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whinlatter · 5 months

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sirius and ginny: a meta (part 1)

“Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as much as you do!” said Ginny, her jaw set so that her resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly striking.’

are you a very brave, very reckless, very hot self-destructive rebel with a treacherous sibling and a flair for christmas decoration, harbouring complex feelings about your mother, close ties to crookshanks the cat and spend your days plagued by the memory of your worst mistakes and dark past? do you find yourself constantly being begged to stay in a state of protective confinement to save your life by a young man with a lightning scar, bad hair and crippling abandonment issues? if so, congratulations! you might be one of harry potter's chosen family members, sirius black and ginevra molly weasley!

basically - i want to talk about sirius and ginny. these are two characters who don’t share a lot of scenes in canon but who, i think, have some clear (if overlooked) parallels: stubborn, fiercely protective of harry, self-sacrificing, admired, principled, haunted (in different ways) by traumatic pasts and betrayals, with complicated relationships with their families and entirely uncomplicated devoted relationships with someone else’s cat. their narrative arcs are successive, with ginny ascending in significance in the series during sirius’ period of decline and ultimate death. and ultimately, they’re also the two people who become, over the course of the canon series, family to a protagonist desperately seeking to build one. sirius and ginny are the two people harry in canon most worries about, wants to protect, and thinks of as someone who embodies the promise of family and home.

sirius and ginny aren’t mirror images of each other. ofc, ginny also has parallels with the only other family members harry claims in the series, lily and james (i mean, especially james - she’s literally a cocky funny flirtatious chaser with a years-long debilitating mega crush who can also catch a snitch like a champ. come on now). it’s also clear in canon that sirius means more to ginny as a hero/role model/ally against her mother than ginny ever means to sirius. nevertheless, the text puts in work to let the reader know we should think about these characters together as somehow aligned. from the beginning of ootp, there are clues and signals in the text that foreshadow ginny’s emergence as someone important to harry, and that subtly let the reader know that the baton of being harry’s ‘person’ is about to be passed from sirius to ginny, two kindred spirits, after sirius’ death. so that's what this meta is about! (consider this my 700th attempt to show that, as the popular fandom complaint/all of reddit still insist, ginny as a character, and especially the harry/ginny romance, did not ‘come out of nowhere’.)

the following meta is part one of two (and yet it's still too long! sorry about it). o in this part, i look at the period from the end of goblet of fire thru the start of half blood prince, exploring how the text sets up the sirius and ginny parallels as a way of foreshadowing ginny’s emergence as harry’s main love interest and place as a family substitute. the second part (tbc) will be what the memory of sirius does for harry’s view of his relationship with ginny, and the kind of positive - and negative - ways this shapes harry’s ideas about love and what family do for each other. i wrote this meta as a way of thinking through some characterisation choices for my current WIP, beasts. if you're following along with that fic, this meta can be seen as a companion piece especially to my thinking behind chapters ten and eleven, so hope proves helpful for some of my thinking behind the sirius and ginny friendship that appears in that project. it's also dedicated to @ashesandhackles, queen of metas, who has reminded me to post this meta precisely 9 million times because she is a long-suffering saint.

ok - sirius and ginny. let’s goooooo!

sirius and ginny before ootp

before OotP, ginny is absent from any plot connected to sirius. ginny doesn’t know the truth about sirius’ innocence, nor does she know that harry, her brother and her friend are in regular contact with sirius and that harry now as a surrogate father/big brother figure to confide in and seek comfort in. in fact, in one of ginny’s few appearances in GoF, the narration is unusually insistent that the reader knows how little ginny knows about sirius:

“And have you heard from — ?” Ron began, but at a look from Hermione he fell silent. Harry knew Ron had been about to ask about Sirius. Ron and Hermione had been so deeply involved in helping Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that they were almost as concerned about Harry’s godfather as he was. However, discussing him in front of Ginny was a bad idea. Nobody but themselves and Professor Dumbledore knew about how Sirius had escaped, or believed in his innocence. “I think they’ve stopped arguing,” said Hermione, to cover the awkward moment, because Ginny was looking curiously from Ron to Harry. “Shall we go down and help your mum with dinner?”

the only other tiny crumb of sirius and ginny we get is the news that the owl sirius bought in PoA and gifted to ron as a replacement pet for scabbers has been embraced and named by ginny. sirius gifting a tiny little spitfire of an owl that annoys ron? it's giving foreshadowing, your honour.

the reader, though, knows who sirius is to harry by GoF. throughout this book, for the first time in the series, harry has a person he can claim as something like a family: someone to worry about, someone who cares about him,who can advise, guide and mentor him, as well as offer him support and consolation in difficult times (‘someone like a parent…’) although sirius has not been able to offer harry a stable alternative home to the dursleys due to his status as a wanted man, he’s still filling a role that previously had been vacant in the series: he’s harry’s person, the surrogate parent chosen for him by james and lily. he’s close by, either by the floo or eventually living (at great personal cost) as padfoot in hogsmeade, and he’s present emotionally for harry in ways that prove incredibly meaningful to his young godson. in times of great of distress, sirius is there for harry to meet emotional needs that ron and hermione (understandably, no shade to them) can’t always meet. the floo scene early on in GoF, during harry’s row with ron, is a particularly good example of this:

“Never mind me, how are you?” said Sirius seriously. “I’m —” For a second, Harry tried to say “fine” — but he couldn’t do it. …Before he could stop himself, he was talking more than he’d talked in days — about how no one believed he hadn’t entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn’t walk down a corridor without being sneered at — and about Ron, Ron not believing him, Ron’s jealousy . . . Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern… He had let Harry talk himself into silence without interruption’.

harry derives enormous comfort from sirius’ presence in his life during GoF. he writes to sirius, he repeatedly turns to him for advice, he worries for him more than he does any other person. sirius fulfils harry’s desire to be kept abreast of important information about voldemort and death eaters, doesn’t sugarcoat news for harry, and makes him feel important, cared for and understood. (harry even shows off to sirius telling him about how much of a slay the first task was. ugh). by the time of the third task, sirius is sending harry daily owls, a constant flow of reassurance and concern (‘He reminded Harry in every letter that whatever might be going on outside the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry’s responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it. If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote, my priority is to ensure your safety.’) when harry returns from the graveyard at the novel’s end, it’s sirius who races to his side to advocate for him and offer him both words of comfort and physical affection as he processes the traumatic series of events that constitute the climax of the book’s plot. (my personal favourite part is where harry says ‘wormtail cut me with a knife’ and the text says sirius made a ‘vehement exclamation’, which i can only assume is children’s book speak for ‘fucking hell’.) harry goes to bed: sirius stays with him, a literal guard dog as he recuperates. after the most traumatic events of the series to date, the reader is at least consoled that harry potter has a person now, someone he loves for him to worry about and to worry for him, who catches him on the other side of traumatic events and makes them that bit much more bearable.

sirius and ginny during ootp

with sirius' role in harry's life established in GoF, OotP begins with harry, cooped up and restless at privet drive, angry with ron, hermione, sirius, and dumbledore for abandoning him at privet drive and keeping him in the dark. harry arrives at grimmauld place to find an anxious ron and hermione, with whom harry is angry and frustrated for having left him out of their summer hangs and having neglected him, by his assessment, in surrey. it’s the most conflict we’ve seen in the trio in terms of harry vs ron and hermione, and sets up one of the important themes of the book, which is harry no longer being solely emotionally fulfilled by the people he is closest to, including his two surrogate parents best mates but also his godfather. when he encounters sirius for the first time after the order meeting, he finds him surly, bitter, and depressed, furious that he is confined to his childhood home, and (understandably) much less able or willing to offer harry much in the way of comfort, apology or cheering words (‘Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded.’) in this sense, the book opens with harry disappointed and/or more distant from all the people on whom he most depends and is usually closest to, and that there therefore is already an absence of a certain kind of emotional support in harry’s life that the plot demands be filled.

fresh off the back of harry’s row with ron and hermione is ginny’s reintroduction to the reader. after years of being so shy in harry’s presence she was often nearly mute, the reader finds that ginny is not only now speaking, but that her presence turns out to be remarkably refreshing. from her opening scene where ginny enters harry’s bedroom at grimmauld place, the reader discovers the new ginny is confident, up to no good, in cahoots with her most troublemaking brothers trying to intercept the order meeting, enterprising in her mischief (and very happy to lie to her mother’s face about it). she’s thoroughly unfazed by harry’s great display of rage that has just startled and upset ron and hermione. (side note: in both ootp and hbp, ginny’s opening scene is her entering harry’s bedroom, which is the kind of foreshadowing i personally find delicious). everyone else is behaving pretty much as they have been up to this point, but it’s ginny who is showcasing behaviours new to the reader, a signal that she might be about to play a different role in the series than she has done up to this point.

cut to the dinner scene. sirius and ginny are in the room together for the first time. sirius is moody: though he’s still able to laugh, enjoying displays of mischief and humour (the twins and the knife), he’s more bitter than harry and the reader have seen him since PoA. it’s an important scene for lots of reasons (not least the sirius v molly beef), but it’s also one where sirius and ginny are repeatedly drawn into mental association in the reader’s mind. it’s also a great scene because the behaviour of crookshanks the cat literally serves to foreshadow the behaviour of harry james potter in ways that are frankly extremely fun.

so! the sirius and ginny hints start small. from the start of the scene, ginny is amused by mundungus the crook (a man, we will learn, so disdained by her mother):

“Some’n say m’ name?” Mundungus mumbled sleepily. “I ’gree with Sirius. . . .” He raised a very grubby hand in the air as though voting, his droopy, bloodshot eyes unfocused. Ginny giggled. “The meeting’s over, Dung,” said Sirius, as they all sat down around him at the table. “Harry’s arrived.”

sirius and harry, sat at the end of the table, are both greeted by crookshanks, sirius’ old accomplice from PoA:

'Harry felt something brush against his knees and started, but it was only Crookshanks, Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, who wound himself once around Harry’s legs, purring, then jumped onto Sirius’s lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him absentmindedly behind the ears as he turned, still grim-faced, to Harry…

when fred and george’s levitation goes awry, flinging a knife at sirius (now that’s how you foreshadow a death), crookshanks bolts:

‘Harry and Sirius were both laughing… Crookshanks had given an angry hiss and shot off under the dresser, from whence his large yellow eyes glowed in the darkness…’

during the meal, ginny’s with hermione, having a laugh with tonks, a character harry has just met but whom he has already decided to both admire and like. after the meal, when harry’s cheered up a bit and had his crumble (the man loves dessert), crookshanks finally emerges from his hiding place, having been coaxed out from his sulk by - you guessed it - one g. m. weasley:

‘…Ginny, who had lured Crookshanks out from under the dresser, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for him to chase.’

a grouchy character, initially drawn to sirius, but prone to lashing out and locking himself away, only to be lured back out into comfort and safety by ginny weasley? wow………. radical

after dinner, the argument between sirius and molly kicks off. sirius is arguing hard for harry’s right to know, though he makes no attempt to advocate for any of the other weasleys or for hermione. ginny’s noticeably singled out in her reaction to this scene, the text highlighting that she is particularly struck by this conflict as if it is of particular personal resonance, including someone standing up to her famously overprotective mother for once:

‘Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George’s heads turned from Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though following a tennis rally. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin’s eyes were fixed on Sirius.’

of course, molly loses the argument: harry gets to stay for juicy order deets (‘Sirius was right, he was not a child.’) after the row, ginny is the only person forbidden from hearing information about the order’s activities. suddenly, the roles are switched: it’s ginny who’s now furious and bitter to be kept out of the action:

‘“Fine!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Fine! Ginny — BED!” Ginny did not go quietly. They could hear her raging and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs, and when she reached the hall Mrs. Black’s earsplitting shrieks were added to the din. Lupin hurried off to the portrait to restore calm. It was only after he had returned, closing the kitchen door behind him and taking his seat at the table again, that Sirius spoke. “Okay, Harry . . . what do you want to know?”’

it’s not just the parallels of confinement between harry, sirius and ginny that are so revealing, it’s also the dual maternal conflicts. ginny loud raging at her own mother sets off the howling relic of sirius’, serving to underline two characters who continue to grapple with maternal relationships that are complex and full of conflict, though by no means solely negative (sirius i see you sleeping in your mother’s bedroom babe. don’t think i think your relationship with walburga is just one of straight hate ok). when ginny later gets knocked down the stairs by fred and george, there’s more direct mrs weasley/walburga parallels, with the two of them literally shouting over each other during the ordeal lol. as such, the readers see that the conflicts being set up for sirius’ character in this book - frustration at confinement, conflict with a mother figure, drawn to more reckless and arguably irresponsible characters (mundungus, the twins) and courses of action - are also conflicts subtly playing out with the new ginny we’re meeting, too.

as the rest of the summer at grimmauld wears on, there are more examples of sirius and ginny foreshadowing. the scenes where the two characters interact serve to place ginny and sirius firmly in the same camp of people harry admires and has fun with, the troublemakers and the rebels. over the prefects issue, ginny not only is sat chatting with the troublemaking adults harry likes most, but actively draws sirius into conversation on the issue, likely knowing the answer will comfort harry, but also showing a curiosity and interest in sirius that suggests she admires him:

“I was never a prefect myself,” said Tonks brightly from behind Harry as everybody moved toward the table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato-red and waist length today; she looked like Ginny’s older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities.” “Like what?” said Ginny, who was choosing a baked potato. “Like the ability to behave myself,” said Tonks. Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did not know whether to smile or not and compromised by taking an extra large gulp of butterbeer and choking on it. “What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asked, thumping Hermione on the back. Sirius, who was right beside Harry, let out his usual barklike laugh…’

ginny’s choice to try and draw sirius into the conversation bears fruit: sirius confirms james was never a prefect, and harry’s sour mood is suddenly lifted. (‘All at once the party seemed much more enjoyable; he loaded up his plate, feeling unusually fond of everyone in the room.’) ginny is thus beginning to provide harry with subtle comfort and reassurance, especially as sirius, struggling with his own confinement, is taking a less active role in trying to cheer harry up. what i also like is that we have evidence of how ginny views sirius - she’s curious about him and his past, she clearly thinks he and the other new rebellious adults are cool as shit, and she’s drawn increasingly away from her mother’s cautious overprotective approach towards these resistance fighters who prioritise the fight over safety. (it is noticeable to me that ginny does not become a prefect in HBP, suggesting sirius' example proved instructive).

we see more small parallels between sirius and ginny during the cleaning scenes. the battle against grimmauld place is an important symbol of one of the important themes of OotP as a book: a battle over past traumas and their persistent and unwieldy symptoms that are seemingly never-ending. while it’s harry’s experiences that, of course, take centre stage, sirius’, too, loom omnipresent throughout the text. it’s significant, then, that ginny’s own past gets brought up for the first time in three books here, albeit briefly:

'They found an unpleasant-looking silver instrument, something like a many-legged pair of tweezers, which scuttled up Harry’s arm like a spider when he picked it up, and attempted to puncture his skin; Sirius seized it and smashed it with a heavy book entitled Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. There was a musical box that emitted a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and they all found themselves becoming curiously weak and sleepy until Ginny had the sense to slam the lid shut…'

in this moment, we see sirius and ginny singled in the larger group as quick-thinking, shrewd characters, with a good instincts and common sense (if a bit of a tendency to get scrappy). their respective dark pasts are subtly alluded to. sirius whacks a spider trying to attack harry with a book that might as well be entitled my big book of family trauma. ginny, meanwhile, steps in when everybody present starts to be enchanted by a mysterious object luring them into danger by whacking it shut (gee i wonder why!) given this is the book that will see ginny mention the events of CoS for the first time in errrrr three years, it’s significant that the text is careful to draw ginny into this broader theme that unites sirius and harry, the constant reminders of traumatic pasts at every turn. we also see here the revelation that regulus black was a death eater. coming after news of percy weasley’s betrayal, sirius’ bitter dismissal of his younger brother deliberately mirrors ginny and the other weasleys’ attitude towards percy, this sense of pureblood families split over wizarding politics, often fatally.

while harry fears his expulsion from hogwarts prior his hearing, he continues to fantasise about coming to live with sirius at grimmauld, and about being with a family member and finding an alternative home to hogwarts. sirius, as hermione astutely observes, tries to manage harry’s expectations and not to get his own hopes up: still, when harry is exonerated, sirius is visibly depressed, showing the beginnings of an emotional dependency on harry that harry feels great guilt over.when leaving grimmauld for the start of the school year, sirius, as padfoot, accompanies harry to king’s cross: unlike in GoF, though, he is spotted, and harry begins to worry much more actively about sirius’ vulnerability to capture, about his recklessness and about his judgement. concerned for sirius, and absent ron and hermione, who are in the prefects carriage, the person who stays with harry and offers him company is ginny. she sacrifices her own train journey (presumably with her own boyfriend) to find a carriage with harry and make sure he’s not lonely, bringing him to neville and luna and sorting him out after his embarassing cho run-in. it’s not a coincidence that once again we see ginny here taking care of harry crookshanks:

'“Where’s Crookshanks?” “Ginny’s got him,” said Harry. “There she is. . . .” Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks. “Thanks,” said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. “Come on, let’s get a carriage together before they all fill up. . . '

once harry’s back at school, having left sirius behind to languish miserably in london, we see he's more isolated and alone than ever. he’s tormented by umbridge, endlessly (though often unfairly) frustrated with ron and hermione, ghosted by dumbledore, yet absent the more stable, reassuring sirius he came to know in GoF, unable to write candidly to him and faced with a much less well sirius in the opportunities they do have to speak face-to-face. as sirius’ mental health declines as he is shut up at grimmauld, his ability to support harry and comfort him starts to falter, and he becomes a much more uneven source of advice and support, particularly during his car crash floo appearance, where he’s much ruder than he has previously been (cutting off, ignoring their pleas for him to be more cautious, the infamous ‘the risk would have made it fun for james’ moment). this new sirius, clearly struggling, is much more happy to do up guilt trip to his godson than we have seen him to up this point (‘I’ll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to risk it?’ - you petty little shit, padfoot). all of this serves to increase harry’s anxiety about sirius’ wellbeing and reinforce harry’s sense of emotional isolation. even sirius’ encouragement on the DA is, as hermione points out, partly bound up in more selfish motivations (‘I think he’s really frustrated at how little he can do where he is… so I think he’s keen to kind of… egg us on.’)

ginny’s largely absent in this section of the novel. in the brief moments she does appear, it’s to inject humour (eg. her impressions at the DA meeting) and in little reminders that she now has a boyfriend, no longer harbours romantic feelings for harry, making sure the reader continues to hold her mentally apart from harry. harry, meanwhile, misguidedly tries to seek out a relationship with cho chang, who is showing clear signs of her own emotional distress and inability to meet harry’s emotional needs given her own grief. still, among this, there’s still room for some small subtle sirius/ginny parallels. once the DA plot picks up, we have another little sign that ginny weasley and sirius black think somewhat alike:

“Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” said Ginny. “Only let’s make it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the Ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

“Trained in combat?” repeated Harry incredulously. “What does he think we’re doing here, forming some sort of wizard army? “That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,” said Sirius, “or rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid Dumbledore’s doing — forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic.”

with harry's isolation and need for more emotional support established in this first term, christmas at grimmauld offers more opportunity to subtly develop the sirius and ginny parallels, as well as to highlight ginny’s ability to fill the gaps left by sirius’ decline. after the attack on arthur weasley, the group arrive back at grimmauld:

‘Sirius was hurrying toward them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him. “What’s going on?” he said, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. “Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been badly injured —”

could this be sirius literally lifting ginny up into plot significance? why yes it could

ofc the weasleys then argue with sirius about their right to go see their father. despite his own frustrations at being trapped at grimmauld, sirius proves the voice of reason and rational decision making against both ginny and the twins’ hotheadedness (ginny asks to borrow cloaks to go to the hospital: sirius: ‘Hang on, you can’t go tearing off to St. Mungo’s!’) crucially, though, when sirius points out that there are bigger things at stake - the work of the order and the resistance movement - it’s ginny who listens:

“Your father knew what he was getting into, and he won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!” said Sirius angrily in his turn. “This is how it is — this is why you’re not in the Order — you don’t understand — there are things worth dying for!” “Easy for you to say, stuck here!” bellowed Fred. “I don’t see you risking your neck!” The little colour remaining in Sirius’s face drained from it. He looked for a moment as though he would quite like to hit Fred, but when he spoke, it was in a voice of determined calm. “I know it’s hard, but we’ve all got to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?” Fred and George still looked mutinous. Ginny, however, took a few steps over to the nearest chair and sank into it. Harry looked at Ron, who made a funny movement somewhere between a nod and shrug, and they sat down too. The twins glared at Sirius for another minute, then took seats on either side of Ginny. “That’s right,” said Sirius encouragingly, “come on, let’s all . . . let’s all have a drink while we’re waiting…’

there’s a lot going on here: ginny’s willingness to follow sirius’ orders, but also her willingness to accept an argument based on some idea of the greater good before any of her brothers. she and sirius are aligned here, and it’s her decision to accept sirius’ reasoning that proves the catalyst for her brothers to follow. we see here how ginny has come to see sirius: someone she looks up to and admires, an adult whose judgement she trusts and whose worldview she subscribes to. (as a character prone to hero worship - see her view of her big brother bill - i think this is noteworthy, and is behind a lot of my characterisation choices for ginny towards sirius in beasts). but we also see that ginny agrees with sirius' worldview. there are some things worth dying for, and self-sacrifice is part of that.

when harry goes to sirius for reassurance about witnessing arthur’s attack, he finds sirius unable to properly console him and convince him that he was not to blame for arthur’s attack. the reader gets the impression of sirius withholding information from harry (‘He could only see a sliver of Sirius’s face; the rest was in darkness’), and the scene ends with sirius clapping harry on the shoulder and leaving him ‘standing alone in the dark’. while sirius throws himself into christmas preparations, obviously delighted to have company, harry shrinks from the cheer and isolates himself. in the end, ofc, the only person that manages to pull harry out of his dark, brooding thoughts is ginny. the text is careful to note she’s sitting beside him on the tube back from st mungo’s, when he looks very unwell. then, in the ‘lucky you’ scene, she showcases some of the same skills harry first came to appreciate in sirius in GoF. she tells it to him straight: she’s sympathetic, but not overly gushing, and she reminds him of her own intensely frightening experience which she endured alone, something harry can relate to, even if the experience of possession is not. it’s an important scene for lots of reasons, but it’s also, crucially, the intervention that causes harry’s mood to lift, and he gets to enjoy a christmas with his godfather, the thing he had most wanted in the run-up to christmas, and which becomes the only holiday period harry and sirius ever spend together:

‘I’m not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their door toward Buckbeak’s room, singing “God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs” at the top of his voice.’

of course, once christmas is over, sirius slips back into a depressed, gloomy state. harry wants a better goodbye than he gives him, merely giving him a quick one armed hug (there’s a real theme throughout harry and sirius’ relationship of very sparing physical contact on sirius’ part, which is obviously a hole in harry's life ginny will fill in - er - a big way). back at school, harry returns to umbridge’s increasingly draconian rule, maks a disastrous attempt at forging a relationship with cho, and continues to feel lonely, paranoid, and angry. unable to speak to sirius properly via letter or floo - and unwilling to open the present sirius has given him to communicate directly with him, the two-way mirror - harry is increasingly sullen, a mood that only worsens after seeing snape's worst memory.

the easter egg scene is obviously important for hinny for lots of different reasons. but here i just want to highlight how the scene serves to show ginny as both the conduit to sirius for harry, and someone whose behaviour echoes that of sirius in GoF when harry first began to open up to and seek comfort in him. harry is distressed by his now complicated feelings both towards the father he previously revered and towards sirius, who seemed to encourage james’ bullying behaviour. ginny hands harry a chocolate easter egg covered in snitches: chocolate, a canonical source of comfort against dark thoughts, and an egg that reminds him of the love of parent. the act makes him suddenly emotional, though he at first denies he’s upset. ginny presses carefully and sensitively, asking the right questions to get him to confess the source of his worry, waiting for harry to take his time to speak - all behaviours that echo sirius’ own effective listening techniques. ginny’s acquaintance with sirius, and knowledge of how significant he is to harry, is important here, too, and a subtle sign to the reader that he trusts ginny with knowledge about sirius after a long time of having her in the dark about his godfather. the reader leaves the scene having seen ginny breakthrough to harry emotionally in a way for the second time in the novel, in a way no other character has done (‘he felt a bit more hopeful…’)

of course, the course of action ginny has set in motion is itself risky and reckless (‘anything is possible if you’ve got enough nerve’ is very marauders as a philosophy). the decision to go ahead with the plan the twins come up with is one harry sees as a decision on whether to be more like james and sirius - a risk taker - or to abandon the hero worship for the marauders he has lived with for so long. in the end, of course, it’s a win for the reckless troublemakers: he chooses to go ahead with the plan the twins have crafted and that ginny has set in motion, and to speak to sirius.

and yet. sirius is still alive - there is not need for ginny yet. for the remainder of the book, ginny has to beg to be included in the trio's plans and to be allowed to be a part of the plot to rescue sirius. she’s is often in conflict with harry, showing a lot of sirius’ bitterness at attempts at containment and to keep her out of the fighting. she grates against harry’s insistence that she is too young and inexperienced, and having to remind the trio that she, too, has come to care about sirius and wants to see him safe:

“I’ve got a broom!” said Ginny. “Yeah, but you’re not coming,” said Ron angrily. “Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as much as you do!” said Ginny, her jaw set so that her resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly striking.

of course, it all ends in tragedy: sirius, desperate to go to harry’s aid and absolutely gunning for a fight after months of confinement, is killed, leaving harry alone. there a subtle clues that something has shifted in ginny’s relationship to harry and the trio in the scenes after sirius’ death, including ginny positioned as the mirror image to harry in the hospital:

‘Harry was sitting on the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to Hermione read the front page of the Sunday Prophet. Ginny, whose ankle had been mended in a trice by Madam Pomfrey, was curled up at the foot of Hermione’s bed…’

despite this, in the immediate aftermath of sirius’ death, harry is extremely alone. he is unable to work out what he needs (‘Whenever he was in company he wanted to get away, and whenever he was alone he wanted company.’) he tries to go to hagrid’s, but regrets it (‘He was starting to wish he was alone again’), leaving after hagrid reminds him of sirius’ core traits, an inability to stay out of the fight when he believes in the cause:

“But still, Harry . . . he was never one ter sit around at home an’ let other people do the fightin’. He couldn’ have lived with himself if he hadn’ gone ter help —”

unlike at the end of GoF, harry is isolated by his grief and the revelation of the prophecy's contents by the end of this book. he goes alone to a secluded corner of the lakeshore, ‘sheltered from the gaze of passersby behind a tangle of shrubs’, and ‘[stares] out over the gleaming water’, and cries alone. there is no sirius or other person to catch him and console him in his grief. his person has died, and there’s a gap in his life again, just waiting to be filled:

‘Wanting to impress Cho seemed to belong to a past that was no longer quite connected with him. So much of what he had wanted before Sirius’s death felt that way these days. . . . The week that had elapsed since he had last seen Sirius seemed to have lasted much, much longer: It stretched across two universes, the one with Sirius in it, and the one without.’

ginny and sirius parallels in HBP and DH

after sirius’ death, the parallels between sirius and ginny become more important as ginny moves into the centre frame as a character. at the start of HBP, harry arrives at the burrow and discusses his grief over sirius’ death with dumbledore in the burrow broom shed, acknowledging how profoundly the loss of a family member who cares singularly about him is affecting him. ('He felt stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about discovering his godfather . . . and now the post owls would never bring him that comfort again. . . .' beasts readers: there's a reason harry clings to letters!) of course, having reminded the reader of the gap in harry’s life that now needs to be filled, harry goes to sleep, the active reflection on his grief for sirius put to one side so the novel's plot can get underway. he'll go to bed mourning sirius and wake up in a sunlit bedroom. of course, ginny will walk into this bedroom too, only now things will be different: harry potter is back to the search for a loved one, for a family, and he's about to realise ginny is the one he wants to fill it. thus the start of the plot of ginny stepping into the role vacated by sirius beginneth.

so much of who ginny is in HBP is reminiscent of sirius. she frequently leaps into battle as harry’s protector (‘You’re taking orders from something someone wrote in a book?’, ‘Give it a rest, Hermione’), she’s scrappy (RIP zacharias smith), she’s funny and laughs easily in a way that less recalls sirius in the time harry knew him than sirius as harry sees him as a young man, in photographs or memories. she's the one who commits to the insane christmas decorations, determined to cheer everyone up over the festive period as sirius did the year before. she even enjoys the widespread admiration and lust of her peers, a trait that directly recalls sirius being eyed up by his peers in snape's memory. by the novel’s end, after dumbledore’s death, it will be ginny who goes to harry’s side after the climax of the plot and catch him in his grief just as sirius did in GoF, this time over dumbledore’s death:

‘He did not want to leave Dumbledore’s side, he did not want to move anywhere. Hagrid’s hand on his shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said, “Harry, come on.’ A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its pressure without really thinking about it.’

their breakup has sirius all over it. taking place at the lakeshore, the place where harry wept alone over sirius a year prior, harry draws on the circumstances of sirius’ demise as a reason he must break up with ginny (‘Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to.’) the breakup does little to shift what ginny has become in harry’s mind, though, and he spends all of DH thinking of her as he once thought of sirius: the person whose safety he most craves, the person he misses, someone he claims as his, and whom he associates with (now banished) hopes of a home and a family:

“It’s not a problem,” said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. “It’s your family, ’course you’re worried. I’d feel the same way.” He thought of Ginny. “I do feel the same way.”

of course, echoes of sirius will also come into play during open war. it’s now ginny, not sirius, who is the one left behind for her own protection: in the run-up to the battle, harry finds himself once again faced with the prospect of confining his loved one for their safety, despite their desperation to fight and do the right thing. but these are thoughts for part 2…….

#meta #sirius black #ginny weasley #it's not NOT an aged up sinevra ship agenda #hp meta #hp analysis #hinny #marauders #black family #beasts

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burnednotburied · 16 days

Text

Chapter 1: A New Prophet

AO3 Link

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slow burn; enemies to friends to lovers; animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/injury; cutting (not to self, but still); religious/cult-like ideas

Note: So the idea for this started as a prequel to my first fic (linked here), but ended up turning into much more. It basically follows the plot of Abby’s Seattle Day 1, diverging from canon where necessary and using dialogue from the game wherever possible. I split this part into two chapters because it’s so long.

This is a lot of build-up (important to the story and hopefully enjoyable to read), but I promise romance is on the horizon!

Also, the idea of deadnaming or misgendering Lev—even in the flashback part where they’re little kids and wouldn’t have known otherwise—physically pains me, so we’re going to pretend that reader has been calling Lev “L” as a nickname for forever.

Hope you enjoy! :)

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April 2038

Abby knew as much about the Scars as any of her fellow WLF members.

She knew that the group was founded by a woman who claimed to have a vision after the initial outbreak of Cordyceps brain infection in 2013, and then started spouting some bullshit about how it was all just a punishment for the sins of humanity. Said that the way to move forward was to go back to the basics. Live off the land. Reject technology and progress and pretty much all the good things in life.

She knew that they live on the island but they wouldn’t fucking stay on it, and that there was once a truce but they broke it, forcing the WLF into an endless war.

She knew that they fought hard and killed brutally, without hesitation or remorse.

She knew that, especially now that Joel was taken care of, killing Scars was pretty much her life’s purpose.

And she knew that the woman who started all of this became known as The Prophet. And that Isaac gave the order to have her killed ten years ago.

It was for that reason that Abby thought Isaac must have misspoken when he opened with:

“The Prophet is on the move.”

He was standing over the large map of Seattle in the center of the room, hands braced on the table, head down in thought.

She didn’t know what to make of that. Or how to respond. A quick glance over at Manny confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was confused.

One of them had to ask. It seemed Isaac wasn’t going to fill in the gaps unprompted.

“The Prophet?” Manny questioned hesitantly. “Sir… respectfully… She’s been dead for years. Died before we even joined.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the one who killed her.” Isaac was always calm and measured, almost always spoke quietly. But sometimes there was something beneath his words, just below the surface. Something seething and kind of terrifying, although Abby would never admit that out loud. This was one of those times.

“My unwilling informants downstairs,” he said, referring to the captive Scars being held and interrogated on the building’s lower levels, “tell me that they have a new Prophet. One their Elders have been quietly grooming for the role for the last decade, maybe even longer.”

“Okay so… What does that mean?” Abby asked, finding her voice. This was not the conversation she was expecting to have when she heard that Isaac wanted to talk to them. She had hoped to get some answers about what was going on with Owen.

“There’s a reason why they’ve been more resilient lately. Bolder. Even more bat-shit than normal.” He clenched his fists on the table. “This… Neo-Prophet,” Isaac almost laughed, the words coated in venom, “is about to fully step into her role. She is of age now. Or so I’ve been told.”

Abby stared at Isaac, still waiting for him to tell her what all of this meant. And what exactly he wanted her to do about it.

Manny jumped in. “What? So the Scars are… celebrating? You’re saying that’s why they’ve been ballsier? Killing more of us. Pushing further inland.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “If this is what it looks like when they’re happy, I don’t want to see what happens when they’re mad.”

Isaac remained stoic. “They have a renewed sense of purpose. When we killed their first Prophet, the Scars were enraged. They fought hard for vengeance. But people will only fight on behalf of a dead woman for so long. Passion for the cause wanes without something tangible to fight for. They need that higher authority to look to. They need someone to honor and defend. Their Elders were smart enough to know that their people need a unifying symbol. A living one.”

“Right, and you said that unifying symbol was on the move so…” Abby said. “Want us to hunt her down? See what they’ll do when we take away their new favorite toy?”

“No,” Isaac said quickly. “She’s not our target. We’ll get to her in due time.”

“Then wha—”

He cut her off. “The Prophet will be leaving the island soon, for the first time. In fact, it’s possible she’s already here. One of our captives tells me there will be some sort of initiation for her. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure it will involve attempting to kill some of ours. I’ll spend some more time with our friends downstairs and see if I can’t get any more information on that. We’ll try to prevent it if we can, but that’s not our main focus right now.” Abby opened her mouth to protest, only to be cut off once again. “With the Prophet away and many of their best soldiers traveling with her, the island will be more vulnerable than ever.”

Manny gestured to the map, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Sir, we’ve tried attacking their island and—”

“Not like this,” Isaac said. “Not with everyone. There’s a big storm a few days out. We’re going to use it to mask our approach. And you two are going to lead the first wave. Pick your squads. Start prepping.”

“And the Prophet?” Abby asked.

“One battle at a time, Abby.”

“Are we sure it would be a battle?” she pressed. “Isaac, she’s just one girl.”

“You would be foolish to underestimate this unknown enemy. Besides the likelihood that the best of the Scars will be at her side, I don’t doubt that she will be a very skilled fighter in her own right.” Abby huffed. Isaac continued, “And if she’s anything like her predecessor, the greatest threat is in her words. Not her actions. I watched some of my most loyal soldiers abandon our cause for theirs after just one conversation with the one who came before her.”

At this, Abby raised her eyebrows, ready to argue. A look from Manny shut her up.

“We’ve only got one shot at this… And this is bigger than any of us.” Isaac pushed off the table, walking over to Abby and placing a hand on her arm. “I need you, Abby.”

She shifted uncomfortably before relenting, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.” He pulled away, heading toward the door. “Look over the plans and go through your rosters.”

“I want Owen,” she said. Abby thought Isaac could at least give her that.

When he denied her permission to go look for Owen, Abby went anyway.

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

March 2030 (8 Years Earlier)

The day of your scarring had been the first time Haven saw the sun in weeks.

Your mother said it was a sign. But your mother thought everything was a sign.

She told you that, no matter what, you were not to cry. That you, her only child, would not disgrace her by shedding tears during your ceremony.

You were to be brave. And strong.

The Prophet herself had ordained the act of scarring for all of her followers. A symbol of the innate imperfection of mankind. And so her people would never forget their own failings, even in the midst of their unending efforts towards perfection.

No one was meant to question the Prophet’s teachings, or the Elders who had taken on the responsibility of interpreting those teachings and carrying out Her will since Her death two years prior.

You could feel your mother’s breath against the back of your head as she huffed and decided that she was once again unsatisfied with your hair, roughly taking it down and beginning again for the fourth time.

While she worked, you sat still on the wooden stool in front of her and stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to memorize your features as they were now.

This was the last time you would see the face you knew. Next time you looked in the mirror, you would be different. Would you feel different?

You tried to picture yourself scarred, with two thin lines running from each of your ears to the corners of your mouth. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to fall at the thought.

But there would be no crying today.

Instead, you let your eyes wander to your mother’s reflection, hovering just behind and above yours in the mirror. You examined her face. Of course, you had never seen her without her scars, but you’d always thought your mother was beautiful.

Maybe the change in your appearance would not be so drastic. Maybe it was vain to care.

You were not supposed to be vain.

Once your mother was satisfied with the look of the braided crown of your hair, she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, meeting you gaze in the mirror.

“We are imperfect beings,” she recited. You joined your voice with hers for the second part, “And thus we make ourselves imperfect in Her eyes.”

She smiled softly, squeezing your arms lightly. “Good girl. I’m proud of you. I know you will do wonderfully today.” You tried to return her smile. “Now. Get dressed. I laid your clothes out on the bed.”

She turned to leave you, pausing in the doorway. “Remember what I said, child. No tears today. Do you understand?”

You nodded quickly. Obediently.

She seemed pleased as she left the room.

You changed quickly, wondering if she had been able to tell that you’d spent the whole night before crying. You hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.

The stool squeaked as you sat back down, not sure what to do with yourself while you waited. You met your own eyes in the mirror once more, this time immediately averting your gaze. You felt sick. And close to tears. And so very scared.

On the other side of the door, you could hear Yara and her mom greeting your mother. The eight-year-old asked if she could come inside to see you. After just a moment of hesitation, your mother allowed it, and you could hear the slight creak of the door as she came in.

Yara said your name quietly, standing just inside the door. You turned to look at her. She smiled, happy to see you, just as always.

“Happy birthday!” she whispered excitedly, closing the distance between you and wrapping her arms around you tightly. You squeezed her back, holding her close for longer than usual. Yara, never one to be the first to break a hug, lingered for as long as you wanted her there.

You were neighbors, and your mothers had grown up together and had always been close. And although Yara was four years younger than you, the two of you were close too. She and five-year-old baby L were your siblings, as far as you were concerned.

Yara was mature for her age, even more so than most of your other friends. You knew you could trust her, so with her you were honest.

“I’m really scared,” you said quietly into her hair, still not releasing her from the embrace.

“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing you even tighter. “You’re the bravest person ever though. I know you can do this.”

You finally let go, retreating back to your stool, but Yara stayed close by, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly with one hand.

“She will be with you through this, and for all the days of your life,” she said, earnest. “Our pain is Her pain, and Her pain is ours.”

You couldn’t help but make a mental note of the fact that the Prophet actually did not receive the same scars as all of her followers, so perhaps this one specific pain is one that was not, in fact, shared between to two of you.

But Yara’s comment was made with a level of sincerity that you couldn’t help but admire—and borderline envied—so you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Her presence was always a comfort, so you allowed yourself to relish in it for a quiet minute before your mother reentered the room.

“It’s time to leave,” she said simply. Firmly.

Behind her, just outside the door, you could see Yara’s mom standing there, holding a quiet but curious little L’s hand. They would all be walking over with you to witness the ceremony.

You forced yourself to stand, brushed your hands down your thighs as if to clear some nonexistent dust and smooth the phantom wrinkles. For a moment, you considered taking one last look in the mirror, but ultimately deciding against it. It would feel strange to do so, now that everyone was watching you and waiting.

For the briefest moment, you thought about making a run for it. Stealing a boat or even attempting to make the swim to the mainland. You could survive on your own, or maybe even join the Wolves. You weren’t scarred yet. You could lie about where you came from, and they would probably take you in…

The hiss of your name from your mother’s mouth ripped you back into reality, along with a gentle nudge from Yara.

You took a deep breath and started walking.

Once the home of the Prophet herself, Sanctuary was one of your people’s primary places of worship, second only to Martyr’s Gate on the mainland. (You had never seen it – You’d never left the island – so Sanctuary was where you most often prayed.)

Scarring ceremonies were held there, always on a child’s twelfth birthday.

You had witnessed many friends receive their scars. It was customary to attend the ceremonies of those close to you. Family, friends.

The process was always the same.

Elder Constance would lead all those gathered in a prayer, holding the ceremonial blade. You would recite a version of the Prophet’s Prayer. The blade would be blessed. Then Elder Duncan would make the incisions before welcoming you as an official member, a child of the Prophet.

It never took very long. Everyone had work to get back to, tasks to fulfill.

You would soon come to find that your ceremony would not be like any of those others.

The first indication of this was the sheer number of people who were gathered at Sanctuary. You had never seen this many people gathered in one place at one time, many of the faces you did not recognize.

As you approached the dais, the crowd silently parted for you, all eyes examining you carefully as if looking for something unseen. You couldn’t begin guess what it was.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to cry. To hold your mother’s hand. You wanted to not be here at all. Ever. For this to be a horrible nightmare.

Why were there so many people here?

Your eyes met Elder Constance’s. She was stiff and serious, as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes that you were not accustomed to seeing. A quick glance at Elder Duncan revealed a similar expression on his face.

The other five Elders also stood on the stage. Another thing that was unusual for a simple scarring ceremony.

Had you done something wrong? Were you in trouble?

You looked ahead, and your legs continued to carry you forward, despite your internal protestations.

When your feet were nearly touching the first step up, you stopped. And although your mind went blank, your body remembered what to do.

You bowed your head to each of the Elders, silently waiting to be greeted and invited onto the dais.

“Welcome, child, on this most joyous day!” Elder Constance’s voice boomed, carrying enough for everyone gathered to hear. “Come. Join us.”

You fought the urge to turn around and find your mother. You wanted to look at her face, to see if she knew what was happening.

But you knew that any moves you made in this moment other than exactly what was expected of you would be seen as hesitation, and therefore disgraceful. And you didn’t want your mother to be angry.

So you did as Elder Constance said, and you climbed the steps.

Your vision blurred. You tried to focus on your breathing.

“Two years ago, the ignoble Wolves took our beloved Prophet from us,” she began once you were standing center-stage. The reaction from the audience was instantaneous, full of outrage and despair. Elder Constance allowed this to continue for several moments before holding up her hand; and the noise stopped just a quickly as it began.

“But She is not dead! For the Prophet’s spirit cannot be killed by the evils of mankind.” The crowd hung on her every word as she continued, “She lives in all of us. In our actions and in our virtues. In Her teachings.”

“Here before you are all of your Elders, appointed to this honorable position by our Prophet, most wonderful and wise. She speaks to us, and it is our duty—our privilege—to share her words with you.”

“But today, She does not have words for us.” Elder Constance paused, the audience hushed, waiting for the reveal. “It is Her heavenly desire to give us a new source of hope. An advocate. A champion… A new Prophet.”

Elder Constance’s hands landed on your shoulders.

“Today, She has chosen Her successor.”

The crowd erupted in celebration.

You went completely numb and tuned them all out.

The Elders continued to speak, and the people continued to celebrate. All the while, your mind was reeling and your face was blank.

A new Prophet?

There can’t be a new Prophet.

What does that even mean?

There have never been any prophets except for THE Prophet.

And if there does need to be a new Prophet, why would it be you?

Why you?

It can’t be you.

If any of your questions were answered, you didn’t hear it above the ringing in your head.

Your attention was drawn to the blade that was now in Elder Constance’s hands, and you forced yourself to again begin to listen.

“…The Neo-Prophet will take on her full responsibilities when the time is right. But until then…” She continued on with familiar words, ones used in a typical scarring ceremony to bless the blade before it was used.

The knife was then passed down the line of Elders, each of them lifting it above their head and reciting the same words.

Your legs suddenly felt very weak.

Elder Duncan blessed the blade last and stepped forward, positioning himself just a couple feet away from you. You turned to him just as you knew you were supposed to.

This was the part in the ceremony when you would usually say a version of The Prophet’s Prayer. You weren’t sure if you were still meant to do that, given the circumstances, but you were operating solely on instincts now, so you began, “The world is not in balance, but I will do my part to right it.”

You weren’t speaking nearly as loud as the Elders had. You hoped you were loud enough. You hoped you were doing it right.

The pleased look on Elder Duncan’s face indicated that you had done well, but before you could go on with the next line, all of the Elders continued the prayer together:

“You will lead us through the storm May the current be calm May You guide us home.”

Their words had been slightly altered from the classic prayer, different than you would’ve said it if you had been given the chance. The strangest part was that they were speaking to you.

Almost like they were praying to you…

Elder Duncan took another step forward, gripping the knife.

You expected him to use his other hand to lift your face, to hold it at the best angle for the scarring. You’d seen him do the same to others many times before.

This was the part that you knew was coming. You had been at least attempting to prepare for it. You could handle it.

But you were thrown off once again when instead, he took your right wrist in his free hand and gently pressed your fingers down, making you form a fist. He then lifted your hand until it was by your ear, knuckles facing inward, arm bent at the elbow. His own hand gripped your elbow, holding your arm in place.

You were frozen, with no choice but to watch as the knife met the outside of your forearm and sank in. A slow, straight line was carved from the top of your wrist all the way to your elbow.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t cry. You did as you were told.

You wanted to go home.

“We are imperfect beings. And thus, we make ourselves imperfect in Your eyes.” Elder Duncan said, meeting your gaze. “It is for this reason that we proudly wear our scars on our faces.”

When his work was done, he released your right elbow and moved on to the left, lifting that arm into the same position. “But the Prophet, in Her kindness, bears the weight of our imperfections, carrying all of us in her arms. This is why You will wear your scars here.”

“Remember that You are part of us, but set apart.” The blade pierced the skin of your left forearm, and a twin incision was formed. “We look to You, Prophet. May She guide you. May She protect you.” With that, he took a step back, lowering the knife.

You slowly lowered your arms to your sides and turned back to face the enraptured crowd.

Finally, you found your mother among them.

And she was crying.

“My friends,” Elder Constance declared, gesticulating dramatically, “Your Prophet!”

The cheers were deafening.

As you scanned the masses, you felt the blood ooze down your arms and curl around your fingers, pooling on the ground by your feet.

You found Yara, who was somehow clapping and cheering more enthusiastically than anyone else. And then you saw L, held up on their mother’s hip, face concerned, eyes wide and wary.

At least someone was as skeptical as you were.

You wondered if you would get to go home now.

But Elder Constance placed her hands on your shoulders again, this time turning you and leading you in the opposite direction, into the Prophet’s grand house. Into Sanctuary.

There, servants’ gentle hands carefully cleaned your stinging wounds, took down and brushed out your hair, and helped you change into a new white dress.

You would never live in your mother’s house again.

And it would be eight years before anyone addressed you by your name.

#the wolf and the prophet #my writing #abby anderson #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby tlou #tlou2 #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson fic

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petit-etoile · 6 months

Note

🪡how about a cute fic where astarion fixes up one of Tavs shirts and they realise they like each other or something heheee

here is my hand that will not harm you

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 1,110 content warnings: none other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, developing relationship, love confessions, getting together, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia be added to the taglist here

summary: Astarion repairs your clothes, and you can no longer keep a secret.

There is something Astarion is not telling you. You can tell in the way he slouches in his chair, his hands busy with the work he took upon himself, that there is something troubling him. Learning what Cazador’s scarring says has put a damper on his mood and everyone else’s, and now you’re all caught between procrastination and pushing on to the Moonrise Towers.

The Orthon fight took a lot out of you. Your armor took quite the beating, and afterwards with the rats… You’re glad to be staying at the Last Light Inn for one more evening. Everyone is resting before the fight tomorrow, and you’re relieved. You get one more night to sleep in a bed. The darkness of the Shadow-Curse is beginning to lift thanks to Halsin and Thaniel, and the shine of Dame Aylin’s excellence has caused Isobel to bask for hours on the balcony in self-imposed giddy isolation. It’s almost normal given the circumstances.

‘What do you think Gale is going to make for supper?’ you ask absentmindedly, turning the page of your raunchy smut novel.

Astarion hums in contemplation. You rest the novel you borrowed from him on your stomach and peer over at him. He insisted you take the bed after you arrived, and now he sits next to you biting his lip and cursing as he fusses over your chainmail. It’s quaint.

‘Hopefully just wine,’ he says with a snort. ‘We’ll need all the liquid bravery we can get.’

‘Do vampires get drunk?’

‘Certainly,’ he says. ‘A willing body drinks the wine, a willing vampire drinks the blood, and then they’re both willingly shit-faced.’

The thought of Astarion stumbling around drunk off your blood makes you laugh. It almost reminds you of how silly he was after devouring a bear, and you quietly begin manifesting that Astarion is right and Gale honors the tradition. You cozy down into the sheets and pat the book over your stomach as it growls.

‘Oh, fuck it!’ Astarion snaps suddenly.

He doesn’t fling your armor down as much as he seems determined to strangle it to death. There’s thread tangled around his fingers and his feet, and he’s pushing the needle back in his mouth as he fusses with a strap. He growls like an angry kitten and rubs at his brow in frustration.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask nervously.

‘What’s wrong?’ he echoes, annoyed. ‘What’s wrong is that your armor is shit! To send you out there wearing it is basically wishing death upon you. It’s absurd how long you’ve worn this thing.’

You frown. It’s not exactly your favorite chest piece you’ve ever had, but you’ve worn it since the Underdark and haven’t found a suitable replacement. Then again, you hadn’t really asked Dammon when you arrived… You didn’t want to bother him as he was working on Karlach’s heart, and there was so much to do…

‘You can’t — You can’t go out there and fight everyone’s battles in armor held together by twigs and prayers,’ Astarion sniffs delicately. ‘I can repair it sparingly, of course, but… I wouldn’t feel good about it. It isn’t safe enough.’

‘What would you have me wear, then?’ you ask. ‘Perhaps there’s some additional armor somewhere in storage.’

‘This leather belt here is salvageable,’ he explains, showing you the damage from too many spells. ‘The chain mail will hold another fight, but…’

Something possesses you. You lean in, too close to his face, and watch as he runs his fingers over torn edges. He cares. About you. It takes you by surprise even though it shouldn’t. But Astarion doesn’t fuss this way over his own armor, just yours.

You look over his handiwork. You’ve seen it before in his clothes, his favorite sleep shirt, some of his socks, his gloves. He even repaired Karlach’s armor when she first joined. His hands are lithe and strong, and he works without too much thought like it’s second nature for him. Something about it is so bone-crushingly domestic that you can’t help but want to touch his hand. You cling to your book instead.

‘You’re good at this,’ you say.

‘Well, I’ve had quite a bit of experience,’ Astarion confesses. He smiles faintly at your praise. ‘Back at Cazador’s, I … I had a family I took care of. Sometimes they’d fight one another, and I’d fix little rips and tears. Learning to fix armor is a bit new, but none too difficult.’

‘Did you have many siblings?’

‘I had plenty,’ Astarion says. ‘I didn’t like them all. But I like you, so bring me all your clothes and I’ll fix them right up. I won’t even make you ask.’

You give in. You reach a single, curious finger towards his hand and slide it across the back of his knuckles. You take in the rise and fall of his hand, the smoothness of his skin, and the veins. He flexes his fingers beneath your hand and then, without saying a word, he turns his hand over so that he can hold yours. He muses over the connection and presses his fingertips to your pulse.

Gandrel, The Orthon, Raphael’s Deal. It goes without saying there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him. You want to tell him, but the thought of saying it made you nervous. You hold your tongue. But if there was to be a fight at the Moonrise Towers, you wanted him to know. It plagues you too much that you start to stretch, so much so that you’re afraid to speak lest you start rambling on and on about how beautiful his eyes are and how you can’t stop looking at him and how he takes your breath away.

There’s no one else you want to have to fight by your side, but it isn’t just that. There’s no one else you want.

Carefully, as though you are more fragile than you truly are, Astarion removes your hand from his to continue fussing over your armor. The feeling of his hand still lingers on your skin, and it makes your stomach ache.

‘I had better go looking, then,’ you say thickly, ‘for another chest piece to wear. ‘

‘No, don’t go yet,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I — There’s something I want to talk about with you.’

He doesn’t say anything else. You stare at one another, the armor forgotten between you, and like magic from the Weave, everything changes. When you lean forward, Astarion meets you halfway with the shyest kiss he has ever given you and the most honest eyes he’s ever allowed you to look upon. After tonight, nothing will be the same and you think you’re fine with that.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x oc #from ，carcosa .#my fic #anonymous #* a thousand lives，and one

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azulas-lightning-bolt · 2 months

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sooo I’m insane about mako right. well. well ho hum well do you remember the other ball of repressed rage firebending member of team avatar.

yeah so imagine the timeline gets switched up a bit. aang (sorry aang ily but it’s for the plot) dies a lot earlier so the gaang is all in their early thirties late twenties when the krew start to be born. none of the major plot events are going to really change (gaang will be atla white lotus age by canon, almost 60s) and rc has for the most part been established.

boom around ten-fifteen years later they’re all around fourties. the krew is in the ten-fifteen y/o age range—korra’s training in the compound, asami is being groomed into a businessgirl, but yk what that means for my favorite bending brothers? the streets.

the gaang minus aang are still active and about (sokka is alive Because) so it’s zuko’s turn to help toph run the underbelly of rc. she always gripes that she’s doing fine in her old age (she’s like,, 38) and they can just leave her alone with the damned city to rot (she mostly hates her job. only reason she sticks with it is because it’s a sort of backwards way to take care of su and lin*. if the city streets are safe, there’s no reason not to let them off free) but of course the gaang has a rotation anyway. they try to stay sort of in contact after ending a hundred year war together because that’s kind of big.

*by the way sokka is not their dad. they were made in a terrarium because toph Built kids out of boredom and aang gave them bending as a joke and they just. grew. became alive. idk it seems more in character than toph having kids the normal way.

so anyway zuko is out patrolling. he’s on gang-spotting duty, so basically toph has the aging fire lord running around after guys who graffiti gang signs on walls and Politely Asking where their hideout is. today he happens to stumble upon an inter-gang scuffle. it’s pretty typical, and he’s moving to stop it when—boom, lightning and screaming. now, it was mostly thanks to his (and a reformed azula, because she will be getting in here somehow) efforts that lightningbending masters took hold and spread the subbending more commonly, but it’s still not typical to see it in poorer areas. yet there’s one person with a gang rumored to have it—you guessed it, zolt!

so zuko goes chasing after the source of the lightning, thinking toph is gonna be so happy she won’t punch him for a week and keep her griping to a minimum once he brings in one of the biggest thorns on her side.

but it’s not zolt he’s chasing. it’s twelve year old mako, scared shitless that the firelord is chasing him down and nowhere near fast enough to outrun him or hide. none of zolt’s cronies are dumb enough to try and bail him, he knows, but he also doesn’t want to leave bolin waiting on a dead brother.

zuko catches him, baffled that ‘zolt’ is so small. mako says nasty shit (because in best impression of 12 y/o mako voice : royalty. You are the 1% that makes Us like this) trying to wriggle free, revealing himself as definitely not zolt.

Zuko stares at this grimy, angry little twelve year old with old, peeling burn scars (I’ll make a post soon about the scars he definitely has from like,, everything) and fresher lightning scars and is like,, hmm. tiny angry firebending child with scars and likely insurmountable levels of trauma=me as a child who just needed some guidance and turned out fine (not really but it’s the thought that counts)

and then he uses his brain really hard and decides he will give tiny angry firebending child with scars and likely insurmountable levels of trauma guidance. so mako gets picked up by the scruff and is dragged, kicking and screaming, by the firelord to the police station.

toph hears a child shrieking and is immediately like no. get it away. out of my police station NOW. and mako is like YES get me out of her police station NOW. and they have a moment of commiserating mako’s presence in the police station together.

but then zuko is like what if we gave him Guidance. toph says bring that bullshit to katara and gtfo. cue lin and su, annoyed teenagers/young adults around canon krew’s ages for highest potential siblingism. btw the beifong relationships are much better in this. su is immediately like. can we keep him mom please. lin agrees with toph and wants it OUT she just started working here and tenzin’s yapping about kids does not need to follow her to the bullpen.

mako is put into police custody (su drags him around with her and watches him overnight). he wheedles her into finding bolin and becomes much more agreeable when he has his brother to hold in a death grip. when asked to separate, he threatens multiple creative methods of murder.

this got really out of hand but the idea is that katara and sokka side with zuko and they all gang up on toph, who somehow caves and agrees to let zuko give Guidance to tiny angry firebending child with scars and likely insurmountable levels of trauma. she forces bolin on suyin but she doesn’t mind too much, shoving metalbending down his throat.

korra meets them earlier on, finally having some friends her age! they’re all really really weird though so none of them are well adjusted when korra finally runs away to rc (they follow her everywhere). how terrible. but mako and bolin are like 5000x stronger without even trying and they also have money.

all three teenage freaks meet asami (who is immediately endeared by their weird asses), shit goes down, but this time featuring nebulously-father zuko, favorite person-without-title-but-probably-scary-aunt azula definitely mom-adjacent katara, weirduncle sokka, toph who goes to the swamp whenever she wants because lin is basically chief of police already and big sisters lin, su, kya and izumi. also featuring cousin-ish iroh II and long distance/reluctant (respectively) older brothers bumi and tenzin.

I believe both mako and bolin, if possible, would be considerably more batshit insane considering who they were raised by, but also more calculated on mako’s part because azula absolutely got her time in with him. I think katara would’ve taught them, for an absolute worst case scenario, how to handle bloodbending, so they would’ve wiped amon. I think mako, considering azula, definitely wanted the kill with that lightning on amon but, considering azula, knew it would only turn him into a martyr for the equalists to rally behind without exposing him first.

also puppy love makorra in the compound. then korrasami in rc because pretty girl with a bike but then ‘sorry I kind of have a crush on your childhood best friend korra but I’m still in love with you’ ‘WOAH sick really? same lol.’ ‘we should all kiss.’ then makorrasami!!!!

so yeah I totally lost my train of thought but that’s like. generally it(?)

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that-one-creepy-hoe · 10 months

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do you have like general or relationship head canons for ej? :)

I love talking about one of my 348 husbands!1!1

Eyeless Jack General + Relationship Hcs

Warnings:Basically fluff, EJ just being autistic, I think I used no pronouns I think Pairings: EyelessJack x GN!Reader

General HeadCannons

He is a very big quiet man

To me, he’s probably 6’’9 at his full height

But he does hunch over a lot because he is aware of how much his height makes some people scared of him

While he typically doesn’t care about if regular people, or if the proxies are scared of him, he does do it mostly so the more timid people don’t get frightened

He’s basically a mute until he absolutely has to speak

His voice is very rough and deep from years of not being used much

I headcanon him to be autistic with slight OCD issues

Because of this, he sticks to his routine and wears lots of baggy clothes because he cannot stand most skin-to-skin contact

Actively recoils when people are too close or touch him

Tends to obsessively reorganize his things constantly

While he may seem shy he is not a pushover of any kind

He only knows how to be a weird kind of nice that most people don’t take as nice/ Really cold and distant

He’s kind of like a cat where he just watches people he likes without care

He has lots of scars on his jaw and the corners of his mouth from his teeth(I hc that he clawed through his cheeks when he first turned bc he couldn’t handle the way his teeth felt in his mouth)

He’s always unusually hot or ice cold and really can’t tell too well

If you want to ever get close to him you would most likely need to be close to Hoodie, or Sally

He’s a nice guy just very out of touch with the world around him

Romantic HeadCannons

If you somehow romanced this man I applaud you because he absolutely hates being around people unless he thinks they’re cute (in a small kid/ pet kind of way) or if they can have an actual intelligent conversation with him(AKA hoodie)

But somehow you have wormed your way into his dead heart and at first he will most definitely hate you for it

He doesn’t like the feeling of being attached at first (Since he’s far too used to people betraying him) but soon he craves for you

Expect him to attempt to have charisma (he has none)

Think crow that gives its favorite human weird gifts

If you try talking to him that might help just try not to be too loud

Be ready to do enough talking for the both of you

Once he warms up he will speak some here and there

He’ll give you things he thinks you might like such as; books, clothes, trinkets

If you give him things he will absolutely adore you and never get rid of it

You will most definitely have to be the one to initiate a relationship even then he may think your joking

If you reassure him then he’ll get soft for you and let you do things that he would normally hate (EX: touching him, being louder, borrowing his things)

He’s really insecure about himself so be ready to reassure him a bunch

Total romantic lover, poetry, letters, candle-lit dinners, all of it

#creepypasta #eyeless jack #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta x reader #crp #ej x reader #eyeless jack x reader #ej creepypasta

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laurancezvahlslefteyebrow · 5 months

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well hello there

here is aphmau in my au/rewrite

i tried to draw her in as many of her iconic outfits as possible but good irene she has a lot [click for better quality]

so here are some changes and headcanons i have for aph in my au:

•she’s neurodivergent. not entirely sure what specifically, probably adhd. for sure dyslexic.

•she has sensory issues, which is why she’s usually in shorts. she feels like she can’t move properly in a dress for pants.

•so in my au she is irene just like regular canon. i gave her her markings but you might notice they’re different; here’s why: so in my au, scars and tattoos can both be used as runes to conduct magicks. scar runes amplify one’s existing magicks while tattoo runes bestow a certain magicks ability to a person (even if they already have one to begin with). though this practice is outdated and illegal in most parts of the world. because irene’s abilities existed prior to her become a divine warrior, she scarred herself to not only enhance said abilities but to also show her true dedication. nowadays no one, except maybe zoey, actually knows what they are or what they’re for exactly.

sorry that was a lot… ANYWAY

•when irene locked herself away, she tried to dress in a way she thought might help her blend in in whatever time she popped back out.

•she was wrong.

•phoenix drop gets really hot, especially in the summer, and it doesn’t snow there. aphmau uses it as an excuse to wear shorts all the time.

•when she first showed up she wasn’t as clueless as they made her seem in rebirth. she was just as aware as she was in the og beginning (except no she didn’t think she was playing minecraft) her reason for helping out the village was basically this: “oh look a village, cool i needed a place to stay. oh man these guys are in rough shape, they don’t have a lord?!? ah geez no one’s helping them, guess i gotta help them. oh shit they made me lord!” ok maybe not EXACTLY like that but yk

•she’s not a pick me in this universe :) and she doesn’t lead people on.

•when garroth first noticed how hard she was working on the village without even being asked, he bought her some gloves so she’d stop tearing up her hands. he bought some basic fingerless leather gloves but payed extra to have them dyed black and embroidered with lil purpley pink flowers. he hopes she’d like them and that his gesture wouldn’t come off as clunky or weird. she loved them and keeps them with her even when they’ve gotten too worn to wear.

•laurmau is endgame. aph and aaron never have any kind of romantic relationship. he’s more of a mentor to her. (i’m sorry garmau lovers i love y’all but laurance is my guy)

so that’s all folks, i’m sure i have more headcanons and changes for aphmau but none come to mind right now. feel free to leave suggestions tho :)

garroth is next >:)

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 4 months

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I see you very much as an expert on all things Rohirrim, so I bring to you this question, hoping I can pick your brain for info to use in my own fics (full disclosure). 😅

It seems to be a popular fanon that the Rohirrim/Riders of Rohan have tattoos, and that body art is a part of their culture. Do you have any thoughts or personal HCs about this that you're willing to share?

Thank you in advance! I appreciate you and your blog so much (if you didn't already know that).

Oh my goodness!!! I am so very honored to be thought of as a person who is knowledgeable about my beloved Rohirrim, and I hope very much that I can live up to that reputation. Thank you!!!

I’m not aware of any real textual evidence for body art among the Rohirrim, and the historical record in the medieval Anglo Saxon and Norse societies that Tolkien used as a reference for them seems to be disputed. But I absolutely understand and agree with the conventional wisdom that tattoos are a thing in Rohan. It just fits well with a warrior culture that has a wilder, dare-I-say more pagan aesthetic as compared to the smooth solemnity of Gondor or the formal elegance of the elves. And since they’re a culture that doesn’t document things in written words, pictorial representations such as tattoos and body art would be one way to fill that gap (along with their songs and oral traditions).

In my mind, tattoos in Rohan are common but basic—they’ve really only got the technology for the “stick and poke” method so the designs are kept simple because anything too elaborate is difficult to pull off well. They’re mostly in black line (using soot) but some have color using powder made from grinding up certain dried roots and plants.

Each village/community has its own distinctive tattoo motif that is worn by all of that community’s members. So you can tell just by looking at someone whether they’re from Upbourn (a fish because it’s a river town) or Dunharrow (mountain peaks since they’re in the White Mountains) or Everholt (a boar in honor of the wild boar that live in this part of the Firien Wood), etc. And soldiers also tend to share tattoo designs specific to their éored—getting your éored’s mark is a formal rite of passage for the younger members when they first get assigned to their company. These shared tattoo designs are important both for group cohesion and as a means of identifying fallen Rohirrim even if the deceased isn’t known to whoever finds the body.

Beyond these ritualized and practical functions, I do also like to think that there are some purely decorative tattoos among them as a means of personal expression and/or to help cover small scars that so many Rohirrim have from battle, riding accidents or other mishaps. Obviously horse-based designs would be very popular, as well as other flora and fauna of Rohan. But they’re a very sentimental people and so I think little emotional signifiers would also be very common (again, especially because they generally don’t have a means to pay tribute to beloved people/things in written form, this sort of symbol would serve the purpose of making some kind of record of those tributes).

In terms of specific people in my head canon: Éomer has a little simbelmynë blossom for each of the major figures in his life that he’s lost (forearm). Háma had a sun to remind him of his wife, who brought warmth and light to his life (shoulder). Théodred had stars in the shape of a particular constellation that is visible every year on his mother’s birthday (chest). Éowyn has a representation of her father’s sword (left wrist) and gets a quill (right wrist) to represent Faramir after they get married. (Faramir got a little running horse in her honor on his first trip to Rohan. He was glad he did it, but he never wants to sit through that again.)

Merry brought tattooing back to the Shire when he showed up with a tobacco pipe on his bicep (both for its association with Buckland and in tribute to Théoden, whose last words to Merry were about smoking together someday when peace was restored). Unsurprisingly, tattoos did not catch on with the other hobbits, but Merry remains very proud of it.

Anywayyyy…I hope that was in any way helpful! Thanks so much for asking!! I remain a huge fan and am so grateful to you for helping convince me to put some of my thoughts and stories out there vs keeping them all in the confines of my own Google drive!

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #asks #answered asks #rohan #rohirrim #éomer #éowyn #háma #théodred #merry #faramir #lotr headcanon #tattoos

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corvidcentral · 6 months

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Erm, Lich Scarab AU upon ye

Basically, the Lich possesses Scarab and uses Scarab’s powers and status to try and kill everything in every universe, and the entirety of F&C is the Lich steadily becoming more unstable and using the guise of gathering evidence against Prismo to try and complete his eradication goal :3

More art, some beta designs, and a complete au dump under cut!!

This is all copied from my rant in a discord server 😭

So, from what I’ve seen, it’s like the Lich can possess/manipulate people with unstable emotions or who are disillusioned with the world around them. Scarab, being a god auditor, often has to travel to different dimensions to track down wayward cosmic entities, and it’s canon (? The wiki said so) that the Lich can share memories between different dimensional variants of himself.

So basically, in some universes, Snail Lich sees this cosmic entity that’s just furious at everything and starts scheming. Basically, it starts stalking him the moment it senses he arrives in a dimension, and feeds off the negative energy. He then uses this energy to become more powerful, and eventually, in one universe the Lich breaks free and just beelines it towards Scarab

Don’t get me wrong, Scarab is a brutally efficient god auditor but he also does have a bit of a superiority complex and easily dismisses the threat that the Lich poses. He just goes about his job, disguised, until a Lich possessed old man asks disguised Scarab for some help with a chore

Scarab, wanting to keep his cover, reluctantly agrees, and then is ambushed by the old man turned Lich, who possess him in turn (and it’s canon that the Lich can, on some level, possess cosmic entities, as seen w/ New Death)

Course, because Scarab is a cosmic entity, he doesn’t die when he gets possessed, he just gets shoved into a dark corner of his mind and body. He’s like, freaking out, trying to rationalize to himself on how he was tricked so easily, and the Lich is like having a blast with a high ranked cosmic entity as a puppet/vessel

He also uses Scarab’s shapeshifter abilities to his complete advantage, and just parades around as Scarab. And, well, if other gods notice Scarab acting a bit more erratically, and if his eyes glow more green than red, and he’s quieter and more calculated, it’s just Scarab doing his job, right? Nobody really likes Scarab, anyway, so why do they care?

The only one who really notices that Scarab is Not Actually Scarab is Prismo, bcuz he got killed by the Lich before, and he can recognize that energy even if the Lich is putting on a perfect performance of a god auditor, inspecting him for some faulty readings (that being Fionna, Cake, and Simon)

Basically, the reason why Scarab was so fucking bonkers during the entire Fionna and Cake series was cuz of the Lich bending his body to the absolute limit trying to figure out how to properly take over the Time Room and eradicate every single living thing in all universes.

And during the Golbetty scene, Lich Scarab watches himself get cubized by Golb, does the whole attacking Simon before crawling into his head, and then just loses his mind in Fionna’s world

His drops the Scarab disguise and reveals the Lich face, along with his patchwork of other disguises and bones and stuff, and just goes ham on killing Fionna’s world

It’s not until another cosmic entity shows up and forcibly removes the Lich from Scarab that he gets complete control of his mind and body back, and while he’s back to “normal” he’s scarred pretty badly and has to step down as god auditor.

Prismo kinda takes pity on him and asks Orbo if Scarab can become a Wishmaster and Orbo is like “yea sure mate” and it actually really helps Scarab bcuz being out of his pain ridden body and being simplified does wonder to the mental health ya know

Not exactly Prohibitedwish but also they’re a lot more friendly with each other than in canon cuz Scarab owes Prismo for saving him from terrible pain

Scarab’s body does eventually get healed over the course of a few hundred years so by the time it’s like, mostly okay, Scarab wouldn’t be in pain for every time he moved. His body is still scarred badly, and his disguises share those scars, but yea!!

Also special shout out to Lily cuz she gave me Ideas >:3

It’s great :3

Pencil art/beta designs:

Bonus dumbass pic:

#my art #Lich Scarab AU #the lich #the lich adventure time #scarab the god auditor #scarab adventure time #scarab fionna and cake #adventure time au #au #adventure time #Fionna and cake

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eclipsedrawsthings · 7 months

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Lesser-Known BNHA Character Details

A list of things from the light novels, spin-offs, and such that I think more people should know about because they’re fun •w•

For reference on my personal canon hierarchy, with the exception of spoofs (SMASH, I’m looking at you) I consider the main manga and anime the top, and accept everything else that doesn’t contradict the information provided there—for example, I’ll accept Tsuyu’s ghost encounter as canon, but I personally believe she was with a cousin at the time since we know she doesn’t have an older sister.

Yaomomo’s mother is a very sweet person who goes out of her way to make her daughter’s friends feel welcome, adores Jirou, and has been nicknamed Yaomama. She is also a terrible cook and has the critical thinking skills of a sea cucumber (source: light novels, specifically volumes 2 and 3)

There is a pro hero named Odd-Eye who basically embodies Middle Schooler Syndrome. His Quirk is forcing people to reveal their embarrassing secrets (source: Team Up Missions volume 2)

Izuku likes zombie movies, or at the very least has seen enough of them to know their common tropes (source: Training of the Dead OVA)

Aizawa became a teacher out of peer pressure, mostly from Midnight (source: Vigilantes)

Izuku becomes a “bloodthirsty quiz demon” during trivia games. Most people are terrified by this, but Eri thinks it’s cool (source: light novels volume 4)

The large scar on Izuku’s right arm is from Dabi, not Muscular. When the boys land in the clearing, Dabi’s fire is seen brushing his arm exactly where he later has the scar (source: main story, training camp arc)

Kendo doesn’t feel fully comfortable being called a woman, noting that the word feels like “a burden” and she prefers to be defined on her own terms (source: light novels volume 4)

Rody’s younger siblings are baby weebs (source: Team Up Missions volume 3)

After the events of Two Heroes, the Shields are no longer living on I-Island, which is likely why Melissa is able to travel freely (source: Team Up Missions volume 1)

Shouto’s listed blood type of O is impossible, as Endeavor’s blood type is listed as AB. My best explanation for this is that Shouto has a mutation that results in his blood genotype being A and phenotype being O, meaning his actual blood type is A (source: Ultra Analysis and my 10th-grade biology class)

Hagakure knows how to make booby traps, and likely does so regularly (source: Team Up Missions volume 2)

Shinsou can read lips (source: Team Up Missions volume 3)

Kouda can’t actually understand animals, only control them (source: light novels volume 3)

Shouto spent a good part of move-in day running around campus helping Hatsume. Recovery Girl gave him the tatami mats, which he specifically wanted because he didn’t like how the floor felt on his feet (source: light novels volume 3)

Hagakure and Tsunotori liked the same anime as kids (source: light novels volume 3)

If Ochako could have any of the boys’ Quirks, she would want Bakugo’s, specifically so she could go wild in a fight (source: light novels volume 2)

Bakugo has never gotten Valentine’s chocolate (source: light novels volume 6)

Shouto has stated he’s “not looking for that kind of action” while in conversation with the grape, which to me implies that he’s not interested in girls (source: light novels volume 6)

Aizawa is supposed to tell Mic if he’s going drinking (source: light novels volume 3)

There’s plenty more of these, but I’m out of time for now! Let me know if you want a part 2 •w•

#bnha #BNHA trivia #bnha light novel #bnha team up missions #BNHA fanfic resource #I might do a specific list for Tddk or mmjr moments

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castieltrash1 · 1 year

Text

summary → patience is a virtue and you show bucky barnes he’s worth waiting for

word count → 17k

warnings → angst/comfort, pining, insecurity/jealousy, partial soldat!bucky, mentions of violence, ptsd/nightmare references, ambigious pre-wakanda timeline, alcohol, wanda/vision mentions, reader is non-gendered but gets called “sweetheart” “doll” “darling” and “kid,” bucky is scared of thunderstorms, physical scars and canon-level violence, basically just a big ball of emotion with a happy ending

a/n → yes guys it is, in fact, finished. i’d like to thank the academy aka my bucky anon and @f1nalboys bc without them this fic would’ve never seen the light of day </3 this one is for yall MWAH !!

+ each section of the fic is kind of based on a different song so u can listen to those [here] hehe :3 but the whole fic is based on the song outer space/carry on by 5sos (the title is from lyrics hehe)

---

I. The Archer; “And I don't see an end to this, so I'll enjoy the fire.”

Bucky enters the kitchen almost silently, the slosh and drip of his drenched clothes giving away his sudden presence.

You turn your head just in time to watch a few drops hit the floor, water collecting into a murky puddle of shadow on the tile around his clunky boots. It takes an eternity of a stretched second for you to recognize him. Everyone had turned in for the night, supposedly. When your brain registers who’s standing in front of you, your eyes widen, heart skipping a beat. Even with everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve watched him do, it still doesn’t feel right to see him in this state.

He’s already stalking off with a rubbery squeak when you grab a spare dishtowel from the counter and rush over to him. For a moment you think he’ll ignore you, but then he stops in his tracks, albeit without sparing you a glance. He’s not all there -- stance stiff, eyes glazed in a way that disregards the usual sliver of warmth in his deep blue gaze. But he’s polite -- obedient -- regardless.

“Sorry,” you quickly apologize -- for not being fast enough, not noticing him; anything he might take offense to in this sensitive state. “I didn’t realize you were still out... I thought…” He doesn’t reply, but his jaw ticks as water trickles from his hair to his cheek. It lets you know he’s not completely numb. Not yet. You lift the towel, but he grabs it from you before you can get any closer.

He drags it across his eyes, forehead, nose, before shoving it back into your hands. When he slicks his hair away from his face, you take note of the blotchiness of his skin; concentrated around his nose and under his red-rimmed eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the veins are bright against his grey expression.

He offers you no more than a sniff as he brushes past, heading towards the bathroom.

When the door slams shut behind him, you break from your stupor and trace his wet footprints back to the puddle that’s begun to seep into the lines between the tile. You sacrifice the already dirtied towel to clean it. Bucky will feel bad for the mess eventually, even if he’s apathetic now. The searing hot shower will slowly bring him back, steam opening the guilt-filled pores that hide under his scarred skin. He’ll come out and scrub the grout until his hands bleed.

The water is still running when you reach the bathroom door to wipe up the last of the mess, just a heelprint of thinned mud.

As you retreat to your room, you text Steve. He’ll be the first one up, and the only one equipped to deal with the emotional hangover. He’ll be the only one who really cares.

You let him know that Bucky just got home, hoping he’ll note the late timestamp of your message. And you tell him Bucky seems tired. Tired. It does little to encompass everything -- all the exhaustion, fear, and confusion he’ll wake up with. But Steve will understand. He always does. And you do your best, even when there’s not a single recognizable part of Bucky left.

Steve catches you by the wrist in the lounge the following early afternoon, tugging you to the corner of the room. A soft smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the sweaty remains of his morning run; all warmth, skin glowing in a way that only happens after a good workout.

His eyes scan the rest of the room, a movement almost too fast to catch. He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh when he realizes you’re alone, and brings you to the nearest couch.

“I got your text,” he says lowly, hesitant to breach the topic in person. “I wanted to thank you.”

You see the nervousness in his gaze and scoot closer to pat his shoulder. “Of course. I know he can be… Unpredictable. You deserve a heads-up if you can get one.” Steve’s been caught off guard before; you all have. It’s easy to think Bucky is just being distant, just being him. And then he’s sleeping too late, saying too little. His dinner plate will stay untouched, but the kitchen will be ransacked at midnight once everyone’s gone. Steve can barely catch up, and you doubt Bucky can either.

Steve shifts, letting out a shaky breath. “I want to help him.”

“You do more than any of us,” you reassure, truthfully. “Bucky trusts you -- he loves you. I think your presence is all he needs most of the time.”

Everyone else has to put more effort into their support. Natasha peels back the scars of her past in hopes of sharing the pain. Bruce spends weekends hunched over his desk trying to make sleeping pills that Bucky’s metabolism won’t immediately digest; tired fingers shaking as he tries a new dose, a new capsule, a new something.

But Steve’s existence alone is more of a contribution than anything.

“He knows you help, too,” he finally says, staring in a way that makes you squirm. It’s the hardened soldier’s gaze that leaves no room for argument. Whatever he’s telling you is a belief buried deep in his soul, an unwavering promise.

It makes your chest clench. Steve confirming that Bucky pays you even an ounce of attention is enough to make your heart race. “I’m just trying to be a friend.” You stress the last word, hoping it’s not visible that you’re curled around the ledge of a maybe more.

“He’ll notice eventually,” he tries, but his determined gaze is gone, and he’s holding onto hope just as much as you are.

The surface of Bucky’s healing has barely been scratched. There’s an entire life for him to uncover, remember, forget, and relive. It’d be selfish to expect any more than that from him. You know that, Steve knows that. A part of you hopes Bucky does too -- that someday he’ll realize his existence isn’t at the expense of others, even if that expense is love.

Steve stands with curled lips and a gentle double-pat on your leg that’s too comforting for something you shouldn’t even be disappointed about. It makes you feel like you’re mourning, but maybe you are, and maybe he’s just the only one who realizes it.

II. Studio 6; “I reached out to wake you but I learned that he'd taken you back.”

Group dinners are impossible, but there’s always a good handful of you in the kitchen at one time.

Tony will sip something bubbly that’s worth a mortgage, while Bruce tosses a salad fit for two; perpetually charged with thinly veiled green anger. Clint will scarf down a slice of week-old pizza and Nat will scrunch her nose at the unpleasant sounds she can never seem to avoid when he’s within range.

And, if Steve’s around, so is Bucky. The latter has only made an exception for Sam if his prior friend is on a mission for too long that he can’t sustain a hunger strike.

No one questions it or why his presence is more likely to exist when the dining room is crowded. He seems more inclined to show up when he can sink out of a conversation without anyone noticing, without any eyes on him -- except yours. He always catches onto your staring quickly though, feeling the heavy and uncomfortable weight of your focus.

But tonight, his chair by the corner of the room is noticeably empty. No one dares to disturb it, even if the extra seat is needed. No one says anything either -- at least not too loudly, though you catch some distant mumblings between Sam and Tony. They’ve chosen to forget (or purposely ignore) the fact that Steve, who’s sitting beside them, has beyond-perfect hearing.

And he’s quick to hear the vibrating of his silenced phone, brows furrowed as he discards his fork to reach for the device. Normally, he’d scold you for ignoring table manners, but when he reads your hasty message, he understands.

“Have you seen him eat today?”

Steve gives you a tight-lipped frown and discreet shake of his head as a response.

You’re quick to stand from your chair with a sigh, the room quieting as everyone’s eyes focus on you. “I’m done, so I’ll do dishes tonight.” All of them happily agree without question, piling their plates onto yours. Wanda smiles in gratitude, whereas Clint presses a messy kiss to your cheek in thanks. Steve, who usually has clean-up duty, just nods, giving you permission for whatever you’re planning.

Thankfully, the kitchen stays empty for a while. Laughter and voices echo from the lounge, and you half listen to the retold stories as you load the dishwasher. Everyone is still going strong by the time you finish cleaning and grab a new plate from the overhead cupboard.

You hope Bucky won’t take offense at the basic sandwich; certainly not the homely dish of meat and potatoes he might think of as a family dinner. No silverware, no mess. The fridge is mostly stocked, if you ignore the Asgardian leftovers and the three-hundred-dollar block of cheese, so you pile up what you can.

The sliced tomatoes wobble while you walk down the hall, dish balanced in one hand. Light spills underneath Bucky’s bedroom door frame, but when you knock softly, there’s no response. You tap a bit harder, and call out: “Bucky… I have some food for you.” Try as you might to keep your voice steady, there’s a waver that makes you grimace. Contrary to what he may believe, it’s not him you fear -- not in the way others do. He still doesn’t answer you.

You leave the plate on the ground; a pathetic offering of inclusion and peace.

It’s just a sandwich.

When you’ve retreated to your own room, you send him a text letting him know what’s waiting for him. And even though it stings when he doesn’t reply, you feel a silent weight lifted off your shoulders. You played your role today, just as you did last night.

If there’s one emotion Bucky has never evoked in you, it’s guilt.

You don’t check your phone until you’re making coffee the next morning, barely awake as the smell of roasted beans fills the air. The sandwich and its recipient feel like a half-forgotten dream. Only when you’re a few sips into your drink do you see the notification, and the one word it bestows.

Thanks.

It catches you off guard, and you busy yourself by rinsing the pot for the next person, a ceramic glint catching your eye. The stainless steel sink is home to a single plate -- the plate. There’s still a smudge of mustard on the corner from when your hands shook, and the squeezed condiment missed the bread.

You scrub at the dried stain, a much easier mess than the mud-covered floor. It’s just a small task, just a sandwich, just a friendly gesture.

It’s clear Bucky thinks nothing more of it either. The following weekend he’s fine in his own way. After an episode, the air around him feels off; a thick aura that makes your gut instincts fire up. He’s a human timebomb, one wrong step away from mass destruction.

And then he smiles at Steve, you overhear their conversation about Coney Island, and suddenly all that fear is gone.

His laugh is more of a throaty chuckle than anything else, but there’s a flash of his pearly whites when he jokes about taking Steve on the Cyclone (a story you’ve all heard countless times) and time seems to slow. You hang onto the sight of him like a single frame in a movie; the sway of that one curl on his forehead, the slow upturn of his lips. It’s almost like he’s not there, not really, because he’s someone entirely different -- and not in the ways you’ve seen before.

It feels like you’re standing in the museum again, looking at all the Sergeant Barnes plaques and pictures. Not a hint of Winter Soldier, not even Bucky, just… James.

You must be grinning like the lovesick idiot you are because Steve finally nudges your shoulder. “Don’t you start laughing now. You’dve thrown up too if you went on that thing.” It takes a second for you to realize they’re still talking about roller coasters, and you just shake your head.

“Whatever you say, Cap’.”

“C’mon, Buck, back me up here!” He’s reverted to the past just as much as his friend, though less noticeably. Just a shift of the shoulders and a stance that fits a skinny Brooklyn kid, not a trained Avenger.

“Nah.” Bucky laughs again, stifled now that you’re involved in the conversation. “Steve’s just a chicken.”

“Oh, eat it,” Steve retorts. “I had stomach ulcers! Of course, I threw up.” He acts truly offended, but there’s no malice in his tone. He loves a good row, even when he acts otherwise. You pretend not to catch his barely visible smirk even as he walks away to go talk to Sam, who’s just entered the room.

You lean closer to Bucky, hand covering the side of your mouth, voice lowered. “He’s just bluffing. I heard he screamed over a spider yesterday.” There’s not much space between you two, and your head spins as you realize he must’ve leaned in too. Just a little. Unconsciously, perhaps, though a hopeful part of you thinks he calculates every moment, no matter how small.

He laughs, enough for you to see his chest puff, but too quiet to cover the whirring of his metal-plated arm. Making him laugh gives you a feeling that’s unmatched by any other form of euphoria. It’s a baby step, a sign of comfort, a realization that maybe, just maybe, you’re enough. Enough for him.

Your heart skips a beat, and when his eyes dart to watch your upturned lips, you wonder if his does too.

III. Sign of the Times; “Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets?”

A part of you is beginning to believe good and bad luck are destined to come hand-in-hand.

It’s an odd feeling having Bucky next door to you, even with the heavy, soundproof wall border. There are simultaneously mere inches and a world apart between you. His steps are silent and his door is always closed, but his presence is still there, and you don’t know if you’d still feel it if you weren’t head over heels for him.

Considering the rest of the building’s layout, you’ve been blessed with this corner of the facility. Steve’s across from Bucky, Sam from you. Despite the square shape, they’re a tight-knit triangle most of the time, even if you consider yourself somewhat involved in their friendship. But it’s partially relieving to not always be included since they can be a handful otherwise.

And that much is proven true when a loud clattering wakes you up at four in the morning.

The sound would wake anyone up, but your job and training are responsible for the way you jolt, heart racing. Any remaining sleep is blinked away as your fingers drift to the side of your bed, where you know a knife is sandwiched between the mattress and frame. No one can get in or even close to the facility without Tony’s knowledge, but the smooth metal feels reassuring against your fingertips regardless.

Silence follows for a few seconds, long enough for you to wonder if the disturbance was just a vivid nightmare. And then you hear one door open, and another; both slammed into the wall behind them. Steve’s voice echoes down the hall, calling your name, and you slide off the bed to your door, forgetting your disclosed weapon.

Steve’s halfway through your name again when you enter the dark hall, finding him standing in Bucky’s doorway. He’s bleary, blue eyes clouded with an uncertain look you’ve only managed to see once or twice; most notably, on the freeway that fateful day. He’s forced to adjust to the situation quickly, you realize, when you join his side and peer into the room.

Everything about Bucky is wrong.

His chest heaves, and when Steve shifts forward, he growls. It’s not a warning, but a threat. If his mouth could foam, you’re sure it’d be dripping down his chin at this point. He’s an offensive predator at first glance. And then you notice the little clues: disheveled sheets, sweat gathered on his brow, the broken vase by his bed stand, and the water dripping from his flesh hand.

Bucky suddenly becomes a wounded, scared animal.

You inch closer, Steve grabbing your wrist when Bucky reacts with a snarl. But you don’t halt, forcing yourself past the threshold. One checkpoint at a time.

“Bucky, it’s me.” You stand, palms face out. “I don’t know what you dreamt of -- I’m sure it scared you. But Steve and I are here, ok?” His eyes flicker between you, respectively, and a glint of recognition flashes in them. “Can you sit back down on your bed?”

His expression trembles, metal fingers curling and stretching repeatedly.

You rack your brain for any idea of ways to de-escalate the situation when he doesn’t follow your suggestion. And then it hits. He doesn’t need a suggestion. He needs an order.

With a deep breath, you steady your tone and catch his gaze. “Bucky…” His eyes glaze, but you try again. “James.” He twitches, just a small shift, but you grab onto it. You want to use the least amount of soldier-related words you can and if his legal name works, you’re not going to push your luck.

“Sit down on the bed, now.” You can feel Steve burning holes into your back, but you ignore his presence, and keep your eyes trained on Bucky. His shoulders drop after a moment and he blinks a few times before shuffling backward until the underside of his knees hit the bed frame. His recline is slow, but he finally sinks into the soft mattress with a heavy breath.

When you walk closer, he doesn’t react at all -- just watches your movements. And when you sit beside him, he continues to stare at you curiously. Steve’s still watching as you grab Bucky’s warm hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of his palm in a soothing repetitive motion.

You begin to murmur affirmations while you continue, not daring to initiate any more physical contact. And he slowly, almost unnoticeably, begins to react to it. Steve sandwiches Bucky’s other side and grabs the latter’s fluffy thick blanket from the middle of the bed.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper to Steve, and he nods, but adjusts the fabric on his friend’s shoulders anyway.

“He doesn’t like the cold.”

You swallow down the quickly forming lump in your throat.

Bucky blinks away the fog a few silent moments later. His fingers grip yours and he looks down at them, tracing your arm up to your face. He says your name quietly.

“Hey, Bucky.”

He scrutinizes you for a second, making your heart flutter, and then his gaze shifts to Steve.

“Steve?”

The blond smiles and nods, patting Bucky’s back gently. “Hey, punk. You alright?”

He swallows thickly, too many words and not enough answers. His fingers are still within your grip. “Yeah. I think.” The wavy strands of hair around his ear are slick with sweat and his tongue darts across his chapped lips in a nervous tick.

“Steve, can you get some water?” you ask, and Steve seems taken aback by your control of the situation, but he finally stands and makes his way to the door. When his steps grow quiet, you return your focus to the man beside you.

“I’m sorry if we scared you,” you begin, but then Bucky jerks his hand from yours as if your touch is the red-ringed surface of a hot stovetop.

His vulnerability shrivels away and he covers the rest of it with his blanket as he shifts toward the other end of the bed. If he notices your hurt expression, he doesn’t mention it, and you do your best to hide it as you stand from his bed.

You slowly drop to your knees, beginning to pick up the remains of the shattered vase; counting each thread in the carpet to take up more time. The flowers that fell are already shriveling, stems cracked into stringy vertebrae, petals smashed into the woven flooring.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky suddenly asks, voice gruff, but with a hint of hesitance. When you look up at him, your breath catches; the table lamp behind him is a warm yellow halo, and you can’t dismiss the feeling of kneeling before him, rose gathered in your palm as you pray he loses the solemn look that covers his face.

“Do what?”

He gestures his chin toward the floor. “Pick up my… messes.”

Steve’s promise rings through your ears. He’ll notice eventually. Your hands shake, and you look back to the floor; constant and unchanging, unlike his expressions. “It’s not a big deal. We all make messes sometimes.” And while that’s true, both of you know there’s no one else you’d be picking up glass shards for at four in the morning.

“You don’t,” he says, before continuing in a hushed tone, almost so you don’t hear, “make messes, I mean.”

His words make you still: what does he perceive? What does he know about you, what does he see that you overlook? What has he pieced together on how absolutely ruined you are for him?

Steve walks in with a cup of water, and the questions silence.

He feels the change in the air quickly and grasps your shoulder with his free hand. “I got it. Go back to bed.”

You toss the glass into the trash, pocketing a few of the intact flower petals to press and save.

When their quieted murmurs and sounds of cleaning continue, you dare a glance back. Bucky pulls his blanket closer, chasing as much warmth as he can take. His hair is almost dry, but the shorter and thinner strands are still stuck to his forehead with sweat. When you blink, he looks the same as the night before last -- wet from the rain and too uncomfortable in his own cold skin.

His reaction to the rain suddenly makes all too much sense.

IV. worldstar money; “Don't hate me, am I crazy? So tenderly you watch me burn.”

It turns out that the nightmare is the peak of Bucky’s episode, and his outburst ends quickly after. He returns to nightly dinners -- with Steve in tow -- and you don’t wake up to either of them yelling again.

Coincidentally, his plateau of emotions also lines up with Thor’s periodic arrival. His presence is always a date to anticipate and the team can spend up to a week preparing if they’re given the time. The god is not a handful, per se, since he’s more than capable of entertaining himself. But, at this point, it’s a tradition that his appearance is paired with a party. The few times one hasn’t been organized before he shows, Thor’s taken it upon himself to create one spontaneously; with no regard to his surroundings. Tony’s already lost a few pieces of furniture to Asgardian liquor stains and he won’t make that mistake again.

As the preparation begins and the excited trainees at the facility are informed of the event, your mind drifts back to Bucky. His attitude change seems too instantaneous. The decline and regrowth can take weeks. A part of you hopes it’s a sign of healing - the fast recovery. The logical side of you thinks he’s simply hiding his discomfort since everyone is busy, too busy for him.

Thankfully, Wanda keeps you distracted. Whenever something normal like a party happens, she’s the most excited, and it’s hard to not feel infused with her radiance. Even Natasha becomes more playful, talkative. Despite popular belief, it seems that redheads have the most fun, especially ones who crave some regularity in their lives.

“What about this one?” Wanda pulls the nth dress from her closet, both you and Natasha lifting your heads from where you’re lying on her purple bed. It’s a simple red piece, with a small flower pattern and flowy skirt.

Natasha sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Too simple.”

“You only wear little black dresses,” you retort, sliding up to her side. “I think it’s pretty, Wanda.”

“Hey, it’s a staple to any good wardrobe.”

“Nat?” you playfully jab. “Are you hiding a secret stylist side of yourself from us?”

Wanda clears her throat and you glance back at her. “Nat’s right. I’ll order something new.”

You frown at their obvious attempt to gang up on you. “I thought I was right!”

Natasha chuckles and Wanda attempts a sputtered excuse before she ends up laughing as well. You flip both of them off, but they see the smile gracing your face regardless.

“Fine. What about you, Nat?” You rest your head on her shoulder, feeling her shrug.

“I don’t plan for this stuff.” A total lie, but you let it slide.

Wanda looks over her shoulder as she returns the dress to her overfilled closet. “Picked something to seduce Bucky in yet?” Her accent deepens as she fakes a sultry tone, sending a mascara-lashed wink your way.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“I think you should get something to highlight your ass,” Natasha muses, playfully tapping her chin. “That’s a pretty obvious hint, don’t you think?”

“Not you too!” But she pulls you into her arms regardless. Wanda jumps on the bed a few seconds later, curling up to your other side. You’re so close to them, and not just physically. You feel like you could reveal anything, admit any secret, and it’d stay in this group of minds forever. A Bermuda Triangle friendship for your confessions.

You can’t help but mumble: “Why doesn’t he notice anything I do?”

It still feels selfish to think, let alone say out loud, but there’s no judgment in response. There’s not the pitying comfort from Steve or the teasing grins of the others who don’t understand the depth of the situation. Natasha pats your arm and Wanda squeezes you a little tighter, and they don’t need to offer an explanation because just having them listen is enough. You know that’s how Bucky feels with Steve and you wonder if, in some other dimension, he trusts you just as much.

Natasha leaves first; off to the shooting range with Clint, and you follow soon after.

“Hey, Wanda,” you call, halfway through the threshold. She looks up from investigating her heeled-boot collection, red waves of hair crashing over her shoulder. Her thin brow lifts in question, and you smirk.

“I think Vision would like the flower dress, just saying.”

You don’t look back, even when you hear her sputter a retort, because you already know her face is flushed to match the outfit hanging in her closet.

V. sex money feelings die; “Trade love for one night, two pills and a red wine.”

The air in the facility only changes when Tony Stark is in charge. Routines, workouts, meetings -- they’re all forgotten and replaced with tipsy staff and good music. An inkling of professionalism remains in the lounge, but it’s discreet; fancy champagne, expensive suits, and a few public heads lingering in groups. But as a whole, it’s nowhere near the usual stiffness of your daily life. The facility may be your home, but it’s your workplace as well. Except for during moments like these.

You’re able to spot everyone quickly. Unlike the previous Stark Tower parties you attended a few years back, the guest list tonight is much smaller. Natasha is holding her own in a conversation with a few snobby businessmen and Clint lingers on the balcony behind her looking like he’d rather jump off than engage in any small talk anyone has to offer.

Wanda, in all her flowered-dress glory, is a tad tipsy, but Vision stables her with a hand on her waist, and you can see her cheeks flush from across the room.

Tony is with Bruce at the bar, and Thor is surrounded by excited trainees who’ve only heard stories about him. A second later, your gaze lands on a group of three: Steve, Bucky, and Sam. The last catches your eye and waves, heading your way before you can take a step in their direction.

He stumbles on his path, which means he’s drunk. Sam Wilson is not a lightweight, but deep inside his body lives a frat boy who only appears when he’s had too many shots to remember.

“Hey!” He grins and pulls you in for a hug, the type he’d usually give you after a two-week mission away, even though it’s been two hours since you talked last. “I didn’t see you around. Thought you decided to skip.”

You chuckle. “You know me. Just… Lingering.” And watching for Bucky.

Sam raises his brow cartoonishly high. “I think you’re partying wrong. You,” he starts, grabbing your hand before you can blink, “should be dancing.” He extends your arm above your head until you appease him with a spin.

He whistles, then sighs. “You know, I hate to admit it but I think Barnes would be a better partner. Dude’s how old again?” Sam laughs, palm warm as he squeezes your hand. “Seven decades of dance moves. Hell, you think he can moonwalk?”

It’s a nice thought: Bucky, not yet greying due to his years on ice, being free in the eighties. His hair fluffed with hairspray and a neon earring dangling from his lobe. But that’s another life. Another era he’ll never live.

“Hey, you alright?” The new wave illusion fades away and you’re left staring at Sam’s toothy smile. “You have too much to drink?”

“No, actually.” You play off the spaced-out moment and Sam is too inebriated to notice. “I haven’t had anything yet, really.”

He immediately gets a playful glint in his eyes. “Steve got his hands on some of that God beer, or whatever -- if you wanna try.” Despite internally refusing the offer, you don’t dismiss Sam. Mainly, because Bucky is still standing by Steve, and you can see the invisible walkway leading up to them. You nod, and Sam heads back in their direction with you trailing behind him.

Steve pulls you to his side the minute you’re within reach, breath hot and sweet against your cheek. “Wondered where you wandered off to.” He loosens his grip but lets his weight rest on your shoulder, enough to keep you warm. He flashes his flask at you, silver metal and dark brown leather, but you shake your head.

Before you can politely decline, Sam reaches over to take the offer from Steve’s hands. Three sets of eyes watch, with bated breath, as he tosses back a shotful, complete with a face-scrunching cough. “Is it that bad?” you ask, but Sam’s too busy clearing his throat to respond, and Bucky grabs the flask.

He makes Sam look like an amateur as he takes his own drink. It goes down smoothly, the veins in his neck tensing as he swallows without hesitation. None of his other muscles even twitch. You marvel at him in quiet awe as he licks away the last golden drops clinging to his lips.

Bucky’s eyes catch yours when he’s done. Tonight, he stares, like he’s trying to understand your gaze for once. A part of you wonders how he can struggle to profile emotions as visible as yours. Another part of you wonders if he remembers what attraction and amazement look like to the naked eye.

You don’t have time to consider it before the man of the hour is pushing his way into the conversation, sliding a toned bicep around your neck to pull you in. He grins, sends the other guys a nod. “My favorite human,” he starts, though you’re not sure if that ranking was decided pre or post-Jane. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, Thor, thank you.” He pats the small of your back in response and then directs his attention to the others -- distant chatter of mead and parties fading into the background. You’re in the midst of zoning out when a gentle, but direct, cough alerts you of someone’s presence. Thor doesn’t pay you any mind as you pull from his grip, turning to face a guy you think you recognize. A security guard, maybe -- or a media reporter?

You’ve got a superhuman soldier on one arm and a God on the other, but this, presumably mortal man stays rooted in his place. “Good evening,” he starts and throws your last name out like the idea of being beneath you socially crushes his already crippling ego. “I know this might be, well, quite forward, but…” In the back of your mind, you realize the others have halted their conversation to watch how this will unfold.

“I’ve been waiting to see you all night.” You give him a polite smile and hope your cringe isn’t obvious.

“Thank you…” He is optimistically brave and you know that letting him down without a fight is unavoidable, so you play along to save face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” His grin is bleached white, a staggering contrast against his dark suit and brown eyes.

“Well, now that you’re here,” but he can’t finish the tacky line before Sam snorts, only silencing when Steve jabs him in the side.

You feel downright sick. His intentions aren’t pure, obviously, but you wonder what his motive is. It always starts like this -- a nice, albeit forced, conversation, and next thing you know, he’s asking which Avengers are fucking behind closed doors (or whatever other gossip is trending at the moment.)

“Anyway.” You brace yourself; here it comes. “There’s a private gallery showing downtown next weekend. I was hoping you’d be interested in going with me?”

Oh. Oh.

“I’m sorry?” You’re still not convinced. “Are you asking me on a date?” The word leaves your mouth and you faintly feel Steve take a step closer, gentlemanly instincts kicking in. He’s watched the others be tempted by similar propositions, only to be ambushed by paparazzi or caught in a pre-planned scandal.

“You could call it that, if you’d like,” the guy responds, a flirty lilt in his tone. “I understand if you’re not available -- a lifestyle like yours doesn’t leave much in the schedule, I assume.” He rustles in his suit’s breast pocket before pulling out a card, off-white with a dark grey print. You catch a glance of his name -- Tom -- before he’s speaking again.

“If you end up having time, I’d love to take you.”

You nod dumbly, still not sure how to process the situation at hand. But if his disinterest towards your opinion wasn’t obvious before, it’s clear when he’s already walking away with a grin before you can attempt to respond.

When you finally turn around, all four men are staring at you with different expressions. Thor is impressed, it seems, even when he falls into a bout of surprised chuckles. Sam’s slightly more annoyed, but not enough to stop himself from laughing either. Steve is staring daggers into Tim -- Tom’s -- departing figure, and Bucky is… You’re not sure. His jaw is clenched, tightly, and his stance is far more predatory than it was before; shoulders squared, chest puffed. He’s the perfect picture of jealousy, but you know he’s probably just put off by Tom’s cocky demeanor.

Regardless, the change in the air is palpable, and you end up excusing yourself before you can choke on the tension. You rescue Natasha from her painfully dull conversation and pull her onto the balcony to relax with Clint. He’s staring off at the landscape below, and you both press against the railing with him. His gaze doesn’t shift, but a smirk becomes visible on his sharp profile. “Nice escape in there, you two. Barnes and those businessmen were really shaking their heads.” Natasha scoffs, but you tense.

“Bucky?” you ask, and Clint huffs, faking surprise.

“Yeah, Bucky. Thought the old man was about to go into cardiac arrest when that other guy asked you out.”

“What guy?” Natasha cuts in.

At the same time, you say, “How did you know he was asking me out?”

Clint isn’t easy to annoy, so he continues to answer your questions. “I know because Barnes looks jealous as hell. I can hear his heavy breathing from here, and in case you’ve forgotten,” he gestures towards the purple aid lodged in his ear. “And since you’ve gotten over here, he’s taken it upon himself to finish off Steve’s flask.”

“Gross,” Natasha groans. “I wouldn’t touch that shit if it were the last drink on Earth.” She accentuates her words with a sip of her bubbling champagne, long red nails tapping the glass flute.

“Whatever you say, Barton,” you chuckle, but there’s a hesitation in your words; a silent gap waiting to be filled with more questions. Was Bucky really jealous? Is Clint just humoring you? The thoughts drift around in your head, and your friends let the conversation flow into another topic, saving you from dwelling for too long.

As they begin to playfully argue over something -- like always -- your eyes drift back to the party. It’s reached a quiet buzzed state, the energy of the room coming to a lull. The calmness is enough to leave you feeling dazed, letting the cold breeze coat your skin with goosebumps. You silently hope that Bucky is watching from afar, indulging in your shadowed silhouette against the darkening night. But when you examine each partygoer to find him, you land on Steve instead; with that look.

Natasha finally notices, or at least announces, your distraction: “You alright?”

“Yeah…” You trail off, watching as Steve and Sam glance around the room; searching, worried. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring more drinks on your way,” Clint suggests, but his favor leaves your mind the second you head inside.

VI. SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK; “Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms.”

Your shoes clack against the floor and Steve lets out a sigh of relief when you enter his line of sight. “Thank God you’re here,” he half-jokes as if you can’t see his flustered expression. “I was just about to call you. Bucky wandered off and... I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. He’s not in his room -- Sam checked.”

“Bathroom?” You ask, but Sam, approaching, shakes his head. He looks like he’s a second from toppling, his earlier shot taking a visible toll.

“Looked there first.”

You raise a disbelieving brow. “Geez, I’ve barely been gone five minutes and he just disappeared on you both? Isn’t that what he does?” You discreetly gesture around to the crowd, gritting your teeth. “This isn’t really his scene.”

Steve’s concern doesn’t lessen. “No, I know. He just, he somehow got buzzed. I don’t think he’s slept in days and… I don’t know...”

You know his ability to burn off alcohol is unparalleled, but unlike Steve, Bucky hasn’t touched the stuff since ‘42 -- not even one of Tony’s mild wines at dinner. If he was drinking as much as Clint said, there’s a fair chance he could be slightly inebriated; just enough to throw him off his perfectly calculated balance.

You can’t leave him to his own devices, so you let out an exhausted huff. “Fine. Take Sam to his room, though. He’s about to pass out.” Said drunk sends you a glare, then promptly stumbles in place. “I’ll make the rounds in the meantime. Text me if you see Bucky on your way.”

Both men nod, Sam’s head bobbing in a way that makes you dizzy. They head off, attracting a few whispers along the way, but make it down the hall without too much of a scene. You sneak away in the opposite direction, towards the other half of the facility. It’s eerily quiet as the voices fade away until there’s just silence. The lights automatically flicker on as you walk, turning off behind you when you leave their range.

The closest rooms are the lounge and some storage closets, but they’re all empty, along with the pool. He can’t be in the shooting range or armory, since they’ve been locked up tightly for the night; FRIDAY can’t even open them without Tony’s approval.

But there’s another set of bathrooms down the hall; less used, without everyone’s necessities inside. When you walk past the door, a few sounds catch your attention: a drunken mumble, squeaky boots, and water running. There’s a possibility it’s a public hookup since it’s practically a mile-high achievement to fuck at a Tony Stark party. At least, it was, back in 2011.

You push open the door slowly.

Bucky is leaning against the sink, face flushed and dripping water. It’s been unceremoniously splashed against his skin, dripping down his neck and spilling across his maroon dress shirt. The patches of wet fabric cling to his chest, and you barely manage to pull your gaze away from the smooth outlines of his torso. His jacket is draped next to the faucet, freckled with stray droplets like a garden flower.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror, blue drifting into a hazy grey.

“Hey…” You trail off, closely monitoring his expression. “Steve wondered where you ran off to.” You refrain from mentioning your own concern; a good choice, considering Bucky gives you a tight smile in return. You’re just thankful for more than a grimace at this point.

“It’s pretty loud in there, right?” you continue, looking away as you grab some paper towels, thin white, masking your palms like sheet ghosts. Bucky’s eyes are still on you when you turn back, making you jump. You try to play it off by taking a step closer, slowly raising your hand. “Is this alright?”

He doesn’t respond, but his chin juts outward. When he’s steel-faced like this, you can’t tell who you see more: Sergeant or Soldat.

His reaction seems like a yes, albeit a stubborn one. His skin is warm even through the napkins as you gently pat his face, drying it off. He’s completely still, and it takes a second for you to realize neither of you is breathing. You’re sure your heart is beating much faster than his. You dab his cheekbones and when you move to his forehead, he tilts toward you. It’s tender and trusting and your heart melts; dripping over your rib bones and living jitters in your stomach.

Bucky’s lips pout as you press them once, twice, and you savor the indirect kiss.

And then you pull away, and he leans back.

You smile, and for a second it looks like he does too. “All dry.” He’s quick to grab his jacket, slinging it over his broad shoulder. Right as you move aside to let him leave, he takes an unbalanced step, hurriedly adjusting himself. The sight of Bucky tripping over his own feet is enough to make you giggle, and the quieted sound makes his cheeks flush a shade darker.

“Are you drunk?” you press, and he scoffs.

“Can’t get drunk. You know that.” But the corner of his lips upturn just barely, and you know only a drunk Bucky would ever smile at you.

“Whatever you say…” You pull his jacket onto your own shoulder. “But I’m taking you to your room. Steve’ll put me on dish duty for a week if I don’t.”

VII. Out Like a Light; “If I betray our lonely nights spent out like a light, with no kiss goodnight...”

Bucky is quiet the entire walk to his room, but his presence is warm and comforting behind you; thick like drizzled honey. You don’t have to look back or strain your ears just to feel him, to sense him. You don’t mind that he doesn’t utter a single word or attempt to sync his steps next to yours -- you just make your way down the hall, distantly noting Sam’s door being open a sliver. It’s a habit of his, like many others, that you’ve grown to recognize. He can be overly cautious, sometimes to a fault, but you’re relieved to know he got to his room with a few screws left intact inside that wild head of his.

“And here we are, safe and sound.” You extend your arm to Bucky’s door with a cheesy grin: “Home sweet home.” When he tenses at your words, you try not to falter -- even when you know home to him is a century away, in another life, and another world. Even if home to him means young laughter, warm cooking, and a scratchy record. You can’t apologize for wanting to be home, for hoping the occasional laughter of Peter and the motherly nagging of Pepper are enough to makeshift a family.

Bucky gracelessly stomps into his room, immediately falling back into his unmade bed. Any other night, you’d close his door and walk far, far away. But tonight he’s still got his shoes on and you know one wrong move will track God knows what across his sheets. You can’t help but wonder how many messes Bucky Barnes will make before you finally give in and kiss him.

Without another thought, you close the door behind you, causing Bucky to look up with a raised brow.

“I’m not gonna let you fall asleep fully dressed,” you tell him, voice stern, and he’s half-asleep by the time you’re untying his second shoe, tugging it off his socked foot. He managed to undo one button on his shirt, but promptly gave up, leaving his arms beside him.

You murmur his name and he groans. “Buck, c’mon. What do you normally wear to bed?” He answers by rolling over, muttering something into his pillow.

It’d be frowned upon to go through his drawers, but you’ve got no other choice. You quickly grab a t-shirt and some sweats. You don’t stare when you pull off his button-up and slacks, and you don’t ogle when you pull his impromptu pajamas on. You don’t glance at his scars or his chest or his stomach because he trusts you.

He’s as vulnerable as you could ever hope for, but he’s also stumbling drunk, and bound to forget this encounter tomorrow morning. He will never trust you like this again, so you cling to the moment as you tuck him in and brush his bangs from his face.

The thought of his upcoming headache sends you to the bathroom to fill a glass of water, thankful the tap is filtered. You set the cup on his bed stand, next to his toppled prescription bottles. He’s got a memo pad, unmarked but indented from previous writings, and a silver pen there too. You scribble a note telling him to drink water and take his meds in the morning. You add a little heart, stick it on the glass, and resign yourself to the fate of this being a blurry moment for the rest of your life.

You’re finally about to walk away when Bucky grabs your wrist, completely catching you off guard. His eyes flutter open, drowsy blue and thankful in a way that reminds you you’d do anything for him. “Please, don’t leave me.” He blinks, glossy and unfocused, and you sit next to him with a gentle nod. His hand stays locked in yours, even when he shifts to rest on his side. Your thumb rubs his knuckle while his opposite metal one clicks into place with a soft rattle.

“‘M sorry,” Bucky mumbles, but when you ask why, he just shakes his head and dozes off with a few slurred words. Something like thank you, and then a gravelly rumble of Russian -- Золотце.

A part of you wishes you didn’t understand it. Another part of you is glad Natasha has called you darling so many times before.

VIII. Even If It’s a Lie; “And I know you don't love me so, but please say it once before I go.”

If Bucky remembers anything from that night, he never acknowledges it. The others joke about the party in their sober states, reminiscing and reliving all the antics you missed while you spent the night baring your heart and soul to the man who now can’t stand to look at you.

“I wish I’d drank more and forgotten that night,” Clint jokes before the mention of alcohol jogs his memory and he glances over at you. “You never brought back our refills, so I’m blaming you.” You can tell he’s playing around, and you hope his words will fly under everyone else’s radar, but then Nat nods, growing suspicious. You’re all having dinner -- one of the good ones, where everyone is warm and full -- so you hope she won’t prod. But you can feel the shift in her energy as she leans in, raising a sharp brow.

“You’re right, Barton -- for once in your life.”

“Thanks.”

“Where did you go?” Her cherry lips curl on one side, and Wanda can’t hide her amusement as she snuggles up to Vision on the loveseat; unlike you and Bucky, they’ve barely left each other’s side since that night.

Instinctively, your gaze darts to Bucky, and you’re surprised to catch him already staring back. A hint of something lies in his gaze -- something more unrecognizable than usual. It’s neither embarrassment regarding your time together, nor a glare warning you against speaking up. If anything, it’s almost a silent plea, though not one rooted in regret. He’s asking this to be your secret and yours alone.

“Sam got hammered,” you start, rolling your eyes jokingly. Bucky physically relaxes, you note, watching him from the corner of your eye. “I had to help him get to his room -- with Steve, who did most of the heavy lifting. Literally.” Everyone seems appeased with the answer and you’re relieved to have made the right call.

Someone -- you’re not paying much attention at this point -- remarks how difficult it is to get drunk nowadays; between being on-call and not being able to enter a bar without ten different security precautions. You don’t doubt the gratitude the team shares, both for each other and the satisfaction of saving people. But it comes with a certain yearning. You see it at Steve’s apartment when he makes you dinner and talks to you about the weather like you’re just his neighbor. Or when Wanda paints her nails before missions, even when she knows they’ll be chipped bare by the time you return home.

Everyone wants what they don’t have; a normal life -- a chance at something different, mundane, peaceful.

And you… You want Bucky.

Considering his usual aversion to your presence, it takes a while for you to realize he’s purposely ignoring you. You’d hoped your white lie to the group would build you some rapport in his mind, but the awkwardness builds up until it rolls off him in waves whenever you walk by.

The silent-stand off reaches unbearable levels until Bucky ends up assigned to a day mission. It’s a sad realization, but you can tell the entire facility relaxes at the lack of his presence. No one’s gotten the hang of being around him, so it’s easier when he’s just...gone. If anything, he’s usually in a better mood when he gets back. The alone time, the structure, and the familiarity of burning knuckles and bloody lips calm him in a way nothing else can.

Steve pulls you into his room that late afternoon. He’s all furrowed brows and pouty lips; his thinking look. You sometimes forget he doesn’t have all the answers, despite appearing old and wise. He’s navigating the same life as you are. He’s lived two eras, but so few years. He doesn’t always understand.

His room is clean and stark, bare walls and pristinely tucked sheets. It’s still warm, in all the right ways. It smells soft and sweet like him -- a woodsy linen scent -- and there’s a cream, knitted blanket draped across his bed that drowns you whenever he lets you borrow it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, sitting on the edge of his bed with you. His broad frame takes up most of the space, but you don’t mind. “How did things go that night, with Buck? I asked him how he got to his room, but he said he doesn’t remember.”

The single spark of optimism you had for keeping that night a special secret fizzles away without another word. Within a mere second, the realization hits you. Bucky’s not cherishing some romantic rendezvous because that’s not what it was. If anything, he’s probably ashamed at how easily he opened up to you after too much alcohol.

You can’t help but scoff to hide your pain. “Lucky him,” you joke, nudging Steve’s side. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he frowns, immediately scooting closer to you.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

You’re blinking back some form of emotion -- heartbreak, anger, the burning feeling of your conscience sneering I told you so. I told you this would happen. “I just got him to bed, that’s all.” It’d be easier to believe that, to gaslight yourself until the memory is nothing more than a faded delusion. If Bucky refuses to acknowledge it, why plague yourself with the isolated recollection?

With the tone of an overbearing mother, Steve sighs. “I know that’s not true, doll. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be crying.” And then you feel your wet cheeks and the faint taste of salt gathering on your lips, tears streaking without you even noticing.

“He called me… Darling -- in Russian.”

“What?” Complete disbelief. “Are you sure?”

You know he’s just as surprised as you were, but the question burns: Why would Bucky ever call you that? It’s what Steve’s secretly asking. “Nat,” you answer. “She’s used it with me before. I recognized it right away.”

“Darling...” Steve muses, the world pulling out in a Brooklyn drawl instead of a Russian purr. “Well, I can’t lie and say I was expecting that, but…” He tilts his head with a smile, blond wisps curled around his ears, glowing white in the setting sunlight. “That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

You go to wipe your eyes, but Steve beats you to it, rough knuckles brushing the tears away. “I don’t think so. He won’t even talk to me now. I think he’s ashamed -- but he shouldn’t be, right? It was just a drunk mistake. We all make those.” You know your tone isn’t convincing -- you’re still trying to prove it to yourself, and Steve’s face morphs into a look of pity. His features are drawn with guilt, and you don’t know when you both began to take the fall for Bucky’s faults.

“I’ll be honest.” Steve sighs, leaning forward. It’s hard to see him like this, so unsure. “I can’t always tell what Bucky’s thinking -- not anymore.” He shakes his head. “Maybe back then, before. Things were less complicated. It was easy to understand him.” He reaches for your hand, cupping it between both of his, and the contact steadies your wavering heart. “Sometimes, I think he’ll handle things like he used to, you know?” Sergeant Barnes -- the flirt, all confidence and smooth words. He’d treat you differently, but that’s not what you want, who you want.

“But that doesn’t mean you can doubt yourself, ok?” Steve’s words aren’t a cure-all, but they soothe the growing ache in your chest. He’s a terrible liar, so you know he’s being honest, and his reassurance means more than most people’s.

“Whatever Bucky decides to do - that’s his choice. You’re not doing anything wrong by trying to offer him love.” He doesn’t hesitate with the last word, which burns in every way possible; relief, knowing he understands the depth of your feelings; pain, that even with that knowledge, he only has hope. If Steve, with all of his unwavering optimism, is hanging by a thread, you know you’re past saving.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He says nothing else, just pulls you closer, and lets you rest in his arms for a few beats while you take in his natural scent and warm hands. In another life, he’d be easier to fall for. You’ve snagged a part of his heart, just like the others, but whoever gets it all… That’d be a type of love you’re not sure you could ever wrap your head around.

“I’m gonna go for a walk - try and clear my head. Alright?”

“Yeah, doll. Get to bed soon though, ok?”

You nod, and the sun has set by the time you make it down the hall, incoming moonlight lighting your way up to the balcony.

IX. Two Slow Dancers; “It would be a hundred times easier, if we were young again.”

The outside air is crisp, occasional winds biting into your arms and coaxing goosebumps from your skin. It’s the type of weather that leaves you alone with your thoughts, too sharp to let you zone out into an unfeeling haze. Everything lingering in your mind confronts you when you’re cold like this, and you wonder if that’s why Bucky hates the midnight chill so much; if it forces forward the memories that aren’t really his, the guilt of his subconscious actions.

You’ve all made countless mistakes, misjudgments. It’s part of the job. When you rely so heavily on instincts and adrenaline, slip-ups are bound to happen. But at the end of the day, you have yourself to own up to, not a foreign entity wearing your skin. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier, but the Winter Soldier is a part of Bucky, in a way that can’t be denied. To consider them separate entities would be ignorant, but to blame Bucky would be cruel.

Bucky mirrors your route at some point in the night, quietly joining you. The cold is making your body ache, much like your mind, but you can’t find it in yourself to turn around and go back in, especially when you see him. He’s still in his mission clothes, dark and clinging to his sweaty skin. He looks untouched, though you’re sure he’s got a few cuts and bruises you can’t see.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until the morning,” you state, with a slight chatter of your teeth. The stars above shine brighter than they did at the tower, unobstructed by city lights and various forms of pollution. They feel closer, almost as if they’re listening to every word you say and whispering amongst themselves.

Bucky busies himself by tugging his leather gloves off. “Got done early. Steve said you’d probably be here.”

Bitterly, you acknowledge he didn’t check on you because he felt inclined. Rather, he’d been put up to it. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you hum. Your mind races with what Steve must’ve said, how it led to this. You know you’re being given the conversation you spent nights begging for, but instead of joy, you feel fear. A sour bile rises to your throat. Bucky has dirt caked on his clothes, you’re half-freezing in the dark night, and the universe is cruel for deciding now is the moment.

“I know what you’re doing.” He’s straight to the point, just like always. No flowery language or attempt at sugar-coating, which you find both a blessing and a curse. He won’t say anything that could be misconstrued, but his statement is vague enough to lure you into your own admission.

“Yeah? What’s that?” The crest of fresh tears burns your already irritated eyes. You feel the end of all ends coming, but you won’t be the one to start it. Your pride was what kept this infatuation going for so long, even though it’d been predestined to fail. And your pride is what keeps you from giving in, even with the settling realization that Bucky never intended to treat you differently or give you a chance.

His hands, and their now visible bruised knuckles, curl around the balcony railing. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you, yet he’s never felt so far away. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he says gruffly, and it sounds worse coming from him than anyone else. Less comforting, more pitying.

“Look at me.” You hesitate before obliging.

The sight catches you off guard. You know what Bucky looks like when he’s uncomfortable; seen it countless times - this is worse. He’s gone through Hell and back, yet he still looks more tortured glancing at you than at any time in his past. Why he wants to see you when he does this, you don’t know. Sadistic is the best word for it. Why must he gouge a hole in your chest while giving you those baby blues?

His eyes are dark, stars catching in their reflection as the colors swirl like a galaxy. The celestial vision is only yours to enjoy for a moment before he squints, brows furrowing. He must see the tears, the pleading look on your face that you no longer bother to hide. “Doll?” Like a stab to the gut, he delivers the one word you’ve imagined falling from his lips so many times before. There’s no warm sun or shy smiles or soft kisses to accompany it, only a pitying gaze and the gloomy sky.

“Please - don’t call me that.” You attempt to be stern, but your voice wavers, words barely coating a stifled choke. The second you turn away, Bucky latches onto your wrist, calloused fingers pulling you close; finally wanting you to invade his space.

His lips form a tight line. “Won’t you at least listen to what I want to say?”

“Why should I?” you ask, voice sharpening into a bite. “I know what you’re gonna say. I can tell just by looking at your face.” Chest heaving, you continue. Now that the confidence to speak has hit you, you can’t seem to stop. “I’ve known every day since you came here, Bucky. I know you don’t like me, but I don’t know why you seem so determined to rub it in my face.”

Ripping your wrist from his clutch, you rub away a fresh set of oncoming tears. Bucky blinks, wide-eyed, but composes himself quickly. “You think…” He almost laughs in disbelief. “You think I want to hurt you?” For a second, your stomach churns with guilt, but it dissipates before he speaks again. He is hurting you, whether he intends to or not. “I’m telling you this because I want to protect you.”

Voice trailing into a barely restrained yell, your chest bubbles with frustration, spreading like wildfire. Every word slices through the icy air with a hiss. “Protect me from what?”

Bucky shakes his head, brown waves of hair swaying with the motion. “You don’t know what you want,” he says, sternly. “You think you know how you feel, but you don’t. You… You don’t realize the things I’ve done -- what I’m capable of.”

A second of silence passes before the dam inside you breaks. The tears dry up, scorched away by the anger in your veins. “We all know, Bucky,” you retort, not missing the flash of hurt on his face. All you can think of is Steve, Tony, everyone who’s lost in the name of the man in front of you. They’ve worked tirelessly to push aside the past, putting their trust in the future, in the one who has caused them so much pain. “And we are the ones who have given you a second chance, despite it all. You’re the only one who can’t forgive yourself.”

His chest heaves, letting out a low breath as your words sink in. “You’re right,” he admits, lowly. “Which is why I can’t let you shoulder that burden.”

“Stop assuming you know what I can and can’t do,” you snap, lip curling into a snarl. “This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that you refuse to think anyone can see the good in you!”

“That’s because there isn’t any good in me!” Bucky yells, finally managing to startle you. He steps closer, chest puffed and jaw twitching. For a moment, you imagine this is how his victims must’ve felt in their final moments. “It’s the ugly truth and you’ve gotta face it. I can’t ever be what you want.”

At that moment, you realize it’s never been you that he’s disliked; only himself. The thought makes you spiral, and you immediately soften, voice hoarse and hushed. “You are what I want,” you tell him, hoping he understands. “Just as you are, Bucky. Why can’t you accept that?”

“You’re…” He shakes his head, strung so tight his body shakes. “You’re being unrealistic. I - I can’t see you with hope now when I know that there’s no future where I’m the person you’re imagining.” He’s entirely resigned to the fact, despite all you’re willing to give him, every possibility ahead.

You have to remind him of the light at the end of the tunnel. “What about all the work we’re doing? The therapy, the meds? Steve’s even making negotiations with Shuri… I… Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“What if it works?” Bucky questions and the thought makes you stop. “Are you going to follow me there? To Wakanda?” he asks, and it’s almost sad how quickly you come to a decision. For him, and the chance of something more, you’d leave it all behind.

“I would,” you admit, keeping your voice steady. “If there’s a chance - why… Why wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t even consider it. “It doesn’t matter… It’s something I have to do alone.” He’s burrowing himself into a pit of isolation despite your pleas. Every time you hold your hand out to help, he’s just inches away, fingertips brushing yours. Just one reach and you can pull him to safety.

“I know I can’t heal you, Bucky - that’s not... That isn’t what I’m trying to do. I just… I want you to know I’d wait for you, every step of the way.”

He stops, thinking about his next choice of words. Somehow, you already know what he’s going to say. “What if…” His voice is hesitant, almost as if it pains him to speak. It’s going to hurt you even more. “What if I don’t want you there?”

Finally, it hits; the admission you’ve always been preparing yourself for. The excruciating buildup slams into you with a deafening crescendo. The letdown, the pure collapse, is unavoidable. Not a cell in your body can fight it. Any chance of convincing him is over -- completely and utterly so. It’s the sharpest ache you’ve felt in so long, but you can’t break in front of him - not any more than you already have. You can’t allow him the satisfaction he’s been waiting for since he demanded you look him in the eye; the fact that he is wholly, unequivocally, and painfully right.

“Okay,” you finally exhale, trembling but not looking away. “If you… That’s all you need to say. If that’s what you want.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen Bucky regretful, because the emotion held in his eyes is not something you recognize; downcast eyes, slumped shoulders. This is one instance where the guilt is entirely his own. “I care about what you want too, Bucky,” you tell him, unsure of how he could ever think differently with all you’ve given him. “Just because I feel a certain way… I-I’d never force you to feel the same.”

The balcony falls into silence, neither one of you having anything left to say. The last bit of warmth disappears as Bucky retreats to the doorway, gentle winds brushing his hair back for just a second; long enough for you to see a light gloss of tears coat his eyes. He blinks them back, features relaxing on instinct as he shifts into the perfect picture of numbness like he’s been trained to do. Any hint of emotion is washed away in one crawling, desperate wave.

He stops halfway through the threshold, one final consolation on his tongue. “It wouldn’t have been forced,” he admits, and, for a second, it’s like the dream you’ve always imagined; his soft eyes, the chance of him feeling the same. But the confession is for another life, a different version of yourself that you can’t quite imagine.

Bucky gives you a trace of a smile, and your frustration spills away as quickly as it came. All that remains is the longing for what could have been -- for what will never be. “Thank you,” you tell him, and this time you mean it. He leaves quietly, almost as if he’d never been here to begin with.

You’re left standing in the cold, nose burning, and fingers numb. The stars stare down from above, twinkling and all-knowing. You can’t help but wonder how many heartbreaks they’ve witnessed in all their years, finding yourself grateful for a finite lifetime of them. One streaks across the sky and you let a silent wish cling to the bright white tail, hoping and begging to never take its place in the universe. You’re not sure how many more broken hearts you can handle.

At the very least, not an eternity’s worth.

X. Strange (Instrumental)

The night on the roof slowly fades away, word by word, until you start to forget exactly what Bucky said, and in what tone. The emotions linger in a way akin to sickness; a tight chest, twisted stomach, clammy skin. At the very least, the physical reactions are easier to hide, covered by excuses like a sparring match gone wrong or spoiled leftovers.

To most, you seem entirely fine. No one knows about your conversation beneath the stars, though a few begin to suspect something happened after Bucky’s return. He’s calm. He’s participating. He sits at dinner with everyone else, passing you the salt when you ask and listening intently to your repetitive drones about training. Natasha and Wanda watch with wide eyes, not bothering to muffle the sounds of them smacking each other under the table every time you and Bucky so much as glance at each other.

You neither confirm nor deny their suspicions, partly so you can revel in their happiness. They deserve the relief of thinking your silly little crush is over, even if they do believe it ended in a more favorable conclusion.

Your fork has barely touched your finished plate when Steve picks it up for you, stacking it upon his own scraped dish; three servings packed away in his super soldier stomach. Dinner cleanup is usually his chore, but he’s prematurely eager about it tonight. Everyone is still sitting around the lounge and kitchen, forgotten bites dangling off their cutlery between conversations.

“I got it, doll.” He presses a gentle kiss against the top of your hair before heading to the sink and you don’t miss the curious glances sent in your direction; Tony, halfway through a bite of pasta, focuses his brown eyes on you like a laser.

You know exactly what Steve is doing. Steve knows you know. He’s been stuck to your side like glue for going on a week now, and you’re equally thankful and sick of it. His footsteps sync with yours on the way to the gym, the pool, and even your shared hallway. At night, you curl up into his blanket, which he lent you with a silent acknowledgment. It’s soft and easy to cry into, even if it doesn’t heal the painful cold that fills your body.

Faintly, you wonder if Bucky’s blanket does; if, when he dreams of the blood-stained snow, it warms his metal heart.

Your facade lasts another couple of days before it begins to crumble. Bucky is completely unaffected and, for once, you find yourself envious of him. It’s disgusting to admit, to tell yourself you’d rather feel his aching numbness than the deep pit of sorrow nestled in your stomach, but it’s true. Everyone else praises his change in attitude: That’s three nights in a row that Barnes has come to dinner. Isn’t that great? The words seem to echo in every room you enter and you want to scream, revealing to everyone that the only thing different in Bucky’s life is you. He’s finally rid himself of you, cut you from under his skin like nothing more than an obsessive parasite.

Thankfully, it’s easy to come up with an excuse. In your line of work, everyone gets burned out from time to time, retreating to different areas of the world. Clint goes home while Tony visits the beach. Bruce drops off the grid entirely.

“And you swear you’re alright?” Tony asks, again, watching as you pack an overnight bag. You know he’ll drop it eventually, begrudgingly respecting your privacy, but it’s obvious you’re not being entirely truthful about why you want to leave. If you want to admit it, now’s the time.

You stuff Steve’s blanket into your old duffle. “I’m sure, Tony. Just tired, you know?” He scoffs, nods, and gives you a slight smile -- in that order -- silently agreeing; I’m Iron Man, kid. I’ve been tired since 2008.

He finally relents, clapping his hands like he always does when filling an awkward silence. “Alright, well… I’ve got a driver downstairs for you. He’ll take you wherever you want to go -- which is where again?” You give him an unamused look and he huffs. “What?”

“None of your business,” you remind him, with a smile. “Thanks.”

He waves you off, suddenly humble, and goes to leave the room, actually making it halfway down the hall before his steps audibly reverse. Tony sticks his head back in your doorway with a hesitant look; an expression you’re not used to seeing. “If you want me to, uh, take care of Barnes while you’re gone…” He drags his index finger against his neck in a cartoonish gesture, his smile softening after your laughter quiets. “Just let me know.” His expression isn’t aggressive or vigilante, closer to what you assume is his attempt at fatherly protection. I’m here for you, he says silently.

You’re thankful he leaves before you have a chance to respond, unsure of what you’d even say. You’ve always known not to underestimate Tony, even with his questionable social skills, but another part of you knows you’ll never fully grasp him, and not just in the way you’ll never truly get anybody but yourself.

If everyone is a grain of sand, Tony is a speck of snow. No matter the weather, you will never understand a blizzard.

XI. Outer Space/Carry On; “And the rain, it came too soon, I will wait for you to love me again.”

The door to your apartment swings open with an old creak, wood bouncing off your jutted hip. It smells like dust and there’s a distinct humidity filling the rooms. Your complex is far from dingy, but you do have to smack the air conditioner a few times before it switches on; probably from a lack of use. When you do visit, the electricity and water are usually questionable for a day or so, but the landlord never questions your absence -- a perk of Tony’s bribing.

You drop your duffle on your bed, which, while unmade, is still relatively clean. Knicknacks flood the surrounding bookshelves and your socked feet rub against the old rug tucked under the slatted frame. It’s a far cry from your room at the facility, which is fitted for everyday use. It holds your most worn clothes, all of your life’s necessities. Your apartment is more complex, deeper memories lingering in the walls. It has all the things you couldn’t box up and take with you. There are pictures of old friends on the walls, their voices long forgotten, and belongings from your childhood slipped under your bed in undisturbed nostalgia. Bucky’s question from that night suddenly hits you in full force. If he had to go to Wakanda, could you leave here behind?

You don’t have an answer and soon his voice fades away too. For the first time in a while, you sleep well, only stirring awake once, at around five in the morning. The room is filled with that early blue filter and your sheets are extra cold, your body tingling in its barely awake state. The world is quiet, and you think only of the eyes that match the outside sky.; steel, with icy highlights, and the mist of unshed tears and almost rain.

The weekend morning greets you with dark clouds rolling overhead. Rain drizzles lazily as you walk to the nearest bodega, a couple of stray bills stuffed in your coat pocket. It’d be smarter and safer to order takeout, but you crave the normalcy of buying groceries and cooking dinner, especially now that you’re alone.

The shop is relaxed. Radio music and news announcements overlap in dull robotic voices, patrons harmonizing as they talk amongst themselves; arguing over deli prices and which cheap wine to pair with dinner that night. No one looks at or speaks to you, and you feel invisible, which is somehow a relief. Again, you think of Bucky. He has so often tried to fade away -- usually bringing more attention to himself -- but you finally get it. The ignorance of the customers is your much-awaited bliss.

It seems, you realize, you’re understanding Bucky more every day.

You follow the speckled tile floors to the cashier, who gives you little more than a glance. Her glazed eyes focus on the box television behind the register, hands blindly scanning your items out of instinct. She mutters your total with a heave of nicotine breath, but you barely notice. You wish she understood how much her disinterest means to you.

The plastic straps of the grocery bags dig into your wrists the entire walk home, but you’re just happy to be free.

The storm reaches its full, beautiful, raging glory by the time you get back to your apartment. Lightning strikes, illuminating the living room with flashes, followed seconds later by heavy rumbling. The windows streak with tear-like drops, each one chasing the other to the bottom of the pane, and you feel like a child again, betting on which one will win the race.

Thunder shakes your apartment lightly, and the droplet you watched connects to the one beside it, gravity pulling them both into a long splotch. On the coffee table, your phone blinks awake, unread texts rolling in one after the other. The messages are all similar declarations of missing you, but each one makes you smile, even if you’re a bit surprised no one’s noticed your absence until now. Then again, you’ve been guilty of the same, even with Bucky; not realizing he’s disappeared all day until everyone gathers for dinner. You’re used to sharing confused glances with Steve across the lounge or in the kitchen, two pairs of hands deep in the soapy warm water filling the sink. You did the same thing right after Bucky moved in, cowering and suspicious like a stray dog.

“Is he going to be ok?” you’d naively asked Steve, scrubbing away the soup-dried bowls from dinner.

He had simply smiled, the back of his hand meeting yours beneath the water. “I think so.”

At that moment, you’d dedicated yourself to the cause; to saving Bucky Barnes -- if not for himself, then for Steve. In your eyes, there were two lives lost, two souls who’d gone through Hell and back just to reconnect in an equally cruel and gracious act of destiny. They both deserved a second chance, especially considering they never got a first.

“I can help if you two ever need anything,” you offered, brimming with confidence. Steve nodded, and the conversation inevitably trailed off to some other topic. Bucky was just a casual discussion, one with too many questions and too few answers. You’d both gravely underestimated his recovery, a process that everyone else knew would be difficult. If anyone were to expect miracles in Bucky’s name, it was bound to be Steve and you.

You’d always felt like you’d known Bucky before he came home. The minute Steve found out he was still alive, you’d been the one he confided in, sharing his stories. The countless memories spilled from his lips with intricate details, coming to life before your eyes. He spoke and you could taste the cotton candy of Coney Island, see the wonders of the 1943 Stark Expo, and even smell the bloody battered war.

A part of you was aware Bucky wouldn’t be the same, and Steve had always been prepared for some version of that reality. When he was younger, though, his earlier doubts revolved around war-related PTSD or combat stress reaction, as he called it. Bucky had gone through much worse -- seventy years of torture and an unending abyss of pain.

He didn’t walk into the facility with a suave wink or smooth-as-butter Brooklyn tone. You weren’t disappointed, even as pre-war Bucky dissolved right before your eyes, leaving a hardened man in his place. You just convinced yourself this was like Steve. He was no longer a sick, scrawny boy, right? But Steve was the same, in many ways. His mannerisms and language were stuck in another century, and when he laughed, the insecure sound of a young kid squeaked out. He’d been Captain America for so long, but still hit his head on short doorframes and bought clothes a few sizes too small, always remaining shocked when they didn’t fit.

Bucky was not the same. He didn’t flirt or dance. He didn’t laugh, joke, drink, or brawl, and you failed to imagine how this was the same man that tried talking the red dress off of a young Peggy Carter. Finally, it had hit you that Bucky’s early life was long gone and no years of healing would bring it back.

Even now, curled up on your couch, you can’t fool yourself into thinking he could ever truly be fixed. There would always be more levels of healing to endure, more coping mechanisms to learn, further ways to grow. Sometimes, he didn’t seem driven to take any steps toward bettering himself, content with his internal and external scars being all he had to show for his trauma. He was determined though -- had made it all of these years somehow. Even if his stubbornness worked against him, it had to count for something.

You’re about to let yourself wallow over him once more when a thump echoes loudly through your apartment, rattling the walls with its intensity. You will yourself off the couch, leaving behind a half-eaten bowl of pasta, and glance out the back window, seeing nothing but sleet-streaked streets. It takes an admittedly long time to realize someone’s knocking at your door, but you don’t need to look at the clock to know it’s way too late for visitors. Some animalistic instinct warns you to be cautious, but you have little confidence in whatever criminal has decided to pay you a visit in the pouring rain.

You unlock the door with a sigh and swing it open, cold air chilling the tip of your nose instantly.

“Bucky?”

The immediate sight of him evokes a nauseating sense of deja vu; hair slick against his forehead, lips nearing a shade of purple. When he awkwardly shifts his weight, you hear the telltale squeak of his wet boots and it lets you know he’s nervous since you wouldn’t hear him otherwise.

He exhales in obvious relief. “You’re still here.”

You’re thankful the overhang blocks the rain from reaching him since you don’t feel too inclined to welcome him in. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask, but barely listen for his answer as you take in his exhausted expression. His chest is heaving, and you glance out to the road expecting to see his motorcycle in the distance, but the street is bare.

“I thought…” He must think better of whatever assumption he’s brewing since he quickly shakes his head. You flinch at the cold water that speckles your skin. “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you.”

He must be stupid to not realize he’s the reason you left. You need to be away from him and inviting him inside your otherwise isolated apartment is far from the best idea. “What is it?” you ask, not budging. “Is everyone okay?”

It’s clear he’s expecting a different answer, though you can’t entirely blame him. If he’d shown up any day prior to now, you’d be laying out a red carpet. Instead, his features melt into confusion, and it’s one of the few expressions you’re still not used to seeing; his brows soft, lips plump with a heavy sigh. “You had that date tonight,” he answers, and you’re too distracted by his mouth for the words to register.

When they do, you’re confused. “Wh-”

“I was gonna stop you from going.”

The rest of your question catches in your throat, words lodged in your airpipe. The night of the party fills your head and you breathe in the smell of alcohol and heartbreak. “Tom?” you ask, racking your brain for his name. The single utterance results in a sour expression from Bucky, one that you mirror quickly. “Jesus, Bucky. Did you really think I’d go out with that douche?”

He goes to speak, but you cut him off, irritated. “Even if I did, how the fuck does that have anything to do with you showing up here? Christ, did you walk here? You’re soaked.”

“Ran, actually,” Bucky corrects, and your heart skips a beat. “Can I come in?”

The sane and logical answer would be to slam the door in his face, so you open it wider and step aside. You have to know why he ran in the middle of a storm to check on you, even if a hopeful inkling deep in your heart has already come up with a reason. You probably just worried Steve by running off, but your curiosity gets the best of you. “Alright…”

The second Bucky steps inside, your carpets are soaked with dark boot marks. “Fuck,” you curse, cringing at the sight. “Let me get a towel.” You can’t stand to be next to him for another second anyway, so you race down the hall before he can argue. When you catch a glance of yourself in the bathroom mirror, your nerves are more than visible; your skin losing color by the second, eyes strained with overthinking.

It’s easy to start coddling him once you return, patting away the water on his face before sandwiching his hair between the folded towel and squeezing the strands dry. “I know you do a lot of stupid shit, but running through New York City during a storm has to be one of your worst ideas yet,” you scold, but your touch is gentle and, for once, he allows it. “And I know you hate cellphones but could you really not call? Or get a taxi, at least?”

You know you’re rambling, but you’re keenly aware that if you don’t talk, neither of you will, and that silence will make you spiral. Chest pounding, you start to talk again, before realizing Bucky is gripping your wrist, pulling you from him softly. “Doll,” he murmurs, and this time you’re too nervous to correct him. “It’s okay.” With a slight tug, you yank yourself from his grasp, shaky fingers digging into the wet towel. You use the last dry corner to pat his damp palms, ignoring how large and rough his hands are against yours.

“I told you to stop doing this,” Bucky reminds you softly but doesn’t interfere. “You’re always trying to fix people… patch them up. You gotta take care of yourself, too.” Still, he lets you finish his other hand before he steps back, and you glance at him.

“No offense, Buck, but me coming here -- alone -- was kind of my attempt at that,” you tell him, frowning.

“I… I know, I’m sorry-”

“Bucky.” You’re not sure you can take another second. “What are you really doing here?”

He inhales sharply, and when he begins, you can immediately tell he’s not going to answer your question right away. Knowing he’s a man of very few words, you latch onto the way he seems to be opening up. “Every day, it’s like…” He shakes his head, trembling. “I don’t know who I am or if any of this is even real. It feels like every day is my last and everything is catching up to me all at once. I didn’t want you to be stuck in that, too.”

Bucky glances at you and his eyes soften; white ice cracking to reveal soft blue water underneath. When he reaches for your hand again, you’re in too much shock to deny him, even when he’s squeezing so tightly it hurts. He’s not just scared you’ll be taken from him, he’s scared you’ll willingly leave.

“You deserve better than that, doll.” His voice cracks around the nickname this time and you can hardly believe what’s happening. “I… I won’t ever be able to give you what you deserve.” Your fingernails leave crescents in his palm, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to hold him closer or scare him away. “I just can’t go another day without you gone,” he finally admits, and you gasp.

“Bucky… I don’t-”

He inches closer, face flush with insecurity. “I know. I fucked up -- I fucked up so bad. I don’t blame you if you don’t want this… If you don’t want me, I understand. I just -- you deserve to know how I really feel. I can give you that much, at least.” His grip finally loosens, and you realize he’s shaking, but not from nerves.

Your lips part, and his eyes glimmer with hope. “You’re freezing,” you finally say, and he visibly deflates. “You need to -- um, just sit down for a second.”

“...I’m fine.”

“Please? For me?” The second his chin tilts in a hesitant nod, you’re stalking off toward the bathroom with him in tow. You throw the dirtied towel in the hamper and rustle through the cupboard for a few more. Your bathroom is small, and when Bucky squeezes in behind you, his damp chest presses against your back for a second too long.

When you turn to face him, your noses practically touch. “T-these should be enough,” you stutter, clearing your throat and handing him the fresh towels. “You can hang your clothes up on the towel rod,” you tell him, inching back. He raises a brow and you quickly answer his silent question. “I have some spare stuff you can wear, I think.” And, before he can ask anything else, you push past him, shutting the door behind you.

You have mere seconds to contain yourself, so you rush to your room, mind racing. As you search through your spare drawer, a million questions run through your head. Is Bucky saying he wants to be with you? Does he even know that’s what he’s saying? Is he here on his own accord, or did Steve and Tony send him to ease your heartbreak and lure you home?

You can hear him rustling through the wall and you blindly grab at the only t-shirt and sweats you think could fit; extras left behind by one of the other guys. Hopefully, they’ll work long enough for you to dry Bucky’s clothes and kick him out. He can’t just decide he’s ready, especially not after how he turned you down. You’ll do the polite thing and let him stay until the storm ends, but then he needs to leave.

The bathroom door creaks open the second you step in front of it, Bucky peering out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Just like the last time he was shirtless in front of you, you will your eyes to stay above his neck. Still, you can’t ignore the fact that now he’s allowing himself to be in this state with you, completely vulnerable.

“I found these,” you squeak, handing the carefully folded clothes to him.

He doesn’t take them. “Whose are these?” Silent envy drips from his tongue and you shiver at the thought of it; Bucky being possessive of you, yearning to fill the small drawer in your wardrobe. Swallowing heavily, you rustle the shirt to see the tag.

“Steve, probably? Maybe Clint…” You spot the letters and shake your head. “No, it’s an extra large. But the sweats are definitely Clint’s. Steve never wears them.” Bucky listens amusedly to your rambling, and you quickly clamp your mouth shut. You practically shove the clothes into his hands, stumbling backward. “I’ll just be in the living room.” The door doesn’t click shut until you’re out of view.

It’s hard not to collapse on the couch the second you reach it, overwhelmed with a sense of relief of a wall separating you two. Try as you might, you still can’t comprehend what’s currently happening. As much as you want to kick Bucky out and never see him again, pure delight has started clawing at the inside of your chest, eager to be let out. If he confesses to you once more, you don’t think you’ll be able to turn him down.

When Bucky emerges from the bathroom, your heart pangs at the sight of him. He sinks into the chair across from you with an air of domesticity, like he’s always meant to be here. It’s like you bought that chair with him in mind because it fits him perfectly, and he fills it just the right amount.

“You look better already,” you comment, with a shy smile.

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, glancing up at you from between falling strands of hair, and he’s never seemed more beautiful than in this moment. “I feel better,” he admits. “I’m not a big fan of-”

“The cold,” you finish for him. He blinks in disbelief and you sputter out an excuse. “Sorry. Steve told me.” Then, deciding against putting all of the blame on the one who’s kept you sane this whole time, you continue. “I mean, I’d already kind of guessed so because of that night in the kitchen. He told me later.”

“I don’t remember much from that night,” Bucky confesses, sheepishly; not embarrassed, ashamed.

You’re not sure if it will make him feel any better, but you agree: “I don’t either, actually.” Surprisingly, you mean it. A few days ago you could’ve recalled every small detail from that memory. Now it’s just a dream inside a dream or a blurry image, abroad a ship, stuffed deep in the bottleneck of your glass brain.

Bucky showed up on your doorstep and it’s like he’s never left.

It’s a slightly unconscious action, but when you shift to make more space on the couch, Bucky takes the silent invitation. His gait is wide, a few silent steps until he’s lowering himself beside you. The line between cushions acts as a border. Even next to you, he’s like an opposing magnet, slowly inching further and further away. He’s toeing over the edge of a cliff, waiting for you to let him fall or tug him back into your desperate arms.

“Bucky-”

“Can I touch you?” His words overlap yours, which isn’t hard considering you’re choking on a whisper, and he’s finally letting the depths of his soul speak without reservation. There’s no context for his question, no way for you to decipher what he’s insinuating. You don’t care. You decide to step off the ledge with him.

“Yes.”

His fingers are grazing your chin, calloused tips warm and rough and gentle. Your pulse thrums against the thin skin of your throat, a lump of emotion gathered in a swallow you can’t force down because Bucky is staring, seeing you for the first time. You don’t blink, and neither does he, blue eyes dew with the first rainfall of spring. You watch winter melt away beneath his fluttering lashes.

“You are so soft,” he murmurs, and you know he doesn’t mean just physically, even when his palms are like sandpaper against your jaw. His grit flattens the rest of your apprehension, and your hands find the sharp angle of his scruff-peppered chin. When your thumb strokes the indentation below his lips, his mouth parts just barely, enough for you to feel the shaky hot exhale he sighs in silent relief.

When he begins to lean in, you don’t budge; not until he’s a hair width away and you feel the tips of his fingers shaking, one hand ice cold, the other burning hot. Then, you close the gap, hungry for the taste of his bleeding heart. The kiss is desperate in its own way, lustful for vulnerability and the satisfaction of finally.

Bucky is the one to press harder, nose harshly digging into your own as his face tilts to fit into the curves of your features like a missing puzzle piece; knocked haphazardly onto the floor when the box is first opened. You can feel his hair, still damp, against your forehead. His metal arm clicks into place, fingers adjusting their grip, and an unfamiliar sensation shoots up your spine. Fear.

He’s never been so close. His hand could easily wrap around your throat and take you out, without him even sparing a second glance. A moment of desperation and your lack of resistance would be all he needed. One kiss is all it would take.

Instead, he pulls away, though not without leaving one last sweet peck on your pursed lips. When your eyes flutter open, he’s blinking in the sight of you with a genuine smile painted on his face; tongue quickly darting between his teeth and catching the last taste of you on his mouth. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, a stifled chuckle that’s just enough to have you joining him, until your cheeks burn from grinning.

“Did -- was that okay?” Bucky asks, lines around his lips deepening. “I thought you were gonna pull away for a moment there.”

“No!” you answer quickly, feeling your skin flush at the admission. “It was… nice. Very nice.” He’s clearly enjoying the way you stumble over your words, especially when he strokes your cheek to further fluster you. “G-great, really.”

“Great,” he echoes. “I haven’t kissed anyone since 1945.”

You can’t help but laugh at his secret. He’s kissing you and only worried he wasn’t good enough. Bucky, the playboy, Barnes, is worried some seventy years of inexperience could stop him from stealing your breath with a single touch. Thankfully, he knows your reaction isn’t out of dismissal or jest, and soon his face is red with cheerful exertion.

“Can I ask you something?” He questions, quieting down but not losing any of his warmth. “Will you come back? To the facility, I mean.”

“No,” you start, watching his face fall before you can finish. “But only because I bought enough groceries to last me the whole weekend and I don’t want them to go to waste. But you can stay with me if you want.” His eyes are wide, brows raised. “My place is big enough and I think I have more of Steve’s clothes lying around…”

“You’d…” He swallows the lump growing in his throat. “You’d actually be okay with that?”

You let out a soft sigh. “Of course.” You force yourself not to backtrack or shy away. Not now. “We could rent some movies? It’ll probably storm the next couple of days so there’s really no point in heading out. Unless you want to?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. I don’t… I’d want to stay in if I stay. I want to stay. Can I?”

“Yes.” You grab his hand in yours and squeeze. “Yes, Bucky. Stay with me.”

The air settles but you see an unanswered question lingering on his mind. You’re about to press, but then he’s asking, shyly: “Will you let me kiss you again?”

It’s such an easy question, so effortless, and yet it holds the weight of months spent alone. You wonder if he has suffered the same aching coldness as you, desperate for someone else’s warmth. You want to tell him he can kiss you forever, until forever, after forever. “You can kiss me whenever,” are the words you finally settle on, and it’s clear they appease him.

“I’ll take the couch, tonight,” Bucky says a moment later. A small relief, since it’s too soon for anything like that. Personal space is something you’ll need to work on. Not tonight.

But you’re still curious: “What if you have a nightmare?”

He huffs, albeit with the ghost of a smile. “If you don’t hear me, I’ll wake you up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Later, after so many bowls of pasta you realize you’ll have to order takeout eventually, Bucky sinks into the couch; toes pressed against the arm, a thick blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. You excuse yourself for a moment to go turn on the heater, setting it a few degrees higher than usual so he doesn’t get cold. Your phone beeps softly from the pocket of your pajama pants. It’s Steve.

“I told you he’d notice.”

When you hear the tell-tale sigh of a snore, and realize Bucky has drifted off, lights still on and arm dropped off the side of the couch, you have to smile.

“Took him long enough.”

---

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