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beckzorz · 5 years

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A Hands-On Exercise

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Word count: 5631 Summary: You hate your job, your life, and the cracks in your bedroom ceiling. Fortunately, you’ve got the chance of a lifetime after hacking—ethically hacking, that is—into Tony Stark’s systems. Unfortunately, your interview ends with you inadvertently pissing off the Winter Soldier. Will he forgive you for hacking into his arm? Warnings: mild swearing, mild sensuality, mildly unethical behavior A/N: Some of you may recognize this as my entry from @themaskedwriter! Thanks for reading—let me know what you think! xoxo

Your index finger hovers over the enter key.

“Should I do it?” you ask.

“No.” Kim’s voice brokers no argument, even with the slight lisp due to the highlighter in her teeth. She turns another page in her book.

“Hmph.”

You’re lying on the floor in Kim’s room, your legs stretched up the wall and your laptop digging into your stomach. It’s uncomfortable, but you’re trying to make the biggest decision of your life. Moving would be suboptimal.

The program you’re maybe about to run is one you’ve been working on for years. One that might land you the job of a lifetime. A teenage dream, and now a potential reality.

If.

If, if, if.

“So as far as I see it,” you start, sitting up, “there’s three ways this could go.”

Kim groans and tosses her book and highlighter aside.

“First,” you continue, holding up a finger, “this program doesn’t actually work and nothing happens.”

“That would be ideal,” Kim drawls.

“Second.” Another finger. “The program does work, but either not well enough or he’s not impressed, and I get arrested or something. Third—” you stick up a third and final finger— “it works and he’s so impressed he hires me.”

“I don’t see how any of those options are good,” Kim mutters. “You’re a failure, you get another mark on your criminal record, or you have to move.”

“For this, I’d move without complaining.”

Kim snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

You prop yourself up on your knees and lean over the edge of Kim’s bed. You bat your eyelashes at her. “So you do want to see what happens.”

“Uh, no.” Kim drops her hand on your head. Her gaze is serious. “I’d be a terrible friend if I actually encouraged you in this. It’s illegal.”

“Well…”

“You have a steady job,” Kim continues.

“With a below-market salary,” you retort. You shake her hand off your head and frown up at her. “Besides, it’s boring. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making sure social media conglomerates can steal our private information in peace.”

Kim rolls her eyes. “I don’t know if you’re using the word ‘boring’ correctly.”

“Well, whatever. I’m doing it.”

You grab your laptop off the floor and hit enter. The program starts to run.

“Oh my god, it’s working!” You jump to your feet and bounce around the room, squealing with delight. “It worked!”

The program finishes with a happy beep, and you collapse next to Kim.

The two of you wait with bated breath, staring at the screen. Minutes pass.

Nothing happens.

You glance at Kim. Her eyes are as big as saucers.

“Nothing happened,” Kim whispers.

“I realized that,” you snap. You slam your computer shut and ball your hands into fists. All that, for nothing?

God damn it.

—

“Tony?”

“Hey Bruce, c’mon in. Check it out.” Tony wheels his stool back and holds up his latest project.

Bruce Banner shuffles into the lab, a tablet under his arm and a pinched look on his face.

“What’s with the long face?” Tony asks.

“You have a message.” Bruce untucks the tablet from his arm and holds it screen side up. A holographic message appears in the air, rotating slowly.

Tony blinks as he waits for it to turn enough for him to read it. “‘Hacker for hire?’ What the heck is this?” He grabs the tablet; his free hand moves in a dizzying blur over the white code, scrolling through it at lightning speed. “Bruce, what the heck—”

“I dunno, Tony! It just showed up.” Bruce shifts his weight and crosses his arms tight across his chest.

Tony sits back in his chair and goes through the code slower. Bruce hovers at his side, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

After a minute, Tony Stark begins to laugh.

—

Three hours have passed, and still nothing. You cried on Kim’s bed, on Kim’s shoulder, and now you’re recovering from crying into your own pillow. The pillowcase is damp with your tears, but you can’t bring yourself to flip the damn thing.

You spent years working on that program, and nothing had come of it. Of all people, you thought Tony Stark would work fast. If he hasn’t reacted by now, he doesn’t care.

Or it failed, and you just don’t realize it, chimes a nasty voice in your head.

You flip onto your back and glare up at the ceiling, eyes still smarting. There’s just enough ambient light for you to make out the cobweb cracks emanating from the ceiling lamp, the yellow stain over the door, the peeling paint in the corners of the room. All the trappings of being stuck.

God, you hate this life.

You huff and curl up in a fetal position, arms tight across your chest. Luxury is absurd to imagine, but solid comfort? Something lasting, something beyond okay?

You’d almost kill for that. Hell, you’d spend years working on a project to infiltrate Stark Industries. And you hadn’t done anything really wrong. You’d just… left a message. Exposed some hairline fractures in their security.

If it had even worked.

It’s the not knowing that’s the worst of it. At this point, even the police barging in would be a welcome distraction. Then at least you’d know.

But no. You have to continue with your bland, boring, banal life.

And you have work in the morning. Your alarm is set to go off at six—public transit takes forever—and now it’s closer to one than twelve. You close your eyes and try to force yourself into serenity.

Just as you’re finally drifting off, your phone starts to ring. You jerk awake with a gasp. You snag your phone from the windowsill next to your bed—it’s an unknown number calling, one that has somehow bypassed your do-not-disturb mode. You answer it with trembling hands.

“Hello?”

“Pack a bag,” Tony Stark’s voice says. “You’ve got an interview at nine am.”

Click.

You sit up slowly. Blood rushes in your ears. It’s so loud—did you imagine the whole thing? No, the number is still there in your call history, and an email pops up—flight information for a private flight to New York.

Well then.

Maybe you don’t have work in the morning.

—

The entire travel experience is beyond bizarre. Someone—you assume it wasn’t Tony Stark himself—arranged for a taxi to pick you up at four am, and someone met you right at the airport’s entrance to take your bag. You didn’t have to lift a finger, at home or in New York.

It felt wrong. But not so wrong that you didn’t sleep on the plane, or in the car to the compound. You dread to think what you’re going to look like at nine.

By the time the sleek black car pulls up to the gates of the Avengers compound around eight thirty, you’ve straightened yourself out. From what you can see in the dark mirrored glass separating you from the driver, you look… presentable. Not your best, perhaps, but as good as could be expected on three hours’ sleep. Your clothes aren’t wrinkled, at least. Thank god you’ve kept your interview outfit hung up.

The gates open, and you stare around in wonder. You don’t know enough about architecture to name the style of the buildings, but they definitely cost a fortune to heat. Not today, though. Today it’s unseasonably warm, and the sprawling lawns are dotted with people exercising. Yoga, sparring…

You press your nose against the window, heart racing. The two men sparring not fifty feet away are Avengers! Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Your mouth goes dry at the sight—both of them are in sweatpants and short sleeves, and they are ripped. In the few seconds they’re in view, you can see clearly that the Winter Soldier’s mismatched arms are equally buff.

Now there’s a feat of engineering.

You sit back and fan your face, a private grin growing on your face. If you can keep Tony Stark’s attention, those guys are going to be your coworkers.

Nice.

From there, it’s a blur to the conference room where Tony will be meeting you in—you check your phone—twenty-two minutes. There’s a tablet waiting for you there.

“See what you can make of that before Mr. Stark arrives,” your chauffeur-cum-tour guide says as he leaves. The door shuts behind him with a click, but you’re already buried in code.

—

“Your credentials certainly are impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say.

Tony Stark tosses the clipboard with your resume on it back onto the table. He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers together in his lap. He’s dressed casually, with a band shirt under his sports jacket. “So why’d you hack into our systems?”

“I want to work with you.” You sit up even straighter and tighten your lips in determination. “The work you do is incredible. It’s as advanced as anything outside Wakanda.” Tony screws up his mouth; you suppress a smirk at his display of ego. “I’ve always wanted to be surrounded by innovation.”

“Well, your application was certainly innovative. Full of, what’s the word, gumption.”

You grin and press your hands tighter together between your legs. “I’ve got that too.”

Tony holds up the clipboard again, covering half his face. He looks between it and you, a teasing look in his eyes. You bite your tongue and wait.

Through all those years that you were working and dreaming, you’d never really thought about the interview. Somehow, you’d skipped entirely over it. Impress Tony Stark, get hired. But there’s a middle step in there. And here you are, in an interview, trying not to mess everything up.

“So what did you think of that little project I set up for you?” Tony asks, nodding to the tablet in front of you.

You flinch. You hadn’t had that long to investigate. What you had figured out seems too bizarre to be serious, but it’s all you have. And you certainly aren’t going to bullshit your way through this one.

“It’s like an artificial nervous system,” you tell him. “Or part of one. From the shape of things, I’d say it was an arm, bu—”

“Yes!” Tony jumps up from his chair, clipboard abandoned, and hurries out of the room. You stand slowly, heart pounding. Tony sticks his head back inside, a wicked grin on his face. “Bring the tablet, and come with me.”

—

There’s an arm in a box.

A metal arm in a black box on a table in a lab in the Avengers compound.

What even is your life right now?

“So here’s your hands-on practical,” Tony says gleefully. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand on your shoulder, as you both peer into the shallow box on the lab table. “Get it? Hands-on?”

“Hilarious. I’m dying,” you deadpan.

“Don’t hurt yourself. Your assignment is to hack into this arm and give me a thumbs up.”

“Is that all?” you blurt.

Tony stills, eyebrows inching towards his hairline. “You say that in a very unconcerned tone of voice. That makes me concerned.” He steps back and crosses his arms. “Alright then. Your assignment is to hack into this arm and give me a thumbs up. In under thirty minutes.”

“You got it.”

You hop onto the edge of the table and cross your dangling feet. Piece of cake.

—

You stare at the arm in the box, your heart in your throat. It’s been twenty-seven minutes, and you’ve just run a program that should have reshaped the dormant arm in front of you.

But nothing happened.

Tony Stark is standing at the window overlooking the main lawn. He’s gone back to his bouncing—is something happening out there? You turn away, eyes stinging, and clear the program.

“No, no, do it again,” Tony exclaims.

You blink. You run the program again, and Tony laughs loud and bright.

“Amazing!” He shakes his head, still chuckling. You look down at the arm in the box. It hasn’t moved.

“Wha—”

There’s a slew of shouting from outside that’s muffled by the windows, but you can very clearly make out some derogatory remarks directed at—Tony?

Oh no.

“Damn,” Tony says. He pats the window and meanders towards the door, counting quietly to himself as he does.

You back away from the arm in the box, hands and tablet frozen in front of you. The arm in the box hadn’t moved.

The arm in the box wasn’t supposed to move.

That could only mean…

“Three, two, one.” Tony’s murmured countdown comes to an end.

The doors burst open, slamming against the wall and shaking the whole room. The Winter Soldier barrels inside, the muscles of his right arm in sculpted definition thanks to his tight fist. His metal arm, on the other hand, is stiff and awkward.

Stiff, awkward, and with a thumbs up.

He stalks towards Tony, who backs away quickly, his eyes snapping to you. You steady yourself on a stool and surreptitiously cancel the program.

Bucky Barnes stops in his tracks halfway to Tony and stares down at his left hand. He wiggles his fingers, bends his elbow, and makes a fist.

“What the hell did you do?” he growls at Tony.

“You think that was me?” Tony asks, hand over his heart. “Bless. It was her.” He tilts his head in your direction.

“What? No!” you gasp.

Bucky takes a single menacing step towards you before stopping in his tracks. He wrinkles his nose in surprise as he looks you up and down. When he meets your eyes again, his eyes are dark with what you assume is rage.

You’re frozen in place, too shocked to move or even speak. You’ve been obsessed with Tony Stark for years. Bucky Barnes? Not so much.

What had past you been thinking? Bucky looks ready to murder you, but he’s the sexiest person you’ve ever seen. The distant view on the drive over hadn’t done him any justice. The arms, the abs, the face, those piercing blue eyes… You can’t fight the heat rising to your cheeks. You can’t look away.

Bucky’s gaze lands on the tablet in your hand. He glances at the arm on the table between you with sudden realization. When his steely eyes dart back to yours, you suddenly realize you’re staring. You look away, cheeks hotter than ever.

“I didn’t know—” you start.

“Obviously not,” Bucky snaps. “Who even are you?”

“She’s my new hacker,” Tony says before you can answer. “So be nice, or she’ll do the same thing again.”

“I will not,” you retort. “I’m an ethical hacker, Mr. Stark.”

Tony raises his eyebrows at you. “You will not hack into Manchurian Candidate’s arm, or will not take the job?”

You blink. Oh my god. You got the job? You got the job!

“I’ll take the job!” you say quickly. Relief rushes through you; you feel like you’ve just gained ten years of your life back. You take a steadying breath and jab a finger towards Tony. “But I don’t usurp bodily autonomy for fun. Or revenge.”

“What do you usurp bodily autonomy for?” Tony asks curiously.

“Now there’s a loaded question,” you quip.

Bucky huffs and storms out of the room. You stare after him, your sudden good mood evaporating, but Tony laughs and takes the tablet out of your slack hands.

“Touché. Let’s get out of here and hook you up with the paper shufflers over in human resources.”

You follow Tony out of the lab, but your stomach sinks as you give one last look to the immobile arm in the box.

You’ve got the job. You’ve got the respect of acclaimed genius Tony Stark, your lifelong idol.

So why are you so damn upset?

—

Three weeks later is your official start date. Not enough time to find a subletter for your room in Kim’s apartment, but the salary is good enough to cover your rent for a couple months while you wait for Craigslist to work its magic.

Your new dress code is even more lax than your old job, but you still take care on day one. Everyone will be there, apparently. It’s your chance to meet the other programmers and—more excitingly—to meet the Avengers.

It’s your chance to start fresh with Bucky Barnes.

Thoughts of Bucky had plagued you from the moment he’d clapped eyes on you. If at first you’d been stunned speechless by his looks, by the time you get back to the compound on your first day you’ve been consumed by more than just his face, or his body.

You’re caught in an endless loop of admiration, shame, and desire. Admiration for his body, shame for what you’d done, and desire for forgiveness—and, if you’re honest, desire for him. You’d noticed his first surprised stare, one tinged with awareness, and you couldn’t help but wonder what he’d thought of you before that scowl overcame his perfect features. You’d read about him, too; you’d known some of his story, but the entirety of it was overwhelming. He’d survived the worst, and come out still a hero.

Thinking back on your own story, you wince. How often had you whined to Kim about your less-than-ideal circumstances? You can only dream of Bucky’s strength.

When Tony’s assistant shows you into the lounge, you hover awkward and unnoticed in the doorway. Most of them are sitting around a coffee table on low couches and chairs, all very upscale and very clean. You spot Tony, of course, but your eyes are drawn to Bucky. He’s at the end of one of the couches, scrolling through his phone, his metal hand toying with his hair. Even at this distance, you can see the way his eyelashes brush against his cheek. The sight of him there, so calm and—dare you say—vulnerable makes your stomach flip.

Was he still angry at you? You’d give anything to see his smile…

Tony finally notices you.

“You made it!” he calls.

Bucky whips his head up and meets your eyes. For a brief moment, his face is clear, his lips barely parted as he looks at you. Then his face darkens and he looks away. His mouth is pressed into such a thin line that his usually full lips have all but vanished. Your hopeful smile falls, your heart falling with it.

Still angry, yeah.

“Chill, man,” Tony says to Bucky. He ambles over and slings an arm around your shoulder. “You know Barnes, of course. Did you know he killed my parents?”

Bucky stalks away without another word. You shrug Tony’s arm off. Ice settles in your veins.

You do know who killed Tony’s parents.

And it wasn’t Bucky Barnes.

“Tony—can I call you Tony?”

“Absolutely.” He beckons over the others, who approach slowly. You recognize Falcon, Scarlet Witch, the Black Widow. There are others too, but you pull your focus back to Tony. You set your jaw and steel your nerves.

“If you use me as an accessory to pull any more bullshit on Mr. Barnes over there, you will not like the results.”

Tony raises his eyebrows and whistles low. “Alright, alright. Just having a little fun.”

“I guess we have different ideas of fun,” you say stiffly, arms crossed.

“Tony grows on you,” the Black Widow says. “But she’s right, Tony. Anyway, she’s new. Don’t drag her into the drama on day one.”

“Wait until day two, at least.” Falcon—Sam Wilson—elbows Tony aside and grins at you. “If you aren’t going to introduce us, Tony, get out of the way, will you?” His smile is contagious; there’s a gap between his teeth that only makes him look more charming. “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you. A real pleasure.”

You beam up at him. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

You shake hands with the rest of the team—Wanda, Natasha, Scott, James, and Vision—while Bucky ignores the proceedings in favor of burying himself in his phone once again, this time at the other end of the room.

By the time Tony escorts you out ten minutes later, you’re already struck by the familiarity they all have together. There’s a camaraderie you’ve never had with a group of friends, much less at work. Latent tensions are there too—Tony or Bucky seem to be the center of most of them—but they aren’t enough to split the group.

It’s like they’re a family.

Your heart clenches at the thought. A family. Not a perfect one, but a real one. Maybe one day you’ll be part of it.

One day.

For now, you trail after Tony as he leads you back to the same lab you’d been in when you met Bucky Barnes. Tony’s talking about the launch of his last project; you’re too distracted to pay proper attention.

You hadn’t anticipated how much things would change. None of your other job changes were this hard—but none of your other jobs had ever been anything as insane as this. You’ll get used to it, in time.

You hope.

“You know,” Tony says out of nowhere, “you have got gumption. I like you, kid.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Barnes and I don’t get on great. For obvious reasons. And he’s a real easy target—he goes right off. Guy has no chill.”

You bite your lip. If Bucky has no chill, maybe Tony shouldn’t push at him. But you’re not sure you want to say that out loud. You’ve served enough gumption for one day.

God forbid you ruin everything.

But Tony glances at you and grins. “I can tell what you’re thinking. Pepper says the same thing, really. Sorry I dragged you into it, but I hadn’t managed to crack the safety features on his arm, and I’ve been dying to do it since he got here. Thought it’d be pretty harmless, all things considered.”

He pushed the doors to the lab open. If you weren’t so damn distracted, you’d be giddy with delight. This is where you work now. Holy shit.

Still, you can’t get to business while you’re still so distracted with thoughts of Bucky Barnes and his scowl.

“Well,” you say hesitantly, “after decades of having no autonomy, I can see why he was so upset. And I don’t really want him to hate me. I have to work with him, after all.”

“Eh, he’ll get over it.” Tony settles in his wheeling stool. From a workstation, he makes a hand gesture and—holy shit, blue holographic images blow up into life-size. And thank god, it’s not Bucky’s arm.

It’s the Iron Man suit.

Half of you is screaming internally. The Iron! Man! Suit! This is real! It is real! You let out a slow breath as you approach.

Meanwhile, your other half wants to strangle Tony for his callousness. And of the two halves, you’d rather talk about Bucky than let Tony Stark know how impressed you are. Even if it means that Tony gets an inkling of how much Bucky is consuming your thoughts.

“He seemed pretty pissed at me,” you say. You reach up and play around with a holographic cube that Tony sends your way.

“There is that.” Tony strokes his goatee as he runs through the schematic. He highlights a few areas—knees, blasters, visor—and then says, “How about I let you get away with one—just one—little bit of revenge?”

You blink. “Revenge?”

“Yeah.” Tony keeps up with his work even as his words come fast and easy. “You can make peace with Barnes by hacking into something of mine. Just once, mind, and nothing dangerous.” He slants a grin your way. “You’re ethical, right?”

“It’s in the job description,” you answer automatically. You sit against a lab table, bemused. Tony Stark is weird. Who volunteers to get hacked? By their employee, no less.

But you’re intrigued. Working with Bucky, redeeming yourself in his eyes by playing a harmless prank? He seems serious, but maybe this will be the thing to mellow him out. Maybe this will be the thing that makes him smile.

All you have to do is get him to listen to you, and you can do it.

“Alright,” you say. “You’re on.”

—

Of course, getting Bucky to listen to you involves actually getting within speaking distance. It takes two and a half weeks. You get to know everyone else—Sam, Natasha, Wanda, even Pepper to a degree—but Bucky avoids you like the plague. Every time you catch sight of him, you only just manage to catch his attention before he flees. Sometimes he blanches, sometimes he flushes, but regardless of his expression he’s gone before you can corner him.

If you didn’t have a mission, you would have given up on day two. But you have a plan, and you’re too set on it to focus on the pain in your chest every time his eyes widen and look pointedly away.

Finally, you catch him. You’re heading down the stairs in the atrium, humming gone off-key with the bounce in your step, when Bucky starts up. He’s buried in his smartphone—typical, you think—and you stop short in surprise. He’s in exercise clothes again, a tight t-shirt and low-slung sweats that make your mouth water and your thighs clench. You’ve been surrounded by superheroes for weeks, but the sight of this one is still enough to bring fire to your cheeks.

Bucky only looks up when he’s five steps below you, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. His blue eyes are wide as dinner plates. He backs down a step.

“Wait,” you blurt. You take a step after him and hold out a hand. “Please don’t run away again.”

Bucky glances around. There are people in the atrium. No one is looking at him, not yet, but you can guess what he’s thinking the second he turns back to you with his jaw set. If he runs off, someone’s bound to notice.

“What do you want?” he says curtly.

It’s the first word he’s said to you since your interview. You swallow.

“I wanted to apologize,” you tell him. His eyebrows go up, and you surge ahead. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I thought I was working on the arm in the box. If I’d known, I never would have—”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I know.”

What? What the fuck!

You gape. “If you know that, why are you still angry at me?”

He blinks. “I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair, looks aside, shifts his weight. “I’m not angry at you.”

You cross your arms and raise your eyebrows in disbelief. Is he for real? “You literally run out of the room every time I come in.”

He draws his lower lip into his mouth, then lets it out with a pop. Your eyes drop to his perfect mouth, even as you scold yourself for staring so blatantly. But when you finally meet his eyes again, he still looks nervous.

“It’s not ‘cause I’m angry,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. You take the opportunity to drag your eyes down his body, but you catch yourself before you stare too long.

“Well, then what is it?”

How did this go from you apologizing to you grilling him?

“It’s ‘cause you’re cute and I yelled at you,” he blurts.

Oh.

Well.

That changes things. You lick your lips, heart beating as fast as rainpatter. “But… you didn’t yell at me.”

Bucky shuffles his feet. His shyness is the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen. With his cheeks tinged pink and his eyes low, he’s every inch the bashful daydream.

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I wasn’t nice. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Okay.” You step down a step, then another. Bucky’s head inches up until he meets your eyes. You smile down at him, too happy to care if he thinks you’re odd. “You know, while we’re on the subject, you’re cute too.”

Bucky’s breathless laugh is full of relief. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and steps closer to you, his blue eyes bright. The little crinkles on his nose and around his eyes are to die for. “Doesn’t it bother you that I was a jerk?”

You shrug. “You apologized. Tony was more of a jerk than you, frankly.” You glance back upstairs towards the lab with a frown. “I do not get how a guy that smart didn’t realize how awful that prank was.”

“I survived.” Bucky’s lips curve into a smirk. “So did he, thanks to you.”

He comes another step up, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how close you’re standing. You catch your breath, eyes flitting from his eyes to his mouth and—

Bucky stiffens and steps back, cheeks pink again, as someone goes down the stairs, passing you without any acknowledgement. A stranger, one of many you’ve yet to meet. You watch them until they’re out of earshot, then smile hopefully at Bucky.

“So,” you drawl, “how do you feel about some revenge pranking?”

—

“These vents are too small even if I lose the arm,” Bucky complains. He screws the grate back over the vent in your room with a sigh.

You snort.

“It’s almost like they were designed with you in mind,” you tease.

Bucky sticks his tongue out and throws the screwdriver at you; you duck. It bounces harmlessly on the mattress by your outstretched legs. He laughs when you sit back up and make a face.

“Wasn’t gonna hit you,” he tells you, leaning over to retrieve it.

Your heartbeat ramps up; he’s close again, dangerously close. When he grins up at you, you clench your hands into fists to keep from pulling him closer.

Bucky goes back to screwing in the grate, and you bury yourself in your computer, cheeks blazing.

—

You’re sitting next to Bucky on his enormous bed, both of you with laptops on your knees. He’s got a video feed of the conference room open; you’re watching over his shoulder. Your computer has a program waiting to be run.

You both watch with bated breath as Tony makes his way into the conference room, flanked by Happy Hogan.

“Okay, now!”

You hit enter. The program runs, code scrolling into life on your laptop before you toss it aside and quickly tug Bucky’s computer midway between you.

The projected backdrop in the conference room goes black; the sound system whirs to life.

“Do you seriously think this is going to go over?” Bucky mutters.

“Shh! Just wait.”

A distinctive dance-pop beat blares out of the speakers. The crowd of journalists and media bloggers is silent for a beat, and then lets out a chorus of groans and laughs. Rick Astley’s voice begins the famous refrain: “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down…”

You bite your lip to keep your grin from hurting your face. On Bucky’s screen, Tony stares into the camera and mouths, “Very funny.” He rolls his eyes and starts chatting into the microphone. “Sorry, folks,” he says, “we just have to wait it out. But after that, I promise I have something serious to say…”

Bucky sets his computer further down the bed and links his arms behind his head.

“It would have been more fun to watch from a vent,” he muses. “Then again, it would have been more fun if we’d gone with my idea.”

You giggle. “I did promise it’d be harmless.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and your ethics.” Bucky’s voice is teasing, warm. He twists to face you, his eyes bright. “Still, shooting a bunch of paint bullets at him during a press conference would’ve been much more interactive.”

“You’re welcome to do that on your own time,” you tell him. “I’m confident you could manage it without my skills.”

“I probably could,” Bucky agrees. He smiles and inches closer. “But why would I?”

You swallow. Bucky’s hip is touching yours; his hand is propped behind you, boxing you in. Your eyes dart to his mouth as he licks his lips. “For—revenge?”

Bucky slides his free hand—the metal one; oh lord, he can feel with that—up your leg until he’s gripping your thigh. The pressure is delicious, intoxicating; he’s so close—

“Revenge is for suckers,” he murmurs. His dark eyes drink you in, and then your eyes flutter shut as he ducks even closer. “The whole point was you.”

Then he kisses you.

There’s a roaring in your ears; it drowns out everything but the feel of him. His lips feel as perfect as they look—soft, plump, warm, alive—and in seconds you’re a mess. His grip on your thigh tightens, and his arm by your back circles your waist. Your hands find their way into his hair, and when you tug, he turns to putty in your eager hands.

By the time he pulls back, you’re out of breath. His lips are fuller than ever, swollen and pink and perfect. You stroke his hair, then trace his mouth as he watches you, eyes dark.

All in all, a much better hands-on exercise than the one Tony had made you do.

The Rick Astley song finally ends, and Tony’s voice cuts through your and Bucky’s heavy breathing. The two of you make a face, and the mirrored expression prompts a laugh from you both. Bucky reaches over and slams his computer shut.

“Well,” he says, eyes twinkling, “what are the ethics of dating a coworker?”

You suck in a breath. “It depends,” you say. “Will you be good?”

Bucky’s smirk is dark and full of promise. “Depends,” he says huskily. You shiver; his voice goes straight through you. He chuckles and strokes your cheek. “For you, I’ll sure as hell try.”

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier imagine #becca writes

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themaskedwriter · 5 years

Text

A Hands-On Exercise

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader

Word count: 5631

Summary: You hate your job, your life, and the cracks in your bedroom ceiling. Fortunately, you’ve got the chance of a lifetime after hacking—ethically hacking, that is—into Tony Stark’s systems. Unfortunately, your interview ends with you inadvertently pissing off the Winter Soldier. Will he forgive you for hacking into his arm?

Warnings: mild swearing, mild sensuality, mildly unethical behavior

Clues: This author’s niece is strictly normal, but she loves her anyway. And—what the heck? Is that a five-color palette?

———

Your index finger hovers over the enter key.

“Should I do it?” you ask.

“No.” Kim’s voice brokers no argument, even with the slight lisp due to the highlighter in her teeth. She turns another page in her book.

“Hmph.”

The program you’re maybe about to run is one you’ve been working on for years. One that might land you the job of a lifetime. A teenage dream, and now a potential reality.

If.

If, if, if.

“So as far as I see it,” you start, sitting up, “there’s three ways this could go.”

Kim groans and tosses her book and highlighter aside.

“First,” you continue, holding up a finger, “this program doesn’t actually work and nothing happens.”

“That would be ideal,” Kim drawls.

“I don’t see how any of those options are good,” Kim mutters. “You’re a failure, you get another mark on your criminal record, or you have to move.”

“For this, I’d move without complaining.”

Kim snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

You prop yourself up on your knees and lean over the edge of Kim’s bed. You bat your eyelashes at her. “So you do want to see what happens.”

“Uh, no.” Kim drops her hand on your head. Her gaze is serious. “I’d be a terrible friend if I actually encouraged you in this. It’s illegal.”

“Well…”

“You have a steady job,” Kim continues.

Kim rolls her eyes. “I don’t know if you’re using the word ‘boring’ correctly.”

“Well, whatever. I’m doing it.”

You grab your laptop off the floor and hit enter. The program starts to run.

“Oh my god, it’s working!” You jump to your feet and bounce around the room, squealing with delight. “It worked!”

The program finishes with a happy beep, and you collapse next to Kim.

The two of you wait with bated breath, staring at the screen. Minutes pass.

Nothing happens.

You glance at Kim. Her eyes are as big as saucers.

“Nothing happened,” Kim whispers.

“I realized that,” you snap. You slam your computer shut and ball your hands into fists. All that, for nothing?

God damn it.

—

“Tony?”

“Hey Bruce, c’mon in. Check it out.” Tony wheels his stool back and holds up his latest project.

Bruce Banner shuffles into the lab, a tablet under his arm and a pinched look on his face.

“What’s with the long face?” Tony asks.

“You have a message.” Bruce untucks the tablet from his arm and holds it screen side up. A holographic message appears in the air, rotating slowly.

“I dunno, Tony! It just showed up.” Bruce shifts his weight and crosses his arms tight across his chest.

Tony sits back in his chair and goes through the code slower. Bruce hovers at his side, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

After a minute, Tony Stark begins to laugh.

—

You spent years working on that program, and nothing had come of it. Of all people, you thought Tony Stark would work fast. If he hasn’t reacted by now, he doesn’t care.

Or it failed, and you just don’t realize it, chimes a nasty voice in your head.

God, you hate this life.

You huff and curl up in a fetal position, arms tight across your chest. Luxury is absurd to imagine, but solid comfort? Something lasting, something beyond okay?

If it had even worked.

It’s the not knowing that’s the worst of it. At this point, even the police barging in would be a welcome distraction. Then at least you’d know.

But no. You have to continue with your bland, boring, banal life.

“Hello?”

“Pack a bag,” Tony Stark’s voice says. “You’ve got an interview at nine am.”

Click.

Well then.

Maybe you don’t have work in the morning.

—

It felt wrong. But not so wrong that you didn’t sleep on the plane, or in the car to the compound. You dread to think what you’re going to look like at nine.

Now there’s a feat of engineering.

You sit back and fan your face, a private grin growing on your face. If you can keep Tony Stark’s attention, those guys are going to be your coworkers.

Nice.

From there, it’s a blur to the conference room where Tony will be meeting you in—you check your phone—twenty-two minutes. There’s a tablet waiting for you there.

“See what you can make of that before Mr. Stark arrives,” your chauffeur-cum-tour guide says as he leaves. The door shuts behind him with a click, but you’re already buried in code.

—

“Your credentials certainly are impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“Well, your application was certainly innovative. Full of, what’s the word, gumption.”

You grin and press your hands tighter together between your legs. “I’ve got that too.”

Tony holds up the clipboard again, covering half his face. He looks between it and you, a teasing look in his eyes. You bite your tongue and wait.

“So what did you think of that little project I set up for you?” Tony asks, nodding to the tablet in front of you.

“It’s like an artificial nervous system,” you tell him. “Or part of one. From the shape of things, I’d say it was an arm, bu—”

—

There’s an arm in a box.

A metal arm in a black box on a table in a lab in the Avengers compound.

What even is your life right now?

“Hilarious. I’m dying,” you deadpan.

“Don’t hurt yourself. Your assignment is to hack into this arm and give me a thumbs up.”

“Is that all?” you blurt.

“You got it.”

You hop onto the edge of the table and cross your dangling feet. Piece of cake.

—

You stare at the arm in the box, your heart in your throat. It’s been twenty-seven minutes, and you’ve just run a program that should have reshaped the dormant arm in front of you.

But nothing happened.

Tony Stark is standing at the window overlooking the main lawn. He’s gone back to his bouncing—is something happening out there? You turn away, eyes stinging, and clear the program.

“No, no, do it again,” Tony exclaims.

You blink. You run the program again, and Tony laughs loud and bright.

“Amazing!” He shakes his head, still chuckling. You look down at the arm in the box. It hasn’t moved.

“Wha—”

There’s a slew of shouting from outside that’s muffled by the windows, but you can very clearly make out some derogatory remarks directed at—Tony?

Oh no.

“Damn,” Tony says. He pats the window and meanders towards the door, counting quietly to himself as he does.

You back away from the arm in the box, hands and tablet frozen in front of you. The arm in the box hadn’t moved.

The arm in the box wasn’t supposed to move.

That could only mean…

“Three, two, one.” Tony’s murmured countdown comes to an end.

Stiff, awkward, and with a thumbs up.

He stalks towards Tony, who backs away quickly, his eyes snapping to you. You steady yourself on a stool and surreptitiously cancel the program.

Bucky Barnes stops in his tracks halfway to Tony and stares down at his left hand. He wiggles his fingers, bends his elbow, and makes a fist.

“What the hell did you do?” he growls at Tony.

“You think that was me?” Tony asks, hand over his heart. “Bless. It was her.” He tilts his head in your direction.

“What? No!” you gasp.

You’re frozen in place, too shocked to move or even speak. You’ve been obsessed with Tony Stark for years. Bucky Barnes? Not so much.

“I didn’t know—” you start.

“Obviously not,” Bucky snaps. “Who even are you?”

“She’s my new hacker,” Tony says before you can answer. “So be nice, or she’ll do the same thing again.”

“I will not,” you retort. “I’m an ethical hacker, Mr. Stark.”

Tony raises his eyebrows at you. “You will not hack into Manchurian Candidate’s arm, or will not take the job?”

You blink. Oh my god. You got the job? You got the job!

“What do you usurp bodily autonomy for?” Tony asks curiously.

“Now there’s a loaded question,” you quip.

Bucky huffs and storms out of the room. You stare after him, your sudden good mood evaporating, but Tony laughs and takes the tablet out of your slack hands.

“Touché. Let’s get out of here and hook you up with the paper shufflers over in human resources.”

You follow Tony out of the lab, but your stomach sinks as you give one last look to the immobile arm in the box.

You’ve got the job. You’ve got the respect of acclaimed genius Tony Stark, your lifelong idol.

So why are you so damn upset?

—

It’s your chance to start fresh with Bucky Barnes.

Thinking back on your own story, you wince. How often had you whined to Kim about your less-than-ideal circumstances? You can only dream of Bucky’s strength.

Was he still angry at you? You’d give anything to see his smile…

Tony finally notices you.

“You made it!” he calls.

Still angry, yeah.

“Chill, man,” Tony says to Bucky. He ambles over and slings an arm around your shoulder. “You know Barnes, of course. Did you know he killed my parents?”

Bucky stalks away without another word. You shrug Tony’s arm off. Ice settles in your veins.

You do know who killed Tony’s parents.

And it wasn’t Bucky Barnes.

“Tony—can I call you Tony?”

“If you use me as an accessory to pull any more bullshit on Mr. Barnes over there, you will not like the results.”

Tony raises his eyebrows and whistles low. “Alright, alright. Just having a little fun.”

“I guess we have different ideas of fun,” you say stiffly, arms crossed.

“Tony grows on you,” the Black Widow says. “But she’s right, Tony. Anyway, she’s new. Don’t drag her into the drama on day one.”

You beam up at him. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

It’s like they’re a family.

Your heart clenches at the thought. A family. Not a perfect one, but a real one. Maybe one day you’ll be part of it.

One day.

You hope.

“You know,” Tony says out of nowhere, “you have got gumption. I like you, kid.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Barnes and I don’t get on great. For obvious reasons. And he’s a real easy target—he goes right off. Guy has no chill.”

You bite your lip. If Bucky has no chill, maybe Tony shouldn’t push at him. But you’re not sure you want to say that out loud. You’ve served enough gumption for one day.

God forbid you ruin everything.

He pushed the doors to the lab open. If you weren’t so damn distracted, you’d be giddy with delight. This is where you work now. Holy shit.

Still, you can’t get to business while you’re still so distracted with thoughts of Bucky Barnes and his scowl.

“Well,” you say hesitantly, “after decades of having no autonomy, I can see why he was so upset. And I don’t really want him to hate me. I have to work with him, after all.”

It’s the Iron Man suit.

Half of you is screaming internally. The Iron! Man! Suit! This is real! It is real! You let out a slow breath as you approach.

“He seemed pretty pissed at me,” you say. You reach up and play around with a holographic cube that Tony sends your way.

You blink. “Revenge?”

“It’s in the job description,” you answer automatically. You sit against a lab table, bemused. Tony Stark is weird. Who volunteers to get hacked? By their employee, no less.

All you have to do is get him to listen to you, and you can do it.

“Alright,” you say. “You’re on.”

—

Bucky only looks up when he’s five steps below you, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. His blue eyes are wide as dinner plates. He backs down a step.

“Wait,” you blurt. You take a step after him and hold out a hand. “Please don’t run away again.”

“What do you want?” he says curtly.

It’s the first word he’s said to you since your interview. You swallow.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I know.”

What? What the fuck!

You gape. “If you know that, why are you still angry at me?”

He blinks. “I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair, looks aside, shifts his weight. “I’m not angry at you.”

You cross your arms and raise your eyebrows in disbelief. Is he for real? “You literally run out of the room every time I come in.”

“Well, then what is it?”

How did this go from you apologizing to you grilling him?

“It’s ‘cause you’re cute and I yelled at you,” he blurts.

Oh.

Well.

That changes things. You lick your lips, heart beating as fast as rainpatter. “But… you didn’t yell at me.”

Bucky shuffles his feet. His shyness is the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen. With his cheeks tinged pink and his eyes low, he’s every inch the bashful daydream.

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I wasn’t nice. I’m sorry, okay?”

“I survived.” Bucky’s lips curve into a smirk. “So did he, thanks to you.”

He comes another step up, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how close you’re standing. You catch your breath, eyes flitting from his eyes to his mouth and—

“So,” you drawl, “how do you feel about some revenge pranking?”

—

“These vents are too small even if I lose the arm,” Bucky complains. He screws the grate back over the vent in your room with a sigh.

You snort.

“It’s almost like they were designed with you in mind,” you tease.

Bucky sticks his tongue out and throws the screwdriver at you; you duck. It bounces harmlessly on the mattress by your outstretched legs.

“Wasn’t gonna hit you,” he tells you, leaning over to retrieve it.

Your heartbeat ramps up; he’s close again, dangerously close. When he grins up at you, you clench your hands into fists to keep from pulling him closer.

Bucky goes back to screwing in the grate, and you bury yourself in your computer, cheeks blazing.

—

You both watch with bated breath as Tony makes his way into the conference room, flanked by Happy Hogan.

“Okay, now!”

You hit enter. The program runs, code scrolling into life on your laptop before you toss it aside and quickly tug Bucky’s computer midway between you.

The projected backdrop in the conference room goes black; the sound system whirs to life.

“Do you seriously think this is going to go over?” Bucky mutters.

“Shh! Just wait.”

A distinctive dance-pop beat blares out of the speakers. The crowd of eager journalists and media bloggers is silent for a beat, and then lets out a chorus of groans and laughs. Rick Astley’s voice begins the famous refrain: “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down…”

Bucky sets his computer further down the bed and links his arms behind his head.

“It would have been more fun to watch from a vent,” he muses. “Then again, it would have been more fun if we’d gone with my idea.”

You giggle. “I did promise it’d be harmless.”

“You’re welcome to do that on your own time,” you tell him. “I’m confident you could manage it without my skills.”

“I probably could,” Bucky agrees. He smiles and inches closer. “But why would I?”

You swallow. Bucky’s hip is touching yours; his hand is propped behind you, boxing you in. Your eyes dart to his mouth as he licks his lips. “For—revenge?”

Bucky slides his free hand—the metal one; oh lord, he can feel with that—up your leg until he’s gripping your thigh. The pressure is delicious, intoxicating; he’s so close—

“Revenge is for suckers,” he murmurs. His dark eyes drink you in, and then your eyes flutter shut as he ducks even closer. “The whole point was you.”

Then he kisses you.

His lips feel as perfect as they look—soft, plump, warm, alive—and in seconds you’re a mess. His grip on your thigh tightens, and his arm by your back circles your waist. Your hands find their way into his hair, and when you tug, he turns to putty in your hands, deep moans catching in his throat.

By the time he pulls back, you’re out of breath. His lips are fuller than ever, swollen and pink and perfect. You stroke his hair, then trace his mouth as he watches you, eyes dark.

All in all, a much better hands-on exercise than the one Tony had made you do.

“Well,” he says, eyes twinkling, “what are the ethics of dating a coworker?”

You suck in a breath, heart full. “It depends,” you say. “Will you be good?”

#fic

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pernatius · 4 years

Text

Forgive Me: Ch 5

Ch 4

Summary: A psychologist tortures prisoners to avenge the death of his sister.

Attempting to once again write 10k words within a week.

—————

Somehow he survived, but if he had to wait for a second longer he wouldn’t have. Maybe it was the act of God. People do say he works in mysterious ways even if the psychotic psychologist deserved to be killed that night. Maybe it was luck. The bullets went right through him, yes, but they didn’t hit anything major. His luck, after all, prevented him from getting caught for many years. He was in critical condition for days. For weeks he was stuck on that hospital bed. Once the incisions turned into scars he was handcuffed. Lights flashed onto him. A crowd shouted their questions as the police walked him towards their car. The old man ignored them, but he smiled through it.

He sat in the far corner of a white room in a straitjacket. The old man stared aimlessly between the bars of the door’s window. His eyes focused on the light flickering on the other side. He muttered words under his breath as he did. He was counting how many seconds there are between its flickers.

The clicking of heels echoes across the hallway. Its rhythm matches the beats of the light’s flickering. The door opened and in its doorway stood a woman in a lab coat. She held a clipboard in her hands, had tied her hair up in a bun, and she’s half of the old man’s age. The door shut. Her glasses reflected his empty expression as she stepped closer. She takes a seat in front of him, but his eyes haven’t moved from the light.

“Ah, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve read all about your many years’ work.” Because he doesn’t respond, she continues, “It’s a shame such a smart mind was wasted on a man like you.”

“I did it,” he whispered.

“Did what?” She takes out a needle from her lab coat’s pocket.

“She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

“My sister. She’s finally gone. I don’t hear her anymore. I don’t see her anymore. She’s finally moved on.” He chuckles, but when his eyes meet with hers his excitement dies down. His giddy demeanor shifts into fear. “No. No. How? Why?”

“Sir?”

“Please, Martha, leave me alone. Please.” He tries to push himself deeper into the corner as he starts to both frantically scream and cry.

“Sir, please, calm down, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’m your psychiatrist. I’m Dr. Harris.” The doctor takes a step towards him.

“Get away from me. Please.” He gets up and tries running away, but he trips on his footing. He falls flat on his face, but he manages to get back up with just his legs. When he reaches the door, he bangs on it with his forehead. “Help,” he called several times.

“It’s alright, sir. Just, please, calm down.”

When he notices her getting all too close to him from her reflection in the bars, he tries dashing away again. However, he barely takes a step forward because she slams her foot into the knee that was shot. Falling to the floor in agony, he sobs as she unstraps one of his arms and injects him with the needle’s medication. With him being unable to move his limbs, “Now it wasn’t that bad. Was it, Joseph?”

“I did everything for you, Martha. I did it all for you, but you still haunt me. You still can’t leave me alone,” he sobbed out.

“I don’t plan to do all those things you did to those prisoners anytime soon, but, it’s tragic, you ended up behind bars as well,” she sighs, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Maybe they’ll get you to leave here much earlier than you were sentenced. Maybe they won’t. Whatever the case it’s not like you have anything better to do. So, please answer me and don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Running off from an abusive household in the middle of one fall night, Joseph is behind the wheel and his sister is next to him in the car they stole from their father. They laugh as their house grows smaller and smaller with each second. “We did it. We really did it,” Martha gasped out loud with relief.

“Of course we did.”

“Dad would’ve been really mad at us if he woke up.” Martha yawned.

“Even if he did, Martha, I wouldn’t let him touch you. I’d never let him touch you ever again.”

She leans against her brother’s shoulder as she begins to drift off to sleep. “Where are we heading to, Joseph?”

“Anywhere but back there.”

Martha lets out a chuckle. “Yeah. Hey, Joseph?”

“What is it, Martha?”

“I know you’re my brother and all and you said it’s your job to protect me even if I’m older, but I want to protect you too. I will protect you too.”

“Thanks, but for right now you should be getting some sleep.” His sister fell asleep before he could finish. The sight of her finally sleeping peacefully gets him to crack a smile. No longer did they have to live in fear each day of their father. No longer did he have to hear her scream. No longer were they trapped underneath his roof, but instead lived freely underneath God’s sky. It was a new beginning to them, but it was short-lived.

They promised each other they’d be there for one another. He promised her right to her face, but he broke it. He was there, but he didn’t hear her scream. He didn’t hear her at that time. They took her as he was distracted by another woman. Those men took her from right under his nose. While he laughed with the beautiful stranger and as his cheeks reddened his sister was growing paler and paler. It took days to find her. The police stopped long before then.

“Ah, so Martha was your sister.” Dr. Harris wrote it down on her clipboard. After she writes it down, she points her pen at him and asks, “How about her husband?”

Michael loved Martha. Ever since they met he’s been nothing but kind to her. He didn’t shout or even looked at her wrongly, He didn’t shout or even looked at her wrongly, but ever since the day Joseph was introduced to Michael he’s hated him. It was obvious how happy he made his sister. He gifted her with a feeling she hasn’t felt until then, love. Joseph should’ve been happy for her, which he knew he should’ve, but that’s the reason why Joseph never liked him. He gave her something Joseph couldn’t give her. He was taking her away from Joseph because of it. Right from under his nose he was taking away the only person that understood. He was taking away the only person that knew what they went through when they were kids. Even though he was trying to look for someone as well he just didn’t like the fact she was slowly drifting away from him. That she was slowly no longer finding a need in him.

The long nights of searching for her were filled with Joseph blaming Michael. Michael wasn’t part of the city’s police department. So, he had no part in solving the case, but Joseph still blamed him. He blamed him even though he went along with him to search for her. He blamed him for not doing enough. He knew Michael knew people and he chastised him for not using them. He also, and what lingered in his consciousness for the rest of his life, chastised him for being a bad husband. Because of this, Michael blamed himself for what happened to her as well. This is why he barely fought when he was making that promise with Joseph. That’s why he bit down his conscience as he felt guilty for the people his brother-in-law hurt for years on end.

While Joseph pointed his finger at his brother-in-law he was actually venting. He saw himself as Michael every time he shouted at him. Every time he wanted to hurt him it was actually him wanting to hurt himself. Even as he hurt those prisoners he saw himself as them as well. He wanted to do those same things as he did with them, but he couldn’t. It’s like he said, “That’s the problem with people like him. He listened. He agreed, but once it’s about to happen to him he backed down.”

The psychiatrist opened her mouth. “Sure, on paper you’re the victim. It’s tragic what happened to you, but what you did was...God, I can’t find the right word,” she pushes her glasses closer to her eyes, “I don’t know, but you being here should be more than enough of an answer. A shame that you were the one that survived. Your brother-in-law, as based on your recount, was a great guy. If your story were to go public people would still agree that you should’ve died instead.”

“Oh, I know. I wish I did.”

“You agree that you should’ve died?”

“I wish I had died a long time ago, Martha.”

“Once again I’m not your sister.” He looks at her with a blank expression. It’s as if she spoke to him in another language. So, she sighs and presses two fingers against the bridge of her nose. “Do you regret anything you did? You tortured so many lives. You killed several people that night.”

“Why would I? Those people had their chances. They didn’t deserve a second chance.”

“I assume this is because you feel guilty about the situation with your sister.”

“Of course, Martha, there hasn’t been a single second where I haven’t thought about it. When people do really bad things, they don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

“Then, do you believe you deserve a second chance?”

He opens his mouth, but he closes it. He looks at her then he moves his attention towards the flickering light. “I believe in life after death.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

Ignoring her, “Throughout history, there have been all kinds of religions and throughout it, people have used religion to get what they want, which I did too. People have fought with others over which religion is the one, true, religion. There’ve been battles because of it. Thousands died. Belief is dangerous.”

“Where exactly are you going with this?”

“But in the end, it doesn’t matter. They all tell of two afterlives. There’s one of paradise and one of torture. If people are religious then they believe in an all-powerful figure who chooses where you go based on what you have done throughout your life. You don’t get a second chance. Once you do evil in the world you get put in hell for eternity. Now do I deserve a second chance? Does it matter? I know what’ll happen to me, but I had to do it for you. I had to do it so you can finally leave me alone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough because you’re still here.”

“But you killed all those people. You killed your brother-in-law. They didn’t deserve to die and even though what you did hit a grey spot in morality they deserved a second chance. At least so, as based on your logic, they could avoid what happens next as long as they’re able to.”

“That’s the thing about people. They’re confusing. Their words don’t make sense half of the time.”

She moves up her sleeve. She checks her wristwatch and gets up. “Looks like our time is up. I’ll be back here tomorrow.” As she heads towards the door, it opens. Nurses come in with Joseph’s lunch. From the reflection in the bars, she watches them feed him. She looks at him with a sympathetic expression. When their eyes meet, she continues walking. Her heels click once they exit the room. They echo across the hall growing quieter and quieter with each step.

Once again he’s alone in the room and is sitting in its far corner. As it gets darker and darker, he cries to himself.

#188 #forgive me #writers on tumblr #writers #writeblr #creative writing #spilled ink #fiction #my writing

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