

He didn’t, really, not back then, and ten years later when they’d lowered her into the ground all he could think was: what is the point of it, anyway, of all those right choices, if all that happens is you end up dying alone?

Steve hadn’t been, of course. For all of the isolation he’d felt during those last few months of his mother’s illness, he’d never been really alone. There’d been the Barnes’ and the old ladies from church and even some of the folks Sarah had helped treat at the hospital coming by and Bucky, Jesus Christ; Bucky crying at the funeral and saying kaddish for months like Sarah was his own and letting Steve rage and lash out until all the fight had drained out of him, his arms like a vice around Steve’s shaky frame.

And there’s the actual goddamned truth, he thinks, bone-weary. The only truth that matters, the one that’ll never get written on any museum walls: Steve was only ever as strong as the people propping him up.

I think that’s the reason we’re such good friends, Nick is saying to Mike when he tunes back in, and Steve’s not laughing anymore, hasn’t been ever since his throat had gone tight a long few minutes ago, because we remember each other from when we were kids. Things that happened when we were kids that no one else knows about but us. It’s in our heads. That’s how we know they really happened.

What are you talking about? I know what really happened when I was a kid.

Yeah, but no one else does, Nick says, painfully earnest. I mean, everyone we knew as kids is dead.

He shuts the TV off with a soft click, waits a long while before the heartbeat pounding in his ears has settled. Thinks about what it really means, then, to embody the final resting place of all your ghosts.

Maudlin, Bucky’s voice echoes in his head again, fills out the crevices of the silent apartment like a slow bleed. Always gotta be so maudlin, Rogers, like you’re Scarlett O-fucking-Hara. Just get up. Get up, Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, wipes a rough hand over his eyes; laughs again because it’s a damn joke, all of it, and he can afford to lose the plot in the privacy of his own home. “Yeah, fuck you too, asshole. Go haunt somebody else.”

vi.

"Heard you had an eventful weekend," Rumlow comments when they all pile into the locker room the following week, a little roughed up and beat and stinking of iron and sweat but otherwise in decent spirits. "Seemed like a good time, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at you to shake their babies and kiss their hands or whatever."

"Shows how much you know. The pretty ladies were all balding men over the age of 50," Steve says, only half-joking, shrugging into his civvies with a wince. There's a cut on his side where he fell a little too close to a protruding piece of rebar that's already reopened twice by the time they've gotten off the jet, but despite the sharp sting of it he's feeling better than he did just a mere twelve hours ago.

Idle hands, after all, turns out to be true enough. Wryly he thinks he might owe sending an apology up to Sister Andrea, although he figures anyone that enjoyed using a ruler on little kids that much wouldn't have ended up in Heaven, anyway.

"But sure, it was alright. A little too much attention all at once, if I'm being honest."

"Oh?" Rumlow huffs. "Big talk coming from someone who dresses like you do. I hope you didn't show up there wearing that."

Steve frowns down at the faded jeans, the fitted grey shirt – one of many pairs that came with the closet in his apartment. It rubbed him the wrong way, at first, but it's easier in the end; not having all that wide array of choice dumped over his head all the time. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. I just get worried they're gonna start cutting off blood flow at some point, y'know," Rumlow grins, his teeth very white in the bright fluorescent lights. "God forbid we finally get to a bar one of these days, I'd have to mind every creep from here to Dupont tryna get a peek down your shirt."

"Fuck off," Steve huffs, feeling heat flush down into his neck despite himself. Yeah, blood flow really isn't the problem. He gestures at Rumlow's own undershirt, all slick black and skin-tight, motion packed in. "Look who's talkin'."

"Yeah, but I don't dress like this out there. This is all for you guys," he yawns with a stretch, all exaggerated bravado. "I got one of those, y'know - work-life balances. Out there I clean up nice. You, I figure you sleep in that shit. Or is it a ‘full-gear’ kind of situation?"

Steve snorts, turning back to his pack and the blank reprieve of the dull metal wall of lockers. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one tux and everything."

"Is that right? They get you decked out in some bespoke threads for the parade, Cap?" He chuckles at the face Steve makes when the word bespoke fully registers. "See if I believe that without any evidence."

Steve digs out his phone reluctantly. He does have pictures, is the thing, woke up the next morning feeling like a sack of potatoes tossed from a great height just to see his phone light up with an email from SHIELD's HR with an attachment sent over for approval - like he was a celebrity ending up in a tabloid, he thinks again with distate, like he should care much either way what he looked like. He thumbs through his email to the one labeled FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, and shoves it over at Rumlow before he can think twice, drops onto the bench to sort out the rest of his pack.

"Looking good, you weren't kidding. And the mural's all heroic," Rumlow comments lightly as he scrolls through with lingering scrutiny. "Wait, don't tell me - the little mustachioed, scruffy looking one is the frogeater, yeah?"

Steve laugh comes easier this time. "The little mustachioed, scruffy looking one would've kicked your ass six ways from Sunday if he'd heard you call him that. Yeah, that's Dernier. Gabe, next to him," he lists, trying not to think about how it comes across that he's memorized the order, "Dum Dum - he didn't like that nickname, either - Bucky, Monty, and Morita."

"Sure were big on callin' each other everything other than your names, huh?" The joke is followed by a stretch of quiet, and when Steve looks back up Rumlow's frowning at the phone a little, a flicker of uncertainty over his face that Steve doesn't get to figure out before it's gone. His face smoothes out into a mostly flat expression, an undercurrent of something unnerved and rippling, and Steve can't help himself.

"What?"

Rumlow passes him the phone back with a shrug. "Nothing, just - haven't seen those pictures since I was in high school," he says, a little distant like the memory's faded to oblivion since, and hell if Steve'll ever stop finding it strange that all of them ended up in dusty old school books, obsolete. "Long time ago, now. Guess I just remembered all of you being much older, is all."

He leans back against the wall of lockers, pensive, watches Steve fumble with the zipper of his hoodie where it keeps sticking for a minute. "You must miss it, though. The good old days. Your people."

"Yeah, well.” Steve clears his throat against the uneasy heat of the room, yanks at the cheap piece of plastic again. The fit and cut, he might've gotten used to - but he'll never get over the waste; just how quickly everything falls right apart in the future. “Like you said, it was a long time ago."

"It was, wasn't it. Longer for some than others, though," he says cryptically, and Steve really has nothing to say to that that won't land him right back where he was two days ago. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Rumlow throws a curt nod at his front, and it takes a second too long for him to interpret what his zeroed-in expression means, to register the dotting of blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're bleeding all over the place again."

"It's fine. Don't feel it much," Steve says. Something's different. What's different? Wake up.

"Sure. Never do, do you," he says, gesturing to the hoodie with a thoughtful look that's inching away from the easy banter. "That shit's gonna stain, though."

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

It should be enough, and in any other situation it would be. Any other situation he'd shrug it off with more conviction, Rumlow'd call him a tough guy with just the right amount of mockery, and the tension would pass. Except that Rumlow had to lead them into uncharted territory and Steve hadn't been quick enough to notice before he was flailing, too exposed.

Except that instead of a quip what he gets is Rumlow's stepping into his space, the casual slouch of his shoulders replaced with something more deliberate when he reaches for where Steve's hand is still holding onto where the teeth of the zipper have gotten all gnarled. In a heartbeat Steve's back to square one: keenly aware of the proximity and every inch of his body in the cramped space; back to that first day in the elevator with Rumlow's dark eyes turned on him with a questioning look and a twist to his mouth that said it's a pleasure, Cap but meant I've been here long enough - you don't impress me any more than any other kid I've seen this place chew up and spit back out.

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid.

Want, want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

The sound of the zipper is too loud in the mostly empty space when it gets yanked loose, pulled up and over the slow spread of the stain, and Steve realizes with a start that he didn't notice the chatter die down as the few stragglers left the room. Realizes that he hasn't moved a muscle in a good minute, like a butterfly with its wing pinned.

Rumlow's touch lingers, just the barest pressure under his Adam's apple, and Steve's breath catches. Rumlow makes a considering noise.

He snapped a guy's neck with those hands not two hours ago: a thoughtless, instinctive thing in the middle of the ambush that was waiting for them. It's not that Steve's forgotten it; Steve's aware of it to the point of failure. It's just that it got bound up with everything else, the easy reliance and the ribbing bordering on rough and the adrenaline under his skin like a necessity.

Wake up.

Rumlow's eyes on him are sharp, a little curious. Less surprised than they ought to be.

Wake up, get moving, get out of sight. We've been here before.

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

"Sure." Rumlow steps back to hoist his bag over his shoulder and the moment breaks as quick as it came on, the whole uninterruped line of him lax and easy again, surface friendly. "Now you won't scare the guys at the front desk."

And then he's off down the hallway, leaving Steve to lean on the cool metal of the wall and do everything but think about the sudden feeling of being off balance, a little too tight in his skin in a way that only half has to do with the too-quick beat of his blood, the lingering smell of Rumlow's cologne.

vii.

Funnily enough, the Christmas gala almost slips his mind – an extraordinary accomplishment, considering that he spends most of December thinking up viable excuses not to go, dodging Romanoff’s questions and sideways looks with the agility of a man running for his life.

“We can hang out with the civilians. Break the record of how many weapons contractors you can piss off in one night,” she says one brisk and sunny afternoon when she manages to drag him out to a coffee shop barely across from SHIELD, the steam from her tea swirling up in billows to fog her opaque sunglasses. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know any civilians,” he says, deliberately obtuse. It’s a joke; he can’t help that it’s also mostly true.

“What about Kate?”

It’s not a surprise anymore, really, that she knows everything about his life, that she has no problem making that clear to him when she wants to. He’s fine with it, he has to keep reminding himself. Maybe it’s a control thing, like when she acts like she’s not holding back when they spar, a holdover from some other life. Maybe this is the closest they get to trust, and it doesn’t matter. Much like the tails that he pretends not to clock, the check-ins and evaluations and this whole neatly preordained life someone else's drawn up for him – it comes with the package, and what difference does it make, anyway? It’s simpler like this. He can do his job, and if thinking that he’s a situation she has a handle on makes Romanoff feel better, then that’s fine, too.

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

“I talk to her all the time,” he points out. Natasha cocks her head, the rest of her expression as obscure as her shaded eyes.

“It’s for a charity. The gala.” She keeps switching lanes. Trying to get him to stumble, he thinks.

“Yeah, Ms. Potts said.” Two can play at that game. “You want a date so bad, why don't you pester Barton this much about it?”

“Clint doesn’t need pestering. It’d be good publicity if you showed, you know.”

He scoffs; there it is. “For what, the charity or Stark Industries?”

“So it is about Stark, then.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, over-sweetened and dark. 100% pure Colombian arabica, apparently, and with the price tag to reflect it. The acidic taste sticks at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem with Tony.”

He doesn’t. Stark’s a good man, he thinks, despite having inherited all of Howard’s arrogance and none of his approachability. Whatever tension was there in the beginning had dissipated, though, the second Tony plummeted thousands of feet from the sky after having, for all intents and purposes, blown himself up to save all their sorry necks. They’d broken bread, shaken hands, parted ways.

For the best, probably. Good man or not, Tony has a singular way of getting under his skin.

And then there’s also the fact that being in Manhattan just doesn’t feel right, not with the destruction still settling over everything like a cloud of noxious dust, the fenced off craters and leftover vigils scattered every few blocks like an improvised graveyard. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 4:47 AM EST. It is a new day. Do you see it? Do you see it yet? Are you awake?

It’s not new, this sense of loss: looking at the city and feeling grief, compounded.

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying SHIELD throws shitty office parties.” Natasha frowns and chugs half the scalding cup in one go before pushing up from the table, checking her phone. “I have to go,” she says, gives him a long look that he can’t really decipher, unusually lingering and far too serious by Natasha's standard. “Come to New York, Steve. Or at least think about it.”

viii.

He goes to see Peggy again, because of course he does. She greets him at the door with her most pleasant, polite smile this time, the kind reserved for strangers – Time for my medicine again, is it, darling? – but it’s alright, he understands. They’ve explained it to him, the good and bad days, how there’s rarely any constant. He’s grateful, anyway: just so grateful to have her around, as much as he can. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when she cries, when she calls for him like it’s been another seventy years, why he holds her brittle hand in his until she gets hazy around the eyes again and he feels a nurse’s gentle tap on his shoulder, hears her suggest that he come another time.

He takes the Harley out on the highway and drives aimlessly for the rest of the evening and well into the night, down and out and then back again until the traffic has thinned out to semis and the rare leftover commuter. He watches the speedometer kick up to 80, 90, a 100, the bike struggling, feels the rumble of the engine all the way up his spine when it skids unbalanced over the odd ice patch and thinks, grateful, grateful, grateful.

ix.

“You’re up late.”

“Hey.” Most of the building’s emptied out by now – he’d thought he’d find some privacy in the abandoned atmosphere of the holidays, and instead here Rumlow is when he was meant to be three states over, strolling through his periphery looking like he’s got nothing but time on his hands. “Thought you left with everybody else.”

“Nah. Had some business to take care of.” He settles against the wall opposite Steve, watches him shake out a one-two-three pattern that has the chain of the bag groaning. “Thought you’d be at Stark’s fancy party and putting that suit to good, promotional use.”

He never gets a chance to think about it, it turns out, getting called in two days before Christmas and ending up sending Ms. Potts – Pepper, please, call me Pepper – an overly apologetic, last-minute message excusing himself from the night. It’s a good call, in the end. The last thing he needs tonight is to be stuck in a room full of obscenely drunk, obscenely rich people expecting him to gush over the hors d’oeuvres and play at appearances.

He feels as though what he’s doing right now isn’t much different, though. It takes a whole lot of effort and posturing to dredge up a wry smile for Rumlow, anyway. “Well, it’s been busy here. Couldn’t fit it into my packed schedule.”

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. Maybe it’s just that his particular brand of humor is by a degree off from familiar; a degree too cynical, like so much seems to be nowadays. Maybe it’s just that for better or for worse, Steve has never exactly excelled at letting himself be just one of the guys, for all that entails.

That chip on your shoulder’s big enough I swear you could knock it off a mile away, sometimes.

The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

He walks over to the neat row of bags Steve’s lined up and picks one up with relative ease, a casual show of strength. “So you gonna talk about it,” he pipes back up, handing Steve the replacement with steady hands, “or do I have to keep standing around here until you’ve run the rest of ‘em into the ground?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s got you shredding through these poor fuckin’ things at 11 pm on Christmas Eve.”

He wants to point out that he could be asking the same question – that there really is no reason for Rumlow to be here this late when he’s still technically on medical, to be in his usual tac clothes and looking as wired as Steve’s feeling. You ever take a day off? he considers asking, but that’d be prodding. What’s worse, it’d be hypocritical.

Steve shrugs, lining his shoulders back up to the unsteady sway of the bag. “Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

“Yeah, Rollins mentioned you guys ran into some kinks.”

It’s not exactly the word Steve would use to describe the shitshow of that morning, utter failure avoided by a narrow margin because it was an old school lab, Christ, still had extracurriculars on the weekends and everything, and they just charged in half-blind.

It’s rigged, naturally. The room blows as he’s getting the janitor out, tears the face of the building open towards the sharp drop below, and all Steve can think is what a stupid, avoidable way to die. The electrical fire smell lingers for a long time after the explosion, the patter of the wet snow through the blown roof nowhere near enough to put the flames out.

They’re told to avoid detailing the collateral in the report, after: SHIELD had no way of knowing the complete situation beforehand, they say, short and brooking no argument, and Steve’s getting real damn tired of hearing that. By the time they wrap up cleanup he’s shivery and exhausted and when he finally dozes off on the long flight back with his ear to the monotonous drone of the engine, it’s to vague, uneasy bursts of the taste of ash in the mouth and many small, cold hands dragging him deep into the frozen ground.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks of when he startles awake is Dugan’s thick mustache chained solid with frost, lips blue with the cold and grumbling under his breath.

"Gee, you're looking awful familiar there, Dum," Gabe'd say, biting off the ends of his sentences with the chatter of his own teeth. "Made this snowman that looked just like you when I was a kid - all white and lumpy with a great big bush over his lip. 'Cept his carrot nose was half as long and he never ran his fuckin' mouth this much."

And despite the cold and the misery, Dugan would elbow him and Gabe'd elbow back, obstinate. And Bucky'd laugh, Bucky'd call them all a bunch of fucking morons, and do they really want their last to be the Germans hearing them squabbling like two bitter old biddies out on the steps of the church for the whole neighborhood to see? Think of the image of our troops, golly gee. God forbid.

He strips out of his wet suit at the compound by rote and doesn’t think about the numbing cold of December among towering trees, of snow burning his fingers raw, clinging to his lashes. He runs until his lungs burn and it’s nothing like that thin, strangling air of the mountain range, nothing like warm skin sticking to icy metal, muscles all locked up and tears hot like bile in the back of his throat and the wind screaming in his ears, and –

Winters are warmer now, somebody’d told him at some point. Something about northern lights and the ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Kinks, right.”

He smooths out the edges of the tape that’s come loose over his knuckles, tries to tuck it in where he’s spotted red through the fabric. Suddenly he’s all too aware of the seconds lumbering on in silence, the eerie, empty quiet of the building; Rumlow looking at him with a single-minded intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle with heat, gets him on edge in a way he doesn't want to parse, doesn't have the energy to hide from.

It'd be no use, anyway; sometimes he thinks Rumlow can smell it on him, blood in the water.

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers. He considers cutting it off there. Despite the best effort he’s not feeling generous with his words tonight, a feeling exacerbated by the lingering shadow out the corner of his eye. He’d consider asking Rumlow what the hell he’s here for, or telling him he’s got someplace else to be, except for how there’s a voice in the back of his head telling him not to budge at all cost.

Except for how there’s a quieter one echoing: Where would you go, anyway?

“Alright what?”

When he turns back around Rumlow’s ditching his holstered gun on the bench. Steve didn't even notice he was armed. “You said you got some energy to burn – so let’s go a few rounds.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” and it’s his voice in the end, if he’s being honest with himself, that makes Steve fold; the cajoling tone and those long, tightly rolled vowels that curl and hook into the sheltered space behind his ribs. “C’mon, man, it’s been a while. I could stand to let off some steam, too.”

Come on, do it for me, Bucky had said in dozens of different iterations over the years and then only once after when it had meant something, only once when he was really asking, back up against the hard bark of the tree with his hands dangling between his legs like a man who had no more use for them. You gotta promise me, Steve, he’d tried, low and worn thin, and Steve didn’t, couldn’t find the words to that wouldn’t be a complete lie and a betrayal. Instead he’d leaned harder into his side, hand at the back of his neck, and wanted and wanted and wished like hell, not for the first time, that he could drain the misery and exhaustion out of Bucky’s body at every point of contact.

Come on, Rumlow says, and Steve goes, Pavlovian.

He rewraps his hands in silence, waits for the other man to tape up before he steps into the ring.

“Y’know, it could’ve been worse,” he says, circling Steve, tone casual, “No casualties is better than what we get most days. So you might as well stop with all this self-flagellation bullshit, Cap. It’s no good.”

“You wanna keep talking,” Steve goads him because it’s worked in the past, because it really has been a long day, “or do you wanna fight?”

They start off slow, Rumlow testing the waters and Steve pulling his punches by habit by now. He manages to land a few hits that don’t really scratch the surface, doesn’t pull back in time to avoid Rumlow’s hook. His blood rushes at the first, second, third collision, zings up his spine and sharpens everything out, bright Technicolor; it’s good, doesn’t even hurt, he’d almost forgotten –

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

“C’mon. What, you gettin’ bored already?” Rumlow says the third time he gets past his guard, an edge of something mean and frustrated in it. He strikes out again just to skirt off Steve’s belated block, more provocation than actual intent. “Jesus, you fallin' asleep on me? Fight the fuck back, old man.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Steve gets out, putting distance between them. “Ain’t you supposed to be passed out drunk on eggnog in Staten Island right now?”

“You ever stop running your mouth? No wonder you were the neighborhood punching bag, kid.”

“I weighed a 100 pounds soaking wet, I had to compensate. What’s your excuse?”

He’s slow this time, too. Rumlow’s not someone who signals. The kick to the plexus sends Steve stumbling back and something pops, loud. He coughs once, twice; shakes it off.

“Aw, there he is. You’re alright,” Rumlow says, deceptively sweet, dismissive. “You’re just fine. Come on, Cap. You gonna quit being a pussy or what?"

Here’s the thing: he’s not sure he likes Rumlow all that much, really, can’t read him all the way to be able to say for sure; isn't sure that he wants to. They don’t know each other, not in a way that counts – it’s only been a handful of times that they’ve even worked on the same team in the time Steve’s been in DC, even less they've gotten to have anything that counts as a real conversation outside the single locker room incident, but he’s been leading men long enough that he can pick up on the patterns. He can see the way Rumlow commands respect among STRIKE, knows the type, besides: collected and confident and purposeful, committed to the cause to the point of failure. Violent, too, sure, shooting for the head when Steve’d still be asking questions; a little too rough around the edges, sometimes, yes, but so what – Steve’s seen his fair share of that. Steve’s lived it, felt it on his own skin, inside and out, been in it for long enough. So what. He’s not about to run away screaming.

It isn’t even the first time they’ve done this, beaten the shit out of each other after hours in the deserted facility. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Rumlow in this light, eyes dark and focused; liking it a little too much, maybe, liking riling Steve up and drawing blood. A natural progression to all the things about him Steve maybe didn't want to notice and all the things that had his full attention since the second they met.

It’s fine – Steve figures, this body can take it. It’s what it was made for, anyway. Steve figures better here than out there, and out there Rumlow’s all brutal efficiency and casual competence and Steve trusts him to have his back, get the job done, which is the only part that matters. Steve trusts him, is the thing, and that carries more weight than likeability ever could.

Rumlow’s fist connects with his jaw and he feels it rattle up into his teeth, the dull pain like a live current through his body, whiting everything else out: you awake, Steve? You awake yet? Is it enough, to still be able to bleed?

So sure, maybe it’s the violence that gets him. Maybe it’s that Rumlow fights just dirty enough and doesn’t pull his punches with Steve, grins at him sharp when he spits blood from his busted lip and squares back up. Maybe it’s just that he’s not afraid to touch him or look at him wrong. Everyone else seems to be.

He blinks sweat out of his eyes and creeps in close, lands a few swings in quick succession that have Rumlow easing off, his head snapping to the side.

“Yeah. That’s it, there you go. C’mon,” he laughs, pushes damp hair out of his face in a well-worn afterthought of a move, and Steve –

Steve has to remind himself, is the thing. Every goddamn day of the week he has to keep reminding himself of where he is. Eventually, he thinks, it might stick – but God, he’s sick and tired of it.

They don’t even look alike. For one, Rumlow’s much older than Bucky ever got to be. Has the scars and the experience and the too-mean edge to his voice to prove it.

But in the end, when he's got Steve face down on the floor, breath hot down his neck, it turns out it doesn't really matter all that much.

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward. Hart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. It's all there is, all that's left.

Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Steve pants into the mat. “Pretty sure this ain’t within kickboxing rules.”

“Pretty sure there was no talk of rules in the first place. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I, you gotta get that or else people’ll think you’ve gone soft. Someone might take advantage.”

“You ever quit talkin’ shit?” Steve throws back at him.

“Nah.” Rumlow shifts, the weight of him heavy and hot, too close. Steve can’t catch his breath. Rumlow’s knee is still pressing into his back and he can already feel a bruise spreading at the bottom of his ribs that’ll be gone in the morning. He doesn’t even feel it all that much. He never even – “See, I don’t think you’d want that.”

Steve could break the hold with ease. He could throw Rumlow off and still walk away with most of his dignity intact. Steve could do a lot of things.

He’s fucking tired, is the thing. He’s in his body and buzzing hard out of his head and it hurts, Christ, it hurts so bad, has for such a long time now, and it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter one bit.

Keep moving, keep moving. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe it's alright if it's not him, anyway; a river of trouble, cross currents, carrying him along.

It’s just easier, in the end, to trust someone on his team. That’s all there is to it. It's easier, it is, it's getting there at least, Steve keeps telling himself as he lets Rumlow take him apart in more ways than one.

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

He meets Sam Wilson on a humid day in late May when the sun's barely made its way up, the sky an overripe color and all of his bruises already healing or healed or tucked neatly all the way back under the surface. Like many things with him these days, it starts off as muscle memory; then a shot in the dark, then relief when it works.

It still takes all of his willpower not to physically retreat when he's hit with the familiar, tired refrain:

You must miss the good old days, huh?

But then Sam cuts straight through the middle of it: Sam calls his bluff, quick as hell but with kind, serious eyes and an outstreched hand, and by the time the sleek black car rolls up to the curb with a roar Steve's got another title in his little book of the future and a chest that feels slightly lighter than it did when he jolted awake at 3 in the morning.

Romanoff pulls them back out onto the street without a word, and he doesn't even mind the knowing look she casts his way all that much. Just looks out the open window, the spring air whipping past as the speedometer ticks up 40, 50, 60, and thinks about whether the farmer's market will be open when they get back in: having some fruit in that goddamned fruit bowl might be nice for a change.

(epilogue)

When all is said and done, he thinks he really should have seen it coming. There was no talk of rules, and it's Steve's own damn fault for not listening. When the dust settles and the Potomac still reeks of a gasoline fire, when Steve's switched back onto battlefield efficiency despite the nightmares creeping into his subconscious with a vengance, it really shouldn't feel personal.

Except for the memory of Rumlow's slick grin in the too-bright, too-close space of the elevator, except for the phantom feeling that he can still sometimes smell scorched skin on his stomach; except for the way Bucky's horrified expression is burnt into the backs of Steve's eyelids like a brand, like a scar that won't heal fully.

Except that it's nothing but personal, in all the ways that matter.

Sam looks at him in question when he pauses in the middle of breakfast, eyes glued to the closest thing that passes for a modern TV in a roadside diner in Bumfuck, Iowa. Hospital breakout, the breaking news states, three dead, seven injured, dangerous fugitive on the loose. Be advised. Do not engage. Do not engage.

Yeah. Too fucking late for that now, isn't it.

"You alright?"

That's a loaded question, he thinks. I'm not sure what that really means and I don't know if I have for a while, he thinks.

You awake, Steve? You awake? You see it yet?

"Fine," he says, and digs back into the cold, gummy pancakes. "You think they got any blueberries in this place?"

Sam's face cracks into a smile, dubious and slow and then all at once. Sure, if you say so. Sure, I see what you're doing, but I'll trust your lead. Prop me up, I've got you right back. "Man, I don't think they even have hot water, but. Gimme five minutes and a Captain America name drop, I'm sure we can figure something out."

#this got very long jesus christ #I overthought it so now I'm just hoping it fits the event and the prompts??? anyway #so unbeta'd. my apologies and also enjoy! I hope!#catws10 #catws anniversary #steve rogers #brock rumlow #natasha romanoff #don't wanna tag sam because he only shows up for a blink of an eye but. he shows up and also I love him<3 #idk if it’s actually an M rating but. just to be safe #gaslighting #by sheer virtue of the bastard involved #stevebucky #steve rogers/brock rumlow #I don't know the tag for that and I kind of don't want to know #my fic

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thecoolerliauditore · 8 days ago

Note

After reeding the post about CC's and the stress involved in their job. Out of all life series members, I think that Martyn is the most chill one/he doesn't even care about haters lol

A hater could just tell him to "end himself" and he would just be like "nuh uh"

I. Do see where you're coming from, especially with Martyns more casual relationship with fandom (checking his mcytblrconfessions hater tag lol) and "ruh roh" and whatnot.

But I do have to say I really, really don't like this sort of mindset. Martyn WAS being told to kill himself back in LimL and while he wasn't breaking down on camera he certainly did talk about it in a way that implied to me at least he was affected. Quippy comebacks don't mean the words don't stick.

And idk I've definitely gotten the impression before that Martyn is more internet-hardened (I imagine that you'd have to be as a Yogscast OG), he seems like the type who would be offput by people white knighting for him, but at the same time it is interesting still to me that there's never a word from the people insisting we stop being mean to Gem/Pearl/Scar that spares a thought for Martyn who was directly impacted by a wave of hate too in the same series. This is the guy who burst into tears at the HC gamers outreach Livestream event and who had to frequently back off from bigger louder events in psmp because it was overwhelming. Is he actually "not bothered" or is he just more accepting of how the internet is and/or good at hiding/managing how bothered he is?

Like. Idk I just hesitate to write off anyone as "eh, they can take it".

Unless we're talking about life series character Martyn who I think should be told to kill himself every single day

#asks #CW suicide

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 1 year ago

Text

When You Know, You Know - Ronald Speirs x OC

Summary: A night of drinking with Valerie and the men leads Ron to realise that he's in much deeper than he thought

Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption/intoxication

Word count: 2.8k

Tags (Mostly using the taglist from the original fic): @50svibes @cagzzz107 @yentroucnagol @mads-weasley @mrsalwayswrite @dcyllom

A/N: This oneshot is building on from the characters/storyline established in my fic Just Come Home, which you can read in its entirety here. For those of you who have read it already, this is set roughly between chapters 5 and 6. Enjoy!

I can't even tell if this is good, I just needed to write for them again, I miss them so much

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"I win again!"

"God dammit!" George Luz cried, throwing down his hand of cards upon the table as Valerie laughed, taking a sip of her drink and revelling in his distress. Easy Company had been in Berchtesgaden for almost a week, and already boredom was beginning to set in, remedied seemingly only by late nights of drinking, card games, and music which they had begun to host almost daily in the huge abandoned hotel at the end of the main street.

The huge dining hall was bathed in a low, golden glow, a refuge from the darkness outside, and a gramophone crackled away in the corner, playing record after record of German music only a few among them could understand. A few portraits of prominent officials hung on the walls - survivors of the initial scourge which had seen the men clear out anything of value - their faces vandalised beyond recognition, drooping unevenly on their hooks. The large, circular tables that had once hosted wealthy guests to the town were now used for rowdy games of all kinds, stacks of empty glasses growing taller by the hour.

It had been almost two hours since Valerie had found herself dragged into one of these games. The men had clearly thought her light competition, but in those two hours, not one of them had won a single round. As the night wore on, and she continued to prevail, they grew only more determined to continue, to find a hole in her strategy to exploit, to finally beat her, for God's sake.

"I mean, Jesus, I just don't understand it," Tab sighed, frowning as he poured himself another glass of whiskey, staring wearily at his own hand in the realisation that he never could have won. "How can you win every goddamn time?"

Val chuckled, patting him on the arm in consolation. "I think it might be time to call it a night, eh gents?"

Luz shook his head. "No. Nuh-uh. We're not leaving until I win."

"You better be careful you don't run outta money first."

Tutting, he reached into his pocket for some more cash. "You better donate this shit to a charity or something when you get home, God knows you don't fucking need it," He lamented, muttering something to himself about big fucking houses and rich fucking parents.

With a grin, she accepted her winnings, sliding the money into the pocket of the coat she draped over the back of her chair. It was not her own coat - none of Valerie's clothes were her own, all of them pilfered from the abandoned closets of rich German wives, fleeing in a hurry with their rich Nazi husbands. But in the grand scheme of things, she hardly felt guilty. "Pleasure doing business with ya, Georgie." Val teased, her tongue drawn between her teeth.

A wide archway separated the main dining room from the smaller, private hall next door - a more intimate space for what had once been the wealthiest of hotel guests, but which now belonged to the officers of Easy Company, a huge central table proving the perfect place for late night games of poker.

Ron stared at the unimpressive cards in his hand, suppressing a frown, his infamous stony gaze playing in his favour once again. He would not win this game, but as long as Harry continued to play as badly as he had so far, he would not lose either. The sound of laughter in the next room pulled his gaze - and there she was. Valerie's face flushed red as she laughed, her cheeks creased as she tilted her head back, George Luz chuckling beside her at whatever he had said that was so damn funny. He wasn't sure he had ever made her laugh like that - but Ron knew he wasn't a funny guy, not like Luz at least. A few months ago, he might have felt the inkling of insecurity bubbling in his chest, but not now. Despite all the things that made him seem so intimidating to the other men, it seemed Ron was stuck with Valerie whether he liked it or not.

He did.

The sound of someone noisily clearing their throat pulled his attention away from the next room, and as Ron looked across the table, he noticed Nixon staring straight at him, brow raised. "Hm?" He asked, mirroring his expression.

"You gonna take your turn?" Nixon asked. "Or you gonna keep staring?"

Ron decided not to acknowledge this second question, instead swiftly taking his turn, placing his cards down forcefully, as if making a performance out of it. He wasn't staring. Just... watching.

In the corner of the dining hall, the record that had been playing stopped with a crackle, and Valerie stood up to change it, sliding her cards into her pocket to prevent Luz from cheating. The man scoffed at the mere suggestion, but they both knew he wasn't above taking a peek. As she neared the gramophone in the corner, Chuck Grant came passing the other way, their shoulders brushing against each other as he headed back to his own table. "Ooh, Val," He spoke, stepping up behind her as she flicked through the box of records. "You gotta try this."

Looking up, she accepted the glass in his hand, stifling a cough after her first sip as the liquid burned her throat. "Oh, fucking Christ, what is that?"

"No idea. Malark's recipe - good though, right?"

"Good, but I think it'll kill me," Val confessed, flicking through the box of records with her free hand.

"That's the spirit," He chuckled, patting her on the shoulder before turning to return to his table. "Drink up."

She grinned as he left, taking another sip of Malarkey's dangerous concoction before selecting a record. Their titles had all been in German, so Valerie had been forced to make a decision based off of the covers alone, and as such was slightly taken aback when upbeat folk music came blasting through the gramophone's horn, although the men around her seemed too engrossed in their games to even notice.

Returning to the table, interrupting Luz and Tab as they talked strategy, she put down her drink, taking a seat. "What's that?" George asked, nodding towards her glass.

"No idea. Malarkey's makin' 'em over there apparently."

He paused momentarily, slowly sliding his cards into his pocket as if Val actually needed to cheat to win. "...Don't mind if I do."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Just over an hour had passed since the last time Ron had looked over at Valerie - Harry had lost their last game, predictably, and the officers had been darting between conversation and cards ever since, the energy slowly draining from the room as the night wore on and they began to find it harder to focus on the more technical games. The group had noticed the main dining hall growing steadily louder as the night progressed, but the disturbance had not been enough to warrant their attention until suddenly a smash rang out, accompanied by a series of whoops and laughter.

Craning his neck to see what was happening, Ron's gaze fell upon the portrait of Hitler that Valerie had taken a knife to on their first day in town, his face now stained with dark red wine, a few shards of glass embedded in the canvas. Still seated at her table, Val let out a hearty laugh, her cheeks flushed bright red as if she had caught a chill. But he knew it wasn't that.

Of the men of Easy Company still occupying the hall, not a single one of them appeared sober, the scent of alcohol lingering on the very air. Sitting across the table from Valerie, it appeared George Luz had actually fallen asleep, suddenly roused by the sound of the wine bottle exploding into hundreds of fragments the moment it struck the wall.

"Aw, shit," Nixon sighed. "Looks like they found the good stuff."

Across the room, Skinny Sisk tripped on the edge of a tablecloth that had been left dragging across the floor, tumbling to the ground in a mass of flailing limbs. Val let out a guffaw of laughter, clapping her hands in delight as she slumped further in her seat, reaching for another sip of whatever the hell was in her glass.

"Alright, ok," Ron muttered, rising from his seat and crossing the room in a moment, prying the drink from her hand before it could reach her lips. Val opened her mouth in objection, brow drawn with outrage, but the sudden appearance of the infamous Captain Speirs seemed to sober up the rest of the room, the other men taking the hint to calm themselves and begin shuffling out the door to return to their billets and sleep off their drunkenness.

"I wasn't done with that, yunno," She drawled, barely noticing as Luz drifted away from the table, rubbing at his temples in an attempt to nurse an already developing headache.

"Yeah, you're not gonna be, either," Raising the glass, Ron took a sniff, expression twisting into a grimace. "Jesus. How many of these did you have?"

"I... do not know."

"Hey, Speirs?" Harry called from the next room, clearly impatient to get back to their game.

"Uh, yeah - deal me out, ok? See you fellas tomorrow," He nodded, placing a gentle hand on Valerie's arm to help her to her feet. She swayed slightly, but could certainly walk, and as Ron helped her to the door, he emptied her glass into an unused ice bucket as they passed.

She probably could have made it back up to her room entirely unscathed, even the wobble in her step ebbing away as they exited into the night air, but Ron wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself if he let her go anywhere alone. "I'm not plastered by the way - I've been plastered, this ain't that."

"Whatever you say," He breathed, arm still secure around her as they descended the front steps to the hotel.

"I'm serious."

"I believe you, dear," Ron nodded, and a giddy grin made its way across her face at the term of endearment. It had slipped out before he could stop it, and he was suddenly grateful for the minuscule chance that she would remember it the next day - he did not in fact believe her.

It was quiet out on the street, the men who had scattered returning promptly to their nearby billets, turning Berchtesgaden back into the ghost town it had been when they had found it. The street lamps cast puddles of golden light as they passed beneath them, his gaze momentarily wandering to Val's face. Her hair had come loose, a strand hanging limply in her face, and the tip of her nose flushed pink in the cool air. Without a word, Ron shrugged off his jacket, slinging it over her shoulders. She did not hesitate to slide her arms into the sleeves, wrapping the jacket tightly around herself, and playing it off as a yawn when she took a deep breath, smelling the scent of his cigarettes that permeated the fabric.

They were mere feet from the front door when Ron felt Valerie slide from his grip, turning to watch as she took a seat on a nearby bench, one foot tucked behind the other, hands in her lap as she looked up at the night sky above.

"Almost there, c'mon," He urged, gesturing for her to follow.

"Come sit down."

Ron didn't move, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Val, come on, you'll catch a cold out here, let's get you insi-"

"Just sit down, Ronald!" Val demanded, almost laughing. She always seemed so ceaselessly amused by him - he wouldn't pretend not to enjoy it, but it struck him as odd sometimes.

Folding his hands awkwardly in his lap, Ron took a seat beside her on the bench, a polite gap left between them. It couldn't have been more than a couple of inches, but it might as well have been a mile for how tempted he felt to move closer.

Her gaze had not shifted from the sky above since the moment he sat down, and after a while spent sitting in silence, he allowed himself to do the same, peering up at the stars above. There was a full moon out that night, hanging like a beacon above them, never quite allowing the town to fall into total darkness as it bathed the ground below in its glow. It was quite marvellous, really.

As weight pressed down on his shoulder, Ron felt his breath catch in his throat, so desperate was he to preserve the serenity of this moment as Valerie leant over, resting her head against him. He scarcely dared more, for fear that he would shrug her off - it was almost comical, the battle-hardened Captain Speirs, who ran past half a dozen tanks at Foy twice over without fear, suddenly paralysed at the prospect of pushing her away.

"Our families are looking at the same moon back home," Valerie said, her voice muffled against the fabric of Ron's jacket as she turned her chin into the collar. "I like thinkin' about that." When she spoke it sounded drowsy, exhaustion tugging downwards at her eyelids.

"C'mon," He urged again, matching her softness. "You can't sleep out here, you'll freeze to death."

Val nodded slowly, her hair catching on his shirt. "That'd be very inconvenient for you."

"Out the the two of us, I don't think I'm the one getting the short end of the stick in this scenario, Val."

"Ah, but you'd miss me," She sighed with a dramatic flourish of her hand, pushing herself up from the bench with a grunt. Ron had not had the chance to stand up himself before Valerie started walking, the sway in her step settled as she confidently made her way down the street.

"You're going the wrong way, dear," He pointed out, gesturing to the front door, mere feet away from them.

"I know that," Val rolled her eyes, turning sharply on her heel and marching up to the front step as he chuckled. Taking the step up, she looked back at him. "C'mere," She ordered.

"What do you want now?" Ron teased, already moving to do her bidding. Taking a step up to stand beside her, they faced each other, shoulders pressed against the front door to the house they were billeted in. Leaning forward, Val pressed her body flat against his, her chin resting on his chest, face tilted up towards him. He could feel her breath, escaping through parted lips and fanning his neck as he peered down at her. Their faces were mere inches apart, and oh, how he had wanted to give in at that moment - give in to the months they had spent together, growing ever more enamoured by her with each passing day. Putting her weight on her toes, she began to push herself up towards him, their lips barely parted, so close their noses brushed against each other.

She was drunk. Ron knew this - could see it in her flushed cheeks, could hear it in her slow words. It would not happen like this. Placing soft hands to either side of her face, he held her back as gently, as tenderly as he could, his thumb skirting across the soft flesh of her cheek as Valerie eased herself back onto her heels, her eyes like dark pools under the light of the street lamp, as wide as he had ever seen them.

"Goodnight Cap'n," Her voice was scarcely a whisper as her hand found the door handle, opening it onto the great foyer inside, the heels of her shoes clacking against the floorboards as she trailed inside. Ron would follow soon - would climb the stairs to his own room along the hall from her own - but for now, he held back, watching on as Val headed upstairs, his jacket still hanging off her back as she disappeared down the hall, the sound of humming trailing after her even after she was gone from sight, fading away with the sound of a closing door. It wasn't until now, when Ron was alone in the foyer, did he realise he was smiling - beaming even. It was very... un-ron-like. But she had wanted to kiss him.

He had done the right thing. He knew this.

But Jesus Christ, was he in deeper than he thought.

#band of brothers #ronald speirs #ronald speirs x ofc #ronald speirs x oc #band of brothers oc #band of brothers fic #hbo war #hbo war fic #hbo war oc #george luz #floyd talbert #lewis nixon #harry welsh #chuck grant #donald malarkey #oc: valerie #helena writes #fic | just come home

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spiderboi-parker · 4 months ago

Note

hey im officially working on a 'family tree' of sorts for every blog involved in this rp group so would you mind telling me who your characters are connected to and where theyre living with tags so I can keep everything organized? Connection list is: Parent/child Grandparent/grandchild Great grandparent/great grandchild Siblings Dating Married/engaged pibling/nibling (gender neutral terms for aunt/uncle and niece/nephew)

(repeating this for all the blogs you run would be appreciated)

if you have any questions just ask!

(apologies if this has been sent multiple times. if youve already answered i likely lost the information due to disorganization that i'm currently dealing with)

@thedcrpfamilytree

[OOC: Lol it's fine, this gives me a chance to say LOREEEEEEE]

[OOC edit: Okay so I wasn't very clear, I'm friends/found family with all the rp blogs I'm involved with! Also sorry I didn't tag you- @thedcrpfamilytree ]

[Other OOC edit: Forgot to mention, these brackets mean me, the author/account runner, is speaking. I can be interacted with like the fourth wall!]

This is Peter Benjamin Parker. I'm the one and only Spider-Man. Well, of my universes.

I originate from Earth-616, the "Sacred Timeline". This is where all other universes in my multiverse stem from. I'm the kid of the Avengers, 14 years old (28, depending on the blog I'm talking to! Interactions with adult romance interests mean I'm 28!), and I travel the multiverse! I'm Tony Stark's son figure and protégé, but I work with the Batfamily as well. Here's where things get tricky. I don't have a Batfamily in my universe- I go to other universes. Depending on the universe, my relationship with any Batfamily member will be different. [OOC: The Avengers are like his family, Tony being the dad, Natasha being the mom, and the rest being aunts and uncles. Yes, that includes Wanda.]

I have a lot of adventures, and a lot of different friends and family! Giving the phone to older me lol

Hi, this is Peter. Blah blah blah, yeah I'm Spider-Man, hi. There's a lot of different versions of me that are 28, like myself, that have different universes. There's only one small us. Be nice to him. I'm Earth-616 Peter, I'm single and work full time as an Avenger.

I'm Peter, also from Earth-616, but another timeline. I'm dating Wade Wilson (DEADPOOL) and work full-time as Spider-Man. Repeating what the Peter above me said, be nice to little us!

Hey, another Peter, another Earth-616 timeline. I'm Spider-Man and dating Johnny Storm. Be nice to little us. [BRO FORGOT TO SAY HE'S NOT A FANTASTIC FOUR MEMBER💀]

Hey! I'm Peter, don't know my Earth number, but I live in Gotham and work with the Batfamily! I'm not dating anyone. (Peter dating Wade here, he forgot to mention he's Spider-Man. Lol)

Another Peter in Gotham, also Spider-Man, I'm a part of the Batfamily, and Tim and Duke are my best friends! (Adult Peter who's not dating anyone, he forgot to say that he's 16. He originated in Earth-616, but he's in the Dark Matter timeline. [OOC: Minus the murder.]) (Shut up, [REDACTED]) [OOC: Nuh uh. Also I don't role-play as him yet, if you want to hit me up!] (Stop advertising your blog) [No I want friends]

I'm Peter Benjamin Parker, aka Spider-Man. I live in Metropolis and I'm friends with Clark Kent and the Batfamily. Hey guys! [OOC: Also another yet to be role-played character. He's 28, very polite, and always lived in Metropolis. He's single. I forgot to mention, please interact with my main Peter {14, Earth-616} the most! And clarify what Peter you're role-playing with OOC before you make your post so I know what to use! Always willing to make a new AU! NO STARKER, EVER. I'VE BLOCKED ALL ACCOUNTS OF IT IVE SEEN ON MY FYP. DNI IF YOU SHIP THAT, YOU DISGUST ME. *Throat clearing* Alright, now that that's done, bye guys! Say bye Peters!]

Bye guys!

Bye!

Bye everyone!

See ya!

See you later!

See you all soon!

Goodbye everyone! Have a good day!

#marvel #spiderman #spider son #spideypool #avengers #batfamily #batfam #multiverse #dark matter #peter in gotham #roleplay #pun #puns #fourth wall break #for you #for you page #writer #writers on tumblr #spideyverse

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bluejaysandblackbats · 11 months ago

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Five Little Ducks

Fandom: DC Comics, Batman

Summary: Bruce finds a magically de-aged Jason.

Chapters: 11/13

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Zatanna Zatara

Additional Tags: De-Aged Jason Todd, Magic, Babysitting, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, POV Third Person, Bruce Wayne is Not Okay, Bruce Wayne Tries, Jason Todd Has Issues, Childhood Trauma, TW: Self Harm

Chapter Eleven: Strawberry Cheesecake

Dick didn't expect a threat that night. He'd hoped things would be quiet. It wasn't like he planned a disturbance in the Diamond District. Jason was sharp, though. Completely unruffled and aware... But he didn't have to worry about his magically de-aged brother and their stressed-out father. Jason threw his body over Dick's, holding him down as the blast flew over their heads, freezing a safe at the end of the room. "You okay, Nightwing?" Jason asked. Before Dick could open his mouth, Jason was already on his feet, running at full speed toward Mr. Freeze. Dick cursed under his breath and followed Jason from a different direction.

At the last second, Jason switched paths, pulling one of Freeze's men to the ground by his hood. "What's going on?" Bruce asked over comms.

"Freeze... Robin's holding his own, though," Dick replied as he took out the men that seemed to flood the building suddenly. "Robin! How many?"

"At least fifteen!" Jason replied as he threw a Batarang and knocked out the lights. Dick couldn't help but be confused. He didn't remember Jason being this skilled. The fight didn't last long, and they managed to apprehend Freeze. Once it was over, they watched the police arrest from a nearby rooftop.

"Robin?" Dick whispered. Jason looked at him. "You saved my skin back there. Good looking out."

"It was nothin'. I got lucky. I saw a shadow move behind you," Jason confessed.

"Bull. That's not luck," Dick replied, "You did great out there, and you should be proud of yourself."

Jason smiled. "You know, Nightwing... I have the strangest craving for a snow cone," Jason replied. Dick laughed.

"Okay, I'll get you a snow cone-. Wait,” Dick whispered as he moved Jason’s bangs out of the way. “You’re bleeding.”

“My stitches,” Jason gasped. Dick relaxed and took butterfly bandages out of his utility belt. He used them to patch Jason up and messed up the boy’s hair. “Do you think Bruce is gonna be mad at me?”

“Nuh-uh,” Dick answered.

“I never had a brother before… I always wished I had a big brother so that I could talk about stuff that bothered me… I wanted somebody around to understand,” Jason confessed. Dick nodded. “I love B, but sometimes-. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be the Robin he had with you. I asked about you once, and it was-. He looked through me.”

“He does that sometimes… It’s not personal. If we’re being honest with each other, I was jealous of you. You got the grown-up version of him, the better Bats, the better dad, the better person. And if we’re being brutally honest, you’re the only one that knows how to make him happy.

“I know how to push his buttons, but you have his heart. He’s been wrapped around your little finger ever since you met him,” Dick replied.

Jason bowed his head. “So, you don’t like me?” Jason mumbled.

“No. That’s not what I said. I might be jealous of you, but I don’t hate you. You can’t help being what you are. You’re a good kid… Compassionate, loyal, self-sacrificing to a fault. You would’ve taken that shot for me without a single thought,” Dick clarified, “I like you-. Hell, it’s more than that. I respect you.”

Jason grinned. “I respect you too. Wow... I-. I didn’t-. I’m gonna make you and B proud someday-.”

“You already have. That’s why you get to wear the costume,” Dick interrupted, “Robin isn’t a rigid concept… Robin is what you make it. You’re Robin now, and you’ve gotta do things your way. Show B a whole new way of looking at things.”

Jason hung on Dick’s every word. “It wouldn’t hurt for him to add a jacket to the Robin costume… And pants. It gets cold up here on these rooftops… And sometimes it snows,” Jason complained. Dick chuckled and nodded.

“That’s a reasonable demand. Draw something up, and I’ve got your back,” Dick replied, “And here’s a trick for the pixie boots: Put baby powder in your shoes to keep your feet warm.”

“I’m gonna try that tomorrow night,” Jason replied, “Did you get too old?” Jason kicked at a pebble on the rooftop before heading down the fire escape.

“Huh?” Dick asked.

“Why’d you start being Nightwing?” Jason questioned.

“Bruce and I had a disagreement, and I thought it was time that I picked a more grown-up look for myself. Hang up the cape and pixie boots… What flavor do you want?” Dick asked as they headed toward the corner.

��Strawberry cheesecake,” Jason answered confidently.

“Sounds good, maybe I’ll try that flavor too,” Dick replied as he allowed Jason to ride on his shoulders.

Jason waved his hands in the air. “I hope I’m tall like you when I grow up,” Jason stated.

“You’ll be taller… And bigger too,” Dick replied without thinking.

“Two strawberry cheesecake flavored snow cones… Small, please,” Dick ordered as he pulled cash from his belt. The man at the window took Dick’s money and gave him change, which Dick stuck in the tip jar.

Jason leaned forward to look at Dick’s face. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh at me?” Jason questioned.

“Promise,” Dick answered as he passed Jason his snow cone.

"I’ve never been happier than I am now,” Jason whispered, “And I think-. I get sad when I think about it too much.”

“Focus on the now. If you’re happy right now, it wouldn’t do any good to spoil that for yourself… Now, let’s get you home before B starts worrying,” Dick replied as he led Jason to the Batmobile. He circled the block a few times while Jason ate, watching as Jason’s head drooped. “He loves you so much.”

“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you just the same,” Jason mumbled with his eyes closed. Dick took Jason’s snow cone paper and stacked it underneath his. “I’ve got another secret… I like pretending I’m asleep because I know he’ll pick me up.”

“That was always nice,” Dick smiled. Jason wasn’t a mystery, or at least he didn’t care to be. He talked because Dick listened. He didn’t have to experience Dick’s prickly exterior like he did the first time. And Dick kicked himself for that everyday.

When they arrived at home, Bruce pulled Jason out of the Batmobile and rubbed his back. “We’ll talk later,” Dick whispered, “His stitches split open, but he’s fine.”

Bruce slipped a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt over Jason’s costume. “You left comms on, but I turned it off once the conversation got personal… Do you understand why this was my favorite time with him now?” Bruce questioned.

“He’s a great kid,” Dick whispered, “I’m gonna change and meet you upstairs.”

“Okay… I’m gonna put him down for the night, and-.” Bruce clasped the tracking clip on the back of Jason’s collar. “Let’s get you to bed, Little Lad.” Dick smiled as he watched Bruce carry Jason out of the cave.

#Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Stephanie Brown #Duke Thomas #Zatanna Zatara #De-Aged Jason Todd #Magic #Babysitting #Father-Son Relationship #Fluff and Angst #POV Third Person #Bruce Wayne is Not Okay #Bruce Wayne Tries #Jason Todd Has Issues #Childhood Trauma #batfam #five little ducks fic #fic

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mysticstarlightduck · 10 months ago

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OC In 15 Tag!

I was tagged by @tabswrites, here!

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

I'll do this one for my character Arammys from Of Starlight and Beasts, our beloved Sunshine Boi Tm! (Because he's been living in my brain rent-free ever since I started this new project lmao)

[Upon being asked "Who are you?" by Corah, when they first met. Genuinely.] "Honestly, I'm not sure."

"I may not know a lot about this kingdom, or how it works, but I can't be the only one who thinks it isn't fair for them to treat you guys like this ... this city doesn't even belong to them anyways! Or does it? I'm not sure anymore."

"Ow, that smarts, ow!" He clutched his hand to his chest, still glowing with magic as he jumped up and down slightly. At his feet, the highwayman had fallen to the floor like a rag doll. "No one told me punching someone would hurt me this much! His face was like a freaking rock, ow. Are you guys alright?"

"You're good - you almost had me falling for it there." He chuckled, but his smile promptly dropped as he noticed her lifted eyebrow and confident smirk - a look he'd come to recognize as the forebearer of terrible ideas and a lot of trouble. "Oh no. You were being serious, weren't you?"

"We spent months fighting the worst this kingdom has to offer and now in a literal festival in an enchanted forest. I, for one, am going to dance and enjoy the night until I pass out, and this is my invitation for you to do the same!"

"Why don't you get it?! You have a lifetime of memories, and you'll always have, for better or for worse! I don't have that. And I'll probably never have - someone took my past from me."

"... Did that guy just steal your bag?"

"I'm not afraid of loving you. Love, our love, is not a weakness, and it'll never be. That "Queen" is a fool if she wants you to believe that."

"We're not jumping out of this tower! No, nuh-uh, I refuse. Don't even consider it!"

"Well, not to be rude but I think you're overcompensating. Throwing us like that was a bit of a low blow."

"Whoa. That's such a funny-looking rat. Why- why does it have three tails?" He giggles, words endearingly slurred as he pointed to a discarded napkin on the floor. [Corah furrowed her brows, blinking, flabbergasted, then looked between him and the single, barely finished glass of wine he must've bought a few minutes ago, after his little moment in the spotlight. It dawned on her that he'd likely never drunk before. "Alright, that's it. Your resistance to alcohol is absolutely nonexistent. Let's go home."]

"You think being a tyrant will make you respected, Meira, and you believe hunting down those who think differently than you will prove your strength. It won't. It just makes you a monster."

"I'm sure I'm going to regret this, but alright."

"If I learned anything in this adventure is that politicians and nobles almost always want something when they summon us to their palaces. And that something is never just a nice tea party, unfortunately."

"Everyone deserves second chances - even him."

Tagging (gently, with absolutely no pressure): @lassiesandiego, @unstablewifiaccess, @hrmkingizzy, @elshells, @illarian-rambling, @meerawrites, @tabswrites, @rickie-the-storyteller, @jay-avian, @crowandmoonwriting, @writernopal, @elshells, @thetruearchmagos, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @clairelsonao3, @apolline-lucy, @little-peril-stories @kaylinalexanderbooks and @oh-no-another-idea

#wip of starlight and beasts #oc in 15 tag #oc in fifteen #tag games!#writers on tumblr #my wips #writers #writerblr #character writing #my writing #my characters #writeblr #writing

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silverslipstream · 1 year ago

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Nine Writeblrs I Want To Know Better

Cheers for the tag @sergeantnarwhalwrites! last song: Beautiful Ruin by Make Good Your Escape

favorite color: Azure blue! Second place goes to midnight purple metallic.

last movie: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's one of my favourite films of all time and definitely a comfort watch. I've seen it fourteen times.

currently reading: Physical-book wise, it's Atonement by Ian McEwan. I heard good things about it and picked it up for £1 in a charity shop, but I'm struggling with it at the moment. McEwan's prose is needlessly flowery and overly abstract, and it keeps yanking me out of the story.

Virtually, I'm re-reading Rush (For A Gap That Exists) by sleepstxtic on AO3. It's a crossover fanfiction between Harry Potter and Formula One, with the Harry Potter characters, houses and organisations transplanted into the world of modern Formula One racing. It's a great story even if you aren't a motorsport fan - read it here!

sweet/spicy/savory: Savoury, if I'm being honest. I do have a sweet tooth, but eating sweets too much makes me feel queasy and guilty, whereas I could never get sick of sausage rolls, steak bakes and chorizo and cheese rolls. Yum :)

relationship status: single at the moment. There are possibilities of that changing in the near future though... hmm...

current obsession: Motorsport Manager. It's a PC game where you take the reins of a fictional racing team or create your own, managing your drivers, cars, race strategy, staff and headquarters as you endeavour to win at the highest level and leave your mark on the sport. I tend to make all the people in the game into characters even though they're only randomly-generated portraits, and use the game to create storylines or scenarios. It's way too addictive. I've probably written way too many career reports and fics going into all my save files: the drama between drivers, certain dramatic races, fictional magazine articles and write-ups... at some point I'll get over the embarrassment and post a few bits here.

last thing I googled: I assume this relates to writing; otherwise it's just 'how long should you reheat cottage pie in the microwave for?' as that's what I'm having for tea tonight. The last thing I googled for writing purposes was 'France 2027 election predictions'

currently working on: A sci-fi short story regarding the first spaceflight from a 'ringworld' where a group of monks and inventors defy an oppressive, anti-technology society to launch a manned rocket into space, and are shocked by the nature of the world they inhabit. Also a dystopian science-fiction piece regarding a woman who becomes addicted to selling her memories on the black market and gradually loses her identity and sanity in the process.

I'll tag @outpost51, @acertainmoshke, @amostdelectablescribbler, @guessillcallitart, @erraticprocrastinator, @steh-lar-uh-nuhs, @sarlusmonoele, @rbbess110 and @stesierra as well as an open tag for anybody who wants to jump in! As always, no pressure: feel free to participate or not at your leisure :)

#writeblr #writeblr community #writers community #tag games #nine people tag #wips #about the writer #silverslipstream

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lightlycareless · 2 years ago

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Hi, I’ll bite, cuz I just got done with a terribly disappointing con, too 😔.

If Naoya hadn’t been a jerk, what would you say some of the things Y/N and Naoya would have enjoyed doing together?? Do you think he’d have ever become friends with Ren and Hinata???

And please, does that man have any friends besides Ranta, in your opinion?😭

Hello!! It's so good to see you! I hope you've been ok :> thank you so much for sending an ask ❤️❤️

I'm sorry you had to go through that :'( it really hurts when it happens, always does... more when you were looking forward to it! But ah, you win some you lose some 😅

Now onto the question....

Naoya and Y/N would've definitely bonded over anime/videogames. They kind of overlap with one another, so there's no mystery there 😂. Although I think the two would've been a bit... hesitant at first because they're probably like "ugh, it's not the same!!" and they hatehatehatehateee when they get grouped together, but they would get over it very quickly after giving the other a chance, after all, they're both genuinely entertaining things, so why not?

Naoya would be the kind of person to lose every single time when going against Y/N, and Y/N would be the one to ask Naoya all kinds of questions regarding specific plot points in anime/manga. (Imagine y/n being like:

y/n: Naoya, why did this character not die, but the other did if it was the same circumstance?

Naoya: *having waited for this moment all of his life* well I'm glad you asked, Y/N. *dumps his large collection of manga, magazines, or any other thing he could get his hands on regarding this specific series on the table* First you need to know that—

so on and so forth hahaha.

The other things I think they would like doing is: stargazing, going out to eat and general shopping. Naoya is a big spender, so just let him spoil you and watch him be the happiest :') (he's into that provider stuff, or so I think he might be hehe)

Now regarding Ren and Hinata... maybe? Oof, that's the hard one since they're pretty protective of Y/N in general.

Hinata and Ren only allow Nanami and Utahime near her because she considers him the best of the bunch. (Shoko is out because she smokes, or used to anyways, and she doesn't want that for her baby sister!! Satoru... self explanatory. Geto? Maybe, when he's not being instigated by Satoru that is. Mei Mei absolutely NOT nuh uh.)

Not that Y/N cares lol she still does what she wants—and I'd like to think they gravitate more towards her because of that 😂 (let us live a harem life.... please...)

But being a bit more assertive, I think that after seeing Y/N be happy with him (and haven't noticed anything weird from him) they would actually try to get along! After a while Hinata might invite Naoya to train, it's like giving him his approval. Ren would invite him to go to a few shows, that kind of stuff.

Oh, it's certainly nice to dream of how things could've been 😭

And finally, his friends... I really don't think he has genuine friends. He might have people that are willing to tag along to his shenanigans, enjoy the privileges he has... but when shit hits the fan they're gone. Ranta might be the only friend who actually cares for him. And honestly? it's all on Naoya. Maybe if he wasn't such a jerk people would be more inclined to include him to things—but he likes to feel superior. He's also very selective, probably because of his upbringing and somewhat interest for the clan's future.

So yeah, there you have it! I really liked this ask, since I often tend to day dream about the kind of adventures Naoya and Y/N would have if they had gone to school together or something hahahah. (Naoya having a class with her, instantly getting a crush on her and instantly watching her from afar because he's too shy to talk to her. Y/N asking if she can eat lunch with him because she thought he's cute (and lonely), and he nervously agrees to it. Getting projects assigned together and going to each other's house, getting to know each other in the process, and suddenly realizing they have feelings for one another...)

I just love slice-of-life things, it's my guilty pleasure 😭!!!!

Once again, thank you so much for sending in an ask!! I certainly had fun dreaming of the what-if's 😭😂❤️

I hope you have a wonderful week, take care, and hope to see you soon!!!

#ask #ask series: first it hurts—#naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x your #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader

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gothdaddyissues · 2 years ago

Text

In The 20s

Welcome to the Church - Available on Ao3

or under the cut (~3300 words)

SUMMARY: Welcome to the Church - the biggest, swankiest speakeasy in town. Terzo has a plan, and he's setting it in motion. But first, he must comfort his girl Evie, and make sure Copia is on his side...

TW: for physical/mental after-effects of physical/sexual violence/abuse

TAGS: Terzo, Copia, Ghoulettes, Original characters, aftermath of violence, implied sexual violence, language, Google Translate Italiano

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Yes! Yes, I was just here the other night. Trust me!”

The red and black Model T trundled down an unpaved road on the city's outskirts, the driver and his 5 friends packed in tight. The three in the back seat were giggling, passing a small flask of moonshine back and forth between them. Finally, the car turned off the road in front of a large, weatherbeaten church.

“We’re here!” the driver announced.

“This?” the female in the front seat scoffed. “This ain’t no gin joint. It’s a church!”

“Nuh-uh,” the driver said. “You’ll see!”

He drove the car along the side of the building, through a passage partially overgrown with trees, wide enough to only allow a single vehicle through. It led behind the building to a large plot of land used as a car park, well obscured by the foliage. He parked among the dozens of other vehicles already there.

“C’mon, cats and kittens, let’s go!”

The group entered the church from a side entrance, which led them down a hall and directly into the main chapel. “Are you sure about this, John?” one girl whispered, grabbing onto his arm and holding close to him.

“I sure am, Ruthie. Just watch.”

Standing in the chapel in front of the altar was a man in a long, hooded priest’s robe, his face obscured by a black masquerade mask. He turned to them when they entered. “Greetings, my children. How may I guide you this evening?”

“Um, we’re here for confession,” John replied.

The masked man nodded. “Of course. Right this way.” He led them to the confession booth along the side of the chapel, pulling the curtain away to reveal an opening in the back wall and a staircase leading down to the basement.

“Go in peace,” the priest said.

The group hurried past the mysterious ‘priest’ and into the stairwell. The steps were rough-hewn wood planks with a wide, well-worn groove down the center from the sheer amount of foot traffic. The further down they went, the cooler and darker it became as they made their way deep underground. The sounds of laughter, glasses clinking, and music grew louder and louder the closer they got to the bottom. Another man stood at the end of the stairwell, bathed in the warm light emanating from an open doorway to the left. “Welcome to The Church,” he greeted, “The show starts at 1 am. Blessings be upon you.”

Stepping through the opening revealed an enormous speakeasy, easily the biggest and most elaborate in the whole city. It was already teeming with well-dressed patrons, most holding wine, whisky, or cocktail glasses in their hands. Gilded crystal chandeliers hung from a tin ceiling over the large seating area. Along the length of the wall near the entrance was the bar, heavy dark oak, with arch-framed shelves behind it housing a generous array of glassware and liquor bottles, and tended by two distinguished-looking gentlemen in pinstripe waistcoats. There was a wide variety of seating: stools, tables for two, four, and six, and benches and banquettes along the wall across from the bar. The carpeting was plush and the upholstery rich and luxurious. At the far end of the room sat a grand piano on a large stage hung with lights and deep red curtains trimmed in gold fringe. And in front of that, a roomy dance floor, already in use by several couples frolicking and doing the Charleston in time with music coming from a Victrola in the corner. The area on the far opposite side of the stage was a raised dais that held two extravagant private booths, each within carved wood arches, and with heavy gold drapery hanging in front of them to obscure those who sat there from view. The entire establishment was as ostentatious as the notorious gangsters that owned it.

John grabbed Ruthie’s hand. “Let’s get us a drink, sugar.”

The group made their way over to the bar, and as they stood in wait Ruthie noticed one of the private booth curtains flutter open, a man dressed in a shiny black suit and pristine white spats emerging from within. He was hard to ignore - his face painted white, with deep black markings on his eyes, nose, and cheeks, reminiscent of a skull. His black hair was slicked back which enhanced the face paint and his dual-colored eyes, one green and one white… the birthmark of the Emeritus clan.

He sauntered across the room, greeting and shaking hands with the patrons he passed until he caught sight of her staring starry-eyed at him. She tried to look away but it was too late. He looked her up and down with a flirtatious gaze, gave her a nod and a wink, and walked off before her companion noticed.

Chuckling to himself, he made his way across the dancefloor and slipped behind the stage. It would be showtime soon.

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

Terzo made his way down the small corridor beyond the cluttered backstage area. It was a short distance to the dressing rooms, the first open room filled with the male members of the club’s band preparing to take the stage, going through their warm-ups, and tuning their instruments. Terzo greeted them as he passed through: “Good evening, fellas.” Across the room were two doors. One was Copia’s dressing room/office, but the other - the ladies’ dressing room - was where he was headed first. He knocked and stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

He shut the door behind him quickly, leaning his back on it and standing in admiration of what he saw before him. Three lovely women, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, in various states of dress. “Buonasera, ladies,” he purred.

The women continued their preparations unbothered, quite immune to Terzo’s flirtatious behavior. The blonde even rolled her eyes at him as she pulled on her stage dress over her silky undergarments. The brunette was threading a feathered headband through her waved hair, while the redhead - dressed in a black pantsuit matching what the men in the band wore - was standing before a large mirror, busy rimming her eyes with a dark black liner.

“She’s here?” he asked.

“Of course,” the blonde said motioning to the other door in the room, “She’s been holed up in there for an hour.”

“I hope she’s okay,” the redhead said, while still concentrating on her makeup application, “She’s been awful quiet.”

“Allow me to check on her then,” Terzo volunteered. He made his way through the room, seductively taking each woman’s hand and kissing the back of it as he passed them. First the blonde: “Lovely Cumulus.” Then the brunette: “Sweet Cirrus.” Then, as she finished her makeup, the redhead: “Fiesty little Sunshine.”

They weren’t falling for it. “Just go cheer up your girl, ya goon,” Sunshine sighed, ushering him away.

Terzo knocked twice, this time waiting until he heard a reply before entering. A soft “Yes?” came from within and he let himself in, shutting the door behind him.

The room was no bigger than a large closet - it was, in fact, a storage closet before they converted it into a singular dressing room for their star songstress. It was big enough for only a chair, a rack filled with fringed, sequined, and sheer stage dresses, and a vanity table placed in front of a large, lighted mirror. It was there she sat, already in costume, black hair in a sleek bob, putting the finishing touches on her stage makeup. The beautiful Evelyn Stewart, or Evie as they called her.

Her back was to him, but he could see the reflection of her face in the mirror. He noticed redness around her eyes, puffiness on her lids that she was futilely trying to hide with creams and powders. She glanced at him in the reflection, just briefly, before returning to her work. There was no joyful gleam in her eye, no rosy cheeks dimpled in happiness as they usually were. There was only sadness there, heavy and dark, rolling off of her as she sat slumped at her table. He hated seeing her like this. He had seen it before, in her and in so many others. He knew the cause of her despair: Papa.

His father, Papa Nihil, the head of their family and the leader of their gang. Almost 100 years old, he was an ancient relic of a time long past. He was old-fashioned, resistant to change, too comfortable in his role as patriarch. He ruled through intimidation and fear, and no one dared to cross him. His two eldest sons, Primo and Secondo, had tried. They challenged his way of thinking - they challenged him - and their only reward was to be shunted out of the hierarchy, pushed down the line of succession due to their insolence. Now Terzo was the heir apparent, and he played along, doing everything his father wished and more to gain his trust… while at the same time taking initiative and making new connections behind his back, laying the groundwork for the future. It was a dangerous game and he was preparing his final play: pushing the old man out for good. His brothers had his back. It would be all for the sake of the family business.

Until then, they all had to take the knee and kiss the ring.

Poor Evie never asked for this. She was never looking to be a mobster’s girl. All she wanted was to sing and entertain. But once Papa got a look at her, there was no going back. Evie was his, whether she liked it or not. He kept her on his arm as a trophy, as a symbol of his power, and there was no way he would give her up willingly. Terzo had seen Papa be cruel to her, knew he would force himself on her for his own pleasure since he was too old to ‘perform’ in any way that would be satisfying for her. Not that her needs mattered one bit to him. She was beautiful, talented, and clever, but essentially, she was Papa’s prisoner. She deserved better. Terzo tried to be the one to give that to her and he felt no guilt in doing so. He wanted her to have all the attention, all the affection, and all the orgasms she desired. Papa’s increasing possessiveness was making that more and more difficult.

“Hello baby girl,” he murmured. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving a light squeeze before leaning down to kiss the nape of her neck. The kisses continued downward, past the pearl embellishments draped across the back of her dress, until he knelt behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her tight, he rested his head upon her shoulder, making eye contact with her through their mirrored reflections.

She smiled back at him then, a genuine smile. She melted into his touch, leaning her cheek against his. “Hello handsome,” she replied. “What’s with the face paint tonight?”

Terzo scoffed: “Papa wants us to start wearing it again when we’re here. He says it makes us more intimidating, shows everybody who’s boss.” He kissed her cheek softly, belying his menacing appearance. “You okay? Anything I can do for you?”

She slid her hands down to cover his, entwining their fingers. “I’m okay,” she said, a small tremor in her voice. “Better now.”

Terzo studied her face in the mirror. “Did he hurt you again?” he asked, scowling in pre-emptive anger.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him again.

He sighed. Her reticence told him she was lying. He laid a string of gentle kisses along her neck. “My sweet girl, you deserve so much more than this. You deserve a man who will worship you like the goddess you are.” His hands slid up from her waist to her breasts, cupping them in his grasp ever so reverently, while his kisses continued. “Mmmm… I’ve missed you,” he hummed in her ear.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered, sliding her hand up the side of his face to tangle in his hair.

“C’mere baby.” He spun the stool around until she was facing him, and he wasted no time, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, pulling back momentarily to nuzzle his nose alongside hers. He felt her smile, heard her soft giggle. He kissed her again, his tongue gently slipping past her lips. He pressed himself into her, his passion taking over as the kisses continued, his hands moving to her legs, parting them, pushing the hem of her dress up past the satin garters adorning her thighs. His fingers danced along her bare skin…

Evie abruptly put her hands over his, stopping him in his tracks. She pulled her lips away, reluctantly, pressing her forehead to his instead. “Terzo, no,” she protested, “Please. I don’t have time. I have to finish getting ready.”

“I’m sorry, dolcezza,” he apologized, “I can’t help myself, you are so irresistible. So delicious..” His lips were back on her neck, the other side this time, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive flesh until he felt her tense up. A mewl of pain escaped her lips.

He pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern. He could see the bruises on her neck now, a column of angry fingerprint-shaped marks on her pale skin. His fingers ghosted over them. “Evie,” he gasped, “You said he didn’t hurt you…”

Evie pulled away and spun back around to face the mirror. “It’s fine,” she said firmly, going back to her preparations. “You need to stop worrying about me so much. Fussing over me. Papa’s getting suspicious, he knows something’s up. We gotta be more careful. You’ll probably be in big trouble if he finds out you came back here to see me.”

Terzo stood up, coming around to lean against her vanity table so he could see her eye to eye. “Actually, he’s the one that sent me. He has a message for you.”

She glanced up at him while powdering her face. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“He wants you to sing ‘his’ song for him tonight.”

Evie made an annoyed face. “Again? The band is sick to death of it.”

“But he’s not,” Terzo said, “And what Papa wants, Papa gets. We know that all too well, both of us, si?”

She sighed. “It’s not on the setlist. I’ll have to tell Copia.”

“No, no,” he tutted, “You leave that to me. I have to speak with him anyway.”

“Fine.” He watched as she struggled to cover up the marks on her neck. There were tears welling up in her blue eyes, but she blinked them back, steeling herself with a determined huff of breath. She put up such a brave front, keeping that tough-as-nails exterior of hers from breaking. He was one of the few people who knew just how sweet and vulnerable she was on the inside.

Terzo went to the jewelry box on the table, rummaging for something big enough to cover her wounds. He found a multi-strand pearl choker with a large faux-diamond pendant dangling from the front. “Allow me,” he said, placing it around her throat and moving behind her slightly to fasten it for her.

She examined herself in the mirror, satisfied that the necklace would conceal the bruises. Her eyes met his in the reflection once more. “Thank you, Terzo.”

He turned her around again, taking her hands in his and placing soft kisses on them. “I wish I could stay longer, tesoro. But I will let you finish getting ready. And after the show, I will take you back to my place, hmmm? Pamper you. Candles, a bubble bath, champagne?” He nudged her chin with his fingers, running his thumb along her bottom lip while staring into her eyes.

Evie placed her hand around his wrist, caressing small circles around his pulse point with her finger. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby, I promise.”

“Be careful, Terzo. You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” she warned.

She was right, but he was damn sure going to try and keep that promise to her. Terzo smirked as he pulled away, heading for the door. “Are you calling me a liar, cara?” he teased, trying to at least make her smile on the way out. “How dare you…This is the most honest face you’ve ever sat on and you know it.” He winked and slipped out of the room.

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

“20 minutes to showtime! 20 minutes!” the stagehand called.

Terzo knocked on Copia’s dressing room door and opened it enough to poke his head in. “You got a minute?”

Copia was standing in front of a mirror, pulling on his red tailcoat. He took a quick glance at his watch. “I have a couple, but not much more than that. Why?”

Terzo stepped inside and shut the door behind him, giving Copia a glance up and down. “Going with the red suit tonight, eh?”

“They’re still trying to get the blood stains out of the white one,” he retorted, giving Terzo a sideways look. “Thanks to your brother and our little policeman friend.”

“Actually, turns out he was Imperator’s little policeman friend,” Terzo revealed as the flopped down into Copia’s desk chair. “One of our inside guys told us he was on her payroll.”

“She couldn’t come for us with someone better than a rookie? She’s going to have to try harder,” Copia said, adjusting his collar.

“No doubt she will,” Terzo agreed, “Especially after what I found out today.”

Copia turned to his friend: “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Capone is coming to town.”

“When?” Copia was wide-eyed. This was big.

“To be determined,” Terzo said, “But it’ll be soon. And I’m going to arrange a meeting with him, make him a deal.”

Copia scoffed. “Your father won’t like that.”

Terzo leaned over the desk. “I don’t care,” he stated, punctuating each word by jabbing his index finger onto the desk. “The game has changed and Papa doesn’t get to play anymore. It’s our time now, Copia. Partnering with Capone will make us stronger than ever. And if we don’t do it, Imperator will! Then we’d really be fucked, right? I’m not taking that chance. Papa doesn’t have to know until the deal is done.”

For a few moments, it was silent except for the faint sound of the girls doing their vocal warmups in the room next door. Copia adjusted his cuffs and smoothed down his lapels, his brow furrowed in worry.

Terzo stood and approached Copia with his arm outstretched. “You’re with me, aren’t you fratellino?” he asked. “I can count on you, si?”

Copia took hold of Terzo’s forearm in a Roman handshake. “Of course, you can,” Copia said, their arms still locked, “I’m always with you, Terzo, you know that.” He put his other hand on Terzo’s shoulder, gripping him tightly. “But I hope you know what you’re doing. We’ve seen what Papa is capable of when he’s angry. There’s been a lot of funerals… I don’t want to have to go to yours, you understand?”

“Have some faith in me, Copia,” Terzo smiled, clapping him on the back affectionately.

There was a knock on the door. “10 minutes ‘til showtime!” the stagehand announced.

The two men separated, Terzo heading for the door. “Oh, speaking of angry Papa, I almost forgot,” he said, turning back to Copia, “He wants to hear his favorite song again tonight so you’d better put it back on the setlist, yeah?”

“What?! You tell me this now?” Copia groaned.

Terzo took his leave, as quickly as he could. “In bocca al lupo!”

#ghost #the band ghost #ghost fan fic #my fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost fan fic au

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