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bromcommie · 8 months ago

Text

moving like a river of trouble crossing

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

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

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

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

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

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, fine. Great.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No shit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole. Should put that on the tourist brochures,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters. It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised, and the sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding. v.

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

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with the concept of death the first time when Mrs. Kowalski from 4C got sick, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve snorts. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one suit and everything."

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

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

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

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid. Want. want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

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

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

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

Wake up.

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

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

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

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

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

vii.

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

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

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

“What about Kate?”

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

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So it is about Stark, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

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

viii.

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

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

ix.

“You’re up late.”

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

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

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

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

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

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

“Talk about what?”

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

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

“Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinks, right.”

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

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

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers, and considers ignoring the man altogether. He's not feeling generous with his words tonight. “Alright what?”

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

“I’m good, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward, heart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

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

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

You must miss the good old days, huh?

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

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

(epilogue)

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

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

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

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

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

"You alright?"

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

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

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

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

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

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skzoologist · 1 year ago

Text

Unfamiliarity [two]

word count: ~10.5k

genre: Hybrid AU, no pairings

warnings: forced intake of medication, usage of heavy meds, panic attacks, signs of PTSD, hints of being experimented at, past abuse, occasional curse words, hurt/comfort, just bad choices overall from everyone

summary: Being taken in from the street means you get a mandatory, very fun session with the vet :)

a/n: I hope none of you missed the story too much, seeing as I took TWO MONTHS to update. I am horrible, my time-management skills are non-existent. My deepest apologies, I will put up the next chapter hopefully the next week to try and tame your ire. Especially since no new members are introduced in this chapter yet, only in the next one... Anyway, I hope you have fun reading this and feel free to barge into my ask box if you have any thoughts or questions!

Please let me know if I left a warning or anything out, I will add it in!Reblogs, likes and feedback are greatly appreciated!

!This is just fiction, my interpretation of Stray Kids. By no means is this how they are and how they behave in real life!

previous I masterlist I next

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Waking up was not fun at all.

The moment my consciousness resurfaced and I opened my eyes, my whole body started hurting. My head pounded mercilessly, feeling heavy and fuzzy. My throat was parched, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, the notion of peeling it off uncomfortable.

I slowly got up, my body shuddering and fur twitching as I sucked in a whine that almost left my muzzle. My back hurt and stretched, the smell of antiseptics hitting me in the face. My nose crinkled up, eyes watering from the unpleasantly strong smell. Shaking my head to try and get rid of at least a bit, I huffed and stood up on shaky paws, carefully stepping down from the 'bed'.

My whole body felt like a weight as I stood there, needing a moment to recollect myself.

What was I doing last time? I wasn't in 'bed'... No, I was eating, right. The wolf… yes, he was teaching me how to use those sticks. Then…

Everything came rushing back to me, the glass, the capture, the stars. Wait no, those were freckles.

Trotting towards the place where the clothes were stored, I stood on my hind legs, front right paw resting on the right door as I opened the left one with my maw. Sure enough, there were clothes neatly laid out there by the others, like it always had been.

Shifting into my other -more vulnerable- form, I suppressed every groan of pain that wanted to escape me. The scars on my upper body stretched painfully, the feeling unpleasant and familiar. Quickly putting on some clothes, I walked towards the door and took a couple of deep breaths.

Nobody was nearby, they were all huddled in the 'living room' from what I could tell. That was… weirdly perfect.

Quietly opening the door, I stepped out into the hallway I had walked across so many times before. Not wanting to notify anyone of my presence just yet, I left the door open -instead of risking them hearing me closing it- and stepped across the smooth floor, my steps muted and precise.

Nearing the stairway, I stopped as I heard hushed voices. I couldn't make out any words thanks to my fuzzy head, but their tone was more than enough to indicate their misery. My ears pressed into my head, knowing I was probably the cause of that.

Gathering my courage, I gulped down my racing heart that leapt into my throat and took a step towards the staircase.

By the fourth step I was noticed.

By the sixth, their voices completely died down.

By the seventh I stopped, gaze meeting theirs after a few seconds.

I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry."

My voice was raspy, the words almost unrecognisable from the lack of use over the long years. Yet, I continued looking at them, my uninjured hand clenching in anticipation, waiting for them to inevitably throw me out or hurt me.

"You…you can speak?" - croaked out a small voice, the others too stunned to speak yet.

I nodded.

"...Then why haven't you spoken so far?" - asked another.

"...wasn’t allowed to…" - I rasped out, my throat closing up in strain.

I awkwardly continued to stand there, waiting for a reaction, just anything.

"Well, why’re you just standing there, come down here you idiot." - choked out Chan. Before I could open my mouth to protest, Minho cut me off. "No, we’re not angry at you, get your ass down here or else Felix and Changbin will tackle you onto the stairs and worsen your injuries."

I just accepted my fate, making my way over towards them in my stupor. I didn't even reach them when the aforementioned feline shot up from his seat and rushed at me. I didn't fall over only because Minho warned me, so I stood there stiffly as the boy clinged to me as if his life depended on it, apologising over and over again.

My brows furrowed. What wrong did he do that he needed to be apologising for?

I quickly caught the words 'shirt' and 'breakfast', the pieces clicking together as I realised he had been blaming himself for my panic at the table.

I hovered my hand above his head, only after a moment of hesitance did I finally gently place it atop his mop of angelic hair and stroked it, mindful of his little ears.

"Not your fault." - I rasped out, but he either didn't hear or didn't believe me as he just buried his face deeper into my chest.

Sighing, I took his face in both of my hands -injury be damned- and nudged him to look at me. When he finally did, I repeated the same sentence, my tone firm and leaving no place for any argument. I wiped his tears with my thumbs, then looked towards the others as I continued speaking -or at least trying to-.

"Bad memory. Not anyo–... anyone's fault. Sorry. Broke glass and caused trouble."

My voice died halfway and I sounded like I rose from the dead, but none of them seemed to care. Changbin indeed affectionately hugged me once I was close enough, my body almost smushed into paste. I endured it, even as my form protested and skin shivered, knowing he had no bad intentions. Chan was full on crying and smiling at me, engulfing me in a bear hug once Felix let go of me for a few seconds. Minho just repeatedly called me an idiot in an endearing tone, his voice light and playful.

That evening was one I would never forget for the rest of my life, the warmth that surrounded me suffocatingly gentle and sweet.

-.-.-.-.-

The days kept going by in a similar fashion, my life gaining a rhythm I never thought I would ever have.

Everyday I would wake up in my little den -that nobody intruded upon, just like the wolf promised- to a knock on the door, one of the boys waiting there with breakfast for me. Taking it thankfully after greeting each other, I would then go to the bathroom and get ready for the day -yes i had to be shown how to wash my teeth and i absolutely disliked how it felt-. Afterwards, I would join whoever was in the big, spacious room, lounging on the sofa together. Skinship still made my hair stand on end, so I usually sat on one side, while the others were on the opposite one, huddled and cuddled up in one big pile. Then usually, around the same time I would be ushered back into my room. Not that I minded -sometimes i even left earlier, the presence of the others too much for the day-, but I had a feeling it was so I wouldn’t run into the human.

It left a strange feeling in my chest, whenever I thought about how suspiciously considerate these hybrids were towards me.

I also got used to everyone's scents by now, although my stomach sometimes still unpleasantly turned whenever they were especially strong and mixed together. The clothes they let me borrow definitely helped hasten the whole process, even though they looked comically short on my stature.

Speaking of clothes, as I was putting on a fresh shirt, I heard a ripping sound echoing through the room.

Panicking, I quickly took it off, the movement irritating my injuries further, but I didn't care about that. No, checking the precious fabric’s condition was a way bigger priority. I turned around the piece of cloth in my hands and sure enough, there was a newly formed hole in its fabric.

Putting on a different one -more carefully this time-, I made my way out of the room, my ears lowered and tail lifeless.

I was hit with deja vu as only Minho was lazily lounging on the sofa, attention partly on the TV, half asleep. Not wanting to bother him or accidentally fully wake him up, I was about to start leaving back into the hallway when Felix appeared. He greeted his feline friend and cuddled into him, purrs now loud enough for even me to hear.

Letting a small smile sneak itself onto my lips, I turned around to leave when suddenly, Felix's head popped up over the back of the couch. His left ear flicked as he was looking straight at me with a deadpan expression, motioning for me to join them. I shuffled in place, embarrassed I was caught, but went down the stairs to join them anyway.

The blonde boy greeted me quietly, the brunette conked out under him, soft snores already leaving his form. My gaze softened at the sight, ears letting up and tail swaying gently.

I took my usual place on the soft furniture, the shirt in my hand now painfully obvious. I played with it absentmindedly, just watching the TV alone as the other feline decided to take a nap as well. They had woken up not that long ago, so I couldn't really understand how they could fall asleep so fast once again. Huffing in amusement at them, I turned towards one of the downstairs hallways as I sensed the other two hybrids leave a room and approach us. Sure enough, they saw and greeted me, in return I nodded at them.

Before they could say anything, I put a finger in front of my lips, motioning towards the sleeping hybrids. Chan looked at them with such warmth as he chuckled, while Changbin just rolled his eyes playfully, muttering things about cats and their laziness.

"Oh, why do you have a shirt in your hands?" - the wolf asked after he sat down next to me, the other parts of the sofa taken by the stretched out felines.

My form turned sheepish, eyes looking at the ground. I held up the fabric for him to see, the hole painfully obvious as I muttered out a grated 'Sorry'.

"Don't be sorry baby, I honestly thought this would happen sooner. None of us have fitting clothing for you, seeing as you are ridiculously tall." He let out a small sigh, silently pondering over his next words. "I’ve waited with this for as long as I could, but it seems like we have no choice anymore, sorry. Because if we want to get you new clothes, you need a collar. To get one, you need to be officially adopted, and for that, you need a checkup. You needed one anyway, for your injuries." - he carefully whispered out, his gentle gaze searching my form for a reaction.

The blood froze into my veins.

I never wanted to be adopted again, or to have a collar on my neck. I gulped, the air suddenly thin and not enough. The room felt hot, while my body remained frigid. I was vaguely aware of the wolf in front of me, but my vision became slightly hazy and limited.

I blinked several times, forcing the memories and feelings down, not willing to cause another scene and appear weak in front of them yet again.

"-by, are you alright?"

All at once I became painfully aware of his knowing gaze and gentle hold on my uninjured hand. I merely nodded, noticing Changbin hovering nearby as well. My ears flicked towards his direction, a sign I noticed him and was fine. He eased up and sat down next to Chan, head propped up on one of the elder’s shoulders.

"I'm sorry baby, we can wait a bit more to get your injuries looked at. Forget I said anything." - he squeezed my hand once more, then let go as he instead focused on the movie that was playing.

I tried to do so as well, mind numb and slow to work.

I remained seated there for the rest of the day -besides eating and such-, aware what the others were doing at all times. Sometimes they silently watched the TV, other times they caused a ruckus. Chan checked his phone a couple of times, but I wasn't bothered about that. He did that sometimes, probably speaking with his human. The day went by and I was soon back in my room, sleeping early to just end the day faster.

I should have cared about that phone checking.

The next day started the same as my days usually did, but when I met the others, there was a strange tension in the air. They seemed a bit awkward around me, especially the wolf. I only raised an eyebrow at that, an uncomfortable feeling settling into my gut. But I thought nothing more of it.

I really should have.

Next thing I knew, the day slowly trickled by, the bad feeling only growing stronger, body fidgeting endlessly. My eyes regularly flitted around the place, searching for the source of my uncomfort.

It arrived in the form of an ear-splitting ringing. I jumped, having never heard the loud sound and remained in place. The others looked at each other with uncertainty, letting the youngest boy open the door.

Taking a deep breath, my nose picked up on an unfamiliar smell, one that did not belong to a hybrid. Before Felix reached the door I bolted, vaulting over the sofa and up the stairs, diving under the 'bed' and into my den, my safe place.

There was an unknown human in the house and I had a really bad feeling that it had something to do with me. What if it was them, finally having found me, ready to take me back to their lab? What if it was the law, coming to punish me for what I had done?

My head raced with thoughts, none better than the other.

Amidst my panic, the door opened, Chan stepping in and crouching in front of my hidden form.

"Baby, come out please. He just needs to look at your injuries and check if they’re healing properly." - he coaxed fruitlessly.

Oh so it was just a doctor. I didn't know if it was worse or better.

"Baby, please, it's just me in here. Come out."

He was right, it was indeed only him in the room at that moment, the others’ scents all outside and not in the room.

Not getting an answer, he just sat down and continued to try and lure me out with gentle murmurs, his voice on the edge of begging. Still, it took him a good while to get me out of my den, but I slowly crawled out and looked at him wearily.

Betrayal.

Betrayal was all I felt, as he grabbed me, shouting for the others to rush in and hold me down. My back was pushed onto a plush surface as it burned, my limbs held down even as they struggled to regain their freedom.

But no matter how hard I tried, their grips firmly remained on my body. A growl ripped out of my chest as my jaw was forced open, something placed inside as they firmly shut it. I didn't want to swallow down whatever it was, but he kept his hand in place, the other massaging my throat.

Tears escaped my eyes as I couldn't fight it anymore, the object sliding down with a forced gulp.

I continued thrashing, even as I felt a bit more sluggish, but nothing more.

"Fuck, he needs another one."

No!

I ripped my left hand out of its hold, something painfully moving out of place as I struggled to break free, blindly clawing at anything I could reach. My limb was soon recaptured, the hold on it only causing more pain. In the next moment my jaw was forced open once again and I relived that horrible moment from a few minutes ago.

My body felt heavy, head hazy as I laid there panting, unable to do anything anymore.

The wolf came into my vision, wiping away the tear tracks from my cheeks as he whispered something about being sorry and not having a choice. I just continued laying there, the ceiling much more interesting for my unfocused eyes as I accepted my fate.

Their familiar scents left and in came a new one, my gut already churning in place.

The new voice introduced itself, but I couldn't be bothered to remember its name. My mind was stuffy, as if it was filled with cotton. The room looked somehow funny, the patterns seemingly coming to life with each passing second. I could hear a chuckle as I marvelled at them, having never seen such things before.

Wariness was sitting at the back of my mind, forgotten there. My mood took a funny turn as well, numb and giddy mixing together to make me obedient and helpful.

And I was.

I sat up sluggishly and let the human do whatever he wanted to me as I merely watched him, like a lifeless doll on drugs. He checked various parts of my body, being extra diligent around the scars on my upper body, head and arm. Although I did make a face when he checked inside my mouth or touched my ears and tail, goosebumps uncomfortably raised on the surface of my skin.

After way too much prodding and tests, he was finally done and left, the knots in my stomach easing up.

I remained seated where I was, the floor perpetually moving and writhing beneath my feet. I watched it, highly intrigued, even as someone else came into the room.

Looking up I realised it was the wolf, my mood elated and tail wagging, happy to see him.

With a 'Channie!' I hugged him rather forcefully, rubbing my head into his. Suddenly realising what he had done not even long ago, I let go of him quickly, as if he had the plague. "Wait, no, I am supposed to be angry at you." - I muttered, arms crossed.

He just laughed, patting my shoulder. "You can come in guys, he's good, although a bit too high!" - he shouted out the open door, leading me back to where I sat not long ago.

Not even a second later Felix rushed in and I tackled him similarly to the wolf, just with a happy shout of 'Sunshine!' this time. Realising he was in on my backstabbing too, I let go of him and scrunched up my nose. "Wait, I am supposed to be angry at you too."

I stepped away from him, but then Minho and Changbin came in as well, and in a now very familiar fashion I greeted them. "Binnie, Linooo!… Wait, you guys held me down too… Ooh the floor is still moving." - I released them, looking around the floor as I heard them all laugh.

"How long do you think the meds will last? I need to know when to start recording, this is golden." - cackled the scary feline.

"The doc said a few hours, and that’s with his abnormally high tolerance." - replied the wolf as I was led to the bed by Binnie, the ground still tripping me out.

"Can we keep some of these meds? I have never seen him like this before, so… open and cuddly." "Well the doc did give us some, in case he freaks out again or anything. And no, Lix, those are for emergency use only."

The kitten pouted and I almost went to comfort him, before once again I remembered what they did. I went to cross my arms as I pouted, but the rodent hybrid gently held my injured hand that now rested in a cast.

"Don't pout, please, we did what we thought was best." - he whispered, caressing the cast with his thumb. "If you want to blame anyone, blame me. I was the one who had that ide–" The wolf was elbowed in his sides by both felines, a 'Shut up' and 'Naur' leaving their lips in disharmony.

I pursed my lips together, opting to instead hide myself in Changbin's side.

"I was just so scared. I thought it was him, or, or the others. I didn't want to go back." - my voice rasped out, cracking at a few places.

A few seconds of silence passed as one of them carded their fingers through my hair soothingly.

"Baby, who is he?"

"Dun wanna talk about it."

I just pressed more into the younger boy, my voice muffled. Taking a deep breath of the tropical scent, I threw myself over the others, face now nestled into the wolf's middle.

"Smells good. Safe."

"Maybe we can use these meds out of emergency too sometimes."

-.-

I woke up to a full bed, the thought dancing around my mind before fully registering. I tensed up under all the bodies, my heart rate accelerating fast. Not wanting to wake them up, I scooted away as much as I could, my body ridden with goosebumps, reminded of the past.

Some of them stirred but remained asleep as I just sat there, trying to recollect what had happened that could result in this.

I, sadly, came up a bit blank.

Instead of wrecking my already hurting head even more, I watched the others sleep, their features peaceful and at ease. A smile slipped onto my lips.

I knew it for a while now, that they sneaked their way into my heart, I just kept denying it. My heart was just not ready to trust again, and it probably never would be.

But I was willing to try, for their sake.

I had no clue how long I had been sitting there, but gradually all of them woke up, greeting me and each other. I nodded back, the question I had been itching to get an answer to sitting on the tip of my tongue.

"What happened yesterday?"

They froze up, glancing at each other, until Minho slipped his phone out with a suspiciously wide grin on his face. He tapped some things and a video started playing.

A video of me, cuddling into every single one of them with a satisfied smile on my face.

I blanched, wide eyes not believing what they were seeing. I nearly choked on my spit when I heard their nicknames leaving my lips. Nicknames I thought I never said out loud.

"Yeah, you were extreeemely high from the meds." - laughed Chan, rubbing his nape at the memory. "Yup, called Lix's freckles stars too and asked Binnie if he could lift you up, since he has so much muscle."

My cheeks warmed up immediately, ears lowered in embarrassment. I took my tail into my uninjured hand, pushing my face into it to hide as they all just laughed at my expense.

I couldn't face them anymore. Never again, actually.

-.-.-.-

The following days I hid in my room, memories of that day now fully intact as they trickled back to me. I was hurt over being fooled and forced into a medical checkup, especially because they knew how I would react to it. So their solution was to lie to me and force medication down my throat… But to their credit, none of them came into the room uninvited still, only knocking to give me food, which I quickly took and shut the door into their faces.

I was torn.

On one hand, I had finally admitted that yes, they had wormed their way into my heart. On the other hand, the trust that had been so carefully crafted now crumbled down in front of my very eyes.

It was painful.

Instead I just let my eyelids flutter closed as I laid curled up in my den, tears easily racing down their already carved out paths.

I was so tired.

-.-.-.-

I was startled awake by quiet knocking on my door, the sound ear-piercing in the deadly silence. It must have been night, my tired mind supplied amidst its haze.

I blinked a couple of times, the weight of my body settling into my soul, easily convincing me to not move a finger.

But the knocking disagreed as it rang through my echoing room once more.

Taking a deep breath to will myself to move, I immediately recognised the sugary sweet scent wafting through the air, dragging a sigh from my body.

Crawling out of my hiding place, I held my head as it throbbed, sight swimming and throat parched. The thought of accepting the food I refused hours earlier didn’t sound too bad at that moment, but I instead shook my head gently and shut my eyes closed forcefully. My vision soon returned fully afterwards, so I slowly padded towards the door and opened it just enough for our eyes to meet.

Those usually glinting, bright nebulas were now dim, sitting atop dark and raw skin. The sight broke a part of me, but I showed no sign of it, no, I couldn’t, I refused to. Instead I just hummed with a questioning tone, wanting to hear the goal of his visit from his mouth directly.

"Hyung… Do you… Could we talk? Please?" - his voice cracked, eyes glistening and pleading.

I couldn't say no to that, so I opened the door just enough for him to slip in, closing it quietly after confirming no one else was nearby.

He awkwardly stood in the middle of the room, so I just motioned towards the 'bed' for him with a jerk of my head. Getting the hint, he carefully sat down at the edge of it, his lax tail laying close to his body in distress.

I remained standing in front of him, a fair distance between his timid form and my angry one, hands awkwardly crossed in front of my chest -this cast thing was getting on my nerves-. My question was clear to him, no words needed to convey it.

"We… You have to know we did it for your own good, Hyung. I…I'm really sorry, I'm not saying what we did was right, but you needed medical attention! Your- you didn't see your injuries, when the glass cut into your burgundy fur, I… I was so scared. You were bleeding a lot and, and… I just didn't want to lose you. None of us wanted to…"

The once bright boy in front of me was broken, tears cascading down his freckled cheeks, just like on that day. It felt like I cast a spell, a curse, hiding away the blinding star behind a curtain of weeping clouds.

It felt horrible.

I felt horrible.

Sighing quietly, I uncrossed my arms.

"I'll… I'll need some time to, to think this through." - my voice rasped out, the air grating against my vocal chords painfully.

The boy nodded, wiping his tears with his long sleeves, his feet carrying him out, through the doorway.

I just stood there, feeling empty even as the door closed and the quiet sniffing disappeared down the hallway.

"...For my sake, huh?"

-.-.-.-

It took me 3 days to scrape my feelings and thoughts together into a partly comprehensive ball. I still couldn't fully understand the situation, and in no way did I forgive them. But I also realised that I didn't have the full picture.

That was what brought me to the current situation, agitated form standing in front of the others' shocked ones.

"I'm still angry, but need explanation."

They just gaped at me for a few seconds, then looked at each other, as if silently communicating.

A deep sigh left the wolf as he rubbed his nape, gaze firmly planted into the ground by his feet.

"I was the one who called the shots, so if you still wanna be angry at someone by the end of this, let that only be me. The others don't deserve this."

Someone else wanted to interject, but his sharp glare was all it took to quickly shoot them down.

"While yes, you did need the check-up if you wanted to remain here, which is something we all wanted before you think anything else, your recent injuries were urgent. We did have our theories after you didn't really look to be in pain, but they were confirmed after the visit. You have a dangerously high tolerance for drugs and pain, so you must not’ve noticed the extent of your injuries, but please, believe us when we say they were severe. You became almost blind to your left eye, for the sake of-! Sigh But this still doesn't justify what we-, I did. I apologise, from the bottom of my heart."

I could only stare at his bowing form, the others following in suit. Something tightly constricted in my chest, something that started at the beginning of his speech. What it was, I had no clue.

A shaky breath left my form, my fists clenched and gaze dropping.

"It hurt."

The silence was deafening.

"I thought… I thought I could start to trust you. That I- was safe here… Why? It hurt so much." - as if the constricting band snapped in half, my chest became lighter and I just stood there as tears slowly cascaded down my face, hands uselessly hovering mid-air.

Nobody came near me, my body both happy and sad about it, a part of me already used to their warmth and comforting touches. It tore a violent sob out of my chest.

I was so tired of all this.

Of not being normal, not being able to enjoy someone's presence or touches. I wanted to be normal again! Not this, this freak!

"Oh baby… You're not a freak."

My sobs froze into my chest as I looked up through my tears, not even realising I spoke out loud.

"Yes, you’re not like the others, but only because you’re hurt. And hurt can be healed and fixed, even if it takes a long time. Maybe not fully, sure, but you can become better with time and care."

The voice of the wolf was soothing, like cold water on a hot summer day.

"But we can only help you if you let us."

The gaze of the little herbivore was equally warm.

"Please, Bae Hyung, let us help you."

The young feline's voice was broken, but it held so much strength it shook my soul.

And while the last member only nodded along and spoke nothing, his body posture and gaze sang poems, all with the same goal.

It was as if something I had been hauling around for long years got lighter, the weight not impossible to bear anymore. I could clearly hear my walls crumble, the ones I had put up after that day for my own protection. Fresh tears sprang into my eyes, lips trembling.

"Promise? N-no more?"

Even though my broken question couldn't have been any more vague, they all firmly responded, swearing to not let such a thing happen again.

And while yes, I did not forgive them at that moment, I knew it would only take time.

-.-.-

And time it took.

While I did leave my room occasionally, it only happened every few days and for a short time. My body involuntarily shuddered from their close proximity, afraid they would hold me down again and--

I shook my head, the thought bristling my skin, making my hair stand on end.

No, I refused to think about that. Instead, I focused on the scent of the sunlit forest, filled with tropical fruit. A meadow hidden between the tall giants, filled to the brim with mellow flowers, their sweet nectar luring all kinds of beings closer.

Taking a deep breath, the scent filled my lungs and lingered there, as if my organ clinged to it desperately.

A cheerful greeting broke me out of my trance, the source busy in the kitchen turning the place upside down amidst its mission to find snacks.

I didn't even notice I was walking down the hallway, let alone down the stairs, following the strengthening scent of a sweltering, bountiful forest.

Blinking, I nodded back at him, my eyes following his shorter form. Reaching up for a cabinet, his muscles tensed and yet, a pout sat on his lips as he just couldn't quite reach the prize he sought after so desperately.

Calmly striding over, I took the crinkly bag from the upper shelf, the packet having been safely tucked into the corner. After inspecting the bag for a brief second -they were some kind of chips-, I turned around and placed it into his hands, his form strangely frozen and big doe eyes innocently blinking up at me.

But before my head could tilt in confusion, he beamed up at me gratefully, bounding over to the sofa, beckoning me to follow after having fallen into its soft cushions.

A fond sigh left my nose, but I complied to his wishes nonetheless. Soon enough, our separate forms were watching some kind of romance story again -that was all we ever watched-, his arm that held the bag frequently stretched out towards me. A silent offering of food, one I gratefully accepted.

Changbin felt like fire. His presence hot, attention demanding, yet it was always tamed around me. He was a bundle of untamed flames whenever they thought I wasn't around, and still, the inferno was pleasantly warm and grounding. Safe. Like a lit bonfire on a cold winter night.

And I was but a cold, starved animal, undeniably drawn in by its light, yet also afraid of being burnt. Thus, I could only watch from afar, basking in the small wisps of fire that reached my form as the others huddled around it, hungrily devouring its unending heat.

And maybe, maybe I would be able to get closer one day too.

-.-.-

Quietly slinking down the stairs, I looked towards the kitchen where Minho resided, his back turned towards me as he was busy making food.

I purposefully stepped towards the side so he could catch my form in the corner of his eye, not wanting to startle him. My plan worked as he glanced at me while muttering out a short greeting, eyes quickly focusing back on the pot sizzling under the heat.

Taking a deeper breath, its aroma filled my nose, pleasantly tickling my mind and hungry stomach.

As if led by the scent, I walked closer, curious form now dangerously close to his cooking one. I could easily see over his shoulders, my eyes drinking in every move he made, hands gracefully working the pan and the food residing in it.

It was quite mesmerising.

Throughout it all, he never once ushered me away or uttered a word.

Minho felt like the tall grass in an unending meadow. Always there, calmly swaying in the gentle breeze. He didn't speak a lot compared to the others, instead he let his actions do the talking. His occasional words were sometimes harsh, sure, but his actions were always gentle. He was a pillar you could lean on, should you need it.

It was reassuring.

Minho was reassuring.

-.-.-

The wolf was weird. Weird in the way that he tried to hide things, certain feelings behind smiles. His broad shoulders always tense in a way, as if carrying the weight of the world.

But I could smell it, his pain and exhaustion oozing into his scent, the forest ageing and weeping in return. It unpleasantly twisted my nose, causing my brows to furrow as well.

There were times where he only smelled like sunshine, the trees blooming in happiness as a gentle breeze ruffled their canopy. His face reflected his mood, lips breaking out in a face-splitting smile, dimples on show and gaze glinting.

But at other times his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, the dark orbs seemingly drowning. In what, I did not know.

Compared to Chan's safe, yet chipped presence, the little snow leopard was the exact opposite. The boy wore his heart on his sleeves, his mood usually bright.

Felix was like the burning sun, a star so bright it felt painful to get closer. His presence alone eased the atmosphere, his affectionate touches and hugs making everyone melt in his arms.

When he was sad, he didn't hide it and instead sought comfort from someone. But just like how clouds never stayed in front of the sun to obstruct it forever, he always bounced back into his cheery self.

Felix was my sunshine, the light in the unending darkness. Chan was my guiding path, leading me away from my past.

I could only fondly gaze at their focused faces as we sat in front of the TV, the artificial light creating shadows on their faces, highlighting every imperfection. Yet I found all of them perfect, my arms folded on the back of the sofa, head laying on top of it to observe them better.

I wanted to carve that moment, them into my memory, into my heart. Desperately wanting my soul to remember every single one of them and their features.

That was when I had suddenly realised, my anger towards them had vanished, just like the cold, white veil over the world.

-.-.-.-

Waking up under the bed in my den early in the day was nothing out of the ordinary. The empty feeling in my gut was, however. I furrowed my brows together, lips setting into a line.

What was this feeling?

It ate away at my very being, as if it was missing something. But I had everything I had gotten over the past months, except maybe a few snacks that had gone missing.

Blindly searching around, I grasped at the 'blanket' and brought it to my chest, hugging it tightly. The motion did little to fill the gaping hole in my chest.

Looking back at it, the feeling was familiar and not at all new. It just wasn't this bad before, or if it was, I did not notice it.

Huffing in frustration, I crawled out and begrudgingly got ready to start the day, even though it clearly wasn't ready to do so itself. The sun wasn't even up, its rays barely peeking over the horizon. I shielded my eyes from it and instead went out of the room quietly.

The house was silent, bathed in dancing shadows. A quick inhale told me all I needed to know, the scent of the human still strongly lingering in the air, meaning they were still in the house. Already knowing they lived on the same floor as me, I quickly made my way down the stairs, steps muted and calculated. I had learned which parts of the wood creaked a long time ago, the motion now automatic for my body.

Not wanting to meet the human by staying at the sofa, I turned towards the hallways hidden by the stairs.

My body automatically led me to a door and stopped in front of it.

Gaze sweeping over the floor, I hesitated. They were probably still sleeping. I didn't want to be a bother, especially since I didn't even know what to say to them. Something along the lines of 'Hey, sorry, I just feel empty and weird inside, can you help?' maybe? Not a chance, nope.

"Hyung?"

My body startled, head whipping towards the side to meet Changbin and his curious gaze on my form, cute, little, round ears twitching in curiosity. I lowered my own ears, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.

Instead of the familiar question of 'Is everything alright?', he just walked towards me -oh he had lighter clothes on, he was probably on his way to train- and knocked on the door.

Right in front of my frozen face.

Before I could even voice my worry and confusion, he left my panicked form with two hefty pats on my shoulder and a wink. I stepped towards him, mouth open, arms ready to grasp at him–

"Hyung?"

Ah shit.

I immediately closed my mouth, arms falling limply back to my sides as I didn't know how to face the younger. I rubbed at my nape nervously -a habit i had picked up from the wolf accidentally-, looking at the ground. The sweet scent in the air calmed me slightly, just enough to stop me from bolting away in embarrassment.

"What are you doing up so early?" - Felix asked as he rubbed at one of his eyes, voice hoarse and filled with slumber.

"...couldn't sleep."

A soft 'oh' left his mouth, the soft rustling of socks against wood filling the air.

Turning around I saw he had stepped aside, silently inviting me into his room. I felt the other hybrid sooner than I saw him, Chan's form laying on the bed peacefully, still deeply asleep.

I quietly stepped in, the door closing with a soft click behind me. My eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness as I blinked several times, the shuffling form of the young boy soon clear in the room.

He went back to bed and looked at me, a silent question sitting in his gaze. I shook my head, opting to instead sit in his squishy chair that sat on the ground in a corner.

No other word was uttered, but the silence was comfortable. Like a soft fabric of comfort as it lulled us back to sleep -oh, just like a blanket, i get it now-.

I stared at the dark ceiling for a while, the soft snores of the others filling my ears. Soon enough my eyelids felt heavy, consciousness drifting away into the land of dreams and peace. The empty feeling settled down a bit, its presence now only at the back of my mind.

-.-

Soft murmurs woke me up, the room feeling warm and comforting. The scent of a pine forest mixed with sugar wafted in the air; it curled around me like a comforting presence, bringing a small smile to my lips.

The murmurs stopped and I stretched out, head popping up from the squishy chair to look at the two males on the bed.

Chan had a phone in his lowering hand with a smile plastered onto his face, while Felix just giggled, waving at me.

"Good morning baby. How was your sleep?" - the wolf's pleasant voice asked, deeper than usual as sleep still clung to it slightly.

I only nodded back, hand still rubbing the sleep from my eyes with little success.

"I still can't believe how you can just fit on that bean bag like that. And you even looked like you had the best sleep in the whole house!" - laughed out Felix as my cheeks felt a tad bit hotter at his comment. "I think it's cute, but do come sit with us, it's comfier up here." - Chan cooed, hand patting the blanket near him.

My lips pursed, ears tilting slightly behind, but I complied and sat at the end of the bed, gaze not meeting their forms as my cheeks still felt warm.

"How’s your arm, baby?"

I looked at the limb in question, the cast weighing it down. My lips turned down at the mere thought of it. I found the thing incredibly annoying and frustrating. I couldn't do things freely as it sat heavily there and I couldn't even enjoy baths anymore like how I used to -fully submerged in water-. This stupid thing was driving me nuts.

"Irritating. When can it be free?" - my husky voice answered, slightly better sounding from the little talking I had done lately.

"Ah, the doc did say it should be checked on again soon." "Yep, today to be exact."

My eyes widened as I whipped my head towards Chan, form tensing. Before I could do anything more, he held up his hands and explained in panic.

"No, no, don't worry, it will be different. He will only come in a few hours and you can choose to take some calming medicine or not. The choice is up to you entirely. The doc only needs to check how you are healing and if everything's good, he might even be able to take your cast off."

Looking into their eyes, I could only see sincerity. My form relaxed a bit, mind running around with choices.

I really didn't want to meet a human, but the chance to get this thing off was too great to ignore.

Fuck.

Sighing, I slowly nodded.

Their expressions eased up at that, the little leopard hovering his hand above mine. I didn't move away, the void in my chest happy as the feline gently grasped onto my limb.

The atmosphere settled back into its previous serene self, the two hybrids chatting calmly with each other. I had to give credit to them, they tried their best to get me involved as well so I gave them short answers, my hurting throat letting me do only so much.

As I watched them animatedly speak I caught a whiff of a savoury scent in the air, my stomach gently gurgling in response. The two chuckled at that, but I cared not as I stood up and waited for them by the door.

"Yes yes, we’re coming." - said the wolf, his tone light and teasing.

The leopard bundled up next to me energetically, his spotted tail playfully curling around in place as we waited for the older canine.

Finally gathered together, I opened the door and hastily walked into the big room from the hallway, Minho's back facing us.

The others greeted each other loudly and sat at the table to chat, all the while I made my way to the cooking cat, hovering behind his busy form like usual.

I could hear the others whisper about us, about me, things like 'He looks so cute, like a lost puppy following its parent.', but it didn't bother me at the moment. I was too busy watching Minho work his magic, the air smelling delicious.

His hands worked precisely with the knife, ingredients cut perfectly into the shapes he desired. The pans and pots were filled up and moved over the fire, then quickly pulled off once their contents were ready and done. He danced around the kitchen with scary efficiency, hands knowing exactly where to reach for certain ingredients or equipment.

Being done, he plated the food and asked me to help bring them over to the table, so I did. I must have been too absorbed in watching the chestnut-haired feline work, because Changbin was already back at the table in a fresh set of clothes, the air around him smelling clean with a hint of menthol. I quickly greeted him with an apology as well, but he just shrugged it aside calmly, saying it was fine.

Leaving it at that, I put the plates down and sat in my place, the colourful presence of the medicines not escaping my gaze. They sat there beside my glass of water clearly, forms not hidden at all.

I really did have the choice.

My working hand clenched around itself, my jaw firm. While the medicine did remind me of the past, it also did not. The ones they used were plain, usually white or worse, in the form of an injection. These ones were yellow and red, colours blaringly loud and playful in a way.

Turning my gaze towards the warm food, I forced my body to relax a bit, wanting to focus on eating as I rethought my choices and decision.

My ears turned towards whoever was speaking -more like shouting and bickering- as I ate , a silent participant of the conversation. I was much more comfortable just seeing them fool around, stealing each other's food -never mine though, how strange- and laughing around like fools.

Happy fools.

The chopsticks gently clanked against the plate as I finished eating. My hands played with the pills before quickly popping them into my mouth, forcing them down with some water.

The effect wasn't immediate at all, no, that was instead the silence as the others stared at me. I just raised an eyebrow at that, not understanding, since they were the ones who put them there.

"Ooh, this will be interesting." - Minho said with a smirk crawling onto his lips, hand already equipping his phone. "No!" - I shouted, reaching over but missing as he moved the object away way too quickly.

I quickly stood up to reach his hand better, but the walls were already moving and my balance was shifting rapidly. I held my head, groaning, the eye I didn't cover up shifting as the world around me moved and writhed.

I quickly sat back down, a curse leaving my lips as I just laid my forehead on the table, covering my head up with my arms.

"Hyung, you're fine. Don't hide." - sang the deep voice of Felix. I merely tightened my hold, not trusting what came out of my mouth as my head started filling up with cotton, judgement already starting to leave my form.

"Felix, you know well enough that's a lie." - snickered Minho at my expense. "Yes, but come on mate! Don't be such a meanie!" "Oh I’m not. I would be, if I put these videos up onto the internet. Now that I say it, that’s a good idea." "Guys, calm down. Nobody puts anything anywhere. Sigh I worded that wrong…"

Amidst the chaos, I looked up and searched for the only quiet person, asking him for help with the last of my coherent thoughts. "Don't look at me, I quite enjoyed how you praised my biceps last time." That was his only answer with a big grin, cheeks splitting apart from the bright smile that sat upon his face. What a menace.

I let my head fall back against the table, the cutlery clanking loudly against each other and partly masking the groan that left my lips. The pressure it brought to my skull did little to help with the ache and numbness.

There it was, the fog over my brain, the disgustingly good mood taking control over the place against my wishes.

I looked up from the table, chin propped up on it as my eyes followed the swirling patterns in the room, various shapes drawing out in them with every passing second. Someone ruffled my hair, the action earning a delighted sound from my throat, tail swaying happily behind me.

Looking around after taking a deep breath that drew a small smile on my face, I saw the others standing up and leaving towards the sofa. Not wanting to be left out, I followed them, falling onto Binnie who laid on the plush surface. He laughed and wiggled around until he found a comfortable enough position with me laying on top of his much smaller form.

Our legs were picked up and placed onto Minho's lap, while Chan and Felix sat on his other side, all snuggled up. I could feel a tickling sensation on my foot, causing me to wiggle around and whine. The perpetrator -Chan, of course it was him- only giggled, not leaving my poor feet alone for a good minute or so. Felix joined in at some point, that little weasel.

After having recovered from the impromptu tickle session, I relaxed back into a comfortable position -to my defence, Binnie was surprisingly comfortable-. My tail laxly laid on the chocolate-coated feline's knees, twitching as he put a hand on the back of my knee. I thought nothing of it and buried my head into Binnie's chest, the position dangerously pleasant.

Lino's hand kept moving upwards throughout the movie, now resting on my thigh. I flicked up my tail in warning, his hand stopping in place.

A blaring sound rang throughout the house, one I was vaguely familiar with.

Sniffing the air, I picked up a human's scent and my fogged up mind reminded me that the doctor had arrived at last. I completely forgot about it in the euphoria of the moment.

Feeling the hybrid shifting around under me, I tightened my hold, not wanting to get up just yet. Or at all, really.

"Bae hyung, you have to get up. The doctor's here." "Well he can check me over like this."

Laughter filled the place as Binnie sputtered, but settled back down nonetheless. Pink dusted his cheeks, round little ears lowered in embarrassment and I couldn’t help myself, I just had to reach up and pet one of them. Just for a little bit.

Sure enough, the doctor didn't put up a fight when he saw my hold on the buff male. He checked as much as he could of my injuries, my shirt pushed up to my neck as he prodded around on my back. I only felt numb pulling sometimes, something cool spreading around my skin, the air not hitting it anymore as something was placed on top of it at several places.

But then the human asked me to sit up and my serene mood was broken, Binnie's hand stopping from painting soft circles into my arm. I simply turned my head away, not willing to change positions.

"Baby, come here."

At that soothing voice I looked up, seeing Channie pat the place next to him on the sofa. I sat up after a few seconds, sitting where he wanted me to and leaning into him.

The doctor followed my form and first looked at my head. It was uncomfortable to have him so near me, to have him push my hair away slightly. Doing something similar to what he did to my back, he then asked me to open my mouth. I furrowed my brows, but complied anyway.

If him prodding around my head was uncomfortable, this was straight up hell. He looked down my throat and even touched around my neck, checking my reactions. The only reason I stayed put with a frown was because of Channie and Felix with their small, encouraging gestures.

"Keep up what you've been doing so far, his throat is looking a bit better. Given time, it can completely recover." - the human said, earning a few 'Okay's from the others.

Then the human took my heavy arm in his hands, asking questions like 'Does it hurt?' or 'Is it uncomfortable?'. I shook my head in answer, the thing on it only annoying and binding.

In the next second the wolf led my head into his neck, careful fingers carding through my hair, as my sight was obstructed now. The notion was sudden, but I relished in it nonetheless.

A weird sound filled the air as I felt things shift around my arm, but I was too comfortable to move or care. His scent filled my being and I could feel my form running around in the moss covered trees, dirt kicking up beneath my paws. It felt freeing, as if I had nothing to worry about.

"There, his arm is completely healed and as good as new. But to be safe, make sure he doesn't use it as much for the next week." "Thank you doctor, we will make sure to do so." - his voice hummed through his throat pleasantly in response. "Don't be so uptight boys, I don't bite. You can be casual around me if you want to, you already know that." - the human joked around, some of the others joining in.

"Ah, but we do need to do what we talked about last time. Could you…?"

The human trailed off and so did the soothing motion from the wolf. I lifted my head up from his shoulder, confusedly looking at him with my swimming vision.

"Ah, don't worry baby, everything is fine. Why don't you sit in my lap, that way you don't have to twist your torso around so uncomfortably."

He did have a point, so my fogged up, elated mind happily agreed and did as he asked. I crawled into his awaiting embrace, body sideways, one leg propped up and squished between our bodies. My back hunched and bent so I could rest my head near his neck once again, but even with all of that, it was comfortable.

Safe.

One of his hands held my back firmly, the other resuming the soothing motion on my head. I was vaguely aware of my tail happily wagging around, the others settling down around us as well.

I buried my head deeper into his neck, their scents dancing around in my nose and enhancing my drugged up state.

I felt one of my sleeves shift, a prickling sensation on my skin. Something poked around in my mind, telling me it was awfully familiar, but I didn't know why, the fog too obstructing. Nonetheless, I wanted to check it out but as my head shifted, so did Channie's hold on me.

It tightened slightly, desperately, the forest now damp and in disarray.

I didn't like that at all, so I laid back down as I ignored the second sting on my arm, the forest’s scent settling down slowly.

It took around 6 stings and for my tail to stop swaying for the doctor to finish.

"Alright boys, I will come back in a month to finish this up and check if his back and head is still healing fine. So far he’s healing up incredibly fast and nothing seems wrong, so don't worry. If something comes up, you know how to reach me."

They all thanked him and exchanged goodbyes, everyone escorting the human away except Channie, as I was still laying in his hold calmly.

My body felt a bit sluggish, consciousness trying to dip away as I had to jank it back forcefully, not wishing to sleep just yet. Although my cosy position was not helping with that sudden exhaustion either, the safe feeling almost lulling me to sleep in itself.

"Is he asleep?" "Naur, but soon enough. The medicines must’ve really tired him out." "He seemed tired already this morning, he really needs this rest." "Ah, is that why you knocked on our door for him this morning, Binnie?" "Yeah, caught him standing there for like 3 minutes straight, staring at your door. He looked like a small kid that had a nightmare." "Wait, you guys had a sleepover and I was not invited?" "Oh come on Minho, don't do this now. Besides, you dislike them and always complain about being kicked or having your blanket stolen." "Because it's true! How would you like to wake up cold, kicked to the ground, hm?" "Oh you fucki–" "Hey, language!" "Watch your profanity!" "Oh you got the swear police on your ass now, Lixie~" "I swear to god, Minho, I will get you back for this!"

Their arguing mixed with Channie's reverberating chest pushed me over the edge, my mind plunging into darkness at last.

-.-.-

The next few days ran by as I refused to acknowledge what had happened or what I could have done while drugged out of my mind. I did notice my hand was free at least, so maybe it was all worth it. Although everyone kept a closer eye on me, not letting me use my freed up hand much. Or at all, really.

It was stifling.

But it was also weird. Foreign. I was alone for so long, I had forgotten what it felt like to have people beside you. People who cared about you. So as frustrating as it was, I only sighed deeply and followed their wishes.

Besides, the wolf was the one who had been watching me the closest, and I did not want to anger him. The thought alone made me break out in cold sweat.

A bundle of joy broke me out of my thoughts, the little leopard stopping directly in front of me.

"Hyung, do you want to play this new game I got? Everyone else declined, only giving me lame excuses."

Awh, he pouted.

I simply nodded with a small smile, letting his overjoyed self lead me out by my 'good' hand.

"Lix, he can't really use his hand, mate!" - Chan shouted from the kitchen. "No worries, it's a wii game, it can be played with only one hand!" - shouted back the blonde, my ears hurting from the loud voice. "Ah, sorry, I forgot." - he immediately whispered to me, guilt taking over his features.

I simply shook my head, grating out an 'It's fine.' in the process.

Soon enough I found myself in his room -he always shared it with someone, but so did the others, i noticed, as they often slept in a big pile of limbs all together-, instructed to sit on his bed while he got this 'game' thing set up. I had no clue what it was, but he looked so happy about it I just couldn't say no to him.

He plopped down next to me, a thing similar to the remote sat in his hands, eyes facing towards the TV in his room. Looking at it, the colours stopped shifting and some music started playing.

Lixie turned towards me, the smile on his face seemingly endless as he started pointing out the different parts of this remote. What 'button' did what and so on. I nodded along, trying my best to remember the onslaught of information.

Then, he pressed START and the 'game' began.

-.-

"Nooooooo, how’s this possible?? You just learned what a video game is 3 hours ago and you already beat me 11 times in a row! Hyung, you're cheating!" - the boy pouted, absolutely losing his mind over the situation. "... Sorry?" "That just makes it even worse, you didn't even do it on purpose! Aaagh, damn it!"

The cute leopard held his hair in frustration, angry little noises leaving his smaller form. His spotted tail was lashing out, but still playful to indicate his hidden mood.

He was adorable, I wanted to hug him.

My form froze, muscles tense.

What did I just think about?

Looking back at the young boy's form, the same urge bubbled up now tenfold.

I gulped.

It would be fine.

He was not them, nor him.

He was just Lixie, my sunshine and comforting light.

Yes, it would be fine. I… would be fine.

My shaking hands slowly rose, snaking their way towards the boy sitting slightly in front of me. They grabbed onto his thin -way too thin- waist and slowly dragged him into my chest, arms locking him in place gently. His sputtering and shouting died midway, form utterly tense and frozen.

Maybe he didn't like it.

I panicked, arms quickly unwinding, but before I could fully detach myself, he laid back into me with all his weight, quiet little purrs reverberating in his chest. His tail coiled around one of my legs, a silent disagreement against my doubts.

It was fine.

I was fine.

So, I carefully tightened my hold on him with slightly shaking arms, one of them finding its way into his golden locks, numbly playing with them as a distraction. God, they were incredibly smooth and silky, my fingers sailing through them easily. The purrs only strengthened, the notion calming and reassuring, filling up the void residing in my chest rapidly at last.

We just laid there even as the feline's breathing slowed, soft snores breaking his neverending purring. Even as my eyelids felt heavy and my body laid against the upper part of the bed, I fought fruitlessly against sleep.

I wanted to enjoy the moment just a bit longer.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅•∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

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sugoiney-weaver · 7 months ago

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I think the cool thing about the Helldivers 2 fandom is that a lot of people who don't usually RP (myself included) are engaging with the game and the community by RPing. I see it a lot in Reddit comments, and I do it myself (I haven't played in 2 weeks while travelling IRL. I tell people I'm on shore leave)

It has created a pretty cool community that takes glitches, outages, misbalances, leaks, spoilers etc in good stride. There's a fun back and forth when we aren't taking these things seriously.

We come up with in-world explanations for in-game weirdness like the Schizophrenia Bug (PTSD). We see references to, or appearances of, things that maybe aren't supposed to be in the game yet, and we take it to the forums and get dismissed and told we've been on the frontline too long. If you start to wax philosophic about "we're the real bad guys" you're liable to get kicked from the squad for treason, but everyone's laughing about it.

But I think that we're triggering Poe's Law. It's impossible to tell who is just kidding about all the "Freedom Freedom Freedom OY!" and who is actually a fascist that feels accepted, emboldened, and encouraged by this painfully obvious satire.

And this is why Arrowhead needs to add pride flag and antifa capes (or other cosmetics). Before they add national flags we gotta make sure these fascist dweebs know that they're playing with a bunch of... Uh...

Aight I don't think I'm allowed to finish that sentence so I'll allow you to add your favorite reclaimed slur

#helldivers 2 #arrowhead games

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eccentrcks · 4 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

I’m pretty sure someone tagged me before @sergeiravenov, but I count find them in my notifications. 😭 anyways, thank you so much for the tag and I’ll do three pieces of my girls.

Gone Through Time

Marlene can still smell the stench of death through her nightmares and hallucinations. A rather familiarized smell, but that was something she hated. Especially if it involved him. I’m sorry, Anthony… she wanted to hold him close to her and apologize profusely for being the cause of his death.

“It wasn’t your fault.” His hallucination form would try to console her. It didn’t do much, in fact, seeing him this way just made it worse. Covered and blood with a metal shard shoved into his sternum. His bashed head caused from the impact of falling just made her go through a bad spiral as her PTSD was triggered badly.

She gagged so much after sobbing hard while yanking on her own hair. Even thrown back about five decades in the last, his ghost still follows her.

Her moments of pure vulnerability mostly happened in private. Completely overwhelmed after holding all of this pain in after repressing all of that grief and all.

Dane was right. Her eyes showed more grief and pain more than her face, she needed to keep this under control so no one can detect her true identity at the CIA. She didn’t had her antidepressants on her, not that they’ll do any help, yet the man insists she gets it together.

“Don’t let Adler catch onto you. He’s already suspicious enough. Just say the word and I’ll get one of our own to deter him off your tail.” He insists.

Marlene shook her head in refusal. “I can handle that asshole by myself, just… just let me do this. I’m sorry, it’s just a panic attack. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” She’s Mylene to them, not Marlene, they only see a typical linguist among them. Not the real her.

Dane bit his inside cheek and gave her a look when she said that. Something tells him that she’s telling that to herself instead of him.

The Collapses of Three Facades

Teresa felt numb when finding out that she was pregnant. She was already responsible for three lives who are so precious that were given to her by someone who genuinely trusted her. A part of her wasn’t sure who exactly the father is, but some part of her says she already knows.

Does it really matter at this point? They were nothing more than friends with benefits and both made sure that it was nothing more. Although Teresa was painfully aware that he wanted a big family of his own someday with someone whom he trusts and actually loves.

And she’s positive that it wasn’t her.

There was no room to get pregnant on this job. She was far from done and this revelation is nothing more than an obstacle. No one would approve of this, neither her mother, or them, and if they were to find out about her little escapees. He would be dead.

So no, Teresa knows this is way too risky for the two of them. Her soft brown eyes glanced at the box of morning after pills and gulped. Surely it won’t hurt that bad, won’t it? She can handle some bad cramps, but not the emotional impact of killing her own unborn baby.

Distortion and Clarity

Jane lost feeling to her fingers and continued scurrying away while cradling her left injured hand. Breathing heavily as she continuously looked over her shoulder.

Not sure if she can wear anymore rings after this.

Everything doesn’t feel right and it was suffocating her. She can feel herself twitching and almost hyperventilating. Everything was loud again. Michael wasn’t here to comfort her this time, no, she needs him, he always knew what to do compared to everyone else.

It wasn’t long before she slipped and fallen into a puddle of blood in the dark hallway…the texture was thick, that she almost gagged, and the clumps certainly didn’t helped her sensitive sensory, then she realizes there was more than just blood.

Jane was completely shaking when she lifted her bloodied hand to see hair tangled with her fingers and the sight was enough for her to actually vomit this time.

Tagging: @efingart, @revnah1406, @alypink, @adlerboi, @welldonekhushi, @walder-138, @alexxmason, @ravsbloodbunny, @starcrossedspirit, @rosebarry16, @kaitaiga, @sleepyconfusedpotato, and you 🫵 (the tag list is small because it won’t let be tag others for some reason-)

#wip wednesday #tag game #more like wip friday-#oc: marlene monroe #oc: teresa shaw #oc: jane silva #warning: it’s a bit unedited-

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anika-ann · 2 years ago

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Love on the Brain - part 9

Ch9: With Friends like These

Type: MCU x Criminal Minds crossover series

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 6400

Summary: After the successful rescue mission, you must deal with the aftermath – and with some unresolved matters. But you’re not alone and that’s the best and most important part.

Series masterlist

Warnings: series includes criminal behaviour such as stalking or kidnapping; graphic violence, gun violence; (mentions of) death; allusions to dub-con; possible PTSD and flashbacks; sexual innuendos and foul language. Loads of fluff and teasing.

I’m covering my bases here to make sure - probably sounds worse than it is. If you’re interested in specific warnings for individual chapters, let me know.

A/N: divider by @firefly-graphics

"Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart." — Eleanor Roosevelt

You startled awake with a gasp, hand flying up instinctively to your forehead; to your perfectly unharmed skull.

No blood. No holes.

Just a terrible dream; the image of a gun faded as you stared at the creamy walls of the hospital room with eyes wide open, a soft voice reaching your ears.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

Your head snapped to side so quick you felt dizzy, steadied by a gentle touch on your arm. Achingly familiar pair of blue eyes watched you with concern and reassurance.

Steven Grant Rogers. Perfectly unharmed as well. Just sitting by your bedside like a dutiful guard, hand grounding you with its touch instead of holding a weapon to your head and aiming straight between your eyes.

Fuck, human mind was the scariest, craziest and most confusing place on Earth.

Sighing in relief, you ran your hands down your face, wincing at the pull at your arm, the splint on your left hand rough against your skin.

Of course Steve didn’t shoot you. Of course you were fine, even when in the med bay. But Christ, the dream felt painfully real when his cold eyes stared into yours, the grip on his weapon never wavering despite your pleas.

Steve didn’t rush you, allowing you to just breathe in and out, eyes closed, palms still sticking to your jaw. His thumb stroked your shoulder in soothing periodic motions, grounding you in reality, but otherwise he simply let you process. He didn’t say a word about the few hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

It was the lack of action that had you lower your hands at last, glancing at him again, a shy smile lifting the corners of your lips as he released you.

“Hi,” you pipped up.

He mirrored your smile, a tender barely-there thing, lips pressed together tight as you clumsily wiped at your damp cheeks.

Well, this is embarrassing.

“Hi yourself,” he echoed, head cocked to side slightly. “How are you feeling? …besides awful,” he added as if he realized the cliché of his question and the obvious answer.

It was endearing and entirely Steve and you couldn’t but snort at his attempt of a joke, your smile growing for a split second before it disappeared altogether.

“Stupid. Embarrassed.”

For not seeing the stalker for what she was from the start. For your very unsmooth awakening. For the faint memories of how you completely broke down after the team incapacitated Bonnie, babbling one thing over the other and- oh Christ, Bonnie. A shiver shook your body as the image of blood flashed in front of your eyes, the cold metal caressing your neck… at the way it swiftly moved away to find a new – the original – target.

“Glad it was just my arm. And that it was not--” you. You gulped, gaze falling to the floor as you took a deep breath before facing Steve again. The pity on his face hurt, but you knew he meant well. You cleared your throat. “Sorry. Can I, uhm, can I get some water? And a tissue?”

And a hug, maybe?

“Of course.”

Ever so helpful, he handed you tissues while he undid a bottle of water, unnervingly observant of your every move. It was almost as if he waiting for a you to break down entirely, the same way you had after getting shot and you supposed you couldn’t blame him. You just fucking hated that he had seen you like that, having those moments carved into his brain forever due to his eidetic memory. Embarrassment consumed your whole being, burning hot in your gut. How pathetic you must have look back there?

There was no mistaking his concern and attempts at supportive smile, but there was something in his expression you couldn’t decipher; you couldn’t bear not recognizing it. And you most definitely could not bear wondering whether that something had anything to do with the very intense conversation you had when he had been pressing against your gunshot wound.

You tried to sound as casual as possible when you gave the half-empty bottle back and spoke again; probably failing miserably, but avoiding the elephant in the room like a champ.

“Thanks. How’s everyone?”

The unreadable emotion in his eyes only deepened, much to your dismay; but then his features softened, causing your heart to flutter.

GG was now sitting at your bedside, familiar and safe. Your best friend. And more.

“They’re fine, Sparkles,” he assured you, reaching over to envelop your hand in his own, warm ones. “Little worried. Pretty angry neither of us figured it out until it was too late.”

Little worried.

Fear. The unfamiliar emotion on his face was fear he had tried to cover. Must have been, because it was in his voice now, laced with anger indeed. You turned your hand so you could squeeze his; this time to reassure him.

“But it wasn’t. Late, I mean. Not too late.”

“The fact that you are here begs to differ,” Steve opposed, one eyebrow rising in a mock challenge, voice heavy and serious.

You shook your head, your smile turning sardonic, ugly feeling settling in your stomach.

Kyle Meyers would beg to differ. The eyes, the accusing brown eyes, had screamed at you that he had wanted to live. A hospital, let alone Avengers’ fancy med bay, would have been a blessing for him.

But not everyone was blessed; not everyone had the privilege of having a guardian angel as capable as yours was.

“No, GG. Being here proves my point. I-- in cases like this? I could say I was extremely lucky,” you explained slowly, having Steve scoff and drop your hand as he looked away.

“Really doesn’t feel like it.”

“Doesn’t change the fact it’s true,” you whispered, suddenly feeling cold.

Probably because the comforter was a little thin.

In fact, the comforter thrown over you was the most interesting thing ever. The pattern was fascinating, truly, overlapping abstract shapes in faint blue, creating a surprisingly unobtrusive ‘A’ every now and then as they aligned; you had never noticed it before. The designer must have had a field day creating bedsheets for the Avengers. And when you brushed it with your fingertips, the pattern was rising slightly above the white cloth-

“Hey…” Steve murmured, so damn softly you couldn’t but look up at him. The sheer determination on his face was a funny contrast to his voice. “You’re safe. I promise. Stiles didn’t make it, but if she had, neither of us would let her see the light of the day ever again.”

You nodded on autopilot, your mind miles away, outside your control, as it moved from nowhere to your time in captivity and to the rescue.

You tried and failed not to think about the image of the pools of blood which seemed uncomfortably sharp in your mind: one at Bonnie’s leg, non-fatal, no doubt from someone from the BAU; the fatal one by her head from either Natasha or Clint. You held no judgement; each of your old and new team had their idea of ensuring you were safe and you’d stay eternally grateful to all of them.

But with blood came the fear; intense, all-consuming fear you felt when the gun dug deep into your neck, when it twitched away from it, ready to find a different target. The target.

You gulped, the smile on your lips tasting foreign as you fought to stay in the moment. Steve’s blatant ignorance of just how problematic their rescue was and the potential price he could pay just for being there helped you. Because between fear and gratitude, there was one more feeling clawing to the surface.

“I know you wouldn’t. Thank you. Thank you for coming for me…” you said sincerely, earning a nod and soft ‘of course’ and god, you could punch or kiss that stupid of course from his mouth. “Even if you were being stupidly reckless, again.”

Steve’s eyebrows jumped, shoulders squaring.

“Hotch said it was the best angle to-“

“Oh, I know,” you interrupted him impatiently, irritation spiking. “He wanted her thrown off balance, I would have decided to do the same, I think. It was an insane risk to take on its own, but fine. Whatever. But then you what, just decided to get rid of the only defence you had out of spite or-?”

“Hey now, you know that’s not true.”

“Oh, do I? Because from where I was standing it sure looked exactly like what was happening!” you shot back, having Steve grind his teeth.

“Where you were standing,” he parroted wryly, leaning forward, red rising to his cheeks, “was in a negative distance from a gun, aimed straight at one of the largest arteries in your body and at your spine. If I could have done anything to—if I pretended to believe you, I was hoping she’d-”

You sucked in a breath sharply, incredulous, blood pressure skyrocketing.

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be that much of a reckless idiot, no, not this much, that was just impossible-

He was kidding you. He must have been.

“Oh dammit, Steve! Did you seriously let your guard down and left yourself completely exposed to modified bullets meant to kill you, because you were hoping?! One second, one fucking second and she would have shot you-!“

“It wasn’t me who was in the real danger there GODDAMNIT!” he exploded, fist hitting your mattress so hard the bedframe cried silently in protest.

It hit you like a sledgehammer.

Your breath hitched, but not in fear. You were startled by the outburst, shocked, sure, but not scared. The instant guilt painting Steve’s face, among the different emotions playing on his features, told you how sorry he was to lose his nerve and scare you.

Yet he whispered a quiet apology too as you bit on your lip, his hands retreating back to his lap.

You watched him silently as he forced his clenched fists to relax; a movement deliberate and small, but it drew your eyes to the back of his hands for the first time since you had woken up and it had your mouth go dry.

His knuckles were bruised. Faint but angry red marks with the lightest touch of blue. He was freshly showered and sitting by your bedside when you woke up; for the bruising to linger so long despite the serum, he had had to beat a punching bag within an inch of his life earlier – probably tearing it in the process, again.

He must have been furious; and yet he sat there, ready to comfort you. A little outburst after you provoked him with your own was nothing to apologize for. The only thing to apologize for was him being reckless, albeit with the blessing from your former boss.

What made it worse, however, was that he had been reckless for you. His anger, his fear, the pain in his bones, his life on the line, all that was on you.

Steve was a big boy, able to do make his own choices, but it was the choices and faulty assumptions you had made that had led him to jump into danger head first again. Without a helmet, naturally, because why bother with protective gear, right? Dammit, GG.

“That’s… not entirely true,” you stated slowly, causing his head to snap to your face, ready to argue. “But I hear you. And I’m sorry. I know I should have seen it earlier, and I know you’re mad at me-“

“What? No. Sparkles, I’m not mad at you-“ he protested, but you ignored him, determined to say your piece, hating the tears stinging in your eyes again.

“And I’m mad at myself too. I was too stupid to see it for what it was, I know, but--- can I please get a hug anyway?”

His face twisted in exasperation, mouth open to say something, to oppose you, maybe to agree, maybe to finish what you had rudely interrupted, but then his shoulders sagged and he smiled a fraction; the hint of the perfect lopsided smile you loved.

“Always.”

You grinned through the welled-up tears, all troubles floating away as he leaned forward and you found yourself in his gentle arms, enclosing you in a vacuum of safety. He was uncharacteristically careful, mindful of your injuries, but his embrace was tighter than ever; you reciprocated the hug as much as you could, holding onto him like onto the lifeline he was.

Vainly trying to fully grasp the comfort he was offering from where he was still seated on the chair, you fidgeted; he released the firm grip on you until you tucked your face to the crook of his neck, allowing yourself a generous inhale. When you finally settled, he nuzzled your hair, achingly tender.

“God, Sparkles… what am I supposed to with you?” he sighed, one of his hands moving to cradle the back to your head to him, fingers gentle as they weaved their way into your hair. “You scared the hell out of me.”

That makes two of us.

“I’m sorry… and thank you.”

“For what? For being scared?” he huffed, bringing a smile to your face as the words echoed your own; and you responded just as he had.

“For being worried.”

He released a wavering breath.

The exchange, so remarkably similar to one you had before, brought you right back to the elevator, where he embraced you just as protectively, just as comfortingly and just as affectionately. Where his proximity had become too much, breaking the resolve not to give into your feelings.

Your memories of what happened after Bonnie drugged you should be hazy, but you did remember what you had said to Steve; very clearly in fact. There was no point in denying it; and you didn’t have the strength nor conviction to do so anymore either. Breathing in Steve’s cologne mingled with faint trace of sweat and something distinctively him, you nuzzled further into his neck, counted to three to gather courage and then briefly pressed your lips to his throat; tentative, but leaving no doubt you did so on purpose.

Steve’s arms tightened around you, the periodic motions of his chest ceasing for a moment, his heartbeat racing against your cheek. Then, his lips brushed against your scalp, his thumb petting the sensitive skin behind you ear.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage wild, sparkles of hope and giddiness lighting up in your brain.

This was definitely no friendly gesture; and what more, it was a seal of approval. The same approval, the same affection you had seen in his eyes, in his face, heard in his words, but had failed to decipher before; and had believed in at last, only to have your actions thwarted by an outside force… mostly by Jarvis.

But nothing was stopping you now – and you couldn’t wait another second. Not after you almost died. Not after he almost died. Not after two years of circling in his orbit, his gravity pulling you in with more and more force with each passing day.

“GG?” you muttered into the skin of his neck, having him draw back a bit, just enough to look at you, palm still cradling your jaw.

“Yeah?”

Your eyes roamed his face, the cheeks dusted with the faintest hints of pink. Alluring lips you wanted to taste for so long calling out for you, having you lick your own on instinct. The tiny motion didn’t escape his attention, his gaze flickering down before meeting yours again, pupils widening.

You weren’t sure who moved first, who leaned in; but at last, his lips were on yours, soft and careful as if you’d disappear if he pushed further just minutely.

Your head spun as his two-day stubble prickled against your sensitive skin, just as you had imagined it would; but he got your back and wouldn’t let you fall. Both of his hands now held your face firmly, yet with unmistakable tenderness.

He held you as if you were something precious, something he would never drop, but feared could slip from his fingers any minute. As if you would ever.

Your hands came to life, reaching for his bicep and shoulder, as much as the splint on your hand allowed; it must have spurred him on, because his lips parted slightly, moulding into yours with intent, drawing a small whimper of bliss. You yielded to his gentle strength, revelling in his affection, fighting to stay without oxygen just a second longer now that you got to kiss him at last.

Now that you felt like you were home.

Whether it was the serum or some sixth sense of his, he released your lips just as you needed to breath in, but he didn’t go far; his lips were a whisper from yours, exchanging a few more pecks, your smile growing with each encounter, your heart singing when his thumbs stroked your cheeks, tucked unruly strands of hair behind your ear, nose caressing yours.

Steve practically smothered you with tender affection, overwhelming your body with love and delight. When you couldn’t take it anymore, you kissed his cheek and then rested your forehead against his, both of you smiling wide and basking in the glow of each other’s presence.

“God, GG, we should have done that ages ago,” you chuckled at last, not daring to raise your voice above a whisper as not to break the magic of the moment. Steve echoed your laugh faintly.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, caressing the length of your hair, his other hand never releasing your face. “Let’s do it again?”

Your thoughts exactly; you never heard a better idea in your life.

Damn, you truly loved this man.

“Great minds…”

His lips were back, but the caution was left behind. If the first kiss wordlessly marked you as precious to him, this kiss simply marked you as his and you sank into the sentiment with gusto, breath caught in your throat as your lips parted to accommodate him, your hands pulling at his shoulders despite the echo of pain in your arm.

A small grunt of protest to your mouth, contrasting sharply with the way his body leaned to yours, a shift of weight as one strong hand sneaked under the covers, under your knees, effortlessly lifting you just enough to make space for him on the edge of the bed.

He replied to the startled sound that left your lips with a smile with a cocky edge and a delicate sweep on your tongue that made your knees weak, your heart trembling; your body instinctively pressed to the firmness of his own, now so conveniently close.

It was everything. It was everything you could ever want, a breath of his name falling from your lips when he retreated for the briefest second only for his fingers to dug into your calf, palm burning against the thin fabric covering your flesh, sending tingly heat to your abdomen. A small whimper escaped you when his thumb pressed deeper, his smile, that damn smile, GG, you little loveable shit, making you forget your first kiss happened only about a minute ago.

He kissed you as if it was his only job to turn your brain into mush, to turn your body into something completely pliant to his touch and he was excellent at it.

“Well, you guys don’t play around,” Natasha’s voice commented dryly, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin as you actually winced at the sudden intrusion, your eyes snapping open.

“Hello sailor,” Emily whistled as you licked your lips, gaze flickering to Steve who was still very much holding you ridiculously close and pressing his lips together as if he was holding back a laugh.

He didn’t look guilty one bit, which was fair; you could just keep kissing him for the rest of your life and you’d be perfectly content. But you would have been happier without the audience.

When you tried to scoot away from him, bewildered your face wasn’t on fire with how hot it suddenly felt, he only allowed you to stretch your legs, very reluctantly releasing his grip. He remained in your bed, however, taking your hand and interlacing your fingers together, not bothering to turn to the arrivals.

“I mean… we can come back later-“ Spencer said, almost shy despite the corners of his lips twitching. “We don’t want to interrupt your… your---uhm…”

Oh god, Spencer Reid, certified genius, was at loss of words because of you. This was bad.

“Smooching?” Emily suggested.

“Cannodling?” Natasha added helpfully, only to have Spence grin victoriously as he finally found the words after the longest time you had ever seen him speechless.

“…courtship display.”

“Oh my god, shush you all-“ you muttered as Steve silently snickered.

The sound was like a revelation; the spark of mischief and contentment was a confirmation.

Steve didn’t seem to mind one bit that you were walked on despite the faint colour in his cheeks whispering of a small portion of bashfulness and a wish to be left alone with you too.

Chances were that he was just as consumed by the kiss as you were, certainly, but he was a supersoldier as he loved to remind you whenever you worried about him. Which meant there was also a thick chance that he was at least distantly aware someone was coming.

What a luck it was that the group not only included Natasha, but also Emily and Hotch and, lord help you, Spence. You’d bet that if Steve hadn’t known for sure, he at least hoped your former best friend and crush would be there.

You were in love with a gentle gigantic little shit. And you adored him anyway.

You squinted at him, earning a charming smile – with the faintest apologetic edge. Oh yes, he had known.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Hotch commented matter-of-factly, not quite able to control the amused twitch of his lips.

Taking a deep breath as Steve had the decency to move back to his chair at least now when your former boss spoke – though he never let go of your hand – you nodded, eyes skimming all over the newcomers.

“Immensely. Thank you all for coming for me… and, you know, saving my life and all that jazz.”

It was easy to feel light despite the grave situation you had been in, now that you were in a circle of friends… and with Steve by your side. Here, now, the experience could barely touch you. And yet, something must have flickered in your expression, because Steve’s thumb swiped over the back of your hand, gentle and protective.

“You did good out there. You read her for long enough to hold on until we arrived and caught up instantly. You weren’t exactly a damsel in distress. You helped a lot,” Emily noted kindly, earning a smile that was somehow glued to your face ever since Steve kissed you.

“Uhm, I’m just glad it worked – that you guys worked it out.”

“It was a team effort,” Spencer shrugged, grinning from ear to ear, even as his eyes spoke of genuine relief.

“Oh, speaking of which…” Emily hummed nonchalantly, one corner of her lips lifting into a smirk. “There’s someone else who’d like to see that you’re okay.”

You frowned. The BAU team was in the room, Steve as well, even with Natasha; you assumed Clint might have already been gone back to his family even as you hadn’t had a chance to thank him yet, which left…

You grinned slyly, even if your heart felt strangely warm.

“Really? Are you trying to tell me Tony Stark was actually worried about me and came to the Avengers med bay...? Wow, I’m so honoured--- oh my god!”

You squealed, shooting up to sit the straightest possible, your mouth falling open in astonishment when the mysterious person walked in.

And then another one.

And another and then one more and yes, there were tears stinging in your eyes, which had Steve squeeze your hand and you loved, loved your GG, but holy shit you barely even cared at the moment.

“What the hell are you doing in a hospital bed, kid? I thought you were the agent, not the target!” the large man chuckled good-naturedly.

All you could do was to gape – still. “Morgan! I-- what-“

“I can’t believe neither of us visited when it’s only a three-hour train ride or a one-hour flight. Shame on us!” Garcia exclaimed, her bright blue dress with pink flowers only she could pull off lighting up the room, as did her wide smile.

“Aww, we didn’t mean to make you cry,” JJ cooed, grimacing so apologetically that you could tell she was not sorry at all, drawing a chuckle from you.

“Well did you expect, JJ?! When the whole band comes to see me even after I-” practically disappeared on you, you wanted to say as you failed to blink away your tears, but the last member of your former team didn’t give you the chance.

“-got shot? Twice the reason to fly in, kiddo, don’t you think?”

You sighed, not at all inclined to argue when you had them all here – a happy occasion.

“David Rossi. Wow. I… I cannot believe this, it’s so good to see you all.”

“Why don’t we give you guys some privacy? We could use a coffee, or a lunch, right, Steve?” Natasha asked pointedly, breaking your haze for a moment.

Steve shot the redhead a murderous glance – whether it was at the suggestion of him leaving or ratting him out, it was hard to say. You narrowed your eyes at him, too delighted at your visitors to be truly mad. And he must have sensed it, because he met your gaze, not expecting a hell fire… only a smoulder.

It was also very difficult to be mad at him when he had kissed you like that and his lips were still a little redder than usual, gloriously tempting.

“Did you sit here starving the whole time I was out?”

Steve shot Natasha a glare as if to say ‘See what you did?’ and sighed. “I was not and I was not starving-“

At that, you snorted.

“You’re saying that as if I didn’t know how much you normally eat, GG.”

He opened his mouth to protest; but a faint growl of his stomach rendered his upcoming argument useless. The others were polite enough not to mention it, but you could see a few of them holding back a smile.

And every single one of them watched your interaction with absolute glee and unabashed curiosity, which Steve promptly ignored, leaning closer to whisper only for your ears.

“You gonna be okay here?”

“As okay as I can get,” you assured him just as lowly, your smile growing. “And I promise to stay at my station as told, unlike someone.”

He glared at you for the briefest moment, unreadable; almost long enough for you to regret the jab, but then he shook his head, a smile passing his lips.

“Point taken… but remind me who walked out of the Tower alone and is now in a hospital bed?”

It was your turn to pause; you had to admit you deserved that, but you didn’t let your failure consume you as it had when you had been taken. You weren’t alone now. In fact, you had an army of friends to help you chase away gloomy thoughts.

“Point taken. Go grab a bite, GG.”

“As you wish,” he muttered, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth as a goodbye; a goodbye that almost made you want to tell him to stay.

But then your face began to burn once again as low ‘uuuh’ sounded from three of your former colleagues; Morgan, Garcia and Emily. The rest just smirked. You would swear you heard Natasha mutter ‘territorial ass’.

Why were you friends with these people again?

Steve squeezed your hand for one last time before he rose to his feet.

“It was nice meeting you. Heard a lot of great things,” he said politely as he nodded to each of the newcomers, addressing them by their name, earning a tiny squeal from Garcia when he did so.

“Likewise, Captain.”

A genuine smile curled Steve lips. “Thank you for your help, Miss Garcia. See you around, all.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just…” Natasha said as she pulled at Steve’s arm, chuckling as he exchanged a last glance with you, no doubt catching your silent thank you for making Penelope’s day. “Nice meeting y’all!”

The moment they were out of sight, you were crowded – and most of the crowd was your favourite technical analyst, who slapped your unharmed arm.

“How could you not let us know you’re dating Captain America?! If anything, I’d expect a call to brag about that!” she complained exasperatedly, her eyes shining brighter than the pink bow in her head.

“Technically, they only finally confessed their feelings about…” Reid interjected, looking at his watch pointedly, “…314 minutes ago.”

“It was very romantic and dramatic,” Emily pipped up, having Penelope’s jaw drop and JJ smirk, her arms crossing on her chest.

“And we hope to hear all about it, don’t we, Garcia?”

“Oh you betcha! All the details!”

You smiled at their antics, feeling giddy and flustered at once at the prospect of catching up with the best ladies in the world. And guys, of course, but you doubted they were as interested.

On a second thought however, Morgan was definitely one to learn as much as possible in order to gather ammo to tease you and Rossi, well, he might be a wise grown-up, but he wouldn’t turn down gossip.

And neither would you.

“Only if you feed me the juiciest gossip from the bureau,” you negotiated, earning excited nods from Garcia. “Oh and please tell me you gave a lesson to another guy who impersonated an FBI agent to get laid?”

“You got yourself a deal, sweetie.”

“A sweet one,” Morgan commented, his grin slipping momentarily, replaced by a brotherly concerned gaze. “But seriously. What the hell happened? How did you end up being kidnapped and shot when you were the one calling about the case?”

You realized they must have just flied in, if no one brought them up to speed. With a sigh, you braced yourself to explain despite your error and the unpleasant memories being the last things you wanted to talk about.

But lord bless Emily Prentiss, it took her one glance at you to understand how you felt; she took it upon herself, swiftly and lowly explaining what had happened. Spence, ever so helpful, handed you the bottle of water from the nightstand along with a cup of jello, noticing you started to fidget with unease; a ghost of cuffs swirled around your wrist as seaweed, ready to pull you under water.

You absently thanked Spence as he helped you, a careful brush of fingers here and there far from accidental, meant to ground you in the moment.

“You’re welcome, Bean,” he whispered gently, causing you to crack a smile again. “Ah, there she is.”

You smiled a little wider, shaking your head, catching the last words of Emily’s report.

“I guess I was too close to the case to see it objectively,” you added with a sigh, causing everyone’s gaze return to you.

“I’d say,” Rossi agreed and you would have felt ashamed, especially in front of him, author extraordinaire, a legend among field agents, hadn’t it been for the compassionate smile and the warmth in his chocolate-coloured eyes. “But we’ve all been there.”

We all made mistakes, he was saying, as if reminding you that he wasn’t an exception to the rule either. And this time, the mistake didn’t have fatal consequences. You smiled at him shakily, earning a wink.

“Well, I’m glad it was just your thumb and your arm,” Morgan commented, a slight furrow to his brow – a sign of worry – his arms remaining crossed on his chest.

“We all are,” JJ added. “We leave you alone for five minutes…”

“Yeah, don’t scare us like that again!” Garcia cried out, pouting – and then waving it off. “But now, let’s leave the gloom behind. Tell me about this huge dramatic love confession--- no, wait, start when the cupid’s arrow hit you for the first time.”

You chuckled, wondering what was there to even say, but Morgan beat you to it, snickering – and leaving the gloom behind indeed.

“Sounds like a euphemism to me, babygirl.”

Somehow, you were both insanely grateful and utterly horrified at the change of topic, despite warmth blooming in your chest at the thought of Steve – and the declaration you had exchanged a few minutes ago, involving mouths but not really words.

“Oooooh, they’re good at those!” Emily exclaimed, her face bright and full of mischief. “I mean…. was it when he shared his fries with you?”

Oh god-

“Get outta here,” Morgan burst out laughing, shooting Reid a pointed look. “You hear that, pretty boy?”

“Will you ever let me live that down?!” Reid cried out, voice an octave higher, gaping as Morgan once again brought up the one instance where Reid practically slapped your hand when you wanted to steal a fry from his plate. “Just so you know, when someone wants some fries, they can just order them.”

“Uh-huh-“

“But this phenomenon of stealing fries is not unusual and is more common in women, who don’t order the fries because they want to appear more attractive to a man by not eating excessively. And at the same time, they appeal to their masculine need to provide food for their partners and family-“

“See and you said it was just the papers who made a big deal out of it,” Emily interjected gently, a smirk to her lips as she watched you. “It actually was a great romantic gesture stemming from ancient male instincts…”

“Emily…” you warned her silently, only to be interrupted by Morgan.

“Oh, I think I’ve seen enough male instincts when Captain Loverboy kissed her to mark his territory before he left.”

“Not wrong there…” JJ sing-sang, having you groan and hide your face in your palms – a feat given your splinter – feeling your cheeks being set aflame with every word added to this ridiculous conversation.

You were sure poor Steve – who was definitely to be blamed for this, you hated him, you loved him – probably had his ears on fire with everyone talking about him.

“Please, you should have seen his face when Reid hugged her--- no, when he called her Bean. First time I actually saw someone physically turn green, I’m telling you.”

“Oh my god, you guys, just stop, please…” you whimpered miserably, only earning several chuckles and a tug at your sleeve.

“Aww, look at her, she’s all flustered-”

“Shut up, Morgan, I regret every time I didn’t take the chance to comment on your walk of shame-“ you muttered, annoyed… a little.

Despite all their teasing, it was difficult not to feel completely elated, because the reason this was happening was that fact you and Steve had-

“Rogers and Jones, sitting in the tree…”

“Oh, oh, Garcia, wait, he calls her Sparkles and she calls him GG-- whatever that means,” Emily stopped her, causing you to drop your hands and shoot her a betrayed glare. “So it’s more like: Sparkles and GG, sitting in a tree, K-I-”

“I’m happy to see you, guys, but I hate you all,” you announced flatly, instantly breaking character when most of them just burst out laughing.

“Oh hold on! Who’s gonna give him the if you break her heart I’ll break your nose talk?” JJ exclaimed suddenly, sounding deadly serious.

“No one!” you cried out instantly. “No one is going to break anything!”

But it was too late; the team of FBI agents, who acted like overgrown children, already started plotting.

Oh boy.

“You know I don’t exactly have the best record in hand-to-hand, but I know of at least fifteen different ways to dispose of a body without trace if-”

“Spence!” you shrieked, not expecting that from him in the slightest.

“I have no qualms about breaking his anything,” Derek announced, ignorant to your exasperation.

“Neither do I,” Emily shrugged.

“And rest assured he would never do as much as read his emails if I got my hands on him, Stark security system or not,” Garcia spoke, uncharacteristically scary. “I’d ruin him.”

“Guys, guys! Come on,” Emily shushed them, hands outstretched to get their attention. “I have no doubt we’d all shoot him dead, but who’s gonna do the honours or telling him that?”

“Hey! No one is shooting anyone! We literally just saved him-“

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Hotch suggested innocently, causing you to gape, a breathless accusation falling from your lips.

“Et tu, Brute?”

His words unleashed a stream of oooohs and hands that suddenly competed for the chance to threaten your… boyfriend, maybe? Just Steve for now? Your GG, always? Which was nice and all and you were so lucky to have them in your corner, but you had just averted one crisis and you’d rather keep Steve safe and sound. You doubted he planned to break your heart anyway – he could never.

“No one is listening to me…” you muttered, a chuckle sounding on your right.

You glanced at Rossi who didn’t participate in the mess unfolding by your bed, only watching with a proud smile.

“You know they won’t when it comes to protecting one of ours, kiddo. You’d do the same, because that’s what family does,” he said gently, looking around as some of your friends did bicker like siblings, before glancing back at you. “That’s what family’s for.”

With a sudden lump in your throat, you followed his gaze back, trailing around the crowded room: several special agents with one of the best trainings available, acting like children, paired up to play rock, paper, scissors. Sans Hotch, who might have suggested it, but would not actually go to Steve to give him a shovel talk; he appeared like a father to the crazy pack.

Looking around, you felt like family was exactly what you were. No matter the distance of two years and three-hour train ride, the BAU still was and hopefully would always remain your family.

→ Next part (epilogue)

Series masterlist // Steve Rogers masterlist // Misc masterlist

Reminder: in the masterlist to this series, there’s a list with pics and characterisation of the complete BAU team (since I swarmed you with several ‘new’ characters in this chapter)

Yeah, I totally lied, the short excerpt I shared about three weeks ago was not from a floofy one-shot, but I could NOT exactly tell it was these two idiots FINALLY kissing, could I? Sorry 🤭

Wanted this to be a chapter slash epilogue, buuut it was getting too long again and I feel like this fic deserves a sweet and short goodbye instead🥰 Epilogue to come.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, folks, thank you for your support 💗

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #mcu x criminal minds #criminal minds crossover #criminal minds x mcu #former bau agent reader #bau agent reader #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #captain america x you #steve rogers #spencer reid #emily prentiss #the bau family #love on the brain #anika ann

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invisiblerambler · 4 months ago

Note

I just finished season 3 of The Bear! What did you absolutely love and also what did you absolutely hate about/from this season?

okay so I've written multiple posts about what I loved about this season, but it seems like everything I loved everyone else hated.

one of the biggest things is the way Syd, Carmy and Marcus all represent different reactions to trauma.

Carmy is taking it out on himself, but that radiates outward. He is not allowed to be anything less than excellent and neither is anyone else around him.

Syd is/was/continues to be deeply affected by Carmy leaving her alone. Her fear of failure and the ongoing trauma of being a part of exactly the type of environment she wanted to leave. Her reaction to that is to take it all inward. She absorbs everything and every part of the environment this season, and it isn't until 9 and 10 we see her crack.

Marcus's reaction is obviously similar to Carmy. He just wants to channel it into the work, but there's a catharsis that isn't present with the other two. He is repurposing his trauma as Syd and Luca talk about at the Ever funeral.

The messiness and the rawness of this season really struck me. It feels so real to the way you can experience long-term trauma and C-PTSD. Like Carmy wasn't recovered at all when he left New York, but everything since has just repeatedly opened that wound.

I know the timeline for the season is really messy but if the entire season is from his recollection than it makes sense because these things happened before he got there and obviously trauma affects your memory.

It's hard for me to fully express what I liked about this season because everything I enjoyed was so visceral. The first time I watched it I was mad at the ending, but as it washed over me I was more able to see how painfully and carefully constructed it was.

This show is just so well-drawn in it's exploration of trauma, I could go on about it all day.

As far as what I hated, can I say the overall response. That's me being cheeky, but I could feel the expectations management problem. They told you it would be a different show, and it was! There's such a retconning that S1 and 2 are similar, but they're really not they're shot and edited very differently and have wildy different color palettes. But other than that, I can't really say I hated anything. Like I said this season feels so close to me. That's not to say it's beyond critique, and I have seen some reasonable criticisms. Maybe the cameos in the finale could have been a little tighter. I understand giving everyone their time, but I agree it kind of killed the momentum.

I think there just needed to be a modicum more editorial oversight on those. Just like one or two less cameos, one more Syd/Luca/Carmy interaction.

I wouldn't even say that's something I hated, just something that kind of broke the reality of the show a little bit.

Also this is me being cheeky again but I wish they had played end of beginning by DJO lol. I have such a special place in my heart for that song and I think it could have provided an insight on what Syd could have been thinking throughout the season.

Anyways, sorry this is so long and mostly praise, but this season is too personal for me to have a lot of tangible criticisms.

PS I am take it or leave it about the Faks I get the criticisms but realistically their subtraction wouldn't have added more arcs for other characters because there were already plenty of character arcs.

#the bear #the invisible rambler speaks #please send me more of these it was so fun #I am also taking sydcarmy fic requests while the muse is agreeable #the bear season 3

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virtie333 · 11 months ago

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Day 6 - Life Day Damerey Celebration

Prompt: Past

Summary: Poe has a nightmare

Notes: For those of you who read Kinetic, this can be considered a 'sequel,' however you do not need to read it to enjoy this. Just know that it takes place between the 2nd and 3rd movies and our couple have an established relationship at this point.

Warnings: A bit of angst and self-flagellation. Hurt/comfort. Poe Dameron has PTSD.

AO3

Poe Dameron jerked awake, sitting up in his bed, sweating heavily despite his bare chest. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on what was real. He was in his tent on Ajan Kloss. It was raining outside, which was typical, and it was warm without being hot. It was a very different environment from a transport in space, where his nightmare had taken place.

Oh, call it what it is, he chastised himself. It hadn’t been a nightmare. It had been a memory.

It wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of being aboard the ‘life pod’ shuttle, cruising away from the Raddus and toward Crait, and watching the other transports blow up, one after another, all because of him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the tears that threatened. The self-hatred he had been slowly overcoming swept over him once more, and his chest spasmed painfully as his anxiety shot up. A familiar mantra began rolling through his brain.

What if he had trusted Holdo? What if he had not been so hot-headed? What if he had not sent Finn and Rose on that suicide mission? What if he had kept his ‘head out of his cockpit’ and been more patient?

What if? What if? What if?

“Stop,” said a soft voice from behind him. A warm hand grasped his shoulder lightly, and the touch made him shiver. “No more ‘what ifs’ tonight,” Rey whispered.

How much had he been saying aloud, he wondered? He knew she couldn’t read his mind, and even if she could, she wouldn’t do so. But she could feel his emotions, and he was sure the same panic and dread that had awakened him had woken her as well. They were still getting used to sharing quarters, sharing a bed. This was the first nightmare he had experienced since she moved in with him.

He took another deep breath, then cleared his throat. “I’m okay,” he croaked.

She was silent for a long time, then he felt her hand slide down his arm, grasping his elbow lightly. She kissed the back of his shoulder, then lay her head against it. He could feel his pulse slow and the anxiety lessened. Just having her near, feeling her presence, calmed him.

“What if I hadn’t allowed myself to be caught by the First Order?” Rey said suddenly.

Poe tensed once more.

“What if I hadn’t stupidly thought I could turn Kylo Ren and had instead stayed with Chewie and the Falcon? What if we had been there to help protect the transports, to see them all safely to Crait? How many more would still be alive?”

He sighed, knowing what she was doing. “You didn’t know,” he answered her. “You were doing what you thought was the right thing at the time.”

“Hmmmm,” she hummed, and he could feel her smile against his bare shoulder. “The past is the past, Poe. We both know we can’t change it. But I do think we’ve both learned from it, and are better people because of it.” She paused. “You know that Leia is grooming you to take her place, and she wouldn’t be doing that if she didn’t think you were worthy. Just as she wouldn’t be taking so much time to train me, even though I still think every day that I’m never going to be good enough to be a Jedi. Either she’s gone senile or she knows us better than we know ourselves.”

Poe smiled. “I trust her.”

“So do I,” Rey responded.

Poe finally turned to look at her, cupping her face in his hand as she lifted it from his shoulder. “You are going to be an amazing Jedi,” he told her.

“And you are already an amazing leader,” she replied.

He leaned in and kissed her.

Squeezing his shoulder gently once more, she whispered, “Let’s get back to sleep.”

He nodded, and they both lay back down. Rey stayed curled up next to him as he put his arm around her shoulders. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the nightmare would return. But not tonight. Tonight, his Rey had chased the demons away and he would sleep well.

“I love you, Kuutamo,” Rey mumbled, already half asleep.

“And I love you, Sunshine.”

#fanfiction #damerey #jedipilot #poe x rey #hurt/comfort #established relationship

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sntshadleys · 6 days ago

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case file : hadley , roan

2003 , boston , massachusetts

memoir : the scent of pine trees and wet grass that lingers / / rainy gray days / / bloody knuckles covered by bruises / / nails bitten too short / / messy sun-burned hair smelling of the horrors in the forest / / a black mangled wolf / / worn clothes loved by time

basics.

full name . . . ; roan harrier hadley

nicknames . . . ; ronnie, boy

association . . . ; none

birthplace . . . ; boston, massachusetts

occupation . . . ; none , but open to work

date of birth . . . ; octocber 31, 2003

status . . . ; single

sexuality . . . ; bisexual

pronouns . . . ; he/him/them/they

languages . . . ; english, does barking and howling counts?

to note . . . ; suffers from ptsd, has problems breathing since his attack, strangely strong immunity, has anger management issues related to trauma, has troubles speaking (from years and years of being quiet), suffers from night terrors, suffers from anxiety and is dealing with panic disorder, doesn't know how to be much human anymore. his favorite movie is shrek, someone please show him more movies

scars . . . ; has a long deep scar running from the end of his neck, down his chest, reaching his right side. it's a gruesome scar, the beginings of it visible when he wears a shirt / / has a scar on the back of his left tight, not long but thick and deep / / scratch marks on his shoulders and left arm / / marks on his wrists and forearm from retraints

tattoos . . . ; none

piercings . . . ; none

positive traits . . . ; kind, gentle, loyal, selfless

negative traits . . . ; violent, impulsive, troubled, anxious, quiet

connections . . . ; valka hadley . . . mother / / unnamed wolf . . . 'adopted mother'

biography.

TW: Kidnapping, Torture, Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Child Abuse, Violence, Blood, Death, Cannibalism, Stockholm Syndrome, Choking, Death Idealization, Depression, Traumatic Experiences

The beginning is the end ⸻ or is it the end, a beginning? You won't pretend to know ⸻ The two are so often interchangeable, you question if there's a difference. Not your most complex confusion, you are sure. You wonder most days if your very birth was the cataclysm of your life ⸻ had you been doomed from the start? Were there no chances of peace when your first breath filled your lungs? Did any of your actions matter? ⸻ You find yourself praying they do, now; that they matter, are capable of changing your seemingly bleak fate. For it was fate, was it not? Which cursed you, destroyed you. What else could it possibly be?

You know ⸻ knows as bird naturally learns how to fly, knows as a fish knows how to swim. You dare not say it, for it makes things painfully real ⸻ but it is there, in the back of your mind, like the constant drum of your heart; it was their choices that led you to become this ⸻ you are the one paying for the consequences of their actions.

You feel like you are swallowing glass when you think about them ⸻ a family you barely remember the faces of. It cuts the skin of your throat, fills your tongue with blood, chokes you on its mass ⸻ It is a poison you cannot escape. You were loved, or so you thought, by a mother and uncles, grandparents and cousins. A perfectly normal child ⸻ you would go to school, play with your friends, join the East Boston little league, spend time with your mom. A good childhood for a good kid. Thinking back on it, you wonder if you were sold a lie; when you wish to feel better, you tell yourself every child is plucked from safety to be thrown in the wild every seventh birthday ⸻ becoming something dirty and feral over the years. Is every child taken from a comfortable home in Boston, kicking and screaming, to a small general store in Wyoming County, and then deeper into the woods still?

Yes, you lie to yourself. What other choice do you have, but cling to foolish beliefs? You would be driven completely mad, otherwise.

Your captors would taunt you often ⸻ their favorite pastime was to remind you your mother gave you to them, willingly. You didn't believe them ⸻ would often snarl and fight back, rolling in the mud with people three times your size until your were bruised, bleeding, and broken. Your anger and refusal were hilarious to them ⸻ the stray bites, ooohh, how scary. It was the cruelest things they could've done to you, destroy your spirit. The first year, they didn't manage ⸻ how could they, when you trusted your mother so much you knew she would come to rescue you from the cage they kept you in. A blanket, a small wooden structure, and water bowl were the only things inside your prison. How ironic. You were fed scraps of pigs, deers, people. And full moons were a nightmare ⸻ the bars were strong, but the wolves would bang on it enough they would break, eventually. Their paws would reach into your small cell, claws ripping any skin and clothes it could touch. You often hide inside the dog house, under the blanket, shivering and waiting for the night to be over.

The second year was strange ⸻ it began how it had ended, as most things does; your cage, you, and your shattered blanket. You couldn't count the days anymore, but you knew your mother was close to finding you. She had to be. She wouldn't leave you alone, here, with the beasts. And then, you were taken out of it to stand in front of a wooden wall, cold water cleaning your tired body with little care. They didn't scrub you, cut your hair, brushed your teeth. They didn't care. She didn't care. The first wife of the Alpha, one of many, you were told ⸻ you hadn't seen her during the first year, didn't even know she existed ⸻ but her only child had died, and although the wolves they kept as pets were more important than you, she had decided a child in the house would fix her sadness ⸻ And you were the only motherless bastard around. She didn't offer you affection, didn't offer you love or protection ⸻ she demanded you called her mother, set up your room in the small, cramped, dusty attic of her cabin, and fed you too red meat ⸻ you never asked of what they came from. You were treated like a pet still, but at least you had enough freedom to wander through the pack's village. The other kids taunted and teased you, the adults would often find reasons to punish you, and they all reminded you daily of how your own mother had abandoned you here. When you were hiding in the closet, every full moon night ⸻ covering your ears so you wouldn't hear the snarls and screams from outside ⸻ you told yourself they were lying. She was coming for you. She would come soon, and you would be home.

The third year they began dragging you out of your hiding spot on full moon nights before the sun was gone, setting you off in the woods to run while they shifted. If you can survive, little human, the Alpha had said, we won't kill you tomorrow. You were foolish enough to believe you could reach somewhere safe ⸻ with people, who would call your family and protect you from the wolves running outside. You stumbled on a homestead, but despite how much you knocked and banged and screamed, the couple with the gun inside didn't open their door. By then, your lungs hurt and your body couldn't take any more running ⸻ you didn't have enough nutrients in your body. The wolves were close, too close, and all you could do was hurriedly climb a tree. One of your ribs was broken the first time you fell, your hands scraped raw from the clumsiness of your second try. You made it to the top, and exhaustion overtook your mind. You woke up to peebles being thrown at you, some of the older wolves having a good laugh at your situation. When you eventually fell again, she was waiting to take you home. There wasn't a warm bath waiting for you, nor cute bandaids and a comforting hold ⸻ there was only the ice cold water in the basin, the rough pack healer spreading some dirt and gel on your ribcage, and her stern tone telling you to eat the suspicious stew in a metal bowl.

You learned pretty quickly they wouldn't let you go ⸻ the years spent running and hiding in the woods every full moon night, only to be found and dragged back in the mornings, taught you as much. It took you longer to finally admit to yourself your mother abandoned you. It was a particularly long night, extremely cold and dark, your feet carrying you to places your eyes couldn't reach. You squeezed inside a hole you had made long ago ⸻ protected by thick logs, rocks, and leaves. It was small, damp, and dark, but you had thought it to be safe. Nothing ever was, you learned. You don't know who had found you ⸻ it wasn't the first time you were found, and you didn't keep track. But it was the first time one managed to actually break through the barriers of your hideout ⸻ partially. It was enough to for its claws to sink so deep into your chest you could swear your entire rib cage broke. It pierced your heart, it felt like. They would have eaten you ⸻ you had accepted it, welcomed it even ⸻ until she bit into the wolf's neck and dragged it away. You do not know what happened. You don't know how long you stayed there, bleeding to death in your hole, unable to breathe. You thought that was it, you were dead. And it was then that it hit you ⸻ Your mother wouldn't come for you. Never. They were right ⸻ she had left you here, given you to them as a gift. She didn't love you. She wanted you dead. The tears down your face weren't from the pain, you knew.

When you woke up, bandaged and weak, bedridden for a long time, something inside of you had finally broken ⸻ You didn't fight back anymore, didn't scream or snarl. Instead, you howled with them, asked to join hunts for deer and rabbit, and fishing days. They didn't treat you good ⸻ your had no place in this pack, no love. But their anger wasn't aimed at you anymore, and you barely spent days chained outside for pissing someone off. Years were spent in this relative peace, without incidents, until you overheard them saying her name. They were careful, had always been, but the Alpha seemed panicked about something ⸻ angry more often than not, worried someone was going to find them. The words molded together in your mind ⸻ witches, port liery, fellowship, valka. You don't know what happened to you ⸻ your chest tightened, you couldn't breathe, the world was spinning, and all you could do was sit on the ground and hope to die. When you became yourself again, you decided you had to find her. You had to know. It could kill you, trying to escape again, but you had to try.

You were stronger now, older ⸻ they often had you fighting against their beloved pet wolves, and you hadn't died yet. That meant something. You planned, packed a small bag with food and clothes, and took the opportunity of the Alpha marrying yet another wife to slip away. The celebrations were full of alcohol, and hunting when the night was full. If you were careful enough, slow and meticulous, you perhaps could make it far. You don't know how you did it, but soon you were standing outside that same goods store by yourself this time, not taken by a pack member to help them carry boxes of food and supplies, overwhelmed with the world around you. You barely talked to the people around you. You wanted to make it to Port Liery before they could find you. You began to feel her following you when you left Mcdowell County. You don't know if the pack had sent her, or if she hunted you of her own choice. The journey was blurry, with the anxiety and need to stay one step ahead of her. You nearly made it, until one full moon night, you were finally caught.

You knew she wouldn't kill you ⸻ yet she put up such a good fight. But so did you. Unfortunately, a girl distracted the both of you. Your mother had gone for the kill, but before she could eat the girl alive, you managed to get her attention again ⸻ by trying to tackle her and running as far as you could. When she caught you, the bite wasn't pretty ⸻ her jaws were so big it nearly ripped your side off. You still had some fight in you, enough to hit her over and over again with a rock, enough that the sounds of your screams alerted some hunters in the area. You don't know if the shot they fired killed her ⸻ you were too busy limping away to check. In the morning, weak and hungry, bleeding to death, you were caught trying to steal some supplies from a gas station by an empty road.

When they asked your name in the hospital, you remained quiet. When they asked for it again, hours later, you said, “Roan.” Speaking felt wrong, that name felt wrong. But you didn't want to die. “My name is Roan Harrier Hadley.”

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

Friend . . . Yes, Roan is very shy and not used to people being kind to him, so he has one (1) friend to show him the ropes of the world; movies, games, books, music, etc

Crush . . . He might be a feral half boy half rabbid dog, but he has feelings! Roan met this person randomly around, and got a little puppy crush on them. If it leads somewhere; to roman or drama - It can be discussed

The person he tried to save . . . The night he made into the city, he tried to save someone in the woods from Mother. Instead, he ended up bitten. If the person made it out without a bite or not, that's completely up to player!

Mentor wolf . . . He needs one! He needs parental love (sorry Valka) and a guiding hand. He knows nothing about being a wolf, and is really out of his depth.

#cor.intro

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