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sergeant-spoons · 2 years

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43. Third, Second, First

Leslie Sheppard

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @chaosklutz @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @claire-bear-1218 @heirsoflilith @itswormtrain @actualtrashpanda @wtrpxrks

Hello, my lovely readers! I don’t often do Author’s Notes these days, but this is a very special occasion: this chapter is the update that surpasses 100k words of Destiny Carries a Wrench. I am so immensely grateful for everyone who has read this fic and supported my writing. I love you all dearly. Here’s to 100k—and, hopefully, 100k more! 💕

I will be making a 100k celebration post soon with an ask game. Be on the lookout for that, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this unusually long chapter!

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"Watch your step!"

"I'm not gonna fall, look! Oh, shit—woah!"

"Les! Hold on-"

"Don- Don! I'm just kidding! See?"

Laughter, some a little more hesitant than the rest.

"Think I can jump that gap?"

"Go for it, Skip!"

Laughter mixed with sympathetic groans.

"You okay?"

"'Course I am! Hey, race you both to the fence—last place gives a pack o' Lucky Strikes to the winner!"

"Oh, you're on!"

Laughter all throughout the air, refreshing, warming, loving.

Leaping from bale to bale, Leslie let out a whoop of exhilaration. She was in the lead, but just barely—Don could catch up at any second, and Skip looked to be saving his strength for the final stretch. She had not expected to spend her first Christmas away from home running amuck through an Aldbourne farmer's field, but she couldn't think of a single place she'd rather be. Home, maybe, but with Skip and especially Don with her, today's shenanigans felt plenty like a winter's day back in Astoria. The haybales they called their stomping ground were dusted with snow, and the flakes kept falling on and off all afternoon as the three friends ran and played. They felt like children all over again, stuffed into mittens and hats and socks against the cold by a watchful mother (in this instance, Easy Company's very own Sergeant Lipton). For a few precious hours, the snow fluttered down and they ran and ran until their chests ached from racing and laughing.

The war could not reach them here.

That morning had already satisfied Leslie's want for the holiday traditions of Christmas Day. She, Tink, and Kiko had exchanged presents sitting on the floor between their beds. Michael Michaud showed up at their door right after nine with a trayful of gingerbread cookies—"Just for you girls, the fellas can fight over the second batch."—and the girls made him stay for a minute and play craps with Tink's new set of dice. They were debating what they ought to bet with when George Luz showed up at their window with four chocolate bars and saved the day. They pleaded for him to come in and play with them, but he smacked his hand to his forehead and launched into a whole dramatic spiel about why he couldn't thanks to Jolly Old Saint Sobel, and him sneaking off base was trouble enough, and on and on. As he monologued, Leslie saw the way George was grinning at Tink and guessed the fourth chocolate bar had been meant as a bonus for her—his favorite. They managed to convince him to come for Christmas dinner, in the end, and he turned back down the lane with a spring in his step.

After Michael had proved himself a talented baker and won enough chocolate to last him all week, he allowed himself to be dragged back down the street to his billet by his housemates, the smell of gingerbread too enticing to ignore. Tink put away the dice, Leslie threw on her robe, and Kiko went downstairs to deliver the girls' Christmas card to their host. They'd bought her a little something for the mantel, and Mrs. Witchetty wept and thanked them so profusely they became embarrassed at how small a trinket it really was. They all went into the downstairs parlor, the one Mrs. Witchetty used for entertaining her old friends, and admired the twinkling tree until a knock came at the door. Three callers before ten in the morning—it must be Christmas, after all! Leslie looked out the window and saw it was Penkala, so she sent Kiko to open the door. He came in stamping his boots, and they could hear from the parlor when he told his girlfriend it had snowed and stuck on the other end of town last night. Coming into the parlor, he beelined for the fire Leslie had just finished lighting and related that Skip and Don would be coming along shortly.

"They're coming to celebrate with us?"

Penkala shot her a meaningful look. "They wouldn't miss it for the world."

Tink fell asleep on the sofa before noon. She had stayed up after everyone else in the house had gone to sleep, perched on a stool in the hall with the wall as her backrest, waiting by the phone for a call that never came. When it got so late that even hope could not reason its own presence, she still could not find it in her to sleep and so stayed up writing a long-overdue letter home to her cousin and brothers. It ended up being several pages—front and back—and took her straight through the sunrise. Leslie had gone to wake her just before seven, knowing how excited she would be for the day's festivities, only to find Tink wide awake on the other side of the room. She was kneeling by the window, her hands clasped in prayer, the rosary beads she wore around her neck now wrapped around her fingers. She didn't notice Leslie and Leslie did not disturb her. When Leslie went to turn off the lamp by Tink's bed, the bulb was so hot that it almost burned her and she jumped back. One look at the sleepy fluttering of Tink's eyes and Leslie knew she'd been up all night.

Kiko was the first to notice their friend had dozed off, but Leslie bade her stay with her boyfriend and went over to the sofa herself. She roused Tink into a state of consciousness that was not full wakefulness but sufficient to get her on her feet. Leslie guided her to bed to hopefully make up a portion of the rest she had missed the night before, promising someone would wake her in time for dinner. Tink was out like a light, and Leslie drew the shades and shut the door, leaving her to her peace.

Back in the parlor, Kiko and Penk had moved onto the sofa in Tink's absence, enjoying the fire. Penk's jacket had come off and now lay neatly folded over the arm of the couch. Kiko was sitting cross-legged, her socked feet pressed gently against her thighs, facing her boyfriend. Mrs. Witchetty saw Leslie come into the room and nodded as if assigning her the post of chastity-keeper. She left for the kitchen with nary a backward glance, on her way to start preparations for the holiday feast. She had been alarmed when the girls mentioned the appetite of their closest friends but not for the reason they expected—she was delighted to have more guests but afraid she would run short on food! As soon as she was out of the room, Kiko unfolded her legs and moved to sit beside her boyfriend, who could not help a smile. He wrapped his arm around her back and tucked her against his side, pressing a kiss to the pleasant curve of her brow.

"I have a gift for you."

"I do, too."

Leslie, lingering in the doorway, wished for an excuse to leave the pair to themselves and found it in the ringing of the doorbell. She called out to all those within earshot that she'd get the door and dashed down the hall to find two much-loved friends behind it. After embracing them both on the stoop, Leslie drew Skip and Don inside, admiring the way Don's eyes twinkled with the reflection of the early blue sky. They appreciated the tree for a few seconds (pretending not to notice Penk and Kiko's starry-eyed exchanges) before Leslie pushed them further down the hall into the kitchen, the only other currently-available community space. Mrs. Witchetty was more than happy to provide them with hot cocoa, delighted that Skip and Don had thought so far ahead as to bring thermoses for their day out. Hearing this, Leslie stopped short mid-drink. Her confused expression was made ever the funnier to her friends by the sugary froth forming a mustache on her upper lip.

"Our day out?"

Mrs. Witchetty gestured to Skip and Don. "Well, judging by the way your friends are dressed, they're not planning to stay indoors much longer."

Skip laughed. "I am starting to sweat, ma'am," he admitted, and Leslie made a face.

"Then get going!" Mrs. Witchetty cried, and she likely would have shooed them back down the hall and out the door had the oven timer not gone off at that exact moment and demanded her immediate attention.

After a beat, Leslie turned to Don, a question quirking her brow.

"Alright, spill."

He was trying not to smile. "Spill? Spill what?" he asked innocently, but she was not fooled and jabbed playfully at his chest.

"You've got mischief planned, and I want the details before you drag me along."

"Oh, come on-" He grinned. "-don't you trust me?"

With my life, she almost replied, but Skip beat her to it.

"Not if she knows what's good for her," he laughed, slinging his arm over Don's shoulders as he produced a third thermos from his coat pocket. "Still—you comin' with us, Sparky?"

"'Course I am," she shot back, transferring her cocoa from mug to thermos once he gave the latter to her. "I just gotta go bundle up first."

"Take your time," they called up the stairs after her, "this cocoa won't drink itself."

Indeed, Leslie took longer than she ordinarily would have, for all her clothing was in the dresser she and Tink shared and she had to creep around so as not to wake her friend. She grabbed her boots and hustled back down the stairs with them slung over her shoulder. Skip and Don were waiting just inside the threshold. As soon as they saw her, Skip whistled.

"You look like a real winter adventurer, Sparky!"

"Thanks!" She shot him a flamboyant salute. "But hey, keep your voice down—Tink's asleep."

He winced, apologetic, but asked, "Why?" nonetheless.

"She didn't get any sleep last night," Leslie told him, and her expression let him know that was all the information he was going to get.

"Poor kid." He tipped his chin back and forth. "Maybe some cocoa would perk her up."

"Yeah, maybe-" Leslie ushered them out the door into the chilly morning. "-but let's leave that to Mrs. Witchetty. In the meantime, I'd like to know exactly where it is that we're s'posed to be going."

"Well, since your cold's finally let up," Don voiced, "we thought we could go for a little adventure in the snow."

Leslie looked at the slush on the streets, skeptical, and he laughed.

"Not here, Les. On the other side of town."

"Past the base?"

He and Skip nodded.

"But that's so far," she pretended to complain, and Don hip-checked her.

"Hey, who here had to carry a mortar on his back and march from Toccoa to Atlanta?"

Leslie felt bad, remembering the pain her friend had been in, but Skip seemed to recall a different facet of the time.

"Jeez," he marveled, "that was, what, a whole year ago?"

"Yeah, just about. Give or take a few weeks."

"'Jeez' is right," Leslie agreed. "Can you believe it's gonna be 1944 so soon?"

"Not really." Don flashed her a grin. "But hey, a whole year and we're all still together. That's gotta count for something, right?"

A smile blossomed on Leslie's lips, and though she caught the way Skip started to smirk as he glanced between her and Don, she thought little of it.

"Right."

So here they were, bouncing on (and off) haybales and imagining they were a world away from their responsibilities. Three hours passed in this fashion. Leslie started a snowball fight at one point, but there wasn't enough snow to form decent projectiles and they ended up just tackling each other onto the wet ground, leaving imprints of their roughhousing wherever they rolled about. Skip stayed mostly out of it, and Leslie ended up either on top of or under Don more often than not. She won by group consensus in the end and they went back to racing on the haybales, challenging the sky and the earth to keep them from slipping. After a particularly daring escapade that involved a lot of sliding and even more jumping, they started joking half-seriously that they hoped they weren't ruining some farmer's crop with their hijinks, and that got their boots back on solid ground. They were all worn out by then anyway, and so they gathered by one of the tallest bales and sat in the narrow space it had shielded from the snowfall. The grass was dead but the spirits of those resting upon it were anything but.

"Scoot over," Leslie complained, seeing there was no room for her to sit without getting her legs and such wet, and Don offered her his hand. "What's'at for?" she huffed.

"Not enough room," Don insisted.

"Yeah, so scoot!"

"Nope."

He grinned and pulled her down, and she squeaked as she fell right on his lap.

"Oy!"

She squirmed. Don kept her there with a bear hug, and when he murmured right into her ear about her not getting wet, her bluffed resolve quickly evaporated. She sighed at her defeat but leaned fully into his chest, tucking her arms against him and drawing her knees up toward her. Skip shot them a gleeful grin that Leslie did not catch but Don certainly did. They sat there for a good fifteen minutes, looking around at the snow (when it began to fall again), the gaps of blue in the sky, the hills rolling on in fields for miles and miles, and whatever else came into sight—a cow, for instance, that was quickly rounded up by its farmer and guided back home over the bluffs.

"Well," Skip said at last, hopping to his feet, "I'm hungry, and if my watch is right—which I'm willing to bet it is—dinner's almost ready back at the witch's."

Leslie started to scold him even as she accepted his hand up, but he just laughed, bobbing his head.

"I know, I know, Mrs. Witchetty is very nice. I'm just kidding! Come on, her name is Witchetty—stop hitting me with your hat!"

Leslie brought her arm back, ready to swat him with her cap (her favorite winter one, with the earflaps and fuzzy interior) one last time for good measure, but a hand caught her wrist before she could. Don spun her around—fully twirling her—and she landed against his chest, a familiar spot not solely concurrent to today. This time, however, she was facing him directly, pressed so near she could feel when his heartbeat skipped.

"Play nice," he murmured, holding her cap behind his back, and seemed surprised when she didn't immediately make a grab for it.

Leslie felt her cheeks heating up. What was it about his voice just then that had given her pause? Sure, he'd spoken to her like that before, teasing, almost purring, but it had never affected her so thoroughly. Her constitution fumbled and she knew the cracks were beginning to show in the mask when Don's smile waned.

"Les?"

She grabbed her cap and danced away from him, crowing, "Never let 'em lull you into a false sense of security!"

It was nonsense, complete bullshit, but Don voiced his agreement anyway, watching her prance about as he ran his hand through his hair, wishing he understood what he'd seen in her gaze just then.

Little did he know, he would see it again later that evening, and this second time, she would leave less room for doubt (yet still manage to conjure more questions than answers).

It was an hour after dinner, an hour and forty-five minutes after they'd changed out of their wet clothes into dry editions, and two hours after they'd gotten back from the field of the haybales. Leslie and Don had gone upstairs into the girls' sitting room with mugs of coffee and the promise to stay up a little while longer, although they were both getting tired. It was just the two of them, this time. Not that they had anything against Skip or their other friends, but they'd both been hoping for some time alone with each other all day. Mrs. Witchetty, Tink, and their guests stayed downstairs in the parlor, stalling their goodbyes over gingersnaps and candy canes. On the sofa upstairs, Leslie curled up against Don's side. Familiarity like this was all they needed to feel like home was within reach, even now. Listening to the muffled chitchat downstairs, they pretended they knew the vein of conversation and quipped about it until they lost the train of logic and fell into loose, comfortable laughter.

"Oh, Don, you've done it again," Leslie murmured as she eyed his chest.

"Done what?"

As she turned to set her coffee mug aside, Don did his best to blink away his bewilderment.

"Here."

She reached out and started to unbutton his shirt. Stunned, he froze, his only motion the rise and fall of his breathing. Leslie kept going, her fingers grazing his skin, heating him up even more than the fire blazing in the hearth just beyond the sofa. Her palm ghosted over his navel and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"You sure this is coffee and not Kahlúa?" he asked weakly, and finally, she looked up.

"The liqueur?" She looked at him peculiarly as if she wasn't sure of the answer herself. "No, I think I would have noticed you getting tipsy, 'Lark, not to mention myself."

"Then, um..." He shifted slightly, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. "What's with the, uh..."

"Hmm?" She looked at his face, then down at where her hands now rested (the waistline of his pants), and blushed. "Oh. Ah-"

Quickly, she seized the bottom of his shirt and started to rebutton it, and Don was even more confused until she reached the second-top button (excluding the one meant to fasten his collar) and he realized her intention. He was embarrassed at having forgotten her habit but even more so that he had the gall to be disappointed she wasn't making a move on him after all.

"There," she said, and maybe it was his imagination, but her voice sounded a little shaky. "All better."

"Thanks."

"Sure thing."

They went quiet for a moment. Leslie plucked at a loose thread in the couch cushion. Don looked at his watch and brightened up.

"I think it's about time for presents!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "I'll meet you back here in, say, a minute?"

"Better make it half!" Leslie replied, already on her way out the door.

Don was back before her, eased onto the sofa in the same place he had formerly sat. He was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt when she came in but stopped as soon as he saw her. There was a small, round box on his lap wrapped with newspaper and tied with a bow. Leslie held her gift (for him) behind her until she reached him and presented it with a flourish and a smile. Don mirrored her, lifting the present in his lap towards her as he grinned.

"Merry Christmas!"

Leslie insisted Don partake in the present unwrapping first. He agreed but only if she would take the gift he'd gotten for her now and hold it as she watched. She sat down beside him, facing him halfway, one leg dangling off the couch with the other crooked beside her. Her foot was pressed to the side of her knee. She could feel the fuzz of her sock through her trouser leg. Her grin slowly grew as she watched Don stick his hand into the tissue paper inside the bag, feel the item within, and start to smile.

"Is this what I think it is?"

"You'll just have to find out."

He pulled her gift out of the bag, sending tissue paper across the sofa and her legs. Giggling, Leslie gathered it up, but she did so rather clumsily, her eyes affixed on Don's reaction all the while. He recognized the symbol immediately—it was hung all over his house back home, after all—an Irish harp. He cradled the small silver charm in his palm, gently running his thumb over every intricate groove in the engraving. His smile quickly spread from ear to ear as he held up the charm and watched it turn slowly on its bale, gleaming in the firelight.

"You like it?"

"It's beautiful," he said, nestling it in his hand once again.

He looked over at her. His eyes had gone soft around the edges, almost as if he was looking at something he truly loved.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

Leslie started to reply with something silly, but then Don leaned over and kissed her cheek. She went silent at once, fumbling for a reason why her cheeks had gone so warm all of a sudden.

"I love it. Thank you."

Though Don was still smiling as warm as the fire under the mantel, Leslie's heart refused to calm its pitter-patter, and she didn't understand why. It was just a little kiss. Short and sweet and friendly, that's all.

"You can put it on the chain with your dog tags," she blurted out, and her voice sounded loud to her own ears. "If you want to, I mean. It's supposed to symbolize a fighting spirit-"

"-and long life," he agreed, bringing the chain she spoke of out from under his shirt. "I'll put it on right now."

She watched as he did so, but the deftness of his fingers was nothing compared to the magnificence of his face. It was the firelight glancing off his skin, she tried to convince herself, not the way he stuck his tongue ever-so-slightly out of the corner of his mouth or how his eyelashes lowered just slightly as he focused. It wasn't that she could still feel his lips pressed to the edge of her smile like an affirmation of fondness she never wanted to forget.

"There."

He lowered the chain over his head and tucked it beneath his shirt, and the magic was broken. Leslie blinked awake and remembered they were in England, in reality, not back in Astoria, tucked away in an imagined living room in a nonexistent house that was called home by just her and him.

"Your turn," Don urged, gesturing to the round box. "Open it!"

"What's the rush?" she laughed, her voice giving out a little when Don scooted closer, wrapping his arm around her back.

"I want you to like it, that's all."

"I'm sure I will."

She opened the box and immediately gasped his name.

"Don!"

"What?"

"I don't like it, I love it!"

Don's hand felt warm on her waist. Leslie leaped up, clutching her new favorite cap in her hands, and danced about the living room. Don clapped, watching her, and when he started keeping a rhythm, she did a little Irish jig for him, flapping the cap about for performative effect. Soon out of breath—more so from his adoring gaze rather than the activity—she jumped into a sweeping bow. Don gave her a round of applause, joking just a little by rotating his hands in a circular fashion along with his clapping. She bowed a second time, then placed the cap on her head and smartly flicked the brim.

"Bravo! You should start a one-woman show, Les, you'd make a killing."

She skipped over to him, beaming. He moved his legs apart so she could stand between them. Her hands lightly gripping his knees, she bent down and kissed his cheek, the same kind of smooch he'd bestowed upon her earlier. Immediately thereafter, she turned to grab the empty hatbox from where she'd left it beside him and intentionally missed his reaction (she wasn't sure she was ready to know why he kept looking at her that way). Perhaps it was better that she did not see how he brought his hand up to his cheek, then his lips as if in a dream. He was staring at her, undeniably lovesick. Who knows if she would have been able to keep from realizing they were not, after all, 'just friends' had she seen.

"I'm glad you like it."

He didn't sound quite as at ease as he had before she kissed him, but Leslie tried not to take notice.

"Didn't you hear me? I love it."

"Well, then, I'm glad of that, too."

To her relief, Don had started to smile again. Content, Leslie plopped down on the carpet, close to the fire (but not too close), and sat cross-legged.

"Today was fun," she mused, fiddling with the ribbon of the hatbox where it now sat snug in her lap. "I hope there's more snow soon."

"That would be nice," Don agreed, coming down off the sofa to join her on the floor. "Sobel doesn't like running in the snow, so he'll probably cancel our six-mile if it's deep enough."

"I'll pray to the snow gods for you."

He kissed his fingers and raised them to heaven, and Leslie laughed softly.

"What'd we do last Christmas?" she asked after a beat.

Don considered. "Went sledding, I think."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, that might've been a few days later, but still."

A certain recollection made Leslie laugh.

"Remember how we went flying off that jump? You thought I hit my head when I fell off. You were so worried, came running over like you thought I was gonna die."

"What?" His coloring betrayed him, his cheeks turning pink as he remembered but pretended not to. "No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did." She giggled, laying down. "Oh, stop scrunching up your face like that—don't you know I think it was sweet?"

Like always, he copied her position, reclining on the carpet to better match her.

"I didn't know that, no."

"Huh. Well, now you do."

He leaned up on his elbow as he looked at her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be smiling.

"Anything else I don't know about your stellar opinion of me?"

She turned her head, her hands clasped lazily over her stomach, and met his gaze.

"You know exactly what I think of you, Don."

"Do I?"

"You're first-rate," she reminded him, "and don't you ever forget it."

"First rate? I dunno..."

"What! Don!"

He laughed. "I'm just kidding. But hey—you know what I think of you, doll?"

She was about to respond "Yeah?" but the pet name stopped her in her tracks. The last time he'd called her that was his birthday, almost four months ago. They went out dancing that night. Her lipstick got on his collar by mistake and then she added it to his cheek on purpose. He called her doll and told her she was pretty over and over until she believed it.

And tonight, he'd called her beautiful.

Don didn't seem to notice her hesitation. He reached over and pushed her new cap down over her eyes, and that snapped her out of the quicksand that her thoughts had become. She groaned and swatted his hand away, pushing her cap back up.

"What? What d'you think about me?" she asked finally, and he grinned.

"I think you're amazing and incredible and hella talented in roughly fifty different ways—not to mention the prettiest girl I've ever met."

He was expecting her to 'aww' and tease him a bit, but instead, tears came into her eyes. She went all soft and flustered and when she reached over to hold his hand, her fingers were trembling. For the second time that night, he had to remind himself he wasn't dreaming, and a thrill shot through him, raising goosebumps on his arms.

"Don?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm, uh... I'm real happy right now."

"Hey, me too." He chuckled softly, reaching over to brush a sprig of honey-nut hair out of her eyes. "Kinda hard to be sad on Christmas."

She tilted her head back and forth. "Well, yeah..."

"Not what you meant?"

"No."

He sat up fully, crossing his legs and clasping his hands firmly over them.

"No more jokes. I'm listening."

"Thanks."

She took a deep breath and weaved the ribbon around her fingers, a little nervous although she'd said things like this plenty before.

"I'm happy that it's still you an' me. We've stuck together all this time, and it just feels right, y'know?"

He nodded—yeah, I know.

"I think it's... Yeah. Almost 14 years and counting."

Don let out a low whistle. "Damn."

"I know, right? Can you believe it?"

His smile turned affectionate. "One thousand percent."

Although Leslie felt uncharacteristically shy, her smile did not show it.

"I can, too. It's always been us, and it's always gonna be us."

He heard a thump from downstairs and automatically glanced at the floor. It was only for a second, but that was all her anxiety needed to appear.

"Right?" she asked, quieter, and when he looked back at her and saw her smile falling, he squeezed her hand and scooted up to her side.

"Right. No doubt about it." He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her to rub her shoulder. "You and me, to the end of the road."

"And may that road be a long one."

"Amen to that!"

They laughed softly, fondly, together.

"Hey, you know what?" Don asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"What?"

"I've got a second surprise for you."

"No!" she gasped.

"Yes!" he refuted, his smile broadening. "Go on, close your eyes..."

He found her amazement so adorable that he almost didn't want to ask her to hide it. He did, and when she complied, he went over to the corner of the room where he'd left a very special something hidden in the blanket basket just for tonight.

Leslie sat patiently, listening to Don move away from her across the room. He picked up something soft and set it aside. After a beat, she heard the rustling of clothing; he seemed to be taking off his shirt.

"Hey, I just buttoned that!" she exclaimed, and a smile pushed at her lips when she caught his chuckle coming back towards her.

"Okay, open your eyes."

She did. He was coming to kneel before her, and he'd changed like she thought. What she hadn't at all expected was the top he'd replaced his button-up with. It was his Christmas sweater, the one she'd made him years and years ago, the one he wore every Christmas without fail. Here it was, green as the evergreen downstairs, pom-poms and all. Don had brought it all the way overseas, just for her.

Leslie couldn't help it. She started to cry.

"Uh-oh." Don's smile fell. "Shit. Um, should I take it off-"

"No!"

She flung her arms around him with such strength that he fell over, narrowly missing hitting his head on the foot of the couch.

"Sorry," she hiccuped, "but no, don't take it off. Please."

Relaxing, he wrapped her in a hug, rubbing her back to soothe her.

"Thank you," she wept into his shoulder, "thank you."

"Yeah, of course." He held her close and warm and safe. "Merry Christmas, Les."

"Oh, Don-!" A hiccup interrupted her. "I could never ask for a better- a better-"

"A better what?" he asked, and his voice was soft but there was a hint of strain beneath it.

They both waited with bated breath for her to finish her thought. They both wanted her to say or do something that crossed the line of 'friend' once and for all. They both wanted her to call him what he'd always been: hers.

Don knew and understood all these things. Leslie, alas, did not.

"A better best friend," she sputtered out at last and buried her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

They shared a silent sigh, feeling the slow rise and slower fall of each other's chest where it was pressed to their own. Leslie would not tell a soul, not even Kiko or Tink, but in that moment, disappointment at her response was not a reaction exclusive to Don.

"Need a tissue?" he asked after a while, and Leslie lifted her head, wiping away the last of her tears with her sleeve.

"No. No, I'm alright now."

She sat up, leaning her back against the sofa but still sitting on the floor. The fire had died down to embers by now. After a few seconds, Don pushed himself up by his forearms and joined her. Leslie stole a glance at him and saw he was not, for once, looking at her. She patted the carpet beside her, wishing her would come closer, and he reassured her by wasting no time in obliging.

"Y'know," she wondered aloud, "I kept thinking we'd be in the thick of the war by now."

Don said nothing; nevertheless, the stiffening of his posture did not go unnoticed by Leslie, whose anxiety fed off his.

"I wonder if the war will ever end," she went on, quieter. "What if it never does? What if we never-"

Before she could say something awful like what if we never get to see peacetime again? or something better like what if we never give up?, Don placed both hands on the side of her face and kissed her right on the lips. He did not let go for a good few seconds, but it was not long enough for Leslie to snap out of her stunned state and reciprocate. He pulled back; she gasped. He turned his head aside, and she, too afraid and confused to try and initiate a second kiss, stared at him as if that might give her an explanation for the first. She saw his neck was flushed, his hands were squeezed together, and his chest was shaking with every breath. She still did not understand. One of his thumbs tugged at the other and he spoke up, his very being charged with emotion.

"Don't- don't talk like that. Please."

"Don?" she asked weakly, still reeling.

"It's Christmas."

She reached out and took his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers as if on instinct. When she leaned her head on his shoulder and tried to steady her breathing, he did not shy away, but he did not speak again, either. She did not know what to say or do. Footsteps from the downstairs landing caught her attention. Don heard them too. Leslie couldn't decide if the interruption was timely or anything but. Don started to stir, and when she lifted her head, he stood up.

"You're leaving?"

"We've already stayed too late," he said. "Listen—there's George, coming up the stairs."

Indeed, their merry friend poked his head through the door only a moment later, his jolly curls adorned with a floppy red hat.

"Thought I might find you two up here."

"Hey, George." Leslie, using the sofa to push herself to her feet, caught sight of her wristwatch and did a double-take. "Is it really that late?"

"23:00 hours, last I checked." George turned to Don. "We gotta head out before Sobel realizes we're still gone and gives us hell for it tomorrow."

"Shit, you're right."

As Don went to grab his shirt from the other side of the room, George flashed Leslie an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry, Sparky, your boyfriend's comin' with us."

"'S fine," she said through a yawn, only now realizing how tired she was. "It's gonna ice up out there as it gets colder without the sun. Prob'ly already has. Be careful walking back."

"We will," George chirped, a smirk bleeding into his smile, and the look puzzled Leslie, who was so used to his teasing that she had completely overlooked his insinuation of her and Don's romance. George, on the other hand, had caught her nonchalant reaction and hence assumed precisely what he wanted to.

"Take some eggnog with you on your way out," Leslie advised, oblivious to the cause of George's delight, "the guys'll love you for it."

"Good idea," he praised. "Think we could use those thermoses you and Skip brought, Malark?"

"Hmm?" Don glanced between George and Leslie. "Oh, yeah. Sure."

"Great! Oh, shit." George hopped in place, leaning back to look down the stairs. "Someone just opened the door, I can feel the cold coming into the house."

"Then we'd better go and close it behind us."

Don kissed the top of Leslie's head on his way past. The last thing she saw of him that night was not his smile like she wished but the pom-poms swinging from his arms, still clad in that mess of a sweater he loved unabashedly. Listening to the voices downstairs, stuck in place like the sycamore in her backyard at home, Leslie became abruptly aware of her every breath. She heard the front door shut and realized her arms were outstretched, reaching for something (or someone) she did not think she had the right to take. She pulled her hands back and went so far as to put them behind her back, tugging at her fingers self-consciously although no one was there to see.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered to herself and crossed the hall to a bed meant for two but kept by one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#leslie sheppard #donald malarkey #band of brothers #destiny carries a wrench #audra 'tink' luchette #kelani palekiko #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #100k words #woohoo!!

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funkypoacher · 2 years

Note

Wick n' Danse

#51

"Public kiss"

🫣

first I'mma side-eye how that ask formatted (why is the 51 huge? and why is there a square?) and then I'm going to continue. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE PROMPT! I sat down and wrote this in one sitting (and then edited it after dinner) and like... I'm so happy. I was seriously afraid my hiatus would kick my ass more, writing-wise, but I enjoyed writing this, and I like how it ended up. SO.

Wick/Danse FO4 prompt-fill 1/? "Public kiss"

December 3, 2288

It was cool enough that those attending had their collars buttoned. Drinks were carried by mittened fingers, conversations were punctuated by the sight of breath’s warmth dissipating, but it wasn’t much worse than that. The early evening bonfires saw a long day of get-togethering winding down with the same friendly pace that it had been sustained by. The group wasn’t celebrating anything specific; more casseroles had been brought to the Sommerville’s homestead than bottled drink, and that suited Danse fine. A free meal was always appreciated, and he preferred cider to beer, especially when he was working.

Beyond that, though, he favored this: to simply be with these people. With every gathering he attended, Danse understood more of himself. Where he fit in the world; what he was, which was rapidly becoming both friend and neighbor to many. It wasn’t his humanity he sought to understand—it was his purpose. Because that was something everyone struggled to find.

“Sergeant,” greeted Theo, approaching from behind. The man clapped Danse’s shoulder as he joined his side, a bottle gripped tight at the neck. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, major,” Danse answered, shaking his hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

Theo Miller and ‘the sergeant’ had more in common than the latter would have liked. Theo was good people, however, as per the local colloquialism. Having left the Minutemen following a hard loss, he’d eventually applied to the Brotherhood of Steel, abandoning his post there, too, when their morals didn’t align. Danse hardly took desertion lightly, but he knew Theo’s motivation was piloted by genuine care for people. With General Garvey vouching for him, he was officially within Danse’s good graces.

“Actually, I made it here about half an hour ago,” Theo informed, smirking against the lip of his beer bottle. “Got talkin’ to Georgie, and you know how he doesn’t shut up.”

“Did you discuss clearing out the hostiles in quadrant D? I’ve put in for backup from headquarters, and Bao has offered recruits in exchange for—”

“Hey, man. We’re off duty. That means no shop-talk.” Looking Danse over, Theo sighed. “If I tell you that, yes, I squared things with Georgie, does that mean you'll lighten up?”

A broad smile formed across Danse’s face. Slowly. Deliberately. Mechanically. “Yes. Casual protocols now engaged.” His head canted just slightly. “Do we talk ‘shit’ now?”

Theo’s eyes rounded with the sort of horror born of ice forming in one’s spine. Then Danse chuckled, nudged him none too politely, and Theo burst out laughing.

“Man, you are an ass.”

Theo and the synth—which Theo well-knew Danse to be—stood chatting informally about the late snowfall that was due, and how the frost, late as well, had been a kindness to the farmers still attempting to stock-up in the wake of the Brotherhood’s absence. Upon leaving for DC, their exit created a vacuum, that empty space soon ripe for the picking by raiders. The Minutemen were recovering from war, and those unaffiliated locals latterly involved could not deal with the fresh wave of raiders, who, having been in hiding for so long, descended on homesteads. Being unorganized and generally poorly armed, the raiders killed very few, but it was the crops they made-off with, or destroyed, that hit people the hardest.

Luckily, the Commonwealth community was close-knit. They helped, protected, and provided for each other, creating that backbone of support which served as a pivotal pillar to the Minutemen’s reformation. Lastly, if things were so dire, the spread at the Sommerville gathering would not have been so generous, and people were still piling their plates at this late hour.

Theo, having been musing on the coming spring being pushed farther into the year, stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” Danse asked, following his gaze.

Shaking his head to himself, Theo's expression turned more to curiosity. “Saw them before, when I got here. They’re kinda… skulking. Not sure if they’re looking for trouble, or free food, or what. But—there, see?”

Danse directed himself towards where Theo had jutted his chin. Somehow he knew and didn’t at the same time; the figure walked with their arms crossed tight at their chest, their head low, and shoulders up. They were an animal ready to run in a set of old overalls, blonde hair stringy, and all but hiding their face. This he recognized, but the gauntness to their features—it made Danse startle. He supposed she wasn’t eating so well.

“Her name is Wendy,” Danse said, already walking. “And she’s a friend.”

She was standing alone, eyeing the dozening families who, likely noting her, didn’t interfere. ‘That woman’ living nearbouts the lurk-infested pre-war construction site was generally known of, her property quite apart from everyone else. Most couldn’t make heads or tails on her—there were lingering pro-Brotherhood families who preferred to keep to themselves, and that was one theory on her antisocialism. Having left the Brotherhood alongside him, however, Danse knew this to be untrue. Ex-Gunner Wendy had joined their ranks thanks to a hungry stomach and a moral compass that swung where the money came from, but she left with him. For him.

Memories upon memories piled up as he neared her, though, sadly, it was their last encounter that crashed upon him as he joined her.

‘I can’t do this anymore,’ she’d said.

“Wick,” Danse greeted, knowing she preferred the misnomer to her name.

“Sergeant Danse,” Wick replied, her rigid posture remaining so, but a warming glow in her eyes was evident. “Shouldn’t you be ranked higher than that by now?”

Danse grinned. Her sharp stoicism in public had turned to shyness when becoming a civilian. Without a big gun, she hadn’t anything to hide her attitude behind. Wick certainly hadn’t forgotten her sarcasm, however.

“It’s more of a nickname between myself and Theo Miller, and it’s gained traction among the civilians,” Danse explained with a learned shrug. “The Minutemen chain-of-command is loosely defined. Rank is less important when the bulk of your men are made up of farmers.” Danse finally came to the real explanation. “And Theo, having been a Brotherhood recruit for all of two weeks, finds it humorous.”

“He’s…? Oh.” Wick glanced nervously towards where Danse had come from. When this got too heavy, she stared at her feet. “It’s not really funny, though. Not when… I mean, considering what the Brotherhood did to you. At…” She swallowed, twitching visibly. “At Covenant.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Danse answered stiffly, dismissing Theo’s insensitivity as a possibility. Looking over the crowd, he had a thought. “Have you eaten?”

“Have I? No!” Wick shook her head, an incredibly awkward smile attempting to bury her nerves as her weight moved foot to foot. “No, I just came here to… I mean, I don’t know. I’m not hungry, and I was going to go soon, anyways, so—”

“Wendy,” Danse said, stepping forward. He could hardly believe he was being given the chance to speak on what he’d wished to say for some months. “These gatherings are for the locals to co-mingle. So that they might understand each other better, and provide support when it’s needed. Don’t you want to be part of that?”

“Actually,” Wendy answered evenly, looking him in the eye for the first time, “being the weird shut-in off in the swamp works for me. I didn’t come here for anyone else, I came—I came to see you. To see how you… are.”

She looked away again.

“Oh.” Danse’s brow rose. “I see.” Wishing he hadn’t left his drink with Theo, so that his hands might have something to do, instead he folded his arms. Somehow, without being able to place his finger on why, what she said had bothered him. Perhaps he saw some lie in it. He certainly didn’t understand her reluctance to socialize, given his own happy relationship with the people here.

His frustration and confusion led to a curt tone. “Are you going to ask me how I am, then?”

Quietly, ambivalently, Wick said off-handedly, “how are you?”

“Busy,” Danse answered coolly.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” Danse’s cheeks flushed with frustration. Spare with her words, Wick had always, at least, been clear with him. And what she wasn’t saying, or what he wasn’t understanding, was galling alongside the fact that he hadn’t seen her in months.

Wick simply smiled. Tired and transparent, there it was. “I don’t need to ask you how you are to know how you are, Danse. I can see that you’re sleeping well—I mean, you’re looking fairly well-rested, so the night terrors can’t be that bad. You’re definitely eating, so you’re not distracted, or depressed, or down on yourself too much. I saw you talk to, like, 20 people since I got here. I saw you laugh. You seem happy.” She watched him steady enough that the bonfires’ reflections fired in her gaze. “You are happy, right?”

Danse’s posture eased. It took great effort for the synth to understand himself, both in relation to the concept of purpose, and what he was without it, if anything. But Wendy had never had that trouble. She had always seemed to understand him—to know him, even when he didn’t know himself.

“I am,” Danse answered, voice warbling with affection over the truth of it. “I am happy.”

Wick nodded. “Good. That’s what I wanted to know.”

As she turned to leave, Danse grabbed her by the arm. When she didn’t pull away, his grip softened. “And how are you?”

Turning back, Wick shrugged. “Whatever the opposite of ‘busy’ is.” Reading his expression, she laughed humorlessly. “I don’t mean anything sneaky by that. There’s no double meaning, or whatever. I’ve got, you know, food. And I’ve got stuff to do. I’m ready for the weather to finally turn.” Her eyes flitted dully to his mouth. “I’m good.”

Danse squared his jaw. “Why did you terminate our relationship?”

Wick pulled from his grip, which had remained at her elbow. However shaken, though, it seemed that she’d had an answer to this question for as long as Danse had harbored it.

“I didn’t go to Covenant,” she explained, voice as strong as it was cracked. “I didn’t try to get you out. Even when there was that huge mob of people, I didn’t. All these folks went, too, probably, and I… I stayed. Here. I hid.” Her shoulders dropped, diminishing her small frame even further. “I didn’t deserve it. You. Us.”

Danse spoke without accusation. “And were you afraid? After, when I returned?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wick affirmed readily. “Really scared. No way I was going to be able to help you when you were screaming in the dark. Because I…” Her tone softened to a whisp. “I was screaming, too.”

The nightmares experienced after Covenant had not only been dreams, Danse surmised. They were too clear; too complete. It had to be a programming fault. As Danse had slept those following months, his mind had been replaying all he had seen in the Covenant facility, which, having been absorbed by the Brotherhood of Steel, tested synths for the sake of gauging limits, and identifying them in the general populace.

The tests had been beyond cruel. And the weight of that is what Danse had brought home to Wick.

He didn’t blame her for being afraid. He merely nodded, forgivingly and understandingly. After a moment, Wick nodded the same. Two collected soldiers, even now.

“You know,” mentioned Danse, casually closing the distance between them, “there’s a mirelurk nest near your property. My squad is planning to clear-out it out. We could use an extra gun.”

Wick’s expression rose. “Gun or gunhand?”

Danse grinned. “Gunhand,” he clarified.

Wick’s pallor coloured, recalling the enthusiasm of someone who had once entertained a very familiar first-name basis with fire-fights and battlefields. “Okay. Name the time and place,” she said, so excited that their fingers, already in close proximity, brushed together with her fidgeting.

For all that it felt like fireworks, Danse was comforted by the sheer cold of her hands as their quietly fingers entwined—he knew that cool, recalling frozen feet brushing up his calves under the covers. What Danse hadn’t anticipated was Wick glancing the crowd over, turning back, and offering a hasty kiss which landed clumsily between his nose and mouth. Correcting her aim immediately, almost as a reflex, Danse returned this with a quick brush at her lips before meeting for a proper kiss, his hand pulling her closer at the waist.

To be technically defined, it went beyond the fireworks of their hands touching before. Wendy gripped his shirt, and Danse’s other hand went to her waist, encircling her. Mild and chaste, though, the kiss was something to be thought on later and for much longer than it was enjoyed. Either way, when Wick pulled away, offering a mumbled good-bye before leaving, Danse was soothed by the knowledge that things had changed. He’d been happy before—happy with the Minutemen, and happy with his place within the community. Now, however, he might get to be more.

#fallout 4 #danse #wick #fanfic #fo4 fanfic #mannnn i miss these two #even if this is still a lil rusty

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steves-on-a-plane · 3 years

Text

Life Hack

Written for: @star-spangled-bingo 2021! (& All Caps Flash Bingo!) Words: 1970 SSB Square Filled: Alternate Universe AU All Caps Flash Square Filled: Science Experiment Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: None, E for everyone! Summary: Tony & Steve have created a Youtube channel both as a way for the Team to stay busy & for them to communicate with the outside world. Participation is highly encouraged and when Reader finds out Bucky hasn’t contributed to a single video yet, they enlists his help in testing out some life hacks.

“What are we doing again?” Bucky questioned. He was standing next to you in the makeshift recording Studio Tony had built in an unused office.

“Making a video for the Youtube channel.” You commented. You inventoried the items on the table in front of you and made sure you had everything you needed.

“And why are we doing that?” Bucky grumbled.

“Because Tony and Steve want everyone to contribute to the channel.” It would surprise no one that the idea to start an Avengers Youtube channel had been Tony Stark’s idea. Actually, the team had always had one, as far back as the early shield days. It was more for publicity. Things like showcasing highlights from non-classified missions, charity events and press conferences were the types of clips that were typically uploaded. There were even occasional interviews from new members as they joined the team.

After the virus had struck, Steve and Tony had been looking for more ways to connect with the public. Tony wanted to have a way to talk with civilians about the real science of everything. While Steve’s motivations were a little more home grown. He wanted to give people on the outside a chance to see what life was like for the Avengers. He wanted people to know that the team was just as suspectable to the virus as the public and that the public could have as much of an impact on fighting this thing as the Avengers did.

“Peter may have let it slip that you haven’t contributed one video to the channel since we started it months ago.” You explained to Bucky. “I know cameras aren’t exactly you’re thing so I figured you could help me out with my segment today. Plus, you’re my favorite.” You said before tapping him on the nose with your index finger. “Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” He complained beside you. You nodded to Peter who was standing behind the camera and began the video’s intro.

“Hey everyone! It’s [Y/N] here with another segment of the Avengers Quarantine Fifteen! That’s where we give you a fifteen-minute glimpse into what it’s like here at the Avenger’s Compound in Washington, DC.! Today I have a special guest with me, in his Youtube debut, Sergeant Bucky Barnes!” You paused to indicate Bucky who was standing next to you.

“Hey.” He nodded to the camera and offered it an awkward half wave.

“Okay, everyone,” You said looking into the camera. “I know we’re all bored out of our minds. We’ve been quarantining or sheltering in place for what feels like forever! I have to admit I’ve become addicted to watch those weird life hack videos; Buck you know the ones I’m talking about?” You asked him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He shrugged. He looked past the camera at Peter who tried to wave his attention away.

“Don’t worry you will very soon. For those of you at home who, like Bucky, have no idea what I’m talking about, a life hack is something that’s supposed to make things easier.” You explained.

“Like waterproofing your shoes with beeswax?” Bucky asked excitedly. “That really works!” He insisted.

“Yes, like that.” You nodded. “So today we’re going to be testing out if these internet hacks actually work in a little game I like to call Helpful or Hustle. Okay, here we go.” You pressed play on a video that you’d already queued up on your iPad.

“Is Parker just going to film us watching a video for fifteen minutes?” Bucky asked you with uncertainty. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“No.” You told him. “We’re gonna watch the hack first, then we’re going to try and recreate it.”

“But they can’t see it.” He commented pointing to the camera.

“They’ll see if after. In editing.” You assured.

“I’ll take care of everything Sergeant Barnes!” Peter called from behind the camera.

“There’s no way that works!” Bucky commented. Together the two of you watch the first hack where a woman deflated a balloon around a phone to act like a protective case. “They think because it’s made of rubber it’s going to protect…Do we have balloons?” He looked down at the table. I want to try this!”

You handed Bucky a balloon and an older cellphone that no one was using anymore. He began to inflate it immediately. At first it took Bucky a few tries to deflate the balloon like the woman in the video did. His initial attempts left him with a completely flat balloon, but after realizing he had to release the air more slowly, He had a rubber seal around the device. Bucky held the phone in his vibranium hand before letting it drop several feet the floor. You both heard the distinct sound of touch screen glass shattering.

“Well, Bucky, Helpful or Hustle?” You questioned as he bent down to pick the phone up.

“I think you already know the answer, [Y/N].” He said, holding the shattered screen for Peter to capture on camera. “I like this game. What’s next?”

“Back to the video.” You said, pointing to the iPad. You both watched the next “hack” Which involved filling a balloon with hot glue, tying it off and then using it as a sink stopper.

“I mean I guess that works.” He commented, scratching the back of his head. “But you know what else works?” He looked into the camera. “Fixing your sink so it has a stopper. If you can’t fix it yourself, hire a plumber. That’s a Hustle, next!” He pressed play again.

“I think you’re going to like this one.” You told him. You watch a video of someone blowing up a balloon using a water bottle, a funnel, vinegar and baking soda.

“Tell me we have the stuff to do this one.” He asked excitedly. “I very much want to know if this works.”

You and Bucky each picked up a balloon. You poured a cup of baking soda into each of the balloons using the funnel. You then filled the water bottle about halfway with vinegar. You had to guess with the measurements as the hack hadn’t provided them.

“Parker, you’re a science kid, is this safe?” Bucky asked Peter as you portioned out the vinegar.

“It’s what most schools use to make volcanos. Should be fine.” Peter nodded.

You and Bucky stretch the end of your balloons over the mouth of your water bottles. You nodded, and on your signal you both held up the balloon so that the baking soda dumped from the balloon into the vinegar. Almost immediately the balloons began to expand.

“[Y/N] look! It’s actually working!” Bucky exclaimed with disbelief.

“Well, I think this is as good a place as any to leave things. I’m afraid to see what happens when we try to remove these balloons. I’m [Y/N]…” You left a pause for Bucky.

“And I’m Bucky!” He said, thins time giving the camera an animated wave.

“This has been the Avengers’ Quarantine Fifteen!” You called, peering over your expanding balloon.

“Cut!” Peter said to let you both know he’d finished recording.

“That was great you guys!” Peter said enthusiastically. “Uh, [Y/N], you might want to take those things outside.”

“Good idea, Parker. I’ll take care of it.” Bucky offered. “Thanks for making me do this. I actually had a lot of fun. We should do it again sometime.” He collected both water bottles and carefully escorted them from the room.

“I have a few more things to film and then I can start editing. I’ll let you both know when it’s live.” Peter explained. You thanked him and started cleaning the room so it would be ready for the next person who needed it.

A little time passed, and you’d help some of the other team members film their own segments. You’d been staying busy doing other things too like raising a quarantine kitten. Yes, even the Avengers were not immune to the desire for new pets after being trapped inside. In hindsight trying to raise a tiny mammal in a giant military compound probably wasn’t a good idea, but you and Mittens were adjusting to each other. You’d almost forgotten about the segment you’d filmed with Bucky until Peter texted you the link one day.

You pressed play and started watching the video. You were surprised to see that Peter had been recording the banter between you and Bucky before you’d officially started filming. He kept every second of it in too, even the part where you booped Bucky on the nose and told him he was your favorite. You felt your cheeks get hot knowing the others were going to razz you about that later.

“Hey [Y/N]!” You heard someone calling your name down the hall. You poked your head out of your dorm room door. Bucky was walking towards you.

“Did you see Parker posted our video?” He pointed to his phone.

“Yeah, I was just watching it. What did you think?” You asked.

“I haven’t watched it yet. I’ve been reading the comments.” He told you. You scrolled through the commented on the video. Your eyes growing wide. It seemed the videos viewers liked seeing Bucky on the channel. They also seemed to really like you and Bucky together.

“I came to ask you, what does ‘Ship It’ mean?” He said.

“Where did you…” You assumed he’d read it in the comments and sure enough as you continued to read on there were plenty of posts with things like ‘Why and I shipping [Y/N] and Bucky so hard?’ and ‘I’m calling it, Bucky x [Y/N], I’ll go down with this ship and in this TED Talk…’

“Well, Bucky Ah…” You fumbled with your words trying to think of exactly how to explain the situation. “Shipping is an internet term for…”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I can just ask Parker or his friend…Ed?” He started to turn.

“No!” You caught him by the elbow. “Trust me, you do not want to ask anyone else about this one. Shipping is a term people use as a way to say they want two people to be a couple. Sometimes they’re already a couple or they may not be together any more and people aren’t ready to let that go. It’s usually about fictional characters but sometimes celebrities too.”

“Oh…Oh!” Bucky stared down at this phone with sudden realization. “So, when they’re saying that they Ship you and I, they’re implying…”

“That they want us to be a couple, yeah.” You nodded uncomfortably. You wished you could melt into the floor or fly away on a jet pack because the truth was, you’d always had a bit of a crush on Bucky. You never thought he’d be into you. You knew that the opinion of hundreds of people online wasn’t going to change anything, but at least someone else had seen a spark, as imaginary as it may be. “It’s a pretty common thing.” You added, trying to fill the awkward air. “Like I might say I ship Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson together because they seem really happy together. I don’t really know them, so it’s not really my place to say…”

“But I know us. So, would it be completely inappropriate for me to say that I also Ship us?” He questioned, looking up from his phone.

“Does being in a video on Youtube with the man you that gets tons of people commenting what a cute couple you’d make, so you’re both finally brave enough to admit that you have feelings for each other, count as a Life Hack?” You asked back.

“As usual, I have no idea what all of that meant, but I’m going to kiss you now okay?” He asked. You nodded ‘Yes’ in response.

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Fan Fic #Bucky Barnes Fan Fiction #Bucky Barnes FF #SSB21 #Star Spangled Bingo #Flash Bingo #Bucky Barnes Reader Insert #Star Spangled Bingo 2021 #SSB2021 #SSB Spring Flash2021

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winterofthedarkestlight · 5 years

Text

Stucky Rec List

Now With Links! And Even More Stuff

Quick note: Looking for a new Stucky fic to read that has specific tropes or falls under a certain AU? Know the general premise of a Stucky fic but can’t remember the name? The wonderful mods over at @stuckylibrary can help!

Captain America: The First Avenger or Post-Captain America: The First Avenger Canon Divergence

“The Best Way to Wake” by LeeHan (@leehanji)

“Dark Into the Heat” by Nonymos (@naomisalman)

“Double-Edge” by PoorYorick

“Effects of Obliteration” by geneticallydead (@geneticallydead)

“Heaven Ain’t Close in a Place Like This” by not_without_you (@not-withoutyou)

The Long Road That Leads Me Home series by apricotcake ( @cejari)

Part 1: "There's No Pure Way to Say It"

Part 2: "A Blue Star Mother From Vinegar Hill"

Part 3: "Outtake: Kansas, 1994"

Part 4: "We Made Ourselves Cold"

“The Night War: 60th Anniversary Edition” by praximeter (@praximeter)

The Not Easily Conquered series by dropdeaddream and WhatAreFears

Part 1: “A Long Winter”

Part 2: “The Thirteen Letters”

Part 3: “Not Easily Conquered”

“The S. Rogers Memorial (It’s NOT A Shrine) to J.B. Barnes” by SkyIsGray

“Where the Need is Greatest” by Niitza (@princessniitza)

Captain America: The Winter Soldier or Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier Canon Divergence

“4 Minute Window” by Speranza (@cesperanza)

“A Blade With No Handle” by ftmsteverogers (@transbucky)

“A History of Birds” by OddityBoddity

“A Memory Like a Haunting” by TheDarkCaustic (@thedarkcaustic) and cobaltmoony

“Ain’t No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down)” by spitandvinegar (@spitandvinegar) (requires AO3 account for access)

“All the Angels and the Saints” by Speranza (@cesperanza)

“All These Things That I’ve Done” by not_without_you (@not-withoutyou)

“Amidst the Rubble (We Can Build a Better Us)” by EmilianaDarling (@emilianadarling)

“Are You a Stranger Without Even a Name” by sidara

“As the Earth Burns to the Ground (Oh Boy, It’s You That I Lie With)” by inevitablemeow (@theycallmeinevitable)

“At the Gates of Valhalla” by paperstorm (@paper-storm)

“Before We Can Breath Easy” by belovedmuerto (@belovedmuerto)

“Between Everything, Yourself, and Home” by napricot

“Boundless” by justanotherstonyfan (@justanotherstonyfan)

“Brooklyn” by togina (@toli-a)

“Despite the Threatening Sky and Shuddering Earth (They Remained)” by praximeter

“Fear Not the Ghosts” by endofadream (@endofadream)

“For of All Plants That Have Been Written of None Are More Unlike the Rose” by bazzystar

“For You Have Returned My Soul to Me” by JHSC (@jhscdood)

“Ghost Stories” by hitlikehammers

“Human” by icoulddothisallday (@icoulddthisallday)

“Into the Sky” by Ellessey

“Let Me Be Buried Under Your Name” by tempestaurora (@tempestaurora)

“Lines in Ink” by Deisderium (@deisderium)

“The Man on the Bridge” by boopboop (requires AO3 account for access)

“Memory” by emilyenrose (currently orphaned)

“Mittens” by Adolphus Longestaffe (@adolphuslongestaffe)

“Near Mint” by liketheroad (@liketheroad)

“Never Like This” by Faith Wood

“Not a Golden Sound” by macabre

“Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments” by crinklefries (@spacerenegades)

“One Year, Three Months, Twenty-Four Days” by steviepie (@stevebuckyinc)

“Our Endless Numbered Days” by hitlikehammers

“Out of the Dead Land” by emilyenrose (currently orphaned)

“Poltergeists” by dirtybinary (@enemyofrome)

“Pull Apart the Dark” by togina

“The Real Thing” by imnotbuck (@fuckyfarnes)

The Revenant series by stele3 (@stele3)

Part 1: “Revenant”

Part 2: “Cognitive Recalibration”

The Right to Refuse series by Stevieschrodinger (@stevieschrodinger)

Part 1: "Choice"

Part 2: "Option"

“The Rogue Tide, the Ocean Waves, and the Shore They Call Home” by nhixxie (@cardiamachina)

“The Sergeant and the Captain” by OddityBoddity

“Slow” by VillainousVixen

“Soft” by postmodernmulticoloredcloak (@postmodernmulticoloredcloak)

“The Soldier’s Kittens” by exclamation

“Sparked Up Like a Book of Matches” by Sena

“Steve Rogers Might Wear Tights, But He’s Not Your Pin-Up Girl” by RosaLui and what_alchemy

“Sticky Notes” by edgeoflights (@natasharmnov)

“Tabula Rasa” by dance_at_bougival

“Tattoo Your Last Bruise” by ftmsteverogers (@transbucky)

“There Must Have Been a Moment When We Could Have Said No” by magdaliny

“This Is a Back Alley” by febricant (requires AO3 account for access)

“This Is My Last Breath” by FlyByNightGirl

“Things We’d Held in Secret” by DiraSudis (@dsudis)

“The Thunder Comes After” by what_alchemy

“The Tipping Point” by unicornpoe

“Turn Your Back on Mother Nature” by ftmsteverogers

“United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015)” by fallingvoices and radialarch (@radialarch)

“Volgograd” by black_nata (@black-nata)

“Wake Up, Your Life’s a Wreck” by biblionerd07 (@biblionerd07)

“We Carry Our Lives Around in Our Memories” by biblionerd07 (@biblionerd07)

“What Your Name Means in a Whisper” by hitlikehammers

“Where the Days Are Longer” by endofadream

“Which Is Infinite (Which Is Yes)” by hitlikehammers

“You Will Meet a Stranger” by spitandvinegar (requires AO3 account to access)

“Your Favorite Ghost” by augustbird (@augustbird)

“Yours, Steve” by em_dibujsb (@em-dibujsb)

Alternate Universe

A/B/O:

The Heat Wave series by cleo4u2 and xantissa (@cleo4u2, @xantissa)

Part 1: “Heat Stroke”

Part 2: “Heat Forged”

“The Trials and Tribulations of Supersoldier Courtship” by kocuria-visuals and this_wayward_life (@kocuria, @this-wayward-life)

BDSM:

“Mokusatsu” by shadesfalcon (@shadesfalcon) (involves Clint/Steve/Bucky)

Soulmates:

“Sidereal” by girlbookwrm and verbalatte (@girlbookwrm , @verbalatte )

“Sometimes to Love Someone, You Gotta Be a Stranger” by agetwellcard (@agetwellcard)

“(You Can’t Choose) What Stays and What Fades Away” by Taste_is_Sweet

Steve and Bucky Didn’t Grow Up Together:

“This Is How It Starts” by rinnya (@rinnya)

Modern:

“War, Children” by Nonymos

No Powers:

“Civilian” by alby_mangroves and CoraRochester (@albymangroves and @corarochester)

Space AU:

“Into That Good Night” by Nonymos

Avengers: Endgame or Post-Avengers: Endgame Canon Divergent:

“A String of Now” by keire-ke (@keire-ke)

“Break Faith” by hitlikehammers

“I Drew a Line for You” by brokenpitchpipe

“Turn Around (Take Me Back)” by hitlikehammers

“Undone” by justanotherstonyfan

“What Comes After” by justanotherstonyfan

“When People See Us” by brokenpitchpipe

“When We Came Home” by augustbird

Dark Fics (deal with sexual assault/abuse, either present or past)

“Between Scylla and Charybdis” by refusals

The Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly series by AraniaArt (@araniaart) and Kamiki

Part 1: “Dragging You Down”

Part 2: “The Downward Spiral”

Part 3: “Lifting You Up”

“Give an Inch” by Lauralot (@lauralot89)

“How It Adds Up” by BrighteyedJill

“Idealism Sits in Prison” by Cristinuke

The If I l Live Too Long, I’m Afraid I’ll Die series by basic_instinct40

Part 1: “No Word, No Bond, Row On”

Part 2: “Yourself With a Different Hat”

Part 3: “So Now, It Looks Like (You’re Too Precious)”

Part 4: “Mr. Owl Ate My Metal Worm”

Part 5: “If It’s Alive, It Will”

“Lamb and Martyr” by DiraSudis

“Lilies With Full Hands” by refusals

“Nonsense” by D4tD (danceforthedead)

“Sibylla ex Ampulla” by DiraSudis (@dsudis)

“So Familiar a Gleam” by Lauralot (@lauralot89)

“Uberrima Fidei“ by asocialconstruct

“Untamable” by wickedthoughts

“What We’re Not” by wickedthoughts

“Windmills” by coffeestainanalyst

Fanartists

@kiu-k, @petite-madame, @leehanji, @cobaltmoony, @koreanrage, @sov-ja, @quietnighty, @cas-the-cat, @voodooling, @evankart, @albymangroves, @fadefilter, @arsartisf, @steve-n-bucky, @xxxxxx6x, @elkleggs, @muffinshark, @lalawooo, @dorkbait, @lightningstrikes-art

Poetry

“Seventy Years of Sleep” by @cardiamachina

Also check out @lostcap

Fanvideos

Snowlight Productions (@raggedymans)

“And and Dust | Steve and Bucky”

“Believer | Steve and Bucky”

“So Far | Steve and Bucky”

“Stay Alive | Steve and Bucky”

“Worth It | Steve and Bucky”

Voordeel (@voordeel-ts)

“Bucky x Steve || Brooklyn (Go Hard)”

“Bucky x Steve || I Will Make You Hurt”

“Bucky x Steve || Losing My Religion”

“Bucky x Steve || Never Gonna Be the Same”

“Bucky x Steve || New Age”

“Bucky x Steve || We Fall”

“Bucky x Steve || We’ve Only Just Begun”

Updated: November 8 2021

#stucky #stucky fanfiction #stucky fanfiction recs #stucky fanart

687 notes · View notes

elfpen · 5 years

Text

Good Shot

A/N: I’m procrastinating, have a thing.

Edward Elric did not consider himself a traumatized person, and he did not think of his childhood as particularly traumatic. Despite this determination, the trauma of his youth was both objectively true and patently obvious to anyone with a brain. Edward’s brain no longer noticed. The tumultuous Amestris of yesteryear was, for better or for worse, the world that had raised him. That fact was as comfortable around his memories as an old, worn coat, a coat that needed a wash and a patch and was two sizes too small, but was too familiar to go about replacing. In short, he was used to it.

Maybe that was why, when he arrived at work one blustery afternoon to find his place of business swarming with a fully armed battalion, Edward Elric only yawned.

“Aw, hell,” he said to no one in particular. Final grades were due in seventy-two hours and he hadn’t even gotten started yet. Ahead of him, the Alchemy Building of Central University loomed large against a snow-heavy sky. All around the front steps, a throng of people gathered, held at bay by a line of blue-uniformed soldiers. Was a it a fire? A flood? Both meant water, and water meant smudged ink and desecrated paper, and that meant his final grades wouldn’t be in on time.

But why the military? Slowly, like a rising wail, bomb sirens filled the air.

“Damnit.” His icy sigh hung in the air and whirled apart was he stepped through it to march into the crowd.

“This is outrageous! The whole building?” Edward couldn’t see the man’s face, but judging from the prodigious height of his white quaffed hair, he was willing to bet it was the Dean.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, we need to keep everyone at a safe distance,” replied an anxious-looking warrant officer.

“On what grounds? What is this all about?”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to-”

“I will have you know that I run this college, young man, I demand to know why you’ve commandeered my-”

“Excuse me, Professor Elric?” Ed turned to see a half dozen of his students huddled in coats and mittens, craning their necks like geese to get a better view of the front steps. One called Mary was asking him. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Ed glanced back at the Warrant Officer and the Dean. Their tiff seemed to have drawn attention from a nearby lieutenant, who was making her way over to intervene.

“No, but whatever it is I hope it wraps up quick, I have work to do.”

“I’ll say,” one of the students, Josef, laughed and blew into his mittens for warmth. “Do you think Dr. Wolfgar will fail me if I miss my final because of a military occupation?”

“Military occupation?” Teased the slightly older Henrietta, “What, do you think this is some kind of coup d’etat?”

“Oh please,” Edward found himself saying. “Last time we had a coup, Central Command was nearly erased from the map; this is just a university building. If they’re trying to do anything big, they should blow something up first.” He thought he’d been being funny, but amid the sirens, his students had fallen uncomfortably quiet. Edward sighed, annoyed by the reminder that even for college students, his humor was dark. “Whatever,” He said. “I don’t have time for this.” He elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Dr. Elric? What are you going to do?” Josef asked. He glanced at his classmates, and then followed after their professor. The others fell into step behind him, so that unbeknownst to him, Edward had a trail of six college students following him like a mother duck.

“Lieutenant,” he spoke above the chatter of the crowd. “Excuse me, lieutenant,” he waved. The lieutenant looked wearily in his direction and marched over with practiced indifference.

“Yes sir?”

“I’m going inside,” he stepped to the front of the crowd. She reached out a hand to stop him.

“Sir, for your safety, I cannot allow you to go any further, we need to-”

“I said I’m going inside,” Edward repeated, digging around in his pocket until he could find his silver watch. He held it out. Scratched and worn, the dragon sparkled in the overcast sunlight.

“-ssor Elric is a state alchemist?!” he heard Mary say.

After a brief hesitation, the lieutenant’s demeanor transformed. She stood to attention and saluted.

“Sir!”

“Now tell me what’s going on.” He stepped further up the stairs without her stopping him.

“Sir,” she turned toward him, away from the civilians, and spoke quietly: “Central Command intercepted multiple threats against this campus early in the AM. Three separate witnesses reported seeing at least one suspicious person enter the building through a window. We’re not sure who they are, what weapons they have with them, or what their intent is. Our General has advised severe caution.”

“And who is your general? Is it Mustang?” Edward asked, purely out of curiosity.

“Major General Mustang, yes sir.”

“Oh is that what they’re calling him these days,” Ed grumbled over his shoulder. “Alright, well, anything happens, we’ll just blame him.” The lieutenant seemed unsure how to take this. “Thanks. And sorry about the Dean - he can be a bit of a dick, though you didn’t hear that from me.” He began up the steps.

“You’re the Fullmetal Alchemist, aren’t you, sir?” She asked.

“What about it?”

After a moment of thought, the lieutenant unholstered one of her two pistols. “Sir,” she offered it or him. “Just in case.”

Edward looked at it, and at her, and shrugged. “Fine,” he took it.

“Hey, we’re with him,” Josef was arguing with the warrant officer, trying to following Edward up the steps.

“No they’re not,” Edward turned and fixed them with the same look he used on his children. He pointed with the hand that wasn’t holding a gun. “You stay right there, all of you. Do what the lieutenant says.” All of the students’ eyes followed his hand as he shoved the gun into his coat pocket. “If Wulfgar gives you an F, I’ll deal with the registrar myself.”

Edward Elric jogged up the steps, digging around his pockets for his keys. Behind him, his students watched in confusion and awe.

“Did she say Fullmetal Alchemist?” said Henrietta.

“Yeah,” said Josef. “Why?”

Henrietta’s face moved in stages from confusion to realization to open incredulity. “Holy shit.”

Once inside, Edward brushed snow off his coat, rubbed some heat back into his hands, and flipped through his ring of keys. The jingling drew unexpected attention.

“Edward?”

He looked up to see the frowning, serious face of Riza Hawkeye marching down the hall.

“Oh, hey, Captain! Good to see you,” Ed grinned as if they’d just bumped into each other at a cafe. He fiddled with the lock on his door. “Didn’t know it was your men they’d sent over this way. How are you?”

Riza was unmoved. “Edward, what are you doing in here?”

“I work here,” he unlocked his office door, jimmied the handle, and slammed his shoulder against the door. It came unstuck and squeaked open. He switched on the lights.

“Oh good,” the disorganized heaps of paper were exactly how he’d left them, untouched by water or fire. “Diane would have killed me.” He opened his briefcase and began shovelling papers into it with one arm. Riza stood by the door, holding a pistol ready at her side, casting looks over both shoulders.

“We have a secure perimeter, how did you get in here?”

Ed held up his watch and dangled it until she looked. “The lieutenant let me in.”

“Edward, you can’t just…” but she knew that, technically, he could. Technically, he still outranked her. “We’re in a bit of a situation, you can’t just sit here and grade papers.”

“I know, I know,” Ed leaned on top of his briefcase to force it closed. It squeaked, so he put more weight onto it until it snapped shut, leather bulging. “Don’t worry about me, I’m prepared,” he reached into his pocket and brandished his borrowed pistol. Riza started.

“Where did you get that?”

“The lieutenant. She seemed worried when she heard who I was. Kinda rude, if you ask me. What have you been telling them about me?” He shoved it back into his pocket and held a small remaining stack of papers in his teeth while he put his gloves back on.

“Do you have your things?” Riza asked, ignoring the question. “I’ll escort you out.”

“Hhh-ine,” Ed grumbled around the homework. He rolled them up and put them in a pocket. “If anything else gets destroyed, I’ll direct the Dean to you.”

Riza called up two sergeants to cover her post while she escorted Edward to a side entrance of the building.

“Make sure Lieutenant Fletcher gets her pistol back, she shouldn’t have given it to you in the first place. She’ll be in a lot of trouble if it goes missing.”

“It’s not missing, it’s with me,” Edward retorted.

“Well in any event, I’m going to have to reprimand her anyway. She can’t just hand out her firearms just because you can’t do alchemy. Ed?” Pistol still at the ready, Riza paused and turned. Edward had frozen in the middle of the hallway. All traces of his carefree fatigue had evaporated, replaced by the kind of instinctual alarm that had helped him live to adulthood.

“Edward?” Riza called.

Ed was looking down an abandoned hall of classrooms, eyes fixated on room 103. Its door, like several of the other classrooms, was cracked just ajar. Unlike the other classrooms, there was a light on the other side of the door.

“Did you search these rooms?” He asked suddenly, not turning to look at the captain.

“Yes, when we arrived an hour ago.”

“Did you search them again?”

“What?”

Ed ignored her, and walked carefully down the hall. Riza hesitated to follow him. She heard his pistol’s safety click off.

“Edward?” She edged toward the hallway, and peaked around the corner. Ed stood in the doorway of classroom 103, silhouette framed by an ethereal blue light. Lightning seemed to crackle from within the room. Alchemy.

“Shit!” Edward practically fell backward, slamming the door shut. “Out! Out! Everybody out!” he shouted. Riza was holding up her gun, ready to shoot whoever was in pursuit, but there was no one. Edward passed her toward the door. He did a double take when he realized she wasn’t following him. “Lieutenant,” he called her out of habit, “move!” He grabbed her by the back of her collar and yanked her out of the hall right as the explosion went off.

Seconds or minutes later, Edward looked up from the ground to see Riza shouting orders at her men. She was bleeding from her temple but looked no worse for wear, a gun in her hand and angry as hell. He could not hear what she was saying, and became increasingly aware that one or both of his eardrums must’ve burst, leaving his head ringing. His hands ground against drywall and plaster dust as he pushed himself upright. A figure ran in front of him. They were not in military blue. They were not in university dress. They did, however, have chalk in one hand and a transmutation circle tattooed on the other.

“Lieutenant,” Edward tried to say, but coughed. “That’s the… it’s the same circle, he’s,” he coughed again, and realized no one was going to hear him. “Damnit,” he slurred, unable to hear himself except the part of the voice that echoed in his bones. With difficulty, he rose to his feet, using his briefcase to shield himself from falling rubble as he jogged toward the front door.

There were military personnel everywhere, running and shouting with guns drawn. Most of the crowd had the sense to run, too, but some lingered, unsure of what to do or where to go. Amid the crowd, Edward spotted a man running away sans coat, sans scarf, covered in plaster dust with a circular tattoo on the back of his hand.

“There!” he pointed. “That’s him, there, there!” He jogged down the steps and almost slipped. No one seemed to be listening. He’s going to get away, damnit. “Lieutenant!” But neither Hawkeye or Fletcher were there to hear him. His ears rang, his eyes stung with cold, there was blood tickling his face, he felt like he was going to be sick. The terrorist looked back at him, saw him, and ran faster. Edward’s hands twitched, itching to clap together and bring this bastard down by force. He felt a weight in his pocket. He grabbed it.

“Josef!” He yelled, spotting his student in the way. He leveled his gun. “Get down, now!”

Josef fell to the ground. The trigger offered more resistance than he’d expected. Kickback. An unexpected burst of red, and the terrorist fell to the ground. After a moment, the figure stirred and clutched at his injured knee, which leaving a bloody red pool on the ground. Military swarmed, and Edward fell back into a seat on the stairs so he could hold his head and wait for the world to stop spinning.

After his hearing began to come back somewhat, he found Lieutenant Fletcher. “You did not give this to me,” Edward told her, holding up her pistol with a single finger.

“Sir?”

“I abused my authority and took this from you, understand? It’s my fault, not yours. I’m going to surrender this to your Captain, she and I will handle it from there.”

“Y-yes sir,” the lieutenant said, and then glanced at either side of his face. “Sir, you need medical attention.”

Edward looked down at himself, and realized he’d ruined his best winter coat by bleeding all over it. “Oh,” he said. His ears had even bled onto the essays stuffed into his pocket. “Great.”

They had the university open two days later, but they’d siphoned off the alchemy classes to the math and geography buildings while they cleaned up the carnage. Edward’s left ear would be healing from a perforated eardrum for the next several weeks, but with his right, he could hear the chatter in the halls:

“I heard he used to be a student here,”

“Ex military?”

“Angry about the reinstatement of Ishval,”

“Targeted against General Mustang, I think,”

“My mom says she’s been worried about something like this happening…”

“Something about the Fullmetal Alchemist?”

“Change, of course people will be angry. But this?”

“Seems a bit drastic.”

“Fullmetal who?”

“That’s what they called him - he was joking about a coup d'etat!”

Edward pushed open his classroom door, and the chatter stopped. He dumped out his briefcase onto his desk and shuffled through its contents. He scratched at his forehead beneath the large bandage that ran over his ear. Most of the essays were already in alphabetical order, but there were four unfortunate outliers.

“Uh, Tasha,” he climbed up to where Tasha Miller sat in her usual seat on the third row. He tried to ignore how everyone else watched him. “I’m very sorry, I wasn’t able to grade your entire essay, I uh…” he was speaking quietly, as he always did with students about assignments, but the hall was unnaturally silent today. “Part of it got, uh, part of it got blood on it, but,” he quickly reassured her, misunderstanding her horror for disgust, “I was able to retype it, hopefully my comments are helpful, you seem to have a good understanding of the topic.” He scratched at his bandage again. “Good work.” He shuffled through the three other re-typed essays in his arms. “Martin Kovacheck? Oh, there you are. You guys need to stop swapping seats on me.” He laughed. He was the only one who laughed.

He moved around the room in an apologetic round before they moved onto the lesson. As he gathered up the regular essays to distribute to the class, his right ear caught wind of a frantic whisper:

“No, not about Tuesday, I meant the coup d'etat. With Mustang. He was there.”

Edward had a feeling he wasn’t going to hear the end of this.

“Well, sir,” said Josef quietly, when Edward went to return his graded essay, “They blew something up, all right.”

Ed felt his ear throbbing. “Yeah, I guess they did.”

Josef smiled as if it were a joke, and Edward realized that it was his humor that the boy was absorbing. His heart weighed him down.

“You’re not too bad a shot for someone who doesn’t like guns.” Roy Mustang signed his name, flipped the page, and signed again. Flip. Sign. Flip. “If I issue you your own firearm, this won’t be so much of a headache next time.”

Edward Elric scowled at him. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Really?” Roy didn’t look up. Sign. Flip. “Winry called me earlier and asked me if I thought you needed a gun, after what happened. She also told me that dry cleaning isn’t going to save your coat.”

“What are you doing calling my wife on a Friday afternoon? You know, sometime you could try minding your own damn busine-”

“She called me, Fullmetal.”

Edward scowled harder. His ear was healing but ached terribly. He sulked, and signed the forms that Roy shoved to his side of the desk. “No guns,” he said. “The last thing I need is another reason for my students to ask me about Back Then.”

Roy paused in his signing. Resumed. “Oh?”

“They want me to guest lecture in the history department. The History Department. We’re history now, apparently.”

Roy chuckled. “You should be flattered.”

“I’m pissed off.”

“And why’s that?” Roy passed him another round of paperwork. Edward was staring at nothing. It took him a moment to take the paper.

“Because it’s not history. It was my life.” He scribbled out his signature.

Roy smiled to himself. “I know how you feel.”

It wasn’t the sort of conversation Edward was wont to have with the General, and he didn’t want that to change. “Do you.” Sign. Flip. Sign.

“You’re not the first person to live through a war. You’re not the first alchemist to do horrible things and regret it.”

Edward looked up at him, and they made eye contact for a few fleeting seconds. They turned back to their paperwork. Sign. Flip. Sign.

“I was just a kid,” Ed said quietly, irritably.

Roy was quiet for several beats. “Yeah.” Flip. Flip. Flip. Sign. Flip. He glanced up at Edward. “So are you going to sit in that chair and mope about it? Or are you going to move forward?”

For the briefest of moments, he was eleven years old again, but this time he was much bigger and far, far more tired.

“You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to, you know,” said Roy. “You’ve already pissed off half of the Central U faculty, from what I hear. What’s one more department?” Flip, flip, sign.

“Yeah, I guess,” Edward said, taking the papers and signing them without reading them. Flip. Flip.

“If they don’t let you off the hook, direct them to me. I can guest lecture, if they want the real story. Heaven only knows what lies you’d tell them.”

Edward thought he was joking, and laughed. “Thanks.”

“I’m not joking,” Roy told him, and waited until Edward looked up to add, “Really. If they push the issue, just give me a call.”

Edward was not used to tone of compassion in the General Bastard’s voice. It wasn’t comfortable like the taboos of alchemy and the sounds of gunfire. He did his best to ignore it.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” Sign. Flip. Flip. Sign. Date. Flip.

“God, this is a lot of paper,” Ed complained.

“Then get your own gun, Fullmetal.”

“Would you get off my back.”

#fma #fmab #edward elric #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #fanfic #my fanfic #my writing #fullmetal alchemist #winry rockbell

1K notes · View notes

anogete · 6 years

Text

Sneak Peek of my Wintershock Christmas Fic

I have about 11,000 words in this “short” Chistmas fic and still have a few thousand more to go. I vow to have it posted before Christmas Eve. Promise. Until then, have an excerpt from Bucky and Darcy’s first meeting in this fic...

Steve looked over his shoulder before leveling his gaze on her again. “This is Bucky. I don’t think you’ve met him.”

There was some definite mischief in Steve Roger’s blue eyes. She moved her eyes up and saw Bucky still firmly focused on the ground between his boots. “I haven’t,” she replied carefully. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Buck, this is Darcy Lewis. She works in the lab with Jane Foster.”

Bucky nodded and muttered, “Nice to meet you,” to her without even glancing up.

“I was just telling Buck that he should start meeting some more people who work here. He’s been around for almost six months.”

“Well, hell, Cap. I’m flattered. Am I the first non-Avenger who gets the intro?”

“You are. Figured you’d be a good person to start with since you were looking for him at Thanksgiving dinner.”

Darcy scowled and narrowed her eyes at Steve. He just smiled back, all innocence and willful ignorance. What a fucking snake.

“Well, I have been on the search for the best ass in the Avengers and had hoped to inspect Sergeant Barnes’ before dinner in hopes that he’d dethrone you,” she told Steve.

Bucky made a choking noise in his throat and turned to walk a few steps away. Steve glanced over his shoulder at his friend.

“Yep,” Darcy said, looking at Bucky’s butt, “your ass is second rate next to his, Captain Hottie.”

“Darcy,” Steve warned, trying to put a damper on his own grin, “I don’t like that name.”

“Which is exactly why I use it,” she replied. “Besides, I think you secretly love it. You protest too much.”

Bucky turned around. She looked up and locked eyes with him for a moment. God, he was a fucking fox. She could look at him all day long and not get bored.

“Hey, thanks for turning around to give me a look at the goods, Sergeant. You want me to deliver your trophy for having the Best Ass in the Avengers to your apartment or do want it displayed in the lounge for bragging rights?”

He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground again.

“Modest,” Darcy said. “I like it. You could learn a thing or two, Cap. Some people don’t have to show off with the tight spandex pants.”

Steve frowned. “They are not spandex. They are a blend…”

Darcy lifted a mitten-covered hand and opened and closed her fingers against her thumb, miming a mouth talking. “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

She watched Captain America grin at her and then glance over his shoulder at his best friend. Bucky Barnes seemed just a little shy, which was pretty ridiculous since he was the hottest piece ass in the country, possibly the world. Then again, she knew the basics of his past so the reluctance to engage seemed pretty reasonable when you considered all the shit HYDRA had put him through.

“Darcy is a handful,” Steve told Bucky, “but she’s a good person to know.”

“Why is that?” Bucky muttered, glancing off to the side, still unable to look her in the eye again.

“Because everybody owes me favors. You need something, I got your back,” she told him.

He finally looked up at her again. “Why does everyone owe you favors?”

Darcy flashed him a wide smile. “Because I’m nice.”

Bucky made a noncommittal noise, crossed his arms over his chest, and took two steps away.

Sensing that his friend wanted to leave, Steve stood up and gave Darcy a wave goodbye. “Be good, Darcy,” he told her.

“I’m always good, Captain Hottie. See ya, Sergeant Sexy.”

Bucky’s head whipped around to look at her when the nickname popped out of her mouth. His mouth was open for a split second before he snapped it shut and turned away to cross the sloping lawn down to the fence along the perimeter. Steve just shook his head at her and followed.

#wintershock wip #bucky/darcy #anogete #holiday fic #bucky barnes #darcy lewis #sneak peek

71 notes · View notes

insectoid5 · 6 years

Text

Time for fic replies. Putting under a read more because long.

@thegeekogecko reblogged your post “Frozen Variations: The Watch Cat” and added:

#lol!

@grrlgeek72 reblogged your post and added:

#very nicely done bug

Glad you both enjoyed it!

@frozenartscapes reblogged your post and added:

Oh my god this is hilarious! I love Elsa’s nickname for Marshmallow. Also no, bad Elsa! Cat’s can’t be snipers…they don’t have the right digits to fire a gun. ;) (Also I’m now starting to develop a headcanon in which Elsa and Anna own every single Disney animated cat in some form or another because I totally picked up on Mittens from Bolt.)

Heh, I thought you already had a headcanon for that. 😛 I haven't seen Bolt, though; the name is from the list of cats you named in "Happiness Is a Warm Cat".

#like mufasa is this giant golden maine coon and scar is his much less majestic brother who rivals lucifer in the number of fights he starts #shere khan is a bengel with a major attitude #bagheera is a black cat who thinks too highly of himself but is also a giant softy #cheshire is a cat kristoff is 90% sure they just made up because it's so rare to see him out and about #sergeant tibbs is marshmallow's right hand cat #DA!Verse #this is such a good story!

I like those ideas! 😸 Glad you liked the fic! 😁

@wandering-bard-from-the-id reblogged your post and added:

Another wonderful addition to the Assassin AU, Bug. Could definitely see Marshmallow as guard cat. Ain’t nobody messing with his humans. A fun, enjoyable tale as always. Thanks for sharing.

I admit, my logic for naming him Marshmallow went along the lines of “well, what would they name their biggest cat?” And only afterwards did I think about it and realize, “oh, he’s just like Marshmallow in the movie now, isn’t he!” Big ol’ guard cat. Pretty sure he can’t throw anyone, but he may be offended by snowballs...

Glad you liked it! 😁

@gemel-dreamer reblogged your post and added:

Aaah missed this lol Elsa! Dont dare give that to the cat! Can you imagine though? Haha thanks for the tag!! #loved marshmallow's work

I think Anna has talked her sister out of it. But she’ll probably be on the lookout in case Elsa decides to try it...

(You’re welcome! Thanks for reading!)

@kalikoke reblogged your post and added:

Poor Kristoff, being scared off by his girlfriend’s sister and her…army of cats (esp that big white one). 😹😹😹

He is a little weirded out, at that. 😅

#she’s got a buttload of cats

I had a feeling you might use that tag. And they do, they do... 😂

@above-d-clouds reblogged your post and added:

Oh my god Elsa is a dork #can you add me to the tag list too?

Absolutely! I'd be happy to.

In this 'verse, Elsa is *the* dorkiest. 😅

@myfanfictiongarden reblogged your post and added:

Awwww, I loved this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! P.S. @insectoid5 you forgot to tag me…..

Thank you!!

😅 Well... I didn't forget, exactly. I usually post fics tagging whoever I think may be interested (or has requested to be tagged). But I have no problem at all with adding more names. :)

(By the way, I still owe you a response to your lengthy review of my multi-chapter fic. Sorry about that!)

#bug replies #bugfic replies #thegeekogecko #grrlgeek72 #frozenartscapes #wandering bard from the id #gemel dreamer #kalikoke #above d clouds #myfanfictiongarden #bugfic talk

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amdallgallery · 4 years

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Meme Art, Sergeant Mittens is Ready

I’m entering a very unusual artwork and post writing phase. If I’ve ever been in this situation before, I really can’t remember.Essentially, I have now completed multiple drawings and haven’t shared them – a backlog of finished artwork. Normally having art that’s done is the limiting factor, not the writing side. I think the reason is twofold; one, I’m just enjoying creating things. My daughters…

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#cat portrait #internet #meme #meme art #meme drawing #memes #Mittens #Sergeant Mittens #weird art

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starsailores · 5 months

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his ass is not playing the guitar

#sergeant mittens posting

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hydroponicebbandflow · 4 years

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This was posted before, but i managed to save it before it was deleted | iPhone Wallpapers

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This was posted before, but i managed to save it before it was deleted

[ad_2] View Reddit by Sergeant-Mittens – View Source

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#iphone wallpaper 4k #iphone wallpaper fall #iphone wallpaper hd original #iphone wallpaper high quality #iphone wallpaper pinterest #iphone wallpaper quotes #iphone wallpaper tumblr #iPhone Wallpapers #top iphone wallpapers

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oosteven-universe · 5 years

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Captain Ginger #03

Captain Ginger #03 Ahoy Comics 2018 Written by Stuart Moore Pencilled by June Brigman Inked by Roy Richardson Coloured by Veronica Gandini Lettered by Richard Starkings & Comicraft’s Jimmy Betancourt As hundreds of cute kittens threaten to overrun the ship, Captain Ginger and Sergeant Mittens follow a mysterious signal to a deadly deep-space outpost! I really do enjoy this series and mainly because it isn’t really tying to be something it’s not. The premise behind it is sensational and I like that we haven’t seen humans advance the cats to sentience but are in the midst of who knows how many generations later. I like seeing the different generations with different types of names ranging from the kitty names to the descriptive names to just a mass of nameless kittens. There really no rhyme of reason and I like that about this because it’s as fun, chaotic and dangerous as pointing a laser pointer at your dads crotch. All the things we love, and hate, about our feline friends. I will say for all their unpredictability Stuart really does manage to give our main cast some killer characterisation. We kid around all the time about our fingernails and using someone as a scratching post for them, or getting Jungle Red, so to see that kind of aspect being used is extremely well done. The relationship between Sergeant Mittens and Captain Ginger and the rivalry they display is interesting as it pushes each of them to do their best. The honest talk between them here is great to see and way past due and here’s hoping that it continues because forget that male ego and let’s just see them have that non-threatening rivalry. Ecru now she’s an interesting one. What kind of name is Ecru? If it’s based on the colours in her coat I guess okay I get it. I also thought it was interesting the timing of when Doc finds that embedded video file and what happens next. So now along with everything else that’s going on we’ve got this mystery, intrigue and possible betrayal going on as well. I thought we’d get that from Deena but I like that that was misdirection, well okay it’s apparently misdirection, or is it? At this stage that Stuart is keeping us guessing and pulling our strings like a marionettist is something that I hope keeps permeating the series. June lays down some really nice pencils and has an excellent team behind her. I do really like the linework that we see here and how it’s able to depict fun or lack thereof in Doc’s case. How the varying weights are utilised to bring us some great attention to detail is really great to see. I adore how we see the emotions and feeling of these characters and how they have been brought to life. The utilisation of page layouts and how we see the angles and perspective show off a very solid, nice eye for storytelling. I love the colour work and the shading and gradation in the fur. Also how the linework, inking and colouring comes together to create those unique patterns in the fur that we see. I for one greatly appreciate how backgrounds are being utilised here as they do wonders to expand the moment and bring a size and scope to the book. There is a lot going on here that is just wonderfully done. From the concept expanding to the story & plot development, the pacing and the great characterisation alongside these stellar interiors make this one of those books you don’t realise how much you look forward to reading it until you see it. Familiar names, new company same quality we’ve come to expect from them, yeah these are the books you’re looking for!

#comic books #ahoy comics

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writtensinsmrandersin · 5 years

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Gateway Comics Presents: Sergeant Mittens is ready for duty in Super Cat

Sergeant Mittens is ready for duty in Super Cat this week at www.gatewaycomicspresents.com/sc/sc_pg030.html Bradley Potts of Gateway Comics

With Every Post you Share on Social Media we want You to do something you might not be doing, Tag a person you know might Like/Need/Want/Learn from the post.-DO NOT TAG RANDOM PEOPLE- -Do Tag a Person who might…

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#Bradley Potts.#Gateway Comics

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mindfullofclutter · 6 years

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Esperanza

Her name in English means ‘hope’—ironic and perhaps understandable, then, that her eyes betray her as lacking in her namesake.

Nestled between high-rise apartments and post-apocalyptic rock formations sits a settlement inhabited solely by women. This is La Cárcel de Mujeres, a low-security prison for Bolivia’s female offenders, located in Obrajes, the affluent pocket of La Paz.

It feels more like a village than a jail, save for a watchtower and burnt-orange walls that surround the courtyard. But La Cárcel houses 360 women serving up to 30 years for crimes including murder. Petty thieves and drug addicts mingle with violent criminals. Among them, 62 children roam.

The prison is a functioning community, albeit an atypical one. Most of the women secure jobs inside, from cleaning toilets to packing snack boxes with sandwiches for Bolivia’s state-owned airline. There’s a lavandería where garments drip over women kneading soapy piles with bare hands, a chapel, a kindergarten and several fiercely guarded stalls selling chocolate biscuits and papaya juice with little straws for little mouths.

A view from the bleak interview room reveals a ramshackle mélange of metal roofs brightened by a rainbow of sodden clothing drying in the late-morning sun. One woman dyes the tresses of another a disconcerting lilac hue, wringing slosh into a washing-up bowl. Sandals and lopsided toys lie discarded on the walkways separating the gridded slums of toldos, which are metre-square boxes where the women sleep and think when they aren’t working or studying. There are no padlocks and no iron bars.

“We have four roll calls per day,” says grandmother-of-ten, Patricia Arduz, who has been locked up for 13 years for a crime she won’t reveal. The 59-year-old has a slight frame and a warm personality, with smile-crinkled eyes and crucifix jewellery in abundance.

“I arrived at Obrajes last year, and it’s far better than where I’ve been before,” she explains. “Besides the roll call, we choose what to do. You can watch TV, play sports, work or take classes.”

The women in La Cárcel have the opportunity to study courses, from English and social etiquette to therapeutic dance and reusing aluminium.

Rehabilitation through education is the intention and many are better-equipped for real-world employment after serving time.

“I don’t work here but I make clothes which sell well on the outside,” Patricia says. “One item goes for up to 250 bolivianos.” She smiles proudly as she holds a pair of baby pink mittens up for me to admire.

Another prisoner, 24-year-old Esperanza Chambi, will spend her afternoon in a hairdressing class. “I’ve learnt a lot here,” she says, listing knitting and making clothes as skills acquired. “I’m also vice-president of the [inmate] population. I look after the other women and they respect me,” she says, with little tangible enthusiasm.

“It was accidental murder,” she says, hesitating before describing her crime. “I worked in a Chinese restaurant and started fighting with another employee. I pushed her, shouting at her to go away. She fell and hit her head. I ran, but the police found me.”

Esperanza is six years into a 30-year sentence—the maximum sentence allowed for murder under Bolivian law. Her name in English means ‘hope’—ironic and perhaps understandable, then, that her eyes betray her as lacking in her namesake.

For the first two years of Esperanza’s time in Obrajes her daughter, now six, lived with her. Now, she and her eight-year-old brother live with their father in the countryside 12 hours away.

“They don’t visit often any more—just once a year in December. I’m here for 30 years but the worst punishment is that I can’t see my children growing up,” she says, letting her steely-eyed defence down as she sobs, speaking at an increasingly inaudible volume. The edges between “criminal” and “human” blur, but she catches herself quickly.

“I’ve changed since being here,” she asserts, drying her eyes. “I’ve changed the way I think. Maybe outside will be worse. Maybe there is a good reason I’m here now.” Her tone is hollow; her eyes expressionless.

Some argue that the children are better off living with their mothers, no matter how unnatural the environment, given the alternative of being cared for by potentially untrustworthy or distant family members.

Ex-prisoner Helen Pereyra disagrees. The 26-year-old, who has two Bolivian parents but a misleadingly fair complexion, served one and a half years in La Cárcel.

“Settling in to Obrajes was difficult. The women were unkind, calling me ‘La Leche’ (the milk),” she remembers. “I tried to keep a low profile. They threatened to cut my face like they did another fair-skinned woman. “In the first week I cried because I was scared and missed my daughter. Then I took sleeping pills that I got from a guard to try and forget.”

Since leaving la cárcel, Helen has returned to living with her daughter who was just four when her mother was imprisoned for falsifying government documents. “I didn’t want her to live with me inside,” she says. “I decided to be strong for myself, but in prison children learn bad things.”

Bolivian law allows infants to live with a parent inside until they turn six. La Cárcel is home to 51 children under that age limit but 11 others, the oldest aged 12, live here too. As many as three share a single bed with their mother in a dormitory sleeping 40 inmates.

There is a kindergarten inside Obrajes and educational posters decorate peeling paint walls. But this inefficient and opaque justice system caters primarily for adults—not the estimated 1,500 children across the country who live behind bars with them.

“We have a team whose obligation it is to provide health care, social work and work in conjunction with other institutions,” prison director Luz Alaja Arequipa explains. “But children shouldn’t be here. They have nowhere to play, and when they’re old enough to attend school they face bullying and discrimination.”

Sergeant Nancy Villegas agrees that prison and children should not mix. We sit in a high-ceilinged office with an ornate light fixture and a wooden desk. She and the prison director face me, both attired in khaki uniforms and polished boots.

“My good experiences here are mostly with the children,” Nancy, a guard of seven years, says. “I’m always there to protect them. But children suffer. They don’t belong here.” She is straight faced as she elaborates. “Mothers are under pressure, and they take it out on their children. It’s not normally physical violence but psychological; they lose their patience.”

Walking around La Cárcel, however, the children seem happy. Rosy-cheeked toddlers sip juice and run around the courtyard. One young girl sits cross-legged on the concrete, feeding spoonfuls of pasta shells to a baby in a cardboard box cot. She giggles and says “buenas tardes” (good afternoon). Another plays hide and seek, weaving between toldos draped in flowery sheets and women shielding their faces from the sun with Tupperware lids.

Their innocent obliviousness and adaptability inject energy and optimism into this place. And their faces are a reminder that, no matter how cold or concrete or crowded it is, Obrajes, to many, is home.

“I’m leaving the jail in a couple of weeks,” says grandmother-of-ten, Patricia Arduz, squeezing the crucifix dangling around her neck in her palm. “It’s not going to be easy after 13 years—there’s everything you need here.

“I’m afraid because I don’t know what people’s reaction will be. They might hate me. I’ve been here for along time.” Her face creases with worry.

And then we reach her toldo—her personal space. I bend my neck to fit inside and our bodies fill the space. Patricia gestures at a modest television set and a bed blanketed in soft pinks.

It’s small, cosy and made sunny by slightly wilting yellow flowers in a coffee jar vase. A collage of faces of beautiful women cut from glossy magazines covers one wall.

“I chose these photos because I like to see the happy, open smiles of women,” Patricia says, beaming and becoming one of them.

Her grin childlike and her skin soft and wrinkled, she looks harmless. Her eyes sparkle. She looks happy.

I wonder what her crime was.

This report was originally published by Bolivian Express.

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