#i'm posting this here bc it bothers me when i dont have a backup of my fic online somewhere

[commanderquinn]

Good Space Chapter 5: Stuck In The Middle With You

! i dont! keep these posts! updated! like i do! ao3!

that means you're going to find typos and shit (and possibly minor detail changes) that don't match the ao3 version! that's because im not going to bother fixing the tumblr posts until i finish good space as a whole. im only uploading them here as a backup tbh

—

master list / ao3 chapter link

—

consistent formatting? nah. in this house we believe in Convenient Formatting 🙏 rapid fire and no flashbacks again (when they start to get Super Painful later on you’ll mourn the days when i skipped them for extra fluff) we’re Zeroed In on the nerds for another hot minute. this is what happens when you get hooked on a fic by an idiot that’s more inspired by screenwriters than authors, srry ❤️

also this chapter (and probably quite a few throughout this fic) is specifically for the babes that have had to pick themselves up from the dirt after a romantic crash. i cannot tailor this in a vague way that lets anyone picking this up have their own catharsis here, right? mega impossible to one size fits all that. but what i CAN do is use the bundle of greek myth references that is ava’s concept to tell a story about regaining personal power after a total shitass tricks you into thinking youre not completely bitchin as you are ❤️

and i guess make a bunch of canadian jokes bc those are really funny to me tbh. thank you donnatella moss for the inspiration. the best accidental moose canada ever had

anyways. sit. get comfy 😌 think of the ex you reallyreallyreally wanna stab 🥰 and then go project that exact motherfucker onto alec ❤️

—

"Put it on."

"No."

"Put. It. On."

"Nope."

"It's going to look good on you."

Bucky flicks his eyes up from the news article open on his tablet. "Yes, it would."

"Great. Your head is still gigantic post-defrosting. Good thing the one I picked comes with buttons. Leave three of them undone—"

"I know how many to leave undone." That was a misstep. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth. She's going to use it as if it's compliance. It isn't.

"And I'm sure you remember how to get your arms through the holes, too. So, let's go." Natasha repeatedly taps her hand on the kitchen table, making her rings knock against the aged wood. "Make with the wardrobe change."

"I'm not wearing that, and I'm sure as hell not going anywhere," he counters blandly.

"Yes, you are. Get up."

"Eat dirt, Romanoff. I have this thing called a will of my o—"

"So, you don't want to go?"

"Correct."

"Nothing could convince you to change your mind?"

"Absolutely not."

"Who do you think is going to be more disappointed when I repeat that at the bar, Wyatt or Ava?"

Bucky's eyes close slowly. Gently. The movement is a stark contrast to the anger swirling in him, the majority of which is aimed at himself, not the Russian seeking to ruin his life. This was so easy to spot coming. So easy. And he walked right into it.

"Have you given—" Steve attempts around a mouthful of food, cutting off when Natasha hits him in the back of the head to make him stop. He takes a moment to wash down the Coco Puffs with a gulp of fresh coffee after that. "Have you given Wyatt an autograph yet? I gave him one. Super nice guy, you'll like him."

"Why is the brain trust suddenly invited to a night out?" Bucky demands. This is a fucking trap. There is no possible way that this isn't a fucking trap.

Natasha rolls her eyes at him. "We're plying them with booze to try and keep them from suing us into the ground for inflicting you on the populace. Now shut up and go change. You're not wearing those pants."

"I'm—" He cuts himself off mid-refusal. There's not a chance, not even a fraction of a percent of one, that Ava would take offense to him not wanting to go. He's told her, on multiple occasions, that he hates getting dragged out to these things. His friends are awful, and they just do this to torture him. He's not inclined to entertain that most weeks, and Ava knows that. "I don't have any other pants aside from—"

"Yes, you do."

"I'm not wearing tux pants to a—"

"The leather ones you keep for long rides."

Bucky stops, and not because Natasha just revealed knowing another secret he hasn't told her. That shit doesn't even phase him anymore. His eyes move down to the blue button-up she's trying to force him into, his lips pursing slightly. The leather pants she's not supposed to know about are worn to hell and back at this point. Heavy weathering, a hole or two at the back of the heels, more than a few deep scratches that'll become holes if he's not overly careful. Not the kind of thing that would usually be suitable for a night out. 

That button-up is new, though. Looks expensive, too. Good quality silk. It'll look more natural on him under a jacket. Less like a significant effort and more like something he got roped into. Which is precisely what's happening.

Bucky sighs deeply, looking back up at her in resignation. "I have some ground rules."

"You're allowed to have approximately one."

He looks over at Steve in frustration. The bastard shakes his head with a cackle, a fresh scoop of Puffs halfway to his mouth. "Ooohoho, no. Nah-uh. There's a captain on deck tonight, but it is not me." He stands up, chewing quickly, a big dumb smile on his stupid face. "I'm being a good boy and following her orders."

Natasha knocks on the spot of hardwood directly in front of Bucky obnoxiously. "Name your singular rule. I still have to do my hair; hurry the hell up."

Her sass reminds him that he has to figure out what the fuck he's going to do with his hair. "I'm not dancing, for starters—"

"Great. None of us will hound you about dancing; you have my word. Go get dressed. We leave in an hour, and you'll be really embarrassed if I have to drag your unconscious body through the tower." Her eyebrows raise expectantly as she stands up, looking between him and the shirt. To add insult to injury, she taps her nails along his head on her way out of the kitchen.

Steve doesn't look over from where he's raiding the fridge for another snack. "For what it's worth, she sounded excited about the invitation."

Bucky's eyes squint suspiciously. "You invited her?"

"No, Nat did," he replies far too casually. "I was just in the room when she made the call."

"See, your fuck up here is that now I know—"

"I have information you can try to weasel out of me? Thanks, Buck, I appreciate that, seeing as I'm entirely inept when it comes to interrogation and spycraft—"

"Only for the most part. Was this your push or Nat's?"

"Are you asking to be a pest, or are you asking because you need to know?"

Bucky grinds his teeth. He can say the latter, and Steve will never know the difference. "I don't need to know, but—"

"Then fuck off." He shuts the fridge door with a gentle swing and a bright smile. "I have to go get dressed. So do you." He flicks at the bun resting against the back of Bucky's head on his way out. These fuckers are always touching him, and they don't pull the Canadian routine about it. "Should do something with your hair. It looks like it has blood on it."

It probably does. His last mission was designated complete all of twenty minutes ago, and he definitely bled through some of it. Bucky can't really tell on his end; he's still coming down from the adrenaline rush. Something Natasha used to her advantage, no doubt. 

"You fuck off," he grumbles long after Steve is out of earshot.

—

"I'm completely serious."

"No, you're panickin', ya big baby."

"I mean it."

"I'd like to go ahead and remind you that I was there when you purchased most'a your wardrobe. Both times. I think I'd know if y'didn't."

"I can't wear any of that. It's one thing when it's my space—"

"You're allowed to exist in other places, ya dweeb."

"I didn't say I wasn't allowed. Just that...." Ava trails off, her nerves finally catching up to her. The argument had felt like a funny joke when she poked her head through the doorway to start it. Now it's not feeling so funny anymore. Paige is doing that awful, shitty thing where she makes sense. Leaning against the frame and glancing down at the master bedroom's carpet, Ava feels small. "I don't know. The stuff I wear to conferences is too—prim. Most of it's ballroom shit and wouldn't work, anyways. All of my usual go-to's just... It all feels... stupid."

The energy drink chugging champion that is her best friend props herself up on her elbows where she's laid out on her bed. The headband she's wearing has two miniature alien heads poking up from it that wiggle with the motion. "Well, hey there, Alec. Long time no see, ya son of a—"

"Yeah, yeah," Ava waves her hand dismissively. The reminder does knock some of the pity party out of her, at least. There was a time when she made decisions for herself and herself alone. Those were damn good years, and Ava is trying like hell to get back into the mindset. The one she proudly lived in before she let someone talk her into being ashamed of who she is. "Let my freak flag fly, whatever. I still don't have anything to wear." Nothing that doesn't feel crushingly laughable, anyways.

"What about that lace skirt you've got, the one with the swirly patterns? That one's so cute."

Ava frowns. She's not looking to get squished in hosiery tonight, which would be the only way to save herself in something that short. "For dancing?"

"Mmm. That's, ya know, that ain't a bad point. It ain't exactly built for the breeze." Paige tilts her head to the side, making the aliens go wild. Her face pinches like she's brainstorming. Then her eyes go wide with excitement. "Oh! Wear that—the, the thing!"

"Gonna need more to go on." She snaps her fingers as Paige smacks at her own bedspread.

"The wrap dress!"

"You're out of your mind," Ava laughingly insists. Now that she's caught up to her best friend's train of thought, she's almost startled. "That's—first of all, I think it's technically a sun dress—"

"Who gives a shit? Ya look great in it."

"I look—that's beside the point. It... it's not too...?"

"Too...?"

"Shit, I don't know." She folds her arms over her chest and chews her lip for a few seconds. "What do I wear with it?"

"Nothin' but heels." The smirk on Paige's face is devious.

"You know what else isn't built for the breeze? Me. I'm not looking to flash the Avengers tonight, thanks." The words make her instantly think of Bucky, shamefully enough. He's not even going to be there tonight. She's absolutely sure of it. He's told her how much it takes to convince him to go out these days.

The manic pixie rolls her eyes. "Alright. The dress, the heels, and somethin' stringy."

"How about a jacket?" Ava reasons, already turning to go back to Paige's guest room, the one that's been unofficially hers for years.

"Pick one that's sheer, ya chickenshit," she shouts down the hallway behind her.

"That's a lot of sass coming from the woman who can't look America's Sweetheart in the eye!" 

"You'll thank me when you don't wake up here!"

Ava gets hit with the mental reminder that a certain sergeant has been threatening to fly her home for over a week. She hip-bumps her unofficial door closed with a huff. 

Bucky's not going to show up tonight. 

Even if he was, the man's a serial flirt, and she's his—the primary neurosurgeon on his case. Not-flirting through his appointments has been…. She's been trying to think of it as a bedside manner. A very unprofessional bedside manner. The kind she wouldn't have the balls to admit to out loud.

Natasha didn't mention him directly during the invitation call, only his case. All she said was that the whole team was welcome, including the duct rat, Findley. No mention of other attendants. It would have been brought up if he were going to be there; Ava's sure of that. 

Natasha did mention getting Paige home on time, which was suspicious. Tomorrow is the engineer's first mission assigned to the Avengers as support, sure, but they don't seem like the type to need a pre-check. Ava's only seen a handful of SHEILD agents listed in the medical reports from Bucky's missions, and he never mentions any of them directly. She's always gotten the impression that assigned agents are an unknown hand in that machine.

If Steve ends up tagging along, she'll have her suspicions about the Russian's intent with this whole thing. She might have an ally in the fight to push her best friend that she didn't know about. 

Maybe she'll go to the tower after Paige is home safe. Ava's brought up the idea of switching to night appointments before, and she doubts Bucky would say no to a quick ten minutes on the roof. He might even stay for a while without having the excuse of leaving her to her work. 

She could pick up some late-night bagels to bribe him with. Her favorite shop closes early, but they work til midnight sometimes just for the baking process. Ava does the yearly medical work for the owner and his family without charging him. In return, he lets her sneak in after hours for cream cheese and salmon. With that and a quick stop to her office for a handful of lollipops, she's got herself some super soldier bait. 

She might not even stop to change back out of the dress. She'll grab the lab coat, though. Bucky looks more at ease whenever she has it on.

—

He wants to leave already.

It's been eighteen seconds since they coraled him through the front door. He's very proud of himself. He didn't think he'd make it to half that before the urge hit.

Bucky looks around the crowded bar with the sourest face he can muster. It's loud, it's cramped, it's loud, he's already hot enough to know he'll be sweating at some point, and it's too fucking loud. The checkpoint out front is a disaster. He's not real clear on what the standards for a bar security chief are, but that pick-up artist with the handheld, battery-powered metal detector out front doesn't fit his definition of competent. Not by a long shot.

The Avengers haven't rolled out with the full roster tonight. Tony, mercifully, is away with Pepper, Barton fucks off to god knows where, and Rhodey's as much of a workaholic as Bucky is. He tries not to think about where Thor goes. That particular can of worms is pretty full. He's still trying to get used to the fact that they've got a Quinjet that can just go to space. Whenever he—they want.

The ones that did come don't give him any shit when he breaks off to do his walk-about. They all figured out pretty early on that it's a sensitive subject. Bruce doesn't even notice him leave half the time. Steve used to do a piss-poor job of inconspicuously following him back when Bucky was primarily non-verbal. Natasha never mentions it.

The building is two stories. There's a halfway decent camera set-up that he can tap into through the wifi. No windows in the bathrooms. The roof access isn't wired with an alarm. All the emergency exits are, though. The owner's room was locked before Bucky got to it, but the staff areas are open to whoever turns a handle. They've got a round of code inspections coming up at the start of next month. They'll fail at least two of them if they don't unblock that rear door.

Sam silently checks in with an offered fist bump once he's back at the table eight minutes later. Bucky doesn't hesitate to reciprocate it. There's already a half glass of whiskey sitting on the table waiting for him. He doesn't hesitate to get his mitts on that, either.

Wyatt and Hannah show up before Ava and Paige do. It's the first time Bucky's been faced with meeting them since Ava offered that one time. She never pushed it after that. He's been meaning to get around to it. But the idea has been making his teeth buzz too much to go through with it.

Hannah is laser-focused on him from the start. She's just as conscious of it as he is, then. He can tell the moment that the realization hits Wyatt. His eyes widen with a flash of concern, his burly frame curling in on itself as if that'll make six feet of muscle look less threatening. It's almost heartwarming that he's worried about looking threatening to Bucky, of all people. The anxiety on the kid's face gets swallowed up by excitement. Seconds later, another wave of anxiety surfaces. It teeters back and forth as Hannah pushes him up to the table through the crowd.

Bucky watched Atlantis the other night after one of his nightmares took away any chance of falling back to sleep. It saved him from having to wake Steve up for a trip to the supply store. He texted Ava about it once he spotted the sun through the small gap in his blackout curtains; she was thrilled. Seeing the baby-faced brain surgeon nervously approach the table makes him understand why she compares him to Milo, not Dr. Sweet. 

Bucky's not looking to be the aggressive silent type anymore. At least not when it comes to the people working their asses off for him. He reaches out with his flesh hand, giving a reassuring half-smile to Wyatt. "Good to finally meet you, Combs."

The grin that stretches across the doctor's face looks wide enough to hurt. A stubby hand reaches out across the table for an enthusiastic shake. "It's an honor to meet you, Sergeant Barnes."

"I'll sign that journal Ava's warned me about if you promise to call me Bucky," he bribes, taking his hand back for another sip of whiskey.

"Y'mean it?" He's already headed for his patch-covered messenger bag with a hopeful look on his face. "I can use whatever makes ya comfortable. I'm not gonna make ya sign—"

"Hand it over." He glances over to where Hannah is sitting down across from Bruce. They trade an amicable nod when she makes direct eye contact again. "It's good to meet you, as well, Schuster."

"Barnes." He hears the sound of a boot being kicked under the table and watches Wyatt glare at the side of her head. She gives Bucky a strained smile. He's got a feeling it's usually strained. "Likewise."

Bucky likes her already.

As Ava warned, it doesn't take long for Wyatt to start asking about maps. He's bombarded with questions the moment he hands the journal back, with a fresh, chicken-scratch signature on one of its pages. The kid has a lot of trouble picking one at a time, and Bucky's trying not to shorten his answers out of habit. 

He keeps a mental list of the information Wyatt's most interested in. A year ago, he would have done it out of ingrained habit. Tonight it's a deliberate choice. Bucky can get his hands on records the Combs family doesn't know about. The kind they can't make a legal request for because there's no official log of it.

Ava and Paige are the last to arrive. He's too busy trying to give Wyatt more stories when they walk through the door to spot them. Steve is the first to notice their entrance, pausing mid-sentence about a mission the Howlies went on that Bucky barely remembers. Looking away from Wyatt's face, he understands why his best friend froze up. 

Good fucking god almighty. She's trying to kill him.

The doctor that haunts Bucky's dreams is walking through the crowded bar in an outfit that should be triggering the tactical analysis in his head. The analysis that, lately, only ends when his mind catches up to the fact that he shouldn't be thinking about being balls-deep in her while trying to make eye contact. It's probably—definitely inappropriate. But something about the thin, light blue fabric of her dress is shorting him the fuck out. 

It's low-cut, which is the first strike. The second is the way that split up her right leg only stops when it reaches the top of her thigh. The third—the one that really knocks him flat on his ass—is the way the whole thing is pulled in to show off her hips. The ones he'd have a lot of trouble letting go of if she ever let him put his hands on her to begin with.

He roughly swallows around nothing but air. His eyes shoot up to Ava's face, desperate to stave off his bastard mind latching onto her outfit. The last thing he needs in his head right now is a full-scale plan for laying her out on the table to unwrap that thing like a present. She's smiling at him, genuine surprise shaping most of her expression. God willing, it's about his presence here, not where his eyes were a second ago.

"They let you out of the house now?" she sasses him over the roar of the bar. Her hand folds into a fist and props high on her hip as she stops at the table's edge, her other arm linked with her best friend's.

Bucky is so fucking hopeless for her. "Yes, ma'am. But only if I get enough green stickers that week."

"In that case, thanks for behaving. I didn't think you'd be here tonight." That smile of hers is still bright as the sun. Still aimed at him. Christ, he's never been happier about Natasha ruining his life. "I'm pleasantly surprised around you, for once."

Gimmie half a chance, and I can show you every kind of pleasant surprise there is. 

If this were 1943, he'd still have the balls to say it to her. It'd be suicide to say it around his idiot friends, but he was a dumbass who wouldn't have hesitated back then. Not with someone like her. 

It's probably a good thing it's not still 1943. "If I make all the surprises annoy you, you'll tell me to stop. I have to keep you on your toes, or you'll get bored."

One of her eyebrows raises at him, entirely unimpressed. It makes him want to hold her hand. "You do understand how cool my job is, right? You're also a literal cyborg I get to poke at whenever I feel like telling you it's medically necessary. What part of that am I supposed to get bored with, sergeant?"

Bucky folds with a shy chuckle, bringing up his glass of whiskey to hide his mouth behind. "You get used to the shiny parts."

"I'm sure he'll let you add more when he busts his ass again," Sam jokes from off to Ava's left. He's staring at Bucky with an overly satisfied grin. It makes him glare over his whiskey while Ava and Paige sit down.

"Sorry we're late," Paige says, her eyes moving to Steve and her cheeks turning slightly pink. "Gettin' through Bronx traffic is always fun."

"Ordered Ryder's usual," Hannah mentions, pointing to a tall glass of ale the waiter dropped off while he wasn't looking. "Didn't know what you were in the mood for."

"Somethin' fizzy." She rhythmically taps her mismatched nails on the table, humming to herself while she glances over the drink menu. "Or maybe somethin' icey."

"I went the margarita route if you wanna go halfsies tonight," Wyatt offers, nudging his frosted glass over to her. Paige perks up and leans over for a sip.

He looks over at Steve, who's watching the interaction with the sappiest smile. It nearly makes his eyes roll. Natasha and Sam sniffed out the captain's big crush a long time ago, but it's the first time Bucky's seeing it for himself.

Neither one of them has learned a goddamn thing. Not in a hundred years.

A much more gentle nail taps right in front of his arm, dragging his eyes back to Ava while she gets herself seated. "What made you decide to come?" 

She would hit him with a question that blunt right off the bat. He tries not to notice Sam's silent laughter next to her. 

"Heard the egg heads were making an appearance," he decides to be mostly honest with.

The pleased smile on her face takes on a softer edge. She really hadn't been expecting him to show. It makes him all the more glad that he listened to Natasha. "We convinced you?"

You did. "You're surprised? I'm not about to put in the effort for these assholes."

"He only does that for our birthdays," Sam tells her, leaning into her space slyly. 

Bucky holds out his hands, mildly insulted. "And bank holidays."

Ava turns her head to offer her hand to Sam with a warm giggle. She looks so fucking good in the low bar light. With her neck muscles stretched like that, Bucky wants to kiss under her jaw just to see her reaction. "I've been hoping we'd meet again under better circumstances. Ava Ryder."

Sam barks a laugh, wrapping his hand around hers. "I'd say watchin' you hand Steve his own ass was great circumstance."

"Well thanks," Steve interjects, flipping him off before going back to drawing on a napkin with Paige.

The comment, and the gesture, gets ignored entirely. "Sam Wilson, but you can call me your favorite Avenger."

Bucky almost rolls his eyes again. Watching Ava's giggles get worse stops the urge.

—

She was wrong.

He came out tonight. To a bar. To spend time with them.

Ava takes another drink of her ale, watching the Winter Soldier over the rim of her glass. Wearing a dress that could unwind from her with a few strategic yanks on a couple pieces of string. And heels that could have paid a month of her first apartment's rent. In a New York bar.

If her parents could see her now, they'd croak.

Bucky is so goddamn attractive in his dark leather jacket that it's un-fucking-real. The bastard looks softer with his hair down like that, and there's chest hair peaking out from that button-up he's left open to a torturous degree. It keeps distracting her every time he turns to say something to Steve. His hand is the only shiny part on display at the moment. 

The glory tales from Steve don't do the heartstopping aura justice. The fact that Bucky has had the nerve to lie—to her face no less—and say they're blown out of proportion makes her seethe sitting across from him now. No wonder he was prolific; how the hell could he not be with a face like that and the attitude to back it. Now that he's not in a professional headspace, the latter is coming out in spades. The super serum body is a mouthwatering, climbable bonus.

This is the man that keeps threatening to fly her home.

Ava takes a longer drink.

She hasn't been this in over her head since college. The familiar knee-jerk reaction of bullying him is the only thing that doesn't feel petrifying. Bucky is the last person that would make her feel unsafe, but good god, the man is intimidating. Trying to find something to say to him that isn't a joke is a lot harder than usual, with him looking that good.

Paige tuned out the moment Steve gave her meticulously outlined boxes to doodle in on an unfolded napkin. He's been adding detailed frames to them ever since while the two trade work stories. It makes Ava jealous. Her best friend might be oblivious, but at least she's not the one tongue-tied tonight.

Knocking her knees together under the table, Ava leans forward and tries another round of facing down the sergeant. "Worth the trip so far?"

Way to go, moron. Pressure him, why don't you? Of course he's having a good time; he wouldn't still be sitting here if he—

Bucky smiles at her, calming her nerves without even trying. "Every second." He looks down at the glass in her hand, then back up at her face. "You havin' fun, doc?"

She misses hearing him call her doll. It's starting to feel like maybe it was an accident the handful of times it happened. He hasn't done it in days. "Unlike you, I enjoy human interaction. Plus, the hippie thing makes me partial to loud noises." And sweat. And weed to make the loud noises sound better. And men with long hair and deep voices that would sound—

"I don't mind human interaction," he argues, folding his arms on the table and leaning over with her. "I'm just picky about the people I interact with."

"Awww," Paige coos at her side. "And we made the cut? I'm honored."

"You should be," Steve confirms with a smirk, his eyes never leaving the napkin under his hand. "He's not exaggerating."

"That's unusual for him," Ava jumps on Bucky with. She regrets it right up until he snorts and briefly covers his mouth with his hand. It's a real fuck up on his end; she takes it as an all-clear to do it to him again at her leisure. "The only people I've met with bigger heads are cardiologists."

"That's the second time you've brought them up," Bucky notes. She honestly can't remember the first, but it sounds accurate. They're fun to mock.

"Nice deflection, superstar." His eyes widen a fraction at her teasing, boosting her confidence. "Have you had the displeasure of meeting one? I'm allowed to be mean to them as a neurologist, by the way. Secret doctor pecking order and whatnot."

"If I have, I probably don't want to remember," he deadpans. Steve gives him a dirty look, but it makes Ava snort. The smug look Bucky gives her in return makes her stomach flip. "I wanna hear more about this secret doctor pecking order. How far up that chain are you?"

"I don't know, man. How far up is your brain?" 

Bucky's eyes shut in pain, and he smiles. "It's so hard to be proud of your ego when your awful puns surround it."

"You'll manage," she assures in a supportive tone. 

A low whistle drags Ava's eyes to one end of the table, where Natasha is getting up. "I'm going dancing. It's up to you losers who's coming."

A majority of the table, including most of Ava's team, moves to follow. She doesn't. Bruce and Hannah don't, continuing their discussion on a medical journal he read that morning. Bucky doesn't leave either.

He watches Ava as Paige leans over to kiss the top of her head. She's pretty sure he watches her all through their short yes, I'll watch your bag check-in. He's still watching her when she looks back at him, slowly circling his glass to make the whiskey inside it swirl.

"Not a fan of dancing?" he finally asks.

"I like dancing," Ava confirms. "I just like picking on you more." The words feel outrageously bold for how innocuous they are. It's the truth, but she feels a little stupid for saying it out loud. Whatever, if it means spending the night out with him, that's fine—

Bucky puts down his glass, a determined set to his posture. "Dance with me."

Her jaw almost drops. She doesn't catch her nervous burst of laughter in time to stop it. "I—what? You? Bucky Barnes, mister touch me and die himself wants to—"

"I let you touch me all the time." The tone he uses for the blatant—

Christ, is she ever in over her head.

She ignores his flirting like a coward, racing to hide behind professionalism as fast as her mouth can get her there. "The funny thing about that is I have your willing participation—"

"You've got my willing participation for this, too." He sounds like he means it, which is the worst part. It makes it impossible to bring herself to tell him no.

She hesitates one last time, primarily out of fear of embarrassing herself. "You're sure you want to dance?"

"With you?" Bucky stands up, allowing her to see the well-worn leather sitting low enough on his hips to turn her into a bigger wreck. "Yeah, doll. I'm sure."

Hannah leans over to slide the bag Paige left behind across the table, closer to her. She doesn't bother to stop talking. Bruce is smiling from ear to ear, stealing glances at her and Bucky. He's doing a terrible job of hiding it. 

Standing up on nervous feet, Ava watches Bucky circle the table. He offers up his flesh hand when he approaches her, his signature Brooklyn smirk on his face. "Ready?"

Fuck no. She slides her hand into his, breathing deeply when he squeezes her fingers. "I really hope someone's given you the memo on modern dancing because I have no idea what the hell you people did in the 30s." 

"I'm sure you'll help me figure it out." He's sounding more confident with every word, and it's scaring the absolute shit out of her. 

It's innocent at the start. Bucky's a perfect gentleman leading her through the crowd. He spins slowly to face her when he finds them a wide enough space, pulling her in close. The pressure of his fingers is barely there when his metallic hand moves to her lower back. Ava brings both her hands up to his chest when he lets go of one of them. 

"You'll tell me if you're uncomfortable, right?" she checks again, stretching up as close to him as she can. There's no way he has trouble hearing her over the music, but she doesn't remember that until she's all but hanging off him. It makes her cheeks feel warm.

His flesh hand moves over her hip, resting on it gently. Bucky leans down and turns his head in, getting right up to her ear. He's already starting to guide the direction of her half-hearted movements. "I will. You gonna do the same?"

"I will," she promises. Mirroring his words is the only thing her brain can come up with, given how unfairly good he smells. It's obliterating every train of thought she has. 

It is… terrifyingly easy to let herself go in his arms. The movement of her hips gets more involved, following the tempo of the song and the direction of his hand. Hers go up to his shoulders, bringing him in closer a fraction at a time. By the time the song changes, she gives up and lets them wrap around the back of his neck. 

Somewhere around the third song, when the bar's DJ is trying to ramp up into a faster energy, she ends up turned away from him. Ava isn't sure how it happened. It could have been his doing; she's not paying all that much attention. All she knows is he's pressed up against her back now, the hand on her hip moving towards her leg incrementally. Her head tilts off to the side as her eyes close, letting the Winter Soldier guide her.

His fingers stop their advance once they reach the top of the gap in her dress, the one that splits up her thigh. She gives him all of thirty seconds to figure out if he's brave enough to go further on his own. Then the ego boost from having Bucky—of all fucking people—trying to make a move on her wins out over her fear. 

Ava lays her fingers on top of the hand hesitating on her leg, urging it down. 

The first touch of his skin on hers makes them both suck in a breath. She can feel the tension in him against her back. He gets over his nerves faster after that. His hand glides down the length of her thigh, and his fingers curl under the fabric when it comes back up. Not all that far, but the intent is there.

In escalating boldness, she reaches for his metal hand, dragging it to rest at the top of her ribs. His nose comes brushing across her temple at that point, giving her an idea of how close he's keeping himself around her with her eyes closed. One of her hands goes up into his hair, and that's when things really go off the fucking rails.

His thumb moves in a wide arc, dragging across the underside of one of her breasts. Her fingers curl around his hair, and her head rolls in toward him. If she tilts it up, she could brush her nose against his; that's how far into her space he is. And then the hand on her thigh moves in.

The pounding music swallows up the slight sound it pulls from her, but she's willing to bet Bucky heard it. She leans back against him, making him freeze up momentarily. He's already moving again before her mind finally pieces together the why.

He's hard, Ava realizes.

With one hand under her tits and the other getting itself further between her thighs. With her ass pressed back against him. With his towering frame curled all the way around her.

Sergeant James Barnes is hard as a rock. For her.

—

How the hell he hasn't gotten his good arm ripped off yet, Bucky's not quite sure. It feels impossible that she's just... letting him do this. 

Spinning her around really fucked him over. He had been behaving pretty well up until then. He'd even managed to hold off on putting his hand as far down her back as that fucking dress allows for. But then he'd been dumb enough to turn her, and her head had relaxed off to the side, and god, it took every ounce of restraint he has not to kiss the length of her neck.

Now she's leaning back against him, fully aware of how wound up he is, and he can't figure out where to stop. She isn't slowing down any part of his stumbling. There's no new tension in her now that she's in the know about the current state of his cock. Her hips are still fucking moving, and now they're moving against him.

She's going to kill him tonight, probably right out here on this dancefloor. He just hasn't figured out if it's going to be murder or manslaughter.

He lets his left hand get bolder, trying to test the waters one last time before he lets his right one go any further. He moves it up, his thumb brushing over her nipple. He hears her pull in a shaking breath while it skims back down the side. She doesn't stop him, making him want to bite at her neck all over again. 

With no signs of her looking for an out, and not one shred of critical thinking or self-control left in his head, Bucky slides his hand further up the inside of her thigh. Her fingers tighten in his hair, nearly pulling on it at this point. All he has to do is hike up his thumb, and he'll get more information than he's probably ready to have. She could tell him to drop to his knees right here; he's mildly certain he'd do it. 

That dress is so goddamn thin. There's no weight to it at all. He can't spot the outline of anything, but he knows from how high her tits are sitting that she's got a bra on, at least. Another inch or two up with his thumb, and he'll be able to tell for himself if she came out tonight with underwear on. He's not entirely out of the goddamn loop; he knows skipping it is a much more common practice nowadays. 

Bucky's almost hoping his favorite hippie is the type. He's spent a lot of time fantasizing about ways to get her out of them. That doesn't mean he's not going to fucking lose it if his fingers don't find a strip of fabric between her legs. 

The flash of a new fantasy hits him, one of Ava letting him pin her to the alley wall out back with his head between her legs. If he takes her around the corner, he won't have to stop when the kitchen staff come out for a smoke break. If she does have underwear on, he can leave it in her mouth to keep her quiet. Or reach up to make her bite down on his fingers. With the serum and her height, it'd work like a dream.

The curiosity becomes a burning need, driving his hand all the way up. When he first touches her, it's not with his thumb, and it's not a gentle brush. He pushes his middle and index finger along the length of her lips, coming into contact with lace that's wet.

"Fuck." The word is choked when it tumbles out of him. He's coated his hand to the thought of her so many times over by now. And here she is, pushing herself up against him and just as worked up about it.

Her hand grips his arm tight enough to bruise in reaction. She doesn't push him away. God fucking help him, she doesn't stop moving either. Still, there's something about her body language that's not sitting right in his gut. She's not pushing him away. But she's not pulling him along anymore.

That's not always a stop sign. Bucky knows that. Some people like leaving the significant steps in the hands of their chosen partner. She's silently urged him to keep going a few times already. Assuming she wants that to continue isn't out of the question. But he's not the kind of man who's comfortable with that leap. Not anymore.

He moves his hand down an inch, leaving it between her legs. Not on top of the lace he wants to bite at. If she's interested, she'll put it back. Simple as that.

Bucky waits, holding her close with his metal arm around her ribs and his nose pressed into her hair while they dance. She's hesitating now, which has him convinced he made the right call. He's not self-wallowing enough to take it as a rejection. It's not like he'd been planning for this to go anywhere near as far as it did to begin with.

Her hand pulls at his hair in a way that feels conflicted. She tilts her head up, her eyes finally opening to look at him. Yeah, there it is. Right there in her eyes. It's finally catching up to her.

"I..." she tries, her mouth opening and closing a few times. "We can...."

"We can keep going," he finishes for her, not backing off from his hold on her. "We absolutely can. Or we can head to the bar and watch them make something with a cherry on it. I'm more than comfortable with both."

He watches her chew over the offered out, her eyebrows pulling in. He doesn't push her; he's not looking to make the call for her. If she wants him to get her off right here on this dancefloor, he's pretty damn sure he'd be willing at this point, even with the threat of criminal charges. He's also ready to let go and spend the rest of the night doing something that doesn't make her look torn. Even if it means ending it early.

"We should probably go to the bar." Probably. She doesn't sound happy about it, meaning it's fueled by her professionalism. He understands why she has the line. He respects the shit out of it.

"We probably should," he agrees. He doesn't move his hands. She hasn't moved hers. 

Her eyes move down to his mouth, and fuck does that do a number on his impulse control. He hopes she doesn't feel how it makes his cock jump. Ava Ryder wants to kiss him. It feels odd to celebrate that, considering where his fingers were a minute ago, but fuck. The girl of his dreams wants to kiss him.

"Let's go to the bar." The frustration in her voice almost makes him laugh. It definitely makes him smile as he turns his metal hand over to link with hers.

"You drink anything other than ale, doll?" He lets his fingers brush over the skin of her thigh reassuringly as he pulls it back out from under her dress. She looks so mad at the world, her face scrunching under her glasses. He wants to kiss her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

Ava takes a deep breath that she lets out with a huff. It looks like it cools off some of the annoyance. "My answer depends on how much of a narc you are, g-man."

He puts his arm around her shoulder, dragging her in close to his side. His friends will hand him his ass over this for a month, but he's not about to let her feel rejected. He's trying to respect a boundary, not ward her off. "Lucky for you, this g-man has medical strains growing in his room at the tower."

"There's no fucking way. You're telling me the Winter Soldier grows weed?"

"Are you tellin' me you buy yours? Chump."

She snorts hard enough to feel the need to cover her mouth. It makes Bucky feel damn good being able to make her laugh again that fast. "I can't believe I'm being ridiculed about the source of my pot by a senior citizen."

He holds back on reminding her that she was about to let a senior citizen stick his hand down her panties. "Has it convinced you to give up the inaccurate jokes about my job?"

"Inaccurate, he says! Don't you have a literal badge you can shove in people's faces?" Ava doesn't lean against the bar when they reach it. She stays pressed up against him while he leans on it, distracting the hell out of him. He looks down the line of people, searching for a bartender to give himself a second to refocus. "I think that's a pretty clear-cut definition of a fed."

"I think you're trying to find out if I've got a pair of cuffs handy." This is the other problem presented with her letting him go that far; it burned through what little filter he has. Now that he knows she's interested and not just humoring him, he's fucked. Hearing his own words still makes him wish he'd shut his damn mouth.

He hears her laugh in surprise again, but he's not brave enough to look at her yet. There's a momentary lull filled with the sounds of rowdy New Yorkers kicking off their weekend. Then he feels her head lean against his arm. "Something tells me you could improvise without them."

It's manslaughter. She's trying for manslaughter. By god, she's going to accomplish it if she says some shit like that again.

"I can improvise whenever you need me to." He finally looks back at her, catching her ogling his chest. Again. Her cheeks are a few shades darker. It's good to know he's not the only one reeling. "You should answer my question first, though. Unless you're looking to put in the order."

Her eyes finally flick up to his, and her smile turns shy before she looks away. "Surprise me. I burn more than drown. I'm sure you can think of a fun option to entertain me with."

Bucky should have guessed she'd give him a run for every cent he earned back when he still had his mojo. It feels like he's trying not to trip over himself while she's still getting warmed up. "One entertainment, comin' right up."

She gives him a look, doing a lousy job of holding back her amusement. "You don't get to complain about my puns if you're going to tell dad jokes like that."

"You're just jealous that mine are better." He finally flags down a bartender over her shoulder, throwing out an order for two Mai Tais. The only other cocktail he can think of off the top of his head is a Sex on the Beach, and he sure as shit doesn't have the balls to order that in front of her at the moment. A Moscow Mule is not a cocktail in his eyes. It's also not the kind of inappropriate he's looking for.

Ava's finger hooks into his front pocket, threatening to ruin every effort he's made toward getting his cock to calm the fuck down. "Some of your jokes are pretty great; I'll give you that. The dry ones make my day."

It feels backwards—and mildly alarming—to hesitate to brush her hair behind her ear for a moment. A few minutes ago, he'd been ready to go down on her in front of a room full of people. Now he's trying to find the nerve to touch her at all. Doing so gets easier when her eyes slip closed at the feeling of his fingertip moving down the side of her head. 

"Seeing you makes my day," he murmurs, not caring about letting his mouth run. It feels less intimidating in the wake of her compliment. God knows it's going to sit in his head. Probably forever. The fact that she probably can't hear it over the music certainly doesn't hurt.

Her eyes open back up slowly, with her smile taking on a wicked edge. "You feel like showing me your stash, old man?"

—

They haven't talked about it.

It's been less than an hour since they stopped dancing. In under sixty minutes, Bucky managed to get them a drink and all the way through Manhattan to the Avengers Tower. On a Friday, no less.

No wonder they threaten to revoke his license. Ava thought she was a speed freak behind the wheel. Now that she's got firsthand experience as his rear passenger, Bucky being allowed to have a motorcycle makes her question SHIELD more than ever.

He let her go up to the roof without him. He made it sound like he was doing her a favor by not making her go out of her way just to raid his stash with him. She's guessing it's got more to do with not being down for a surprise tour of his space. It's not as if she's going to fault him for it. 

The idea that she's actually going to let him fly her home after this is already hitting her nerves. If that's throwing her off, she has no clue where she's going to find the will to bring up the subject of—this. Tonight. What happened.

How far she was about to let it go.

He smells too good. She's decided to blame it on that, at least in her head. Mainly to make herself feel better about crossing that many ethical boundaries. It's easier than accepting that she was about to give a patient the go-ahead to finger her in the middle of a bar. Without so much as a word about it beforehand.

Ava pushes her hands under her glasses to hold her face, resisting the urge to scrub at it. She doesn't want to fuck up her makeup. Not while she still has to face Bucky. How stupid—and then she doubled down—god, now they're here, and he's getting weed—

"I was starting to think I'd never get you up here, doll."

The way his voice quells her anxious mind without any effort at all ties her stomach in a different kind of knot. She lowers her hands into her lap, giving him a half-smile. "I'd like to remind you that I'm the one who offered initially. And again tonight."

Bucky waves his free hand dismissively, his flesh one cradling a bag. "Semantics." He dumps it onto the wicker table she picked out herself. She hears glass hit metal, the sound muffled by the black cloth of the bag. "I didn't know if you were a bowl or a joint kinda gal. Figured I'd come prepared since I'm dealing with a degenerate commie."

"Steve was right about your manners," Ava insists, reaching out to open it with greedy fingers. She kicks her heels off under the table, getting distracted by the sight of him shaking his leather jacket off his shoulders. The man's tall enough to have to duck under the makeshift canopy built to account for Wyatt's height. "Tell me how many words you know for pot while I judge your choices."

"Are you forgetting they took me out for walks every few years?" Bucky walks around to her side and puts his jacket over her shoulders, surprising her. She looks up at him with a shy smile, momentarily forgetting the promise of weed picked out by a super soldier. He's such a gentleman that it's frankly obnoxious. One of his eyebrows raises at her. "Those walks included the 60s, young lady. I probably know more than you do."

"What do you remember about the 60s?" she goads as he sits down next to her.

"Plenty." Bucky props his arm up on the back of the couch, leaning into her space. She's grateful for it. Even with his jacket around her, it's freezing up here. The added warmth isn't the only reason she's grateful for it. "Personally, though, I think you would have had a better time in the 70s." He tilts his head back and forth a few times. "At least the parts of it I fucked around in."

The mental image of the Winter Soldier undercover in some sleazy disco hits her like a ton of bricks. It feels wildly inappropriate, even with him talking about it that openly. All the fantasies she has of Bucky do. Especially the ones she uses to get herself off lately. 

"I'm going to take your word for it," she murmurs. There's so much potential there to poke at him. He's offering up the bait on his end. Hell, there's still the list of weed names to dig for. But she can't get her mind to latch onto any of it with him this close.

He nudges his chin in the direction of her hands, which are still hovering in his little heap of paraphernalia. "You should start us up so I can get you home at a reasonable hour. I don't know how fast you like to—smoke."

It's astounding how good he is at riding the line between being a gentleman and a terror.

Ava looks back down at her hands with a smile. "That depends on the accuracy of your warning about this couch-locking me. Technically I'm off tomorrow, so I'm not about to say no."

"Do you smoke medicinal strains?"

"On occasion. I started for anxiety, oddly enough. Then I noticed it helped with my mood overall." She shrugs, setting aside his box of hemp papers. There's a heavy-looking grinder and two different pipes further in. One of them's a goddamn steamroller. He sticks with quality from what she can see so far. "I feel like there's a bong that was held back from this collection."

"There's a lot that was held back. I'm not gonna parade all my ill-gotten goods through the tower." His pauses while she gets the last of it emptied out." You gonna show me how it's done or put me to the test?"

"Definitely the latter." She turns her head to smile at him innocently, pushing her glasses up her nose. It makes his lips twitch. "I don't see anything to assist rolling. Does that mean you're confident enough to show me your handiwork?"

Bucky scoffs, his expression becoming entirely unimpressed. He almost looks offended, leaning over to grab the papers and the grinder. "You're telling me you people need tools these days? After all the work I put into teaching Captain America how to do it properly?"

Ava's brows shoot up in shock. "You're fucking kidding. I figured the weed was a new development—"

"Nah, I've been smoking since my first job." He's not watching his hands much as he lays out the foundation of his work. He's primarily watching her. "Worked for a guy that owed a corner store. He had family that ran a not-so-secret farm." He turns the grinder lid enough to loosen it, then flicks it to spin it the rest of the way off with a cocky grin. "I was an outstanding employee. So was Steve once I got him hired."

"America's Sweetest Stoners," Ava coos, making him chuckle. He's not stingy about what he's rolling for them. It makes her wonder how many plants he's got set up. "Do the two of you still smoke together?"

"He doesn't bother much. Takes a lot to build up any kind of buzz with our systems, so he looks at it the same way he does drinking at this point. He still shows up whenever Banner drops off some new hybrid monstrosity for me to try." Bucky glances over at her quickly, his fingers never stopping their work. "This is from one of the normal plants, don't worry. I won't start you off that far in the deep end."

Ava shrugs. Banner's main lab is here in the tower, so there's no chance the process isn't documented. JARVIS wouldn't let her use anything that could do her actual harm. "You can if you want, but you're responsible for explaining to Tony why I'm passed out on his roof."

He gives her the most insulted look. "I wouldn't leave you up on the roof. I'd be enough of a gentleman to carry you inside."

He's ruining her life. There's no way she's going to be able to walk away from tonight without being completely wrapped around his finger. It makes her smile at him like a hopeless fucking moron. "I believe you."

Bucky brings the most well-balanced joint she's ever seen up to his mouth, licking it closed in one smooth stroke. His eyes never leave hers. It makes her swallow. The fucker smirks at her and twirls the joint between his fingers, holding it out for her inspection.

"Well?" he prompts, watching her intently as she plucks it from his hand. He's preening. Waiting for his praise.

Goddamn him, she's going to have to give it to him. The joint is so perfectly rolled it's mesmerizing. Even distribution, not pulled overly tight, and meticulously sealed. She can't remember the last time she managed to do a job half that good. Bowls have always been her go-to. It's clear that this is his.

Ava giggles at the absurdity of it all. It feels surreal to be a step away from lighting up with a cyborg PoW she first read about in primary school. "You're such a dork. Shut up and hand over the lighter before your head explodes from being over-inflated."

"Now I know I did a damn good job by today's standards." For the second time that night, she gets the overwhelming urge to kiss Bucky as he reaches for the lighter. She props the joint between her lips to distract herself and lets him light it for her when he silently offers. The flame does stunning things to the color of his eyes in the dark. "You only tell me to shut up when you're really impressed with me."

She doesn't miss that he waited until she started inhaling to make the point. It makes her roll her eyes in exasperation. Ava can tell from the first drag that his shit is going to hit harder than her usual. She turns her head to blow it away from his face, handing back the joint. He tucks it between his fingers and brings it up to his mouth in one smooth motion.

"Now look who's outright lying. I tell you to shut up for various reasons." The muscles in his neck look unfairly good when he turns to exhale. It makes her want to run her tongue up his throat. She looks back up at his face. Everything below his chin is hazardous to her health at the moment. "I don't remember any of them being because I was impressed until now."

His eyes flick back to hers, then down to her mouth as he smiles. His hand was up her dress. It was between her legs only an hour ago. And yet watching him stare at her mouth still feels obscene. "You've got a real funny way of stroking my ego, doll."

"I get the feeling you enjoy it," Ava counters, snatching the joint from his fingers. "I wouldn't do it otherwise. You're always welcome to suggest an alternative."

"No, thanks. I'm a pretty big fan of what you do to me." 

Damn. Him.

Yes, the question was a check-in. Yes, she was trying to get a read on how far he wants this to go. Then he had to go and double down without hesitation. She knows by now what door he's trying to invite her through. 

Ava is so not brave enough for this conversation. It's not—it's complicated. She really shouldn't be working on his case if they're going to go down this road, at least not as his primary surgeon. She'll have to pass it on to Hannah and have a few very embarrassing conversations with a handful of people. Ones that involve fessing up to wanting to fuck Bucky Barnes.

She's not saying no. But she's not brave enough to say yes. At least not tonight, up here on the roof.

Ava leans back against the couch, feeling his arm curl in around her shoulders. "Good. Let me know if that changes."

—

u dont get to yell at me for the edging, i warned u that im gonna leave an * on smut chapters. anything less than Full Fuckin aint gettin the badge 😤 i have a Standard to uphold in this house of sin

(tho if anyone feels there shoulda been a warning tag for smthing you can always lemme know bb 💞)

also ill never be able to properly articulate how much i love writing cranky old fart bucko. heartstopper is stupid fun, feral trauma man keeps me on my toes, but stick-shaking geezer mode??? mr. “kids these days with their MEMES” himself??? beautiful. fantastic. superb. his final form, truly 🤌 i yearn to write more of it

anyways there are writers on the internet that can make their slow burn wholesome. in all my years on this space rock of ours, ive never been one of them

even if i do write the longfic of the sunshine dweebs steve and paige, that probably wont be all that wholesome of a slow burn either ajdhdskjfdjsjf. they ARE my tooth rotting fluff ship tho. mmm okay so maybe paige is a tragedy in disguise but its ME so thats expected 😌 the babes that like their romance extra sappy and cutesy take a lotta shit and deserve a Safe Space and steve rogers fits that bill, imho

bucky is for the babes that like to verbally get their hair pulled before hearing ily 🥰

the good news is, i get a few more chapters in this fic to torture you with before i let bucko and ava do the Big Sin (not murder, the other one. no, not hand holding, the other other one) 😌💖💞

also PieAnnamay's comment reminded me that i never linked my fav buckaroo fic, safe with me!!! for anyone else that hasnt stumbled upon bitsandbobsandstuff, i cant recommend them enough. i HIGHLY encourage you to go read through all their works while you’re waiting for updates on this, the bucky and steve fics are 😫🤌 perfection (i promise when i finally have a day to really do tumblr stuff, ill make a list of my fav fics/writers in my pinned post. i promise i will try to get to it Soon, i still havent even caught up on chapter posts there asldhfsadf)

❤️ https://archiveofourown.org/works/13798047/chapters/31721565

#chapter update #bro why are these such a pain in the ass to make #no for real how the FUCK did the formatting of this website get worse while i was away #like H O W #not to mention the fact that i STILL have to go grab raw html from ao3 just to get this shit to copy correctly #its been over a decade #90% of the user base of this website is fandom with active writers #w h y is that st i l l a thiNG

[rootsmachine]

like atonement for a bygone sin

like atonement for a bygone sin meg x cas, 2777 words, idk what ratings are [ao3]

You only meet Castiel once before they throw you into a ring of holy fire. It’s eighty-six years after your first return topside, and you’re in a besieged city, somewhere in what would eventually be Iran. It’s an easy place to take souls, Azazel tells you. Desperate people will agree to anything. He looks at you, and grins in a way that reaches only his mouth.

“You did, after all,” and scratches his fingernails down your cheek.

The angels come to the city after two months of siege, with flaming swords, and an insistence on justice, but you know it’s because their champion is the disgraced leader of the city. Azazel had said so, something about him being a true vessel for one of the archangels, before warning you to stay away.

“Not our fight, daughter,” and his words echo in your head as you watch Castiel plunge their sword into the heart of one of the demons who tortured you before you clawed out of your cage and picked up a knife. Castiel is wearing the body of a young woman, her hair cropped short against her head. You won’t have to take bodies for another hundred years -- humans have a harder time believing in the holiness of angels when they reveal their true forms, but your shape just feeds into the whole fear thing.

You manage to escape through a hole in the angel’s defense, and crawl, half burned, back to Hell. Azazel gives you a pretty, curved knife and lets you practice on some poor, begging thing that used to be human. You close your eyes, and can only see Castiel, her blade shining in the sunlight.

/

Azazel came to you in a dream, when you were still just a girl. You were still just a girl, really, when you gave over your soul in exchange for your deepest wish, to shed the body that would condemn you to being a wife and a mother. The ten years you spend as Luke are exhilarating and wonderful and you try to escape death through boarding a ship back to the old country. It doesn’t work -- the hellhounds tear you apart somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, and the body you lived in for a decade is torn to shreds to reveal the girl at the center.

You’re furious when you arrive in hell, too furious for the torture to do anything except make you angrier. You like it when they rip her apart, break her down to bones and blood and muscles and nothing anyone could ever recognize as belonging to you. Azazel watches with the closest you’ve seen to true happiness in his eyes, and he takes you down himself.

“My daughter,” he says, as he snaps your bones back together, “I have wonderful plans for you.”

/

In retrospect, you should have stayed in Hell with your knife, carving up people stupid enough, or desperate enough to sell themselves away, and then doubly stupid to not become … whatever you are.

If you had, you wouldn’t have met the Winchesters, and you wouldn’t have been failed by Azazel and then Lucifer, and you wouldn’t have slowly felt the anger that tethered you to whatever existence you kept begin to fade away.

You lie to them, and tell them it happened when Castiel kissed you inside Crowley’s prison, that something of their grace or their holiness made you itch inside and question all your loyalties, but really -- you’re not loyal to anyone but yourself, and whatever keeps your stolen body breathing for another day.

You don’t know her name, and you don’t care to. She was almost dead in an alley when you found her, and she lets you in, makes you promise you’ll kill whoever did this to her. She dies before you can, but you finish the job anyways.

You tell Castiel, much later, that you lose your grip on your fury when you kill the man who did this to the body that’s only yours now. You’ve never been good at reading emotions beyond pleasure and fear, but you think Castiel looks at you with something completely foreign to both.

/

It’s almost funny -- you let yourself die for the Winchesters, and for saving the world, and mostly for Castiel. In your almost four hundred years of existence, nothing hurts as much as the angel blade in your stomach. It burns, burns whatever essence of yourself you have away until it’s just your poor dead girl’s empty body and then it’s just blackness, and you are finally dead or gone or just absolutely nothing.

/

Until you wake up, in a body that should be too broken to move. But it’s not, and you curl your fingers, push yourself up until you’re slumped against the wall of the warehouse you thought you would rot in. Usually, the bodies you take feel too tight, too small, like you’re wearing someone else’s clothing, but her body fits, feels like your own bodies did so many, many years ago.

You start walking. Her body is stiff, and her joints crack and she’s hungry, you slowly realize with horror. You haven’t been hungry since the days before the hellhounds tore you to pieces, haven’t felt the way a body aches since you were human. Crowley’s warehouse is what feels like miles from the nearest town, and her body can barely make it.

Your body, you suppose, and you punch a sign by the side of the road as hard as you can, over and over and over until your skin bleeds and there is nothing you can do about it.

The last place you remember is the awful cabin the Winchesters lived in, and you hitchhike all the way to Sioux Falls, ignoring the body’s exhaustion and hunger until you can’t anymore.

The cabin is abandoned when you get there, which of course it is. There’s nothing that even tells you that Sam or Dean or Castiel have been here in the last few months. You suddenly realize you have no idea how long you’ve been gone, and if any of them are even still alive. You don’t trust the Winchesters to stay dead, the fucking cockroaches that they are, but maybe, finally it’s stuck.

There’s an old burner phone abandoned in a mostly empty kitchen drawer, and you charge it, hoping it will give you some kind of answer. All it tells you, as the screen feebly blinks on, is that you’ve been gone for only two months and four days, and that this phone was part of what appears to be an FBI scam. There’s only two contacts in it, an Agent Ragsdale and Special Agent Ehart, and you dial Agent Ragsdale, hoping someone will pick up and tell you what the fuck happened.

You’re sure the Winchesters are behind this, behind your imprisonment in this dead girl’s body, maybe to trap you or get more information about Hell out of you, or maybe just to bring you back and kill you again.

No one picks up, and you hear Sam’s voice on the other end, explaining you’ve reached Agent Ragsdale and to please leave a message after the tone. The inbox is full, and you throw the phone across the room.

All there is in the cabin is a six pack of beer and a half-finished bottle of whiskey. As a demon, you could drink even Castiel under the table, but this stupid body must have been a Mormon or a complete loser, because you’re drunk on the whiskey alone. Everything is spinning, and you hate whoever brought you back, whoever forced you into this weak, nothing body, whoever made it so you dedicated your whole self to a mission, only to make your sacrifice worthless.

Drunk, you get on your knees, and curse the Winchesters, and beg for someone, anyone, to tell you what the fuck is happening. You pass out there, on the floor, and would be humiliated in the morning, except no one comes. No one, it seems, is listening.

/

Seven days after you rise from the not-quite-dead, someone knocks on the door. No one you know knocks, so you almost don’t open the door, sure it’s some rural Jehovah’s Witness-type trying to get you to accept God into your heart.

They knock again, and then, “Meg?”

The voice is familiar in the way that this body has become -- like something that is yours.

You open the door; Castiel is standing outside, looking like he was in some kind of car accident, covered in blood.

“I heard your prayer,” he says, and you can only stare. “May I enter?”

“I didn’t pray for you,” you say, and let him in anyways. “I didn’t even pray.”

Castiel looks at you through the blue eyes of his vessel, and just shrugs. “I heard you, Meg,” and he opens the mostly-empty freezer to take out your last microwave dinner. “May I have this?”

“I didn’t think angels had to eat,” you say instead of answering. Castiel looks sad in a way you hate, and puts the whole tray of lasagna in the microwave, watches it spin around like it’s the only thing left to live for.

“They don’t, I’m not … ” he trails off, takes out your lasagna and sticks the fork into the half frozen pasta, chews, and swallows. He glances around the room, frowning slightly when he sees the still-somehow-intact devil’s trap on the floor inside the door. “Did you break in?”

You laugh, and walk towards the devil’s trap, walk through it a couple times. “Doesn’t work anymore, Clarence,” and he frowns more when you call him that.

“What did those cockroaches do? I was dead and suddenly I’m not , but I’m not me anymore. I’m whoever she was,” and you pinch at your body’s cheek. “She’s hungry all the time, and if she doesn’t sleep everything hurts, and the other day I had half a bottle of whiskey and she threw up. I swear to God, when I get my hands on them, I’m going to …”

“They sealed Hell,” Castiel says, “and I … I destroyed Heaven.” He looks at you with his stupid, sad eyes, and says “I destroyed paradise.”

“Castiel, honey,” you say, and he glares at you. “You’re making a habit out of that, aren’t you?”

/

He doesn’t speak to you for a few days, but he also doesn’t leave. He eats all of your food, and then finishes what Sam and Dean had left before they abandoned the cabin, which is mostly beef jerky and a jar of marshmallow fluff that your body hates. You mostly drink, and smoke a pack of cigarettes you find in the bottom of a suitcase. This kind of stuff can probably kill you now, you realize, but you don’t really care enough to stop.

You wonder, sometimes, if Castiel remembers the conversation you had as he sewed you together, the first hands you had felt in what seemed like millenia at that point that weren’t trying to kill you. He was gentle in a way you knew you didn’t deserve.

He doesn’t mention it, not once, and neither do you. You flirt shamelessly with Castiel, mostly because it’s amusing to watch him struggle to respond, but partly because you miss the way everything used to be simpler. You knew how to talk, and who to follow, and exactly which buttons to push, and watching Castiel blush and try to reply in his stupid Old Testement speech to whatever innuendo you’ve offered him this time makes you feel a little like who you used to be.

/

You know Castiel is in touch with the Winchesters, know that they call him sometimes to make sure he isn’t dead yet. He doesn’t tell them you’re with him, that he’s learned how to cook food you don’t hate, and that last week you woke up in the middle of the night and he was there next to you, his brown knit with worry even in his sleep.

Which is why, you suppose, when they finally show up at the cabin, Dean has a knife at your throat before you can react in your stupid, slow body.

“I thought we finally killed you,” he spits, and digs the knife into the soft skin under your jawbone, drawing a thin line of blood to the surface. Castiel watches you like he’s watching a particularly interesting soap opera, slowly eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich you had made him.

“Call off your guard dog, Clarence,” you manage to get out, and you can feel Dean loosen his grip on your wrist. Castiel finishes his sandwich, and puts the plate in the sink, before turning to Dean and saying, “You can let her go, Dean,” his voice as calm and even as ever.

He stupidly looks between you and Cas, and reluctantly lets you go. The place where he cuts you hurts, and you press your fingers to it. You stomp to the kitchen, and grab a dish towel, holding it against your neck. You make sure to walk right through the devil’s trap, and Sam looks at you hard, like he doesn’t know what you are anymore.

“What are you doing with her?” Dean says to Castiel, who has taken the dish towel from your hands, and silently handed you a band-aid from the ancient first aid kit you had found in the bathroom, used to angrily patch Castiel up when he cut his own skin open to test if he was really human.

He shrugs, and says, “I don’t mind her company,” which is probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to you.

Dean turns to you, and you can tell he’s angry. “What about the girl whose body you’re wearing? What does she think about your little arrangement?”

“She’s dead,” you say shortly, “It’s just me in here.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, and you cut him off, throwing a dish towel in his face. If you were still yourself, he would be gasping in pain, pinned up against the wall by now. Your fingers twitch just thinking about it.

“She’s been dead since I took the body,” Dean looks at Castiel, and then at Sam, both of whom nod at him.

“Ruby did that,” Sam says quietly, like he’s trying to remind Dean that maybe you might not be lying. He looks bad, you realize, like he’s two days away from dropping dead. Castiel told you how he closed Hell, how he almost tore himself apart doing it. It’s probably Sam who brought you back, Cas said, and you’re sure it was an accident. You’re not sure how he didn’t die -- everything you ever knew about the rituals of closing Hell ensured the final sacrifice would be whoever decided to undergo the trials.

It’s unnerving to have him sitting on your couch, drinking a cup of coffee Castiel made him in the mug you use every morning. You always preferred his silent self-hatred to his brother’s self-righteousness, and you know what it feels like to be Sam Winchester, or at least you knew what it was like to be him once.

/

Three days after the Winchesters leave, you drive to Sioux Falls with Castiel. Sam had slipped you the name of a tattoo artist, and you realized with fury that some other demon could take over your body now, or Castiel’s body. It’s not the body you would have chosen forever, but you feel protective over this girl in a way that makes you feel sick. You’ve made her do enough for a lifetime, and you have no desire to share her too-small frame with anyone else.

You get the stupid tattoo on your wrist, and it doesn’t hurt at all.

/

Castiel sleeps in your bed now. You barely sleep, mostly just sit in the open window and smoke. He hates it when you smoke, something about this being your last body ever, so you don’t do it in front of him, not anymore.

It had taken him three months to kiss you, and he doesn’t taste like grace anymore. You told him that, and he looked so heartbroken you kissed him again, pushed him to the bed, and tried to show him how much you didn’t care.

You’ve never been good at emotion, or at feeling things, even your first time around as a human, but the way Castiel looks up at you, you know he knows.

/

He tells you he loves you, like he loves all of God’s creations, and you tell him you would love him if you could.

Somehow, it works.

#meg masters #meg x cas #supernatural #castiel #now that ive admitted to the supernatural thing #i'm posting this here bc it bothers me when i dont have a backup of my fic online somewhere #anyways Yes i wrote supernatural fic and yes i probably deserve to like burn at the stake for this #but i dont care im loving this thriving enjoying life for the first time in months #i also stand by my 8th grade decision of loving meg masters #turns out i love her AND im gay AnD shes hot #turns out we can have All Three #cw: supernatural #keeping my supernatural tag for this blog as cw: supernatural bc that is insanely funny to me #fic*

[fieldbears]

It seems like you know a lot about skin care. I'm 28 now and honestly dont really bother with it (except to take off make up and using sunscreen). I'm 28 now and feel like my skin's fine but wonder if there's stuff it actually needs. With skincare being such a huge industry it's hard to understand what ingredients skin actually needs bc I feel companies (& influencers) try to sell you a lot of shit you don't need and maybe even makes your skin worse. Any tips where to start? Thank u

Hey friend! I love helping newbies. I absolutely do have tips. And a two-product two-step regimen. You can get it for under $40 and it should last you 6 months or more.

First off, there is ABSOLUTELY a ton of shit you don’t need. That is a good instinct. You can always pay more for a product and you can always add more steps to your routine, but that doesn’t mean that you’re actually getting more out of it. The first thing you should ask yourself is, what do you want out of your skincare?

SUNSCREEN: For someone who isn’t sure what they want or what they should do, my first question is how much time you spend in the sun. The one thing you can do to really permanently damage your skin is to spend a lot of time in the sun without any sunscreen. Basically: blah blah rays of sun blah blah destroys the collagen, aka squishy bouncy bonds between cells, blah blah, destroyed collagen means the skin sags more, meaning wrinkles.

(It is also, I hope I don’t need to say, dangerous for Cancer Reasons to get a ton of non-screened sun exposure. But I’m assuming that’s a given here.)

Like I said in the last post, southeast Asian sunscreen options are a huge improvement on what you find on the shelves here in the States because they have more stringent laws on what chemicals are okay to put in a product. But if you stick with what you can grab at CVS, that’s fine too - just make sure you google the brand and type and make sure the SPF is for real. (Some products marketed at, say, SPF 45 are actually proven to only be SPF 15. It’s like the olive oil bullshit all over again!)

There are also a lot of moisturizers available with SPF protection in them.

WHICH LEADS ME TO MY AMAZING TWO-STEP SYSTEMMMMM...

CLEANSE AND MOISTURIZE: There are seven-step processes out there, but what you really need to start with, and will get a ton out of if you aren’t doing anything right now, is cleansing and moisturizing.

The science explanation for doing this: blah blah your skin generates oils from your pores in order to create a protective barrier between your flesh and the elements, but said oils can get gunky once they’ve accumulated all the particulates from the air, and there can even be backups and miscommunications and over-oilage if you have dead skin cells sitting on top of your new skin, or stuff gets all the way into your pores, blocking the system, causing breakouts. So skincare is about removing everything on top of your skin, maybe adding fancy stuff in the middle, but absolutely creating a new barrier for your skin at the end, to replace the one you took off. I liken it to varnish on a painting - it’s meant to sit on top, collect all the dust, and get removed and replaced over time. But don’t just wash your face every 20-80 years. The metaphor only goes so far. Anyway.

Here is how to get into my absolutely bare minimum regimen:

PICK A CLEANSER: If you wear/remove makeup a lot, and/or have a very oily complexion, pick an oil-based cleanser. Oil-based means it’s good at removing makeuppy things  and your natural oil. Otherwise, pick a water-based cleanser. CeraVe cleansers are available at Walgreens and they are affordable. It is available, affordable, clinically gentle on various skin types, and by god, it does indeed wash all the shit off your face.I have tried a lot of expensive water-based cleansers and I still come back to this one. That $16 pump bottle will last you a long time, too.

PICK A MOISTURIZER:  I’m back on my CeraVe shit here because if you’re overwhelmed and don’t know what to pick, I’m gonna push you to the easy-to-pay-for, easy-to-find product that won’t make you break out. And it’s got SPF! If you want to get fancier, check out some options here. I currently use Laneige moisturizers, which are at Sephora and... other places. Idk. (And to repeat my last post: if you can’t stand having things sitting on your skin, even a moisturizer that will absorb over a minute or so, Laneige Cream Skin Toner & Moisturizer essentially feels like water.)

SHOWER STEP: You have both your products. Now. Put your cleanser in your shower. When you shower, use it to wash your face. In the shower, you can splash and splash to your heart’s content. Get your neck, your cleavage, any extra places you feel have an oiliness problem. But remember them for later, because you want to moisturize all spots you cleansed. (Also, if you’ve been using soap or anything else to wash your face up until now... stop that. Cleanser is much better.)

AFTER SHOWER STEP: Dry off and pat on that moisturizer. Make sure you apply it with clean hands. Rub it in gently and make sure all cleansed areas are now moisturized.

That’s it.

No, really, that’s my advice for beginners. Two products, one done in the shower. You have to do them in order. That’s it.

If you have the spoons to do this routine twice a day, around when you get up and right before bed, you’ll get even better results. But if you’re just starting out and get anxious about new routines, don’t sweat it. Your face’s cells turn over every 30 days or so, so if you keep this up every day for about two weeks, you’ll start seeing improvements by then.

Bonus newb tips:

About once a week, use a COMPLETELY CLEAN terrycloth washcloth to apply your cleanser. Get your (gentle) scrub on. Mechanical exfoliation basically means you’re using a brush, a cloth, something physical to remove everything from your face, including things like dead skin, which gentle cleansing may not have gotten. Doing it too often isn’t helpful, as you can only build up so much stuff to remove over time, and scrubbing too hard or too frequently can lead to frightening your skin, causing redness. So once a week is likely plenty. If you like the battery-operated brushes, go for it, but they cost way more than the clean washcloth.

You will see options for chemical exfoliation too. If you identify as a newb, I don’t recommend this. Chemical exfoliations aren’t bad per se, but are one of the few skincare things that can be done wrong, and in a way that can really upset your skin. Washcloth!

Are you replacing your pillowcases on a regular basis? I try to do once a week but I probably end up with closer to two weeks. Nobody’s perfect. But remembering to do this is a very easy way to help your skin out.

If you get your cleanse-and-moisturize routine down pat, 2x a day, and you want the next step, look into toners. They help your skin absorb the moisturizer more efficiently... science reasons. The toner goes on before the moisturizer, but again, your skin should be dry before you start.

There are ampoules, essences, treatments, and other fancy names for... very specific shit. Basically, if you have a specific problem, especially in a specific area of your face, chances are there is a specific tiny expensive bottle you can integrate into the middle of your routine to help with that. But there is a lot of snake oil out there and I don’t want anybody buying these solutions if they aren’t already managing the daily wash-and-protect, because you’d be surprised how many things that can fix.

If you have problems with breakouts or other bad reactions to some skin products, do your best to only introduce one new product at a time. That way if you start having a reaction, you don’t have to guess what caused it.

No matter what is or isn’t going on with your skin, your worth is not affected one iota. Whether I have three pimples and incredible redness around my cheekbone and nose area, making me look like a character mug of a drunken sailor, or whether or my skin is the cool, poreless ivory of Grecian marble, I am still the exact same perfect bitch. And so are you.

#Anonymous #skincare

[commanderquinn]

Good Space Chapter 3: Hey Gringo

! i dont! keep these posts! updated! like i do! ao3!

that means you're going to find typos and shit (and possibly minor detail changes) that don't match the ao3 version! that's because im not going to bother fixing the tumblr posts until i finish good space as a whole. im only uploading them here as a backup tbh

—

master list / ao3 chapter link

—

warnings: ayyy!! none this time!! unless you wanna count Highly Disrespectful Thoughts ❤️ tho!!! the flashbacks are shuri, heads up for anyone who is a big baby (like me) and still crying over WF. also (shocker) bucko angst/panic attacks

song: it KALEO time!! istg there are golden oldies and hippie classics on this intended playlist, we just havent gotten to them yet. this choice is mega self-indulgent on my end ngl, buuuuut thats the whole fic in general lbr (side note: every time i write Angy Ava, i want you to imagine the vocal intensity of jefferson airplane’s lead singer, grace slick)

the timing of this chapter could NOT have been better with the probably-russian hackers knocking out ao3 that long. i mean it dude, im pretty sure the universe had a good chuckle over this one bc i sure as shit had to sit here and go “youre pullin my leg bud”

also now feels like a good time to mention, for absolutely no reason in particular (definitely not bc of Bucky being a Huge Simp this chapter), that i hc bucky as a dom with service top leanings. i just didnt wanna give the impression that reader is dom for this and accidentally get anyones hopes up with no payoff. i try to avoid that as much as i can bc god knows i drop Big Honkers on y’all every damn chapter, id hate for you to get all the way to the end of this and not get your cookie, y’know? (i am, ofc, down to write mega sub bucky for smut-shot requests)

also remember when i mentioned giving ava a HANDFUL of physical details for writing fuel? 🌝 (ur gonna think im funny rlly soon, dw)

anyways if you dont have adhd, good luck and god speed with the idiots thinkin abt each other in this chapter ❤️ im so sorry in advance 🥺😔

—

Febuary 17th, 2015

"Good morning, Sh—"

"Have you left your worthless husband yet?" Shuri impatiently taps a finger against her elbow, where her arms are crossed over her chest. 

She watches Ava sigh on the other end of the vidcall. The woman looks too tired. She needs rest. Shuri wants to stab Alec all over again. She's going to make a new, self-lacing, possibly electrified dagger just for the occasion. "I know you're just trying to—"

"We can come to get you. I will send T'Challa. You must promise me that you will have him get me something from Washington." Shuri raises a stern finger, pointing it directly at the camera. "Do not let him pick it out himself—"

"Shuri, honey, I love you with all my heart, but please—"

"I want you to pick it. The furniture in your office is ridiculous; I want something like that."

A smile far too small pulls at the corners of Ava's lips. Her smile used to move freely, and it will do so again if Shuri has any say in the matter. Which she does. "Well, thank you, I work very hard to keep it ridiculous. Now—"

"It will make me think of you whenever you are not around to make fun of my brother with me. My mother will get the lawyers you need to start your divorce—"

"I—sweetheart, please, it's been a very long night—"

"It is the afternoon where you are. You have not even had breakfast, have you? Of course not. You are busy doing the work while Alec—"

"Shuri!" Ava puts a hand over her eyes and takes an unsteady breath in. "I'm sorry. This is—it's been a long night. I didn't mean to yell at you—"

"You need to start yelling much more, Ava. Aim it at your worthless husband while you tell him you are leaving," Shuri argues, entirely fed up with how the doctor allows the spineless dickhead to make her miserable. "T'challa will remove him for you while you stay here with us."

Alec—she refuses to call him Ryder; the man does not deserve to have taken the doctor's name—leans into the camera view, his expression bored. Dismissive. Shuri wants to smash his wrinkling, greasy face in with her fist. "While I appreciate the offer, your majesty, my wife and I can handle our private life alone."

Shuri glares back at him, one of her eyebrows hiked as far up as she can comfortably get it. "Do you really think being aware of your presence on this call will deter me from reminding my friend that you are a demon?" She looks pointedly at Ava, who's still covering her eyes. "He is a demon. A pasty, rude demon."

"Alec is going to shut the fuck up now, I promise." The fingers over Ava's eyes pull in until she's pinching the bridge of her nose tightly. She looks as if she's fighting off a migraine. She probably is. And it is Alec's fault. "That way, we can get this over with, and I can finally get some sleep—"

"Which you need and are not getting enough of." The words slip out before Shuri can stop them. 

Ava's shoulders deflate slightly. Her hand drops, and she attempts another smile that doesn't reach her eyes, making Shuri feel a pang of guilt. "No, I'm not. But I will, just as soon as we finish the basic adaptation matrix. I promise."

Ava always encourages her to speak her mind, no matter what. Sometimes it gets her into trouble. She is not looking to berate her favorite Canadian; she loves leaving the vidcomm between their labs on. The open connection is a comforting window into the outside, one that lets Shrui indulge in any question or raving that passes through her mind. 

Alec is a poison in her friend's life, and Shuri will not back down from reminding her of that. But mother and Nakia have sat with her over this, explaining that sometimes, an abused heart will cling to what hurts it. They have to be supportive while Ava works through this. She's getting there. Just not nearly fast enough for Shuri's patience.

Father has been reminding them all that Alec is a risk, given what he knows. Trusting Ava means trusting her for the duration, and they can't go back now. If she says she is handling the issue of separating the man from her work, they have to allow her room to do that. But T'Challa has been ordered to keep close, or at the very least, ready to go.

As much as she despises Alec, Shuri does not wish to see Ava hurt in this. Not any more than necessary. She is also not interested in trying to control her friend the way her mother sometimes tries to control her. It is infuriating. 

So, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she lets some of the fight leave her. For the sake of Ava, not the pasty demon. "I have the latest build ready for transfer." 

"You're sure you've secured the connection on your end?" Alec has the audacity to question, even outside of the frame. "I'm not interested in spending my week chasing traces of this—"

"Do I look as if I will hesitate to strike you, colonizer?!"

—

"I'm just saying, Humpty Dumpty."

"Fuck off," Bucky wheezes at the billionaire, compressing the towel he grabbed from his new medkit against his ribs. Why he expected to make it through his first mission back without having to crack it open, he's not entirely sure now that he's sitting in the hindsight. Getting shot today was, if he's honest with himself, entirely predictable. It's his luck, after all. 

"We let you out of the house again for five minutes, and you've already broken yourself." Tony shakes his head as he tsk's, making Bucky roll his eyes lazily. "What's Ryder going to think? If you keep this up, you'll give the woman a complex about draining your mojo."

"She's going to think I throw myself in front of armor-piercing rounds for idiots that don't notice when they're being shot at." The mention of Ava brings the doctor's smiling face to the forefront of his mind. Bucky leans back against the Quinjet's co-pilot seat, letting his eyes fall closed. 

He could take care of this latest injury himself. That's what he usually does. Thanks to the serum, all he has to do is keep the wound clean for a few hours while his body stitches itself back together. Nothing's broken, and he'd be in much more pain if anything were punctured. Hell, he'd probably be dead already. The fix for this is so easy it'll practically handle itself.

"You always get so cranky after you've played the hero." He hears Tony kick his feet up on the Quinjet's main controls. "Take a breather. Maybe a bow or two. Believe it or not, it's possible to accept a compliment now and then."

"Grandstand more often, got it."

Ava's probably going to hear about today's incident now that Bucky thinks about it. If anything, Steve's going to make sure of it. He doubts she'd guilt him for not being comfortable with an optional trip to medical. They've been having more conversations about boundaries and comfort, and she's been unwaveringly supportive of him moving at his own pace. 

"You don't have to grandstand, you gigantic baby," Natasha chides from between the chairs. Her hand smacks against his shoulder, making Bucky grunt softly. "A whole new world is going to open up for you when you relearn to accept praise."

Tony snorts, long and loud. "Has he reached that stage of modern education yet?"

"I reached that stage of education before you were born, Stark." Bucky's not territorial over his reputation anymore; those days are long since passed. The grand majority of his mojo got left in the 40s. He's just tired of Tony's shit. That's all it is.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Ava might feel bad that he didn't come to her for something like this. He doesn't... want that. He doesn't want her thinking that he doesn't welcome her help or that he doesn't trust it. He... he does. He doesn't just appreciate having the option; he enjoys it. The new routine is a breeze, and his neck feels better than it ever has. At least that he can remember.

"I'm confused," Tony mumbles around a mouthful of snacks. The man never stops eating. "Are we talking about your no-no years, or did you and Rogers hit up underground bars before Germany?"

"I know all his secrets from the vanilla days; they never went to any of the fun ones," Natasha confirms. It's not like Bucky was going to take the verbal bait anyways. Steve still falls for it regularly. 

"I like how you don't deny having the rest of the answer; I feel like it tells me all I can tolerate about the icicles when it comes to this. That's my favorite part about you, Romanoff. You know when I don't need to know, you know?"

His dumbass friends might as well be background noise with Bucky's mind this firmly in the memory of Ava's office. She's been so good to him, especially over this last week while she pushed through all the red tape for him. He'd been expecting it to take an eternity of hounding Steve all by his lonesome, but she got him back in the field in under two weeks. His best friend had actually been kind of pissy about it behind closed doors. For Bucky, it was like getting sprinkles on top of his cake. 

He's been thinking about getting flowers delivered to her lab for the trouble. It feels like too much whenever his thumb hovers over the confirmation button. He's reached the part of staring at the order details four times.

"I'm pretty sure your country doesn't appreciate it as much as you do. They tend to fight cold wars over it."

"Well, yeah, but our country—you see what I did there? That was a pretty funny communism joke. And it works as a reminder for both of us that you're actually an American citizen these days; isn't that wild? Back to the point here, our country fights wars over stuff we do ourselves all the time, so that doesn't feel like a fair reason to dismiss our friendship."

The doctor's forcing him to expand his music library. Her taste there is as scattered as her taste in movies, but she's got some leading themes he's been able to pin down. The 60s and 70s are huge for her, expectedly, and she's got a lot of nostalgia over the 90s. Paige keeps her versed in all things pop, folk, and country, according to her. 

"If I start referring to the US as my country, you people will expect me to do things like register to vote. Or put up wallpaper."

"I don't think anyone's expecting you to be legally allowed to do that. The voting thing, not the wallpaper. In most states. For multiple reasons. Although, the wallpaper might be a good call."

Ava invited him to their absurdly large archive of playlists during his second session. The ones Paige curates are nothing but insanity. Not one of them makes a lick of sense. Bucky decided that he should have expected that, given her Energizer Bunny reputation. Ava's are less scattered; more organized. Soothing for his mind to digest. He's been using them as workout music ever since. And driving music. And general background noise. 

"I don't think I'd know where to start buying wallpaper. Do you even want me putting that shit on your expensive building?"

"Not really, but the idea of walking in on you rolling paste on the living room walls is worth anything it could take to fix them later."

God, she's funny, too. He could listen to the woman's awful, soul-crushing puns and subsequent cackling for hours. He'll never say that to her face, not for as long as he lives, but they've made him feel lighter every morning that he's gone to let her work him over. He's already stolen two of them to torture Sam with. Another thing he's not going to tell her.

"Maybe I should start smaller. Bruce keeps suggesting a car that has legal registration."

"Heeey, that could work. You'll be signing up for mailing lists and bitching about state tax in no time. You know what?" He hears Tony snap his fingers. "We should get you a houseplant. Work you up to having a fish or something."

Alright. Maybe he'll go to Ava. He doesn't want her to think he's trying to blow off her expertise again. Or that he's avoiding her. He's not; he really does like hanging out in her office. Even if it's technically a medical appointment. He's a lot more eager to visit her than his therapists, that's for sure.

"I am not paying taxes," Natasha scoffs. "If you think I'm tying a legal address to my name, you're out of your fucking mind. Moreso than usual."

"You don't think you'd enjoy having a cave to lurk in?"

"What makes you think I don't have one already?"

"I'm talking about a real house, not a safe house."

This injury isn't related to his cybernetics. It's his ribs, well below any of his implants. He's not entirely out of the loop when it comes to what doctors have to do to get their licenses. She no doubt had to pull a lot of hard hours during her residency. Maybe she doesn't want to patch up the tower's notorious grouch every time he takes a hit. But he doubts she'd ever be impolite enough to refuse him walking in.

"I have my space here: bathroom, laundry room, small kitchen. If I haven't bothered decorating that, what makes you think I'll want to do it for an entire house?"

"Aww, come on. Look at Ryder! She's having all kinds of fun making her place as obnoxious as possible. That could be you after a few online shopping sprees."

Bucky's eyes open slowly, his brows drawing in when the second verbal mention of Ava pulls parts of his attention back to the conversation. 

Fuck, not going to medical still leaves the option of her taking offense. Okay. Alright. So, he'll split the difference and go to emergency intake. He's pretty sure she's listed as his surgical contact in the tower now—he can't stomach looking at his own medical file, not even the written records. Any injury this big will get flagged for trauma support, and she'll be notified. Then it's up to her what she wants to do. That feels like a good compromise.

"She's doing that to reclaim it from Alec; that's different. I don't have the same motivation. For me, it's just going to be extra work.

"Who's Alec?" Bucky asks without thinking. If the universe doesn't hate him today, Natasha's just going to assume he's being his usual kind of paranoid.

"She hasn't mentioned him?" Tony sounds surprised. "Alec's her ex-husband."

Ex-husband? She was married? And she's not anymore, meaning she might be—

He shuts down that train of thought immediately. 

Reclaiming the space of her house implies they lived in it long enough to form some heavy memories. She hasn't mentioned having a kid, and she strikes him as the type to bring up something like that pretty fast. So it was just the two of them, most likely.

"People usually don't like talking about the egocentric sack of shit they used to coexist with," Natasha points out. Of course, she already knows about the doctor's history. It's her.

"Bad divorce?" he prods, trying not to sound overly invested in the answer. These assholes will take it as an invitation.

"Oh, the worst," Tony confirms. "Shithead tried fighting her on it tooth and nail. She had to borrow my legal team just to get the guy to fuck off and leave her alone. He even kept her surname after the divorce; can you believe that?"

An uneasy feeling starts to rise in his gut, making Bucky look over at him. Then up at Natasha. "What kind of won't leave her alone are we talking about?"

"Down, fido, my lawyers took care of it. There's no need to start tailing him. Aside from being a self-absorbed asshole that insists they'll," Tony's voice turns scornful as his fingers form air quotes, "work things out with time, he's toothless." 

"She's got concealed carry permits she earned properly if that makes you feel better," Natasha offers up. The thought does help ease the tension building in him. 

He won't read Ava's file, no matter how bad the buzzing gets. But he might check in with JARVIS about her home security. He's noticed her name on the system logs. She, or at least her house, is linked to SHIELD's network despite her general distrust of the organization. He understands the opposing priorities completely.

He caved and read Wyatt's file two nights ago. The buzzing had been building since Ava mentioned him wanting an autograph, and it finally got to be too much. Nothing's lurking there aside from an impressive list of historians from all the fuck over Georgia and Alabama. The kid's got more family than some towns have population. 

Bucky leans forward with a muted groan to change the autopilot's intended LZ of the Avenger's balcony to the entrance hanger for medical. If he's going to grit his teeth through the antiseptic over a couple small holes, he's damn sure not going to haul his ass through half the tower while his ribs leak. His patience has limits, and that's pretty fucking far over the starting line. 

Tony looks over at him with a deep, suspicious frown. Bucky frowns at him right back with the same level of scrutiny. He can feel Natasha staring a hole into the side of his head, even if he can't catch her in his peripherals. He hates both of them with a passion at the moment. He knows what's about to happen—

"Did you just… prioritize your own health," Tony questions like he's baffled by the very idea. His whole upper body turns in the seat as he looks up at Natasha excitedly. "Oh my god. He's doing it. All by himself." He raises a hand to his chest and looks back at Bucky. "They grow up so fast."

It's good that the autopilot is on. If it weren't, Bucky would be tempted to crash them out of spite, mostly because he's sure he'd survive it. "Very funny."

"All it took was a hippie that gives him candy," Natash adds, her voice dripping with smugness. "Who knew."

"Both of you can fuck off." Bucky doesn't like how close she just got to his primary motivation on the first try. Old habits die hard, et cetera. And he hates that he can't tell if she was trying to guess. If he's lucky, which he isn't, she was just making fun of him.

Natasha knows about his visits to the florist's website; he's fucking convinced of it now. He doesn't know how, and he can't outright call her on it. If he does, he could fuck up and make himself right. There is nothing worse than having the Black Widow as metaphorical family. Not even Steve's hovering.

She and Tony harass him for the remainder of the flight. It's not long, mercifully, and he's starting to regret not grabbing something for the doctor. They were in Montreal, of all places, so it would have been fitting. He figures she'll understand once he shows her his side. The train of thought makes him wonder what part of Canada she's originally from. She hasn't brought it up.

His foot is already bouncing by the time he reaches the elevator. He's still got the surgical towel shoved tightly against his ribs. He hopes she gets there fast if she ends up taking the call. The last thing he wants to do right now is sit around in the burn of antiseptic and bleach while he fights off the urge to bolt. 

This is good, Bucky reminds himself as he takes his first few steps into medical. He's sat through plenty of trips to emergency intake. He can handle walking into his first optional one. It's a non-issue. Completely.

When JARVIS informs him that his file and general vital scan have been submitted for intake, the buzzing gets so intense that he almost leaves. The pace of his sergeant walk, as Sam likes to designate it, slows to a crawl. Then he thinks about a doctor with concealed carry permits. One that lets her house be monitored by a government organization she's actively pushing herself to trust. All in an effort to contribute something good to the world. The buzzing eases, and he picks up his pace, headed for the solo observation room JARVIS listed for him.

There's no moment of standing involuntarily from nerves this time. He doesn't have to force himself to sit back down and wait, even though the room smells wrong. His skin is crawling, and he wants nothing more than to put a throwing knife in his hand like a goddamn security blanket. But he doesn't panic. He doesn't try leaving.

Baby steps.

When the door opens, it's devastating. There's no diminutive hippie with UFO-sized glasses smiling at him on the other side of it. It's a guy in a plain white lab coat without artistic stitching, one that Bucky's never met before in his life. He's already squinting down at a tablet, meaning this will be his doctor for the duration.

This was the worst plan he could have possibly conceived. The universe is humbling him for thinking he could get away with something like this without some kind of suffering. He just wanted to make up for being dismissive of her help initially. Now he gets to sit through this. How fucking grand.

"Barnes?" The doctor that's not Bucky's doctor looks up, his heart rate elevating by a few notches. He's putting in a lot of effort to look confident. It's not exactly working. "I'm Dr. Erickson. I'm guessing you're here for the bullet wounds JARVIS detected?"

"Yup." Bucky's not about to volunteer for small talk at the moment. It's a miracle he hasn't jumped off the biobed yet. "Where's Ryder?"

"Your primary is in a staff meeting at the moment." Erickson puts his tablet down on the supply cabinet's main counter. He's already starting to gather what he needs, leaving Bucky to figure out real quick if he's actually willing to do this. "Don't worry; I'll get you sewn up and on your way in no time."

He doesn't want it getting back to Ava that he bailed the moment she couldn't show up. He doesn't want to leave her with the impression that he's only going to take on medical care if it's her; that's not anywhere near fair. The woman is a brain surgeon, not his private physician. He can grow the fuck up and accept help from people that haven't gone through his gauntlet of verification.

"Great," he pushes out, lifting the side of his undershirt to offer an unobstructed view.

It's not great; it's fucking horrendous. The first touch of the new doctor makes the overly physical memory of the buzzing build so high, he can feel it in his teeth. They're not actually rattling in his jaw the way they did back then, he knows that, but it doesn't matter because his body is screaming at him that it's happening.

The first stitch going through his skin makes him want to put his fingers through the doctor's eye sockets. His mind goes over all the ways he can violently put at least ten feet between them without having to get up. Looking back, it's probably good he didn't reach for the throwing knives. He's not unhinged enough to stab someone unprovoked; he's better than that. But they'd have been distracting to his impulse control, that's for sure.

Dr. Handsy is pulling the first suture in tight when the door to the observation room opens again. Bucky doesn't look up, his eyes locked on a random point on the far wall while he focuses on his breathing. He only looks over when a billowing, maroon pant leg enters his peripheral.

Thanks to a bunch of dead Nazi scientists that used to hide out in the mountains of Russia, Bucky Barnes has a trigger in his brain that is entirely out of his control. One that, when activated by his own interest, lets him process his surroundings in a sliver of the time that it should for a human mind. It is exceptionally helpful in the field. 

Watching Ava Ryder walk in, wearing a suede jumpsuit that mercilessly frames her curves, proves to him that having it in the 30s would have gotten him shot by someone's father. Definitely before he left Brooklyn. Or before he got chased out by several fathers banding together with baseball bats. In the time it takes her hand to come off the door handle and make its way to her hip, his mind goes on one hell of a fucking journey.

He already had more than a vague idea of the shape of her before now; he can't help it. Comes with the territory of doing threat assessment for a living. God knows his eyes have slipped down to her chest on a shameful amount of occasions. Her tits are being held up and pushed together fucking beautifully at the moment. Typically, that would hold all of his attention.

But this is the first unobstructed view of her that he's gotten, thanks to the lab coat being nowhere in sight, and good fucking god. Holy fucking shit. Godfuckingdamn.

She's half turned from him at this angle, so he's only getting a side view. That's more than enough to show off an obscenely rounded ass and the cushy thighs it rests on that are going to haunt his fucking dreams. It's bigger than his hands by a margin that's outright glorious. The mental image of his fingers digging into it, of how it would make her skin dip under the pressure, makes his blood race.

He can't spot the outline of any underwear at first. Then her hand makes contact with the jumpsuit, and his eyes pick up on it. Right there, above the top of her finger, pulled up high over her hipbone. There's a thin band leaving an impression in the fabric. An extraordinarily thin band. There is nothing else in sight.

Pulled between Ava's legs, right at this very moment in time, is a strip of fabric that Bucky's tongue would fit against perfectly. Right under that is a taste he's been catching himself wondering about for two weeks now. One good, long drag of his nose. That's all it would take to push in whatever she's picked out for the day and soak it with that taste. He could get it back out from between her lips with his tongue, pull it to the side with his teeth to give himself room to feast—

Bucky tries to shift his weight as nonchalantly as possible while his brain slows back down. The comeback from tactical analysis is always jarring, with this one being especially so. 

He's the worst kind of bastard. An awful, selfish, perverted sonofabitch. There's not shit he can do to change that. How unfortunate.

"David," Ava greets, the name coming out as tense as the closed smile plastered on her face. "You can put that down."

The other doctor doesn't look up from the work his hands are doing. "That you, Ava? I heard you were—"

"Now."

Bucky's back straightens up as David looks at her nervously, taken aback. Bucky doesn't blame him; he didn't know her voice could get that forceful.

David sort of laughs, which feels like the worst possible choice to Bucky. But, hey, not his call. "What, do you want me to just—"

"I want your hands off my patient right now. I'm not asking." She watches with unwavering intensity as the other doctor lets the needle and thread drop from his hands. She visibly bristles at the patronizing expression on David's face, her head tilting aggressively. Bucky kind of wants to watch her hit him. "I'll be back in less than a minute, sergeant. I need a word outside with Dr. Erikson."

"Take your time," Bucky assures, the tension bleeding out of him already. His ribs are leaking, and there's a piece of doctor floss looped through his skin that he's going to have to cut out of himself tomorrow morning. The immoral evaluation of her outfit that his head threw at him is going to eat him alive. Forever. Especially when he's trying to fall asleep for the foreseeable future. 

All things considered, though, he feels fan-fucking-tastic.

David still looks somewhat shell-shocked, and there's real insult starting to creep into his posture, but the guy doesn't argue. He follows Ava back out of the room, not bothering with a goodbye in Bucky's direction. When the door closes behind them, his super hearing picks up on Ava reaming David about prioritizing patients before ego. She goes into detail about the deep shit he'll be in with her if he keeps ignoring her written orders, long before it ever gets him fired. She tacks on why her anger should scare him a hell of a lot more than the idea of that. Then she instructs him to keep his damn hands off her patients and get back to the intake desk. 

The protective streak makes Bucky's chest feel warm, a half-smile pulling at his lips. She's a handful, alright. One he'd give anything to be brave enough to send flowers to.

Ava is calm, cool, and collected when she leans back in through the doorframe, hanging off it with a soft smile. "Hiya, stranger. I hear you picked a fight in my motherland today."

"I hear it has an arms dealer problem. I wanted to see if I could help." He gestures down at the needle swinging from his ribs without looking at it. "Not all Canadians are as welcoming as you, turns out."

"Eh?" she fires back, hamming up the accent. "Wellll, I'm not about to let a few cranky arms dealers tarnish our reputation. What do you say you push that bandage against your new bragging rights, and we head for my office?"

Licking his bottom lip nervously, he tries to give her a confident smile. "You were busy with something."

"Not too busy for my favorite popsicle." One eyebrow raises sternly. "You are not allowed to tell Steve I'm playing favorites." God, she's cute when she tries to deflect. It's never worked. At least not on him.

"That's—" Shit, where to even find the fucking words for her. "You don't have to do this. Go out of your way like this. I don't mind getting patched up by random medics. Comes with the job."

Her smile turns impish. "That's cool and all, but I mind when people ignore basic ethics just to have a story about stitching up an Avenger. If you need to tell yourself I'm using you as fuel for a workplace pissing contest, go for it. Whatever gets you off that biobed." She leans back, leaving the door open wide behind her. "Come on; I can't stand the way they organize these damn shelves. I wouldn't patch you up in here even if you did pay me. Next time, head for my office first."

Bucky does as she ordered, pushing the surgical towel she packed for him against his side, not minding the sting in the least. He swallows down the point that, by every definition there is, he's not an Avenger. "I'll follow you, doc."

—

"Alright," Wyatt plops his hands down on the glass of the holo, his expression determined. His tight curls bounce with the motion, making their resident gumdrop look adorable, even through the discomfort. "Let's get to dissectin' this cacophony. All in one go, preferably, so I don't feel like yackin' up my lunch two days runnin'."

Ava's head tilts sympathetically. "Oh, honey, tell me you didn't—"

His hand comes up, with his index finger pointed to the ceiling. "Nope. But I got close a couple'a times thinkin' about this." He mutters several things under his breath about creepy Nazi bastards while he pulls up the raw data from Bucky's implants. "All the more reason to get it the hell over with."

"A whole day of digging through coded war crimes," Hannah deadpans quietly, raising a steaming mug to her lips. "I'm glad we get the fun assignments."

"You'd ditch us if we didn't," Ava jokes. She scrolls through the sergeant's file absentmindedly on her tablet, reviewing the vitals added just a few hours ago. He actually came to medical. For something as minor as a field injury. Of his own volition.

"Mmm. I don't know. It's pretty fun watching a brain move like Jell-O. You might have been able to convince me to stick around just for that."

SHIELD's primary system makes a blaring noise of disagreement as Wyatt loads the main file structure. He frowns, looking over at Ava with concern. "Its askin' for administrative override."

"Heeey, that's that thing Tony says I'm not supposed to abuse. That's probably not a good sign." Ava pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and leans over to get a look at the error. "JAR, I'd like some reassurance we're not about to trigger an ancient LoJack if you wouldn't mind advising here."

"There are safeguards in place for importing code with an unknown source," JARVIS reports in. The warning on the screen is dismissed, presumably by him, and a new window comes up. A log of the programming in Bucky's cybernetics going through digital quarantine loads rapidly, with line after line being highlighted in red and labeled HYDRA Suspected. "I will process them for you. One moment."

"We have to clean the Nazi code before we can beat it to death," Hannah mumbles against the rim of her mug. "I think I kind of like that."

"Please, Hannie, I'm hangin' on by the skin'a my teeth here." Scrubbing his hands over his face, Wyatt groans exhaustedly. He drags them down slowly, giving Hannah a pleading look over the tops of his fingers. "You know I'm always here for supportin' you—"

"I'm aware." The ex-marine's clipped tone makes Ava snort and look back down at her tablet. They both know stopping him now isn't going to cut off the word vomit.

Wyatt's hands thunk back down onto the glass. "I'm so proud'a ya, y'know that—" And there's the thickening of the accent.

"I know."

Ava's eyes skim over the list of everything detected in Bucky's wound, locking on the word leather in particular. Today was her first look at his work gear—she's got a feeling he doesn't call it a uniform—in person. It was hard to keep professional in front of six and a half feet of Hi, how are ya? wrapped up in that much heavy black. The sounds that his vest made when he dropped it on the coffee table— Jesus. He's got to be packing enough in there to arm a small country. 

"All's I'm sayin' is that if I have to hear about murder right now, I might actually upchu—"

"Please don't."

Ava's too scared to ask what's in the sergeant's pants for a multitude of reasons. Professionalism is lower on the list than it probably should be. It's a shame, too. He's downright hilarious when he lets himself talk. There's not a doubt in her mind that he'd come up with something unbearably good—and unwaveringly dry—in response to the loaded question.

"A'right then. We're in agreement. No bad thoughts today. We go in like—like excavators, right? With our helmets and our 'lil pickaxes, and we get what we need so we can—" The way he cuts himself off makes Ava look back up in concern. She finds the most horrified expression on Wyatt's face. "That—ah shit, that didn't come out all that right. That was mean, wannit? Insensitive. I'm not tryin' to belittle what the sergeant's been through."

"You weren't belittling anything," Ava assures, reaching out to rub his arm. "I think he'd be the first one to race you to a fossil joke about this."

"You'll tell 'im I'm takin' this serious, won't ya—"

A small chuckle escapes before she can stop it. "Wyatt, sweetheart, it's not like he heard you—"

"You take your pills today, Combs?" Hannah's calm question makes the gumdrop freeze in place. She blows on her coffee, taking a small sip. "If you say you don't remember, I'm going to—"

Wyatt snaps his fingers, his expression shifting to relief. "I didn't, and I remember why, too." He rolls his chair back with a sudden push, aiming for his desk. He reaches out before the chair finishes the trip to grab his patch-covered messenger bag. "One'a the cats got int'a my coat closet; dumbass got stuck on a shelf for reasons I'm still not real clear on." He pops open his medication bottle, tossing a pill into his mouth with a level of dexterity that makes her jealous. "The hollerin' was s'damn loud, I thought the landlord was gonna come knockin'."

"Which one was it?" Ava asks. "Not the new kitten?"

"No, no—Juno's been'a dream. It was Galileo again. I love that furry little bastard, but sometimes he can drive me nutty ." He pauses to take a swig from another glossy vacation mug. Today's is advertising a campground Ava's never heard of that's the best in the Rockies, according to the swirling font. "I got new pictures of Juno if you want 'em, though."

"Yes, please," Ava confirms happily. Holding the teacup-sized ball of fur made her whole month when he last brought Juno in. Hannah ended up hogging most of the cuddle time, but the sound of little meows filling the day had been enough to make up for it.

Wyatt pulls his phone from his back pocket and brings it around to hook up to the holo. The system dings with the sound of a successful transfer after a moment. He loads a collection of new photos, zeroing in on one of Juno clawing her way up a window curtain—

The power to the lab shuts off with a loud, electric click. Everything plunges into darkness with the privacy setting on the glass walls keeping the sun out. It comes back on before Ava can react, the building's primary system switching to the emergency power grid. She and Wyatt lock eyes in panic.

"Oooh man, boss, did I just—"

"I'm sure you didn't," Ava comforts, trying to push down her own panic. It helps that she's heard Tony rambling about the work he's put into making this place indestructible. "JAR?" 

There's no response from the AI. She trades another nervous glace with Wyatt.

"I know it was probably the Nazi shit, but I'm hoping it was the cats," Hannah says, sounding sincere. "I feel like that'll make a much better story."

"Oh my god, did I break JAR?" Wyatt looks between them frantically. "How often does he back up his servers? Did I kill'a piece'a JAR?!"

"I have not been murdered," the AI confirms after nearly a minute of being gone. "The safeguards reported a false positive regarding the programming of Sergeant Barnes' cybernetics. It has been handled."

Ava gives the hologram wall of code a warry look. "Handled by you?" There's a suspicion building in her gut around his phrasing, one that she's not planning on letting out of her teeth. 

"Mr. Stark has a protocol in place that cuts off my servers in the event of any irregular activity. Given the nature of the programming's origin, the system is designed to er on the side of caution."

"That's a really fancy way of dancing around the point, JAR." She's trying to stay civil about this. It's not an easy venture, and she's pretty sure it's not translating at all. Even she can hear the frustration in her voice. "How about we cut the shit, and you tell me what the false positive was."

"There are automated routines running for Sergeant Barnes' implants. They are not harmful; I've taken the liberty of checking them personally now that they've been cleared through quarantine. I am creating a stable update to forward to—"

"How long have they not been harmful, JARVIS?"

Hannah sits up from her relaxed position at the avoidance of their favorite nickname for the AI. Wyatt's brows pull in nervously, his eyes never leaving Ava. They both know exactly what she's digging at.

There's a long hesitation from JARVIS. Short by normal social standards but an eternity for a sentience with quantum processors. "There is not currently a risk posed within the Sergeant's—"

Ava's out of her chair and halfway to the door before he even finishes the omission. Fueled by some of the most intense rage she's ever felt in her life, she marches out on swift feet. She's going to kill him. She's going to string him up—maybe hang him off the side of the tower.

America's fucking Sweetheart, her ass. America's Doomed Liar is a lot more like it.

"Where is he," Ava nearly growls, still stalking down the halls, leaving the medical wing in a hurry. "JARVIS, I know you're still listening; you tell me where that puffed-up, hypocritical—oooh , you tell me where Rogers is right the fuck now. And then you tell me where Stark is—"

"Dr. Ryder, I know you're not inclined to believe this at the moment, but I assure you—"

"You're right; I'm not inclined to do that at all." She takes a deep breath as she passes through the front entrance, slowing herself to a stop. With genuine effort, she pushes down her anger. "I don't want to keep yelling at you. I don't like doing it in the first place. If you don't want to tell me where they are, I'll find them myself."

Ava heads for the elevator to do just that. She's not expecting a response as she pounds the side of her fist against the button for the Datacrux's floor. It's likely to be her best bet to find any of them. There's not a chance in hell that she's letting her team dedicate any more time to this until she gets some fucking explanations.

Halfway along the ride up, the light around the button goes dim. A flash of anger rises in her until she sees the one for the executive level illuminate. 

"Mr. Stark is not currently in the tower, but you will find Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes debriefing in the Situation Room," JARVIS informs her over the elevator's intercom, making the SHEILD agents around her pretend not to look over. She's tempted to ask them if it's the outfit.

"Thank you, JAR," she offers as an olive branch. Regardless of what's truly going on here, she doubts the AI is all that comfortable with the subject.

"You're welcome, Ava."

She's only been to this part of the tower once before. Tony dragged her up to the Avenger's balcony for a party after her divorce was first finalized. That's about the extent of her experience with this section. It's not hard to find her way with everything denoted like it is in the rest of the building.

The palm of her hand smacks against the door marked Situation Room, and she shoves it open aggressively. Both super soldiers, the Falcon, Black Widow, and a scattered group of SHIELD agents stare back at her in surprise. It doesn't slow her down any.

Ava points an irate finger at Steve in the uneasy silence of the room. "Unless New York just caught fire, you and I are about to have a very blunt conversation, captain."

"Hiya, doc." Bucky, unsurprisingly, is the only one in the room smiling at her while she glares daggers at Captain America. He's still in his not-uniform. There's still blood on it. The charm he's throwing her way reminds her that they won't want an audience. 

"I'm going to ask the rest of you to leave," she continues, but her eyes stay on the sergeant as her finger lowers. "I don't think you'll want to be here for this, Bucky."

"What makes you think I don't wanna watch you beat up my best friend?" He leans back in his chair, his hands coming up to rest on his stomach as his smile deepens.

"Can I stay?" Sam asks, his voice eager. It's a damn shame this is how she gets to meet him. She doubts the Falcon has any clue about unethical research.

"Come on," Natasha insists with a serene nod in Ava's direction, grabbing Sam's shirt to drag him up from his chair. "You heard her."

"I—hey!" Steve looks so insulted as he watches his friends and various coworkers abandon him with zero hesitation. "You're just gonna—I don't even know what I did!"

"Neither do I, but I am very ready to hear about it," Bucky assures Ava, not an increasingly distressed Steve.

Ava taps her foot impatiently as the room clears out, leaving her alone with the super soldiers. She ignores the nerves radiating off of one of them and focuses on the one that looks delighted. "I'm serious. This is about your case. Specifically, the work HYDRA was trying to finish."

The mirth leaves Bucky almost entirely. His posture doesn't adjust from its reclined position. "Alright. Tell me what's got you livid about it."

"Steve here made me a promise that was broken in my lab a few minutes ago."

Steve's eyebrows pull in with confusion. "Which promise? Wait—a few minutes ago—Is this about that blackout? Ava, catch me up here; what the hell is—"

"You swore to me that the intention of HYDRA—at least where Bucky's case is concerned—was to make an army of super soldiers, nothing more." She's letting him process this one step at a time. It'll make yelling at him for lying a lot easier. That, and she's honestly worried the technophobe doesn't understand the gravity of the situation.

"I—" Steve hesitates, and she watches the switch to tactical assessment come over him. It's startling to see it directed at her from a face that isn't Bucky's. "As far as I know, that was the intention."

"Yeah? You're sure about that? You're sure you're not omitting something pretty fucking important to my job, Steven?"

"JARVIS, what was the blackout?" Bucky questions at half the volume he started at when she first came in.

Ava points at the sergeant insistently. "See? I'm guessing he doesn't even know, but he's sure as hell already on the right track."

"There was an incident regarding the coding found in your implants, Sergeant Barnes. It has been handled. I have prepared an update to their systems whenever you're ready to undergo a transfer."

"As your doctor, I'm ordering it. We can go back to my office after I'm finished ripping your friend a new asshole for lying to my face." Her eyebrows lower at Bucky in indignation. She's doing this for him, but that doesn't mean she's going to let him off the hook if he knew. "We should probably figure out if I need to do the same to you before we get there."

"Hey, hang on now." Steve raises one hand, likely to try to calm her, but changes his mind and puts it back under the table. She's guessing someone's finally clued in the out-of-time man about that practice making women want to throw something. At his head. "We might not always be able to talk about classified information—something you agreed to, I might add—but I've never lied about HYDRA's intent as far as I comprehend it. I've been very careful to hold up that end of our deal."

"Let me tell you how I know, for a fact, that someone involved in this case is doing a piss-poor job of lying to me about it. Since you haven't quite figured out modern tech, I'm going to try to keep it simple." Ava points a far less aggressive, more instructing finger at Bucky's arm. "In order for that hunk of metal to work, it needs to be programmed. The hardware needs software that can tell it how to read brain signals. A few decades ago, some Nazis sat in a room and wrote a bunch of code for that software. That's what was supposed to be in Bucky's implants. That's all that was supposed to be in Bucky's implants."

"Wait—what the hell else is in them?" The flicker of fear that creeps into Bucky's expression breaks her heart. There's not a doubt in her mind that he could sell her on any lie he wants to with his mind set on it. That's the point of infiltrators like him. 

But Ava's willing to bet everything she's got in this world that the fear in him at the moment is genuine. He doesn't know. And it makes her feel awful.

"Given the size of your implants, I'm guessing not much," she tries to reassure. "We can always purge whatever is there later. However, if the code were as simple as 'read this signal, do this thing,' it wouldn't have been flagged as untouchable by Tony's security measures. The ones put in specifically to prevent JARVIS from being corrupted." She crosses her arms over her chest in exasperation, her eyes moving to one of the small security cameras on the ceiling. "Would you like to explain to the captain what kind of code it would take to accomplish that, JARVIS?"

There's another human-length moment of hesitation from the AI in response. "It would take adapting code."

"The part he's holding back—definitely because he's under orders not to break SHIELD protocol—is that something has to be driving the adaptation. There is such a thing as self-adapting code; that would absolutely explain it. If we weren't talking about something made in the 40s when HYDRA needed entire warehouses just to house a few terabytes of data." She glances over at Bucky. "While I'm sure the agents you scare the piss out of would disagree, your head isn't actually big enough to hold that much."

"You flirtin' with me to stop the panic or to apologize for not being Canadian for a minute?"

Ava blinks in surprise, the slightest hint of heat coming up the sides of her neck. That—she hadn't been—well. Steve's head turns to him, his eyebrows raising in mild shock.

Bucky clears his throat, then tries for a quiet chuckle, his eyes floating between her and the table. "Sorry—it's this damn room. Puts me in sergeant mode, makes me—let's get back to yelling at Steve."

"Thanks, asshole, I appreciate—"

"What makes you think I won't yell at you just because I'm Canadian?" Ava counters, finally recovering. "You trying to stereotype me, Barnes?"

The relief that comes off of Bucky is palpable. "I'd go for the hippie thing first if I was trying to do that."

"Didn't you sleep through the McCarthy era?"

"HYDRA gave me the long and short of it between naps."

Her hand flies up to her face to block a loud snort. Damn him, this is serious. But she's not about to begrudge him the gallows humor. She lowers it again while he smirks at her. "Do you mind? I'm trying to make an angry but valid point here."

"About a bunch of code that my head isn't big enough for," he continues for her dryly, one hand coming off his stomach to gesture up at it.

Ava sighs, the amusement from getting sidetracked by the Brooklyn heartstopper fading fast. "Not big enough by the standards of the 40s. By today's standards?" Her head tilts to the side sadly, readying herself to watch that fear in him get more substantial. "You tell me, Buck. Did the Nazis work in the mindset of single projects, or did they work in the mindset of generations that would lead a global empire?"

The words are the last piece to complete the puzzle in Bucky's mind; Ava can see it happen in his eyes. The expression of horror it yanks out of him will haunt her for the rest of her days. "Zola." 

It's said in a whisper, and Ava's not even sure what the word is. 

It takes Steve longer to reach whatever conclusion Buckys come to, and he looks resistant to the idea at first. "No, that's... no—Buck, you've been to what's left. You know what it took—"

"That's the point she's making, stupid. Look at how small everything's gotten." He stops, and Ava doesn't miss the sight of a hard swallow. "It makes sense. Think about it. It makes sense. They took care of the car until they could find an engine that fit. I was the prototype. Or—was going to be, at least."

The comparison—the one he's using on himself—is revolting. Accurate, but astoundingly revolting. She pushes past it, leaning down to tap a condescending nail on the table. "Hi, there. Still here. Still looking for some answers. What the hell is Zola?"

With Steve watching him like a hawk, Bucky breathes a long, tired sigh. "Not what. Who." 

"I can fill her in," Steve offers to him quickly. "You don't have to do this."

"Oh, I'm not doing shit. She's going to do it all." Bucky locks eyes with Ava, his expression passive. Having the Winter Soldier himself that focused in on her makes her breath catch involuntarily. "How's your Russian, doc?"

"I don't speak a word of it. Do I need to for this?"

"No, I'm sure you've got plenty of ways to translate anything you feel like reading. You should look up doveryai, no proveryai while you're at it." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. His eyes never once move away from hers. "JARVIS, transfer a copy of my archive access to Dr. Ryder. Full permissions. And the next time she asks you a hard question, you don't have to bullshit her. Tell her to call me."

—

April 6th, 2015

"I want you to bring me with you next time."

"No."

"Is that a no because you do not agree or because you are afraid of mother?"

"Both."

Shuri frowns at the security feed, ignoring the quiet laughter she can hear coming from Nakia on the other end. "Coward."

The camera mounted on T'Challa's dashboard shakes as he turns it back to his face, his expression annoyed. "Say that to my—"

"Coward."

T'Challa rolls his eyes and turns the camera back around as Nakia laughs harder. He will be mopey now, for sure. "I am not taking you to stare at a soldier's office with us."

"Why not?"

"To start with, I refuse to be trapped in a car with you for that amount of time."

"You should be so lucky! Now, what is the real reason."

"What part of royal family do you not—"

"You get to go to these things."

"And when you leave your lab long enough to learn to use the spears of your foremothers, that privilege can extend to you."

"Okoye is always ready to teach you, Shuri," Nakia offers up diplomatically. 

"I do not need a spear to sit in a car annoying my brother," Shuri argues. They always do this to her. She is tired of it.

"You do not need to sit in a car annoying your bother at all." The moping has already started. She can hear it in T'Challa's voice.

"Fine. I will go to Ava's house and stay there while—"

"No."

Shuri slams her hands down on her desk, making the various instruments on it rattle precariously. "She is my family, too!"

There's silence on the other end in the wake of her anger. Then the camera turns again, this time by Nakia's hand. She doesn't stop the spin until it's pointed to show her and T'Challa. He does not look as annoyed anymore. He looks guilty.

Nakia gives her a sympathetic smile. "No one is trying to take that from you. We are only trying to keep you safe. We do not know how far Alec is willing to take things."

"And I am not willing to present the man with more temptations of power," T'Challa adds, the guilt on his face shifting to resignation. "It is not simply because I am afraid of our mother. I agree with her. And with our father. Alec Harlow is a man that is losing everything. That is a powerful motivator, Shuri."

"I am not afraid of that spineless demon," Shuri insists angrily. "I could handle him myself, thank you very much."

"Half the school children in Wakanda could," Nakia mocks under her breath.

She gets a stern look from T'Challa before he focuses it on Shuri. "It is not his strength we are concerned with. It is the allies he can call upon at any time. Men with strength and resources that we do not wish to deal with."

Some of the fight leaves her. Not much, but it does ebb. Her brother might be an idiot, but he is right about this. Ava would not be this afraid for no reason. She has been trying to disguise it when Nakia brings her for visits, which is how Shuri knows it is serious.

"I hate that man, brother." The word is far too inadequate. The contempt she holds for the worm who put fear in the heart of her favorite mad scientist feels immeasurable.

"As do I. As do we all." T'Challa smiles at her finally, his face softening. "I promise to bring you to hit him if he is ever arrested. That is when I will deem it safe enough."

"How many times?" she chases after quickly. "Can I bring a weapon?"

"You can bring exactly one weapon. Can you guess what it is?" The smile turns sarcastic as he reaches out and turns the camera back around to face Alec's office window. 

"I do not need a spear to break that man."

"No, you need it so I can stop being lectured by Okoye for enabling your avoidance of tradition."

"That will not help. She wishes for me to sit through her lessons. I would just bring the spear to hit him over the head with."

Nakia laughs, the sound light and soothing. "I am surprised you did not go straight for the idea of skewering him."

Tilting her head down at her desk, Shuri hesitates. She picks up the ridiculous coffee mug Ava got her, spinning it around in her hands with somber movements. 

Ava's last visit had been especially hard to stomach. The woman had looked so... empty as she talked about the start of the divorce. There had been no vengeful joy in her as she told Shuri's father she understood the gravity of the situation. No hard-won victory in her posture. There had only been grief and shame.

Shuri sighs, turning away from the screen to head for her lab's kitchen. She is going to fill the mug with one of the teas that Ava brings her. It will be a nice change from the energy drinks she has been binging. "No. I... I do not wish the man dead. I only wish to see him locked away somewhere he can never smile again."

—author end notes—

there’s one sentence in this chapter that is 14 words long (including contractions) that is the entire foundation of their incoming dom/sub and oh my g o d when i tell you that shit was cathartic to write 😫🤌 some day when this is finished, im gonna write a whole goddamn dissertation on that one sentence and all the narrative shit that tied into it in this fic so help me (YOURE ALLOWED TO GUESS BTW)

anyways, everyone is alive in wakanda bc i said so. and nakia and t’challa are really stupid uber mega important to ava’s backstory

i feel like we’ve all, as a species, Been Through Enough. you can talk my ear off abt anything, but dont talk to me abt the opening of wakanda forever i will Literally Die, i havent cried that hard over the first watch of a movie in so fucking long and i dont think im strong enough for a second. all i ever need for binging is winter soldier and black panther anyhow (FATWS is still growing on me and i only like it so far bc im a sambucky shipper. and a stucky shipper. and a 3 musketeer shipper. and a—i like making buckaroo be in love a lot. lets just. leave it at that). we can stop with the big owies thanks. let me escape to the fictional world where everyone is alive and Nothing Hurts, t h a n k s.

well. okay. some things are gonna hurt in this. probably really super bad too and youre gonna be really really mad at me when it hits. but like. theyre set up for comfort pay off so does it even really count??? i didnt think so, ty for agreeing 😌

ily 💖 tyty for reading 💞 and tyty in advance for yelling at me when i eventually hurt u ❤️🥰 i will understand, its okay, u are entitled to the emotional compensation on that one

#chapter update #good space