#just staring at the tv as static lines filter across it and hes got a half drunk beer and a bag chips because every place was closed.

[chocolatecakecas]

24 year old dean snowed in at some crappy motel on christmas eve in nowheresville, usa. and he's watching it's a wonderful life on the staticky tv while he sits on the lumpy bed with his arms around his knees and there's only a bag of chips and a half drunken beer because all the stores were closed. and the air is cold because the ancient heater keeps turning on and off. and his dad has gone awol and sam didn't call. and he's watching george bailey standing on that bridge and he feels more alone than he ever has in his life.

#im just. oh #i might right this #idk why i thought of this but i just. god. #hes like sitting on the bed in a raggedy pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve and socks and hes curled up with his arms over his knees #just staring at the tv as static lines filter across it and hes got a half drunk beer and a bag chips because every place was closed. #and theres only one lamp on and the heat isn't working too great and he doesnt know where his dad is. and sam didnt call #dean winchester #dean breakdown<3

[impossible-rat-babies]

mirror mirror, how tf do you say goodbye?

~1975 words | chargestep (m!ortega + nb!sidestep) | that soft af angst | most below the cut

--

Pollux hates mirrors on principle. 

He’s never liked staring at his own face; not because he’s ugly to look at, they made sure he wasn’t. He’s far from the picture perfect they made him nowadays, but there’s a history in his sunken cheeks and how his nose juts too far out from his face, the curve of it getting worse each time it gets broken. Three parallel lines across his temple and through his ear, a nick in his upper lip.

He hates mirrors for entirely different reasons, for the truths they don’t hide, that they reflect back in gritty detail. They don’t hide his flaws, the bags under his eyes, the limpness of hunched shoulders, the lack of warmth in his chapped lips he chews far too much. How he looks when he strips away each layer, staring hard at his face, whispering and willing his eyes to not make him look so utterly empty.

Pollux doesn’t like when people look at him—really look at him enough to remember, to see how he is so empty. To pick out the details and to know how he moves, how he exists as a marionette with cut strings, keeping the illusion he can move on his own. He keeps his masks well, pretends like his strings aren’t cut, but the masks and strings don’t work when people can see them.

People like Ortega and his static brain like a TV left on the wrong station, a low level nagging at the base of his skull, like reading a book when there are no letters on the page.

Pollux looks away, coming back to the cool tile under his toes, and an oversized shirt and pants that smell like musky cologne. Ortega is always kind in offering him his clothes, but all of his clothing is comically big on him, the sleeves long enough to hang down to knees, the pants a good six inches too long too. At least the shirt covers his arms and the collar is tight enough; he can deal with swimming in fabric.

Ortega insisted he not go back to wearing the clothes he dragged himself in with--not with how the smell of garbage was practically palatable--and Pollux wanted nothing more than a shower at the time. Compromise on the smallest things. Plus it wouldn't be a crime if he smelled like his laundry soap for the next week.

“Fuck, Ricardo!”

Pollux curses and lifts his arm enough to see the bottle of alcohol in Ortega’s hand along with the bloodied gauze and the look of frustration he’s giving him. It would be less funny if he didn’t have to kneel down beside him to reach the nasty cut still oozing blood.

“It’s not that bad, Pollux.” Ortega chides and he goes back to dabbing along the wound and Pollux winces, chewing his lip. It wouldn’t ordinarily hurt this bad, but it isn’t his own hands and Pollux has the right to be whiny for once in his shitty life.

It’s a necessity to show this much skin, shirt half rolled up and held tight, even if his stomach is flipping over on itself; one look, one wrong adjustment of his hand holding up the shirt and even with bumps and twisting paths of scars painted all down his side, there’s still a chance and he isn’t going to follow that train of thought. He only enlisted Ortega’s help because he couldn’t quite get twisted around to sew it up himself.

“It fucking hurts that’s what.” Pollux grumbles and Ortega’s breath is short, dumping the gauze in the sink with the bloodied cotton balls.

“Who did you go and have to pick a knife fight with?” He asks and Pollux rolls his eyes, fingers clenching on the rim of the sink.

“Someone in an alleyway without any sense.” Pollux breathes out as the gentle numbing starts to take over and Ortega sets the numbing cream aside.

“Wait,” Ortega looks up at him a little dumbstruck, “you got into an honest to god knife fight?”

Pollux blinks and he scoffs incredulously. “No it’s a fun new euphemism I came up with today—get yourself into a knife fight!” Ortega is glaring at his joke and Pollux’s face is going to hurt with the amount of eye-rolling he’s doing.

“Yes I got into an honest knife fight and didn’t have a knife. Guy came after me because I didn’t have any cash on me and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Satisfied?”

Ortega tsks, a small “mierda” accompanying it and Pollux bites his tongue before he sighs, drumming fingers against the counter.

“I was coming here if that soothes your concerns.” Another compromise, tempering his frustrations.

“I could have come and gotten you. Saved you the trouble” Ortega huffs and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“No thanks.” Pollux shuts down that avenue without another word and Ortega is giving him a Look again. Pollux stares right back at him until Ortega gives up, eyes falling back to his hands as they thread the curved needle. Pollux chews his lip again and he silently breathes out.

“I’m fine, Ricardo.” Pollux speaks, trying for warm and quiet, but it always comes out like he’s trying too hard. “Seriously, it’s not that bad. Been through worse scrapes than this.”

Ortega doesn’t say anything and Pollux doesn't press, doesn't poke and prod to argument neither of them have the energy for. Ortega will forgive him before too long, content that he came by. Content that he asked for help for once.

Pollux picks at the caulking along the sink, listening to Ortega suturing the wound, the click of the needle and tweezers, a dull pulling sensation. The others only needing gauze or butterfly closures—simple things, ones he took care of when he got out of the shower. It was hard to stare at his own skin, to dissociate from what was staring back, but he needed clean wounds before comfort. Ortega finally ties the last knot, and it only takes a few more minutes to cover it up with gauze and medical tape to hold it in place. 

But he doesn’t pull away right away, no. His hand slides down across the peaks and valleys of the vicious scar down his side, brow furrowing like he’s trying to remember if he’s seen it before. He’s touched it in the dark before, traced its grotesque path from shoulder to hip.

It isn’t one he’ll remember, but Pollux lets him think, lets him touch. Lets him keep his head to himself; he doesn’t want to explain how he got it, the fall that lead to that night and the week after, nursing chemical burns and he knows the smell of burnt flesh too well. 

He’s got that look on his face, the one Pollux has seen far too much. The wrinkle in his brow, the curl of his lip; landmarks of pain--of blame.

“Ricardo?”

Pollux’s voice is quiet, a gentle call to bring him back around. Keep him from digging into all the what if what if what if. 

Ortega blinks and he half smiles, keeping his questions to himself--keeping the pain to himself. Pollux pushes aside the thought of how familiar that is, pulling down his shirt when Ortega stands.

Pollux stands there silent until Ortega has washed his hands, everything either thrown away or cleaned. Like how bandaging wounds isn’t something for the bathroom in Ortega’s apartment, but old habits die hard. Well, not all of them died when he hit the asphalt.

“Hey..” Pollux speaks as the lid of the first aid kit snaps closed.

“Hey...” Ortega repeats and Pollux clumsily steps closer, wrapping his arms around Ortega’s waist, pressing the side of his face to his chest.

“I’m sorry...” He apologizes, resting his chin against his chest to look up at him. Ortega’s brow cocks but he’s quiet, his hands settling against Pollux’s waist. “I don’t say that enough. Also thank you. I don’t say that enough either; need to start saying them more, just so you know. I’m....bad at saying what I should.”

Ortega sighs out his nose and takes Pollux’s face in his hands, thumb brushing across his cheekbones and across the trio of scars cutting from eyebrow to ear.

“You’re welcome, Lux.” He presses a kiss to his forehead for a long moment, gentle, kind, warm. Softer than he deserves. Pollux grips the back of his shirt, just letting the warmth of Ortega seep into him; he’ll be smelling like his soap and cologne for the next week. Might as well soak in as much as he can for now before it fades to cigarettes and lost dreams.

“I could get used to this sort of hug.” Ortega mumbles into his hair and Pollux snorts, fingers twisting his shirt into knots.

“Yeah yeah...” He grumbles, but he doesn’t say no. There have been more of those, more concessions and confessions; vulnerability painted in fluorescent lights or in Ortega’s pitch black bedroom.

“Are you staying the night?” Ortega asks and he doesn’t hide the hope in his voice. Pollux sighs and pushes away the dozens of reasons why he shouldn’t—why he can’t. He doesn’t have the strength to spin around a good reason why he should stay, too tired to convince himself he doesn’t want to be close, too tired to contain his hope that maybe one day things like this won’t be exceptions to his rules.

“Yes, I’ll stay the night.”

The wall opposite the bed is colored in dim orange, filtering in through blinds only half drawn to block out how even late into the night, Los Diablos still shines. Ortega’s mumbling into his stomach, face buried there, arm curled around Pollux’s legs and his fingers trace mindless patterns across the bare strip of skin at the small of his back. Pollux replies quietly to the simple conversation and it’s as mindless as it is comforting. It’s easy to play with his hair when he’s this close and this tired, twisting strand after strand into loose curls, leaving his head covered in them. He ruffles it all back to a mess and starts over, running his nails across Ortega’s scalp. Ortega hums quietly and a few more sweet nothings come out of his mouth and Pollux’s face flushes. 

Back in the days something like this would never have happened. Not in this way, not with how he wants to kiss the top of Ortega’s head and mumble sweet little things right on back to him—enough to scare him with how much he needs to say them, to tell Ortega all of it. Counting all the little things he needs to say before everything is ruined. How much he missed him and how scary that is, how much space he already has inside of his heart when he buried all of that away. Can’t make him hate when despair is easier. How terrifying it is that he’s breathing life back into him, back into the places committed to death.

It’ll be easier when he says those things, easier to let him go once and for all when he has nothing left to say, no kindling left for the fire. Nothing but goodbye.

But he keeps finding new things to say, new tiny little things he needs to tell Ortega; terribly sweet things he could never have imagined saying before. It’s all finding and forging new paths, finding a way to be like how it is now then how it was before. That was nine months ago his list is next to endless and they’ve had to reshape old pieces to fit into a new picture and craft new ones as well. Find new ways to paint a picture of what they are...if “they” are such a thing.

Ortega’s breathing has turned slow and steady, his chest gently rising and falling in the hazy orange glow from the street lights below. Pollux paints another set of curls across his head before his eyes get too heavy to keep open. He curls in just so, enough to kiss the top of Ortega’s head, whispering soft words into his hair, ones he can’t say where he can hear--where he can’t know. Because if he knows--knows how much those words really mean and to see his face when he does--Pollux doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say goodbye.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: retribution #chargestep #fhr #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #this has been in drafts for ages so you all get it now #mmmm

[tasharii]

Your Colors: Ch.9.

A/N: Sooo life caught up with me basically. I've got a new full time job in a new state that's taking some getting used to. But I'm not giving up! I love this story and I'm invested and it's killed me to not have time to write. This is my happy place. In order to accommodate and hopefully get a new chapter out every week, or every other week if things don't work out, my chapters are going to get a little shorter. I'm going to try and restrain myself, but still be proud of them.I hope you guys can work with me and stick around. I've got another Bucky story coming up involving ghosts and circuses...... BUT I'm forcing myself to at least finish a rough draft before I start posting it. This is the only story I'm going to allow myself to write on a week by week basis.Thank you guys so much for all the feedback on the last chapter and for giving me so much support. It really means a lot to me and I love hearing everything that you have to say. Enjoy! <3

Summary:  Art was the one good thing between college, work, and the grey minutes in-between. Sometimes, it felt like she wasn’t alive at all. Just drifting. When she joined her new art class, she never expected to start experiencing everything in an entirely new light. All thanks to him. Or: Where Bucky Barnes gets more than he bargained from his new drawing partner.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 10K

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, unrequited love angst

Masterlist

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3 Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6 Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10   Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13

****

Sharp pounding on her door drew her out of a very deep sleep. It dug into her temples and instantly pissed her off. Groggy, Y/N reached out a heavy arm and patted around on her nightstand until she found her phone. The light made her eyes squint, and she brushed her tangled hair back off her face. 10AM. It was 10AM on a Friday morning. Her day off. One of the few days she didn’t have anywhere to be until the afternoon. Just fantastic.

Annoyed, she tossed her phone beside her on the bed and groaned, scrubbing at her face. As if that would make the dust bunnies in her head clear up. Then the banging started up again. Growling, Y/N sat all the way up and kicked at the knotted blankets around her feet. They fell off the bed in a clump, and chills sliced down her spine from the brisk morning air. Pale blue sunlight filtered in from her drawn curtains.

Somehow, she managed to clamber out of bed and shouted, voice rough from sleep, “I’M COMING!” The knocking stopped for a minute, and she yanked at her tank top, straightening it. The air nipped at her toes, and she stumbled over to her bathroom door. Fluffy robe in hand, she loosely tied it on. Covering her bare legs, and underwear. Not a care in the world about how she might look. Just brushed a hand through her hair to get it out of her face and headed to the door.

Flinging it open, Y/N automatically glared at the three men across the threshold in the dimly lit hall, “Can I help you?” She asked, yawning halfway through. Words muffled by the hand over her mouth, she slumped against the door to keep herself standing.

The first guy gave her a very unimpressed once over, and scratched at his balding head, “We’re here to fix a leak.” He drawled. When she continued to stare at him, dumbfounded, he slowly elaborated, “Your landlord said you’ve been complaining about a leak in your kitchen.” Even from where she was, she could smell his abundant amounts of aftershave. See the sweat stains along his shirt. Could even count the little scabs littering his neck from nicking himself shaving. Yet he was looking at her like she was an idiot.

Blearily, Y/N blinked and glanced over at her kitchen in question before it finally dawned on her, “Oh! Ya, there’s this huge stain. Luckily, it just drips into my sink. Not the floor.” She nodded, happy the landlord finally listened after months of complaining, but then frowned, “He didn’t tell me he scheduled anything.” Eyebrows together, she stood up straighter and fidgeted with her pale blue robe, adjusting the belt. The man’s dark eyes were roaming across her just a hair more than she appreciated.

Shrugging, the balding guy, his nametag called him Rick, tilted his head, “Do you want us to fix it or not?” He asked. Behind him, the other two were playing around on their phones. Already checked out for the moment. Lazily, Rick glanced down at his notepad, and tapped at it with a pen.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder and bit her lip, “How long’s it gonna take?” The open doorway let a cool draft that fluttered the edges of her robe around her legs. Goosebumps covered her thighs, and she really wanted to be doing anything else but this.

Yet again, his shoulders bobbed up and then down, “Depends on the damage. Hopefully we’ll get it done today. If not, we’ll come back tomorrow. Got someplace you can go to kill some hours? We’ll be out no later than 7 tonight.” A hint of impatience made his words sharper at the ends. He scribbled something down with his pen, scratching it on the top corner like he was trying to get ink to come out.

Ya, Y/N had somewhere she could go. Just hadn’t planned on actually going today. It took her just a minute to think about it. To hesitate. There was no guarantee that her landlord would follow through with rescheduling. He was flighty like that. And if the leak got worse, she could see him trying to pin it on her. Make her pay for it. Say that it was her fault.

Reluctantly, she stepped back, and waved them in, “Ya, just let me get around. I’ll be out of your way in a bit.” When the door shut behind them, she tried to hide a grimace. Their shoes were muddy, and no one offered to take off their boots. Well, the carpet was already stained to hell. Not like it would be very noticeable. But it was rude.

After showing them the leak, Y/N disappeared into her bathroom for a shower. Took her time, and even blow-dried her hair instead of letting it dry on its own. Dressed and ready for the day, she could hear them banging around in her kitchen. Loudly. She peaked out and saw that they had started digging in the ceiling. Her kitchen had a dropped ceiling with panels. They had at least three panels scattered along her floor. Along with debris and questionable dust.

One of the other guys, David, spotted her over by her bed, and called, “It’s going to take us at least today to fix the pipe. Nothing too bad, but we want to be safe.” He offered her a thin-lipped smile. At least he was trying to be polite. Toolbox in hand, and handing supplies to the other two up on stepstools. Distantly, she wondered why it took three big guys to fix one leak. Rick cursed and yanked a wrench from David’s hand, growling out something she couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it didn’t make David happy. He rolled his eyes and dropped the toolbox down on her counter, hard. Before she could get too stressed out, she turned away and tried to not think about the mess they were making.

Honestly, Y/N didn’t know a thing about plumbing, or maintenance and she didn’t care. Even if she should. So, she walked away and picked her phone off her nightstand and shot her landlord an email to thank him for finally sending guys over to fix the issue. And to also, subtly, verify that he did indeed send them. That they didn’t just pick an unfortunate mark for a robbery. Even if they had, she didn’t have much they could steal. Just some ridiculously expensive, used, art supplies that probably didn’t have a good resell value.

Legs crossed up on her bed, she felt a shot of pain twinge through her ribs. A quiet, tired sigh left her as she racked a hand through her hair and stared up at her ceiling for a second. Despite feeling better after her shower, Y/N’s stomach twisted as she glanced back down at her phone. Specifically, at her text messages. Bucky had messaged her around 9, before she woke up.

Bucky: Still want me to come over at 1?

No. No she didn’t. At least she had a legitimate excuse as to why he couldn’t come over. Before, she planned to just fake a stomach bug or something equally juvenile. Her thumbs hovered over her keypad, debating on what she should send back. If anything.

Things weren’t ok. Hadn’t been in nearly a week. Since last Sunday, she’d only seen him in class Monday and Thursday.

Monday had been the worst.

 Monday, December 3rd

If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were presenting their final watercolor projects, Y/N would have skipped class. She felt sick enough. Dehydrated from crying. Exhausted from a restless night of tossing and turning. Between intermittent bursts of pathetic sobbing. It was obvious that she was nothing more than a reanimated corpse. Shadowed rings under her eyes, ashen skin, and she could barely manage to stand upright. All wrapped up in an oversized cozy hoodie, and unwashed hair scooped up in a tangled knot.

“Y/N?” Ramsey’s voice tickled her ears, and she blinked, looking over at him curiously. Standing only a few students away from her, annoyance radiated from the firm grinding of his jaw. Right along with the way his mouth disappeared in a fine line within the bushy hair of his beard. He raised his equally thick eyebrows at her, pointedly gesturing to the front of the room, “I was asking if you had any thoughts on Mr. Barnes’ work.”

Embarrassed, fiery scarlet crawled across her skin, and she reluctantly looked over at Bucky. Fully acknowledging him for the first time that day. The entire class was gathered, as usual, for a critic. She hovered near the back of the crowd, arms buried in her deep front pocket, barely registering the class at all. Everything was just white noise. Like flickering static on a TV set. And Y/N just floated above it all. A specter to her own life.

Bucky was staring at her, eyes shining with hesitant curiosity. She’d not said anything about his project since he got up there. Hadn’t even reacted. Which was uncharacteristic of their relationship. Even meeting his eyes made her want to cry. Like his mere presence was crippling. It was pathetic. She averted her eyes to the painting instead, taking a step to the side so she could see past an older guy in front of her. Nails digging into her palms to distract her.

The painting was good. Emotionally moving even. It was of a group of men. Soldiers. Walking together towards the viewer. They’re all beat up, and obviously exhausted. The color pallet was limited to brown, green, white and red. The red was used sparingly, careful to not muddy it up with the green and brown. She could just make out Steve and Bucky in the painting. They were the focus, closest to the viewer, and leaning on each other. Bucky’s arm was around Steve’s shoulder, using him as a crutch. The painting was so impressionistic, that Y/N figured most people wouldn’t even recognize Bucky in the work.

Just a group of men, walking into the light with their shadows stretched out behind them. Like they’re heading towards something better. Hoping to leave the worst darkness behind them.

Bucky had vaguely mentioned it was inspired by different events he witnessed during his time at war. Men grateful to finally go home.

Suddenly aware that she’d been silent for too long again, Y/N awkwardly shrugged, “It’s beautiful. Like all of his work.” The words were stilted and cracked somewhere along the way into the air. Chin down, she shuffled her feet. Tried to ignore the eyes on her. Ignore the momentary flash of disappoint across Bucky’s face, before it was buried again. He stared away from her too, at a point on the floor a few feet in front of him. His eyes distant, and expression perfectly chiseled into nonchalance. Like he wasn’t bothered by anything at all. Lately, he hid behind a blank mask. Just shut it all down.

If only she could too.

Ramsey stared at her, surprised, and waited for her to add anything else. It was her most pathetic critic ever, and she was entirely aware. But her head and heart both hurt. And when she accidentally met Bucky’s eyes again, all she could think about was the ache chewing away inside of her.

If it didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be anything left inside at all.

 Pressing her lips together, Y/N hit call on her phone and held it up to her ear. Her hand was sweaty, and she hugged her free arm around her ribs. Like maybe she could hold back the overwhelming sense of dread if she just squeezed hard enough. There was a string of banging, and clattering to her right just past her dividing bookshelf. Along with deep, monotone strings of buzzing conversation. But she barely heard any of it.

Just let it ring to voicemail. Please don’t pick up. Eyes shut, she bit her bottom lip hard enough to almost drop blood.

It rang three times before Bucky answered, “Hey! I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep the day away.” He chuckled, the melody to unlock her heart. The smile in his voice made her lips turn up a little, making her teeth release their abusive hold. But hers was a bittersweet sort of smile.

“If only,” She huffed and covered her other ear to block out the noise filling her apartment, “I’ve got some bad news. My landlord schedule maintenance on the leak in my kitchen. Didn’t even tell me. These guys are gonna be here all day, so we can’t meet up.” Her toes curled under her thighs, eyes drifting up towards the ceiling. With every word, she wondered if he could hear the tremor of anxiety in her voice. It was so embarrassingly obvious to her.

Of course, Y/N didn’t mention alternatives. Like the library, or even one of the studio classrooms at Orion. Because she didn’t have the heart to see him. Or the heart to disappoint him by bluntly admitting to being too weak to see him. Neither felt like an option.

Bucky was quiet for a moment, but then he offered, “We can work at my place if you want.” He sounded hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. The offer made her suck in a surprised breath and sat up straighter.

To be fair, Y/N couldn’t believe it either. She’d never been to his apartment before. Had started to think she never would. Immediately, she had a war going on inside of her. She wanted to but didn’t want to. Was so damn curious about his place, but it hurt to even be around him at this point. Wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to do him the curtsy of keeping her emotions in check. She covered her face with her hand, and curled forward, like she might hide inside of herself. Elbows on her knees, she tried to calm her mind, blocking out the sudden blast of music from someone’s phone in her kitchen. Some obnoxiously loud rock band.

As of late, she felt like a ticking timebomb. One wrong word, or touch, and her façade would rip apart. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him. Other times beg for an explanation, or just cry like a baby. Then, every other minute, she was just numb, but that didn’t make for good company either. All those emotions were just barely held back by her fingers, and she was tired. So tired.

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked softly, standing up and walking over to the window in her bedroom area. Restless. She parted the thick curtains and stared up at the heavy, grey sky, “They’ll be out of here by Sunday, you could just come over then.” If he’d just agree to a reschedule, maybe she could put herself back together by Sunday. Bury it all and be the friend he wanted her to be.

An early Christmas miracle. Afterall, it was December.

Sometimes Y/N wondered, if given the option to go back. All the way back to two months ago. To the moment she asked him to be her partner, what she’d do. Would she still ask him? Honestly, she wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe it would just be easier to have never met James Buchanan Barnes.

“I really don’t mind.” Bucky replied, conviction getting stronger with every syllable, “You need all the practice you can get with acrylic.” He added, and he wasn’t wrong. Y/N fiercely loathed acrylic. It was the next section of their class, now that they were done with watercolor. And it was Bucky’s favorite. Which made his help very valuable.

Biting her bottom lip, she let her forehead rest against the cold window. It was starting to snow. Thick, heavy white drops drifted down from the darkening sky. Pure crystals that blotted out the muddy streets of the city below. Y/N huffed, trying to keep the frustration out of her words, “They want me out of here till 7. I don’t want to get in the way.” She tried. It was the last excuse she could come up with. At least, without making it obvious that she was actively avoiding him.

Another beat of silence passed. Despite the harsh weather outside, throngs of people passed under her window. Finishing their work before the weekend. Rick cursed behind her and yelled at one of the guys to steady the ladder. The sound of Bucky’s voice focused her hazy mind, “I’d really like to see you today.” It was a timid, sweet admission, that made her lungs stumble. He added, “But if you don’t want to, I get it. Really.” Of course he did, because he could read her well enough to understand. Understand that she was practically a raw nerve left out in the winter wind.

Closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump in her throat, “I’ll be over in a bit.” She wanted to see him too. Because the really fucked up part about it all, was that the person who made her feel better also hurt her at the same time. A perfectly figurative double-edged sword.

“See you soon.” Bucky finished before hanging up. For a second, he sounded just as grim as she felt. With just those three words. She pressed her phone to her chest and tried to ignore the bubbling excitement at getting to see him. Because right along beside it, was a flowing tar river of dread and heartbreak. Things weren’t getting any easier like she had hoped they would over time.

Desperately, Y/N wished she could skip the heartbreak part. Skip ahead to the point where she figured out how to be Bucky’s friend. Just his friend. Figured out what was ok to do and say. To a point where she knew what crossed the boundaries he was trying to set. To a place where she wasn’t an emotional ball of knotted string.

  Bucky met her at the entry way of his apartment. Soft snow clung to her hair, and she dusted it off her backpack. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he stood up from the stairwell, coming over to meet her at the door. There was a moment where his arms came up, like he was about to hug her, but then he stopped. Let them fall, and gave her a small smile, “Just got to um, get my mail really quick.”

“Ok,” Y/N replied, ignoring the disappointment that he hadn’t hugged her. It shouldn’t be surprising. Since Sunday, he’d avoided most physical contact. Didn’t stand too close to her. Didn’t touch her arm to get her attention anymore. And, of course, hadn’t hugged her since Sunday either.

If it wasn’t for his obvious attempts to spend time with her, and talk, she’d think they’d only just met again.

He turned away from her, and she shuffled away from the door. Out of the way of a couple who were coming in from the weather. A gust of air chased them in and swirls of snow swept across the stained, tiled floor. The lobby was cold, and she rubbed at her gloved fingers. Bucky clicked the lock of his box, just to the left of the door, and she watched him quickly sort through the mail. Up ahead, the staircase started, and beyond that, under the stairwell, was the landlord’s office. As well as the laundry room. The building was old and drafty. Too much brick and not a lot of windows. If she looked up, she could see the twisting of the creaking staircase up all five floors.

The woman snickered as she started up the stairs, and then squealed when her boyfriend yanked at the tail of her scarf and chased after her. Y/N could hear them laughing and the echoing of their footsteps all the way up. Until a door slammed and cut off the carrying sounds of their joy.

Bucky glanced over at her, locking it back, and held up the mail, “Just junk and bills. Shouldn’t have expected much else.” She noticed how tense he seemed. Nervous and tired under the mask of content, casual banter. It showed in the deep circles under his eyes, and the jittery way he moved his hands and held himself too straight. Not too long ago, she’d concluded that Bucky didn’t sleep much. Somehow, it seemed he was sleeping even less.

“No one writes letters anymore.” Y/N mused, trying to mimic his casual pointless chatting. She could do this, “It’s a shame.” Hands tucked in her pockets, she shrugged, and took a step closer to the stairs. Part of her was excited to see the inside of his apartment, but she had no idea how she was going to survive 7 hours of this. Pretending everything was ok.

“Damn right it is.” Bucky snorted, waving for her to follow him to the staircase. Didn’t have an elevator, so she enjoyed a three story climb up the echoing, wooden and iron stairway.

By the time they reached the third floor, Y/N was winded. Bucky hadn’t even broken a sweat. He grinned cheekily at her over his shoulder, “When it gets warmer, you should come on jogs with me.” He pulled his keys from his pants pocket and shuffled through the ring with his free hand. Distractedly glancing between the keys and her as he stopped in front of a dark wooden door. His gloved hand tapped his mail against his thigh, impatient, or just nervous.

Unimpressed, she rolled her eyes, leaning against the pale green wall next to his door, “What? You gonna drive all the way to my apartment, and drag me to Central Park?” It would take him 30 minutes alone to just drive there.

Bucky’s smile didn’t fade as he unlocked his apartment door, “Maybe. Don’t tempt me.” He swung the door open and held it for her to come inside. When she stepped past him, she made sure to keep her arms close to herself. To keep from accidentally touching him.

His apartment wasn’t what she thought it would look like, but it suited him. It was about the same size as her studio apartment but broken up with walls. From the doorway, she stood in the small pathway between the living room and kitchen. The back of a couch to her right, and a counter to her left. The living room doubled as a studio. A couch, two black beanbags, and TV stand took up half the room closest to the door. To her left stood the small kitchenette, no bigger than her own, sectioned off with a counter. A hallway opened past the kitchen, disappearing around the bend. Likely leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

Bucky was watching her observing everything. Hands propping him up against the back of the couch. Mail and glove discarded on the kitchen counter. In a soft blue sweater, and dark jeans with paint stains he was the epitome of a dreamy artist. Eyes bright against the color of the shirt, and dark strands framing his face. Dried green paint clung to his fingertips, even speckling the silver of his left hand.

After taking off her soggy boots next to his at the door, Y/N dropped her bag next to the armrest of the couch. Bypassing it to cross the far side of the room. Next to the only window in the room, stood a wide wooden desk. A tall silver lamp and bookshelf beside it. The bookshelf was overflowing, and scraps of paper littered every available space. Sketchbooks were stacked haphazardly against the wall on the floor, most too big to fit into a drawer. Drawings and notes covered every spare inch of the cream-colored wall around the window.

Quietly, she studied every drawing she could. Some she recognized. The bakery where he worked, half sketches of the street view from his apartment, Steve, animals, scenery from the park, a girl she suspected was his sister from the dimple on her chin, and even a few of herself. And more. So many more.

Distracted, she unzipped her coat, slipping it off and holding it against her chest. After a minute, Bucky cleared his throat and she jerked, he was right behind her, “These are just some I’m proud of, or ideas I haven’t finished.” He explained, standing to her right. The grey light from the window made his eyes shine molten silver, “I was thinking, maybe would watch a movie while we work?” He lifted his dark eyebrows, gaze darting over her features, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Already feeling her nerves getting the best of her, Y/N nodded and made her way back to her bag. Just wanting to keep her hands busy, she tugged out her art supplies, “Sure, what you got in mind?” First her 9x12 Bristol sketchbook, then travel set of paints, pencils, bag of brushes and eraser. She sat on the couch, flipping to the page she’d already been working on. A drawing of the Brooklyn bridge.

Bucky’s lips flickered like he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite manage it, “I was thinking a Marvel marathon?” He grabbed his own sketchpad off his desk, and two cups for rinse water. He tucked a clean paintbrush behind his ear, his sketchpad under his arm, the cups stacked in his one hand, and a few other brushes in his other. Tubes of paint were already scattered on the coffee table, along with a pallet stained with green paint.

Pencil in hand, Y/N snorted, “Don’t know if we’ve got that kinda time, but sure. I haven’t seen Captain America in a while.”

  They worked without talking too much until close to 6. Only stopping to pop a frozen pizza in the oven and eat sometime around 2. Bucky on one of the bean bag chairs closer to the left side of the TV. She ended up on the floor, back against the couch, so she could spread out her paints. The hardwood floor underneath her made her butt numb, but she didn’t have to worry about being too messy. It’d clean up easier here than her carpet. Which had plenty of paint stains she’d have to pay for when she moved out.

It wasn’t as unbearable as Y/N expected it to be, but every so often she still felt a knife twist around inside her. With a constant weight on her body, pressing her down like a shadowy shroud, every action was strained. She was attempting to paint a robin on a branch. Had given up on her bridge an hour ago. Was about to give up on the bird too. The feathers were getting clumped together, and kind of starting to look like a mutant falcon of some sort. Her fine pencil lines lost in her clumsy use of a paintbrush.

“I really liked your watercolor piece.” Bucky stated, pretty much out of the blue. Y/N paused and peeked up at him for the first time in a few hours. She’d made it a point to stare at her horrible painting the entire time, and even when she needed help, she didn’t ask for it. Because she didn’t want him to be as close to her as he would need to be to help save her painting.

It took her a second to pull her mind away from her work and focus in on him and his words. Her paintbrush stilled, and she lifted it up, holding the top edges of her sketchbook. Slowly, she stretched out her legs, flexing her ankles to regain feeling in her feet. The sketchbook came to rest flat on her thighs, and she frowned. Oh ya, her painting from Monday, “Thank you.” That was all she had to say to him Monday, and that was all she could think to say to him now.

 Monday, December 3

Ramsey, spurred on by spiteful annoyance at her lack of response to Bucky’s painting, made her go next. Y/N didn’t want anyone to look at her, or her work. Didn’t want to have to try and explain why she did what she did. The heart behind her painting wasn’t there anymore.

“I um love Greek mythology,” Y/N started, words immediately failing her. Flying out of her mind like wisps of smoke, “So I chose to use Aphrodite, goddess of love, as my focus. White doves are symbolic to her.” She stopped, arms crossed and leaned back against the white board. Already finished.

Everyone stared at her, waiting for her to continue, but when her silence stretched on, they finally focused on her artwork. It felt like needles were pricking at her skin. Too hot all over, and mouth dry as the summer sun.

The painting had been one of her favorites. A beautiful woman with a flowing dress, arms back holding up the tail end of it like a cape. Serene while she glided forward across the canvas. Then two doves flew right in front of her, together like they’d come directly from her heart. The ends of the dress melted down into a stream of colors and brush strokes near the bottom. Shifting into a galaxy. The doves were mostly white and surrounded by darker colors to help contrast them out.

When she’d painted it, Y/N had been thinking about love. Not just Bucky. Love in general and how scared she was to fall in love. How fickle Greek gods were, just like emotions, and prone to mistakes in many of the stories. Love and gods were both tricky things. It was fueled with so many of her emotions, all poured out onto a page.

But now, she didn’t feel anything like before. Nothing but achy longing.

“I was just wondering if I could buy it from you. After the show.” Bucky’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she met his eyes, surprised. His sketchbook was propped against his knees, a pallet of paints on the floor to his right. Brush in the cup of water, he swirled it around and wiped it clean on a stray paper towel in a practiced motion. Not even looking down when he did it. Just studying her.

“Buy it?” Y/N asked, eyebrows pinched in confusion, “Why would you want to buy it?” Iron Man played in the background, the sound of him working on his first finished suit filled up the apartment. She set aside her bird, a lost cause, to dry. Despite the paintings being awful, she’d have to turn them in Monday. Maybe after it dried, she could clean it up some.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a teasing smile, setting aside his brush, “Cause it’s awesome? And I want to hang it up?” He asked slowly in return, like he was spelling it out to a child. Elbows propped on his knees, he pushed aside his own sketchbook. From where she sat, it looked like he was painting one of his original sketches of her. From her apartment. One of the poses where she sat in her recliner, reading.

Once again, he made her beautiful. Y/N could tell that much, even from where she sat.

Blinking, she shook her head, a bit reluctant to the idea of him paying her. Especially for that piece. Which had revolved around him so tightly. Tense, she sat up straighter and rinsed out her brush. The water was just a tint away from scarlet now, “Mn I guess so, but you don’t have to buy it. You can just have it.” Water dripped dark splotches from the brush onto her jeans before she wrapped it in a stained paper towel and dried it off. Dried paint coated under her nails, and fingertips. Coating them crimson.

Immediately, Bucky scowled at her, “No, I’m going to pay you for it. I personally know how many hours you spent on that. I’m not just going to take it from you.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke, sweater rolled up to his elbows, and scratched at his jaw. There was a smudge of paint across his scruffy cheek.

Flustered, Y/N stood up with her pallet of colors and cup of dirty water. Stepping around the couch, her socked feet slid just a bit against the smooth floor, “I don’t really know what to price it at.” She stopped at his sink, picking up a few dirty breakfast dishes, and setting them out of the way. Then she started rinsing off her supplies. Water cold against her skin, but slowly warming as it ran. Soft scarlet, black, white, and green paint swirled against the silver sink, and away with the water. Fingers against the pallet she scrubbed the dried paint off, and then picked as much of the paint out from under her nails as she could.

She figured once she was cleaned up, it’d be close enough to 7 to justify her leaving. AKA bolting. Bucky followed after her with his own dirty pallet and water, “I was thinking about 100. Maybe more depending on what you’re offered at the art show.”

Sputtering, she sat aside her pallet to dry and finally meet his eyes. He was suddenly close, and she had to take a calming breath. Or else her heart might stop beating, “That’s a little much don’t you think?” He was standing at her left and tilted the faucet towards himself, so he could rinse his own materials. Arm brushing hers, she got to feel that his sweater was softer than it looked.

Bucky shook his head, and she stepped aside so he could better use the sink, “No, I bet if you price it at 100 someone will buy it.” She wiped her damp hands on a brown kitchen towel.

“Someone crazy.” Y/N grumbled, but then shrugged, “I’ll make sure Ramsey puts a ‘sold’ sticker on it for you. You don’t have to pay me till you get it, though.” There wasn’t any good reason to justify her not letting him have it. If she was being honest, she didn’t really want to keep it. It just reminded her of dark thoughts that she didn’t need to dwell on.

Bucky nodded, and glanced up. It looked like he was about to say something else, but then he frowned, “It’s really coming down out there.” His eyes were over her shoulder, focused on something across the room. Hands dripping water, he turned off the faucet and placed his supplies next to her own and dried his hands on his jeans.

Y/N turned, following his line of sight towards the window. Her heart dropped into a pit, and she quickly paced around the counter, bundling her cold fingers against the hem of her shirt. Crossing the living room, she peered out the window over his desk. It was a blanket of white outside. No cars passed through the road, and the ones parked along the side were nothing more than little white hills. Barley distinguishable. Part of her, the artistic part, wanted to draw it. Try to capture the shining white crystals contrasted with the stark grey of the buildings. Splashes of cover peeking out, about to disappear under a blanket of freshly falling snow. But that part of her was background noise to the roaring anxiety that made her grit of teeth.

“Shit.” She groaned, racking a hand through her hair. Hadn’t even noticed that it was snowing so hard because she was too busy not looking anywhere but at her artwork. It was quiet too. That sort of peaceful silence that came from the snow dulling out noises.

Back over at the couch, she picked her phone off the cushion and sat down to investigate. Darcy had messaged her, sending a selfie of her snuggled up with a cup of something steaming, and the caption ‘Snow days rock!’. A little later after that, Peter had let her know that he was super bummed because Mr. Stark made him leave work early.

Her weather app had issued a ‘winter weather warning’. High freezing winds, lots of snow, and lots of ice. Y/N carefully shut her sketchbook, the paint barely dry but she didn’t have the time too care. Then began gathering up her stuff, “I better get going. Before the roads get any worse.” Before she got stuck there. Hastily, she unzipped her bag and stuffed everything back inside. Then hurried to the kitchen, snatching her damp pallet off the counter.

Bucky stood by the window, watching it come down, and turned back to look at her, perplexed, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” His arms were crossed, fists fight against his shirt. Lips in a fine line, he kept glancing between her and outside.

Y/N snorted a very thin, awkward laugh, putting her tubes of paint in her bag, “What’s the alternative? Stay here?” Her heart skipped at the thought. It was ridiculous. No, she couldn’t do that. For her sake and his, it would be better if she went home.

“Well ya, I mean, you could.” Bucky shrugged, taking a couple steps away from the window. Arms still crossed, and shoulders tense near his ears. It was obvious he didn’t seem to like the idea either, and that only made her feel worse. Guilty, and uncomfortable.

She shook her head, “No, I can get a cab. They drive in all kinds of weather.” The weather app had said to stay off the roads and inside if at all possible. It was getting dark. Earlier than normal due to the heavy clouds blotting out the sun. But Y/N couldn’t imagine staying the night after this week.

Maybe last week it would have been a fantasy come true. Like in some stupid romcom, but now? After Sunday? It was a fully-grown monster of an awkward, awful idea. Complete with horns and a snake tongue.

At the door, she slipped on her shoes and zipped up her coat. Bucky grabbed her arm just as she was reaching for the doorknob, “Stay.” He stated, quietly, but seriously.

She glanced up at him, swallowing the lump in her throat the formed from being able to smell his cologne, “I can’t.” Y/N was surprised at how vulnerable her voice was. She hadn’t meant to sound like that. It was supposed to be stronger than that. More resolute. Jerking, she pulled her arm from his grip and shook her head again when he opened his mouth to argue. Hand on the doorknob, she opened the door and stepped into the hall. It was even colder now, and the dim lights overhead flickered, buzzing. Even colder without Bucky’s hand on her arm.

Only just making it to the stairs, Bucky caught the strap of her backpack. Y/N whirled around on him, “I can’t stay here.” She repeated, managing to be just a bit firmer this time. Not even flinching, he took another step closer to her. Her hands trembled slightly as anxiety started to pour into her veins, clawing at her head.

Cautiously, Bucky guided her heavy bag down. Taking it off her, and she found herself letting him. The way he stared unwaveringly at her, as if seeing the dark tidepool of emotions behind her eyes, made her face grow hot with bit back tears. He shouldered it, and placed a hand on her arm, “You can.” He took a breath, closing his eyes as if to gather his thoughts then continued, “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you out there.” Bucky squeezed her arm and then stepped away, giving her space back.

“But it’s,” Y/N’s breath hitched, panic making her stomach feel sick. The cold bit at her fingertips and her hands balled into fists. Nervously shaking her head, she tried to swallow all the wrong words and find the right ones to explain herself, “It’ll be so awkward after—”

“It’ll be ok.” Bucky assured, giving a light smile. It reached his eyes, making them shine with tender light, “We’ll just watch movies and have fun. I’ll even make you dinner.” Slowly, he took another step back, edging closer to his apartment door. A hopeful expression making his handsome face soft, and sweet.

It didn’t take much for her resolve to crack. Too exhausted and strung out to even put up a real fight. She let out a shuddering breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding in, “I can take the couch then.” With that, Y/N stepped past him and retreated into his apartment. Taking off her boots again, she cursed the weather. Cursed winter. Cursed her landlord. Cursed everything that led her into this position.

Bucky shook his head, going back into the kitchen. Her bag made a solid thunk against the countertop when he plopped it down, “No way, you can take my bed. It’s fine.” She wanted to argue some more but then he was opening the fridge, changing the subject, “I was thinking tacos?” Bucky offered, and she unzipped her coat, throwing it over the back of the couch.

Leaning against the counter, she watched him pull out a thawed pound of hamburger. Then shrugged, “Works for me. Guess this means you’re finally going to cook for me.” She couldn’t help the small upturn of her lips. Every time they were at her house, they usually ordered takeout. There were a few rare times where she made easy stuff. Like hamburgers, mac-n-cheese, or stir-fry. But not all that often. Whenever they first started working together, Bucky never stayed long enough to need food. Once they did start eating together, Y/N didn’t feel like she had enough skill to even try and fix anything for him. It was only recently that she got comfortable enough to try.

“You are a guest, and it is dinner time.” Bucky waved a spatula at her, flicking on his stove. A light blue flame burst to life under the burner. Once the hamburger was in the pan, he used his spatula to divide it into chunks, starting to cook it.

“Anything you want me to do?” She asked, and Bucky shook his head.

“Nah, why don’t you go finish the movie? I’ve got it.” He waved his free hand towards the living room. Then he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, rummaging through some of his cupboards near the stove.

Nodding, Y/N left him in peace. Somewhat relieved that she didn’t have to try and carry conversation. It was getting easier to ignore. The awkwardness fading back just a bit, but it still couldn’t be considered comfortable.                                              

   After dinner, which was delicious, Bucky disappeared with their plates. Y/N relaxed down into the couch, pleasantly full, and continued watching the Incredible Hulk. Since she was staying the night, they might actually make a dent in the Marvel franchise.

Bucky returned with a bottle of scotch and two glasses with ice. He set them down on the table in front of her and she eyed him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. He snorted, lifting the amber and black bottle closer for her to see, “Just thought you might want a drink.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” She asked skeptically but didn’t deny it. She wasn’t much of an alcohol person, even less of a scotch person, but a buzz did sound tempting. Y/N was a happy drunk. The giggly kind, and she liked how it made her feel. As long as she didn’t get too sad. If she got too emotional, then it didn’t go well.

Bucky poured himself a glass, and tipped the bottle towards her own, waiting for the go ahead. Huffing a sigh, she waved her hand towards him. He smirked and filled up her glass, “I don’t want you to get drunk. We’ve just never drank together. Thought it might be fun. A buzz and Marvel movies could be a good mix.” Then he screwed the lid shut and sat the bottle on the table, taking up his drink. Fluidly, Bucky moved back over to his seat on the beanbag, dropping down heavily. Not spilling a single drop.

She picked up her glass, stirring the ice with her finger to try and thin out some of the scotch, “Never been to your apartment either.” She quietly mused, crossing her legs up under her thighs. His apartment ran warmer than her own, but her feet were chilly even in her socks.

“Guess tonight’s just full of firsts.” Bucky agreed, sipping on his drink. They were sitting further apart tonight. Further apart than they had in a while. It made her heart heavy, so she took a drink as well. Bucky didn’t even flinch, and she full on grimaced.

“God it’s awful.” She laughed, shaking her head, lips smacking to chase the flavor away. It made her tongue feel dry and bitter.

Chuckling he took another drink and hummed, “It’s an acquired taste.” His eyes danced with mirth in the dim lighting of the living room, a smirk made his mouth tilt in a sinfully charming sort of way. She had to look away, back down to the melting ice in her glass.

“I think you mean that you drink enough until your tongue goes numb and then it’s not so bad.” Y/N translated, taking another mouthful, and flinching again. It burned all the way down to her stomach. Nose wrinkled, she blinked as her eyes began to water, but she tried to school her expression. Not liking that she could hear Bucky trying to stifle his laughter.

“Try not to let it hit your tongue so much. Come on, haven’t you taken shots before?” Bucky teased, eyes flickering from the TV back over to her. The light made his jaw sharper and caught streaks of his hair, making them almost blue. From her position on the couch, she could still see snow coming down through the window across the room. It glowed like fluttering glitter past the streetlamps. Not slowing at all.

She nodded, focusing back on Bucky, “Ya, some but I always had a chaser.” Her skin was already feeling honey glow warm. A little tingly. It was good scotch. Bucky hummed, the sound of the movie filled up the empty space between them. At least, it was empty if you ignored all the things left unsaid.

Over the next hour, Y/N finished her first glass, and poured herself another. Right alongside Bucky, who refilled his glass a few minutes before her. By then, she could tell she was tipsy. Giggling at some of the terrible humor in the movie, and really at anything at all. Until she found herself watching Bucky more than the movie. If he noticed, he didn’t say so.

By the time her body started to feel flickering warm all over, Y/N didn’t have a clue what was happening in the movie anymore. It was nearing the end, and the apartment was faintly lit from the kitchen. Mostly flooded with the light from the TV. It reminded her of their situation a week before, but she didn’t want to think about that. In fact, she wanted to focus on another problem at hand.

Standing up, Y/N felt her head swim just a bit, but she managed to walk perfectly fine. She wasn’t that far gone. Just the kind of buzz that gave a false sense of bravery, and horrible impulse control. Right then, she couldn’t understand why they were sitting so far apart. So, she closed the few short steps between them and plunked herself down on the second beanbag chair next to Bucky’s. His eyes widened, and he stared at her, snorting a laugh when she grinned cheekily at him. Then she wiggled in the seat until she was comfortable and leaned over to let her head rest on his right shoulder. All without saying a single word and took another sip of her half full drink. It didn’t taste bad anymore.

A few beats of silence passed, and she tried to focus back in on the movie, rather than the obvious fluttering of her heart. From her position, she could feel the strong muscle resting just under the sweater. Bucky finally shook his head in disbelief, the beads rustled as he relaxed back into his own chair, and asked, “Comfy?”

Y/N hummed and nodded, nuzzling against his arm because god he smelt good. And damn if he wasn’t cozy and perfect. Her hand curled loosely against his sweater, thumb rubbing the soft material. Knees up on the beanbag, and her body contorted into a small ball.

When she didn’t offer a verbal reply, Bucky didn’t push. Instead, he shifted his arm until it was wrapped around her shoulders, forcing her closer. Head on his chest, Y/N laughed again at the awkward adjusting she had to do to get comfortable again. Shift till she was halfway on his beanbag and hers. Legs stretched out further to balance, and her hand holding her glass rested up on his waist, other tucked underneath her to stay propped up. His arm around her shoulders, and other hand still holding his own scotch on his thigh. But then everything was flawless. And she didn’t want to ever have to move again.

“Why don’t we do this all the time?” Y/N asked playfully, fingers rubbing nonsensical circles against her glass. She could feel every breath he took, and faintly hear the beat of his heart under her ear. He was so warm and strong underneath her. It was comforting. The credits of the movie were starting to play, and she loathed the thought of one of them getting up to put in another.

Bucky tensed, but didn’t move. He rubbed his thumb against her bare arm. Sometimes it felt like everything he did was the most natural thing in the world to do. Like their relationship had reached a point where it should have been as easy as breathing. If he would just let it. Then he shrugged, the motion jostled her just a little, “I guess cause it’s not really what friends are supposed to do.” Words mumbled and stilted. Awkward. He wouldn’t look at her when he said that, just stared down at the cup in his hand. Metal contrasting against fragile glass. Both glinting in the harsh light from the TV.

Before he could pull back, she caught his wrist and sat up to meet his eyes. Her hand kept his arm around her shoulders, and she only adjusted herself just enough to look at him properly. Their faces were dangerously close, but she barely noticed, “But we do it, and we’re friends, so it can’t be too bad.” Her voice was soft, insistent. Eyes betraying the sadness welling up deep inside of her. It felt like the burning in her stomach was heading up into her throat. His skin was smooth against her fingers, and his arm was a reassuring weight over her shoulders. Bucky made her feel safe. Even when he was breaking her heart.

Bucky whispered her name like she was squeezing the life from his chest and sighed harshly. His eyes darted away from her own, lips pressed into a fine line, “Ya but it’s wrong, and makes things complicated.” He closed his eyes and tapped his finger against his glass, the sound sharp over the TV. She could already see his walls closing, shutting her out again.

“It doesn’t have to.” Y/N shook her head, clasping his hand tighter to try and keep his attention. His callused fingers were rough against her own, and she could see his chest rising and falling faster. Like he was trying to keep himself calm. Still, she pushed, “If it makes you happy, and me happy, and doesn’t hurt anyone, then why is it so wrong?” She spoke quickly, and her voice was starting to slur just a tad. Like her mouth was running faster than her head. The hand holding her drink gripped it tighter. Condensation making her fingers slick. Head tilted, she tried to make him look at her. Suddenly desperate to make him understand.

At that, Bucky did tug away. Stood up and moved a few steps over to the other side of the coffee table. He picked up the bottle of scotch and refilled his drink. Again. His hands were shaking just a tad, and he slowly put the lid back on and sat the bottle down. Then he waved his glass in the air as he tried to explain, nearly sloshing it over the edge, “Because it can’t happen. And that—” He jabbed a finger at the beanbag chair he just vacated, like it was an example, “Will lead to things happening, and nothing can happen between us.” He pointed between the two of them, face flushed, and took another drink. Eyes sharp and glistening, his hair fell across his forehead as he swallowed. Then he carded his fingers roughly through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He sounded so sure. So stubborn and it just pissed her off.

“Does this make you happy?” Y/N stressed, gesturing between them. She stood up too, stumbling a little when her feet caught on air. Still, she steadied herself, head high, and finished her drink. When he didn’t respond, she sat her empty glass down on the coffee table a bit harder than necessary. It echoed over the music filling up the room with background noise. When had they started arguing?

Frustrated, Bucky groaned and turned so he wasn’t facing her. He shifted his glass to his right hand, knuckles white. Delaying time, he swallowed another mouthful, quiet. His shoulders were tight, the muscles rolling as he clenched his fist. When he glanced back at her, his face was blank again.

Seeing his emotional barricades up again made irritation burn the back of her throat like hot coals.

A whine caught in her chest, and she shut her eyes tight. The anger melted into something darker. Something harder to swallow that had her arms wrapping around herself, and made her shift awkwardly from foot to foot, “Don’t I?” Her tone dropped at his silence, vulnerable and nearly drowned out by the end credits music. Hurt at him shutting down again. Shutting her out again, “Make you happy?” Y/N clarified. Emotions switching on a dime as she stared at his broad back.

The TV cut out to the title page, and he turned, snatching the remote off the table and flicked it off. Then tossed it back onto the table, only for it to clash and skitter off the edge onto the floor. Shadows clung to the room, only pushed back by the small light from the kitchen and window behind her. Then silence pressed in on the room and highlighted all the words not being spoken. Ears ringing in the sudden quiet, Y/N tried to keep her breathing even and to stay quiet. Let him boil in whatever emotions were making him pace between the couch and wall.

In the cluttered space of his apartment, she felt small because he took up so much of it. When he got like this, she could see the soldier. Could see everything he tried to keep in control burning just beneath the surface. All the things he tried to never say. The panels of his left hand hummed and shifted, flexing into a fist and relaxing again when he finally stood still.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he brought up his hand to rub at his face, messing up his hair. When he glanced back at her, he grimaced, and exclaimed, “Of course you do!” His eyes were shining bright in the dark, glimmering with bit back pain. Eyebrows pinched and jaw tight, like he was fighting to keep everything in check. Even every perfectly measured breath he took.

“Just not enough?” Y/N asked, still soft and stepped closer. She reached down for the bottle, eyes never falling from his cooled expression, body swaying in a fluid motion as she stood back up. Bucky silently watched her as she unscrewed the top and watched him. Forgoing a glass, she took a drink from it. The edges of the cap bit at her fingers. Desperate to feel anything but what she was feeling right then. Maybe it’d numb her the rest of the way out. Make her pass out, or black out to a point where things just didn’t hurt anymore. With the way things were going it might be nice.

It’d be a blessing. Even for a minute.

“It’s not like that.” Bucky denied, words cracking in his throat at the end. Y/N edged just a bit closer, until they were chest to chest. The bottle brushed against his thigh where she let it swing at her side. She had to stare up to meet his eyes. He finished the last drink from his glass, then stooped to sit his down too. Every movement tickled the air around him and made her skin tingle from how close they were. His shoulder brushed her hip when he straightened back up. Then his hand cupped over her own and he took the bottle from her loose fingers. Forging his glass as well. His touch still burned. He didn’t offer to clarify what he meant. That it ‘wasn’t like that’ didn’t explain much of anything.

Instead of rounding another pointless circle with him, Y/N asked, “Why do you want my painting?” She crossed her empty arms, rocking back on her heels, but not moving from her stubborn position in front of him. Not yielding again. The scotch made her stupid brave, and she was cracking up. The façade she tried to keep up falling apart piece by piece. Part of her understood that this conversation would lead to nowhere good.

That she was tearing everything apart. Messing everything up. Spilling all their rotting issues out between them. Ripping up her heart for him to see as she desperately tried to understand his. But she couldn’t bring herself to shut up again. Too angry and hurt and frustrated and tired.

This had been a bad idea from the start. She should have just stayed in bed this morning.

That jarred him a bit. Bucky snorted incredulously, “Because it’s beautiful, and I love your work.” His full lips wrapped around the bottle and he took a swig. Rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, he let out a slow breath. Disheveled, he dropped the bottle back on the table, almost spilling it. The cap still bit at her thumb where she pressed at it. Flipped it around between her fingers. Something to fidget with.

“Do you know why I painted it?” Y/N continued, licking her lips, mouth full of cotton. She rocked back forward, nearly toppling into him, but he caught her shoulders. Steadying her and almost smiling, but it died before it could reach his eyes. Her hands came up to balance herself and she dropped the cap to the floor. It clattered, but neither of them bothered to try and pick it up, “Why I picked the subject?” Her fingers curled against his chest, enjoying the touch and slow to pull back.

Bucky shrugged, shaking his head, hands running down her arms to her elbows before he released her, “You were pretty cryptic about it in class.” He took a half step back, but she caught the hem of his shirt, and stubbornly held onto it. Stopping, he glanced down at her hand, but didn’t force her to let go.

Willing her fuzzy mind to focus, she explained, “It’s about love.” She pressed a free hand to her chest, hysterical laughter bubbling from her as she continued, “It’s basically my heart poured on a canvas.” Y/N tugged at his sweater, voice cracking at the end. Jaw clenched like she could keep her words from shaking, she stepped forward challengingly, “Still want it?” Her bottom lip trembled, but she kept her head high and proud.

Bucky’s voice dropped and sounded rough like gravel when he replied, “Of course.” His eyes held her own, and she ground her teeth, exasperated. Nearly stepped on his toes when she let go of his shirt and threw up her hands, catching her fingers in her hair, yanking roughly.

“I was thinking about you.” Y/N whispered, flinging her hand in his direction, nearly hitting him, “Not just you, but enough. Doesn’t that bother you?” Bucky was quiet, so she continued, shaking her head as the words tumbled out, “It’s about how scared I am. To care about you this much. About how messed up these feelings are, and how happy I was.” The tears were coming now. All the ones she never wanted him to see. They caught in a knot in her throat, making her words thick. Her cheeks were wet, and she didn’t know when she started crying, “And I couldn’t explain it in class because I don’t feel that way anymore. It just hurts.” Her hand curled in the front of her shirt and she clawed at it, like maybe she could just dig out her beating heart and give that to him too, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, but I don’t know what to—”

The words were stolen from her lips. Immediately forgotten. Taken the moment she felt his breath against her mouth, and then nothing but soft warmth. His hands caught her wrists from where she’d been wildly gesturing, and he stilled her. Cold metal and warmth contrasting against her skin. He tugged her forward, arms caught between their chests, and his hair tickled her cheek when he stooped down. So much taller than her that he had to duck his head.

Bucky was kissing her.

Y/N’s eyes fell closed, and her lips parted against his. Everything floated still around her. His hand released her wrist, and cold metal cupped her cheek. Confused, she pushed her hands against his chest, pulling back just an inch, “Why? What—” Then he tilted his head and kissed her again. His teeth nipped her bottom lip and he crowded against her. A soft groan caught in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, stretching up on her tiptoes to be closer. Questions buzzed through her head, but her world was spinning too fast. Everything suddenly felt warm and happy with him anchoring her to the apartment floor. In that moment, she couldn’t imagine to trying to ask him again. Not while he was finally kissing her.

Bucky shuddered when her tongue brushed his top lip, and his fingers curled gently in her hair. Leaving her no room to move away again. For just a second, he broke the kiss, and let his hands rest against her shoulders, thumbs brushing across her neck. He kissed her forehead, and then her cheek, tongue lightly brushing against the tears still damp on her skin. A soft bubbling giggle left her. Relief mixed with euphoria and disbelief left her insides sparkling like liquid gold.

Nearly floating, Y/N fisted her hands in the back of his shirt against his shoulders. Then took a step back, making him follow her. Still bent over but his hands came to rest against her hips. A tender smile spread across Bucky’s lips while a grin made her beam back at him. Every step she took he matched. Never more than an inch apart. A breath of laughter escaped him when she stumbled, nearly taking him down with her.

When she sat on the couch, he pressed her back until he was hovering over her and kissed her again. It’d been a long while since she had a make-out session like a desperate teenager, but everything fell into place with him. It wasn’t hard to remember why she loved kissing.

Not when she was kissing Bucky.

Next Chapter

Tags: @boy-leave @wtfholland

#Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #marvel #Marvel AU #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #reader insert #artist au #slow burn #Fluff and angst #fluff and feels #tashariiwriting

[falseroar]

Broken Memories Part 16: Silent Scream

((Before we start, here’s a link to the last part, Part 15: Cup of Tea. I know the timing’s a little off with the references to PAX and everything since that’s over now, but I still wanted to include them.))

Dark leaned back in his chair, staring at nothing in particular. Not that there was much to stare at beyond the edge of this imitation of his desk aside from the darkness that surrounded him, but for a moment he could see his office again, his real office. He knew the moment you entered the room, he’d used Celine’s old crystal ball to watch as Abe and Mark went through his belongings while you and Wilford looked on, his fury growing with every passing second.

Not about the intrusion or the papers taken, although that was an insult he had no plans to forget. No, there was nothing in those papers that could help them, and the longer they spent chasing rabbit trails, the easier this would be. The problem was that they just wouldn’t forget you.

Every time, every time it just kept coming back. He should have had you crawling to him for help days ago, the minute Wilford forgot your name and that Detective scoffed at the idea of making some district attorney his partner. But then he just had to have that picture of you in his wallet, and Wilford—

Well, planning around Wilford was like trying to plan around a hurricane, but the others should have been easy. The Chef and the Butler barely took any effort, but even Tyler had remembered you when he finally saw you.

Dark could make them all forget time and time again, but it was becoming clear that he needed something more to get the point across to you.

He spread out the tarot cards on his desk, careful not to disturb the workings he had set up from Celine’s little bag of tricks, and picked out the Fool card to study it.

Mark. Even now he was trying so hard to find a way to fix this, to keep in touch with the others to make sure they remembered, to keep your hopes up. Sure that if he just kept you close, then he couldn’t possibly forget like the others. He had been holding out for far longer than Dark would have thought possible, but it was still almost funny how wrong a person could be.

Dark’s aura, almost completely red now, spread up from his fingertips to envelop the card as though it had just been set on fire. He smiled to himself as he focused his power and waited for just the right moment to make you see just how much you needed him.

 ---

After your talk with Wilford and a walk outside, you made your way back up to your room. It was still early, but by the sound of it more of the egos were up and moving around the house. You assumed that it was one of them whose voice you heard as you neared the top of the stairs, until you heard Amy’s voice as well.

“Why would you not go? You can’t just back out on everybody, and we were already planning on taking them—”

“I can’t risk it.” You recognized it as Mark’s voice before you rounded the corner and spotted both of them standing alone in the hall, just outside of the Host’s room. “Amy, I think it happened again yesterday. They haven’t said anything, but I’ve talked to the doctors and—”

He stopped as Amy gave him a look and turned around. Judging by the way they were both looking at you, you guessed that until now they both thought you were still asleep in your room.

Well, Mark had noticed your memory lapses. You thought about pretending like you hadn’t heard what they were saying, but then you came out with it and said, “Mark, if you need to go somewhere, go. I’ll be fine here with the egos.”

“I can’t do that!” Mark said. “PAX is all weekend, we’re going to be gone for days, what if something happens?”

“It’s just for a few days,” you said, wishing you didn’t have to be the one making this argument. You would have loved nothing more to go to PAX with them, but Mark was right. What if you just blanked out in the middle of the convention center? Woke up somewhere else, no idea where everyone else was? It wasn’t like they could just keep you locked away in the hotel room or put you on a toddler leash.

“A few days ago, you were okay and our only problem was a broken-down old van,” Mark pointed out. “A lot can happen.”

“You have a phone, we can always call you. Plus, Marvin is getting better with the whole teleporting thing, he can bring you back here in a second if he needs to,” you said.

Mark grimaced at the idea, but Amy told him, “Mark, you have to make up your mind eventually. The others are going to be here soon, and we were all going to drive up together.”

“It doesn’t really start until tomorrow, so maybe I could…” Mark groaned and covered his eyes, trying to think.

“Others?” you asked.

“Jack wanted to drop by and see his egos before he left,” Amy said. “He’s going to be busy with PAX stuff and another show before he flies home, so it might be a while before he has time to see them again.”

Which meant if you weren’t going with them, this might be your last chance to see Jack and Robin before they left too.

The thought made the reunion later bittersweet, although you couldn’t help but smile when all of the Septic egos piled on Jack the second he stepped through the door in a loud, rowdy mass that dragged Ethan, Robin, and even you into it before they allowed everybody in. Some of the Iplier egos, like Silver Shepherd and Bing, joined you all in the living room where they all tried to fill Jack and the others in on what they had been up to while they were here, and Jack shared some of the projects he’d worked on while he was in LA.

While Jackieboy and Silver told everyone about their mission from the other night (which seemed to have gained a few more bad guys and clever one-liners since they told it to you), you noticed the way Mark watched Jack with his egos. To you he almost looked, well, jealous of how easily they seemed to get along.

You thought about how it wasn’t that long ago that Mark avoided being in the same building as his own egos. Sure, he was still uncomfortable around Google and a couple of the others, but compared to back then? He would have laughed at the idea of staying overnight here and you couldn’t see him just playing a friendly game with Bing and Chase or helping the Jims with editing like he had yesterday.

When Mark stood up and said something about getting a drink from the kitchen, you followed him with the idea of telling him just that. Inside the kitchen, there was a noticeable lack of hazard signs or suspicious goo, and it looked like someone had mopped the floor and cleaned the counters since the last time you were here. The chainsaw flamethrower was sitting on the counter though, looking like an accident waiting to happen.

“Hey Mark?” you said.

Mark jumped back from the open door of the fridge and spun around to stare at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just…” You trailed off as you realized that wasn’t just a normal “didn’t know you were there” kind of reaction.

No.

“Who are you?”

The question hit you so hard you felt it in your chest.

This can’t be happening.

You barely felt Amy’s hand on your arm as she came up behind you, a comforting squeeze as she said, “Mark, this is Y/N. You know them.”

Mark looked at you again, but there was still nothing there. You tried to speak, to say something, but you couldn’t do this. Not with him.

Amy let you go, saying she would talk to him, but you were already out of the room and making your way up the stairs. Down in the living room, Robin looked around at the sound of your footsteps but got just a glimpse of you out in the hall.

“Huh, I wonder where Y/N is going,” he said.

“Be nice if they were packing to come with us,” Ethan said and Jack nodded.

Silver surprised the others when he looked around and then asked, “Who’s Y/N?”

You paused at the second floor and made the split second decision to go that way, but when you turned the corner you were stopped by two egos, Bim Trimmer and Ed Edgar.

“Whoa there, pardner, where do you think you’re going?” Ed asked, catching you before you could run into them.

“I…” You hadn’t been thinking about going anywhere. “To see the Host, I need to talk to him.”

“Huh,” Bim said. “That’s strange, the Host doesn’t normally get visitors.”

“…Visitors?”

“Bein’ of the gentlemanly sort, I can show you the way,” Ed offered. “Say, how do you feel about babies?”

Bim saw your horrified expression and practically facepalmed. “Ed, we’ve talked about this, you can’t just start a sales pitch like that, you need to establish a connection first. Like I do with contestants and some of the less disposable interns. Speaking of, there’s an opening if you—”

He stopped when he realized that you were gone and Ed snorted and said, “Right, ‘connection.’ Way to ruin the conversation.”

You heard the two of them bickering as you ran up the stairs to the third floor.

“Do you think when Mark forgets you, those worthless copies will too?”

The breath caught hard in your throat when you recalled Dark’s words and you dove through the first door you came to on the third floor. There were glass walls on either side of the conference room, but you didn’t care who saw you anymore as you sank into the nearest chair and buried your head in your arms.

The large flat screen TV on the wall turned on by itself and filled with static. The buzz of the static filled the room before it slowly filtered away, the static forming into the image of Dark although the occasional line ran across the screen like it was an old VHS recording. On the screen he seemed even less stable than he did in person, with multiple red, blue, and green afterimages just slightly out of sync with his movements as he straightened his collar and then clasped his hands behind his back.

“Such a shame,” he said, noticing the small pause in your shaking shoulders at the sound of his voice before another sob made its way out. “How the people we care about the most can hurt us so much.”

He paused, waiting for a response, but none came.

“Take your time,” Dark said softly, his voice reverberating on itself. “You have plenty of it. After all, no one is looking for you.”

You still didn’t look up.

“Of course, you already know there’s a way to stop this,” Dark said. “It’s your choice. Fade, or let me help you.”

“Choice?”

Dark seemed visibly surprised by the tone of your voice, and he stared as you stood up and faced him, not even bothering to wipe away the tears streaming down your cheeks.

“What choice? I didn’t get to choose any of this! You stole my body and locked me away in a mirror for years! Mark didn’t ask me before he took that piece of the mirror and look what that did to me! The only choice I had was to break that mirror before you let me go back in there again for who knows how long, and now…I didn’t choose this, to have my own friends not even know who I am! And you know what’s worse? As much as it hurts when they forget me, I know it’s the same for them when I look them in the eye and have no clue who they are, and it just keeps happening and I-I can’t--”

You stopped as another choking sob came out. You didn’t even care that Dark could see you crying, and your tears kept you from seeing the very real confusion on his face as the image on the screen stuttered.

Dark stared at you, his mind working quickly. Something was wrong, very wrong. His workings had been designed to affect the memories of those from the party, the people who he associated most with those cards of Celine’s. You losing your memory was never part of the plan. He wanted desperation, to cut you off from the others so he could turn that on them later. He wanted his District Attorney, not that silent echo from a year ago.

“Y/N,” he said softly, and then louder as you turned away to leave, but you were stopped as you walked into the arms of someone else.

You blinked and Jameson Jackson came into focus, his face full of concern as he handed you an embroidered handkerchief and pulled you into a silent hug.

“It’s okay,” his speech slide said, rubbing your back with his hand as the tears started again. “I’m here.”

Over your shoulder, he made eye contact with Dark and reached down with his other hand to pull something out of his pocket that caught the light. It was a strange shape, flat one side and jagged on the other. The moment Dark recognized it as a piece of a mirror, the mirror, Anti winked and the audio cut out on the TV.

Dark’s image screamed silently as “Jameson” continued to comfort you, letting you lean into his hug for as long as you needed before leading you out of the room. At the door, you both seemed to glitch for a second before you disappeared, with no sign of either of you on the other side of the glass wall. Dark screamed again, the blue and red of his aura lashing out until the static reached a fever pitch, causing the screen to crack and go dark.

In his prison of darkness, the aura did not stop there and continued to rage, knocking over the desk and scattering Celine’s trinkets as it threatened to break through into Wilford’s reality. Anti, that glitch had used him, let him make the others forget all about you, let him get you to this point while nudging you that much farther along, and he had a piece of the mirror—

“I know, I know!” Dark said as his aura became washed in blue, his voice resonating in the darkness around him as if multiple voices were speaking at once to someone else as he promised, “We will get them back.”

He would make Anti pay over and over in increasingly creative ways for going back on their deal before he could do it first, for taking something that belonged to him, his District Attorney, and for forcing Dark to this point.

Dark looked down at the heap of cards and found the one that always reminded him of Wilford. Or rather, of the Colonel. Then, he prepared himself for the agony of acknowledging that he needed help.

((End of Part 16. Thank you for reading! ...Probably a bad idea to point out to Dark that he forgot to include Y/N on that list when Anti asked for a puppet, huh?

Link to Part 17: Enjoy the Show.

Tagging: @silver-owl413  @determinedrevolutionary @cherrybomb-jaguar @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior  @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @purpstraw @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl  @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette  @geekymushroom @cactipresident ))

#markiplier #jacksepticeye #fanfic #wkm y/n #wkm mark #peebles #darkiplier #not #jameson jackson #anti #puppet #broken memories #nearing the end

[middledumpling]

i like the way you smile

fandom: gekkan shoujo nozaki-kun

summary: everyday he walked past the dim windows of the tattoo shop next door and wondered about the owner with the bright orange hair and the beautiful smile

notes: soulmate!au for day 3 of @gsnkfandomweek 

The sun was just beginning to break over the mountains but Mikoshiba had already been up for hours. Truth be told, he hated getting up early, but there was something about the stillness in the air as the world was waking up, like it was holding its breath in anticipation of something, that made it worth it. He tilted the spout of his watering can back and stood up from where he was crouching on the ground. Those were the last of his various indoor plants and flowers watered. All that was left was to decorate the sign board and set the displays outside his door before he could officially open for the day. Mikoshiba rummaged through the top drawer for his chalk pen. Uncapping the pen, he began to outline some daffodils that would serve as a border to the text he’d add in later. Drawing flowers had always been a special skill of his and required almost no concentration, so inevitably his mind began to wander to the store next door, as it was wont to do these days. His small flower shop was unfortunately located right next to a tattoo parlour. It hadn’t been an ideal location for him. Mikoshiba was terrified of illicit yakuza activity and scary people in general, so he had always hurried past the tinted windows with averted eyes in order to avoid seeing any of the store’s employees or clients. But one day he had seen a small girl, at least a head shorter than him, stride confidently into the store. She had been wearing a long sleeved, poofy dress with two large ribbons in her hair. The sight was so odd that he stopped right there in the sidewalk to see what would happen. Nothing happened, of course. It wasn’t until later than he found out she was the owner of the store. But what had started as mere curiosity had slowly evolved into interest and then into a small crush. “You don’t even know her name,” his friend Kashima had pointed out. She had even offered to go and find out for him, but Mikoshiba had staunchly refused. Even if he knew her name, he was too much of a coward to do anything about it. He knew himself too well. Mikoshiba placed his chalkboard pen back down on the table and leaned back against his chair, staring at the way the early morning sunlight filtered through the store. The world didn’t feel beautiful anymore but terribly, terribly lonely. ... The bell over his front door jingled. “Welcome to Mikoto’s Flowers!” Mikoshiba greeted. “Oh—it’s just you.” Kashima laughed and brushed her windblown hair back into place. “Don’t sound so disappointed,” she said. Before he could say anything else, she went on. “Anyways, I know you told me not to talk to the tattoo girl but—” Mikoshiba heart lodged itself firmly into his throat and he leapt to his feet. “What?” he yelped. Kashima’s hands flew up in defence. “I just talked to her that’s all! I didn’t even say your name. I just mentioned I was interested in getting a tattoo.” Mikoshiba stared at her. Since when was she interested in getting a tattoo? Suddenly the pieces clicked as he watched her absently run a hand over her bare wrist. It was still strange to see it blank, when for the past however many years he’d known her it had been scrawled with lines of text. He flopped back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” he complained half-heartedly. Mikoshiba glanced up just in time to see a soft smile spread across her usual charming face. “Hori-chan-senpai said that it wasn’t necessary, but I think I’d still like it as a momento,” she said decisively. “And besides, it was just lines of script anyways. Nothing to be embarrassed about!” Yeah, it was nothing like his. Mikoshiba’s face burned as he tugged down the sleeve of his sweater so it covered the black line of ink on the inside of his wrist. It was only one sentence, but it sure made an impact.

Too late, Kashima seemed to realize her blunder. “Not that having an embarrassing line is completely awful! It’ll fade either way once you meet them.” Mikoshiba sighs, running an hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. But still. If I meet my soulmate and want this line tattooed on me again, promise me you’ll stop me.” Kashima nodded solemnly. “I won’t stop you.” “Thanks—hey!” While they tussled, Kashima put him into a headlock and grinned down at him. “I found out her name by the way,” she said. Mikoshiba glanced up, suitably distracted. “It’s Chiyo. Sakura Chiyo.” Mikoshiba mouthed the name to himself. Sakura Chiyo. The name suited her. ... It was still dark outside. Mikoshiba walked down the silent street, breathing in the crisp air of the morning.

As usual, he passed by the tattoo parlour on his way to the store. Before he realized it, Mikoshiba was hovering just outside the glass window of her storefront, watching her putter about the store, cleaning this or shifting that. There was no other way to describe it. She was just so… adorable.

But she walked around with a quiet confidence, with the kind of presence that had caught his attention in the first place. Their eyes met through the tinted glass. The girl—no, Chiyo—looked startled at first. Mikoshiba froze in place, embarrassed at having been caught staring in the first place. Then her lips quirked up into a smile as she waved at him. Mikoshiba had enough presence of mind to let out a quiet eep and wave back before ducking into his own store, blushing all the while. ... It was Valentine’s Day. Regardless of the fact that it was his birthday, his shop was swarming with people. Roses, lilies, chrysanthemums, assorted bouquets—everything was being sold at a rapid fire pace the way it did every year. The bell above his door jingled, signalling the arrival of yet another customer. “Welcome!” he yelled in the general direction of the front door. Milkoshiba rang the customer in and when glanced up, his heart nearly stopped in his chest. The customer that had just entered was Chiyo from next door, and when she caught his eye from the front of the store she wiggled her fingers at him in greeting. Adorable.

I’ll come back later, she mouthed sheepishly, pointing at the door. Mikoshiba nodded and waved back before his attention was completely seized again by a customer asking his opinion on flower languages. Later, after the chaos, Mikoshiba bemoaned the fact to Kashima. “I could have talked to her!” he exclaimed. “What would you have said?” she asked, eyebrows raised in question while perched on a nearby stool. “I would’ve, I dunno, introduced myself or something,” Mikoshiba groaned. “Or like, been all suave and given her a flower while saying ‘This is just for you, it’s on the house’.” “Maybe it’s better that you didn’t talk to her then,” Hori piped in, leaning casually against Kashima’s back. “Or you could always go next door you know, and introduce yourself like a normal person?” Kashima asked. “No, that’s not an option. I’ll just pine here until I die I guess.” “Please don’t,” Hori said.“You’ll ruin the linoleum.”

“I hate you both,” he complained. ... His phone rang once, twice, and then a third time  before he picked up. “Hey, are you free right now?” she asks, her tone peppy even through the static

“Yeah, what’s up?” Mikoshiba asked, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder during one of his only days off. “We just got our new script and we need some extra people to help read. You down?”

Mikoshiba hesitated. He stared at the screen of his TV, where Yukino was waiting for him to ask her on a date.

“I’ll buy you that new figure that came out. Limited edition, right?” Kashima wheedled.

His decision was made in an instance. “I’ll be there in five. Where are you?”

“Nozaki’s house! We’ll leave the door unlocked so just come right in.” And with that, she hung up. Mikoshiba grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out for the day. He stepped out into the sunshine, only mourning his cool and darkened room for a brief moment before he was cheered up by the thought of the limited edition figurine waiting for him at the end of the night.

It was a quick train ride to Nozaki’s house.

Nozaki was a bit of an eccentric mangaka, but then again, weren’t they all? Mikoshiba helped pen in flowers for him to make a little extra cash on the side and so he could tentatively call them friends.

Mikoshiba cautiously pushed open the door.The house was already alive with yelling and impassioned monologuing. Mikoshiba’s stomach twisted a little at the thought of how many people would be in the room, but he had to do this.

For Yukino, he decided, and pushed open the door.

He opened the door to total chaos. Hori had his back to him and was yelling his lines impassionately at a girl standing in front of him. Kashima was clearly long gone, her admiration for her senpai’s acting throwing her sanity out the window. And Nozaki was sitting back near the window, obviously enjoying the scene before him.

Hori moved to the side at his arrival, and Mikoshiba looked down at the girl, making eye contact with dizzyingly familiar purple eyes.

“Hey,” Sakura Chiyo, owner and tattoo artist of Ribbon & Ink Tattoos, said determinedly. “I know I cheated but I just can’t decide who I love more! You’ll forgive me right?”

Mikoshiba choked. His jaw dropped as he tried to process not only the turn of events, but his entire perspective on the concept of soulmates. There’s a burning sensation on his wrist and he glances down to see the black ink that had accompanied him for most of his life fading into unblemished skin.

“Your line!” Sakura snapped, and Mikoshiba jolted.

“Um,” he stammered, and suddenly a script was deposited in his hands. Mikoshiba scanned the page desperately. “The world may burn and the stars might twinkle out of existence, but I will always love you and therefore, I will always forgive you.”

He peeked up at Chiyo. The realization of what he just said registers in his mind and he feels his cheeks blaze red at the cheesy and embarrassing line. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and shocked, only breaking eye contact to glance down at her arm.

Hori, who had already finished his next line, trailed off to stare at the silent couple.

“...huh,” was all he said. Mikoshiba’s face burst into flames.

At this point, even Nozaki, hopeless in any type of romantic matters, caught on. “Oh ho,” he said, the statement made worse somehow by his usual deadpan face.

Kashima was beaming.

Mikoshiba targeted her, because he’s blushing so hard he can’t keep his gaze on Chiyo—his soulmate. Lord, even the thought of it was crazy.

“You set this up,” he hissed at her. She shrugged haplessly at the accusation, seemingly unable to keep a smile off her face.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” Hori interjected, dragging Kashima off by the back of her collar. “Nozaki, you too.”

In an instant the room was clear. Mikoshiba simultaneously loved and hated Hori-senpai at that moment.

There was a light touch on his arm, and he turned to see Chiyo holding her hand out. Up close, she was even tinier than he thought she was.

“I’m Sakura Chiyo,” she said, smiling bashfully at him. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

#gsnk #gsnk fandom week #gekkan shoujo nozaki kun #Sakura Chiyo #mikoshiba Mikoto #my stuff

[avecorviidae]

Fic: Aubade - Chapter Four

Fandom: Mob Psycho 100 Rating: M Relationship(s): Kageyama Ritsu/Suzuki Shou Word Count: 3696

Ao3 Link

His stomach is turning with how early it is, but he can’t seem to get back to sleep.

It’s been years since his dad leaving for work has woken him up, but he finds himself staring at his closet door nonetheless, listening to the muffled sounds from the hallway, his parents’ low voices murmuring something to each other, the soft jingling of keys and the tap tap tap of shoes on the floor as his dad moves from the front hall into the kitchen, and then back. It’s probably not that long in all, but it feels like an eternity before he finally hears the door slam, and the sound of a car starting outside. He hears his mother for a few moments longer, locking the door and then rustling around in the kitchen for a while, but she quickly retreats back into the bedroom—probably to go back to sleep—and the house falls silent once more.

He watches as the sunlight filters through his blinds, gradually illuminating his bedroom until the dull, muted shadows have transformed themselves into more familiar shapes. The alarm clock on his bedside table reads 7:19, which is frankly too early to be awake during summer break, but while Ritsu’s eyes are blurred and heavy with sleep, he’s not sure that he’s actually tired anymore. Or, rather, he’s too busy thinking to be tired.

He lazily shifts his gaze downwards, looking at Shou on the ground. His intricately crafted nest looks like it’s been through a natural disaster, with his single pillow lying halfway across the room at the foot of the door, the quilt that Ritsu had put down folded half in on itself, and Shou not actually on the pallet in the first place, instead having rolled off onto the carpet at some point during the night and taking most of the blankets in a twisted mess along with him. He’s face down on the floor, wrapped up in a cocoon with only his hair and a single leg escaping his burrow. As if on cue, he starts to shift around, making to roll over but getting caught in his blanket straightjacket, and settling on his stomach again with a muffled sigh. Ritsu takes a moment to be intensely jealous of Shou, who is probably on god-only-knows what timezone, and won’t wake up until noon at the earliest. “I mean, you don’t have to answer right now. Think about it, though?” Well, Ritsu’s thinking about it alright. It’s probably the reason he can’t get back to sleep. He rolls over to stare at the wall instead, Shou’s words from last night echoing in his mind. Really, it takes a certain type of person to drop a “let’s move in together” into a conversation, yawn, and then fall asleep without providing any further details or explanation.

The part of Ritsu’s mind that has been desperately trying to rationalize with his anxiety since middle school argues that it’s nothing to freak out over, and that he really shouldn’t start over-analyzing three sentences before Shou is even awake to explain them. The rest of Ritsu’s mind, which is analysis-oriented, exists in a state of complete structural and emotional chaos, and listens to no man, is just about ready to blow. Because, well, this could go one of two ways. On one hand, Shou could be serious. He might actually, legitimately, for whatever reason be suggesting that he and Ritsu get an apartment together, which... While appealing on the surface, it presents a whole range of issues and little details that he can’t be bothered to think about beyond a big chaotic ball of ‘this wouldn’t work’ in his mind. Still though, he finds himself quashing the impulse to go shake Shou awake and say ‘yes’ without a second thought, because details and obstacles always seem to be less concrete around Shou, but… Well, on the other hand. It could be something that he said while he was tired, and when he wakes up, he’ll either ignore it altogether, or brush it off with a laugh, and somehow that’s worse, because Ritsu is realizing with growing irritation that he wants Shou to be serious, which is stupid, this is a ridiculous idea, and it’s the kind of thing that requires serious consideration and planning and mutual discussions, not an offhanded suggestion right before falling asleep.

Wouldn’t he do that kind of thing totally impulsively, though? He sits up, shaking his head slightly to dispel the devil’s advocate in the back of his mind. This train of thought is going nowhere quickly, but it’s certainly not getting him anywhere nearer to sleep, so he might as well get up.

Shou is a heavy enough sleeper that Ritsu doesn’t worry about tiptoeing past him to reach the door, although he does take care not to step on his stray leg, and he opens and closes the bedroom door slowly to minimize the creaking. The wooden floor sticks to his bare feet as he pads down the hallway into the kitchen, following the vague smell of coffee floating around the house. Most of the pot that his dad must’ve brewed this morning is gone, probably poured into a thermos so that he could drink it on the drive, but there’s just enough left for Ritsu to fill one mug. For a few minutes he just leans against the counter, nursing his drink in silence. He knows, rationally, that there have been some moments of silence over the last year, but he’s still having trouble processing it in large amounts, this state of nothing in the house making noise except for his own breathing. No TV on in the other room, no loud Skype calls from elsewhere in the dorm, no shouting or music from down the hall, no horns or revving engines or street vendors outside of the window. It doesn’t feel real. After a while, the near-unreality gets to be too much, and he pulls out his phone to satisfy the nagging voice in his mind. Once he’d graduated, his brother had never woken up before ten in the morning, but his partner…

TO: TERUKI You awake FROM: TERUKI Of course! :0 but why are you?? Suspicions confirmed, Ritsu flips to Teru’s contact page and hits call. He most likely won’t be interrupting anything; Teru usually isn’t awake early for any specific reason, he’s just a morning person, because of course he is. He’s probably already back from a morning bike ride, sitting in the kitchen drinking a smoothie made of some bizarre trendy health fruit. “Little brother?” Teru picks up on the second ring. “Hey. You knew that Shou was coming back here, right?” There are a few moments of silence, but Ritsu waits. “...He may have mentioned it to me at some poin-” “Don’t bullshit me, Hanazawa, you had yesterday completely planned.”

Ritsu hears a soft, static-filled sigh on the other end of the line before Teru starts to speak again. “I hope you’re not hurt by the fact that he didn’t tell you? He was worried you would be, he wanted to back out of the whole thing… it was really me who told him to keep the secret for the sake of the surprise.”

The thing is, the thing is, Ritsu hadn’t even thought to be angry at Shou for not telling him he was coming home, he’d just been glad that he was there. He wonders when he stopped considering Shou’s presence a given in his life. Still, this was getting off-track. “No, it’s- I’m not. But, uh, did he tell you anything about his plans for once he got here?” It’s a bit of a long shot, sure. He’s not really sure how long Teru’s been sitting on the fact that Shou was coming back; it could’ve been two months, two weeks, or two days, giving them just enough time to actually plan the meetup. “Oh, you mean the fact that he’s staying for good? Yes, he told me.” Yeah, let’s go with that, Ritsu thinks. It’s close enough. “Yeah. Do you know where he’s planning on living?” He asks the question deliberately, lightly enough that if Teru genuinely doesn’t know a thing, he won’t take note of it, but if he’s bullshitting as much as Ritsu thinks he might be, it’ll cut through all of Teru’s deflections and get to the heart of the matter. Sure enough, when Teru responds, the jovially innocuous tone has been dropped, instead replaced with a dry, “He asked you, didn’t he?” Ritsu struggles to find the right way to phrase what he’s thinking, but eventually settles on a blunt, “Was he joking?” “Did you turn him down?” And now Teru sounds genuinely surprised, almost sputtering, although reasonably that could be the unreliable phone connection. No, wait, Ritsu hears a faint, “Shit, my blueberries!” on the other end, followed by distant clattering. He takes a moment to feel vaguely guilty for whatever breakfast food he just accidentally ruined. “He fell asleep before I could say anything. Did. He. Mean. It.” At this point it’s clear that Teru knows far more than he’s letting on, and Ritsu can be as bratty and grumpy as he likes about it, but Teru will probably remain cryptically neutral and try and force Ritsu to solve his own problems, because he’s actually a good friend, even if Ritsu kind of hates him for it most of the time. As predicted, once given the high ground again, Teru’s voice goes airy and vague. “What do you think, Ritsu? What would your plans be, in his place?” Ritsu’s first instinct is to say live in my giant fucking house, but… would he? Over the years, Ritsu hasn’t spent much time in Shou’s house, but he still remembers its sprawling, sparse rooms, its high gothic ceilings, its impersonal style, like it had been furnished to be a model home. More importantly, he knows that for periods, however brief, Shou lived in that house with his father. Teru, because he’s decent enough at leading a horse to water but can’t quite resist giving it one last hint that it’s supposed to be drinking, gives one last thought before hanging up. “He’s spent the better part of two days on a plane or in an airport. Don’t you think, after all that, the only thing you’d want would be to sleep in an actual bed? Instead, I’m guessing he spent the night on your floor.”

-

“Mom?” He steps into the kitchen, still scrubbing the damp towel over his hair to get rid of any stray dripping.

He’d spent a while kicking around in the living room, flipping through the TV and ending up on another episode of the same soap opera. It must’ve been on a marathon, because he’d still been watching it when his mother had finally gotten up and stolen the remote privileges from him, so that she could watch the tv while she was cooking. She’d then booted him out of the living room entirely, until he was “showered and dressed like a responsible adult,” which had taken him… probably a bit longer than entirely appropriate. By the time he’d finally felt gross enough to get out of bed and shower, it was because the sun was high in the sky and his room was uncomfortably warm. Today’s a baking day, apparently, judging by the absolute chaos of the kitchen. It’ll never fail to amaze him how his mother can make an entire meal and only leave a sinkful of dishes, but when it comes to baking, suddenly there’s three pans, fifteen bowls, and every spoon in the house strewn about the kitchen at random, coupled with streaks of batter and random starbursts of flour scattered on every available surface. Even without the clutter, the sweet smell filling the kitchen and rapidly spreading to the rest of the house gives it away. Curiously, he wanders over to the sink, peeking into one of the pans filled halfway with soapy water. Dark streaks of caramel climb the inside of the pot. Ah, Ritsu thinks, understanding suddenly dawning. He hears his mother’s voice from the hallway, just a moment before she steps into the room behind him. “Ritsu? You called– oh, there you are. Yes, yes, I know,” she tuts at his knowing smile, “they’re almost ready. Now, go get Suzuki up. He gets first taste.”

“Aw, what? I asked you to make them in the first place–” his protest is short-lived, ended by a flour-covered spatula to the arm. He ducks past her and out of the kitchen before she can start properly shooing him, and closes his bedroom door behind him with a small click. Shou has migrated again while Ritsu was in the shower, this time rolling over to the other side of the pallet, but still refusing to actually sleep on it. One of his arms has escaped the blanket cocoon now, and it’s stretched on the carpet above his head, drifting close enough to the edge of the room that Ritsu thinks he probably flung it up there and whacked his hand against the wall at some point. Ritsu crouches down by Shou’s head and taps him on the shoulder lightly, once, twice. “Shou? You awake?” Shou makes a low noise, not quite a groan, but definitely not awake enough to be a hum of acknowledgement. Ritsu just puts it down to Shou’s chronic inability to shut up.

Ritsu shifts so that he’s sitting more comfortably, legs curled underneath him and propping himself up on one hand. He tries again, this time shaking Shou’s shoulder until his eyes slowly blink open, looking up at Ritsu, bleary and unfocused. This time, the noise he makes is definitely awake, a disgruntled whine that makes Ritsu huff a quiet laugh.

He pulls away and leans back, giving Shou a dry smile. “Well good morning, Sunshine.”

Shou squints, before mumbling, “Morning? No. Never mind,” and making to roll over again. Ritsu grabs the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and tugs him back before he can, countering, “Almost one in the afternoon, actually.” That gets a sigh of resigned defeat, and Shou rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. There’s a pretty incredible imprint of the carpet on his face, climbing in red lines from his cheek to his temple. “Don’t wanna get up. Floor’s nice. Ritsu, your floor is good.” “Thank you.” He can’t quite keep the laugh out of his voice, or the grin off of his face, but he does actually make an attempt to get them back on task. “Even so, you do have to get up. We’ve got stuff to talk about.” Ritsu mentally kicks himself, because that was a dick move, dropping a ‘we need to talk’ in there first thing after he wakes up, and he just hopes that Shou’s still too out of it to have noticed. “Plus, there’s food in the kitchen. C’mon, up.” With some more struggling, Ritsu manages to get Shou on his feet and shuffling to the kitchen, although he’d had to compromise with the blankets, allowing him to keep one of the bigger, fuzzy ones wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and trailing behind him like a bridal train. He lets Shou lean most of his weight against Ritsu’s side, because otherwise he’s a little worried Shou will wander straight into the wall.

He pauses under the archway to the kitchen, pulling Ritsu to a halt with a tug on his arm. Ritsu watches him squint, take a deep breath, and he murmurs, “Smells like…” and then his eyes go wide, and he’s grinning at Ritsu, so abruptly awake it’s almost starting. “I love this family,” he says, before he’s bounding into the kitchen, blanket still flowing behind him.

Ritsu knows for a fact that those cookies are still hot, especially taking into account the caramel factor, so he just pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in resignation when Shou grabs one off of the cooling rack and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. He’s not sure if pyrokinesis gives one immunity to all burns or if Shou just genuinely doesn’t care, but either way he seems unfazed, closing his eyes with a groan that’s borderline obscene.

Ritsu’s mother, hovering by the sink, is watching him with roughly the same dry bemusement that Ritsu is, although she does actually move to shoo him away from the counter before he can do something silly like try and float the entire tray away, or further damage the inside of his mouth. She stacks about half of the cookies onto a plate and sends them off with it, and Ritsu feels about fifteen years old again, sitting on the floor of his bedroom with his best friend and eating cookies for breakfast at one in the afternoon. Shou’s sitting cross-legged on the pallet, munching on one of the little cookies and probably getting crumbs all over the floor in the process. “So,” he says around a mouthful, leaning one elbow on his knee, “you said we were gonna talk?” Ritsu’s already given up phrasing this delicately before the conversation has even properly begun, so he doesn’t hesitate to say, “Yeah, about what you said last night.” Aside from lighting up in recognition, Shou’s expression gives very little away, but his leg instantly starts to bounce, just a little, beating up and down like a hummingbird wing. “Oh, right. I was just, thinking about it, I guess?” He shrugs a little. He’s clearly trying to keep his voice casual, but his nerves are about as subtle as a brick to the face. Ritsu stays silent, cueing him to continue, to explain his thoughts. Give Shou enough time and he will start talking, eventually.

“I’m not really gonna stay in that house. I might, uh, sell it? Or rent it out? Whatever. But I’m gonna look for an apartment somewhere. I don’t know where yet, but I’ve been thinking maybe around here or further north. I just thought that, y’know, with your dorm and all, you might wanna get out and into a proper place.”

That’s a lot of information for Ritsu to process. About halfway through, his explanation had started to sound almost rehearsed, meaning he’s thought about this. Shou’s stopped even trying to look at Ritsu, instead staring intently at his hands twisting in his lap, and Ritsu is just staring, and trying not to think about the fact that Shou has basically just admitted that he’s been looking at apartments near Grain City.

“Shou, I…” he starts, trails off into silence, sighs as he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Shou’s shoulders are hunched, like he’s bracing himself for what Ritsu’s going to say. He takes a breath and tries to start again. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” and the reluctance in his voice is genuine, “but the reason I’m in dorms in the first place is that I can’t afford an apartment. I can’t pay rent, or the bills, hell, I can barely contribute to the groceries as is.” Shou’s head shoots up and his eyes meet Ritsu’s, staring at him in open surprise. “Oh, I didn’t even think about… I don’t care about that.”

And, oh, Ritsu is an idiot, he’s actually just plain stupid. Of course money isn’t an issue for Shou. Between his father’s numerous global ventures, inheritance money, and a massive trust fund that had opened up for Shou when he’d turned eighteen, paying full rent on an apartment, even somewhere like Grain City, is probably nothing for him.

He’s immediately resistant to the idea of Shou paying for everything for both of them, taking advantage of him and always feeling like he’ll owe him something in return. The little devil’s advocate starts jabbering in the back of his mind, though, argues that he’ll probably do that anyways. Regardless of whether Ritsu’s living with him, Shou will get an apartment, and if he’s close enough to the university, Ritsu will probably be spending a decent amount of time over there, hanging out and mooching off of his wifi and the peace and quiet that he can’t get in his dorm.

Besides, and the voice is smug, like a lawyer giving the closing statement after the most one-sided case of his life. It sounds irritatingly like Teru.

You know he doesn’t want to live alone. Ritsu leans back until he can reach for his backpack, and tugs out a notepad and a pen. He flips it open to a blank page. “Right,” he says, pointing the pen right at Shou’s nose, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together, and we’re doing it right. We are not jumping into this blind and ending up in a shithole with no ceiling.”

Shou stares cross eyed at the tip of the pen for a moment, face blank, before he lights up, and Ritsu swears to god that the room gets just a little bit brighter. He scooches across the floor to press up against Ritsu’s side. “Gameplan time?” “Yep.”

-

Within an hour, their list reads as follows:

find an apartment

move out of dorm (paperwork???? talk to $ aid guy)

get dog DO NOT GET DOG

move into aptmt

furniture??

spoons silverware

towels

we need cups right

plates????

IKEA

Ritsu scans over the list on the floor in front of them, tapping the pen absently against Shou’s knee. “This is… a lot,” he says, with some trepidation. “We’re gonna have to go up and look at apartments before the the week is up, if we want to be moved in by the end of summer.” He’ll be sad to cut his visit short, considering just how little he gets to see his family, and he can already sense the impending stress that this move is going to cause. Still, he can’t help being excited, caught up in Shou’s boundless enthusiasm, especially seeing it all laid out as a concrete plan in front of him. “Do you think your mom will let us take the rest of the cookies?”

“Yes, Shou.”

#/ #// #/// #//// #///// #robin fic #mp100 fic #fic: aubade

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Synchronicity 7

(...)The touch sliding down his arm is almost shy – hesitant – and with growing dread Jack turns to face it – him – the Reaper. The sky above slowly darkens and turns crimson. He is pinned down by the red eyes set in a face that cannot hold its shape as it dissolves and reforms with every tick of an invisible clock, skin and muscle decaying and regenerating in a loop with bits of yellowish bone peeking for a moment from underneath between the cycles.(...)

(…)

So I've dug this grave so my truth won't fade

I feel the war paint on my face

I feel the ground tremble and quake

I feel my heart sync to the pace that these war drums make

I feel alive and awake

(…)

 With each step tall grass tickles his palms as he walks towards the old gnarled tree but the distance does not diminish. The dark shape that sits by it, back leaning against the trunk, turns its head away from him.

“Got a job offer.”

“And what did you say?”

“Not without you.”

The laughter carries in the air as a different shade flickers into existence by the first one’s side.

“And what did they say?”

“They pulled up your file and said yes.”

The touch sliding down his arm is almost shy – hesitant – and with growing dread Jack turns to face it – him – the Reaper. The sky above slowly darkens and turns crimson. He is pinned down by the red eyes set in a face that cannot hold its shape as it dissolves and reforms with every tick of an invisible clock, skin and muscle decaying and regenerating in a loop with bits of yellowish bone peeking for a moment from underneath between the cycles.

“Those aren’t mine,” Jack whispers and there is a flicker of something in that face, in the set of jaws, in how the touch changes into an iron grip of claws sinking into his arm. “Why are you showing me this?”

It’s anger, he realizes, when a guttural roar drowns everything around. The flash of pain brings him to reality and Jack finds himself in the elevator, the numbers on the display growing slowly until it suddenly shudders with a groan of machinery and stops between the floors. Something hits hard on the outside of the shaft.

“Let’s get this bitch cracked open, boss wants what’s inside.” With a screech of protesting metal, the doors are forced apart and he is ready to open fire and strike out like a caged animal when the screams start. Through the pried open gap he can see something long-limbed surging forward with a growl, the shape alarmingly human and yet its form twisted enough to induce a feeling of sheer wrongness of this passing monstrosity leaving bloody tracks and chunks of meat in its wake.

“Down, Sunshine. The maintenance duct,” the Beast instructs and Jack won’t question. He kicks and braces himself, widening the gap enough to slip down outside the elevator into the tight low corridor, just in time to hear something heavy land on its roof. The cabin shakes as something, snarling sporadically, paces on top of it “Don’t stop now.”

No, he cannot stop, as he pauses by the grating and kicks it out, screws ripped out with chunks of plaster still attached, and slips into a cold room, ceramic tiles covering the walls and floor. How fucking big is this fucking place?

Fluorescent lights above are dimmed, broken, or flickering, the chill in the air disconcerting. With another step, Jack stops before he puts his weight down because with a sudden flare of one of the lamps the tiles are now gratuitously painted with fresh blood, splatters wide and wild. Slashing sprays. No bodies. Unless he counts the one in the body bag lying on the extended out slab of the burning furnace, and further down the corridor another one on the gurney the shadowy figure leans over. Crazy or not, Jack repeats soundlessly. He takes a deep breath and follows.

Reaper disappears behind the corner, passing through space as if the reality is a dated vinyl that comes to a screeching halt under the needle and then, skips forward with accumulated momentum.

The lights go out with a wail and reignite. He stands opposite of the wall of freezers. Grating squeal and furious banging assaults his senses as all of them fly open simultaneously, some even torn from their hinges by an unseen force.

One rack slides out slowly, the body bag occupied, and Jack knows he should turn back, go away, escape, but something urges him on, and with trepidation pulsing under his skin, he reaches out, gripping the zipper with trembling fingers. The catches bump and hiss as he slides it down, each tick sounding more like a beat of a bell in expectant silence.

The obvious sheen of death in half-closed eyes, the way the skin turns waxy to the sight, he is familiar with this all. The body has been washed. The cut on the lips is healed, but the one stretching across the face stares at him angrily, raw and faded red of oxidized meat, in places showing white of the bone where the blade had obviously cut through all the muscle. The throat is almost torn open, the entry wound a stabbing one to the side, and slashing motion outward.

He is looking at his own body – his own face. The faint lines on his wrists and neck itch.

“Kill him,” resonates deep, a woman’s voice. The lights flicker again.

The cadaver before him is a grotesque sight, eyelids and lips cut off, nose broken, and its whole form twisted like there are too many joints, too many bones in it, in places that should not have those. But there is nothing familiar about it anymore.

“I wonder, are you even alive, Sunshine?” The Beast hisses affectionately in the back of his mind, its claws on his shoulders, and maw nestled in the crook of his neck.

Jack swallows something in his throat. Crazy or not.

“I’m not so sure myself,” the admittance lets something uncurl in his breast, something that gripped the spasming muscle behind his ribs for far too long; the recurring question of the time spent staring blankly at the tv running in the background and all the moments he felt like he was simply an observer of the other falling apart in his own skin – all this somehow fits now.

“Good,” the Beast seems pleased with the answer. “You need to hurry, Sunshine.”

“I know,” Jack answers to the accompaniment of a metallic clatter from the right. The banging repeats with a whine of transmissions, elevator doors trying to close blocked by an empty gurney pushed in between them. The cabin is stuck below in the shaft.

He steps around the obstacle and jumps to the maintenance ladder, his grip slipping for a frantic second, and begins to climb.

“Jack,” Lena calls over the comm.

“I’m here.”

“I’ve run into Lacroix and the doctor. They’ve said you were pretty in a bad way and it’s a bloody miracle you’ve pulled through.” Jack grits his teeth.

“Might be. Where are you?” He glances up, at the light filtering down the shaft.

“Reading on your level, maybe fifty away. T.A.C. lab, whatever bloody that is, and they are both tinkering with something.”

“Be there soon, going to zero on your signal. Out.” Jack leans away from the ladder, judging the distance, and then lunges forward. The muzzle of the rifle snatches on something and he almost trips, clutching the edge with his fingers, breathing hard. Slowly, he heaves himself up, and takes in the sights: blood splashed on the walls, some splatters reaching even the ceiling, the visible drag marks, and a grate clawed apart from the inside, with the gore hanging from the jagged metal edges – from something, or rather someone – pulled into the ventilation system overhead. Otherwise, the corridor is empty, and he follows Lena’s signal. Crazy or not.

The radio comes alive again, this time the interference rendering the voice almost unintelligible. Hanzo.

“I’ve seen it… …re’s something in here… a demon… going to follow it…” Jack wants to answer and warn him not to but the transmission ends and the crackle fades into silence. He can only hear his own breath, each step bringing him closer to this undefined purpose he has to chase.

Card reader turns green even before he reaches it.

“Thank god, Jack, you’re bloody here!” Lena beckons him from the inside. The room is starkly divided in the middle with something that looks like reinforced glass partition and a decontamination unit serving as a gateway. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here!”

“Indeed, but we do not have the time for the pleasantries. Sergeant Morrison, please step into the chamber,” Lacroix looks at him over the counter and gestures towards the unit that conveniently slides open. Said the spider to the fly, Jack chuckles to himself darkly, yet obeys.

“Amelie, uh, bugger, just asking, his lil’ swimmers going to be alright?” He breathes a sigh. God, Lena, and her cringeworthy questions…

“This should be the least of our concerns right now.” Lacroix seems to be amused. Doctor Ziegler cuts in from beyond his field of vision.

“There is no scientific data pointing to such an outcome. Running the attunement procedure.” The smell of ozone hits his nose and Jack can feel the hairs on his arms rise with static electricity as something comes online and blue lines course over the surface of the unit. “The output is almost optimal. Subject’s telestethic footprint shows a substantial increase.”

There is something crawling up his arm – physical, slithering – and he can’t bring himself to look.

And then, everything goes to hell in a handbasket; the doors on the other side of the room blast open with an explosive charge. Lena and the rest, they are yelling something, but it gets lost in the deafening hum in his head as the world becomes fuzzy around the edges. The intruders, the ones hunting them, Blackwatch, turn their guns at each other, dark tendrils of something living wrenching their hands and crushing them at the same time.

Reaper passes between them, disappears in one point of space and arrives in a different one, as if the rules of the universe do not apply to him, not anymore at least. Wrinkled dark fingers with pointed claws splay over the transparent surface and Jack slowly brings up his own hand, rippling shadows clinging to his skin, to touch the glass in the same spot on the other side.

He thinks he is bleeding again when the reality decomposes leaving nothing but the endless field of swaying grass around the old tree.

“What’s the matter, Sunshine?” The Beast by the tree asks, coiled in darkness, too many teeth and eyes burning red twitching in the shuddering mass crawling along the fluid surface. The claws shadow over his face. “Too close to the fire for the comfort?”

“Was there ever any comfort to be had?” Jack retorts and the Beast ripples back in mirth.

“Once, long ago.”

The bark crumbles under his touch when he traces ‘J’ and ‘G’ carved into it.

“There are things I don’t remember.”

“I do wonder, Sunshine,” the Beast gives way to the other presence. He feels the red eyes on his back.

“But I don’t think I’m the person you are looking for. He…” Jack remembers the body that was not there, with the throat slashed open and the face cut up just like his own. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

There it is, the anger, but this time he knows it is not directed at him. Lightning tears the crimson sky in half and wind roars flattening the grass to the ground.

With a blink of an eye Jack stirs inside the contraption, hands braced against the glass confines, and the familiar voice snaps his head up.

“Morrison. And they say to let the dead things stay dead,” Gerard taps on the glass. Behind him, Rutledge and Fawkes, and Jack cannot control the shudder that runs along his spine. “Only one reason why the queen whore brought you here. Harbinger. Get him out, he can be useful later. You two, with me, we have the bitches to capture.” He turns away.

Someone goes around the counter and the machinery comes to life. Jack braces for the pain but something almost physical pulls him back from the inside and throws him to the ground.

#sometimes I write #overwatch #fear!AU #r76 #reaper76 #i'm really happy with the morgue scene #TAC finally #a lot of foreshadowing #hanzo is gonna get fucked #gerard and amelie have a complicated relationship #or rather none atm