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afewmarvelousthoughts · 4 years

Text

Falling Ch. 2

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader [and a few more to come]

Summary: For a moment you had something good, something wonderful. But moments pass. Now, left with nothing but the ashes of a life and a love you fought so hard for, you find yourself in a free fall. Who will you be once you hit the bottom? [Sequel to Only For A Moment but can be read independently.]

Warnings: Loss, grief

A/N: Honestly, idk what to say. I 100% made myself cry with this one. So there’s that. Also, I love Steve Rogers.

Hope y’all don’t hate me too much.

TAGS ARE OPEN

It feels like falling. You wonder if the very ground beneath you is crumbling as he did. When your knees crash into the solid earth you realize that isn’t the case.

Still, the feeling persists.

Plummeting. Untethered. A free fall you can’t stop.

Until Okoye’s cry cuts through your consciousness like a knife.

Sucking in a breath you return to yourself. But… Everything feels wrong.

The pain that had burned through your body and mind has faded to a low hum replaced with the distinct feeling of drowning as you become acutely aware of everything around you.

It feels like your perception is being pulled in a billion directions. Your power had gotten out of hand before - causing you to be hyper aware of even the salt in your own sweat - but this… It was as though you could feel the composition of creation.

Shuri told you, after studying your ability, that your brain erected subconscious buffers to regulate your ability, preventing you from going too far. It explained the headaches that plagued you when you used too much of your power and, you supposed, your newly hemorrhaging eyes. Just your body doing all it could to force you to self preserve.

Clearly, those barriers had been blown to hell.

You don’t speak - the way sound shakes the air, the particles undulating like ripples on water, was honestly unbearable - but on shaky legs you rise to find Okoye.

Gently you lay a hand on her trembling shoulder, trying not to feel the rush of blood through her body or the tiny innumerable particles that made her. Just like you felt Bucky before-

She rounds to look at you and that falling feeling returns, pulling you from those dangerous thoughts. The shocked, horrified woman before you isn’t the Okoye you know, something has broken inside her, a thought you cannot bear.

“The king,” her voice, barely a whisper, still makes you flinch. Her eyes begin to search behind you, a bit frantic before returning to meet your gaze. “Buck-” You cut her off by shaking your head.

She doesn’t move to embrace you, doesn’t try to offer comfort, and you couldn’t love her more for it. All you’re both able to do is stare, immobile, for several beats as the weight of what has happened settles over you.

“Shuri,” she hisses.

Immediately you both bolt, sprinting full speed for the lab.

You chose to ignore how far behind you Okoye is, or how your feet are hardly touching the ground. Just as you choose to ignore the sounds arising from the battlefield, or the tangible feel of ashes on the air - of ashes in your still clenched right hand.

There’s only room for one thought. Shuri.

The madness on the landing deck is the only thing that draws you up short. Running feet stir piles of ash, sending the fine substance up in plumes that make it look as though a low fog has settled in. Making it worse, shouts and cries roll through the air like thunder. You never knew sound could be so heavy.

You feel Okoye run up behind you, somehow recognizing the space she occupies almost on instinct. It makes you think of the void that remained after-

“Bast,” she says in a voice dripping with horror. A glimmer of the Okoye you know shows as she squares her shoulders marching forward into the chaos. Determined to not leave her side you follow, focusing on planting your feet one before the other lest you be swept away, lost in the feeling of the world around you.

Stepping into the seating area outside the lab brings back the falling sensation.

Maybe if you’d tried harder, demanded that he say back, refused to let him fight. Maybe-

A cry so heart-rending and feral blots out any other thought. It’s the kind of sound that could only come from a mother.

“No,” Okoye breathes.

A mournful King’s Guard stands by a pile of ash. Ramonda’s hands search through it as though she could pull her daughter from the grey substance. Her cries fill the space, thick and haunting.

“Queen Mother,” Okoye whispers, falling to one knee behind Ramonda.

“General, where is he?” Ramonda turns, her hands covered in ash, eyes wild and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Okoye’s voice breaks. “I… I couldn’t…”

You expect Ramonda to scream, rage, anything. Her children were gone, she could scream until the end of time and be justified. Instead, she sits back on her heels, eyes on the ceiling. Some pain is so great there is no way to express it.

After a moment her gaze falls to you, still standing frozen in the entrance.

“Sergeant Barnes?” She asks. They’d been close, sharing many afternoons together over coffee or tea talking about everything and nothing.

You want to honor her with the dignity of an answer. Truly you do. But something churns in your chest, trapping the words. All you can do is shake your head.

“Bast, save us.” She pulls Okoye to her, holding tight as the tears come. Ramonda extends a hand out to you but... you just can’t.

In a daze, you turn, walking away from the lab unsure where your feet are taking you until you stand before the door to the ready-room you and Bucky had prepared for the battle in.

Almost. You almost make it inside. Instead, you walk past a few doors before stepping into another ready-room. With a whoosh, the door slides open and then closes behind you leaving you in blessed silence.

Why were you here? What good was being in here? What could you possibly… Your right-hand rises, still clenched in a tight fist, holding…

Anything not nailed down begins to tremble in the small room. The mirror above the sink makes almost imperceptible creaking sounds as it splinters. A book hurtles from somewhere unseen and slams into the wall with enough force to break the binding sending pages fluttering. Then it stops.

A page flutters up and over to you, even though the thought of grabbing one was barely half-formed in your mind. You don’t care what the page says, you just hold it with your left hand while you ever so slowly convince your right to open.

You can feel your power buzzing around your hand, plucking away every last speck of ash from your skin, not letting one small piece fall away. With the utmost care, you guide the small grey mass to the paper and set it down.

It strikes you that it’s such a small amount, barely a handful, and yet to you it is the most precious substance in existence. It’s him. It’s all you have-

The room begins to shake once more and you cut off your thoughts. Carefully, you fold the paper around the ashes and tuck the makeshift packet into a pocket sewn into the lining of the vest you wore.

Unsure of what else to do you make your way back to the chaos of the landing deck. Warriors from the field had begun to return, shellshocked or enraged.

You see M’Baku towering above a small cluster. When his eyes fall on you he scowls before looking away.

For a moment you simply allow the chaos to overwhelm you. Each sound rattling in your bones. The feeling of that hunger you’d felt after the stones beginning to ache. You almost hope it will all drive you mad. Madness was prefferable to mourning.

Someone grabs your arm, pulling your focus to them. Ayo.

“There were several crashes in the city, we could use your help,” she says, voice oddly calm. You just nod and follow her, grateful for any distraction.

This feeling wasn’t a new one to Steve. He knew far too well what it was to fall so deep into himself that the world around him became an echo. It was the only way he’d made it through the first leg of his life - through the sounds of his parent’s fights, the constant street scrapes, the anger in him that always threatened to crest into something as ugly and violent as his father.

And he felt it the last time he watched James Barnes die.

Sam would say it wasn’t healthy, that he needed to process the situation. But Sam wasn’t here, and honestly, over the last 60 or so hours he’d been deeply grateful for the feeling.

Just like it always did, it protected him, allowed him to get back up. Or in this case allowed him to let Natasha and Rhodey take the jet to go find Clint and Pepper, let him be of some use here in Wakanda while he waited for them to return. It let him do what he needed to - eat, drink, sleep, keep moving - in order to make them all think he was ok, that he had a plan, that he could still be what they needed.

He’d been grateful. Until he saw you on a stretcher, blood staining the side of your face.

Maybe if he’d been present, he would have noticed that you hadn’t stopped since the battle. Maybe he would have realized that you hadn’t slept or eaten or-

“I don’t think she’s said a word since he died…” Okoye says in a small voice. Her eyes glued to her clasped hands, leg bouncing in anxiety.

He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because the couple of times he saw you it seemed you were on a mission, moving with intent, doing what needed to be done just as he was. But he should have known.

You were his friend. You were his family. Bucky’s gal… How many times could he fail Bucky Barnes?

His chest constricts. Absently he rubs at the ache, trying to think of something useful to say. He opens his mouth to offer some banal platitude but Mosi - the medic seeing to you - saves both him and Okoye from the embarrassment.

“She’ll be alright I think,” he says with a tired voice. “Dehydrated, so we got her on a drip. She’s still unconscious but that may be for the best right now. Her scans are… different from the last ones Shuri-” He pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows his emotions. “The last ones Shuri did. It could be due to the head wound but it’s hard to tell.”

“What do you mean different?” Okoye asks. The tone in her voice makes Steve shift uncomfortably.

“I…” Mosi pauses. “Honestly, I’m trying to quantify it. None of us were actively involved in the assessment of the Barnes’ enhancements, we only assisted when requested.” He sighs, his exhaustion evident. “There doesn’t seem to be damage per se but the readings are erratic. There are parts of her brain that seem to be activating her power that never showed on past scans and…”

“And what?” Steve asks, his anxiety mounting.

“None of Shuri’s research shows Y/N’s power remaining active in a truly unconscious state. They tried it under sedation and it was completely dormant.” He sits heavily in one of the chairs. “Right now, there is a constant flow of energy, like someone just left the tap on.”

“Dammit, Y/N,” Okoye grumbles. Steve looks at her confused. “She pushed herself too far. You saw her eyes during the battle right?! They were bleeding.”

“Ah,” Mosi sighs, “that explains the ruptured blood vessels. If she did over use her power it’s possible that she just needs rest - like any overworked muscle.”

Steve nods, rubbing his temples as he leans back in the chair.

“We’ll closely monitor-” A distinct tremble pulses through the building cutting him off. No sooner does it pass than another, stronger, shake comes.

“Earthquake?” Steve asks, getting to his feet.

Okoye shakes her head as she stands, “No, the building’s frame is vibranium it shouldn’t-” The next tremor almost knocks them all down and sends the monitors in your room screaming in alarm.

Whatever Steve expected to see when he rushed into your room it was not what awaited him.

The door slides open as the thick glass shatters outward with a deafening crash. Just outside, your body floats, head lolling to the side, pieces of glass continuing to shatter about you sparkling like glitter in the twilight. He calls out to you but is helpless as you float out into the growing darkness.

Okoye stands just behind him, eyes wide with fear and worry.

“Keep an eye on her as long as you can and update me on where she may be heading.” Okoye nods in acknowledgment as he sprints from the room.

Steve’s chest burns like his lungs just can’t bring in enough oxygen. Suddenly he’s a kid again, gasping for air, praying that this won’t be the time his body chooses to quit on him.

Doubling over, once he reaches the landing deck, he rests his hands on his knees, trying to count his breaths, trying to center himself. There wasn’t time for him to fall apart. Not now.

“Steve?” Thor asks from his perch on one of the hovercrafts. The raccoon - Rocket - sits beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Thor’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder. It’s too much like a gesture Bucky would often make. He pulls away.

“Y/N,” he pants, still trying to force his lungs to work. “Something’s wrong, she-” Okoye’s voice in his ear interrupts him.

“Steve, I… I think she’s heading to where… it happened.”

There was no need to explain what it was.

“Copy,” he answers.

“I’m on my way down,” Okoye says.

“No, I can-”

“I’m coming.” Her tone brooches no argument.

“We’ll come too,” Thor says, getting on the craft. Rocket just shrugs.

When the four of them arrive at the edge of the woods it’s eerily quiet.

“There’s no breeze,” Thor comments quietly. He was right. A slight wind had been blowing on the landing deck but here, everything was unnaturally still. “Her power…”

Steve doesn’t like the awe in Thor’s voice. You were gifted, of that there was no question. But you’d been clear enough that there were limits to what you could do and how long you could use your abilities.

With a pang, he remembers Wanda teasing you about it over dinner more than once.

“There,” Okoye whispers.

He sees you and feels a pain shoot through his heart.

You’re standing just as you had days ago, in the same place, but your hands - palms out - are pressed to nothing but empty air. Around your feet dust swirls in a slow circle, the only movement to be seen. From here, he can’t see your face, but your head is cocked to the side, almost as if you’re listening to something in the distance.

Part of him wants to run. Just leave you to your sorrow because he can’t bear it. Because this, this brings to gut-wrenching clarity a thought he’d been avoiding for days.

You had tried to use your power to save Bucky.

He can’t begin to comprehend what that must have been like. What must you have felt as your husband died…

The snapping of a stick beneath Thor’s foot causes your head to twitch in their direction though you don’t move otherwise.

“Y/N?” Okoye calls softy. “Sister, why don’t you come with us?” She extends her hand, “I’ll take you home.”

Steve wishes it was just his imagination making him feel the tremor move from your body into the ground. But the shaking of the leaves above them in response to Okoye’s last word tells him it was real.

He looks to the others, seeing tense faces stare back at him. Rocket’s ears twitch wildly.

“We need to back up. Now.” Immediately he begins to put more space between himself and you. Thor nods, following his lead. Okoye looks from them to you and back, unsure.

No. He’d failed you, failed Bucky, and Sam, and Wanda, and everyone. He couldn’t turn away from you now.

Slowly, he makes his way to your side, his body tingling with an entirely foreign sensation.

“Y/N,” his voice almost a whisper. “Come on, let’s-” As soon as his hand touches your shoulder he’s flung back. Thor catches him, pulling him away from you and settling him on the ground.

Gobsmacked Steve stares, hardly able to breathe or think, only capable of gaping slack-jawed as the dust at your feet begins to spin faster and faster.

Slowly, the air around you begins to swirl with debris from the ground. A foot, two three, the radius grows until there’s a five-foot minimum of dirt, dust, stones, and other forest refuse filling the space, up and up past the tops of the trees.

Even so, it remains strangely quiet save for the rustling of the foliage. It could almost be peaceful. Until your scream shatters the illusion.

He’d heard this scream before. It was the scream that rang through bombed cities in the war, through New York when the Citauri attacked, and Sokovia as buildings crumbled burying families inside. It was the sound of loss so profound that it reduced someone to their basest animal nature.

It seems to pull every ounce of pain he’d tried to run from to the surface. Desperately, he tries to tamp it down, gritting his teeth as tears slide unbidden from his eyes.

Thor hits his knees beside Steve, coving his face. Rocket looks away. Okoye stares, tears silently carving paths down her cheeks.

What could any of them do? What comfort could they give?

Your cries shake the ground, cause the trees to groan, small thunder-like rumbles rise and fall as though you were ripping the particles in the air apart like lightning. Maybe you were…

All he knew was that at this moment your pain was the pain of a universe in mourning. You expressed what they all felt but did not have the capability to release.

A strange creaking groan slowly gets louder as the earth shakes.

Tear it all down, Y/N, he thinks. I’m too tired to save it anymore.

His sight is blurred with tears he can’t seem to let fall so he thinks he imagines the woman stepping past them, moving serenely toward your maelstrom, her white hair tumbling down her back.

“Queen Mother, don’t!” Okoye cries, shaken from her stupor. She grabs the woman's arm. Ramonda turns to her, a sad smile on her face.

“Let go of me, General.” Okoye doesn’t move. “Oko,” Ramonda coos, cupping her face with a hand. “It will be alright. She’s just hurting.”

Okoye takes a halting step away from the Queen before collapsing back to the ground.

Steve holds his breath as he watches Ramonda enter the cyclone of debris surrounding you - so sure that a rogue branch or rock would strike her down. You’d never forgive yourself if-

He shoots to his feet, ready to rush after Ramonda, pull her to safety for all your sakes but he freezes.

Incredibly she’s made it to you unscathed. Through the haze of dust, he sees her arms wrap around you, your body still shaking with screams, and pull your back against her chest.

Relief only has the briefest moment to touch him before, with one final groan, the ground around you gives way.

Falling.

You’re falling and you don’t want it to stop.

The further you fall the better, the further you fall the more likely this pain will end when you reach the bottom. And that’s all you want right now. Just for the pain to end and to take this insidious hunger along with it.

“I know child, I know it hurts,” a voice, thick with tears whispers in your ear. “I know.”

The sound cuts your scream off at the root leaving you gasping and bringing the ground up to meet you.

It was not far enough.

Though both of you are sent to your knees the arms around your chest do not release you. They only hold tighter.

“Let it out.” The voice whispers. Only then do you realize your scream had morphed into a guttural sob.

It hurt.

The salt in your tears stings your eyes so badly it feels like someone is grinding sand in them and your throat is so raw you’d think you swallowed fire. Your body feels like it was hit by a bus, muscles throbbing, a bone-deep ache permeating your whole being, and that strange hunger grinding somewhere deep within you. But you can’t stop. The tears just keep flowing.

Gone. He was gone. And you failed to save him.

This was worse than the loss of your chosen family. Then, you were trapped, held prisoner, unable to get to them fast enough. Now…

You had him in your hands. You had power beyond comprehension at your literal fingertips. And still, it wasn’t enough. Still, you felt him leave you bit by bit.

“Bucky!” His name trips over your lips, a desperate plea, a prayer. Again and again, you call for him knowing he will not answer you.

Eventually, you run out of tears and slump into the arms holding you, your head on their shoulder. Forcing your eyes open you look up at Ramonda’s tearstained but serene face. A mother’s face.

Gently she brushes the hair from your damp cheeks before pressing her lips to your forehead. If you had the ability to shed one more tear you would have. Your own mother had feared you, maybe even hated you, so this kind of care was foreign but god, you never wanted her to let go.

Your eyes slide shut as she starts humming a low song. It isn’t something you know but the cadence of the notes sound like a lullaby.

The presence of others presses into your awareness. She doesn’t react so you feel no need to either.

One of her arms releases you to draw another person near. A person you know. Okoye.

Opening your eyes the best you can you reach for her, the warm feeling of her palm in yours feels good.

A small hand rests on your thigh. The feeling is an odd one and you look down. Rocket, the one who tried to buy Bucky’s arm, gazes at you with wide shimmering eyes - pain clear on his features. With your free hand, you cover his and he leans into you.

With eyes half-mast you barely see Thor draw close. Ramonda reaches her other hand to him and he takes it. A soft cry comes from him.

“I know,” Ramonda pauses her song to whisper. “Captain?”

Steve is before you all, standing, looking away. When Ramonda calls to him he closes the small distance and kneels before you. His eyes look red from tears but he seems so solid otherwise.

With a knuckle, he brushes your cheek, it comes away pink. Your eyes must have bled again… You must have-

It’s then that you look just over Steve’s shoulder and realize… You are all huddled in a fucking crater.

Falling. You had felt like you were falling. You had thought about the ground crumbling when Bucky had and… You pull away from the others, pushing past Steve to the other side of the crater.

You press your hands to the wall, about six feet high, and they come away black with fresh earth. Slowly you turn, taking in the size of the thing.

When your gaze settles on the group, most still leaning on one another, they look concerned.

“Y/N?” Steve’s tone is cautious.

“I did this,” you breathe in realization, voice hoarse.

“It’s ok, Y/N. No one was-”

“No!” You snap. “It isn’t ok. I can’t do this! I shouldn’t… I can’t-” Breathe. You cannot breathe.

Grasping your chest you heave, feeling like your heart may burst. Panic overwhelms you.

“You just need to rest,” Okoye’s voice this time. “You haven’t stopped since-”

“No,” you rasp, shaking your head frantically. You begin to pace. “No. You don’t understand.” You lean against the wall and sink down, hiding your face in your knees as you begin to shake all over.

Your mind buzzes trying to sort all the things it’s sensing, like trying to pick out each individual voice in a crowd of thousands. Beneath the chaos is the low rumble you remembered from before, that hunger. Your fingers run through your hair, grasping your skull.

“Something is wrong. Wrong with me. I can’t… I can’t…”

“What can’t you do, Y/N?” Steve asks.

“Control it!” You shout looking up at them. The soft earth beneath you shifts and you gasp covering your mouth, scared you’ll just start screaming again. The tension hangs heavy in the air.

“It’s alright,” Ramonda says moving closer. “We are all struggling to control this grief. It must make it harder to harness these gifts.” Her soft smile makes you wish she was right, makes you want to let her mother you and tell you it will all be fine and believe her.

But she’s wrong. You shake your head.

“That isn’t it. I-” Your voice cracks. “Something is wrong.” You’re too tired to think but you have to say it because you know it must be the cause.

“I touched them,” you manage.

“Touched what?” Okoye asks.

“The stones,” Thor whispers. “You touched the stones with your power.” You meet his mismatched eyes and nod.

“Christ,” Steve hisses, pacing away.

“You’re lucky you’re even alive,” Rocket says. “That’s cosmic, concentrated energy you tapped into, you should be-”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that pours from you.

“Lucky,” you growl. “Lucky. That’s me, so fucking lucky!” You push yourself quickly to your feet.

The world tips sideways and everything goes dark.

When your eyes flutter open again you’re on a hovercraft, Steve’s arms cradling you tight to his chest.

Shame thrums through you.

“I’m ok, Steve,” you say. “You can put me down.”

“It’s fine,” his tone is hard edged, cold.

“Really, I-” His arms flex, holding you tighter. When you get to the landing deck you pry yourself from his grasp with your power, landing softly on your feet. He tosses a look that isn’t quite a glare at you but says nothing.

Instead of going back to the lab, you all follow Ramonda as if on instinct, to the royal residences. A line of wayward children.

Being in Ramonda’s welcoming home threatens to send a tremor through you - and everything around you. Too many afternoons you’d come here after training to see Bucky sitting on the balcony, lit golden in the sunset, drinking tea… The thought of his smile makes some deep place in you ache.

Thor collapses into one of the couches, looking like a husk of a man. You had seen him earlier that day but perhaps he too was reaching his breaking point. It looks like Rocket will join him for a beat but he heads to the balcony, his eyes fixed on the sky as though looking for something.

You stand, unsure what to do.

“Sit,” Ramonda insists. You do as she says, avoiding the large chair you usually shared with Bucky, opting for a pile of floor pillows instead.

When Steve, Okoye, and Ramonda return with food and tea you realize, guiltily, that you hadn’t noticed their absence or even really registered time passing. No one moves for the food, lost in their own misery.

“Eat, all of you,” Ramonda says in a maternal voice.

She needs to care for someone, you think.

Not wanting to disappoint her you force yourself to take some tea and nibble on a piece of flatbread. It all tastes like dust.

At some point you lost the thread of the conversation. Mainly Okoye filling the silence with plans, Ramonda saying something about the elder council meeting.

You kept playing the events of earlier through your head - hating that you had broken like that, hating how you likely terrified them all - when Okoye coughed. It wasn’t subtle. Neither was the pointed glance she and Steve exchanged.

You bristle.

“Come on,” Steve stands, extending a hand to you. Choosing to not take it you rise fluidly to your feet, your power, rather than your tired muscles propelling you.

Ramonda cups your face in her hands before kissing both your cheeks. She doesn’t say a word, just presses her forehead to yours before releasing you.

With no explanation from him, he leads you to the apartment he uses when he visits. You manage to hold your tongue until the door closes behind you both.

“Were you assigned to babysit?” At any other time, the venom in his glare would have stung. “I can-”

“Don’t,” his voice is low. He turns and rummages through a drawer, pulling out a plain black tee and boxers. “Here. Go shower.”

There’s something barely contained in his actions, a tension begging to be released. You feel guilty for your quip but don’t think an apology will be welcome. Plus, you can feel every grain of sand, every bit of dirt, the salt from your sweat all clinging to your skin, it’s unbearable.

The shower doesn’t help. All you can think of as the hot water hits your skin is that you should have showered with Bucky this morning… Two mornings ago? Three? Honestly, you didn’t know how much time had passed.

You finish quickly. Looking in the mirror you notice the swath of scalp showing where they shaved your head around a wound.

Vaguely you remember helping to clear the alien debris that had been left behind. Someone slipped and got pinned, you’d easily freed them but lost focus and your grip on the metal.

You press a finger to the skin, soft and beginning to bruise but sealed with Wakandan perfection. Staring listlessly at your reflection you press harder, the pain making you feel present, reminding you this was real.

This woman in the mirror… you don’t know her. Your fingers rub around the wound and slip into your hair pulling it tight. If you pulled hard enough… On the open shelves by the sink, you spot the clippers. That would be faster.

The buzzing noise is almost unbearable as is the sensation of all the little whirring parts. But you push past it.

Bit by bit your hair - grown long and thick over these past few years of love, of hope, of rebirth and rebuilding yourself from what Hydra made of you - falls to the floor.

When you finish you look back in the mirror. You know this ghost.

It isn’t a comfort.

Your chest seizes. Gripping the edge of the counter you fold forward. One question screams in your head over and over.

Shaking your head you try to clear it, feeling strands of hair slip from your shoulders. Frantically you reach for the t-shirt and pull it on before flinging the door open.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging.

“Steve?” You ask in a tremulous voice. He looks up, his face a map of pain. “What do we do? What… What do we do…” Without Bucky. That was what you really meant. Without Bucky what were you supposed to do?

“I-” His voice cracks. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, “God help me but… I don’t… I don’t know.” When the sob breaks free he almost looks startled by it, his hand flying to his mouth, eyes wide with fear.

He keeps shaking his head, “Y/N, I don’t know… I’m sorry I-” That’s it. That’s all he has left.

Here, away from the world, Steve Rogers breaks.

For a beat you’re unsure what to do. You’d never seen him cry, never seen him fully lose his grip on that invisible shield he never put down.

There is so little you can give him. Still, you go to him, pulling him to you, holding tight. It isn’t much but this is all you have.

His face presses against your abdomen, his tears soaking through the shirt fabric. Even though you thought you’d cried all you could, you feel the tears come, rolling quietly down your cheeks and landing in his golden hair as you run your fingers through it.

When your tired legs will no longer hold you up you crawl into the bed. Neither of you speak but you hold on for dear life until oblivion offers relief from this consuming grief.

TAGS

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers #post endgame #angst fic

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ladyfl4me · 5 years

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A,E,F,G,I,J,K,L,M,N,O,P,Q,R,S,T,U,V,W,X,Y,Z ;o

Okay *cracks knuckles* let’s go! F, M, and S have already been taken from this list, so feel free to send in... B, C, D, or H, I guess. Yeehaw. This is really fucking long.

A: How did you come up with the title to [TMWCIFTC]? -- It started, as many things do, as a bad pun. The novel The Spy who Came In from the Cold was a cold-war spy thriller, about a British spy who goes over to East Germany as an apparent defect, except he’s actually there to spread misinformation and fuck shit up. He falls in love, becomes disillusioned with his superiors, and is shot dead over the corpse of his lover after climbing over to the east side of the wall. Needless to say, this is nowhere close to what happens in TMWCIFTC. I chose it early on because of the literal meaning: there’s a moth(man), he’s coming in from the cold WV weather, boom shaka laka, we have a title. Over time, though, it’s evolved into another meaning. Indrid himself is coming in from an isolated, lonely existence: he’s rejoining the family that cut ties with him, he’s in love, he’s warm and safe. The moth sure did come in from the cold, and hopefully he stays that way.

E: If you wrote a sequel to [TMWCIFTC], what would it be about? -- Hm. Considering my entire TAZ fic career is a tangled hairball of sequels and prequels, I kind of have this base covered. At the moment, TCOS - aka The Children of Sylvain, the sequel to TMWCIFTC - is about three things: a Pine Guard road trip race against time and the feds, the Spanish Sylvan Inquisition That Nobody Expected (least of all Jake and Hollis, who have to set aside their differences and past conflicts to save Kepler - and who knows, maybe they’ll fall in love along the way), and Alexandra the Interpreter getting woke to Sylvan politics and doing what she can from the inside to change them. In other words, it’s going to be a massive sequel that is the finale of the Amnesty alternate universe I’ve created. It’s this series’ Endgame. (That reminds me, I need an actual title for this collection of stories I’m writing. The “Tin Cinematic Universe” doesn’t quite have the ring to it that I’d like.)

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order? -- eh, it kind of depends. It’s like a buffering bar on Youtube videos. I outline what I can until I run out of ideas, then start writing, then add outlines to the end, until the outline is complete and I just have to keep writing.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)? -- I don’t have one for reading, but for writing, I fucking love structuring chapters around songs. Classical or otherwise, I love music. All my stories play in my head like a movie screen, and I just do my best to describe what I’m seeing in my head with an accompanying score. It’s not so much a guilty pleasure as it is a writing process. Frankly, I don’t think I actually have a guilty pleasure; the act of writing itself is all the happiness I need.

J: Write or describe an alternative ending to [insert fic]. -- An alternate ending for The Devil Went Down To Georgia would be... interesting. It ended with Boyd-as-Jersey-Devil scaring the pants off some poor broke college kid, who stole his worthless fiddle; then he changed back, and he and Ned went on their merry way to go break into Aubrey’s house and send everything down the drain. If there was one thing that I could change in there, it would be how fast Ned ran. If he ran a little faster, he would have seen the alley; he would have witnessed Boyd turning into the Jersey Devil, or at least turning back into himself; and he’d get a very rude awakening as to what Sylvans are and that his partner (in crime, and everything that mattered) was a fucking cryptid. God, that’d be a fun AU to write. Who knows, I might go do that someday.

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with? -- At the moment, the only angsty idea that I’m actually conceptualizing is a Hollis/Jake angsty breakup for TSG. (Spoilers, I guess.) I once wrote a very grimdark ending to TMWCIFTC where everyone fell through the ice and drowned. It wasn’t fun. I’ve also mentally killed off each Amnesty protagonist and NPC in various ways, but I never felt comfortable writing them down. I only write angst with a happy ending because those are the kinds of stories I need to hear.

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting? -- 9 times out of 10, I just throw it into the void. I write as much as I can in big chunks, and then kind of hope for the best. TMWCIFTC, for example, is a completely unedited, unbetaed vomit draft. I usually do a quick reread of my oneshots to catch grammar and spelling errors, but other than that I just trust myself that it’s fine.

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you? -- Can I get some kind of resolution for To the Edge of Night? Can I please get some kind of resolution for To the Edge of Night??? I was 14 chapters into that bastard before I a) became a more casual MCU fan and b) discovered TAZ. It was such a niche fic with such a niche structure - LOTR as galactic Asgardian propaganda to cover up Odin’s mistakes - that at some point I lost interest in it. I just saw Endgame though, so now I might get some inspiration for stuff to bastardize.

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters? -- Characters. When coming up with character backstories, I can usually find ways to slot their lives together that necessitate a plot. I love character-driven stories, where their actions actually do shit and their words actually mean something, in favor of getting dragged along behind the plot like tin cans behind a car.

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an “architect” or a “gardener”? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?) -- I’m definitely an architect, but in a really messy way. My friends can attest that I do an insane amount of planning for each story - often in their DMs, sorry about that, Fae, Cro, Indy and Aline 😬 - and all that usually ends up in a stream-of-consciousness rant outline on Google Drive. Knowing where the story is going helps me a lot, but the planning I do is definitely just building flower beds in which to sow seeds. Or building a greenhouse. I plan the bare bones of a story, and things get really wild within it, but it does follow a logical plot structure.

Q: How do you feel about collaborations? -- I have a lot of respect for the people who can successfully pull it off, but idk if i’d ever want to do one myself. I get really possessive of my stories and ideas and like to be the one in charge of their execution. That being said, some collabs have produced amazing stories. I don’t mind reading collab fics, but actually being in a collab grates on me more than it should.

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence? -- I’m definitely influenced heavily by Neil Gaiman. I read American Gods and Good Omens a lot while I was trying to write TMWCIFTC; not only was it a good brain break, but I was able to pick up a lot of tips on scene pacing, concise yet expressive language, and character interactions. My creative wriitng professors have always told us to read so we know what to steal - not in terms of content, but in execution.

On the fanfic side, @miamaroo is a huge inspiration for me. I’ve been reading Northern Migration a lot recently, and I love how its canon divergence is so worldshaking and so complex, but is still familiar in nostalgic yet terrifying ways. I read it back in October, went, “Huh, I wanna do something that wild. And if miamaroo can do it then I sure as fuck can too,” and I started planning TMWCIFTC during that one month dead zone the McElroys took last year. Northern Migration is one of the best, most coherent, most stunning, and most incredibly written TAZ Balance AUs I’ve ever read, and if I hadn’t read it, I wouldn’t have been inspired to take the fuckall huge plunge into TMWCIFTC.

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist? -- Bed sharing and cuddling, hand kissing, wrist kissing, whump, sympathetic villains. Canon divergent AUs are my absolute favorite things to both read and write. Anything that would turn me into Charlie Kelly slamming his finger on a bulletin board screaming, “CAROL,” is a fic I would give my life for.

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand? -- Not a fan of a) woobification and b) flat villain characterization, to the point where the story is riding on villain tropes instead of an actual person or plot. Character nuance is always something I look for when I read. I don’t usually get bitter about tropes, though; some stuff, when subverted, works really well. I fully subscribe to don’t like, don’t read, don’t write, which is why I don’t write anything that warrants AO3 content warning tags or an Explicit rating, in favor of focusing on plot. Every author has a reason for what they write and how - be it their level of experience, personal preference, or simply the joy of writing something and getting it out there - and I respect that. Within reason, of course.

U: Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much. --

@miamaroo, for reasons I’ve already discussed. My favorite TAZ Balance author hands down. Read Northern Migration and give it the love it deserves, or I’m replacing all the faucets in your house with silly straws.

@transagentstern. Fae has a bunch of absolutely incredible fics and an amazing grasp on characterization. We come from the same place with AUs, in that canon is but the bare planks on which we put the drywall of our plot an characterization. They structure AUs and character backstories from the ground up in believable and emotionally raw ways. Also they have great music taste. I especially like their interpretation of Indrid in Moth to the Flame; he, like all the other characters in the story, is far from perfect, and his character arc is explored in relatable ways that I love to read.

@keplersheetz. Aline - theneonpineapple on AO3 - researches like a motherfucker and has a wealth of knowledge/experience/viewpoints to draw on, making author-author interactions with her an absolute delight. She’s also doing the lord’s work with rarepairs. Spin a wheel, find a ship, and she’s probably written for it or at least conceptualized it. Reading her character studies and stories of the old Pine Guard - aka Mama’s original crew, before the current PCs joined - is always a delight. I’ve also hashed out a lot of details for The Children of Sylvain, especially for Mr. Boyd Mosche, guilt-wracked Jersey Devil extraordinaire, with her help.

V: If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose? -- Not gonna lie, I’m fine with a lot of stuff that’s out there right now. It’s been a hot few months since I’ve actually stopped to read fic, but from what I recall, most of the fics I’ve read have done a good job of keeping things intact.

W: Do you like more general prompts, or more specific ones? -- The vaguer, the better. With really specific prompts, it usually feels as if the story’s been written for me already; with vague, general prompts, I have more agency to explore my own ideas. Some accompanying detail is usually nice, though. For example, the coffee shop/college/flower shop AUs that @transagentstern wrote are my ideal prompt for drabbles: premise, a little bit of open-ended detail, clear explanation of what’s going to happen while leaving the rest up to the imagination. Good stuff. If it’s for a long-form piece, though, I prefer full agency, or even just some time to lie facedown in the dirt and wait for an idea to strike me.

X: A character you enjoy making suffer. -- Yes.

Y: A character you want to protect. -- Tim.

Z: Major character death–do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate? -- I do read lots of major character death, yeah, though not always for TAZ. There’s something cathartic about seeing a character die, but sometimes it sits wrong with me in ways that I don’t like. As for writing, I’d rather kill a character for a reason rather than for shock value/for the Feels, though said Feels can accompany the reason.

#anon please dm me so i know who u are #please #i'm begging you #i'm in hell #asks #anon #ask game

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