#only enough brain for podcast reruns

[renecdote]

22. Books with uhh the firemen (Eddie? Buck? I think)

The books pile up.

Buck reads Jim Abbott’s autobiography while he’s still in hospital, recovering from the second surgery. It’s interesting. Inspiring, even. It makes him feel like his dreams are still in reach, even with four broken bones and half a dozen pieces of metal in his leg. They just… aren’t in reach just yet.

With nothing else to do, Buck keeps reading. He reads a book about Jack the Ripper, then one about the Golden State Killer. YouTube is a warren of true crime videos and he loses himself down the rabbit hole. He gets in the habit of messaging Eddie at all hours of the night with comments and theories and Eddie gets in the habit of telling to go the fuck to sleep, seriously Buck, it’s three a.m., aren’t you supposed to be resting?

One night Eddie’s response is more to the tune of some of us have work in the morning and even though Buck knows he isn’t trying to be mean, the words sting. He resolves not to text Eddie in the middle of the night anymore. And it’s a resolve that lasts for five days—until Eddie messages him just before two one morning and asks if he’s awake.

“Bad call,” he says when Buck calls. His tone makes it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Tell me about what you’re reading?”

So Buck talks and Eddie doesn’t really ask questions, but he listens, making comments every now and then so that Buck knows he’s still there. The time on Buck’s phone says it’s been well over an hour when he realises Eddie’s comments have stopped, that his breathing is deep and even, asleep with the line still open. Buck waits another ten minutes, just to be sure, before he hangs up.

When he wakes up in the morning, he finds a single text from Eddie: thank you.

**

When his doctor clears him to start training for his LAFD recertification test, the stack of books stagnates because there isn’t as much time to read. Buck fixes his sleep schedule (mostly) and on nights when his thoughts get too loud and sleep won’t come, he goes running instead of picking up a book. On days when the jolts of pain shooting through his leg are too much for that, he goes swimming instead. The gym at the end of his block has a pool open twenty-four hours and Buck swims laps until his chest is burning and his muscles are trembling; until his brain is quiet and he’s exhausted enough to sleep without dreaming.

“You look tired,” Eddie says when he stops by after one of those nights. “Are you still not sleeping?”

Buck is lying on the couch with a heating pad on his leg, a pillow squashed behind his head, and reruns of The Great British Bakeoff playing on TV. He’s half watching, half dozing, half scrolling through wikipedia. He just wanted to know what coulis was and now he’s deep in the history of food preserving.

“I sleep fine,” he tells Eddie, and it’s only sort of a lie. Most nights he does.

Eddie makes himself comfortable at the other end of the couch, lifting Buck’s legs and putting them back down in his lap. His hand rests on Buck’s uninjured ankle, not caressing but sort of holding, touch achingly gentle.

“You should try audiobooks,” he says. “Or maybe podcasts. Chris has been downloading them on my phone, some of them are pretty interesting.”

“Sure,” Buck agrees sleepily. His leg doesn’t hurt so much anymore and he kind of wants to go for a run, hit his training goal for the day, but he’s warm and comfortable and it’s nice to just be here with Eddie. To just exist, without having to worry about what comes next.

On the TV, the judges are criticising a woman’s citrus cake.

“Did she put flowers in it?” Eddie asks, tone laced with disgust.

There is a long history of edible flowers, for both medicinal and culinary purposes. Buck can’t remember where he learnt about that. It might have been the Food Network, or maybe something Bobby told him. He loves learning things, he always has. And he loves sharing the things he has learnt, teaching someone something they didn’t know, making them smile with a fun fact.

When Buck tells Eddie that people in Victorian England candied Violets to decorate cakes, he watches the scrunch of his nose in bewilderment, the amused disbelief, the relaxed, almost fond, expression on his face as Buck talks. And for a moment, it feels like nothing else matters.

**

After the tsunami, the pile of books grows taller again. Buck reads Wave, then Hiroshima, then Krakatoa, then The Perfect Storm. He’s exhausted during the day and wide awake at night, reading everything he can find about natural disasters until his eyes burn and his head throbs. He still runs some evenings, but he doesn’t swim.

Maddie worries about him and Eddie worries about Christopher and Buck tries to pretend there is nothing to worry about at all. Looking after Christopher during the day helps. He buys children’s books and colouring books, pencils and paints and Lego sets, child-friendly video games and DVDs. He masters cooking pancakes, then mac and cheese, then finds a cookbook Bobby gave him for Christmas two years ago and tries something healthy.

“Buck,” Christopher says one morning. “Do you know what a supernova is?”

It leads them down a rabbit hole about space. They find YouTube videos and podcast episodes and a few Nat Geo kids articles that aren’t too densely scientific.

Buck texts Eddie: Did you know only one person in human history has been hit by a meteorite?

Also the moon is moving further away every year isn’t that sad :(

The 118 must be between calls because it doesn’t take long for Eddie to reply. He always listens to Buck’s rambling, is always happy to know more, and it isn’t long before they’re on a FaceTime call, Christopher sitting in Buck’s lap so they both fit into the camera view, Buck smiling down at him while Chris recounts everything they’ve learnt for his dad. He glances up, catching Eddie’s eye, and sees the same fond look reflected on his face. It makes Buck’s heart throb, makes his breath catch in his chest, makes him think I want this all the time. I want them all the time.

**

Buck has been back at work almost a month when a bad storm hits LA. Thunder and lightning, torrential rain, gale force winds, power lines down throughout the city. It blows through in a couple of hours but leaves weeks worth of cleanup in its wake. Most of the calls come in after the storm has passed, keeping them out late into the night. Buck is still buzzing with energy when they return to the station and he lies awake in the bunks reading about California hurricanes. They rarely hit directly and only seven tropical cyclones since 1850 have caused gale-force winds in the Southwest region of the United States, but that’s twice as many as tsunamis. The frequency and severity of storms in California has been increasing in recent years, too, which is the opposite of reassuring.

“Hey,” Buck says the next morning, when the whole team is gathered around the table for breakfast. “Did you guys know that men are five times more likely to be hit by lightning than women? One guy from Virginia has been hit seven times.”

“Why do you know that?” Chimney asks, bewildered. “Are you expecting us all to get hit by lightning one day?”

“The odds of that happening are about one in a million,” Bobby reassures them.

Hen snorts. “Maybe slightly higher for all of you.”

The conversation moves on, but Buck can’t stop thinking about it. Statistically, the odds of surviving a natural disaster are higher than the odds of being caught in one in the first place, but they’re not absolute. Maddie tells him it’s not healthy, obsessing over what might happen, tying himself into knots about things that he’ll probably never experience again.

“I’m not obsessing,” Buck tells her. “I just—I want to know more.”

I want to be prepared.

I want to know why I survived and so many people didn’t.

The hardest thing about surviving a natural disaster isn’t the surviving bit; it’s moving forward afterwards. Buck has read enough books to know that. And he’s trying. He is. He’s just—not sure what he’s moving forward to.

 **

Christopher gets hurt at school and Buck tells Eddie about Jim Abbott’s book. It feels good, using something that inspired him to inspire someone else. He and Eddie spend hours watching YouTube tutorials so they can build Chris a CP friendly skateboard, and the look on the kid’s face when they push him through the park—Buck wants to bottle it, hold that happiness close to his chest and remember it always.

He’s over at the Diaz house for dinner a week later. They play video games and eat their weight in pizza and Buck feels so happy it hurts. There are glow in the dark stars on Christopher’s bedroom ceiling—a result of the kindled interest in space—and Buck sits on the floor and stares up at them, listening while Eddie reads a bedtime story. He doesn’t want the moment to end, but of course it has to. Eddie holds out a hand and Buck takes it to pull himself to his feet, overbalancing a little, stumbling into Eddie. Eddie catches him easily, like it doesn’t even require thought, smiling as he leads the way out to the living room. Buck sits on the couch, feeling strangely unsure of himself, waiting while Eddie disappears to get them a couple of beers.

He is surprised when Eddie comes back with not only the beers, but a book. A hardback, shiny and new, the sticky residue of a price sticker still visible on the cover when he hands it over.

“I thought you might like some new reading material.”

“At Risk?” Buck asks, reading from the title. Curious, he flips the book over to read the blurb.

Eddie shrugs. There’s something almost nervous about the way he moves his hands, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “It’s about the social side of natural disasters? The sales person recommended it, I was sure...”

“It sounds interesting,” Buck assures him. “But I don’t understand—you didn’t have to buy me a book.”

“I wanted to say thank you. For your help with the skateboard last week and—everything else. Everything you do for us.”

Buck’s throat feels right. “You don’t have to thank me. I’d do anything for Christopher, you know that.”

“I do.”

The way Eddie is looking at him, it feels—important. Big, in a tingling, nervous kind of way. There is a quiet confidence in Eddie’s voice, a smile at the edge of his mouth, an unwavering belief in—Buck? Them?

I don’t deserve you, Buck thinks. It’s a snaking thought, only out-shadowed by the more painful but God I want you.

He clears his throat, turning back to the book, flipping randomly through it just for something to do.

“Maddie thinks it’s unhealthy,” he finds himself saying. “My obsession with natural disasters.”

“It’s not unhealthy,” Eddie says immediately. Then he falters, stumbling as he goes on, “Unless—it’s not making things worse, right? You’re not—I mean, you’d tell me if you were struggling, right? You’d talk to me?”

They’ve already been through the not-talking-to-each-other thing and it was a disaster on both ends. Buck never wants to put that distance between them again.

“I’d tell you,” he agrees. “I do think it helps, reading about it, understanding why these things happen and how people pick themselves up afterwards... It makes me feel less alone, I guess.”

He immediately wants to take the words back. Not because he doesn’t mean them, but because he does, and the look on Eddie’s face makes him wish that he didn’t.

“You’re not alone, Buck,” he says, quiet in his sincerity. He sits down, close enough that their knees touch when he turns so that they’re facing each other. His hand twitches, an aborted movement to reach out, grip tightening on the beer bottles he’s still holding instead. His eyes search Buck’s face, wide with worry, as he adds, “You know that, right? You’ve got Maddie, the 118, me and Chris.”

Buck looks away, blinking to try and clear the tears that are welling up. He doesn’t want to cry. It’s so stupid. Eddie gave him a book and said a few nice things and Buck was maybe a bit too honest and now Eddie is worried and Buck doesn’t know what to do with that, except cry, apparently, because he’s a fucking mess and—

“Hey.”

Eddie does reach out this time, beers cast aside so he can put a hand on Buck’s shoulder. It’s almost exactly the same as that day after the tsunami, when he told Buck there was no one he trusted more with his son. A tear breaks free and slides down Buck’s cheek and he quickly dashes it away.

Eddie looks uncertain, but determined, like all he wants in life to fix Buck—to help him fix himself. “Is this just about the tsunami, or...?”

Buck shrugs, feeling small and helpless. He picks up one of the beer bottles, just for something to do, but he doesn’t open it, just picks at the label, keeping his hands busy. Eddie takes his silence for the answer it is.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? We can go out for breakfast in the morning, maybe even take Christopher to the observatory? He’s been begging me to go and I know he’ll be thrilled if you come too.”

Buck hesitates. He doesn’t want to impose. He doesn’t want Eddie’s pity—although even as he thinks it, he knows that isn’t what this is.

“I want you to stay,” Eddie tells him, and Buck knows that he means it.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll stay.”

And that voice in the back of his whispers forever, if you’ll have me.

 **

Three weeks later, Eddie almost dies and Buck—Buck loses his shit. Bobby has to pull him away from clawing at the ground, screaming Eddie’s name, out of his mind with panic and the first stirrings of what he refuses to call grief. Eddie isn’t dead—Eddie can’t be dead.

And he isn’t. He’s hypothermic and half-drowned, but he gets himself out and they get him to a hospital and Buck only has a minor breakdown about it. Bobby drives him home from the hospital and cooks pasta that Buck has no appetite for, hovering in that worried dad way he does. When Buck tells him he can go, that he’s tired, he just wants to sleep, it’s clear that Bobby doesn’t want to leave him alone.

“Do you want me to call Maddie?” he asks. “I’m sure she’d be happy to come over.”

Buck shakes his head. He has already fielded multiple worried text messages from his sister; he’s not sure he has the energy to do it in person too. Besides, the only person he wants is Eddie—who, coincidentally, is the only person he can’t have.

“I’ll be fine,” he tells Bobby. “I know I kinda freaked out, and it was unprofessional, and…”

“You thought your best friend was dead.” Bobby’s voice is understanding. “I don’t blame you for your reaction, Buck.”

Buck can’t look him in the eye. He can’t say yeah, my best friend, that’s all he is. From the way Bobby looks at him for a long moment, he figures he doesn’t have to.

“I’m going to pick Christopher up in the morning,” he says instead. “Take him to visit Eddie before work. Shift starts at twelve, right?”

Bobby looks like he wants to say something more, but in the end he just nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Despite the fatigue pressing in on him, Buck lies awake for a long time that night. He tosses and turns, tries reading and watching a movie and listening to music, but nothing works. His mind won’t stop spinning, replaying the moment the drilling rig collapsed over and over, the way his heart split open, the crushing relief when he heard Eddie’s voice, finally felt him alive—cold and wet but alive—in his hands. Sleep isn’t going to happen, so Buck gives up and opens his phone. He googles: how long can a person survive underwater. Then he immediately closes that and googles instead: how do I tell my best friend I’m in love with him.

**

The answer comes to him in a book. Not a book about love, or relationships, or anything like that. It’s one of the books he bought for Christopher. Buck is putting it back on the bookshelf when a piece of paper falls out from between the colourful pages. When he opens it, curious, be finds a drawing. There is a stick figure that is unmistakably Buck, one with dark hair that must be Eddie, and a curly haired kid in the middle that can only be Christopher. The three of them are holding hands, big grins on their faces, and in childish handwriting above, Chris has written My Family. Buck’s breath catches, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

He doesn’t know what to do. Does he put it back in the book? Does he give it back to Christopher? Does he give it to Eddie?

Does he keep it?

He wants to keep it. He wants to frame it or hang it on the fridge or tuck it into the box with all his other precious keepsakes, there to pull out whenever he needs the reminder.

(Which feels like all the time, these days.)

It’s been a rough week. Eddie has recovered from the well, he’s back at work, and Buck hasn’t found the courage to confess his feelings yet, but things have been fine—good, even. Until last Friday, when he went out to the bar to celebrate alone and met Red, then promptly fucked things up with Red, then sort of fixed them just in time to watch the man die. The funeral was this morning. Maddie brought him back to his apartment afterwards and fussed for an hour and a half before Buck finally convinced her to go home.

He told her he was fine.

It might have been a lie.

He’s still sitting on the floor in front of the bookshelf when Eddie comes in. He doesn’t knock, just uses his key, which means Buck doesn’t get any warning. He doesn’t get a chance to school his face or hide the drawing or—

“Buck?”

There is concern in Eddie’s voice and it’s only when Buck looks up and sees him through a film of tears that he realises he’s crying. He sniffs, ducking his head again to wipe away the tears.

“Sorry.” It comes out choked. “Sorry, I was—I didn’t know you were coming, I was just—”

Eddie kneels on the floor beside him, eyes flicking over him, like he’s making sure Buck isn’t hurt before he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Buck just shakes his head. He’s crying properly now and he’s a little alarmed to find that he can’t stop, no matter how many shuddering breaths he tries to take. It’s not really sobbing, it’s too quiet for that, but the tears are rolling quickly down his cheeks and dripping onto the drawing in his hands and they just… won’t stop. He held it together at the funeral this morning, even when he looked around and saw all the empty chairs, so he thought he’d be fine but now it’s just—too much.

Eddie takes in the tears and the drawing still gripped in Buck’s hand and the worry on his face breaks into something more like heartache. “Come on,” he murmurs, taking Buck’s arm. “Let’s get off the floor, yeah? This can’t be good for you leg.”

Because it’s Eddie and of course he knows that Buck’s leg still hurts sometimes, even after having all the screws removed, even though he tries to hide it. The first thing Eddie does when he helps Buck to his feet is pull him into a hug. Buck is helpless to do anything but sink into it. He loves hugging Eddie. He doesn’t have to bend down as much, the way he does with most people, and Eddie hugs with his whole body, arms warm and strong, cheek pressed against the side of Buck’s head. He even rubs his back a bit, which is exactly as calming as it should be.

Eddie holds on until Buck is ready to let go, tears calmed to the occasional hitch in his breathing. When Buck steps back, he looks him over with that same assessing gaze from before. Buck’s face feels hot, his eyes swollen, achy in that post-crying way where even his lashes hurt. He grimaces when he sees the mess he has made of Eddie’s shirt.

“Sorry.”

Eddie shakes his head, dismissing the concern with ease. “I’ve got a kid, Buck. This is definitely not the first time I’ve been cried on.”

Buck doesn’t have the energy for the smile Eddie is probably aiming to get, which just makes Eddie’s frown get more concerned.

“Go sit on the couch,” he says. “I’ll get you some water.”

“I can—”

“I know.” Eddie’s voice is gentle. “Go sit down anyway.”

Buck sits. There are tissues on the coffee table so he grabs a few and wipes away the evidence of tears while he waits. He’s still holding Christopher’s drawing. It’s a little wrinkled from being crushed against Eddie’s back during the hug, so Buck straightens it, trying to smooth the creases out. He still feels like crying, but it’s a vague, distant kind of feeling. Everything feels distant, actually, like Buck is just drifting, somehow heavy and hollow all at once. Whoever said crying makes you feel better was clearly full of shit.

The touch of a cold glass against his skin startles him, draws him out of his head and back into the swirling worry of Eddie’s eyes. Buck wraps his fingers around the glass of water, not realising how thirsty he is until he’s drinking it. He finishes it and Eddie goes back to the kitchen to fill it up again, wordless, and when he comes back he sits down, so close that their arms brush when Eddie reaches out to trace the edge of Christopher’s artwork.

“I haven’t seen this one,” he comments, smiling at the drawing. “He’s right though.” And he looks at Buck then, as serious as he was all those weeks ago when they did this in his living room. “You are our family.”

It should be reassuring, hearing those words out of Eddie’s mouth, but Buck still struggles to believe them. Eddie wouldn’t lie to him, he knows that, especially not about something like this. But Maddie used to tell him they were a united front all the time, Buckley siblings against the world, always there for each other, and even she left. They may call him family now, but everyone leaves eventually.

Either Eddie knows him so well that he knows what is going through Buck’s head, or the thoughts are painted clearly across his face, because he keeps talking. “What you said in the station the other day, about getting left behind… That’s never going to happen, Buck.”

“Red—”

“I’m not talking about Red,” Eddie cuts in. “I’m not talking about the 118. I’m talking about us. You and me and Christopher. I know you think that you chose us and that we might get sick of you one day, but that’s not going to happen. We chose you too. Family works both ways, and me and Chris—we want you to be a part of ours.”

“I love you.” The words tumble out, unwilling, unplanned, and Buck looks away, unable to face Eddie. He can’t go back, can’t make the words disappear, can’t bear to have their meaning misconstrued, so he keeps going, tripping over himself as he tries to explain. “I think I’m in love with you. For—for a while now, only I didn’t figure it out properly until—until you almost died, Eddie, and I—I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I would do without you.”

He risks a look at Eddie, expecting shock and disbelief and maybe cold politeness. Definitely rejection. But there is none of that—no shock or disbelief of cold politeness, and instead of rejecting him Eddie says—

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds—hurt, maybe. Buck looks down at his hands, swallowing against the burn of more tears. “I didn’t know how.” There is the briefest of pauses before he adds, “You don’t have to say anything. I just… You should know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He stands up, jittery, unable to bear the rejection that he’s still not sure isn’t coming. “You can go. I understand if—if you need some space, if you feel differently now—“

Eddie stands with him. He grabs Buck arm and forces him to turn, to look at him. “Buck,” he says, sounding almost desperate. “Stop. Let me just—“

“It’s fine,” Buck interrupts, heading him off. He tries to pull his arm away and he’s not sure whether he’s more hurt or relieved when Eddie lets him go. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

“Buck—”

“I know you probably don’t feel the same and that’s fine, I just—”

“Dammit, Buck,” Eddie snaps, frustrated. “Will you just shut up and listen to me?”

Buck is so startled he stops, frozen in the middle of his apartment.

“I don’t want to leave—and I don’t want you to leave either,” Eddie tells him. He pauses, taking a visible breath, almost guilty when he says, “I already know you’re in love with me.”

The earth literally opening up in front of them would be a lesser shock. Buck feels off-balance, like he’s being tossed about by a wave in the middle of his living room. He almost doesn’t recognise his own voice when he says, “You do?”

Eddie nods. He looks—nervous? Uncertain?

“The signs were kind of obvious, actually, after I realised I was in love with you.”

Buck is so caught up on signs and obvious that it takes him a little longer to realise Eddie said he’s in love with him too.

“Oh.” Buck frowns, confused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to,” Eddie says. “When I gave you that book? I was trying to tell you, I just… didn’t know how. And then you were upset and it didn’t feel right. And I kept telling myself that if you really did feel the same, you’d tell me, but you never did, so… I don’t know, I guess I convinced myself it wasn’t true.”

“I was afraid,” Buck admits. “This year has been… kind of terrible, at times, but you—you make everything better. I was afraid of losing that—losing you—so I never said anything and then—then you cut your line and that rig collapsed and I almost did lose you and—”

“You didn’t lose me.” Eddie’s voice is soft. He steps forward, takes Buck’s hand and tangles their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. “You’re never going to lose me.”

Buck feels like he can’t breathe. Maybe this wasn’t the best time e to have this conversation because his emotions are all over the place and the entire week has been draining, honestly, but—Eddie is here. He came right when Buck needed him, showed up without even being asked, like he just knew. Buck has never had someone who knows him the way that Eddie does. He’s never had someone who wants him the way that Eddie does, completely and unapologetically, ready to shout it to the world if that’s what it takes to make Buck hear.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me right now,” Eddie says. “I’ll just keep showing you, for as long as it takes.”

When Eddie kisses him, it feels less like starting a new chapter and more like turning the page and finding out you aren’t as close to the end as you thought.

 **

A year later to the day, Eddie gives him another book. It’s wrapped in metallic blue paper, taped neatly and tied with a black bow, waiting on the table when Buck gets back from a run in the morning. He picks it up, delighted and curious, running his fingers over the smooth paper, turning it this way and that to see if he can guess what it is.

Eddie watches him from the kitchen doorway, smiling as he says, “Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary.” Buck grins. “Can I—?”

One nod is all he needs to tear the paper open.

It’s a photo book. The glossy pages are filled with Eddie and Chris and the rest of their family, some of them clearly posed, but most of them candid. There is Christmas Day at the station; Christopher’s face covered in cake at Eddie’s birthday party; Buck and Chimney asleep together on the couches at the station; Buck and Eddie dancing, oblivious to the world around them; Maddie and Buck leaning against each other, laughing so hard they’re both crying; the whole crew gathered around the kitchen watching Bobby and Athena cook. Dozens of snapshots; dozens of moments of joy frozen in memory. Buck runs his fingers over the pages, smiling as he flips through the book.

“Everyone helped me collect the photos,” Eddie tells him. “And Christopher helped me choose which ones made the final cut. I would have used all of them, but they had a page limit, and—”

“It’s perfect,” Buck assures him. He steps over the bookshelf in the middle of their living room and sets it on top, right in the centre, pride of place. Eddie wraps his arms around him from behind and Buck leans back against him, holding his arms while they gaze at the book together.

“Perfect,” Eddie agrees softly—and Buck knows that he’s not just talking about the book.

He turns in Eddie’s arms so they can kiss, sweet and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Nothing to do, nowhere to be except right here with each other.

**

The next time Eddie give Buck a book, it’s more of a magazine, and they read it together, poring over the pages and making notes, taking the first step in planning their wedding.

[egcdeath]

cabin fever

pairing: ransom x female!reader 

warnings: very cheesy and unrealistic. lots of fluff, your teeth might fall out. strangers to lovers

summary: when a nasty snow storm ruins your girls trip to a ski lodge, you have to... adapt to your interesting new roommate. 

word count: 2.7k

a/n: and there was only one bed…. oh my god there was only one bed…. 

Come on, they said. A girls trip would be fun, they said. You all needed a break from your routine and work, they said. Who doesn’t wanna kick off their New Year on vacation, they said. Of course, that was all before you arrived at a remote, overbooked resort in the middle of nowhere, hours after your friends’ flights had been cancelled due to an incoming horrendous snow storm.

Now, you stood near the counter in the lobby, biting back tears as you began to desperately rake your brain for solutions to the bizarre issue you were facing.

“God damnit, don’t you know who I am?” a deep voice at the desk thundered.

“Of course, Mr. Drysdale, but you know that we can’t just give this room up to you in conditions like this,” the poor hotel employee told him, trying to keep his composure. “We have way too many clients for you to get a room like this all by yourself!” After hearing this remark, this ‘Mr. Drysdale’ character, who didn’t seem much older than you were, grit his teeth, leaned his head back, and groaned exasperatedly.

You tried not to be too nosy, but it was nearly impossible not to look over at the dramatic scene that was playing out next to you. A grown man, throwing some sort of hissy fit about not getting a room. Luckily for you, he glanced in your direction at the perfect moment to make an uncomfortable eye contact, and suddenly, his annoyed look turned into a devilish smirk.

Oh no.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m not here all by myself. In fact, my girlfriend is right over there,” he tilted his head to gesture to you. Oh no. This was much worse than you anticipated. When you saw that smirk, you thought that maybe he’d hit on you, maybe even catch you at the bar and make some crude offer to you. You didn’t think he’d be using you in order to get a room.

“Oh, I-” you stuttered, not even knowing where to begin. What the hell was going on? You could barely process the last 5 hours of your life, let alone the scenario you’d just been tossed into.

“Alright, Mr. Drysdale. Sorry about the inconvenience.” The hotel employee didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance as he looked down and began to type on the computer. The man looked back over to you, gave you a little chuckle, then moved a bit closer to you so that he could wrap an arm around you.

You were honestly at a loss for words. What the fuck was happening? Maybe you were asleep. There was no way that this was all real. You were incapable of fighting this situation, or even arguing with this man. To be honest, he was pretty handsome. And it seemed like you two were getting one of the last rooms in the whole lodge, so at least you wouldn’t be sleeping on a couch in the lobby until the snow storms stopped.

“Alright, Hugh, Here’s your key. 2C.” The employee bit the inside of his cheek, enjoying the tiny win of calling the bothersome man a name he hated. Hugh? Really? You thought to yourself while rolling your suitcase away, and keeping up the act of being some stranger’s girlfriend until the pair of you reached the elevator.

As you two stood in silence, the weight of your actions began to sink in. What the hell did you just sign yourself up for? For all you know, this Hugh dude could be a murderer. Or a rapist. Or a crazy murderer rapist. You began to envision your name as the title of some True Crime podcast. ‘The Ski Lodge Slaughter of Y/N L/N.’ You began to feel yourself sweat under your winter coat.

“So, your name?” Hugh asked you casually, as if he hadn’t taken you more or less against your will. He basically kidnapped you. Oh god, ‘The Kidnapping and Killing of Y/N.’ Hugh looked down at you and quirked a brow. “My God, loosen up. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!” He laughed. You debated whether or not to even tell this man your real name, but in a split irrational decision, you blurted it out.

“Y/N,” you said, then grimaced after. “Hey, don’t try anything funny on my guy,” you warned, trying to sound tough, but probably not sounding like it. “I have pepper spray on me, and I know your full name. No funny business, Hugh Drysdale.” You warned.

You watched as Hugh’s face went through a rollercoaster of emotions, but the general theme of which being amusement. You swore he stifled a laugh as the two of you exited the elevator and walked through the rather cozy halls. The pair of you stopped in front of a pine door labelled 2C.

“How about you call me Ransom,” he told you before opening the door to your home for at least the next week.

----

You spent the first few minutes in your suite looking around at all the luxuries it offered. It was essentially an apartment, and saying you were impressed was an understatement. The space was truly beautiful, with views like nothing you’d ever seen before. The master bedroom overlooked a mountain, the bathroom was massive and gorgeous, the balcony contained a hot tub, and the living room held a massive fireplace. There was only one problem.

There was just one bed.

Maybe you could sleep in the living room or something. It was definitely large enough. You were simmering deep in your thoughts while staring out the main window in the living room when you heard the words of your new roommate.

“It’s nice right?” He asked while coming to stand next to you.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“We used to come here every year, you know.”

“Oh really?” you replied, trying to sound intrigued in order to stay on his good side in the event that he actually was a murderer. “Like, you and your family? Or like, you and your friends..?”

“My family,” he looked away from the window and at you. “I can assure you, it’s always this nice.”

You looked up at him and tried to ignore the fact that you felt like you were a character in a Hallmark movie. “Why’d you stop?” you inquired, and he shrugged before turning away. You honestly felt kinda bad for the guy, even if he was just a random stranger. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I was supposed to be here with my friends. But their flights got cancelled because of some impending snow storm.”

You swore you heard a faint chuckle as Ransom began to walk into the bedroom. “That is pretty funny,” he confirmed before you heard the door close. Rude. You thought to yourself, before sitting down on the sofa in the middle of the room, and trying to find a show to hold you over.

----

The flight must’ve taken more out of you than you initially thought, because you woke up early in the morning with a blanket lazily draped over you, and a sharp pain in your back. You dug into your pocket and checked the time on your partially charged phone. Unsurprisingly, it was way-too-early-to-be-awake-o’clock. Damn jet lag. You tossed the blanket off yourself and figured that if you were awake, you may as well be eating something good. Shuffling into the kitchenette, you found a room service menu, and ordered enough for a small army. It wasn’t like you were paying for the food in the first place.

Sometime after your food arrived, Ransom walked into the room as well, and sat across from you at the table. “Morning babe, what’d you get us?” He asked playfully before popping a strip of bacon into his mouth.

You couldn’t help but to quirk your lips. You were kind of annoyed that he hadn’t even attempted to offer you the bedroom and left you to sleep on an uncomfortable couch, but his playful demeanor was infectious. “Basically everything, babe, hope you don’t mind the tab.” You gave him a little smirk as you lifted a mug of coffee to your lips.

“Not a problem, babe. How’d you know I’d wake up with an appetite this big?” He continued to banter with you.

“I just know my baby so well,” you giggled, then abruptly stopped when you noticed Ransom was not exactly laughing along with you. “Uhm, I’m gonna go take shower,” you said quickly before standing up, pushing your chair in, then escaping to the bathroom.

----

Your awkward interaction had been about a day ago, but luckily you hadn’t had any moments like that since. Some time in the afternoon, you sat back down on the sofa and cuddled into your own little corner. A bit later, Ransom joined you on the opposite end of the couch, and the two of you sat in a comfortable silence while watching reruns of classic Christmas movies ever since.

You were honestly shocked at how fast you and Ransom warmed up to each other, and how quickly you’d let down your (nearly nonexistent) guard. But to be fair, what girl had the willpower to resist the kinds of baby blues in his eyes? And his slightly overly confident, yet funny personality was quickly growing on you. Not to mention the way he was wearing the shit out of every sweater he put on. You couldn’t help but to daydream about the man while a pot in the kitchenette warmed up the milk for your hot chocolates.

“Hurry up, babe,” he whined from the sofa, to which you rolled your eyes. What a brat.

“On my way, dear,” you giggled, before finishing up the drinks and bringing him a mug. “You know, I really didn’t know what to expect when you basically kidnapped me,” you stated while sitting down.

“Haven’t you had fun? I mean, I know we can’t really go out in this kind of weather, but I like to think of myself as a fun guy.” he took a sip of the drink, then reeled at the heat’s assault on his tongue.

“I mean, I never really saw myself having as much fun with a stranger as I did when we played Uno last night,” you gave Ransom a shy smile.

“That was pretty great,” he nodded in agreement, and returned your smile with a lopsided grin.

“You know, I really expected you to be a dick. I’ve never seen someone make as big of a scene as you did in the lobby those days ago,” you snickered, then let your laugh die away when you saw Ransom press his lips together, furrow his brows, and stand. “What?” you asked with concern laced in your voice.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said dryly before walking off to the bedroom. This man and his Goddamn mood swings. You set down your mug, and cuddled into the quilt covering your body before attempting to go to sleep.

--

You awoke to a loud thud, and the sensation of goosebumps prickling all over your skin as a visceral reaction to the frigid cold that had suddenly taken over the suite.

“What the fuck,” you’d heard a groggy voice say from the bedroom. Ransom shuffled out of the room, and stood in the hall leading to the living room while pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Did you do this?” he slurred slightly, words heavy from sleep.

“No!” you pouted. “I just woke up in the same freezer as you!” You sat up, and stretched your arms while you tried to think of a reason why it was suddenly so cold in your suite. Maybe the employees were playing a prank on their least favorite tenant. Maybe the furnace was broken. Either way, you were both cold as hell, and couldn’t find a solution. You only had so many blankets. Suddenly, something came to you.

“Go back to your room, asshole,” you said quietly before wiping the sleep out of your eyes. Ransom obliged, and you began your search for as many toasty clothing articles you could manage. Luckily, you were smart when packing, and made sure to bring plenty of cable knit sweaters with you. In your tired haze, you clumsily threw the articles of clothing on, then began your trek to the bedroom.

“What are you doing here?” Ransom asked while pulling on another sweater, seemingly having the same idea as you.

“Get in the bed,” you demanded, before flopping in the bed next to him and yawning. You nearly moaned at the comfort of a real bed, rather than a sofa, but filtered yourself. “Cuddle me. We’ll be like little penguins.” You whispered sleepily, already feeling more relaxed at the heat radiating off your bed partner.

There was not one word of complaint coming from Ransom as he threw a strong arm around you, then buried his nose in your hair. “‘Night, Y/N,” he told you, his voice trailing off.

Even in your sleepy haze, your heart rate quickened when you realized that the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces.

----

In the morning, you woke up to a soft, yet empty bed. The heat was now clearly back on, and the heat was definitely back on in your face when you began to recall last night’s events.

----

That day was more of the same for you, watching shitty Rom Coms, over-indulging on room service, playing endless rounds of chess, and even more card games. Neither of you addressed the furnace sized elephant in the room of your late-night cuddle session, and you honestly hoped to keep it that way.

Sometime between a game of Solitaire and Crazy, Stupid, Love, you fell fast asleep, and were surprised when you woke up without the crick in your back, and deeply inhaling the scent of pine.

After you’d drifted off, Ransom had decided to carry you into his bedroom. You just looked way too peaceful to have to spend another night in your sofa hole. He set you down on the bed, pulled the comforter over your body, then gave you a quick peck on your forehead.

“What the fuck,” He wondered quietly out loud to himself.

----

Cabin fever was beginning to eat at you and Ransom, and apparently, there was no better way to battle that than to drink excessively. It started when you added a bit of Bailey’s to your hot chocolates, and only escalated as you spent the night raiding the minibar.

After a few too many shots, you grabbed your phone and hit shuffle on a random playlist on your phone. “Come dance with me,” you giggled, pushing his hand away from a bottle of Grey Goose, and grabbing it instead. The pair of you stumbled over each others’ feet for a few minutes, before waltzing into the bedroom together and plopping clumsily onto the bed as a unit, with you straddling Ransom’s thin waist.

“I can’t believe I’m spending New Year’s Eve with you,” you leaned down and spoke into his face. “Imagine if I wasn’t so dumb, and I didn’t go along with your stupid plan to get this room,” your nose was basically pressed into Ransom’s at this point. You looked deep into his eyes, and he was quiet for a moment.

“Y/N, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he commented out of the blue, reaching up to rub his thumb on your flushed cheek.

“Shut up,” you averted your gaze. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Yeah?” He asked raspily.

“Yeah,” you agreed, setting your hand on top of his hand that sat on your cheek.

The sound of fireworks being shot off in the distance briefly caught both of your attention, leading you to look out the window for a moment, before looking back at each other.

“Happy New Year, Y/N,” you were quickly pulled into a sweet, passionate kiss.

And honestly, you couldn’t think of a better way to start the year.

[notmrskennedy]

The List

(Spencer Reid x GenderNeutral?Reader)

A/N - In order to curb the crushing weight of being bested by a vacuum cleaner at work and stressing about my calc test, I’m posting this. I hope you all like it as much as the last one. Y’all are just the fuckin sweetest. 

Also, this was inspired by @definitelynotkatesblog and her awesome work Something to Cry About. It’s the cutest freakin thing. 

Summary - A little list on what makes Reader fall asleep at night...

Word Count - 2.2k

Warnings - swearing, but what’s new?

----

1. A Podcast Episode on Epicurus and the Hellenistic Age

“Spencer, christ,” you laugh, fluffing your curls. “I can assure you that I am not touchy and sharing a bed won’t kill us.”

Spencer fidgets in his spot in the doorway, crossing his arms to keep from shaking too much. Is it wrong to be jealous of your casualness surrounding this? Is it wrong to wish away that massive crush he’s got? Just at least for one night—pretty please with a cherry on top.

You wait with a half raised eyebrow at the side of the bed he clearly doesn’t sleep on. Your hand poised above the comforter like it’ll make his decision any quicker. Like you can’t see the turmoil that has to be written across his face.

Because what does this mean? What does it mean to sleep in the same bed with your best friend for the first time? What if you end up snuggled up in the morning? Is that bad? Is that good? Is he totally secretly wishing that’ll happen and spur you in falling in love with him just as much as he’s fallen for you?

He glances one more time between your calm eyes, the made bed, the clock, the giant college t-shirt you’re wearing, finally back to your face. He nods. Adds in a dash of blushing. A teaspoon of agreeing words.

You shake your head, smile at him like he’s an idiot—though he supposes he is with you—and wrench the covers back. Like you belong. He wants you to belong.

There’s still time to back out and sleep on the couch. Does he really want to?

He wills his feet forward. Tries to tell himself that this is just like every night. Sets his watch on the nightstand, plugs his phone in, slips into the covers.

“Hey, bud?”

He hums as he turns his head to look over at you. He’s still sat up in bed, hand poised over his stack of books. Are you going to tell him to turn out the light?

You smile, shifting your weight ever so slightly. You’re the restless sort and he wonders how you work the boring middle management job that you do. Pulling your lips back into a nervous smile, you gently say, “I can’t fall asleep to the quiet, do you mind if—“

“Do you want me to read to you?”

He hopes the excitement goes unnoticed. It seems to as you chuckle. “I wish it would work. You’re too interesting, Spencer Reid. Podcasts on Hellenistic philosophy however—do you mind if I listen? It won’t be too loud.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all.” Never for you.

“Thanks, Spence,” you chirp through a stifled yawn. And as you turn the podcast on and flip over to press tightly onto the pillow, you say, “and don’t worry. I promise I keep to my side of the bed.”

And unlike the liar he wishes you are, he wakes up to find that you are very true to your word.

2. Discovery Chanel, Documentary on Revolving Door Manufacturing

He’s never seen you cry before. You make it a point to keep saying between sobs, “I hate crying in front of other people. I’m so sorry.”

He can’t fathom why it’s you that’s sorry, not after you asked him to pick you up from your mother’s. The same mother who’s apparently found it within her purview to explain just how much she hates you over a nice dinner. He’s buzzing with anger on your behalf—anger that clearly isn’t shared, though he knows it’ll come later.

It takes roughly 20 minutes to get you over the hill, trading tears for tissues. Snot for begrudging smiles at his bad jokes. He’s promised himself that he will listen—for once in his goddamn life—to your whole story without interrupting. You seem to appreciate the sentiment, punctuating the whole experience with asking for one of those hugs that just never ends.

You try to explain it—“like cats, Spencer, you know?”—like he doesn’t already empathise completely.

And weirdly enough, it gets to a point where you two switch positions without breaking the crushing amount of contact you have. It gets to a point where you insist on watching the most boring documentary he’s ever seen on revolving door manufacturing. It gets to a point where you pass out after 15 minutes and turn over into his chest.

He doesn’t dare move. Not until he’s effectively sure you won’t be waking up anytime soon. Spencer falls asleep with your soft breath fanning across his chest and his hands tangled in your hair.

5. A Librivox Recording of ‘The Five Orange Pips’

Now this is ridiculous. And he says as much as you roll your eyes. You’re both sweaty and exhausted and he’s sure he’s never met someone who looked this awake after a romp at one AM. Your eyes are twinkling the same way someone does after they’ve run a mile and feel like they need to run another. You’ve got energy and he can’t fathom it.

“Spencer,” you whine, falling back into the bedsheets. It’s really the first official time you’ve spent at his house as more than a friend—much more. He’s gotten accustomed, understanding even, to the little podcasts you listen to to fall asleep. There’s no sense in understanding your sleeping habits, not yet at least, but he understands the boring, droning voices you let lull you to sleep.

But this! Sherlock Holmes?

“Y/n, I literally have the story on my bookshelf. I could read it to you if you’re so choosy!” he mirrors your position with a huff, already reaching out to drag you over into his side. The feel of your skin is addictive. The safest kind of high he can get. The only one he really wants.

You pout, sticking out your lip. It’s adorable and breaks the tweak of frustration resting hard in his features. “Love-bug, with you talking to me, I’d never fall asleep. It just doesn’t work like that and I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine,” he mutters, effectively pulling you close enough you can share the one pillow. You giggle, kiss his nose, and reach behind you for your phone. It takes five seconds for the Librivox recording to start and he realises that as he listens to the intro, he’s already dropping off. It’s understandable—he guesses—but he hopes that one day you’ll pick a story he hasn’t read already.

9. News in Slow Spanish

Listening to you get ready for bed will never be tiring, Spencer thinks. Not when he’s playing a game with himself. He’s so terrible at guessing what you’ll choose to listen to. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Never a solid thought process that he can decipher. He’s kept to making a list—half because he likes lists, half because he wonders how long it’ll get.

Four months in and he’s at number 9—more or less.

This one shocks him though. Has him poking his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. You’re pulling your hair out of a pony tail, humming along to the intro music for a newscast in Spanish. Do you speak Spanish?

“Sugar plum—“ he loves every weird nickname you’ve given him over the months— “I can hear the whine of your brain from here.”

It’s then you turn to really look at him. Smirking. Gleaming in the shadows of the bathroom light. Wearing nothing more than a sports bra and shorts. His mouth runs dry as he tries to keep his thoughts present and clean.

He takes the toothbrush from his mouth. You giggle as he speaks through the spit. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“I must not talk about work enough,” you mutter to yourself, slipping into bed. Like you belong. “My entire job is setting up relationships between the hotel company I work for and Latin American, well, anything. Hotels, river cruises, restaurants—I speak Spanish more than I do English some weeks.”

He nods, finishes brushing his teeth to process the thought. No, you don’t talk about work enough, and he’s suddenly worried about what you don’t talk about. It suddenly feels suffocating. Like he doesn’t know a single thing about you. Like he’s never known anything about you.

But as you drag yourself into his side once he’s beside you, as you kiss his cheek and settle in, he’s reminded that he doesn’t need to know everything to care. For you to care back. There’s enough time in the world to figure out all the other stuff. He’s content to learn as it comes. Appreciate every new thing he can get his hands on.

And, hey, if you listen to this podcast enough, he might learn Spanish too.

11. Whose Line is it Anyway? Reruns

“No, absolutely not. I’m putting the kibosh on this. The applause will drive me wild. Please, y/n, anything else.”

15. Spencer

If there hadn’t been a nightmare involved, it wouldn’t have been as terrifying to find you not in bed. To hear the door latch click with someone’s arrival. Or someone’s departure.

He’s out of bed before he can process. Before his brain can calm down enough to remind him that it’s fine. That there’s no way a burglar is going to be as loud as you’re being in the next room over.

He jumps out of the bedroom, ready to strangle the intruder with his bare hands, when you give a startled shout, “Jesus christ!” 

Spencer settles. Realises that it’s just you in a sweatshirt and slippers. You look utterly exhausted in the dim light of the apartment. Fidgeting and restless despite the slump to your shoulders. He vaguely wonders if he should make you a pot of coffee to calm you down.

The world catches up to him and he slumps into the wall. Is it so wrong to be this decidedly tired after a nightmare that he could’ve sworn wasn’t coming back? The two of you stare each other down, both equally apprehensive to the other for decidedly similar reasons.

Spencer’s entire body is beginning to light on fire. He doesn’t want to burn you in the process.

You’re buzzing and tired and angry and there’s no reason to take any of that out on him.

“Can’t sleep?” he finally prompts.

You scrub your hands over your face, fluff your curls, in response. “I walked the stairs four times, bug. I’m so—“

“Frustrated?”

“Yes.”

He nods his head, waves you over. You half heartedly trudge over to him, lean your head into his chest and feel at least a tiny amount of frustration drift away. He pulls you both back to bed—he can’t believe he’s functioning this well, but maybe it’s just because he’s fulfilling the need to think about anything else. There’s a hesitance as you lay back down and he knows that you’ve probably tried everything. That you don’t believe you’ll get any sleep at 2:45 in the morning.

“You’ve worked through the list then?” he asks. Your eyebrows pinch as you settle onto your side, giving him your full attention. “The things that make you fall asleep,” he clarifies, “you know, that list.”

“Do you—do you keep a list?” your voice is almost judgemental, but decidedly too curious. He nods. “I’ve never had anyone care that much.”

“So where are you at?” he says instead. There’s too much to unpack. Too much for his still swimming brain. He needs something concrete. “What’ve you tried?”

You go through your list, letting every inch of agony you’ve faced for the last four hours creep over your face. Spencer watches as you turn over one more time and groan into the pillow. “I think I’d rather just suffocate at this rate.”

He chuckles. “Stop being dramatic. Come here, let me try something.”

“But—“

“Just—please, y/n?” he doesn’t understand your refusal to trust him sometimes—it’s always about such strange things, like how he does the dishes or what brand of milk to buy. You scoot over to him, settle into his chest with an indignant huff. As if you aren’t tightening around him like a vice.

He clears his throat, drags his fingers softly up and down your spine, and picks the most boring thing—for you at least—he can think of to recite: quantum physics. He feels you relax after a minute. Your eyes close and your nose sinks a little deeper into his shirt. It takes nearly two chapters to get you to zonk out. Long enough that he’s worried you were right, that he was just too interesting for you. Even if he was reciting quantum physics literature.

He keeps droning for a little time after he thinks you must be—have to be—asleep. And just as he settles, just as his eyes are closing and he could drift off peacefully, he doesn’t miss the ever quiet, ever gentle words, “You’re too interesting, Spence, too goddamn interesting.”

You roll over, your back pressed against his side. He wants to laugh. He doesn’t, just ends up dreaming of something nearly as peaceful as falling asleep beside you.

[ambersock]

On the Edge of Forever

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Lucifer (Cassifer)

Summary: Sam has a plan to deal with the Darkness. Dean is definitely not going to like it.

Word Count: 4095

Warnings: Angst, Minor Sam Whump, Swearing, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues

A/N: Takes place in Season 11, after 11.10 The Devil in the Details. More notes at the end.

Now: Dean

Baby’s tires squeal in protest as Dean uses up a month of tread taking yet another turn too fast, her back-end fishtailing with only intermittent traction keeping her from spinning out. He’ll apologize to her later. Dean slams the accelerator down as he exits the curve and hits 90 on a straight section of the backwoods road on the outskirts of a town probably called Where The Fuck Are We We’re Lost. He starts to recognize landmarks from the last time he was here almost three years ago; he’s close. Not close enough.

He hurtles towards his destination, praying to who the hell knows what (because, really, there’s nothing out there that gives a shit, is there?), that he makes it in time to stop his idiot brother from doing an idiotic thing. Because he idiotically let his brother go to talk to fucking Lucifer, and of course Lucifer got inside his head. And here he is again, wracking his brain to figure out what the hell he can possibly say to convince Sam to abandon his insane plan.

Five days ago: Sam

Ever since the train wreck that was supposed to be a “safe” visit to the Cage to ask for Lucifer’s help against the Darkness, Sam has been replaying the Lucifer-guided tour of his worst fuck ups over and over on an endless loop, hoping that repetition and whiskey will numb him just a little more each time. For the hundredth time Sam curses his hubris, thinking he would even register on God’s radar, let alone that He would answer his prayers and send him visions. For the hundredth time he curses himself for being so naïve that he never suspected that the visions were just a lure from Lucifer to reel him in, break him down, and use him as a ride out of the Cage. And he hates himself for how close he had come to caving in. More than once.

On his third shot of whiskey and his umpteenth rerun through his trail of regrets, it hits Sam: within the chain of events of disaster begetting calamity begetting catastrophe, there is one moment in time where it could have easily all fallen apart. One small delay, one broken link, would cause a cascade failure and drastically alter everything that came after. He can’t help fantasizing, over and over, about all of the different little things could have happened that would have changed the entire outcome. If only.

On his fourth shot of whiskey, Sam remembers the sigil that allowed Henry Winchester to travel through time, and he huffs out a laugh.

On his fifth shot of whiskey, Sam staggers to the archive room and starts pulling books.

******

Sam continues to stare at the passages describing the Enochian time travel spell. The task he’s set himself is a flame that has both sustained him and consumed him for days on end. There’s a tree’s worth of paper covered in notes scattered across every horizontal surface, held down by mostly empty coffee mugs distributed randomly around the cramped space. His eyes are dry and red, an eyestrain headache thrums in the back of his skull, and his back is aching from being hunched over musty tomes for hours at a time attempting to deconstruct and reverse engineer the spell, to adapt it to his specific purpose. He’s not sure when he slept last, and Dean has started to give him those sideways I-know-something’s-eating-you looks which means he’s got limited time before Dean drags him out of the bunker “for his own good”. Sam forces himself to clear his mind of everything except the patterns of Enochian writing in front of him. He’s close, he thinks he’s found the right figures, he just needs to understand how to combine them with the original blood sigil. As Dean would say, he’s on the one-yard line and it’s time to push through it.

Hours later something finally clicks like a circuit closing in his brain, and suddenly the pattern of the lesser symbols within the larger whole makes sense to Sam. The solution is simple and elegant, and it’s so obvious to him now that he can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. He adds the figures to a drawing of the original blood sigil and he knows, just knows, that this is going to work. He allows himself to luxuriate in the endorphin rush that accompanies success, the feeling that he’s about to score a win. For the first time since he threw himself into the Cage, he feels like he’s finally doing something right.

The only problem now is finding the right way to tell Dean. He’s going to need some time and distance, a head-start to get out in front of Dean’s inevitable knee-jerk reaction, because Dean is definitely not going to like this. Even if it was his idea.

Yesterday: Lucifer-wearing-Castiel

It was a stroke of luck, really, that Lucifer landed Castiel as a vessel instead of Sam as he had originally intended. Dean might have caught on to Lucifer-wearing-Sam, but it was just too easy to pass himself off as the besotted pet angel when Dean had caught him tearing through the records. A contrite little “I’m sorry Dean” coupled with a soulful look and Dean was sold. It is surprisingly so much easier to masquerade as someone else topside than it ever was in the Cage. He never could fully convince Sam that it was Dean who was carving out his organs.

Fun aside, there is now a possible monkey wrench in Lucifer’s carefully laid and, so far successful, bid for freedom. He stares at the disarray of notes decorated with Enochian symbols strewn all over the small bunker storage room by his erstwhile vessel, and can’t dismiss the growing possibility that everything is about to unravel.

“Oh Sammy-boy, what are you up to?”

His vessel has been mucking around with a time-travel sigil, and it seems like he’s pretty far along. Logically, Sam would be looking to prevent the release of the Darkness, which also certainly means undoing the events leading to the damage to the Cage that allowed Lucifer to escape. There are two lessons he files away for later: one, never speak Enochian in front of a chew toy; two, sending Sam Winchester on a guilt trip tends only results in a manic attempt on his part to fix things, which is exactly how Lucifer ended up back in the Cage the second time. He takes a moment to appreciate the irony of how tormenting Sam with his past regrets might now colossally backfire on him. He questions whether it was really worth it just to see Sam squirm like that once again, but then he can’t keep a smile of contentment from spreading across his face.

Yes, yes it was. Definitely worth it.

So now to the problem at hand: Lucifer-wearing-Castiel has other important, and definitely more amusing, things he needs to attend to, such as feeding Crowley his own intestines. But this potential threat to his plans is not something he can abide. He mulls over the merits of just disintegrating Sam—not very satisfying, but efficient—when he feels a tickle from a small, dark corner of his consciousness. He sighs in irritation.

“What do you want, Castiel?”

I believe I can help.

“Yeah, not really buying that.”

Give me five minutes, and I promise that Sam will no longer be of concern.

Lucifer is loath to cede control, but at the same time his curiosity is piqued. He can always return to Plan Disintegrate later. Or maybe he’ll think of something more entertaining while he’s waiting.

“Five minutes.”

Castiel takes out his phone and picks Dean out of his contacts. As Dean picks up, Castiel reaches for the page holding the altered blood sigil.

“Dean… I’m afraid your brother is planning to do something very foolish…”

Earlier: Dean

“You’re going to what?”

“I’m going to fix this. Fix the Darkness. I figured out a way to take Abaddon off the board in the past. No Abaddon, no Mark of Cain. No Mark, the Darkness stays locked up. Kevin lives. Charlie lives. It’s a no-brainer.”

Dean is standing in the room where Sam had been doing his clandestine research, now devoid of the notes that Castiel had described. After 17 frantic, unanswered calls to Sam, who had gone missing all night, Sam has finally called back and Dean knows that something’s seriously off. He sounds eerily upbeat, which immediately sets off Dean’s alarm bells given how shaken and preoccupied he had been after coming back from the near-disastrous visit to the virtual Cage. Whatever Sam’s planning, Dean is pretty sure he’s not going to like it, and Sam’s not exactly forthcoming with details. Either Dean needs to get Sam to spill, or he at least needs to get a trace on his phone and figure out where he is.

“Aren’t you the one who always says not to screw with time? Mothra Effect, or whatever? And if you go back and meet yourself, won’t the universe, like, explode or something?”

“Butterfly Effect. And I’m not going back, I’m sending something back. Seriously, Dean, do you really think I can possibly screw up the time line any worse than The End of Everything?”

Dean doesn’t have a good response to that, so he switches the topic to keep Sam talking. “So how, exactly, are you gonna take Abaddon out without the Mark and the First Blade? You planning to send her one of your documentary podcasts and bore her to death?”

There’s a huff of exasperation on the other end and Dean swears he can hear Sam roll his eyes. “Hilarious. Look, I’ve found another way.”

“Then tell me where you are and I’ll come help.”

Silence.

Then, “Don’t worry Dean, I’ve got this. It’s an easy spell. You should keep researching the Darkness in case this doesn’t work.”

Sam being evasive confirms that Dean has good reason to be suspicious about this plan, but the trace is still going and Dean plays for more time.

“Don’t worry? Might as well tell me not to breathe. Let me guess: you’re sending a bomb back to blow Abaddon to fucking bits so we can’t sew her head back on.”

“…Huh. Interesting idea, but there’s too much risk that I’d end up blowing up one of us. Anyway, it’s a blood spell. Whatever goes back has to be infused with DNA so that it can latch onto the same DNA. I’m just sending some cloth back. Like I said, it’s simple.”

Dean gives in to his growing irritation at Sam’s caginess and decides to go for the direct assault.

“Sam. What aren’t you telling me?” Dean already has his suspicions of what Sam isn’t telling him; there’s only one way he can think of that takes Abaddon out of play and saves Kevin. He’s hoping he’s wrong. He’s also dying to know how time travelling cloth comes into this.

“Don’t get mad.”

“Sam.”

“Look, just promise you’ll hear me out, okay?”

“SAM.”

Dean can hear Sam take a breath, like he’s getting ready to plunge into deep water. “…I’m going to make sure I finish the third Trial.”

There it is. Damn it.

“LIKE HELL YOU ARE.”

Click.

Sam disconnects before the trace finishes, but Dean doesn’t need the trace to know where to find him. He hauls ass to the garage where the Impala is waiting.

Now: Dean

Dean stands on the brake and Baby skids to a halt next to the car Sam had appropriated, sitting in front of the old, decrepit church. It’s exactly as he remembered it last, like it’s been frozen in time waiting for their return. Overgrown bushes still cling to the rotting siding, and stained glass still litters the ground from the blown-out side window. The only thing missing is the shower of angelic fireballs cascading toward the earth with Sam dying by his side, an image that perversely reminds him of watching fireworks in a field with next to his little brother.

The last time they were here, Sam was half out of his mind with fever and remorse, and Dean’s desperate I’m-Your-Big-Brother-You-Have-To-Do-What-I-Say tone had actually, thankfully, gotten through to him and Sam had backed down. He can’t believe that he has to talk Sam down from the same fucking ledge again, only it’s worse this time because Sam is laser focused on his mission to fix the problem. This time, emotional pleas and yelling and demanding aren’t going to work. This time, so help him, the only way Dean will be able to talk Sam out of this will be to throw logic at him.

Dean launches himself out of the Impala and bursts through the doors of the church to see Sam sitting, chin in hand, in the chair that once held a nearly human King of Hell. A crimson stain is spreading on a strip of cloth that he’s holding to his arm, and there is a bowl of already-mixed spell ingredients on the floor in front of him. Sam has clearly been waiting for Dean.

“Well, that was quick.”

Dean, bent over huffing, heart still pounding from breakneck drive here, is seriously tempted to punch Sam.

Before Dean can take a deep enough breath to start in on forcefully explaining to Sam how idiotic this is, Sam launches into his sales pitch. “Look Dean, I know what you’re going to say, but just listen. I’m not throwing my life away on some impulsive, reckless act. I need you to understand that, that’s why I waited for you. I’ve had days to think this through. This endless cycle of crossing lines we’ve got no business crossing, of throwing away the world to save each other, this is where it all started, and I can stop it before it starts.”

“Damn it Sam, are you even capable of coming up with a plan where you don’t die? Closing up Hell wasn’t worth your life then, and it’s not worth it now—”

“Isn’t it though? I mean, my insides were going to be deep fried whether or not I finished it. You were right when you said you shouldn’t have pulled me back. Look at everything that came after—Kevin, you becoming a demon, and—and the things that I had to do to get you back, to remove the Mark… getting Charlie killed… and how many people died when the Darkness infected that town? I mean, how can you tell me that saving all of them isn’t worth it?”

Dean feels a knot growing in his stomach because he knows damned well that it wasn’t Lucifer who got into Sam’s head. It was the Mark that told Sam that he should have been on the pyre instead of Charlie. It was the Mark that told Sam he should have died finishing the Trials. It was the Mark that told Sam that he was evil. It had said all of this to Sam for his crime of saving Dean from an eternity of suffering.

But it was Dean who never apologized, never tried to set things right.

They have both said and done abhorrent things to each other while under the control of some entity or force, and there has always been an unspoken understanding between them that they don’t take it personally. Mostly. Sometimes. Okay, Dean usually gets mad, leaving Sam to trail after him afterwards apologizing profusely. But Sam always brushes these incidents aside and moves on without a word. Hell, the first thing Sam had done after the hammer episode was to go out and get Dean a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and three different pies.

But this… this has really gotten to Sam. He didn’t just dismiss it like he did when they were under the influence of the Siren. He buried it instead and let it set down roots and infest every corner of his brain. And when Sam gets like this—like after he set Lucifer free, like after he found out what he had done while he was soulless—he just can’t let it go until he does something to atone for it. This is ironically what Dean both most admires and most infuriates him about his little brother: his unwavering determination to make things right and his absolute faith in their ability to do so. More than once he has carried Dean along in his wake by sheer willpower when all Dean wanted to do is crawl into a bottle. But these crusades never end well for Sam, and the one thing that Dean will never be able to protect Sam from is himself.

Sam crosses over to the oversized wooden double doors at the entrance, already adorned with the augmented blood sigil. He winds the cloth through both handles and ties it securely as blood continues to ooze from the cut on his forearm. Dean gets what Sam is doing now. He’s using the spell to send the blood-infused cloth back in time, homing in on his own blood in the past, to hold the doors shut back then. Dean had barely gotten to Sam in time to stop him from curing Crowley, and if it had taken him just a few more seconds to push through the door it would have been over. Will have been over.

“Kah-nee-lah. Poo-goh.”

The sigil on the door starts to glow dimly, and the reality that This Is Happening hits Dean like cold water in the face. He had every intention of trying to talk Sam out of this with a reasonable, adult discussion, because he knows damned well that Sam doesn’t respond to orders being yelled at him. It all flies out the window at that moment and he’s barking at Sam like a drill sergeant, because if he doesn’t, he’d be breaking down instead. He grabs Sam’s arm and spins him around.

“What the hell, Sam? You know that nothing I said while I had that thing on my arm counts. You can’t seriously believe that I meant any of—”

Sam cuts him off, his gaze intense, his voice fervent. “It’s true, Dean, what you said. Mark or not, it’s the truth. I chose to cross those lines; I chose to let the Darkness out. You told me not to, and I did it anyway. So this is me stepping up and taking responsibility. If I’ve got a chance to undo all of this, I have to take it. And right now, it’s the only play we’ve got.”

Angry words propelled by desperation shoot out of Dean before he can stop them. “Yeah, that’s exactly what you said about your visions of the Cage, and how did that work out for you?”

Sam visibly flinches and pulls away from Dean as his expression hardens. “Kah-nee-lah. Poo-goh.”

The sigil blazes.

This is not at all what Dean intended. He came here to talk Sam back from the edge, and instead he’s pushing him toward it. Dean swallows his anger and it tastes like acid going down, and all that remains is panic.

“Sam, just stop. I don’t care what came out of my mouth when I had the Mark, it’s all bullshit. Sam, you don’t need to do this—”

“Yeah, Dean, I really do. I wasn’t strong enough to make the right choice then, but I can do it now.”

Dean flounders for whatever magic words he needs to get through to Sam and comes up empty. He does the only thing he can think of to shock some sense into him or, preferably, to knock him cold so that he shuts the fuck up and can’t finish the spell. Dean’s fist connects with Sam’s jaw, propelling him backwards. Sam goes down, sprawling on the floor, but he’s not out. He sits up, hand to jaw, and Dean expects to see shock or anger on Sam's face, but all he sees is compassion. And Dean knows that he’s lost.

“Sammy, don’t—"

“Kah-nee-lah. Poo-goh.”

A blinding light envelops the cloth holding the doors shut.

Yesterday: Lucifer-wearing-Castiel

Castiel ends the call after warning Dean about Sam’s intentions. He takes a marker to one of the added symbols and alters it slightly. He freezes as Lucifer gets back in the driver’s seat.

Lucifer asks suspiciously, “And what exactly are you doing with this, Castiel?”

I’m just disrupting the sigil. The change I made will prevent the spell from accounting for the current position of the Earth relative to its position within the—

“Summarize, Poindexter.”

With the change I’ve made, whatever object Sam is sending back will end up in space. Sam will think that his alteration failed, and he won’t interfere with your plans. You would know if I was lying.

“So… I’m trying to understand this. You’re helping me by sabotaging Sam’s work… why, exactly?”

To eliminate your motivation to kill my friend.

Lucifer considers Castiel’s response. “Huh. We’ll see.”

I can still expel you.

“Now Castiel, we both know that’s an empty threat.”

Castiel is silent for a moment. Then:

It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world—

“Alright, alright. Just kidding. Grow a sense of humor.”

Now: Dean

The cloth binding the door handles is gone, but as far as Dean can tell, nothing else has changed. Sam is still on the floor, a stunned expression on his face that would be comical under any other circumstances, and all Dean can think is thank fucking God, and he starts to wonder if maybe there isn’t something out there intervening on his behalf after all.

“I don’t… it should have… it didn’t work.” Sam looks around in dazed confusion for a moment before pushing himself to his knees, and he looks up at Dean, eyes filled with defeat. Dean can’t stop the memory from superimposing itself in his mind of Sam kneeling in front of him, resigned in his acceptance of Dean’s judgment of him, waiting for the scythe to swing.

“I’m sorry...” Sam apologizes for not being dead.

Dean thinks he’s going to be sick.

He drops to Sam’s level and doesn’t know whether to shake him or maybe hit him again. He pulls Sam to himself instead and holds onto him like he’s going to blink out of existence if he lets go. Sam doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t respond.

Dean knows that there is something that Sam needs to hear, something he should have said weeks ago. Dean hasn’t been able to tell him, because it’s selfish and the good guys aren’t supposed to be selfish. The good guys are supposed to put the rest of the world first, and happily throw themselves into oblivion for “the greater good”. He keeps his grip on Sam because he doesn’t want to see Sam’s reaction to what he’s about to say; he’s not sure what Sam will think of him afterwards.

“What you said… after you risked the world for me, when you said that you’d do it again in a second…”

Sam tenses in his arms, and Dean takes a breath.

“Sammy, that wasn’t evil. That was the best fucking moment of my life.”

The statement hangs there for a few heartbeats. Then Sam relaxes, lets his chin drop to Dean’s shoulder, and tentatively folds his arms around him. Dean feels him starting to shake.

“I wanted to—I couldn’t save them.” Sam’s words fall out of him between hitched breaths.

“I know Sammy.”

“It should have been me up there instead of—”

“Don’t.”

All of the mourning that Dean hadn’t allowed Sam to express as they watched Charlie’s body burn, all of the grief that Sam has held bottled up ever since pours out of him then, and Sam clings to Dean like a drowning man to a life preserver. He doesn’t know how long they stay there. His knees are aching and his legs are falling asleep but he doesn’t care because Sam is still here and he’s alive. He waits until the tremors slow and finally stop, then slowly pulls back.

“Hey, you don’t get to put this all on yourself. I’m the one who took the Mark without reading the warning label. We’re in this together. We’ll figure this out, both of us.”

Sam just nods numbly.

“Now let’s get out of here before we hit menopause.”

Sam rewards Dean with an expelled almost-laugh and a flicker of an almost-smile, and Dean chooses to count that as a win.

~~~~~~~~~~

More Notes:

I have this nagging need to address all of the drama from 10.23 Brother's Keeper that the writers just decided to drop on the floor.

The title is named after the ST:TOS The City on the Edge of Forever. The theme of the story, at least from the original script, is that it is possible to love someone so much that you would throw away your whole universe for them. I can't help but notice the parallel to SPN.

This is exactly what Dean wants from Sam throughout seasons 8 and 9, and when Sam does it in season 10, Dean calls him evil for it. Sam just can't fucking win.

[trillian-anders]

chicken noodle soup

pairing: chef!bucky x plus!reader

warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, a little angst. just a dash.

word count: 1779

description: chef!au; bucky makes you chicken noodle soup when you’re sick, and you guys have a talk. 

note: i’m extremely sick and this is what i wrote, i needed a little comfort. if you have a request for the next dish, let me know loves.

just a taste masterlist

You watched the corded muscles of his back from your spot on the sofa. His right arm moving up and down, steadily chopping carrots as the garlic and onions sweat in a large pot on the stove. His left arm, something you still didn’t ask him about, mottled skin covered with blooming flowers, a rosary, whisping into a vintage pinup girl that posed on his forearm, hands tangled in her hair as she arched her back against the flowers behind her as if laying in a field of flowers. 

His left arm held down the vegetable, knuckles facing the knife as he cut the carrots into thick pieces, practiced fingers running against the blade before he switched hands, left moving not quite as steadily, but still practiced. 

You were sure your apartment smelled delicious, if only you could smell it. 

He came over even though you’d told him not to. Last night when you’d stumbled in your front door after a very draining workweek. The winter deadline met, first quarter final report submitted and a head pounding and nose clogged you’d collapsed onto your couch with a bottle of NyQuil. Dead to the world. 

He’d called worried, you’d been telling him you hadn’t felt well all week. “You need to rest babydoll,” He scolded, you’d rolled your eyes on the phone with him, your heart warming with the concern laced in his voice, toeing your socks off before slipping under the covers. “Stark can go a day or two without you.”

“After this week ends,” You said, “I just have to meet Friday’s deadline and then I’ll rest.” Friday had happened, and everything was done. And you collapsed on your sofa. Resting. 

His call came in two hours after you’d fallen asleep, a groggy, “Hi baby.” And he sighed, 

“I’m coming over.” You snuggled deeper into the cushions of the sofa you’d spent way too much money on, suddenly appreciating how large and soft it was. 

“I’ll be fine,” You croaked, “Really.” But you could already hear his keys in his hand. 

The food truck had been doing really well, well enough that Bucky and Sam hired some extra help. A kid named Peter who needed an after school job that would just handle plating and taking money while Sam or Bucky cooked, finally giving them enough time off between them to start seriously looking for commercial space for their restaurant. Something Bucky had been giddy about for weeks. 

“I told Sam I needed tomorrow off,” He said, toeing off his boots by the front door. Your sleepy face peering at him from behind the blankets pulled up to your nose. “But I’ll have to work Sunday.” He had a large paper bag he’d set on the counter before padding over to you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“You really didn’t have to come,” Your nose stuffed and red, a pile of discarded tissues next to you on the coffee table and reruns of Survivor playing on TV. He rolled his eyes, picking the snotty mess of tissues up and saying, 

“When’s the last time you ate?” You didn’t know. “Here.” A glass of orange juice and a glass of water, “You need liquids.” You sniffled and he ran his fingers best he could through your tangled hair. “Wouldn’t you rather be in bed?” 

“I’m comfy here.” You mumbled, eyes half lidded. He nods, brushing his thumb across your cheek, 

“Sleep babydoll, I’ll wake you up to eat.” 

He’d refilled your water, the small sips for your scratchy throat was a marvel. He’d placed a pack of honey cough drops and a new bottle of NyQuil on the coffee table. There was a multi-pack of tissues sitting still in the plastic beside them. The tv had been turned down to a quiet amble. He was listening to some kind of podcast in the kitchen. 

He poured a box of chicken broth into the large pot. A smaller pot next to it cooking egg noodles. A ginger root sat idly beside the stove. 

You knew Bucky loved to cook, he loved making you things you’d never tried before, he’d love to experiment with flavors and you were his own personal guinea pig to try new recipes. They were trying to nail down their menu after all. But he would also make the best comfort food that warmed your very soul.

He knew exactly what you needed and when you needed it. And this soup, as stuffy and clogged, as your head pounded and your body ached, you needed this soup. 

He stirred, a strand of hair falling into his eyes. It must be late. He’d changed into pajamas. The loose sweats and t-shirt wasn’t what he was wearing when he first arrived. He must have felt your eyes on him, turning to look at you as you pulled your lips into a chapped smile. He laughed softly, 

“You look so pathetic.” He joked, pulling a bowl from the cabinet. 

“I am.” You whined, rubbing your head against the pillow, comfortably watching him scoop some noodles into the bowl before ladling the broth on top. Chicken, carrots, celery, mushrooms, a bit of grated ginger, the broth was dark from some soy sauce. Red pepper flakes mixed in and garnished with cilantro. “Spicy Asian chicken noodle soup.” The broth hit your nose and you could almost feel your sinuses clear then. “You’ll be able to breathe again by the end of this.” His socked toes meeting yours as he curled up next to you, sitting you up and handing you the bowl. “I know you like spice.”

It was so fucking good. Runny nose be damned. You hadn’t realized how hungry you actually were. A bowl was finished, and then a second. His fingers tracing up and down your spine while you ate. 

“If you’re not feeling better by Sunday, you should call out on Monday.” The soup had been packed and stored in your fridge. The noodles separate from the broth. “Stark can afford to go one day without you. You have those sick days for a reason.” You know. You know. 

His arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you tight into his chest. 

“I’m gonna get you sick.” You mumbled into his soft well worn shirt. His fingers massage your scalp, your eyes drooping. 

“I’ll be fine,” He pressed his lips to your head, “Don’t worry about me. Sleep sweetheart.” 

And you did. 

“So next week Steve is coming up from DC for the weekend.” Bucky called from the kitchen, heating up the leftover soup from last night, “If you’re feeling better by then we were going to go out to dinner, he’s been asking about you and Sam and I think it would be good for you to meet him if you can.” Steve. The other part of the trio.

Bucky had told you they were inseparable once, meeting in basic training the three of them becoming quick friends. Their paths crossed a year after, the three of them chosen to be part of a special ops squad that moved mostly undercover. It didn’t need to be said that the story behind his left arm was buried there somewhere. But he wasn’t ready for that yet. And that’s okay. 

“If you’d like me to.” Honestly it gave you anxiety. You and Bucky hadn’t really had the talk yet, the two of you not even breaching the conversation having sex after spending the majority of the last month together. There was making out, kissing, and a lot of it. But if he wanted you to meet 

Steve it must mean something right?

But there was still this paranoia, this little niggling in your brain that made you feel like the rug was going to be pulled from beneath you. Just like it had before. 

How many times had you been really into a guy and when it came to the point, in what you thought was a relationship, to meet his friends or family he was suddenly really shady about it. A guy had literally told you once, “My friends would make fun of me if I dated a fat girl.” That had been a heavy blow. 

And you know you’re beautiful, you know you’re smart, and you know that you can survive on your own. But you didn’t want to anymore. You wanted to start working towards a partner, possibly getting married, maybe having or adopting kids. And Bucky seemed so perfect. A little too perfect. 

“Of course I want you to.” Meet Steve. The bowl was carefully handed to you while he settled down next to you with his own bowl. “Why wouldn’t I want you to?” The soup was just as good as you remembered it from last night. It had been late, almost one am when the two of you cuddled up on the couch and cleared your sinuses for the first time in a week. 

You shrug, spooning more of the spicy salty broth into your mouth. He gives you a strange look, “You’re my girlfriend,” Brow scrunched, “Girlfriends typically meet their boyfriend’s friends.” Your chapped lips parted and closed, “I mean I know we never like, officially, said anything, but… I thought you knew we were together.” His voice sounded a little sad. His eyes meet yours, placing his bowl on the coffee table. 

You shook your head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted to--” You sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. No, we are together.” 

“Did you think we weren’t?” The bowl was taken from your hands and gently placed beside his on the coffee table, grasping your cold hands in his. 

“I… I didn’t know,” It was hard to look at him, “Sometimes, it’s just…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it more clear what my intentions were.” His voice level and reassuring, “I want to be with you, I want to be your boyfriend.” Your eyes glassy. Your period was probably going to start soon, to be fair. You’d cried during Masterchef earlier when the girl had burned her sauce. It had been devastating. 

“No, I’m sorry.” You shook your head, “Communication goes both ways and I just didn’t think to ask.” In case you said no. He softly pressed his lips to yours, 

“Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?” You sniffle, 

“You’re gonna get sick.” Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling, 

“Are you gonna answer my question or not?” You bit a little dry skin off your bottom lip before nodding, 

“Yes.” 

The next weekend had been at his own apartment, his stuffy nose and watery coughs a mimic of yours. The dinner with Steve would have to wait. 

.

.

.

taglist //  @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​ @the-soulofdevil​ @tinmunky​ @albinotigerpython

[techni-kolor]

"Anyway, I suppose that's enough complaining. I apologize for taking up your time, Martin. I'll allow you to get back to work now."

Martin felt his jaw drop open in complete disbelief, staring at the awkward expression on Jon's face, and attempting to process everything that he had just said.

Everything, being the very concerning information that Jon was running an extraordinary high fever, and had been getting progressively more ill with what sounded like a horrible list of symptoms for well over a week now, all said in exactly the same way as if they were out of office ink and not that he was near burning up from an untreated case of the flu.

"Jon, that doesn't. That isn't– That doesn't sound good. Maybe you should go see a doctor?" He finally managed to say, having to force the words out from behind the absolute wall of disbelief that Jon, his intelligent, sharp boss, could be so dense as to not realize when he was actually, seriously ill.

Jon frowned in response, his watery eyes narrowing even further than where they were already squinted against the lights, and his flushed cheeks creasing.

"It's just a cold, Martin. I really don't think there's a need for that. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression with the complaining, but it really is inconsequential."

Martin's brain stuttered out a few incomprehensible syllables about obliviousness, and research, and about an Archivist with a lack of basic observational skills, before managing to form actual words.

"Jon, that's not a cold." He finally said, the sudden realization that Jon's survival instincts were slim to none near hitting him in the face. "You'd be lucky if it isn't the flu."

"I appreciate the concern, however–"

"It's not just concern." Martin said, not even letting him finish the sentence. "Well, I mean, I am concerned. But for a reason, Jon. That's bad. All of that is really, really bad."

Jon stared blankly back, not even protesting the interruption for once, and simply staring unguardedly.

And the expression on his face could have broken anyone's heart.

With the red, swollen rims around his eyes, and deep flush across his cheeks he looked so much younger than his actual age, and the feverish, watery tears clinging to his lashes only added to the effect, making it look almost as if he had been crying.

And if that didn't yank on Martin's heartstrings enough, the sight of his curls flattened down with damp sweat made it look as if he were a wet cat, caught in the rain begging for scraps, without shelter, or warmth, or even just a kind hand to stroke it.

And the look on his face. The unmasked look of utter exhaustion, and actual emotion instead of his typical front of irritation, could have melted a heart far harder than Martin's.

All combined with the, honestly hellish, symptoms he had described suffering from, Martin was halfway tempted just to bundle him up and take him straight to the A&E himself.

"Jon," Martin started, not quite sure where to go. "You need– you need to see someone about all that, especially before it gets any worse."

Jon's expression deepened into bleary confusion. "But you all had this cold. And I don't believe anyone else visited a clinic for it."

Martin felt the tide of sympathy wash back into the harbors of disbelief.

"Jon, none of us had a near 40 degree fever."

"I was wearing a cardigan the last time I checked my temperature. It probably threw off the reading a bit."

"That isn't– that doesn't."

Martin paused, and inhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Not for the sake of irritation, but for the sake of still not finding the depths of Jon's total obliviousness surrounding basic self care yet.

"Please– please, promise me that you'll go see a doctor soon. Even if it's just at the walk-in clinic, or just a quick check with your GP, okay?"

Jon looked, if possible, more perplexed under the fever flush. "You really think I should see someone?"

"Yes, Jon." Martin burst out.

Taking another, deliberate, breath, he said slower. "I know you have trouble with–" He paused for a word that wasn't 'basic life tasks outside of work', "Self care. But this isn't just a cold anymore, and truthfully it would make me feel better if you were going to see a doctor."

"I might need a stronger fever reducer." Jon mumbled, almost to himself.

Martin nodded, as if that wasn't just the absolute bare minimum at this point.

"Please promise you will see someone, alright? The clinic, your doctor, honestly the A&E at this point, just someone."

Jon frowned deeper, and under the angry red flush which seemed to be getting worse by the minute, Martin could see the utter lack of comprehension in his glassy, feverish eyes.

"Or I could just take you tonight?"

Martin said it so suddenly, that the offer took even himself by surprise. But as the idea solidified even a bit, it made more and more sense.

"It's far past actual work hours at this point, and everyone else has already gone home. It's time that you'd be going home anyway too, so there isn't any time you'd be missing, and in all honesty, I'm not sure if you should be going home alone right now."

Jon just stared at him again with that rapidly hazing over gaze. "Now?"

Martin nodded, cementing the snap decision more and more as he thought about it.

"Yes, now. There's a clinic just a few blocks down. They take walk-ins all 24 hours, and it's still a weekday. And truthfully I'm not really sure I could sleep tonight knowing that you're going home for the weekend while you're this ill without at least some medicine, if not someone to take care of you."

A faint bit of his customary irritation and stubbornness finally rose up behind Jon's eyes at the idea of being unable to care for himself, but it only lasted a few seconds before was crushed almost instantly by what looked to be complete and utter exhaustion.

And by the massive fever, he clearly had.

"Alright."

"Alright?" Martin repeated, not fully processing the answer.

"Alright, I'll go to the clinic." Jon mumbled.

"Right, yes. Of course." Martin said, parsing through all of the sudden logistic changes of him actually agreeing, and canceling his nightly plan of a microwave dinner and old reruns by himself.

As if it actually was important to spend another night alone at his flat, while Jon stood, burning up and stifling what sounded like a horribly painful coughing jag, right in front of him.

"We can walk there, if you're able to?" He asked, mentally planning the route. "It's only a few blocks, and then they can look you over, and I promise you'll feel so much better once you've seen a doctor and you're not so feverish."

Jon nodded, beginning to look almost painfully miserable as the conversation went on, his professional persona finally fully crumbling at the idea of not trudging through any more days of what Martin would consider to be an absolutely horrible case of the flu. Or maybe bronchitis, Martin winced, as he let out another crackling, half choked back cough.

"It'll help?" He asked. "I won't feel– feel as ill?"

Martin felt a flicker of not just concern, but genuine empathy rise up in his chest at the raspy, stuffed up tone to his voice and the exhausted circles under his eyes that were so, so deep.

"Yes, of course, Jon. You're going to feel much better."

Jon nodded again, and allowed Martin to steer him towards the door, even allowing him to carefully hold under one of his tiny shoulders as they made their way out of the archives. And, not that Martin would ever tell a soul, but he leaned just the tiniest bit into the touch, with his fever hot skin pressed against Martin's hand.

"You're going to feel so much better, Jon. Just let me help you, and I promise you'll feel much less ill really soon." He said softly as he carefully led Jon up the stairs and towards the flashing sign for the clinic.

"You're going to feel much better soon."

[newagesispage]

                                                                JULY                                   2021

 THE RIB PAGE

 *****

They are still uncovering statues on Easter Island.

*****

Everyone is talking about ‘Exterminate all the Brutes” from Raoul Peck.

*****

Vampire bats, prevalent in Latin America may be on the way to the U.S.

*****

What they call faith, I call strength.

*****

Criss angel will open CABLP, a restaurant in Overton, Nevada. The letters stand for breakfast, lunch and pizza and will include a free meal outreach program to help under privileged and pediatric cancer families.

*****

A fifth ocean in Antartica??** There have also found 4 new ocean species: Apolemia, Tegula Kusairo, Leptarma Biju and Duobrachium Sparksae.

*****

In China they have found a possible new species in a skull that is 140,000 years old.

*****

Why would Jeffrey Toobin be back at CNN?? Surely there are more young deserving talking heads around.

*****

The Keystone pipeline is dead.

*****

5,000 pounds of explosives were discovered in a home in South LA. LAPD seems to have detonated the fireworks in a truck right there in the neighborhood. They were too dangerous to transport but not enough to blow them up??? How stupid are these people??

*****

Days alert : So glad to see Clyde again even if it is only for a moment!! **BTW, I do not understand the Daytime Emmy noms this year as they relate to Days. I really was pulling for Victoria Koneful (Ciara) and she won but George DelHoya (Orpheus), Tamara Braun (Ava) and Cady McClain (Jennifer)??? I was shocked when Cady McClain won. I mean, she was so whiny. I question my own ability to judge a performance. In most categories, the winner was usually the one I thought was the worst option. I was happy for Max Gail and CBS Sunday Morning.  Some performances were sure overlooked. What about James Read (Clyde), Paul Telfer (Xander), Bryan Dattilo (Lucas), Robert Scott Wilson (Ben), Daniel Kerr (Eli) and Lindsay Arnold (Allie) ?? As annoying as the Kristen character is and as long as it took me to get used to Stacy Haiduk in the role, she kicked ass this year. Did they even submit clips?? And,  they are not often on but Tony and Anna forever!!!!!!** And how wonderful is it to see the Dimera boys all together and recounting the whole fam for the votes? **And one more thing, Days was not even nominated for writing while Bold and the Beautiful spends every other show with the Liam character standing in front of the fireplace making excuses for the same shit! Just push repeat, C,mon!!**Philip had a great line for Brady about following Kristen like a zombie.** Dis Eli really say, “Peacock and chill??’ Are these the things they will have to do to do to stay on the air? It took me right out of the show. It was the same day the ads for Days on Peacock started. OMG

*****

Texas Gov. Abbott vetoed a bill that would make it illegal to chain up dogs without water.**ATexas churches have lost their 501(c) (3) status because it actively ‘educates’ its members on electing specific Republican politicians. –Pete West* This should have been happening long ago. Many churches I know of do this and should not be allowed to have it both ways. #tax the church

*****

Ellen Burstyn, Jane Curtin, Loretta Devine, Christopher Lloyd, James Caan, French Stewart and Ann-Margaret in Queen Bees and directed by Michael Lembeck?? Yes please!!

*****

NY has suspended Giuliani’s law license.

*****

Miracle Workers: The Oregon Trail is coming to TBS, this will be season 3 in the series.

*****

What is this about Bowen Yang?? A podcast about a sperm bank heist?? Yeow!!

*****

David Geffen has given $150,000,000 to Yale drama school: Every student will be tuition- free in perpetuity.

*****

Allison Mack was sentenced to 3 years.

*****

The latest in sexual assault news: James Franco has agreed to 2.2 mil settlement in sexual misconduct case.** Kyle Massey was charged with immoral communication with a minor.**Bill Cosby is out and here are some reactions: A terrible wrong is being righted.: a miscarriage of justice is corrected. I fully support survivors of sexual assault coming forward.- Phylicia Rashad*I really don’t ever want to hear again as to why many survivors don’t report their rape or assault.- Charlotte Clymer* Women are showing great restraint in not burning everything to the ground right now and I don’t know how they do it.-Jeff Tiedrich

*****

Amazon is making a series of A League of Their Own with Nick Offerman as the coach.

*****

Does anyone else have family members that are rich, transient, know it all snobs??

*****

It looks like New York’s ranked choice voting is leaning toward Eric Adams for Mayor.

*****

Michigan republicans investigating voter fraud found 2 incidents. One is for a lady who voted by mail and then died, the other was confusion over a man who had the same name as his Father. That was it!

*****

Jamie Lee Curtis will get the Golden Lion for lifetime achievement at the 78th Venice International Film Fest in September.

*****

Jerry Seinfeld will star in and direct ‘Unfrosted’ about Pop-Tarts.

*****

Why is Airbnb still listing properties in illegal settlements and outposts in Palestinian occupied territories? –James J. Zogby

*****

Merrick Garland has announced that the Justice department sued Georgia over the voting rights.

*****

The NFL says that it will halt the use of “race norming” which assumed black players started out with lower cognitive functioning in a $1 billion settlement of brain injury claims. The practice had made it harder for black players to qualify. –The Associated Press.

*****

Scary Clown 45 ended his ‘From the desk of Donald J. Trump’ blog after 29 days. Word is that he felt he was being mocked in the media.

*****

Religious leadership keeps engaging in partisan politics on behalf of politicians that are particularly unpopular with younger people and they wonder why younger people are disenchanted with the church. – Schooley ** Give young people credit as well for seeing through the hype and lies of these religious hypocrites who use God only as a weapon and a threat. –Larry Charles

*****

Amazon will stop drug testing for employment. Can every other company jump on this bandwagon? Let’s judge employees on the work they give.

*****

The Backstreet Boys and NSync are going to work together??!!

*****

Showtime is bringing back American Gigolo with Jon Bernthal.

*****

If Biden can carry out air strikes without proper authorization, the Senate can raise the minimum wage without the Parliamentarian.  –Alexandra M. Hunt

Reality Winner is out!!

*****

Judy Woodruff has been given the Peabody award for journalistic integrity.

*****

Donald Glover is bringing us Hive. Malia Obama will be a writer.

*****

Nicholas Cage has married Riko Shibata.

*****

Catch and Kill: The podcast tapes, is here on HBO.

*****

Bryan Cranston and Annette Bening will star in Jerry and Marge go large.

*****

Amblin Partners and Netflix are partners.

*****

Fall 2022 will bring the Roybal School of film and television production for underserved communities. They are looking to help 9th, 10th, 11th and 12th grade students. Among others, the program was cofounded by George Clooney, Don Cheadle, Kerry Washington, Mindy Kaling and Eva Longoria.

*****

Will there be a Wedding Crashers2??

*****

The Mysterious Benedict Society stars Tony Hale.** I would love to see he and Danny Pudi in something together.

*****

Actor Stephen Amell from Arrow was removed from a plane after getting into it with his wife.  A source said he was drunk and screaming. An official source said that they removed “an unruly customer.”** Andy Dick was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon, allegedly assaulting his partner, Lucas with a metal chair.

*****

So.. Fox news was digitally altering the faces of people they did not care for??? Is there no end to their bullshit????

*****

Mark Ronson is set to marry Grace Gummer.

*****

Crime shows seem to be in the cycle of prisoners and the women who get a thrill from helping them escape.

*****

Wolfgang Van Halen has released a debut album: Mammoth

*****

Everyone seems to love Danny Trejo’s memoir and its honesty.

*****

David Spade will take over as host of Bachelor in Paradise.

*****

I am sickened when I see the first question that pops up on an online search is the net worth of a person. Oh this twisted world.

*****

Life is a short pause between 2 great mysteries. –Jung

*****

Prince Harry and Meghan had a daughter that they named Lilibet ‘Lili” Diana.

*****

Michael Flynn’s brother Charles (who withheld help from the capitol on Jan. 6), leads the U.S. Army Pacific and commands 90,000 troops.

*****

I am so excited to read ‘The Boys’ from Clint and Ron Howard, due out in October.

*****

Dave Chappelle closed out the Tribeca film fest with a surprise concert. This was the first in person film fest since Covid. Look for This time, this place which premiered there.

*****

Ron Wood will release the album Mr. Luck: A tribute to Jimmy Reed on Sept. 3

*****

Howard Stern signed a new $500 mil contract with Sirius XM. He is taking the whole summer off and many fans say they will cancel their subscription because they don’t want to pay for a summer of reruns.

*****

Acorn will bring Jane Seymour back to a series. Seymour will be co -executive produce on Harry Wild. Her character will be a retired University professor who loves her whiskey and solves crimes.

*****

Annie Murphy  stasr in ‘Kevin can f*** himself about a sitcom wife which airs on AMC.

*****

I still do not understand why Rep. Mike Nearman hasn’t been arrested for letting insurrectionists into the Capitol.

*****

There is a wing shortage??

*****

The Pulitzer prizes have been announced. The list includes Ben Faub, Barry Blitt, Katori Hall, Emilio Morenatti, AP photographers Marcio Jose Sanchez, Alex Brandon, David Goldman, Julio Cortez, John Minchillo, Frank Franklin II, Ringo H.W. Chiu, Evan Vucci, Mike Stewart and Noah Berger. There was a special citation for Darnella Frazier who filmed the death of George Floyd.

*****

Conan’s last TBS guests were Martin Short, Jack Black, Bill Hader, Mila Kunis, Dana Carvey, Patton Oswalt and JB Smoove. There were some surprises.  The big musical number never happened when Jack Black hurt himself. It was all funny and sweet but Conan never mentioned the band in the last show WTF????????????????????????????????????????? Music is so important to him and he does not thank the band? ** Colbert and Brian Stack gave Conan a cute send after4, 368 shows on CBS calling him a ‘Slenderman Ron Weasly’.  Kimmel wished Conn well also.** Hope his HBO MAX variety show goes well.** BTW, the Duvall interview with Colbert was great to see but why does nobody ever mention ‘Get Low?’ What a performance!!

*****

Tattoos are on the rise.

*****

Fast food drive thru’s sometime close with fake excuses like the equipment is down or something because they don’t feel like working. Good people can’t find work and so many waste the opportunities they have. AAAAGHH!!

*****

Valerie Bertinelli and Demi Lovato will star in ‘Hungry’ on NBC.

*****

Hulu will bring us David E. Kelley’s Nine Perfect Strangers with Nicole Kidman, Michael Shannon, Regina Hall, Bobby Cannavale and Melissa McCarthy.

*****

R.I.P. Gavin Macleod, Frank Bonner, Joy Vogelsang, Benigno Aquino, Champ Biden, victims of the Miami building collapse, Robert Sacchi, Stuart Damon, Johnny Solinger  and Clarence Williams III.

[see-arcane]

Statement Regarding an Overdue Binge of The Magnus Archives

I’ve just finished listening to The Magnus Archives. All of it. No cheating, no skipping ahead--unless we count the blooper reel, because goddamn it, I needed some levity about three episodes in--and I’ve just now finished listening to poor, doomed Jon laughing and weeping his way into the apocalypse. 

My heart is still blurring in my ribs. I say blur, and not beat, because it is going too fast. It has been getting faster since I began Season 1, and I have felt it pick up speed with every new episode. Only just now is it smoothing out again, and barely at that.

I have not been this absorbed in a work of media in years. I have been a fan of media. I have watched rerun episodes and hoarded movies whose best scenes I fast-forward to, cherry-picking favorite bits out of their cinematic wholes. I do the same with books, marking the greatest parts so I can speed through the rising actions and get to the meat of why I like the story. I cheat with them. 

Not with this. The Magnus Archives is, without hyperbole, the most engrossing, horrifying, exhilarating narrative I have ever met, and the only one that has not frustrated me with the waiting game of getting to the next big climax. I want to wait. I want to be there with the rising actions, the side stories, the buildup, the statements and worldbuilding and characters. I want to experience the insulation between narrative climaxes. 

This says something. 

I am not an active person. I am lazy, even with my passions. Even with my distractions. 

Could I turn on the TV to watch a favorite show? Could I pop in a movie and rewind the best scenes a hundred times until the joy of it dries out? Could I waste a few hours poring over comics and novels and vignettes, as much to procrastinate as to inspire? Could I dribble my eyes over the computer, feeding myself funny videos and social media? Yes. And I do, sometimes. 

But even this effortless pseudo-exertion feels like work. The eating up of time I, ironically, don’t want to waste. I’ll get a little simmer of enjoyment out of it. More than I would struggling with my written words or responsibilities to academia or the sweating grind of work shifts. I switch my brain off for a time, and it’s nice. 

Right up until the buzz fizzles out and I’m left mourning the hours I just threw away on a non-activity designed to be entertaining. I feel like I cheat myself, over and over. I keep doing it because it’s the only buzz I know. Something pleasant enough to pad the time between my blinks of responsible action. 

But this is not that.

The Magnus Archives has been the first distraction that has actually fed energy and adrenaline into me as I consumed it. For the first time, after gorging myself on almost three decades’ worth of horror films and books, I am absolutely rattling with secondhand dread. And excitement. And awe. And inspiration. And  feverish anticipation. I am thrumming in my seat, counting down the days for the final season. 

However miserably the show ends, in tragedy, in horror, in whichever, whatever, I will not hate that it ends unhappily. I will only hate that it’s over. Because this podcast’s writing, performance, atmosphere, and pure goddamn finesse has combined to make the only piece of media that has really, truly done something for me. That makes me feel like I am not wasting my time consuming it. That makes me feel like I am in a symbiotic relationship with its content, rather than me simply dumping my time into it with nothing given in return.

I am more than energized. I am full of giddy, crackling creativity, that makes me want to put words to paper instead of merely mulling it over as mush and daydreams that inevitably fade to gray boredom the moment I sit at the computer or open a notebook. 

However this show ends, I will enjoy it. In my fear, my sorrow, my empathy for the characters, I will still enjoy it. And I will miss it. Them. The addictive hit of a narrative that has flipped on all the switches in my head, turning the lights back on. 

I thank the people who made it, the genius minds and voices and noises that make up the Rusty Quill crew. I thank the friends I have seen lauding the story so much and so fervently that even my lazy perpetually-disinterested ass finally broke down and hit play. 

Thank you, thank you, for this horrible, wonderful terror of a story that is just now turning the corner into the climax. Got here just in time.