#this is our fucking shadow president dog get me the FUCK outta here

[technoblade-apologist-and-proud]

elon musk is a nazi, pass it on

[sian22redux]

Entanglements

by sian22redux

For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem

Prompt:  ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’

Bucky x reader

Rating: M

Summary:  The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.  

How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.

Timeline:  After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.

Tags:  oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst

Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!!  And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!  

—————————————-

The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.

The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York.  You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on.  Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm,  blushing at his gushing praise.  

Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing.  Or speeches.  But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit.  He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.  

 Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.

Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?)  Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor.  Time for some fun.   Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs.  He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms.  The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in.  Cheek to cheek and hip to hip.  There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.  

Oh god.  

You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue.  Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach.  The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.  

Fuck, what were you thinking?  

Weren’t, obviously.  You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be.  This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.  

Best not to stick around.  You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.  

Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps.  Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole.  All set.   

Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.  

Gently.   

But not planning on letting go. 

“Doll, where ya going?”  Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up.  “No one’s on this morning.  Tony promised.”  

“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.   

Again.  

Or ever.  

The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid.  You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long.  At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.   

“Thank… thank you.”   

Safe. Or almost.  Steve Rogers wakes up early.  He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray.  He’s grinning.  Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.  

“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”  

You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.  

“Captain… uhh.”  

What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??  

Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke.  Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks. 

“Not hungry, Corporal?”  Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside.  “Suit yourself.”   

You do.

But no regrets.  

It had been too wonderful for that.

—————-

The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.  

It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call.  Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care.  But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.  

There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.

You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.  

Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees.  He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago. 

After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well. 

James Barnes loves plums and granola bars.  Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books.  The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs.  A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears.  A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights.  The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done.  When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering.  Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.  

At least he is a better subject than most.  Always watching.  Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps.   Or you.

It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door.  The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog.  You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape.  Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm.  Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant.  Arm akimbo and hiding something.  

You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run.  It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing.   You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.  

The subject drops.  Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.  

Yeah. Well.  Me too, pal.

You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.

Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.  

There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb.  God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest.  Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch.  Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth.  As if he’s read your mind.

“Soldier?”  Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness.  Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.    

“Umm, yeah…”  Buck licks his lips and starts again.  “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell. 

Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye.  After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.  

“Get outta here.  Both of you.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.  

Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating 

Fuck.  Wrong choice of word.  

Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse.   He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.

Hard.  

With his prosthetic hand.

The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.

“Steve’s off doing PR.”

The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on.  Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops.  His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over.  You are both horizontal.  On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core.  You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.  

“Y/N I ain’t gonna last.  I…”  

You open your eyes and catch his gaze.  His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder.  As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there.  Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are.  Nope. Nuh unh.  This is sex, not making love.  Scratching an itch.  Purely mechanical.    

“Bucky, move!”  

You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.

This time you deliberately stay the night.  

You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak.  Just can’t pull yourself away.  It’s warm.  And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.

When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.

For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no.  Way too risky.  Too much like normal couple life.

You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.  

Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased.  You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare.  That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.

Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away.  Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.  

You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…  

————————-

The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…

You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise.  Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush;  you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for  downtown New York.  Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far.  Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair.  Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels.  Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.  

Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there.  Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde.  It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be.  He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.

One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat.  Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox.  Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been.  (You like old rifles.  What can you say?)  

How can you not fall for this man?  He’s sweet and kind and deadly.  Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.  

Scratch that.  Is.  Is impossible to resist.  

Damn his super hearing.  One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret.  Cruising the racks in exactly your right size.  Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.  

Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?  

It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.

Oh god.  

This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house.  No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark. 

When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed.  Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.

“Y/N? Where’s the fire.  It’s early yet.”  

Fuck, he makes this so very hard.  Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.  

“Ah…” You don’t know what to say.  The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor.  He’d shoved it off.  Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.

Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.

“I want to get in a run.”  The lie comes easily.  You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly.  “You’ll need your coffee first.   Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”  

You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.  

“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans.  Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage.  And fruit salad with blueberries.

The table is already set for three.

In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.  

“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice?  Buck’s mom was British.”  

The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much.  Turning him down again would be far too rude.  

You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.  

The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.

From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle.  Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks.  Going yet another round.  

Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.  

“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack.  “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”

It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.   

Again.  

Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.  

———————————–

A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night.  A watcher on his six.  Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.

You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach.  Dispassionate execution.  It is part of the reason you are so very good.  You do not get distracted.  At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).

It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck.  Sarcastic jokes.  Lips like silk.  Muscles rippling underneath your touch.  

It shouldn’t matter but it does.  The mission is to protect him.  

Even if it means from yourself.  

———————————-

It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.  

Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off.  Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you.  Never you.  Your concentration is absolute.  You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in.  Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.  

Next to the man you are sworn to protect.

Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face.  “Sure ain’t your work.”  

Your cheeks flame up.  He doesn’t mean it.  This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing.  What were you thinking of?   Slim hips in black tac pants.  A stubbled, chiseled jaw.  Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.

Shit.

Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself.  It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head.  You want to know how he’s doing.  Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…  

Stop.  

You’re shocked and frankly terrified.  Is this love?  Infatuation? A school-girl crush?  Your heart is raw but what is this for him?  A diversion?  Something steady?  You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious.  He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy.  Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.

If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report.  A black mark on your copybook.   Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.

You have to be a perfect shot.

For him.

His life depends upon it.

When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.

Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest.  “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It does.”  You raise your chin.  “I am here to protect you.  I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”  

“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”

Really?  You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head.  “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem.  This is different.”

“It’s not.”  

“It is.”

“Not true.”  

His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this.  I thought we had something. Were working on it.  Can be something more.”  

“Please.”

He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare.  Lost eyes dark and pleading.  More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.    

You can’t.  You wish you could, but no.  

“It has to be this way for me.”  

To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.  

Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.

‘I thought we had something?’

The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.

——————————-

You do your job.  Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition.  Keep well away.  Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.  

Both of you are miserable.

You hide it.  Bucky not so much.  His blue eyes lose their spark;  become haggard and bloodshot.  You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.

Everybody notices.  On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot.  Next to him, no one knows.  You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend.  They know Bucky, too.  How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay.  You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder.  Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.    

The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach. 

You can’t be there at all.  

————————-

You never planned to work for SHIELD.  

You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked.  And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions.  Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.

Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.

“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.  

The rest is history.

——————————

“You want to be reassigned.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare.  “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork?  Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”

You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective.  Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.  

“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats.  FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”  

Oh fuck no.  The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.  

It takes everything in you to do that nod.

Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof.  “You are serious.”

“Sir. I am.”  You’ve called his bluff.  You stand to attention and wait for it.  The serious suggestion you know is coming.  

“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view.  “It involves training.  As hard as anything you’ve done.”

Really?  You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.  

What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.

“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit.  Watch Sergeant Barnes full time.  Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”  

Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head.  “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”

“Mhmm.”  

But that means��  “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”

“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”  

Your mouth is hanging open.  “But you can’t…”

‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.

“You’re going to let him…”

Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.” 

“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat.  He’s stupidly reckless.  Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed.  “Not ready,” you finish lamely. 

“You disagree with the psych eval?” 

You shuffle your feet.  This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees.   “No, Sir.” 

The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get.  Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube.  “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”  

So true.   But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all.  “Sir, he forgets…”  To care about himself enough.  

“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned.  You are the best markswoman we have got.  Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever.  Stark says he’s ready.  The -ologists say he’s ready.  And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.”  You wince inside, knowing the cause of that.   “Getting some of his own back might even help.”  

It might.  

And someone will try to take Bucky out again.

And he will be focused on everything but himself.

Shit.  

There is no choice.  

You know you can keep him safe.

Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.

 ———————————

Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.

Steve’s in charge, and Nat.  Both merciless.  Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun.  It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.

Bucky is there training, too.  

It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof.  Circling each other.  Carefully.  Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.  

“Corporal.”

“Sergeant.”  

You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct.  No physical contact outside sparring.  No first names unless you can help it.  No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest.  Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss.  You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual.  Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.  

It takes a toll.  

You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts.  They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals. 

They come and go.  Days. Weeks.  The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean.  This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play.  He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.  

It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.

They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.

“His nightmares are getting worse.”  

Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo.  I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”    

“Yeah.  But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.”  Sam sounds resigned.  “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”

“He’s not the only one.”  

Steve, you realize later, says this for you.  His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.  

“Corporal.” 

“Captain.”  

“You good?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock.  Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone.  Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope.  Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe.  It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.

(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.) 

While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard.  Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good.  You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry.  He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.  

You don’t have long to wait.  Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair.  You’re shocked.  It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly.  He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts.  The sense of failure.  The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

Bucky’s not safer with you there.  He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.

You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.  

You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.  

You need to leave.

Entirely.

Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time.  The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover.  You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.  

His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows.  Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck  

“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”

The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.  

You’ve screwed this whole thing up.  

Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?  

Miserable in his company.  Miserable without.

In love.

Fuck.

This is not how things should be.…  

You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.

The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head 

You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back.  The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.  

You fall.  

There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse.  Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift.  It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down.  Don’t disturb it.  Don’t make the situation worse.  You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.  

That has to be good, doesn’t it?  It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…

Ok.. just…lie.  Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue.  Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.

The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.

And with it your space to get some air.  

“Y/N!”

From somewhere to your left there comes a voice.  Faint and muffled.  As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it.  You are going to die.  No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok.  Bucky is allright.  You saw him flip and roll away.  That’s good…that’s everything.  You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths.  Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes.  Float, indistinct at the edges.  Nothing hurts too much right now.  It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.  

“Y/N!”

This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.

A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.  

“Y/N, are you hurt?!”

You blink through the blood that gums your lashes.  Bucky’s there.  Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.

Fear.

You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard.  “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.

“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.”  Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen.  He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space.  When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.  

There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely. 

But sadly not enough.  

The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.

“Y/N!”  He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest.  “Stay with me, babe, stay with me.  Cavalry is coming.”  

But we don’t have any horses…  

The wry smile on his face is blurry.  You must have whispered this out loud.  He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement.  Flexes up again.  “Aiighhh!”

The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.

“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?”  Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.

“Got it, Barnes!”

“Took you long enough!”  Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.  

Sam is crouched behind.  You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken.  Can’t risk a pneumothorax.”  Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose.  The dizziness fades some more.

“Better?”  His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.  

You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts.  At least the world does not swim.  Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap.  You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut.  “Sorry.  Sorry.”

He glances around the narrow space.  You’re basically in a coffin.  Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet.  When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth.  A dish? A beam?  The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut.  “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess.  Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”

Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time.  “Is it safe? The cell?”

You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard.  You’re useless pinned.  But if there’s shooting still going on…

“Relax, babe, we got ‘em.  That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed.  Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”

Thank God.  Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator.  You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket.  It’s better, but now it’s time to wait.  Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard.  You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.  

A whimper escapes your lips.

“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere.   It’s all gonna be ok.”  But it really isn’t.  His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair.  This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.

And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  You’re stammering.  You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.  

It doesn’t matter.  You need to be strong for him.  Move on and let someone else have the watch.  

“I can’t do this anymore.”    

You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side.  Both make sense.  The sounds of working are getting louder.  “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.  

A cool metal finger strokes your brow.  “Hey, not much longer now.”

You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”  

There, you’ve said it.  SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.

It’s brutal but better than being an irritant.  Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.  

“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”  

His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration.  There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown.  Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world.   “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out.  I get it now.  You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable.  Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way.  There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage.  Wanda manages with Viz.  Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals.  I need you everywhere.  At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile.  You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”  

Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek.  It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.  

Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.  

“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”  

His whisper is rough with meaning.  He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.

This time his kiss breaks you….

——————–

tags:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt  @pegasusdragontiger  @winters-beauty

@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

[godsheadangel]

GLOBAL SHADOW BANKING🏦INDUSTRY🏦[IT WILL BE A GLOBAL MELTDOWN CRASH] NOT SEEN BEFORE CAUSING MASS PANIC!!! ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

GLOBAL HEDGE FUNDS A MAJOR PROBLEM COLLECTS MONEY💰💰WORLDWIDE FROM [FOOLISH PRIVATE INVESTORS] AND STUPID INVESTMENT BANKS🏦

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ WHAT THESE [GLOBAL HEDGE FUNDS] DO DAILY WAS BANNED/ RESTRICTED AFTER THE STOCK MARKET CRASH IN 1929 AND WAS THE CAUSE OF THE CRASH IN 2008 FROM [SHADOW BANK 🏦 LENDERS] IN THE [HOUSING AND COMMERCIAL] MARKETS JUST LIKE WHAT'S OCCURRING RIGHT NOW IN 2019! DO NOT LET THE DEMONS IN FLESH [LIE TO YOU AGAIN!] PAY ATTENTION WAKE!!!

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

REMEMBER LTCM? WALL STREETS DARLING💵 [LONG TERM CAPITAL MANAGEMENT]💵 CATASTROPHIC COLLAPSE WAS RESULT A NY BAILOUT TOOK PLACE JUST LIKE IN 2008 WHICH INDIVIDUALS🇺🇸PAID A HEAVY PRICE!

THERE ARE NOW [5] SHADOW BANKS 🏦 ABOUT TO [MELTDOWN] IT ONLY TAKES [1] TO CAUSE GLOBAL ECONOMIC COLLAPSE! SO, BE WISE AND BE AWARE OF WHAT'S ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO YOUR MONEY💰💰

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

📢 GLOBAL ALERT WARNING GET READY!!!!! FOR 👁GOD💫WILL EXPOSE THE EVILNESS OF THE SHADOW BANKING INDUSTRY🏦THAT INVOLVES MANY CORRUPT👹BANKS

👉👉👉BANK OF AMERICA BANKS🏦👈👈👈

👉👉JP MORGAN CHASE BANKS🏦👈👈👈

👉👉👉👉👉CITIBANK BANKS🏦👈👈👈👈

👉👉👉👉WELLS FARGO BANKS🏦👈👈👈

MANY OTHERS ALSO IN CHINA🇨🇳, RUSSIA🇷🇺 THE U.K. 🇬🇧, ISRAEL🇮🇱, ITALY 🇮🇹 FRANCE🇫🇷 AND GERMANY🇩🇪 SHALL BE SO NAMED!!!!! FOR THEIR EVIL👹GREED IS TOTALLY OUT OF CONTROL AND 👁GOD💫SHALL TRULY RESTORE ORDER FROM THIS EVIL👹CHAOS

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

THERE IS [NO RESOLVANCY REGIME] FOR [CLEARING HOUSES WORLDWIDE🌏🌎🌍]👈 THUS, THE DAILY VERY [HIGH RISK] OF THE CURRENT MELTDOWN ABOUT TO HAPPEN!!! AWAKEN🌄BEFORE ITS TOO LATE OR DO SO CONTINUE TO LISTEN TO THEIR EVIL👹LIES!

REMEMBER THIS DAY GOD💫WARNED YOU!1929, 1987, 2008. 2019? TAKE UR 💵OUT!!! DO GET READY GLOBALLY IT'S COMING!!!

👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁

SHADOW BANKING🏦INDUSTRIES WORTH $160 TRILLION!!! THEY WILL FEAR 👁GOD💫

REMEMBER THIS [POWER MILLENNIALS] IT WAS DEMONTRUMP👹WHO ROLLED BACK☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝☝👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇 STIFF REGULATIONS TO PREVENT ANOTHER CATASTROPHIC RECESSION REQUIRING ALL HARD WORKING TAXPAYERS TO BAIL OUT THE EVIL SHADOW BANKING 🏦INDUSTRY!!!⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛

ASK YOURSELVES, WHAT HAPPENED TO THE MANY 👉💵BILLIONS💵 OF DOLLAR$👈 THAT THE BIG AUTO AND BIG REAL ESTATE COMPANIES SUDDENLY LOST?

THEY LOST FUCKING 💵BILLION$💵 AND NOBODY KNEW WHERE FUCKING BILLIONS AND BILLION$ OF DOLLARS WENT!!! [WTF!!!]

THE FUCKING MONEY JUST DISAPPEARED!!! AND HARD WORKING AMERICANS 🇺🇸 HAD TO [BAIL THEM OUT!!!] THINK ABOUT IT✔

THATS LIKE YOU ALL OF A SUDDEN DIDN'T KNOW WHERE YOU LIVED!!! YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR HOUSE OR APARTMENT IS! YET, YOU WORK A FULL DAY GET IN YOUR CAR AFTER WORK AND ENDLESSLY DRIVE NOT KNOWING WHERE YOU LIVE? YOU ALL OF A SUDDEN DON'T KNOW YOUR ADDRESS WHAT HAPPENED? YOUR MEMORIES INTACT BUT YOU SAY YOU DON'T RECALL WHERE YOU LIVE! GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!! YOU KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!!!

THE SHADOW BANKING 🏦INDUSTRY MADE LIFE MISERABLE FOR MANY WORLDWIDE🌏 WITH LOAN SHARK COMPANIES CHARGING OUTRAGEOUS INTEREST RATES ON LOANS TO HOME BUYERS, STUDENTS AND FAMILES WHO USE PAY DAY LOANS TOO [SURVIVE!!!]

👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇

WHY DO YOU THINK AROUND THE WORLD THEY RISE THE INTEREST RATES TO FORCE YOU 👁GODS💫CHILDREN INTO FINANCIAL [SLAVERY] WHILE PRESENTING YOU NEW JOBS GLOBALLY?

TO HIDE THE FACT A GLOBAL RECESSION IS COMING FAST! ESPECIALLY IN AMERICA🇺🇸

LISTEN JUST BECAUSE DEMONTRUMP👹PRESENTS [A FEW JOBS] TO YOU AT YOUR FRONT DOOR TO PUT YOU IN A GOOD MOOD TEMPORARILY!!! DOESN'T MEAN HIS HEAD DEMON👹ASS AIN'T ROBBING YOU BLIND BY HAVING [HIS SHADOW BANKING🏦 FRIENDS] 👉ROB YOUR ASS'S BLIND!!! JUST LIKE THE LAST TIME BUSH JR DID IT EXCEPT THIS TIME 👉[TRUMPRECESSION👹]👈 WILL BE MUCH WORST!!! [GET READY WORLD] A BIG [GLOBAL ECONOMIC COLLAPSE IS COMING] ~GODSCRAZYHEADANGELOFDEATH!!!

👉DO NOT SAY 👁GOD💫DIDN'T WARN YOU!

👉DON'T BELIEVE THE DEMON👹LIES FOR

THEY PLAN A WAR TO ADVERT YOUR MINDS STAY IN SPIRIT💫WITH GOD💫PRAY 🙏DAILY 🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸JOE 'COOL' BIDEN🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸JOE 'COOL' BIDEN🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸JOE 'COOL' BIDEN🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸

🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷

UNFORTUNATELY, THERE WILL BE NO ANGEL NAMES POSTED THIS COMING WEEK/WEEKEND MAY 6TH - MAY 12TH

🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦MANY WILL LOSE EVERYTHING WHEN THEY SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN [QUANTITATIVE] TIGHTENING TAKES OVER THE PLACE OF [QUANTITATIVE] EASING!!! 👉INEQUALITY👈

⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛

👉MONDAY MAY 6TH 2019 0500 HRS PST 👈

USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN ⚓ STRIKE GROUP DEPLOYED!

⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛

CHINA🇨🇳HAS POLITICAL LEVERAGE💪OVER THE [UNITED STATES OF AMERICA🇺🇸]

BECAUSE THE CHINESE 🇨🇳OWN $1 TRILLION OF U.S. DEBT

IF, CHINA🇨🇳SOLD PART OF ITS U.S.🇺🇸 DEBT HOLDINGS [WALL STREET📊] KNOWS THAT THE U.S.🇺🇸 INTEREST RATES WOULD RISE☝SLOWING U.S.🇺🇸 ECONOMIC GROWTH!!!!!

SO, [WALL STREET📊] IS [SCARED] OF THE POWER OF CHINA🇨🇳AND WHAT THEY KEEP [THREATENING TO DO!] WALL STREET📊 IS ALSO [SCARED OF THE LUNATIC IN OFFICE] 👉[SEEKING A TRADE WAR WITH CHINA🇨🇳]

👉AS THE [BLESSED ICE CUBE] WOULD SAY, 👉["HURRA UP"]👈 SO, I SAY, [HURRA UP!!!!!]

👉BOW DOWN TO CHINA DEMONTRUMP👹

GODSAYS💫IT WOULD BE PURE IDIOTIC FOR CHINESE PRESIDENT🇨🇳 XI JINPING TO EVER [AGREE TO REVISIONS OF CHINESE LAW🇨🇳] 👉TO MAKE A DEAL WITH DEMONTRUMP👹

⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛

💣2 MORE LONG DAYS💥UNTIL FRIDAY'S💣💣 DEADLINE ISSUED TO THE CHINESE🇨🇳💣💣THEN POSSIBLY 💥A WHOPPING[ 25%]💣💣TARRIF WAR INCREASE💥ON BILLION$💣

👉DEMONTRUMP👹HAS SAID IN THE PAST 👉HE WOULD GO AS FAR AS 45% INCREASE!

🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪🌪GODSAYS💫[THEY SHALL] TRULY CAUSE A MELT-UP☝ BY THEIR [CURRENT ACTIONS] OF PRINTING TRILLIONS IN 'FUNNY MONEY' OF THEIR OWN [COUNTRIES CURRENCY] AND THEN PUMPING THAT EVIL👹MONEY��INTO THE [🌎GLOBAL STOCK MARKET🌏]📈

👉WHICH HAS CAUSED THE GLOBAL STOCK 👉MARKET TO REACH 25,000 THE LAST 2+ 👉YEARS!!!

👉BUT THIS IS NOT THE GOAL! THEIR GOAL👉IS 40-50,000 AS FOOLS WORLDWIDE🌏🌎👉RUSH IN TO BUY! THIS WILL RESULT IN A👉BIG CATASTROPHIC GLOBAL COLLAPSE!!!

THE EUROPEAN CENTRAL BANKS🏦 OR [EU] ALONG WITH AMERICAN🇺🇸 AND CHINA'S🇨🇳 CENTRAL MAJOR BANKS🏦 ARE CREATING [A FALSE GLOBAL MARKET📈 FOR FOOLISH [INVESTORS] WHO WILL LOSE👈 FAR MORE THAN ANY DID DURING [THE DOT.COM] OR [HOUSING AND AUTO CRASH!!!]📉📉📉📉📉

GLOBAL RED FLAG🚩WARNING PEOPLE🚩⬛DO NOT INVEST💵FOR YOU WILL LOSE⬛ EVERYTHING YET THE CENTRAL BANKS 🏦 SHADOW BANKS🏦AND BIG BILLIONAIRE💰 INVESTORS WILL MAKE AWAY LIKE BANDITS

THE WORLD IS IN ITS [LAST END DAYS] TAKE HEED MY CHILDREN FOR [FOOLS RUSH IN!!!]

👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁

ASK YOURSELVES👁

WHY FOR THE 1ST TIME IN MAN'S HISTORY

👉WOULD WORLD🌎CENTRAL BANKS 🏦 INVEST TRILLION$ IN THE STOCK MARKET?

👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁

THIS WILL BE THE [BIGGEST CRASH] IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND!!! DON'T GET CAUGHT IN THE TORNADO🌪OF A GLOBAL CRASH!!!! ~👁GOD💫CREATOR OF ALL OF MANKIND!!!!!

⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛🔥👹🔥🔥👹🔥🔥👹🔥🔥👹🔥🔥👹🔥🔥👹👉FRIDAY MAY 10TH 20[19] 1005 HRS PST👈

👁GODSAYS💫I AM HE, THY LIVING GOD!!!

PRESIDENT XI JINPING🇨🇳 I HAVE SPOKEN TO IN HOLY💫HEAVENLY💫SPIRIT FOR HE KMOWS [THE TRUTH OF WHAT IS TOO BE!!!]

HE, KNOWS MY REAL HEAD POWER ANGELS I HAVE PUT SO IN CHARGE OF THEE EARTH FOR THEY ARE MY REAL BROTHERS IN HOLY HEAVENLY💫SPIRIT MERCY AND DEATH!!!

MY CHILD, I DID SO CREATE XI JINPING🇨🇳 HAS A REAL FRIENDSHIP AND DIALOGUE WITH MY [HEAD] ANGEL KING OF MERCY👑44BARACK OBAMA AND TRULY KNOWS FROM EXPERIENCE MY HEAVENLY WAYS! THE MESSAGE IS CLEAR DO NOT LET THE HEAD DEMON👹DICTATE YOUR COUNTRIES FUTURE FOR IF YOU DO IT WILL COST YOU DEARLY! MY BLESSED CREATED CHILDREN IN CHINA🇨🇳HAVE PUT YOU IN CHARGE FOR A REASON, TO PROVIDE LEADERSHIP AND TRULY, I AM HE, THY LIVING 👁GOD💫 HAVE PUT YOU IN CHARGE TO FIGHT EVILNESS👹

DO WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING FOR IF YOU STAND UP☝FOR ME, THY 👁GOD💫I SHALL BE WITH YOU AS CHINA🇨🇳PROSPERS💫 YET, [THE DECISION BE YOURS] XI JINPING!

FOR IT IS THE SPIRITUALLY AWAKENED🌄WHO LISTEN AND OBEY THE WILL OF GOD! FOR OUR MIGHTY 👁GOD💫IS IN CONTROL!!!

🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩TARIFF HIKE DEADLINE APPROACHES!!!🚩

🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

👉FRIDAY MAY 10TH 1430HRS CHINA 🇨🇳👈

👁GODSAYS💫CLEARLY IN THE LIFE VISION THE INNOCENT CHILD SHALL BE BITTEN BY THE FRIENDLY YET [ANGERED DOG,] WAGGING HIS TAIL SHOWING FRIENDLY SIGNS YET [HE WILL BITE THE LEG] AND SO WOUND BRINGING TEETH MARKS AND WET BLOOD AS HE LAY ON THE GROUND LAYING ON A [WHITE SHEET] THEN THE CRY''S FOR HELP ARE HEARD AND ONE ADVANCES AND RUNS THE [DOG] OFF WITH A BOARD AND 1 NAIL!

MY CREATED INNOCENT CHILD WILL BE SO BITTEN TRUSTING THE FRIENDLY ACTING 🐕 BUT HE, THE DOG IS FAR FROM FRIENDLY!!!

PAY ATTENTION CHINESE🇨🇳 DELEGATION!!!

PRESIDEN XI JINPING = 🐍 BORN 15/6/53

DEMONTRUMP👹 = 🐕 BORN 14/6/46

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

♦♦MOTHER'S DAY🌹MAY 12TH 2019♦♦

CHINA🇨🇳[HAS ACKNOWLEDGED]👁GOD💫FOR THEIR PRESIDENT XI JINPING HAS LIKE

🇰🇷NORTH KOREAN 🇰🇷 SUPREME LEADER KIM JONG-UN. SPOKEN IN HOLY💫SPIRIT💫WITH HIM AND HE HAS TOLD THEM WHAT TO EXPECT FROM EVIL👹DEMONTRUMP👹

AFTER RAISING TARIFFS ON $200BILLION💵OF CHINESE GOODS! THE DEMONTRUMP👹HAS SAID ON RECORD IN THE PAST THAT HE WOULD EVEN GO AS FAR AS 45%!!! TRULY EVIL👹 MADNESS AND PURE EVIL LUNACY!!!👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆

🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳

[THE STRING OF PEARLS] SHALL BE YOUR GOLDEN KEY 🔑 PRESIDENT XI JINPING💫FOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND OBEDIENCE OF ME, SHALL ALWAYS BE REWARDED WITH 👉[MANY BLESSINGS POURED DOWN]FROM THE GRACEFUL💫WINDOWS OF HEAVEN💫ANCIENT STRING OF PEARLS I WILL BLESS!YES, THE WATERS 💦OF THE INDIAN OCEAN🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳

A CHAIN OF SEAPORTS🚢FROM THE SOUTH CHINA🇨🇳SEA TO AFRICA🌍THAT DIRECTS TRAFFIC TO AND FROM CHINA🇨🇳 TRULY A [💵WIN-WIN💵] FOR ALL [UN] COUNTRIES✔ WHO DO BUSINESS IN [GOOD FAITH] WITH CHINA 🇨🇳 AS LONG AS CHINA🇨🇳OBEYS ME FOR MY HEAD ANGELS MERCY AND DEATH MY REAL BROTHERS IN HOLY💫HEAVENLY SPIRIT SHALL GIVE THEE MESSAGES FROM ME! ~👁GOD💫CREATOR OVER MANKIND!!!!!

📖📖📖📖📖[PSALMS 91:11 KJV]📖📖📖📖📖 FOR HE SHALL GIVE HIS ANGELS CHARGE OVER THEE, TO KEEP THEE IN ALL YOUR WAYS.

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

👉👉👉👉👉 [PAY ATTENTION] 👈👈👈👈👈

👁GODS💫[POWER MILLENNIALS] FOR YOU ARE THE AWAKENED🌄ONES HOLDING THE

[SWORD 🗡 SELLING OFF GLOBAL STOCKS!]

[SWORD🗡 OF VOTING🇺🇸POWER!!!]

[SWORD 🗡 OF PURCHASING POWER!!!]

[SWORD 🗡 OF IMPEACHMENT POWER!!!]

👉ITS YOUR FUTURE HE'S SCREWING WITH!!!

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

AMERICAN🇺🇸IMPORTER'S WILL PAY HIGH 👈👉TARIFF PRICES👈 FOR PRODUCTS FROM CHINA🇨🇳BECAUSE OF DEMONTRUMP👹✔

PASSING ON MUCH HIGHER☝PRICE$💵 TOO ALL HARD WORKING AMERICANS🇺🇸!!!!!

6,000 ITEMS FROM CARS, FOOD LIKE BEEF, STEEL, WASHING MACHINES, FOOTWEAR AND MUCH MORE WILL GO WAY UP☝NOW BECAUSE OF LUNACY OF DEMONTRUMP👹

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷*🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷CATCH THE BIG BLUE TIDAL WAVES TODAY!!!🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🇺🇸 JOE 'COOL' BIDEN 🇺🇸🇺🇸2020🇺🇸🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊www.my.democrats.org PARTYOFTHEPEOPLE

🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷

👉HEAVY WEEK IN HOLY💫SPIRIT NO POSTS THIS WEEK MY BEAUTIFUL ANGELQUEENS

🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷🔷

💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵TRADE WAR 2019 🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳 VS 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

CHINA🇨🇳TARIFFS ON 4,000+ AMERICAN🇺🇸

IMPORTED PRODUCTS INTO CHINA🇨🇳 25% TARIFFS ON $60 BILLION💵💰💵DOLLARS!!!!👉👉👉 [STARTING JUNE 1ST 2019! ]👈👈👈

📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉📉

MORGAN STANLEY *WARNS TARIFFS COULD LIKELY LEAD TO ECONOMIC RECESSION📉 🚩🚩🚩[10:07AM EST 🚩 7:07AM PST]🚩🚩🚩EVIL👹[GOP SENATE SUPPORT TARIFFS💰]

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

U.S.🇺🇸 FARM🚜 BANKRUPTCIES ON RISE☝SEE YOUTUBE: CGTN AMERICA✔

[AID FOR FARMERS COMING TOO LATE!!!!!]

NO PATIENCE START VIDEO AT 1MIN 17 SECS STOP AT 1MINUTE 40 SECS!!!

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳⏳ HU XIJIN [EDITOR IN CHIEF] GLOBAL TIMES

CHINA🇨🇳MAY STOP PURCHASING U.S.🇺🇸AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS AND ENERGY, BOEING ORDERS AND RESTRICT U.S.🇺🇸SERVICE TRADE WITH CHINA🇨🇳 MANY CHINESE 🇨🇳SCHOLARS ARE DISCUSSING✔👉 THE POSSIBILITY OF [DUMPING] U.S.🇺🇸 👉👉TREASURIES AND HOW TO DO IT👈👈 👉SPECIFICALLY.

🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

🚩 [U.S.🇺🇸 TREASURY TO AUCTION OFF] 🚩$237 BILLION DOLLARS💵 OF U.S.🇺🇸 DEBT THIS WEEK AND CHINA ITS BIGGEST BUYER WILL NOT BE PURCHASING ANY U.S. DEBT🇺🇸🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

GODSAYS💫A WISDOM MOVE IS BEST KEPT A SECRET UNTIL ONLY [AVAILABLE SIGNS] SURFACE THEN MOVE TOWARDS SUCCESS BUT MOVE YOU MUST OR LOSE IN MUCH DISGRACE! TRUST IN THE HOLY💫SPIRIT💫

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

💥U.S.🇺🇸 /CHINA🇨🇳 G20 DEAL BREAKERS💥

#1. DEMONTRUMP👹WANTS CHINA🇨🇳OUT OF THE ARCTIC TO STOP A POSSIBLE NEW TRADE ROUTE FROM EUROPE TO ASIA NOT DEPENDENT UPON THE SUEZ CANAL OR THE STRAITS OF MALACCA AREAS THAT THE U.S.🇺🇸 CONTROLS

[THE CHINESE🇨🇳ARE NOT COWARDS] THEY 👉[WILL NOT BE BULLIED] INTO LEAVING A PART OF THEIR ECONOMIC FUTURE DREAM

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

#2. DEMONTRUMP👹[DEMANDS] THAT A DEAL ONLY BE MADE WHEN CHINESE🇨🇳 PRESIDENT XI JINPING TOTALLY AGREES TO ELIMINATE REVISIONS IN CHINESE LAWS🇨🇳

[WHICH ANCIENT CHINESE ANGELS😇] IN HEAVEN💫WOULD GREATLY CONSIDER A WHITE FLAG🏳 OF DISHONOR FOR CHINA🇨🇳

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

#3. DEMONTRUMP👹WANTS PRODUCTS FROM CHINA🇨🇳TO BE [CHEAP] LIKE IN THE PAST! THE WORLD🌏HAS CHANGED AND CHINA🇨🇳IS A POWERFUL COUNTRY THAT IS [NO LONGER DEPENDENT] UPON WESTERN WAYS OF TRADING! THE CHINESE THINK IN TERMS OF [ECONOMIC PREPARATION] FOR [FUTURE GENERATIONS]

[DEMONTRUMPS👹RISKY THINKING IS OF DEALS MADE FOR MONTHS/ A FEW YEARS TO BENEFIT THE RICH AND CORPORATIONS]

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳

VICTORIOUS WARRIORS WIN FIRST THEN GO TO WAR, [WHILE DEFEATED WARRIORS] GO TO WAR FIRST AND THEN SEEK TO WIN.👈👈SUN TZU

🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳🇨🇳

SOME FOREIGNERS WITH FULL BELLIES AND NOTHING BETTER TO DO ENGAGE IN FINGER POINTING AT US.

FIRST, CHINA🇨🇳 DOES NOT EXPORT REVOLUTION. SECOND, IT DOES NOT EXPORT FAMINE AND POVERTY. AND THIRD IT DOES NOT MESS AROUND WITH YOU. SO WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO SAY? [2009]

PRESIDENT XI JINPING🇨🇳 THEN VP

NO MATTER WHO [WAS, IS OR WILL BE] THE U.S. PRESIDENT🇺🇸 IN THE FUTURE IT IS SO VERY CLEAR XI JINPING'S VICTORIOUS WARRIORS WIN FIRST CONFIDENCE! MEN WHO ARE SPIRITUAL LIKE HIM USUALLY ARE PRESIDENT XI JINPING HONORS HIS WORDS

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

THESE ARE [NOT OUR FRIENDS] THESE ARE [OUR ENEMIES] THESE ARE [NOT PEOPLE] WHO UNDERSTAND NICENESS THE ONLY THING YOU CAN DO [WOLF] TO GET THEIR ATTENTION IS TO SAY. WE'RE NOT GOING TO [TRADE WITH YOU ANY FURTHER] OR IN THE ALTERNATIVE WE'RE GOING TO TAX YOUR PRODUCTS AS THEY COME INTO THE UNITED STATES🇺🇸

DEMONTRUMP👹PHONE INTERVIEW WITH CNN'S WOLF BLITZER TALKING ABOUT DOING BUSINESS WITH CHINA🇨🇳 [2011]

CLEARLY GOES TO WAR FIRST THEN SEEKS TO WIN.

♦THIS IS A TRADE WAR PURE AND SIMPLE A PERSON IS ONLY GOOD AS THEIR WORDS UNLESS THEIR KNOWN WORLDWIDE🌎 AS A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR!!!

THINK TWICE ABOUT ANY DEALS WITH HIM!

[toddmichaelrogers]

Letter to You

All in due time

I am obsessed with the concept of time. When I read an article about light moving across time and space to reach us from distant galaxies, and how...what we are viewing in those distances may have already passed into death thousands of years ago, it gets my dick “Super Mario 2 (Japanese Version) hard”.

I think about equations of time v.s growth on a nearly daily basis. I am obsessed about it.

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

My youngest brother was born twenty-two years ago. His name is Ben. This week, he came for a surprise visit by telling me he would be here and then allowing me to forget. The added bonus was we got to celebrate his birthday together. That night, I drove him and his friends and Kelsie around (they may all be kids to me, but Kelsie’s been my brother’s partner for longer than I’ve known my own). We spent the night at a false speakeasy, and a giant championship pool hall, empty but for a few of us. As the night ended I drove the kids up to a hill called love circle, where a year ago I had imagined killing myself (I had a concussion, it’s cool).

In the car Michael, this kid I had not seen in a decade, popped in a song that maybbbbe three people in the world might have known. It’s a B-Side which could only be known to someone such as myself, someone who cares entirely too much for a half-forgotten Scottish 1980s group. 

“Is this fucking Big Country?” I asked. And then both parties continued asking in astonished voices if the other if they enjoyed the same band, until Michael ripped his shirt open to reveal a 1986 tour tee. “What the fuck?!” I screamed. And then preceded to tell him that Spell Saga was inspired by this band’s music; there was no need to explain what Spell Saga was to the kids in the car, they had seen the card game and its stacks of packages sitting in my living room.

The game has continued to haunt me. The rest of the packages will be sent out sometime in the next 30 days, and the manufacturer will be paid up for services rendered in the next week. That is about 1500 days since I decided to pursue the project, and over 800 days since the Kickstarter worked and we knew it was going to go to print. 

Sometimes people write very frustrated messages online wondering where their packages are, but the comments that mean the most to me are the ones where people are nice hahaha. No, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s haunting. Trying to do something right and trying to handle your own mistakes in public is about as nerve-wracking and humiliating as anything since 7th grade.

In the meantime I’ve taken all those worries and embarrassments and pushed them into the next Spell Saga release (Deck 1.5 The Under Sky) which may or may not work, we’re about to find out in March. The concept and design are so ridiculous and in depth that I’ve been forced to finish the entire thing before playing it at all--something I have not done since Spell Saga 4.0 was finished to show at Gen Con back in 2011. The whole thing could be rendered nearly pointless if the game isn’t fun to play--but then again, how can you know? Countless hours of Photoshopping and weird little doodles for an unknowable outcome. If that isn’t the official theme of Spell Saga, or indeed, everything I make, then I don’t know what is.

Speaking of time, games, and 7th grade (and as was mentioned in previous correspondence) this Autumn, after twenty years of waiting, I will be releasing a card game I started making in 7th grade. The illustrator is my friend Weshoyot, who just sent me the final pieces this past week. This is after we began working on it together 9 years ago! My god, I know this blog has a sort of theme running through it but even that takes me aback, (it also takes me a-straight-back, to 2009, when I was getting married to my first wife, designing EPIOCH instead of planning a wedding, and about to start work on both The Novel & Spell Saga...what a fucked up year…)

The novel I started still continues, and work goes well, actually. Yes it’s been 8 years, but after forcing a second draft on New Years day of 2016 I have now arrived, one year later, into new territory. Most of last year was spent agonizing through a muck of the same few chapters. It was almost nerve wracking to pick it back up, after a month’s rest, and knock-out another two new chapters without a hint of friction.

I was talking to my brother while he was in town (we always have the same talk and he hates it, but I always push it) “why aren’t you making things” I ask him every visit. I know he wants to. And I can’t speak for him, or rather, I won’t but I think there’s this perfectionist thing that hits in varying degrees. (I’m speaking more about myself then him, right now) I’ve read that  perfectionism is linked to depression, and alcoholism--this idea that things need to be a certain way, or they aren’t worth it--when really, that’s not true at all. 

Things just need to be as good as you can make them at the time, and then finished. I spent most of last year stuck on the same songs, and the same chapters, unsure of how to move forward, yet sure they had to be brilliant or cool.

But, I’m not either of those things. I don’t know how many passes I think will bleach the uncoolness out of something, but it doesn’t work. There’s something to be said for taking one’s time--and of course putting something away and rewriting it is definitely in everyone’s best interest...but still, finishing things as best you can is important.

I was talking with Meagen the other day about this, about how we as human beings tend to think if something is not hard or time consuming that it must not be good--that a novel should take ten years and not, say two. See? I even wrote the word “one” there and had to erase it. A novel? In a year? How drab.

We as artists don’t believe in ourselves, and pretend that putting time into a project will make it that much more special--or even better, waiting forever to start it...Fuck the fuck outta that. Make it and be embarrassed and move on. Just make it as best you can.

I am afraid of many things, including the new chapters I just wrote, because they happened quickly. But that is how art appears! It boils up like feelings because that’s what art really is. The craft is in getting past yourself to sit down and start the thing past your own fears. The craft is in making it sound good. the craft is in finishing it. I hope my brother starts making things, and I hope I start making things quicker.

The last day he was in town, I put on the pants I bought when I was 22. They were my favorite pants to write in for years, lasting through a full marriage and into a new one. A pair of 2005 women’s jeans so old the crotch is ripped out (my dick hangs like a cotton bulge). I looked at myself in the mirror, decided against them, and picked out another pair of pants for the evening. It was President’s Day, and my band EFFORTS was about to play our first show.

I had spent three weeks wanting to vomit every time I thought about it. But the date on the flyer appeared and with it, our last practice before loading our gear. By the end of practice I was too hungry to be nervous, and Zach, Geoffrey and I arrived at the venue to drink.

Meagen appeared, worried about a friend of ours. We stood in a parking lot across the venue and I tried to console here, it had been a rough couple of days for the both of us.

Last week was Valentine’s. I spent the night before the holiday of hearts holding our dog, Ellie, as her heart began to fail. It had been three years since the doctor told us she would die any day, and now it seemed the curse had come to claim her. I whispered nice things into her ears as she melted across my chest, and then we both feel asleep. 

I dreamed she could talk, and she told me she was hurting. And then she transformed between a young girl and grown women, back and forth again as Meagen and I held her. At the end of the dream she told me to look up at the ceiling to see what death looked like for dogs; it was a dance of shadows and light that made no scientific sense, but I understood all the same. When I awoke Ellie was staring at me, alive and well, he heart has since settled to normal.

So Meagen and I were already wound up when some really bad shit went down for a friend. I tried to console Meagen across the street, minutes before the soundcheck. I was already hot in my leather jacket, but I kept it on because the homemade arm band was tied around my right limb. The arm bands were an idea I had floated by Zach months ago and, black for mourning, with our logo, the crucibolt emblazoned upon it. I had sat down sometime between my dog trying to die and the show to make the both wraps at home using ribbon, velcro patches and iron-on sheets cut carefully and branded by my wife’s straightening iron. (i. have. never. been. cool.)

Meagen asked if I was nervous, and I said yes. Then, we walked into the venue to smoke and drink some more, Geoffrey and I both having quit tobacco except for rare occasions and the first-show-ever exception.

I waited 32 years to perform music--it still feels like a daydream that was never actually supposed to happen, but at the same time, if I’m being honest, events were always leading to this. It feels like I pulled off a miracle that was always going to happen.

On stage we were surrounded by a dimly lit room, filled with lots of people we knew. I didn’t know what to do so Zach instructed me from his drum kit on what to say to the sound guy. Then we launched into our newest song, “6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)” and I immediately heard my own vocals for the first time ever. It was an awful shock. But that feeling was overwhelmed by the rush of sound screaming out from behind me as I stared down at what my fingers were doing and sang as well as I could.

It was Zach’s idea to start with “6 pack”. I had spent two years planning for this moment, certain (god-damn-it, certain!) that when I got to play this shit live, the band (whoever that would be, there was no band, barely any songs, a pipe dream), we would start the show with the opening track of the album “everyone will leave and you”, but two hours before the show Zach said we needed to open with  6 pack, it, and it was agreed. Plans are just plans, sometimes real shit needs to happen.

Here’s a video of it.

We got through the first pre-chorus, and then I was almost smiling as we launched into the second verse

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

By the end of the song I was already sweating from the stage lights and the leather jacket; and the way I was screamed, stooped with the guitar strap across my shoulder, I felt myself nearly black out several times, a moment that would continue throughout the show.

It occurred to me afterward the opening lyrics were written while driving down the very same street the bar was on, near-as-exact to a year ago as I drove to buy airplane bottle liquor while texting my Father in an AA meeting.

Dad’s on his way to a meeting

I’m on my way to the store

And there I was, holding the guitar I grew up pretending to play, the cherry-red-heavy my Father let me borrow as he left for California, a son who had never written a song, asking someone he didn’t know very well for a guitar they never used anymore. 

He used to write little songs

He don’t write nothin’ no more

Then, the song ended and I heard people yelling and applauding. without looking up, Zach clicked us into the next one and we slammed through another two minute punk song about feelings (the boys and I recently decided to call our genre mid-punk, as we are so damn old compared to ‘dem kids’). It was during this one my head started to get away from me, that I began to realize I was, somehow on a stage and not in my imagination, and I had to grip the guitar pick tighter and focus on what I was doing. That is how insane it felt. And then, at some point during the set, stage lights started to jump and bounce everywhere and the surreality lifted into some sort of mega-dise of everything I had ever wanted.

My favorite part of the entire show was turning to Zach & Geoff between songs and laughing before we launched into whatever was next. Here was the set list, lest we ever forget:

6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)

everyone will leave and you

may you absorb all evil

the bridge song

better off without you

I saw a pale horse

west coast

ash to dust

word waster

vera

Everything ended with me singing a song I had written about a time 5 years ago when Meagen and a friend--the very same one I was consoling her about--were playing Super Mario 2 (Japanese version).

I’ll never be as happy as I was

On those Winter nights

After the show ended, Ben walked up on stage to give me a hug and congratulate me. “I can’t believe you just watched me play a show!” I shouted. I hope he noticed how perfect it was not, as I sure did.

It is so important to just go for things, and fuck up, and not be perfect, and then try over, and over, and over again. When it comes to art, you can do anything you want (if you’re meant to do it). And why would you want to do it, why would you dream about it everyday, if that dream wasn’t meant for you?

Work hard. Fuck up. Fix it. Let go. And finish.

That’s my plan, over and over again, and somehow, it looks like it’s starting to work. If you’re waiting for a package, I hope you have it by the time you read this. And if you’re ever in Nashville, I hope you can see EFFORTS play a show.

-mE.