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ofclaires · 4 years

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SELF PARA.

Date: April 18, 2020, noon in America.

Location: Room 102

Brief summary: Claire calls her mom ! They talk about sheep. This is the happiest thing I’ve ever written and I hate it.

As Mary suggested, it was Claire who made the room look like no one lived in it – spotless, like a hotel room. However, it was not just a coping mechanism to keep her mind off of the way things had happened between her and Kass, she'd been looking for something. It had taken ages, but she'd found it, tucked back behind her desk, precariously perched above an outlet: a postcard. Claire doesn't do anything with it for days, just keeps it under her pillow, but she thinks about it. She's been rereading it a lot.

Claire –

Hope everything is well at your school. You have no idea how thrilled I was so excited to hear from Callum that you were attending college – I never got to go myself, you know, so...you're a first generation! I think they do scholarships for that, you should see what's available. I know it's been a while since we've talked, but Olaf's mom is very sick, so we'll be moving back here to be with her. And we're getting married! We'd love for you to be here, if you can.

Miss you, Your mom +354 267-7777

The postcard is about a year old and worn at the edges. Claire never made any plans to go to Iceland. ( She never liked horses all that much anyway. ) When Claire first got the postcard last year, she’s pretty sure she broke not one but two of the punching bags in the gym – because after everything that happened, her mom wasted little time getting hitched with some guy. Some guy that was gonna treat her like shit, and Claire resolved she was DONE. She has too many memories of laying in her twin bed in the trailer, holding her hands over her ears as she waited for the screaming to stop, unable to sleep until she was sure her mom was getting into bed safely. Sometimes, she would sneak into the next room, crawl into her mom’s bed and wait.

Claire’s tired of waiting for people that don’t come back. After all, she’s been one of those people.

She doesn't know why she's started thinking of her mom so much now. Maybe it’s a result of allowing Callum back into her life or the fact that so many people are thinking of their parents, with the email that came out recently. She feels glad that her mom is semi-normal and clueless about what she does. Claire hopes that keeps her mom safe, from everything that's been going on at Gallagher. It's been a hard year on everyone, that should not be undercut, and while she'd like to say that her fight with Kass is the biggest thing on her mind...terrorism is just a tad more daunting.

Claire keeps her distance from the witness protection students for good reason. But she worries about Francis and his close friendship with one of them, and she worries about Kass, who has a tendency to form friends and attachments everywhere. She never thought she'd be glad about Nudge being totally preoccupied by a boyfriend, but at least it makes her feel like Nudge is safe.

After all, hanging out with one of those kids is what cost Amelia.

She taps her foot anxiously, whole legging shaking, which rattles the desk that she's sitting at. She knows there are things she doesn't want to die without doing, she just doesn't know if she's brave enough to do them. Claire doesn't even notice her own nervous tick until Tilly rolls over and looks down at her from her bunk. She gives Claire a look.

"I'm fine."

Disbelief. Tilly is too smart for that, and Claire has never been great at masking her emotions.

"Well, mostly fine. Do you mind leaving the room for a minute? Nothing freaky, I just want to make a phone call," Claire asks, and Tilly's not the type to be difficult, so she agrees. But now that Claire's said the words out loud, she realizes that she wants to follow through with them – she's just scared. Granted, she should feel lucky that her mom is some regular lady in Reykjavik rather than some hired assassin or secret member of a terrorist organization. It's the little things.

Claire is pretty sure the dial tone is the worst sound she’s ever heard. She grips her phone tight, like...she might break it, if she squeezed hard enough, and she has to physically calm herself down, remind herself to breathe.

“Halló?” An unfamiliar voice answers the line. “Hver er þetta?”

Claire does not speak any Nordic languages, so she just stutters. “Um, hello? Is Maggie there?”

“Oh, hello! Yeah, she’s around here somewhere...in the garden, probably,” the man chuckles, switching to English without a second thought. “Who should I say is on the line?”

Claire likes how he phrases that, like she can make up anything for him to say and he’s happy to go along with it. She considers it, but shrugs, “You can say it’s Claire.”

The line goes silent for a moment, and she has to assume that this is her new husband – Olaf. He has a nice voice, but the last husband had a nice voice too. She’s met lots of boyfriends with nice voices, and by now, she’s realized there’s no way to really know a person until you get to know them. Instinct means next to nothing, you can’t trust it.

“Yes, of course. Hi – Claire.” He emphasizes her name, like he’s shocked that he’s gotten to say it, and then Claire spends the next ten minutes waiting in anticipation. She starts biting her fingernails, a habit she thought she broke years ago, but waiting on the line for her mom makes her FEEL like a child again.

“Claire, sweetie? Is that you? Oh my god, are you alright?” Her mom’s voice is like honey to Claire’s ears, bringing back memories she thought didn’t exist. Curled up in bed after long nights, pushing Claire’s hair back away from her face as she tells extravagant stories of pirates and vikings, eating junk food until the sun comes up.

“Hi, mom.” Ever reticent.

“How are you? I mean, I’ve heard from Callum a bit, he’s such a nice boy, but really, how are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s – it’s just been a while, so I thought I might...try your line,” Claire’s voice gets choked up near the end, and there’s tears in the corners of her eyes. She used to never cry, but she’s been doing it a lot lately, for some reason. Maybe she’s getting more in touch with her feelings, which is a horrifying thought.

“Well, it’s good to hear from you! It’s the first nice day we’ve had in a while, so I’ve just been out in the garden – I’m making Olaf fix the dishwasher, damn thing is ALWAYS acting up,” she laughs, and Maggie talks fast – it’s apparent she’s nervous, trying to fill the noise with some chatter. “And we’ve got sheep, and chickens, you would love these little guys.”

Claire furrows her brow. “Mom, you...you HATE gardening. And you also hate dirt. And chickens,” she adds, and she can already feel her heart sinking, because it’s just like her mom to meet a guy and completely reinvent herself into someone new. Claire’s seen her mom go through phase after phase – granted, gardening is a bit better than psychedelics, probably.

“Not any more! I’m a changed woman!” Claire can only nod emphatically at that, because, well, of course she is. “What are you studying again?” It’s also just like Maggie to act like it hasn’t been, oh, five years since they’ve spoken. Just launching into conversation like it’s normal, skirting around the rough stuff. Maggie always did that – avoided the tough conversations until it was too late.

“Listen – Mom, I just...I wanted to call to say I’m sorry. About everything that happened, I shouldn’t have...and I should’ve called sooner too, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened, and I still can’t – I –”

“Claire, honey, please. It’s alright, I’ve – I’ve moved past all of that, and...sometimes I do think about it, you know? And I wonder what my life would be like if you hadn’t stepped in when you did, or...if I’d even have one. I made some mistakes too, we both did. That doesn’t matter now.”

But to Claire, it still matters, at least a little. As long as she still dreams about the blood on her hands, it will matter. But it’s nice to hear her mom say it, and it’s a comfort to know that her mother’s life isn’t ruined by what she did – that things go on. She’s spent years imagining worse case scenarios, the turmoil she’d put her mother through, too afraid to reach out for fear of hearing the worst. This, at least, is some comfort.

“It’s okay, I know it can’t have been easy – forced to raise me on your own, and all. If I had a kid I’d probably drop it off on the doorstep of a nunnery or something.” Was that a thing? A nunnery?

“Don’t give me too much credit, I sure tried to get out of it – and god, your dad had it easy, doing God-knows-what in God-knows-where with his shitty band.”

“Is this the part where you tell me my dad is like, Mick Jagger or something?”

“Jesus, Claire, how old do you think I am?”

This makes Claire laugh, and after a moment, they’re BOTH laughing, and if it weren’t for the miles between them, it’d feel nostalgic – like coming home after school and throwing her backpack across the floor of their trailer. She’d sit at the kitchen table, eat dinosaur nuggets and Kraft mac & cheese while her mom would put on the radio, sing along to Dolly Parton in some ridiculous outfit. Claire remembers the bad days best, but when she remembers the good days, they’re really good.

“You’re happy though?” Claire asks, “I mean, you like this guy?”

“Yeah, I really like this guy – and I KNOW I don’t have a great track record, but he’s good. He’s really good. I mean, I’m out here gardening! I have chickens! He’s the real deal, and...he’s a great cook. I know it seems sort of crazy, packing up and moving to another country, but I really love him. You’ll get it someday, when you meet the right person.”

Claire rolls her eyes at that, in spite of herself. She’s glad her mom can’t see her face. She still doesn’t know what to think about love, but she has a feeling that it’s not really for her. She’s the metaphorical equivalent of Iceland – too distant, too much effort.

Then again, some people seem to think moving to Iceland is worth it.

“Okay.”

“Wait! Oh, Claire, what are you doing this summer? Do you want to come stay with us?”

Claire wrinkles her nose, “And what? Shear sheep?”

“Yeah!” Maggie replies enthusiastically, not picking up on the note of disgust in Claire’s voice ( or choosing to ignore it. ) “It could be fun, and I’d love for you to meet Oly. It’s a great little place, and summer’s really the only time worth visiting because it’s pretty much all darkness from September to March. You’ve seen that little video on the Youtube, with that guy–”

Claire cannot recall the little video on the Youtube. “I don’t know, I’ll think about it. Summer classes and stuff, you know.”

“Oh, of course, I’m sure you work so hard!” Maggie sounds so PROUD over the phone, and Claire wonders what her mom would think if she knew the truth about everything. Claire doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about the fact that her mom blissfully ignores everything that’s difficult, inviting Claire for the summer as if no time has passed.

“Yeah, so, um...tell me more about the chickens and sheep and stupid dishwasher, I guess. And the city? What’s that like?”

Claire’s happy to sit on the line for thirty more minutes, listening to her mom describe her new life, and they chat animatedly, like they’re at that kitchen table or laying in bed ‘til dawn, uninterrupted by the rest of the world. For thirty minutes, there’s no Blackthorne, no terrorist attacks, no witness protection students, or interpersonal drama. There’s only Claire and her mom ( mostly her mom, going on as Claire shakes her head and interjects, rolling her eyes as her mom teases. ) Although Claire knows better than to trust a calm before a storm, than to believe that nice things like this last. She won’t get her hopes up about the summer, because knowing Maggie, there’s a last-minute cancellation already in the works.

But she’ll enjoy this moment, right now, curling up on her bedspread like she’s a little kid again. So, when they get off the phone after a while, Claire just – she looks up at the slats of the bunk bed and smiles, so wide that it makes her face hurt a little – does smiling usually hurt like that? Now she’s pitying all the happy people.

Claire gets up to pin the postcard above her desk, deciding that there’s no point in hiding it underneath everything again. It’s probably not a good idea to get excited about even something so fleeting as weekly calls, but Claire is a glutton for disappointment, it seems. Lately, it’s felt like a big piece of her life is missing, and even if this one doesn’t fit perfectly in its spot, it’s still pretty damn good, because it fits perfectly in a different place – one she’d stopped noticing because it had been empty for so long. Optimism is a feeling she’s never really afforded herself before, but it feels good.

Well, as they say in Iceland:

Þetta reddast.

#*#i redid claire's theme and its cute tho

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buckyismyaesthetic · 7 years

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Punk (Chap. 5)

Summary: You’re head over heels for your best friend Bucky and hate the nickname he gave you as it doesn’t exactly scream romance.

Word count: 2942

Warnings: Same as always

A/N: FYI on Chap. 4 I had to go back and make a minor change bc of a continuity error. Bucky’s hair is short (think TJ Hammond style) in this fic and i slipped up an put in a man-bun note (it’s my weakness). Sorry! Now, back to the story….

Abandoning Wanda in your closet to hunt through the mass of new clothes you’d unceremoniously shoved in there earlier, you raced down the floor towards Nat’s room, ready to call the whole night off after that disaster of a dinner. You rounded the corner and attempted to stop short but your socks had no grip and you crashed into a wall of muscle. “Sorry, Sam,” you mumbled. “You okay?” Sam laughed and steadied you back on your feet.

You heard Bucky snort from behind and winced. Great, he’d just seen you stuff your face full of Chow Mein and apple pie and now he caught you hurdling down the hallway like the giant boulder from Indiana Jones. “He’s fine,” Bucky clapped him on the back. “Not even you could crack this thick skull.”

And with that he pulled Sam’s sweatshirt hood over his eyes and gave him a noogie before guffawing like a doofus and racing past you with Sam hot on his heels.

“Ay yo! What the hell’s that mean?!” he hollered. “And don’t touch my hair, man!” Sam’s voice carried down the hallway as he chased your best friend. A loud thud and muffled ‘ooof’ confirmed that he’d caught up to him and apparently rugby tackled him in the living room.

What does that mean? You asked yourself, thinking back to what Bucky’d said. ‘Not even you…’ What? Is that, like a fat thing? Like yeah, you’re clearly big and round and wrecking ball shaped so one might think that you’d be able to smash Sam’s bird brain like melon but…what? Or like, you’re almost, not quite, rhino sized but if you keep going for a lil’ bit longer you’ll get there?

You shook your head angrily at yourself. No, Bucky doesn’t think those things. You think those things. The nasty little gremlin in your head who stood over your shoulder when you looked in the mirror and parroted nasty thoughts and held a magnifying glass to every flaw. But what if all of the terrible things you thought were true. And what if Bucky could see them? What if everybody could see them? What if they all whispered about it behind your back saying, “Poor Y/N, no wonder she’s alone. Look at her. She’s so fat and ugly. Too big to be desired.” Just the thought of what the others might secretly think of you made your heart clench painfully.

Moving on autopilot as those nasty thoughts swirled around in your head, you found yourself standing gloomily in front of Natasha’s room. You twisted the handle and swung the door open, ready to declare defeat for a night that hadn’t even started, but you pulled up short at the sight before your eyes.

Clint and Natasha were standing in a passionate embrace next to the redhead’s bed. Her arms were wrapped around his neck while his hands cradled her face. They moved slowly, lost in the moment of being together and kissing so intimately. You leaned against the doorframe watching them for a minute. That was what you wanted with Bucky. To be held close like he couldn’t get enough of you. To pour your heart into a kiss and have it returned tenfold. You sighed softly at their love. Seeing them, two people who deserved love more than anything, well, you’d admit to turning into a big old mush. They were your OTP. You shipped ‘em—hard.

Nat pulled away from Clint’s, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “We know you’re there,” she said, not looking at you.

Clint smiled against her lips and you couldn’t help the goofy grin spreading across your face at his actions. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi guys. Sorry,” you smiled sheepishly. And suddenly you remembered. “Oh shit! Sorry. You’re sayin’ bye! I’ll just—I’ll come back. Fuck, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine, kiddo,” Clint replied stepping away from Natasha slightly to look at you. “I don’t leave until 5am anyway.” He, Thor, and Vision were leaving for New Mexico on a mission. Something about drug cartels or the Roswell incident…you hadn’t been listening at dinner and, admittedly, you knew like two things about New Mexico…was the Grand Canyon there? Or in Arizona?…Nevada? Note to self: Google shit later.

The archer moved to the bed to pack more things into his go-bag. He looked down at his watch, prompting you to go the same. 10:30. Shit. “Alright, you two, about this ‘girls nite’,” he adopted his ‘serious’ voice and glanced between you and Nat, which only made you snicker and Nat roll her eyes. Clint ignored you both and continued. “You,” he pointed to Nat. “Do not kill anyone. Drunk men hitting on you deserve to be maimed, not murdered.”

“What if they touch me?” Nat teased. “Is violence permitted then?”

Clint pretended to think about it. “As an Avenger, I frown upon it. As your boyfriend?…well, just don’t get caught, babe.” He gave her a playful wink which made her grin devilishly. “And you,” he rounded onto you.

“‘Be Natasha’s alibi,” you replied with a little goody-two-shoes sass. “Have the getaway car ready to go with fake passports in the glove department—”

“No setting anything on fire, no starting bar fights, no ritual Satanic sacrifices of any kind,” he spoke over you, ticking off his fingers, and you weren’t sure how he managed to keep a straight face because you’re cheeks were puffed trying to keep gales of laughter from pouring out.

“I make no promises,” you snickered.

“And try not to break any hearts while you’re out there, kid.” He gave you wink.

“Ugh, okay, that one I can promise.” You rolled your eyes.

Nat, having moved to the closet to collect an outfit and some makeup, materialized at you side. She leaned in to whisper in your ear while Clint was distracted rolling a pair of socks into tiny all for his bag. “I know that look, Y/N. We’re not cancelling. You’ll be fine. It’ll be fun.”

Blast her and her stupid spidey senses! How could she possibly know that you were planning on backing out and spending the remainder of the evening playing Call of Duty and drinking cocoa? Nat hooked her arm through yours, leaned in to give Clint another kiss goodbye before warning him to come back to her safe and sound, and then marched you back towards your room where you were subjected to the tortuous task of making yourself look half way decent to be seen in public.

Tears were shed. Curses were thrown. Friendships abolished. Mortal wounds were inflicted. But, in the end, Wanda and Natasha had managed to get you dressed for the club. They assured you over and over that you looked stunning in the three quarter sleeve, tea length dress but you honestly didn’t see it. You felt exposed and vulnerable and kept tugging at the hem to pull it further down, fearing that your cellulite was on display and that with every step people could see your underwear. And you weren’t used to wearing things that were so….form-fitting. You normally wore boys clothes. Baggy sweaters with sleeves so long that you could curl your fingers around the edges. T-shirts with graphics and movie quotes, images from your favourite fandoms. Your socks never matched and usually had pictures of pizza slices or dinosaurs. And your feet were usually kept nice in warm in combat boots or chucks. None of this ‘stilettos’ crap.

Speaking of which. “I feel like Bambi on ice, Wanda,” you whined as your ankles wobbled with each step in the ‘fuck me pumps’ Nat had smashed onto your toes.

“Stop complaining,” she replied. “You look amazing.” She whipped her phoned in front of you, forcing you to take a selfie with her. You grimaced. Having your photo taken was one of your least favourite things. You’d much rather take the photo than be in it. She could put one of those pretty filters on it at least. Something that got rid of your double chin and deemphasized the asymmetry of your face. Preferably, a filter that evened out the plethora of skin tones your face was fond of sporting despite MACs best effort to conceal everything. And even with all that expensive make up on you felt ugly. Like a clown and a liar. This isn’t me. This is a mask…Like a villain from Scooby Doo…

“Get outta here with that!” You pushed the camera away and focused on not tripping on the sidewalk.

“Are we there yet?”

“Yes,” Nat groaned stopping in front of a door. You had asked her that question about eleven times in the fifteen minute walk from the tower to the club. And when you had protested and wanted to take a cab she said “you need practice walking in those heels” in her stupid, know-it-all voice. She was right. You did need practice. Also. You needed new feet! You were surely bleeding. They’d have to be cut off. Why the fuck do girls wear these things?!

The heavy bass music from the club assaulted your ears as the bouncers let you pass. The lights were dimmed out over the dance floor but the bar was light up and crowded as people shark swarmed the bartenders, waving money for drinks.

“Breathe,” Nat whispered in your ear. She must’ve seen your eyes go wide as you took in the mass of beautiful people before you. Women were decked out in short dresses, five inch heels, tits up and out looking like Victoria’s Secret models. And…where they casting the next Magic Mike movie in here? All of these guys looked like they’d stepped out of an Abercrombie Catalogue. Where were the average looking people? Where were the normal, regular shaped folk who didn’t look photo-shopped to perfection? What kinda club was this?

Why were all of these girls either short and petite or model tall and waifish? It made you feel like Shrek. Oh, fuck. My dress is green. Greaaaaat. You crossed your arms over your stomach in attempt to make yourself feel smaller. I don’t like this, I don’t like this, I don’t like this…

“You okay?” Wanda handed you a cocktail.

“Yeah, fine. Good. I’m good.” Do. Not. Hyperventilate.

She knew you were lying. She was Wanda after all. Why you even bothered was a mystery…probably just natural instinct; when in doubt, lie your ass off. “Come on, you see anyone you like? You can practice talking to boys here.”

“Yeah, that’s perfect. Pick a guy an’ practice what you’d want to say if he were Bucky,” Nat pipped in as she sipped her martini. Just the thought of pretending to flirt with Bucky had your stomach in knots.

“I dunno. It seems mean. Flirtin’ with someone and just, I dunno. Not likin’ ‘em,” you shouted over the beat. “And I don’t even know what I’m doing anyway. ”

“Just go over to,” Nat twirled around gathering intel of the men by the bar, “that guy.” With a jut of her chin she pointed out a cute, stocky guy with short, light brown hair.

“No, he’s—he’s probably not interested. I don—I don’t wanna bother him,” you stammered. You could feel sweat gathering on your back and cursed under your breath. Now that you were here, you didn’t think you could do this. Sure, it sounded great in your head. Practice makes perfect. But what if this guy rejected you…like Bucky would…what if his face twisted with revulsion as you approached him? What is he just stares at you thinking ‘Great, the ugly chick is talking to me’? No, you can’t handle that! Rejection like that would kill you, you just knew it.

You tugged on your neckline, fanning yourself. It was getting too hot in here; your face was flushed and every square inch of skin felt hot and clammy. There was no way you could flirt with Bucky! You couldn’t even flirt with Joe Schmo over there! But you had begged Nat to help you, recruited Wanda into the plan, interrupted their evenings. Backing out now wasn’t really an option.

The guy at the bar turned and happened to catch you staring at him during your mental freak out. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! Stop looking! You, rather uncooly, averted your eyes and turned to re-join Nat and Wanda’s conversation only to see them slinking away from you. Natasha mouthed ‘go!’ and pointed towards the bar while Wanda gave you an apologetic shrug and allowed herself to be lead off into the throng of dancing bodies. Spinning quickly back to face the bar, hoping your face wasn’t frozen in mortification, you found your target. The guy was still there with his friends.

So, you had two options: 1) stand in the middle of club, alone, looking like an idiot, or 2) go talk to that guy and make a fool of yourself. Both sounded equally horrifying but right now you felt like every single eye in the club was on you, and not in a good way. This is how the gladiators must’ve felt before they were eaten by lions, you mused. Seeking the shelter of the bar, you meandered through a mob of people and forced yourself to go over to the him.

He was slightly shorter than you with your heels on, a small problem to some people, but to you, well, it made you feel like the Jolly Green Giant. Guys liked girls who were tiny. Little. Small enough to pick up and carry around. They want to be the big, brave protectors. Your physique didn’t exactly allow for that, at least not with this dude. But if Natasha saw you walk over here and not even attempt to flirt with him, she’d flay you alive; you liked your skin where it was thankyouverymuch.

You swirled the drink in your hand, trying to hype yourself up to make your move. Aha! Liquid courage! Downing the glass in two quick gulps, you slammed it back down on the bar. This caught the guy’s attention and you froze like a deer in headlights. Line? Line? What’s my line?

“Hey,” he said.

Oh thank god. “Hi.”

Flirting should be a college course. People should have to pass tests or get board certified before being permitted to attempt making advances on civilians. Why the hell don’t they teach these things in school? What were you supposed to do with your hands? Do you touch his arm? What if he doesn’t like that? Your dress doesn’t have pockets to jam them in—clearly a design flaw—and you’d already dropped two straws on the floor as you fiddled with them nervously.

After the standard introductory greeting where you learned that his name was Ethan, you both lapsed into a silence which you assumed was becoming unbearably uncomfortable and, being the awkward turtle that you were, felt the need to fill it.

“So, uh,” you bumbled. “D’you—” Don’t ask “d’you come here often?”! “—d’you…have…a…job?” Ohmygod kill me.

Ethan laughed and proceeded to tell you about accounting. It went right over your head, like anything math related did. But you smiled and nodded in what you hoped were all the right places. And that was how it went. An odd, uncomfortable conversation where you felt like you were conducting an interview and somehow intruding on his life. He was perfectly polite, but you couldn’t tell if he was even interested let alone flirting, hell, you couldn’t even tell if you were flirting, or if he was just being a nice guy and putting up with the unsightly, annoying chick crashing his night out . Luckily, your rescue came in the form of a cute little witch asking you to go dance.

“Nice to meet you,” you waved to Ethan as you followed Wanda into the chaos of the dance floor. “Thanks, Wan. I was dying out there. This isn’t really my thing.” Wanda rolled her eyes in amusement and tried to get you to gyrate your hips to the beat, but you merely stepped back. “This isn’t my thing either.” You were a dorky dancer; you danced to the Spice Girls, Mambo No.5, N’SYNC. You head banged to Motely Crew, rapped to 50 Cent and Eminem. You were not Beyoncé or Shakira. You did not have sexy hip swivels; you did not drop it like it was hot. If you dropped it, it stayed down and shattered like Humpty Dumpty.

“How’d it go?” Natasha walked up behind you and you quickly informed her of your less than stellar performance. “Aw, it’s okay. You just need to keep tryin’! You didn’t burst into flames, Y/N. He didn’t shove you away or look at you like you were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe,” she parroted back your earlier concerns. “You can do this! C’mon. Let’s find someone else. You pick.”

Natasha gripped your shoulders and spun you about, forcing you to dance, and making you laugh in turn. “Okay, okay!” you gave in. She was sort of right after all. That guy didn’t run screaming from the club when you went to talk to him. Maybe you could do this.

The darkness of the dancefloor didn’t really let you see anyone clearly so you angled yourself so that the people by the bar were in view. “Okay, I pick—” Just then the crowd parted like the red sea and there he was, looking effortlessly gorgeous, like he’d been carved from marble and blessed by Aphrodite herself, leaning against a stool occupied by a very beautiful woman—“Bucky.”

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