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lookalivefrosty · 4 years

Text

Summertime

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (but, really, Winter Soldier Bucky x Female Reader)

Summary: Three days ago, the Winter Soldier walked away from Hydra. They’ve just sent you to bring him back.

Word Count: 7,656 words (!!!)

Warnings: a heavy helping of angst, descriptions of injuries and pain, canon typical violence. The reader is an enhanced human with the ability to manipulate pain. (Let me know if you come across any others I’ve missed, I’ll gladly add them!)

*Reblogs of course are welcome, but please do not repost this story to any other websites without my permission!!*

A/N: This was written for @jbbuckybarnes‘s birthday writing challenge. Happy belated birthday, and thank you so much for reassuring me that it was okay to post this past the deadline! I didn’t mean for it to take this long, but the good news is, this is the first thing I’ve written and actually liked in about five or six years. So, yay? I really hope you and everyone else who reads it enjoys it!

P.S: my prompts are bolded, the not too shabby moodboard was made by me, and the title of the fic and lyrics within said moodboard are courtesy of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Summertime.’ Oh, and, the totally awesome text divider seen just below (and several times throughout the fic) was created by @writeyourmindaway (thank you)!

EDITED ON 5/24/2021 - no major changes, only a change in spelling for two of the characters' names.

“You ever think of where you’d go if you got out of here?” you’d asked the Soldier once, the two of you hunkered down in a safe house somewhere in Alaska. It’s been so long since then that you can’t even remember what mission had brought you there - or maybe you should say, so much has happened since then that you can’t remember.

He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. His programming limited his dialogue to giving orders to those ranked below him and answering the questions of those ranked higher. You’d been able to see his answer in his eyes, though, sitting there on the opposite side of the hallway from him, your faces illuminated by an oil lamp he’d found while sweeping the basement for any threats.

They had narrowed slightly, his way of wordlessly saying, ‘No.’

No, because he never thought he would ever escape from Hydra; and neither did you, for that matter. But it was nice to think about, especially back then. Freedom.

“I can remember,” you’d said slowly, not missing the faint look of surprise that crossed his usually stoic face at the words. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything that occurred before they wiped you the first time. But you remember this vividly, too vividly for it to be a mere fragment of your imagination.

“I can remember,” you’d started again, “this place my parents and I used to go to along the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

And then you’d told him about it. How after visiting a few tourist attractions you’d park the car at a lookout spot and stare out over the miles and miles of autumn colored trees in the valleys below, untouched by man aside from the randomly placed house. Far away from where you stood, blue tinted mountains pierced the overcast sky - and it was beautiful.

He’d listened to every word you’d spoken intently, his gaze never straying from your face as you reminisced on happier times. And when you’d finished, he’d looked sad. You could feel the longing in his chest within your own, and see a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes that seemed to say, ‘I would take you there, if I could.’

And he has, hasn’t he?

Here you are, standing at the very same lookout you’d told him about that night. It’s warmer than you remember, greener, seeing as it’s summertime - but it’s no less beautiful. If you squint you can see ghosts of the past; two figures standing against the most breathtaking of backdrops, smiling with their arms around one another as you took their picture.

You miss them.

Your parents.

You wish you could remember more about them.

About yourself.

Your old life.

“Empat.”

His voice startles you, but not because you didn’t know he was there. You’d felt his presence step within the reach of your powers almost twenty minutes ago; had known it was him because you know his aches and pains as well as you know your own. The phantom pain where his left arm used to be, the carpal tunnel syndrome in his right wrist and hand from years of holding a gun, and all the other wear and tear seventy years of assassination work has put on his still visibly young body. New to the roster, though, is the break in his right forearm - no doubt an injury gained during his fight in D.C. three days ago. A fight you’d been sidelined for, but should have been battling alongside him.

If you had been, that break wouldn’t be there. You’re certain of that.

You could only do so much with the amount of distance between you, but because you care, because you wanted him to know that you knew he was there, you’d cast your healing warmth over the fracture, numbing it until you could touch him and heal it completely. As thanks, he’d given you this time with your memories. Time before the inevitable had to happen.

But time is up now, and he’s standing right behind you, his voice startling you not because it’s unexpected but because he’s never been able to call you anything, let alone the name Hydra had given you. Empat, meaning Empath. His programming simply didn’t allow for it. To hear his voice say it now - after months and years of knowing each other, fighting alongside each other, nearly dying for each other - well, it’s quite a shock to the system.

Three days, you think. It’s only been three days since he walked away from the Triskelion wreckage, walked away from Hydra, and already he’s regained the ability to speak autonomously. And here you are, sent here to drag him back to the very same people who stripped him of his ability to do so in the first place.

You, because they know that in spite of their best efforts to keep him as emotionless and empty as possible, he feels something for you. Because if it’s you asking him to, he might come back willingly, without a fight. Because if it comes to a fight he’ll hesitate before killing you, and give you the opening you need to-

“Empat,” he says again, interrupting your internal ramblings. The sound of it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.

You don’t want to do this.

But you have no other choice.

“Hi, Soldier,” you greet him gently, and he takes that as his cue to move to stand at your side. He places himself on your left and it’s such a familiar position: you and the Soldier shoulder to shoulder, against the world. Normally it would bring you comfort; but today, it just makes you sad.

As if he can sense it - which he probably can; he has a knack for reading people - the Soldier brushes the back of his hand against the back of yours in a silent offer of comfort. You turn your wrist and intertwine your fingers with his without a second thought, and together you gaze out over the mountain range, silence hanging thick in the air between you for what feels like a lifetime.

And then, “Is it what you remember?”

So you were right. The red star on the tracking device had stopped in this town with a familiar name yesterday not by coincidence, but on purpose. He’d traveled west, deep into the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just so he could bring you here, to the location of your only remaining memory.

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you - that you can remember, at least - and, God, do you want to cry.

“Yes,” your voice and your smile is strained, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand tighter in response, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up towards his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers - but he shows no signs of feeling it when you glance in his direction. He was trained to suffer in silence; if you weren’t, well, you, you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that he was in any pain at all.

“Your arm?” you inquire, turning your head to face him at the same moment he turns to face you. It’s only then that you realize what he’s wearing: a black baseball cap pulled down over his brunette tresses, a dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans and his usual pair of boots. The shoes are the only part of his attire that you recognize, but you have to admit, this casual look he’s got going on…

You like it.

“Steve,” he tells you, as if you know who Steve is. You raise your brows. “The guy on the bridge,” he amends. “Captain...Captain America.”

Right. The target Hydra had sent the Soldier to kill not once, but twice - an anomaly, as he usually gets the job done on the first try. You’d been as shocked as your superiors when he came back from the fight on the bridge to report the mission as failed - but more so due to the foul mix of emotions churning within him than the failed mission itself.

It was astonishing to see him in such anguish so openly; to feel the full force of his normally repressed guilt, anger and sadness. You’ve gotten glimpses of it in the past, during those precious few minutes between him being awoken and being wiped. But only one other time had you seen him so distraught, which could only mean one thing.

The target - this Steve, whoever he is - had somehow broken through decades of wipings and programming to free the man Hydra had tried so hard to keep contained, and every sour emotion he’s felt while locked in his cage - though only for a moment before Alexander Pierce ordered him to be shoved behind the bars again.

It’s not easily done; liberating the man that lingers beneath the surface of the Soldier.

You would know.

You’ve done it before.

“You knew him,” you say simply, recalling the trembling words he’d spoken that day. Words that, when combined with the look on his face and what had happened after he’d uttered them, had shattered your already broken heart into even smaller shards.

“But I knew him.”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replies eventually, and he’s lying - to you and himself.

But that’s okay.

You assure him as much with a small smile.

“Here,” you change the subject, “let me…” you turn your body towards him and bring your right hand up to cup the back of his, which still clings to your left one, as he turns to face you as well. You close your eyes and focus on the break, casting your warmth over it and holding it steady as it guides his bones back into place. As it does, your body takes his pain and converts it into ammunition, adding it to what’s already been piled high within you thanks to the metal choker around your neck.

Hydra’s scientists had designed it especially for you; a necklace that would, whenever your handlers deemed it necessary, electrically shock you continuously so you would have to be constantly taking your own pain away. Whenever you use your healing abilities - regardless of whether you’re using them on yourself or someone else - your body absorbs the pain and stores it within until you either unleash it on someone or your handlers shut the necklace off and the power coursing through your veins is allowed to dwindle away on its own.

It flows through you now, but you’re so used to the uncomfortable prickling feeling that accompanies it at this point that you hardly even notice it’s there anymore.

How sad that is.

“Thank you,” the Soldier says after you’ve finished healing him and open your eyes again. That’s another first: the Soldier thanking you aloud instead of with his eyes and soft, secret touches. If it weren’t for the current circumstances, it would have brought you joy.

“Don’t thank me,” you beg with a rapid shake of your head. “Not when you know what I’ve been sent here to do.”

“Empat, it’s okay-”

“No,” you interject harshly, dropping his hand and retreating a few steps backwards. “It’s not okay, Soldier. It’s not. Because you knew,” your smile is sardonic as you point a finger in his direction. “You knew they’d send someone - that they’d send me - after you. You knew what they’d make me do to bring you back. So why, Soldier? Why didn’t you cut the tracker out? You could have been free,” your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel his chest ache in response.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer before dropping his focus to the grass between his boots. You stand there, blinking tears from your eyes and waiting for him to say something - anything - in defense of himself, but he doesn’t say a word.

He’s maddeningly silent.

“Why would you do this?” you demand again, your voice frail in spite of the anger rising inside of you. The Soldier is slow to raise his gaze back to yours, and even slower to give you an answer.

“‘Cause I wanted to.”

It hits you like a punch from his left fist, and you find yourself unable to speak.

He... He wanted this? He wanted you to be sent after him? To potentially have to fight him, to have to drag him back to the people you’ve always told him you wished you could help him escape from?

“Listen,” he urges, seeing the look of hurt and betrayal that’s overtaken your features. He’s lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, and his left one catches your attention, as it’s donning a black winter glove. Where did he even find one of those this time of year? “I did it because I didn’t know how else to find you. I went back to the bank after...after the fight, and everyone was already gone. You were gone, and I had no way of knowing where you were but I knew that if I left the tracker in, it wouldn’t be long before they sent you after me. It...It was the only way I had to be able to see you again,” he finishes with a sad, tearful smile, the same one he’d given Alexander Pierce that night after his first encounter with Steve.

It pulls at your heart now just as it did then, but at the same time -

“You could have been free,” you echo your earlier words, sounding every bit as devastated as you feel. Your tears make the Soldier a blur as he steps closer to you, raising his hands to tentatively cup the sides of your face. You blink and a pair of them slip down your cheeks only to be quickly smeared away by his thumbs, gloved metal and bare flesh alike.

“I don’t want to be free if you’re not free with me,” he tells you softly, and you see those words for what they are: a testament of his love for you. It’s the first time he’s been able to voice such a thing, and you want to find joy or at the very least solace in it. Truly, you do. But right now, with the situation at hand, knowing he’s tossed away the only chance at liberation he’s had in seven decades all because he didn’t want to leave you behind, you can’t.

You just feel guilty. So incredibly, debilitatingly guilty.

“I’ll never be free of them,” you state grimly, pulling out of his hold and putting some distance between you. “As long as this necklace is around my neck, I’m stuck. They’ll ramp it up as soon as I get too far for their likings and kill me. But you - you had a chance. And you threw it away because of me,” you practically choke out the last word. You pause for a few moments to collect yourself before continuing to speak, your eyes fluttering shut to send another pair of tears down your cheeks.

“I’m begging you, Soldier. If you love me, cut the tracker out and leave. I’ll tell them you beat me unconscious before I could move to apprehend you, or… I don’t know. Something. Just please don’t make me take you back there. Don’t make me the reason you go back there, I…” your throat gets too tight for you to speak any further, so you open your eyes and try to communicate with him through them, as he used to you.

I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.

He lets your unspoken words hang between you for exactly seventeen shaking breaths, and when he goes to speak, he looks apologetic, telling you he’s not going to change his mind even before he confirms it aloud.

“You know I never get to choose what I want for myself,” he says, a pleading tone to his voice. His eyes are equally as imploring as they stare into yours, trying to get you to see just how much he needs you to do this for him. “I want this, Empat. I do. So, please, for once in my life - let me have what I want.”

…How are you supposed to say no to that?

The answer is simple:

You don’t.

“Alright,” you sound as defeated as you feel. “Alright.”

The corners of his lips twitch upwards, but the glossiness of his eyes conveys what you feel twisting inside of him. The fear. The sadness. The anger.

He reaches out, asking for your hands, and you unfold your arms to give them to him, biting back a sob as he intertwines his fingers through yours.

“Whatever you have to do,” he says slowly, “Do it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply to gather what little strength and courage you have left in you; then, you breath out a single word:

“Sputnik.”

A moment later, the Soldier collapses at your feet.

…

...

You couldn’t do it.

You’d told him you would, and had fully intended on honoring his wishes - but it was one hour into the three hour drive back to the safe house your handlers were waiting for you within that you realized you just couldn’t. You couldn’t take him back to the people who have been holding him hostage for over seventy years, doom him to another who knows how many more years of brainwashing and torture. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t.

So you turned the car around, much to the displeasure of your handlers. The wattage of your necklace shot up almost immediately after you’d made the u-turn, and you’d almost driven into the guard rails due to the sudden onslaught of pain. You’d quickly smothered it, though, and righted the vehicle on the road, backtracking until you reached the abandoned house you’d spotted only a few minutes prior in the drive.

It had caught your eye because of its reminiscence of that safe house back in Alaska. It’s a small and barely standing home made of deteriorating wood, its front door hanging by a single hinge. Upon entering it you’d found it had the same damp, moldy atmosphere, and a similar, familiar layout - a ground level with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a living room and kitchen area, and a basement. Its windows were shattered, parts of the wood flooring were either caved in or missing altogether, and you’d even found an oil lamp while you were scoping out the basement.

Talk about déjà vu.

As for getting the Soldier into the house, it was as much of a struggle as it’d been to get him into the car your handlers had sent you out in. Somehow, though, you’d managed, and had tied him to a weathered dining chair that had squeakily threatened to collapse under his weight when you’d dropped him into it.

What had happened after that is nothing more than a blur of blood and tears, right up until you’d collapsed into an identical chair in front of a boarded up window, staring as if you could see right through the planks to whatever lies beyond.

You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you haven’t moved since you’d sat down. You’ve barely even breathed.

There’s a pounding in your head from previously shed tears and there’s dried blood on your hands, your clothes. You’re shaking so badly you don’t know how you haven’t vibrated right off of the chair and into a clump on the floor.

He hasn’t woken up yet. You’re starting to worry he may never - that there’s another code word that has to be used to wake the Soldier after he’s been shut down by ‘sputnik.’

Wouldn’t that be just your luck? To do everything that you’ve done in the time since he’s been unconscious just for it all to be futile because-

A soft groan sounds from behind you, and you hold your breath.

Did you actually hear that? Or did you-

“Empat?” he rasps, a confused lilt to his voice. You almost start crying again at the sound of it.

He’s awake.

Everything you’ve done isn’t for nothing, after all.

“I’m here,” you get to your feet and move towards him slowly. Taking in his disoriented expression, you ask, “How do you feel?”

You being you, of course, you already know how he’s feeling; he’s got a headache similar to your own and he’s discombobulated, stiff and sore. Still, you ask him - not only because it’s nice to do so but because you want to hear it out of his own mouth.

However, instead of answering your question, he raises one of his own. “Why are you covered in blood?”

You stop right in front of him, shaking your head.

“It’s not mine,” is all you offer, reaching forward to brush his hair out of his face since he can’t do it for himself. You then trail your fingers down the side of his cheek, watching as his eyes flutter shut briefly in response to the gentle touch before he seemingly forces them open again, assessing you with his stormy blues.

“Where are we?” he asks. You freeze in your movement.

“Hour away from where we were,” you supply. He ponders that for a few moments, tearing his eyes from you to take in what he can of the room before meeting your gaze again.

“Are they coming to extract us?”

You drop your gaze.

“Empat,” his tone is low; dangerous - the closest it’s been to the one he uses while giving orders on missions this entire time. You turn away from him and clasp your trembling hands together.

Every so often your handlers have been knocking up the voltage of your necklace to tell you to hurry up and get you and the Soldier back to the safe house. You’ve been having to use more and more of your powers to keep yourself from feeling it, from being harmed by it, and it’s drained you more than you’re willing to admit.

You don’t know how much longer you can fight against it. You need to get moving before they ramp it up beyond the reach of your powers and kill you, which they’d very clearly told you they would if you failed them.

You’ve only hung around this long waiting for the Soldier to wake up to make sure that he would wake up; you didn’t want to leave him behind without knowing for a fact that he was going to be okay.

But he’s awake now, and really there’s no reason for you to be here anymore... Yet, you can’t bring yourself to move any further away.

“Empat,” the Soldier calls for you again, this time more desperate. “What did you do?”

You close your eyes.

He’s going to be so upset with you over this.

But perhaps that will make it easier for him to move on.

“I cut the tracker out,” you inform him, hearing him inhale sharply in response. “I…Understand why you didn’t do it yourself. I’d do the same thing, to see you one last time - but you know that if our roles were reversed you would refuse to take me back to them. So you shouldn’t expect me to,” you face him again, letting him see the tears that started running down your cheeks as you were speaking.

He looks as devastated as you feel.

Biting back a sob, you walk back up to him and cup the sides of his face, as he had yours earlier, and lean down to rest your forehead against his. You remain in that position for only a moment before pulling away enough to peer into his tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to be another person keeping you from what you want,” you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, “but I can’t do this to you. You’ve been with them so much longer than I have, Soldier; you’ve been through so much - too much. You deserve to be free, to live. And you’ve got a chance,” you smile at him sadly. “I can’t take that from you.”

Those words appear to be what takes him over the edge, as with his next blink, the Soldier’s tears spill over. They run down his stubble covered cheeks and quickly find themselves wiped away by your waiting thumbs.

“They’ll kill you if you show up without me,” he chokes out. And he’s right. You know he is. But,

“You would do it for me.”

You have him there, it seems - because he has nothing to say to contradict your statement. You nod, for no particular reason, and press your lips to his forehead; your silent I love you, your wordless goodbye.

You pull away from him with the intentions of leaving, but before you can even straighten your spine he says, “Y/N.”

You freeze.

That name…

You pull further back and meet his gaze.

“What?”

“Y/N,” he says again. “That’s your name. Your real name.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t know how, but you know he’s right. You can feel it.

“How-”

“You told me,” he answers your unfinished question. “When we first met, before they wiped you that first time - no one told you I couldn’t talk and you - you introduced yourself to me. You were terrified of me, I could tell - but you still stuck your hand out and told me your name. I couldn’t,” he pauses to gather himself, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I couldn’t have told you my name even if I could have remembered it, but I put my hand in yours, and you smiled at me. Do you know how long it’d been since someone had smiled at me? Without any malice behind it?” he leans forward against his binds, baring his wet eyes into yours.

You don’t say anything. You’re completely and utterly speechless, staring at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. You drop your hands from his face and take a step back, absorbing every single word he has to to tell you.

“They wipe me to make me forget, but I never forgot that moment, Y/N, no matter how many times they did it. I never forgot your name even though my own was long gone.” The Soldier presses on, “I don’t know why, but I feel like it was for a reason. Like I was supposed to be the one to remind you what it was - to help you remember who you were. But I can’t do that if you’re...If you…”

He doesn’t finish, but it’s not hard for you to figure out what he was going to say.

I can’t do that if you’re dead.

“I don’t know what you think I can do,” you force the words out around the lump in your throat, “I die if I go back without you. They’ll kill me if I stay with you - either way, I’m dead. There’s nothing we can do-”

“Yes there is,” he insists, desperate. “We can go there - we can fight them-”

“And they’ll kill me as soon as they realize what’s happening,” you dismiss the suggestion, “right in front of you. I don’t… Want you to have to watch me die, Soldier. I don’t want you to have to carry that around with you for the rest of your life - can’t you understand that?”

“Untie me then. Let me try and get that thing off of you-”

“What?!” you take a step back as if he’s struck you. “Are you insane?! You’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”

“Not if you protect me from it,” he counteracts. You shake your head and go to protest against the idea, but he starts talking again before you can. “Don’t you remember the day you realized what you could do? What you could really do?”

Of course you do. That’s another memory Hydra couldn’t rip away from you no matter how hard they tried: the day you found out the true extent of what powers Loki’s scepter had bestowed upon you. The day that you were promoted from the Winter Soldier’s nurse to his partner in crime - literally.

Seeing the look of recognition in your eyes, the Soldier latches onto it. “You can do it again. I know you can.”

“Your arm,” you point out. “It’ll conduct the electricity - send it straight towards your heart. And I don’t know if what I can do is enough to protect you from the damage that would cause.”

His face falls.

Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that.

He parts his lips to make another argument but before he can get a single word out the wattage of your necklace suddenly increases again, making you cry out and fall to your knees. You just barely manage to smother the pain this time; if they turn it up any higher, you’re not sure you’ll be able to.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” a voice taunts in Russian from somewhere behind you. Recognizing it, you lift a hand in the general direction it came from and feel the power coursing through your veins gather in the palm of your hand before a cloud of black smoke erupts from it. The man lets out a scream of pure agony a moment later before hitting the weathered floorboards, dead. You look over your shoulder and take in the lifeless form of the handler before turning back to the Soldier, wide eyed.

“Untie me now,” he orders, and you know better than to argue with him.

As Hydra’s motto claims, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’

You’re gonna need his help.

So you scramble to your feet and round the chair he’s tied to, unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not easy to cut through the rope, which had been specially designed to restrain the Soldier, but it’s not impossible, either. You have him free before long and he puts his hand out for the blade, which you hand over without even thinking just in time for two more figures to step through the doorway.

“Sput-” the handler who had been just a syllable away from shutting down the Soldier again gets cut off by the knife you’d given him embedding itself in his chest. A cloud of black smoke engulfs him a moment later and he chokes on it for a moment before collapsing just as the first had.

Next, gun shots ring out. If any bullets hit you, you don’t feel them - all you can feel is the power in your shaking hands, the slight ease of its pressure as more of it is released onto the third Hydra agent. She does little more than gasp before her eyes roll back in her head and she lands on top of her comrade.

The Soldier surges forward, scavenging the closest body for any weapons. He finds a gun just in time to get a head shot on a fourth agent.

“We need to get out of here,” he states the obvious, taking a shot at a fifth one.

He doesn’t miss.

You clench and unclench your hands, the power surging within them making it impossible for you not to fidget. “My tracker’s still in, they’ll just follow us,” you remind him, “and the necklace-”

“Search them for the remote,” he meets your eyes briefly over his shoulder. “Someone here has to have it.”

You nod and kneel beside the body he’d taken the gun from. You rummage through the handler’s pockets, coming up short on finding the device that would free you from the necklace. From Hydra.

It’s unreal to you that this is even happening right now; you never thought you would ever have even a chance at freedom, but now -

As if it’s punishing you for even thinking about escaping, the wattage of your necklace suddenly spikes. And as you’d predicted, this time you can’t completely cover the pain it’s inflicting on you - it’s too strong, hurts too much.

You scream and fall sideways, clawing futilely at the electrified metal around your neck. For several long, agonizing moments, all there is is pain, pain, pain - and then, suddenly, it’s gone.

You think at first you’re dead; in fact, you’re certain of it. But then a hand taps on your cheek and you open your eyes - when had you even closed them? - and see the Soldier’s face hovering over your own. It melts with relief and he says something to you, but you can’t hear whatever it is over the ringing in your ears.

You’d tell him that, if you weren’t so dazed.

After some time the Soldier gives up on getting a response out of you and helps you to sit up, watching you closely afterwards, presumably looking for any signs that you’re going to pass out. You don’t, though your head does swim, and find yourself blinking rapidly trying to get your eyes to focus. They land on the doorway when they do, where a familiar man stands holding a familiar object, the sight enough to make your blood run cold.

Having noticed the shift in your demeanor, the Soldier follows your line of sight, tensing just as you had when he realizes what you’re looking at.

The ringing in your ears fades away just in time for Talon, the highest ranking of the handlers, to speak.

“Drop the gun, Soldat,” he commands, shaking the hand holding the remote to your necklace pointedly. “Or watch your precious little empath die.”

The Soldier swallows thickly. Then, he obeys, the gun clattering onto the wood floor just beyond your reach.

“As I thought,” Talon muses, his smile anything but friendly as he approaches you and the Soldier at a slow pace. His eyes are fixated on the latter, but his thumb hovering over the red button on the remote is enough of a deterrent to keep you from trying anything.

You don’t refrain from openly glaring at him, though.

“You’d do anything to keep her safe, hm?” Talon inquires coolly, his lips falling into their natural frown. “First chance at freedom in almost seventy years... And you toss it away for a girl you’ve known for two,” he holds up two fingers on his free hand for emphasis, and you flinch. Even though they’re the same words you've been telling yourself this entire time, they somehow sound even worse coming from someone else’s mouth.

The handler doesn't show it outwardly, but he notices how his statement hits a nerve. You know this because, for a moment, his irritation gives way to amusement; he can tell you're feeling guilty, and he's enjoying it.

Bastard.

Talon comes to a stop a few feet away from where you and the Soldier are sat. His eyes, their irises the color of green peridot, flicker back and forth between the two of you a few times before he seethes, “She makes you weak.”

The Soldier tightens his arm around you, and you can feel the anxiety rising within him; the anger. You want to spare a glance in his direction but opt to keep your gaze fixated on Talon, afraid of what he might do if you were to be momentarily distracted.

“It’s pathetic,” the handler goes on, “and if we didn’t need her help to sort out the mess your failure-” he jabs an accusing finger at the Soldier “-created, I would have you kill her. Slowly and painfully, to punish you both.

"I should regardless, considering what she was about to do,” he moves his focus onto you, now. “You should count yourself very lucky, Empat, and pray that I still find you useful when all this is said and done.”

Your glare turns deadly at the threat. In response, Talon hits a button - not the red one - to make your necklace come to life, albeit on a much lower setting than it’d been on before.

It’s a warning more than anything, but it still hurts.

“Yes, you will both be punished harshly for your recent acts of disobedience - eventually,” Talon states, tossing the remote into the air and catching it, quite literally playing with your life. “There’s simply no time for it now, as we leave for Sokovia tonight, per von Strucker’s request. He’s made a call for all of his creations to return and help defend their birthplace,” he stuffs the hand holding the device into his pocket and seems to consider you before adding, “He’s very interested in seeing how your powers have developed since he’s last seen you, Empat.”

Unease claws its way down your spine at the words, and though you’re not sure why - you trust it. You may not consciously remember von Strucker, but there’s a girl locked away in your mind who does; who’s warning you that he’s no one you’ll want to see ever again.

You trust her.

Talon sighs exaggeratedly, having seemingly grown bored of this one-sided conversation he’s been having with the two of you.

“Get her up, Soldat; we must get going,” he commands. You feel your heart lurch, and finally tear your gaze from the handler to look at the man who’s yet to let you go.

There’s a look of calculation on his face; the one he bears whenever a mission goes wrong and he has to come up with a new plan on the spot. What could he possibly-

“My name,” the Soldier snarls through gritted teeth, glaring up at the other man with pure hatred swirling in his chest. “Is James, Buchanan, Barnes. Not Soldat, not Asset - James. Bucky.”

You gasp silently in response to what he’s just revealed, and place your hand over that of his that rests on your waist, squeezing it tightly. Right now is the most inappropriate of times to feel happy, but you are, because the Soldier, your Soldier, he has a name. Well, he’s always had one - but now he remembers it; now you know it. You know his name and you know your own - your first one, at least - and, wow. You have names. Real, genuine names and it feels so surreal, so right, even if you are currently standing on the verge of losing them again.

“I gave you an order, Soldat,” Talon emphasizes the title pointedly, and you whirl back onto him with a glare even more murderous than the first had been. “And I expect you to follow that order, or I’ll-”

In your peripheral vision, you see the Soldier - James, you remind yourself - pull out a gun and line up a shot with expert ease. You barely register the action before he’s pulling the trigger and an ear piercing bang echoes throughout the abandoned house.

The bullet hits its mark, of course - a fatal head shot.

Talon’s body falls towards the ground and when it makes impact, whether his hand was just carrying out his last request or your luck is just that bad and he happened to land on it, the red button on the remote gets pressed.

The wattage of your necklace spikes, and it’s the most excruciating and unbearable pain you’ve ever felt. Your lips part to scream but the cry doesn’t even get a chance to escape before you succumb to the pain being inflicted upon you, your world going dark.

And then…

And then there’s light.

Not a heavenly, bright light, but a dim, golden glow.

You blink against it a few times, trying to focus your vision, all the while casting your healing warmth over the pain in your head. The world around you finally aligns and you realize that you’re in a car, sprawled across the back seat with your head lying on top of a rolled up denim jacket.

Your last few moments of consciousness return to you as the headache is successfully smothered to nothing, and immediately your hand shoots up to grasp at your neck - the action sending a jolt of pain through your arm.

Brows furrowing, you withdraw the limb and bring it to eye level, finding a bandage wrapped tightly just below your elbow. You bring your other hand up and pull the bandage down carefully, revealing a stitched up wound right where Hydra’s scientists had implanted a small tracking device beneath your skin seemingly so long ago.

The implications the sight brings forth make your heart stutter.

Slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll find, you lower your hand back towards your neck -

Finding nothing there.

And the fact that your necklace is gone is your second indication that something huge happened while you were unconscious, as the only time your handlers ever take it off of you is when you’re off mission and locked away in a cell. Gingerly, you rub at the scarred skin where it usually rests, putting the few pieces you’ve gathered so far together.

Your tracker has presumably been cut out, your necklace is gone, and both of those things could only mean-

You stop yourself short, realizing you’re getting ahead of yourself.

You can’t let yourself think that until you know for sure it’s true.

So without moving - because if it isn’t him, you’re gonna want the advantage of the person in the driver’s seat not knowing you’re awake - you close your eyes and reach out with your powers, studying the only other soul in the car. You take into account every familiar ache and pain in their body, the fragile hope within their chest, and you smile.

“Soldier?” you call, ignoring the pain in your arm as you push yourself up into a seated position. Startled, his icy blues snap towards the rear view mirror.

And then they melt.

“No,” he responds, a smile tainting his tone. “I’m Bucky.”

Disbelieving and overjoyed, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. He maneuvers the car to park it on the side of the rural road and you slide off of the back seat, leaning over the center console to look at his face. He turns to look at you, too, grinning - something you’ve never seen him do before.

He’s offered you slight tugs at the corners of his lips in moments where he was more ‘James’ than ‘Soldier,’ yes, but not ever this - this flashing of his teeth and crinkling at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun and freedom, he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him breathlessly, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Hi, Y/N,” he returns, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled - squealing - from the back seat towards the front, and his arms are around you, holding you tight against him. In the cramped space of the car, the embrace is awkward and even on the verge of painful - what with all the levers and the steering wheel digging into you; but you don’t care. You just wrap your arms around him, too, and pull him impossibly closer, a different kind of tears filling your eyes as you bury your nose into his dark hair.

“I thought I lost you,” he heaves out the shaking words against your chest, trembling in your hold. There’s so many emotions twisting within him that it’s hard for you to decipher them from one another, but most prominent of all is his guilt; his overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt. It makes you realize, with a sinking heart, that not only had he thought you dead, he’d thought he’d been the one to kill you - inadvertently - by shooting Talon.

“I’m right here,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss to it after. “It’s alright - we’re alright, Bucky. We’re free.”

At your words, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, an almost mystified look on his tear-stained face. It’s the smallness of his voice as he repeats your last two words back to you that causes your own tears to spill over.

“We’re free.”

He almost sounds like he doesn’t really believe it, and you can understand that, as you hardly do yourself - but still, you try and reassure him, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, Bucky, we’re fr-”

Bucky presses his lips against yours, cutting you off.

Taken aback, you stiffen at first - but then you melt into him, one of your hands moving to cup the side of his face and pull him closer, the other sliding down to rest over his heart. It beats strongly against your palm, setting the pace for the kiss, the first the two of you have ever shared. And, oh, what a first kiss it is: gentle yet passionate, grounding but freeing all the same.

It warms you from the inside out and tingles beneath the surface of your skin in the most exhilarating of ways, making you feel so alive - reassuring you that you are, as it would be so easy for you to convince yourself that you’re not, since this is the closest to Heaven you’ve ever been.

If you could have it your way, it would never end; you would stay in this moment for the rest of your life, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s lips moving against yours and his arms encasing you, the mix of positive emotions swirling in your respective chests. Your lungs however eventually betray you, and you have to part from him to catch your breath - but you don’t go too far. You only move to rest your forehead against his, a happier rendition of a moment lived not too long ago.

You stay like that, just basking in one another, for an eternity. And then he asks you, in a tone that tells you he’s open to anything you might suggest, “Where do you want to go?”

You smile as you open your eyes, meeting his waiting gaze.

“Anywhere,” you tell him simply. “As long as I’m with you.”

A/N: first and foremost, if you’re reading this, bless you for making it this far, and I really hope you liked this one-shot! I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have on it :).

I’ve been planning the story of Bucky and this specific reader in my head for months now, so to see them finally “come to life” is a pretty great feeling. I hope you guys love them as much as I do, because I’ll hopefully be sharing the journey that led them to this ‘epilogue’ with you soon 💜.

One last thing, I want to give a shout out to every single person who has given me words of encouragement and advice over the past few months as I’ve talked about picking up writing again. Especially @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, whose reaction to just a snippet of this one-shot and constant support throughout the writing process pushed me to keep going even when I felt like giving up and dropping out of the challenge. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting to see what happened for so long! I hope the wait was worth it!

( @buckyreaderrecs and @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, I did it you guys!! 💜)

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netscapenavigator-official · 4 months

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Honda has to have one of the worst Lane Keep Assist Systems ever.

Like how tf are you, the computer, gonna push me into the rumble strips and them scream at me on your wittle screen about Lane Departure. Like, I know we're departing the lane. You're the one who took the curve too tight!

And don't even get me started on how awful the line tracking it. Like, oops, lane's getting wider. Better move over really fast and jerk the steering wheel really hard. Wait... what's this "interstate exit" you speak of? Better jerk the steering wheel back the other way and get back centered into the lane we were never supposed to leave.

Oh, the car in front of us is entering the turn lane? Better slam on the brakes and match its speed until it's been fully out of the main lane for a solid fifteen seconds.

And then there are the times it just gives you back control without warning. No audible chime at all. You'll be mid-turn on a curvy highway, and it'll just decide "nope, I'm done" and all off a sudden steering assist is disabled, and you're veering into the next lane, and then you realize the car can't see the lines anymore, so you have to jerk really hard back into your lane, and it's just ugh.

Remember when Honda said all of their cars would come standard with Level 5 autonomy by 2025. Lol.

#rambles #rant #car #cars #vehicle #vehicles #driver assistance systems #driver assistance technology #honda #honda sensing #autonomous vehicles #autonomous driving

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prolifeproliberty · 4 years

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A Summary of the CHAZ: Myths Debunked

So I’ve been watching the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone situation since it began, and I’m seeing a lot of disinformation. Here’s what’s happened so far.

tl;dr - The whole thing is much less exciting than either side makes it out to be - it’s not a socialist utopia and it’s not a terrorist takeover. Ultimately, the CHAZ will not last long. It is by no means autonomous (there have actually been discussions about changing the name, but none of the suggestions seem to stick), and it is not set up for any kind of long-term sustainability. Many protesters already seem burned out, and funds will begin to run dry soon. If left alone, the CHAZ will likely dissolve within a couple of days.

- Leading up to June 9th there had been a lot of conflict between protesters and police, including rioting and destruction of party on the side of protesters and tear gas and rubber bullets on the side of police.

- On June 9th the police evacuated their East Precinct and the protesters moved in, using barricades to block the streets coming into the area. They labeled the area an autonomous zone, now known as “CHAZ”

- Shortly after this point, armed security showed up. It appears to have been originally members of the John Brown Gun Club, a socialist militia group.

- The evening of June 9th the protesters gathered for a rally and marched to city hall, where a city council member and self-identified socialist unlocked the doors and let them in. They held a “town hall” in the city hall building and different people took turns speaking, including the city council member.

- The protesters then returned to the CHAZ where someone set up a projector and they watched the documentary “13th”, a film about incarceration of black people and prison labor.

- Raz, the much-hyped “warlord”, initially tried to become the “police” or security force of the area. There was some initial conflict when Raz and his group tried to stop someone from putting graffiti in certain areas (I think the person was covering up his graffiti?) and there is video of that person being beat up.

- Raz appears to be a rapper who would like to be the leader of a gang, and he saw this as his chance. There’s evidence online of some pretty troubling things he has done and said, including a very disturbing music video.

- The next day (June 10th) the group held a town hall/people’s assembly where people spoke about a wide variety of things. If you watch the videos from that meeting, there was a mix of people speaking - some were very practical, talking about the future of the CHAZ, others very idealistic, talking about socialist theory, and others rambled in a way that was very hard to follow. At least one person appeared to have mental health issues and it was unclear if what he was saying was real or not.

- During that assembly multiple people called out Raz and his group and said what happened was unacceptable. From what I’ve seen and read, people are saying they haven’t seen him around much since then and there haven’t been any more incidents with his group.

- All throughout there has been discussion of ceding the area to descendants of the Duwamish tribe that lived in the Seattle area prior to the arrival of American settlers. Two Native American women, at least one of whom was Duwamish, took the mic during the June 10th meeting. One of the women spoke about violence and discrimination against indigenous people, and then the two led the group in a traditional song for missing women.

- During that day at some point people started work on a garden. It is very limited, mostly a few tomatoes and some herbs. It’s being called a community garden where people plant what they want - the lack of planning and coordination meaning there is no real potential for it to become a primary food source any time soon.

- Reports of food being stolen appear to come from a photoshopped tweet. The person who supposedly sent the tweet has their Twitter locked, so it was difficult to confirm whether the tweet was real.

- Reports of businesses being extorted for protection money also seem to be false. Most business owners in the area have reported higher foot traffic and more sales than they’ve seen in a while. It’s possible some individuals may have asked for donations, and that could have been interpreted as extortion.

- Reports of IDs being checked at the barricades seem to be false as well. It’s possible that some individuals were trying to identify people who wanted to come in and cause trouble/make fun of them (there was a lot of social media talk from people saying they would raid the zone). But there was no actual effort to keep people out, and many have reported that they entered and left without ever being questioned, or were offered water and snacks upon entry.

- There are a few individuals who seem to have taken leadership roles, organizing assemblies and marches, but they have no official designations and their roles seem to be very temporary and fluid.

- There is no real long-term strategy or plan. The protesters seem to be surprised they got this far.

- Most meetings and discussions have involved a lot of people suggesting ideas, but few or no attempts to reach any kind of consensus or implement any of these ideas.

- Funding and supplies are coming through donations from supporters. Many protesters are sharing venmo and paypal information in hopes of receiving support. Tables are set up with snacks and water, and there are medical tents with volunteer medics (not sure whether they’re doctors and nurses or just volunteers with first aid training).

- Protesters seem to be frequenting local businesses, including a hotdog cart and some local restaurants. One salon has opened its bathrooms to protesters.

- Many protesters come and go throughout, while others have stayed and slept in tents. As far as I’ve seen the protesters have not entered the precinct.

- Today, June 11, several Seattle police officers walked into the precinct with little incident besides some chants from protesters. They said they were inspecting the building to determine what, if any, cleanup needed to be done to make it operational and said they were preparing to move back in.

- Protesters debated what to do about this. They considered barricading police in the building and debated whether this idea would cause more harm. They did vote to sanitize their bullhorn.

- Eventually some protesters did barricade the doors of the precinct after they believed all officers have left (though they did not confirm). Shortly after, other protesters moved barricades away from one of the doors (presumably so any cops still inside could leave).

- At this time (evening of 6/11), there are reports of police staging outside the zone with vans and patrol cars, seeming to be preparing for mass arrests. A rally/meeting was held for a couple of hours, and now people are simply milling about the main intersection.

#CHAZ #autonomous zone #seattle autonomous zone #seattle #capitol hill autonomous zone

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prodigalsonheadcanons · 5 years

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Okay, so I absolutely love how you write your headcanons! But would it be possible if you could do number 1 with Malcom asking the question to Gil? "Do you remember your name? The day?" I think that's what it was called...

You’re so sweet! I’m so glad you like them! I would love to write that for you! ♡

1. “Can you hear me? Do you know what day it is? Your name?”

Before Gil could do anything, a harsh grip dug itself into his shoulder, and he was wrenched around to be on his back. He only had a split moment to see their suspect’s face, bloody from their fight and filled with unimaginable rage and hatred, before the man’s fist made painful contact with his jaw. His head was thrown with the force. He struggled to fight back, or at least try and get his attacker off of him. But they had the upper hand, and they weren’t planning on losing it anytime soon. The very second he was bringing his head back center, they were throwing another punch. And then another.

He tried to push them off, to shield his face, to do anything, but he couldn’t. The man rained down blow after blow without pause, and with every punch, Gil’s mind grew fuzzier. The pain was growing to be overwhelming. Blackness was edging his vision, in the split moments he had to open his eyes in the first place. By the sixth punch, his body had gone completely lax, against his will. By the eighth, he was growing numb. By the ninth, there was no grimace or flinch on his face— that was relaxing as well, just as unwillingly. By the tenth, he was almost unconscious. Barely there. Right on the border of being offered respite— a horrible kind of respite…but respite all the same. He felt himself start to fade.

But right before the numbness could swallow him up and drag him down completely, there was a gunshot. The weight that had been holding him down was gone. There was yelling, but he was too out of it to understand whatever it was that was being shouted. His head was slack to one side, frozen in its spot from the last punch that had been delivered. His eyes were still closed; they were too heavy to pry open. At first.

The yelling continued. But now there was a change. There was yelling that was much louder than all the others. Much closer. Much more panicked. The words were gradually leaking back into focus. “…-il! Gil, look— …-e, op—…-r eyes!” His forehead creased, the simple action causing another, sharper, band of agony to wrap around his skull. He started to open his eyes, little by little bit. He was disoriented. Everything was smeared and warped. But it was gradually beginning to come back into focus. The yelling got clearer, and so did the image in front of him. “Gil! Gil l— …me, look at me, Gil!” He blinked rapidly, struggling to drag himself back into awareness.

Eventually, he managed it.

Malcolm was on his hands and knees. Behind him, JT was putting handcuffs on their suspect, blood trickling down from their shoulder. Dani was helping him, but Malcolm wasn’t even glancing in their direction. He was staring down at him. His eyes were huge. When he realized that Gil was finally coming back to his senses, he was spurred on. “Gil!” The man grimaced again, and again, pain exploded behind his eyes. He could feel how hot and sticky his face was, with blood. “Gil! Can you hear me?” He couldn’t reply yet; he was still struggling against all the pain and nausea. Malcolm was becoming more urgent. “Gil! Gil, look at me— do you know what day it is? Your name?”

He let out a shaking breath. He tried to move, but the slightest shift, and his pain was taking his breath away. He opened his mouth, but it took a second for him to be able to form words. His jaw screamed in agony with the tiniest motion. His voice ended up coming out thick and sluggish. His eyes started to close again. “’m…he…” He couldn’t get it out. Not yet.

“Hey! Hey!” Malcolm ended up screaming. Gil flinched, and again, there was that lash of pain. But he opened his eyes, much faster this time. He was starting to come around. All that meant, though, was that he was becoming painfully – very painfully – aware of everything, again. He was aware of every injury, and all the blood. His entire face felt like it was on fire, and his head was pounding.

But while he became aware of all of the pain, he became aware of Malcolm, too.

His eyes were huge and blazing with panic. The longer Gil didn’t respond, the more terrified he grew. He inched even closer, leaned down even more. “Gil! Answer me!” His hands were shaking. Violently. His voice cracked when he pressed: “Tell me what day it is!”

He had to grimace again. But at least this time, he could manage to reply. “It’s…Thursday…” he breathed.

He expected Malcolm to relax just a little bit. Or at least start to calm down. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed wild and stricken. His hands just shook more. “What’s your name!? Tell me your name!”

“Gil Arroyo.” His voice was getting clearer. Everything was spinning less. He could bear the pain.

Malcolm lashed out, grabbing his wrist. In his obvious panic, he ended up yanking too hard on accident. Gil cried out from the tug, but Malcolm was too focused. He was breathing fast— every inhale was sharp and hitched. He scrambled to find his pulse and take it. “What year is it?” he pressed. Gil frowned. He opened his mouth, but Malcolm was already repeating himself in a snap, even though there had only been a three-second window for him to answer. And that was a generous estimate of three seconds. “Gil, what year is it!?”

“It’s 2019.” He could feel how difficult it was for him just to keep a grip on him, thanks to how much his hand was trembling. Still, he kept trying, though, staring down at his watch like he was a deer and it was an oncoming car. “Malcolm…Malcolm, you don’t need to—”

“Your pulse is 116,” he breathed, his voice shaking just as much as his hands were when he put his arm down. He yanked his phone out of his pocket and, without warning, turned his flashlight on and shined it directly in his eyes. Gil cried out again, immediately reaching up to get it away. Malcolm’s grip was so unstable, it was slapped right out of his hand. He scrambled to grab it again. “Gil, I need to see your pupil reactivity, you need to let me shine a light in your eyes! I need to see if your—!”

“Malcolm…I’m fine…” he manages.

Malcolm was shaking his head before he could even finish. “No— no you’re not fine you’re not fine.” He was speaking so quickly, there was hardly any space between his words. He was trying to keep himself together but Gil froze when he realized that there was a harshness to his eyes. That the light was glinting off of them, and giving away the fact they were filled with water. “You’re not fine you could have a concussion you could have a skull fracture you could have damaged your brainstem your autonomic functioning could be impaired if we don’t—”

“Malcolm…”

He kept talking right over him, probably not even noticing he’d spoken in the first place. He was grabbing his phone again, shining the light in his eyes again, and ignoring Gil’s grimace as he kept rambling. “—act soon the trauma could cause brain hemorrhage or hematoma your brain could be swelling and every second it just gets worse and your brain can’t cope with increased pressure there’s only a certain—”

“Malcolm.”

“—amount of pressure your skull can accommodate once it tries to adjust it’ll start reducing the amount of circulating blood and that can lead to insufficient circulation—”

“Malcolm!”

“—so we need to get you to the hospital we need to get help and make sure you’re okay we need to get a CT scan and an MRI we need to make sure you’re helped before it’s too late and there’s irreversible tissue death or you have a stroke and have to—”

“Malcolm!” Gil raised his voice into a yell, abrasive only in the attempt to get him to listen. He probably wouldn’t have. He probably would have kept on rambling, had Gil not reached out and grabbed his arm. His grasp was tight and Malcolm was immediately choking into silence. His stare was blank and his mouth half-open. Gil looked at him steadily. “Malcolm…” Malcolm’s shoulders slouched. His tears were seconds away from falling; you would have to be blind not to notice. Gil went soft. “Malcolm, I’m fine.”

Malcolm took in a sharp breath and shook his head. He tried to protest. “No— you’re not, we need to get you to the hospital, Dani said she would call an ambulance, you need to— you need to count backward from 100 for me, you need to show that you still have cognitive—”

“Malcolm.” Malcolm flinched, his head ducked low. “Malcolm, look at me. Hey.” When he did, and when he opened his eyes, Gil could see the change in him. The panic was beginning to ebb away, but all that was left was everything he knew Malcolm hated to show. There was worry and concern, but even more prominent than that, there was fear. Palpable, strong fear. Gil was taken aback when he saw the sheer magnitude of it. It took him a moment to be able to speak. His hand stayed on his arm, but it was much gentler now. So was his voice when he insisted: “I’m okay.”

Malcolm searched his face. Suddenly, there was nothing but vulnerability, to see. “You don’t know that…” His words were so flimsy, they could be crumpled up like paper. “You could…have a hemorrhage, or a stroke, or—”

“Hey, hey…” He smiled. Under all the blood and lacerations, Gil smiled for him, and that, coupled with how tender he sounded, was the final straw. Malcolm closed his eyes tightly, and Gil’s heart twisted when he saw a tear trace down the side of his face. “Kid…” He cringed even more, and another tear escaped. His lower lip trembled violently. Gil squeezed his arm a little more, only to reassure him. “I’m fine. Everything is going to be fine.”

Another tear escaped, and he quickly wiped it away. Gil didn’t draw attention to it. Malcolm swallowed hard. He looked at all his injuries and all the blood. He remembered how horrified he’d felt the second he’d seen the man beating him. When he’d realized that Gil hadn’t been fighting back, because he couldn’t. The horror had burned so fiercely, it was still with him. Still causing his heart to pound, still causing his hands to shake. “You— could’ve…” He barely croaked this out.

“I know,” Gil murmured. Malcolm’s lips trembled again, but Gil’s smile stayed. “But I didn’t. You got here in time. I’m gonna be fine.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Another tear fell down Malcolm’s face but this time he didn’t bother to wipe it away. There was extreme sorrow and fear in his eyes, but there was also extreme uncertainty. He opened his mouth, and closed it. He took in a breath, but it went nowhere. He grimaced and closed his eyes. Struggled to force out: “I…Gil, I can’t…I can’t…lose…” He looked frustrated and overwhelmed.

But Gil knew.

His chest warmed. His smile softened. “I know. You won’t.” Malcolm looked at him, almost desperately. “Trust me…” Gil added. “You’re not gonna be able to get rid of me that easy, kid.”

Malcolm sniffed. At first, he did nothing. But then he cracked, and smiled too. He wiped his eyes. The smile he gave in return was weak. The happiness was there, though. And so was the relief, however minimal and hesitant. Relief not only in the fact that he was okay, but at the fact that he’d understood. That Malcolm didn’t actually have to say it, because he knew he was horrible with that kind of stuff. From down the road, they heard the ambulance making its way to them. They’d go to the hospital and they’d do all the scans, and tests. They would get his wounds cleaned and stitched up. They would make sure everything was absolutely fine.

But for now, they just waited. Neither of them speaking because neither of them had to.

They stayed together. Refusing to part, just like they would likely refuse to part for the trip to the hospital.

Gil didn’t move his arm. He stayed holding onto Malcolm.

Malcolm didn’t pull away.

#Malcolm is emotionally constipated but I have Miralax #Thank you for the prompt!!! I really hope you like it I tried to make it different! lol <3 #Prodigal Son #Malcolm Bright #Gil Arroyo #Prompt #Tiny Fic #Ask #Made before S1E05 #Where's that meme that goes No Fear One Fear because I need that for me but it says Posting Something With A Typo

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okimargarvez · 5 years

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TRANSITION- Part 2

Original title: Transizione.

Prompt: loss of memory, mentions of consensual sex, guilt feelings.

Warning: none.

Genre: comedy, angst, romantic, family, friendship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, Derek Morgan, BAU team, Fiona Duncan, Roxy, William LaMontagne, Henry LaMontagne, Michael LaMontagne.

Pairing: Garvez (Morcia), Hotchniss, Willifer, SpencerxFiona, RossyxHayden, TaraxO.C..

Note: oneshot.

Legend: 💏😘😈👓🔦🐶.

Song mentioned: none.

Transition- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

Part 2

When the young doctor reaches the corridor where Garcia's room is, he is not prepared for what his eyes are about to see. Agent Alvez is standing against the wall, giving his back to the door; the gaze is fixed and absent, totally immobile. -Luke...?- he tries to call his attention, succeeding only after several attempts. -What... what happened?- he asks, fearing a relapse, complications, unforeseen that he would not be able to tolerate.

-Garcia believes... believes that I’m Derek.- Spencer couldn’t even imagine such a possibility. He stares at the other man, hoping to see him laugh and admit it was just a joke. But this doesn’t happen.

-What you mean that she thinks you're Derek ?! It's... it's...- fearing that he can start rambling as usually, he starts talking again.

-Please, Reid, I need help. What do I do? Should I tell her the truth?-

-Absolutely not. I spoke to the doctor. He told me that the memory must come back on its own, we can’t say anything, otherwise we could cause her a shock.- Emily shows herself adamant. -If you want to stay close to her, you have to let her think you are Derek.- the others show themselves agree.

Luke realizes he needs time to reflect. How long will it take Penelope to recover her memories? But above all, they are sure that the memory will come back to her? What if she always remained in this state? He certainly can’t be called with another name forever. Yet the alternative is being not able to see her at all and it seems intolerable.

In his mind's eye, he can see her: sitting on that hospital bed, partially covered by a sheet, especially her legs, which she was unable to move. The face of a sweet and fragile girl. He still feels the touch of her hand, every detail of her skin. And then he goes back to few days ago, to an evening at his house, after a very tough polygon session: Penelope had fallen asleep on the sofa while he had gone to the bathroom and he wasn’t been able to wake her up. Things had been changed since she called him Newbie: now she was open freely with him, and so Luke was aware of the reason why in these last days she was so sad, so little Garcia. The anniversary of her parents' death was approaching. She still hadn’t overcome it; perhaps, probably, she would never overcome it. As well as the sense of guilt. After seeing her all week taut and having caught her crying outside the polygon, it had seemed a miracle to find her abandoned, finally free from tension, from thoughts. Her expression so serene. Breaking that spell, it would been a sacrilege.

He became something very close to be her best friend. Although this role, ironically, still belongs to Derek. But he feels he can now consider himself among the people she cares about most. So how can he think not to see her for who knows how long?

Despite the moral doubts that such a situation entails, he decides that it is worth risking. Nothing bad will happen. He will manage to keep his distance.

-I don’t like wheelchairs .- Penelope whimpers, while JJ drives her to the car. What she hates is that she can't be autonomous. Not being able to decide to want to go to the park and do it without questioning someone. Will helps his wife to load the woman in the car. Then he also arranges the wheelchair on board and leaves. The couple try to involve her in a happy conversation, but she remains apathetic to look out the window at the flowing landscape. Everyone wants to help her, stay close to her: they surround her, they suffocate her. What she needs, instead, is a bit of peace.

Everything in her head is confused. They didn’t want to tell her exactly how the accident happened. It is clear that there is something that they are hiding from her. For example, what happened to Hotch. But she is confused, not stupid. And she has a very bad feeling. Spencer finally confessed to her that about two years are missing from her head, and that the brunette woman who had frightened her is simply a colleague who replaced Kate. Emily is back with them.

What else have I lost? But they hadn’t wanted to give an answer.

The elevator doors open. JJ pushes her in the direction of her apartment, while Will turns the key in the lock. Rumors emerge immediately.

-Michael! Henry! Stay here.- an elderly woman, but very fit, blonde like her daughter and grandchildren, appears before their eyes. She pursues two children, a much smaller one who is walking around, the other who likes to turn around, aware of annoying her. But as soon as they see their mother, they both stop. And then they realize that there is an unexpected guest.

-Untie Penelope!- Henry reaches her first. He's big enough to know what is the object which his godmother is sitting on, even if the last time he saw one was the birth of his little brother. Garcia smiles and hugs her godchildren. She grabs Michael in her arms before someone could stop her. She glances at the adults, blocking their protests. It doesn’t bother her to have that kind of weight on her, even if it's strange to feel so weak, to feel her legs so weak and distant, foreign, as if they didn’t belong to her.

-Can I go then?- she hears Sandy ask her daughter. -Can you do this alone?- and she also glares in her direction. Finally, the door is opened and closed after a few greetings.

-So...- the man begins -...what do you think if you go to wash your hands and then you help me to prepare the table for Aunt Pen?- the woman feels the urge to shout that she is not a poor paralyzed, a vegetable: she must be careful not to strain the legs until physiotherapy begins, to resume complete mobility. But she doesn’t want to feel so impotent.

The children run towards the bathroom, competing for those arriving first. There is an embarrassing silence. If the situation remains that way until she can return home, she may have been better at the hospital. But she can’t even say what she really thinks: JJ was so nice to offer to host her, after all she's nothing but a burden to anyone right now. And basically, she loves being with Henry and Michael. But... but she no longer feel the same person who has always been. She misses her house, she lacks her autonomy.

-Don’t... don’t do anything for me. I'm not hungry.- the landlady approaches her friend. -Really, JJ, I'm not hungry. I'm still upset by the hospital food.- she tries a joke, which only rips a smile. -If I can... I'd rather stay alone.- she sees perfectly the wounded expression on the blonde's face, but that's what she really needs. In the end she surrenders and tries to help her reach the guest room. But Penelope, helping with her hands, directs the wheels quickly away from JJ and disappears behind the door.

-I can’t do it.- that's how she greets him when Luke picks her up from LaMontagne house to take her to the first physiotherapy session.

-You'll see it will not be that hard.- he tries to encourage her, but she shakes her head.

-No, I don’t mean that. I can’t live in that house.- she turns head towards the building that they left behind. -They are all so... apprehensive, towards me.- she looks at him directly, looking for his eyes. At the end she manages to capture them, but she is forced to stop. -Everybody, except you, chocolate thunder.- Luke swallows hearing that nickname. It is the first time that he personally experiences a situation he has heard so much about: the legendary relationship between Garcia and Morgan, one of the Bureau's longest-running gossip. He doesn’t know what to replicate, so he doesn’t say anything.

-You've always been the only person who really understands what I needed.- she looks for his hand and grabs it; he feels a sudden sensation of well-being. But at the same time, he hears again her words and realizes that he feels something like jealousy, towards who she believes he is. Because she almost seems to do it on purpose, as she wants to bring him back to those days when she did everything to remind him that he was the newcomer, who would never integrate into their family.

But these are just his thoughts without meaning. Penelope is now the least malicious person of the whole universe.

-Come on, let's go or we'll be late.- he starts pushing the wheelchair again.

Once they arrive at the hospital, they are forced to take the elevator and Luke notices that it is the first opportunity since they met, that during that short trip she doesn’t try to provoke him with malicious phrases. In fact, she spends all her time wringing her hands and looking down. She is so worried that he can’t stand it anymore and bends over to take her face in his hands.

-Penelope, don’t worry. You're not alone, I'm with you.- she nods. Then the doors open and they go out. They knock on a door. A woman of about forty appears, glasses and stern air; but her face melts a second later in a smile.

-Miss Garcia?- she asks, looking at them.

-Exactly.- the man replies in her place. -She is Penelope. And I'm...- he hesitates a moment. He is about to say his real name, he corrects himself just in time -...Derek Morgan, her best friend.- a part of him dies in pronouncing that sentence. It is as if he were denying himself. He holds out his hand to the doctor who returns the squeeze.

-Please, come on as well. This is her first session, so we'll go quietly.- she gives her another smile, then turns to him. -Mr. Morgan, right?- he hardly nods - I'm sorry, but you can’t attend. You have to wait in the waiting room.- she announces with a stern tone. He remains a bit upset but surrenders quickly. As he sits down, Garcia's desperate gaze torments each breath he takes.

Dr. Stevenson starts with helping Penelope to lie down on a bed. Once she is set up, she lift it with a lever. -Perfect, now we will start by simply moving the legs. You will not have to do anything, just indulge the movements that I will make you do.- she waits to receive a nod from the patient. So, she takes her right leg first, from the ankle and under the calf and starts to lift it up and then bend it gradually.- Does it hurt?- the blonde shakes her head, but actually she is gritting her teeth. -You 0must not lie to me, it is normal, even correct, to feel a certain degree of pain.- she doesn’t answer. She just freeing one's mind while the other woman continues the movements, alternating now the right and the left leg.

I don’t get my memory back yet. And Derek didn’t tell me anything. I shouldn't have confessed to him that I'm in love with him. After all I always knew, but I always kept it for myself. Why tell him now? It wasn't right. He sees me even more vulnerable than usual. If something should happen, it wouldn't be because he feels the same, but because he is sorry for me. And I can’t stand the idea of being pitied by someone, less than ever by Morgan. And in a little over an hour I'll be back between those walls.

-Ouch!- she can’t hold back a moan that escapes from the lips, when Stevenson bends too strong her leg.

-Let the pain free to leave out.- she says, appearing more like a psychologist than a doctor of the body. -Take a breath.- she adds after a few minutes. -For today we are almost finished.-

-So, how did it go?- he tries to show positive. But she doesn’t even look at him. Nor does she seem willing to give him any kind of answer. He feels the extreme need to hug her and erase all kinds of pain, both physical and mental, as if by magic. But he is afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to set a limit. Something is stirring inside of him, but he has no intention of investigating. Now he doesn’t have the time.

-Do not bring me back to that place.- he's not sure he heard right. He stops, lowering at her height and approaches to try to hear the woman's voice better. -Don’t bring me back to that house, please.- Penelope whimpers. -Please.- her eyes are huge and shiny. He touches her face with one hand and before he realizes it, he finds her lips against his in a chaste kiss, but no less intense and desperate. His eyes remain wide open for the duration of the contact.

It's even weirder, but Garcia is not kissing him. She's convinced she's kissing Derek, her real best friend, her chocolate thunder, her hot stuff. Why does he suddenly feel the need to run away and cry?

They would have been at most five seconds, yet it seemed an eternity, as in the most classic clichés. Like when he saw her hit by the car.

Dear Aaron

No, it's not good. Emily erases for the umpteenth time what she wrote and finally crumpled the sheet up to make a ball that throws, hitting the basket a few feet from her desk.

Hotch, I miss you so much. I can’t handle it this time. It has already been tough with Spencer. I put all my energy into that mission. I'm not a strong boss like you. I'm not good at showing a serious face, never smiling. Even if I haven’t done since you left.

Words flow naturally from her heart and, without passing through the censor organ in her brain, reach the hand and then come out in ink form from the pen.

We need you. I need you. Mark asked me to marry him.

She chuckles and utters a sob, remembering that moment.

You know I'm not the marrying kind. I'm not even children kind, like JJ. But I wanted to take care of Jack with you. And maybe to you, I would have said yes.

They knock on her door. The brunette hurries to hide the sheet under a pile of documents that she hasn’t yet found the strength to study. She shouts: -Come in!- Luke appears in the back of the jamb. The first thing that she notices is only the dark circles, deep in his face. -Did something happen?- she asks, knowing that he took on the task of staying near Penelope during physiotherapy. The man shakes his head, but then nods. Without asking permission, he throws himself in the chair in front of hers.

-Garcia kissed me.- he announces, almost without expression. -You understand, Prentiss?- he raises his voice. -Penelope kissed me!- he says again, as if she hadn’t understood the seriousness of the thing. -But no, she didn’t kiss me, but Derek! The wonderful Derek Morgan. The SSA, super special agent Derek Morgan.- he exclaims, trying to mangle those compliments he has heard too many times.

-Alvez, calm down!- she takes his hands.

-What do I have to do, Emily?- he looks her in the eye. -I can’t go on with this farce. I feel... I feel like somehow I'm taking advantage of her.- he lets go of the woman hand and take his head in his hands.

-Luke, I'm sorry, but you can’t tell her who you really are. We don’t know what could happen.- she stands up, too. Finally, the man leaves her office confused exactly as when he entered it. And the brunette stays there, motionless to watch it go away. Where are you, Aaron. Where are you.

-Today was better?- the sigh that emits the woman forces him once again to stop and turn towards her. Since he kissed her, he hasn’t practically looked her in the face. She seems wounded by his cold reaction. Although shortly afterwards she apologized, confessing at the same time that it was for too long that she felt the need to do so. -Hey, Penelope, give me a smile. No?- he forces her to stare at him, taking her chin. The contact causes him a strange feeling, which as usual he doesn’t stop to analyze. -It will not be much longer, I'm sure.- he gets up and starts driving her wheelchair along the street again.

-But... but...- finally she says -...this is not the home of JJ.- with difficulty she grabs one of the hands of man. -Where are we?- a part of Luke had hoped that in seeing the building, some memory would come back. He sighs, determined not to lose hope.

-Stay a moment here.- he just answers and disappears inside. After a few seconds he emerges, but not alone. He holds a leash at the end of which there is a dark brown sheepdog. Roxy immediately recognizes Penelope and puts both front legs on her legs. -Hey, girl, try to contain you. Do not you see that Garcia is not so good?- he tries to containe her exuberance. In the meantime, the woman looks at the animal almost with the same look she had shown the first time she had seen her. On her face is painted a big smile that makes her very sweet and rips an expression similar to Luke.

-But... but she's lovely! Where does she come from?- he doesn’t have time to answer her. -Where is Clooney?- he has no idea who she's referring to, but he imagines it's some Morgan pet. He certainly can’t tell her something like he's dead, so stay silent, hoping for a miracle. -What's your name?- she finally pulls him out of this mess.

-Roxy.- this is easy to say. A smile escapes him as he remembers the face Garcia had done when she found out that it was not his girlfriend, but his dog. -Come on, let's go for a walk in the park.- in one hand the leash, both on the handles of the wheelchair. After wandering for several meters, they stop near a bench. And without any warning she begins to speak freely.

-You know, I never told you, but when Battle shot me, an infinitesimal part of me gave you the guilt.- Luke understands that she is about to become a witness of something very personal, which doesn’t concern him at all; but he can’t stop her. The temptation to hear her finally say a few words against the super special agent is too strong. -How did you not take seriously what I told you? You've always been very... attentive to me, but I've never been able to understand how serious you was. I never let myself go to the hope that you could like me in that sense. I considered myself lucky to be in your life. But this crash... has changed many things. I can’t pretend to be just your friend. And if you don’t feel and you've never felt even a minimum of this sentiment, for me, maybe it would be better if you brought me to home LaMontagne and left to someone else the fabulous task of staying out for hours while I perform a bad imitation of Bambi on the pond iced.- she grimaces between the amused and the desperate.

Luke remains staring at her without being able to say a word. The feeling that Garcia has for Morgan is immense, it is too big. And the worst thing is to know, unlike her, that the man she loves is happily married with a son. And before the accident it seemed that the blonde was happy for her best friend. But apparently, she was much better at pretending than he believed.

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @arses21434 @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta @myhollyhanna23 @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado @shyladystudentfan @simvez @extremeobsessions101 @agentgarvez @emmaveale123 @angelslivelove @youre-so-mine @kimberly1366

Tell me if you wont to stay tagged or to be removed!

#garvez #criminal minds #penelope garcia #luke alvez #jennifer jareau #william lamontagne #henry lamontagne #michael lamontagne #roxy #emily prentiss #spencer reid #hotchniss #willifer #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #garcia x alvez #alvez x garcia #morcia

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thisclockworkheart · 6 years

Note

If you don’t mind my asking, in the post of you dancing, you mentioned you were recovering from a heart condition. What was the heart condition and how did dancing help with your recovery? I’m curious because I’m a music therapist and did my clinical internship in a med-surg setting but never got to use movement to music as an intervention with cardiac patients.

It’s funny, as a nurse and former music major, music therapy has always appealed to me so much. I think a lot of the reasons dance helped me so much in my recovery are deeply personal, but I definitely d to think it would be awesome to offer it as an extension of music therapy. I also think a lot of cardiac patients probably would not be cleared by their cardiologists, at least while they’re in patient. My case was also pretty unique, and while obviously dangerous at times, I didn’t have the risk factors most cardiac patients have. Young, active, no physical heart defects, no atherosclerosis, and autonomic mediated rhythm issues. I did run the risk of CHF if my heart rate remained uncontrolled for too long, but that’s the main reason the surgery was recommended in the first place. The last thing they wanted was for me to STOP being active, so even though there was a risk, they actually encouraged me to keep dancing as long as I felt safe doing it.

For me, dance has actually been a part of my life longer than it hasn’t. Never at a super high level, but at least enough to ingrain a passion for it in me. I was a voice major, so I think it appealed to me as an extension of using my body as my instrument. I didn’t become completely passionate about ballet until I came back to it at 20. I was 28 when I had that surgery, so taking class several times a week was very much ingrained in me by that point.

To back up a little bit, I was diagnosed with inapproppriate sinus tachycardia/autonomic dysfunction when I was 25. I was at the height of my dance training at the time- taking classes 6 days a week: technique, pointe, variation and rehearsals.I knew I had a problem. I knew dance made could make it worse. I didn’t quit, and my doctors worked with me knowing that I never would. I have vivid memories of going to class on event monitors, and became an expert in managing to find ways to keep a monitor on and hidden in rehearsals. I didn’t know where it would go, but I knew that no matter what happened, I would keep dancing.

Of course in the end that didn’t work out too well, and I ended up moving back home since I had no idea just how bad things would get. IST took over my life. I couldn’t do much, but I found a place to dance and kept going, even if it was only a few days a week. Dance was more than a joy for me, it was clinging to normalcy. I did of course reach a point where I could no longer dance, and about a year after that I had the surgery.

To actually answer the question you asked: how did dance help in my surgical recovery?

As always, my first question to my doctors was ‘when will I be able to dance again?’ Naturally followed by asking just what it will take to get there, and exactly what I will need to do. Being able dance is a gauge of normalcy for me. It gave me something to work towards.

The day I was given permission to exercise, I was in the gym. A month or so after that I was given permission for weights, so in that went. A month after that I was given permission to dance, and the next day I was in the studio.

If you look back in my archives, you’ll see a post where I make a comparison about how I felt a few days after surgery verses a few months later where I’m anticipating Nutcracker rehearsals. Right after surgery I was heartbroken, hardly able to comprehend a day where I might dance again. Of course what I was experiencing was perfectly normal, but I couldn’t see that then. Fast forward a few months to where I was back in the studio, and things were just so normal... I don’t have the words to describe it. When I got to my car, I just sat there and cried. I was so joyful, I was so grateful. It was the first time I felt I was truly starting to recover.

It took a lot of sweat and determination, but I slowly worked my way back to doing full classes, and I never looked back.

Of course that’s the simplified version of it, but that’s basically be the same process for everything I’ve been through. Obviously there’s more to it than that. It’s even made me think about WHY I dance, but since I’ve gone on long enough here, I think I’ll make a separate post for that. Despite just doing at as hobby, dance is a part of who I am. It would be impossible for me to recover from anything without reestablishing that connection.

I’ve rambled on and on here, but hopefully this makes some kind of sense.

#libertypical

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bittersweet-hun-ny · 3 years

Text

Life

Life is a very confusing thing to try and dissect.

Life has a varying amount of outcomes and possibilities…

Zeke wakes up in a cold sweat and rubs his eyes. He has been having reoccurring dreams every night for the past week. He would be walking in a beautiful garden with exotic flowers and lush greenery, but beyond that veil someone or something sinister. Zeke was zapped out of his thoughts by the ringing of his phone.

“Yeah what’s up?” He asks his manager.

“Well, Zeke we need you to come down to the studio. Your last song it got deleted somehow. So, we need you here ASAP!” His manager declares before hanging up on him and leaving him to his thoughts once again. Zeke got dressed and tied on this headband, before heading to the studio.

He walks down the sidewalk and sees someone out of the corner of his eye.

It can’t be… It was Zeke. The spitting image of him right down to wearing the same pair of ivory Converse. He stops and watches his doppelgänger gracefully walk away. Zeke runs to his studio and throws open the door almost knocking a plaque off the wall.

“Andrea you are not going t-!” He starts to shout, but his manger Andrea cuts him off stating.

“I was not going to wait for you Zeke. We need to record this now. The release date for this song was yesterday.” She glares up at him, causing him to swallow hard.

“I know. I know. Trust me though I am truly sorry, but I seen someone, and he looked exactly like me! Down to the same pair of shoes.” He says still flabbergasted about what he saw.

Andrea sighs and shakes her head, stating her concern.

“Zeke maybe you need more sleep. We can delay your next album a bit so you can focus on your wellbeing and especially your mental health. I know you must be…” Zeke shakes his head quickly and groans in frustration.

“Andrea… I don’t think you are understanding me. I have been having these weird dreams for the past few nights and I feel like that guy might be connected to them. I know it might seem like a long shot. However, every night I would get closer to the edge of the garden. Last night… I saw the silhouette of a man. I know it is him.” He says exasperated.

Andrea stands up and pats him on the shoulder.

“Okay. I believe you. How about we re-record your song and then we can hunt down this mystery man.” She says with a reassuring smile. Zeke nods and heads into his recording room.

After an hour of recording and mixing. Andrea and Zeke head out to find “Zeke 2.0”.

They start their search in the most basic of places a coffee shop. Zeke questions the barista and a few of the customers that are sitting around. After searching the coffee shop Andrea suggests checking the mall because they are usually bustled and packed full of people. So, it could be possible to find him there. Both walk around and Zeke spots him in an ocean of loud bustling shoppers. He pushes his way through the people, and he grasps the man’s forearm, using that to make his way in front of him.

“You. Who are you?” Zeke asks out of breath from wading over.

“I should be asking you that. Seeing as you rudely grabbed my arm.” The mystery man states

unbothered at the fact they looked exactly the same. The only difference was that Zeke was a well-known rapper, had piercings, tattoos, and the fact that he had longer dreads.

“You really do not know me.” Zeke states and continues “I am Zeke Gray. I’m a rapper who works under the stage name of Project 012.” The mystery man sighs and shakes his head.

“Eh.. a rapper. I am not fond of that genre of music.” He states annoyed and continues.

“My name is Sterling Q. MacIntosh. Instead of having a wack occupation like you. I am a businessman and I own a lot of buildings in the downtown district nine.” He says proudly. Zeke sighs and says

“I have no clue what your deal is man but is none of this worrying to you. I mean you are the spitting image of me.” Sterling scoffs and says

“Oh please. Do not compare us. I am on a whole other level, but if you ever feel like trying to get on my level. Here is my business card.” Zeke takes the card and starts to read it.

“hey-?” He says aloud and looks up seeing that Sterling is gone. Andrea had taken his place.

“Oh my gosh. I thought I lost you!” She says and pulls him out of the crowd, looking down at the small business card in his hands.

“What is this?” She asks softly and carefully takes it from him, reading it to aloud

“Sterling Q. MacIntosh

Architect and Business Manager

Email: [email protected]”

Andrea gives him back the card and says.

“So, Zeke 2.0 is a businessman named Sterling. Huh? Kinda old fashioned.” Zeke looks down at the card again and places it in his pocket.

“I’m going home.” He says solemnly and leaves the mall in haste. Zeke goes home and starts to look up information on Sterling. After being awake until midnight, he closes the laptop and looks at his notes.

“He seems completely normal, but something still feels off.” He mutters and walks over to bed laying down and falling asleep. Zeke is in his reoccurring dream again, but this time he is outside of the garden’s boarders. He can see Sterling standing next to a tree that has caught on fire somehow and on the horizon, Zeke see toppling skyscrapers. His words get trapped in his throat and Sterling smiles innocently, but his eyes hold malicious intent.

“Well. What do we have here? Ah the dreamer in life and in subconscious. Zeke Gray… Project 012… Well-known rapper… You are not real Zeke. My company made you under the guise of being a businessman/architect. I am a mad scientist in a sense. Zeke. My son I could never have. You are just a highly functioning robot.” Sterling says the smile disappearing and his head falls, tears roll down his cheeks. Zeke watches as everything around him starts to crumble and disappear. He runs over to Sterling and pulls him into a hug, not knowing why but soon enough he realizes why.

Everything in the dream began to change into a bright white room and on a table in the middle of the room… was Zeke. He was a robot an android something different and innovated. Zeke lets go of Sterling and runs over to the table. He was astounded watching the code flash across the laptop screen. Sterling walks up behind him and says

“Forgive me.” Zeke looks down at the completely autonomous version of himself, starting to declare.

“Forgive you? For what? You gave me life. I should tha-!?”

Zeke wakes up in his room with a jumping start.

“What was that? That dream felt so real, but it could not be. I family photos, memories, a complete past, but… a highly functioning robot…” He says quietly and looks at his hands, before running to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror touches his skin, his hair, and his clothes. He is completely real and human for sure, right?

Zeke digs in his pockets for Sterling’s business card and luckily for him there was a number. He dials it and waits for him to pick up.

“Hello?” Sterling asks sleepily.

“Sterling… I have a question. I know this is gonna sound crazy. Okay not crazy, but definitely insane. Just hear me out. You were in my dream and you said you made me a-.” Zeke rambles and gets cut off by Sterling.

“Just meet me tomorrow at Café al Dionte. It is in district nine.” He says before hanging up and leaving Zeke confused. Sterling runs his fingers through his short hair and sighs to himself.

Zeke wakes up the next morning and gets dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. He gets a taxi to the café and walks inside ordering a coffee, before taking a seat by the window. Sterling walks into the café about twenty minutes later and takes a seat next to Zeke, putting his briefcase on the table.

“Your dream. You are very perceptive Zeke. Yes, you are my son. I did make you with the same likeness as me, but I did not intend for this to happen. I feel like it would have been too meta and I am sorry for making fun of your career. I will support you through anything.” Sterling says and carefully opens his briefcase revealing pictures of Zeke being put together, pictures of a quite younger Sterling, and a few little robotic components. Zeke nods along and asks

“Why not just keep me and raise me as your son? That would have made more sense, right?” Sterling nods a bit and says

“Yeah… I don’t know. I felt like you would turn on me in some way, but now I see that would never have been the case. The whole reason I made you was because I was alone. At one point in my life I was married. I had a wife and a child, but that changed in an instant. My wife got into a car accident it was a drunk driver. Her and my son were pronounced dead upon impact. I guess I broke and became disjointed. No one wanted to talk to me. So, I just locked myself away and began to create you in my own likeness and my son. I made you into the future version of him in the hopes it would make me feel again.” Sterling stops talking and trembles a little. Zeke passes him the coffee and smiles.

“I understand now. How hard it must’ve been to endure all of that alone. I am glad that you gave me life and a good one at that. I have been able to chase dreams and become famous. Thank you, dad.” Zeke says with a bright genuine smile. Sterling looks up at Zeke and sees what he had always wanted for his son. A bright smile, future, and the ability to withstand any obstacle put before him. His eyes begin to tear up and he quietly says.

“I am so glad about how you turned out Zeke. I… You. Thank you, son.” He leans over and hugs Zeke tight, before pulling away and wiping his tears with a handkerchief. Sterling drinks the coffee and sits the empty mug on the table. Zeke looks at the mug and then up at Sterling.

“Dad, why don’t you come and live with me? That way you can learn more about who I’ve become and so we can have a familial bond.” He suggests and Sterling smiles.

“I would love that. Oh, and can I ask you a personal question?” Sterling asks. Zeke nods and Sterling continues.

“I see that you are wearing a ring on your left ring finger. Are you perhaps married?” Zeke blushes and covers his face.

“Oh yeah. That is probably important.” He says with a small nervous laugh and says

“I am married. My wife’s name is Onyx, and she is an independent writer, and she tends to write romance novels. I met her at a bakery in Toronto while doing a tour to try and get my music out there. She is really nice. So, I am sure she would love you, but wait… Should she know I am a robot or android or whatever? I feel like it would complicate or make things bad…” Sterling looks at Zeke and takes a moment to think.

“I think that is up to you. However, for relationships and marriages to work there needs to be honesty. So, I think for the greater good you should tell her and if she is as nice as she sounds then I am sure she won’t mind.” Zeke nods and ponders on his father’s answer.

“I will tell her when she comes back from her book signing events. Anyways, here is my home address. Come over when you are ready to get settled in. I have a guest room with your name on it!” Zeke says cheerfully and stands up leaving the café and going to his house. He starts to clean up and waits for the time his father decides to come home. Zeke sits in his living room a smile on his face, as he looks down at a picture of him and Onyx, but slowly the picture develops, and Sterling is standing next to him with a big smile.

…

Life is what you make of it and it can be wild at times.

Life is a thing that can be created, destroyed, and altered in various ways.

Life is a miracle.

#shortstory #writing #writing contest #story #fiction #oc #oc story #long reads #long short story #writing stuff #shouldibecomeawriter #enjoy #long story #fiction short story #fiction story #life #robots #robot oc #Android oc

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Top 4 Best Patriot Solar Charger | Patriot Power Cell Reviews

In this article, we will discuss the Best Patriot Solar Charger Reviews. Here we at PowerBank-Online.com, we give the answers to all the questions about Patriot Power Generator. Which is the Best Patriot Solar Charger for you? Get out there. Hold a few moments & easily compare different top-rated Patriot Solar Chargers. See how any stacks up using a side-by-side point comparison chart. We consumed over 22 hours of testing & researching Patriot Solar Chargers to discover the best route to check the energy of the sun to fill your gadgets. After experimenting on both cloudy & sunny days, we found that the Patriot Power Cell or Patriot Power Generator collected and saved the most rays. Its 4-panel design & large capacity give it ideal for backpacking plus camping journeys without passage to a power socket. For a few less money, the Patriot solar power bank has the same battery capacity & good solar charging speeds.

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Top 4 Best Patriot Solar Charger Reviews

Each solar charger addresses various issues. Their utilization might be multiple. Everything relies upon the gadget you use and its highlights. That is the reason there is two solar charger arrangement to suit all circumstances. Each brand has its points of interest, however, numerous distinctions are relying upon the model of the gadget. That is the reason you should completely comprehend your needs before settling on a decision. To enable you to comprehend the solar charger all the more plainly, these are the principle criteria to think about when picking. We have prepared a listing of the Best Patriot Solar Charger that include more capacity, and the laptop-compatible Solar Phone case. Never drop to 0 percent battery life repeatedly. Let's have a look at the list of the Patriot Power Cell that my team made for you. Editor’s Note: We will update this list as more Patriot Chargers hit the market. Editor’s Recommendations ==> Best CPAP Battery for Camping Best USB Car Charger BEST AUTOMOTIVE BATTERY CHARGER Best 18650 Battery Charger Reviews Best 16 Volt Battery charger Reviews Best 6 Volt Battery Charger 36-Volt Battery Charger Reviews 24-Volt Battery Charger Reviews Aibocn Power Bank Reviews 12v Battery Charger Reviews 12 Volt Solar Battery Charger Best Battery for Car AGM Battery Maintainer Reviews Parmak Solar Fence Charger Reviews Best Solar Car Battery Charger Reviews 36-Volt Golf Cart Battery Charger Reviews GoPro Power Bank Reviews Camping Power Generator Reviews ChargeAll Battery Pack Reviews AC vs DC Charger DBPower Jump Starter Reviews NAPA Battery Reviews Halo Portable Charger

No. 1 Patriot Power Cell Pocket-Sized Solar USB Charger 4Patriots Brand

Patriot Power Cell Pocket Sized Solar USB Charger 4Patriots Brand

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No. 2 Kyng Power Solar Generator Portable Power Station 540Wh 1000w Peak Lithium Battery Back-Up Power Supply Emergency, CPAP, Outdoors, Camping, Silent Generator Rechargeable Inverter, 4 USB, AC Outlet

Kyng Power Solar Generator Portable Power Station 540Wh 1000w Peak Lithium Battery Back Up Power Supply Emergency

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No. 3 Sungzu 300W Portable Solar Generator, 350Wh Portable Power Station 93600mAh with 110V/2.73A AC 12V/8A DC 5V/3A USB Outlet for Outdoors Camping Fishing Emergency

Sungzu 300W Portable Solar Generator, 350Wh Portable Power Station 93600mAh

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No. 4 Lit Wireless Solar Power Bank 20,000 mAh Battery

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PROS Lit Solar PowerBank Powerful Battery 20,000 mAh Lithium-ion Battery Charge in a hurry 3 USB Link Outputs Quick Charging Micro-USB input to charge + Solar Panel Extreme Shell Silicone defensive spread (Waterproof IP65, Shockproof) Drove Light Hang on/off catch to turn on the powerful Driven light Battery Specifications: Output: 5V 1A/2.1A; Input DC 5V/1A Cheat and Wise Protection: Charging and releasing more than multiple times Following 72 hours of the maturing test - execution is steady. Incorporated into the crate: Solar PowerBank, Micro-USB string, Manual CONS

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"All brand names and images are Registered Trademarks of their respective companies. All manufacturers names, numbers, symbols and descriptions are used for reference purposes only, and it is not implied that any part listed is the product of these manufacturers or approved by any of these manufacturers." Read the full article

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