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the-infamous-coat-of-baron-zemo · 4 years ago

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Fall Into You | Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

Alright my friends. Here is my latest piece of insanity.

It is completely raw and unedited. So, if there are a ton of mistakes, I apologize in advance.

What a whirlwind thing this was. I literally only planned to write the last little bit at the end, that was the entire premise and then 7000 more words came along with it.

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This is a partial crossover fic.

TFATWS | The Alienist | Dr. Strange | Loki | universe all mushed together in bits and pieces.

But mostly The Alienist.

Hopefully the characterizations feel okay. Dr. Kreizler and John Moore can be a bit tricky to write and I've never written them before. So, please bear with me on this.

Buckle up. It's going to be a doozy. Kinda.

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Word Count: 6,900 - ish

What happens when you wind up 124 years into the past and meet a relative of Baron Helmut Zemo's?

A lot.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was early evening and you were perched on one of Dr. Kreizler's fine couches, in front of the fireplace, reading a book.

You were waiting for Stevie to drop by and drag you to some musical street performance not terribly far from Dr. Kreizler's residence. Normally, you would have stayed hidden indoors, but you took a liking to the kid when you first met him, and decided you couldn't let him down.

Hopefully Stevie wouldn't drag you out too long, otherwise Dr. Kreizler would start to worry. Although, he would never outright admit to it, but it was the subtle things he did that indicated his concern. Or perhaps it was annoyance. That wouldn't surprise you either. You were loud and very talkative. He'd probably grateful to have to leave his house; so he can finally get some peace and quiet.

Dr. Kreizler always kept to himself and rarely made a display of his feelings to anyone, but you were a good friend of his in the short time you had come to know him. So, you got little peeks into what lay hidden away.

He was gracious enough to allow you stay in his home until you could figure out a way to get back to your own time. One minute you were talking to Wong inside Dr. Strange's sanctum in New York, and the next a portal opened up underneath you and you were falling.

After travelling through an empty void that seemed to go on forever, you finally exited through the other side, which landed you in front of a police precinct. You had looked around after picking yourself up and realized you were in quite the pickle. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was not your New York.

People were starting to stare at as you took in your surroundings. You initially thought it was because you had randomly fallen out of the sky, but realization had dawned on you; it was because of your clothing.

Ah, yes. You suppose compared to what all the other women were wearing, you were a sight to behold. Jeans, a forest green blouse, and short brown leather jacket, would draw some attention, when all the other women were dressed so conservatively in dresses. You laughed nervously backing away from the small crowd on the sidewalk. You calmly but quickly darted over to a newsie holding up a paper for sale.

You paid the kid a dollar and snatched the paper out of his hand. Not paying attention in the least to his shouts of joy on making so much off of one measly paper, but you were too focused on finding out what time period you were in.

You caught the date at the top of the newspaper: April 1st, 1897.

April Fool's Day.

Typical, something like this would happen to you. Joke's on them, as someone is going to have a hell of time trying to figure out where you went. You're quite sure Wong was trying to sort through what happened and had already calling Strange.

Well, you hope he had.

You put down the paper and tried to think of what to do, but a small crowd of people were still stopped and whispering to each other, pointing in your general direction.

One man was gesturing in your direction and started shouting, but not at you.

"Hey Kreizler, this one looks like a crazy. Should probably haul her off to Bellevue!"

You raised your eyebrow at the man, but didn't say anything, instead choosing to turn and see who he was yelling at.

A very well dressed man wearing a bowler hat was walking down the steps of the police precinct in a rushed sort of manner. He had a cane with him, and it appeared his right arm was tucked against his body as if protecting it. A few steps behind him there was another man darting to catch up with him, also well dressed and carrying what seemed to be a sketchbook.

The guy on the street had yelled at the gentleman in the bowler hat again, which you had assumed at this point was Dr. Kreizler. As the two men reached the bottom of the steps and were about to step into their carriage, the incessant yelling had managed to grab Kreizler's attention. At least it seemed so, because the man with the cane had paused and turned his attention towards the direction of the yelling.

You could see from his body language he wasn't all that interested, but when his eye-line landed on you, he backed away from getting inside.

The other gentleman that was accompanying him, the one with the sketchbook, said something to him, but Dr. Kreizler just waved him off as he started to walk over to you.

Great.

You look over to the rude gentleman that had now drawn even more attention to you and gave him an unappreciative stare.

You steeled yourself, ready for whatever this stranger was going to say to you, but your guard had dropped slightly upon getting a better look at his face.

No way.

This was not possible.

The man that had come over to you was the spitting image of one genius, criminal mastermind and general pain in your ass, you knew all too well. One who's currently locked up in The Raft.

If it wasn't for the beard, you'd swear you were looking at Baron Helmut Zemo.

As Dr. Kreizler stopped a few feet from you, he tilted his head to the side and eyed you warily, but not unkindly.

That head tilt, a family trait for sure. Zemo had to be some distant relative of this man in some way, there's no chance they aren't with how closely the two resemble each other. She'd have to make a trip to The Raft and ask him about it sometime, if she ever got back home.

"My dear, you seem out of sorts. Are you alright?" the man inquired, gazing at the small gathering of people and then back to you.

"I kinda stick out like a sore thumb, yeah?" You laughed as you answer his question, peering down at your outfit.

"Quite," he replied.

You saw while he may be cautious around you, you've seem to grab his interest with the scrutiny and intensity of his gaze.

"If I may introduce myself, my name is Doctor Laszlo Kreizler," the gentleman stated.

Ah, so this was indeed the man who was being called out from the street. You noticed he didn't extend his hand in greeting, but then again perhaps it wasn't a pertinent gesture for the time period either. So, you didn't take offense to it.

Your eyeline moved behind Dr. Kreizler and could see his friend at the carriage watching with interest, but also growing impatience.

You gave a kind smile as you introduced yourself and added, "Thank you for humoring the nosy man over there, but I'm not in need of a doctor. I'm terribly sorry for interrupting your day."

"Not in the least. And I may be a doctor, but I am an alienist more specifically," Kreizler explained.

Your eyebrows shot into your forehead and then contemplated his title. An alienist? Where had you heard that before? If you remembered correctly, an alienist was someone who assessed individuals for competence?

Oh.

The shouty man had mentioned Bellevue. Okay, now you understood.

"An alienist! That term is...." you paused trying to think of a better way to phrase you response. "The term is outdated where I'm from. Instead we simply acknowledge your specific doctorate profession as psychologists, since the very definition of what you do is to study the mind and behavior of individuals," you answered, satisfied with your explanation.

"Outdated. How intriguing. Perhaps we could continue this conversation away from prying eyes and gossipy busy-bodies?" Kreizler asked.

You wouldn't be able to read it on his face, but you can tell you've piqued his interest even more so now with his body language. And his eyes had this sparkle in them as you spoke of his profession so specifically.

Though you felt you could trust this man, you couldn't take the chance that he might, in fact, lure you into his carriage and ship you off to the nearest mental institution, such as Bellevue Hospital.

You'd be lying if you weren't equally intrigued by this enigma of a man standing before you. The resemblance to Baron Zemo was uncanny, and that alone made you want to find out more about him; however, Zemo was not to be trusted as far as you could throw him. Though he did have his moments. You'd give him some credit. Doesn't mean distrustful behavior runs in the family, but it also could. It was a difficult decision.

Your eyes narrowed assessing Dr. Kreizler as you came to decision.

"Shouldn't you give me a mental health assessment test before asking a complete stranger to travel off to who knows where with you? Why shouldn't I be suspicious you aren't going to drop me off at the nearest institute? No offense," you replied warily.

"Thank you!" the man with the sketchbook at the carriage shouted at both you and Dr. Kreizler, clearly in agreement with your answer.

You snickered at his sarcastic reply, but attempted to cover your ever growing smile by coughing.

The corner of Dr. Kreizler's mouth ticked up in a smile as well.

"No my dear, if anything you've just proven you're at least slightly more sane than my counterpart, Mr. John Moore," Dr. Kreizler shook his head and jutted his thumb behind him.

"Heard that Laszlo!" Moore responded with indignation.

"That was the point John," Dr. Kreizler answered back with dry wit.

Yeah, she liked him already.

"Shall we?" Kreizler turned slightly to gesture to his carriage.

You sighed internally. Why the hell not? You had nothing better to do and no idea what your next move should be trying to get home. Dr. Kreizler would no doubt be curious about your attire and that alone with most likely bring up a slew of never ending questions. You'd have to be careful how to explain your situation and make sure what you revealed was limited, but truthful. You wanted to tell him the truth about where you were from, but you needed to word it in a way that doesn't make you out to be a crazy person, but present the information with facts and evidence that Dr. Kreizler could not refute. Luckily you had some tech with you that could prove your point rather efficiently should the need arise you convince him of what time period you come from in the future. 124 years it a length period of time. It would be difficult for anyone to accept your explanation, but Dr. Kreizler seemed to be different. Let's hope you aren't wrong about him.

"I accept your offer Dr. Kreizler, thank you," you spoke kindly.

You were formally introduced to Mr. Moore and to Stevie before getting in the carriage. Mr. Moore seemed uneasy, but went along with Dr. Kreizler's acceptance of you. He was a trusting friend of his, you could tell right away. And something told you, Dr. Kreizler was a tough nut to crack and didn't seem to be the type of person who might have very many. Only a close few.

"What made you decide to take Dr. Kreizler up on his offer so quickly," Moore asked standing outside the carriage as Stevie was getting the horses ready.

Dr. Kreizler had held the door open for you and waited patiently.

You looked at Dr. Kreizler before turning back to Mr. Moore, "You mean besides his sparkling personality?" you winked and got in the carriage.

John leaned into Kreizler before adjusting his hold on his sketchbook and climbing into the carriage himself.

"Oh, well I like her already Laszlo," he grinned incessantly and gave Kreizler a clap on the back.

You saw Dr. Kreizler bend his head down in amused exasperation as a small huff of laughter sounded with the movement. He sighed somewhat dramatically before getting in the carriage and closing the door.

"You know, I've never actually ridden in one of these before," you say slightly awed.

Both Moore and Kreizler gave you confusing looks before Dr. Kreizler used his cane to tap on the rear enclosure signaling Stevie to head home.

Home. Well, this should be interesting indeed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

You closed your book with a snap and slumped into the couch you were perched on. It had been six months, since that day. Six months, you've been trapped in this pocket of 1897.

You had reflected back on how well John and Dr. Kreizler had taken the explanation you were from the future. As you told your story, your only requirement was that they wait until the very end before asking any questions. That gave you the chance to be very methodical about how you explained the future and how it was you ended up in 1897, which to be fair, you don't know exactly how that portal opened still, but magic was involved to say the very least.

It was oddly reminiscent of when Loki used the space stone, which gave her pause. All the infinity stones had been destroyed, and yet you knew that there was an errant 2012 Loki running around the universe with one. It is plausible, he could factor into this, but how or why you, you have no idea.

After you had explained your fanatical circumstance, to help prove you weren't absolutely off your rocker and have Dr. Kreizler change his mind about you, you showed them your phone.

Yes, there may not be any service available, but you could still access all your photos and videos and holographic imagery, etc. That was what allowed John and Dr. Kreizler to accept your story; paired with your unique clothes; they had a surprisingly open mind. John had gaped like a fish for a good 10 minutes before Dr. Kreizler told him to get over it already. John was somewhat outraged that he wasn't more shocked by your existence. But like all things, Dr. Kreizler took everything in stride, which was quite a relief to you. He was incredibly understanding and offered a room in his home to you until you were able to get back to your own time. You made a promise to Dr. Kreizler that you would never lie to him, about anything. It was the least you could do since he opened up his home and essentially part of his life to you.

You understood why he was an expert in his field. His patience and intellect allowed him to be open-minded and grasp concepts others word merely scoff at. However, there was another side to that coin; he was also closed off, and could at times, be calculating and manipulative. Though, none of these traits were used in any nefarious manners, they were there all the same.

He reminded you of Zemo to be sure in this regard. Some personality traits apparently do get passed down through the generations. In some ways, after meeting Dr. Kreizler, you felt you knew Helmut Zemo a bit better. And somehow, you missed him. Not that you were ever particularly close to him, but the time you spent with him in Latvia with Sam and Bucky forever altered your opinion of him.

So while you've been living at Dr. Kreizler's residence, in your spare time, you had been working different avenues of how to achieve ways to get home. You couldn't just solely rely on your friends to get you out of this mess. So, while Dr. Kreizler was at work, you enlisted the help of Stevie to run down leads of potential scientist and gathering of general information of the time period to help you put together some sort of road map. None had turned out to be very promising.

You had, over time, gotten more acclimated to living in 1897, though you mostly refused to wear the clothing of the time period. John Moore would always comment about how you would draw attention in the public eye, should you dare to go out. But you refused to give in most of the time, saying that 1897 would just have to catch up to your fashion sense, and you weren't about to apologize for it. If you were going to be stuck here, you were going to be stuck here, comfortably. You fondly remember Dr. Kreizler's reaction. He seemed pleased, possibly proud of you in that moment. Probably because you had refused to conform to the times, and set your own rules to live by. Not giving in to anyone.

The question lingered, how exactly did you get away with living in this time without having to dress in the clothing of the period? Well, a friend of yours, Scott Lang, had gifted you a device that allowed you to chose one object to shrink and return to it's normal size. So, of course, since you traveled so often with the Sam, Bucky and the other Avengers, you chose your wardrobe. You were just thankful you had it on you already when you got dumped into that portal. So, essentially you had all your clothes with you, making things a bit easier.

Life was not fast paced here, which made things a bit difficult for you. You were used to always being on the go, another crisis to fight through, another area of the world that needed help. But here, here everything was, for the most part, quiet.

It drove you nuts sometimes. Made you antsy. You managed to weasel your way into helping John, Sara and Dr. Kreizler on one of their serial killer cases recently to pass the time. Dr. Kreizler was unhappy at first. You were able to prove your usefulness though with advanced techniques and theories on how to potentially catch the killer in question. Be that as it may, Dr. Kreizler still seemed grumpy, if that were the correct word to use, about you working on the case. You confronted him about it one evening, but he glossed over the whole thing. He was holding back, but what that was, you weren't sure. Maybe he still didn't fully trust you yet. It was a fair assumption, but he was always so hard to read. Though you've managed to get a few good laughs out of him from time to time. Those were the days that really made you smile. Seeing him happy, as most of the time he was always so guarded. It made you feel like you and Dr. Kreizler shared this little secret when no one else was around.

Dr. Kreizler let himself relax ever so slightly around you, but it was far and fleeting. On rare occasions. You savored all those memories and tucked them away. Everyone was so refined and conservative in their mannerisms. You missed just wanting to hug someone. You craved some sort of physical affection, and it was hard, realizing just how different the times were from the future. They weren't terrible by any means, but the social norms of the times had been trying on you, to say the very least. Dr. Kreizler, ever astute, had picked up on this.

He had been gracious enough to offer himself if you ever needed to hug someone. This had been roughly 4 months into your stay at Dr. Kreizler's. You both had gotten more comfortable around the other, and even had a routine of sorts. You had thanked him for his offer, and told him you would not abuse the privilege he had bestowed on you.

Something told her there was more to it, but you hadn't dwelled on it, you were simply appreciative of his friendship.

However more recently, it was more than just friendship you felt. You kept squashing your feelings down, telling yourself this was the worst possible time to develop feelings for someone. Especially someone like Dr. Kreizler. There would never be a happy ending. At some point, you would return home, and that would be that. But there was that nagging sensation in the back of your mind, reminding you, you might not ever get back home. You tried to reason to yourself that you were possibly transferring some of your fondness of Zemo to Dr. Kreizler because of how he reminds you of him. But then you were just lying to yourself. Dr. Kreizler was a person all on his own and one of a kind. You knew better, you were just fighting yourself tooth and nail to live in denial a bit longer.

Footsteps from the kitchen were headed in your direction knocking you out of your musings.

You twisted on the couch to see Dr. Kreizler had returned home from his institute.

"Dr. Kreizler! Good evening," you voiced into the low lit parlor room.

"Good evening to you as well, I trust your day was fruitful?" Dr. Kreizler inquired, coming to rest on the opposite end of the couch.

"It was, thank you. I was somewhat restless earlier, so I took it upon myself to work on the cryptogram the killer left his last victim, with the hopes of figuring out his next location before he strikes," you sheepishly stated.

Dr. Kreizler ruefully smiled at you and shook his head. At one time, he might have gotten upset, but he had been taking your antics more in stride, and you managed to be helpful providing much needed information. So, he'd act unhappy, but silently was thrilled.

"And did you uncover anything useful?" Kreizler queried, he got up from his seat and walked over to the chalk board.

"Not completely, I believe I've broken the code word and the book that the killer has been using to write his cryptograms, but I have yet to comb through all the evidence to gather the page numbers, line and word number to crack the full message. I planned on working on it when I got back with Stevie later this evening," you happily expressed while fidgeting with the watch on your wrist.

"Impressive work. And what book has our killer been using?" Kreizler asked, eyes still going over the work on the board.

"Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. You'd think we could have figured that one out sooner given our killer's eclectic methods of murdering people," you answered sarcastically.

Dr. Kreizler bent his knees in utter annoyance, "Of course it is. Of course. How ridiculous to have missed such an obvious choice."

You smiled knowingly. He was irritated he hadn't figured it out sooner.

A companionable silence continued for a few minutes after his outburst.

Dr. Kreizler was still staring at the board with mild interest when he spoke next, "May I ask you a personal question?"

You had just reached over to place the book on the coffee table next to you when he asked his question and you froze mid motion.

Dr. Kreizler generally didn't push too much into your personal life, so this was somewhat out of left field for him. Never-the-less, you recovered after a beat and placed the book on the table.

"Of-of course Dr. Kreizler. I told you I would always be truthful with you regarding anything. Please, go ahead," you answered, motioning for him to continue.

"Why do you always regard me as Dr. Kreizler and not by my first name?" he questioned softly, almost hesitantly.

This was not the question you thought he would ask. There were a million questions he could have chose, but it was this one he went with.

This really was personal.

You glanced down at your hands sitting in your lap as you pondered how to answer his questions. You could lie about it, and he'd be none the wiser, but it's not who you are. And you promised.

Dr. Kreizler went on to further express his inquiry with a bit more confidence, "You call John Moore by his first name and the same with Ms. Howard, including our other friends we work with, but not me. Why?"

You opened your mouth to answer him when the front door slammed open and Stevie came barging in.

"You ready?" he exclaimed loudly. Stevie was clearly excited at the prospect of showing off his musical talent. "Oh, excuse me Dr. Kreizler, I didn't realize you'd gotten home yet. Thought you were working late," Stevie took off his hat and looked sheepish as he apologized for the disruption in his home.

You sighed. This was your saving grace. You could probably make an excuse and make a run for it with Stevie. You mulled over what to do, battling with the decision.

"Hey Stevie. Nice to see you too! Go on outside, I'll be right there. I just need to put my coat on," you laugh at his enthusiasm.

He nodded at you and dashed back down the hallway and out the door. You could hear one last shout as he exited, "Okay, but don't be too long, we're going to be late!"

Dr. Kreizler gave a look of displeasure at Stevie's unrefined outburst, but didn't say anything as he knows his antics all too well from over the years.

You stood up grabbing Dr. Kreizler's attention.

"Walk me to the door?" you ask, jutting your head in the direction of where your coat hangs.

"Do you plan on providing me with an answer?" he kindly jabbed as he nodded his agreement to follow you out.

You outwardly sighed, trying to figure out how to best answer his question. As you both walked to the front door, you start to answer him.

"Okay, so I address you as Dr. Kreizler 33% of the time, because you deserve the respect that comes with that title. You went to school for many years, and you earned it. So, it's only fair to address you as such," you tell him confidently.

A completely reasonable and partial explanation, you thought.

You both reached the front door, and you grabbed your jacket. Dr. Kreizler, the gentleman that he is, assisted you in putting your coat on. You gave yourself a once over in the mirror, making sure you looked okay before heading out.

You caught Dr. Kreizler staring at you in the mirror as you adjusted a stray hair that had fallen onto your face.

"You look lovely," he quietly voiced.

You turned to face him as he had opened the door for you and stepped outside.

"Thank you," you said, a bit bashful by his sudden compliment.

His expression had gotten softer and his eyes were glowing in the evening lit night.

Your resolve was crumbling even more so now.

"And the other 67%?" Kreizler softly spoke, head cocked to the side.

"Hey - Miss! We need to be going!" Stevie cried.

You turned to Stevie and hollered, "One mo, Stevie! Don't lose your head!"

"I'm sorry I have to go otherwise Stevie is going to have a coronary," you apologized to Dr. Kreizler.

You walked down a few steps, but stopped. You couldn't not answer him.

You go up a step but not completely back to where you where standing in front of Dr. Kreizler. You inhaled a deep breath and exhaled before continuing, looking up to see Dr. Kreizler eyeing you with slight confusion and anticipation with your hesitance to answer his question in full.

"And the other 67% of the time, I call you Dr. Kreizler because..because," you drifted off closing your eyes. You open them again with quiet resolve shining through, finding your confidence. You take another step up to now stand just a foot away from where Dr. Kreizler was.

"Because, I love you Laszlo. And I use your professional title as a barrier, to - to remind myself I have boundaries. It's just easier to separate you this way or well, to keep myself living in denial," you quietly and defeatedly said, laying it all out for him.

You wanted to open your mouth to say something else to him, to let him know it was okay he didn't feel the same way, but you could never quite form the words that needed to come out.

The shock was written clearly on his face. You had completely gob-smacked this man. His eyes had widened considerably and his jaw had gone slack from your answer.

But he never said anything back. You weren't expecting him to.

So instead, you did what you did best. Ran.

"You've got your answer. I-I really have to go now, I'll see you later," you stuttered out, suddenly drained from your revelation.

You took one last glance at Dr. Kreizler before making a mad dash for it with Stevie.

You were gone before Dr. Kreizler recovered from what just happened. And you never got to see the expression on his face after.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

#the alienist #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tfatws #helmut zemo #mcu fic #crossover #my writing

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mariana-oconnor · 3 years ago

Note

If you're still after prompts, pretty please could you write one where Bucky finally plucks up the courage to tell Clint how he feels but just. can't. get. him. alone. Until the very end when it seems like Clint is about to say he's already found someone but *shock* it's ok, Bucky misunderstood and it's him! Bonus points if it includes all Bucky's angsty memories of "almost" moments when he thought Clint might kiss him.

Hi!

Thank you, mystery tumblr user. Yes, I can do that. In fact, I have! This sort of became a 5+1 fic, because that just seemed to be the right type of fic. Although maybe it's 6+1. I feel like that is debatable.

Also, fair warning to anyone with claustrophobia, this starts with a scene you probably won't like.

This is the second last ficlet for me to post, and just a reminder that I'm not taking any more prompts at the moment. Thanks guys!

“I hate it when they have a self-destruct button,” Clint says. “It’s such a stupid idea. What if someone presses it by accident, you’ve just killed yourself.”

A year ago, Bucky would have told him to save his breath, that he needs the air. A year ago, he didn’t know Clint Barton. But now, he knows that Clint understands that. Now he understands that Clint’s talking dumb shit because not talking isn’t an option for him. Clint needs the silence just as much as Bucky hates to break it.

He has slowed his own breathing down. He doesn’t need as much oxygen, knows he can survive for longer without it, and he has no idea how long it will take them to escape this little pocket of air.

His back is a flare of pain, from where he had rolled on top of Clint as the building collapsed around them, and his metal arm, which had borne the brunt of gravity’s anger, is definitely malfunctioning. But it’s still working for now.

It had seemed to go on forever, the cacophony of concrete hitting concrete, metal rebar screeching as it’s torn apart, other Avengers shouting through his earpiece, the rumble of more and more debris tumbling over itself. And then… nothing.

In those first few seconds, as the crashes and aftershocks had faded and the rubble had settled around them, he had been filled with blind panic. There was no light - no scrap of daylight to be seen - and for a second no sound until his ears had readjusted and he had made out the sounds of breathing. Two lots of breathing. And he had known that Clint was alive.

Perhaps that’s another reason why he doesn’t stop Clint from talking. He selfishly needs the reassurance that he’s alright.

He had thought for that moment that Clint was dead, and it had felt like going into cryo all over again. The cold had flooded him completely, the nothingness had filled up inside his head. Not fear. Not grief. Not anger or any emotion he could name. Just this nameless void of anything that made sense. Then he had heard Clint’s breath and the world restarted. He restarted.

Bucky turns his face to look to where he knows Clint is, although all he sees is darkness.

A building falling on top of you is a hell of a time for a life-changing realisation.

The noises beyond their foxhole continue in dribs and drabs, muffled through layers of rubble. The remains of the building are settling.

Above them.

Bucky has never been afraid of tight spaces, but he’s starting to rethink that. In the dark, the walls around them could be metres away or millimetres.

He stretches out his arms, carefully, even the slightest movement could dislodge something at this point, the rubble is far from stable, and winces when both arms hit a solid surface before they are quite fully extended. The space is not very large, and there are two grown men in it. Air is going to be a problem. More for Clint than for him, and that just makes it worse.

He concentrates on slowing his own breathing.

“Bucky?” Clint says. “If you’ve died and left me to deal with this shit alone, I will find a magician to bring you back just so I can shoot you in the eye.”

“I’m not dead,” Bucky says. He hears a soft thud followed by an ‘ow’. “Are you injured?”

“I’m good,” Clint says and Bucky doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. Clint has a history of not being too honest about his own injuries. He’s as likely to try to walk off a bullet wound as he is to bemoan a paper cut. “You?” Clint asks.

Bucky turns his analysis onto himself. So far he had merely registered that he was functional and not cared much beyond that, but Clint’s prompting makes him consider it more carefully.

His back is bruised - probably some damage to his ribs, but no spinal damage that he can tell. Several plates of his arm are out of alignment, and his other shoulder is dislocated.

“Give me a second,” he says, and carefully sits more upright until he can feel his hair brushing against whatever is above them. He grasps his arm firmly and pushes.

There is an audible pop as his shoulder is pushed back into its socket.

“Was that what I think it was?” Clint asks.

“No serious injuries,” Bucky says.

“Dude, you just relocated your shoulder - at least, I think that’s what you did. That’s what it sounded like. That absolutely counts as a serious injury.”

“My arm’s functional,” Bucky tells him.

“Not the point.”

“We should conserve air,” Bucky says, cutting him off.

“Is your earpiece working?” Clint asks. Bucky shakes his head, then remembers that there’s no way Clint can see him in the pitch black.

“No.”

“Mine either,” Clint tells him. “Guess it’s time to hope someone noticed our last position.”

Bucky doesn’t respond to that. Clint already knows what the odds are. He’s not an idiot, for all he pretends to be one. They both know this situation is far from good, that even if someone did take note of exactly where they were in the building as it collapsed, then that’s no guarantee they’ll be able to find them. And even if they can find them, it’s going to be difficult to pull them out without accidentally crushing them in the process.

The odds are small, but Bucky has faced down smaller odds before, and he knows. Knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Steve and Natasha will never stop looking. Never.

There is an ominous cracking sound overhead and tiny pieces of debris rain down on them. Bucky raises his arm over Clint’s head, hoping to keep any bigger pieces away.

“Gotta say, Barnes. If you wanted to get up close and personal with me, all you had to do was ask.”

Bucky can picture Clint’s smirk as he says the words, mouth lop-sided, stubble a little uneven from that patch where he always forgets to shave. He’d have that look in his eye as though he’s daring Bucky to do something about it and Bucky…

He never does.

Clint’s not being serious. He’s never serious about anything. He jokes about anything and everything, and sex is just one of many subjects. He flirts with Natasha, Stark, Steve, the press, the pizza delivery guy, the woman who sold them their coffee that morning. Everyone. Bucky is far from special.

Clint is just joking right now because that’s how he copes with situations like this. It doesn’t mean anything that it’s Bucky he’s joking with, he’d be telling the same joke no matter who was trapped in here with him. The fact that Bucky wants it to be real means nothing, either.

But he wants it to.

Clint fidgets beside him and lets out a bitten off gasp of pain.

“Where are you injured?” Bucky asks.

“Well I think I bruised just about every bone in my body. A building kind of fell on me,” Clint says.

“Where?” Bucky repeats, and there must be something in his tone because Clint answers.

“My right foot,” he says. “I think it’s caught.”

Bucky turns around slowly and methodically works his hands down Clint’s leg until he comes to the ankle.

Clint’s right. It’s stuck, and from what he can feel, definitely broken. Clint’s pants are damp where they disappear into the rubble and as much as Bucky wants to believe it’s from a broken pipe, he knows it’s not.

“So Doctor Bucky? How do I look?” Clint asks. “Or does the sight of my ankles scandalise your old timey morals.”

“Can’t see shit,” Bucky points out. “I don’t have infrared vision. But it feels broken. I’m gonna try to stop the bleeding.”

“Good idea,” Clint agrees. “Don’t want to leave any more of myself in this shithole than I have to.”

Bucky doesn’t have bandages on him, and tearing into the reinforced kevlar of his uniform sounds like an exercise in wasting energy and air.

“Do you think you can get it free?” Clint asks. “I’m kind of attached to that foot. It’s really good at kicking people in the head.”

Bucky doesn’t say that he can’t tell how bad the injury is and relieving the pressure might kill Clint as soon as help him. He doesn’t have to.

“Although, if I do have to leave it behind,” Clint continues, “I could get a kickass foot like your arm. What do you think I’d have to do to get one?” His voice is falsely jovial, the strain of pain barely concealed. Bucky hates that tone, never wants to hear it again.

Bucky pulls off his jacket.

“Are you stripping?” Clint says. “Because that’s just cruel and unusual punishment. Bucky Barnes is stripping in front of me and I can’t see a thing.”

Bucky pulls off his undershirt and tears a strip off, reminding himself over and over again that Clint is scared and joking, and saying whatever dumb shit comes into his head because he’s scared. He doesn’t mean it and Bucky can’t make this weird.

“This is probably going to hurt,” he says.

Clint’s scream is scrambled, caught in his throat rather than let out of his mouth and Bucky winces as he ties the bandage on firmly, but not wanting to cut off blood flow to the foot - hoping it isn’t crushed beyond repair.

When he’s done that, he moves off Clint and to the side, caught between Clint and the rubble and slows his breathing down carefully.

An ominous creaking comes from above them again and Bucky hears Clint’s sharp intake of breath.

“Was always afraid of the dark as a kid,” Bucky says, because it seems like maybe Clint needs someone else to do the talking right now.

“Really? The great Winter Soldier was afraid of the dark?” Clint asks. He sounds amused, but Bucky has paid too much attention to him in the past months to be fooled by the veneer he has pasted over his fear. And his voice is quieter, more ragged, and fear twists in Bucky’s gut.

“The Winter Soldier, no, but little Jimmy Barnes - yeah, I was,” he sighs. “My sister used to tease me about it.”

“I guess she wasn’t scared, then?”

“Not even a little bit,” Bucky says, grinning at the memory. “Becca was never scared of anything. She was like Steve like that. And that’s why I had to stop being scared - or stop showing it at least. Because they needed me to watch their backs, and I couldn’t do that if I was scared.”

“So you just stopped?” Clint asks.

“Nah… I just learned to hide it better,” Bucky says. “My ma did cure me of my fear of the dark, though.”

“How’d she do that? Tell you there was no such thing as the monster under your bed.”

“The monster was in the closet, actually,” Bucky tells him, and Clint laughs just a little huff of a laugh, but it’s there and honest and Bucky feels like he’s won the whole world. “No, she just told me that in the dark you could be whatever you wanted to be. Like wearing a mask. The dark was like magic that meant you could wish yourself to be brave and it was real.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “Never thought of it like that. Course the bad guys can wish themselves brave too.” His voice sounds weaker. His breathing is growing shallow.

“She didn’t mention that part,” Bucky says.

It’s not going to get much darker than this, and Bucky’s not feeling brave, but he is feeling desperate.

He’s got a whole lot of regret piled up on him, and he doesn’t want any more. Maybe it’s all been in his head and the look he thinks he sees in Clint’s eyes sometimes is nothing more than wishful thinking. But he knows the odds and he doesn’t want that last regret. That utter numb nothingness in the few moments he thought that Clint was dead. This isn’t just a crush. It isn’t going away any time soon and he needs to say the words.

“Clint-” he says, his voice so quiet and rough he almost doesn’t recognise it.

“Yeah, Buck?” Clint asks, and Bucky can hear Clint’s head turn towards him, and he turns in that direction too. They can’t be that far apart. If there were any light, he’d be able to see Clint looking back at him, the faint hint of confusion in his face, the sunburn peeling on his cheeks, the little nick where he cut himself shaving that morning.

Bucky wishes he could see him.

But it’s the dark that makes him brave.

“I need to-”

The world begins to quake around them, cutting off his words, and Bucky rolls over, bracing himself over Clint as best he can, stiffening his arms, and his back,

But nothing lands on them.

Sudden piercing light makes his eyes screw shut in surprise, catching just a flash of Clint’s face, eyes wide and blown, mouth slightly parted and so very, very close to him.

“Bucky!” Steve’s voice is not unwelcome, but Bucky feels a selfish pang that the idiot couldn’t have shown up just a few seconds later.

Arms are pulling them out. EMTs are swarming. Iron Man is prying the concrete off Clint’s foot and they are being whisked away in different directions.

He stares at Clint’s form being wheeled away as someone shines a light in his eyes and a blanket is settled over his shoulders.

Bucky has been standing in the doorway for hours. Or maybe only minutes. It’s impossible to say.

A Clint Barton that isn’t moving or talking is unsettling.

The machines by his bed beep their reassurance that Clint’s heart is still beating, and the line rises and falls on the monitor in a steady pattern. But Clint lies there, almost as pale as the hospital bedsheets, his skin waxy, his face bruised and still fucking beautiful.

Bucky gave up denying that a while back. Had to give in under the onslaught that was Clint Barton, who had wormed his way under Bucky’s skin like a fucking parasite. Not the most flattering imagery, perhaps, but Bucky’s not in a flattering mood. He wants the idiot to just wake up already.

He’d thought, in that cramped dark space, that it might be over. And it hadn’t even had a chance to start. And who’s fucking fault is that?

He steps into the room and feels like he’s breaking some invisible barrier. He shouldn’t even be the one who’s in here. The chair he lowers himself into is Natasha’s place, if it belongs to anyone. But Natasha isn’t here. It’s just him and Clint and…

“Open your eyes,” he says. “Open those dumb pretty eyes and look at me.”

Clints eyes stay stubbornly closed.

“Why is it always you who gets hurt, huh?” Bucky says. He knows the answers to that, all of them. Clint’s inability to care that he’s not a god or a supersoldier, and the fact that he insists on keeping up with all the rest of them. Every single time. “I hate hospitals, you know that, and now you’ve got me sitting in one.”

The only answer is the beeping of the heart monitor.

“You need to wake up so I can finish,” Bucky says. “We were in the middle of a conversation, pal, and you can’t just fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. It ain’t polite.”

He reaches out and tentatively rests two fingers against the inside of Clint’s wrist, just so he can feel what the machine is already telling him. Clint’s pulse is strong and just the sensation of it thrumming past his fingertips is enough to send relief through his own veins.

“I thought maybe you were going to die on me,” Bucky says to Clint’s still form. This close, he can count the freckles on Clint’s nose, and see the place just under the curve of Clint’s jaw that he missed with the razor, a clump of blonde stubble just a little longer than the rest and his heart fucking aches with it. “You’re not allowed to die, because I’ve got something I need to tell you,” he says. “I… I’ve got to tell you that I-” He draws in a breath, steading his voice. He doesn’t want to say it cracked and broken, not even when Clint can’t hear him properly.

“He won’t lose the foot,” Natasha says, slipping into the room. Bucky pulls his hand back, even though he knows she’s already seen. He doesn’t know what she heard. But when he looks up, her attention is fixed on Clint.

“Good,” Bucky says. “Idiot said he’d just get a vibranium one, and that sounds like a terrible idea.”

Natasha rolls her eyes with a quirk of her lips. On her that is an indulgent smile.

“He’d keep breaking the furniture every time he stubbed a toe,” she says.

They stay in silence for a moment until there is a twitch of Clint’s hand and a flutter of eyelids.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” Bucky offers, standing as Clint’s eyes open, bloodshot, but as blue as ever. “You want a coffee?”

Natasha nods and Bucky slips away.

The need to tell Clint doesn’t fade away. It’s not one of those urges that drains out of him with the adrenaline, just like the feelings aren’t going anywhere any time soon.

He’s given up asking why Clint, because he both has a list of reasons as long as his arm - the way he smiles when he beats Bucky on the range, the way he stuffs pizza in his mouth, the way he flips onto the couch sometimes, the way he sticks his feet in Bucky’s lap, the way every word out of his mouth sounds like a dare - and he has no reason at all. It is one of those unexplainable things. He had tried to control it at first, crushed the emotions as ridiculous and unnecessary. But they had crawled out of every box he had tried to lock them in. He would find himself at night trying to think of anything else, but his mind dragging him back to Clint, again and again.

He had thought perhaps it was lust, and it was certainly that, but the way he appreciates the pull of Clint’s uniform across his chest as he aims his bow, and the deft twirl of his fingers as an arrow spins around them is only part of it. It does not explain the rest. How he finds himself gravitating to where Clint is. How he finds himself rephrasing the events of his day into stories that Clint will find funny. How he sometimes sees Clint flirting with other people and feels a hollow space open up inside him.

There is no reason for it to be Clint. Of all the people he has met this century, Clint is not the least likely, but he’s pretty far down the list if you strike off all the Hydra assholes. But at the same time, looking at it from this end of the story, he can’t imagine it being anyone else but Clint.

And he’d been happy just to endure it, and wait it out, hoping that it would go away, knowing that he could live with it because it wasn’t something he needed.

Then Clint had almost died in front of him and Bucky knows. He knows he can’t do that anymore. It’s selfish of him, but he needs to say it. He needs Clint to know so he can get a definite answer and smother the howling regret that has been baying at him since he felt Clint’s blood on his hands.

So he’s got to tell him.

And he needs a plan.

Bucky was a sniper before he was the Winter Soldier. A rifleman before they made him a monster. And a sharpshooter knows that you have to wait. Patience is your greatest weapon. A moment too early and you’ll give away your position and lose your target. But a moment too late and you’re just as screwed.

It’s about timing and positioning and luck. If the conditions aren’t right, you don’t shoot. If the wind is against you, you’re screwed. But mostly, it’s about timing.

So he needs the perfect conditions. The perfect moment.

Clint comes back from the hospital and immediately abandons his chair for crutches, against medical advice, Bucky would bet in a heartbeat.

He turns up at Clint’s door, and there’s nothing unusual there. The number of times he has come to this point over the last few months. He brings popcorn and is planning to sit through every single Fast and Furious film if he has to, because he knows Clint likes to talk shit about them while secretly loving the stunts. He’s got a plan.

Clint opens the door.

“You know Jarvis can open the door for you,” Bucky points out. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be resting.”

“Not you, too,” Clint groans. “Natasha’s been on at me all morning about taking things slow. Steve was all ‘you’re on leave until you’re better - actually better, Clint. Don’t think I won’t know if you’re not ready.’” Clint’s Steve impression is as terrible as ever, and Bucky restrains the fond smile that threatens to escape at it. “And Tony’s installing like fifty things in my bathroom because he seems to think I need it baby-proofed.”

“Sir is attempting to make bathing easier for you while you have the use of only one leg,” Jarvis says, a slight hint of disapproval in his tone and Clint makes a face.

“Yeah, I know, its just… is that the deluxe popcorn?” Clint’s eyes light up and Bucky holds it out. “Yes! You are a king among men, Bucky Barnes.”

“I try,” Bucky comments, and then Clint is haring off on his crutches, maybe faster on them than he is at walking, and Bucky has no choice but to follow him. “Thought I’d keep you out of trouble with popcorn and bad movies.”

“I mean, you can try! But I make no promises,” Clint tells him. “I once accidentally caused an international incident by playing a fishing simulator.”

“I’m willing to put the effort in,” Bucky says. Clint shoots him a strange look, but waves his hand.

“Make yourself at home, dude. You’re making me feel awkward just looking at you. Coffee?”

“I can-” Bucky says, turning towards the kitchen area, but Clint’s already off.

“I’ve got it.”

...He… doesn’t got it. Bucky winces as Clint attempts to juggle two coffee cups, two crutches, the actual coffee and a pot of creamer at once, rather than doing things one at a time.

The second cup slips through his fingers and falls to the floor with a smash, and as Clint starts to lean forwards, his injured leg flying out behind him like he’s a ballerina doing an arabesque, Bucky rushes over.

“I had it,” Clint says, but he doesn’t look too put out as Bucky gathers the pieces of the cup and sets throws them away.

“How about I make the coffee and you choose what we’re watching,” Bucky suggests, but Clint doesn’t move. Bucky, still crouching down to pick up the smallest shards, looks up, trying to work out what’s going on in Clint’s head. His face is twists, like he’s having an internal argument, his brow furrowed, his mouth pursed.

“What?” Bucky asks.

Clint props himself against the counter.

“You saved my life,” Clint says and Bucky feels his muscles tighten involuntarily. He focuses on the tiny slivers of ceramic instead of on Clint’s face. “If you hadn’t been there, I’d have been pancaked flatter than… a pancake, I guess. I don’t remember it very clearly now, but I remember you like… you were on top of me.”

“I could take it,” Bucky says.

“You didn’t have to.”

Bucky looks at Clint automatically then. Because the idea that there was ever a choice.

“Yes I did,” he says.

“I mean, you’re a good person, so sure. But you didn’t have to.”

“Clint.”

“I just… I’m not good at…” he waves his hand airily. “You know that, but I needed to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Bucky stands up and settles himself by throwing away the last of the shards before turning back to Clint, who is suddenly closer. There’s only a couple of feet between them and Clint’s expression is so earnest and his eyes so bright that Bucky has to restrain himself from moving - either backing away and breaking the moment, or forwards and breaking their friendship. He has a plan.

“Yeah, I do,” Clint says. He’s moving closer again, reaching out a hand and for a second Bucky thinks he’s going to touch his face, but instead, it grasps at Bucky’s shoulder, where metal meets skin under the thin material of his henley. Even through the fabric the sensation is almost too much right now.

Positioning, luck… and timing. Seems like when Clint said Stark was working on his bathroom he was actually working on his bathroom. Right then.

“You don’t have to thank me because-” Bucky draws in a breath. “I couldn’t-”

“That’s your shower refitted!”

Stark’s voice sends the moment scattering apart as he strides into the kitchen wiping off his hands with a rag. Clint’s hand falls from Bucky’s shoulder and he turns with a bright smile.

“Now we don’t have to worry about you falling over in there and breaking your other foot,” Stark tells Clint.

“Did you manage to fit the hot tub, too?” Clint asks, and Bucky sets about making them coffee, if only so Clint won’t break all his cups before he realises that he can’t do it one handed.

“I told you, if you want the hot tub, we’ll have to remodel,” Stark tells him. “The bathroom just isn’t big enough at the moment. Unless you want it out here, which… I’m not judging, but that’s going to be hell on the floors. Is that popcorn?”

“Not for you,” Bucky says.

“Hey, I’ve been hard at work trying to save our injured friend from further harm - and us from having to deal with the smell if he doesn’t shower until that cast comes off,” Stark continues.

“Buy your own damn popcorn,” Clint says. “That’s mine.”

“This is the thanks I get?” Stark demands, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine, Big Bird, but see if I invite you next time I have a hot tub party. What are we watching?”

Bucky’s about to say that Stark isn’t watching anything, but he sees the slight tightness in his eyes as he looks at Clint, and the way his manic energy is higher than even it usually is and he sighs. He’s not the only one who thought Clint might not make it.”

“Invalid’s choice,” Bucky says with a shrug and sets about making another cup of coffee.

“Ugh…” Stark says.

There will be other chances, Bucky decides, carrying the cups out and settling down on Clint’s left as Stark has claimed his right.

They watch the movie, all three of them providing commentary - at least until Clint, probably wiped out by whatever medication they have him on - tumbles down onto Bucky’s shoulder and starts to snore.

Bucky looks up from Clint’s drooling face to see Stark looking at them with a little too much awareness.

“If I’d known this was supposed to be a date terminator, I never would have-” he says.

“Not a date,” Bucky says, his face blank. In order for it to be a date, he’d actually have to ask the guy.

“But I did interrupt something?” Stark pauses, pulling out his phone.

“It can wait,” Bucky says. Clint is a solid weight against his shoulder, his hair tickling at Bucky’s neck. It’s nice. It’s not what he wanted from today, but it’s nice.

“Look, I’ve got you a reservation for when he gets the cast off,” Stark says. “You two can celebrate without me or the rest of the peanut gallery interrupting.”

Bucky could argue, but he knows the best that would do would be to make Stark even more determined to make it up to him. The gesture would get bigger, more obnoxious. That’s just how it works.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. If he has to, he’ll give the reservation to Natasha. She’ll find something to do with it.

So, he needs to take variables into account. Variables like the fact that they live with superheroes who have no personal boundaries and wander around as if they own the place. Especially when, as in Stark’s case, they actually own the place.

So the tower is not the best idea. That means he has to do this somewhere else, or just make sure everyone else is out of the tower and has no intention or reason to return until he has finally managed to get the words out of his mouth.

Out of the tower is easier to arrange, but presents other difficulties. But he should be able to work around them.

His opportunity comes when he bumps into Clint later that week, trying to work out how to hold Lucky’s leash at the same time as juggling his crutches and Bucky knows he’s intending to head to the dog park. Even on crutches.

“I thought Kate would keep him while you were in the cast,” Bucky says, pressing the button for the elevator when it becomes clear that Clint doesn’t have enough hands. Lucky’s being well behaved, just standing and watching his human balance precariously with an expression of utter disbelief on his doggy face.

“She doesn’t need to,” Clint says.

“You want me to take the leash?” Bucky asks as the doors to the elevator slide open. Clint looks down at his hands and seems to calculate that he really doesn’t have enough.

“We’re going to the park,” Clint says mournfully. “You’re busy.”

“Not really,” Bucky says.

“You hate the park,” Clint adds. “Too many sightlines.”

“I can handle it,” Bucky tells him, holding out his hand. “Unless you’d prefer Natasha?”

“Hell no!” Clint says, shuddering. “She’d sit on me.” He holds out the leash. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. We don’t have to stay long.” He tries to rub his hand over the back of his head, but realises half way that he’s still holding the crutch.

Bucky catches him as he lists dangerously , pulling him back upright. Lucky lets out a small boof.

“I don’t mind,” Bucky says. “You really couldn’t just leave it a few more weeks until you can put some weight on it?”

“I thought…” Clint starts to hop into the elevator. “I thought it wouldn’t be too hard. I used to be an acrobat.”

“I don’t think it’s exactly the same,” Bucky tells him, pulling the leash from Clint’s hand. Lucky calmly sits down between them and Bucky pets his head. “I don’t mind helping you with walks.”

“Awesome!” Clint says, stretching out a single finger to jab the ground floor button.

Clint insists on doing some stunts on his crutches for some kids, walking on his hands using them like stilts, then they sit on a bench and throw Lucky’s ball for him, Bucky using his arm to get it further, although Clint can, of course, hit any target he’s given.

Bucky looks around to check that there’s no one nearby who could possibly disturb them.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says as Lucky galumphs back, his ball clutched in his doggy grin, his tail wagging frantically.

“Good boy,” Clint says, scratching behind Lucky’s ears before taking the ball from him and hefting it in his hand. He glances at Bucky. “Is this about the orange juice, because I swear I didn’t know it was yours. I thought it was Sam’s and he put toothpaste in my shoes, so I thought some food colouring in his orange juice would-” He throws the ball and Lucky bolts after it. “It had a label on and everything.”

“It’s not about the orange juice,” Bucky says. “Wait… What did you do to my orange juice?”

“Nothing,” Clint says. Bucky shakes his head.

“It’s about… us.” Clint blinks at him, eyes wide, but as he opens his mouth to say something, there is a sudden crackle in the air and…

Thunder rolls, lightning flashes and there is a bright flash of rainbow light so bright Bucky has to shield his eyes, hand automatically going for a weapon, but as he blinks away the afterimages from his eyeballs, he sees Thor striding towards them.

“Clinton! James!” he booms, and Bucky is very aware that every single eye in the park is on them. “I have grave tidings. A foul criminal has escaped from Asgard and Heimdall says he has alighted on Earth. We must summon the Avengers immediately.”

Lucky runs over and drops the much drooled-on ball at Bucky’s feet and he sighs.

Tracking down an Asgardian criminal, and all that entails, isn’t exactly a quick job and with Clint officially on medical leave - no matter how he tries to protest - Bucky barely sees him. It seems like he barely has any time between trips to here there and everywhere, following the trail of otherworldly mishaps.

They message each other, Bucky mostly to complain about how none of their leads seem to lead anywhere. Clint to complain about how he’s bored. Bucky sympathises. He knows how much Clint hates to be sidelined for anything. But he fully supports Natasha when she threatens to tie Clint to the bed to keep him in line. And not only because of the inappropriate spike of lust that sends through him.

He spends a week in a dingy hotel in Prague, watching a museum that contains what turns out to be an Asgardian relic that they think their escapee might want, only to find that it’s a fake and the real one was in Chicago the whole time. And is already gone. It’s almost two months of that, and Bucky just wants to go home.

It’s a strange feeling.

He hasn’t had a home in over seventy years, just a base of operations, a safehouse or an extraction point. But he sits in that hotel, watching a Czech talk show, and finds himself imagining a battered purple sofa, blond hair and a big mouth shit-talking the screen.

The ambient temperature is eighteen degrees celsius, but he doesn’t feel warm. Just bored and lonely and homesick.

He buys Clint a keychain of a pug that says I ❤ Praha on it, although who knows what pugs have to do with the city. Probably nothing, people just like pugs.

And then he gets on the quinjet and goes the fuck home.

When Jarvis wakes him the next morning with a reminder that today is the day that Tony made him and Clint dinner reservations for, Bucky stares at himself in the mirror and contemplates his life. As much as he wants to just stay in and eat pizza and let Clint unfold his unreasonably long legs over Bucky’s lap as they talk about nothing in particular, just basking in the fact that he is home. He still hasn’t managed to say the world. Clint still doesn’t know how Bucky feels and every day it feels increasingly more likely that he never will.

He looks like shit. He hasn’t shaved in a week and his hair is all over the place. His eyes are dark shadows.

“Fuck it,” Bucky says. “Nothing else has worked. Jarvis can you ask Natalia if I could borrow her for a half hour?”

“Certainly,” Jarvis says. “What should I say it is concerning?”

“I need a haircut.” Bucky says, scrubbing a hand over the mess of his hair. Time was, he’d never have let it get so unkempt. But that was a long time ago.

Natasha turns up as he finishes shaving and raises an eyebrow.

“You’re finally going to make your move?” she asks, brandishing a pair of sharp scissors like a knife.

“I’ve been trying,” he says and she shakes her head.

“If you don’t manage it tonight, I might just lose hope,” she says. “Now sit. Or I’ll chop off your ear, and then Clint will mope about it.”

Bucky sits.

She is quick and efficient, which is good. Every second with someone that close to his head with a blade is a second too long, but Natalia appreciates that, and when she’s finished, he looks more human. As human as he can look, he supposes.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis says. “I hate to interrupt, but Captain Rogers is asking for your presence.”

“Is it urgent?” Natasha says before Bucky has finished sighing.

“I do not believe so,” Jarvis tells her.

“Then tell him James is not available this evening.”

“He’ll ask why,” Bucky says.

“I’ll run interference,” she says. “Now. What are you going to wear?”

“I haven’t even asked him yet,” Bucky points out. “He might say no.”

“Then go ask him.” She practically pushes him out the door. “I’ll be here going through your closet trying to find something that isn’t a crime.”

“Oh, hey Bucky!” Clint calls as Bucky is let in. He’s wearing sweatpants and looking under the sofa, ass pointing directly towards the door, because of course it is. “What’s up?”

“Are you… okay?” he asks.

“Just… dropped… my... unf… pliers,” Clint says and as Bucky comes over he can see that Clint’s arm, up to his elbow is shoved under the couch. “They bounced.”

Bucky leans down, gets his metal fingers under the edge of the couch and lifts. Clint stares at him.

“Are you gonna get them or not?” Bucky asks. Clint blinks twice and then scrambles under the sofa to grab the pliers.

“Thanks! Since I haven’t been allowed to do anything, I’ve been coming up with new arrow designs.”

Usually, Bucky would ask questions, but today he is on a mission and if he gets distracted someone else will no doubt walk into the room or Steve will find them and ask for a favour with another wild goose hunt, so he’s going to get right to the point.

“You got the cast off this morning, right?”

“Yep,” Clint says, picking up a half-constructed arrow head and examining it closely. “Still waiting for official clearance from medical, though, and Steve says I have to do a full fitness test tomorrow before he’ll sign off on me. How was Prague?”

“Do you want to grab dinner tonight?” Bucky asks. Clint grins up at him.

“To celebrate my freedom? Definitely.”

Bucky opens his mouth to clarify, but before he can, Clint’s phone starts to ring insistently on the coffee table, making the various tools and arrow-parts vibrate with it.

“7:30,” Bucky says. “Tony made the reservations, so we should probably dress up.”

“Sure!” Clint says, grabbing the phone. “I’ll be there.”

Bucky leaves while he’s on the phone and heads back to Natalia’s tender mercies as she eviscerates his wardrobe.

7.30 comes and Bucky thinks he’s looking pretty smart, all told. He’d flat out refused the jacket when Natasha had suggested it, opting for a leather jacket instead over a nice shirt he’d plain forgotten he had. A gift, he thinks.

Clint shows up at the door at 7:35 looking around. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a crisp blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jacket is still hanging from his hand. His hair had obviously been combed recently, but just as obviously Clint had forgotten and scrubbed his hand over it, sending it back to messy spikes.

“Am I not the last to show?” he asks. “Or did everyone else go without me?” Bucky grits his teeth. Of course, he hadn’t explicitly stated that it would just be them. Why would Clint have assumed? Tony’s taken all of them to dinner a dozen or more times with the slightest provocation.

“No,” he says. “It’s just us.”

Clint stares at him, head tilted just a bit.

“Why’s Tony getting reservations for us?” Clint asks and Bucky maybe had a plan for this. Had maybe practised in the mirror how he was going to be sitting in the restaurant and he’d bring things up casually, and he’d smile and he’d try for that old school charm he’d used to manage so effortlessly, but plans never fucking work.

“Because he knows I need to talk to you,” Bucky says. “And he sort of interrupted when I tried before so he got us apology reservations.”

“You need to talk to me?” Clint says slowly.

“Yes,” Bucky straightens his shoulders. “Clint, look I know that-”

The windows explode.

Bucky’s metal hand grinds into a fist, metal grating across metal, and he reaches for his gun, turning to see what the fuck had interrupted him this time.

“Isn’t that the guy you were looking for in Prague?” Clint asks, and Bucky has just enough time to register that yes it is and apparently he could have been at home the whole damn time, before things start getting weird.

Asgardian magic, Bucky feels safe in saying, sucks.

He feels like he’s been pushed through a woodchipper and then put back together wrong. He’s flat on his back, staring at the hospital ceiling and already constructing a strongly worded letter to the Asgardian prison service about their security measures. It’s a very short letter that starts with the word Eat and ends with the word shit. He hopes that the cultural nuances will still work in Asgardian.

The only good thing about this whole evening is that he got to see Clint in that shirt. Oh, and that he got to shoot the dick who interrupted him again in the face. That was pretty satisfying. Not that it had done a whole hell of a lot. But it had still been pretty satisfying.

The door opens and Bucky prepares himself for another round of ‘you seem fine, but we don’t really know what Asgardian weapons do to humans so we want to keep you in for observation’.

It’s not a doctor. Or a nurse.

Clint’s still wearing the blue shirt, although it looks significantly less clean and pressed than it had an hour ago. One sleeve is gone completely, the other is torn in jagged lines revealing what look like minor burns. His lip is busted and there’s gauze coming out of his nostril. Also several of the buttons appear to have sacrificed themselves for the greater good, so his abs are very clearly visible. He’s a mess, and he’s the single best thing Bucky has ever looked at. He is struck once again by the fact that he wants to see this forever. It’s a blind, terrifying kind of feeling, way too deep and way too strong, and he’s so far out to sea he can’t even see land and he doesn’t even really care. That’s almost the scariest part - how easy it is to go along with it and let himself be pulled even further. It feels like he should be scared of drowning in it, but he’s not. It doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like floating.

So maybe there’s a third good thing about this evening.

“Hey,” Clint says. “They give you the ‘unknown weaponry has unknown consequences’ speech as well?”

“Got it from the doctor, Steve, the doctor again and Banner,” Bucky says, swinging himself into a sitting position. Clint winces and sits down next to him.

“I only got Cap and Nat,” he says. “Guess they figured I wouldn’t understand the scientific approach.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Don’t pretend you’re dumb,” he says. “I know better.”

Clint shoots him a sidelong glance and smiles a little sheepishly.

“Years of training,” he says with a shrug. “What are you gonna do?”

“Well, I managed to break mine,” Bucky points out. That makes Clint wince.

“Right, I’m already sticking my foot in it. Shit. I knew I should have waited for this until I didn’t have a concussion.”

“You should still be in bed?”

“I’ve spent the last two months in bed,” Clint says. Bucky raises an eyebrow. He knows for a fact that is bullshit. “Fine, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m not going to be on bedrest again. I only just got free - and anyway. I needed to talk to you.”

Bucky goes cold.

“What about?” he asks, carefully training his face and his voice into neutrality. Clint sighs, kicking his feet across the floor.

“Look, you’ve been trying to talk to me, right?” Clint asks. Bucky nods, not sure he can trust his voice right now. “And the other day, when Thor showed up, you said it was about us. So I thought there was something I should say, before you say your thing.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, when Clint pauses to look at him. He has no idea what Clint is going to say. He doesn’t think he’s exactly been subtle. Hell, he asked the guy out for dinner and if this is Clint’s way of letting him down gently then he’ll take it. It isn’t unexpected.

“We’re friends, right?” Clint says and Bucky nods. “But we’re friends. Not like me and Nat, or you and Steve, but we’ve got each other’s back. And I like being friends with you.”

Ah… it’s the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. Bucky’s given that one himself, although a long time ago. A lot of girls who got the wrong idea and thought that a dance meant something more, he’d kissed them on the cheek and given this same speech. Different verse for a different time, but the refrain is the same.

“I don’t want that to change,” Clint’s saying, and Bucky’s hearing him say the words, is even registering them somewhere in his brain, but every other part of his mind is concentrating on controlling his expression.

It feels like… nothingness. But like nothingness that hurts. Like sometimes his arm hurts in the middle of the night, but it’s not his metal arm, it’s the ghost of his old one. He can feel it dying all over again and no amount of pain meds will help. It’s like that, but it’s all over, seeped into his bones. He fucking aches with it.

But Clint’s right. He doesn’t want their friendship to change, and he’s not going to change it, not if that’s not what Clint wants. He can do that. He’s endured Hydra. He can endure this.

“But I guess things always change,” Clint is saying, and the bottom falls out of Bucky’s world.

“They don’t have to,” he says.

“I kind of think they do,” Clint scratches at a bandage on his wrist. “But change doesn’t have to be bad. And I kind of thought that maybe you’d changed too?” He glances at Bucky quickly, then away. “Or maybe I was just seeing things. Fuck… words are hard.” He pauses, and then seems to settle into himself, turning directly to Bucky with the determination that makes him such a damn good Avenger. Bucky holds his gaze. He’s not going to back down from this.

“I’ve always thought that I was on my own,” Clint says. “The job wasn’t exactly good for relationships, you know? Long hours, big secrets, bigger risks. And I’m not exactly anyone’s first choice. But one of the things I’ve learnt in life is that you’ve got to improvise, because something’s always going to come along to change your plans.” Bucky can’t quite stop the bitter huff of laughter that comment brings. “Or someone,” Clint adds carefully. “And I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Oh, this isn’t the ‘we should just be friends’ speech. This is the ‘there’s someone else’ speech. Bucky’s hands curl into fists and his teeth clench together.

“Maybe you don’t even care, but I think you probably need to know. Even if it changes things,” Clint says. “And you were in Prague and I was trapped here and all I could think was I wish Bucky was here. Or that I was there, watching your back. Because I want that. I want you. I sort of... love you? And you should know that, right? That’s important.”

Bucky stares.

And then he doesn’t bother saying anything because words just don’t quite feel like enough right now. He leans in, not all the way, but enough to make his intention clear, enough so that Clint’s face turns into a blur of blue and pink and white.

And Clint meets him halfway.

The kiss tastes of blood and sweat and hospital coffee. It’s clumsy and awkward and Clint has to pull back three times when Bucky bumps his broken nose, but it’s the best kiss Bucky’s ever had.

And no one interrupts them.

Even if someone had, Bucky doesn’t think he would have noticed.

When they finally pull away, Clint looks at him.

“So, uh… what did you want to say to me?” he asks and Bucky doesn’t say the carefully planned speech he prepared, because he doesn’t need it anymore, just says the first words that come into his mind.

“I love you, too. You asshole.”

#Winterhawk #Winterhawk fic #Bucky Barnes #Clint Barton #I wrote something #tw: claustrophobia #my fic #anonymous #I almost ended it 6 sentences earlier #but I wanted Bucky to actually get to say the words #and then the last sentence just happened.

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collisiondiscourse · 4 years ago

Text

meet you in the middle // bkdk (ch. 306) fic

Katsuki meets him at the edge of the world.

Standing on the rubbles of a once-thriving city that his people had called home, Katsuki sees him at a distance. A lone figure, standing beside broken statues that overlook a cliff of failures and broken promises. Katsuki sees him at a distance and feels something inside him break like a dam of something unmentionable. The glass beneath his worn combat boots crunches and cracks like the remains of his heart, every step heavy with the weight of the world around him slipping unto drooping shoulders. He says nothing, knowing the other runaway could hear his approach all the same.

Deep purple bruises set themselves under dull viridian eyes, the mixture of color out of place but lovely all the same. His hair’s a mess--greasy in the way that tells Bakugou he hasn’t showered in days, yet Katsuki would love nothing more than to bury his face in the tangled mass of green. The suit and armor he wears is torn, dented, fractured, dirty; it’s scarred like the skin it tries its best to hide. Deku stands still and watches him approach.

The blond halts in his steps.

In that moment, when red and green meet at the edge of the world, time stops completely. The broken concrete beneath their feet feels like a vast and endless void of nothing, silence wrapping around them beautifully and painfully. Between them, the few meters feel like blocks, to miles, to lightyears apart.

It is endless.

Between them, there is pain and sorrow. There is a hurt so deep that neither of the boys could begin to comprehend it--old scars and fresh wounds mending and tearing open, pace akin to the shift of the weather. Between them, Katsuki can feel things that feel like they should be impossible but aren’t. Between them, Katsuki can feel the contradictions that ripple beneath the surface of their skin.

Between them, Katsuki can feel it all.

The distance is staggering. It chases after the two of them like they had chased each other, something like a curse that pulls them apart while simultaneously keeping them at arm’s length.

Katsuki used to beg for it, he knows. (God, does he know.) He used to spend day-by-day stretching that distance, yanking the string that kept them tied together in hopes that eventually it would snap.

Yet that same distance had become something he’d grown to hate. He hated it in the way that it caused Izuku to close himself to the world and nearly cost him his life when Shigaraki had pierced him in battle. He hated the way it shut doors and cuffed him to his hospital bed when he’d found out that Deku was in a coma.

And he hated that distance the most when it brought Deku all the way here.

“Kacchan,” Deku says, the old nickname leaving his mouth simultaneously like a prayer and a pained gasp of fear. “Why are you here?”

The ‘why’ rings in the blond’s head like the sound of a gunshot, piercing and painful at the audacity to even ask such a thing. Why? Why did I come here? Why did I leave everything I’d ever dreamed of in order to chase your dumbass here?

Because. Why the fuck wouldn’t I come here, Deku?

“I got your letter,” Katsuki grunts out instead. His hands clench and unclench, tired and a little bit pained from his journey to find Izuku as fast as possible. The stupid fucking paper rests inside the pants pocket of his hero costume, setting his insides ablaze and leaving the taste of battery acid at the back of his throat.

“You still shouldn’t have--”

“--Shouldn’t have what, Deku?!” He inevitably yet suddenly explodes. The green-haired boy startles from across the building’s roof, jaw shutting with an audible click. “Shouldn’t have dropped out of UA? Shouldn’t have left every single person that loves me and sent myself out on a suicide mission? Shouldn’t have left my fucking mother without even a proper ‘goodbye’?!”

Deku snaps, “You damn well know it wasn’t that simple, Kacchan--”

“It never fucking is! It never fucking is that simple, Deku! You think I wanted to abandon our class? You think I didn’t care about the fucking fact that I just dropped out of UA and will probably never become a fucking pro-hero because of it? I destroyed my own dreams, you idiot!”

“Then go back!” the other boy replies, furious tears welling in his eyes. Katsuki feels paralyzed, unable to move through the surge of emotion that overtakes his mind. Deku takes a step forward, shaking so hard that the blond fears he might pass out. “Go back, you ass! Don’t let me take anything more from you, Kacchan, just please don’t. I can’t handle something like that! Go back and become the number one hero like you always promised, please.”

(A dozen meters apart.)

Izuku’s voice trembles and wavers, desperation seeping from his figure as teardrops fall to the tarmac below. He stands firmly on his two feet, but Katsuki can feel the way his heart begs on its knees. Bakugou’s glare softens.

“I can’t do that, Deku.”

He sniffles. “Why not?”

Tentatively, Bakugou takes a step forward, pacing himself. He opens his mouth to answer, but can’t seem to find the right words and looks away with a frustrated snarl. Deku’s eyes, red-rimmed with agony, peer up at him through his unruly green hair and the wound on Katsuki’s abdomen throbs with heat.

“...Because. I nearly died for you, didn’t I?” the blond eventually replies. “Because I know you think that that means you have to go and fucking do things alone because you don’t want me to nearly die for you a second time, but that’s exactly fucking it.” Katsuki huffs. He takes another step further, watching Deku crumple to the ground as sobs rack his figure.

“Kacchan got hurt, but it wasn’t your battle. It’s mine,” he chokes out anyway, stubborn as he is in the way Bakugou had grown to admire. As much as the blond’s soul rattles with anger, with hatred at the society that forced his childhood friend to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders, he forces himself not to shout.

(Five meters apart.)

“‘Wasn’t’, was the word. Now, it is. I’m not letting you do this alone whether you fucking like it or not, shitty nerd.” Katsuki sucks in a breath. “You never gave me a choice, did you? I didn’t have a choice into knowing about your cursed fucking quirk, I didn’t have a choice into you leaving us to fight Shigaraki alone, I didn’t have a choice in knowing whether you’d be okay or not in the hospital after I myself nearly fucking died--and now that I finally goddamn do have that choice, you better make sure you let me have it, Deku.” Another step.

Deku lets out an anguished gasp for air between his hiccups and tears, and wails, “But why? Kacchan, you have the choice to be safe and let yourself win without One for All getting away! Why would you let me bring you more harm like this?!”

“Because you never fucking let me apologize to you, shithead!” The blond succumbs at last, yelling in hurt and in pain. The distance between them is so small, yet every goddamn particle feels like a world’s away in which Kacchan and Deku were made to fall apart. His skin prickles, air buzzing with the energy of a feeling so big contained in something so small. The moment suspends itself in time, fragile as glass and broken shards twice as painful, “I wanted to say that I was sorry, okay?!”

“Kacchan--”

Bakugou growls, “No. Let me say this, Izuku.” He waited, so goddamn long, for an opportunity to say what he wanted--no, needed--to say. The distance that felt like a whole galaxy between them burned something fierce, a serendipitous inevitability that felt like it was reaching its boiling point as the world around them reduced to ashes. The blond musses up his hair and exhales heavily, letting his angry demeanour calm for Izuku’s sake.

“I used to resent you. So much.” Katsuki starts. He’s close enough to Deku that he can see the subtle way the shorter boy scrunches his brows together, letting out a shaky breath of incredulousness. “When we were in middle school, I tormented and bullied you under the guise of hating you for something that you couldn’t control.”

“The truth is, that wasn’t why I resented you.” He blows out a breath. Deku looks up at him in shock, so Bakugou ploughs on. “I resented you because I didn’t understand you. At that time, I couldn’t understand how anyone, especially someone virtually powerless like yourself, could somehow still be a better person--hell, a better hero--than I was.”

Ruby red eyes gazed at the horizon.

“I always thought myself to be the best at everything. Always knew I was destined for victory. That hasn’t changed,” Katsuki swallows as Izuku pulls himself back on to his feet. Now standing, Izuku looks at him as if he’d suddenly had the revelation of his life, (which, Bakugou assumes, was paramount to this in any case.) “What has changed now though… is that I think I finally get it.”

He coughs.

“... I think I finally get you,”

(Two meters.)

“Katsuki… I’m--” Deku swallows, eyes shiny again as he tries to compose himself. He nods at the blond and in that instant Katsuki knows he’s been forgiven a long time ago. The distance tugs at the pit of his stomach, feelings of something warm and strange writhing inside. What once was a flood of misunderstanding that crashed and pulled the two of them apart had dried into a lively valley. Deku takes a step closer.

“But it isn’t just that anymore,” the blond is quick to blurt out. He looks at Deku and for once instead of a regretful past or an ongoing development, he thinks he sees a future.

“If this were all for atonement, I wouldn’t have left UA like you said. It’s… deeper. I’m workin’ on it, but there’s just something that pulls me to do this. It pisses me off, but it also makes me want to keep you at an arm’s length.” Katsuki shakes his head at the bullshit that spews out from his own mouth.

“I don’t fucking know what it is, but I know how it makes me feel.”

Izuku stares into his eyes, wide and innocent in a way that used to make him angry but now only makes him… dazed. “And how does it make you feel, Kacchan?”

He huffs a laugh of rueful acceptance. “Fucking weird. Like I suddenly want to chase you to the ends of the fucking earth just to make sure you’re alive. Like I want to be close to you again and again and again even in our next fucking lives.”

Katsuki takes another hesitant step forward.

“I want a lot of things now. I want shit that I can’t name but I sure as hell know won’t relate to becoming the number one hero. I want to keep you within sight, keep you close and alive because of the fact that it’s you and nothing else. I want…”

(Three feet.)

The distance around them is reduced to a little less than an ache. Issues like theirs aren’t solved overnight, but for the small distance they have between each other it feels less like a curse and more like the moment before an inevitability. They can’t quantify all that they are to each other--can’t begin to measure it in fickle things like centimeters or miles or inches or lightyears--but in that moment Katsuki supposes one could label what they have as ‘love’.

He’s never spoken this much in such a short amount of time, never let himself be wordy when his concise speech was efficient and easy. Yet, something about freckles and scars and green hair makes him want to run his fucking mouth off and list his every feeling under the sun. The vice-like grip over his heart that had been there since the moment he’d woken up in the hospital eases a little, and Katsuki’s broken heart feels like it is coming home.

(Two feet.)

“You want…?”

Katsuki looks into Izuku’s eyes, really looks. He looks and he sees life and salvation and something that he’d been missing for so long that tasting it for the first time has left him wanting like a man in a desert. He reaches out an arm, now fully within reach and gives Deku a pleading and weak stare that says everything and nothing at once.

“I want everything that I can get. Everything you can give me. No matter what the cost.”

(One.)

Deku crashes into his embrace, pulling him close and meeting Katsuki somewhere in the middle as the chase finally fucking stops. To Katsuki, it feels like the birth of a star as the warmth engulfs him fully, setting alight to every one of his nerves. The feeling of holding Deku fills him with all the words he cannot name and it feels like he’s reached some impossible height at the top of the world.

The war has not been forgotten, and the road ahead of them is long, but the distance between Kacchan and Deku--Katsuki and Izuku--is now nothing more than a physical concept. The hug blurs the line between the two young heroes, shaping itself until it is indistinguishable where one ends and the other begins. There is a sensation, one that is burning like an inferno but comforting all the same because at this point in time, Katsuki vows to run after and find Izuku Midoriya in every lifetime after this, in every world that they’ll be in. He vows with all his heart that he’ll be the one to watch Deku while Deku watches the world, to protect Deku while Deku protects the others. Katsuki vows to take Deku for everything that he is and isn’t, wholly and unconditionally because the distance is gone and there’s nothing now that can stop him from following this boy to the ends of the universe.

Katsuki Bakugou vows all this because here, right now, on top of the ruins of a city he’d once known and arms full of a boy he’d been trying to chase for a lifetime--Katsuki comes home.

(Zero.)

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bakudeku #katsudeku #ktdk #bkdk #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #decchan #bkdk fic #bnha 306 #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #codi.docx #DONT LET THIS FLOP ITS SO SEXY

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ritzbernal · 4 years ago

Text

Regrets and Realizations

So I need to do work but I have to let this out my system so I can focus (ehem let's see). It's been on my mind for a whole week already! I, uhm, am not really a writer but Vincenzo forced me to be one. Read at your own risk 🤣

Takes places after episode 16 after threatening Jang Han Seok and Choi Myung Hee. Vincenzo coming face to face with regrets of losing his mom and realizing how he doesn't want to lose Cha Young.

Read in ao3

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"Regret is the most painful thing in life."

These words echo in Vincenzo's head as he was driving back to the hospital after his encounter with the Babel quartet. He says it so often to people as advice yet with himself, he doesn't know how it applies. Maybe because the life he led in Italy allows him not to have regrets.

Anger. That's all he felt for his mother before he learned the truth. The truth that she left him in the orphanage not because she didn't love him, but because she had cancer. She was afraid to leave his son dying so she chose to send him away.

I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise that I'd come for you soon.

He learned that she looked for him for several years and that after everything that has happened, she still loves him.

There hasn't been a single day that I haven't thought about you.

And now all he felt was regret. Yes he killed the man who killed his mother in front of Jang Han Seok and Choi Myung Hee, but it is not enough. They have crossed Vincenzo and there's no other way for them but down.

He recalled the days when he visits his mom and during those days, Cha Young was with him. Hong Cha Young. She is the reason why he chose to forgive his mother. Because of her, he got to spend a few intimate hours with her - taking selca together, buying her bunggeopang, buying her a bag, taking a stroll with her. If it weren't this strong-willed lawyer who was always by his side, he wouldn't get to spend those precious moments with her. She has slowly become his rock, his foundation, his reason to fight. She supported him even when she knew his deeds.

This made him think of what could have Cha Young felt when her father was intentionally killed by Wusang and Babel. He wasn't even there for her when it happened. He even told her that she should have been a good daughter sooner. It must have been hard for her then. He gripped the steering wheel while he thought of Cha Young in his shoes months ago. If there's anyone who can understand him now, it's Cha Young. And if there's someone who can understand Cha Young, it's him. Funny how their circumstances parallel each other.

-----------

Vincenzo arrives at the hospital with blood on his hands and neck. His white shirt stained with the blood of his mother's murderer. As he went out of his car to get inside the hospital, he took his phone from his coat and called Cha Young. She picked up at the first ring.

"Where are you? Are you okay?" Her voice is filled with worry, fear, and relief. Fear that something might have happened to him without her saying how much he means to her and relief that he finally called, that somehow he's not in danger.

"Byeonhosa-nim." Vincenzo said with the hint of tiredness and loneliness. His tone was cold and void of emotion.

"Yes. Where are you? Did you make him pay? I convinced the staff to wait a little while before proceeding with cremation. Mr. Nam and I will take care of the papers, don't worry. Where are you?" Cha Young said in a single breath. She shuffled outside the morgue to see if Vincenzo has arrived at the hospital.

"Byeonhosa-nim. I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what? What's wrong? Where are you right now?" He can sense the worry in her voice. He knows she's acting strong but inside she's crumbling for Oh Gyeong Ja's unfair death. Vincenzo now taking the stairs to where Cha Young is. It's good that there were few people in that part of the building at that time. He would have caused a commotion with how he looks right now.

"Make sure you catch him. No, make him pay." Cha Young's words assured him that she trusts him, that she will stay with him no matter how many crimes he commit. Her words were the catalyst for him to make pay whoever did that to his mom. Then he remembered his thoughts during the car ride. He wasn't there for her. But Cha Young chose to be the bigger person and reminded him that regret is the most painful thing in life.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when Mr. Hong passed away. I even amplified that you were not a good daughter to your dad. And yet here you are with me. I really don't deserve you." His tone became soft as he apologize to Cha Young.

"Yah. This is not the time to be saying such things," she said gritting her teeth. "Byeonhosa-nim, please, I just need to know where you are right now and that you are safe," her voice cracking.

The last time he heard her almost crying was when the victim's family was unrightfully murdered. How he wants to hug then, to comfort her, yet he chose not to. He was afraid to overstep the boundaries. But right now, all he wants to do is hug her and not let her go.

Vincenzo spots Cha Young half crying outside the morgue, speaking to him on the phone. He should be the one emotional right now, but Cha Young looked like she was the one who lost a mother. With light steps he walked towards her. She was too preoccupied with their conversation that she didn't notice Vincenzo was already behind her.

"Vincenzo Cassano, where-" Vincenzo ended the call and placed his phone inside his coat.

"Yah!" Cha Young half cried half shouted on the phone. Tears were already welling in her eyes. Then without a word, he swiftly went and hugged her from behind, engulfing her in his embrace. His bloodied hand on her waist; his face buried in her neck. He took the phone from her right hand, tucked it inside her the pocket of her pants and then gently moved his hand back to her waist.

"Byeonhosa-nim. What are you doing?" She wants to turn around but Vincenzo's arms is tight around her.

"Back to byeonhosa-nim again? I'm sorry. This must have been how you felt before. I feel terrible."

"Yah. Don't make me cry anymore. Listen, it's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself. Let's not talk about that. Are you hurt somewhere?" Then Vincenzo loosen his arms from her and Cha Young was able to free herself from Vincenzo. She turned around to look at him. Gone is the cold gaze before he left earlier. With shaking hands he searched his arms, his torso and his chest to see if he has any injury. Aside from a few bruises on his fingers, thankfully he's not hurt anywhere else. Finally she settled her right hand on his face with an attempt to wipe away the blood stains.

Vincenzo was looking at her intently the entire time she was searching his body for any injury. This is the closest physically they have been after their charade as a couple. His left hand went to caress that Cha Young's hand and leaned his head. Her hands are warm on his cold cheeks. He closed his eyes and he spoke, "I'm fine."

"I was so worried. Why would you end the call without saying something?" She removed her hands from his cheeks to hit him in the shoulders just as she did before when she's irritated or excited. But he was quicker and took her hand back to his cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I'm here now."

"Will you please stop saying sorry?" Now they are looking at each other's eyes. The tension between them building up.

"Thank you for staying with my mom."

"I'm returning the favor. You stayed with my dad when I was busy fighting against him. Let's go in." She said changing the topic and dragging Vincenzo by the hand enter the morgue and say his final goodbye to his mom.

"Byeonhosa-nim," he said keeping her from walking, "today I have declared war with Babel. We still have a long war to fight and I don't want to lose you in the process. After mom's funeral, we have to arrange things so I can keep an eye on you. Either I stay in your house or you stay in my apartment." There was a pause and sigh before he uttered, "I can't lose you, too."

"Why?" she asked not looking at him. I can't lose you too. His words echo in her head. Something in her anticipate that he will confess his feelings for her. He's been very subtle about his words and actions towards her but this hug means something else. She wants him to acknowledge his feelings and accept that he deserves love.

"Just agree please and don't ask anymore questions." Because I love you, Hong Cha Young, in his mind he said. But these are the words she was not expecting. Maybe he needs more time. He just lost his mom. I need to stay with him. She sighed and said, "Okay. We'll stay at my house."

---------

So I finished it at last! It's my first fic in long time (oh the power that Vincenzo has). I figured Vinnie will save the confession a little later because what will we viewers look forward to? I hope you enjoyed this short fic!

Edit: I refined it a bit? LOL I might be writing the continuation of this. Chayenzo in Cha Young's house.

Here is Part 2!

#Vincenzo #Chayenzo #Excuse me while I focus on work #ehem #I really want a chayenzo backhug so I made it happen!#I also want Vincenzo to realize what cha young felt when her father died #vincenzo fic #chayenzo fic

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imagine-docx · 4 years ago

Text

interested.

Summary: Being best friends with Bucky, he always thinks you’re trying to get with Steve, when in reality, that is far from the truth. [college!chubby!]

Warnings: Swearing.

A/N: helloooo, i know i have been practically dead. but post secondary really ain’t it chief. here’s a small chub buck fic before i go back into the void that is my 3 hour online zoom lectures. - amanda 💛

»»————-　★　————-««

First year religion, with Professor Hill was quite possibly the most boring class to exist, but hey, that’s how you met Bucky Barnes. First year religion was a mandatory course that you had to take for psychology, and Bucky had to take for history. During the first lecture Prof Hill made you turn to the person next to you and discuss ideas, which happened to be Bucky.

The two of you felt so comfortable with each other, that you were always sitting next to each other during lectures, and eventually becoming the bestest of friends. To the point where you two spent breaks together, Friday nights together, hell he even came to a few of your classes, even though he shouldn’t be there as he wasn’t enrolled in them.

Even Bucky was surprised at this close friendship. He always had the small thought in the back of his mind saying, “She’s just using you for an easy ninety. Once the semester is over, she’s gone.” But to his surprise, here you were in your fourth year, still as strong as ever.

He could pinpoint the moment he realized he was in love with his best friend.

Second year, it was a random party that Thor was holding around early November. You were wearing a basic grey long sleeved shirt, some dark blue ripped jeans, and a pair of heels. You were dancing with Nat and Wanda, and he felt the switch in him flip, and he saw you in an affectionate way.

Needless to say, he left the party and went through a crisis at two am in the back of an Uber, at his new realization.

Since that day, he kept his feelings to himself. Not even telling his best friend Steve about the feelings he harboured towards you.

He always felt insecure whenever he was around you. You were always glowing, even when you had no makeup on and were in sweats on the days you had 9 am lectures. You were always this ball of sunshine that anyone would be glad to hang out with. But here he was, stomach protruding over the top of his jeans, sweaters used to hide how thick his arms actually were, and all around embarrassed about the way he looks. You could never possibly like someone like him back.

»»————-　★　————-««

It was the rare Friday night, where the two of you couldn’t meet because you had a gender studies essay to write, and he had an essay due for ancient civilizations. But, of course, the two of you were on FaceTime.

“You going to Thor’s party tomorrow?” He asked, typing in his name and student number.

“Depends, I still have three readings and a discussion post over my head for Drax.” You responded, finishing up the last sentence.

“You should come, you’ve been pulling essays out of your ass since the semester started. You need to have some fun,” Bucky said, studying your face as you yawned.

“Perks of being a social science major,” you responded, making slight adjustments to your essay.

“Please?” He begged, “I need my best friend there.”

“We will see.”

»»————-　★　————-««

God, three years later, and he still didn’t understand how you pulled off every look possible. Last night you were in one of his hoodies, hair greased, and no makeup on. Today you were pulling off a slightly oversized band tee, some ripped jeans, hairstyled and effortless makeup.

“Didn’t expect you to be around here, thought Drax owned you tonight” Bucky jokes.

“Thought about it. But a certain Brooklyn boy talked me into coming. There’s always pulling an all nighter tomorrow night,” you said, taking a drink from your cup.

“Glad to know I am useful.”

The two of you spent a good chunk of time talking by the bar. The two of you didn’t stop until Sam pulled him away for some beer pong.

You debated going over to your friend group, but from where you were, it looked like they were wasted out of their minds. And talking to them will probably result in them drunkenly saying that you should fess up and admit your crush to Bucky. And knowing your exact luck, he would be around, and that would be a hard hole to dig yourself out of.

You decided that you were gonna get some peace in the kitchen. You were sitting on one of the counters, hearing drunken screams, while scrolling through Instagram.

“You know, it would be easy to tell him how you feel,” you look up to match the voice to the person, only to see Steve.

“And I am assuming Nat did some drunk mumbling to you,” you mumbled, looking down into your cup.

“Or anyone with eyes could see the way the two of you look at each other,” Steve said, leaning against the fridge next to the counter you sat on.

You let out a sigh, “He doesn’t see me in that way. I’m just his best friend.”

“He looks at you like you hung every single star in this galaxy. I should know, I was told I look like that when I look at Nat.”

You laughed and punched him in the bicep, “At least the loverboy admits it.”

Bucky was looking for you, passing by the kitchen he saw that you and Steve were smiling, laughing and talking. He never realized how much of a couple the two of you looked like. Absolutely perfect for each other.

He felt nauseous and decided to head home. Of course you wouldn’t like him, you liked guys who were fit, like Steve. An absolute sweetheart, like Steve. Someone who could care for you, like Steve. Steve.

»»————-　★　————-««

The next morning, he saw that you were calling and kept the talking to a minimum, saying he didn’t feel good and hung up.

He needed to get his feelings in check before he exploded.

From then on, he always scheduled stuff with Steve too. You deserved it.

You deserved happiness, even if it was with Steve and not him.

He would make coffee dates on campus, and never show up. Or invite you for movie night at the apartment, and at the absolute last second ‘have his shift extended’ at work.

»»————-　★　————-««

At some point, he just started blatantly ignoring you. From phone calls, to texts, to even practically running away from you.

The last straw for you was the day your sociology professor let you go early for the day. And you were already feeling under the weather, so you just decided to head back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your day taking it easy.

While you were walking down the tunnel from your class, you saw an all familiar head of hair walking in the opposite direction. You shouted his name several times, and practically ran after him. And you knew he saw and heard you, but continued to walk away from you.

You finally stopped, realization hitting you. He doesn’t like you anymore, and you don’t know what you did. You took a deep breath, turned around and walked back to your dorm.

You sat on your bed, confused as to what the fuck you did to him for him to do this. At that point, you gave him the space he wanted. You stopped texting him, calling him, even going over to his apartment.

»»————-　★　————-««

What caused Bucky to do all of this? Two days prior, he finished his contemporary civilizations class and was on his way to the student centre to get something to eat before his colonial encounters class.

When he walked into the centre, he was greeted with you and Steve sitting at a table, laughing about something, while drinking bubble tea.

He felt something stab him in the chest. It’s supposed to be him. He’s supposed to be the one taking you out for bubble tea. He’s supposed to be the one making you laugh like that.

It was then he realized, he didn’t set up this meeting. He drew the conclusion, that he pushed the two of you closer together, and that neither of them wanted him to know.

He knew he was acting childish. But he didn’t care.

»»————-　★　————-««

Since the encounter after your sociology class, you haven’t messaged him, called him, or even made the effort to see him. It was starting to bother him. He felt empty.

He missed the random texts he would get from you about something stupid in your readings. Or the ‘I accidentally watched too much Netflix, and my discussion post is due in an hour and I have NOTHING’ texts. Or you randomly calling in the middle of the night asking him if he wanted to meet up for milkshakes.

All he would see was Instagram stories or posts of you. Whether it was you at a party getting wasted with your friends, or if it was you being cozy and studying, or you and your friends doing late night stupidity. He missed having you around.

Every single thought he has, would be of you. What were you doing? Who were you hanging out with? Did you get enough sleep? Did you eat anything for the day?

He eventually decided to start essays early just so his thoughts weren’t fogged by you.

»»————-　★　————-««

Bucky was wrapping up his notes on his latest reading. As he closed his textbook, he felt something collide with the back of his head. He turned around to see Steve sitting on his bed. “What?”

“Why are you ignoring her?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky turned back around.

“You damn well know what I am talking about. So, answer the question, why are you ignoring her?” Steve asked.

“Why do you care? That’s your girlfriend.” Bucky seethed.

A laugh erupted from Steve, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then why do the two of you act like it.” He muttered.

“Because she’s giving me pointers on asking out Nat,” he responded, “I bet you feel so stupid.”

Bucky turned back around in shock, “Wait, you’re not dating her?”

“Never was. It’s cute seeing how jealous you are,” Steve said, getting up, “Go get your girl.”

»»————-　★　————-««

Bucky has never sprinted out of his apartment so fast. He was about to walk up the stairs leading to your dorm, when he was about to open the door, the door opened revealing Carol. “Oh hey Buck. What are you doing here? You know she moved out like last month right?” she asked.

He never realized that you left the dorms, hell he didn’t even know where you were now. “Oh yeah, force of habit.” He nervously laughed.

“Anyways, I’m late for my date. Tell her I said hi!” She said walking off.

»»————-　★　————-««

Bucky returned to the apartment and was pacing around. He didn’t know where you could have gone. Nat and Wanda had no space, so you wouldn’t be there. Your parents were way too far out, and you wouldn’t want to commute all the way back. His mind was running through possibilities.

Steve and Sam were just looking on at the spiral that was occurring in front of them. “Does he…?” Sam asked.

“Nope.” Steve responded.

“Ah.” Sam responded.

“Where could she have gone though? I don’t get it.” Bucky said to himself.

“Can I tell him?” Steve asked.

“Nah.” Sam said.

“Wait, you guys know where she is? Why don’t you tell me?” Bucky said with despair laced in his voice.

Sam sighed, “Nat and Wanda.”

And with that Bucky practically sprinted out the door.

»»————-　★　————-««

Wanda and Nat were out for the night, leaving you in the living room finishing up your essay for sociology. Wrapping it up, you slapped the submit button, and headed for the shower.

Upon getting out and changing into some sweatpants and hoodie, you were contemplating what you wanted to eat. Until you heard a knock on the door, confused, you opened it to Bucky, you were about to close it but he managed to let out a, “Can I talk to you?”

You were about to say, “No.”

But once you heard his voice cracked, when he said, “Please,” your heart broke, and accepted talking to him.

»»————-　★　————-««

The two of you sat on top of the building overlooking the city. Bucky was looking at the view of the city, whereas, you were sitting on the bench.

He took note that you were shivering, and he shrugged off his jacket, wrapping you up in it. You were trying to shrug it off, when he said, “You’re gonna get sick.” You accepted that he was probably gonna tie you up in it so you don’t take it off, so you kept it on.

“So why did you ignore me?” You said, looking down at your feet.

“I thought you were dating Steve, and I got jealous. I know I pushed the two of you together, but I still couldn’t bear the thought of him being the one dating you.” He muttered, taking a seat next to you.

“Wait, you were jealous? Why?” You asked, confusion laced your voice.

“I really like you, god I’ve liked you for so long and you deserve someone better than me. Someone who’s fitter, someone who’s better looking, someone you would want to be seen with.” He said, looking down at his feet, hair falling into his face.

You pushed the hair out of his face, “No. I deserve someone who is willing to pick me up for burgers and milkshakes at 3 am. I deserve someone who is willing to drop anything they're doing to come and spend time with me. I deserve someone who would respond to my psych readings, even though they aren’t in my program. I deserve you.”

“You like me?” Bucky stammered.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” You asked. “I thought me calling you at three am because I missed you was obvious.

He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you closer, kissed your hair before muttering an, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m only accepting your apology under one condition,” you said.

He looked at you with the biggest eyes ever. Ready to do anything you even asked for. “Get bubble tea with me?” You asked.

“How about tomorrow we take a trip out of the city, to a zoo or aquarium, and bubble tea?” He said with pleading eyes.

“Only if it’s a date,” you said smiling at him.

“Anything for you.” he said, finally leaning into kiss you.

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lookforanewangle · 3 years ago

Text

sweet child o’ mine || spn || 2.5k || ao3

tags: canon typical mentions of violence from the slice girls, brief mention of blood

a/n: throwing this out into the void before I inevitably get sucked back into dc stuff tomorrow, so. here you go: a quick bundle of scenes of dean and emma, and a little deancas, and a little dean and jack. takes place around a year?? after the end of s15 (minus the finale because we don't accept that as canon in this household) title is from, you guessed it, sweet child o’ mine by guns n’ roses.

also! brief mention of the leviathan takes inspo from @/demenior’s fic series the love it takes which you all should go read asap 👀

Emma shows back up on a Tuesday.

The scuffle from the direction of the War Room draws Dean’s attention away from the long list of house listings he and Cas have been going through. Find a Fixer-Upper, Cas had said. We can make it our own. Dean was all for that, but finding their house, thee house, was taking longer than he’d like.

He thought nothing of the noise at first; Eileen may have come over or Sam may have been moving around artifacts again, or maybe Cas was back from the Farmer’s Market.

At Sam’s sudden shout, however, Dean goes running.

He whirls around the corner, gun whipping up to aim at whatever threat lay ahead. Sam is on his knees, blood dripping from his nose, and there’s a girl holding a blade to his throat. There’s something familiar about her, but Dean can’t place it. He doesn’t waver in his stance.

“Who the hell are you,” he demands, “and how did you—”

Dean falters, then, memories flooding back from a one-off hunt years ago. A one night stand, a sudden surprise. He pales as her face finally clicks.

That's his daughter.

“Not another step,” she snarls, fingers fisting tight in Sam’s jacket to hold him in place. Sam shifts his hand towards his pocket, and Dean pulls himself back to the present. He moves his supporting hand away from the gun and up to the side, placating, as he slowly lowers the gun to the ground.

“Woah, no no no, hey, no one’s gonna hurt anyone,” he rushes gently, catching Sam’s gaze with a look. Don’t. He turns his gaze back to hers and sets the gun on the floor. “I’m putting the gun down. Just let him go.”

“He killed me!” she spits, blade pressing deeper against Sam’s neck. “I can still remember the look on his face, and you had a gun on me too.”

“I know,” Dean says, chest twinging at the memory, “and I regret how I acted, Emma. It’s— it’s Emma, right?”

At the mention of her name, her fingers loosen on the knife and she inhales sharp and quiet. Dean takes that as a promising sign. He exhales.

“You...you remember?” she breathes. Dean can only nod.

“If I could go back and change that day I would,” he says. He risks a half step forward. Emma straightens and retightens her fingers.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“Emma,” he says, hands still up and placating. He fights not to lunge forward and tear the knife from her grip. He takes a breath. “Please. Let him go.”

“And why should I?” she demands. “So he can kill me again?”

Sam wisely stays silent.

“He won’t, I promise you. He was pretty messed up the last time you saw him. We both were, really. But I need you to trust me,” Dean pleads. “We...we’ve changed. I know you won’t believe that, but it’s true.”

Emma says nothing, but she gazes at him intently, as if looking for the truth behind his words. Dean slowly lowers a hand out to her, facing up.

“Just give me the knife,” he continues, palm open and waiting, patient. “Please.”

She searches his face a moment more. Dean waits.

“Fine,” she says finally, and Dean can hear the tremor in her voice. She shoves the dagger hilt into Dean’s palm.

“Thank you,” Dean says, soft.

He closes his fingers around it and moves it away, placing it on the map table. Sam stands and steps out of reach, coming to a rest just to the side and behind Dean. Dean and Emma just look at each other, assessing.

"Sam, why don't you go see if Cas is back," Dean says. There's a pause. Dean can feel Sam leveling him with a look.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Dean says and spares him a quick glance and a nod. "Go on."

"All right," Sam says, hesitant. He glances between them, unsure, but he leaves them be.

"Take a seat," Dean says once Sam is out of earshot. He lowers himself into his own chair, hoping she’ll follow suit. "We have a lot to catch you up on."

“Where the hell am I?” Emma bursts, hands fisted at her sides. She doesn't sit. “What even is this place?”

“Home,” Dean says, lips quirking for a moment. He can hear the tell-tale flutter of Cas’s wings in the kitchen, arriving back from the farmer’s market, the low timbre of Sam’s voice as he speaks with him. Dean’s fingers itch for Cas, restless and wanting.

“You’re home.”

“You’re locking me up?”

“Listen, kid, I'd rather not do this, either, but you did try and kill us last time you saw us. And again today,” Dean says matter-of-factly, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

“I was ordered to slaughter you, and return with your hands and feet,” she says.

“Well, that’s gruesome,” Dean says.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispers, glaring at the room as if it’s a prison sentence. She doesn’t take a step forward.

“You always have a choice,” Dean counters, insistent. “Maybe not then, but you do now. We made sure of that.”

Her brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“We...might have killed God,” he confesses, shrugging helplessly. “He was a dick.”

She stares at him.

“You killed...God.”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p.’ “It was a whole thing. Don’t worry about it.”

They stand in silence, glancing looks at one another in turn. Emma doesn’t step into the room. Dean doesn’t push. When he was younger, he may have forced her in against her will, locking the door behind him until morning and walking away from her desperate pleas to let her out. He’s grown, though. Changed. They’ve all changed, him more than most. His dad’s voice still rages in his head from time to time on the worst days, about how he’s grown soft, and wouldn’t last a day in the field.

But he’s made it this far. Their little rag tag group has beaten every adversary they’ve come across, even God, and over time they’ve all grown. They’re family.

Emma, however briefly they’ve known her so far, is family. Or she will be, if she wants to be.

Dean sighs, and strides in alone.

“Change of plans,” he says, tugging on the corner of the mattress. Emma watches him from the doorway, confused. “Help me with this, would you?”

“I don’t like this plan,” Cas says with a grumble after dinner, eyes squinted in distrust as he watches Emma from the far side of the doorway. She’s perched at Dean’s desk, flipping through the various papers and books with mild curiosity.

“I'm not locking her up, Cas,” Dean murmurs, chest panging. “We didn’t do right by her the first time around, and I’m not going to treat her like we did before. We’ve learned since then, and I’m— I’m not—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, reaching out to grip his fingers. Dean squeezes back. “I trust you. If you think it best, then we’ll go with it. But I will be listening in case anything goes wrong.”

Dean’s chest warms.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he answers with a smile, leaning over to peck Cas’s cheek. Cas’s free hand drifts upwards, catching Dean’s jaw to tilt him down into a full kiss. Dean hums.

“Love you,” he murmurs against Cas’s lips. Cas mimics his response as he presses his nose to Dean’s and vanishes in a flutter of wings. Dean opens his eyes to Emma’s face screwed up in disgust, cringing in the chair.

“What,” he asks, challenging.

“Gross,” she comments. “Why do you kiss if you’re incapable of copulating?”

Big words for a...shit how old is she? Dean muses, brain stalling out. One? Two? How many years is that in Amazon years?

“Because we’re in love, kiddo,” he says finally, shutting the door behind him and collapsing onto his bed with a sigh. Sam will be by to lock it before bed.

“Gross.”

Dean just laughs.

“Are...are you awake?” Emma whispers into the dark, hours later. Dean shifts, turning his head towards her voice up on the bed. He refused to let her sleep on the floor, regardless of the fact they’d both be on a mattress. She doesn’t have memory foam. She deserved to experience it at least once.

“Yup,” Dean whispers back.

“Oh,” she breathes. She pauses. “I, um. I’m hungry, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she answers, hesitant. “Sorry. I know it’s bad timing.”

“Nothin’ to worry about,” Dean answers, raising himself onto his elbows to find her. She’s sat up against the headboard, knees pulled to her chest. She looks so young.

Dean’s chest pangs.

“Luckily for you,” he continues, standing and heading to his desk, “I happen to be one of the best at picking locks.”

He rifles around in the top drawer for a moment. Eventually he finds what he’s looking for and turns around with a smile, lock picks in hand.

“Have you had those the whole time?” she asks, not moving from her spot on the bed. Dean shrugs.

“Didn’t want to give you the chance to do something you may regret,” he answers. “Clearly that wasn’t something we needed to worry about though, unless you’re faking right now?” he asks, eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“No.”

“Well, good on that then,” Dean answers. He waves the lockpicks in his hand.

“Ever been on a jailbreak?”

“I saw you once,” she says over a bowl of strawberry ice cream, “in Purgatory.”

“Oh,” Dean says, memories flooding back of the horrors from that long, long year. He tries to remember ever spotting a young girl in the vast, grey-colored woods. “I never saw you.”

“Good,” she says, corner of her mouth lifting up in tired amusement. “You weren’t supposed to.

“I got very good at hiding,” she continues, stirring the melted soup of her ice cream around her bowl. “I may have been bred for fighting, but some monsters are... too much for one girl to handle.”

“I, uh. I know what you mean,” Dean answers, setting down his spoon as his stomach churns at the thought of her scared and alone in Purgatory of all places. He’d seen how terrifying some of those monsters could be, the sheer magnitude of the Leviathan in particular. He’d had Benny, at least, and eventually Cas, but her on her own…

“Were you on your own the whole time?” he asks carefully. She doesn’t lift her gaze from her bowl. Dean waits.

“For the most part...yes,” she answers. “Making friends in Purgatory is, um.”

“I know,” Dean rasps. They sit in silence. Dean’s not hungry anymore.

“There were other Amazons,” she says after a while. Dean glances back up. She carefully doesn’t look at him, stirring her ice cream around and around her bowl. “We didn’t necessarily see eye to eye.”

Dean doesn't know what to say to that.

“I don’t want to be like them,” she says in a rush. She clamps her mouth shut, eyes wide with terror in her gaze, as if Dean would react poorly to her statement. Something about her fear strikes a nerve in him, reminds him too much of a little boy trying with all his might to please his father.

Dean wants to go kill a few more Amazons.

“You don’t have to be,” he reassures her. He reaches out and places a comforting hand on her wrist. She flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. Dean holds. “Emma, you can be whoever you want to be. Family shouldn’t dictate who you decide to be.”

“Wasn’t your father a hunter?” she asks, wary.

“He started hunting when I was little,” Dean answers carefully, “and raised me into that. Just like you, I didn’t have a choice, then. But things have changed. They’re complicated, for sure, but I— I am not my father. You don’t have to be like your mother or sisters. Or, uh, like me either,” he says. He rubs his free hand across the back of his neck, self-conscious. He clears his throat.

“The point is,” he continues, “is that whatever you want to do and whoever you want to be is entirely up to you. You’re welcome to stay in the Bunker, if you’d like, or uh, head out on your own, I guess, if that’s what you want. I don’t want to keep you trapped here. We’re gonna get you a phone first, though, if you decide to leave. You may have shot up like a weed, but you’re still a kid, just like Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Long story,” Dean says, waving his hand as if shooing away the conversation, “you can meet him later. I just. I don’t want you to be alone, again. Not when you don’t have to be.”

“I’d like that,” she says, slow and careful, mulling over her words, “to...to stay here, I think. At least for a while.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, stress sliding away. “We’re a pretty rag-tag group of fellas. Though Eileen comes by often; you’d like her, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” she answers with a shy smile. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

She ends up in the room just down the hall from Dean. He takes her shopping the next day, much to Sam’s hesitation, but Cas only offers a knowing smile and turns back to his crossword of the day. Dean figures Cas been where Dean is now, both with Claire and Jack, to an extent. He’s gone through many similar struggles.

Now it’s Dean’s turn.

Jack confesses to being the one to bring her back.

“Almost everyone else from our family got a second chance,” he explains when Dean finally corners him later, bribing with peanut butter cookies, “I figured she should get one too, even if you barely knew her.”

“That was sweet of you, Jack,” Cas says from over Dean’s shoulder, hand slipping beneath Dean’s jacket to rest comfortingly at the small of his back. Dean leans into the gesture.

“It was,” Dean agrees. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack beams.

When they find their fixer-upper, Dean triple-checks that there are enough rooms for everyone. One for him and Cas, one for Jack, one for Claire, one for Sam and Eileen whenever they come to visit—

And one for Emma.

She disappears for a while a month into staying with them, heading out with Claire to help figure herself out. It’s not until her first hunt (against Dean’s best wishes) where she kills for the first time that her rapid aging kicks in. She settles somewhere in the mid-twenties range; Dean doesn’t know for sure. It’s a bit too reminiscent of Jack, but they’re all used to weird magic things by now, and no one questions it.

She leaves often, these days, coming into her own over time, but Dean is proud of who she’s grown into the past few years since Jack brought her back.

She always returns home, though, and Dean welcomes her with open arms every time.

***

tagging a lovely emmanatural advocate: @borntodiedean

if you’d like to be tagged, just lmk! <3

#emma winchester #emma supernatural #spn #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #spn fics #supernatural #supernatural fics #emma spn #lyss writes #take it I don't wanna look at it anymore #I need to read more emma fics so I can get a better grasp on her but I think I did pretty okay here #idk lemme know what you thought!!

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capcarolsdanver · 4 years ago

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A Christmas Carol

Summary: You’re left with the disappointing fact that you will likely be spending yet another Christmas without your girlfriend, Carol Danvers. Your friends offer you support, but all you really need right now is your girlfriend to return from space to be with you for your favourite holiday. Can you count on a Christmas miracle? Pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader A/N: Well... it’s not quite Christmas still, but I severely underestimated how busy I would be over the holidays, so please enjoy this late Christmas fic! Feedback is always appreciated so please let me know what you think! Please do not repost any of my writing anywhere else without my permission.

The annual Avengers Christmas get together is in full swing, and your eyes sweep out across the room to all of your closest friends around you. Of course, everyone’s having a great time, and the open space of the large party hall at Avenger HQ is full of laughter and joyous chatter amongst the guests.

Thor, who still doesn’t exactly understand Christmas, just seems happy to get to spend time with his favourite people. He brought along a generous supply of Asgardian alcohol for those who have what would be classified as a very high tolerance to alcohol, so as expected everyone is in a very joyous mood.

You yourself had found a spot on one of the couches surrounding a small table and had barely moved the whole night, feeling more in the mood to spectate in the festivities rather than participate this year.

Not to say that you’re sitting on your own in some miserable slump, because you are genuinely trying to enjoy everybody’s company, but you can’t deny the Carol-sized void that is particularly evident anywhere you go. Especially during the holidays.

As if to emphasise it, Steve, who’s sitting opposite you from across the small table, catches your eye.

“So, Y/N. When’s your lady coming home?”

He asks you kindly, with a warm smile, as Steve always does. Despite this, you can’t help it when your own smile falters and everyone sitting in your immediate proximity grows quiet, regarding you with sympathy.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Steve rushes to say when he seems to realise his mistake.

“No, don’t be,” you’re quick to reassure. “I knew what I was getting into when I started dating Carol. I can’t exactly expect space crime to conveniently stop in time for the holidays, can I?”

You choose not to bring up that this will be the third Christmas in a row that you have to spend without Carol, but you still feel the pity practically radiating from every person in the group.

“Okay, who else thinks it’s time for shots?” Sam yells loud enough to be heard over the music by everyone, and the group seems to loudly agree. You remind yourself to thank Sam later for successfully shifting everyone’s attention from you.

Everyone scrambles to each grab a shot. You remain seated on the couch, and moments later Nat takes her own spot on the couch next to you and presses a shot glass into your hands just in time for everybody to simultaneously start counting down from 3.

Somewhere between shouting and cheering, everyone downs their shots, and you all seem to collectively wince. You and Nat both grimace at the burn of the alcohol and it manages to get a chuckle from you.

Nat drops her shot glass on the table before she turns to face you again.

“So. Real talk,” she raises an eyebrow as if warning you not to try to back away from the conversation. “When did you last speak to Carol?”

“A couple weeks ago,” you admit, sighing. “She left on some mission about a month ago. But you know how it is when she’s working up there. It’s so hard for either of us to contact the other.”

Nat smiles sadly. “I’m sorry.” She pats your knee and you shrug at her, though you feel like you’re able to let your guard down a bit now that everyone else in preoccupied.

“Yeah, it sucks,” you let out, feeling Carol’s absence hit you all over again. Your eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over.

Unexpectedly, and uncharacteristically, Nat pulls you into a hug. You give yourself little time to think about her rare show of affection before you gratefully wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on her shoulder.

“Did she tell you how long the mission might last?”

You shake her head. “No, she just said she might not be able to contact me until she was done.”

“Okay, I think you need another drink,” Nat says, releasing you from her arms. “I’ll be back.”

You quickly wipe at your eyes at the chance of any rogue tears that managed to fall and smile at her before she stands up and heads towards the bar.

————————

On the morning of Christmas Eve, you wake up with a start to some kind of commotion going from somewhere outside the room. You quickly survey your surroundings, remembering that you had decided the previous night to just stay at Avengers HQ after the party, like almost everyone else had. You’re in your old room that you used to live in before you and Carol had moved out together.

The commotion that had woken you up appears to still be going on if the shouting from somewhere outside your closed door is any indiction, so you begrudgingly get up to go investigate.

You follow the loud intrusion of sound into the kitchen, where you aren’t all that surprised to find Bucky and Sam shouting and gesturing wildly at one another.

“Dude, don’t lie. You literally stole my pop tart straight from my plate!” Bucky looks livid. Opposite him, Sam throws his arms out away from his body, matching Bucky’s outrage.

“You have no proof, you moron.”

“Why do I need proof when there was no one else around? It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

You continue watching their exchange, entirely unsurprised that they are blowing up over something as small as a pop tart. You’re half considering just heating another pop tart to shut them up when Nat leans on the wall next to you, taking a sip from her steaming mug of coffee while her eyes also land on the boys.

“Bet you’re glad you don’t wake up to this kind of thing everyday in that fancy apartment of yours, huh?”

“You can say that again,” you laugh. Though, of course, you probably do prefer waking up to these regular early morning antics from the boys than to the empty silence of your apartment whenever Carol isn’t there with you.

“You’re still coming with us to look at Christmas lights tonight, right?”

To be honest, you’d completely forgotten about Steve’s plan for you all to go on some Christmas light trail that night, and although Christmas is generally your favourite holiday, you find yourself not really in the mood to celebrate it this year.

But then again, anything to take your mind off of Carol’s absence sounds appealing to you right now.

“You bet.”

————————

You trail the group, looking around you at all the incredible Christmas displays people have decorated their homes with. There was absolutely no denying how beautiful the entire street is, but as much as you try you just can’t seem to get out of your own head.

Steve’s leading the group and you can hear them all excitedly chatting, pointing out particularly well decorated houses, but you’re content to linger towards the back of the group and take everything in on your own. You know you’re lacking the Christmas spirit needed to participate with them right now, anyway.

A solid hand is suddenly falling around your shoulders, successfully shaking you from whatever broody train of thought you were on as you almost jump out of your skin. Your head snaps to the person you were now attached to, seeing Thor’s wide smile. He tugs you closer to him in an almost brotherly fashion.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” you manage, after your heart beat finally slows back down to a normal rate again.

“Ah, you’re yet to hear from Carol, I presume?” Thor asks. You’ve gotta give him credit. As much as he’s completely enthralled by the Christmas lights surrounding you, Thor can still pick up on your solemn mood with remarkable ease.

“You presume correctly.”

You see Thor hesitate for only a moment before he speaks. “Might I offer a few words, Y/N?”

“Sure,” you say, sighing. What could you lose from hearing what he has to say? Plus, the Asgardian usually provided you with some pretty solid advice.

“Please give Carol a little patience. I know firsthand how difficult it can be to communicate with you all while I’m not here.” You soften at Thor’s words, not even aware of how tense your body was. “You all are my family. And it hurts when I’m unable to talk to any of you whenever I’d like,” he explains. “So, please just remember that Carol is likely just as anxious to speak with you as well.”

“Right,” you say more to yourself. Thor’s words somehow do make you feel some kind of comfort in the fact that Carol wasn’t choosing to go so long without talking to you. Not that you thought she was, but the reassurance helps.

Thor squeezes your shoulder in comfort and loosens his grip from around your shoulders, but before he can leave your side again you grab his arm.

“Thank you, Thor,” you say sincerely, and he gives you an understanding smile before leaving you to your own thoughts again.

At some point a little later, Steve seems to notice from his spot at the front of the pack that you’re still lagging behind, because he drops his pace to fall into step with you.

“Are you having a good night, Y/N?”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you smile. As distracted as you’ve been, it’s hard to miss how much fun the others in your group are having. “Thanks for organising this, Steve.”

He returns your smile and nods. “Well, for most of us, we’re all we’ve got. I figured it was time to start making some traditions of our own.”

“Well I like that sound of that,” you say. You really do appreciate everything Steve does for every single one of you, and he was right. You are family. Personally, if it weren’t for the Avengers, you would have no one else. You know the same applies for many of you, the man you were currently talking to included.

“Hey, listen,” Steve says in a considerably more careful tone. “I wanted to apologise again for bringing up Carol last night.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” you reassure him, shaking your head.

“I know, but-” He shrugs. “I just feel bad about bringing her up when we were supposed to be getting into the Christmas spirit last night. I mean, what is this, your second Christmas without Carol?”

“My third, actually,” you mutter, clearing your throat and dropping your eyes to the pavement in front of you.

“Shit, here I go again,” he curses, watching you. “I’m sorry.”

“Steve, stop apologising,” you say firmly. “Seriously, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

You take a scan of your surroundings. The street sign catches your eye and you realise you’re only a few blocks away from your apartment, which sounds like an awfully appealing place to be right now. You were exhausted from your previous late night, plus, what little Christmas spirit you did have has been all but spent this far into the Christmas light trail.

“Oh, you know what? We’re pretty close to my apartment. I think I might call it a night.”

Steve’s eyes widen and his features settle into a look of guilt. “You aren’t going to come back to HQ with the rest of us?”

“Nah, I think I just want to head home. I’m pretty tired.”

“Oh man, I totally ruined your night, didn’t I?” Steve shakes his head at himself, his look of guilt deepening even further. “I can’t believe I brought Carol up again.”

You interrupt Steve’s inevitable continued apologies before he can even start.

“Steve, no. My brain was never going to turn off tonight, anyway. It wouldn’t matter if none of you mentioned Carol the entire day, I still would have thought of her.”

Steve looks fairly unconvinced, still clearly internally scolding himself. Though you notice his features soften and eventually he nods.

“Do you need someone to walk with you?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s really not far at all.”

“Alright,” he hesitantly agrees. “But we’ll see you in the morning to exchange gifts and everything, right?”

“Right,” you laugh. “Hey, do me a favour and let everyone else know I left early. Nat would never let me leave a group activity early if I told her I wanted to.”

“No problem,” Steve laughs.

You give his forearm a quick squeeze in thanks, waving to him before you make your way towards your apartment.

————————

You’ve barely even made it a block before your phone starts ringing. You fish it out from your pocket, assuming that it’s Nat, calling to berate you for leaving the group early. Without even checking the caller ID, you answer.

“I don’t want to hear it, I’m not coming back,” you say, not leaving opportunity for the person on the other line to get a word in first.

“Coming back to where?”

The voice on the other line is not Nat. In fact, it’s the last voice you were expecting to hear tonight.

“Carol?!” You practically squeal into the phone, stopping dead in your tracks.

“Hey, baby,” she says and you instantly melt, having gone weeks without hearing her voice.

“Oh my god. Hi,” you greet back, feeling like you could burst into tears at any given minute.

“You okay there?” You can practically hear her smirk and the image of it in your mind makes you smile.

“Yeah, I just can’t believe I’m hearing your voice right now.”

“Well you better believe it, babe, because it’s definitely happening.”

Your brain finally recovers from the shock enough to ask a vital question. “Wait, does this mean your mission is over?”

“Mmhm,” she confirms. “Finished a couple days ago, actually, but this is the first chance I’ve had to be able to call you.”

You can’t help the sudden hopefulness that you feel. If the mission ended a couple of days ago and she was already on her way back to Earth, then it was entirely possible that she could be back within the next day.

You let out a deep breath, your emotions almost getting the best of you. With your mind racing a million miles a minute, you subconsciously start taking some more steps forward. The snow beneath your feet crunches slightly with every step you take.

“Where are you?” She asks curiously, and you assume she’s heard the sounds of your footsteps.

“Uh, I’m on my way to the apartment.”

“Wait, you’re walking to the apartment? Alone?!”

“Hey, I can handle myself,” you chuckle. “I am an Avenger, remember? Besides, I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voices lilts slightly. “Why are you even walking the streets at night, anyway?”

“How do you know it’s nighttime? Doesn’t everywhere look like night in space?” You can’t help but tease and Carol laughs.

“Well, is it nighttime?”

“…Yes,” you admit. “But that’s nothing more than a lucky guess.”

“Uh huh,” Carol replies, and you can hear her smirk through the phone again. The things you would do to see that smirk in person at this moment…

“Anyway,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “I was with everyone up until a few minutes ago. We were out looking at lights.”

“Lights? What kind of lights are so special that you’ve gotta go out in a group to go look at them?”

You’re left dumbstruck for a moment. She surely hasn’t forgotten what time of year it is, has she? You’d only reminded her about a month ago, and she knows how much you love the holiday. You assumed she would have remembered.

“We were looking at Christmas lights,” you clarify.

“Oh. Well now it makes sense,” you laughs. “Isn’t it a little too soon to be looking at Christmas lights, though?”

You’re hit with the fact that she’s actually forgotten what time of year it is. You try to shake off the sudden disappointment, though you’re a little too aware that if she has forgotten the date then she likely hasn’t begun her journey back to Earth just yet either. Which means another Carol-less Christmas for you once more.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” you eventually mutter into the phone.

“It is?” She sounds vaguely surprised at your clarification. “Huh. I guess it’s pretty easy to lose track of time up here.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“So you’re heading back to the apartment?” She continues on as if you hadn’t just revealed to her that your favourite holiday is mere hours away. You can’t exactly be mad at her, though. As she said, it’s easy to lose track of time while she’s doing important work up in space. “Why not HQ with everyone else?”

“I just felt like being home, I guess,” you explain. “I wasn’t in the Christmas spirit and we were pretty close to the apartment, so I decided to head home early.”

You hear Carol hum in acknowledgement as you use your keycard to get into your apartment building. You start up the flight of stairs leading to your apartment.

“So, when do you think you’ll be back?” You can’t help but ask. Realistically, you have known for weeks that Carol likely wouldn’t make it back in time for Christmas. Though, with Christmas Day only a few hours away, and your short-lived hopes of her returning any day now, the disappointment of her not being here is fresh once again.

“Soon,” Carol says vaguely and you frown.

“Soon? That could mean anything,” you complain. “Don’t you have at least some idea of when you’ll be back?” You can’t help the slight bite to your tone, the frustration of everything seemingly growing by the minute.

You fumble with your keys, your current conversation leaving you preoccupied enough to struggle with the basic task of locating the correct key on your keychain to grant you entrance into your apartment.

“I don’t know, babe,” you hear Carol say and you finally unlock the door, pushing it open and walking into your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Her voice sounds suddenly different, louder, and you twist around on the spot until you’re facing your living room.

You gasp when you see her. Carol is standing beside your Christmas tree. Her eyes are on you and she still has her phone pressed to her ear. The only thing that rivals the bright lights of the tree is her wide grin, bright enough to light up the room all on its own.

Your wide eyes refuse to blink as you look back at her. You’re suddenly all out of words.

You watch as Carol takes one step closer, and then another, until she’s closing the distance between the two of you. The closer she gets to you, the softer her smile grows.

“You’re here,” you whisper into your phone. Carol lowers her own phone, coming to a stop directly in front of you.

“I’m here,” she returns, her own voice barely above a whisper too.

“Hi,” you say dumbly and Carol smiles adoringly at you. She gently takes your phone from your hand and drops it down onto your couch along with her own.

“Hi.”

Before you know what you’re doing, you abruptly tackle her in a tight hug. If she weren’t Captain Marvel you might have been worried about her balance, but she remains steady, wrapping you up in her strong arms.

Without even realising it, tears are spilling out of your eyes and running down your cheeks, and you let out a deep breath you weren’t even aware you were holding, pressing your face into Carol’s neck and breathing in her scent. You feel the lightest you’ve felt in months.

Carol hears your sniffling and takes a step back to look at you. She keeps ahold of your sides.

“You okay?”

“Are you kidding?” You choke out a laugh amidst your tears. “I’m more than okay, Carol. What are you even doing here?”

You still can’t believe your eyes. You can’t believe that the love of your life is standing right in front of you when only moments ago you still believed that she was in outer space.

“What, you really thought I’d let you spend another Christmas without me? It’s your favourite holiday, you know?” She lets go of her hold on your left side to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know how much it killed me having to miss the last two Christmases with you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, completely in awe of the woman in front of you.

“I love you so much, Carol.”

“I love you too.” She barely has time to get the words out before your mouth is pressed against hers in a kiss that’s long overdue. You only pull back for a moment when your smile literally grows too big to continue kissing Carol. You both break into laughter, giddy at the joy of finally being together again.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” You say the words that repeat over and over in your mind. Carol’s intense gaze regards you and she smiles at you sweetly.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Merry Christmas, Carol,” you reply before your lips are meeting hers again.

————————

The next morning, you wake up to the sound of Christmas carols playing from the living room and the smell of fresh coffee drifting in through your open bedroom door. You can hear Carol softly singing along to the music, and you smile sleepily.

Nat was right. You’ve never been more glad to wake up to the sounds of your apartment than you are right now.

#carol danvers imagine #captain marvel imagine #brie larson imagine #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel x reader #brie larson x reader #mcu imagine #carol danvers #captain marvel #avengers #mcu #mine #fic

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engie-ivy · 3 years ago

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do you have a fic where remus confronts Sirius of believing he was the spy (like maybe canon divergence - they all live) and refuses to agree that just because there was a war doesn’t mean he should’ve not trusted him or used the excuse that he’s a werewolf not to believe him

Hi!

I have fics that deal with the suspicions and false accusations during the war! But these do take on a more Fluffy path, and eventually lead to them being understanding and forgiving of each other's behaviour😅

You might like the confrontation in

If Tomorrow the World Crumbles

“Well, what am I supposed to bloody think, then?” Sirius shouted back. “You’re obviously keeping things from me! How is this sketchy behaviour going to make anything better? Why couldn’t you just come talk to me, so you could have proven that you’re not-”

“Because I shouldn’t have to proof anything to you!” A hint of pain was seeping through in Remus’s frustration. “All my life I’ve had to proof myself to everyone, and all my life I’ll have to continue proving myself, simply because of what I am, but not to you. Never to you. You’re supposed to believe in me! You’re the one person who’s supposed to be on my side.”

And here's an excerpt from my longer fic

If Only You Knew the Whole Story

He’s sitting in a chair. His arms are handcuffed behind his back and his ankles are chained to the legs of the chair. Protective spells are placed around him, making it impossible to come any closer than half a meter in his vicinity, though there isn’t much he could even do without his wand. His long, dark hair is tied in a messy bun with loose strands falling over his face, and he still has the muggle clothes on he was wearing when he got arrested.

He’d been wearing muggle clothes a lot. When James teased him about it, he told him to go try and ride a motorbike in flapping wizarding robes and then come talk to him. No one particularly minded seeing him in tight fitted muggle clothes anyway, as the man has always been unfairly good-looking.

He looks up as Emmeline enters the room, his grey eyes empty and emotionless.

Sirius Black.

“I didn’t think you’d come back. You seemed rather pissed off when you left the last time.”

“I’m pissed off at you by default. But I did some fact-checking on your previous claims.”

Black rolls his eyes. “If you looked him up in the Animagus register, I could have told you-”

“Actually, I went to a more direct source.”

“Hello, Black.” Remus steps in the room, his eyes focused somewhere on the logo on Black’s worn-out band shirt, deliberately not meeting Black’s eyes, his mask of indifference firmly in place. Emmeline understands his need to not show any emotion in front of Black.

Black’s face, on the other hand, is a whole different story. It’s hard to imagine his eyes were so void of emotion just a moment ago, as a variety of emotions passes over his face.

Disbelief. Hope. Fear. Guilt. Pain.

When he speak, soft and barely audible, his voice sounds so broken that it sends a shock through Emmeline’s body. She can tell Remus feels the same, as his eyes snap up to Black’s face.

“Remus? Please...”

“I messed up, Remus. I messed up so bad. But if only you knew the whole story-”

“You’re going to tell me the whole story,” Remus interrupts, his voice cold and bitter. “The real story.” He opens his palm to reveal the small flask of Veritaserum.

Now, Emmeline was expecting anger. Anger as Black would realise he wouldn’t be able to make up stories anymore. Anger as he saw his plans of manipulating Remus with his lies go up in smoke. Emmeline may have understood shock, that they would actually dare to force him to take the truth potion, or maybe even panic, now that his ploy is officially over.

What Emmeline did not expect, however, was the look of sheer hope on Black’s face, like he’s a dehydrated man who has been wandering the dessert for days and Remus is holding a glass of fresh, cold water.

“Yes,” he says pleading. “Yes, please...”

It completely catches Emmeline off guard, and she can tell Remus is also thrown off. He stares at Black dumbfounded and seems unsure what to do next. He fumbles with the flask, opening it and sliding it across the table towards Black.

As they can’t get near Black with the protective charms surrounding him, Emmeline doesn’t know what they would have done of he had simply refused to drink the potion, but then again, that would have said enough of itself, wouldn’t it? Now, however, Black wastes no time in bending forward, taking the flask between his lips and throwing his head back, gulping the potion down.

After Black has dropped the empty bottle back on the table, he sits motionless in his chair, his eyes closed. Remus is staring at him intently, his mouth in a hard line and his knuckles turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the table. The moment can’t have lasted more than a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity. Despite all her talk about only doing this for Remus, not believing anything will come of it, Emmeline feels nerves coursing through her body. There’s a heavy tension hanging in the room and the air feels thick. Emmeline can only imagine what this moment must be like for Remus.

After what seems like hours, Black slowly opens his eyes. “It wasn’t me.”

So few words hardly more than a whisper, but their impact couldn’t have been greater if he had shouted them in their faces.

Remus’s legs threaten to give out from under him and he supports himself on the table, staring at the wood while gasping for air.

“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me.” Black repeats the words like a mantra.

Remus lifts his head, and upon seeing the pain, hope and confusion on his face, Emmeline wants to run to him, support him and start questioning Black, but at the same time she feels like she needs to stay out of it for now, this needs to be between them.

“What wasn’t you?” Remus breathes. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Everything. Any of it. The murders, the betrayal. Rem, I wasn’t even the Secret-Keeper!”

“But... But...” Remus tries desperately to order his thoughts. “Peter?”

Black nods silently.

Remus shakes his head. “No, no. James insisted! He would never choose anyone but you!”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Black replies as he shifts his gaze downwards, sadness reflecting in his eyes. “Not until I convinced him to. Merlin, I thought I was so clever! A perfect way to throw them off track. Who would even consider it being anyone else?”

“But you told me it was you! Those evenings we spent talking about it...”

“I lied! I lied to you, Remus.”

Remus stares at him for a while. “You didn’t trust me.” It’s not a question.

“We knew there was a spy,” Black says, looking absolutely miserable. “We just didn’t know who.”

“And I was the logical choice,” Remus states. “I assume because I’m a dark creature?”

“Yes. It was because you’re a werewolf.” Black looks Remus straight in the eyes. “Because you have fifteen years of experience keeping secrets and hiding who you are. And you’re so damned good at it! Better than anyone I know. Dumbledore always chose you for the most secret missions. You were the only one amongst us no one had any idea of where they were going or what they were doing.”

“That wasn’t by choice!”

“I know, I know. Remus, you have to understand. We didn’t think you were the traitor, we just couldn’t be absolutely sure that you weren’t the traitor.”

Remus swallows and looks away. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that I felt with every fibre of my being that I could trust you and you would never hurt us!” Black speaks. “But at that time, I couldn’t allow myself to feel, I had to think. And logical thinking, shutting off all emotion, said that none of us could say with one hundred percent certainty that it wasn’t you. With Harry’s life at stake, we couldn’t afford to take any chances. It was best not to tell.”

Remus nods, but he’s still not meeting Black’s gaze.

“Remus, please look at me,” Black says earnest. “I need you to know this. We still would have died for you in a heartbeat, Lily, James and me. We still thought the world of you.”

“But I thought the worst of you!” Remus’s breath hitches. “I despised you, wanted to hate you! If I had found you that night, I would have...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t need to.

Black doesn’t look shocked, or even angry. He just looks immensely sad.

“Why wouldn’t you have? I fucked everything up, Remus. I lied to you, I trusted the wrong people, I distrusted the wrong people, I convinced James to take a path that lead straight to his death. And I can’t even do the only thing James asked me to do in case the worst would happen! I can’t even take care of Harry, like I promised I would. I abandoned him in my failed attempt at revenge, another one of my numerous mistakes. I literally can’t think of a single thing I haven’t screwed up these last weeks.”

Remus just stares at him. Only after a long silence, he speaks.

“You really are... you.”

Black just blinks at him.

“I mean, the boy who snuck out of the dorm to keep me company in the hospital wing, the boy who bribed the house elves to make my favourite chocolate cake on my birthday, the man who wanted me to stay with him when I had no place to live and never let me go, the man who once attacked five Death Eaters on his own because one of them had tried to use the Cruciatus curse on me... That person was not a facade, an act or a lie. That person was really you. You’re really that person.”

“Telling you I was the Secret-Keeper was hard for me, as it was the first and only time I ever lied to you, I promise.”

“I know,” Remus slides down in the chair across from Black. “And it’s okay, Sirius. It’s okay.”

Sirius closes his eyes for a moment. As he opens them again to look at Remus, they’re filled with relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s just... You’re the only person who I couldn’t bear to see me as a monster.”

Remus smiles softly. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

I hope you still like it, though it might not be exactly what you're looking for!

#thanks for the ask!#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #first wizarding war

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lag1995-fics · 4 years ago

Note

Maybe Superheroes by The script for Peter Maximoff if you'd feel like writing something for it? 😄💕 thinking about X-Men everytime I hear it haha it's so amazing

I hope you like it, it’s a little angsty. Thank you so much for requesting and following.

Superheroes

Song: Superheroes by The Script

Pairing: Peter Maximoff x female!Reader

Warning: violence, and an f-bomb or two. It also has some dadneto

Words: 1336

Summary: When you are kidnapped, Peter tears the world apart to find you.

Song Fic Masterlist

//////:::::://////

When you started dating Peter it had been like breathing air. Kissing and loving was as natural as breathing air or drinking water. He was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Things were amazing and you didn’t think anything could bring you down. Peter made you laugh so much he was so goofy and good natured. He brightened your world like a kerosene lantern in a thunderstorm. The only thing you guys ever argued about was whether or not he should tell Erik that he was Peter's biological father.

You were adamant about this, you had lost your own father when you were still a teenager. You didn’t want Peter to have any regrets; especially with how reckless Erik was.

Things didn’t stay amazing though, now that Strijer knew where the school was he had teams of people watching for someone who might be leaving alone. You hadn’t thought at the time that going to pick Peter up a birthday present would lead to you being kidnapped by some shady government officials.

****

You woke up to a hazy migraine and blinding fluorescent lights. You went to get up but you realized with panic that you were securely tied to the metal cot.

“Time to wake up mutey!” A man’s harsh voice barked at her.

“W-where am I?” You stuttered, finally getting a look at the severe man.

“I’m colonel Striker, and you’re somewhere they will never find you mutant!” He spat as if mutant was a dirty word.

“Now tell me your mutation and what can you tell me about Charles Xavier” He demanded and you had to bite back a shiver of fear.

“I would never give up my family” you declared determined to keep quiet. Peter and the x-men would find you.

****

Peter was beginning to get concerned it had been a good three hours since he had last seen y/n. He began zipping all over the school looking for her. He then ran into the next town and they were nowhere to be found. The panic began to set in as he ran as fast as he could back to the professor breaking the sound barrier.

“Professor! Do you know where y/n is!” Peter all but shouted to the startled professor.

“No I believe she was going into town but I haven’t seen her since,” the professor replied evenly trying to calm the panic in Peter’s voice.

“Can you look with cerebro, I looked over every inch of the town?” Peter asked, his voice still fraught with anxiety.

“Of course Peter,” Charles conceded and two of them made their way down to the basement of the school.

Charles looked for y/n for over an hour, each minute stabbing Peter in the gut with fear. The ring box in his jacket pocket felt like a lump of lead against his heart. When Charles pulled out of cerebro with a deep frown on his face, peters stomach fell out to his feet.

“Peter, I couldn’t find her. It was like there was a void. It’s similar in feeling to Erik’s bloody helmet,” Charles said watching the silver haired man’s face crumble. Tears streamed steadily down his cheeks.

“We have to find her!” Was all that Peter could choke out his tongue feeling like rubber.

“We will Peter. I'm going to search for her face in other people's minds, please tell Hank to get the X-Men ready to go,” Charles told Peter, trying to convey his reassurance.

Peter ran to Hank telling him what was going on as quickly as possible. He needed to recruit one more person. Magneto had contacts that could help him get Y/n safely home.

***

Peter arrived in Genosha uninvited and out of breath. Erik had immediately walked out guarded but not hostile. Peter looked into his fathers eyes, his own brown ones frantic.

Erik couldn’t help but notice that the silver haired man had eyes that were very much like his mother’s.

“I need your help!” Peter all but demanded, afraid for his lover’s safety.

“I would normally love to help another mutant brother or sister, but I am quite tied up with getting this community off the ground” Erik waved at the shipping containers he was using to construct small homes.

“No I need your help they took her, someone took her and I need her. Please!” Peter begged, his voice broken.

“Peter you are emotional, I’m sure there are plenty of x-men that can help you” Erik walked closer to the boy laying a hand on his rather clad shoulder.

“You don’t understand, I need your help, they won’t be enough!” Peter snapped looking up at his father achingly.

“I’m sorry Peter, they will find her” Erik repeated and Peter felt a chill of anger go down his spine.

“Maximoff!” Peter snapped and Erik’s eyes went wide before narrowing in suspicion.

“Excuse, me, Erik said gruffly, pulling away from Peter.

“Where did you learn that name?!” Erik’s voice held a hint of anger. He had always tried to push the wife who had left him out of his mind.

“It’s my name, I was born Pietro Django Maximoff on February 10, 1955” Peter was desperate. He would do anything to find his lover, even if that meant fighting his demons he had kept since the day Erik had tried to off Nixon.

Erik felt his face drain of color, his mind whirling. This boy who broke him out of the pentagon at seventeen. This boy whom he had almost let die at Apocalypse hands. He had almost lost another child and he would have never known it. It was obvious that Peter had no intention of ever telling Erik of their relationship.

“Your mother, what was her name?” Erik asked just to confirm and Peter snorted unhappily.

“You tell me,” he lamented.

“Magda,” Erik uttered and while Peter didn’t confirm he also didn’t deny. Now that Erik was looking he could see that Peter had taken after his mother’s side of the family. He looked strikingly like Erik’s late uncle. He knew immediately without a doubt he would do anything for this boy. He would walk through the fires of hell for Peter.

****

You woke up to a sharp kick in the stomach causing you to write in the corner you were huddled in. They had taken to beating you until you would talk. You wouldn’t though, Peter was there and he was your whole world.

“You ready to talk yet Mutie” The guard taunted and you spat at him, blood and spittle staining his fatigues.

“Go fuck yourself,” you gasped out as he kicked you again.

“We have a Code M, all units respond,” the guards radio garbled. A flash of fear crossed the guards features before he ran out of the room not even bothering to cuff you back to the bed.

You could hear screaming and banging getting closer and you could only hope that the cavalry had arrived for you. You needed to see Peter, you never wanted to leave his side again.

Your half swollen eyes widened when the door to your cell burst open and a silver blur darted to you. A magenta clad man stood outside the doorway as well killing anyone who tried to enter.

“Y/n,” Peter breathed touching your face like you were made from glass.

“I knew you’d come for me” You cried collapsing into his arms sobbing.

“I’ve got you baby and I’m never letting you out of my sight again” Peter sounded determined and more mature than she had ever heard him be.

“I love you” you gasped, pressing a bloody kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I know,” he grinned and you slapped his shoulder lightly. He would find a way to drop a silly movie reference even at a time like this.

“Let’s get you home” Peter murmured and before you knew it you were strapped into a seat on the jet, ready to go home.

Requests are open if you have something you’d like to request. Thank you all for reading ❤️❤️❤️

#evan peters #peter maximoff #ralph bohner #reader insert #quicksilver #dadneto #xmen #fanfiction #x men fanfiction #x men quicksilver #female reader #angst #ahs fanfiction

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onecanonlife · 4 years ago

Text

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,132)

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Part Four: Eret

“They’re here.”

The words are said in her own voice. She does not remember willing her mouth to move. She does not remember how she got here, nor where here is. Inside, somewhere, for sure; her surroundings are blurry, twist and warp everywhere she looks, and it’s confusing, dizzying. The air is hazy, clouded with smoke and drifting sparks, flickering on a hot, dry wind, and a film of red has descended on her vision, as if her glasses are tinted. She doesn’t know what’s happening, nor why she spoke, but even as she listens to the words, she is certain of their veracity, a deep, dark dread pooling in her chest. They are coming. They are coming for her, and for everyone else.

She is scared. It is a wide, unfocused, fear; she can’t seem to concentrate enough to figure out what or who she’s scared of, what or who they are. The details slip away when she tries to grasp them, and the act of thinking feels like wading through thick mud. Her thoughts are foggy, unfocused, and she can barely feel her own body, like she’s a passenger in her own skin.

But she is scared. Her skin buzzes with it, with a pure, unadulterated terror, with the sensation of running out of time.

“We knew they’d find us,” someone says. They—no, he, he feels right in a way she can’t explain—he stands next to her, though she cannot turn her head to look. His voice is familiar to her as summer rains, the crunch of a footstep on sand, the ring of a pickaxe on gold, but she does not know him. “We knew this was inevitable. I’d hoped for more time, but—”

He is scared, too. She can hear it in his voice, and every inch of her aches to soothe him.

“We won’t be able to win this,” she hears herself say instead. “Not against all of them.” Her voice pauses. “Not this time.”

“Who’s here?” a new voice says, lighter than the first, accented differently, reverberating with an echo that wedges in her bones, empty and unnatural. Their presence feels like an absence. “Do we have visitors?”

“Enemies, more like,” the first voice says.

“Ah,” says the second. “I’ll go tell them to fuck right off, then.” A pause, and then, “Is Techno coming?”

A name she knows but doesn’t. A face flashes in her mind’s eye, and once gone, she cannot remember it.

“Maybe,” says the first. “Why don’t you go see? And if he’s not, you can go ahead and, um, tell them to fuck right off. That’ll be really helpful.”

There is a blue of motion in the corner of her eye, someone passing out of the room, though they are soundless, and the air does not change with their leaving. She still cannot turn to look.

“He’s not what he was,” she hears herself say. “He won’t be able to hold them.”

“I know,” the other says, and there is defeat in his tone, heavy and terrible. She wants to take his hand. She wants to look into his eyes. She wants to know who he is. She can do none of those things. “I know. There’s nothing else we can do now. Are you ready for this? What you were telling me about?”

She feels herself swallow past a lump in her throat. “Ready enough to try,” she says, and her voice is choked. “But I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, and then, he is in front of her, and he is right there, but her eyes will not focus, and every time she blinks, she forgets his features, forgets—but she cannot retain them long enough to describe them, even to herself, and she’s left with nothing, like trying to snatch at dying embers before they go cold and turn to dust. She thinks she could cry with the frustration of it, and she still doesn’t understand, has no idea why she wants to know so badly, why this is so important to her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“It won’t be,” she says. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Neither did I, old pal.” There are lips on her forehead, a gentle kiss. She leans into it, wants to keep the memory of it forever. “Don’t think of it as an ending. Just a—a see you later.”

She laughs, unhappily. “There won’t be a later.”

“Maybe not,” he says softly. “But I’d like to think that’s not true.”

There is a sound, then, a noise like a shriek and a cry and a grinding of metal against metal, discordant and clanging, and it’s as if it punches her in the throat. She gasps for breath, the air suddenly too thin to sustain her, and past the sound, the terrible sound, the sound that is drawing closer, some destructive thing on the hunt, she hears his voice: “We’re out of time.”

Behind her. There is someone behind her. She turns, and her vision flares with red, but she can make out blond hair, blue eyes, something small and pink held in their arms, clutched to them desperately, protectively, and then the world is tilting, blurring and changing, and the turns again and she is kneeling, her knees on hard stone, and she knows, she knows that something awful is happening, and they’re out of time, they’re all out of time, and her hands mark the ground with desperate, rushed motions, smearing paint—no, blood. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does, and her motions, too, are beyond her control.

And yet, they feel natural. Like something buried in her rising up to the surface. She has no idea what she’s doing, even though her body does, and yet, and yet—

The universe hums at her fingertips, and it is as familiar as her own name.

“Eret,” someone gasps, someone pleads, “Eret, what’re you—he’s still up there, we have to go get him—”

“He’s buying us time,” she manages, her voice distant to her own ears. The next words that she says are not comprehensible to her, power vibrating through them, something other, something wrong and yet right all at once, and the blood—it is her blood—begins to glow, shimmer with a silver-red light, and she can barely look at the patterns she’s made, her mind skittering off of them like a rock skipped across a pond; she’ll sink if she lets herself.

“Eret, please,” they say.

She stops her chanting. The spell is set. Half of her feels calm, serene. The other half of her feels like she’s screaming.

“I couldn’t save anyone else,” she says. “I’m sorry. But I can do this, at least.”

“Wh—Eret!”

Alarm, true alarm, fear, and she meets their eyes. His eyes. His face solidifies, sharpens, becomes clear. His eyes are duller, his hair streaked with white, his face scarred. But it’s Tommy. Too old and too young all at once.

The glow brightens, illuminates the contours of his face. Lights up the room. Warms her skin.

Tommy screams.

The world rips, or perhaps she is ripping the world, but she is falling, falling back and away, falling out of herself and a void is underneath but not in time for her to escape, the world is imploding but there are footsteps, there is someone shouting, and someone yanks her head back by the hair, and there is a sharp slide of a blade across her neck, a gush of something hot, and then pain, and—

Eret wakes up choking.

He sits bolt upright, hands flying to his neck, pawing at it, pressing it, trying to stem a flow of blood that does not exist, close a wound that is not there. It takes several full minutes for his body to convince his brain that he is whole and unharmed, that he is neither bleeding out from a blade to his throat nor tumbling into some vast emptiness as the world destructs around him, destructs from something he did—

What was that?

Slowly, he calms, regulates his breathing, but not all of the panic leaves him, adrenaline flooding his veins and setting him shaking. He takes his hands down from his throat, stares at them; they tremble, but there is no blood painting them.

That is, perhaps, the most vivid dream he has ever had. And also perhaps the most frustrating. He can’t say he’s ever had one like it, where he felt like he was trapped within himself, unable to affect his own actions, spouting off words that he had no context for.

He shudders, suddenly, a full-body convulsion.

Air. He needs air.

It’s the dead of night, it seems. L’Manberg is quiet, peaceful, enjoying her first night of true independence. It’s still a bit hard for him to believe, that it was won just like that, and by Tommy, no less. He was prepared for the conflict to stretch out a lot longer, little though he liked the idea. But now, it’s all over, and they have to figure out how to proceed. Or at least, Wilbur does; Wilbur is still in charge, president now rather than general. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

He likes Wilbur. Rather a lot, actually. But sometimes, it concerns him, how much Wilbur seems to enjoy power.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thought of having a little power himself, power to protect anyone he chooses, to lead if need be, so perhaps he’s just a hypocrite.

All thoughts for later, though. For now, the night air is a balm on his face, fresh and free, and he breathes in deeply. The world is fine. He is fine. He can even imagine where the dream came from; Tommy was acting so very strangely yesterday, and he’s been stressed in general, so it’s not hard to figure that his mind conjured up some outer manifestation of it, some representation of the way he feared everything would come crumbling in around them. Dreams are tricky things. It’s never wise to put too much stock in them.

The one thing he can’t push aside was the other person. Not Tommy, and not the one who left. The one who kissed his forehead, called him a friend. He’s not sure why his mind would invent someone when he has plenty of friends here to fill the role, and something about it unsettles him. Because the depth of attachment he felt for this person, who he is sure he doesn’t know, who he doesn’t recognize at all, was frightening, almost, in its intensity.

And yet, it was also comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Absently, he reaches up and touches his forehead. He’s reading too far into this, to be sure. But he can’t help but wonder who he was, even if he was just an invention of his troubled, tired brain.

He sighs, and decides to mount the walls. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep any time soon, so he may as well have a decent view. May as well help keep watch, even though they supposedly don’t really need to anymore. He’s not sure he’ll trust this peace until the documents are all drawn up and signed, but hopefully Dream is a man of his word. Hopefully he is one that keeps his promises.

The night is peaceful, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the northeast. He turns his face into it, breathing deeply, and that is when he sees it: movement. A figure on the ground, moving slowly but steadily toward the walls. He leans further out, trying to get a better look; is this something he should raise the alarm over? One person probably can’t do a lot, unless that person is Dream. He hopes it’s not Dream.

He squints as the figure approaches. They really are making a beeline for the walls, and there’s no indication that they’ve seen him. He wonders if he should call out, make them aware that they’ve been observed. Would that dissuade a potential troublemaker?

And then, the figure gets close enough for him to make out details. Rumpled red and white t-shirt, blond hair. It’s unmistakably Tommy. Which begs a new question: what is Tommy doing outside L’Manberg’s borders so late at night?

He did the same last night, from what Eret gathered. Went to Dream and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s freedom. A risky ploy, one that he’s surprised actually worked, but he supposes he’s been underestimating the value that this discs have to many people on the server. He wasn’t here for the onset of the wars over them. Still, he admires the sacrifice that Tommy made, even if he can’t make heads or tails of that interaction they had yesterday.

But then, Tommy’s always been a bit of a strange kid. This was a new kind of strange, but he’s fifteen going on sixteen years old, and he’s proven himself to be resilient. He’s sure everything is fine.

As he muses, Tommy clambers his way up the wall, and once he’s up, he just stands there for a second, leaning against one of the parapets. His face is pinched, lined with exhaustion and something else, something that Eret can’t quite interpret in the dim light of the stars. He seems preoccupied, caught up within himself and whatever he was doing, and Eret considers letting him go without saying a word. But concern wins out over that, and he clears his throat. Tommy jerks, wheeling on him violently, lips slightly parted.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says, raising a hand to placate him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” Tommy says. “I’m unstartleable.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tommy says. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Unsettled dreams, I’m afraid,” he says. He sees no reason to hide it, and perhaps admitting to a bit of weakness will put Tommy more at ease. Currently, he’s holding himself tense as a bowstring. “I came out to get a bit of air. What about you? Any particular reason to go for a stroll this time of night?” He cuts himself off before he can say something stupid, such as, I’m sure Wilbur wouldn’t be happy to know you’re out and about this late. Because while that is the truth, and he’s sure Tommy knows it, knows that the man is protective over him like he is over practically nothing else, he’s also sure that Tommy’s independent spirit wouldn’t appreciate him pointing that out.

“No,” Tommy bites out. “No reason at all.”

That is so clearly a lie that it’s almost insulting. But he takes one look at Tommy’s closed off posture, the jut of his chin, and decides to leave it. What’s most important is that Tommy is back safe; he won’t pressure him to reveal something he’s not comfortable with sharing.

“Alright, then,” he says. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Tommy shoots him a scathing glare at that. But to his surprise, he then walks over, a bit hesitantly, and joins him in bracing himself against the ramparts, staring out over the surrounding countryside. He doesn’t say anything else, and Eret tries to study him without making it obvious.

“I think it’s pretty amazing, what you did,” he says. “I can’t pretend to understand how difficult that was for you, but you single-handedly won us a war. You’ve probably had your fill of receiving thanks, but I think it bears repetition.”

“I know it was amazing,” Tommy says, and his voice is oddly hollow. “I’m very amazing, thank you so much.” He sighs, then, shoulders hunching a bit. “No, it just—it just needed to be done, so I did it. That’s all there was, really. Not even sure if it’ll hold up. Dream’ll use them as leverage if he thinks he can get away with it, and then we’ll have a whole other mess of problems.”

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he finds himself asking. Perhaps it’s the maturity Tommy seems to be displaying, the awareness, but he seems like the one to ask.

“Don’t know,” he says. “At this point? I hope so. He’s still got people he’s accountable to, so maybe. If not, we’ll have to kill him.”

“Right,” he replies, and wonders when death entered the picture. They knew it was a risk, of course, in war, but no one has died yet, on either side, and he rather thought that everyone was looking to keep it that way. “I pray it won’t come to that.”

Tommy snorts. “Let me tell you something, Eret,” he says. “Praying doesn’t do shit. Gods die just as easily as men do.”

That—sure is something for a teenager to say. He’s not sure why it strikes such a chord in him.

“Hope, then,” he says, and tries not to reveal that he’s rattled.

“Hope’s not much better. Unreliable, that is,” Tommy mutters, and Eret thinks that it might be time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’ll have to confront just how jaded Tommy sounds, and as much as he likes the kid, he’s really not sure that he’s the one best equipped to help him, even if Tommy would allow him to do so. Surely, someone like Tubbo or Wilbur would do better in trying to talk him through it.

“I’m not sure I understood what you were trying to thank me for, earlier,” he says. “Or yesterday, rather.”

Tommy shoots him a glance. “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “You don’t need to make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.”

“It felt a little bit like a thing.”

“Well, it wasn’t, so piss off.” Tommy frowns, and then turns to face him fully. He turns as well, trying to show him that he has his undivided attention. “Look, it was just a, a general thank you, yeah? Enjoy it, because you’re not getting another one. But you’re not completely shit all of the time, I guess.” He sounds so very put upon in a way that only teenagers can, and Eret suppresses a grin. “Don’t read into it, shit head. But listen, Eret,” —His tone shifts, suddenly, going lower, more serious, and Eret leans in a bit on instinct— “you are sticking around, yeah? With us, with L’Manberg?”

“Of course,” he answers, taken off guard. “I’ve no plans to be elsewhere.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “That’s—that’s good. Not that I care if you stay or not! Don’t get ideas! But you should stick around, because we are clearly superior to everyone else on this shit server, and we’ll treat you right. Not like Dream would. Especially not like Dream would.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, sort of feeling like he’s lost the thread of this conversation, and more than a bit disconcerted at the intensity of Tommy’s words. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go anywhere near Dream.”

“Good,” Tommy says again, and this time, he seems satisfied. Eret raises an eyebrow at him, but he just goes back to looking over the edge of the wall, and Eret shakes his head a bit, going to push his sunglasses further up his nose.

And then realizes—he’s not wearing them. Hasn’t been wearing them this whole time.

“Shit,” he hisses, and pats himself down frantically, trying to see if they’re anywhere on his person, but of course they’re not. He’s wearing his nightshirt and loose trousers, and he can picture exactly where his glasses are: sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He didn’t think to grab them, shaken by his nightmare as he was, certain that he wouldn’t be running into anywhere else.

“What? What’s the matter?” Tommy asks, alarmed, and he realizes something else.

His eyes have been on display throughout this entire conversation, and Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. Hasn’t so much as reacted. Hasn’t so much as stared. And that—that is foreign to him. Incomprehensible. He knows very well what his eyes bring to mind, knows very well the reasons why he chooses to hide them. Better that than to scare everyone around him away. Better to hide than to have no one. But Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. He hasn’t—

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“My glasses—” he stutters out. “I don’t—I don’t have—”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and visibly relaxes. “Yeah, did you drop ‘em somewhere or something? Did they fall out of your pocket?”

That—that is not what Tommy is supposed to be asking. Eret shakes his head, but the motion brings him no clarity. He’s trying to think past the drumbeat of instinctive anxiety, though it’s fear that apparently has no basis, even if he doesn’t know why.

“You’re not scared?” he manages.

Tommy’s face goes slack in surprise. Surprise, as if that’s the last thing he expected Eret to be asking, but surely, surely he understands Eret’s nerves? Surely he understands why Eret is confused? Surely—he must know, right?

And then, he sees a bit of that understanding dawn on Tommy’s face, his lips forming an ‘o’, and Eret braces himself.

“Of what, those?” Tommy says, making a general sort of gesture. “Gonna take more than that to frighten me, big man. You’ve got some weird fucking eyes, but I don’t see why that should bother me. And fuck anyone who is, right? They’re just eyes, man. Everyone’s got ‘em.” He pauses. “Except for Dream, maybe. We’ve never seen them. He could be hiding anything under that mask. Wait, shit, what if he hasn’t got any eyes? What if he doesn’t have a face?”

He sounds genuinely disturbed by the line of questioning. But also, he’s darting glances at Eret every now and then, as if checking to see what his response will be, and—is he trying to distract him? To calm him down, perhaps, in the most Tommy-like way possible?

Something in Eret’s chest grows warm.

“As far as I know, Dream’s just a guy,” he says. “I’m sure he’s got a face.”

“An ugly face, maybe.”

“You—” He can’t help but check. He needs to know, needs to be certain. “You really don’t mind them?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “They’re fucking strange, and you’re fucking strange, but it’s alright, man. You don’t—I mean, I know you, and that seems more important than anything else, yeah?” And Eret’s face must be doing something at that, because Tommy scowls at him, sudden and ferocious. “No, no, I see what you’re thinking, this isn’t a thing either, you bastard. This isn’t a thing. You’re just being an idiot, so I’m correcting you. This is a correction, because I simply can’t let you go on thinking things that are wrong. You get that? I’m right and you’re not and I’m telling you that. That’s what this is.”

“Right, of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of claiming otherwise.” He pauses. “But thank you, Tommy. Really. That kind of means a lot.”

Tommy’s face reddens. “Whatever,” he murmurs, but he sounds unmistakably pleased. “It’s fine. I’m gonna—I’m just gonna go now. G’night, Eret.”

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he replies, and watches as Tommy practically runs for the nearest ladder.

And he remembers his dream. Remembers Tommy looking at him with trust and terror in equal measure. Remembers the scars that dotted his face in the one second that it became clear. Remembers the tremble in his voice, and the horror in that last moment as someone came up behind them and slit his throat.

He gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to call out to him, to ask him about it. But he tamps down on it. To do so would be ridiculous, after all, and Tommy seems to have enough on his plate without him adding to it. And what would he even say? Oh, by the way, I watched you watch me die in my dream just a bit ago. You don’t think there’s any meaning to that, do you?

Because that would go over so well.

So he just watches as Tommy sets foot within the L’Manberg borders and heads off at a good clip toward the building he’s claimed as his house. It’s kind of a sad structure; they really do need some better architecture around here. Maybe he should get on that. He’s a fairly good builder himself. He might be able to draw up some plans.

For now, though, he turns his face back toward the stars, and tries to feel like there’s nothing missing.

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