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zara-renata · 1 day ago

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Hook, Line, Sinker | ao3 | masterlist

I did a little holiday prompt requests thing, and some people were kind enough to send requests in. @starfallforest, @astracora, and several anons. Thank you so much for sending your requests. I combined the requests into one story, which turned out to be a lot more angsty than cute? But I hope you like it anyway. There's one prompt I couldn't fit in because this takes place between Christmas and New Year's, but I'm hoping to be able to do a little oneshot for the last request, depending on time. Anyway, there's a happy ending for everyone in this story, except for one fish and a guy who deserved it. @wearysparrows is the reason Sylus smells like he does in this story, and her fantastic fishing story set in hot springs got me thinking about fishing with Sylus.

Summary: Sylus invites you to a remote cabin in the woods for some fishing before New Year's. When the trip is over, you have a new boyfriend and a new addition to the Crow family. No, it's not a human baby. Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc. This story contains banter, fluff, kissing, angst, a happy ending. CW: canon typical violence. This involves fishing since Sylus likes to fish, so there are a lot of descriptions of fishing and what you have to do to a fish to uh, fish. There's also a pretty grave instance of animal injury/cruelty (not perpetrated by any of our favs), but the animal is fine in the end.

The prompts I received:

falling into soft snow to create snow angels, flailing wildly on the ground.

in a mountain lodge, snowed in from a heavy snow storm.

jamming out to a christmas song, and inflicting the pain of holiday songs on someone else

You see him, in the distance.

It is night. This far up north, it is night all the time, this time of year.

The moon hangs huge in the sky, its reflected sunlight reflected in the snow, a loop without end. Even here in this endless night, you have no trouble seeing him in the distance.

A lonely figure, surrounded by a vast frozen plane of blue and white. It’s strange, seeing him wrapped in blue and silver, when you associate him with lava glow, ashfall.

Circling the silent lake, mountain peaks thrust into the sky, carving into the horizon. The teeth of some great beast, its bones bleached white in the cold and dark, in the endless summer sun on the other side of every year. Between their jagged edges, stars bleed together, liquid gold and silver spilling across the sky. Time loses meaning in the endless dark, swallowed by the endless light, drowned by the dark again. A dragon eating its own tail. This starlight, too, reflected in the ice underneath your feet. Who needs the sun, when this much molten light illuminates the path forward to the man who has summoned you here? The only man you have been able to see since he wrapped his hand around your throat and squeezed.

As your feet crunch in the thick snow, as you approach the shore of the frozen lake where the man is waiting for you, you wonder how you got here. When did it start? With the invitation slipped through the mail slot of your humble flat, without address? Crimson wax, pressed with the seal of a crow in flight. The paper is heavy in your calloused hands. It smells delicious, like cloves. The scent is familiar to you now. You would know who this letter is from, even if you didn’t recognize its owner’s sigil, from its smell alone. You think of soft, pale skin. An open collar. A sweep of silver. The crimson wax seal stares at you like a glowing eye.

I need your expertise with a tricky problem. Your options are to come to me, or to come to me.

A plane ticket falls out of the envelope as you read the chaotic, sophisticated handwriting, almost indecipherable in its erudition.

You wonder how you got here. If not the invitation, was it before that? Opening the door every time Sylus stood on the other side. Watching him carefully as he moved about your flat, as he trailed his fingers along your houseplants. As he sipped from the wine glass you had bought in a set after the first time he showed up at your door and you realized you didn’t have any proper glasses for the wine he had brought as a gift to share. An apology? For his hands around your throat? For starvation, and thirst? The wine that tasted of sunspattered fields of flowers spilling down to a cliff, an abyss below. The taste of a memory you couldn’t quite summon, its shadows at the edges of your dreams every time you slept. Wine that warmed your body in the way this man’s eyes warmed you as they caressed you with touchless touch.

Since he released you, you wondered if he was playing a longer, crueler game of hunter and prey. Angler and fish. If every time he shows up at your door, he’s dangling bait, and the moment you wrap your lips around it, try to taste, he’ll hook you, jerk you from everything you’ve ever known, and flay you alive.

But you invite him in, as he requests. Come in, Sylus. You watch him, watching his gaze as it touches everything in your home, as it touches you as his eyes return to your face. He inhabits your flat in the same way he inhabits your mind. Fully. His presence an eclipse. His scent lingers after he leaves. He never asks to stay. He brings a gift to share—wine, a meal, a game of luck, a record. You sit on the couch next to him, and his body heat lures you like an open hearth, but you maintain your distance, the fear of what happens if you finally reach for the fire, if you finally take the bait—such fear gives you the willpower to keep a sliver of chill air between his skin and yours. He never closes the distance, waiting for you to be the one to choose. And when the record is finished, or the film’s credits are rolling, or the game has been won, lost, tied, he stands. Shrugs back into his coat. Only then does he run the knuckles of one big hand down your cheek. Only then does he lean down, whisper a kiss against the edge of your mouth, and then he leaves.

Eventually, he seems to grow tired of the confines of your small home. He begins to ask you out into the world. At twilight, where your world ends and his begins. Daylight bleeding out into night. Night drifting into ash as the day breaks.

Sometimes you say yes. You take his offered hand, his offered gifts of clothing for the occasion, the shoes he kneels to help you slip on your feet. You dress in clothing he buys for you, you sit in his box seat at the ballet, the orchestra’s layered notes flooding your senses but not drowning out your hand in his, your hand he doesn’t let go of through the entire performance. You turn and study his face in the dim light of the luxurious theater, as dancers flow like water, like gazelles, living art across the stage. His face is more fascinating to you than any choreography offered by the finest artists in the world. His profile, his long, uneven nose. The pout of his lips. His hair looks so soft, you want to lift your clasped hands and touch it. You resist the urge, turn your gaze back to the dancers. None of them are as beautiful as the creature lounging next to you in the dark.

Sometimes you know that if you say yes, this will be the time you can’t resist the dangling bait— your teeth, your tongue hungry in a way that frightens you for what he seems to be offering. You feel the hook come so close to your soft lips. The cold metal, like the barrel of a gun that you want to mouth so long as it’s his finger on the trigger. You spook, a prey’s instinct to flee from the lurking, patient predator. You turn down as many invitations as you accept. A compromise with yourself. You’re straddling the twilight—one foot in night, one in day. A knife’s edge that you know will eventually slice you in half if you don’t make a choice.

He accepts your refusals easily. Pretends to believe your flimsy excuses. You know that he knows through Mephisto, through the eyes he seems to have everywhere, that you’re lying when you say you have plans when you don’t. He accepts your fabrications with grace. The next day, a gift always arrives. If you had told him you were going ice skating with Tara, a new pair of skates, in your size, the leather supple, the blades sharp. If you had told him you were going to the arcade with Xavier, a limited edition plushie, one you’ve never managed to catch. If you had told him you were going to a museum with Zayne, a priceless artifact, once owned and cherished by someone who died tragically, along with the certificate of authenticity tucked into the jewel-encrusted box. If you had told him you were attending an art exhibition with Rafayel, an original painting by the featured artist would suddenly appear, hanging on your bedroom wall. The painting that would have been your favorite of the collection, if you had actually attended.

If you do actually go out with friends, the next day, there is a different gift. If you had actually gone drinking with Tara, then a full box of hangover remedies, self-care items for a home spa day. If you had actually gone for a jog with Zayne, then muscle-pain cream, a yoga mat and foam rollers, all to relieve the effects of being sore the next day. If you had actually had hotpot with Xavier, then medicine for indigestion, a fruit basket for supplementary vitamins skipped in a meat-heavy meal. If you had actually gone to the beach with Rafayel, then aloe vera, aftersun care for your sunburned skin.

You open each box. You swallow the remedies, eat the healthy food, massage the cream into your skin. If you imagine that it is his hand, and not your own—well, even Mephisto can’t see into your mind with his mechanical eye. Pulling the fabric of clothing he bought for you over your body, dabbing aloe vera onto the fragile skin under your eyes—this is as close as you will allow yourself to come to him.

Because you remember his hands on your throat.

You remember the sound of a human body bursting at the snap of strong fingers.

You’ve seen him quietly, efficiently, break the neck of an unscrupulous merchant.

Kick a man to his knees and execute him in the dark, the silencer rendering the gunshot a small puff of air, no louder than the last gasp from a pair of doomed lungs.

What scares you the most is not that he is capable of such ruthless, quick, vicious violence.

It is the way you feel, watching him kill someone.

You feel more moved by the dance of death Sylus leads than all of the ballet performances you could ever hope to see at his side.

You are a thirsty spectator, absorbing the line of his hands as he snaps someone’s spine, the delicate veins under his soft skin. The strength in his forearm as he pulls the trigger. The elegant line of his legs as he curb stomps any fool who violates Sylus’s code of ethics that only he knows the tenets of.

You watch him like you’d watch a nature documentary, shot in slow motion—the panther stalking the gazelle in the long grass, the satisfaction of teeth sinking into flesh and tearing.

You are fascinated, and terrified.

He may be courting you now. Fascinated by the challenge you present. Interested in the power you can offer him through your resonance. But how long will it take for this panther to turn from his current prey and begin to hunt you instead? He already almost killed you once. What stops him from doing it again?

Can such a creature be capable of the unwavering love you crave?

What kind of person does it make you, if you think that you could accept him, the taint of his hands and all of the suffering they have wrought, if you could be assured that at least you would always be safe from his savagery?

The combination of these questions reinforces your resistance to the temptation of reaching out and taking his offered, bloody hand. Of swallowing the dangling bait, concealing the wicked hook.

You don’t know when it started. If it was the invitation. If it was the courtship. If maybe, perhaps, it was the first time you knelt at his feet, and he touched your body with such reverent viciousness. You don’t know what sequence of events has led you to this moment. As you step out onto the ice, soaked in moon and starlight, glowing blue in the night, the white bubbles trapped mid-rise in the frozen lake, as the ice grips attached to your warm boots bite into the ice, as you walk through the silence towards the man ahead, alone in the dark.

You received the invitation. You thought perhaps he was in trouble, and needed your resonance to navigate something dangerous. You didn’t think to refuse this time. Christmas was over—a quiet, lonely affair, even though it was filled with colleagues and friends. Sylus didn’t invite you to celebrate with him, seemingly content for you to attend your work holiday party with Xavier and Tara, the party thrown by Rafayel and Thomas at a gallery downtown, the party at Akso Hospital. Nothing could fill the gaping hole left by Caleb and your grandmother’s death. On Christmas day itself, you lit candles for them and drank two bottles of wine until you passed out.

The next day, the invitation arrived.

You held the heavy, silken textured paper in your hands. You felt the headache of your hangover pounding behind your eyes. You thought about the optional overtime you were considering taking between Christmas and New Year’s, just to relieve the solitude.

You think of the last time you saw Sylus, at the beginning of December. The rough knuckles of his hand along your cheek as he said goodbye, as he watched with ember-glow eyes as you walked to your apartment building’s entrance from the back of his motorcycle. As you looked out your window from your living room, saw him still waiting. As the engine roared in the quiet early morning street and he finally sped away, apparently assured that you were inside and okay. As if you were never not okay. No matter what happened, you’d be okay.

You wonder when it started. When being okay no longer felt like enough. When did you start getting greedy for more than okay?

So you picked the plane ticket off the floor. Saw the destination—a place you never dreamt of going.

You packed as warmly as you could. You didn’t have much time—Sylus didn’t leave much margin for preparation. You received the invitation in the morning and were on a night flight that evening.

The flights were long. Uneventful. On the last leg, you sat next to a woman with a little boy. He was sweet, with light colored hair like his mom and blue eyes. You looked into his sweet face and wondered what Sylus was like as a little boy. Tried to picture scarlet eyes in his round face. You wondered if you were ever so young, so small, so fragile. You’ve never felt young in your whole life. His mother seemed exhausted, but stayed awake the whole flight as the little boy fell asleep in her lap.

At the airport, the mother and boy were greeted by a dark-haired man about as big as Sylus with his son’s blue eyes, and he hugged them like it had been years since he had seen them.

You stood, looking around. There was no one waiting to hug you. To hold you in relief. You didn't know why you expected Sylus to be waiting on the other side of your flights.

You hadn’t planned this far ahead. You hefted your heavy carry-on backpack onto your back and followed the signs to the exit. Once satisfied that you knew how to get out, you were reaching into your pocket for your phone when you saw two familiar men standing at the baggage claim holding a sign that just said THE HUNTER on it in messy block letters.

Luke turned his head and caught sight of you, then nudged Kieran. They came loping over to you like two eager wolf puppies.

The relief you felt surprised you, seeing them. They had been nothing but kind, playful with you since Sylus released you, so many months ago, whenever you encountered them. They pulled you into their bets, into their movie nights, into their video game marathons, anytime you happened to visit the base while in the N109 Zone on a mission.

“You came!” Luke grinned, the deep scarring along the right side of his face twisting his lip. It did nothing to diminish his handsomeness.

“You should have told Boss. He wasn’t sure if you would take him up on his invitation. He has been an absolute mess,” Kieran scolded you, but also seemed amused at the emotional state of his employer.

You tried to imagine Sylus being a mess. Failed.

“I didn’t have much time to decide and prepare. Sorry.” You took in the twins, whom you’d only ever seen in black leather. They were wearing black parkas, fur-lined, thick ski pants, huge boots.

“Don’t be sorry, stupid. We’re glad you’re here.” Luke was cheerful, threading one big hand under your backpack strap and easing it off your back. “But Kieran’s salty ‘cause he lost the bet.”

“I thought you would refuse, just to vex Boss,” Kieran said, shrugging. “But Luke’s lying. I’m fine losing this particular bet.”

“C'mon, he’s waiting.” Luke took your hand and lead you into the dark, frigid night of the Arctic settlement you had never even heard of before seeing the plane ticket in the invitation. Kieran followed close behind you, pulling up his hood against the freezing wind.

They herded you to a big four wheel drive SUV.

“First we drive, then it’s just the snowmobile when the road runs out. Change into these,” Kieran thrust a pile of heavy winter gear into your hands as Luke maneuvered the SUV out of town on a thin ribbon of icy road. In the dark, there were only the vehicle’s headlights, the pale snow-packed hillsides on either side of the road, blue in the reflected light of the moon.

Christmas songs were still playing on the radio, despite Christmas having just passed. Kieran hummed along as Luke began to belt out, in a surprisingly gorgeous singing voice that rivaled Sinatra’s, Oh, by gosh, by golly, It's time for mistletoe and holly, Tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, Countrysides covered with snow…

You put on the heavy black parka over your clearly insufficient winter coat you brought with you. Pulled the ski pants over your jeans. Laced up the boots that fit perfectly to replace your own leather combat boots. You pulled the mad bomber hat over your head, its furred flaps immediately a relief over your cold ears. You were cozy. White Christmas came on the radio. Kieran sang this time, in the same beautiful tones as Luke, Christmas Eve will find me, Where the lovelight gleams, I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams…

You hadn’t felt this settled since last year, leaning against Caleb on the couch, with your grandmother sitting on your other side, watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

You wonder when it started—when the twins started to feel safe, like home to you. Maybe it started the first time you woke up in Sylus’s theater room, with a twin on either side of you, both asleep as you just were, their heads resting on each of your shoulders. The sixth movie in the Alien franchise was just ending on the big screen. Sylus stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, just watching the three of you. You didn’t dare move in case you woke them up.

Help. You had mouthed at him.

One corner of his mouth had ticked up. The scarlet and ink of his evol drifted across the room, lifted both twins’ heads gently, positioned their big bodies so that they were resting against each armrest instead of on your shoulders. You stood, stretched, felt his eyes on you.

Time to go, you said.

Must you? he asked.

Of course. Work to do. But you had just stood there, staring at him, the twins’ quiet snores filling the silence after the movie’s score ended. He looked so handsome in his soft sweater. Approachable. Human. Yours.

You reminded yourself of his hands snapping a man’s fingers, one by one, until he gave up the information Sylus needed. You reminded yourself of his hands around your throat.

You wonder how much longer you’ll have the strength to resist the bait that Sylus is dangling in front of you. The hook, gleaming in the moonlight.

In the cozy cabin of the SUV winding through the endless, snowy night, with the twins’ voices softly singing Christmas songs, you gave in to the need to sleep. To sleep off the rest of your hangover that still lingered in the airplane, to prepare for whatever help Sylus needed from you when you finally arrived at your destination. You were safe with them, after all.

You didn’t dream.

You were awoken by Luke leaning over you, shaking your shoulder gently. The SUV was parked next to a small building with two snowmobiles parked in front of it.

“Time for part two of your winter wonderland tour,” he said, pulling you from the vehicle. Kieran was loading the last of a bunch of stuffed bags onto the back of one of the snowmobiles, the other one seemingly already fully loaded. He strapped your carry-on in with the rest. He had a large rifle slung over his back.

Luke produced a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

You didn’t even question him. “Heads.”

He flipped it, agilely despite the thick gloves he wore. He caught it, revealed it in his palm. “Tails. Damn. Kieran gets you this time,” he pouted.

Kieran let out a cheerful Whoop! and then beckoned you to him. “You know how to drive this thing?” you asked, a little dubious.

“Sylus taught us,” he smiled reassuringly.

He swung the big rifle from his back to his chest, so it hung diagonally over his torso.

He noticed your gaze. “Bears.”

“Of course,” you murmured, because what else could you say?

“Hold on tight.”

You had already come this far. You took his offered helmet, watched him put on his. You don’t know when it started. The trust you had in Sylus’s skills as a teacher. His faith in his men. Their loyalty to him.

You threw your leg over the snowmobile and let Kieran pull your arms around his waist. You leaned your head against his broad back.

The ride was exhilarating, even as tired as you were. Careening over the snow, the wind, the steep hills, the pine trees. Luke and Kieran maneuvered the snowmobiles competently, safely. You suspected that they weren’t trying to flip them or race to see who arrived first out of respect for your clearly exhausted state. You hugged Kieran tightly in thanks. You let yourself drift, and time passed like a dream.

The trees thickened. The hills narrowed. The snowmobiles passed along a narrow ridge, and then Kieran was slowing to a halt. He squeezed your forearm with a gloved hand, said softly into the now silent night, “You’re here.”

You leaned back, let go of him. Stepped off the snowmobile on wobbly legs. You took off the helmet and gasped.

A frozen lake, stretching, stretching, the far shore blurred into snow-covered pines. The mountains soared into the star-filled sky beyond the trees. Your eyes caught on a lone figure, in the middle of the icy expanse.

Luke moved to your side. “Lift your foot.” You did, again not questioning, trusting that he had a reason. He strapped ice grips onto your boot. Repeated on the other side.

“We’ll see you at the lodge,” he said as he straightened, patting your shoulder.

“That’s it?”

“He’s waiting for you. What more is there?” he asked.

“Are you ever afraid that he’ll turn on you?” you asked, suddenly. You didn’t know why.

Luke just looked at you thoughtfully. Kieran moved closer, feet crunching in the snow. “No,” he answered for the both of them. “And if he ever does, we’ll have deserved it.”

“How are you so sure?”

“He doesn’t use violence without a reason. And once he makes a decision, he doesn’t go back on it.”

“What did he decide in your case?” you asked, not able to help yourself, out here at the end of the world, in the echoing silence.

“That we’re his, to use, to see if we’re up to the challenge to survive. And once he decides something is his, he protects it. Why would he break his own tools?”

“And he also loves us,” Luke added cheerfully. “Although he won’t admit it out loud.”

You searched each of their faces in turn, mirrors, marked and unmarked, trying to see if they were messing with you. They let you.

“Do you love him?” you asked.

They turned and looked at each other. “We don’t know what that feeling is, even though we can recognize it in others. Because Luke is me, and I am him. Is that feeling love? If he dies, I die. But with Boss,” Kieran pauses thoughtfully. “I think it would feel like dying, if anything happened to him. Even though we’d survive. Is that love?”

He turned to look at you again.

You thought about Caleb, smiling at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. Teasing you for crying, even as he had tears in his own eyes, despite how many times you two had seen the movie already. How you felt like you were dying, ever since he died.

You thought about Sylus, Imagined how you’d feel, if he never called again. If he disappeared as abruptly as he appeared in your life.

“I think that’s love,” you whisper into the arctic night.

“Then we love him.”

You nodded.

“Are we done with the heart to heart?” Luke teased.

You nodded again.

“Okay. He’s waiting. Don’t keep him waiting for much longer. It was funny for a while, but now it’s starting to hurt,” Luke said.

You looked at him, bewildered. “What was funny?”

Kieran gently knocked Luke with his shoulder. “We’ll tell you later. Go to him.”

With that, they turned, mounted the snowmobiles, and sped along the shore of the lake, not back the way you had just come, but toward what you presumed was the lodge they mentioned.

Now, you see him in the distance. The snowmobile engine roar fades into silence. Your spiked ice grips crunch loudly with each step. The sky is a bowl overflowing with diamonds, pouring over the rims of the mountains.

You find yourself walking faster, the eagerness you’ve been suppressing breaking its leash like an unruly dog now that you’re so close to the man you’ve missed since the beginning of December, despite yourself and all of your fears.

His figure grows in your field of view as you approach him, until you finally reach him. He turns his head. He’s wearing a thick band around his ears but no proper hat like you are, so his silver hair shines in the bright moonlight, in the reflected moonlight from the snow, a ricochet of pearl.

Your breath catches in the frigid air as you meet his eyes, gleaming in the diamond night.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised. Pleased.

“My choices were ‘to come to you,’ or ‘to come to you,’” you say softly.

“If I had known that was all it took to get you to stop refusing half of my invitations, I would have stopped leaving them open ended long ago.” He lifts an arm, beckons you closer with a gloved hand. “But Is that the only reason? The lack of choice?” He’s watching you carefully, and it feels like he’s standing above you, instead of sitting below you on a little camping folding chair. He’s holding a fishing rod in his hand, the line sinking into a small hole cut in the ice. A large black hiking backpack, a rifle strapped to the bottom, and what looks like a wine corkscrew made for a giant sit next to the chair. A thermos is in one of the chair’s cupholders.

You consider him. Think about how careful you’ve been around him, for months now. How guarded. You think about the look shared between Kieran and Luke, about loving him, their faith in him. You think of how gently he moved them when they fell asleep during the Alien movie night marathon. You came to the ends of the earth for him.

“I missed you,” you admit. It feels like pulling a tooth that has been loose and hurting for a long time. You take a step forward, and it feels like you’re offering him the tooth, an aching, bloody part of yourself.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he says, accepting your offering graciously, with no trace of his usual impenetrable arrogance. He looks softer under the moonlight, the starlight.

You give him your gloved hand, let him pull you forward until you’re standing between his spread legs. Even in a camping chair, he sits like a bored king. Like at the ballet. Like when he forced you to resonate with him, when you first met him.

You look down into his upturned face, realizing only now just how true your admission is, how terribly you have missed him this past month. Showing up at your door. Inviting you out. His gifts in beautifully wrapped boxes. Just him. His eyes, warm and red.

“Have you been here, all along?” you ask.

He sets the fishing pole in what looks like a little stand dug into the ice specifically for holding it.

“Yes.” He reaches for your other hand, now holding both your hands in his. You can’t feel his heat through his gloves, through yours. You don’t like it.

“Fishing?”

“Fishing. Hunting. Thinking.”

You freeze a little, not from the cold, but the finality of his tone. You don’t want to know what he has been thinking about.

Maybe you never had to take the bait at all. Maybe he would have always grown bored, changed his mind in the waiting. Decided to destroy you just the same as if you had bitten what he was offering. Perhaps, like his latest invitation, you never truly had a choice at all.

You don’t want to know, yet. If he invited you to the end of the world to finally gut you, you don’t want to know yet.

“Your invitation said you needed my expertise. What’s your tricky problem?” you ask instead of asking what he’s been thinking about.

“Straight to business?” He lifts an eyebrow.

You try to memorize his face. Just in case. His wide mouth. His sharp canine teeth. His beautiful nose.

“The sooner your problem is solved, the sooner you can return to peacefully fishing without me scaring all the fish.”

“You’re not that intimidating,” he teases. You scowl at him. “Have you fished before?”

“No.” You trace the beauty of his irises, the frown line between his brows with your eyes. “Either way, it’s cruel.”

His dark silver eyebrows lift in curiosity. “Explain.”

“You either torture a fish for your own ego and pleasure by catching and releasing it. Or you catch it to kill it. Either way, the fish is never the same.”

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “You eat meat with Xavier when you go for hotpot. You eat the steak on your plate when we go to dinner. Is it much crueler, to be the one to capture, kill, and eat the animal yourself?”

You know he’s right. If you cared so deeply for the welfare of the animals you eat, you’d be a vegan.

“Maybe I’m a coward, for not wanting to be the one to butcher the animal myself,” you concede.

“Or maybe you’re afraid of how much you’d enjoy it.”

Your breath is a cloud in the air, puffing into the still night. You watch it mingle with his, dissipate into the air.

“I don’t enjoy killing wanderers. Why would I enjoy killing a fish?”

“Because you admire the wanderers. Do you marvel at fish the same way?”

You don’t know how he knows how much you regret often having to kill beautiful, lethal beasts. The only comfort you have is knowing that they can’t hurt anyone else when you’re through with them.

“That doesn’t mean I enjoy their demise.”

“Perhaps enjoy isn’t the right word. Perhaps it’s simply that you’re scared of how little you care for the fish you’re killing for the necessity of your sustenance.”

You think about Sylus, snapping the neck of the merchant who was selling counterfeit protocore syndrome drugs in an N109 Zone neighborhood.

You think about Sylus, breaking every finger on the man’s hand who Sylus knew was withholding the location of a human trafficker, luring victims in with promises of a steady job. By the time they realized that they would actually be fodder for illegal protocore transplants, it was too late.

You think about Sylus, kicking the human trafficker to his knees, executing him in the street, leaving his corpse for the scavengers or a more merciful soul to come and collect.

“I’m cold, Sylus,” you say.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve admitted weakness in front of me, kitten.” He draws you down into his lap. Opens the cap of the thermos and places it in your gloved hands. Wraps his arms around you. “Normally you just hide behind me when the wind is cold, when you could have just asked me to take you somewhere warm.”

You watch the steam rise from the hot drink inside. Take a sip. It’s mulled wine. You detect a hint of cloves, along with the citrus, cinnamon, star anise. It warms you almost as much as Sylus’s eyes.

“You’ve told me enough times now to just tell you when I’m cold.”

“And all it took was luring you to the arctic to get some obedience out of you,” he grouses.

You sink into him, let your head, still covered in the mad bomber hat, rest under his chin. It’s not close enough. All the layers of your clothes seem like an unacceptable distance between your body and his.

“You still haven’t told me about your tricky problem.”

“Would you like to learn how to ice fish, if I promised you that we’ll eat what we catch instead of needlessly tormenting them?” he asks, instead of answering your implied question.

As usual, it will take skill and finesse to get the truth out of him. Perhaps this is how he feels about you, as you accept half his invitations, refuse the other half. As you keep him at arm’s length, even as you imagine his hands working his gifts into your skin.

“I didn’t know you like to fish,” you say, instead of answering. A little petty.

He makes a noise of agreement. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Which isn’t fair, considering how much you know about me.” You take another sip, cuddled against him. It soothes your aching head.

He hugs you tighter. “What would you like to know?”

“Why do you like to fish?”

He answers easily. “The quiet. The solitude. The simple pleasure of a job well done, the reward of sustenance. A feeling of self sufficiency. Enjoying nature. All things that are lacking in the N109 Zone.”

You hadn’t realized that he would crave such things, based on his lifestyle in the city he rules. You’re surprised. Pleased. As if you have a right to be pleased by how the things you love about hiking and camping, away from Linkon City, are the same things he enjoys about fishing.

He’s not yours to be proud of, to mirror. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “What else do you like?”

“How about I answer by inviting you along with me for each one, and you accept each of my invitations, as you did this one?”

You wonder what you’d be accepting, if you say yes to this proposition.

You think about the bait, dangling over your head. The hook flashing in the starlight.

You stall. “Let’s see how teaching me to fish goes, and then I’ll give you my answer.”

“Ever cautious, kitten,” he murmurs. “A sample of the goods for you, then.”

You sit up, screw the lid back on the thermos, slide from his lap. You tuck the thermos in his pack, pick up his fishing pole and hand it to him.

“I’ve been sitting here for over an hour without a bite,” he says. “Let’s move to a different spot on the lake and see if we have better luck there.”

“Okay,” you say quietly, and move to pick up the big hiking pack. He tsks, lifting it from the ground with his evol before you reach it. He straps it to his back, flicks the folding chair closed, and hands it to you.

“You can carry this.” He hands the fishing pole to you next. “And this.”

You roll your eyes. “You act like I’m incapable of carrying heavy things.”

“Just because you’re capable, doesn’t mean you should have to. When I’m with you, let me carry the weight for you.” He bends over, picks up the giant corkscrew. You look at him inquiringly.

“Ice augur. We’ll use it to drill another hole in the ice.”

You eye the wicked-looking edges, the handle for turning it, driving it into the ice. “You could kill a man with that.”

Sylus hums in agreement, turning to lead you to another part of the lake. Your boots, his boots, the teeth biting the ice crunch with each step. “But it’s inefficient. Messy.”

You admire the width of his shoulders—they look even bigger in his big puffy parka. “You’ve actually used it to kill someone.” You shake your head, in wonder, in disapproval, you’re not sure which.

“You’re the one who suggested it.”

You scoff. “You’re the one who actually did it, Sylus.”

He shrugs, as if the heavy pack weighs nothing on his shoulders. “I was bored.”

“What happens, if I accept all of your invitations?” you ask quietly. The wind isn’t blowing. The night is still. Your voice carries in the hushed silence, along with the white of your breath in the air. “Will you grow bored?”

He doesn’t turn. His hair shines in the liquid night light.

“When you accept is when the fun actually begins. I doubt I’ll ever be bored again.”

You stare at his back.

“Here,” he says. He shrugs the pack off his shoulders, lets it gently fall to the ground. Drives the fishing pole holder thingy into the ice. He turns to you, gestures for you to unfold the chair.

You flip it out, set it on the ice, as he sets the sharp tip of the augur against the ice and holds it in one hand while twisting the handle with the other. Slowly, it cuts its way through. The shaved ice begins to build, reminds you of snow cones. You want to put a handful in your mouth, but it’s lake water, so you resist. Barely.

After a few moments, he lifts the augur, leaving a perfect circle behind, revealing the water underneath.

You think about the way Sylus’s scent remains in your apartment, long after he is gone.

You think about his hand in yours, through the entire duration of the ballet.

You think about Sylus slowly drilling through the thin ice around your heart, dipping into the frigid, still water underneath with his blood-soaked hands.

You wonder when being okay was no longer enough for you.

He interrupts your thoughts, his voice deep, soothing, seemingly loud in the snow-quiet. “Some people drill multiple holes around the same lake. Set up tip-ups, a sort of fishing pole system where you don’t have to hold the pole—there’s a flag that flies up when the fish takes the bait. The angler then knows to grab hold and reel it in. Some use more traditional spears. Others use sonar to detect where the fish are, and then quickly drill, ensuring a higher chance of a bite.”

You look at his simple fishing pole. His lack of fancy equipment. “You just use a standard pole, try your luck.”

He nods. “That’s the point for me. Simple. Peaceful. If they bite, they bite. If not, that’s my typical luck. I’ve enjoyed the fresh air, the pine on the wind.” His beautiful mouth tips a little at the corner. “It’s better with you here. Now there’s no losing, even if I return empty-handed.”

“It sounds like you were already winning, no matter what.”

He shakes his head, pokes your forehead with a gloved finger. You hate the gloves, even as they protect you from frostbite. You want to feel his skin on yours again. “As usual, you are wildly mistaken.”

He gently takes the fishing pole from your grasp, then kneels, rummages in his bag. He pulls out a little box, and using his teeth, pulls off his gloves. His hands are so pale they glow like the surrounding snow.

“We’re going to use flashy, bright bait. Maybe we’ll get a pike, or trout.”

You think of jewel-encrusted boxes. Rubies around your neck, your wrists.

You watch as his nimble fingers, seemingly unaffected by the cold, thread the bright silver hook with radioactive-colored jiggly bait.

You imagine swimming in serene waters, the roof of the world crystal above you. Opening your mouth, trying to catch something delicious dangling in the water. You imagine the pain, the jerk. Being flayed open, your ribs cracked wide.

You watch Sylus Qin, hair shimmering in the moonlight, eyes like hot blood, and think that even if you know what’s at the end of the hook, you’ll still bite, in the end. You’ll struggle, and struggle, but ultimately try to swallow him whole.

You don’t think Sylus is correct, assuming you’re afraid that you won’t care about the fish’s struggle in the same way you care about killing magnificent wanderers.

He lowers the bait into the water, unreeling the line. He hands it to you. You take it, reluctantly.

He puts his gloves back on, drags the folding chair closer to the hole, sits. “Come.”

You obey, sliding back onto his lap. He puts his gloved hands over yours on the fishing rod.

“And now we wait?” you ask.

“And now we wait,” he confirms.

You lean against him. There is only the moon, the spilling stars, the dark trees in the distance, Sylus’s breath, yours.

“You can’t be mad at me,” you shatter the muffled silence.

“What could you ever do to me, to make me mad at you?”

You breathe out, watch your own breath drift. “I hope we don’t catch anything.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you hate it that much?”

You let go of the rod, turn in his lap. “I think I do.” You can’t bring yourself to tell him why.

He studies your face. “Then we’ll go back to the lodge.”

“I don’t want to ruin your fishing trip. Just tell me where to go, and I’ll walk. You can tell me why you brought me here later.”

He snorts softly. “Where you go, I go.”

“Seriously—” you protest, but then the fishing rod jerks in his hands. He grasps it tightly, eyes flicking to where the line is bending the rod in a long bow toward the hole in the ice, back to your face. Asking a question.

You were swimming peacefully in a dangerous, but mostly serene lake. You were pulled out by your tender flesh, terrified for days, and then thrown back in. And now the same angler is looking at you, asking you a silent question, if he is allowed to reel another living creature, just like you, into the cold, drowning air.

But you already care for him so much. So much more than perhaps you care for yourself, in how happy you want to make him. You find yourself nodding, despite the dread filling you.

He firmly, slowly, reels in the fish. It’s big—much bigger than you expect. You take a step back, give Sylus room as it plops out of the water, onto the ice. It’s mouth opens, closes. It has sharp teeth.

He looks at you again. “It’s a pike. Do you want to release it? I’ll gently lower it into the water, let it swim out of my hands. As little trauma as possible.”

You’re staring at the pike’s sharp teeth. You think of your swords. Your pistols. Your fists. If he tries to put the fish back in the water, it might bite him. You know that Sylus will heal, but you don’t want him to have to heal himself during what is supposed to be a tranquil fishing trip.

“You came here to catch fish. Finish it.” You try to sound firm. Calm.

Your heart is racing.

Sylus doesn’t waste time. He reaches into his parka pocket and pulls out what looks like a little ice pick. He bends down, grasps the fish with one gloved hand and drives the sharp point of the pick into the fish’s head. It immediately stops moving.

He does this with the same efficiency that he executed a man in the street. The same quiet, decisive coldness that he snapped a man’s neck.

He turns to you, eyes widening. “Sweetheart?” He sounds a little panicked.

The tears are hot on your face. They steam in the frigid air. You don’t know why you’re crying.

“Some people put their fish on the ice—they think that they just fall asleep and never wake up. But it’s a slow death. The most humane way is iki jime.” He gestures with the pick. “A swift strike to its brain.”

“I understand,” you say, because you do. What he did was the kindest thing, once you gave him permission to kill it. You quickly try to brush your tears away with your gloved palms.

He rummages in his bag again, pulls out what looks like a roll of wax paper. He carefully wraps the fish, making sure it’s tightly packed in the paper, and then slips it into his bag.

“It’s so cold that we don’t need to pack it in ice. It will keep until we get back to the lodge.” He disassembles the fishing rod, which apparently has some sort of telescoping function so that it fits neatly in the pack. He unfolds the camping chair, straps it to the bottom of that pack. He has to adjust the rifle to add it to the pack’s straps. He picks up the ice augur in one hand, and takes yours in the other. You feel useless, like you wrecked his trip. You haven’t even been here on the lake with him for an hour.

You stop, the snow spikes digging into the ice.

“Why am I here, Sylus?”

He turns, studies you with his lovely eyes. “Because I needed you to be here, and you came.” His voice is deep, and soft. Tender.

You clench your teeth. “But why?”

“Because I missed you. And it’s almost New Year’s Eve.”

You stare at him. Is it that simple? He missed you, and he wanted to spend New Year’s with you? “My expertise? Your tricky problem?”

He doesn’t bother looking sheepish. “Only you know how to make me happy. And only your presence can solve your absence.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. Your nose is cold, running a little from the tears, the harsh air. “You flew me to the arctic to spend New Year’s with you because you missed me?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Your teeth start to chatter. Despite the parka, the fur cap, your warm boots, you’re suddenly exhausted and cold. As if hearing that Sylus doesn’t need you to fight wanderers, or take down some inhumane fur smuggling ring, your body feels like it’s safe to acknowledge your hangover from Christmas, your exhaustion from the flight, the trip out to this frozen lake at the end of the world, the grief of the past year.

“Why didn’t you just say so in the invitation?” you manage through your clicking teeth.

“Would you have come?” he asks, tilting his head.

You think about the fish. The swift plunge of metal into its brain. His hand, holding yours during a ballet. A record spinning in your small living room, Sylus having brought your favorite artist on vinyl to play for you while you played Scrabble. The bones of a thumb snapping, the squeal of a man in excruciating pain. A fish hook, gleaming in the moonlight.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly.

“Do you want to leave, now that you know that there’s no crisis?” He sounds resigned.

You think about how you wanted to make him happy as the fish took the bait. His knuckles, soft on your cheek. His scent in your kitchen, long after he is gone.

You realize now that the hook has been in your mouth ever since he released you gently back into the water, after the auction. It’s been bleeding this whole time, as you refused some invitations, gave in to others. He has been letting out the line, reeling you back in. Making sure you don’t thrash yourself off the hook. A master angler, now looking at you with such sorrowful resignation.

“I won’t invite you again,” he says, and your heart stops. Your teeth stop chattering. The stars are diamonds spilling onto the ice, splashing back up, illuminating his hair, the wine glow of his eyes.

“What?” you whisper.

“It’s almost the new year. If you want to move into the future without me bothering you anymore, I promise to let you go. If that’s what you really want.”

He’s willing to let the line out again, to let you swim away from him.

But his hook is already in you, so deep, you’ll carry it for the rest of your life, no matter what choice you make.

Your teeth start to chatter even harder. You’re not ready. You’re not ready to say goodbye to him. You’re also not ready to make a choice, the fear filling you—the pike’s sharp teeth, your sharp teeth, the sheen of fish scales lovely under the moon, the sheen of lovely fabric draped over your body in a box seat at the ballet, the spike, the sudden stillness after so much thrashing.

“Take me to the lodge, Sylus.”

His breath puffs white. He doesn’t ask you again to make the choice now. He turns, pulls you forward by the hand.

The way back is a blur. You’re exhausted, cold. His big body shields you from the wind as he drives the snowmobile, deeper through the pines, until you burst into a small clearing filled with a decent-sized, but not huge, wood cabin. The lodge. Just as they call Sylus’s mansion ‘the base,’ these men can’t be normal about anything at all and call this wood cabin ‘the lodge.’

He parks the snowmobile under a covered area next to the cabin, next to three others. You wonder if he had the fourth one brought for you specifically, or if this is just the number of vehicles that come with the cabin.

He pulls you to the door, and the heat inside is a welcome relief to your cold, tired bones. He helps you peel out of the parka, the heavy boots. Hangs and arranges everything neatly in a large, stone-tiled foyer. He then strips himself. He’s wearing a soft sweater, soft dark pants underneath. He picks up the pack with one big hand, and yours in the other. It’s warm against yours.

Past the inner foyer door, the cabin opens up into a high-ceilinged, rustic space. Pale blond wood. Furred rugs. Comfortable, overstuffed leather furniture. Huge windows, just like his base, providing a view of the surrounding snow-covered pines. The mountains rising beyond. Open floor plan—living room, big kitchen. You turn, find a balcony overlooking the living room. The upper floor with the bedrooms, you assume.

There is no television.

You turn to him. “How do the twins stay entertained? How do you?”

He shrugs. “We bring books. Graphic novels. There’s a games closet. We hunt. Drink. A sauna.” His mouth quirks when you visibly react to the idea of a sauna. “We can do sauna after you’ve slept.”

You just nod, a little overwhelmed. Like you so often are around this man. You’re so tired.

“Do you want to learn how I prep the fish, or do you want to rest?” he asks after setting the hiking pack next to the kitchen island. The kitchen counters are large butcher blocks, the cabinets more blond wood.

“Rest. Please. I think I’m really tired after the trip.”

He lifts a warm hand, traces underneath one of your eyes with a fingertip. “You look tired.”

You scowl. “Thanks.”

He drops his hand. “You look no less lovely for it.” Then he turns, begins making his way up the open wooden staircase leading to the hall balcony above. When he notices you not following, he turns back. “Coming?”

You shake your head, accepting the feeling of warmth flooding you from his kind comment. You’ve come this far. You refuse to let him make you choose. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. But you know that you’ll just know, at the right moment, when choice must finally be made.

You follow him. He leads you to a bedroom with a huge bed. Polished wood floor. Large window, the night sky spilling onto a snow-filled balcony on the other side of the glass. Pale walls. A rustic dresser with a record player on it, a closet, an en-suite bathroom. Everything is simple. So different than Sylus’s normal style, but it still feels like him. Clean lines. Sylus, if he could relax. The room smells of him. Delicious. Cloves.

The bedding is piled high, puffy duvet, white.

“Everything you need should be in the bathroom. Are you hungry?”

You turn back to him. “I’m not hungry, but I should probably eat. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

He tsks, frowns. “I’ll bring you something,” he says grumpily. He turns to leave.

“Thank you.”

He pauses in the doorway. Rests one big hand on the doorframe, looks over his shoulder. “For what, kitten?”

“For inviting me. For… tolerating me.”

He turns fully. Strides over to you. Places his warm palms on your upturned face. “If you don’t listen to anything else I say, listen to me now. You are the one person I never have to tolerate.” His thumbs sweep under your eyelids, along the delicate skin, just as you imagined when you’d dab aloe vera there, as you’d dab expensive face cream there. It feels better than you were ever able to imagine. “It’s almost New Year’s. I can go through another year, without knowing if you want to face it with me. I will wait for as long as I have to. But if you already know that you’re not going to keep me, it would be more merciful for you to tell me now.”

You stare into his eyes, and for the first time, see yourself mirrored in them.

The uncertainty. The fear.

Maybe you’re not the only one who can empathize with a powerful, deadly fish struggling on a hook.

Maybe you’ve been looking at the trajectory of your relationship with this man from the wrong angle this whole time. That you’ve been missing something essential, all along.

You need more time. You try to memorize the dark striations in his lava-glow eyes. To warm you when he walks out of the room again.

“I’ll tell you,” you promise him.

He closes his eyes, and it’s like the lights go out in the room. He breathes through his nose and releases you.

Then he’s gone. You head to the bathroom, and he’s right. Everything you could want for your stay, waiting for you. You shower. The hot water never runs out. You wonder how big the generator is that powers this place. You didn’t see any electrical lines overhead.

When you emerge, there’s a tray on the bed. Meat and cheese, rustic bread, olives. A large glass of water sits on one of the pale wood nightstands.

You eat your fill, watching the stars shift across the sky. You then crawl under the big pile of duvets and pass out almost immediately.

You don’t dream.

You don’t know what time it is, when you wake up. The sky outside is still full of stars. You’re so warm. Waking up is peaceful, without an alarm. Without obligations pressing in on you. You think that you’ve been missing something essential, through all the hours, days, weeks, months, since Sylus came into your life. As much worry, confusion, dread that he has brought with him, he has brought an equal, if not greater amount, of moments like these. Opening a new pot of cream to soothe your chapped, thin skin. The feel of soft, quality fabric draped over your body. Biting into the chilled flesh of a perfectly ripe fruit, plucked from a gift basket delivered to your door. His hand, warm, enveloping your own cold one. His strong, sturdy presence at your side during missions that may have gone sideways, if not for his strength bolstering yours. Waking up to starlight pouring into a bedroom, a waterfall of crystals plinking onto the floor, the duvet, your upturned face.

You’ve been viewing these luxuries as shiny bait hiding a sharp hook.

What if they’re offerings from a man experiencing his own hook, leading to you, terrified that you’re going to rip it out of his soft mouth?

You turn your head from the window, and only then do you realize you’re so warm because Sylus is heating the space under the duvet with the giant furnace of his own body. Somewhere during your nap, or night sleep, whatever it was, as time has no meaning here, he slipped into bed next to you. He’s breathing quietly, eyes closed, head on the pillow next to yours. He’s not touching you, but his body heat feels like a caress.

You drink in his beautiful face. Imagine a hook caught in the plush of his full lower lip. It hurts you to imagine having to shove it in deeper, in order to dislodge it, to slip the vicious barbed point back through the wound to free him.

You think that perhaps, there was never any choice at all, for either of you.

“Like what you see?” His voice is thick, footsteps over gravel. Sleepy.

“I think you know,” you answer. What’s the point in denying it, here at the end of the world?

“It’s nice to hear, even so,” he murmurs. He opens his eyes.

“I’ve liked what I see, ever since I saw you for the first time, Sylus.” You stare, openly.

“I wasn’t sure,” he admits.

“Now you can be sure,” you say.

“But is it enough?” he asks.

You’re getting closer. After such a short time, but at the same time, an eternity, you think you can see your choice. Through the snow-covered pines. A shadow moving in the moonlight.

“It’s not a matter of enough, or not enough.” You touch his cheek with your index finger, let it drift down, along his jaw. He shudders, eyes not leaving yours. You realize that this is the first time you’ve reached out to touch him, and not the other way around.

You’re close. You’re really close. The universe will tell you. You know it. “What is on the agenda for today?” you ask.

He seems to accept your non-answer again. “Do you want to hear the good news, or the bad news?”

You lift your eyebrows. “There’s news?”

He nods, the silver of his hair falling across his forehead. Messy and cute.

“You choose.” You can’t bear bad news right now.

“It snowed after you went to sleep. A lot. It may take several days to dig out the snowmobiles.”

You let out a relieved breath. All at once, you know you were never going to leave.

“And the bad news?”

He looks at you funny. “That was the bad news.”

You laugh. “How terrible. Being trapped with a handsome man in his comfortable cabin, free from work and responsibilities.”

He looks like he’s in pain. “I thought you’d be upset.”

“You’re not the only one who can be unpredictable.” You smile.

He watches you, as if he’s waiting for more. He can keep waiting. He likes games, after all.

“What’s the good news?” you prompt him, feeling a little mean, but enjoying it.

“We have plenty of firewood for the sauna. Plenty of supplies for a long stay, if we have trouble digging out the snowmobiles. We can go for a walk, now that it has stopped snowing again.”

“Okay. Let’s go for a walk, and then do sauna after we’re cold and tired.”

He’s still watching you, as if you’re about to freak out. “What do you always tell me? Don’t overthink it? Relax?” You laugh, gently poke the tip of his beautiful nose. “Take your own advice, big boss man.”

That does the trick—he smiles, faintly. “Does that mean you’ll do as I order?”

You tilt your head, a maybe, maybe not look on your face. “Guess you’ll just have to see.” You roll away, yanking the duvet with you. He yelps from the cold, heretofore a decidedly non-Sylus sound. You like it. You want to hear it again.

“Up. We have snow to trudge through!”

His evol, black and red swirls, yanks the duvet from around your shoulders, settles it back over himself. You blow a raspberry at him, slam the bathroom door behind you.

You’re going to have fun, while you’re here. As you make him sweat a little, now that you know that the universe is on the cusp of letting you swallow his bait, just as he swallowed yours, months ago.

The snow has buried the overhang that sheltered the snowmobiles. The front door can’t be opened. After grabbing a simple breakfast in the kitchen, you and Sylus gear up for the cold. The parka, the ski pants, the heavy boots, this time with snow shoes instead of ice grippers attached. Your mad bomber hat, gloves. He slings the heavy rifle over his back, along with a backpack full of snacks and other emergency gear. He slips a headlamp over his own forehead. You hear whooping and cheering from outside the house.

“You’ll see,” he says to your questioning look. He leads you back up the stairs, to a door at the end of the hallway. He opens it onto a bedroom which must belong to one of the twins based on the clutter of books and half-opened bags. You’re just in time to see one of the twins take a running leap over the balcony railing and disappear.

You hurry across the room, through the open balcony door, peer over the railing. Just a few feet below, lying in a huge snowbank coming up the side of the cabin, are Kieran and Luke, making snow angels and laughing their asses off.

“This is how we’re getting out of the house?” you ask, comprehension dawning.

Sylus laughs, low. “You can jump, or I’ll just lower you with my evol. It’s up to you.”

It occurs to you that with Sylus’s evol, he could likely simply disintegrate the snow covering the snowmobiles. That you’re not actually stuck here. That he’s playing games with you, just as you’re now playing a game with him. You no longer feel bad, or mean, for making him wait for an answer you think you could probably already give him.

You feel like being a little meaner, now. You turn, step toward him. You lift your gloved hand, grab hold of his headlamp, bring his face down to yours. “I think I’ll jump,” you whisper, your mouth a breath away from his. You take a long whiff of his skin. He smells so fucking good. You hear his own intake of breath, a sharp little sound. He turns his head, brushes his nose against your cheek. But you gently shove him away, turn, and jump over the railing.

The twins whoop and holler as you land in the snow with a loud WHOOMP. You laugh, spread your arms and legs, try your best to carve a path through the snow, making your own angel. The snow is wet, cold. It bites your cheeks, makes you feel alive. After you’re satisfied, you stand, survey your handwork. Not exactly the most elegant snow angel, but it will do.

You’re suddenly covered in a spray of snow, as Sylus jumps over the balcony and the resulting shockwave from his big body hitting the powder covers you from head to toe.

You sweep your hand down your snow covered chest, form a snowball and then jump down into the hole he just made, right on top of him. You reach for his face, trying to pat him with the snowball, but he twists, rolling you. You wrestle, laughing, each trying to get the upper hand, but it’s not a fair fight in the snow. Maybe if you were on proper gym mats you could do some jiu jitsu moves on him, but he manages to roll you underneath him in the wet, powdery snow. He looks down into your face, cheeks pink from the cold and effort, smiling bigger than you think you’ve ever seen him smile.

“Truce?” You offer, a lie.

He leans down, his lips just above yours. “Why would I accept a truce when I have the upper hand? I’m playing to win.”

As he speaks, you let your hand drift through the snow. You lean up, just shy of pressing your lips against his. His eyes flick down, as if mesmerized by your mouth. You bring your hand up, shove the snow against his cheek.

He yelps again, glares down at you. You love that sound. You want to make him whine. “I see, what false sincerity in your offered truce.”

You lean up, lick the snow off his face. It tastes delicious. You always did like chewing on ice. “You were prepared to annihilate me, and you complain about good faith in negotiations?”

He’s staring at you again, but you just smile up at him, eyebrows raised. He looks like he wants to say something. You don’t want to give him the chance.

“Now off. I’m getting cold.”

“Making demands, after launching a pre-emptive strike.” He shakes his head.

You poke his cheek. “A warning shot. Get off, unless you want the full arsenal.”

“I see that I need to shore up my defenses if I’m to withstand a real assault from you,” he murmurs, rolling off you. You both lie for a few moments, admiring the night sky, side by side, in Sylus’s now ruined snow angel.

Eventually, he helps you to your feet. You brush the snow off each other, as best as you can, considering how powdery it is. You’re grateful for the snow shoes that allow you to walk over the surface of the snow without sinking in. You leave the twins to continue jumping off the balcony, hauling themselves up again. They’re daring each other to engage in ever more complicated aerial acrobatics.

“Don’t you worry they’ll break their necks?” you ask as you walk side by side with Sylus, into the pines past the clearing. He clicks on his headlamp, illuminating the way, but the now-rising moon, the blanket of stars overhead continue to illuminate the snow. You think you could see just fine without the flashlight.

“They’re not stupid,” he answers easily.

“What would you do, if something happened to them?” you ask.

“Have you accepted me in this gruesome little scenario, or have you released me?” he asks, not sounding upset at all. Just curious.

You stare at his profile. The bored curve of his lips. His long nose. He flicks you with a scarlet glance, then gazes ahead again.

“Would the answer change?”

“If you release me, I’d kill everyone in the vicinity and wait for you to arrive with the Association to put me down.” He shrugs one shoulder, stretching his neck. “If you keep me, I’d kill anyone responsible, and then entomb the twins in the hills above Linkon City. Build a university in their honor, since they never got to go. When I offered, they said it was too late. Stupid.”

You stare at him. “You love them.”

He snorts. “They’re useful.”

“You love them,” you repeat.

You can’t unpack the rest. How his answer changed based on your presence, or absence in his life. Why he would want you to be the one to kill him, instead of killing himself.

“Think what you want,” he says, but he doesn’t sound upset.

The walk is beautiful. Peaceful. Your feet crunch in the snow, alongside Sylus’s. You’re getting tired, are about to suggest turning around, heading back to sauna, when you hear a faint screaming. As if it’s coming from up ahead, and yet under the snow.

“Do you hear that?” You turn to Sylus. He nods. Begins walking in the direction of the sound. You follow. As you walk through the snow-covered pines, the screaming gets louder. A high, pained squealing that breaks your heart.

Sylus stops, looks down. “Here,” he says. He drops to his knees, starts digging. You try to help, but he motions you away. “If it tries to bite, better me than you.”

“No—” you try to argue, but he just shakes his head.

“Not up for debate.”

Eventually, he manages to reveal a flat surface under the snow. He stops, sits back. The screaming has stopped. He slowly reaches up, turns off the headlamp that had illuminated his digging efforts.

“What is it?”

“A weasel trap.”

You stare at him. “Why would someone want to trap a weasel, all the way out here?”

“Why do humans do anything?” he asks, strangely, with disgust heavy in his voice.

“Okay, fine. Let’s free it.”

“It sounds like it’s hurt,�� he says. “It wasn’t screaming just because it’s caught in a humane trap. That’s the scream of an animal in pain.” His voice is strained.

“Okay, then let’s look inside, and if it’s injured, we get it to the vet.”

“Even with a vet’s help, for a wild animal like this, the most merciful thing we can do for it is put it down if it’s permanently maimed.” Sylus can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the box.

You kneel down next to him. “Let’s actually take a look before we decide that there’s no hope.” He continues staring at the box. “Sylus.” You bite the tip of one of your gloved fingers, pull the glove off your hand. You touch Sylus’s cheek. It’s cold. You turn his face. “Sylus, I’m not going to kill it. And neither are you.” He finally looks at you. “If you don’t open the trap, I will.”

He searches your eyes, and then nods. He reaches down, gingerly lifts the top of the trap. He curses softly.

You peek over his shoulder, and see that it’s not a humane trap at all. Someone set what looks like a cross between a mouse and a bear trap within the box trap that could have been just as effective without actually hurting the animal. The weasel is cowering away from you and Sylus, its white fur stained red with its own blood. Its leg is crushed in the jaws of the vicious inner trap.

“We need to kill it,” Sylus grates out. “It’s in so much pain.”

Something moves through you, as you absorb the sight of the white fur, soaked in blood, so soft. The creature’s little red eyes, bright jewels in its white, cute little face. It looks like Sylus. His eyes, his hair.

The enormity of the cruelty it took to set a trap in the middle of nowhere, which by itself is terrible enough—in such a remote area, with constant snowstorms, the animal would likely have died a slow, painful death from starvation before whoever set the trap could come back to check it. But they ensured the maximum pain possible, by setting a trap that would crush one of its limbs.

Something moves through you, and it is blotting out everything else. Your skin feels too tight. Your body is hot, despite the cold of the air, the snow. It takes a moment for you to realize what you’re feeling. Rage. You feel like you could explode with it.

“Sweetheart—”

You hear Sylus’s voice as if from a great distance. You turn your head, slow like you’re underwater.

You want to kill something.

You want to kill someone.

You want to kill the person who set this trap, and you want to make it hurt.

“Beloved, you need to—”

You slowly realize that the pine trees are too bright, the snow reflecting what looks like direct sunlight. The weasel has shut its red, red eyes against the bright light.

You look down at your hands. Your evol is swirling around your palms, up your wrists, twisting, snaking. It’s almost too bright to look at. You look at Sylus. He’s looking off to the side, squinting. You know how sensitive his eyes are. You’re hurting his eyes with the golden light of your evol.

“Sylus,” you say. You’re so angry. You’re so angry, you could bring down a city with it. The size of your anger is incomprehensible. “Is this how you feel?”

You think that this is it. The sign from the universe. The sign that it’s time to choose.

If this is how Sylus feels, as he snaps the necks of fraudulent, cruel men, as he puts bullets in people who don’t deserve to be called human, then who are you to judge him? Fear him? You are the same.

Kindred spirits.

He closes his eyes. Turns to face you. “Resonate with me,” he answers, because why would he begin answering your questions directly now? Just because you feel such rage that you want to rip the spine out of the person who did this and impale him with his own coccyx?

“I don’t know if it’s safe—” your heart is pounding. So loud, it almost drowns out Sylus’s strained voice. The light is only getting brighter. You’ve never lost control of your evol before. Is this how Zayne feels? You’re terrified, but bigger than the terror, is the rage.

He reaches out, blindly, manages to catch your hand in his. He bites the tip of his glove, yanks it off his other hand. He then slides his naked hand against yours. You don’t even think. It’s not a conscious decision. Your evol rushes into him, a dam bursting.

You splash into the ocean of stars, of molten lava—resonance with Sylus.

The confines of your body no longer restrict your anger. It pours out of you, unchecked, an oil spill across the shimmering net of the ocean of connection between you and him. He’s here with you. His compassion, empathy for this uncontrollable fury meets the oil spill, absorbing it, filtering it, letting it bleed out as fuel, something useful. He gathers it, as he gathers you in his arms, your cheek pressed against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat loudly, even though physically, it’s muffled by his parka. Here, in the endless night, the bottomless sea, your feelings are manageable, shared between the two of you.

Is this how you feel, when you’re snapping a man’s neck? Your questions flow out of you like your anger, unchecked. You can’t control the confines of your other feelings either—your fear, of taking his bait. Your fear, that he’ll grow bored with you. Your fear, that he sees you as a pathetic little fish to catch, easily spiked through the brain, tossed back into the water.

He squeezes you more tightly against him.

Let’s heal the weasel, and then I’ll show you how I feel.

You look up at him. We can heal it?

You can resonate with it, as you resonate with me. My healing ability will pass through you, into the animal. It will hurt. We will all hurt. But then its leg can be fully restored. It's still connected by a thread.

You don’t care. You don’t care that you’ll hurt too. But you don’t want Sylus to have to hurt in the process. Are you okay with hurting for an animal?

You don’t know what to expect. A response saying he’s willing to do it, because you want to do it. That he’ll do it for you, because you asked it of him. A response that shrugs off his own pain—he’s used to it, it’s not that big of a deal. You could have expected anything but the feeling he reveals through the resonance—a flood of empathy for the animal, chained by the leg, a part of its body crushed, the terror of being trapped, knowing that the only end is a long, slow death.

Coursing around this island of empathy inside Sylus is a wide, rushing river, its current inexorable. A feeling that says If anything were to happen to you, I’d feel like dying. I’ve died so many times, drowning in your absence.

Love. He loves you so much. He has loved you so much, for so long. His love has only grown, as he watched you lose control of your evol because of the fury on behalf of this small, scared, crushed animal.

Your fury dissipates in the torrential river of his devotion. You nod, knowing now that he’s more than willing to heal the creature, to bear its pain as his own, just as you are.

You lean over the open trap, ready to rest a featherlight finger on the weasel’s little head, when Sylus stays your hand. The aether core in his eye glows, and he stares into the animal’s now open eyes. You feel a deep, burning pain in your own right eye, as Sylus’s feelings continue to flood into you, form a slurry, flow back into him, now mixed with yours. The weasel’s eyes begin to glow red, just as Sylus’s does. He then nudges you again. You reach down, rest a finger on its little head, and let your evol flow from you into its body.

Pain. Your leg crushed, its now separate parts only connected by a thin stretch of mangled flesh. Sylus, gaze never leaving the weasel, bites off his other glove. He snaps his fingers, loud in the snow-muffled forest. The trap dissolves into scarlet and ink ash. You pull Sylus’s own evol into you, push it into the weasel. All three of you make a low, keening noise in your throats as the flesh begins to knit back together, an agony of sutures pulling without anesthetic, a fundamental wrongness as you reverse nature, crush entropy into order, make something whole that’s not supposed to be whole, anymore.

After what feels like a lifetime, the pain slowly fades. You collapse back onto your ass in the snow, breaking the resonance with the weasel, but maintaining it with Sylus. Sylus remains kneeling, looking down into the trap. The light in his aether core fades. The pain in your eye fades.

You’re watching the weasel through Sylus’s eyes. He observes with a faint thread of pride how the little animal uncurls itself. Stretches its leg experimentally. Even wiggles its little clawed toes. It looks up at Sylus with its crimson eyes.

You and Sylus expect that it will now scurry over the edge of the trip, scrabble through the snow and into the night, away from this place of pain and trauma. But it just sits there for a moment, looking at Sylus.

It then sits up on its back legs like a meerkat, and lifts its little front legs in the air.

Sylus stares at it in confusion.

It wants up.

He turns to look at you, incredulous. You see yourself through his eyes. Your beloved, beautiful face, reflecting the moonlight. A face he’d die over and over for, if it prevented the look of fear and distrust that he has seen flash across it as you looked at him in the dark of a theater, over the white linen of a fine restaurant, from next to him on your couch, as you listened to the record playing that he brought for you, as you bathed in starlight on a frozen lake at the end of the world.

You’ve been looking at him from the wrong angle, missing something essential, from the moment you looked up into his disdainful face for the first time.

You haul yourself to your knees, crunching through the snow to his side again. You look down into the trap, where the weasel is still on its haunches, waving its little front legs in the air. You reach down with your ungloved hand, offer it your palm. It doesn’t hesitate. It simply launches itself onto your forearm, scurries up to your shoulder. It leaps from yours to Sylus’s shoulder. It scrabbles at the fully zipped up collar of his parka, and then literally weasels itself under the coat, and around his neck. It settles, then peeks out of his coat next to his jaw.

He grimaces. Its fur is still matted with its blood.

You shrug. What, is the coat dry clean only? You tease him. Small price to pay for your new pet.

Excuse me? He lifts his eyebrows.

You wrap your arms around him, hug him tightly, rest your cheek against his chest. His big body slumps, and you feel the relief, the affection, the hope that fill him.

What’s a good name for a little albino weasel?

Sylus hugs you tightly. How do you know it’s an albino?

Arctic weasels don’t normally have red eyes. This little guy has red eyes, so I doubt his coat will turn brown in the summer.

You feel his pleasure at your sharing your knowledge with him, his pride that his beloved is so smart. You snort.

Knowing trivia about cute, cuddly things isn’t necessarily a sign of intelligence.

Sylus dismisses your self-deprecation. I know you’re smart for other reasons, kitten.

You let it go. Let’s go home.

There’s a pause after your thought, as if Sylus is holding his breath, trying to keep a leash on his feelings.

You look up, resting your chin on his chest. Two pairs of bright red eyes look down into your face. Home? His question is tentative.

You send him an image of the cabin. Luke and Kieran. Of his own face.

Will you stay? For the New Year?

For longer, if the invitation is still open.

In answer, he leans down, squeezing you so tightly your booted, snow-shoed feet are lifted from the snow. He presses his full lips to yours. You feel him, feeling you. Soft lips, and then tongue, your mingled breath misting up into the still air. He kisses you, and you feel a little tiny tongue on your cheek. You pull back, and see that the weasel had licked your cheek curiously since you were so close.

Sehnsucht. We’ll call the little guy Sehn for short.

Sylus laughs. Is this some sort of jab at Mephisto’s name?

An open declaration of war. Poor Mephisto, named for something so cynical.

And where will Sehn live, beloved?

At the base. Luke and Kieran can look after him when I’m not around.

I can look after him when you’re not around. A petulant thread of jealousy is wrapped around his grumpy thought. Then he rests his forehead against yours. Does this mean that you’ll be at the base more often?

Your bait was too good. I can’t resist anymore. You’re stuck with me, now.

Sylus laughs out loud, a full, rich sound. It echoes through the trees. It took you long enough to bite.

Maybe next time don’t initially traumatize the fish you’re trying to catch.

There will be no next time. There has only ever been you, and I fucked up at the beginning. I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again. But I will never, ever want to release you.

Good, no refunds. You tug on him. Bend down, pick up your glove and slip it back on your cold hand. Let’s go. I’m fucking cold. And I’m still pissed that we’ll never know what depraved piece of shit did this to Sehn.

Sylus hums a little, and you feel a wall drift into place around some of his thoughts, feelings. You look at him in confusion.

Don’t overthink it.

You decide to trust him. If he wants to keep a secret from you, well. Not knowing every single thing about each other is healthy in a relationship

You, Sylus, and Sehn walk slowly back to the cabin in companionable silence, the resonance ocean soft and deep between you and your new boyfriend.

You don’t notice later, when he slips out of bed while you’re sleeping, returns to the place where you found Sehn. Places trail cameras with satellite links to several tree trunks in the area. Keeps an eye out for when the piece of shit returns to check on his trap.

You don’t hear the gunshot from a high powered rifle, meant for bears, in the quiet distance.

You don’t see the missing posters that go up in the nearest town as you’re passing back through on the way to the airport, when your holiday finally ends.

You just enjoy the snow. The quiet. The stars above. Finding yourself under mistletoe that the twins must have hung over every doorway in the house, even though Christmas was over. An attempt at helping their boss get what he had already, successfully reeled in. Because you had already spent a lot of time leisurely kissing him, his tongue hot in your mouth, his thigh shoved between your legs.

You enjoy watching Luke and Kieran invent toys for Sehn to play with, Sehn who they’ve nicknamed the Noodle, who trips down the stairs like a slinky, and curls up in your lap as you read, before Sylus nudges him out of the way and puts his head there. Sehn then curls up on Sylus’s chest.

You enjoy the promised sauna. Holy shit, the sauna. The traditional wood burning stove heats the water that you pour over the hot stones with a big, wooden ladle—the resulting steam bellows, filling the space with the scent of pine, mint, whatever essential oils Sylus chose to drip into the water. You recline against him, naked, your bodies sweating, slick against each other, until you’re dizzy. You both run into the snow and you get to hear him yelp, whimper, over and over again, from the shock of cold. He drapes himself over you, claiming it’s to keep him warm as you stand in the snow for as long as you both can stand it, until you race back to the sauna, do it all over again. You feel thoroughly detoxed afterwards, and you sleep like the dead in his arms.

On New Year’s Eve, you wake up, find Sylus in the kitchen singing at the top of his lungs. You think it’s supposed to be Auld Lang Syne. It’s absolutely earsplitting. You will never understand how someone with such a rich, deep, beautiful voice can butcher a song as thoroughly as Sylus Qin can.

The twins are placidly reading on the couch. You look at them in astonishment as Sylus warbles, pulling something out of the oven. It smells delicious, some kind of roasted meat. They look up at the same time, mirror images, and smirk at you. You narrow your eyes. They point at each others’ ears.

Ear plugs. Luke mouths, as Kieran nods sagely.

If you hadn’t known you loved him already, based on how you felt, imagining never seeing him again, you would know that you love him because you refuse the twins when they offer you a pair of your own earplugs. You sit at the kitchen island, head propped up in your hand, and listen to him sing for the rest of the morning as he cooks a feast for New Year’s Eve dinner. He bends down, squints at his phone at the cooking tutorials—apparently his phone has some sort of fancy satellite reception since there is no cellular reception—that he’s consulting to prep the meal. You tease him, call him ‘old man’ as you make your way upstairs, fetch his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and bring them back down to him. He looks so happy when you sit back down to continue listening to his atrocious serenade—it’s worth all the damage to your already damaged eardrums.

At midnight, Sylus pulls you into his arms, kisses you softly. You’re slow dancing in the warmth of the bedroom. A record is playing softly on the dresser. Something instrumental, piano. The Northern Lights fill the sky through the expansive window. I would have taken you to see the fireworks, if we were in Linkon City. But for once, my luck is good. We get to see nature’s fireworks instead. Satisfaction pulses through him, through you, as you resonate together again.

You kiss him, slowly, your bodies soaked in the curtains of light drifting through the arctic sky as you sway together. A thought occurs to you.

Why didn’t you come meet me when I arrived at the airport?

He hangs his head. Rests his forehead on your shoulder. I didn’t trust myself not to level the place if you didn’t walk off the plane.

You can’t stop yourself from asking the obvious question. The question he has already answered, in so many ways, in every gesture, in every invitation, in every sent gift.

Why?

He lifts his head, looks into your eyes, savoring the way they glitter in the night’s light. You admire his eyes in return, his wine gaze more intoxicating than any of his fancy labelled bottles.

You should know by now how much I adore you. No love is purer than mine.

You smile, relieved. Let your own feelings wash through you, into him. Happy New Year, Sylus.

He smiles in return, kisses your forehead, continues to sway you slowly under the arctic stars. We'll ensure that it's the first of many.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #happy holidays everyone #thanks again for the writing prompts

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maxdibert · 22 hours ago

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Well, I was going to be a minimally civilized person, but considering that you called me a TERF out of nowhere, when I haven’t mentioned anything related to gender issues, when I haven’t alluded to that topic at all, and you just pulled that out of thin air as a fallacious argument to try to discredit me from the very first paragraph—well, I’m going to be a bit of a bitch and choose violence.

First: idk what book this person read, but Snape's obsession with Lily was creepy to the extreme. That their friendship started by him all but stalking her and Petunia should have been red flag #1. I mean, sure, he was a traumatized kid without friends, but that doesn't absolve him of his continued obsession. He literally stood outside the Gryffindor common room, refusing to leave, until she came out to talk.

Are you saying that a nine-year-old boy watching other kids play is a creepy stalker? I suppose you, at eight or nine, would just jump right into groups of kids and start playing with them for no reason, but let me introduce you to the quintessential representation of an introverted child. Because yes, introverted kids exist, although to you, it seems all of them must be stalkers just because they don’t know how to introduce themselves to other kids and just stand there watching. That’s something normal for any introverted kid who wants to socialize but doesn’t know how.

Severus and Lily were friends, mutually so—not because he was following her around. Some of you really need to learn to deal with the canon of the books. They were friends before Hogwarts, and clearly, during their school years, the relationship weakened until it eventually ended. But during that time, there is absolutely no indication that Severus was following her around because it was a CONSENSUAL childhood friendship. Did he wait for her outside? Of course he did. I’m sorry your personal life is so pathetic that your friends always ignore you when you’ve had a disagreement, but in my circle, it’s quite common that when we argue, we even knock on each other’s doors if needed to talk it out and resolve it. So, I don’t know, girl—it seems like a pretty normal attitude to me, wanting to fix things after a fight. What doesn’t seem so normal to me is a guy coming up to me and saying that if I date him, he’ll stop bullying my friend, as James Potter did. Nor would it seem normal for a bunch of kids known for bullying and casting spells on others to have a magical GPS to track where everyone at school is going, like the Marauder's Map. That’s super stalker-ish and creepy as hell because you can see where everyone is and what they’re doing. But I guess in your psychotropic view of reality, that’s just some mega-fun thing, while a nine-year-old not knowing how to introduce himself to other kids is the devil reincarnated. Truly, you have a totally coherent and undistorted view of reality, honey.

And yeah, he did switch sides out of guilt. But he canonically didn't give a damn about Harry. If he was actually trying to protect the kid, he would have done more than bully and abuse (occlumency lessons anyone?) the kid. Teaching at Hogwarts was never about redemption. It was about staying out of Azkaban. (And Dumbledore's manipulation, but he's a whole 'nother can of worms)

And what does it matter? I mean, Harry doesn’t have to care. Again, these are moral assumptions you impose on the character just because you feel like it. I don’t give a damn if he cared about Harry or not; what matters to me is that he did his job effectively. What’s canon is that he spent seven years saving the ass of a kid who was constantly trying to get himself into trouble and who, along with his friends, was a constant headache. But thanks to Severus, they didn’t end up dead more than once, so whether or not he cared deep down about those kids doesn’t matter because what matters is that he did his job properly and kept them alive.

And well, I’m sorry if you don’t understand how sentencing works, but not all sentences involve going to prison. Community service is a type of sentence, for example, so maybe Severus didn’t go to Azkaban, but he paid his debt to society in full by serving Dumbledore for 16 years and then continuing his legacy even after his death. I don’t care if he was a bad teacher; that’s Dumbledore’s fault for putting him there at 21, with massive trauma, zero chances to heal emotionally, and an overwhelming workload. Good or bad teacher, he paid his debt to society, so sorry, but your whining is, once again, utter nonsense based on your ethical and moral expectations that don’t matter for presenting the facts.

Second: the books actually say that Snape was 'up to his nose in the dark arts'. He was an active participant. He didn't just 'hang out' with to-be-DE, he WAS one. He joined up of his own free will. He became Voldemort's RIGHT HAND. He didn't regret calling someone a mudbl***. He regretted that it was Lily.

It’s funny that you attack me, calling me a TERF, and two seconds later, you talk about Severus as if he’s pure evil incarnate without taking into account his context and how he perfectly fits the usual target demographic for far-right groups to recruit new members. How the fact that Severus came from a poor and extremely violent environment made him a perfect victim to fall under the influence of people who offered him a better life, recognition, and support, when outside of that environment, all he knew was not even having enough to buy clothes and being tormented by a couple of rich pure-blooded kids making his life miserable. And yes, girl, he called Lily a Mudblood, but honestly, Lily had been about to smile at her bully while that bully was sexually assaulting him, and he had just come out of a highly stressful situation. We all say things we don’t mean in moments like that because we act completely irrationally. Plus, Severus could also be considered a Mudblood, considering he was a half-blood with a Muggle father and had grown up in a Muggle neighborhood surrounded by Muggles, so it doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me, but whatever.

And Snape CANONICALLY attacked the marauders just as much as they went after him. Just because they went after him first in that ONE memory, doesn't mean he didn't instigate too.

I don’t know if you’re still drunk after Christmas Eve dinner or what, but the books never establish such a thing. That’s something Sirius says, who is a completely unreliable source because, at 36, he was still calling the guy he nearly killed by that shitty nickname. So, sorry if I don’t trust anything from a guy who showed zero remorse about being a disgusting bully, but what do you want me to tell you?

What is established in the books is that Severus and Lily were calmly talking on the train, and James Potter interrupted their conversation to make fun of Severus. What is established in the books is that Sirius committed attempted murder. And what is established in the books is that Severus was walking along minding his own business, and since Sirius Black was super bored and wanted it to be a full moon, his best friend James Potter decided to attack Severus Snape and humiliate him in front of the entire school. They attacked him two-on-one, outnumbering him. Not only that, but they were also two rich kids from upper-class pure-blood aristocratic families going after a half-blood, working-class kid who didn’t have a dime to his name and no parents to defend him. Ignoring the extreme inequality between Severus and his bullies shows a tremendous lack of social awareness and absolutely zero understanding of class dynamics. I’m surprised that some of you claim to be activists and call yourselves social justice warriors when you haven’t cracked open a book in your lives. If you had, you’d see how problematic it is to defend a couple of rich bullies over their poor victim. It’s absolutely classist and disgusting, and pretending they were on equal footing and it was just a rivalry is to completely ignore all the power imbalances inherent in relationships affected by pronounced social and economic disparities. James and Sirius were two abusive rich brats who constantly mocked a kid for his appearance, which was directly tied to his lack of financial resources. When they laughed at him in the school courtyard, they made direct references to the state of his underwear, which relates precisely to his economic and social condition. You’re defending a couple of classist jerks, and then you throw around buzzwords like "she must be a TERF." Well, I’ve never excused anyone’s transphobia—you should stop excusing classism because, in that sense, you resemble J.K. Rowling far more than I do, clown.

And let's talk about the werewolf incident for a minute because i am sick and tired of Snape Apologists using this as an excuse. That was NOT planned. That was a lapse of judgement on Sirius' part alone (yeah, fucked to hell and he is fully responsible for that). At the same time though, NO ONE MADE HIM GO. Snape was given a vague instruction and he was so focused on 'getting back' at the marauders that he put HIMSELF in danger. That is just as much on him as it is on Sirius.

Ah, there it is, the one who calls women TERFs but then engages in victim-blaming. Yes, it was planned—Sirius planned it. And it’s called attempted murder, which not only should have resulted in expulsion but in the real world would have landed Sirius in a juvenile detention center for a few months if the prosecution's lawyer had been good. But setting that aside, I really like how you say “nobody forced Severus to go,” blaming him for what happened. It reminds me of when I was almost raped in a nightclub a few years ago, and the security guard I told about it to catch the guy said something like, “Well, no one told you to make out with that guy, you know.” It’s exactly the same goddamn speech that any basic straight guy would give to a woman who’s been assaulted or nearly so, questioning her about how she was dressed, where she was, or how far things went with the man in question. A round of applause—besides being a classist jerk, you re-victimize abuse victims. You really have it all, my friend.

Then the sexual assault? This is another common thing I see and it took me forever to figure out what it was even referring to. The pantsing? You cannot tell me he was the only one that happened to. If the levitating spell was really as popular as it's stated, this incident wasn't special. I'm willing to bet Snape did it to others too.

I’d like you to imagine Severus as a girl for a moment, and James exposing her in front of the whole school in her underwear. Then I’d like you to picture her in her bra and panties and imagine James’s voice saying, “Should I take off her knickers?” And now I want you to tell me that’s not sexual assault. It’s incredible how Marauders stans try to come across as super progressive and woke, but you just can’t, because your entire personality is based on defending rich elitist kids. And, of course, the mask slips. I have to laugh because seriously, it’s pathetic.

Third: Lupin not taking the wolfsbane. Yes, serious lapse in judgement. He also just saw Peter and Sirius on the map. The argument of it being criminal and a ticking time bomb is honestly werewolf prejudice and exactly why Remus has such a hard time finding a job in the first place. Way to go. You've discovered discrimination.

And no, I don’t feel sorry at all for the bullying accomplice who grew up to be an irresponsible adult, ended up knocking up a 24-year-old at 38, and then bolted. As far as I’m concerned, Remus Lupin can go to hell a thousand times. But hey, no problem, let’s keep defending accomplices to abuse who treat their partners like garbage. Why not? Poor thing.

Fourth: Get McGonagall's name out of your fucking mouth. She is CANONICALLY shown NOT showing prejudice and treating EVERYONE by the same standards. And, did you forget that 'Moody' here was actually a death eater in disguise? No duh he's using cruel and unusual punishments??? Full of abusive teachers my ass.

I never said McGonagall didn’t treat people equally; I said she was quite a strict teacher, and that’s canon. Severus wasn’t the only teacher who talked to or treated students in questionable ways, and if it had been such a big deal, his colleagues would have called him out—which never happened.

Fifth: What do you mean the kids weren't scared for life? I do believe those CHILDREN will carry that trauma with them for the rest of their lives. Saying that it didn't break them is cruel and completely dismisses the VERY REAL pain and suffering that they went through. They are real heroes because they OVERCAME their trials. Not all of us out here in the real world are so lucky.

It’s funny how you’re so convinced that having a strict teacher will leave children permanently traumatized for life, clutching your pearls over the cognitive and psychological consequences that might result, yet you wrote an entire text tearing down a character who endured violence as a child, suffered intense bullying, and was abandoned by every adult around him. For you, suffering and pain only matter when it’s about tearing down a character you hate. You’re like a typical right-wing politician, only concerned about social issues when it’s time to crush the opponent. Quite hypocritical and double-standard behavior on your part, but then again, not much more can be expected from someone with zero class consciousness.

And saying Regulus accomplished nothing? Disgraceful. Of course it took a catalyst for him to change his ways thats how redemption arcs work.

Ehhhh no. Regulus was a rich kid like Draco Malfoy, thrilled to be a Death Eater. He joined because he genuinely believed he was superior to others due to his blood status and aristocratic family. But when faced with bloodshed, it overwhelmed him, and he backed out. He didn’t accomplish anything—he just acted foolishly, which delayed things for Harry years later. Funny how you see redemption in Regulus but not in Severus, who spent almost twenty years of his life paying his debt to society. Funny how you’re so lenient with Regulus, who’s described as handsome, wealthy, similar to his brother physically, coming from a privileged family, fitting the aesthetic of a mysterious, elegant guy that looks great on Pinterest boards. But you’re not so understanding with Severus, who came from abject poverty, is constantly described as ugly and unpleasant, and clearly lacks that smooth aura. I love it because people like you point fingers at others for things that are really just projections of your own internal prejudices.

If you made it this far, I hope you have a good day. Believe whatever you want, obvy I'm not going to change anyone's opinion. You can't MAKE a person understand. Still, it's nice to rant and remind myself how nice it is that I live in my own little corner of the fandom where I don't have to see this bullshit on my dash

If you’ve read this far, I wish you a Merry Christmas. I hope one day you’ll dignify yourself by opening a book on social politics or class dynamics. I hope one day you’ll bother to read statistics on how violence and economics interplay with predispositions to criminality. And I hope one day you’ll think twice before calling someone a TERF without reflecting on your own disgusting classism, beauty privilege tendencies, victim-blaming, and utter inability to analyze characters. Also, you might want to reconsider defending rich, privileged, abusive kids because it’s seriously cringe-worthy. Kisses.

okay, hold my drink *hands u cursed ancient goblet full of mead* i gotta talk my shit for a second.

ive been seeing a lot of severus snape love recently. and this is fine, obviously, y'all can love whomever you want. but. i need to rant or i will explode. if we're talking about canon. severus snape spends his adult years, seven books of it in fact, abusing children. and his excuse for this is the girl he loved (tho not enough not to join a group actively trying to exterminate her) fell for the hot jock instead of him (a tragedy indeed, i weep 4 him, i really do). and also she died, which, admittedly is very sad.

it is simply crazy 2 me 2 look at that and think *romance* or *genuine care and affection*. LIKE. fo real. snape calls her a slur in public, apologizes in private, hangs out with dudes who commit hate crimes against her friends (CANONICALLY, she says "you've been hanging out with that douchebag Mulciber, how could you do that after what he did to Mary???" this is not a direct quote but like, it's close enough). lame. loser behaviour.

"Oh but what about regulus" i can hear you say "he loves James potter but snape doesn't love lily???" well. idk. maybe. bit different tho, innit? due to james not being the demographic regulus is attacking (which doesn't make regulus a better person but does make the dynamic between him and james different). ALSO. Regulus chooses to turn against voldemort without hope for anything in return. snape doesn't seem to give a shit about voldemort, he's just sad he's not gonna get to bang lily evans. he switches sides for that reason alone. also doesn't care about what happens to her husband or her son which like. considering lily would be pretty fucking destroyed if they died. once again points to my whole, he doesn't really give a shit about her, theory. lame. loser. behaviour.

also. im sorry. I"M SORRY. but what snape does to neville? to hermione? to harry? gross. a grown ass man out here telling an eleven year old neville he's worthless or hermione she's ugly and annoying. or spilling harry's potion and refusing to grade him for it???????????????

reg and draco are children when we see them at peak suckage and therefore they feel like they can be redeemed much more compellingly (CAN be, not SHOULD be, not HAVE to be, just narratively i think they are easier to turn into interesting, sympathetic characters). but snape? snape grows up into a garbage adult. like he doesn't get better. and again, the only real excuse we're given is his obsession with lily. not very demure. not very cutesy.

ALSO. yall remember that time he got a destitute, struggling Remus Lupin fired from the best job he ever had just because he felt like it? remember that time snape weaponized Remus's lycanthropy and people's prejudice against him just cause. like. literally just cause??? his ego was bruised after the shrieking shack incident so he was like "get wrecked Lupin I'm going to tell everyone your secret so you will be forced back out onto the streets" DO YALL REMEMBER THAT BITCH ASS MOVE????????? THAT HE DID AS A FULL ADULT.

IN CONCLUSION, this is silly and, of course, like i said at the start, everyone can have their own thoughts and feelings about characters, but i simply needed to interject here on behalf of snape haters everywhere because i feel like so much of snape's shitty behaviour as an adult during a time when he was really under no duress and was very safe and cozy, is ignored. and my hater heart just cannot let that stand.

#marauder's stans being as aclassists as they faves #and projecting their issues in others #okay #merry christmas #i love eat stupid people for breakfast #the best present #severus snape #pro severus snape #severus snape defense #anti marauders #anti marauders fandom #anti classist rich boys #snapedom

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windvexer · 2 days ago

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Hiya Chicken, hope all is well with you! Something’s been on my mind and I would love your perspective.

The thrust of it is: can the will of the universe (if there is such a thing) override spellwork?

For context, I lost my job earlier this year, and have been working some magic to get re-employed (along with a metric shit ton of mundane legwork). None of it has been fruitful, and in attempting to troubleshoot, I realized that several of my spells had conditions along the lines of “this new job will serve my highest and best self.”

I’m still a novice at casting – frankly, I’ve not had much success with *any* magic (😞) – so I’m guessing the more immediately pertinent issue has to do with raising power/magical headspace. But, I’m curious if that nebulous “highest and best” would get in the way of producing results.

Also, where exactly does that language originate?? I think I’ve seen it when people talk about petitioning the universe for guidance, or getting in touch with your purpose/path in this life, but is that from a certain tradition or set of beliefs? And if everyone has a pre-determined purpose (or something else that counts as becoming your highest and best self), would including such a statement cause spells to fail if whatever you’re casting for doesn’t align with that purpose? Because real talk, my unemployment has run out and I don’t have time to wait for the highest and best job any more.

Thanks so much for your time, I appreciate you!!

It's New Age.

FUCK your highest/best self.

Even if it exists it can go suck a room temperature limp pickle.

Bear with me my guy. Let's be bears together, peacefully watching the sunrise of this idea over the serene forests of wisdom:

What in the good fuck is the point of being a witch if not to DO WHAT YOU WANT TO DO REGARDLESS OF WHAT THE SHIT UNIVERSE HAS DELEGATED FOR YOU.

It is changing fate.

It is CHANGING FATE.

WITCHCRAFT IS CHANGING FATE.

THEREFORE HOW CAN YOU DO THAT IF YOU JUST ASK THE UNIVERSE TO KEEP DOING WHAT ITS DOING?!

"Hi I believe in this life I have been assigned a True Goal and Best Outcome. I don't know what it is! The Universe could decide it's in my best interest to never escape poverty so my soul can learn some shit. But whatever this Best Outcome is, I will obey it :) blindly :) Spells, go do my bidding! But not if they change my fate. I'm on those train tracks, baybeee. Full speed ahead towards the same place I've been going since birth."

YOUR SPIRITUALITY FOR HOW YOU CHOOSE TO STRIVE TO BE A GOOD PERSON, AND THE PERSONAL WORK YOU DO TO BETTER YOURSELF, SHOULD PROBABLY BE INTENTIONAL I BET.

What is your highest good? Because I kind of feel like you shouldn't leave that up to a nebulous force you don't understand. My guy, and I mean this in the best possible way, you don't even know the widely popular faith (New Age) these beliefs are coming from. I don't think you understand this concept of The Universe; and yet you seem to be willing to place your fate in its hands.

And I think you may also be horrified by the realization that you are ceding autonomy of your ambitions, your goals, your needs, even the very core of your morality, to some fucking Power or Presence or whatever.

What is your highest good? I'm sorry, I mean this genuinely - you do not get to let someone else decide that for you. We all have to read some philosophy and smoke weed and look at the stars with friends and decide for ourselves what it means to be a good person who lives well. Many of us will grapple with this our entire lives.

There is no shortcut. You can't be your best self by doing whatever you want and delegating the decision making to some outside force, hoping that a smarter and more benevolent power will just cancel out any bad decisions you make based on a rubric you don't understand.

If we do have Highest Selves and soul evolution, I do not believe we can evolve based on always letting someone else make the final call for us.

YOU CAN HAVE GUIDANCE. You can have help. You can have plenty of it!!

That's what the witch's familiar is for. That's what tutelary spirits are for. That's why so many people turn to gods for guidance. You can research someone, or ask for a specific kind of help, and say, "hi I want to cast a job spell but I don't know sorcery great, can someone help me craft this so that I don't end up doing something disastrous?"

That's what I do all the time! I'll be about to do some stupid shit about twice a week, but the spirits who love me and help me are like, "Hey! please do not do that sweaty :) That would be Bad," and I listen to them, because they are not nebulous faraway forces; they are my very good friends whom I have known for years and trust completely.

But at the end of the day, they can't make decisions for you. A very creepy truth, that I believe is actually true, is that gods and spirits of Witchcraft will not make decisions for you. They will not cancel out spells if it's not in your "highest good." They will let you do anything you want in your own worst interest.

They will help you and they will guide you. But it's like I said: you can't end up being your best self by doing whatever and hoping someone else picks up the slack.

I don't think it's possible to ever achieve any highest good or best self by never making an actual decision.

And that's what it is, I think. That's what it is when you say, "let me have a job if someone else thinks it's a good idea."

That's not your decision. That's not your choice. That's not your power. That's raising your hand in the back of class and hoping teacher will call on you.

Fuck the Universe. Fuck the highest good. How about some of that live deliciously shit? When do YOU get to eat? Your highest self must be stuffed at the table of delicacies harvested from every moment of your life that you sacrifice to it while you are here with your unemployment run out.

Look in The Universe's eye and tell it to start calling you daddy.

Command. Do not ask, do not intend. Force; compel. Dominate.

next I visualize that the candle is full of prosperous energies if Earth-Goddess wills it in my highest good- NO.

"Listen to me. Listen to me, Earth. Listen to me, Sky. Listen to me, my own Soul. For 27 goddamn years I have been doing whatever I think you want me to do. Now you're all going to do what I want to do. It is not my normal voice that speaks, but the voice of my power. The power within me laces every word, it seeps into the air like water into paper."

Do you feel like someone is suddenly squeezing you by the throat? Do words suddenly become hard to find? Do you feel a bit dizzy? Do you have a strange moment where you can't remember why you started any of this, like you're not sure how you got there? You're on the right track.

"On this day of Jupiter, on this hour of Jupiter, I am giving a command. I command that the magical pathways of this candle be opened, so that the free-flowing and freely given benevolent powers of Jupiter will empower and charge my spell."

(Do not command Jupiter, of course. We're engaging in a little courageousness, not trying to get struck by lightning)

"I do not need to visualize the movement of energies. I know the truth because I have commanded the truth and I am a creator god born into this flesh: The candle is filled with the power of a God, I have the ability to channel the freely-given power of one of the Seven Governors whom has been worshiped by humans since the start of time, it is here and I have claimed it as is my right, as was offered to me:

This candle spell will bring me the fate I desire, because I have designed that it will occur, and no god, spirit, beast, or man will stand in my way."

It should feel fucked up, my friend. It should give you stage fright. It should make your palms sweat and your stomach queasy. It should give you the same emotional sensation as having a heartbreaking conversation that you know will change a relationship forever.

Sorry, reality. Sorry, fate. It's just not working out. And since we can't get divorced, you two need to shape up your act because right now I'm in charge of this polycule. When the spell is over, we can be equals again.

And if you do it right, it should make you have to sleep for probably about a week. If your health allows it of course, I recommend not trying to restrict carb intake for the next few days. Keep headache medicine on hand also.

Thank you for being a bear with me. I hope you enjoyed this serene forest of wisdom.

#answered #what a serene chapparal zone we're having this evening

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xiouahh · 18 hours ago

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☆ numb ─ CHRISTMAS SPECIAL !!

It was Christmas Eve, and the group had gathered at Childe’s house, the only place spacious enough to fit everyone comfortably. The room buzzed with laughter, a few sarcastic quips, and, of course, a healthy dose of drama. The highlight of the evening was the annual Secret Santa, but for one person, it felt less like a fun tradition and more like walking into a minefield.

Finally, it was Scaramouche’s turn. He tried to look as disinterested as possible, casually reaching into his bag to pull out a small, neatly wrapped package. His gaze swept across the room—most of his friends were either laughing or eyeing their gifts with anticipation. But when his eyes landed on you, they lingered a moment too long.

The gift he’d chosen for you wasn’t something he’d picked lightly. In fact, he’d spent way too much time obsessing over it. He didn’t want to seem too thoughtful or too eager. That would give too much away—how often your name had been running through his mind lately. So, he went with something neutral, practical: a custom-made hoodie. Simple. Safe.

As he handed it to you, his fingers brushed against yours briefly before he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his usually composed face. Great. Now you’d probably noticed. But he kept his mouth shut, like always.

You opened the package carefully, your expression unreadable. When you saw the hoodie, you raised an eyebrow and glanced up at him. Before you could say anything, he averted his gaze, pretending to examine something across the room.

" Woah. This is... actually pretty cool. " you said, holding it up with a grin.

Scaramouche straightened, trying his best to seem indifferent. " It’s just a hoodie. Don’t overthink it. "

" You’re terrible at pretending not to care, " you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips. You could see the faint blush creeping up his neck, betraying his calm exterior. He wasn’t fooling anyone—not even himself.

Inside, he was a mess. Relief? Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure. He just knew he was glad you didn’t hate it. At least, not outwardly.

Then it was your turn. You handed him a small, neatly wrapped box. He tore the paper off and found a silver bracelet inside. It was simple yet elegant, engraved with tiny stars and constellations along its band. Attached to it was a small tag that read: 'For the one who lights up even the darkest nights.'

Scaramouche froze, completely unprepared for the thoughtfulness of the gift. He wasn’t great with emotions—or receiving meaningful gifts, for that matter.

" What’s this? " he asked, his voice quieter than usual, as though he wasn’t sure how to process it.

" Just something for someone who likes to pretend they’re too cool for heartfelt things, " you replied with a wink. " Wear it, or just keep it. Your choice. "

His first instinct was to brush it off with sarcasm, but for once, he didn’t. Instead, he muttered, " Thanks. " It felt foreign on his tongue, but it was the only thing that felt right.

The group didn’t miss the awkward tension and jumped on it immediately. Childe raised an eyebrow, smirking. " Wow, didn’t see that coming. Someone’s got a soft spot. "

Scaramouche rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. " It’s just a bracelet. Don’t make it weird. "

But even as he dismissed it, his fingers subconsciously brushed against the bracelet. He didn’t want to admit it, but he liked it—a lot more than he wanted anyone to know.

As the gift exchange wound down, the room was filled with laughter and teasing. Scaramouche leaned back, pretending to be unbothered by the chaos. But the warmth from your gift lingered in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t quite shake.

It wasn’t just a bracelet. It was a symbol—subtle, meaningful, and carefully chosen. And maybe, just maybe, it meant you cared as much as he did, even if neither of you was ready to admit it.

masterlist

SYPNOSIS.　You had always been the independent, strong-willed person who didn't need anyone's help. Despite your best efforts, your trauma continues to plague you, making it difficult for you to trust and connect with others. That is, until you meet a young man who is everything you've wanted in a partner. Despite his aloof demeanor, he manages to break your emotional barriers and become a source of healing and support for you. As you learn to trust and open up to him, he becomes the healer of your heart, helping you heal from your trauma. AUTHOR.　I’m so sorry if this is too short 😭😭🙏🏻 I thought of this last minute and was very exhausted .. I’ll make it up to u guys in the next episodes, probably. ++ More extras in the near future, Merry Christmas! <3 TAGLIST.　 @arlecchino-soon-main @skyoverkill1 @yo0ngleswag @scaraenthusiast1 @skyvella @lloovvv @ciellez @asukahiriko2 @trulyylee @lalalaloveallmydays @hearts4lizzzz @animeobsessed56 @exhaustedcommunist @meigalaxy @dragontammerz @heusalettle @iloveapplepie7 @vitanye @shyentsmissingink @jiminscarmex @vixialuvs @kunikissr @rishaling @liuaneee

#genshin imagines #genshin impact #genshin impact au #genshin au #genshin impact smau #genshin smau #scaramouche #scaramouche smau #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #kunikuzushi #kunikuzushi smau #kunikuzushi x reader #kunikuzushi x you #numb smau #dividers from cafekitsune

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witchthewriter · 1 day ago

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𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ platonic, gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

・Boyd already had a son, but Ellis was too angry at him. He barely had anything to do with his father, the Sheriff, no matter how hard Fatima pushed Ellis

・You had entered Fromville by yourself; it was supposed to be your first adventure by yourself and now you were trapped in HELL.

・For the first few days, you were a tiny bit catatonic; anxiety, along with the whole "What could go wrong!" from your family was really messing with your head

・Fatima was the person who showed you a lot of kindness, patience and ways of looking at the town.

・But you came here by yourself, no link to anyone and you felt like 1. an outsider and 2. like the people wouldn't care if anything happened to you

・That was until you were too late getting back to your home in town, the monsters had already pulled up and were doing their creepy business.

・Boyd threw himself straight into action, flinging open the Sheriff Station/Post Office door and grabbing your arm.

"What are you doing out here?! It's DARK!"

"No, I no, I no-"

"So you were trying to get yourself kILLED?!"

"No! I just got carried away at the edge of the forest-"

"The EDGE of the WHAT NOW!"

"No Sheriff, it's okay. It's not like I have any ties here and the probability of me surviving is very low... so..."

・It was in that moment that Boyd decided to unconsiously adopt you.

・He would never let you feel alone again.

・Everyone was going to know you, know your importance.

・Whenever you give your opinion during matters (because you are now in the inner circle - you know more than the regular citizens),

Boyd always holds up a hand before you can talk, "No. You are not putting yourself as bait. Not again."

・Kenny likes you a lot, romantically? Maybe. He's still mixed up about the whole Kristi and Marielle thing.

・Then again, it's not like anyone was going to approach the Sheriff's kid with a romantic offer. Boyd is deeply protective of you.

・Both Jade and Randall have their eyes on you.

・They think you're very unique, smart but also have a boldness that this town had brought out in you.

・Plus you never let either of their quips go without an insult straight back at them

・Ellis, who hadn't been in town for a while, was surprised. A little hurt, but c'mon - deep down he knew he could never be replaced.

・Boyd always makes sure that you're okay, especially when it's just you two at the station. There's one bedroom/cell type place.

・So Boyd made another area just for you, where you had your own bed, a sheet to pull over for privacy and room for all your little trinkets.

・Sometimes he prefers you to sleep in the cell, especially when there's been an incident with the Monsters.

・To get him to open up, you made him play truth or dare once and it was the most fun he's ever had in a while.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Two damaged individuals who attach themselves to each other

"Come Near Them And I Will Fucking End You" (Boyd) x "You Heard The Old Timer!" (You, with the constant old person joke)

You bring him things you find interesting like bugs, rocks, things Mrs Chen let you go look for in the lost and found...

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Found Family

Trustworthy Male Mentor

Father Figure Who Doesn't Realise He's Basically Raising You Until You Call Him Dad

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Beautiful Boy by John Lennon (this doesn't negate from anyone's representation as a woman or non-binary. it's just a beautiful song)

Me and the Devil by Soap and Skin (the original fits here perfectly too)

A Narnian Lullaby by Harry Gregson Williams

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blood-mocha-latte · 1 day ago

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RARELY SOFT OR CONSOLATORY | 4.7K | RATED T

Merry Christmas (Eve), @sachart! I was your Secret Santa <33. I hope you've had a lovely lovely winter and will continue to have happy happy holidays, and truly hope you enjoy this fic. Your art and kindness is an inspiration, and I truly had the loveliest time creating for you :).

Bill used to think more about his brother. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of Henry that never received the letters that he’d still written.

However, now, in the frozen black belly of burnt-down France, he can barely think past Joe Toye’s blue-turning-black toes or George Luz’s red-ringed eyes or a dozen other things that stick out sore along the white backdrop.

(Bill Guarnere, winter during the war, being out of commission, and winter after it. A reflective.)

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT

His stomach hurt.

A slight exacerbation.

Everything hurt, but his stomach most of all. Half from being empty, half from being cold, and another half on top of the first two from the goddamn worry.

Bill was used to worry, too. That was the thing. He was used to worrying about his brothers — for Earnest, at least, and over his Ma for Henry — and used to worrying about the men — he’d thrown up behind a mole hill a few hours after Bull had gone missing. Not his proudest moment, one he kept secret. But one nonetheless.

He was also used to worrying about pain. About how it felt, and more distinctly, the way that shrapnel had felt, like molten, liquid heat that’s only goal was to burn.

As it was turning out, the cold burned, too.

Most notably — or, maybe, most impactfully, at least to Bill — it was burning Joe.

“I’m fine.” Toye, in question, said, face tensely lined with what he wouldn’t voice aloud as he shifted against the frozen dirt of the foxhole, careful to keep his foot stretched out in front of him, leg ramrod straight. Bill just stared at him.

“Joe, you look like a half-frozen vegetable.” Bill told him. Toye grimaced at him, like the action could somehow be mistranslated as a laugh. “Listen—” He started and winced, having shifted against the wall of the foxhole and alighting the sharp, bitter twang of old wounds all over again. “—there’s extra food with Ramirez, and I think that Skip has—”

“I’m not taking more than my fair share.” Joe told him firmly, not for the first time, uninterested in the rest of Bill’s sentence when he knew it would just be the same thing everyone had been telling him. Bill threw his hands up in the air, and the cold seemed to bite at the tips of his fingers like it was alive.

“Your fair share ain’t enough, you know that—”

“There’s other guys that need it more—”

“Who? Because you’re the only idiot I see around stupid enough to still be—”

“Thanks, Guarno, but I’m fine.” Joe shut him down, more tense than before, as soon as the words left his lips. Bill shut his mouth with a click, reopened it with something to say on the tip of his tongue, then sighed and closed it again.

“Fine.” He muttered, pressing his palms to the teeth of the frozen mud in order to pull himself up, shifting his weight gingerly from foot to foot until he feels loose enough to clamber out of the hole. He paused before he did so, however, glancing over his shoulder and watching how Joe watched him, face set in pain. “It’s… I care about ya’, you know.”

Something in Joe’s eyes loosen, but not in his expression. Still, he says, “yeah, Bill. I know.” With enough gentleness to convince Bill to turn around again, pull himself out of the hole and wince at the sharp complaint of the shrapnel scar at his hip.

He started pushing back through trees and snow without much preamble, not exactly interested in waiting around and watching Toye freeze to death, and found George Luz waiting for him.

Waiting was probably the wrong word, since Bill was certain Luz wasn’t there for him, in specifics, but the other had his arms crossed over his sternum, fingers curled into his own body heat. In the absence and lack of cigarettes Bastogne has provided, he’d taken to running his tongue over his top lip before pulling the bottom one between his teeth.

He tilted his head at Bill when he saw him. A silent question. Bill shook his head, unneeding of preamble, and Luz just closed his eyes, brief, mulling and tired, before opening them again. They were ringed with red, and Bill didn’t have to ask why. Luz had been spending more time with Toye than Bill had, anyways, and even the limited time he had had was enough for his chest to feel tight.

“Thanks.” He said anyways, voice somewhere between a deadpan that always seemed somewhat light on him and something genuine. Bill just cuffed him carefully on the side of his face before moving down to shake his shoulder.

“No point in talking to him, I don’t think.” Bill told him. Luz just looked over his shoulder, pulling his bottom lip back in between his teeth.

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll—” He began. Bill tossed an arm over his shoulders before he could get too far, and George walked with him without much restraint.

“Don’t see how you could get through to him when I couldn’t.” Bill told him, which seemed too harsh to say, but he couldn’t regret voicing when he knew that Luz would just keep trying anyways, with, he was near-convinced, the same results.

They were both Toye’s friends, and if Joe wouldn’t listen to Bill, he doubted he’d listen to Luz.

Luz went with him without much fanfare. Ramirez didn’t actually have extra food, not really, but Bill knew that they’d’ve been able to scrape something together between at least a few guys, in case Toye would have actually agreed.

Luz turned to him as they hit the slight slope where some of the others had dug in, mainly Perconte and Skip. He looked tired, more tired than Bill had ever seen him and more beat down than some of the guys in the regiment. “Thanks for tryin’, Bill.” He said, seeming genuine, and Bill just shrugged.

“Joe’s my friend.” He said, didn’t tack on the so are you, and hoped that it was understood. He still didn’t understand, entirely, why Luz had asked him to check up on Toye, but figured that it had to do with having more guys on board leading to a likelier chance of the goddamn moron accepting more help.

Roe may have gotten him new shoes, but Bill doubted that frostbite was the sort of thing to be cured with a dead mans worn down leather.

They parted ways, after that. Bill went off to find Babe or Buck. Or maybe Lip.

-----

Bill didn’t write very many letters anymore. Earnest couldn’t read, and Henry was dead, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he had trouble trusting his ma, anymore.

He didn’t understand, why she wouldn’t tell him that Henry was killed. Why they wrote letters back and forth about nothing for five months and he wrote one sided letters that never reached Henry for five months and nothing ever came of it until he had to learn about Monte Casino from Pat Martin.

Still, he was trying to be dutiful, and he tapped the blistered, frozen end of his index finger against the letter he’d been trying to write for the better part of a week before lowering it, slight, with a huff.

It was hard to focus, out here. Not a lot to talk about, anyways. Nothing he wanted his mother to know about, at least.

It was still early in the day, at least when a watch was counting, but the sky was dark from a combination of an early setting sun and clouds of artillery fire, and Bill carefully folded the already ripped and freezing letter before putting it back into his pocket.

Compton was asleep next to him, barely moving. Bill would even doubt that he was breathing, if not for the white clouds that hung intermittently in the air, neatly suspended.

Careful not to wake him up, Bill pulled himself out of the grave and turned, careful, on a knee. He bent down enough to grab his rifle and pack and, glancing around for half of a second, set off.

He was looking for Lipton, mainly because Lip probably had something for him to do and, if he didn’t, at least would put up the effort of attempting to find something.

Navigating through the forest mainly on memory, Bill paused, for half of a second, when Toye’s voice caught on the icy shards of the air for half of a second before dispersing.

“‘S not going to work.” He said, sounded tired, and there was an exhale of breath that didn’t seem to belong to him, equally tired but maybe more determined.

“It might.” George Luz retorted, voice hoarse. “It might, so I’m not gonna stop—”

“George—”

“Joe.” Luz’s voice again, but firmer, less like himself in how little room he left for any type of humor. “Please.”

His voice broke on the word.

Bill hesitated in place, boots shifting against the snow for half of a second, unsure of whether or not to move on. If Luz was still trying to convince Toye to eat, or at least take some semblance of more rations than the other guys, then Bill should be there, he felt. But this felt like something different, more intimate, somehow, and he wasn’t sure about how to intrude.

It felt like maybe he wouldn’t need to, since the silence from the foxhole stretched on for too long, carried by the stillness of the frozen air, until Toye said, voice lower, rougher, “fine.”

Luz sighed, a quiet, heavy and relieved sound, and Bill shifted, started walking away.

He still had to find Lip, anyways.

-----

Two days later, it was December 25th, and there wasn’t much fanfare.

Earlier in the day, they had talked about it briefly. Malarkey had said, rather glumly, that he didn’t think Christmas could exist, here, and Bill had decided to agree with him and move on. No use dwelling when there were better things to complain about.

However, but and in spite of this, when it was dark enough out again that Bill thought it may be midnight at four in the afternoon, George Luz pressed a cigarette into his palm and said, “Merry Christmas, Ghonorrhea.”

Bill just blinked down at it. “You’re shitting me.”

Luz, apparently mistaking Bill’s bewilderment at his ability to save a cigarette out here, just shrugged. He turned against the foxhole he’d dropped into to present the gift to Bill, sliding down to sit next to him and pressing their shoulders together for warmth. “Nah.” He said, rather dully. “It’s Christmas.”

Bill snorted a laugh. It was sort of happy. A bit of an in-between, half-hearted amusement that was only funny because of who told the joke. “You give smokes to everyone?”

“Everyone I could.” Luz agreed. When Bill looked over at him, his eyes were closed, head dipped back against the frozen wall of the foxhole. The tip of his nose was blue.

Bill shifted, patting down his pocket with numb fingers until he found his lighter.

It was almost out, as Bill had taken habit to flicking it on and off for temporary warmth once the nights had stretched darker and smokes had run out, and it took him four tries to correctly spike the wheel and get the cigarette to catch.

Once it did, he held it out to Luz. George just shook his head, pushing Bill’s hand back towards his own mouth. He didn’t say anything, and Bill just shook his head before taking a drag.

“Hell, I’d think you’re dying.” He said grimly, perhaps slightly ironic. George huffed, like it was any sort of particularly amusing. “Giving up a smoke and then refusing to share it.”

The laugh he got for that seemed rather real. Luz shifted enough for them to be further apart but still share warmth, propping an elbow onto his knee as he pressed fingertips to his lips, as if in memory.

“Nah.” He said around his hand, quiet, but still amused. “It’s… I shared one earlier.”

He looked vaguely embarrassed. Bill watched him, close, for half of a second before shrugging.

“Alright.” He said, ambivalent. “I’m not gonna complain.”

The tip of Luz’s nose was still tinged with blue, but his face looked almost red. Bill chalked it up to the cold and left it at that.

-----

Bill used to think more about Henry. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of his brother that never received the letters that he’d still written.

Among those things stand sound.

When he was younger, his mother had once told him that he could hear a bell ring from five miles off and come running to see the what for. Now, in war, it turned out to be very much the same.

He’d come to his friends when he’d heard them laughing, he’d come to them when he heard them swearing, and he didn’t have to think about it for very long at all before coming to his friend when he was calling for help.

That was all that he remembered, for a long while.

I gotta get up.

-----

The slow hobble back to America started in France, and the hospital that was just outside of Foy was crowded, smelled putrid, and was still somehow cold.

In spite of that, Toye was running a fever, and the dots of crystal that ran along his brow made Bill more worried than the fact that he couldn’t feel anything below his belly button.

“Y’think George is alright?” Joe asked him, his words slurring in strange places and vowels drawing out in others as his voice dragged along the line of incomprehensible.

Still, Bill could understand him, and just coughed. He was thinking of his friends, too, of Babe and Malarkey and Muck and Penkala and Compton and Lipton and hoping they were alright.

He reached out clumsily, clammy palm knocking against Toye’s too-dry one in a gesture he hoped was comforting.

“Sure.” He said, patting Toye’s hand again. “He’s on a lucky streak, ain’t he? Never been hit.”

He couldn’t move his neck at all, some sort of numbing, absent ache that had settled in between his vertebrae on the transport over here. They’d already put him through one surgery, and he hadn’t looked down since. Didn’t know if he could, didn’t want to.

Joe was worse off, though, was nearing delirious, and he coughed, once, the noise almost as dry as bone, and said, “I miss him.”

Bill… Bill didn’t know what to say to that.

He kept his hand on Toye’s and listened to other wounded men cry.

-----

Once, when he’d been a kid — maybe eight or nine years old — he’d walked with Henry down to the local pound.

It was a miserable place, smelled like vomit and piss and was run by a mean old woman with an even meaner mug, and Henry hadn’t let him get too close to the bars that held the dogs back as she walked them through the halls.

Looking back on it, Bill didn’t know why she even let them do that. They clearly weren’t gonna get a goddamn dog. Maybe she was bored.

At the end of the hall, where one of the lights had stopped working and it was easy to tell something with the electricity had been fried by the smell in the air, there were two dogs, grown and skinnier than sticks, pressed together with big eyes and bigger teeth.

Pack bonded, the old woman had excused with a wave of her hand, like it was a disease without any cure. Can’t get one out without the other. Giving them another three days before it’s lights out.

Bill didn’t like to think of the pound. It made something underneath his skin crawl.

Still, the words pack bonded probably had meaning.

They somehow stayed together from France and into England, beds together and everything.

The hospital in England was much nicer than the one in France, and although Bill was sure being back in the States would be better, the warmth of the hospital made the subsequent, subsisting ache of his leg and hips and back die out, somewhat.

Joe’s head was bent over his work, nose almost touching the paper as he traced over the same words he’d already written out twice.

Ages ago, Bill probably would have poked at him for it, but now, that type of entertainment has vanished, as intangible as being sick.

Since getting out of France, Joe had been writing out a letter every Saturday without fail, and always did so at least three times.

Would write out the letter clumsily, triple-check the spelling, wait for the ink to dry, and then write the exact same thing out again, and a third time for good measure.

Bill didn’t necessarily get it. Joe didn’t have the neatest handwriting, but it’s not that bad. Still, he didn’t say anything, and Joe didn’t look up when there’s a clatter on the other end of the hall.

They’re still mostly bound to the bed, January becoming a friendly greeting of wet ground and cold air that makes walking so soon after everything nearly agonizing. Both of them — most of the time, at least — want to get moving, but it could be worse.

Joe sat upright and slouched in his own bed, bad leg stretched out to the side as he wrote on the tray that a nurse had brought around about a week ago that he just kept re-using. The second letter he’d rewritten was by his elbow as he redid the third with ink-stained fingers.

It was a bit ridiculous, Bill thought, since he always trashed the first two letters. Only ever writes to one person consistently. Still, he didn’t say anything.

He missed his friends, too (Babe, Malarkey, Compton, Lip. Didn’t want to think about Skip or Penk, anymore), but not with the same devotion that Toye seemed to miss George Luz.

Bill didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t look to closely at it, either.

He didn’t want to.

-----

When they finally get back to the US, it was still cold, but in the same way that everything felt cold, now. Same way that everything ached.

Still, Toye snorted a short laugh when Bill flipped a handful of sand at him, and then used the wire-and-wicker side of his wheelchair to get a hold of it and dump him into the sand.

Bill swore, startled as his elbow hit the soft, heated surface, and he kicked more sand at Joe with his remaining leg before maneuvering back around, smacking at Joe’s bare shoulder.

Toye was unperturbed.

He had, frustratingly, infuriatingly, and perhaps traitorously, taken to the wheelchair like a fish out of water. His own chair, a few yards back, had been easily abandoned, and Bill envied him only slightly for the coordination that seemed to come more naturally to him.

“You’re a bastard.” He said to Joe, who just shrugged.

He was wearing a white undershirt, but the waist of it had ridden up enough for the thick, rubbery scarring of old shrapnel and flak surgeries to still show.

Bill was dressed nearly identical, down to the too-warm slacks pinned at the bad leg and bloused at the good one.

“Any word from the Airborne?” He asked, as had become half-hearted tradition since mail-call had begun with more regularity since winter had begun to wane into a precariously hopeful and no less bloody spring.

Bill just grunted, shifting around in the sand for half of a second in order to tug the thin stack of letters out of the pocket he’d initially shoved them into.

“One from Malark, one from Liebgott, of all damn people. And…” He trailed off, dropping the last letter onto Joe’s lap without having to address it.

Technically, there’s two from Luz, although the envelopes have been secured together with a fraying piece of twine. Bill counted it as one, anyways, and went about tearing open the letter from Liebgott.

Toye opened Luz’s letters in much of the opposite way, carefully working open the edges. It always drove Bill up the wall to watch, so he looked away again. Out at the sparsely occupied beach, the water, back to the handwriting in his lap.

They were still on hospital grounds, out here, with the only other people around other men with similar problems. Bill doubted that Joe would have come out here at all if that hadn’t been the case.

“Any news?” He asked, something along the dip of his throat itching for a cigarette as he dipped his hand into his pocket to fish out a pack and a lighter.

Joe just hummed, the sound low, more focused than he usually was. “Nah.” He said, quiet. “No news. Boring.” Contrary to his words, the corner of his mouth was curved up into a smile that Bill hardly ever saw.

Bill just snorted, pushed at his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” He said, dry and rapport in an effort to remain guileless. “War’s a real boring affair, y’know. Real boring.”

“Real boring.” Toye agreed, toneless.

“Real boring.”

Bill flipped over Liebgotts letter. Something about swimming trunks.

There was extra space at the bottom of the page, and, after fishing briefly for a pen, Bill wrote out ASK YOUR DAMN MA in big block letters and made a note to return to sender.

-----

It was cold most nights, and this one was no different. Still, the walls and windows did most of the work to keep the cold out and the rest unphased him, nothing as worse as it had been even a year ago.

Fran laughed as he pretended to dip her, and then nosed at his cheek playfully when she was righted once again.

Pressing her lips to the spot before pulling back just briefly enough to glance over her shoulder, she says, “I think that the lights on the wall are going out.”

Bill taps lightly at her calf with his left crutch but still looks over at them, squinting against the blinking soft reds and greens of them. “Guess so.” He said, not really being able to tell but trusting her anyways. “Want me to fix ‘em?”

“Nah, someone else will get them.” She let him turn her around again. When she shook her head, a curl fell into her face and Bill brushed it back with two fingers. She smiled at him, brilliant, and Bill snorted and looked away.

The Christmas party that they’d pulled together had turned into somewhat of an Easy Co. reunion, with enough guys close enough to Philadelphia being able to drive or take a train down to the tiny conference room they’d rented out with whatever savings they had to go to waste.

Johnny was dancing with Pat about five feet from them, and Fran pulled his focus back to her by patting him on the side of his face.

“Joe okay?” She asked, by way of conversation starter, and Bill blinked at her.

“Joe? Joe’s fine.” He said, turning around to locate Toye and prove his point before pausing, frowning. “Huh.”

Joe had — grudgingly, if the letter and short phone call had been any tone indicator — come out from Hughestown for the party, and had been sitting in the same place for about an hour. Turning around and finding him absent was new, but Bill just shrugged.

“Probably moving around.” He dismissed easily. “Y’know, stretching out the muscles, and the like.”

Fran just hummed, stepped back half of a step in a silent request to be spun again. Bill did so, and, after listening to her laugh, realized that he didn’t know where Luz had went, either.

For being further away, Luz coming to Philly had been easier to convince and swing than Toye, the man as easygoing as ever and brushing off Bill’s grudging offer to assist in travel with a simple statement of planning on being in the area anyways, and then not elaborating.

The music switched and a Sinatra song came on. Fran crossed her eyes at him, playful, and Bill did so back before forgetting all about it.

-----

Bill didn’t even think about it until later.

Franny was talking to Pat about something-or-the-other after announcing she’d gotten tired of dancing, and, with Johnny and Babe wrapped up in some sort of conversation that Bill had decided he wanted no part in, he’d started down the hall in order to find something to fix the lights with.

Old habits must die hard, however, or something within Bill must, because he heard George Luz’s laughter — quieter than usual, and maybe more breathy — and paused, leaned against the wall.

“Just come back with me.”

Toye hummed back, the sound turned up at the edges, and Bill shifted between his crutches and the wall. “I already got the ticket.” He said, like a fine point. “That’s good money to waste.”

“Give it to Johnny. He said that they were lookin’ to see more of Pennsylvania before getting back home.”

When Bill turned around the corner, just enough to see the sight beyond it but not be spotted in return, he blinked.

Luz’s back was to the bleached brick of the hall, otherwise empty, head tilted back against it. Toye, leaning heavy against one of his crutches while his other arm wrapped around Luz’s waist, had bent his head enough to press his forehead to the others cheek, Luz’s hand carding through his hair, keeping his head in place.

Bill blinked and stepped back again.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Toye said, sounded warm and not entirely grudging.

“‘Course it’s not, it’s mine.” Luz said back, like a joke. “Plus, that gives us — what? An extra day? Half of one?”

“Could have a whole lot more than that if you moved.”

“Impatient, impatient. Three more months, right?”

“Three more months.” Toye said back to him, the last thing uttered before a lull in sound.

Huh.

Bill beat it.

-----

He couldn’t say that he never really understood Joe’s whole relationship with Luz.

He felt like it was a friendship, but deeper, somehow, than the others in the Airborne (at least that he knew of) and the scene in the hall — which he now moved briskly away off, keen on not being caught — had lit up some other thought in him about them that he decided to not look at too closely.

And maybe that was the best way to go about the whole thing, in a way. Don’t look at it too closely.

Toye seemed happy, and so did Luz, and Bill didn’t want to think about what their friendship was, exactly, so the best way to go about it seemed to just not think about it.

-----

By the time he made it back to the room, Sinatra was still playing, and Fran lit up and waved when she saw him. Bill waved back and made his way over to her, still thinking about the hallway.

“Find the right stuff for the lights?” She asked him, staying seated but turning at the waist as he leaned against the wall beside her.

“Nah.” Bill said, then paused. He looked across the floor at the still blinking lights and then shrugged, reached out enough to press his fingertips to her shoulder. “I think it’s probably fine. Just don’t look at it too close, I guess.”

Fran just leaned into him. “If you say so.” She said easily, but didn’t seem to mind either way.

-----

(Three months and two weeks later, Fran is sorting through their mail.

“Huh.” She said absently, flipping a letter over to examine the blank back before turning it back again. “Guess George Luz moved down to Hughestown.”

Bill was sitting opposite her at the table, painstakingly writing out thank-you letters to Christmas cards received. “It say why?”

“Guess he got a job down there. Good for him, I suppose. If it pays better, and all.”

Bill realized after half of a second that he was smiling, somewhat. “Yeah.” He said, tapping the side of his nose absentmindedly. “Good for him. Pennsylvania’s better than Rhode Island or Massachusetts, anyways.” )

#rie writes #love ya sach hope you at least find this enjoyable <33 #luztoye #band of brothers #george luz #joe toye #joseph toye #bill guarnere #hbo war #hbowarsanta24

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rootedinrevisions · 2 days ago

Text

Home for the Holidays

SUMMARY: After years of feeling like an outsider, you finally decide to embrace the Christmas holiday - something you’ve never celebrated - with a little help from your friend, Bucky Barnes. As the two of you decorate a tree, share stories, and create new traditions, the bond between you deepens. Bucky starts to reveal parts of himself that you’ve kept hidden for years. As Christmas Eve draws near, your friendship blossoms into something more, and for the first time, you feel like you’re truly home - right where you belong, with him. James "Bucky" Barnes x Witch Reader.

A/N: I wanted to include a quick note to say that this is only my third or fourth attempt at writing something with Bucky Barnes, so I’ll be the first to admit it might be a little rough around the edges. I’m still finding my footing with his character, but I hope I’ve done him justice. Chronologically, this story takes place sometime after Avengers: Endgame but before the events of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. It’s a little slice-of-life moment that focuses on the softer side of Bucky—a side I firmly believe exists beneath all his trauma and guilt. In my opinion, he’s a sweet, protective angel who deserves all the love and happiness in the world (and yes, I will die on this hill). This story was so much fun to write, and I hope it gave you some warm, fuzzy feelings too. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment or send me a message. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays! ❤️

WARNINGS: Mentions of past trauma (Bucky's past as well as some mentions of the reader's past)

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

TAGS: @missmarveledsblog @lonelysoul50 @missbmc94 @multifandomgirl12

This is what I had listed as my tag list for Bucky Barnes. If you would like to be added to the Tag List please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

Snow drifted lazily past the frosted windows of the Avengers compound, blanketing the world outside in a soft, silvery glow. The quiet hum of holiday music filtered through the common area, a gentle reminder of the season. Twinkling lights adorned a massive Christmas tree near the far wall, its ornaments carefully curated by the team. The air smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, a testament to Wanda's insistence that the compound should feel festive, even if not everyone shared her enthusiasm.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, watching the scene from a distance. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the hall—probably Steve and Sam bickering over how to properly hang a string of lights. You didn’t need to look to know they were failing miserably.

Four years. That’s how long you’d been part of the Avengers. And yet, this time of year always felt... complicated. Christmas wasn’t something you’d ever celebrated growing up. Your coven had been insular, focused on rituals and traditions far removed from anything as commercial or joyous as this. The holidays had always felt foreign, like peering into someone else’s life from the outside.

But this year was different.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the line, the cold, isolating walls you’d built around yourself had started to thaw. Maybe it was because of the team—their relentless attempts to include you in every mission, every celebration.

Or maybe it was because of him.

Your gaze shifted toward the armchair by the fireplace. Bucky Barnes sat there, his metal hand resting idly on the armrest as he stared into the flames. The warm glow of the fire danced across his features, softening the lines etched into his face. You wondered what he was thinking. Bucky rarely volunteered that kind of information, but over the years, he’d let pieces of himself slip through the cracks. You cherished every one of them.

The two of you had a quiet understanding, an unspoken bond forged in shared silences and late-night conversations. He didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer, and you offered the same courtesy in return. But something about this year—this season—made you want to try.

You stepped into the room, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet. “You look like you’re a million miles away,” you said softly, breaking the stillness.

Bucky glanced up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Good thoughts, I hope.”

He shrugged, gesturing toward the tree with his vibranium hand. “Trying to remember if I ever actually decorated one of these. It’s been... a long time.”

You took a seat on the couch across from him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Maybe it’s time to start again.”

His eyes flickered to yours, holding your gaze for a moment before he looked away, as if considering the idea. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe it is.”

Bucky’s eyes lingered on the tree for a moment longer before he shifted his attention back to you. “What about you?” he asked, his voice low but steady. “Ever done all this before?”

You tilted your head, studying the tree’s glittering ornaments. They reflected the firelight, casting shimmering patterns across the walls. “Not really,” you admitted. “The coven didn’t exactly prioritize Christmas. Too commercial, too... human, I guess.” A wry smile tugged at your lips. “The closest thing we had was a winter solstice ceremony, but it wasn’t exactly festive. Mostly chanting and lighting candles.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between curiosity and amusement. “No tree? No presents? Not even the tiniest bit of tinsel?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Nope. Honestly, I’ve spent the last few Christmases in my room, trying to stay out of the way while the rest of you celebrated.”

His brow furrowed at that, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind. “Why?”

The question caught you off guard, though you supposed it shouldn’t have. Bucky had a knack for asking the things no one else dared to. You hesitated, tracing a finger along the seam of the couch. “I don’t know. Maybe I just felt like I didn’t belong. Watching everyone else—it was like looking at something I could never be a part of.”

Silence settled between you for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was quiet but resolute. “That’s not true, you know. You do belong.”

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes—something earnest, almost vulnerable—that made your chest tighten.

“Well,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “maybe this year’s the one to change that. Your first real Christmas.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He gestured toward the tree again. “We’ll do it right. You and me. Decorations, presents, the works. If you’ve never celebrated Christmas before, we’re gonna make sure this one’s special.”

The idea warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected, though you tried to hide the flutter of hope rising in your chest. “Bucky, you don’t have to do that—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “We both could use something good this time of year, don’t you think?”

You studied him for a moment, the firelight painting golden highlights in his dark hair. There was no hesitation in his expression, no trace of doubt. He was serious.

A small smile crept onto your lips. “Alright,” you said softly. “But only if you let me help.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal.”

For the first time in years, the thought of Christmas didn’t fill you with a sense of loneliness. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something new—something warm and unexpected. And as the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t help but feel like this might be the Christmas you’d been waiting for all along.

You and Bucky stand up and make your way over to the tree. Sam glances up and smiles when he sees the two of you approaching.

“Ah, you two finally decided to join the fun, huh? Don’t worry, we saved the best job for you two - tinsel duty.”

You blinked. “Tinsel duty?”

“Yup.” He pointed to a box overflowing with shimmering strands of silver and gold. “Just toss it around. Try not to overthink it.”

You glanced at Bucky, who gave you an almost imperceptible shrug before grabbing a handful of tinsel. “Alright. But if this ends up looking like a glitter bomb exploded, it’s on you.”

Sam grinned. “That’s the spirit, Barnes!”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you and Bucky began draping the tinsel over the tree, your initial hesitation melting away as the room filled with laughter and banter. Wanda teased Clint about his meticulous star placement. At some point Bruce wandered in with a tray of cookies, offering them to everyone.

It was... nice. Warm, even. For the first time, you felt like you weren’t just watching from the sidelines—you were part of it.

As you looped another strand of tinsel over a branch, Bucky leaned in slightly. “Not so bad, huh?”

You smiled, glancing at him. “Not bad at all.”

After an hour or so, the tree was finished, a sparkling masterpiece of lights, ornaments, and, yes, tinsel. The team stood back to admire their handiwork, and for a moment, you caught yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, this Christmas thing wasn’t so bad after all.

As the others started to disperse, heading to the kitchen or settling onto the couches, you turned to Bucky. “You know,” you began, your voice quiet but thoughtful, “this was fun. But I think... I’d like to have a tree of my own. Just something small, for my quarters.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Your first Christmas tree, huh?”

You nodded, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s silly—”

“It’s not silly,” he interrupted, his tone sincere. “It’s your Christmas. And if you want a tree, we’ll get you a tree.”

You looked at him, surprised. “We?”

He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. I’ll help you pick one out. Tomorrow, if you want. We can make a day of it.”

Your smile widened, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something close to excitement bubbling up inside you. “I’d like that,” you said softly.

Bucky’s grin grew, and he gave you a small nod. “It’s a plan, then.”

As the evening wound down and the team slowly trickled out of the common room, you couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted—something subtle but significant. And as you and Bucky left the room together, the promise of tomorrow lingered in the air, warm and full of possibility.

****

The following day dawned crisp and cold, the snow falling in delicate flurries outside the windows of the compound. You tightened your scarf around your neck as you waited by the door, watching the snow coat the parking lot in a pristine white blanket. When Bucky finally appeared, he was bundled in his usual dark jacket.

“Ready?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, grinning.

The drive into town was quiet but comfortable, the radio playing soft holiday music as you watched the snowy landscape blur past. Occasionally, Bucky would glance over at you, his gloved hands steady on the steering wheel. There was something peaceful about the moment—a stillness that felt like the calm before something new.

When you arrived at the small Christmas shop nestled in the corner of town, you stepped inside and were immediately enveloped by the scent of pine and cinnamon. The shop was charming, its shelves crowded with twinkling lights, ornaments of every shape and size, and garlands that sparkled like freshly fallen snow.

Bucky stepped up beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets as he surveyed the room. “Alright,” he said, his tone light. “Where do we start?”

You hesitated, scanning the rows of ornaments and decorations. “I don’t even know,” you admitted with a small laugh. “There’s... a lot.”

“Pick whatever catches your eye,” Bucky said, giving you an encouraging nudge. “It’s your tree, after all.”

You smiled at him, warmth blooming in your chest at his easy acceptance. Slowly, you made your way through the shop, stopping every so often to admire something—a tiny reindeer with jingling bells, a delicate snowflake made of glass, a cheerful Santa with rosy cheeks.

Bucky followed close behind, offering the occasional comment or nod of approval. When you paused to inspect a set of miniature ornaments shaped like stars, his voice softened.

“That one’s nice,” he said, reaching for a small wooden sled nearby. “This reminds me of... something from when I was a kid. My ma used to have one like it on our tree.”

You looked at him, the nostalgia in his tone tugging at your heart. “You should get it,” you said gently.

He hesitated, turning the sled over in his hand as if weighing the decision. Finally, he nodded, slipping it into the basket you were holding. “Maybe I will.”

A few minutes later, as you reached for a small silver ornament shaped like a bird, Bucky’s hand brushed against yours. You both froze for a moment, your fingers tangled over the delicate decoration. Then, almost simultaneously, you broke into laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only one who likes shiny things,” you teased, handing the ornament to him.

Bucky smirked, taking it from you but placing it back on the shelf. “Nah, you can have it. It suits you better.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that lingered on your face.

By the time you left the shop, your basket was filled with an assortment of ornaments and decorations, each one a little piece of your first Christmas. Bucky carried the bags to the car, brushing the snow off the windshield before climbing into the driver’s seat.

As he started the car and the heater roared to life, you turned to him, your breath misting in the cold air. “Thanks for this,” you said softly. “For... helping me figure all this out.”

Bucky glanced at you, his blue eyes warm beneath the shadow of his beanie. “Anytime,” he said. “Everyone deserves a good Christmas.”

The car hummed softly as Bucky steered it back toward the compound, the snow outside swirling in lazy spirals under the gray December sky. You rested your hands on the shopping bags at your feet, the ornaments inside clinking gently with each bump in the road.

“Hey, Bucky?” you asked after a moment of quiet, your voice tentative.

“Yeah?” His eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the road.

“What was Christmas like... you know, for you? Back then.”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel shifted slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment as if considering the question carefully. He exhaled through his nose, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “A lot of it’s... blurry. Like looking through a frosted window, you know?”

You nodded, watching him closely. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze distant as if reaching for a memory that hovered just out of reach.

“But,” he continued after a pause, his tone softening, “I do remember one Christmas. I must’ve been... seven or eight. It had snowed like crazy the night before, and my ma was in the kitchen making these cookies—pfeffernüsse, she called them. Little spiced cookies covered in powdered sugar. The whole house smelled like cinnamon and cloves.”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward as the memory came into focus. “My sister and I were running around, trying to peek at the presents under the tree. My ma kept shooing us out of the living room, telling us to let the tree ‘rest’ before Christmas morning.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Like the tree needed a nap or something.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the image. “That sounds... really nice,” you said quietly.

“It was,” he agreed, his voice tinged with wistfulness. “That was the year my dad made us this little wooden sled. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some planks nailed together, but... man, we thought it was the greatest thing in the world. Spent the whole day outside, taking turns sliding down the hill behind our house.”

You watched him as he spoke, his expression unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. It was like the snow outside, rare and fleeting but beautiful in its clarity.

“Do you still have the sled?” you asked gently.

Bucky shook his head, his smile fading slightly. “No. Most of that stuff’s long gone. Especially since I was…away for so long. But... I don’t know. Sometimes I think about that Christmas and it feels... warm. Like a piece of home, even if it’s just a memory now.”

The car fell quiet again, the soft strains of a holiday song playing faintly on the radio. You looked down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of your scarf.

“I think it’s nice that you remember that,” you said after a moment. “Even if it’s just a piece of it. It’s... kind of comforting, you know?”

Bucky glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

As the compound came into view, you felt a warmth settle in your chest, like the glow of a fire on a cold night. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t just be about creating new memories—it would also be about finding pieces of home, even in the unlikeliest of places.

Your quarters were bathed in the soft amber glow of the small lamps you’d lit earlier, the snow outside casting a faint blue tint through the frosted windows. The scent of pine filled the room as Bucky helped you set up the tree you’d picked out earlier. It stood proudly in the corner, a little uneven at the top, but perfect in its imperfections.

“Alright, let’s see if we can make this thing shine,” Bucky said, crouching by the box of lights. He began untangling the strands with practiced patience, while you dug into the bag of ornaments you’d chosen earlier.

You laughed softly as you pulled out the first ornament, a sparkly snowflake. “How is it possible that these lights tangle themselves when no one’s even using them?”

“It’s one of life’s great mysteries,” Bucky replied, shaking his head with mock seriousness. “Right up there with why Steve always insisted on going to battle without a helmet.”

You laughed, handing him the snowflake. “Here, start with this. We’ll figure out the lights after.”

Together, you worked to string the lights around the tree, pausing every now and then to adjust a strand or laugh when one of the bulbs flickered out. By the time the lights were glowing softly against the green branches, you felt a quiet contentment settle over you.

“Not bad,” Bucky said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. He reached for one of the ornaments, the small wooden sled he’d picked out earlier. As he held it in his hand, his expression softened, a hint of nostalgia flickering across his face.

“Do you remember something?” you asked gently, watching him closely.

Bucky nodded, turning the ornament over in his hand. “Yeah... I was just thinking about when I was younger decorating the tree with my mom and my sister. My mom had this old box of ornaments she’d pull out every year. Some of them were cracked, some missing hooks, but she insisted on using every single one. My sister and I would try to sneak the broken ones back into the box, but she always caught us.”

He smiled faintly, his eyes distant. “She’d put on this old record of Bing Crosby, and we’d all sing along while we decorated. I wasn’t much of a singer, but my mom didn’t care. She said Christmas wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being together.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at the warmth in his voice, the way the memory seemed to wrap around him like a blanket. “That sounds... really nice,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

Bucky glanced at you, his smile fading slightly. “What about you? Did you ever...?”

You shook your head, lowering your gaze to the ornament in your hand. “No. My life was... different. I never really felt like I belonged anywhere, not with my coven, not with anyone. Holidays were just another day to remind me of that.” You hesitated, then looked back up at him. “But... being here, with the Avengers, with you... I don’t know. For the first time, I feel like I’m part of something. Like I have a family. Like I finally have somewhere I belong.”

The words hung in the air between you, soft and vulnerable. Bucky’s gaze lingered on yours, something unspoken flickering in his blue eyes.

Before either of you could say more, you turned to grab another ornament, your foot catching on the edge of the tree skirt. You stumbled forward, a startled gasp escaping your lips—but before you could fall, Bucky’s arms shot out, catching you effortlessly.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low as he steadied you.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, his strong, steady presence grounding you. For a moment, neither of you moved. The room seemed to shrink, the glow of the Christmas lights casting a soft halo around you both. His hands rested gently on your waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of your sweater.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t let go right away, his gaze searching yours as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. The air between you felt charged, every breath a little too loud in the quiet room.

But then, just as quickly, he stepped back, his hands falling to his sides. “You okay?” he asked, his voice steady but softer than usual.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, brushing your hands down your sweater as if to smooth away the moment. “Guess I’m not very graceful when it comes to decorating.”

Bucky chuckled, but the sound was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “Good thing you’ve got me to keep you on your feet.”

You smiled, picking up the ornament you’d dropped and hanging it carefully on the tree. As you worked side by side, the moment lingered in your mind, the warmth of his hands on your waist and the way he’d looked at you etched into your thoughts.

****

The days slipped into weeks, the festive atmosphere of the compound becoming more pronounced as Christmas drew closer. You found yourself caught in the whirlwind of preparations alongside the team, but your thoughts often drifted back to that night with Bucky.

You’d replayed those moments over and over again—his quiet laugh as you picked out ornaments together, the way his hands had steadied you when you almost fell, the warmth in his eyes when he’d talked about his family. It was silly, really, how those memories clung to you, but you couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, someone had made you feel seen.

But then... nothing.

Bucky had been called away on a mission not long after that night. You’d overheard someone mention something about Siberia, and though you weren’t sure of the details, you knew it must have been important. The days without him had stretched on, each one marked by his absence. You told yourself it was no big deal. He was an Avenger, after all. Missions came first, and it wasn’t like you had any claim to him.

Still, you couldn’t shake the way your chest felt heavier when you passed by his empty quarters or the way you caught yourself glancing at the door to the common room, half-expecting to see him walk through it.

With a sigh, you dropped onto the couch in your room, tucking your feet beneath you as you stared at the softly glowing tree in the corner. The lights twinkled, casting a warm, comforting glow across the room, but tonight they only seemed to remind you of how quiet things had become.

Your fingers toyed with the edge of a blanket as you tried to push the thoughts away. He’d be back soon, you told yourself. And when he was, things would go back to the way they were—comfortable, easy. That’s all it was. Just... comfort.

****

The compound was quieter than usual, the emptiness pressing against you as you moved around the kitchen. Christmas Eve wasn’t supposed to feel this... lonely. You glanced at the clock above the stove. Another hour had ticked by, and there was still no word from the team. They were supposed to be back days ago.

You sighed, brushing your hands down the front of your apron as you tried to push the ache in your chest aside. The menu you’d planned—a simple, homey meal—sat scribbled on a piece of paper beside you. Roast pork loin, roasted vegetables, and sugar cookies. It wasn’t extravagant, but it felt like something you could offer as a small gift to the others.

Even if no one else was around to enjoy it, cooking gave you something to focus on. You’d spent the morning shopping for the ingredients, carefully selecting the best cut of meat and the freshest vegetables. Now, as you peeled carrots and diced potatoes, the steady rhythm of your knife against the cutting board was almost soothing.

Almost.

You paused, your hand lingering on the edge of the counter as your gaze drifted to the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree in the common room, visible through the doorway. It had been weeks since you’d decorated your own tree with Bucky, and you’d replayed that night so many times in your mind. You’d held onto the hope that he’d be back in time to celebrate with you, but as the hours slipped away, it was starting to feel like this Christmas might pass quietly, like all the others before it.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the faint creak of the kitchen door opening. The sound drew your attention, and you glanced up, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who was standing there.

Bucky.

He lingered in the doorway, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his dark hair slightly damp from the snow melting on it. His blue eyes softened when they met yours, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eased.

“You’re back,” you said, your voice softer than you’d intended.

“Yeah,” he replied, stepping further into the kitchen and setting his bag down. “Mission took longer than expected.”

You nodded, gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself as a wave of relief washed over you. “I didn’t think anyone would be back in time for Christmas.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile as he took in the sight of the half-prepped meal spread out on the counter. “Looks like you’ve been keeping busy.”

You glanced at the cutting board, suddenly self-conscious. “I just... thought it’d be nice to make something for everyone. If they came back.”

He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he moved closer. “Need a hand?”

“You’ve just got back,” you said, shaking your head. “You should rest—”

“I’d rather be here,” he interrupted gently. His voice was steady, but there was something in his tone, something unspoken, that made your chest tighten.

For a moment, you simply stared at him, caught in the quiet intensity of his gaze. Then you nodded, stepping aside to make room for him at the counter. “Alright. But don’t blame me if you end up peeling all the potatoes.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Deal.”

As you handed Bucky a few potatoes and pointed him toward the sink, the two of you slipped into a quiet rhythm. Cooking felt easier with someone there to share the work, and you couldn’t help but notice how naturally he fell into step beside you. He peeled the potatoes with steady, practiced movements, while you worked on seasoning the pork loin and tossing the vegetables with olive oil and spices.

It wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned for your first Christmas dinner, but the ease between you and Bucky made it feel... right.

“You’re pretty good at this,” you said, glancing at him as he rinsed off the peeled potatoes.

He smirked faintly. “Peeling potatoes isn’t exactly rocket science.”

“No, I mean all of this,” you gestured toward the counter, where bowls and ingredients were strewn about in organized chaos. “You’re a lot more... domestic than I expected.”

Bucky chuckled, his gaze softening as he dried his hands on a towel. “Grew up helping my ma in the kitchen. She made sure I knew how to cook a decent meal.”

The image of a young Bucky helping his mother in a warm, bustling kitchen tugged at your heart. You smiled, trying to picture it. “Well, consider me impressed. I was expecting more of a... ‘break things and punch stuff’ skillset from you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m still pretty good at that, too.”

You laughed softly and handed him a cutting board. “Alright, tough guy. Chop those into chunks while I get the roast ready.”

He followed your instructions without hesitation, his knife slicing through the potatoes with precision. You couldn’t help but watch him for a moment, the way his hands moved deftly, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. There was something grounding about his presence, something steady and reassuring that made the kitchen feel warmer.

As you worked together, the sound of soft Christmas music from the compound’s speaker system filled the room, mingling with the rhythmic chop of the knife and the clatter of pans. The smell of seasoned pork and fresh herbs began to fill the air, cozy and inviting.

The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Wanda poked her head in, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air. “That smells amazing,” she said, stepping fully inside.

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” you said with a laugh, glancing at her over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t rushing you,” Wanda replied with a grin. Her gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her eyebrows raising slightly, though she didn’t say anything else. “Let me know if you need any help. Otherwise, I’ll just sit here and enjoy the smell.”

She wandered off toward the common room, leaving you and Bucky to exchange a quick glance and a quiet laugh.

Not long after, Clint wandered in, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Whatever’s cooking in here, I want in on it.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes good-naturedly.

He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, gave you both an approving nod, and left just as quickly as he’d arrived.

“Is this what Christmas is supposed to feel like?” you asked aloud, half to yourself, as you slid the roast into the oven.

Bucky, who had just finished chopping the last potato, glanced at you. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, wiping your hands on a towel. “The smells, the warmth, the people coming and going... it’s nice. Feels... cozy.”

Bucky smiled faintly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned his attention back to the cutting board. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It does.”

As the minutes slipped by, the kitchen grew warmer, the scents of roasted meat and caramelizing vegetables filling the air. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, trading jokes and small smiles as you moved around the small space. It was easy—easier than you’d ever imagined—and for a moment, you let yourself believe that this could be what home felt like.

The dining area was simple but welcoming, with the table set for six. You’d managed to find a festive red tablecloth in one of the compound’s storage rooms, and Wanda had added a few candles and some greenery she’d somehow conjured up at the last minute. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it felt warm and inviting.

Everyone filed in slowly, drawn by the smell of the meal you and Bucky had prepared. Sam was the first to sit down, followed by Clint, who made a show of sniffing the air and declaring, “This is going to be the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had that didn’t involve takeout.”

Bruce arrived next, carrying a bottle of wine he’d found in the compound’s pantry. “Figured this could help wash down the meal,” he said with a small smile, setting it on the table.

“Classy touch, Doc,” Sam said, giving Bruce a thumbs-up.

Wanda floated in last, her eyes lighting up as she saw the spread on the table. “This looks amazing,” she said, taking her seat beside Clint.

You stood at the head of the table, looking around at the assembled group. Bucky lingered near your side, his presence steady and reassuring as always. He caught your eye and gave you a small nod, as if to say, You did good.

“Alright, dig in before it gets cold,” you said, gesturing to the food.

There was a brief scramble as everyone reached for plates and serving spoons. Conversation soon flowed effortlessly around the table, voices overlapping in that warm, chaotic way that only happened when people felt comfortable.

“This pork is incredible,” Sam said, pointing his fork at you. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

You shook your head, laughing. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve set the bar pretty high,” Clint added, slicing into his roasted vegetables. “Next year, we’re expecting a full five-course meal.”

Bucky chuckled softly beside you, his own plate half-finished already. “Ease up, Barton. You’re lucky she didn’t make you a peanut butter sandwich.”

You nudged Bucky with your elbow, grinning. “I could’ve done that, you know. Would’ve saved a lot of time.”

The table erupted into laughter, and for a moment, you let yourself soak it all in. The warmth, the banter, the feeling of being part of something.

As the conversation drifted to other topics, your eyes found Bucky’s across the table. He was leaning back slightly, his fork idly pushing a roasted carrot around his plate as he listened to Bruce explain some scientific experiment. When he felt your gaze, he glanced over and offered you a small, almost shy smile.

You smiled back, your heart doing a little flip.

“So,” Wanda said suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts, “what’s everyone’s favorite Christmas tradition?”

The question sparked a flurry of answers. Sam talked about how his mom used to make beignets every Christmas morning. Clint shared a story about a Christmas Eve prank war with Natasha that had involved a strategically placed mistletoe and a very grumpy Steve. Even Bruce opened up, reminiscing about reading “The Night Before Christmas” to his nieces and nephews when he could make it home.

When it was Bucky’s turn, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to you before he spoke. “We used to decorate the tree together,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “My mom, my sister, and me. She’d make hot chocolate, and we’d argue over who got to put the star on top.”

The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling in.

“That sounds nice,” Wanda said softly, breaking the quiet.

Bucky nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It was.”

The conversation picked up again, but you found yourself watching Bucky out of the corner of your eye. There was a softness to him tonight, a vulnerability that he didn’t often show. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As the meal wound down, Clint leaned back in his chair with a satisfied groan. “Alright, I’m calling it. Best Christmas dinner ever.”

“Agreed,” Sam said, raising his glass of wine. “To the chef—and her assistant.”

“Assistant?” Bucky scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “I did half the work.”

“Sure you did, buddy,” Sam teased, smirking.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, alright. Thanks for the help, Bucky. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the noise around the table faded. “Anytime,” he said softly.

As the others began to clear their plates and drift off, you couldn’t help but feel like this was exactly what you’d been missing. A family, a place where you belonged—and maybe, just maybe, something more.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clinking of dishes and the steady rush of water from the sink. You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, as you rinsed off the last of the dinner plates. Bucky was beside you, dish towel in hand, drying each plate you handed him with quiet efficiency.

“You really don’t have to help,” you said, glancing at him. “You’ve been on a mission for weeks. Go put your feet up, or something.”

Bucky smirked, taking the plate you passed him and wiping it dry. “Nice try, but I’m not leaving you to clean all this up alone.”

“I mean it, Bucky,” you said, though your tone lacked any real conviction. “You’ve done enough.”

“And yet, here I am,” he replied, his voice calm and steady.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Stubborn as ever.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. “Takes one to know one.”

For a while, the two of you worked in companionable silence. You washed, he dried, and every now and then, your hands brushed as he took something from you. Each touch was fleeting, but it sent little sparks through you nonetheless.

After a few minutes, Bucky broke the silence. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I haven’t really done this...celebrated Christmas, I mean, in decades.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded, his eyes fixed on the plate he was drying. “After everything I lost—my family, my friends—it just felt...too painful. Like I didn’t deserve it anymore. Or like celebrating would make it harder to forget what I’d lost.”

Your chest ached at his words, and you reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

He shrugged, but his expression was pensive. “It is what it is. But tonight...” He trailed off, his gaze meeting yours. “Tonight didn’t feel so bad. You’ve got this way of making things feel...lighter.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his voice. “I—thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “And thank you for helping me. This whole holiday thing is new to me, and...I don’t know. I feel like tonight was the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, one that reached his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said simply.

The moment stretched between you, the air charged with something unspoken. You glanced down, focusing on the water in the sink to keep yourself grounded.

After a moment, you handed him the last dish. “Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “that’s the last of it. We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he said, drying the plate and setting it on the counter. “We do.”

You turned off the water and wiped your hands on a towel, feeling strangely reluctant for the moment to end. “Thanks again, Bucky,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything.”

He nodded, his expression soft. “Anytime.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The kitchen was quiet, the warmth from the evening lingering in the air. It felt like there was something just out of reach, something waiting to be said or done. But neither of you took that step.

“Goodnight,” you said finally, your voice soft.

“Goodnight,” Bucky replied, his voice low and steady.

As you turned to leave the kitchen, you felt his gaze follow you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same pull you did.

You paused just as you reached the doorway, your hand still resting on the frame. A thought struck you, sudden and vivid, and you turned back toward Bucky, your heart skipping a beat.

“Bucky,” you called softly, your voice carrying across the quiet kitchen.

He turned immediately, his blue eyes meeting yours with an almost questioning look. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling nervous. “I, um... I got you something. For Christmas.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flashing across his face. “You got me a present?”

You nodded, your fingers fidgeting with the towel in your hands. “It’s nothing big, just...something I thought you might like. Do you—do you have a minute to come to my room?”

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then, a small smile broke across his face, warm and genuine. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Of course.”

Relief flooded through you, and you smiled back, gesturing for him to follow. Together, the two of you left the kitchen and walked through the quiet hallways of the compound. The soft hum of the lights overhead was the only sound, and the air between you felt charged with anticipation.

When you reached your quarters, you opened the door and stepped inside, glancing back to make sure Bucky was following. He lingered just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping over your room. The Christmas tree you’d decorated together stood in the corner, its soft, colorful lights casting a warm glow across the space.

“You did good setting the rest of the stuff up. It looks good,” he said, his voice low and approving.

“Thanks,” you replied, your nerves returning as you moved toward the small dresser where you’d stashed the gift. You pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box and turned back to face him, holding it out with both hands.

Bucky’s eyes flicked from the box to your face, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, his voice soft.

“I wanted to,” you said simply, stepping closer. “Go on, open it.”

He hesitated for just a moment before taking the box from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and the small touch sent a shiver up your spine. Carefully, he unwrapped the paper, revealing a small, vintage-style pocketknife with a dark wooden handle. The owner of the shop said it was from the 1940s but you weren’t sure if that was true or not.

He turned it over in his hand, his thumb running over the smooth surface of the wood. “This is...” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “This is really nice.”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly self-conscious. “I thought it might remind you of...well, of home. Of a time before all the chaos. I figured it might be something you’d actually use, too.”

Bucky’s gaze lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, the weight of his gratitude was almost overwhelming. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This...this means a lot.”

Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze. “I’m glad you like it.”

He looked down at the knife again, turning it over one more time before tucking it into his pocket. Then, he stepped closer, his blue eyes fixed on yours. “You know,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “this might be the first Christmas in a long time that’s actually felt...real. Like it means something.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m glad,” you said softly. “You deserve that, Bucky.”

For a moment, it felt like time stood still. He was so close now, close enough that you could see the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw, the way his lashes cast soft shadows under his eyes. The air between you was heavy with something unspoken, something fragile and electric all at once.

But then, with a small, almost shy smile, Bucky stepped back, breaking the spell. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, patting the pocket where he’d tucked the knife. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

Bucky lingered, his eyes still locked on yours. Just as he seemed ready to turn and leave, he paused, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “Wait,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head in curiosity, watching as he pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. Your breath caught when he held it out to you.

“I, uh... I got you something too,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

“You did?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat as you reached for the package.

Bucky nodded, his gaze flickering down to the gift in your hands. “I wasn’t sure if I should give it to you, but...it felt right. I saw it a while back, and it reminded me of something my mom used to wear.”

Carefully, you unwrapped the package, your fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a delicate vintage bracelet, its silver chain adorned with a single charm—a tiny engraved locket that opened to reveal enough space for two small pictures.

Your breath hitched as you turned it over in your hands. The craftsmanship was intricate, timeless, and utterly beautiful.

“Bucky,” you whispered, looking up at him with wide eyes. “This is...it’s stunning.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s nothing fancy. Just thought it might be something you’d like. Something that...you could carry with you, you know? To remind you that you’re never alone.”

Your throat tightened, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. “I love it,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Bucky. This means so much to me.”

You looked up at him, your fingers still clutching the bracelet. The room felt charged with a warmth that wasn’t coming from the soft glow of the Christmas lights. It was him—his presence, his quiet strength, his unspoken care that seemed to radiate and fill every corner of the space.

“Bucky...” you began, hesitating as the words bubbled up inside you. “I—there’s something I need to say.”

His eyes softened, his full attention on you now. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, summoning the courage you’d been holding back for so long. “I care about you,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. You’ve done so much for me, and being around you...it feels like I’ve finally found where I belong. I’ve never had that before, not until you.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his lips parting as if he hadn’t expected your confession. But then, slowly, a smile touched his face—a real one, not the guarded half-smiles he often wore.

“I’ve cared about you for a long time,” he said quietly, his voice deep and steady. “But I wanted to give you time. To find your place here, to heal, to figure out what you wanted. I didn’t want to push you before you were ready.”

Tears welled in your eyes, your heart aching with a kind of happiness you’d never experienced before. “I am ready,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Bucky took a small step closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush your cheek. The touch was soft, tentative, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into his touch, your eyes searching his.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice so quiet it was almost a breath.

You nodded, your answer coming without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Slowly, he closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was gentle yet filled with unspoken longing.

You responded instantly, your hands finding their way to his chest as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. The world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth of his embrace and the quiet hum of the Christmas lights.

When the kiss ended, Bucky rested his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t want to rush you,” he murmured. “But I want you to know how much you mean to me. How much you’ve always meant to me.”

“You’re not rushing me,” you assured him, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. “This feels...right. It feels like home.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and relief. Without another word, he leaned down and kissed you again, deeper this time, as if to seal the promise between you.

****

The room had grown quiet, save for the soft hum of the Christmas lights strung around your quarters and the faint whistle of the wind outside. You were curled up on the couch with Bucky, your head resting against his chest as his arm stayed wrapped protectively around your shoulders. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing had lulled you into a hazy calm.

Bucky’s hand absently traced slow, soothing circles on your arm as his gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes swirled in the darkness. He glanced down at you, noticing the way your breathing had slowed and how your hand, resting against his chest, had slackened.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his voice low and tender. “You falling asleep on me?”

You stirred slightly but didn’t lift your head. “Mm...maybe,” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep.

Bucky chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” he said, shifting slightly to sit up.

But the moment he moved, your arms tightened around him instinctively, and you pressed closer, your cheek nuzzling against the fabric of his sweater. “Don’t go,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Bucky froze, his heart skipping a beat at your words. He leaned back against the couch, his hand brushing your hair gently. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised softly. “I just don’t want you to wake up with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch.”

You finally tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes heavy-lidded but filled with a quiet plea. “Stay,” you whispered, your voice more certain now. “Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”

Bucky’s throat tightened, the vulnerability in your voice cutting straight through him. He searched your face, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to gauge if this was truly what you wanted. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, your fingers clutching the front of his sweater. “Please,” you said, your voice so soft it was almost a breath.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his resolve crumbling. “Alright,” he said finally, his tone filled with quiet understanding.

Carefully, he shifted you in his arms, standing and carrying you effortlessly toward your bed. You clung to him, your arms looped around his neck as he gently laid you down. The warmth of the blankets enveloped you, but you refused to let go, your fingers still clutching his sleeve.

Bucky hesitated, his weight balanced on the edge of the bed as he looked down at you. “You really want me to stay?” he asked again, his voice softer now.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, your eyes meeting his. “I feel safe when you’re here.”

The honesty in your words made something inside him shift. Slowly, he slid onto the bed beside you, careful not to crowd your space as he leaned back against the pillows. You immediately nestled into his side, your head resting against his shoulder as your hand came to rest on his chest.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his arm wrapping around you once more. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the heater and the distant howl of the wind outside.

As your breathing evened out, Bucky tilted his head down to look at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his hand brushing lightly against your arm.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, his voice filled with a warmth that matched the glow of the lights around the room.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, both of you fell asleep with a sense of peace you hadn’t known you were missing.

****

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the curtains, blending with the warm twinkle of the Christmas tree lights still glowing from the night before. The compound was quiet, the usual hum of activity stilled by the early hour and the calm of Christmas morning.

You stirred first, the warmth of Bucky’s body next to you a grounding presence. His arm was still draped around your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your cheek. For a moment, you stayed still, savoring the peace of the moment—the steady beat of his heart, the faint scent of cedar and something uniquely him, the weight of his arm holding you close.

You shifted slightly, your movements stirring him. Bucky let out a soft, contented groan before his blue eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep. His gaze found yours, and a small, sleepy smile curved his lips.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.

“Morning,” you replied softly, your own smile spreading as you propped yourself up slightly to look at him.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the quiet intimacy of the morning wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Eventually, you broke the stillness, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Coffee?” you offered, your voice gentle.

Bucky nodded, his smile growing. “Coffee sounds good.”

You slid out of bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you went to the small kitchenette in your quarters. Bucky followed a moment later, tugging his sweater back into place as he moved to help. You waved him off with a playful smile, insisting, “You just woke up. Sit. Relax.”

He smirked but obeyed, settling himself on the couch as he watched you move. The rich aroma of brewing coffee soon filled the room, mingling with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree. You brought over two mugs, handing one to him before curling up next to him on the couch.

The tree’s lights cast a soft glow around the room, their colors reflecting faintly in the steaming surface of your drinks. You pulled your legs up beneath you, leaning against Bucky’s side as you cradled your mug in your hands.

“This is nice,” you said after a moment, your voice quiet and thoughtful. “I didn’t really know what to expect for my first Christmas, but... this? This is perfect.”

Bucky glanced down at you, his expression softening. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice filled with a kind of tentative hope.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Last night... and now... this is the best first Christmas I could’ve imagined.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you just a bit closer. “Good,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “Because I meant what I said last night. There’ll be more. As many Christmases as you want.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you turned slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Bucky’s free hand came up to brush softly against your hair. “For what?”

“For everything,” you said, your voice quiet but full of emotion. “For being here. For making this feel like home.”

Bucky didn’t reply right away, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your arm.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low murmur. “You’ve given me more than you know,” he said. “I didn’t think... I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. This kind of peace.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other, the words unspoken but understood.

The moment lingered, soft and quiet, as the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in a serene stillness. It was a Christmas morning you’d never forget—the first of many, just as Bucky had promised.

The hum of activity and cheerful chatter echoed down the halls as you and Bucky eventually made your way to the common room, hand in hand. The soft buzz of excitement in the air was unmistakable—it was Christmas morning, and despite the team’s various histories and struggles, they had all come together to celebrate like a makeshift family.

As the two of you stepped into the common room, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, hot cocoa, and cinnamon pastries hit you instantly. Wanda and Clint were seated on the couch near the towering Christmas tree, their attention briefly shifting from the pile of wrapped gifts underneath it to you and Bucky. Sam stood near the fireplace, gesturing animatedly as Bruce tried to hang a strand of garland that kept slipping off.

It didn’t take long for them to notice.

“Well, well,” Sam said, turning to face you with a sly grin as his eyes zeroed in on your intertwined hands. “What’s this? I step away for one mission, and suddenly you two are attached at the hip? Called it!”

Wanda turned to look at you both, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I did sense something was different when I walked in earlier,” she added playfully. “But I didn’t want to pry.”

Clint, perched on the arm of the couch, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “About time, Barnes. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, his free hand rising to rub at the back of his neck, but the faint pink that dusted his cheeks gave him away. “You’ve been back for all of five minutes, and you’re already running your mouth,” he quipped, shooting a halfhearted glare at Sam.

“Oh, come on, Bucky,” Sam teased, folding his arms and leaning casually against the fireplace. “I mean, look at you! The guy who used to sit in the corner and brood now looks downright cheerful.”

Despite the teasing, the warmth in the room was palpable. No one was being cruel or overbearing—it was clear they were genuinely happy for you both.

You squeezed Bucky’s hand, shooting him a small, reassuring smile before addressing the team. “Alright, alright,” you said, your voice light but firm. “Get it out of your systems now. We’ve got presents to open, and I’ll be damned if I let Sam’s running commentary delay the fun.”

Sam threw his hands up in mock surrender, grinning. “Fine, fine. But don’t think I won’t circle back to this later.”

The morning unfolded with laughter and lighthearted banter. The group gathered around the tree, taking turns opening gifts and sharing stories. Wanda surprised you with a beautiful scarf she had hand-knit, and Clint gifted you a set of books he had noticed you admiring during a rare team outing. Sam gave Bucky a “World’s Okayest Teammate” mug, which earned a hearty laugh from everyone except Bucky, who muttered something about breaking it “accidentally.”

As the festivities carried on, you found yourself glancing at Bucky every so often, catching his gaze as he looked back at you. Each time, a small, private smile passed between you, a silent acknowledgment of the new chapter you’d both begun.

At one point, Bruce approached you with a warm smile, his voice quiet amidst the lively chatter. “You seem happy,” he said simply.

You nodded, your eyes drifting toward Bucky, who was laughing at something Clint had said. “I am,” you replied, your voice soft but filled with certainty. “More than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce gave you a knowing nod before stepping back into the group, leaving you with a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in years.

As the morning turned into afternoon, the team began to scatter, some retreating to their rooms, others lingering in the common room to enjoy the warmth of the fire and the quiet buzz of the holiday. You and Bucky stayed together, finding a comfortable spot on the couch near the tree.

Bucky reached over to take your hand, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “You alright?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned to him, your heart swelling as you took in the warmth and tenderness in his gaze. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “I’m more than alright. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a soft smile, his hand tightening slightly around yours. “Good,” he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken promises.

The two of you sat there for a while longer, surrounded by the quiet hum of the compound and the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights. It was a moment you’d cherish forever—a memory of warmth, love, and belonging that marked the start of something truly beautiful.

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