#the stove and the counter where all the food falls to rot for years. is takasugi.

[joelletwo]

shaking sorachi by the shoulders u come back here from all the times i killed u and tell me why u gay coded* sugi and then made him a pitiful little deuteragonist meow meow. what did u mean by that

[thatslikely]

Stowaways - G.W.

Stowaways- George Weasley x Fem!Reader (former Gryffindor)

Warnings: none! just tooth-rotting George fluff :)

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Sorry this took so long! This is my longest fic to date, and I’m so proud of it. I love Georgie so I’m glad to finally write for him. Hope you guys enjoy this one <3

Just a reminder: Y/N is Your Name and flashbacks/thoughts are in italics.

93 Diagon Alley is a place of wonder, mystique, and above all else, joy. A place where all your best memories are enshrined, a place where you can be your best self, alongside your doting fiery-haired boyfriend, who wears his ginger mop of hair like a halo. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes occupies most of the address, its orange and purple exterior lightening up Diagon Alley effortlessly.  

Its interior is just as magical, the multiple levels of the shop are engulfed with shelves stocked full of Fred and George’s mischievously ingenious products. Some threatened to transfigure you into an eye-popping xanthic canary, while others could spontaneously spawn a whole swamp in the blink of an eye.

Everything within its walls brings smiles to children of all ages, and it could be argued that George is still one of those kids too.

The store seems to make George truly come alive, even more than he was at Hogwarts just a year prior. The look in his eyes as he skillfully operates the store with Fred reminds you of the glow that your face used to hold as a child as you looked longingly through countless toy-store windows around December.

While the shop is the main source of his pride and joy, even its power couldn’t halt the toll of a busy workweek. Every day, new shipments had been zooming in and out of the store, sales at an all-time high. The new lot of Hogwarts students must have a mischievous streak, for student-sent owl orders in preparation for the school year were arriving daily by the barrel-load.

It was finally Friday evening, and George trudged up the back stairs to the flat, his eyelids droopy and back hunched. His lack of energy, however, couldn’t take away from the playfully handsome purple and brown ensemble he wore. He pitifully fiddled with the keys before finally turning the lock, entering the flat promptly, taking in the familiar home-y aroma.  

He promptly plopped down at the small breakfast table near the kitchen, a tired sigh escaping his lips. He pressed his elbow onto the surface of the table, his arm supporting the weight of his head that his neck couldn’t bear any longer.  

“How was your day?  You look absolutely exhausted,” you asked with concern. You already knew you would have to plan something to cheer poor George up.

“I am simply dying, Y/N,” he said, while pretending to go limp like a corpse, “there’s no hope for me. Tell Mum and Ginny I love ‘em.”

“Not even your own twin brother, huh?” you asked sarcastically. He could only respond with a zombie-esque groan.  

You sarcastically rolled your eyes at his dramatic display, glad to see his lack of energy didn’t affect his sense of humor. You walked over to your tired George, who had his head now resting on the back of his chair, eyes spaced out at the ceiling.

You calmly sat down next to the Titian-haired love of your life and laid your head on his strong shoulder, your arm slowly snaking up his back. The motion of your hand alternated between tracing soothing circles lightly on his strained back muscles and massaging his tense shoulder.

He turned his face to you, painted with a soft and grateful grin, glad to finally be home, especially with you. For a few serene minutes, comfortable silence filled the air.  

George had nearly drifted off before the both of you were disrupted by his stomach emitting a loud growl. “I take it you’re hungry, Georgie?”

“Apparently so,” your boyfriend responded, patting his stomach.  

He languidly started undoing his bright amaranthine purple tie when you asked, “Do you want icky leftovers or yummy takeout? I know what I’m voting for.”

“Such a tough decision…” George responded with a wink.

----

By the time dinner was over, the tired look in George’s eyes remained, but the delicious takeout helped remedy his splitting headache.  

The two of you quickly settled on the comfortable marmalade-hued couch to watch one of your favorite muggle movies (it was a comedy of course). George’s laugh never ceased to make your heart flutter, even after all these years. The way it used to echo so freely through the crimson Gryffindor common room, and now through you two’s cozy flat, couldn’t help but make you fall even more madly in love with him. 

George somehow brought out the kid in you that laid dormant for so many years. With him, the world seemed so vibrant; there was always a little adventure waiting for you both, even in mundane activities like laundry. He would bunch up the freshly-washed paisley and tessellated dress shirts that he wore down to the shop daily, pelting them at you like the snowballs that he enchanted to hit Quirrell all the way back in third year.  

You loved George with all your heart, as did he.

After a while of movie-watching, George drifted off into a light sleep. His hazy dream was filled with thoughts of the school he called home for so long. The smell of the burning logs and pumpkin that would drift through his nostrils every morning as he walked down the steps from his dorm; the sound of first years’ giggles as they messed with one of his pranks.

His brain then swam through the blurry memories to the first time he met you, the real you, drinking Firewhiskey and playing truth or dare in the back of the common room with the Golden Trio and crew after a victorious Quidditch game.  

He thought of your first date, your face scrunched with belly-aching laughter as you tried stuffing in as many sweets as you could on a snowy Saturday at Honeydukes. The way the twisted rainbow lollipops and chocolate frogs made your face uncontrollably grin cemented what he swore the moment he first saw you: he vowed to never stop making you smile.   

He couldn’t live a day without your joy-filled face; it enchanted him like the beautiful glow of fireworks against a smokey black sky, like the addicting feeling of adrenaline from breaking the rules.

----

“Georgie,” you whispered, “Georgie!”  

Your drowsy boyfriend slowly drifted back to reality after hearing your soft whisper, your hands lightly tapping his chest to an invisible rhythm.  

He released a yawn before asking, “What is it, angel?”  His eyes fluttered lazily, and his lips were quirked to the smallest of smiles.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t fall asleep on the couch for the night,” you said caringly, “I knew you’d be even sorer in the morning if you did.”

George’s heart warmed at your thoughtfulness. He quickly took in his surroundings, which starkly contrasted his dreamscape. The television softly droning cheap infomercials instead of the muggle movie he fell asleep to, the blinds closed to hide the velvety black sky, and bits of buttery popcorn strewn across his chest and lap.  

He sat up tiredly, swiping his hand carelessly through his vermillion-pigmented locks. He rubbed his umber eyes as you brushed loose kernels from his clothes to the carpet.  

George muttered, “I love you, Y/N,” quietly, thinking you wouldn’t be able to hear it.  

You did, however, and you reciprocated an “I love you, too” sweetly. You stood up from the couch, extending your hand to help droopy-eyed George up. He took your hand and he rose before walking towards the kitchen, drawn to the stark blue light of the refrigerator.  

The fridge doors popped open, revealing tupperware full of picked-at leftovers, a few odds and ends, and a half-drank bottle of Dragon Barrel Brandy. He groaned at the meager scraps of food occupying the fridge, shutting the door disappointedly. The crisp air that surrounded him with a chill dissipated within an instant.  

“Georgie, I think we should go off to bed. Tomorrow's Saturday, and I have a big surprise for you planned,” you said excitedly, coming up behind the man of your dreams, resting your hand steadily on his shoulder. He leaned into your touch as you guided the sleepy boy to the bedroom.

As the two of you laid down to go to sleep, facing one another, George asked in a tired, raspy voice, “What’s the surprise, darling? Or will I have to find out tomorrow?”

“You know I would never spoil a surprise. Don’t worry, you’ll love it.”

----

George awoke to the delectable scent of freshly-fried bacon and eggs wafting from the humble kitchen. The other half of the bed, he noticed, lay empty, the cozy handmade quilt blanket you usually dozed under laying askew. Sunlight poured through the windows, letting his linen covered body bask in golden morning rays.  

After minutes of continuing to peacefully lay under the covers, absorbing the pure morning ambiance, George finally decided to get up and follow the delicious aromas emitting from the kitchen like a bloodhound.  

As he entered, you were bent over the stove, guiding a spatula around in a lightly tarnished pan, appetizing pancakes browning within. You were still in your sleepwear, wearing oversized plaid pants that dragged across the tile and one of George’s shirts, which was huge on you and smelled strongly of his cologne.

He snuck up behind you quietly as a mouse, before unexpectedly poking the sides of your stomach. You let out a shocked, “George!” before bursting into laughter. Your chuckles blended with his effortlessly, creating a beautiful symphony.  

“Morning, darling. I see you’re making breakfast,” George said with a smirk as he surveyed the surrounding food-covered counters. He seemed in a much better state than he was yesterday, his tired eyes replaced with resplendent brown and gold-speckled ones, which were flooded full of energy reminiscent of his adolescence.  

“I am! And I made all your favorites, so get excited! The day’s only getting started.” You sent him a knowing wink, and he responded with a child-like grin. George giddily opened a cupboard, grabbing two shiny ceramic plates. He forked some already-cooked bacon and eggs onto each plate, shaping the food into two adorable smiley faces.  

“What did I ever do to deserve such an amazing girlfriend like you?” George asked after giving your cheek an affectionate peck.  

“The real question is, what didn’t you do? You’re perfect in my eyes, Georgie,” you heartfeltly admitted as you carried a small plate stacked with butter and syrup-coated warm pancakes coated to the table.  

George had beaten you to the breakfast table, waiting patiently until you finally sat down in the chair to his side. He eagerly stabbed a forkful of egg, stuffing it into his mouth. While Ron was usually credited as the biggest food-lover of the Weasleys, there was no way you could deny that George was runner up.  

He gulped down the rest of the meal quickly, sending breakfast-filled smiles in your direction after every bite. After both of your plates were squeaky-clean, you ventured to the bedroom to get ready for the busy day ahead of you. 

You instructed George to wear “something comfortable,” and he happily complied, throwing on a cream-colored, pin-striped short-sleeve oxford with a pair of worn jeans. You selected something equally as comfortable, and adorable.  

You were in the middle of packing a backpack full of snacks and water when George finally asked, “So… when do I get to know where we’re going?”

“We’re going to Hogwarts,” you said promptly with a knowing smile, greatly contrasting George’s look of perplexion.

“And how exactly are we going to manage that, love? Surely they wouldn’t allow an impromptu visit like this, even good ol’ McGonagall?”  

“Well, let’s just say Hogwarts doesn’t actually know we’ll be there.” 

----

Platform 9 ¾ could be seen bustling with life, the delicious taste of magic floating through the air. It sent you back to all of those years you spent before term, pushing a luggage-stacked trolley across the station.

The scarlet express heaved tufts of smoke from its chimney, a piercing shriek occasionally echoing from its whistle. The magical platform was coated with clumps of young witches and wizards and their parents; the brick floor could barely be seen under all the boots.  

You bid goodbye to your parents, ready to start a new (magical) chapter of your life. As you skipped gleefully to the entrance of the enchanted coach, you caught sight of a rufescent sea of wizards bickering and chuckling with each other. There were six carrot-topped wizards in total: a middle-aged and balding father, an equally middle-aged warm and caring mother, a short and freckle-ridden son who appeared to be the oldest, a tall and stuck-up boy with pretentious-looking glasses who was tightening the crimson tie around his neck, and two identical-looking boys who seemed to be first years as well.

One of them could be seen tieing the stuck-up boy’s shoelaces together, a mischievous smirk on his face as he did. The other was distracting the glasses-wearing brother, shooting the knotter an occasional sneaky glance.  

You smiled at the sight before stepping into the train, eager to make new friends. You felt a little less nervous upon seeing students chatting in their compartments; pure joy from students’ laughing and yelling filled the corridor.

You looked around in search of a promising compartment. Finally, after what felt like hours of looking, you settled on a compartment filled with three other first-years. There were two girls and a boy: one of the girls, Angelina, was animatedly recounting a story, the other, Alicia, sprinkled in witty comments, and a smitten-looking boy named Lee was blushing in the corner, listening intently.  

After a while of bonding with your new friends, the train slowly began to chug along the tracks,  rhythmic clanking creating some pleasant background ambiance. The train began to gain speed before your compartment door was slid open by none other than the vexatious redheaded twins.  

The twin who tied his brother’s shoelaces together, who you later learned was named Fred, confidently took a seat next to Lee. They quickly struck up a conversation, seemingly clicking almost instantly. The twin who served as the distraction for his poor older brother, George, sat down next to you timidly.  

At first, George was too shy to say anything other than a meek, “hello”, but as soon as the trolley stacked with sweets rolled around, he became quite talkative. He was very observant; he would enchant you with beautiful descriptions of the most minute details in the most mundane things.  

George was so observant, in fact, that he noticed you didn’t get anything from the trolley, despite the look on your face saying that it wasn’t by choice. He could only afford a single chocolate frog with the spare change his mother gave him, which he handed to you with a toothy grin.

You yanked on George’s long arm, pulling him behind one of the large brick pillars supporting the platform. “Okay, George, for this to work, we can’t be seen by anyone.” You unsheathed your wand from your pocket, preparing to cast a spell.

“I’m going to cast a disillusionment charm, okay? This should make us blend in with our surroundings so we can sneak onto the train.  If I do it correctly, we should be able to see each other just fine, though.”  

After receiving an accepting nod from George, you gave him a light tap on the shoulder with the tip of your wand. Camouflage slowly dripped down his body, as if someone poured some sort of invisibility paint above his head. Just as quickly as he faded into the pillar behind him, he returned back to normal colors. You hoped he was still invisible to everyone else.  

“Wicked,” he uttered, checking out his arms as they turned invisible and back.

You did the same to yourself without hesitation. George watched with curiosity as you blended seamlessly into the platform; he then admired you as your features slowly returned from invisibility. Every eyelash, every blemish, and every inch of your lips never failed to go unnoticed by him.

“What’s the next step of the plan, Captain?” George asked with a salute.

“So, without being seen, once all the students are off the platform and on the train, we need to sneak onto the caboose, where we should be able to ride safely. After that, it’s smooth sailing to Hogwarts!”

“That sounds easy enough… I think,” George said with his hand in his palm, thinking over the steps of the plan intently.  

“Oh trust me, it’ll be great! I mean, if you can set off fireworks during an exam guarded by Umbridge, you can sneak onto a bloody train.” You gave George a reassuring thumbs-up.

“Don’t even remind me of that soul-sucking bright pink nightmare!” George said with a sarcastic eye roll.

As students slowly started filtering into the train, your time to strike inched closer and closer. Finally, the clock struck eleven, and you and George were dashing across the platform to the back of the train with your hands intertwined with one another’s.

You and George leaped onto the back ledge of the train just in time, for the scarlet locomotive slowly started rolling along the tracks just as you latched onto the railing. The both of you broke into cheers of triumph the moment the train was out of the vicinity of the station.  

“Y/N, look at the window, there’s no reflection of us in it. We really are undetectable,” George mentioned, gesturing towards the window.   

It was unsettling to not see your usual features bouncing off the window, but you were thankful that your charm had worked.  

You moved to sit on the ledge of the train, which was small, only about a foot wide. You put your legs through the wide rails so that the soles of your sneakers nearly dragged on the tracks. George took a seat next to you, his lanky legs sitting crisscross.  

The scenery that the express heaved through was breathtaking; it was even better feeling the crisp air on your face. The rolling moss-tinted hills, vibrant green and yellow trees that dotted the horizon, and worn stone archways that cut through the landscape allowing the train to huff on. All of it reminded you of the impressionist paintings in museums.  

The sunlight bashfully peeked through the clouds like the small flashes of vibrant strawberries hiding under their large green leaves on a serene spring day. The air tasted sweet and refreshing; it felt like you hadn’t ever breathed until your lungs were filled with it.

You and George sat peacefully in silence, listening to the noises of the express and the faint chirping of birds, reflecting on the past. Eventually, he said softly, gaze pointed to the scenery, “I can still remember the moment I realized I was in love with you.”

He continued, “It was the start of fifth year, on this very train. The moment you sat down in the compartment next to me, I just knew.  Everything was different. There were so many things I never noticed until then; it was like my eyes were finally open.”

Silence filled the air. You couldn’t think of what to say, and even if you did, you wouldn’t know how to say it.  

“Everything about you looked so beautiful all of a sudden. The way you moved or swished your wand, the way your lips enunciated every heavenly word that fell from your tongue. All of it.”

George turned to you nervously. What if I messed it all up? What if that wasn’t the right thing to say? he thought. You stared down at the track, lost in the depths of your mind. 

Everything George had ever spoken to you danced through your brain like ballet; his words sounded like rich and eloquent poetry, even his simple cheers or quips at teachers. Your heart felt like it was beating a million times the speed of the chugging crimson engine.

You rapidly pivoted your head to him, his uncertain gaze immediately locking deeply with yours’. Your eyes were clouded with determination and passion, which reflected in the kiss that you swiftly pulled him into. His lips felt magical against yours’, still oozing with lively youthfulness as always.  

George tenderly tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, you wrapped one of your hands around the nape of his neck. The kiss softened, becoming something slow and loving. Your other hand intertwined delicately with his’, which lay softly on your thigh.  

After a while of sugary sweet kissing, George’s lips parted, uttering an “I love you,” lightly.

“I love you, too. Promise me you’ll marry me someday?” You asked, still heavily under the angelic ginger’s trance.  

“You know I couldn’t marry anyone but you, Y/N.”

----

The sun slowly retreated behind the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant and fiery orange, which nearly matched the hue of George’s wind-swept hair.  You languidly rested your head on his broad shoulder, staring out in the distance. Your face lingered with euphoria, courtesy of George’s amazing kisses which had just peppered every inch of it.  

The backpack stocked with snacks you perfectly packed was now filled only with empty food wrappers. Most of the various foodstuffs had found a new home safely in your boyfriend’s black hole of a stomach, leaving you with mere crumbs to chew.  

“Georgie… why’d you have to eat all the snacks?  I’m starving,” you asked dramatically, pretending to be skin-and-bones. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t save enough for you, darling. I would give you some but… y’know… they’re in my stomach.” George petted your hair caringly with a regretful smile, his strong fingers gently brushing through your strands, taking in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

As you sat, gaze towards the breathtaking sunset, George mechanically started braiding a small section of your hair. He had always been an expert at braids; Ginny taught him how to fourth year. His mind was elsewhere than your strands, however, for he was plotting something significantly more mischievous.  

George retracted his hands from your hair, the soothing touch of his fingers dissipating from your scalp. He stood up from the cozy spot beside you, turning to peer through the window of the coach. His eyes scanned the corridor like a hawk, his brain spindling abstract ideas into a devious plan reminiscent of the schemes he so often plotted back at Hogwarts. 

“Georgie, what are you doing?” you asked quizzically. 

After one final glance through the coach window (bearing no reflection), he said with a devilishly handsome and mischievous smirk, “I have a plan.”

Before you could interrogate him any further, in one calculated motion, he swung the emergency door open, leaping inside the train full of students.  

If anyone was skilled enough to pull off whatever he was set on doing, it was George. While Fred was often the instigator of the twins’ famous pranks, George was often pulling the weight of the trick.  

You just hoped the disillusionment charm hadn’t worn off yet.  

----

George silently crept through the corridors of each enchanted coach, elaborately dancing around stray students who occasionally ditched their compartments. His face was scrunched with determination as if he were a raider searching for the holy grail.  

It took all his self-control, and more, to resist sneaking into Malfoy’s compartment and giving him a slap across the head; it was even harder resisting giving Ron a friendly spook, along with the other members of the Golden Trio. He decided to stay on track of his mission, for you and you only.  

Every coach he passed through, he became increasingly more irritated and nervous. Now that he was an adult, there wouldn’t just be a simple ten points deducted from Gryffindor, no. Sneaking onto a train full of students and stealing candy from the poor old lady’s trolley of sweets would be a hefty fine. Molly would definitely not be pleased.  

Finally, in the coach closest to the engine (and unfortunately furthest from the back), laid the trolley, luckily unattended. It was practically overflowing with classic sweets that he used to enjoy so much: colorful Berties Botts Every Flavour Beans (he swears he got a booger flavored one once), towering stacks of frosted cauldron cakes, clear-as-glass sugar quills, and chocolate frogs.   

George, of course, knew your favorite anything and everything like the back of his hand. He swiftly grabbed a package of candy from the bottom rack of the trolley, a twinge of guilt hitting him in the heart. The kind old lady would be down one treat. His guilt was quickly alleviated when magically, another perfectly packaged sweet filled the empty space.  

The expedition back to the caboose was a decidedly more risky one; it’s a lot more obvious that someone is invisible when a piece of candy is levitating midair. Luckily, the darker it got outside, the more students opted for the comfort of their cozy compartments, which fostered the perfect environment for sleeping. After all, when he and Fred would pull pranks on the train, this was the hour they’d hit the hardest.  

He was nearly to the back coach when a now sixth year Neville Longbottom emerged from his cabin, a defeated look on his face. A harshly conquered game of wizard’s chess could be seen, Luna Lovegood sitting next to the board with a neutral smile resting on her lips.  

George had tried to dance around Neville, but Longbottom’s clumsiness was no match for him. Not even a second passed before Neville rammed headfirst into George’s chest, falling backward. He laid on the floor for a minute, dumbfounded, before cautiously getting up, reaching for the floating sweet that George grasped high above his head.

George couldn’t help but mutter a low ‘sorry’ to poor Neville before rapidly darting past him towards the door. Neville looked around suspiciously for a minute longer before accepting the fact that he had likely been the subject of another foul prank.  

Finally, unscathed, George returned to the rear of the train, where you lay half sprawled across the ledge sleepily. Your eyes were closed, your ears focused on the calming rhythmic rattling of the wheels on the track.

A small smile couldn’t help but creep onto George’s face at the sight of you asleep. He gently tapped you awake, a soft hum escaping his lips. Your eyes fluttered open, a loving look glazing them.  

“What is it, Georgie?” you asked, taking in your surroundings.  

“Just wanted to make sure that you didn’t fall asleep here. You’d be sore by the time we get to our destination if you did,” George said with a wink. 

He outstretched his hand like Prince Charming, helping you stand up from the floor. Your rubious-haired boyfriend inconspicuously held his other hand behind his back, concealing the candy in his large palm.   

“Where did you go, George? One moment you’re out here with me, next moment you’re off into the train packed full of people!” you questioned curiously, inspecting George from head to toe.

“Well, you said you were hungry, so naturally....” he said, “I had to get you something to eat.”

George held out a single chocolate frog in his hand like a proud little kid. He wore the exact same smile he sported first year: a look radiating innocence and kindness. You gingerly accepted the frog, slowly unwrapping the chocolate and stuffing the card in your pocket for Ron.  

“...just like first year,” you muttered, barely able to make a sound.

You were seated on the tail of the express once again, eyes pointed towards the inky black and star-blemished sky. George quickly mirrored your actions, comfortably sitting next to you. While you munched on your chocolate frog joyfully, George rested his head on your shoulder, even though he was very much taller than you. He momentarily began humming a lullaby he learned as a baby; the vibrations emitted from his voice box resonated comfortingly through your body.  

His angelic humming echoed lovingly through your brain all the way to Hogwarts.

----

The train screeched to a halt at the Hogwarts station behind the school. The soothing rattle of the train ceased, to your dismay, and exuberant students began to flood out of the express like a tidal wave. You and George trailed far behind the various cliques of students, cracking jokes at the expense of the new first years.  

“Look at that poor one!  He’s fixed to become the new Neville!” you said laughing, before getting a playful elbow from George.  

“McGonagall will have quite the handful with those two over there. Reckon they’ll be tricksters like us?” George asked with a nostalgic laugh, pointing at two boys who were sneakily distributing some sort of (surely hexed) candy to their gullible peers. They looked so much like Fred and George did in their first year, down to the very same expression.  

“No doubt about it,” you said confidently, darting your eyes comparatively from the boys to your boyfriend. “It really is quite uncanny.”

Soon enough, the towering main entrance to the castle was opened with a swish, and the distinctly familiar smell flooded your nostrils. You were finally home once again. Not much had changed since you left, besides the absence of all of Umbridge’s devious decrees, replaced with some friendly-looking paintings.  

“Looks the exact same, doesn’t it?” George whispered, careful to be unnoticed by the excited soon-to-be-sorted first years who were guided to the Great Hall. You nodded yes, clenching his hand harder with exhilaration.  

Instead of risking getting caught during the time-honored Sorting Ceremony, you and George walked aimlessly, enjoying the unique ambiance of the school. After a while of galavanting around the halls, you climbed the moving steps towards the Gryffindor tower.

“Open up, it's George,” he whispered to the portrait of the Fat Lady with a smirk, and surprisingly, she obliged with a pleasantly surprised smile. Your stare flickered from George to the portrait, mouth agape.  

“Let’s just say, me and the Fat Lady have a lot of… history. Oh, not like that!” George let out a laugh followed by an adorable wink.

You gravitated towards the comfortable crimson couches which sat by the large and inviting fireplace, dragging George’s hand behind you.  

Your body melted into the red plush of the couch, the soft material much more desirable than the stiff metal rails of the express. Your carrot-topped better half took a seat next to you, his body intertwining with yours.

Gryffindors threatened to flood into the common room any given moment, so you wasted no time pulling George’s soft shirt to your chest for a gentle and loving kiss.  

“Blimey! Get a room you two!” Ron said, walking towards the two of you from the portrait, gagging.

“I guess the charm’s worn off, Georgie.”

“Just in time, too,” he said with a slightly cocky smile.  

You turned to Ron, who reluctantly held his arms out for a hug. You ran to him with all your might, meeting the messy-haired ginger’s chest. “I’m so glad to see you again.  It’s felt like ages.”

“Glad to see you too, Y/N,” he said with a genuine smile.  

Harry and Hermione entered not long after, a matching perplexed expression on their faces.  “Y/N? George? How’d you get in here? Surely McGonagall wouldn’t permit a visit such as this?” Hermione asked, giving you a small but confused hug.  

“Well, the thing is, no one knows we’re actually here,” George said, a grin on his face.  

“How’d you do it? Sneak in here, I mean,” Harry asked, eager to learn a new way to sneak to the school.  

“Snuck onto the express. Brilliant idea and execution courtesy of my dear Y/N. She’s a genius in training. Learning from the best, of course,” George said sarcastically, his thumb pointing to his chest.  

“Very funny, Georgie.  This one was all me.  My magnum opus, some would say.”

----

The ensuing night was amazing. Laughter echoed through the cherry-tinted walls of the common room like a magnificent orchestra; classic games like spin the bottle and truth or dare were played religiously.  

By the time it struck midnight, your mind had nearly escaped to your hazy dreamscape too many times to count. It had been a long day; you started early with cooking a full breakfast, sneaking onto the Hogwarts Express, and partying for hours into the night with the Gryffindors, all with the love of your life. To say you were exhausted was a massive understatement. 

Harry had graciously offered his comfortable bed to you, Ron reluctantly sacrificing his to George. “You owe me one,” he repeatedly grumbled to his older brother, who plastered a sickly innocent smile on in response.  

George took quick notice of the unfathomable exhaustion plastered onto your face from his couch across from you, immediately announcing to the chatting group of friends, “I think it’s time for me and Y/N to turn in for the night. See you all in the morning.”  

‘Goodnights’ drifted in and out of your ears as George picked you up from the couch bridal-style, carrying you light-as-a feather up the steps to the boys’ dorms. He could envision a furious Head Boy Percy demanding, ‘Put her down, George!  Girls sleep in the girls’ dormitories, boys in the boys’!  They have that rule for a reason!’ 

He smiled as he creaked open the sixth year boys’ dorm’s door, laying you peacefully onto Harry’s scarlet four-poster bed. He grabbed some cozy knitted blankets, gently setting them over your body.

“There you are, angel, have a good nights’ sleep. I love you with all my heart,” George cooed.  He turned to Ron’s bed with a smile before you grasped his hand desperately.

“Before you go to bed Georgie, did you have fun today?  I know you super were stressed out yesterday and all,” your words came out slurred and tired, some borderline incoherent.  

“I have fun any time I’m with you, darling,” he said, smoothing your ruffled hair. “But yes, I had the time of my life with you today. Just being with you makes my day infinitely brighter. You’re like my little sunshine.”

“And will you actually marry me someday, Georgie?” you asked, your droopy eyes filled with an unfathomable and everlasting love. You were deep under the heavenly redhead’s spell once again.

“I always keep my word, darling.”

[muse-oleum]

The Flower Shop, part 3

Kingsman - Harry Hart x Fem!OC

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; 

Hey folks! Here’s the third installment of my series. I hope you enjoy it! We’re getting into it, finally. Also, I’ve just added another prompt list that you can find here, go give me some inspiration!

Word count: 1.7k 

Warnings: none 

The camelias shivered in the evening wind. By their place on the windowsill, they overlooked the entire room, with its large bed, desk and the man sitting there. 

Harry’s books and notebooks had all been lost when his house was bombed to the ground, so he’d had to start again. Over the course of the past few weeks, he had purchased several anthologies and was still looking for new publications on the subject of entomology. 

He missed his old notebooks, relying entirely on the scribbled pages of the battered pad he’d used during his time away. 

Harry rarely referred to his time as an amnesiac entomologist as anything else except his “time away.” He was still grappling with the strange sensation of having recovered his life but he wasn’t so sure now, after so many months wishing for freedom to go find his butterflies, which life he wanted to lead. 

Kingsman had been his home for decades, ever since he’d left the army to become a secret agent. But before that? He’d been so invested in becoming an entomologist that it almost surrounded him in a shroud of wing dust for the rest of his career. His home was full of them; his head was full of them; and his heart was full of them. 

None of his friends had ever understood his passion for the small insects. To be honest, Harry himself did not understand it fully.

His father had been very fond of gardening, and his mother never allowed him to squash any insects he found in his room. Even if it was the biggest spider in the world - at least to the eyes of a little boy - she would just pick it up in a tissue and let it free outside. He had always supposed his interest came from them. But now, looking back on how he had cleaved to his ephemeral friends, he wondered if the root for his interest did not run deeper. 

Perhaps he was fascinated by their transience? The manner in which their sense of purpose carried them to their death? He envied that. The whole of the animal kingdom, except humans, seemed to have a purpose. Harry had lost his and didn’t know how to regain it. 

Sighing, he turned off the nightstand lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Before falling asleep, he remembered his promise to Rebecca to come fix her garden shed. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. At least, he had that to look forward to tomorrow. 

Monday ----, 9 a.m

The chime of the doorbell accompanied Harry’s entrance into the flower shop. At the end of a cold February month, the sight of so many blooms was a welcome start to his day. 

“You’re an early riser!” 

Rebecca stood at her cluttered counter, snipping twigs off small branches. Harry watched, strangely fascinated, as she arranged them in an elegant bouquet. She seemed to know just where to place them. 

“It’s for a wedding,” she said, matter of factly. “Apparently, the bride is fond of forest weddings and decided to go for a woodland theme.”

“A forest wedding in February? Good luck to them.”

Her singsong laugh echoed through the shop. 

“Yes, the groom seemed rather resigned, poor chap. Let me just finish with this one and then we can go look at the shed.” 

Harry followed, calling after her, “I didn’t bring any tools, I hope you’ve got something I can work with?”

Rebecca popped her head out of the shed. “Come and have a look for yourself. It’s in quite a state, but it still stands. My dad was strangely proud of that.” 

Harry fit his broad-shouldered frame inside the small shed as best he could without towering above her. Rebecca caught his eye as he attempted to squeeze himself in, chuckling slightly.

The shed was small, built out of wood that had begun rotting many years ago. Daylight filtered through cracks along the walls and dust shimmered in the air. In the corner, a box of tools, its bright red colour contrasting strangely with its surroundings, was waiting patiently for its next use. Rebecca had arranged a large pile of fresh wood and wooden panels next to it, probably to restore the cracked walls. 

“It’s dismal, I know, but the roof is still in a really good state so i’d hate it to collapse entirely.” 

Harry gently pushed against the walls. The wood cracked and moaned but it held. The problem was the rot, which had weakened the overall structure. 

“I’m afraid if you want it to stand for any number of years, we have to tear it down completely first. The wood is rotting. Best to rebuild entirely.” 

Rebecca nodded, biting her lips nervously. 

“I don’t want to ask you to do that, I thought it just needed a few repairs. But tearing it down and rebuilding it is a job for my brother; he loves to demolish things to rebuild them.” 

A small part of Harry’s heart - which he refused to acknowledge - rebelled at the idea. 

“Nonsense, I said I’d help and I will. We will just need a lot more wood than that.”

Wednesday, some weeks later ----, 6 pm

Dropping by Rebecca’s shop had become part of Harry’s routine. Nearly everyday after work, he’d go in, buy a few flowers and go. Every weekend, he’d drop by and work on the shed. He was grateful for the distraction it provided and, slowly, began to acknowledge that Rebecca had wormed her way into his heart. 

Harry Hart had never dared to think too much about love. The Kingsman code was explicit: no attachments, no weaknesses. Eggsy and, on occasion, Merlin, had expressed how incredibly stupid and bigoted the Gentleman Guide was but the former Arthur had been uncompromising. 

Kingsman was slowly adapting and changing, especially after Poppy’s missile catastrophe. A new Arthur had yet to be found but under the capable supervision of the older agents, amongst which Harry and Merlin, the newer recruits were coming into their own. Kingsman was still not operating at full capacity, what with the HQ and the London shop in ruins, but it was getting there. 

Exhausted, Harry shook out his umbrella outside the shop before coming in, tucking it neatly in a corner. It had been a long day: recruits to assess, Merlin to check on (he was adjusting to his wheelchair but threw a few dignified Scottish tantrums along the way) and paperwork to work through. 

The smell of freshly cut flowers greeted him and, immediately, he felt better. March had brought an early spring and the blooms were peeking shyly from under their green little sprouts. 

Harry heard a commotion in the back room and, nerves on alert, made his way slowly towards the garden. Carefully popping his head in, he saw Rebecca, on the ground, looking under the sofa and murmuring soft words of encouragement. Eventually, a small kitten emerged, sniffing her fingers curiously. He meowed a few times, noticing Harry by the door, and meowed even louder, asking for food. 

“I believe this little lad is hungry.” 

Rebecca gasped, nearly bumping her head on the sofa. 

“Harry! You scared the living daylights out of me!” 

He held his hands up, taking one step in, chuckling slightly. 

“My apologies. You looked terribly busy.” 

The shabby little cat, meanwhile, completely disinterested in the antics of those two humans, had made his way towards the kitchen, no doubt drawn to the smell of soup hanging in the air. One or two loud meows later, a large bowl full of ham and leftover meat had been placed for him by the table and he happily forgot all about everything else. 

“I found him in the street this afternoon. It was cold and he was shivering and crying, so I brought him in. He wasn’t a fan of being carried somewhere new and he hid under that couch for a solid hour before you came in.” 

“Well, he’s one lucky cat.” 

Rebecca laughed softly and shook her head, her long curls bouncing around her forehead. Harry resisted the urge to tuck one behind her ear. Tying an apron around her waist, she made her way towards the stove to check on the soup. 

Harry observed her, sleeves rolled up to reveal creamy skin, feet tapping lightly to no rhythm in particular, curls pinned up by a clip, out of the way. He felt his heart give a little tug and, unable to stop himself, took a few steps towards her. 

She didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in diagnosing what exactly was missing from the soup. The warm smell of tomatoes made Harry’s mouth water. He could tell what was missing from that distance. 

“Have you added basil?”

She looked up at him, noticing his closeness, and a pretty blush spread over her cheeks. She tasted one more spoonful before smiling broadly, dashing out of the door and back again. She came back with a shriek, shaking the droplets out of her hair. Harry couldn’t contain his smile. 

Suddenly, as she was taking off her boots, a sparkling flash of blue caught Harry’s eye. Looking more closely, he froze. There were two blue butterflies, Adonis blues, flying around her head. One settled into the mass of pinned curls, the other kept looking for a perch. 

Harry’s heart soared. how he had missed his butterflies! Their gentle movements mesmerized him and, unconsciously, he took a step forward. He didn’t notice the curious look Rebecca shot him when he reached up to touch one of the butterflies. She didn’t stop him, didn’t move, as if she knew something was happening that she couldn’t see. 

Harry felt the flutter of the butterfly’s wings on his fingers and smiled. Rebecca had never seen him smile like that before. He had never smiled happily, always offered small, sad, smiles. She wondered what it was that made him so happy tonight. 

The moment ended when their eyes met, Harry blushing furiously and taking a step back; Rebecca reaching up to touch her hair, her blush deeper than before. 

“I’m sorry, I-”

“I’ve never seen you smile like that.” 

Her tone was curious, not displeased. Harry couldn’t help but answer honestly: 

“There were butterflies around your head. Blue ones. I’ve always loved blue butterflies.” 

Rebecca frowned slightly. Butterflies? In this season? Surely that was impossible, and she would have seen them. Harry lowered his eyes to the ground, realizing how utterly mad that must have sounded. He was ready to take his leave when she said: 

“I love blue butterflies too.” 

Taglist: @justawriterinprogress; @tonystrksslut; @emilyyblackkk; the-sea-belt; @flybi91

Comment below if you want to be added to my HH taglist!

[scaryscarecrows]

Beggar, Pick Up Your Crown

AN: Title from Jerry Cantrell’s ‘Siddhartha’. Takes place the day after ‘Out of Hell’.

Happy birthday, Jason!

* * * 

Jason wakes from the...he’s thinking the third-best nights’ sleep he’s had in his whole life. First one was...pfft, one’a those random nights, Mom had been feeling okay, and they’d stayed up to see the sunrise and made s’mores on the stove. Second had been after his first. His. Patrol. First patrol.

He has no idea what time it is, and he’s afraid to open his eyes, lest last night turn out to be a dream. He stays still for the moment, concentrating on the cheap hotel mattress under his still-aching body, the smell of complimentary soap and cleaner and that lingering people have been born, had sex, and probably died in this room smell that these sorts of places have. He can hear rain and traffic and general Gotham Living outside and in the rooms around him.

And he’s hungry.

Okay. Okay. He’s woken up out of nice dreams before, and it hurts, but. But he can do it again. One more time.

Please…

He cracks his eyes open.

The room is beige and...rusty orange...and very bright. Well, bright to him, anyway. It’s empty, but he rolls over and, muscles protesting the whole time, peers under the bed. Zilch.

Still unconvinced he’s not hallucinating or unwillingly playing one of the clown’s head games, Jason stumbles out of the warm bed, ankle cracking horribly when he makes it take his weight, and shuffles to the bathroom. Nothing. Nothing in the shower, or wedged into the little cabinet under the sink. He’s alone here.

He lets his breath out slowly, slumping forward against the sink to take some of the pressure off his ankle. He’ll have to look at it later, look at everything later, but...but not now. Not this second, huh?

His hair’s too long; his bangs are in his eyes and he can feel dead ends scraping the back of his neck. No way in hell is he letting anyone near him with scissors. That’s okay. He did self-trims when he was a kid.

He’s out.

He’s out, he’s free of that monster. That bastard’s never going to hurt him ever again. The thought makes him lightheaded, brings an unfamiliar twist to his lips that feels like it might be a smile.

And then he makes the mistake of looking up at the mirror.

The boy-no, he’s not a boy anymore, is he-looking back at him looks dead. He’s pasty white, thin and hollow-cheeked with no spark to his eyes. There’s cuts and gashes all over his face, his nose is crooked, and...and there’s that. The brand on his face, the one that still hurts, the one that screams to the world, PROPERTY OF THE JOKER, IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN!

I’ll never get away from him.

The mirror shatters under his fist, shards jabbing in between his knuckles and falling into the sink and bouncing off the counter to hit the tiles by his feet. He doesn’t care. He can’t face this he can’t face this he can’t--

This is too much for his ankle; it buckles and then he’s kneeling in the glass, sobbing so hard it’s silent and hurts his throat and chest. He chokes, doubles over so’s his forehead’s pressed against his knees, bites down on his lips to try and...and…

Willis always said, ‘boys don’t cry’. Bruce hadn’t...he’d never known what to do with tears. Or any outpouring of emotion, for that matter. And Joker had loved them. But Jason? Right now, he doesn’t care about any of that. He wants Mom, but Mom can’t be here anymore.

It takes him several minutes to register that the tears have stopped and that he’s just...huddled here on the floor with glass jutting out of his skin. The glass doesn’t hurt, but his ankle does and he slowly and carefully brings it up to investigate.

It’s swollen and hot to the touch and it...something about it doesn’t look quite right. He’ll wrap it, he decides, he’ll get a compression bandage or something later today. Okay. He’s okay. He’s just gotta breathe, get up, clean this mess up because he was raised better than to leave this shit for the housekeeper, and then...if he is where he thinks he is, there’s a bodega two blocks south, one that has a gray tabby that lounges in the window. They’ll have a thing of chips or something he can choke down (safely), maybe bandages. Definitely a hoodie, at least, a nice touristy hoodie.

He can make it two blocks. Like he’s got a choice, but he can make it two blocks.

* * *

The smell of rotting watermelons, cheap ice cream bars, and packaged bread is possibly one of the best things Jason’s ever smelled in his life. He’s starving, and now, confronted with food choices, he knows he’s gonna have to exercise some restraint and not just devour a stale baguette in the middle of the store. Crackers. And maybe a soup-cup-thing, that’s mild. And, uh, cranberry juice, yeah, that’s sorta healthy. And a Reese’s. If the Reese’s makes him sick, it’ll be worth it.

The owner is dancing lightly to the mariachi on the radio and the cat is more interested in the birds outside than in him, which means he can limp through the store on his own sweet time. They do have bandages, and the food he thinks he can do, and a red hoodie* proclaiming, I Survived Gotham. It’ll do.

What’s worrying him-apart from, you know, everything else-is where he found money last night. He doesn’t remember a damn thing after leaving Arkham, and it scares him. Mystery for later, though, because he’s hungry and grateful he doesn’t have to rob the bodega man, who-miracle of miracles-doesn’t so much as look up at him. He pulls the hoodie on the second he’s outside, though, tugs the hood up to try and cover the damn thing at least a little.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He can’t go back to him-he’ll die first-and he can’t...s’like they say, you can never go home again. If Wayne Manor was ever home. 

Left me he left me with him he said he’d always be there and he fucking left me with that bastard--

He just doesn’t know what to do.

He stumbles back into the hotel room, debates on whether or not he wants to use the grody microwave provided, and decides that yes, yes he does. This will be the first real food he’s had in over a year and he wants to try and enjoy it, if that’s possible.

Man, he hasn’t had one of these in...geeze, since before Mom died. They’re not Old Money Approved, after all. Good. He’s not Old Money Approved, either.

It’s done, he decides, when it pops and the lid gets all soft and hot. It smells okay. Safe, anyway, no hint of Joker venom or any other little surprises. The steam curls around his face, making the...the burn a little tender, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He bought it all sealed up and he’s the only one who’s touched it. He took off the safety tin.

So why can’t he eat it? His appetite’s vanished, even though he knows he needs to eat, it’s just…

You gotta eat, baby.

That sounds like Mom, and it should be concerning, but...he does need to eat. And he can’t just chug it, either, much as he’d like to get it over with. He’s gotta be slow and careful.

Cracker! He’ll dip a cracker in.

The soup’s hot and salty on his tongue, miles above the slop he’s been eating in the asylum. Once he swallows the slightly soggy cracker, his appetite returns with a vengeance and it’s an effort not to pour half the column of crackers in, smash them to bits with the spoon, and eat the resulting mush here and now. But he can’t. He’ll be sick. Hell, he might be sick anyway, who knows.

He dunks another cracker in, catches a wispy noodle on it this time. Jesus. Jesus Christ, this is it, he’s living on soup and crackers forever, this is the best thing he’s eaten in his life--

--no. No it isn’t, is it. Alfred. Alfred made…

Not now. Just eat.

That’s right. He can’t think about anything, that’s not...he’s spent a long time, trapped in his own head. Not now. He can’t do that now. Food first.

The soup goes down easily enough, the cran juice a little less so but it stays in, and then he has to admit that yup, time for some self-examination.

He’s not facing the mirror-or what’s left of it-again. It’s better to stay here, to strip off despite knowing that hotel beds are scuzzy, and, well, survey the damage. And there is a lot of damage. Burn scars, wire scars, marks he can’t even begin to trace. He doesn’t really want to know what his back looks like, but he’ll have to find out.

Further poking the ankle says that oh, sure, it’s...healing, or maybe as good as it’s gonna get, but that squeezing certain spots of it makes his vision go white and over-manipulating it is worse than that. He puts the bandage on it, because what else can he do, and struggles back into his clothes. No more. He can’t do more right now.

* * *

Jason does not mean to fall into a fitful sleep, but that’s what happens. He wakes up gasping and soaked in sweat, a man’s shouting echoing in his ears. Sounds like Willis.

After a minute of lying here, he comes to realize that it isn’t Willis, and it isn’t a dream. It’s...lobby, something’s going on in the lobby.

Shit.

It’s hard to move as steathily as he used to, but he’s still quieter than the average schmuck when he slips out of bed and opens the door to creep down the hall. It’s late, which means the clerk should be alone, which makes them easy pickings. People never change, much as Batman insists that they do.

The shouting man has a gun. He’s wearing a scarf around the lower half of his face and he’s actually kinda big. Looks plenty comfortable threatening a woman half his size.

He doesn’t think, just moves; grabs one of the little chairs near the doors and hurls it

Owowowow not good movement not good

at the man’s back. He trips, gun falling from his fingers and sliding under the desk. The woman, wisely, ducks.

“What the fuck--oh, we got us a Batman-wannabe.” The guy cracks his back. “Come on, then, hero.”

He’s out of practice. Doesn’t mean he’s helpless. He dodges the oncoming haymaker and retaliates by going straight for the jugular.

Or, in this case, the balls. Fighting fair does not get you far in life.

The bravado vanishes. It’s hard to be badass when you’re shrieking like a little girl with your testicles twisted in a fist. Jason lets go, headbutts him to get him down, and steps around him to fish the gun out from under the desk.

“Get the hell out of here,” he says, more out of breath than he should be after that. His shoulders hurt from the throw. That can’t be good. “Or pray to God Batman shows up to save you in the next thirty seconds.”

“You son of a bitch--”

“Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven--”

“I’ll kill you!”

He cocks the gun. Little awkwardly, it’s true-Bruce taught him the absolute bare minimum of gun handling-but it gets his point across.

“Twenty-six. Twenty-five.”

The man can’t quite get upright, but he manages to hobble outside. Jason doesn’t chase after him. He’s shaking, a little, and the gun’s awkward in his hand.

“Thank you.” Oh. Yeah. He forgot about her. “I don’t know--he wanted money, I guess--”

“Don’t they all.” He doesn’t turn around. He can’t; he’s way too identifiable. “You’re welcome.” Back to his room it is, to get his crap and clear out. “I’m gonna check out before the cops show.”

“I’m not calling them.” Huh. “They never come. That’s the third time in two months we’ve had someone in here.”

Figures.

He doesn’t answer-what do you say, huh?-, just shuffles back to his room. He doesn’t realize, until the door’s locked behind him, that he’s still got the gun.

Well, he figures, as he stumbles back towards the bed, at least if Joker manages to track him here, he won’t have to go back. He’ll kill the clown or himself, it doesn’t matter which, but he’s not going back.

He crawls under the blankets this time, tries to get a little more comfortable. It must work, because in five minutes, he’s out. Nothing wakes him this time.

THE END

*Arkham!Jason has a fondness for red hoodies even pre-Red Hood; both baby Jay and grown-up Jay are shown wearing one in the prequels. For obvious reasons. :p

[yikeswtfmate]

Saccharine

Summary: Bucky is trying to cook again and Y/N is afraid he will starve to death one of these days. Surely, no one can eat something that smells this horrifying? 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you

Warnings: swearing; a small sexual innuendo?; alcohol consumption; that’s it?

A/N: Based on the prompt My neighbour’s at my door, asking if everything’s alright, because it smells like something is burning, and I was only trying to cook for once and this is embarrassing but they decide to help me fix this mess although I’ve changed it a bit

Feels a bit rushed to the end imo, but this is what happens when I’m getting super excited about another idea and I can’t think about anything else

masterlist

There’s a distinct smell of burnt onions in the kitchen. I can smell it even from my place on the sofa, distracting me from my phone enough to raise my nose into the air and take a lungful of what now seems to be…rotten eggs? I wouldn’t be so confused if it weren’t for the fact that no one is currently cooking in my kitchen but as I make my way to the open window, I can bet good money that my neighbour is trying to cook again. It’s the third time this week that I’m wondering whether that long-haired handsome man is actually a vulture, coyote or freak of nature because how can someone eat something that smells so vile? His only redemption is that I know thanks to the impossibly thin walls of the building that these cooking endeavours inevitably end up in him ordering takeout after a couple of hours of cursing and what must only be whatever he’s been trying to make dumped into the bin.

This is it, I think. There is literally no possibility that a human being can survive on takeout alone. I go to the bathroom and make myself presentable, because let’s face it, I’m not going to face that pretty man looking like I’ve just hibernated for a week (which I have, but he doesn’t need to know that), put on a pair of slippers and with a long inhale get out of my apartment. In front of his door, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, now my exasperation at his culinary inabilities suddenly vanishing in the face of uncertainty. What if he’ll think I’m rude? What if he has someone over and I’m interrupting? What if he’ll think I’m weird? We’ve never spoken before after all, with the exception of the nods of acknowledgement in the mornings when we would occasionally meet.

As I ponder my decision, there are more curses flowing over the sound of sizzling. Fuck it, this man needs my help or he’ll starve. I knock on his door, waiting for a few seconds after I hear a shouted “coming.” The door flies open and my neighbour, this beautiful specimen of a man, is surrounded by steam and the smell of…does he have a wet dog inside the house? His hair must have been tied at the back, but now long strands are stuck to his sweaty forehead. He brings a hand to his face, wiping away at a red streak, only to be replaced by a black smudge. The kitchen towel he’s holding is dripping with something orange and the sleeve on his other arm is scorched. Has he been trying to cook an armchair?

“Hi. I know this might sound weird, but are you trying to cook?”

“Uh…Yeah. I’m failing miserably, as you can see.” He says with a frown, moving away from the door so I can look inside his apartment, which is now starting to fill with smoke.

“Uh – I think you might want to take off whatever you have on the stove now or the fire alarm will start going off soon.” I advise and with bulging eyes, he just turns around and runs toward the kitchen.

He leaves the door open so I take that as an invitation to come in and close it, just so I can spare the rest of our neighbours from the appalling smell. Following him, I inspect the damage and I can say hand on my heart that I have never in my entire life seen such damage. I let him take the pan off the stove and into the sink, although I should warn him that it’s probably not a good idea to pour cold water onto boiling oil, but I’m not even sure that is oil. I find some paper towels and wipe the cracked eggs off the counter and into a bowl that is full of skinned…peppers? I throw that away after I locate the bin, take a wet washcloth and clean the kitchen island, which is full of burnt meat, I’ll presume. As I inspect a purple sphere surrounded by slices of cucumber on a plate, there’s a grunt in front of me on the other side of the island and I look up with a consoling smile.

“This looks worse than it actually is.” He says.

“Well, it certainly looks better than it smells.”

“That bad, huh?” He scratches the back of his neck and extends a hand after he wipes it on his jeans that are actually covered in flour. “I’m Bucky by the way. I’ve never had the chance to introduce myself.”

“Y/N.” I shake his hand, noticing the rough skin – definitely not a cook then. At least I’ve established he’s not poisoning anyone else. “What were you trying to make anyway?”

“My friend Natalia gave me this Russian recipe for pirozhki, but I’ve just realised that she’s a worse cook than me so I should’ve never trusted her.”

He takes a sit with a grunt and a shake of his head. He offers me the chair next to him, reaching over an opened bottle of wine that was sitting on the island, next to a few mismatched glasses. I grab two, letting him fill them to the brim. It’s one of those nights, apparently.

“I’m pretty sure pirozhki are made with cabbage not…is that hummous?” I frown at yet another plate with an unnamed content that has started to get a green tint.

“It’s alright, I’m used to the cheap noodles by now.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.

“Tell you what.” I say, now more emboldened by the wine. “I’ll whip up some pasta so you can enjoy some homemade food tonight and I can have some company on this fine Friday evening. What do you say?”

Bucky shifts in his chair to look at me with a confused expression that slowly turns into a soft smile. It suits him so well, rough edges becoming sweet, his eyes suddenly my only focus. It cuts the air out of my lungs, and if I were younger, I would’ve blushed to the roots of my hair. It still manages to make me tighten my grip on the tall glass I am holding.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist.”

“I don’t have any spaghetti though.” He says, still smiling, still looking directly into my eyes.

“Oh, I’m not going to cook in here, honey. This whole kitchen needs to be decontaminated, sterilised and cleansed with holy water.”

He laughs, which would have knocked me off my feet if I were standing. It seems this man can be very unhealthy for my state of mind, legs and lungs. With a chuckle he asks me to lead the way, bottle of wine in his hand and we’re now in my kitchen, a place I would have never seen him in in a million years. Maybe in some scattered fantasies, fleeting moments when I remember the broad line of his shoulders right before I fall asleep or the shape of his thighs in that particular pair of jeans he sometimes wears when he’s downstairs checking for his post.

“In my defence, I never had to cook for myself. After I moved to college, Steve would be the one cooking all the time and let me tell you, he did not like it if people meddled with his sauces.” He tells me two hours later after we’ve finished our bowls of pasta and we’re now sitting on the sofa, legs stretched on the coffee table and the tv turned on just for background noise.

“I don’t know, Buck. It’s kind of embarrassing not knowing how to at least make an omelette.” I laugh as he pours what is probably my third glass of wine.

“Now listen here, missy. I ain’t French and I do know how to do one thing.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I know how to pour milk over my cereal.” He says with a serious face. I burst out laughing, dropping the spoon I was holding directly on my t-shirt.

“I’ll tell you something though.” He offers me a napkin from the table, and I try to focus on wiping the chocolate cream off, but I’m suddenly seeing double and everything is ten times funnier, although to be fair, Bucky turned out to be the best company I’ve had in a long time. “I’ve never eaten so well in a whole ass time. But don’t tell Steve that or he’ll rip one of my arms out.”

“I’m sure everything is better than boiled leather, Bucky.” I smile.

“Nuh-uh. The pasta was divine. And this cake…Y/N, I’ll have to marry you just so I can eat this for the rest of my life.”

I bump my shoulder with his, but there is a feeling that I’m not sure I want to ignore. He’s been sweet all night, complimenting the food, which to be fair, in my eyes is not only the way to a man’s heart, but to mine as well. He’s making my heart sticky, a syrup running through veins with viscous sugar and honey, and he’s candy-coated, teeth-rotting saccharine.

*

Bucky knocks on my door the next day, a lazy Saturday that I’ve spent baking cookies and reading a novel that’s been twisting my gut with want. When my eyes meet his, my legs involuntarily twitch, scenes replaying in my head, but the smile I offer in return is nothing but genuine.

“I smell something delicious.” He says instead of a greeting.

I let him in, pouring him a bowl of soup after he reluctantly admits he only ate an apple the whole day. He protests at first, claiming that he only wanted a cookie, but ends up asking for seconds and finishing an entire batch of raspberry filled cookies.

Three hours later, I’m somehow curled up into his side, watching The Office because he committed the heinous crime of never having watched it. He absently curls a strand of my hair around his finger and I’m drifting asleep, wrapped in a cocoon of powdered sugar.

*

“You’re making me fat.” He says, around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Excuse you, James. You’re making me an alcoholic.” I retaliate, raising yet another glass of wine.

Bucky is sitting in my kitchen, eating my food, as he’s been doing for nearly every evening for the last four months. We’ve fallen into a strange routine, where he’s just drop by, claiming he smelled “something delicious” on his way in after work and I’d just learned to cook dinner for two without questions. I got so used to spending this time with him, that whenever he’d text he won’t be joining me, it would feel off, somehow unbalanced without him on the other side of the table.

I watch him as he moves around the kitchen with ease, putting the empty dishes in the sink, cutting two slices of cheesecake, pouring me another glass of wine. It felt strange having him in my apartment at first, but now it’s just normal, easy, sweet. He takes the plates with the dessert to the coffee table, and I join him in the living room. He’s already dug into his slice, unholy moans escaping his lips, and I just purse mine. Sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose.

“Stop judging me, this is heavenly.”

“I’m not judging you, I think you’re an idiot.” I laugh. “It’s just a cheesecake. And I’ve made this before.”

“It’s not just a cheesecake. It is the most marvellous thing ever. It is transcendental.”

“Ok, I think you’ve had enough wine.”

We settle into comfortable silence as I turn on the tv and look through the selection of films that seems pretty slim at the moment, considering the amount of Netflix we’ve been consuming lately. Bucky shifts on the sofa next to me, clears his throat, closes his mouth after opening it to say something, rubs the back of his neck, picks at a piece of strawberry on his plate, turns to me, takes his hair out of its bun, fiddles with the band.

“Spit it out already.” I say, without even sparing him a glance. He does this sometimes, this little dance of his when he locks himself up and is unsure of how to voice whatever’s on his mind. I continue to look through the list of unwatched films, but I have a feeling I’ll just introduce him to Parks and Recreation tonight, because this man has apparently been living under a rock for the past century.

“My birthday’s coming up soon. I was wondering if you’d like to come? I’m not throwing a huge party, just a little get together with some friends over at my place. I’ll just buy some beer and order pizza, but I’d like you to be there as well.”

He’s looking at me expectantly, uncertainty clear in his voice, which is stupid because he could ask me anything and I’d do it without second thoughts by this point.

“Of course, you moron.” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll be expecting my formal invitation in the mail though.”

*

It’s two weeks later and I am running so late. My mother insisted to have a girls’ day out, which I’ve tried getting out of, considering that a) I know my mother too well not to be aware that even dinners with her usually take decades to end, b) my very cute neighbour is expecting me to make an appearance at his birthday party, and most importantly, c) I haven’t seen him for three days already and I miss his smile more than anything. As the hours have been progressing, my fidgeting became worse, to the point that mum had enough of it and finally released me of my captivity, two hours later than I promised I’ll be there.

“That boy better be worth it.” She laughed, holding me in a hug as we were parting. “I hope you’re feeding him well.”

I am now faced with his closed door, voices and laughter interlacing in the apartment before me, and I suddenly feel very nervous, a reminder of the first time I knocked at Bucky’s door. I hope his friends like me, not only because I have been programmed since birth to need to be loved by everyone, but also because I gathered from all my conversations with Bucky that he holds his friends’ opinions in high regard. I better not fuck this up, I think and with a deep breath, I knock on the door.

Someone shouts after Bucky, and I can distinctly hear a commotion set into motion, that makes me wary. There are yells, a loud line of cursing, and the clatter of what must only be a shattered glass on the hard tile of the kitchen. The door opens and I’m greeted by a man who’s holding a bottle of beer and looks as if he’d just stepped out of a Fourth of July commercial.

“You must be Y/N. Come in.” Mister America says and lets me step in.

The first thing I see is Bucky being held in a headlock by another man who seems too happy to be sober or sorry that his friend can’t breathe at the moment. Bucky looks like he’s trying to fight against an eagle, flailing around like an overexcited puppy. I am standing in the middle of the hallway, trying to stifle the burst of laughter that is taking hold of me.

“Come on, Barnes, don’t be rude. Your girlfriend’s here and you won’t even say hi to her? Where are your manners? I thought you couldn’t wait to see her after you’ve been worried all night she won’t show up.” Bird Boy says.

I raise my eyebrows, but Stars and Stripes is the only one that can notice my reaction. “That’s Sam.” He says nodding to his wrestling friends. “You probably already know that their relationship is…intense. I’m Steve, by the way. We’ve all heard a lot about you.”

A hand slams onto Steve’s shoulder before I try to pry information out of him. Bucky seems to have broken free, Sam closely following him, and I’m now faced with three broad-shouldered men that could easily pass for the planet’s bodyguards. I extend the cake tin to Bucky and he takes it, looking at me with those huge eyes that would be more fit for a cartoon character.

“Did you bake something for me?” He asks incredulous.

“Figured you’re too much of a dumbass to order a cake, so…” I shrug.

Bucky gives Steve the tin, without even opening it, as I would have expected him to do. I worry at my bottom lip, thinking maybe I overstepped or that a bottle of wine would’ve been more fitting, when he literally swipes me off my feet in a hard embrace. He snuggles his face into my neck, tickling my cheek with strands of his hair, and I can clearly smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk, I realise, which can only mean that he’s past the point of being funny, now he’s just going to downright say whatever’s on his mind.

“Easy there, tiger. You’re gonna break her spine.” I can hear a woman passing by saying, but it’s too muffled by Bucky’s entire display of affection to figure out whether that’s Natalia or not.

“You didn’t have to bake me a cake.” Bucky murmurs. “You are enough.”

“I wanted to, Buck. Happy birthday, honey.” I say when he finally lets go off me and I can stand on my own two feet again. He brushes his thumb over my cheek and looks at me for a long moment, until he takes my hand in his and drags me into the living room, where there are more people sitting on the sofa, on the armchairs, and even on the floor.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. She saved me from starvation, she is the love of my life, she has the softest hair that I’ve ever touched in my entire existence and if anyone lies a finger on her, they’ll be dead within the minute, just so you all jackasses know, so don’t try anything, Thor!” Bucky announces with a flourish of his hand.

There’s no time to process what he just said, as his guests start yelling their hellos and introduce themselves. I try to shake as many hands as possible, and even give hugs back when they’re offered, and I’m surprised to notice that it seems as if I already know all these people from Bucky’s stories.

A few hours later, I’m sitting next to Bucky on the floor of the living room, after being lured into playing a variation of Truth or Dare, that would make no sense for a sober person. There’s yelling, popcorn flying over heads when a dare is not deigned to be fulfilled, empty bottles scattered around the floor, and too many paper plates to count. I wonder fleetingly how much all of this will take to clean tomorrow morning and I make a mental note to offer my help, before a hand rests on my knee. I turn to look at Bucky, who seems unaware of his actions, his vision clearly hazy with alcohol, but I’ve also consumed enough to just enjoy it and not read too much into it. I lean my chin on his shoulder, which makes him cut his shout short and direct his attention to me. Our faces are a few inches away from each other, alcohol mixing from our breaths, pupils dilating in the dim light, and we sit there, looking at each other before a cushion comes flying right to our heads.

“Get a room!” Someone shouts and there’s an eruption of laughter, but no one else pays any attention to us anymore.

Bucky stands up and holds his hand out to me. I take it and follow him through the apartment without a word. He leads me to the fire escape, climbing out the window into the fresh cold air. With a shiver, I take the space between his legs, leaning my back on his chest and letting him warm me up with his arms. He’s the one to rest his chin on my shoulder now, and I play with his thumb, suddenly more sober than I was in the heated apartment, but I have to know, before my ounce of bravery is gone.

“Did you mean it?” I whisper, half wondering whether he’s too drunk to understand what I’m saying.

“What?”

“Back there. When you introduced me.”

“That you saved me from starvation? Well, yeah, did you forget I am completely useless in the kitchen?” He laughs.

“Not that.” But I really don’t want to give him any more clarifications.

“That you have the softest hair?” He murmurs into my ear, kissing my temple. “You do. That I’ll kill anyone who would even look wrong at you?” He kisses my cheek. “That you are the love of my life? I’m not a hundred percent sure about that, but I’m more than certain that I’ve never loved anyone the way that I already do you. And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

The angle is strange, him towering over me although he’s only sitting a step above me, his arm wrapped around mine, while his other hand makes its way around my face, pulling it towards his. Strands of his hair fall over his eyes, but I can see the gentleness in them in the light pouring out from the kitchen. His nose brushes over my brow, breath ghosting over my skin until I close my eyes and his lips are like honey, melting like butter in a hot summer day. I feel syrup pouring over my soul, coating it in cotton candy, that leaves my insides sticky with sugar.

“Now I’m certain.” He whispers and I smile. I kiss his nose and snuggle closer into his arms. We stay like that for some time, that could have been either hours or mere minutes, the party dying down slowly inside the house. The sky is still dark, and I’m slowly drifting to sleep, but from Bucky’s shiver I know we should be going back, although he won’t admit it.

“You wanna know a secret?” He asks.

“Yeah?” I really don’t want to move

“My only saving grace is that compared to the kitchen, I’m amazing in the bedroom.”

I groan and bump my shoulder into his chest. This man will be the death of me. I climb my way back inside, closely followed by Bucky who is laughing behind me. He grabs my wrist and turns me around, loosely resting his arms on my hips and looking down at me through clear eyes. At least he’s sober now.

“Thank you for making my birthday wish come true.”

“You wished for a birthday cake?” I snort with a raised eyebrow.

He kisses my forehead and murmurs sugar-coated word into my skin. “I wished for you.”

***

Taglist:

@imma-new-soul

[deliriumsdelight7]

Breaking Cycles - Chapter 9

TRIGGER WARNING: The first scene of this chapter contains references to past drug use, as well as a vague description of an established character death (If you've seen California Solo, you know the one). It also contains a fairly vivid description of a panic attack. If you're not comfortable reading this, you can skip it by CTRL-F'ing "Lacey Rose French" to bring you to scene 2.

The world communicated to him in swirls and spirals.  How had he never noticed it before?  Everything around him, everything in him, everything that ever was.  The links of Jed’s silver bracelet.  The curls in Pete’s hair.  Jeff’s silver hoop earring.  The drugs that pumped through his veins, circulating around and around.  The music that eddied out of him, past the whorls of his fingertips, plucked into the tightly-coiled ringlets of his guitar strings, rippling out the speaker of his amp.  The music spiraled around them, swelling in crescendo as the four of them fed on each other’s energy.  Even the mustard-yellow paisley wallpaper danced and swirled in time with their wild melody.

Then, discord.  Panic.  One of the four fell, breaking the quartet.  Terror hammered a snare drum roll in his chest, tasted acrid in his mouth.  Relax.  Give him time - he’ll sleep it off.  Keep going.  Need to finish tonight.  Can’t focus - the music comes out stilted and strained, and eventually not at all.  Just let me fucking check!  Jaw slack, eyes open and unseeing.  Skin cold and stiff under desperate fingers.  Jed’s dead, Lach!  He’s fucking dead!

Lachlan awoke with a choked off scream, clawing at the cloth of his loose-fitting T-shirt with blunt fingernails.  His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and his chest was heavy and aching, like something massive was weighing him down, keeping the air from filling his lungs.  The cold sweat covering him did nothing to alleviate the burning pinpricks that assailed him from head to toe.

Tears stung his eyes, panicked whimpers escaping with each exhale.  Fuck, he was having a heart attack.  Or a stroke.  Or an aneurysm?  He didn’t know what the hell that was, but it sounded bad.  He needed a doctor, or - or a hospital, or maybe just a fucking priest to read him his last rites.  He wanted to reach for his phone, but couldn’t get his shaking hands to relinquish their death grip on his shirt.  He tried to call for help, or just scream wordlessly until his lungs gave out.  But all that came from his throat was a pitiful whine.

This is it, a small corner of his mind thought.  I’m dying.  I’m going to die alone in this bed, and nobody’s going to give a shite.  Nobody would even think to check on him until the stink of rot set in, a few days from now.  Nobody would come to his funeral.  The vultures who descended on his few belongings might take his PC, maybe pick through his CDs and vinyls halfheartedly.  Forty-five years, and his only mark on the world would be a dumpster of old clothes and empty bottles.

He lay tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, helpless to do anything but wait for the end to come.  Would it hurt?  The sharp pains in his chest were frightening, but not the agony he expected.  Was this how Jed felt when he died?  Or had Lachlan coerced him into taking enough drugs that he’d slipped off quietly?  And what about his parents?  Had they faced death as he did now - alone, in pain, and petrified?  If so, this was no less than he deserved.

Little by little, the tightness in his chest loosened, allowing him to take longer, slower breaths.  His hands relinquished their grip on his shirt and flopped limply to his sides while his pulse gradually slowed.  Clarity of thought returned with the calm.  He wasn’t having a heart attack.  He wasn’t dying.  He was just going bloody barmy.

Stumbling out of bed, he picked his way blindly through his flat without switching the lights on, heading to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.  He’d much rather wet his parched throat with something stronger, but like a pure numpty he’d finished the last of his whisky on Wednesday after the shite show that was his last… ever?... meeting with Belle.

He quickly shoved thoughts of that last conversation aside.  He didn’t want to think about her just now.  He had enough on his mind right now.

Like nightmares.  He hadn’t had one of those in well over a decade, ever since…  He tried to think, taking a gulp of water between gasps.  Last time he’d had one of these episodes had to have been thirteen years ago, now, shortly after Arianwen was born.  Catherine had begged him to go sober for their baby daughter, and he’d checked himself into a two-week alcohol rehab program when she was eight months along.  She’d gone into labor shortly after he got back, and by the time their little family had been discharged from the hospital she’d been ready to jump into parenthood with both feet.

She hadn’t counted on being woken up by her newly-sober husband’s night terrors on top of their daughter’s nightly feedings and changings.  After those first few months, they were both so frazzled that only consideration for the baby had kept them from having screaming rows every night.  The word “divorce” had been thrown around more than once.  And when he started spending his evenings “practicing guitar” in the basement with his hand on the bottle more than the fretboard, Catherine said nothing.  He was pretty sure she’d just been relieved that she had one less screaming infant to comfort.

Lachlan drained his glass and set it on the counter.  The glowing numbers over the stove told him that it was after four in the morning.  Payday today, finally.  If he could just get through the next twelve hours, he’d have the money to pick up a bottle of whisky and drown out all of the regrets that threatened to overwhelm him.

With an exhausted sigh, he trudged back to bed, collapsing face first into his pillow.  He didn’t have to get up for work for a few more hours.  Chances were good his jittery nerves wouldn’t let him fall back asleep any time soon, but he could at least rest.  

******

“Lacey Rose French!  How many times have I told you to rinse your tupperware when you’re done with them?”  Belle slammed the lid back on the food container with a gag.  “Or at least don’t leave them in your lunch bag for days on end!” she yelled over the music as Lacey turned the volume up on her speakers.

“Yes, mum!” Lacey called from her perch on the couch, where she was painting her toenails.  “Anything else you want to lecture me on?  Want to make sure I did my homework?  Or set me a curfew?”

“I wish I could,” Belle muttered, plunging her arms back into the scalding dishwater.  Life would be infinitely easier if she didn’t have to pick her sister up from various bars and pubs more often than not, occasionally having to cover Lacey’s bar tab and add the sum to the running tally of money and favors that Belle was owed.  She scrubbed vigorously at her baking sheet, her efforts loosening only the top layer of caked on grime.  “And how many times do I have to ask you to use foil or my baking mat if you’re going to make nachos?”

“Oh my god, I get it!”

“Clearly you don’t, or you wouldn’t keep doing it!”  With a sigh, she stopped scrubbing.  Any more and she’d be scratching the surface of her good baking sheet.  Another ten minutes of soaking should loosen more of the crusted-on cheese, sauce and grease.

As she dried her pruned, reddened hands off on a dishtowel, she heard the opening strains of a familiar song.  It was a song from one of the CDs Lachlan had played last Saturday.  The familiar pang of heartache hadn’t really left her all week, but it sometimes liked to give a give a fresh stab to remind her that it was still there.

Spent my days with a woman unkind

Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine

Made up my mind to make a new start

Going to California with an aching in my heart

It had been one of her favorites off of that album, but now she couldn’t stand to listen to it.  “Turn that noise off!”

“Oh my god, Belle, what the fuck!”  Lacey reared up onto her feet, her stance awkward as she tried to keep her still-drying toes separated.  “Why are you being such a bitch this week?”

“Seriously?  You have to ask?”

“What, is this about last weekend?”  She rolled her eyes.  “I said I was sorry about that!  Brad had an emergency and had to leave.  If I’d known your boyfriend was gonna dump you over it, I would’ve sucked it up and called a cab.”

You should’ve done that anyway, she thought bitterly.  “Lachlan wasn’t my boyfriend,” she said, and oh, that shouldn’t have hurt to say as much as it did.  They’d had two dates.  It wasn’t exactly the end of a long-term relationship.  But seeing him, getting to know him and be known by him… it was the one thing she’d had to look forward to.  The one thing she did for herself, apart from reading.

“So his name’s Lachlan?” Lacey asked with a sly grin.  “Sounds like one of those muscley shirtless guys on those dirty books you keep under your bed.  Does he wear a kilt and live in a castle in the highlands?”

“Drop it,” Belle snarled.

Lacey huffed with a scowl.  “You know what?  You’re being fucking unbearable tonight.”  She packed up her pedicure kit (leaving the used cotton balls on the coffee table instead of throwing them away, Belle noticed) and stomped awkwardly off to her room, balancing on her heels to keep her toes apart.

She emerged less than ten minutes later ready to go out: hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing a sleeveless black shirt dress that was unbuttoned low enough to show her lacy violet bra.  On her feet were a pair of black strappy heeled sandals.

“I’m going out,” she announced unnecessarily.

“Wearing that?”

Lacey glared at her mutinously, but didn’t answer the question.  “As I was saying, I’m going out.  I can’t be around you right now.”  She snagged her purse and strode toward the door.  “Don’t wait up.  I’ll find a ride.”  

“Lacey--”

Slam!

With another sigh, Belle swept the used cotton balls off the coffee table and into the trash before the acetone could ruin the wood finish.  While she was at it, she swiped Lacey’s half-empty glass of soda from where it rested on one of Belle’s paperbacks.  The condensation beading on the glass had sunk into the cover; she hoped that in a few hours, the swollen ring would subside.  If it didn’t, at least it would match half of the rest of her books.

Turning in a full circle, she considered the apartment.  Dishes were soaking in the sink, but the kitchen was otherwise clean.  Nearly everything else was either done, or could wait until another day.  The only thing she’d been putting off was washing her sheets.  They’d stopped smelling like Lachlan days ago, but she hadn’t been able to commit to bringing them downstairs to the laundry.  

Tonight seemed as good a night as any, she reflected as she stripped the bed.  Lachlan was clearly done with her if his absence at the library tonight, as well as the lack of calls and texts, was any indication.  She still checked her phone every ten minutes or so, but refused to reach out herself.  She certainly wasn’t going to be the first to break the silence.  If he wanted to ask forgiveness for his unreasonable accusations, she’d be generous enough to hear him out.  As far as she was concerned, she had nothing to apologize for.  No matter how much part of her wanted to.

******

“Tryin’ to burn holes in her dress, Lach?”

“Huh?”  Lachlan tore his eyes from the billiard tables and spun on his barstool to look at his drinking partner.  His coworker, Tom, was sixty years old if he was a day, his brown, unstyled mullet and thick mustache liberally peppered with gray.  The foreman tended to have the two of them working the same jobs every day, so they’d gotten to chatting here and there.  Earlier today, Tom had noticed Lachlan’s shaking hands, and during their lunch break had brought Lachlan to the parking lot, ostensibly to help out with some car trouble.  The swig from the flask Tom kept under his passenger seat had fortified Lachlan enough to get through his shift, and as a repayment Lachlan had bought Tom his first round.

“Ye been lookin’ at that hen for the past half hour. I figure either she owes you money, or ye’d like a good look at what’s under that skirt.”

That hen was Belle as he had never seen her.  Apart from the one time he’d seen her in leggings, she always wore pretty, high-necked tops and flaring skirts that fluttered around her thighs.  Now she wore a black dress that looked more like a long men’s shirt, unbuttoned far enough that he could see her purple bra.  Her eyes, always a startling sky blue, stood out even further in the field of black eyeliner like twin moons in a night sky.  She was currently playing pool with some scruffy, greasy-haired man in a leather jacket… and mopping the floor with him, judging by their expressions.

“Just someone I know,” he said.  “Wasn’t expecting to see her here.”  He signaled the bartender for another whisky.

“So what the fuck are ye sittin’ here with me for, then?  Go talk to her!”

The bartender thunked a new glass in front of Lachlan, who nodded in thanks.  “Can’t,” he told Tom.  “She’s pissed off at me.”

Tom tried to take a swig of his beer and nod sagely at the same time, and wound up spilling down his front.  “Yer fault, I take it.”

“Hers.”  

Tom raised his eyebrows skeptically.  “Aye, that can happen, I s’pose.  Were you an arse about it?”

“Dunno.  Prob’ly, knowing me,” he admitted, taking a swallow of his drink with a grimace.

“So go fuckin’ talk to her!  Tell her yer sorry, make it sound good, and see if she’ll take you home.  Unless you’re lookin’ to spend yer night with me,” he joked, elbowing Lachlan in the ribs.

Lachlan snorted into his glass.  “Ugly bastard like you?  You’ll have to buy me a few more drinks first.”

“Pretty sure the wife wouldn’t want me takin’ home strays, anyway,” he muttered.  “Now go talk to her!  She just sunk the eight ball.  Now’s yer chance.”

He sat, considered.  He was still pissed off at her.  Not about kicking him out of the apartment - not anymore.  It was annoying, but it wasn’t like he was entitled to spend the night there whether she wanted it or not.  But the more he thought about it, the more it frustrated him that she volunteered so little about herself.  Oh, sure, he knew about books she liked, and her love of tea and baked goods, but getting anything personal out of her was like pulling teeth.  Maybe he was being a bit hypocritical - he hadn’t exactly spilled his guts to her - but hadn’t he earned something?  

But he missed her, damn it.  Not just because she got him out of the apartment, and not just for the sex.  Her bright smiles, her flirty giggles, the rapt look on her face when she listened to him, the faraway look in her eyes when she talked about something she cared about - all those little things filled a hole in him he hadn’t even realized was there.  This past week was the most lonely and miserable he’d felt since coming back to Scotland.  Wouldn’t it be worth it to swallow his pride just this once if it meant fixing things between them?

It would, he decided.  But only if she met him halfway.  He wasn’t going to grovel when 

Swallowing the last of his drink to fortify him, Lachlan wove through the tables to get to Belle.  She was currently bent over the table, re-racking the balls, and fuck, he could see her lacy purple knickers where her dress rode up.

“Any other takers?” she called as she stuffed her winnings from the last game into her bra.  Lachlan cleared his throat.  Belle glanced over her shoulder at him, then continued what she was doing.  “Yeah?”

“Belle.”

“Nope.”

He blinked, stricken.  Of all the reactions he might have expected, that definitely wasn’t one of them.  Anger, certainly.  The silent treatment, maybe.  But outright dismissal?  “Belle, can we please just talk?”

“Sorry, buddy, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”  Done racking up the balls, she chalked up a cue.  “If you want, you can call--”

“I don’t want to call you later!  I want to talk now!” he snapped.  Belle turned to face him, eyes narrowed.  Shite, how was he already cocking this up?  Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last drink or two.  “Please, Belle, I don’t want to fight,” he entreated.  “I’m sorry I accused you of cheating on your roommate with me.”  He reached out and laid a hand uncertainly on her shoulder.

She shrugged it off impatiently.  “My roommate.  Right.”  

If anything, she looked even angrier now.  This wasn’t going well at all.  “Belle - I - you’ve got to see things from my perspective,” he pleaded, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of his voice.  “You won’t tell me anything about him, except that he treats you like shite.  He calls you in the middle of the night, right when you were about to--”  He cut himself off.  She probably wouldn’t appreciate him announcing to the entire bar that she’d been about to ride his cock.  “And you just - just throw me out like yesterday’s trash.  Can you really fucking blame me for jumping to conclusions?”

Belle stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed.  He didn’t know if it was just his imagination, or an effect of the thick black eyeliner she wore, but the affection he’d missed so much in her eyes was gone.  He might as well have been a stranger.  Worse - he’d seen her greet strangers at the library with more warmth.  He fumbled nervously with his bracelet.

“Well… Lachlan…”  She paused, as though waiting for something.  Nothing happened, and she continued.  “Maybe I was being kind of a bitch.  Hell, I was probably being a huge bitch, knowing me.”

“I wouldn’t say--”

“I would,” she interrupted.  She leaned on her pool cue, cocking one hip out.  “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’d rather have you chop my leg off and beat me with it than fuck my roommate.”  She gave an exaggerated shudder.  “She and I barely put up with each other.”  

“So I gathered.”  He rubbed at his face in an effort to clear his head.  Something just felt off about this - something he couldn’t put his finger on.  “Belle, I don’t get it.  I know talking about your roommate is off-limits - god knows why - but I don’t understand why you put yourself out for someone you seem to hate.”

Lachlan must be drunker than he thought, because for a brief second he thought he saw a flash of hurt on her face.  “Who knows why the fuck I do anything,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  After a quick glance around the room, she laid her pool cue back on the table.  “Looks like nobody else has the balls to play me tonight.  Why don’t you buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you a bit about the roommate.”

“I… yeah.  That’d be great.”  Unable to believe his luck, he gestured for her to lead the way to the bar.  

******

Belle flipped over in bed for what was quite possibly the fiftieth time in the past hour.  Between working, cooking, cleaning, and her argument with Lacey, she was utterly exhausted and ready to sleep.  But she just couldn’t turn her brain off long enough to drift off.

If Lacey needed a ride home, she would have called or texted by now.  The bars were all closed by this point.  Objectively, Belle knew that she was probably in bed with one of her boyfriends.  What were their names again?  Brian, Tyler and Brad?  That sounded right.  But she’d never texted to say she wasn’t coming home.

Images played through her head like a silent movie.  Opening credits roll, and the title screen appears: Something Happened to Lacey and It’s All Her Sister’s Fault starring Belle and Lacey French.  Lacey dead in a ditch somewhere, or arrested and deported for drunk driving.  Lacey going home with the wrong guy, or choking on her vomit in a dark alley.  A thousand scenarios played through Belle’s head, each worse than the last, and in every one, the last thing Lacey ever heard from her sister was a complaint about a baking sheet and a criticism of an outfit.  Not “I love you.”  Not “stay safe,” or even “I’ll see you when you get home.”  Her last words to Lacey would be, “wearing that?”

Enough.  She couldn’t just lie in bed, desperately hoping for sleep, for another minute.  Tomorrow… or rather, today, because it was after three in the morning… was Saturday, the library’s busiest day.  In a perfect world, she’d be catching up on some much-needed sleep.  But that clearly wasn’t in the cards tonight.  The part of her that wasn’t currently worried sick about her twin felt a twinge of resentment.  Even when she had the night off from nursing her sister through drunkenness and the subsequent hangover, her night still wasn’t her own.  Not really.

Pacing the living room, Belle cast about for something productive to do.  The kitchen was clean, the floors freshly swept and mopped, laundry done, furniture dusted.  She resisted the temptation to peek into Lacey’s room with an effort; the last time she’d tried to do her sister a favor by folding her laundry and organizing her mail, Lacey had nearly taken her head off.  

There had to be something to do.  She was kneeling down in the kitchen to see if her pots and pans needed to be reorganized, when she noticed that the grout was looking a teensy bit gray.  It hadn’t had a proper scrubbing in… a month, probably.  Perfect.

The cold tile on her hands and knees, the smell of the cleaning product, the rhythm of the brush bristles against the grout - they didn’t soothe her, exactly, so much as give her a physical focus.  Her thoughts were too scattered to read, but this was mindless while still demanding her attention.  She gnawed at a bit of dead skin on her lower lip, teeth clicking together in time with the scrub brush.

By the time she finished scrubbing, rinsing and wiping the tile, the grout in between looked a shade or two lighter.  She nodded in satisfaction, tugging at the last piece of dead skin with her teeth.  She hissed as it came free, pulling a strip of live skin with it.  Tonguing the wound determined that it wasn’t bleeding.  

She really needed to break this habit.

At least her little chore had done its trick.  She was so exhausted she didn’t think she could stay awake another five minutes.  Just in time, too - the first gray of pre-dawn was peeking through the windows.  Collapsing into bed, Belle sent a single text out before succumbing to sleep.

Please just let me know you’re okay.

******

Lachlan cracked his eye to the morning sunlight, immediately squeezing it shut with a hiss when the light lanced through his brain.  His stomach roiled with nausea.  He swallowed hard to quell the urge to vomit.  Not a great start to the day.  It never was.

At least today he wouldn’t be suffering alone.  Last night Belle had matched him drink for drink, only leaving the bar long enough to queue up a few songs on the jukebox.  That had surprised him; he’d been under the impression that she rarely drank, if at all.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He’d been trying - okay, not very hard, but a bit - to get his drinking under control because he thought it was what she wanted.  Now he was seeing this whole different side of her.  It was… it was something to think about.

Later.  For now, he had a naked woman in his bed, and this time he intended to enjoy waking up next to her this time, even if his head was about to split apart.  Belle hadn’t been remotely interested in cuddling after sex last night, instead preferring to roll over to sleep.  Maybe she’d be in the mood now.  

Hopefully she wouldn’t mind taking a rain check on kissing.  His mouth tasted like a distillery, and he doubted hers was much better.

A quick grope around the bed revealed only empty sheets, devoid of any warmth other than his own.  His eyes snapped open, and he bit back a pained groan as the sunlight made his head throb.  

Belle was nowhere in sight.  The only trace of her was the slight fruity scent of her shampoo clinging to his pillow.  Frowning, he gingerly sat up, breathing hard against the nausea that threatened to bubble over.  Gathering what little strength he had, he heaved himself to his feet and staggered out to the living room. 

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me!”

Rage churned unpleasantly with the queasiness in his stomach, curdling together into a knot.  She fucking left!  After he’d swallowed his pride and practically begged her to talk to him - for the second time! - and spent the night buying her drinks and listening to her vent about her overbearing roommate.  After letting her crash here so she didn’t have to deal with said roommate, and having sex that felt impersonal and perfunctory compared to last Saturday.  She had the nerve to just leave without so much as a note or a text?

Fuck that.  She might not want to have a conversation with him, but she was getting just that, whether she liked it or not.  He yanked on last night’s clothes, too pissed off to root around his laundry basket for a clean outfit.  He just barely had the presence of mind to remember his sunglasses as he stomped out his apartment door.  Thankfully the day was relatively overcast.

Was this some sort of game to her?  What was the point?  Did she get some sort of rush out of this?  Did it give her an ego boost to find some useless waste, convince him that he mattered, make him fall for her, and cast him aside?  Well, she was about to find that he wouldn’t be ignored so easily.

Sheer indignation and force of will carried him down the street toward the library.  Teeth gritted against the dull throbbing in his head, he stormed toward the circulation desk, where Belle was helping a line of patrons waiting to check out books.  He cut to the front of the line without so much as glancing as anyone else.

“Lachlan, what--”

“We need tae talk,” he snarled.  “Now.”

Her eyebrows rose, unimpressed.  “Okay, first of all, don’t talk to me like that.  You may be angry with me, but I don’t deserve to be snapped at.”  She gestured behind him with a sweeping hand.  “Second, as you can see, I’m busy at the moment.  We can talk later.”

“No, fuck that!  We’re gonnae have this oot now.”  Damn it, he hated what anger did to his accent.  Now, of all times, he wanted to make sure he was damn well understood.  He gestured behind him to the same gawkers who were silently watching the two of them.  “So unless ye wannae give these tossers a show, I suggest ye find someplace private we can talk.”

The silence loomed between them as they stared at each other, her with her jaw set, him with his lips pressed in a thin line.  “Fine,” she bit out.  Then she called over her shoulder.  “Evelyn?”

The head librarian, Mrs. Campbell, emerged from her office.  “Yes, dear?” she asked in a kinder voice than he’d ever heard from the stern woman.  

Belle’s fiery blue eyes never left his.  “I need to take my lunch break a little early.  Can you take over for a bit?”

Her lips puckered a bit, but she nodded.  “Just this once,” she allowed.

“Thank you.  I really appreciate it.”  Circling around the desk, she breezed right past Lachlan, refusing to look back to make sure he followed.  Even with those impossibly high heels, she still managed to keep a pace so brisk he nearly had to trot to keep up.

She led him out of the building and around a corner, to a secluded stone bench.  She perched on one end, slipping a shoe off to rub the arch of her foot.  “Well?”  She gestured impatiently to the other end of the bench.  “You interrupt me at work when you can see I’m busy.  You snap at me and make rude demands, and then you insult my patrons right in front of their faces.  Now I’m giving up my lunch break to talk, just like you wanted.  So talk.”

“Oh, don’t do that.  Don’t act like I’m the arsehole here,” he snapped.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that.”  Her glare said that she knew exactly how she wanted to react, but chose not to.  “You’ve been angry with me all week.  What makes today so special?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”  Her confused look only set him off more.  “Last night,” he clarified.

“‘Last night?’” she echoed.  “Lachlan, I was home all night.  I didn’t call, or text, or do anything more interesting than clean my apartment.”

“Bollocks!  You were at the bar last night, playing pool.”  She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.  “Don’t bother denying it.  I saw you.  We talked.  We slept together.  So unless you’ve got a doppelgänger with the exact same accent, it was you.”

Belle paled.  Without a word, she rummaged through her purse until she found her phone, and made a call.  Her foot tapped impatiently while it rang.  Once it went to voicemail, she spoke.  He’d never heard her sound so angry.  “Lacey Rose French, I know you’re there.  You will video call me in the next five minutes or so help me, I will kick you out and find a roommate who actually pays rent.”  Then she hung up.

“Belle, what--”  

She silenced him with a raised hand.  “This is probably partially my fault,” she admitted quietly.  “I thought, maybe if you never met her, things would be different this time.”  

“Met who?  Your roommate?”  Christ, his head was not up for these hints and riddles.  “I don’t under--”

Her buzzing phone interrupted him.  Belle answered it, but before she could say anything, a familiar voice came through the speaker.  “God, Belle, what now?  Can’t a girl get some shut-eye?  I had a late night.”

“Apparently.”  She turned the phone toward Lachlan.  “Look familiar?” she asked.

Lachlan was about to tell her that she was being utterly ridiculous, when he did a double-take.  The ground seemed to fall out from under his feet, and he sank weakly to the bench.  There, on the screen of the phone in Belle’s hand, was… Belle.

There were subtle differences, he saw now.  Differences he’d been too drunk to look for.  Hadn’t even known to look for, really.  The woman on the phone - Lacey? - wore her hair straight where Belle’s was curled, and wore more eye makeup.  Her cheekbones and chin were sharper, but apart from that, they were identical.  The same blue eyes, the same pale skin and cupid’s bow mouth.

The woman in the phone winced.  “Ah, fuck.  This isn’t--”

Belle turned the phone back around.  “I’ll deal with you when I get home,” she said ominously, ending the call.

The silence loomed between them.  Lachlan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them.  He cast his mind back over the past few weeks, the morning’s revelation shining light on so much that had baffled him.  Her roommate was her sister.  Not a boyfriend, or a fuck-buddy.  That was why she dropped everything to pick Lacey up.  He could understand that.  He’d never done the same for Jed - one had to be sober to be a designated driver, and Lachlan could count his sober nights in Manchester on two hands - but he understood wanting to do anything for family.  

But things were different between Belle and her sister than they’d been for him and Jed, he thought with a grimace.  Lachlan had idolized his older brother, and Jed had taken Lachlan under his wing, never letting him feel left out even when his older friends didn’t want to hang out with the little kid.  Even with three years separating them, they’d been thick as thieves all their lives.  But listening to the way Belle and Lacey talked about each other, they could hardly stand to be in the same room.  

“I didn’t know you had a twin,” he finally said stupidly.

“That was the idea,” came her muffled reply.  He looked over her and saw her face buried in her hands.  After a moment she lowered them.  For the first time that morning, he really looked at her.  Without the lens of rage clouding his vision, he finally noticed just how tired she looked.  There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin lacked its usual luster.  Her face was completely blank, her eyes dull and lifeless.  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Lachlan’s brow lowered in confusion.  “For what?”

“Everything.”  She sighed, her shoulders slumping on the exhale.  “For hiding Lacey from you, and getting angry when you called me on it.  For being a jerk when you just wanted an explanation.”  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  “For leading you on.”

His heart stuttered to a halt.  She couldn’t be saying what he thought.  They were just starting to figure things out.  “What are you saying?” he asked.

“I can’t…”  She gestured vaguely.  “...do this.  Be what you want.  Be like…”  She swallowed, sniffed, chewed hard on her lower lip.  “I just don’t have it in me.”

“Belle, no.  You’re what I want.”  He reached a hand out to her.  She flinched away from him, hugging her arms around her stomach like she’d been kicked.  His hand flopped down between them.  

He didn’t know what to do; several rash impulses warred within him.  He wanted to kiss her until she got over whatever the hell was bothering her.  He wanted to shake and snarl at her for keeping secrets and letting this mess pile up between them.  He wanted to beat the ever-loving shite out of himself for not being more patient.  He wanted to chew Lacey out for… fuck it, for everything.  

And under all that, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a dark room and nurse his hangover with some of the hair of the dog that bit him.

Dimly he recognized that all of those were fucking awful ideas - immediate gratifications that solved nothing.  Story of his life, that.

With a glance at her phone, Belle stood up and dusted off the back of her skirt.  “Break’s over.  I need to go,” she mumbled.  

He didn’t know what to do.  So he let her go.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Protect My Heart: Part 12

Fandom: Marvel (Bodyguard AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You’re an actress and after an assassination attempt on your life, your manager hires a bodyguard that will be with you 24/7.

A/N: For @buckthegrump ‘s writing challenge.

Bucky throws the tray of food across the room. Wishing that if his body didn’t hurt so much, he’d kick and punch anything and everything in this hospital room. Hope, Sam, and Nat both look at him solemnly as he breaks down. 

“It should’ve been me! Why wasn’t it me?!” he continues to pick up and throw things as his team watches him. 

“They did the best that they could, Bucky.” Nat said as calmly and softly as possible. 

He shook his head, eyes red and filled with anger...and guilt, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to protect her. I failed.”

“We all did, man,” Sam spoke up.

Bucky scoffed, “But none of you loved her. Not like I did. I promised I’d keep her safe,” he grits his teeth and glares at his somber looking team, “Get out,” he sneers. With no resistance, they do, leaving their leader to wallow in his pain. 

___________________

You’re swinging your legs as they hang off the counter, watching Bucky stir the soup on the stove, “Usually chicken soup is for when people are sick. Not when they can’t sleep or have nightmares.”

He shrugged, “’M gonna be honest, I’m only doing this ‘cause I’m sick of the amount of milk I’ve been drinking with you.”

Your mouth drops open offendedly and you smack his arm, “You could’ve just declined whenever I made you a cup! Ugh!” you cross your arms over your chest and he chuckles.

“Yeah, but I didn’t wanna deal with your attitude if I did decline. And don’t even think about saying you wouldn’t gimme an attitude. We both know you would.”

You scoffed, “Fine. Point taken.”

“Good. Now hand me the bowls, please.”

You comply, handing the dishes that lay next to you. You watch as he ladles out some into each bowl and then turn the stove off. You hop off the counter and move to the couch where your usual late night shenanigans occur. 

“It’s 2am and you’re both eating soup?” Hope asks as she walks into the kitchen. 

You shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep. There’s more there if you want.”

“Pass, but thanks.”

Bucky sits back eating his soup and watching how you interact with Hope. There’s a sense of ease coming off you and he’s happy. When him and his team first arrived, he could see how awkward and uncomfortable it was. But now, two months later, you’re no longer tense. When he hears your soft laugh as you’re talking to Hope, he finds himself smiling. He likes the sound of your laugh. A lot.

“What’s got you all doey-eyed over there, Barnes?” you ask as you sip some of your soup. 

His smile widens and he just shrugs, “Just stuff.” He watches as you roll your eyes and mutter, “Whatever,” going back to your soup. There’s a fluttering in his chest and heart. Maybe this was when he realized he was starting to have feelings for you. 

______________________ 

Bucky is on medical leave while the rest of the team continues their search for Pierce, Rawlins, and Rumlow. That’s probably best because he knew that if he got to them, he’d rip their limbs off one by one. 

He’s stuck in this hospital room until he can move without wincing. It still hurts to breathe. With every rise and fall of his chest, the stab wounds move and he just wishes he can’t breathe. 

No word about your death has made it on the news, which is good. You probably would want it that way. Only have your closest friends and family know. 

Steve has visited him every day since he was admitted. He’s grateful that his old friend doesn’t blame him for his friend and client’s untimely death. 

“How’re you doing today, Buck?” Always the same question.

“Fine.” Always the same answer.

Steve nods and just sits in the chair beside the bed, “They’re close, Buck. The team’s closing in on them. They’re gonna get them.”

“I should be there. Make them feel exactly how i do,” he grits.

Steve sighs, “We all know that if you were there with them, you’d show no mercy. These guys are gonna rot in jail for the rest of their lives.”

“That’s not good enough!” Bucky sneers at his old friend, “They killed her, Steve! Killed her! They took her away from me and they need to pay!”

“And they-”

“Rotting in jail is too good for them! I want them to suffer! I want to see the light leave their eyes as I stab all of ‘em six times in the chest! Three for me and three for-” he lets out a sob, “for Y/N.”

“You’ll get your justice, Bucky. Maybe not in the way you want, but it’s still justice. Getting these guys and throwing them into jail is the type of closure that you and Y/N need.”

He scoffs, “How would you know what she’d need?”

“You forget that Y/N has been my friend and client for years,” Steve stands up angrily from the chair, “You’re not the only one who cared about her, Bucky. I love her too. She was my friend, a sister. So stop acting like everyone doesn’t know how you’re feeling.” without another word, Steve stormed out from the room. A glass vase shattering as soon as the door closes. 

__________________________

“He’s losing it. Knowing that he’s stuck in bed and not being able to help is really frustrating him.”

“Yeah, he threw his food at me. All I asked was if he needed help changing. Then food is thrown at me! Such a waste of perfectly good food!” Sam cries out. 

Nat shook her head, “We’re almost there. As soon as we get word of their next location, we get ‘em. Alive or dead, they’re ours.”

“I just want this to all be over.” Eyes all look over to you, who’s sitting at the very end of the table. You look tired, and the bags under your eyes makes it all blatantly clear that you need sleep, “I just-I feel bad. He thinks I’m dead! Why can’t we just tell him?”

Steve shook his head, “Y/N, you know that it’s not a good idea. He’s emotionally compromised. His feelings for you already put you in enough danger. We can’t let him mess this up even more. So in the meantime, you’re quiet and laying low.” You open your mouth to say something, but Steve continues, “I know it sucks and I know you want to comfort him, but please, trust them. They’re gonna get these guys and you can live your life without having to worry about the target on your back.”

You slowly nod your head and mumble out, “Okay.” You understood why this was so important, faking your death. It was giving Rawlins and Pierce and false sense of security. And once they slip up, the team will strike and you’ll never have to deal with them again. For real this time. And you’ll be off living your life safely, possibly with Bucky by your side. That is, if he doesn’t hate you after this is over.

Protect My Heart Taglist (CLOSED): @badassbaker @mrsdaamneron @avengersbabe13@hiddles-rose @denimandcabernet @courtmr @bitchwhytho@thebookwormslytherin @emilysallysmith @partiallyinthecloset@randomfandompenguin @thefridgeismybestie @wellfucksorrymum@moonlightbae14 @feelmyroarrrr @chewymoustachio @doctoranon@winchesterandpie @myawkwardnessisshowing @aletheladyinred @lilbit-ofsunlight @hennessy0274-blog @farfromjustordinary @msanimeotaku181 @evilzinblr @desibarnes @usernamemingmei @ravenshadowsoldier@viarogers @ediblemurderer @mavelfanatic @justrepostandlove

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part One {AO3} {Read from the Beginning}

Chapter Four → in which Nick and Klaus finally get into a Library

“Do you think if one of us died, the rest’d get transferred somewhere else?” Nick asked, hanging upside-down from the rotting couch. “I’ll take one for the team.”

“Nick, get off of that and help us dust.” Lilac said.

The children’s brief hope that they might be able to make themselves feel at home here had been quashed quite fast. They’d only been there a few days, but they’d already begun to hate every part of the house; since they used the curtains as blankets, the sun shining through the window every morning woke them up incredibly early, which was not good for Lilac and Nick- especially since they couldn’t find a coffee machine, meaning that without her daily dose of caffeine, Lilac was grumpy for at least half the day.

It might’ve been a bit better if their new guardian had been kind, but, well, that didn’t seem to be the case. The only real good thing about him was that he wasn’t around often- he was usually out of the house or up in his tower room, where the children weren’t allowed to be. They occasionally saw him at nighttime, but they rarely tried to talk to him, as he seemed to not like them a lot, and Lilac mentioned feeling uncomfortable around him, and if Lilac didn’t like someone, it meant that her siblings hated them. The most communication they had with him were the list of instructions he would leave in the kitchen for them in the morning; he tended to leave them incredibly difficult chores, such as repairing the porch or cleaning out the chimney, but none of the children dared to find out what would happen if they failed to complete the list by nightfall, especially after his threats from the first day.

What infuriated the twins most, though, was that instead of signing his name at the bottom of the page, Olaf simply signed with the drawing of an eye.

The same drawing of an eye they saw everywhere.

“It’s like he’s taunting us.” Nick said, after remaining on the couch for another minute, pulling out the note and staring at the signature. “Like he knows we don’t know what it is and thinks it’s funny to throw it in our faces.”

“Do you want to ask him?” Violet asked, dropping her duster and walking over, snatching the note from her brother’s hands.

“Do you think he’d tell us?” Nick groaned.

“Shut up and help us.” Violet said.

“I am helping, I’m watching Sunny.” Nick said.

Sunny, who was too small to reach many places she’d have to while dusting the living room, had been placed on a couch, where her job was to look for insects and warn her siblings of them. She took her job very seriously, and she was still scanning the room, biting onto the edge of a stick they’d found for her in the yard. While Soli was also small, she was slightly larger than her sister, so she was allowed to crawl under tables and clear away cobwebs. Lilac and Violet were climbing on top of furniture to reach high places, while Klaus was mainly dusting the shelves; nobody really trusted him not to fall off of things.

“There’s nothing for me to do anyway.” Nick said.

“You could get started on the next room.” Lilac said.

“The note only said ‘living room.’” Nick shrugged. “Check it, Vi.”

“I know what it says.” Violet rolled her eyes.

“I know,” Lilac said, “But maybe… maybe if we show Olaf how hard-working we are, he’ll be a bit nicer to us.”

“Or maybe he’ll just give us more shit to do.”

“Nick, language.”

“I’m with Nick here, actually.” Klaus said quietly. “We should just do this room and get it over with.”

“Then what?” Violet asked. “What else do we have to do? We don’t have school.”

“I wish all our books didn’t burn up.” Klaus said quietly.

“Strau!” Soli called from beneath a table. “Justice Strauss said we could visit her anytime, and didn’t she have a library?”

“Hey, yeah, we could go there!” Klaus said.

“Look,” Lilac said, “She said we could go over, but we don’t want to bother her, she’s probably very busy, and we have chores to do. So, Nick, if you could get off your ass and help out a little, that’d be great.”

Nick rolled his eyes, but nodded, standing up and grabbing his duster off of the sofa. “Sunny, you’re watching yourself now.”

“Ooh.” Sunny said. “Cool.”

Nick wandered over to Klaus, watching as Soli crawled out from under the table and went to look under the couch. Once he was sure Lilac and Violet had stopped paying attention to him, he quietly asked his twin, “Do you still have it?”

“Of course.” Klaus nodded, reaching into his pocket to feel the cylinder. “Always with me.”

“I don’t want it to go missing.” Nick said. “It’s the only clue we have.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Klaus said. “Maybe we can find something about it. Maybe we could go into town and check the public library.”

“The public library sucks, Klaus,” Nick reminded him, “We’d be lucky to find anything in there.”

“It’s not that bad-”

“They don’t have anything more recent than twenty years ago, and the Librarian doesn’t say anything, other than asking me if I’ve been good to my Mother.”

Both boys fell silent at that.

“You’re right, I do remember that.” Klaus said.

“What the hell would we tell him now, anyway?” Nick sighed.

Quietly, they got back to cleaning, the conversation having turned a bit too upsetting for them at the moment.

The next day, however, the twins got their way, when they went down to the kitchen for their list of chores for the day. Violet, carrying Sunny, moved over to the pot on the stove first, grabbing cracked bowls from the counter so she could dish out their breakfast- Olaf always left them cold oatmeal, so at least they had some food for the day. Nick and Klaus went to set the table, the former carrying Soli, and Lilac grabbed the note, reading it over. She read it over quite a few times, as Violet finished dishing out food, and Klaus helped her carry it over to the table, leaving Nick to wrestle the napkins away from Soli, who had gotten bored and wanted to bite something.

When they were finally all sitting, Lilac read the note aloud.

“My theater troupe will be coming for dinner before tonight’s performance. Have dinner ready for all six of us by the time we arrive at seven o’clock. Buy the food, prepare it, set the table, serve dinner, clean up afterwards, and stay out of our way.”

“We don’t have any money.” Violet said quickly.

“There’s a small bag on the table.” Lilac said glumly, handing the note to Klaus. “I assume that’s got money. We’ll have to count it out to find out what we can afford.”

“None of us can cook for shit.” Nick said.

“Language.” Lilac said. “And I’m aware of that, we all know what happens when we try to make anything that’s not toast.”

“And sometimes we burn the toast.” Klaus said, smiling a little. “Do you remember, about a week after Soli was born, when we tried to make our parents breakfast-”

“And we got distracted by Nick trying to wake Soli just to spite her,” Lilac nodded, “And we burnt the toast.”

“Hmm?” Soli asked. “I don’t remember that.”

“That was before I liked you.” Nick said, grinning over at the toddler. “Remember? Took me six weeks, and then we were best friends.”

“You tried to throw her off the roof.” Violet reminded him.

“That’s just sibling bonding.”

“But anyway,” Lilac said, “Remember we tried to put it out, and we messed it up worse, and Mother and Father woke up smelling smoke-”

“And they ran down, and just saw us staring at the black toast like it was the biggest disappointment of our lives.” Violet giggled. “And they just laughed and laughed, and made us pancakes.” Sunny grinned a little at that; she loved pancakes.

“Yeah.” Klaus said. “But I think we can all agree the biggest disappointment of our lives is Nick.”

“Oh, you wanna go there, Baudelaire?” Nick asked, fake-glaring at his twin. “You really need to respect your elders.”

“We’re twins.”

“Yeah, but I’m older.”

“By thirteen minutes, that’s hardly-”

“Tagenon.” Sunny said quietly. “I wish we had pancakes, this oatmeal has no flavor.”

They fell silent, remembering the pancakes their parents used to make.

“I wish they were here.” Violet said quietly.

“They’d never let us stay in this awful place.” Lilac agreed.

“If they were here,” Klaus said softly, “We wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“Klaus-” Lilac began.

“I hate it here, Lilac!” Klaus said suddenly, glaring down at the table, as Nick and Violet both jumped in surprise. “I hate this house! I hate our room! I hate having to do all of these chores, I hate Count Olaf-”

Lilac reached over the table to put a hand over her brother’s. “I know.” she said. “I hate it, too.”

Klaus looked over at his sister, his expression shifting quickly from anger to relief. Just hearing someone agree with him made him feel a lot better.

“I hate everything about our lives right now.” Lilac said. “But we have to keep our chin up, right?”

Klaus bit his lip. “It’s a bit hard right now, Li.”

“Well, there’s always something.” Lilac said. “We’ll find something. But first, we need to find out what to do about this whole ‘cooking’ thing.”

“We could find a cookbook.” Klaus said. “Read up on how to cook.”

“I don’t think there are any cookbooks in here.” Nick said. “Remember, Sunny and Soli went through the cabinets to look for bugs the other day.”

“There aren’t any books in this house.” Violet groaned.

“Don’t remind me.” Klaus said.

“We could go visit Justice Strauss.” Nick suggested.

They glanced at Lilac, who sighed. “I don’t see any other option.” she said. “Let’s hope she’s not busy.”

Justice Strauss wasn’t busy after all; she opened the door very quickly after Lilac knocked, smiling at the children. “Hello, Baudelaires!” she said brightly. They all greeted her, and she said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to visit the last few days, but I’ve been very busy with a high court case.”

“What’s it about?” Klaus asked, suddenly interested.

“I can’t say much,” the adult said, “Only that it involves a poisonous plant and illegal use of someone’s credit card.”

“Yeeka.” Sunny said from Klaus’s arms, which meant, “How interesting!”

“Justice Strauss,” Lilac asked, “I’m sorry, but do you have any cookbooks we could borrow? We’re preparing dinner for Olaf and his troupe tonight, and we can’t find a cookbook in the house.”

Justice Strauss looked surprised. “My goodness, cooking dinner for an entire theater troupe seems like a lost to ask of children.”

The kids got a bit quiet. “Count Olaf gives us a lot of responsibility.” Violet said finally.

“Well, come on in.” Justice Strauss said. “You can find any book you like.”

The siblings followed Justice Strauss into her elegant house, and they went through a hallway and into an enormous room that immediately delighted them all- especially Nick and Klaus, who both lit up upon seeing it. They had walked into her private library, and there were shelves of books from floor to ceiling, and more shelves throughout the room, and books scattered across the ground; the only places without books were the corners filled with chairs and tables.

“This is beautiful!” Violet said quickly.

“Wow!” Soli squealed.

“Lilac, can we live here?” Nick asked, only half-jokingly.

“Thank you all so much.” Justice Strauss said, smiling brightly. “I’ve been collecting for years. You can take any books you like, so long as you keep them in good condition.”

Klaus looked like all his dreams had come true at once.

“That’s very kind of you.” Lilac said.

“The cookbooks are on the Eastern wall.” Justice Strauss said. “Should I get show you?”

“Yes, please,” Lilac nodded, “And… if it’s not too much trouble, do you have any books on mechanical engineering?”

“Inventing is an interest of ours.” Violet said, gesturing between her and her sister.

“And do you have any books on wolves?” Klaus asked. “Recently I’ve been fascinated by wild animals of North America.”

“I’d be interested in more books on tide pools.” Nick admitted.

Soli and Sunny glanced at each other, wondering what books they could request. Finally, Soli just said, “Book!”

Justice Strauss smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see young people like yourselves show such an interest in books. Why don’t you find a recipe you like first, though?”

“That’s a great idea.” Lilac nodded, smiling.

They each took a cookbook from the shelf, moving to a small table. As they sat down, Klaus hesitantly looked over at Justice Strauss, and pulled the cylinder from his pocket. “Justice Strauss,” he asked, “Have you ever seen one of these?”

Justice Strauss looked at it curiously, and after a moment, Klaus handed it over to her to look at closer. “No, I can’t say I have. What is it?”

“It was… something our parents had. It broke in half, though.”

“Hmm.” Justice Strauss handed it back. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll tell you as soon as I hear something.”

“I found something!” Violet suddenly said.

“What?” Klaus asked, turning and pocketing the cylinder.

“Pasta Puttanesca.” she said, holding up the cookbook she’d been flipping through.

“That sounds Italian.” Lilac noted.

“I wonder what it means.” Klaus said.

“I think it means ‘very few ingredients.’” Nick said.

“That’s great.” Lilac said, looking like she didn’t care at all.

Klaus considered a moment. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“I don’t think you’re right.” Nick retorted.

“Boys.” Lilac sighed, trying to remind them to behave in front of Justice Strauss. “Violet, what does the recipe call for?”

“All we need to do,” Violet said, as Sunny peered over her shoulder, “Is saute olives, capers, anchovies, garlic, chopped parsley, and tomatoes together in a pot, and prepare spaghetti to go with it.”

“That’s a lot of things.” Klaus said.

“Sounds easier than I thought.” Lilac said, as Soli picked up a random cookbook and started flipping through the pages, looking at the pictures of food. “We can copy the recipe onto scrap paper, so we won’t have this book in the kitchen with all the sauce, and then we can go into town to get the ingredients.”

“I’d be happy to go with you.” Justice Strauss said. “You children probably shouldn’t be wandering the local market by yourselves.”

Lilac hesitated. “Would that be a bother?”

“Of course not. I’d be perfectly happy to help you children.” Justice Strauss assured them.

The siblings smiled at each other, and then Lilac picked up Sunny, and Nick picked up Soli, and the eldest Baudelaire said, “Alright, then. Let’s go to the market.”

Count Olaf had not given the Baudelaires very much money, but they managed to buy everything they needed. Justice Strauss brought them to the local market, and they split up to cover more ground- Justice Strauss and Sunny bought olives at a street vendor, while Violet and Klaus picked up enough noodles for twelve people- the six members of the troupe plus the six of them- and Lilac, Nick and Soli went to the supermarket for the rest of the ingredients. While they were there, Lilac used the last of their funds to buy a pudding mix for dessert.

“Maybe Count Olaf will be a bit nicer to us if we go above and beyond.” she repeated, and Nick didn’t bother arguing with her, instead spending his time trying to entertain Soli, who found shopping quite boring.

The six children then walked home with Justice Strauss, and the two who were not holding infants- Violet and Klaus- carried their grocery bags. “Thank you again for helping us so much.” Violet said as they approached their neighborhood.

“Yeah,” Nick added, “We would’ve been so lost without you, none of us can fend for ourselves.”

“Nick, that’s a lie.” Lilac said.

“I’m thanking her.”

“I’m sure Lilac’s right,” Justice Strauss said, carrying her own groceries, “You seem like very intelligent people, you probably would have thought of something. Though it does still seem odd to me that Count Olaf has asked you to prepare such an enormous meal all by yourselves.”

“It’s alright, really.” Klaus said cautiously.

They stopped in front of Justice Strauss’s house, and she said, “Now, I hope you children will come over again soon! You can borrow any books from my library that you want-”

“Can we come over tomorrow?” Klaus asked.

Lilac elbowed him, but Justice Strauss just said, “Of course!”

“We can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.” Violet said.

She and her siblings then shared a quick look; they wondered if they were supposed to do something in return. They hadn’t had much interaction with adults outside of their parents and Count Olaf, the latter of whom treated them horribly.

“Tomorrow, before we use your library again,” Lilac said, “We could do some household chores for you.”

“Soli and Sunny can’t do much, but they could find some way to help.” Nick added, as Solitude leaned a head onto his shoulder.

Justice Strauss gave the group of children a smile, but they were a bit alarmed to see that she looked sad. She reached out to put a hand on Lilac’s shoulder, and Lilac felt more comforted than she had in a long while. “That won’t be necessary.” she said softly. “You children are always welcome in my home.”

The children smiled, and waved goodbye as Justice Strauss went into her own house.

“Well.” Nick said quietly. “Guess we better get started in the kitchen.”

“Hopefully nobody sets anything on fire.” Klaus said, his face falling slightly.

“Hopefully we get it done before Count Olaf and his troupe arrive.” Lilac said. “Come on, let’s get started.”

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

sign up now for a free trial! [part vii/vii]

Ben catches feelings and decides to take things to the next level with his long-time roommate, close friend, and occasional hook-up. Rey, ever the more sensible half of the duo, decides that they should make sure a relationship between them won’t be a total disaster first.

What they need is a trial run.

Featuring: awkward run-ins with a family member, even more awkward holidays with the whole family, and fluff. So much fluff. All the fluff.

It’s the last chapter, and I’m getting unnecessarily emotional about it so just... keep reading for Ben and Rey and a shit ton of fluff and a happy ending. I’ll be here, trying to pull it together in time for the thank-you note.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI Also available on AO3.

On Saturday, Rey wakes to the sound of Ben puttering about the kitchen.

She heads to the bathroom to wash up, makes a quick stop by her room to get shorts (how long has it been since she last slept in her own bed, anyway?), and enters the kitchen to find Ben making breakfast for two.

“Hey, you,” Ben smiles, looking up briefly from the French toast he’s preparing.

“Hey,” Rey replies, wrapping her arms around him from behind.  She presses her forehead to the curve of his spine and lingers for a moment before stepping away. “What’s all this?”

“I vaguely remember saying something about making breakfast more often, so,” he shrugs, shaking his head at her when Rey snags a slice of bacon off the counter. “And hey, guess what?”

Rey heads for the fridge in search of orange juice. “What?”

“It’s Saturday,” Ben tells her, waiting for her to turn back to him before he continues. “We��ve been together for a week.”

A whole week, gone by just like that. Rey can’t even remember why she ever thought being with Ben would be anything but as easy and natural as breathing. “Would you look at that?” she murmurs in wonder, setting down the carton of orange juice to loop an arm around Ben’s neck and bring him down for a kiss. “Happy one-week anniversary, I guess.”

He comes willingly, abandoning the stove as his hands find her waist and hold her steady while she stands on her toes to reach him. “Happy one-week anniversary,” Ben echoes with a slight laugh, capturing her lips in another kiss before Rey can pull away. Her fingers find his hair of their own accord, and she can feel his hands slipping down to the back of her thighs when a telltale smell hits her nose.

“Ben,” Rey murmurs against his lips before she lets go of him and steps away. A disgruntled sound finds it way past his throat, something dangerously close to a whine – not that he’ll ever admit to it. She shakes her head at him with a grin and points at the stove. “The toast.”

The haze in his eyes instantly gives way to clear panic. “Oh, shit.”

Rey laughs and Ben grimaces and breakfast, even if the French toast ends up slightly… crispier than they’re used to, is perfect.

“So,” Ben says after breakfast, as they’re on their way to get groceries. “Now that we’ve been together for one whole week–” And here they share matching grins because sure, it’s only been a week and no one actually celebrates that but it still feels like something. “I think it’s time I tell you the full story about my life before I came here.”

Rey stops short, and their joined hands cause Ben to stop too. “Are you sure?” she asks, searching his eyes for any hint of reluctance or uncertainty. “You don’t have to tell me until you’re ready to talk about it, Ben. I don’t mind.”

He sighs. “As much as I hate to admit it, my father was right. I’m going to have to talk about it at some point, and right now I’d rather talk about it with you than anyone else. I want you to know who I was before this, the way I know who you used to be. You’ve never hidden your past from anyone, Rey, especially not from me. If I’m only ever going to share my past with one person, I want it to be you.”

It’s… it’s an offering, Rey realizes. It’s his way of saying that he trusts her enough to let her in, trusts her not to run away from whatever he’s about to tell her.

“Okay,” she gives him a small smile, squeezing his hand in hers as they start walking again. “If you’re ready to tell me, then I want to hear it. I want to know all of you.”

And so, Ben tells her about the child whose mother was never around, the child whose father tried his best but just couldn’t quite understand him.

“They thought maybe Luke would have a better chance at getting through, because I was always reading and learning and writing so hey, why not send the lonely kid to live with his workaholic uncle who barely had time to take care of himself?”

Eventually Ben went to law school the way his mother had, the way everyone had always expected him to, because there just wasn’t any other path for him. He wasn’t happy but he wasn’t unhappy either, and he’d resigned himself to a life of never quite being content.

“And then, halfway through my first year in college, the scandal happened,” he says quietly, clutching Rey’s hand as they walk down an aisle of instant noodles. Ben had been eighteen the year his family’s secret was revealed, which means Rey couldn’t have been any older than ten or eleven.

But even she remembers. “The press found out about your grandfather.”

“You know, my mom tried for years to figure out who could have had that information and, of that very small list of people, who would have leaked it. Sometimes I tell myself that if I had known it was Snoke all along, if I’d known he was the one responsible for putting her through hell, I never would have gone to work with him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Rey insists. “Ben, I know you. You love your mother. There’s no way you would have agreed to even speak to him if you knew.”

Ben shakes his head. “You can’t understand what was going through my mind at the time, Rey. I think even I don’t understand. But I was angry, and hurt, and above all I felt like some stupid kid they didn’t even trust enough to share the secret with. So when Snoke offered me an internship that summer, I took it so that I wouldn’t have to work with my mom. When he told me that my grandfather was really just a misunderstood man, I fell for it because no one else had ever told my otherwise. No one in my family ever talked about my grandfather, and I finally knew why. I interned with Snoke every summer throughout college, and then I went to work for him after graduation.”

He doesn’t tell her much about the nearly four years he worked for Snoke, and Rey doesn’t push. She just stays close to him and keeps her free hand in his as they pick out groceries, as if nothing’s amiss. Even when Ben tells her about the way Snoke would berate him for hours, even when he struggles to recount the ways Snoke tried to use him against Leia, Rey ignores the urge to drop everything and pull him to her and cry for him. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to break down in public, and if Ben had wanted comfort he wouldn’t have chosen to tell her this here.

“When he announced his plan to run against my mom in the next election, it got worse. He didn’t want me to just dig up information anymore; he wanted me to actively sabotage her, to use her trust and her love for me and turn it into something twisted, something to be exploited. I couldn’t do it… Rey, I couldn’t do it,” Ben mumbles into the curve of her neck, and she puts down her basket to hold him for just a moment.

Ben pulls away eventually – maybe two minutes later, maybe two hours later. “Around that time my mother started really looking into Snoke; she could pour actual resources into him now that he was her opponent. And when they found out that he was the one responsible for the leak, when they found out that even Palpatine had labelled Snoke too distasteful to work with, my dad didn’t even hesitate. He got a copy of the file, and he jumped right into his car and drove to my office. Just… walked right into the goddamn dragon’s lair because his son had been stupid enough to get trapped there and his sole priority was getting me out.”

This has to be it, then – the part where Ben nearly killed his father, the part where he finally snapped out of it and took the first step away from that life, the first step towards becoming the man she knows today.

“He confronted me right in front of Snoke, basically gave away every single bit of information my mom’s team had. When he was done I was just… I was in shock. It felt like I wasn’t even in my own body. Both he and Snoke thought it meant that I didn’t care, that all of it changed nothing for me. So he left, and Snoke… Snoke finally realized that the file in my father’s hand had enough information to lock him away for a very long time, and the fact that I now knew all of it made me more of a liability than anything. So he ordered me to intercept my father on his way out and run him down. An accident, he said they’d call it,” Ben scoffs, his voice sharp with bitterness. “I realized later he was never going to paint it that way; the end goal was for my father to die and for me to rot in prison.”

“But he failed,” Rey points out gently when Ben falls silent. She reaches up and curves her hand around his cheek, smiles when he closes his eyes and leans into her touch. “Snoke was wrong about you. You weren’t on his side, you didn’t kill your father, and you didn’t betray your mother. Everything he ever said about you was wrong, Ben. You are so much more than Snoke could ever have hoped to be, and he thought he could blind you to that and use your potential for his own gain instead but he was wrong.”

It seems like forever before Ben speaks, before she can breathe again. “Snoke was wrong about a lot of things,” he finally says, turning his head to press a kiss to the hand on his cheek. “Like my name. What kind of idiot calls himself Kylo Ren?”

He grins, and maybe her laugh is a little too loud but she’s too fucking relieved to care about the fact that they’re standing in the frozen food aisle with tears shining in their eyes and an abandoned basket at their feet.

“I like Ben Solo much better,” Rey tells him.

“Good,” Ben smiles. “Because Rey Ren would sound so stupid.”

It takes him about two seconds to realize what he’s just said, what he’s just implied and revealed and suggested all in one breath.

Rey kisses him before he can freak out.

The next morning, with her head on his chest and his arm around her waist, Rey says, “You know, you never did answer Maz’s question.”

“Hmm?” Ben asks, his hand still tracing indecipherable patterns into her side.

Rey turns around and props herself up with one arm, the ends of her hair falling over her shoulder to brush against Ben’s chest. “Maz’s question, during lunch. Do you know what you want to do yet?”

Because he’s due to complete his master’s soon, just a few months from now, and a year after that Rey will be done with her degree too, and who knows where life will take them after that?

“I’ve been thinking,” Ben says slowly, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Maybe my parents were right, when they sent me to Luke thinking that I had more in common with him than them.”

Rey furrows her brow as she tries to puzzle out what he’s saying. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I like research. And I like teaching. And I like being on campus. So maybe I should follow in my uncle’s footsteps after all and just… stay here,” Ben shrugs. “In Coruscant U. Apply to the PhD program after I graduate next year, and see where that takes me.”

“So you’d be here for… years,” Rey realizes. “You’d be here after next year, and you’d be here to see me graduate, and if I get into grad school we could still be together.”

Ben laughs, a quiet, soft thing. “Sweetheart, I was always going to make sure we’d find a way to be together. I’m not letting go of you that easily.”

She kisses him then; it would be impossible not to, not with how gentle his voice is and how happy his eyes are. “But now it’s a sure thing. We’re going to have years together.”

“Years, huh?” Ben smirks, pulling her on top of him. “Someone’s planning ahead.”

Rey lets out a little yelp at being manhandled before she braces her hands against his chest for balance. “Oh, as if you don’t already have the rest of our lives together mapped out,” she scoffs, the effect somewhat ruined by the wide grin she can’t quite hide.

Ben stills, a soft smile blooming on his face as he looks up at her. “I do,” he admits quietly, rising up to meet her. “Of course I do,” Ben murmurs right before he kisses her, and Rey wonders if you can fall in love with someone after just a week or if it’s the kind of thing that creeps up on you over a period of two long years only to suddenly make itself known.

Either way, it’s there.

Finn and Poe aren’t due to arrive till tomorrow afternoon, which is the only reason Rey lets Ben pull her into his lap halfway through the movie. Because they’ve discussed it, how they’re going to let their best friends know, and it does not involve said best friends walking in on them while they’re making out on the couch.

“What the hell is happening here?” Finn demands, his voice unnaturally high.

Rey tries to put some distance between them, but one look from Ben is enough to communicate that he needs her to stay where she is until he can… calm down. “Um,” she says, twisting around to face Finn and Poe with her shirt clutched to her chest. “Hi. I thought you guys were coming home tomorrow.”

“There’s a storm rolling in so we decided to get ahead of it,” Poe explains calmly, bringing in the last of their bags and nudging Finn out of the way. “Didn’t you get our texts?”

Her phone is charging in her room, and who knows where Ben’s is. They’ve had more important things to focus on.

“Forget about that!” Finn tells Poe, pointing at the two of them. “This! We should be talking about this!”

“We’re…” Rey turns to Ben, and she doesn’t know how they ever planned to keep this from the guys for even five minutes when she smiles like an idiot every time she so much as looks at him. At least Ben’s not much better, and they both look like fools when Rey announces, “We’re together now.”

“Finally!” Poe exclaims, a smile tugging on his lips as he roots around his pockets for his phone. “I’m really happy for you guys and I want to know all about this, but first I’ve got to make a phone call real quick.” Phone in hand, Poe wanders into the kitchen area.

Finn quickly draws their attention back to him. “Together? We leave you alone for one week and you start dating? THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T LEAVE YOU UNSUPERVISED!”

From the kitchen, Poe calls out, “Finn, honey, I’m gonna need you to stop freaking out.” And then: “Hux? It’s Dameron. You owe me a hundred bucks. Yeah, dude. No shit. For real.”

“He knew?” Finn gasps, eyes torn between his boyfriend and the couple on the couch. “Even Hux knew? How the hell did I not see this coming? Poe, why didn’t you say anything–”

“For fuck’s sake, Hux, why would I lie about–”

“Poe! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Amidst the chaos of Finn’s increasingly-high voice and Poe’s angry one-sided conversation with Hux, Ben takes Rey’s hand and asks her, eyes bright and voice teasing, “So we’re officially dating, huh?”

Rey resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Of course we are,” she tells him, pressing their foreheads together. And then, very deliberately, she uses a word she’s been avoiding all week, a word that means something, a word that she’s been wanting to apply to Ben for longer than she cares to admit:

“Hi, boyfriend.”

I'm not usually one for long and teary goodbyes (I mean, yes I am but I usually hold myself back) but this one's gonna go on for a bit, I think - just like this fic.

This was originally a ficlet idea, which then turned into a full-length one-shot, which then inspired a series of ficlets, ALL OF WHICH then turned into full-length chapters in their own right. As you can see, I'm a total disaster when it comes to keeping things short and sweet. Sweet and short? I don't know, words don't make sense to me anymore, not after seven straight days of daily updates.

But it was all worth it, because you guys have been the loveliest readers I've ever had the privilege to write for. I think I'll miss interacting with you daily just as much as I'll miss writing these characters every day. Thank you so much for checking back day after day, for taking the time to leave all of these wonderful comments, and for reading my tooth-rotting fluff. I know, I know, writing should be its own reward, but let's be real: your enthusiasm and support have been the real reward here. So again, thank you so very, very much.

Moving on: I'll be taking a short break to recover from this fic, but I'll be back in a few days to participate in Reylo Week. I'm planning to write two fics for Thursday's prompt (mythology) and one for Saturday's (soulmate), all three of which I'm very excited about. I hope to see you guys then! In the meantime, if you ever wanna say hi or just scream about Reylo or anything, hit me up. I'd love to stay in touch with everyone.

Next up, for seven decades or so: Rey, Ben, and a lifetime of happiness.

[manchurianchicken-blog1]

Simple Tips And Tricks For Successful Home Cooking

Do you ever find yourself wishing that you could recreate a favorite restaurant dish? Have you ever tried to make the same recipe at hom? These tips should help you prepare your favorite meals and make new ones. Many people find cooking to be a hobby that is both fun and relaxing. Before cooking with skewers there are a few things that you need to know. Avoid round metal skewers and stick to square or twisted types. Be sure to keep your spices in an area that is cool and dark. Heat, light, and a large amount of humidity can ruin spices and herbs. Herbs and ground spices usually retain their flavor up to a year. Spices that are not ground can keep their flavors for 3 to 5 years. If they are stored properly, they will stay fresh longer.

To make slicing thin strips easier, you need to freeze the meat slightly first. Certain dishes require thin strips of beef, chicken or pork. It's easier to slice meat that has been partially frozen because the fibers don't tear and stretch, so you can make clean cuts. After slicing the meat, allow it to completely thaw to ensure that it cooks evenly.

Apples tend to be a big ingredient during fall and winter, but they tend to spoil quickly if not stored properly. Apples will spoil in warm, dry air, so put them in a loosely tied bag in a cool basement or refrigerator. Make sure you watch them, though, because if even one is rotting, it can cause the whole lot to spoil.

Quickly cooking vegetables makes them crispier and more nutrient-filled. Vegetables that are cooked slowly lose a lot of their taste and nutrition. Speed cooking vegetables also retains the best texture and nutrition. The less time you take to cook them, the better your vegetables will be.

Are you using basil? Try placing clumps of fresh basil into a clear, glass container. Make sure the the stems are completely covered with water. Keep it on your counter and it will stay fresh for weeks. Your basil will even send out new roots if you change its water regularly. Periodically prune the fresh basil; this will stimulate the plant to continue growing for a week or so.

You can use this on other foods besides meat! You can use it when you roast pumpkin or sunflower seeds or in any number of egg dishes. Everyone will be wondering what your secret ingredient is!

Do you have trouble deciding how long to grill your meat? It is always a good idea to use a quality meat thermometer (preferably a digital one for precise reading) to make sure the inside is also cooked properly. Thicker cuts of meat should be cooked with the grill lid shut, in order to reduce the amount of time cooking and maximize juiciness.

Always store baking supplies such as baking mixes, flour, and sugar in airtight containers. Bugs can creep into your food, and most food items will become stale if exposed to the open air. These are just a couple of solid reasons that you need solid containment. Airtight containers are your best friends in the kitchen. They are a must-have for the kitchen and can be purchased everywhere kitchen products are sold.

Substitute water for other more flavorful liquids, in order to spice up your meals. Try adding some stock instead of water, or even the water your cooked veggies in. You can substitute buttermilk, yogurt or sour cream in place of the milk. Varying the liquids that are in your recipes is an excellent method of adding nutrition and variety to a dish.

When you are planning to prepare a salad for guests, leave the dressing on the side. Some people love dressing in great huge globs, while others like a lighter taste. Some folks don't like any dressing at all, (or are watching their weight) so leave the dressing of salads up to your guests. Offer several different types of dressing.

If you are often pressed for time when making dinner, try doing a little preparation work before hand, perhaps on the night before you plan to cook the dinner. Cut up veggies and make the sauce the night before so you can save time. This way, your stress levels the next day will be a lot less, and cooking a lot more fun.

To keep your dried herbs and spices flavorful, keep your spice rack tucked away somewhere cool and dark. Storing spices in warm locations, such as above the stove, can cause the spices to lose their flavor and you to lose your money.

One of the most important things every cook needs is a well organized kitchen. If you do not organize them, you will be scrambling around to find where you put everything. It is a good idea to have separate storage space for similar items. For instance, put all your spices together in one cabinet.

When cooking boxed macaroni and cheese meals, it is best to follow the box's directions exactly. The macaroni will be perfect and delicious because the great looking cheese is melted on top of the noodles. A solid, wooden spoon is the perfect serving utensil. Spice up the macaroni with some pepper!

When cooking, get into the habit of washing your dishes as soon as you finish using them. Make it easy on yourself by filling your sink with water, while reserving a separate section for rinsing. If you wash your utensils and mixing bowls as you go, the clean-up will be easy, and you will have your tools ready to use again as you need them.

Now that you've read some techniques which can help you to become an amazing at-home chef, it's time for you to practice them. Let your imagination take over, and make delicious experimental meals. There is no limit to the kinds of foods you can come up with, there are so many food varieties from all over the world.