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arrow-guy · 4 years

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Broken Flock (9/??)

Summary: It’s been two years since you uprooted your life and left to figure out who you really are, leaving behind Bucky and Clint with little more than a note as a warning. Now, New York is calling your name and it’s time to go home. How will Clint and Bucky react to your return, and how will the time have affected your relationship?

A/N: HELLO, WE HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE ANGST TRAIN, TIME TO DISEMBARK. There will be mentions of Sad Times later on down the road, but as of the last third of this chapter, we’re headed to that happy ending I promised last chapter. Anyway, please enjoy!

Page dividers @carryonmyswansong

Pairing: WinterhawkxReader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Canon typical violence, mentions of needles/IVs

Part 8

“We’re certain she’s in there,” Bucky says. “And we need to move now if we’re gonna get her out.”

Steve nods. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

“You, Sam, and Nat will focus on the goons and finding whoever’s in charge,” Clint explains. “Bucky and I are going to find (Y/N). We think she’s in the barn, but we can’t go in through the side unless we want the whole thing to come down on top of her.”

“When do we move?” Sam asks.

“As soon as possible. Now, if we can.”

“Then let’s do it,” Steve says.

Bucky pauses. “Really? What about Ross and his bullshit accords?”

“Fuck the Accords,” Steve says. “(Y/N) is our family, and we’re going to do whatever it takes right now to save her. I’m tired of trying to work around his little roadblocks. These bastards wormed their way through his cracks, and we’re going to make sure they pay for what they’ve done.”

“Alright.” Bucky nods. “Then we act now, before they can do anything to prepare for us.”

“Move fast, hit ‘em hard.” Steve nods once. “Understood.”

“Alright.” Clint looks around at the group. “Let’s do this.”

“No one is coming for you.”

“Okay,” I say simply.

My answer is rewarded with a slap across my face and I just let my head fall forward. My chin hits my chest and my eyes close of their own accord. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep, but the chains around my wrists keep me held up against the wall like some kind of bastardized crucifix.

“You’re ours,” the Doctor declares. She paces in front of me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. “I will complete my research, and you’re going to help me do it.”

She slaps me again when I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. She didn’t want me to fight back when she initially captured me, but was intrigued when I did the day before. When I talk back, she hits me. When I don’t react at all, she hits me. There’s no winning with this woman.

My legs begin to give out and the chains around my wrists start to dig in when they’re forced to hold up more weight. I wince and do what I can to keep my feet underneath my body, but I barely have the energy to lift my head.

Someone rushes into the barn and the Doctor stops pacing. They rattle off something that sounds urgent, that needs the Doctor’s immediate attention, but I can’t seem to focus on their words. She shifts back towards me momentarily and I turn my face away from her and squeeze my eyes shut. She makes a frustrated noise before hurrying out into the hallway, grunt in tow.

I give myself a moment to breathe before I try to stand at my full height. My legs shake, but I have just enough time to get a firm grip on the chains and wrap them around my hands once. With just that small adjustment, I can support myself better, even if I can’t fully stand, and the cuffs don’t dig into my wrists the way they did before.

There’s a shout from the hallway, followed by muffled thuds and groans. A herd of thugs thunder past the door. One voice stands out against the rest of the noise, barking out orders, only to be cut off by a distant explosion. A gun fires and I flinch.

Steve, Natasha, and Sam sneak into the main building, careful to not draw attention to themselves. Clint and Bucky don’t waste time with any kind of subtlety.

Clint blasts a hole into the side of the main building with an explosive arrow and Bucky moves through the rubble before the smoke clears. As soon as Clint joins Bucky, they're surrounded by goons. Bucky makes a mental note of the lack of identifying patches on their uniforms before he smacks one of them with the stock of his rifle and throws another into the wall. The man leaves a dent in the plaster and falls to the linoleum in a heap.

Clint takes down large clumps of men with net and putty arrows at the end of the hall opposite their destination. When he's finished, he joins Bucky in mowing through the guards blocking the way to the barn. They're not particularly careful as they go, not paying much attention to the force they use. They're more concerned with getting to (Y/N) than they are with the health of the people who kidnapped her.

They work quickly and methodically until no one is left standing. Clint signals to Bucky when he finds an open door, right about where they initially guessed the barn would be. They freeze as soon as they step through the door.

(Y/N) is strung up by her arms, barely able to keep herself standing. Clint cautiously approaches and finds her face turned away from them, her eyes squeezed shut. He glances back at Bucky, who looks like he wants to throw up, and his stomach clenches. He takes another step towards (Y/N).

“(Y/N),” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”

“Clint?” she croaks.

“Yeah, honey, it’s me. Bucky’s here too.”

Her eyes flutter open and she looks around the barn. Her grip on the chains tightens when she sees her boys. She shakes her head and presses her back against the wall.

“You’re not really here,” she whispers.

“We are,” he says. “I promise we are.”

Clint reaches out and brushes away the tear that’s rolled down her cheek. (Y/N) doesn’t flinch away from his touch like he thought she would. Instead, she presses her cheek to his hand and her bottom lip begins to tremble.

Clint motions for Bucky to come closer, and he slowly approaches, scared that he’ll spook (Y/N) if he’s too loud.

“We’re gonna get you outta here,” Bucky says softly.

He crouches down and breaks the chains at her ankles so that Clint can pick her up and relieve the stress on her wrists. Bucky then snaps the chains on both wrists and her arms fall around Clint’s neck. Bucky reaches up and ghosts his fingertips over her cheek and she blinks. They watch as she slowly realizes that they really have come for her and her face crumples. She covers her mouth with her and as she begins to cry and she presses her forehead to Clint’s chest.

“Come on.” Bucky turns to the door and Clint follows. “We’re leaving.”

“What about Steve, Sam, and Nat?”

“They can catch up.”

“They’re here?” (Y/N) asks. The scratchiness of her voice breaks Clint’s heart.

“Yeah, they helped us find you,” Clint explains.

"Oh." She takes a shaky breath and reaches out to Bucky. "Thank you."

Bucky takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Nothing to thank us for. We should've been here sooner."

Her head falls back to Clint's chest and all three of them bundle out to the hallway.

Leaving the facility is easy compared to getting in. Every single man they took out on the way in is still in a heap on the floor as they move through the hallway. Clint's arms tighten around (Y/N) as they near their exit point. As soon as they're clear, Clint and Bucky sprint back to the quinjet.

They slow as they reach the line of trees that hide the jet from sight. Bucky lifts his rifle and steps into the brush first. When he knows the coast is clear, he signals for Clint to follow. They lift the ramp as soon as they’re inside. Clint takes a seat with (Y/N) in his lap. He looks up when Bucky makes a sound akin to a growl and finds him with a knife in his hand.

“Bucky?”

“They put belts around her wings,” Bucky grinds out. He kneels at Clint’s feet and pulls one of the straps away from her feathers. She whimpers. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but I gotta get these off.”

(Y/N) just nods and presses her face to Clint’s chest. She presses her fist to her mouth to muffle her noises of discomfort as Bucky saws through the leather. As soon as he tosses the third and final strap to the side, Bucky takes a seat beside Clint and (Y/N) lets her head fall to his shoulder. He places his hand on the back of her neck and kisses the top of her head before tracing over her jaw with his thumb.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” he murmurs.

She just shakes her head and loops her arm around his. “S’fine. Kind of my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” Clint says. “You should’ve been home, safe.”

“But now I’m safe with you.” She grabs Clint’s hand and squeezes gently. “I knew you’d find me.”

Clint and Bucky look at each over her head. Bucky lets out a shaky breath and Clint nods, confirming that he feels the same. Relieved to have her back, but devastated seeing what she’s gone through.

Bucky’s earpiece crackles to life and he presses his finger to, saying, “What is it?”

“Where are you?”

“We’re on the jet. We found (Y/N) and got out of there.”

“Is she alright?” Steve asks.

“She’s injured and exhausted,” Bucky says. He kisses her forehead and she shifts against him. “But she’s alive.”

“Good. We’re just about finished here. Natasha and I are gonna stay behind and wait for reinforcements. We’ll join you upstate once we’ve rounded everyone up.”

“What about Sam?”

“He’ll be flying back with you.” Steve pauses and Bucky hears a heavy thud. “Did you really have to throw them into walls?”

“They were in our way.”

Steve sighs. “Sam’s on his way to meet you. I’m glad she’s safe.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“We’ll see you at the compound.”

The line goes dead and Bucky pockets the earpiece. He relays everything to Clint who simply nods.

By the time Sam makes it back to the quinjet, (Y/N) has fallen asleep and Bucky and Clint are finally starting to relax. They begin to doze as the jet rumbles to life.

I dozed off, somehow. My entire body is sore, and I can’t find the energy to move, but the quiet beeping edging into my consciousness is telling me to wake up. In spite of this, it still takes me several minutes to force my eyes open.

When I manage to crack open one eye, I find that the room is dimly lit by a single lamp in the corner. There’s a couch next to the lamp where Clint and Bucky are fast asleep. Clint has Bucky tucked under his arm and his head is tipped back against the wall as he snores softly. Bucky, with his head on Clint’s chest, has folded his arms and is scowling in his sleep.

Watching the two of them sleep, a feeling of peace washes through me. Clint shifts in his sleep and Bucky presses closer to his side and I smile. I wish I could be over there with them, but just being in the same room is enough for me right now.

I pull the thin blanket up, over my shoulders and hug my arms to my chest, careful to avoid the IV tube. The sounds of their deep, steady breathing lulls me back to sleep.

I wake again later, feeling significantly better than I had before. My back still aches, but I suspect it will for a while due to the abuse my wings took and the time that they were strapped down.

I stretch my arms out in front of me and then scrub my hands over my face.

With my eyes still closed I call out, “Bucky?”

Receiving no answer, I open my eyes and glance around the room, only to find it empty. The lamp in the corner is still the only light on in the room, and my eyes adjust easily. I sigh and slowly sit up. I can’t straighten my back fully yet, but leaning forward slightly allows me to extend my wings and stretch out my back. I stretch my wings out to their full length and I’m surprised when there’s no tug on my feathers.

I wrap my right wing around and am shocked to see that the tar that had covered the primary feathers is gone. I reach around to the left side and find nothing but soft feathers. Even better than clean feathers, none of them are missing. I remember when the Doctor had suggested trimming the tar from my feathers and knowing that wasn’t ultimately necessary almost reduces me to tears.

The sound of footsteps approaching in the hallway makes me freeze. I peek around my wing and wait.

“(Y/N)?” Bucky stands in the doorway, looking like he’s about to drop the phone in his hand. I shift towards the edge of the bed and he darts into the room. “Don’t move, you’re still hurt.”

I nod, but still turn myself to face him and fold my legs underneath myself. He slowly approaches, almost as if he’s worried about spooking me. He stops just short of the bed, and my fingers twitch with the need to have him just a little closer. Close enough to touch. To hold his hand. I reach out to him and curl my fingers into the hem of his shirt and tug him slightly closer. I hesitate a moment before taking his hand. Bucky readily weaves his fingers with mine and lifts our linked hands to kiss my knuckles.

“Please stay with me,” I whisper.

“Of course I will,” he says. He carefully takes my face in his hands and presses a tender kiss to my forehead. He pulls away and swipes his thumb over my cheek. “Of course I will, sweetheart.”

He pulls up a chair and sits beside the bed. He tells me to leave the IV alone and I laugh.

“I haven’t touched it, Buck.”

“Good. You need those fluids.”

“I know.” I squeeze his hands. A shadow appears in the doorway and I glance up and smile. “Clint.”

“You’re awake!” He drags a chair across the room with him and plants himself next to Bucky, only to immediately stand up again. “I wanna hug you so bad.”

I glance between Clint and Bucky, Bucky smiles and nods. I push myself up on my knees and wrap my arms around Clint’s shoulders. His arms circle around my middle and he presses his nose to my shoulder.

“I missed you so much,” I murmur.

“We missed you too,” he says. “We were so worried. I’m sorry it took us so long.”

“You found me.” I comb my fingers through his hair. “Just like I knew you would.”

“You left a note,” Bucky wraps his arms around Clint and I. “We knew you wouldn’t run off again.”

“Never.” I pull away to look at them. “Never again. You’re stuck with me.”

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Part 10

So, how about that happy ending? That’s not the end of it, I promise, but it’s a good start. No more hurting anyone from now on, I promise.

That being said, I’d love to hear about your reactions! I always like knowing what you guys thought, so please comment, reblog, and/or shoot me an ask!

If you’d like to be tagged in future chapters, please let me know!

Tag list:

@ghostlyhamlet, @claws-of-vibranium, @creaturefeatures101, @buckysendoftheline, @imagine-assembling-the-avengers, @ptprocrastination, @1950schick, @amayasymone23, @arfrona-and-marvel, @ek823, @fanaticfangirl001, @furrywerewolfcollector, @kissofvenom922, @dawn-phantomhive, @fangirlwihtasweettooth, @mairhof1, @starryeyesbadguys, @trap-house-homiecide, @buckywhitewolfbarnes, @kaepm981, @howdoesoneadult, @pcdmesamidala, @thefandomplace, @sian22redux, @skeletoresinthebasement, @lady-thor-foster, @jazzcutie, @gaytonystark, @geeksareunique, @nyxveracity, @breezy1415, @darling-loki, @lemonadeorange73, @tofeartheunknown, @queenoftheunderdark

This fic:

@avengerscompound, @nerdy-bookworm-1998, @shirukitsune, @keenmarvellover, @katebarton15

#winterhawkxreader #readerxwinterhawk #winterhawk x reader #reader x winterhawk #bucky barnesxreader #readerxbucky barnes #clint bartonxreader #readerxclint barton #winterhawk #clint barton #bucky barnes #reader insert marvel fic

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dirtymikekidd · 3 years

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I’m a miserable f*ck

This is going to be the place where I write down how the day’s events have effected my interpersonal feelings. This first post will be a lot of random stories from my life that I feel like have shaped how I look at life.

I’m setting a course to change my outlook on my life. There has been many things that I’ve not been able to let go of. Most of them are little things that really shouldn’t bother me let alone still be thinking about years later. Hell I still think back to when I was in 8th grade. I was on my way to my history class. There was a girl that I had the hots for at her locker, which was right next to the class I was running late for. I decided to make a joke about a haircut that I had seen to her. you know, trying to break the ice. It kind of worked. She hadn’t ever given me the time of day. But I managed to make her laugh. The tardy bell rings, and I got into class. I only had a few seconds of feeling on top before the teacher, Mr. H., made a comment to me, which killed my feelings of elation. It was something along the lines of “Don’t even try, she’s way out of your league.”

It was one of the only times I’ve ever put myself out there like that. It felt like a huge slap in the face. I was 13 when that happened. I’m 27 now. Anyway, I’m getting a little off topic. I don’t expect anyone to read what I type here. I just know that it’s making things worse by keeping everything bottled up.

Let me start off by saying, I’ve gone through things that I can only hope that my children don’t ever have to go through. Growing up I became my family’s mortician. Not because we were intentionally killing any animals, but because I lived on a farm and you know, diseases and wild predators. Either way I’ve buried 1 dog, 3 cats, 3 sheep, a stillborn foal (baby horse), and roughly 10 chickens. I do think dealing with all of it as often as I did, has made me numb to death.

I was around 9 when I dug my first grave. It was for our dog, Auggie. he was a fat golden retriever. Like fat enough to get the nickname of “the coffee table”. You could put a cut of water on his back and it wouldn’t spill. He ended up being put down by gun... He either had a seizure or was electrocuted (because he used to lay up under our Christmas tree). Anyway so something snapped and he suddenly didn’t know who we were. He was growling and barking at my sister and me. My mom let him outside. Normally we wouldn’t put him on a chain or in a fenced in area because we lived in the middle of no where, and he wasn’t one to run off. This time he did. We found him at our closest neighbor’s house, roughly a quarter to a half mile from our house. Mom brought him home and put him in one of the spare horse stalls that we had. I overheard my mom and dad talking about how they weren’t sure what to do with him, as they were worried what he might do to me and my sister, or what he’d do to the other animals. It was decided it was his time. My dad asked me to go outside and dig a hole. But not by any barn openings or where water ran off. So I dug a hole. 4ft long, 3 ft wide, and about 3 ft deep. I went back in after it was dug, and my mom told me to stay in the house and don’t look outside until she came back in. She went outside carrying a .22g pistol. I knew what was about to happen. and even though she told me not to look outside, I still did. 2 shots rang out, Auggie dropped into the hole I had just dug not even 20 minutes before. A moment later another 2 shots rang. I didn’t know why it took 4 shots until I overheard my parents talking about it. Apparently Auggie was fat enough that the first couple bullets didn’t actually kill him. And when he dropped into the hole, he was crying in agony. The second 2 shots ended his suffering. He was my best friend growing up. And I hate that his life ended that way. I don’t hold any of it against my parents. I know they were trying to protect their family unit. I still think about him to this day.

The cats were inside/outside cats. Or as my dad called them, barn cats. In the 14 years we lived on the farm, we had at least 20 cats. Most of them were either hit by cars or another animal killed them. We had one cat, Thomas, who had just showed up one day. He looked just like Garfield. He had a huge gash on his front leg and a bowel blockage. Mom talked my dad into taking him to the vet. We got him all fixed up and basically adopted him. He became a mostly indoor cat, but he would still get let outside. He never took off anywhere. He would just kinda hang out in the barns hunting mice or laying in the sun. One Sunday morning I got up and looked outside. And there he was laying at the end of our driveway...internal organs hanging out. There was a blood trail that looked like he was hit in the middle of the road, then drug off to the side. I buried him right next to Auggie. the other two cats were killed by a dog we had been watching for a family as they went on a missionary trip.

The sheep were for a 4-H project that me and another kid had been working on. Let me rephrase, we were supposed to be working on it together, but he took off and I couldn’t get ahold of him. Anyway, so I don’t actually know what it was that killed them, but some animal had gotten in and ripped up their necks

The stillborn would’ve been the fifth horse born at our house. It was my dad’s dream horse with the color of its’ fur. It holds the record for the biggest sized hole I’ve dug to this day.

The chickens..... that’s a grave I wish I could’ve done differently. They’re the only mass grave I’ve ever dug. Two holes about 3 ft deep and about a foot wide. They didn’t make it through the sickness that most chickens go through in the first year or so of their lives.

Continuing on the subject of death..so back in 2008 my mom was kicked in the chest and arm by one of our horses as we were getting ready to start cleaning stalls. My dad took her to the hospital because they were sure she had a broken rib. She had x-rays done and what they found was worse.. masses in her lungs. The doctors did a full body MRI. Masses in the lungs and a couple more in the brain... cancer... stage IV lung cancer that had spread. We found out on New Year’s day. Within a couple weeks she was starting chemo. By September she had a treatment called “Gamma knife surgery” on the mass on her frontal lobe of her brain. They continued the chemo on her lungs, and things seemed to be going into remission. Her battle finally ended at 10;45pm on June 5th, 2010.... I wasn’t home when it happened. I was 2 towns over celebrating my best friend’s 16th birthday...I still haven’t been able to forgive myself for not being there...

I’m not sharing these details because I want sympathy. But because I’m stuck living in the past and I’ve never been able to get out of my own head. As the title says, I’m a miserable fuck because of it.

The next post will job stuff..

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ours-is-feral-love · 6 years

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Red Sand

A/N: And . . . another one. Really couldn’t get this idea out of my head. [SPOILERS if you’ve not finished the show!]

Enjoy.

Summary: Alyssa sneaks into the hospital where James is being held following his capture. [T for language ] [Word Count: 2,621] [Alyssa’s POV]

I look the police officer over carefully from where I sit, watching his heavy eyelids droop over his evil eyes. He shouldn’t be too hard to fool. He looks like quite an idiot.

Nurses and doctors pass by on a continual loop, each of them shooting nervous glances at the doorway behind the drowsy PC. I want to tell them all to fuck off. I want to shout it really, really loudly. Scream it until I can’t speak anymore. Until there’s blood coming out of my mouth. But I stop myself. Making a scene won’t do me any good. No one can know I am here. Mum thinks I’m tucked underneath my duvet like some fucking caterpillar waiting to become a butterfly.

They’re scared of him. They’re all terrified he’s going to escape his restraints and slaughter them as if he is a psychotic serial killer.

Pussies. Each and every one of them.

None of them know who he is. They don’t know what really happened that night. They think they do because of the shitty news coverage, but the media is full of liars and money-loving fakes. And a story about an unhinged boy on a crime spree sneaking into a rapist’s house intending to murder said rapist sells better than the truth. That James only killed him to protect me.

He’s a hero. He deserves a medal, not shackles. Not a bullet hole in his left arm.

I heard on the BBC they had to give him blood transfusions because of how much of his own supply he lost on the beach. Because the bullet that hit him snagged an artery on its way out.

It’s been nearly a week, and I’ve unintentionally blocked that day from my memories, but I remember that bit. I hear that final gunshot as I sit staring at the sleeping officer and I see James go down as if it’s happening all over again. He sprawls on the ground, arms and legs at strange angles. I’m still screeching his name, but he isn’t moving. And there’s red. It’s everywhere, spilling over the wet sand . . .

I close my eyes before I lose my shit in the middle of the hospital. I breathe in a shaky breath, clutching the seat of the uncomfortable chair I am occupying near James’ room. The scratchy vinyl feels gross, but the cracks in the material scrape my palms and the pain is somehow soothing.

I think I've always needed a little bit of pain to get me through the day. It's why I put up with Tony for so long. Why I let my mum talk down to me like I was the most massive disappointment. Of course, I'm suffering a lot more than I'm used to at the moment. General teenage angst seems to have not prepared me for a situation like this. A situation that involves the boy you love being shot and then shackled to a hospital bed.

I am so lost right now.

But I know if I could see him, just for a second, that everything would fall back into place. I won't be so lost when I get past that snoozing guard.

I open my eyes and get to my feet. It's time for some fucking action. I pinch my cheeks, slouch my shoulders, and push my bottom lip out. Satisfied that I look like someone in need of some help, I approach the policeman.

I poke him hard on the arm. He jerks awake, and for a moment I just want to slap him. Bring him to the ground and beat the shit out of him. But I manage to hold myself back.

The man's bulging eyes look me up and down. His face softens.

It is this moment I am outrageously glad my parents’ genes mixed in just the right way to make me look like a fucking twelve-year-old.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asks in that voice my mum uses when she's talking to the twins.

Ugh. The desire to punch him comes over me again. He's even more fucking disgusting than I thought.

“Some—someone stole my bag." I sniffle, watching the geezer before me take on a hardened look of determination. "It had a present for my mum in it."

"Okay, darling. Which way did he go?" He reaches out for my hand, but I quickly use that one to point behind me.

No way do I want this old creep touching me.

"That way. I think I saw him going down the stairs. He's probably not even here anymore." I put my face in my hands and pretend to cry. I make ugly noises for added effect.

Maybe I should be a fucking actor when I grow up. Do they let criminals on TV?

"Don't cry," he says. "Don't cry. Look. I can't leave this spot, but I can ask a nurse to take you down to the security desk and they can help find your bag. Okay?"

Not okay. So not okay.

I remove my hands, frowning. "I need to find it now! My mum is dying of fucking cancer and you can't be a decent enough policeman to help me get back the present I bought for her with literally all of my fucking money? What if she dies in the time it takes for me to go down and start explaining this shit show to someone else?"

Gotcha.

The officer's face is wide. His mouth hangs open. His saucepan eyes swerve around the room, making sure no one is watching us.

"Okay," he says in an angry, hushed tone. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. What did the man look like?"

He stands up, straightening the weapons belt around his hips.

"Tall. Dark eyes, brown hair. Wearing a dark grey sweater with blue jeans and black snazzy shoes. Tan. Probably forty or so," I say. It’s Tony’s description. Maybe he’ll be walking down the street when the PC comes along.

Turning as the policeman does, my back is now to the door.

I can practically feel James.

My heart thumps wildly in anticipation. It hurts. I can't breathe.

"Alright." He motions to the seat at the back of my knees. "Stay here. Make sure no one goes inside."

"Why?" I ask as he starts walking away. "What's behind the door?"

"A monster," he says.

That's it. If I see him again, I'm definitely punching him.

I nod in agreement to his request, staring after him as he disappears round a corner.

This is it. I turn towards the room and shove the chair out of the way, moving close enough to the door that I can smell the wood. I reach for the handle. It’s cold, but unlocked. Twisting slowly, my eyes darting left and right, praying to the countless number of deities I’ve heard of throughout my whole life that I won’t get caught, I hear a click and the door falls inward. I go with it, pressed to the wood, and sneak inside the room.

I actually gasp. Like a fucking cartoon or something. The door closes softly behind me. I look around the room. There are wires and machines everywhere. Beeping noises collapse against my eardrums.

A heartbeat. James’ heartbeat.

And there he is. Right in front of me, asleep, looking sickly and pale and like he hasn’t properly showered in a few days. His arm is in a sling. He is connected to a saline drip through an IV via his uninjured arm. He is cuffed, too. To the side of the bed. There is a metal handcuff around his thin wrist.

God, I am so fucked off. I want to go at the restraint with a chainsaw.

Looking at him makes me want to cry. It always has. Ever since we first met. But right now, I really want to cry. More badly than I have ever wanted to before.

But I shouldn’t. I can’t. I need to be strong for him.

Swallowing the giant cricket ball forming in my oesophagus, I creep on my tiptoes towards the giant hospital bed. He looks even worse close up. There’s a dark shadow over the bottom half of his face. Deep purple bags lie underneath his closed eyes.

I’m too far gone. I can’t stop the tears. They crawl down my cheeks, slip past my chin, and land on the grey-blue blanket covering James’ body. One, as I move my head to get a better look at his face, drips over his eyelids.

He comes awake. The beeping grows quicker. I swear my lungs have stopped working. Reaching out, I place my hand over his mouth as his eyes snap open. His jaw parts. Hidden behind my palm, I feel his heavy breaths bathe my skin.

“Shh,” I warn, breathless. “I’m not supposed to be here. We don’t have much time.”

He shakes his head and I lift my hand. “You need to leave,” he says. It comes out all croaky and dry. He’s broken.

It makes me so angry. If he had just let me come with him, none of this shit would be happening.

If only I hadn’t been silly enough to believe my dad was a decent fucking human being, we would be in Switzerland by now, hiding in a bakery or skiing down some snow-capped mountain.

“I’m staying,” I say defiantly. He can’t tell me what to do.

He starts to sit up, but the effort exhausts him and he quickly lies back down. His brilliant eyes—the most beautiful things I’ve literally ever seen—gaze up at me. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

To be honest, I don’t want to see him like this. But I hold off on telling him that. “I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care that you’re handcuffed. James,” I say, the tears forming again. I reach for his chained hand. His fingers are sweaty, but he holds onto me regardless, entwining our fingers. I could collapse in a heap of despair like those women in the 19th century used to. “What’s gonna happen to you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says.

The words come out thin and brittle. I think there’s a cricket ball in his throat too. With my spare hand, I grab the cup of water by his bed and slowly, like he’s a baby, I tip the cup towards his mouth. He swallows a couple of gulps and coughs away any excess dryness. He mutters a thanks and I return the cup to its original spot.

“They’re keeping me here until my arm heals a bit more,” he says. “And then I’ll be moved to a jail to await trial. Then I’ll be prosecuted.”

He says it with such indifference that I find myself wanting to take him by the shoulders and shake him viciously.

“How can you be okay with this?” I ask, my face hot and wet. My lips tremble. My forehead hurts from frowning. “None of this is okay. None at all. It’s a giant mess—a total miscarriage of justice.”

I’ve been watching a lot of that American TV show Law and Order while under house arrest.

The longer I stare frustratedly at James half-lying down on his hospital bed, the blurrier he gets. But I blink rapidly, clearing my vision, when his face bunches. He's crying too. Not as much as me, but there's a small tear trolling down his scruffy face. Instinct compels me to wipe it away. I scrape at it with my thumb and hold my hand against his warm cheek. He presses into me, nostrils billowing like a curtain caught by the wind.

Okay. So, he isn't okay with this.

"I'm sorry," I say, rubbing the tear back into his skin. "I know you're just trying to be brave."

"I just," he says, "want to be with you."

My heart is going to explode. Is it possible for words to kill you?

"And I know that when they put me away, I'm not going to be able to be with you anymore," he continues, the words vibrating. "I don't want that to happen."

Fuck. Neither do I.

"I'll come see you," I promise. "And when you get out, we can be together again." My knees are starting to buckle under all the pressure. I hold tight to James. "Maybe we can get married . . . and then I'd get those conjugal visit things."

It's a joke. Mum would sooner disown me and throw me in the streets than allow me to marry a convicted felon.

But it does make James laugh. And that makes me smile. And some of that pressure lifts away.

"You would visit me?" he asks, and I sense the genuine worry.

"Yes. Fuck, I'd be in there with you if I could." If you'd let me. “Can I lie down?”

“What?”

“In the bed with you,” I say. “Just for a minute.” The guard’ll be on his way back soon. I’ll need to set off before then. But I need to lie with him. To feel his body against mine one last time before he’s taken away from me.

“I don’t know how easy it will be.” James looks to his shackled wrist and then to his bullet-hole-ridden arm.

I start climbing in, kicking my sandals off and bunching up the yellow sundress Mum got me when I was released from hospital the day James got captured. I wore it so she would let me out of the house. How long does she think it takes to pick up chocolate from the Co-op?

James can’t move a lot, but he slides over to make room for me. Lying on my side, pressing my hand flat against his chest, I rest my head on his shoulder. We sigh together. A sound of true contentment.

As much as he can, James holds me. His shackled fingers bend and move over the skin of my neck. I shiver into his hospital gown. For someone who looks so horrible, he smells just the same as always. Like lavender soap. I breathe him in, forcing myself to memorise the scent.

“You changed your hair,” he notes, fiddling with the short strands that just barely reach my neck.

“Mum took me to the salon immediately,” I say. Guess she wasn’t all that fucking pleased about the blond. “The woman made it too dark. I don’t like it.”

“Well, I do,” James says.

I smile into his neck.

I shouldn’t be happy at all. Things are about to get a whole lot worse for the both of us. But he’s touching me and I’m touching him, and everything just feels . . . right. I know it’ll be gone the instant I leave this room, but I will revel in it for the few minutes I have.

“You shouldn’t have come,” James says.

I lift myself up. Our faces are only a few centimetres apart. His breaths wash over my face. “Why?” I ask, confused and hurt.

James continues stroking every piece of available skin. “Now that you’re here, I don’t want you to leave.”

Oh.

“I don’t want to leave,” I tell him.

“But you have to.”

“But I have to,” I agree. “But not yet. In a minute.”

I have to kiss him. I have to remember the feel of his mouth on mine.

Lowering my face the tiniest bit, I close my eyes and affix my lips to his. He can’t properly embrace me, and I can’t move too much for fear of further injuring him, but he is soft against me and that’s all that matters.

I was wrong before. Now everything is right. The seas have calmed. The earth has stopped turning. And it’s James and me against the world.

#the end of the f***ing world #the end of the fucking world #teotfw #james x alyssa #james #alyssa #alyssa's pov #my writing #thanks for reading guys #fanfiction

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