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silverarmedassassin · 3 years

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Home For the Holidays (1)

Bucky x Reader | Words: 8,608 | Warnings: None

A/N: Happy holidays and happy December 16! This is my holiday submission for @wonderlandmind4 Fall/Winter challenge. My prompt was: B is very enthusiastic to introduce A to all their traditions, but tries to be sensitive when A seems like they’re struggling to fit in/enjoy themselves.

I’ve been working on this guy for so long, so I decided to split this up into two parts. Part two will be posted this weekend! I’m so happy to finally be sharing this bad boy with you all! If you feel so inclined, I would love to hear what you think. Happy reading!🎄

From the time he was a young boy, Bucky has had an aversion towards the elderly. Which is ironic considering since, technically speaking, he is the elderly now. It’s not that he doesn’t like old people; it’s just that they make him uncomfortable. Which is why, on a balmy Sunday in October, when he walks into the Brooklyn Manor nursing home, he feels his skin crawl.

This trip has been a long time coming. Two years on the run, a voluntary deep freeze, a universal war, and the obliteration of half the earth’s population and its subsequent return, to be exact. But no amount of time would ever prepare Bucky for the visit he was about to make. But it was “essential to his healing,” as Sam so often liked to say. This, along with therapy and the establishment of a place of his own outside of the Tower, was meant to help him move past what had happened to him, help him see that he was a victim and that people still loved him despite what he was forced to do for all of those years.

"Good morning," a cheery redhead says from her spot behind the front desk. "Can I he-" She cuts herself off when she looks up from the computer screen and sees who is looming over her.

"Er, hi," Bucky says, suddenly convinced this is a terrible idea. He should expect nothing less, considering his line of work, both current and past. "I was told Rebecca Proctor lives here..."

It took a second for the woman to register what Bucky had said, but then she jumps into action and begins to type into her computer. "Of course! Are you a relative?"

"Brother."

Her eyes go wide for a second before it clicks. "Oh my goodness, of course." The woman grabs a sticky note from the pad next to her keyboard and scribbles down a series of numbers before handing it to him. "Her room number is 117. This is the code to get into the residence portion of the building. If you need help finding the room, there should be a nurse's station in every hall."

Bucky offers a tight smile and nod of appreciation as he takes the slip of paper from the woman. As he makes his way deeper into the facility, he can feel his nerves waxing and waning with each step. He shouldn't be nervous. It was just Becca, just his little sister, one of the last living ties to his life before all of this. But it had been so long, who knew if she would even recognize him?

When Bucky recruited Sam to help him find out where, or even if, his sister was living, he figured it would be a fruitless quest. He was surprised, however, when Sam came to him a week later with the address of the building he was currently attempting to navigate, shyly dipping his head every time he would pass an older woman in a wheelchair or a group of men concentrating on a board game. Sam had managed to hunt her down with a little help from his Avenger title. The nurse couldn't give him much information since he wasn't a relative or listed on her medical files, but what she could share broke Bucky's heart.

At 102 years old, technically a little less since she was a Snap victim, Becca's memory was less than stellar. Her children had made the tough decision to place her in a home after her mind had started to slip, and she was no longer able to care for herself. It makes Bucky feel guilty because he wasn't around to help.

But today, hopefully, that would change.

After a little wandering and a helpful point from a nurse, Bucky finds himself standing in front of the oversized, thick oak door with a golden plaque in the center proudly displaying "117." He waits a moment, listens for any sign that someone is in the room, but all he hears are the general noises of a nursing home just after lunchtime. He raises his hand to knock but stops short of making contact. Should he knock? What if she’s sleeping? He wouldn't want to wake her. He decides to slowly press the door open instead.

He enters the room slowly, unsure of what he will be greeted with when he reaches the end of the short hall blocking his view from his sister's bed. What he sees, however, thoroughly surprises him. Instead of finding a small, frail body lying in a too-sterile hospital-grade bed, he finds his sister sitting in one of the two armchairs in front of her window, quietly looking out into the garden just outside. After a moment of shifting back and forth on his feet, Bucky clears his throat in an attempt to catch Becca's attention.

The woman slowly turns her head to eye the intruder, and, to Bucky's amazement, a slight look of recognition flashes across her face. Despite her age and sunken appearance, her bright blue eyes still shine as brilliant as they did when she was a little girl. He focuses on those eyes as he slowly crosses the room to her.

"Hey, Becca. Do you," Bucky grimaces as the falter in his voice caused by the tears that are starting to form in his own blue eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

To save his sister from having to crane her frail neck to look up at him, he settles himself into the chair across from hers. The smooth velvet is cool on his overheated skin, and he could sink into the feeling of comfort it gives him. Another piece of home, he thinks as a picture of his family's home flashes across his mind, the two chairs nestled in a similar position to how Becca has them now.

Rebecca studies her brother for a moment before a thin but bright smile spreads across her aged features, and Bucky lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You're from the pictures. Just over there."

Bucky watches as a boney finger points to the dresser, the top neatly cluttered with picture frames and trinkets, a sign that his sister had lived a full and happy life after he'd gone. He gets up and makes his way to the piece of furniture to better look at the mixture of black and white and colored photos scattered together. It's strange, he thinks, seeing his sister's life play out across the years in the span of just a few short seconds. When he lands on a black and white photo in an aged frame, he freezes. Smiling back at him are his parents, Bucky himself sitting in front of them on their home's front steps, and Becca nestled snugly in their mother's arms. From when they first brought her home, Bucky thinks to himself as he reaches out and caresses the delicate glass. He moves on to another older photo, this one depicting the two Barnes children dressed in their Sunday best with a scrawny Steve Rogers thrown into the mix. Bucky shakes his head at the sight of his best friend, remembering all the trouble he used to get the two of them in.

The last photo he sees, though, causes a lump to rise and settle in his throat. Frozen in time in the cracked and fading film is the last time he ever saw his family. Bucky, Rebecca, and their parents stand on the dock just in front of the boat he was to ship off on. Becca and his mother have a tight grip on him, and his father only offers a tight smile to the camera. Looking at the image of his younger self, not too different from what he looks like now, is a heart-wrenching moment. The man in that photo has yet to see death first-hand, feel the visceral need to kill or be killed. That man was still innocent, naive to the world, and convinced he was invincible.

Bucky remembers that day and how, despite the nerves, excited he was to see someplace other than dinghy Brooklyn. Yeah, that war wasn't one he signed up to fight, but he'd made a promise to himself he would do what he needed to keep his ma and sister safe.

As he reaches for the frame, a soft knock on the door startles him from his thoughts. "Mrs. Proctor!" a sweet voice sing-songs as the door is pushed open once again. "I hope you didn't fill up at lunch. I brought-Oh!"

Standing in the doorway, both hands full of reusable bags filled to the brim with goodies of all sorts, is a young woman. Her smile, one of the prettiest Bucky's ever seen, he thinks, falters just a little when she sees his towering form taking up so much space in Becca's room. However, she recovers quickly and nudges the door shut behind her as she makes her way deeper into the room.

"I didn't know you were expecting company this afternoon," the woman says and deposits the bags onto the bed. "Who is this?"

Bucky studies the woman in an attempt to figure out who she is to his sister. She couldn't be a daughter or granddaughter, right? She looked nothing like them. Plus, she was calling her Mrs. Proctor. Bucky also felt confident in his ruling that she was not a nurse or staff member at the facility, considering she wasn't wearing scrubs or donning a facility badge.

The only indication that she even belongs in this facility is the sticker she wears proudly just above her heart, with "Y/N" scrawled in bright red letters.

"The pictures," Becca finally says with a smile, pointing towards Bucky. "He's from the pictures."

Their visitor looks between Bucky and Rebecca with a soft look somewhere between pity and a faint sense of joy. "Bucky," the frail old woman says, and Bucky instantly feels the lump that had settled into his throat not ten minutes earlier begin to grow again.

Y/N must sense the energy shift in the room because she quickly pulls out a few homemade goodies wrapped in cellophane and places them on the rolling table next to Becca's bed. "Well, I'll let you be with your visitor, Mrs. Proctor," she says as she shoulders her bags again. "I'll see you Tuesday evening, okay?"

Becca simply nods as she watches the younger woman make her exit, then shifts her attention to Bucky as he steps back towards her and crouches down.

"Bec, you remember me?"

She says nothing at first but brings her hand up to rest on Bucky's freshly shaved cheeks, a fresh set of tears gathering in their twin blue eyes. "You came back."

Bucky sits with his sister for two hours after they reacquaint themselves. The nurse that spoke with Sam was right; it was difficult to be around her, as she often slipped up with her memory. She couldn't remember the names of her grandchildren, nor her great-grandchildren, but when she saw their smiling faces looking back at her in the pictures, she knew they belonged to her. Her fragile mind, however, seemed to favor older faces and memories. She could recall events from when she was a teenager and even got some details right from when Bucky shipped off. The remembrance came with a repeat of the same stories two or three times, but Bucky didn’t mind. He was never around to bear witness to some of these stories, and it was just good to hear his sister’s voice again.

It's around 3 o'clock when Rebecca begins to grow tired, and so Bucky takes that as his cue to take his leave. He helps his sister into her bed for a pre-dinner nap, then quietly makes his exit when he is sure she is fast asleep. For a visit he was hesitant to make, he can't think of a better way to have spent his Sunday afternoon.

As Bucky makes his way back through the winding halls of the facility, a jaunty tune he recalls from his teenage days plays through his head, and he feels like he could face the world if needed, which is why he finds himself doing the unimaginable as he reaches the redhead at the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he says with a renewed sense of confidence that had been absent earlier in the day. “I don’t know if you can give me this information, but there was this woman...Y/N I think her name is. I don’t think she was a nurse, but maybe someone else that works here? Would you be able to tell me if she was still around?”

The woman smiles gently back at him but shakes her head. “We’re such a large facility, I’d need to see a face to know exactly who you’re talking about.”

There’s a momentary lapse in his confidence, realizing just how weird the question could come off. He’s suddenly very glad she had no idea who he was talking about and hopes she doesn’t mention it to anyone else.

“Uh, thanks anyway,” he mutters as he gives a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Oh well, he thinks to himself, at least I could make it out my door this morning.

The Snap impacted each and every person differently. While most think the Vanished had it the worst, people tend to forget about those left behind. Many lost their jobs due to closures and shortages, others were evicted due to insufficient funds for rent. The uncertainty of it all, the not knowing what happened to family and friends, not knowing when you’d find your next job, if you’d have money to buy groceries this week, took a harder toll on some than others.

You had been a relatively fortunate one. Since moving to the city, you hadn’t quite made a large group of friends yet, which meant there were fewer people for you to lose. Your family had somehow lucked out as well. Due to an abundance of workers suddenly gone without a trace, you’d been able to snag a corporate position that you managed to hold onto even after the Snap was reversed.

However, the one downside was the aftermath of families coming back to their homes only to find that someone new was living in their space. That, unfortunately, happened to you. Two days after everyone reappeared, you had a knock on your front door. When you opened it, you found a lovely couple who had just been married before the Snap and had just started renting the apartment you were living in. And, even though you’d called this building your home for the past five years, you did what any half-decent individual would do and moved out. Goodbye state-of-the-art gym and central location, hello paper-thin walls, and a forty-five-minute one-way commute.

At least you were able to take a few days off of work to get your belongings out of the old apartment and into the new one. Most of the larger furniture had been the couple’s, which meant you only had to carry a few pieces into your second story Brooklyn brownstone apartment. The problem, however, was that there was no elevator in this renovated building, which meant you had to find a way to carry your low-quality Ikea TV stand up the too-narrow stairs without busting a wall or your furniture. The only thing you were close to bursting was a nerve because it was turning out to be more of a two-person task, and you were the only one participating in this moving process.

“Fuck you,” you groan as one of the stand’s legs gets caught on the stairs again. Despite the chilly breeze that was blowing in from the building’s front door you had propped open, you were perspiring more than would be deemed ladylike. With the rate you were going, you would need to need to take another full day off just to get your stupid furniture into your apartment.

“Do you need some help?” a voice calls from above you. You peek over your shoulder to find a rather tall, rather bulky man standing at the second-floor landing. It hadn’t even occurred to you that people might actually need to use the stairs to, you know, go about their daily lives. What doesn’t go over your head, however, is the fact that the man standing at the top of the stairs was not a complete stranger like you originally thought, but someone you knew almost too well for not actually knowing him at all.

“That would actually be wonderful,” you huff out a laugh, attempting to be nonchalant about the fact that Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier - soldier turned assassin turned Avenger - was standing just feet away from you for the second time in twenty-four hours, this time in your new apartment building. Maybe this place wasn’t as safe as you had thought?

He makes his way halfway down the stairs, and you attempt to shimmy out of the way so that he can grab the corners you had been holding up. “If you could just get this thing back down the stairs, I could-” Your meager offering of help is cut short when Bucky manages to slot his arms into place and life the entire piece like it was nothing. A metal arm will do that to someone, you suppose.

You awkwardly direct him to your apartment, shoving open the door to 2B and waving your arm to give him a vague idea of where you want the stand. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. I thought for sure I was going to have to take the thing apart to get it up here.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Bucky says as he stuffs his hands into his jacket’s pockets, the stiff leather shifting and rubbing as he does so. When he looks at you for the first time, his bright blue eyes light up even more with recognition. “Hey, you were visiting my sister’s place the other day.”

“I was,” you laugh as you extend your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

There’s a brief moment of hesitation before a warm, leathered hand slips into yours. “Bucky,” he says as if you wouldn’t already know who he is. "Do you, uh, need help bringing anything else up?"

You watch him as he slowly glances around your small apartment, void of much except for a few boxes and the stand he just carried up and your mattress you've yet to shimmy into the bedroom. “Oh! No,” you laugh, realizing how pathetic your new home looks at the moment. “I have movers bringing the rest of my things from storage tomorrow. But thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s really no problem. If you, uh, ever need anything, I rent the unit above you. Not sure how often I’ll be home, but for whatever it’s worth,” he shrugs as you follow him back out your front door.

“I’ll keep it in mind. I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”

Despite his nod of agreement, you don’t see Bucky for another two weeks. You try not to let the unexplained but forewarned absence weigh on your thoughts. With the exception of listening for the creaks of his floorboards that never come and the brief visits with his sister, you find yourself doing everything you can to not fixate on the Grecian god of a man you have somehow come to call a neighbor.

It’s not until you receive a call from Rebecca’s daughter that you finally admit he was home.

“Oh, I’m...I’m so sorry…” you choke out when Mary informs you her mother had passed away in the early hours of the night. Despite having no real relation to the Proctor family, you’d known them for a handful of years due to your time spent at the nursing home. In that time, they’d come to be like family to you, so their loss affected you just as strongly as the passing of your own family member would. “Have you told her brother?”

“No. We have no way to contact him. I know he’d spent some time with Ma at the nursing home, so I left a message for them to pass the news and my number on if he came in or called. But I haven’t heard anything.”

“I actually have a way to reach him. I’ll tell him to give you a call, okay?”

When you get home the following day, you’re greeted by the sound of Bucky’s shower turning on. Five minutes later, it shuts off. You give him another ten before you make your way up to his apartment. The idea of telling this man, a practical stranger who you knew nothing about other than what you’ve read in books and seen on tv, that his sister passed away leaves you feeling nauseous. This isn't exactly what you pictured when you said you’d see him around.

He’s quick to answer his door. You’re taken off guard when his door is pulled open to reveal his broad chest covered in a blue Henley that is clinging to his still-damp skin. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts and remember exactly why you were here.

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” he asks as you drag your eyes up to meet his own.

You clear your throat and shake your head in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “Uh, yeah. No? I’m sorry to bug you, but I, uh...You haven’t heard from Mrs. Pro-er, I mean Rebecca’s daughter, have you?” When he says no, you sigh. You knew that was the answer you were going to get, but a part of you still hoped you weren’t going to have to be the one to deliver this information. “Mary called me yesterday. She, uh...She wanted you to know...uh...Rebecca passed away...early yesterday morning…”

You can visibly see Bucky shift through several emotions - shock, grief, anger, to finally an almost expressionless mask. You unintentionally stiffen at the sound of metal shifting and grating together, which seems to break Bucky’s haze. You can tell he’s struggling to find words in that moment, so you continue on, hoping a coherent sentence will come out.

“I know I’m probably not the person you want to hear this news from, but I couldn’t really give her a way to contact you and...Here!” You shove your hand out towards him, the small piece of paper you wrote Mary’s number down on resting in your palm. “I told her I’d give you her number. So you could call her or whatever.”

Bucky just looks at the slip for a moment before you clear your throat. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I wi-”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he cuts you off and grabs for the paper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go call her.”

Before you can respond, Bucky is turning his back. “Yeah, okay,” you whisper to the dark oak of his door before making your way back down to your own apartment.

“The service was beautiful, Mary,” you say as you hug Rebecca’s daughter. “She would have loved it.”

“It’s all thanks to Bucky. He paid for everything.” Mary says as she sets her gaze over your shoulder. “Or, I guess Uncle Bucky is more appropriate to say…”

You turn and follow her gaze to where the man in question is, his great-great nieces and nephew using him as their personal jungle gym. You can tell, even from across the room, that his face is absolutely glowing, eyes crinkled in the outer-corners with delight as Bridget, the youngest of the bunch, wraps her tiny arms around his neck and demands a horsey ride.

“I’m glad they’re taking it so well,” Mary says as she watches her grandchildren. “It’s almost like he’s been a part of their life this entire time instead of just appearing out of nowhere.” There’s no hostility in her voice when she says this. Rather, she sounds remorseful. “I went my entire life hearing stories about my uncle. My dead uncle. Yet, after all these years, he shows up looking exactly like he does in the pictures I’ve been looking at since I was a little girl.”

You felt for Mary and the rest of the family. You couldn’t begin to comprehend how difficult and confusing it must be to find out that the man you’d come to know as just a ghost story was alive and real and more than willing to be a part of even the most difficult moments in life. It’s a testament, you think, to how good of a man Bucky really is. Despite the horrors of his past and the apprehension he’s likely still faced with every day, he’s still willing to put himself out into a world that has been less than kind to him.

As if your thoughts summon him, Bucky looks up and over to where you are standing. When he catches your eye, his smile grows. You’re sure there has never been anything as beautiful as Bucky Barnes flashing a megawatt smile at you. “At least you’re in good hands.”

You decide not to stick around for the luncheon after the service so, after snagging a few refreshments and a quick chat with a few of the family members you recognize, you begin to inch your way closer to the exit. You hadn’t seen Bucky since you’d spoken with Mary, and you were in the middle of trying to figure out why that left you with a hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach when you’re abruptly stopped on your way to the doors.

“You can’t leave before I get the chance to apologize for the other day,” Bucky says, a small smile gracing his face. He cleans up well, you decide as you get a better look at his lightly stubbled face. He has his hair tied back in a neat, low bun, which allowed his eyes to stand out more than they usually did, and a black-on-black suit is stretched just right over his broad chest. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was a model on loan to add some cheer to the rather dreary day.

Bucky quirks his head and shifts his body weight when it takes you a bit too long to answer, and it’s only then that you realize you’re ogling him. His sister just died, Y/N, you chastise yourself, this is not the time to be checking him out.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat, hoping he can’t feel the heat that is rapidly clawing up your neck radiating from you. “I don’t want to intrude on family time,” you say rather lamely. It was true, but for whatever reason, Bucky left you feeling almost guilty.

He lets out a humorless laugh and crosses his arms. “If anyone is intruding, I think it’s me,” he says as he looks over your shoulder back into the banquet room the rest of the family is in.

You turn to follow his line of sight and can’t help but smile when you see one of his great-nieces twirling around, showing off her dress. “Nah, don’t say that. The little ones seem to love you,” you laugh, hoping to lighten the mood just a little.

Bucky chuckles and then sighs. “Yea, but I just...don’t feel like I belong.”

Hearing Bucky, this man who had his entire life ripped from him multiple times, who, after spending just a few short hours in total with, you ardently believed deserved every good thing in the world and then some, say that he feels he doesn’t belong among those who are supposed to love him most broke your heart. You know that it’s likely untrue that Rebecca’s family was anything but unwelcoming, but that Bucky even felt that way caused a pit to open in your stomach.

“Oh, Bucky…” you say softly, trying to avoid sounding full of pity. “I’m so sorry this all has happened to you.” He averts his gaze and shrugs. “You know what? I could probably stay for a little while longer…”

At that, Bucky looks back at you, eyes as bright as when his own sister recognized him on that very first day. You knew then that, no matter what, you’d do anything to keep that look on his face.

“I promise it won’t be for nothing. They have a ton of food, and I guess there are some famous deviled eggs that, not to sound awful but...are to die for.”

You stifle a laugh and shake your head as Bucky leads you back into the banquet room, excitedly rambling on about the various food items his relatives have to offer. After piling your plates full and grabbing a coffee, you follow Bucky to a small table conveniently tucked away in the corner. Over the next hour, you watch Bucky’s perfectly constructed walls begin to crumble just a little. You quickly uncover which topics make him uncomfortable, particularly those revolving around his current line of work and those he can talk about endlessly. You learn the ins and outs of what it was like being friends with Captain America before he was the size of a brick house. You also discover that Bucky is someone you could listen to talk for hours on end.

“I don’t think it ever came up,” Bucky says as he takes a seat back at the table, two fresh cups of coffee in hand, “how did you know my sister?”

You hum your thanks and take a sip before answering. “Well, a few years ago, or I guess a few years before the Snap, I started volunteering at the nursing home. You’d be surprised how many families just shove their parents or grandparents in those homes and forget about them. They get lonely and just want someone to talk to that isn’t a nurse or whatever. It got worse during those five years. Rebecca never really needed me to sit with her; her family visited all the time. However, she was still one of my favorite residents.

“She talked about you all the time, you know. Even when she couldn’t remember her own children’s names, she always had a story to tell about you. She was immensely proud of you.” Bucky grunts, and you playfully roll your eyes at him. “She was a good storyteller. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was trying to pull my leg or not. She...she was something else, but she’s going to be dearly missed.”

A somber sort of silence falls between the two of you then. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s the kind charged with a unique sense of melancholy. It’s so strange, you think, to share a common heartbreak with someone you still barely know. Loss and grief have a curious way of bringing those once unknown together.

“Uncle Bucky,” a high-pitched squeal cuts through the moment and brings with it the excited, flushed face of an excited great-niece. “Uncle Bucky, I made you something!”

Bridget worms her way up onto Bucky’s lap, a piece of paper with her hand traced to look like a turkey in its center. “To Unkle Bucky, Luv Bridget” was written sloppily across the top.

You watch as Bucky’s expression goes from one of strain to that of absolute joy. “Thank you so much,” he smiles as he takes the paper and examines it as if it were a piece on display at the Louvre. “I know exactly where I’m going to hang this as soon as I find a frame.”

The little girl, who bears a striking resemblance to her long-lost great-uncle, beams as she wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes. You catch Bucky’s eye, causing him to break into an even wider smile. You hope he can see how truly and unconditionally he is loved.

You watch as she scrambles off back to where her brother and cousin are sitting, coloring away. You nod at the sweet drawing. “Planning on spending Thanksgiving with them?”

Bucky smooths his hand over the paper in front of him and thinks for a moment. “They invited me. I guess they, we, have family in Indiana that they usually visit for the holiday. I just...I don’t think so. I don’t want to be that far from where I’m needed most, and I think meeting a whole new set of family would be a bit much, ya know?”

You hum in response, fully understanding the dilemma. It’s unfortunate, though. “Well, I’m sure I could never compete with a real home-cooked meal, but I’m staying home because I don’t...really agree with the holiday and will be heating up a nice frozen turkey TV dinner if you would like to join. I might just throw in a pumpkin pie, too.”

Bucky looks up then, a soft, small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Thanks, Y/N, really. But I’m not sure. Might not even be home,” he shrugs.

“Well,” you say as you look at the time on your phone, “the offer stands just in case you change your mind. But, hey, I think it’s time for me to leave for real now. I have some work to catch up on before I go back to the office tomorrow.”

You can tell he’s disappointed, but Bucky offers to walk you out anyway. He wants to stay and help his family clean up, or he would offer to walk you home. You make your rounds to say goodbye to the family you were familiar with and, when you reach the kiddie table to say goodbye, Bucky’s great-nephew Jackson refuses to let you go.

“Will I ever see you again even though we can’t come to visit Grammy no more?” he wails as he buries his little face into your stomach.

“Jackson, please,” his mother says as she comes to diffuse the situation. The little boy lets out one last sob into your dress before letting his mother pull him into her arms. “Y/N will still be around,” she smiles mischievously, directing her gaze over your shoulder to where Bucky waits at the front doors. “I’m almost sure of it.”

You can feel the heat of embarrassment as it claws up your neck, and you quickly give another round of hugs and goodbyes to the children before heading back to Bucky. “Is everything alright,” he asks as he hands you your coat.

“Fine. Jackson is just…” you slip on your coat and refuse to meet Bucky’s probing eyes, “dramatic sometimes.”

The weeks following Rebecca’s funeral saw Bucky locked away in his apartment. Calls from Sam and Wanda went unanswered, and the curtains were scarcely opened. He’d even ignored your attempts of delivering some semblance of comfort. The pasta dish you dropped off was left mostly untouched in his fridge, and he’d only managed to eat half a slice of a pumpkin pie you’d left for him on Thanksgiving. He knew that hiding away was doing nothing for his mental health, would do nothing to help him move past the loss and pain, but it was all he knew. How he reacted was all he could control, and Bucky liked to be in control.

His control, like most things in his life, came to an end far too quickly when Sam decided he’d finally had enough. Bucky knew that he couldn’t hide from his friends forever, but he would have liked to come out on his terms.

“Man, I know you’re in there,” Sam shouts as he knocks on the door of Bucky’s apartment. He’d been there for five minutes now, and, at this point, Bucky was testing to see how long he could keep the man waiting. “Seriously, Buck, open the door, or I’ll use Redwing to knock it down. And I won’t pay for repairs or reimburse your security deposit.”

Bucky sighs before hauling himself off of the couch. “What?” he deadpans as he opens the door. It takes everything in him not to slap the toothy grin off of Sam’s amused face.

“I was beginning to think I was going to have to call the Smithsonian - tell them to get your exhibit ready because, as far as any of us knew, you were dead,” Sam says as he pushes past Bucky into the apartment.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks again as Sam looks around the scarcely decorated apartment. From the discontent on his face, Bucky could tell Sam was less than thrilled with the state of his apartment. It was dark, the only furniture being a couch, a small coffee table, and an old TV he’d stolen from the Tower. Not exactly what one would consider a "space of their own."

“Listen,” Sam says as he moves to push open the curtains, “you’ve spent enough time locked up in here. You need to get out, see the sun, get some air. Plus, Wanda misses you, and that spider kid has been coming around asking for you.” Bucky grimaces at that. Peter Parker had asked his fair share of questions about his arm, and Bucky didn’t feel like entertaining the teenager anymore.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam continues as he flops down on the couch. “Go get dressed. You can hang out with the crew for a few hours today. I promise if you have the worst time of your life, I’ll let you sit in your own filth and wallow for the foreseeable future, okay?”

After a moment of contemplation, Bucky agrees. Despite his dwindling interest in seeing anyone outside of his own reflection, he knew that seeing his friends - his chosen family of mix-matched misfits - would make him feel at least a little better. So, he allows Sam to tidy up the apartment, put away the dishes Bucky has been neglecting, and open the rest of the windows while he goes to get dressed. Bucky will never admit, however, just how much lighter he felt when he emerged from his room to the man he reluctantly called his best friend, smiling back at him.

December creeps up in a flurry of deadlines and personal obligations. The two-week break your company gave you every holiday season was a welcomed reprieve to the daily hustle and bustle of life, but it also meant long hours at the office in the weeks leading up to the holiday. Plus, the holidays were always a sour topic around the nursing home, as many of the residents were left to their own devices instead of being a part of family celebrations. That meant, in addition to staying until six or seven o’clock at work, you were spending hours afterward crafting decorations, cards, and personalized goodies for each of the residents you visited each week. This all, understandably, left you with little to no free time.

So, when the first of the month came rolling in, and you were yet to have played a single Christmas song or even thought about pulling your tiny table-top tree from storage, you felt deflated. You’d never been so thankful for online shopping and overnight shipping because, by Saturday afternoon, you had a brand new artificial Christmas tree waiting for you on your building’s front steps. In your excitement of getting into the holiday spirit, however, you completely overlooked just how you were going to get this tree up your narrow stairwell. It was like moving day all over again, except for this time you were sure a knight in shining vibranium armor was not going to show up to save the day.

To your dismay, you hadn’t seen Bucky since his sister’s funeral a month ago. It’s not like you hadn’t tried to make contact. You had prepared him a small meal the day after and had even left him half of the pumpkin pie you picked up from the market down the block. The only way you could tell he was even inside his apartment was the fact that, when you went back up to check, the items were gone. That or one of your other neighbors had taken them for themselves. Either way, you were missing Bucky. Even though you’d only had one proper conversation the entire time you’ve known him, you enjoyed just knowing Bucky was around. The thought of him suffering to any extent made your heart twist into unmanageable knots.

You sigh as you prop the building’s front door open, bringing your attention back to the task at hand. You were strong and independent, and you were more than capable of getting this hefty box up to your apartment. With that mindset in tow, you’re pleasantly surprised to turn around and find Bucky and another man making their way towards the building.

“He’s alive,” you exclaim, unable to hide the smile that blooms across your face. You’d feel embarrassed at the overexcitement that laced through your greeting, but you were genuinely happy to see that he had been out of his apartment and with a suspected friend.

“Uh, hey, Y/N,” Bucky says as he looks down to his boot-clad feet. Despite his quiet demeanor and tendency to be closed off, you’d never seen Bucky so...shy.

So you turn your attention to the second man standing in front of you. “I’m Y/N,” you smile as you bound down the stairs to the men, hand out and waiting for Bucky’s friend to shake, “Bucky’s neighbor!” You hope that whatever icy tension that had settled over Bucky would thaw if you directed the spotlight away from him.

“Sam,” the man says as a toothy grin breaks across his face. “Bucky didn’t mention he had neighbors.”

“It’s an apartment building, bird brain, of course I have neighbors,” Bucky mumbles as he buries his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks at you then or rather looks past you at the tall box leaning against the brick building. “What’re you up to?”

“Well, I just got a new Christmas tree delivered,” you say as you bite your lip and try to hide your desperation for help. “I was just getting ready to take it up.”

Bucky looks from you to the tree before settling his gaze on you. “Do you need some help,” he asks coyly.

You don’t even attempt to mask your smile as you guiltily nod your head. As Bucky turns to look at his friend, Sam puts his hands up. “Nah, man, I was getting ready to leave. Plus, heavy lifting is more your thing,” he says before looking at you. “Plus, Bucky is still learning how to play nice with others. And it’s my day off.”

You chuckle and playfully roll your eyes. “You better go relax, then. I’m sure a day off is rare for a superhero.”

As Sam starts backing up towards the way they came, he nods. “I like her, Buck. She really gets it. It was nice meeting you, Y/N!”

“Bye, Sam,” you wave as you watch him make his way down the sidewalk. “He seems really nice,” you say as Bucky hauls the tree box over his shoulder.

“He’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles as he nods towards the front door.

All you can do is laugh and lead the way to your apartment.

“Thank you so much, Bucky,” you say as he finishes up pulling the faux tree from its too-small confines.

“It’s not a problem,” he shrugs and takes a step back to look at the tree. It’s in pretty rough shape, but once you’re done with it, no one will ever be able to tell it’s lived most of its life in a cardboard box. “You know, I haven’t had a Christmas tree since 1942.”

You stop shuffling around in the bin of ornaments and turn to look at him. “You’re joking,” you say, absolutely appalled. When Bucky shakes his head, you make a decision. “Stay and decorate with me, then.”

This obviously takes Bucky off guard, and before he can even attempt to come up with a reason to say no, you’re busting out your best pout, absolutely determined to share some holiday cheer with him this afternoon.

“Fine,” he sighs, but you can see the hint of a smile twitching on his lips.

You put Bucky to work immediately, pointing at boxes and bins full of ornaments, tinsel, and other holiday goodies. To your delight, he has quite the eye for placing ornaments, a skill he attributes to having a best friend who forced him into art classes and design lectures as teenagers. You’re almost certain he’s enjoying himself, a suspicion that is all but proven when he starts cheerfully humming along to the Christmas station you have playing on your phone.

“I’m really happy to see you out and about today,” you say as you hand him a sparkling orb to hang on one of the taller branches.

Bucky falters in his movements just a little before delivering the ornament onto its new home for the season. “I’m sorry I disappeared for a little bit…”

“Oh, Bucky,” you say as you place a hand on his metal forearm. You'd been surprised when he took his jacket off to reveal his metal arm with little more than the sleeve of his t-shirt covering it. You try not to think of the implications behind the small but seemingly intimate action. “Never apologize for how you grieve. We all process and deal with things differently.”

A moment passes in silence, though it’s not awkward. It’s simply a moment where both of you seem to process what was said. Surprisingly, it’s Bucky who breaks the silence. “That pasta thing you left me, that was really good,” he chuckles.

“Remind me, and I’ll write the recipe down for you. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods.”

Time passes easily with Bucky. Despite what Sam said early, Bucky is an excellent companion to decorate with. He cracks jokes every now and then and comments on your collection of antique ornaments. You even manage to get him to try some of that crockpot wine you had attempted to make earlier in the day. By dinner time, your tree is fully dressed and situated in its corner, and you’re tipsy on holiday cheer and alcohol. As you make your way towards the couch with a fresh glass in your hand, Bucky begins to hum along to Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as the beginning notes start to float through your apartment.

“God, I remember when this song came out,” he says quietly as you take your seat. “They played it nonstop at camp. Dunno what they were trying to do, raise our spirits, maybe? It just made me think about how Ma and Becca were going to be all alone that Christmas.” He pauses then, likely lost in the memory. You’re about to say something to pull him back from wherever he drifted off to when he adds, “I couldn’t help thinkin’ that this was a song I’d ask a girl to dance to, too.”

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you laugh as you set your wine glass down.

“Oh sweetheart, I had girls lining up outta the hall to dance with me back in the day. I wasn’t always so…” he turns to look at you and gesticulates with both arms to make his point, whatever that may be.

You squint your eyes in a challenging glare and stand. “You have to show me these moves, Bucky Barnes.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you quickly cut him off. “I’ll sing along if you don’t. I know you can hear the concerts I put on for my shampoo bottles in the shower. Save you and the neighbors the show, come on.”

Bucky gives you a mock grimace before giving in. You’re not sure if it’s the wine that’s causing time to feel so slow or if it’s the fact you want to savor the image of Bucky standing over you, flesh hand outstretched for you to take. You don’t question it, though, and simply step into his warm, welcoming embrace. It’s all too easy to melt into Bucky’s arms and allow him to guide you around your tiny living room.

A few moments pass with little more than Crosby’s melodic crooning drifting around the two of you. You hope that, despite how close you are, Bucky can’t hear how rapidly your heart is beating. When you finally muster the courage to look at him, you find that he was already looking at you. He squeezes your hand a little and gives you possibly one of the most tender smiles you’ve ever seen.

“Nice to know I still have it,” he exclaims as he winks, and you smile and shake your head before resting it on his shoulder.

When the song ends, Bucky ends his effortless glide across the antiqued hardwood floors, and you pull back from his chest enough so that you can look into his eyes. If your gaze lingers a little too long on his plump, pink lips, you’ll never admit. Despite the impossibly low lighting of the room, you can see the way Bucky’s crystal blue eyes sparkle and dance when they catch the lights from your tree.

“Thank you for helping me today,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“‘Course,” Bucky replies and, as the seconds pass, you’re pretty sure that he begins to lean towards you, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

Just as you’re about to close the small distance, a disorienting ringing begins from somewhere. Bucky pulls away, irritation quickly taking over his expression. “Goddammit,” he practically growls as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “What, Sam?”

You watch as a range of emotions flash across Bucky’s face before a seriousness shadows his features. He barks out a gruff, “See you in a few,” before quickly ending the call. “We’re, uh, needed. Immediately.”

“O-oh,” you mummer, disappointed that he has to leave so quickly. You watch from where Bucky had stopped the two of you as he gathers his jacket and scrambles to put his boots on. He’s almost to your door when your brain finally catches up to what is going on, and, in that moment, you’re appreciative for how small your apartment is because you’re able to get to him before he is fully out of the apartment.

“Wait, Bucky,” you call as you grab for his arm. When he turns to look at you, you almost back out of what you’re about to say, but you persevere, knowing that the world will continue to turn if he rejects you. “Come to Christmas with me. My parents only live two hours away. We’re pretty low-key, no big party or anything. Please?”

Bucky considers you for a moment before he visibly softens and nods. “You know what, sure. That...that sounds great.”

You smile so wide when you hear him accept the invitation, something you thought for sure would be for not. Before you can even consider your actions, you’re leaning up to place a chaste kiss on his rough and prickly cheek. “Stay safe out there,” you say gently. Bucky simply nods, a blush begins to work it’s way up his neck.

You stand in your doorway until you hear the front door of your building click shut behind him. You’ll never confess to it, but when your own apartment door is securely shut behind you, you do an excited, happy dance.

#bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #Wonderland4SeasonalWC

70 notes · View notes

not-close-to-straight · 6 years

Text

Transposed (Spideypool)(Musician AU)

“Mr. Deadpool, sir, there is a reporter here from...” The secretary looked down at her clipboard. “Oh um, a reporter from Cadentia Magazine is here to interview you about your most recent album?”

“That is a terrible name for what is undoubtedly a terrible magazine.” A figure stirred in the corner of the room, reaching for a bottle with one hand, a cigarette with the other. “Tell her no.”

“Actually, you agreed to this interview almost two months ago, and you’ve cancelled everything else since then and I think it would be a really good idea if you would--”

“Baby girl.” A low laugh, rusty and hoarse. “I don’t pay you to think.”

“According to my research, you don’t pay her at all, Mr. Deadpool.” A new voice spoke up, a gentle hand at the assistants shoulder as a young man pushed his way through. “It seems that before you fired your last manager-- uh, Piotr Rasputin? Wow really, Rasputin? Sounds like a comic book character-- anyway, right before you fired him, he realized you were on one hell of a downward spiral and redirected a chunk of your money into a trust that is soley responsible for making sure your employees get paid.”

The man paused, pushing thick, black rimmed glasses up his nose and raising an eyebrow. “Care to comment? Or are you just going to keep drinking?”

“Oh my.” the assistant whispered and he patted her back gently.

“Ms.-- Ms. Baccarin?” he smiled. “I can take it from here, thank you.”

“Good luck.” she shrugged and ducked out the door, leaving the musician and the reporter in the room in silence.

“For the record.” Deadpool spoke from the corner again. “My manager quit before I had a chance to fire him. And nobody called him Piotr Rasputin, did you see the guy? He was massive. We called him Colossus. Had buns of steel that guy, real gym rat.”

“That’s not even mildly interesting, I don’t care about any of that.” the reporter flipped on a few more lights and settled into a comfortable chair, clicking his pen a few times while he flipped through his notebook. “Alright then. I’m here to talk to you about your new album? How do you feel about it being so terribly received.”

“Terribly received?!” Deadpool flinched away from the light-- hello, hangover from a three day drinking binge-- but still glared at the reporter. “Who the hell are you?!”

“Peter Parker.” A quick flash of a press badge. “Cadentia Magazine.”

“Terrible name for a terrible magazine.” Deadpool stumbled to his feet and made his clumsy way over to the bar in his suite. “What do you want?”

“Its not a terrible name, thank you, its Latin. The fall, in English a cadence is a sequence of notes or chords--”

“I’m a musician.” Deadpool interrupted. “You’re going to try and give me a lesson on what a cadence is?”

“You asked.” Peter raised his eyebrows and waited until the surly man grumbled in agreement. “Now. Your latest album-- you didn’t even title it. Up until now, all of your albums have had a theme that reflect your rather colorful--” a meaningful glance towards the posters covering the walls-- “stage persona. Scarred, Broken, Un-Alive. All dark titles, dark themes, everything someone would expect from a rocker, and yet this last one--”

“You aren’t the littlest bit star struck by me?” he interrupted again and Peter sighed as if personally offended. “Not one reporter has ever been able to make it through a sentence in front of me without stammering but you almost seem like you don’t like me.”

“That’s because I don’t like you.” Peter sat back further in the chair, tapping his pen on his notepad absentmindedly. “Now then, your latest album is untitled. I don’t even mean that you called it Untitled, I mean, you literally left it untitled. Thirteen songs, all disjointed, none with your usual over reaching theme--”

“If you don’t like me, why are you and some fancy magazine named after some Latin bullshit over here trying to talk to me?” Deadpool finally came closer, throwing himself down across the couch opposite Peter and glaring at him. “Because I gotta say, I don’t get up before 2 pm for anyone, especially not mouthy little reporters with too much hair who haven’t stopped insulting me since the minute they walked uninvited through the door. “

“You haven’t finished an interview in years.” Peter leaned forward, dark eyes narrowing. “I’ve watched all the tapes. You go out of your way to make the reporter uncomfortable if they are men, flirt with the women until they are either trying to rip your clothes off or trying to run away and if neither of those tactics work, you start drinking and getting obnoxious until they cut the interview short so you don’t have to.”

“...all true things.” Deadpool shrugged. “So what, you thought you’d come in aggressive and catch me off my guard?”

“Exactly.”

“Well it’s working.” The singer blew out a deep breath and put the bottle down. “Alright. Cadentia Magazine. I know the name. Usually follows more traditional music, amiright?”

“Usually.” Peter allowed, relaxing a little now that there wasn’t so much animosity coming from the big man. “But the actual music behind your particular brand of rock has some of the most complex and beautiful harmonies that modern music has seen in decades, and when you aren’t falling drunk off stage, there is something clearly hypnotic about the way you work, which is why we wanted to interview you.”

“Falling drunk off stage.” Deadpool winced. “Saw my Moscow performance, did you?”

“Cleveland, actually.” Peter corrected. “And then again in Portland. Made it to your Austin concert and--”

“Yep. Let’s not talk about that one, thanks.”

“Okay, let’s not talk about it then.” Peter motioned to Deadpool’s face.“Let’s talk about your stage persona. Deadpool. Obviously that’s not your real name, but you’ve done such a good job obliterating any trace of your civilian side, that all we know is Deadpool the musician.”

“Yeah, I have done a good job of that, haven’t I?”

“Even right now.” Peter frowned at him, and Deadpool sort of hated it. “You’re wearing all that make up to make yourself look scarred like you do on stage. Do you sleep with all that crap on? I understand the need to keep up that scarred persona when your performing-- you’ve basically made your fortune by performing as a man who carries all his sins on the outside of his body-”

“Quoting Sins.” Deadpool grunted. “Nice.”

“It’s my favorite song from your Scarred album.” Peter admitted. “I’ve listened to it more times than I can count. And when you’re on stage, all the scars look cool but this close its a little more jarring. Have you been performing so long that you don’t know who you are when the make up comes off?”

“Tell me something first.” Now it was Deadpool’s turn to lean in, narrowing his eyes at the reporter. “When you were listening to Sins, was it on a tape deck? A CD? Or are those words that you’ve only read in history books?”

“Are you asking how old I am?” Peter asked blankly and the singer nodded. “Alright, I listened to it on a CD until it got too scratched to play anymore, and then I bought an iPod and downloaded it there.”

“Oh good, you’re over eighteen at least.”

“By a half dozen years, thanks. Now, I answered your question, you answer mine. Why are you wearing make up right now?”

“Do you want to know a secret, Peter Parker from Cadentia Magazine?” Deadpool pressed his hand to his cheek and swiped down, turning so Peter could see there wasn’t anything on his palm.

“It’s not make up.” A grim smile. “All the scars are my own.”

“Holy--” Peter’s mouth dropped, and the pen fell from his hand, bouncing unnoticed off the floor as he stared. “Its you?”

“It’s me.”

“But-- how--why--um-- I can’t---”

“Tell you what.” The singer pointed towards the door. “You leave and let me sleep off the rest of this hangover, and I’ll play nice at our next interview.”

“Um--” too stunned by the revelation that the Scarred singer was in fact scarred, Peter made it halfway to the door before remembering to ask, “Our next interview?”

“Made an appointment with the girl.”

***********************

“So, the make up isn’t the scars.” Peter said softly, watching Deadpool put on a layer of foundation. “The make up is the only time you aren’t scarred, when you go out and run errands and all that, when the paparazzi catch you unawares. You wear make up to cover your scars, and then on stage--”

“On stage is the only time I can be myself and the screams from people are adoration and not horror.” Deadpool said bluntly, applying fake lashes to his eyes and reaching for a set of eyebrows. “People think I spend at least an hour in the make up chair before performing, but really I spend at least an hour in the make up chair before I go out to get groceries.”

“Why don’t you have someone get groceries for you?” Peter couldn’t look away from the transformation taking place in front of him, Deadpool looking more and more normal with every layer that went on his face-- highlighting cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a gorgeous hazel when you weren’t distracted by the scars and marks on his face.

“Because it forces me to function.” A layer of sunscreen and then a ball cap went over Deadpool’s bare scalp. “I’m a walking disaster, Pete. Drink till I sleep, sleep until lunch time, binge eat some days, binge watch Netflix other days. Got people to do everything for me except wipe my ass and buy my food. Gotta get dressed and deal with people if I want food, so that’s what I make myself do.”

“Right.” Peter kept staring at him. “Mr. Deadpool, have you always been scarred?”

“Long enough to not remember what it was like to be pretty.” The rockstar stepped away from the mirror. “Even though, I’ve been tailoring my look to resemble Ryan Reynolds. He’s a hunk, huh? I’d like to look like him on a good day.”

“There are literally millions of fans who think you’re gorgeous with the scars on.” Peter countered, then corrected, “Uh, I mean, without your make up on. You’re a sex symbol regardless, the talent speaks through the--”

“--the mess?” Deadpool finished. “Well thank god for that.” A side glance at the reporter. “You think I’m gorgeous, Pete?”

“If I could get close enough to not choke on the vodka fumes, I might have an opinion.” Peter retorted.

“Just for that remark, I’m cutting this interview short.” Deadpool slid his arms into a leather jacket. “You’ll have to come back if you want to ask me any more questions. Damn shame, that.”

Peter’s mouth fell open when the singer walked right past him and out the door, apparently on his way to get groceries, leaving him there in the hotel room alone.

Which was good, in a way, because if Peter hadn’t come up with some snappy comment about the vodka fumes, he might have blurted out something completely embarrassing about how highschool-age-him had had a picture of Deadpool on his ceiling and had spent many a night staring up at it and....thinking....

No, no way the disaster of a rock star needed to know that. It was bad enough Peter had to come back for another interview to at least get started on finishing his article about the once-great Deadpool. No way the man needed to know that Peter still went home and...thought... about him.

Nope.

********************

“Look, I’ve got a list of questions I need to ask you for my article.” Peter chewed at the end of his pen, staring down at his note pad so he wouldn’t stare at a barely dressed Deadpool who was currently moving through different yoga poses in the living room the hotel suite. “Can I just run through them all real quick?”

“Go for it.”

“Alright.” Peter cleared his throat. “First, and this isn’t on my list, but I want to know anyway. Um, yoga? Really?”

“It centers me.” Deadpool said, breathing out and transitioning to another pose. “And its the most exercise I can handle after a day of drinking. And its pretty fucking funny how hard you are trying not to look at me right now, so I think I’ll keep going.”

“Wonderful.” Peter said dryly. “Well as fun as this is, we’ve had like four interviews together and you’ve managed to some what answer only four questions before throwing me out and I was only planning on spending two hours on this article and now its been almost two weeks. Help me out here, I’m on a deadline and need a paycheck.”

“Alright then.” In an entirely drool worthy move, the singer pushed himself into a handstand, back and shoulder muscles straining and flexing, the scars doing absolutely nothing to detract from how much skin he was showing. “Quit gaping at me and ask your questions.”

“Why do you live in a hotel suite instead of a house?”

“I don’t like to clean up after myself.”

“But you cook for yourself?”

“Hotel food is ridiculously over priced.”

“Fair enough. What got you into music in the first place?”

“Grew up poor but my neighborhood school had a music program. Apparently I was a natural on any instrument I picked up, and it distracted from how shitty life was.”

“Do you donate any music to inner city music programs?”

“Pretty sure Colossus set something like that up a few years ago, yeah. And if he didn’t, I’ll make sure it happens. Kids need music, soothes the demons.”

“That’s a line from Sins, ‘I need music to soothe my demons.” Has music helped balance you out? Do you use it as a form of therapy like so many other musicians do?”

“Um...” he hesitated. “I wouldn’t say it balances me out. Sometimes singing just makes it all hurt more, like poking at a wound like won’t heal.”

“Why do you sing then?” Peter looked up with a frown. “If it doesn’t make you feel better--”

“Because even if it hurts, its gotta be better than keeping it all inside, right?”

“Um... right. So. No pets?”

“Nope.”

“No significant other?”

“Nope. I’ve learned not to attempt relationships because people only want me because I’m famous, and one night stands get old after a while, so I’d say no. No significant other. Not even close.”

“Favorite colors?”

“Black and red. Do you have real questions? These are all stupid.”

“A real question. Sure. Did you name your first album Scarred because of your--” Peter motioned to Deadpool’s body. “Or did all this happen after that?”

“Because of my scars.”

“Alright. And um, Broken and Un-Alive? What was the reason behind those names?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“Right.” Peter took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. “Let’s try for more than a few syllables of an answer, huh? Um, it’s been said that Scarred and Broken especially, and Un-Alive to some extent, play like one long album, as if you wrote one entire song and then someone broke it up into chapters. Scarred is smoother, more lyrical, and you got some reviews on Broken that said it sounded like glass shattering, that you were disjointed and didn’t know where you were going with the project.”

“Is there a question in there?”

“I’m getting to it.” He said crossly, and Deadpool smiled a little. “I disagree with those reviews, I think Broken reads more honest than Scarred does. As if Scarred is the beginning of the story, Broken is the Angst and Un-Alive--”

“Is when the hero loses to the bad guys.” Deadpool finished. “You’re right. Scarred was more radio friendly because I hadn’t dug deep yet. I was just... just sort of ranting. Broken was more honest because I was letting myself say what I really wanted to say, and Un-Alive-- Un-Alive is the day I realized the money wouldn’t change anything after all.”

“What were you trying to change?”

“Everything.”

*****************

(Slight TW, brief mentions of depression, attempted suicide)

*****************

Peter flipped through pages and pages and pages of notes as he sat on the couch-- ten interviews now ranging from that first catastrophic one that had only been twenty minutes long, ranging to last weeks, that had taken up almost an entire day, and each time Deadpool opened up a little more to him, talking about his struggles with depression, with using alcohol to cope.

He talked about the accident that had left him so physically ruined and the woman he had lost in the aftermath.

He laughed over how he had made money as a teenager singing covers of sappy love songs in restaurants with nothing more than his guitar and a fedora because apparently everyone was a sucker for a guy with a guitar and a fedora.

“Baby I Need Your Lovin’. Johnny Rivers.” he mentioned over sandwiches one day. “Slow it down and sing it against an acoustic guitar and its guaranteed to make someone fall in love. Also guaranteed to make someone fall into bed with me. If I ever had to beg someone to come back? That’s the song I’d use. Never fails.”

He mumbled around a cigarette about how he had sat at his kitchen table and written every lyric to Sins with blood still on his hands from a bar fight.

A half smile, telling Peter about how he secretly loved country music, specifically Faith Hill, may she live forever, and Miranda Lambert who both turned him on immensely and scared him to death because he didn’t think she was joking when she sang all those songs about teaching bad men a lesson.

He closed his eyes and reminisced about his stint in the hospital shortly after Broken had gone platinum, the drunk driving accident that had left him nearly dead.

One particularly rough session where the singer had played Un-Alive, the album he had written while they were still putting him together from the accident, and sat and talked about the lowest moment of his life, the time when he had tried to end it all and but hadn’t been brave enough to try. Peter hadn’t taken notes that time, had only sat and listened with tears in his eyes as the singer he had idolized growing up broke down in front of him.

“Used to be I picked up that guitar, sat down at the piano, grabbed a harmonica, whatever, and it brought me peace.” Deadpool said thoughtfully, regretfully, staring at the glass of scotch he hadn’t even taken a drink of yet. “But then it sorta consumed me. I had to wear make up and be normal out on the streets and on the stage I could be myself and scream about all my pain and it--it--”

“You started hating who you were without the music?” Peter suggested softly. “And that’s why this last album is awful. Because you don’t know how to not be Deadpool.”

“And its not Deadpool that writes the music.” The man slid off the couch and onto the floor, closing his eyes. “Interviews- they wanted to talk about the why behind the music, what the words meant, how I made the notes flow, why the melodies are so haunting but Deadpool doesn’t know any of that. Deadpool stands on stage and sings to adoring fans and then drinks himself into a stupor until the next time around.”

“So who writes the music?” Peter slid to the floor as well, nearly two months of meeting with the rock star giving a sense of comfortable to the movement, to their proximity. “Who writes the melodies? Who made gave Deadpool an outlet for all his pain?”

Silence for a long time, then, “Wade.”

“...Wade.”

“Wade Wilson writes the music.” Deadpool Wade opened his eyes and stared at Peter. “But its been so long since I was Wade, sometimes I don’t think I know how to do it anymore. Sometimes it feels like I put all of myself into the music and once the music is gone, there’s nothing left of me to exist anymore. I’m not anyone without my music. I disappeared from the music scene and no one wondered where I went. I came back with another album and because it wasn’t as good as my first ones, no one cared. Wade ceased to exist a long time ago, and Deadpool is on his way out too. When the spotlight goes out, I go out. Feels like I can’t breathe unless I’m on the stage, holding a microphone, holding my guitar. Can’t breathe without it because I don’t know who I am without it.”

“You didn’t name your last album--”

“Because I can barely name myself most days, how am I supposed to name music, too?”

*******************

“You’ve had hundreds of interviews.” Peter hadn’t even brought his notebook this time, sitting cross legged on the bed and eating Chinese food take-out while Wade flipped through a magazine on the other side. “Have you ever told anyone else that you don’t wear make up on stage?”

“Nope.”

“So why me?”

“You were brutally honest with me, figured I could be brutally honest with you.”

“I was rude to you.”

“Rude as shit, but I deserved it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Were you one of my groupies, once upon a time?”

“If I would have been old enough to go to your Scarred tour? Yeah, I would’ve groupied for you.”

“Been a long time since someone threw their panties at me.”

“I didn’t say I’d do that, but I probably would have swooned if you had made eye contact with me in the crowd.”

“Is this a date?”

“No, this is an interview.”

“You aren’t taking notes. And you’re sitting on my bed eating Chinese take out. Sort of a date.”

“Definitely not a date.”

“You wanna go on a date sometime?”

“Is Deadpool asking me out?”

“...no. Um, no. No, I’d like to go on a date with you as Wade, not as Deadpool, not as a rock star. Just two guys getting pizza or something.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the first person to talk to me in years like I’m human. Like I’m not crazy. Like I’m a real person. Most people either discount what I say because they can’t take someone like me seriously, or they hang on my every word like some sort of hero worship and you don’t do either or those things.”

“So because I was rude to you, you want to buy me pizza?”

“I want to buy you pizza because you’re gorgeous, Peter Parker from Cadentia Magazine. Plus, you haven’t stopped looking at my arms, and I haven’t stopped staring at your ass so we should do something about it.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“...really?”

“I like pineapple on my pizza.”

“I... alright, well I’m not going to kiss you until you brush your teeth, but other than that, we’re good to go.”

******************

A pizza date lasted all of ten minutes before it had been pushed aside and Wade was all over Peter, pushing him into the bed and tearing at his clothes and Peter gave just as good as he got, scraping his nails carefully but eagerly down the rough skin and ridged scars, moaning into each messy kiss, wiggling out of his jeans and spreading his legs when Wade lay heavy against him.

It was a little graceless, sure, a little rushed, absolutely, but the connection was real-- the heat in Wade’s eyes real, the acceptance in Peter’s touch impossibly real and when they were coming together, Wade fit tight inside Peter’s lean body, Peter holding Wade as tight as he could--

--it was real enough to bring Wade to tears and he pulled away before Peter saw it, stumbling to the bar and tearing the top off a bottle to start drinking.

“Most guys would take that as a critique.” Peter was panting, still sprawled on the bed, still breathing hard. “I’ve never had a partner bolt from bed for a beer before we’d even had a chance to kiss over it all.”

“Yeah, well you’ve never fucked a rock star before, have you?” the words were cold and a little cruel, and Peter pulled the blankets up over himself uncertainly.

“Um, Wade--”

“Is that enough for your interview?” Wade wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and disappeared into the bathroom for a towel to wrap around his waist. “You’re a stubborn shit, I’ll give ya that. Most would have given up after the first interview but you came back for like three months. Got all the aspects of me-- my drinking, the truth of my scars, why I stopped writing, and now you know how I am in bed. Should be enough for your article, right?”

“Wade--?”

“I’m going to take a shower. The door man will let you out.”

***************

Peter’s article about Deadpool headlined the Cadentia Magazine six months later, blew up on line and brought him four different job offers from much bigger magazines.

Six pages worth of writing, intimate and beautiful, speaking about the way the singer had donated money to inner city schools, how he had a trust set up to pay his employees so they would never miss a paycheck even if he never sold another album again.

Exquisite paragraphs about how Deadpool felt most like himself on stage, how music had both freed and then somehow enslaved him, and how musicians in general offer so much of themselves, even their very breath in exchange for our souls to feel a little lighter when we listen to the lyrics.

Quotes from Deadpool about how music had changed his life, quotes from his old managers and current employees about how Deadpool was so heartbreakingly honest in his music, that the drinking and partying was just a piece of him, and not the one that the world should focus on.

A line that said, “Deadpool has come under fire for refusing to name his latest album, but how can a man name an album, when his own name has been erased and all anyone knows is the music? How can you give a song a name, when its the songs themselves that made his true name obsolete? When breathing life into this music, has made the man behind it all cease to exist?”

There wasn’t a single mention of the personal things they had talked about-- about writing Sins with busted knuckles, about how Forever had been written for Vanessa, how Un-Alive had been a desperate cry for help at the lowest point of his life.

Not even a breath of a hint of mention of that one time in bed together, not the way Wade had held Peter so carefully, not the way Peter had thought their souls had sparked together for just a minute, not the way Wade had done such a terrible job of hiding his tears, the way he was floored by a connection he hadn’t let himself have with anyone in years.

There wasn’t a mention of the following months, where Peter had stared at his phone with his thumb over Wade’s number and talked himself out of calling it, how he had cried himself to sleep because somewhere in between calling Wade out for being a drunk has been rock star and sharing Chinese food on the bed, Peter had gone and fallen in love with the singer, and then had his heart broken like a teenager and he hated himself for it.

No where in the article did Peter say that Wade’s scars were real, and no where did he ever say Wade’s name.

Those were secrets he would keep for himself.

*******************

Wade read the article front to back, and then back again, scouring the words for any animosity or anything mocking or condescending or anything like the articles usually written about him.

Not once had Peter’s words turned bitter, not once had he spoke about how weak Wade was, how lost.

No, Peter had written an article about a musician giving everything he had to his craft, about a singer who had never been anything but honest in his songs, about a rock star who was incredible whether he was on stage or not.

Peter had written the article as if Wade was the man everyone thought he was-- beautiful and whole and happy.

And it didn’t feel like reading lies, because with Peter, Wade had felt like all of those things.

Pushing Peter away had been fear. Fear of losing him now that the article was written, fear of rejection once Peter realized that he really was scarred and he really was broken and that the words he sang were true, and not just lyrics to make money. Wade was afraid that the novelty would wear off and Peter would be off chasing another rock star for another article. He was afraid that Peter would ask him to wear make up in public to hide the scars, and even though Peter hadn’t flinched away when they were in bed-- it was just a matter of time, right?

But maybe not. Because the article read like someone who had taken a good long look at Deadpool-- at Wade-- and liked what they saw regardless.

And that gave Wade hope.

******************

“Mr. Parker?” The secretary poked her head into Peter’s cubicle. “This is a little odd, but you have a visitor downstairs?”

“A visitor?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “I don’t get visitors, who is it?”

“He said his name is Wade?” she offered and shrugged. “He called up from the ground floor. Do you want me to tell him you aren’t available?”

“Uh no.” Peter shoved his chair out and grabbed his jacket. “No, I’ll see him. Thank you.”

Downstairs in the lobby, a crowd was gathering, several people with their phones out recording as a man sat on the bench wearing a fedora and holding an old guitar, singing quietly.

Peter slowed his near run to a walk as he approached, and when he got close enough he could hear the song--

Although you're never near Your voice I often hear Another day, 'nother night I long to hold you tight 'Cause I'm so lonely

Wade looked up in time to catch Peter’s eye and offered a hesitant smile before he kept singing,

Some say it's a sign of weakness For a man to beg Then weak I'd rather be If it means having you to keep, 'Cause lately I've been losing sleep

Peter smiled back, cautiously, hopefully, and Wade’s smile grew, and the song continued slow and sweet--

Baby, I need your lovin' Got to have all your lovin' Baby I need your lovin' Got to have all you lovin'

********************

A Year Later

*********************

“Mr. Wilson.” The interviewer paused to give Wade and Peter a sunny smile. “So. In the last six months you’ve not only released a brand new album featuring just you and your guitar, but you’ve also given fans your real name, which none of your fans never knew before now, and the story behind your scars, which I think I can say without exaggerating, broke all of our hearts.”

Wade nodded politely and she continued, “And here you are with your boyfriend--”

“Fiancee.” Wade held up their hands and Peter blushed. “As of yesterday, actually.”

“Fiancee.” she corrected herself. “Congratulations! Wonderful news. You have become something of an icon now, between your very public relationship with Mr. Parker here, your honesty about your struggles with depression and suicide, and now your complete removal from the music you used to sing, to become this... this softer man that we all love so much now. Can you tell me, what started this change?”

“Peter did.” Wade said without hesitation, and Peter snuggled a little closer to his side. “He refused to let me do all my usual bullshit when he tried to interview me, and it was intriguing so I kept inviting him back. Eventually we were just talking about everything. I was able to be honest and real with him, and then when the interviews were all over-” a fond look down at his soon-to-be-husband. “-- I discovered that in between him telling me I stank of vodka, and him writing that article, I-- I healed a little bit. A lot, actually. I’d healed and hadn’t even known it was happening.”

“So you went after him.” She prompted. “Didn’t you?”

“I showed up at his work and played and sang to him until he agreed to go out on a date with me.” Wade confirmed. “Three hours. He made me sing for three hours before he said yes.”

“It was payback.” Peter grinned at him. “Because one time I had an interview scheduled and he needed a shower and passed out in the tub for three hours while I waited outside. Rude.”

“God, so rude of me.” Wade laughed. “Anyway. Yeah. Somehow I fell in love and even more incredible, he fell in love with me, so here we are.”

“And the title of your new album.” She held up the newest CD. “Transposed?”

“My album titles have always reflected how I felt at the time of writing it.” Wade squeezed at Peter’s hand. “Broken, Scarred-- those are all self explanatory. But Transposed-- its how I am now. I’m still me. But I sound different and I feel different and things are just different. Same song, but in a different key.”

“A better key.” Peter added, reaching up to draw his fingers lightly over the scars on Wade’s chin. “Right?”

“Right, baby boy. A better key.”

***************************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE FIC!

#ncts fics #spideypool #musician au #peter parker #wade wilson

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despair-ninja-everything-agency · 5 years

Photo

Rough character concept and a pic I made for KakeraTale. I may gonna clean up the rough concept maybe in the near future.

For the character outfit, I mostly take reference from the canon Umineko character. Error is based on Ronove, Geno is based on Will Wright, and Blueberry is based on several Furniture characters (Eiserne Jungfrau and Stakes of Purgatory to name a few). Ink have a school boy styled outfit since most of the Witches in Umineko wear lolita styled dress and I tried to find a male equivalent of it. he has that long cloth thing and badge that Featherine has as well.

Man, look at those low quality Kakeras in the bg tho :,D

Credits:

- Ink!Sans belongs @myebi / @comyet

- Error!Sans and Geno!Sans belongs to @loverofpiggies

- Blueberry/Swap!Sans belongs to @popcornpr1nce

- Undertale belongs to Toby Fox

- When They Cry series belongs to Ryukishi07

I’m also gonna expand Error, Ink, and Geno’s backstory in here (Blueberry’s kinda already explained here). Might need some rework later if I feel like it doesn’t up to the standard but for now I’m content with these. I’ll put it under the cut for convenience:

Ink’s backstory:

Ink was originally a Sans game piece in an unspecified UnderTale-based game board. However, its owner was not passionate when making the story and thus left it unfinished. Being the most developed piece, this Sans soon grown frustrated and lonely due to the unfinished nature of his world before breaking free from his game board. He ended up wandering aimlessly among the Sea of Fragments. At one point, he returned to his former game board and finished the story himself, earning him the position of Game Master in the process. Inspired by this, he continued to make several game boards and stories. He would compiled them in books for documentation. Sometimes later, he’s interested with other Game Masters’ stories as well and would ask their permission to write it in his books. While his interest in compiling other’s stories increased, his passion in making his own diminished slightly although he didn’t want to stop completely, reminding himself of how he became who he is now in the first place. His activity on creating game boards and compiling stories gained interest of the Great Lady Featherine Augustus Aurora, Witch of Theatergoing, Drama, and Spectating. He’s later given the title Witch of Creation and Compilation by her. She often challenged him in playing in several games against her after that, resulting in usually tied or near victory from Ink’s side. The badge that he has is the result of said challenges, managing to win a game against the senior Witch.

Error’s backstory:

Unlike Ink, Error’s origin game board was abandoned when its Game Master ran into several Logic Errors and chose to abandon it instead of solving it, losing interest in the story they created themselves. The game was put in a stalemate as the result. Irritated from the lack of progress in his world, the then Sans game piece Error tried to continue the story on his own to no avail. This driven him mad and chose to break free from the game board instead by severing any ties of him to the board. However, feeling guilty from abandoning those he loved, he desperately attempted to solve the Logic Errors his Game Master left on his own. The lack of skill from his part ended up making the game unsolvable instead, though. This caused him to grow frustrated and destroy the game board out of rage. Horrified by what he’d done, he fled the scene and into the Sea of Fragments. When he stumbled upon a Kakera produced from his former Master’s game board, he broke it in a fit of despair. Same fate befell similar Kakeras until there’s no more of them, completely erasing the game board’s existence. After a long period of cooling down, he resolved to destroy any imperfect game boards he came across so no game piece would end up like him. At first it’s an indiscriminate annihilation, with a single game piece taken from each destroyed game board or Kakera as a prize. However, when the Witch of Certainty Lambdadelta heard about it, she along with the Witch Senate imposed a rule for him in order to control his game board wrecking activity. He obeyed them and thus limit his activity to tampering game boards, only destroying them whenever necessary. Due to his work on obliterating game boards and sometimes Kakeras, the Senate dubs him as the Witch of Erasure.

Geno’s backstory:

Originally a Sans game piece from an UnderTale game board, Geno soon managed to see beyond the SAVE point screen and thus the truth of his game board. He then transcended into a Witch. Using his new found position and higher magic, he created the AfterTale game board and declared Game Master. When meeting with Witch Chara, Geno - consumed by grief and hate from what happened in his Genocide Run - challenged him to play in his game board in hope of defeating them and payed back from what they (or rather, their game piece) did to him. Chara agreed and both played for many times in the AfterTale game board. They’re proven to be superior to the only recently witched Geno and always win every time. Not to the one to lose hope, Geno continued to play against them, determined to win despite his disadvantage. This earned him the title of Witch of Hopelessness from the senior Witch due to his stubbornness to give up. Until now, the two still going against each other in Geno’s AfterTale game board, the younger Witch still losing to this day.

#undertale #aftertale #inktale #errortale #underswap #umineko #umineko no naku koro ni #umineko when they cry #when seagulls cry #error!sans #ink!sans #geno!sans #swap!sans #sans the skeleton #dn draws #*blasting katayoku no tori in the background*#KakeraTale

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newtothewaywardparty · 6 years

Text

The Ghost of an Idea 1

Stave One: Bobby’s Ghost

Okay, first of all, Bobby was dead. There’s no doubt about it. He had taken a bullet in the fight against the Leviathans, haunted Sam and Dean through his old flask, and finally hitched a ride out of hell through Purgatory before settling in Heaven. Then he busted out of Heaven for the chance to help the boys on one last mission. Bobby was as dead as a doornail. Dean knew it better than most. After all, Dean killed ghosts by trade, and had served his own stints in Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.

The fact that Bobby was dead must be firmly established to understand what happened to Dean that Christmas Eve when everything changed for the worse.

And then, for the better.

-------------------------------------------

PART 1:

Sam burst in the door of the bunker, stomping snow from his boots. Dean looked up from his laptop, startled, as Sam pulled the tip of a comically huge spruce tree through the metal door. A struggle between Sam, the tree, and an unseen force almost pitched Sam down the steep flight of stairs into the bunker. It was resolved successfully when Jack popped through the door like a cork holding the spruce’s trunk, wide grin plastered on his boyish face.

Dean gaped as his brother and the nephilim maneuvered the tree down the stairs. Sam hoisted the tip up as Jack dropped the trunk to the ground. The spruce was dark green, and even taller than Sam. Jack was practically bursting, hands on hips of his plaid flannel thermal jacket, cheeks pink from exertion and cold. “We got a tree!” he announced happily with obvious pride.

Dean felt his chest constrict with a familiar yet unwanted feeling he got whenever Jack was guileless and earnest. It reminded Dean a bit too much of his favorite angel, Cas. That wasn’t a reminder he wanted or needed right now. Instead of following his impulse to slap the kid on the back in congratulations, Dean shoved out his chair and grabbed his empty beer bottle.

“No shit” Dean barked, ignoring Sam’s reproving glare. What did Jack want, a fucking medal? It was a goddamned tree, not the cure for cancer. Who cared if Jack had helped to defeat Michael and Lucifer and had restored order to the dimensions? Nobody got merit badges in this line of work. At least, no one ever gave him one, thought Dean nastily.

“I see you’ve still got your panties in a twist,” Sam said, throwing off his coat. Jack was busy setting up the tree stand. His grin had frozen a little at Dean’s dismissal, but his Christmas spirit seemed undeterred. He almost vibrated with good cheer as he hummed what Dean would never admit to recognizing as a Mariah Carey Christmas pop tune while he worked. Sam angled his body towards Dean, pitching his voice conspiratorially. “Is this still about that hunt last month?”

Dean’s face closed so fast against Sam’s understanding, sympathetic manner it practically clanged shut. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sammy” Dean replied. He turned on his heel and made a beeline for the kitchen. Between near-constant alcohol consumption and sleep deprivation brought on by relentless travel and hunting, Dean had been almost completely successful at blocking out what had happened on that hunt. Almost.

Dean ditched his empty beer bottle and rummaged in the bunker’s kitchen cabinets. His intake had been particularly heavy lately. Christmas Eve was a terrible time to run out of Hunter’s Helper. He should have asked Sam to pick some up when they were off singing carols and ice skating or whatever other Peanuts Christmas nonsense he had been up to with Jack in town. Fuck it, there had to be some ancient shit buried back in one of these cabinets, he thought desperately.

“Dean” Sam’s voice came from the doorway, where he leaned, arms crossed. Relentless bastard. “You’ve always loved Christmas. You’re usually the one wheedling me about it. I figured you’d be in here cooking gingerbread and cueing up Die Hard for Jack, making ‘ho ho ho now I’ve got a machine gun’ jokes. What crawled up your ass and died?” Sam’s face was a mixture of kicked puppy and nagging parent.

Dean whirled on him, jaw clenched. “Things change. People change.” Dean shrugged, trying to think of an excuse. Anything but the real reason. “We’re not exactly religious, and that normal apple-pie stuff just isn’t for us. We’ve got work to do, remember?” He turned away to continue rummaging for any alcohol, anything hard at all, to obliterate his memories of Cas and the hunt gone sideways and now this goddamn argument with his brother who just wouldn’t leave well enough alone.

Sam shook his head. “That’s exactly why we need this, Dean. Now more than ever.” Now that Mom was gone again, went unspoken but sat in the air between them. “This is Jack’s first real Christmas,” Sam continued with the air of a man laying down an ace “and I wanted it to be special. Pull out all the stops.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Dean, partially in response to Sam, and partly in triumph at unearthing an ancient bottle of cooking sherry. He unscrewed it and took a whiff, recoiling in disgust. “What are you going to do, put him in footie pajamas and hang out his stocking for Santa?” Dean said in a mocking tone. He put his lips to the bottle and swigged, wincing at the burn.

“Why the fuck not?” challenged Sam, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Just because you and Cas had a fight doesn’t mean we shouldn’t show Jack the spirit of the holidays-”

Dean did an honest-to-Chuck spit-take, spraying gross cooking sherry all over the clean tabletop. “Cas and I did not have a fight, I told you.” Dean growled, low and dangerous. “He just flapped off to do some angel shit after the hunt. Like always. I’m not his keeper.”

Sam nodded. “Good to hear. I guess you won’t mind that I invited him, then.” Sam’s eyebrow quirked, questioning.

Dean minutely tightened his grip on the bottle’s neck. “What?” he gritted out through clenched teeth, even though he was sure he heard Sam just fine.

Sam threw his hands up again. “For Christ’s sake, Dean. It’s Christmas eve. We’re gonna decorate the tree, have a few brews, order Chinese take-out, watch a shitty movie, and exchange convenience-store-bought presents. You wanna boycott? Fine. But this is happening. With or without you.” Sam looked at him with something approaching pity. “Maybe you could get cleaned up. Join us?” Sam’s gaze narrowed to the bottle in Dean’s hands pointedly.

Dean scoffed and brushed past Sam. He retreated to his room to nurse the sherry while cranking up Metallica in his headphones. Dean closed his eyes, head leaned back against the headboard. The images memories rose, unbidden.

He and Cas, in sync as any dance partners, gracefully extinguishing a rugaru. The tang and buzz of sweat and adrenaline. Cas’ eyes sparkling in the dancing flames of the rugaru’s immolated corpse. Dean grinning, clapping Cas on the back, inviting him for a celebratory drink. Thighs bumping together below the bar as they downed shots. Eyes locking, lingering. Speech dwindling. Dean slapping money on the bar. Walking back to the motel room. Cas’ hand grazing Dean’s low back. Cas’ breath hot on the back of his neck. Dean fumbling, drunk, with the key, opening the door. Turning to push it shut, reaching past Cas’ shoulder. Cas standing there, in his space, (or was Dean in Cas’ space?) quiet and still, staring. Always staring.

Dean tilted the sherry bottle for a swig, but it was empty. Due to his recent semi-permanent bender, his tolerance was so high he wasn’t even buzzed yet. He dropped the bottle unceremoniously to the floor and grabbed his duffel.

Dean stopped short on his way to the Impala at the sight of three figures decorating the tree. Sam was on the floor untangling some old-school large-bulb multi-colored lights from a garage sale box. Jack was at the table, unpacking car air fresheners from their clear plastic bags to hang on the branches.

And next to him stood Cas. Rumpled trench, blue tie, messy hair, the whole nine. Standing there looking gorgeous and distant, as usual. He smelled like cold, fresh air. He had probably just arrived, Dean thought, blowing in on the December breeze. Cas raised his chin minutely. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean worked his tongue to gather enough saliva for speech. Cas’ gaze, intense as ever, raked Dean up and down. Dean flushed, realizing he hadn’t shaved in days, was wearing dirty sweats and smelled like a locker room after a kegger. His eyes scratched in a way indicating they were probably bloodshot, too. Shit. Just the way he wanted this to go. Impressive, Winchester.

“Hey,” Dean managed finally. If Jack and Sam thought the situation was awkward, at least they had the decency to stay quiet.

Cas’ eyes fell on Dean’s duffel and narrowed. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, looking almost...hurt?

Dean scrubbed his scruff with a hand. “Yeah, uh, hunt. Some of us actually care about saving people, hunting things, remember?” Good one, Dean, he thought. Passive aggression. Not just for 1950s housewives anymore.

Sam scoffed aloud. “C’mon, man, Cas just got here. You’ve been hunting nonstop for the past month. You just got back. Take one day off to be with the people you love.”

Cas looked surprised at the mention of Dean’s hunting schedule. Dean ignored that and zeroed in on Sam with cold eyes. “Love, huh? ‘Love will save the day. Love will find a way. Love heals all wounds.’ Yay, love!” snarked Dean, dripping sarcasm.

Sam’s face hardened into bitch mode, rock solid. Dean hoped, with venom, that it stuck that way. “Like our brotherly love?” Dean waved his index finger back and forth between his little brother and himself. “So codependent we have no other functional relationships? How we’ve screwed the world a hundred times over to save each other?” Sam sputtered like an engine with a dead battery, gearing up to respond, but Dean was too fast, whirling on Jack.

“Hey kid, remember your mom? No? Me neither, at least not really. Not Mary Version 1.0.” Dean knew he’d gone too far. Knows he was way out of line. Yet he didn’t seem to care enough to stop himself, even when he saw Cas tense out of the corner of his eye. “You know why? Oh, that’s right. They died and left us. Hell, mine died on me a few times over. They loved us, but it didn’t save ‘em. Didn’t leave us any less alone. And our fathers...well, even Cas is in the Deadbeat Daddy club.” Jack rocked back as though Dean had physically slapped him, but Dean wasn’t frozen mid-air in nephilim sound waves, and Jack’s eyes hadn’t glowed yellow, so Dean figured he was still golden. Ha.

“And you,” Dean said, turning to Cas but keeping his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look at him. “How haven’t we hurt each other yet?” Dean pointed his gaze at his shoes, unable to confront whatever expression Cas is wearing. “We’ve lied to protect each other, betrayed each other, gotten each other tortured and killed...shit, Cas, we even tried to kill each other a few times. But sure, yeah, let’s exchange presents by the fireplace, drink some nog, and have a Merry Fucking Christmas!”

Dean grabbed his coat from a chair at the table in the stunned silence. He started stomping up the metal stairs.

“Dean. You don’t want to be alone on Christmas. Don’t do this. Don’t push us away.” It was Sam, of course. He sounded so reasonable. Kind. Gentle. He deserved so much better than Dean. They all did.

Dean looked over the railing and saw them standing, frozen, in the positions they had been in when he had begun his tirade. Sam’s face was unspeakably sad. Cas’ gaze was down and away from Dean, like he was really fascinated with something in a corner of the library. Jack’s eyes were wide and wet.

Dean turned away and opened the door. He did not stomp, sigh, or yell. He did not slam the door as he closed it behind him. He did not say what was in his heart, the fundamental truth that ruled his life. A song stuck on repeat: Better to be alone than be left alone, better to be the one leaving than getting left, better to be the one pushing rather than getting pushed away.

Read Stave One: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 2:

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