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secretshinigami · 3 years

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Author: @jeevas-exe (ghoulhunt on ao3) For: @jam-knife Pairing/Characters: Light Yagami, B, L Lawliet Rating/Warnings: T, major character death Prompt: Light and B join forces to bring L down. How does that work out? Your choice to make it Blight or keep it platonic Author’s notes: I had SO much fun writing this piece! It was new and experimental for me to write in this style, but it was lots of fun going back and forth between perspectives and time. The biggest thing was consistency. Happy reading, I hope you enjoy! <3

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It’s close to midnight and the cars seem to be zooming by.

Adrenaline runs through B’s veins. Riding down the highway going upwards of eighty, ninety miles an hour, weaving between traffic, cutting other drivers off and getting honked at. Travel, travel, travel, his days and nights, following, trying to catch up to the black Mercedes with the blacked-out windows ahead of him. Wind whips by, caressing the parts of his body not covered in leather.

It’s cold.

There’s a sound. A shot. Shit, he thinks. He hopes it’s someone’s exhaust backfiring. There’s too many people around for this. The Mercedes zooms across six lanes of traffic, taking the closest exit. Trying to lose him.

He follows. He weaves between traffic on his bike, getting to the car, and he sees the other man leaning outside the window with a gun drawn, pointing in his direction. B grips his own, tight in his hand. He can see his steely grey eyes as he approaches, or maybe that’s just another memory.

B shoots.

The man slumps. Lifeless.

There are lights behind him, red and blue.

The day Light Yagami meets him, he’s wearing the watch his father gave him.

It’s still on Japanese time, where it shows it’s about four in the morning, there. Here, it’s noon. He yawns. He’s restless and jet-lagged, making his way through the customs and the terminal and baggage until he’s out the door and headed to the address he was given.

5512 Highland Park.

The cab he climbed into forty minutes prior parks along the sidewalk of a rundown street. Apartments and small houses with chain-link fences dot the opposite side of the road; where he’s pulled up, a neon sign hangs, buzzing, the lights flickering and not really noticeable in the LA sun. Light notices the peeling, yellowing paint on the outside, the dead flowers in the flowerbeds, the rusted hinges of the dark green door; apparently, the only new renovation that Maple’s Bar & Grille has made in the past who-knows-how-long.

Light looks at his watch. The time ticks away. He pays the cabbie, walks through the squeaking door and up the small step, and is quickly greeted by a waitress, who tells him to take a seat wherever.

He spots him.

In the booth off to the side, sipping on a Shirley Temple, with a coke on the side. A brown-haired, flannel-donning fellow staring down at the newspaper. Light can’t discern what the headline says from here, but the photo shows the destruction of a building. It’s from the L.A. Times. It doesn’t matter, he thinks. Light slides across from him in the booth.

“Hello. Light Yagami.” He extends a hand. The American way.

The man lifts his head. Takes a sip from the glass of sugar he drinks. His eyes bore into Light’s soul, unsettling him, deep in his core, not acknowledging his hand whatsoever. Light retracts it.

“I’ve been waiting quite a while, you know.”

Light blinks. He looks away, tearing his gaze from the man sitting opposite him. He looks down at the menu on the sticky table. “The cab driver didn’t know where this place was.”

“No? This is one of the more popular places around here.” The man looks at the bar, towards a bunch of drunk men, off of work and watching a game on the TV in the upper corner of the room. They don’t even notice them in the booth. Good, he thinks. They don’t need attention. “Call me B.”

B is handcuffed. B is sitting in a chair, alone in a cell, with cement walls and cement floors and fluorescent lights that sting his tired eyes. They buzz. The sound is drowned out by people walking in and out of the jail, police talking, drunk people and others mumbling to themselves.

He knows why he’s here. It replays in his head, over and over. The sound of gunshots, the squeal of tires, the sound of sirens, so many of them, blaring out along the highway. His ears seem to ring despite the hours that have passed.

This is temporary. Soon, he knows, he’ll be back to square one.

Was it worth it?

Light and B meet up everyday for the next few days. It’s always the same restaurant, and the same booth, with varying waitresses, the same water, and the same man sat across from him. Papers have started making their way onto the booth. B looks at them with an intensity Light hasn’t seen before, other than in one person.

The one person they’re trying to take down.

“What’s your connection to him, anyway?” Light asks at this meeting, because for all he knows, this could be as impersonal as flicking one’s cigarette ashes on the floor. He watches B do this as he takes a sip off his water.

“Oh, that’s a little personal, isn’t it? Let’s just say we grew up together.” B replies.

Light feels a jolt go through him; he didn’t know this. Not the specifics, at least. Proof of his name was enough to go through with this arrangement. “You grew up together? Then why are you doing this?”

“That’s really none of your business,” he snaps. “You’re paying me for a service. Be grateful it’s on the table.”

Which, Light supposes, is fair. He looks down at the newspaper in front of him, its headline emblazoned on the front cover:

L IN CONNECTION WITH INTERPOL; CRACKDOWN ON KIRA GROUP COMING.

L Lawliet.

B hadn’t heard the name in years. Rather, he chose to ignore it, because seeing it now and again in the newspapers or on tv really didn’t help his case.

Too many years were spent left alone in that house. And then, alone in L.A., and then, around the world. And now, sitting in a cell, he counts on his fingers how many times he’s spent his days alone, thinking about him, and thinking about all the fucked up things that led to this point.

He continues to wonder if it was worth it. He wonders if things could have been different, if L had just listened to him, had stayed, and had not pretended that B just didn’t exist after everything that happened in the house.

L is dead.

L is dead because of him. No longer is the World’s Greatest Detective but a corpse in the ground; and here he is, stuck in prison for it, because everyone knows he did it. They saw it. At least, everyone who knew who L really was knew it was him. He hasn’t seen the news at all, and probably won’t. He hopes to God, or the Devil, or any other force out there that can hear him, that L–or his place–doesn’t happen again.

Light Yagami has his ducks in a row.

As a part-time investigator himself, he’s learned to always be one step ahead of the game. He’s learned to pay attention to his surroundings, to organize his thoughts before he speaks, to look at things from all sides. L got involved in the Kira Group case alongside him and the rest of the department he was working in, over in Japan. The L. The one that’s solved countless crimes around the world, some of the hardest, all under a pseudonym. For him to get involved meant he had his suspicions, and he knew where to look; in the very place where the police weren’t looking.

Light Yagami has played his cards right; working with groups like Yotsuba and third-parties, such as The Shinigami. Working between them, they’ve obtained quite a bit of money–here and there, of course, and Light turns a blind eye to the way the money is obtained. He’s only in control of how and where the money goes, of course. The rest is up to Ryuk, to gain it, while the accounts are hidden between Yotsuba’s various company expenses and profits. It works. So much, in fact, that they were able to transfer billions upon billions within a matter of months.

He isn’t sure what caught L’s eye. Maybe it was a fuck up on Ryuk’s part, or something between Yotsuba, or maybe it was the sudden influx of profit and stocks and the company doing “well” on an international level. Maybe that was it. Light wouldn’t be surprised.

Light isn’t greedy.

Light is, simply, bored.

It was never his intention to get L onto this case, but it makes for extra fun, he supposes. Doubling and tripling and quadrupling the work he usually does for the Kira Group, all for the sake of laughs, while dollar bills light up in the other’s eyes. And he knows he won’t be caught until L can connect him to any of these groups, which he never will.

Let him have his suspicions. Light knows he’ll get off scot-free.

B remembers the first time he met L.

It was summer, and he was just a kid. Small, maybe around ten, tired from the flight, gripping balling his fists into the sleeves of his shirt. Summer here was colder than home. The mansion was somehow even colder.

It was nighttime. B doesn’t remember the exact time, but he was hungry. He didn’t go down for dinner; instead, he sat at his bed, looking at his minimal belongings. This was his room, now. This was his new home, but it didn’t feel like it. Nothing felt right. Not the windows, not the furniture, not the smell. It was unsettling, being here; like his whole life had been uprooted.

It had, but not because of the change in home.

He refused to think about it. Instead, B trotted out of his room, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was past curfew, and he didn’t want to get in trouble on his very first day. His stomach growled, but he didn’t know where the kitchen was; it wasn’t shown to him on his little tour around the house. He assumed it was past the dining room, somewhere downstairs, and after a little bit of wandering, he found it.

He found another boy there, too. With the man who had picked him up and showed him around. Maybe he was also new. He was eating dinner, soup, at a small table. The elder man smiled; he ladled another bowl for B, setting it across from the other boy.

Despite how unsettling the day had been, it was comforting. It could be home.

Things weren’t supposed to end up like this.

Light can feel L on his heels. He’s uncomfortably close to the end of this, and it’s suffocating. And thrilling. Scary, but electrifying; being in the same room as him, knowing what he knows, but knowing there’s nothing he can do about it just yet.

L knows of The Shinigami Group. He’s asked about Ryuk, and has started researching who he is. There’s only so long until contact is made, and Light knows his connection is fairly solid, but not enough; if Ryuk goes down, so does he, and so does Yotsuba. He needs to do something. Anything.

Contact with B is a blessing in disguise. He doesn’t know who this B person is, but he claims to know L. He knows enough information that catches Light’s eye; details about his aliases, specific cases, his appearance, even knowledge of Watari’s role. It intrigues Light, because he isn’t sure what this person could possibly want from him, or why he’s contacting him.

He says he can help. He knows L is close to solving this case. Let him help.

Light books a trip to California. It’s sudden, but he says that between school and work, he’s really stressed out. His dad understands, even defends him; he’s working too hard on this case he’s not even technically being paid to do, while trying to figure out how to manage school in between. He needs time to himself to sort things out, and maybe a trip out by himself is what he needs. He wants to visit the forests up north, and maybe explore some of the other cities. A two week trip should be enough time for that.

So he goes. He spends part of the first week up in the Redwoods, goes down to San Francisco, and eventually gets to Los Angeles.

This means, when L expects him back at headquarters by the weekend, that he really only has seventy-two hours to finalize things with B. They need to settle on a plan.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” B starts, sitting across from him in that same booth. Light thinks he must be sweltering under that leather jacket; it isn’t exactly cool in here. “I come back to Japan with you on an earlier flight. You need to find a way to get L out of headquarters. You know, he’s secretly an adrenaline junkie. Get him into the action. Did you already plan on the Yotsuba thing?”

Light nods. He looks down at his watch. Back at B. “Higuchi is greedy, it’ll take no time for him to want to get extra money. I just have to dangle it in front of him in just the right way.”

“Perfect. Arrange it so Higuchi will meet with…whoever, I don’t really give a fuck. Just get him at this location,” he insists, pointing at the Port of Tokyo on the map, “and L will eventually get there, too. I’ll do my job accordingly.”

“Right.” Light responds. “I would like to know more details about that, if you don’t mind.”

Dramatically, B sighs. “Don’t worry yourself. Nothing that a bike and a gun can’t take care of.”

B is ready.

Light is ready.

It’s the day of. Light’s been on edge all day. The whole group has been on edge; they all know they’re on to something big, and they’re about to crack it.

L’s learned of Higuchi, of Yotsuba, of the laundering. At least, part of it, but Light knows better than anyone else here this is just a big red herring. He really thought L would know better. He supposes not, because here he is, taking the bait. Is it for show? Does he really believe it?

He doesn’t know.

It’s close to midnight, and Aizawa and Ide have been tracking Higuchi all day, between the live feed on their screens to monitored calls (thanks to Wedy, who was only there for a few days). L climbs into the front seat on the passenger’s side, where Light can drive.

Light starts driving to the location. L sits, hands gripping his knees, tense. Police are starting to arrive towards the location; they’re receiving live updates about their statuses throughout.

“Heading south, about twenty minutes from location,” Light says into the receiver.

“Got that. We’re watching Higuchi right now.” Aizawa’s voice reports. “There doesn’t seem to be much going on.”

L hums. Light grips the steering wheel.

“We have enough evidence to arrest him already,” Light says. “Why are we holding off?”

“We need sufficient, hard evidence. This will be enough.” L grits.

“The bank statements aren’t enough?”

B was right. L is an adrenaline junkie. Light sees the way his eyes change, and he knows this isn’t just for evidence; it’s so he can say he did it. So he can say he was right. He caught one of the largest white collar criminals the world has ever seen.

Light looks in the rearview mirror. He sees the bike. He hears a shot. L looks in the side mirror, and sees the same.

“We’re being followed.”

“Shit,” Light mutters. He speeds up, trying to weave between traffic. His heart is racing. He’s trying to stay calm. “Do you think–”

Another shot. This one hits the car.

L reaches into his pocket and grabs his gun. “Keep driving.”

He leans out the window.

Light hears a shot.

And then, L slumps.

B realizes, far too late, that working with Light was the worst possible thing he could’ve done.

He sees it from behind the bars of his cell. Sentenced to life, sitting in San Quentin State Prison. Found guilty of first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder. He’s not surprised in the slightest. He held up his end of the deal.

Light didn’t.

Instead, he let him be arrested. Had his team follow him, get him arrested, extradited back to the States. He got his money, but not for long. He sits alone, biding the rest of the time he has on Earth, eating shitty prison food and fighting with inmates and ending up in solitary for a few weeks. He watches stupid reruns of Law and Order and reads books and occasionally steals a newspaper off of his cellmate.

That’s how he sees Light Yagami come up in the world. He sees him becoming what L used to be. He reads about how Yotsuba was dissolved, but other companies–smaller ones, like Yotsuba once was–grow into the large, influential entities they are. It’s because of him. All of it.

He thought he got what he wanted. It was just another way for business, and it shouldn’t have been personal, but oh, it was. He knew that as soon as he pulled the trigger, as soon as he met Light Yagami at that stupid little restaurant in that stupid, sticky booth.

B didn’t want that. He needed something from L, something permanent to soothe the pain of everything between them, but death was something that stuck; the bullet, an indefinite solution, holding his anger, his resentment, his grief and sadness.

He’s paying for it, now. He knows that well enough.

So B sits.

He thinks of the watch Light Yagami wore.

—

#fanfiction #death note #submission #light yagami #l lawliet #beyond birthday #rosyoongi #jam-knife #Near's Bday Finale 2k21 #ratings: teen

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goldeneyedgirl · 3 years

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TwiFicMas20 Day 3: Married in Vegas

I hope December is treating everyone well <3 Today’s offering is ‘Married in Vegas’. G requested it to be included in FicMas months ago, and it’s here. In pieces, because I may have over-estimated how ‘ready’ it was to be seen.

It also degenerated into something terribly depressing, when I was definitely going for something happier, rom-com meets coming of age, so large chunks definitely need to be rewritten.

Oh, and if you want more of a specific fic, you NEED to tell me, or it will simply languish on my harddrive, forgotten forever.

Onwards!

I meet him on a Thursday night, in the shitty little bar where I work. We talk, he drinks, and then he leaves.

By Saturday night, I am Mrs Alice Whitlock-Hale, with a ring bought from some cheap jewellery vendor and a plastic flower crown in my hair.

It was the best night of my life.

Okay, so I could start at the beginning. But the true beginning is a four-year-old girl being left behind when her mom runs away with her baby sister, and the middle is when, at fourteen, that girl is thrown out of her father’s house. She tries to go home once, at sixteen, only to find out that her dad and step-monster moved away. Left the state and left her behind without so much as a forwarding address.

But that story is depressing as hell, so we’ll start when things get interesting.

My ‘husband’ – Jasper Whitlock-Hale - was a strapping 6-foot-something soldier fresh from his last tour – honourably discharged, he was quick to inform me when we first met, and I could tell that was a point of some pride for him.

I worked at a bar called ‘Sassy’s’. It had been opened in the 70s and I was pretty sure it hadn’t been cleaned or redecorated since those halcyon days. The current owner was Bruno – his son, Emil, was the manager. They were both decent, in that they paid me on time and never groped me. It’s pretty sad when those factors qualify as ‘decent’, but you tend not to be too picky when you’re applying for work at places like ‘Sassy’s’.

Especially when you’re an underage runaway.

How were we still in business? Well, we did dollar beers after nine at night (it wasn’t good beer), and we served pretty good nachos, and we had a huge flat-screen television. Oh, and we ignored any kind of gambling that happened in the dark corners.

It started off as a totally normal night – the usual crowd waiting for their cheap beers, wiping down sticky tables, and killing time. If I was lucky, there wouldn’t be any decent sports playing tonight, and no one would bitch much if I switched the channel over.

He walked through the door just after nine, limping quite obviously. He was wearing a button-down shirt, jeans and a worn leather jacket. He looked kind of haunted – but that isn’t exactly unusual in Vegas; if you don’t arrive with regrets, you’re probably going to leave with them.

He also looked too young, too clean and way too promising to be a patron at Sassy’s. I was slinging beer at that point, as he approached.

“Beer, please,” he said as he sat at the bar.

“Dollar, thanks,” I said with a smile, grabbing a chipped – but clean – glass, and grabbed a dish of peanuts. They were pretty good – more than often, they were my dinner.

“Thanks,” he nodded once, staring at the amber liquid for a moment. He looked exhausted.

I kept working – stacking fresh glasses, packing the dirty ones into the ancient dishwasher behind the bar that Bruno had installed last summer, so proudly. Pretty sure it was older than me, but it meant that I didn’t have to deal with the washing-up anymore, so I smiled and thanked him, as if I didn’t spend at least half a shift trying to get the damned thing to work.

“Mija!” Luis ducked his head out of the kitchen, passing me a plate.

“Thanks,” I said. “Need a drink?”

“Nah, just fine girly.”

Luis had it easy. He was in college, so this was a part-time gig for him – he only came in two nights a week. He earned twice what I earned, but we didn’t get as many orders for food, so he got to sit in the tiny-ass kitchen (seriously, two people couldn’t fit back there) and study. He’d make me dinner every shift we worked together, which was nice of him. Tonight was grilled cheese.

On quiet nights, I liked to prop the kitchen door open, and sit on the bar and listen to him talk about his classes while I ate. He was always hinting about me going to college, about financial assistance and scholarships, but it just wasn’t going to happen for me.

I had a mouthful of food when the group in the corner started yelling for more drinks. These guys knew Bruno and Emil, so I had to tolerate their smart-ass mouths. They liked to tease the ‘princess’ who worked there. I got that from a lot of regulars, but these guys liked to imply that I was a whore, and tell me they’d wait for me after work to ‘test me out’.

Luis said it was because they were testing me, and they were pissed that Bruno never fired the white girl. Camila, one of the ex-waitresses, was the daughter of one of them and that was why they never tipped me. A form of protest. I never breathed a word about it, and treated them just as well as any other customer.

“Beers, gentlemen,” I said, sliding the tray onto the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll say,” one of them leered and another slapped me on the ass. I rolled my eyes and turned to go back to the bar.

“Rough night?” the guy at the bar said as I returned.

“What? Oh, them,” I shrugged, picking up my sandwich. “They’re here every night.”

“They act like that all the time?” he asked.

“Yeah, but they’re just blowing off steam. Don’t like that I kept my job and one of their daughters didn’t,” I said. “Can I get you another?”

“Please.” He watched me move carefully. “What’s your name?”

“Mary,” I said, placing another beer in front of him, and grabbing a soda for myself.

“Jasper, ma’am,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Jasper. You from around here?”

By closing time, Jasper had nursed four beers and half my sandwich – which he inhaled like he hadn’t eaten in a while. We’d chatted. He’d just returned from his third tour in the Middle East – he didn’t say much about that, though I heard some pride in his voice when he mentioned it.

We talked about Vegas a bit, about the things he missed when he was overseas (his aunt’s chocolate cake, the cool forests of Washington state, and books). He was just passing through Vegas, here for a few days. Trying to adjust back to civilian life.

He stayed as I cleaned up, loading the dishwasher and scrubbing down the benches and tables. He watched as David and Sammy came up to pay, smirking as I leant over the bar to reach the money, giving them an unwilling flash of my pitiful cleavage.

All twenty-six dollars of it, in crumpled bills.

“Thanks,” I smiled brightly, handing them a receipt and a package of matches with the logo on it. They grunted at me and left. Their table was a mess of napkins, peanuts and glasses.

“Hope they tipped you well,” Jasper said as he watched me load the tray.

“Oh, they don’t tip. They hate me,” I said, as I piled the garbage onto a tray.

“How long were they here?”

“Since five. It’s fine, really,” I said. “It’s tradition.”

“No, it’s being an asshole,” Jasper muttered.

Luis chose that moment to leave the kitchen, bag on his shoulder.

“It’s closing time,” he sung at me, just like every night. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”

I snorted. “Well, Jasper, it’s been nice talking to you, but I have to lock up,” I said with a little regret. He was a nice guy, and nice guys didn’t spend a lot of time at Sassy’s.

“Do you need a lift home?” he offered and then froze. “Sorry, that sounded really… seedy. I was going to offer to split a cab.”

“Thank you, but Luis gives me a lift,” I said.

“Okay. Do … you work any other nights this week?” he asked, almost shyly.

Luis was doing his best to be invisible, grabbing the trash and dragging it out the back.

“Tomorrow morning, from eleven til seven, I said. “Beer is full-priced, I’m sorry to say.”

“Okay. Thanks. It was nice talking to you,” he said again, fumbling with his words.

“You too. And if I don’t see you again, have a good time in Vegas,” I said, and, leaving money tucked under his glass, Jasper finally rose and limped out.

I sighed; dumping the glass in the sink and counting out the four dollars for the till, I jammed the tip into my bra. There wasn’t much else to do – I was opening tomorrow; we opened from 11am til 1am, so it would be me who unpacked the soda in the backroom, and the glasses and ran a mop over the perpetually sticky floor. So I could go into the kitchen and change out of my uniform and go and find Luis.

Once the hot pink wig was peeled off, my black hair stuck clammily to my face. My make-up had mostly melted off and it was a relief to tug on my leggings and hoodie and grab my bag.

Luis was waiting for me in the car as I locked up.

“So, you and soldier boy,” he began as soon as I got in.

“Ugh, really?” I pulled my tip out of my bra. “He was alone, and flirting with the waitress. Won’t see him again.” It had been a quiet night – fourteen dollars, plus whatever Jasper had left me. I mean, on average, I made maybe twenty-five dollars in tips a night.

And I stared. Two twenty dollar bills were staring at me, along with six dollars. A forty six dollar tip for four dollar beers. And half a cold grilled cheese sandwich.

“No, he didn’t like you at all,” Luis drawled.

“Shut up,” I grumbled, but inside I was giddy. He was dashing, and smart and polite. And now I could make my rent.

“Here were are. Sleep well,” Luis pulled up in front of the apartment block.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, spinning my keys around my finger, and headed home.

The apartment block was a grim brick building of roughly eighty apartments. I lived in number 48. Well, I rented a room in number 48. The apartment was really Victoria’s. Victoria had two kids and never actually told me what she did for a living. Nothing would surprise me. She was a bitch, didn’t give a shit about her kids, but rented out the third closet-sized bedroom complete with air mattress and a locked closet full of canned soup to me for the princely sum of eighty bucks a week.

What did I know about my new husband?

He walked with a limp – I was guessing an injury that got him discharged from the military.

He had a twin sister – one he spoke of with equal parts affection and irritation.

He liked history – American military history, specifically.

He was raised in Texas, until his mother died when he was 10. He and his sister were packed off to live with his mom’s best friend and her husband in the wilds of Washington state, where he stayed until he finished high school. He never mentioned his father.

And he was a consummate gentleman.

I, on the other hand, lied my head off.

Well, I only told the usual lies – I was 21, earning money for college, hoping to be a nurse one day. Oh, and when he asked about my family, I told him they were dead. It was better to keep it simple, it meant there were no questions.

We got married on the Strip, Saturday night.

And when he woke up Sunday morning looking hilariously horrified at the fact we got married, I might have exaggerated how drunk I was.

That makes me sound like the worst kind of person, and I don’t think I am, really.

I mean, he was dressed very nicely, he had a black AmEx, and was clearly educated. But I didn’t want to take advantage of him, truly. I wasn’t looking for money or anything. He was so nice, so handsome and he made me feel safe. And before she left me, my mom always told me that life was meant to be full of adventures, and I had to get out there and grab them with both hands. She didn’t leave me with many good memories, so I kind of held onto that advice.

Just once, for a moment, I wanted to pretend to be the type of girl who could marry someone like Jasper Whitlock. The kind of girl who got to stay in beautiful hotel suites.

He kept apologising to me, seemingly more shocked that I had slept on the hotel couch than the idea we had gotten drunk, married and might have had sex. He looked completely panicked, pacing and muttering and staring at me like a stranger.

I took advantage of the giant bathtub and the endless selection of bath gels and lotions whilst he tried to be subtle about the panicked phone calls he was making, his knuckles white as he gripped the damning piece of paper that declared us husband and wife in the state of Nevada.

I emerged smelling of cherry blossoms and lavender. I mean, I only had the previous night’s clothes – my black mini-skirt, leggings, a Sassy’s tank top and my poor flats – but at least I was clean and tidy.

“I need to shower,” Jasper managed as I came out. “There’s coffee and juice if you want something.”

“Thanks,” I smiled.

As I went to grab a drink, his phone buzzed and I looked down to see the messages flash across the screen, one after the other.

ROSALIE (CELL) 9:17:04am: Cut the tramp loose. C spoke to E & u can annul when u get home. JFC.

CARLISLE (WORK) 9:17:11am: I’ve spoken to Eleazer, and he’s willing to work this out.

EDWARD (CELL) 9:17:24am: Tell me this is a joke or something. Rosalie keeps shrieking every time she calls.

ESME (CELL) 9:17:31am: Rosalie told us. Bring her home with you and we can fix it. Love you XOXO

BELLA (iMessage) 9:17:49am: R u ok? Saw on R’s FB what happened.

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:00am: Did u srsly marry a stripper in Vegas?!?

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:09am: Rose is losing her shit. Nice knowing u.

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:34am: At least send pix of what she looks like dude.

I turned away from the phone, though it was fascinating watching the messages pop up. My cellphone was a beat-up second-hand Sidekick Tiffy had given me for my seventeenth birthday, the back bedazzled in pink and purple, and the only text messages I got were from Luis, Emil and Bruno, about work.

Or Victoria, bitching about the rent.

I grabbed my drink and sat on the couch, flipping on the television whilst I waited for Jasper to finish in the shower. He emerged, looking calmer, though pale and hung over, snatching up his phone, with a towel slung around his hips. I tried not to stare – goddamnit, this guy should not be marrying strange bartenders in Vegas. He would have absolutely no trouble getting a date. I knew I was bright red, refocusing on whatever cartoons were playing on the screen.

Jasper took me to breakfast at the hotel restaurant afterwards - I felt super underdressed with my sweater over my top, as I was served the fanciest eggs I had ever seen. Jasper crumbled a bagel up and drank about a gallon of coffee, barely meeting my eyes. I figured I might as well take advantage of my wedding breakfast, and also helped myself to fruit salad that included fruits I wasn’t aware were even available in America, and a doughnut that looked hand-painted with icing.

“I have some appointments today,” Jasper said, finally, when he finally pushed his plate aside. “We could meet for dinner later.”

I popped the last bite of doughnut into my mouth and wondered if he was planning on leaving town, leaving me behind.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

I had the day off, surprisingly enough. Normally on my days off, I had plans – sometimes I worked for a catering firm I was registered with, for some extra cash. Sometimes I’d hit the thrift stores to try and pad out my meagre wardrobe, or go and sketch or read in the park. I hated hanging around the apartment, since Victoria, James and Laurent kept unpredictable hours and could be there all day.

But today, I had nowhere to be. My phone needed charging and I could do with a few extra hours of sleep – a headache was definitely lingering. Plus, if breakfast was any indication, I needed to dress up for dinner. I was pretty sure that breakfast had cost more than my entire wardrobe. But I had one dress that was passable.

Luckily, the apartment was empty when I slipped in and collapsed into my bed, noticing only for a second that the hotel couch was far and away more comfortable than the ancient air mattress Victoria provided.

I was woken at five pm by a text message from Jasper.

360-555-0134 5:03:44pm: My meetings are done. Just heading back to the hotel for a shower. Our reservation is for 7:30pm. Pick you up at 7?

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face – I hadn’t been sure I’d ever hear from Jasper again. But he was taking me out to a fancy dinner. Hell, I would have been over the moon if we went to a movie and ate hot dogs in a park. Flipping open the keyboard, I tapped out a response.

775-555-0182 5:04:59pm: Sounds good – am sending my address. Hope your day was good.

I had two hours to get ready for the fanciest meal of my life.

I could so do this.

—

Considering my resources, I didn’t think I looked too bad. I’d left my hair loose, since I didn’t own a curling wand or straightener, and managed to paint my nails with the half-empty bottle of nude pink I’d found amongst my stuff.

My dress was a black polyester number I had fished out of a basket at the thrift store and had cost me eight dollars. It was a baby-doll style and I thought it made me look older. My shoes were black wedges that were nowhere near fancy enough, but I didn’t own any proper heels.

I had run to the drug store around the corner for a lipstick, a deep crimson that made me feel much older and more glamorous. The effect was somewhat spoilt by the fact I didn’t own a decent coat, just a purple cardigan and a hoodie. And the only purse I owned was a silver crossbody-bag that looked like I had only paid two dollars for it.

At seven on the dot, I emerged from my room to find Victoria, the kids, James and Laurent eating pizza.

“Look at you, baby,” James was practically drooling as I walked through, jamming my wallet and phone into the tiny bag. “Told you she was gorgeous.”

Laurent made a non-committal sound but his gaze never left my legs, ew.

“Where are you going?” Victoria demanded, glaring at me. She definitely preferred me as skinny, bedraggled Mary instead of girly Alice.

“I have a date,” I said.

“A date? Finally working for the money, Mary?” Victoria said. “Thought you were too good for that.”

I made a face at her. “A date. With a guy. Where he takes me to dinner and we talk.”

“You didn’t come home last night,” Victoria said carelessly, and I caught a dark look pass over James’ face. “Excuse me for assuming that you’d come to your senses.”

I swallowed my vulgar response and grabbed my keys. “Don’t wait up.”

My stuff was packed up – in the end, I had only a small duffle bag and my messenger bag of stuff for nineteen years of life.

Jasper was planning on driving back to Forks over two or three days. He had considered – and offered – to pay for us to fly back, but I’d never been in an airplane before, and figured a road-trip would give me time to prepare to meet Jasper’s family.

I wasn’t expecting it. Not for James to half-punch, half-slap me, and shake me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs burning, slightly disoriented from the blows.

James half-threw me against the fridge, the handle digging into my back. I dropped my bags as he grabbed me by the scruff of the shirt and pulled me back towards him.

“You think you can leave?” he spat at me. “Stupid bitch, think you’re better than this?”

I tried to pull away, but I was too small.

“You’re just like Vic. Just like ‘em all. You’ll come crawling back when that prick gets bored,” he purred at me, one hand sliding down my stomach and I suddenly was terrified. “I’m not picky, I’ll take you back – when you beg.”

“James.”

We both jerked around to see Laurent standing in the doorway, with one of Victoria’s daughters in tow.

James pasted a bright smile on his face. “Just sayin’ good bye to Mary here. Takin’ her chances in sunny California.”

Laurent looked from me to him and shrugged. “Coming?”

James looked back at me and sneered. “Yeah. The trash can take herself out.”

Within seconds, they were gone, and I was alone. I span on my heel and headed to the bathroom.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My throat was red, where he’d shaken me, and my eye and cheek were already swelling – and my lip was split. My back and shoulder ached, plus my right ankle was tender.

Thankfully, the collar of my cardigan would cover up my throat, and my sunglasses would cover up my eye. Hopefully, my lip would stop bleeding by then. Nothing that indicated James had hurt me. But I didn’t want to hang around, in case he came back.

Snagging my bags off the floor, I dropped my keys on the kitchen table and fled apartment 48 for the final time.

Jasper was waiting in the bar with a coffee and the paper when I showed up. I’d tried so hard to dress nicely – a blue shirtdress and lavender leggings – but the women in the hotel foyer made me look like a middle school student.

“Hi,” I smiled as I reached the table.

“Good morning,” Jasper said, jumping up to take my bags. “Can I get you anything?”

“An oj?” I asked, looking around at the fancy surroundings. I wasn’t sure anything as pedestrian as an orange had ever crossed the threshold of this place.

“Certainly.” A hotel employee suddenly appeared at Jasper’s elbow. “Could you put these bags with mine? And the lady would like an orange juice, and perhaps the brunch menu?”

“Of course, Mr Whitlock,” the employee said.

I wriggled around in my seat, gazing around the bar. One woman was wearing the most incredible red and gold heels, and another had an embroidered floral dress that was to die for.

“The hotel had some computer difficulties this morning – we should be able to leave soon,” Jasper said to me, drawing my attention back to him. “I’d like to make it to Boise tonight.”

“Sounds good,” I said, as a waiter swept to my side, placing the fanciest glass of juice in front of me, and a tasselled menu. “Thank you.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Jasper said, looking guilty. “Early start. But please, get whatever you want.”

“O-kay,” I said. I wasn’t very hungry, and my throat hurt after James’ assault, but I needed to eat – I wasn’t sure if we’d stop for lunch. Rule number one was never, ever turn down free food.

A hotel employee appeared at Jasper’s elbow the second my breakfast plate was cleared, to let us know that the ‘issues’ had been fixed, and our luggage was in the car.

It was happening. We were going.

Mary-Alice Brandon: now leaving Las Vegas.

The motel was neat and pretty clean, with two double beds and a TV. We’d grabbed burgers through drive-thru, and were ready to settle in for the night.

I had some ancient pj bottoms and a tank top to sleep in, and didn’t think of anything else as I left the bathroom, my hair hanging loose.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jasper was at my side in a second, his eyes wide.

“What?” I gave him a confused look, and belatedly realised that my make-up was washed off and in my tank top my throat was bared, the bruises that James had given me so much darker and angrier than before.

“Oh, um, my landlord’s boyfriend had a problem with me leaving,” I said uncomfortably.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “We can find a doctor in the morning.”

I waved it off. “I’ve got painkillers in my purse. Just have to wait til I heal.”

Jasper was determined to buy me clothing as soon as we finished breakfast, and I gave up and let him drive me to the Gap outlet. It was a novelty to be able to purchase whatever I need, something I wasn’t used to, as I carefully chose jeans and dresses. I also picked up a winter parka on sale, when Jasper warned me how wet and cold Forks was.

But when Jasper went to pay, he gave me a Look. “My sister spends more on a single pair of shoes,” he grumbled at me as I gathered my bags.

“I’ve got everything I need, I swear,” I said. “Probably too much, honestly.”

On the way from Seattle, I tried to memorise everything about Jasper’s family and friends, so not to fuck this up worse than it already was.

There were his ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, Esme and Carlisle. They had one biological son, Edward, who was 22 and married to Isabella, with a toddler named something strange. Ness, Jasper called her.

Jasper’s twin sister, Rosalie, was engaged to a man named Emmett, who was also one of Jasper’s best friends. They were building a house in Forks, and were getting married at the end of the year.

Jasper’s best friends were Emmett and a man named Peter, Jasper’s roommate in college, who now worked at a law firm in Seattle and had a girlfriend named Charlotte whom Jasper called ‘an angel’, and designed wedding dresses.

I felt like I needed flashcards.

#twificmas20 #ficmas20 #alice cullen #jasper hale #alice/jasper #jalice #twilight renaissance #twilight fic #human au #getting married in vegas #wip #my fic #my fic: vegas

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lost-n-stereo · 4 years

Text

i sleep a little deeper when you’re next to me

The clock reads two am when she wakes up after hours of tossing and turning. Harry’s side of the bed, as she’s come to think of it even though they don’t officially live together, is cold and still made the same way it was this morning.

They had a fight, which was more her fault than his. Her courses are hard and she’s working a full time job on top of school to pay her bills so her parents don’t have to. Harry had offered to pay for her rent but she refused because she’s not going to be that small town girl that hooks up with a rich guy just so she doesn’t have to work for what she has.

But Cassandra has a lot of medical bills and she doesn’t want to be a burden so she trudges down to a local diner five nights a week and waits tables for minimum wage and decent tips. Harry visits her sometimes and always leaves a hundred dollar bill for a tip just to…she doesn’t know, help? Or piss her off, maybe. She always splits it equally with the other waitresses on shift when she’s working and then drops whatever’s left in the cup of the homeless man that lives outside of her building.

Tonight’s fight wasn’t a bad one but Allie still feels like shit because of it. She’s not even really sure it could classify as a fight. Harry had met her at her place after her shift like he does most nights. His job is demanding, since he works almost eighty hours a week most of the time. Her place in Brooklyn is closer to his job than his apartment in Manhattan and she knows that he’d rather sleep with her than take a train to his own place and do it all again the next day. There’s a drawer of slacks and socks in her dresser, and at least ten oxford shirts hanging up next to her clothes in the tiny closet of her bedroom.

She’d snapped at him because her shift at the diner was shitty. A customer had tried to feel her up when she handed him his roast beef on rye and she’d almost gotten fired for chewing him out. Then on her way home she’d decided to walk because the rain had finally start to let up but just as she reached her building a cab had blown by her, along with a wall of muddy water all over her work clothes. Needless to say she wasn’t in the best mood when Harry had walked in using his key and laughed a little as he’d seen the state she was in.

“What in the world happened to you?” he’d asked her, dragging his fingers through the mud she still hadn’t washed from her hair.

“It’s not a good time, Harry,” she’d snapped back and he’d reared back like she’d hit him, surprise and then disappointment on his face before a mask of indifference fell over his features.

She hates that look.

“Fine. I’m gonna go then, have a good night, Al.”

He was already out the door before she could protest and ask him to come back.

Now it’s two in the morning and she’s cold, her bed is cold, and all she wants is her boyfriend to come sleep next to her.

I’m sorry, she texts him, entirely aware that it’s the middle of the night and they haven’t spoken in over seven hours. He has no reason to even be awake and yet…

Me too.

She takes a deep breath, maybe because it’s the first one she’s taken since he walked out the door or maybe it’s so she doesn’t burst into tears. She absolutely hates it when they fight.

I woke up and you weren’t here. I don’t like it.

His message back is instant. I can be there in thirty minutes.

Maybe she’s an asshole for expecting her boyfriend to get out of bed in the middle of the night just because she misses him.

Frankly, she doesn’t really care what it makes her. She just wants him next to her, always.

All she sends back is the world please and he tells her that he was pulling on his shoes before she even wrote him back.

Forty minutes later she’s still wide awake, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock. When she finally hears it she gets out of bed, pulls the Harvard tee of his that she sleeps in over her underwear and pads out into the living room.

His eyes are downcast when they meet in the middle of her living room and she sighs, reaches up with her fingertips and pushes his chin until he’s looking at her.

“I suck, I’m sorry.”

Harry nods, reaches out and settles a hand on her hip. “I fucking hate it when you’re pissed at me, Al. I didn’t even know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything,” she insists, standing on her tip toes so she can brush her lips across his. “I had a bad day and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry for shutting down. I shouldn’t have done that either.”

Allie shakes her head, like it’s nothing he needs to apologize for because it’s not. “It’s over, you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

She takes his hand and leads her into the bedroom, which is just as much his now as it is hers. When she goes to set the alarm that will wake him up for work he puts his hand out.

“Can you skip your classes tomorrow?”

She wants to crack a joke about how it’s actually today but she doesn’t, just thinks about how it’s Wednesday and she can probably email her professors and just say that she wasn’t feeling well.

“Yeah,” she says as she climbs in bed next to him. “Are you thinking of calling in tomorrow?”

Harry smirks a little, nuzzles her neck the way that she loves. “I already did. I told them my girlfriend yelled at me and I needed a personal day.”

Allie laughs and pokes him in the side. “Shut up, you did not.”

“Hand to God.”

His hand starts to trail up her side before resting it just under her breast and she sucks in a breath as he trails kisses from her shoulder up to a spot just behind her ear.

“I should make that up to you then,” she says, tilting her head so she can catch his lips with her own.

#hallie #hallie fanfiction #harry bingham #allie pressman #drabble #fanfic

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sapphiclecterarchive · 5 years

Text

the 1:30 train - fic

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Steve/Bucky Desc.: Before We Go AU. In which Steve is a trumpet player avoiding his ex, and Bucky is stuck in Manhattan for the night. Warnings: Mention of domestic violence (no graphic descriptions, just a brief mention) Words: 11k A/N: I posted this fic on my AO3 last year, before my account was deleted for no reason. I thought all my fics were gone for good until yesterday, when I found that they’d all just been orphaned! Anyway, I thought I’d re-edit this and post it again here. Enjoy :)

There was a man playing the trumpet in Grand Central Terminal. He had been there for a few days, filling the hours between opening and closing with music. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people had passed by him in this time; some would drop money into his open case, others would pass without acknowledgment, others would give him a smile and a “sorry, no change”. Over the course of these days, he saw engagements and break ups and first kisses, he experienced anniversaries and provided the soundtrack to reunions, and those things alone were enough to make up for those who didn’t give him the time of day.

As the station began to quieten, the regular flow of people dwindling down to late-night commuters and cleaning staff, the trumpet player reclined against the wall. His legs had started protesting against standing all day almost two hours ago. Sitting, even on the hard floor of the station, was a relief.

His phone rang, and he placed his trumpet next to him on the floor to answer it.

“Steve’s phone."

“Man, you know you don’t have to say that every time?”

Steve chuckled at his best friend, “What’s up, Sam?”

“I just wanted to know if you were coming downtown. Where are you?”

By the sounds of it, he was still downtown; Steve could hear the muffled sound of music and talking on his end. It had just passed 1:30 in the morning, so he really wasn’t surprised the party was still in full swing. It was a Tony Stark party, after all.

“I’m still at Grand Central.” Steve rolled his head back against the wall, averting the gaze of the cleaner who’d been staring at him for a while. “Is she there?”

There was silence for a few moments. “She’s here. I’m sorry, man. You should still come down, though.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah, I don’t know...”

“Okay,” Sam said, resigned. “I’ll text you the address anyway, you should come.”

Sam had just hung up when a number of things happened all at once.

A dark haired man came reeling through the station like a whirlwind, flying past Steve in his expensive shoes and catching himself on the trumpet case still lying on the floor. The money inside of it scattered across the marble, and the guy just about managed to stay on his feet as he sprinted towards one of the terminals and disappeared from view.

Steve didn’t have a chance to be angry about the case, as he quickly noticed something the guy had left behind.

A black iPhone was lying face-down on the floor a few feet away from Steve. He reached forward to pick it up and inspect it. It had shattered pretty badly, and when he pressed the power button the screen gave one, pathetic flicker of light before dying.

The guy came back around the corner a minute or so later, and Steve watched –while packing away his trumpet and pocketing the money – as he approached a worker, who looked like she was on her way home.

“Can I use this ticket for another train?” He desperately showed his ticket to her. “I missed it and I really have to get home.”

The woman shook her head. “No more trains tonight, love, anywhere. We have a cab rank outside.”

She was about ready to move on, but he stepped in her way, “I can’t get a cab, I have to get home and I don’t have enough to get a cab back to Boston. Please, my wallet –”

Before he could say anything else, and without acknowledging him further, she walked away.

He huffed, his shoe squeaking on the floor as he kicked it petulantly and turned to leave.

“Hey!” Steve yelled to catch the guy’s attention.

He didn’t look exactly happy to be talking to Steve, and probably thought he was going to ask for money. Most people assumed that, so he didn’t mind.

Steve held out the phone, “I thought you might want this back.”

The guy glanced at Steve’s face, then at the phone, and then back at his face again, as if he didn't believe that he was real, and then he took the phone and slid it into his pocket. He seemed like he wanted to smile but couldn’t bring himself to, only achieving a slight twitch of one side of his mouth.

“Thanks, I wouldn’t have got very far without that.”

Steve smiled, “Don’t worry about it.”

The guy just nodded, and then did another twitch-smile before turning and heading out of the station.

By the time he'd packed away his stuff completely, Steve felt a bit like he'd overstayed his welcome. He smiled at the worker, anyway, before leaving. It was never particularly warm in New York at this time of year, but tonight seemed especially biting, so he did up the buttons on his coat to avoid the cold.

There was an agitated sigh from his right, and Steve turned to see the dark-haired man slam his phone against the wall of the station, as if breaking it more would somehow fix it.

“Can I ask why you’re standing outside?” Steve asked, like he hadn’t heard the entire conversation with the worker.

“They closed the station.”

He gave no further explanation, so Steve continued, “You plannin’ on standing out here all night?”

The man glared at him. “My wallet was stolen. All I have is a useless thirty dollar train ticket, a broken phone, a lighter and exactly two dollars fifty in cash.” Steve frowned, and held up his hand. “Don’t. I’ll figure something out, I don’t need your pity.”

His breath was visible in the air. There was no possible way Steve could leave this guy alone in Manhattan with so little money and nowhere to sleep.

“Look,” Steve said. “I’ve got about eighty bucks. Take it, buy yourself a room somewhere for the night so that you’re not sleeping on the street.”

He held out the cash, and the guy shook his head.

“I told you, I don’t need charity.” He turned away and sighed hard. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“At least let me help you with that.” He had to do something to help this guy; he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t. He pulled a ten dollar bill out from his wallet and held it between them, “Please.”

It took a moment of staring at each other before the guy snatched the bill out of his hand.

“Fine. But this is only because I’m a filthy addict on the verge of a panic attack and not because I want your help, right?”

He was using the note to point at Steve, who couldn’t help but laugh. “Right.”

Steve decided that it was probably best if he leave him alone and just get into a cab, now. As much as he wanted to help, he didn’t want to bother him any more than he already had. “Good luck.”

The guy’s tone was sharp, “Thanks.”

Steve had just started to walk towards the cab rank when the guy called out for him.

“Changed your mind?” Steve said as the man came rushing back up to him. His hand was shoved into the pocket of his pea coat to keep it warm.

“No. I - uh - I just realised that I don’t actually know where to buy anything here.”

This guy was still firmly standing his ground. It didn’t seem like he was going to let up anytime soon, although it was progressively becoming more and more obvious how much he needed Steve’s help. Of course, he wouldn’t admit that, but Steve didn’t think he would have, if their roles were reversed.

However stubborn he was, he let Steve take him to the nearest convenience store where he could pick up a pack of Marlboro Red – and reluctantly took the extra four dollars needed, because apparently cigarettes were just that expensive in Manhattan. He did seem to relax a little after silently making his way through one. As he lit his second, he side-eyed Steve.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

“You don’t seem to have many other options right now.”

The guy chuckled, smoke rolling from his mouth as he did so, “You’re right. I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t have a cell phone or an ID or a wallet or a credit card anymore. I’m gonna need a little more than company, no offence.”

He cringed almost immediately after saying that. “I’m sorry, I just really don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Wanna go find your wallet?” The guy raised an eyebrow. “Hey, you never know how these guys work. Sometimes they take the cash and dump the bag, push comes to shove you can live off mints for a few days.”

The man didn’t laugh at his joke, but did reluctantly say; “I don’t have much else going for me. It’s worth a shot.”

“That’s the spirit,” Steve said, as the guy crushed his cigarette out on the wall behind him. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

The guy froze for a second, as if he’d forgotten his own name.

“Buchanan.”

The air around them felt less tense as they walked down the street, towards where Buchanan – as Steve now knew him – remembered last seeing his wallet.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Buchanan said.

Steve mirrored his tone, “You don’t need to keep rejecting my help."

They’d stopped outside the bar, now, and the cold was beginning to creep back to Steve’s skin. He just really hoped that it wouldn’t get cold enough that he’d have to get his inhaler out, because as much as he didn’t think his asthma was anything to be ashamed of, it would definitely just give Buchanan more reason to decline his help.

“Look,” Buchanan sighed. “I’m sure my husband would really appreciate you helping me, but I can look after myself. Being disabled doesn’t mean I can’t handle this on my own.”

Steve stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The husband thing,” Steve replied. “I’m not trying to get you in my bed or anything. I’m not like that.”

“Not gay?” Buchanan snapped.

“Not an asshole,” Steve corrected, softer.

Buchanan sighed deeply and ran his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, I’m a dick. You just – you’re just being so nice to me! Why can’t you just try to fuck me so that I can have a reason to hate you?”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Steve said, slightly humoured. “I just don’t want you lost in Manhattan. Not because you’ve got one hand, or whatever; Manhattan’s confusing even if you know the place, so getting lost isn’t great for a first trip. Now, do you want to find your wallet or not?”

The bar was sort of the opposite of what Steve was expecting. It was dimly lit and sold craft beer. Considering how he looked, Steve hadn’t expected Buchanan to be a hipster.

The bartender was a fairly tall guy, with a thick ginger beard and round glasses that perfectly reflected the general vibe of the bar.

“Is there anything distinctive about the wallet?” he asked once Buchanan had told him what they were looking for.

Buchanan did an absolutely horrendous job at describing the wallet. Steve, however, could only fixate on the fact that he’d said it was authentic Louis Vuitton, and he started to wonder exactly how much money had been inside it. If he owned a Louis Vuitton wallet, he’d probably be worried about it, too.

The bartender’s expression didn’t change, “I’m gonna need more than that. Was there any ID in the wallet? A driver’s license or credit card?”

“My driver’s license was in there!” Buchanan suddenly exclaimed.

The bartender seemed happy with that, “Name?”

Buchanan glanced at Steve, and then sighed before looking back at the bartender, “James Barnes.”

Steve probably should have expected that.

The bartender wandered off into the back room, and Steve leaned his forearm on the bar, “Nice to meet you, James.”

James sighed, “You can’t blame me. I’m in the middle of Manhattan; it’s late; you’re a stranger. I panicked, okay?”

“Right,” Steve chuckled to himself.

Buchanan, fucking hell.

“Besides, it wasn’t really a lie. Buchanan’s my middle name.”

Steve found this whole situation highly amusing, “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really!” he said. “James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call me Bucky; ‘s less formal.”

“James Buchanan,” Steve repeated. “Like, President James Buchanan? 15th president of the United States, James Buchanan?”

Bucky shot him a cold look, and Steve held up his hands, “Hey, don’t worry, my birthday’s the fourth of July.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

The bartender chose that moment to come out of the back room. He told them that he hadn’t had any luck, although he didn’t seem too apologetic about it. Steve thanked him anyway before they headed back out of the bar. Bucky seemed vaguely grumpy about the whole situation. He tried to be nice about it, anyway, because he figured he’d been enough of a dick to Steve so far.

“Thanks for this, seriously, and sorry about the name thing,” he said as they stopped just outside the door.

“It’s fine; I can’t think of anything better I could be doing,” Steve replied.

They were walking again, but neither of them really had any idea where they were going. Or, at least, Bucky didn’t think either of them knew. For all he knew, Steve could be preparing to murder him and dump his body in a back alley somewhere, and at the moment he was going willingly.

He really needed to stop being so negative.

He studied Steve for a moment. “Are you... sure? I mean, anything would be better than walking aimlessly around Manhattan with a broke, one-armed guy who has to borrow your money to buy cigarettes.”

Steve shrugged. “I dunno. I was in town with my friend Sam for a thing which I didn’t go to, then I fly back to DC tomorrow. I was gonna go back to Brooklyn for a few days, but I didn’t think there was much to see.”

“You’re from Brooklyn, too?”

Bucky didn’t seem to know how to continue that string of the conversation when Steve nodded, so it died.

Steve managed to pick it back up by asking, “What about you? There must be something better you could be doing.”

There was a moment of pensive silence where Bucky seemed to think hard about that, and eventually he settled on an answer.

“Not really. I’m an art critic, I was just here to buy a piece.”

“Oh?” Steve said, interest piqued. Art was one thing he could talk about. “What was it?”

Bucky brushed him off. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me, I went to the California Institute.”

Bucky stared at him blankly, and Steve nearly rolled his eyes. More lies, wow.

“You have no idea what that is, do you?”

After a few more seconds of indignant staring, Bucky groaned, “Fine, so I’m not an art critic. But I’m not lying about the husband thing; I have a husband.”

“Right,” Steve looked very pointedly at Bucky’s bare hand. He was definitely missing something vital which signified marriage, but Steve decided not to bring it up. “So, what are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A dancer.” That did surprise Steve a little. “Hey, don’t look so surprised. I was a principal performer at the American Ballet before...” He didn’t finish that thought. “I run my own classes back in Boston, now, for kids and teenagers, y’know. Occasionally do shows if someone asks, but I’m past my prime.”

Steve shouldn’t have been so quick to judge; the thought of Bucky teaching kids how to dance was pretty sweet.

“So, if you’re not buying art, what brought you to Manhattan?”

That apparently triggered something in Bucky that made him freeze where he stood. It took Steve a few seconds to realise, so he had to walk back a few steps so that they were beside each other again.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Not gonna steal it from me, are you?” Steve teased, but he was already reaching into his back pocket.

He handed the phone over, already unlocked, and Bucky wasted no time in dialling a number and turning away from Steve. For the sake of being polite, Steve took a few steps back so that he was a little more out of earshot. He couldn’t help but overhear, though, the street was so quiet it would be impossible for him not to hear what Bucky was saying.

“Hey, baby,” is what Bucky opened the conversation with.

Steve immediately guessed he was talking to his husband. And if he wasn’t, well, that was a situation Steve didn’t think he was qualified to address. He couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the call, but Bucky’s side of the conversation was pretty interesting.

“No, no, everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that I love you, ‘s all.”

There was some more talking from the other end that Steve couldn’t hear, and Bucky suddenly stiffened.

“What?” he all but choked. “You – you’re... No, that’s great, I’m happy! But, don’t you want to rest before you come home? I’m sure you’ve been working hard...”

More talking, and Bucky sighed deeply.

“Brock, don’t... Nothing’s going on, I just... Okay, of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Love you, too.”

He hung up, then, and handed the phone promptly back to Steve.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s over.” Bucky’s voice cracked on the last word. “It’s fucking over.”

Before Steve could say anything else, Bucky had started to cry. He’d pinched the bridge of his nose and his face was all screwed up, so it was difficult to see, but he was definitely crying.

Steve tried to make his voice as soft as possible, but he really had no idea what to do with a crying person, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Come on.”

He led them to a step which was low down and less than comfortable, but it allowed Bucky a moment to sit down and collect himself. Steve just sat beside him, at a loss.

Once Bucky had calmed down a bit, Steve deemed it safe to continue, “What’s over?”

“My marriage.” Bucky said. “I had to be home before him.”

It didn’t exactly take Steve an age to fit the pieces together. Bucky was in Manhattan late at night; he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring; he had to be home before his husband... it finally made sense.

He must have made some sort of noise of revelation, because Bucky was looking at him with a confused stare. His eyelashes were still wet and clumped together, which softened the look a little.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I just... it makes sense now.”

Bucky’s stare and voice hardened, “Are you accusing me of having an affair?”

Steve probably should have denied that.

“I’m just calling it like I see it,” was what he decided to say instead. Because he was a big, stupid idiot.

“Asshole.”

Bucky pushed himself up from the step and started to walk away.

Steve didn’t really know what he was doing when he followed him, “Wait, Bucky, that’s not what I meant.”

Bucky turned sharply on his heel, “What did you mean, then?”

Steve couldn’t come up with a good answer to that. So, Bucky just shook his head and turned to carry on walking.

“Bucky!” Steve called after him.

He tried to follow him, but Bucky walked fast as hell and Steve was lumbered with a heavy trumpet case.

“Thanks for your help, but it’s over. Just go back to whatever you were doing before I ruined your night!” Bucky called over his shoulder.

He moved his hand to flip the middle finger at Steve, but as he raised it, Steve grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t a hard grip, and Bucky definitely could have shaken him off. But he didn’t. He just whipped around fast as anything and stared down at his wrist, and then up at Steve’s face.

“You didn’t ruin my night, okay? I was having a shitty night, and I was hiding out in Grand Central to avoid...” Steve stopped there, collected himself for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t ruin my night.”

Once Bucky didn’t look so much like he was going to run away, Steve let go of his wrist. Bucky left his hand there, elevated as if Steve was still holding it, for a moment before he dropped it back to his side.

“If it means anything, you didn’t ruin mine, either,” Bucky said. “But I’d like to be back in Boston before the sun comes up.”

“I think I can help you with that. I have a friend who might be able to help.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “Are you fucking serious?”

His tone made Steve a little wary, one hand came up in front of him despite himself. “Are you gonna hit me?”

Bucky scoffed, “Of course I’m not gonna fucking hit you, Steve. This is awesome. Who’s your friend?”

“He’s at that thing I’m avoiding,” Steve said, and Bucky made a little hissing sound. “Yeah, I know. But, anything to be the hero of this story.”

“You’re a dick,” Bucky said, but it was somewhat fond.

They ended up on a bus to the other side of Manhattan, which Steve paid for with more of his eighty busking dollars that he was sure would be spent by the end of the night. He also called Sam, asked him to ask Tony for four-hundred and sixty dollars (because apparently that’s how much a cab to Boston would be, holy shit) and to text him where the party was.

Bucky wasted no time in getting comfortable – he took off his jacket and balled it up behind his head so that he could lean against the window, facing Steve with one knee pulled up to his chest, foot planted firmly on the seat and slightly tucked underneath Steve’s right thigh, the other on the ground.

“How long have you been playing trumpet for?” Bucky asked.

That was an odd question, but since they were getting to know each other...

“My whole life,” Steve replied. “It was harder when I was a kid, I was a scrawny little thing and deathly asthmatic, so for a couple years I just couldn’t get the breathing right, and my ma kept trying to convince me to give it up because I was having an attack every other day, but I wouldn’t because I was a stubborn little shit.”

Bucky laughed at that and he felt a little accomplished.

He continued, “My lungs got stronger as I grew up, and although I wasn’t gonna be playing Major League baseball anytime soon, I could get through a song without having to take a break. It’s always felt like the only thing I could do well. I couldn’t play football, but being head of the band suited me just fine.”

Bucky was staring at him, looking a little in awe, “Wow, Stevie. And to think I took you for a quarterback type.”

He couldn’t tell if Bucky was sincere or not, but it seemed like he was. Steve didn’t know how he felt about the nickname.

“Your turn,” Steve said. “I’m sure your story is far more interesting than mine.”

“My turn,” Bucky mouthed, and then thought for a moment before speaking. “I’m not that interesting. ‘m a normal kid from Brooklyn, with a twin sister and a husband who’s the head of security for an important politician.”

“That’s a pretty interesting job,” Steve said, and Bucky shrugged it off. “How’d you two meet?”

Bucky smiled slightly, “It was about six years ago, a year or so after my accident. I was feeling pretty lost, y’know, I was twenty-two and I finally had everything I dreamed of. My whole life had been devoted to dance, I felt like everything I ever did was leading up to that moment. And then, the second I get my dream and become a principal dancer, it’s over in the blink of an eye.”

He swallowed and looked down at his lap for a second, picking at the knee of his jeans until it didn’t feel like he was going to cry anymore. Crying in front of a stranger once was bad enough, but twice in one night? Fuck, Barnes, pull yourself together.

“Anyway, I was feeling lost and I didn’t want to be in America anymore because I felt like everything here was attached to bad memories, so I up and moved to London."

“Big step,” Steve said.

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah. Like I said, bad memories. Anyway, so I’m in London and I really hadn’t planned up to that point. I had an apartment and enough money off the back of ballet to live off of for a year, but I didn’t know where anything was, what to do with myself, how to make friends. Then, I met Brock and everything just... I dunno, clicked into place.” He looked up at Steve, “Is that cheesy?”

“A little,” Steve admitted.

“It wasn’t even him,” Bucky said, and he seemed sad. Not like he was going to cry again, but a different kind of sad. Worse, somehow. “It felt like we were in the same boat, y’know? Both of us were Americans in London who really didn’t know what we were doing, and it just felt right. I came back to America a couple months after he did. We found a place in Boston, because I wanted to be close to my ma but I didn’t want to be in Brooklyn, and, well, the rest is history.”

He was picking at the knee of his jeans again.

“Does it not feel right anymore?” Steve asked, probably prying too much.

Bucky’s expression closed, and then he furrowed his eyebrows and then sighed, “I don’t really know what right is. I don’t think I ever have. I just... you know when you meet someone, and you know they’re gonna play a major part in your life? You don’t even know if it’s good or bad, you just know they’re gonna be there?”

A number of people flashed through Steve’s mind and he really tried not to tack Bucky’s face onto the end of that list. He couldn’t help it, though, this coincidental meeting was something right out of a movie. It was too perfect to not mean something, right?

“But, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re running out of time. If this thing with your friend doesn’t work out, I’m fucked,” Bucky sighed, leaning his head back against the window in a way that couldn’t have been at all comfortable.

Steve wasn’t going to let him give up that easily, “I’m sure there’s still something we can do.”

“We’ve done everything we can, Stevie.” There was that nickname again. “Apart from build a fucking time machine.”

That gave Steve an idea. “Well, maybe we can.”

Bucky looked at him like he was insane, because it definitely sounded it.

“Now would be a really good time to tell me if you’re delusional,” he said warily.

“Shut up.” Steve reached into his back pocket for his phone, and pretended to dial a number, then held it out to Bucky. “It’s you, from the past.”

The dark-haired man didn’t look impressed, but he went with it anyway. He grabbed the phone and, a little dubious, held it to his ear.

“Bucky? It’s you, from the future...” he said, slightly uncertain, and then looked up at Steve. “He doesn’t believe me.”

Steve raised his eyebrows as if it was oh-so-obvious. “Of course he doesn’t. You’ve gotta tell him something secret, something only you would know.”

Bucky met his eyes for a moment, wondering if Steve was serious about this stupid game, and then brought the phone back to his ear.

“Remember when dad was in the hospital? And you and Becca decided it would be really funny if you took off your shoes and slid over the polished floor of the ward,” he paused as if someone was answering. “Right, yeah. And you miscalculated how fast you were going, and ended up slamming into a trolley of medical equipment and had to get five stitches in your knee? See, I know that scar isn’t from rock climbing like you told everyone it was.”

Steve was laughing hard at that, and Bucky smiled, mouthing, “He believes me now.”

“Of course he does,” Steve mouthed back.

“Okay, listen to me now,” Bucky said into the phone. “Tomorrow, you’re gonna go to Manhattan. Whatever you do, don’t talk to any strangers in Grand Central.”

“Ouch,” Steve whispered.

Bucky shushed him. “In fact, skip New York altogether. Think about it first, decide against it, stay home, rent Mean Girls – because you are definitely that gay, even if you pretend not to be – get some takeout from that Thai place Brock doesn't like, and go to bed. Just relax, because everything will be fine in the morning.”

Steve didn’t know if Bucky thought that them meeting was a good thing or a bad thing, but he didn’t want to ask.

“Feel better?”

Bucky exhaled softly and handed the phone back, “Not really. I mean, I’m still fucked.”

“It may sound crazy,” Steve said, and Bucky made a face. “But why don’t you just call your husband and tell him you’re in Manhattan?”

Bucky scoffed, “Yeah, right. I hope you like domestic battery.”

That struck a chord in Steve that he hadn’t even known was there. “He hits you?”

Bucky was suddenly much more alert, having realised what he’d said.

“No! it’s not like that, that’s not why I...” he huffed. “He gets angry sometimes but that’s it, he’d never...” he pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Fucking hell, Steve. It was just a joke, okay? Drop it. God.”

“Consider it dropped,” Steve knew it would still play on his mind. “Why do you have to beat him home, though? I don’t get it.”

“There’s something I’ve gotta do,” Bucky said.

“Right, okay…” Steve said, just so that he could have an extra moment to think. “Well, can somebody else do it?”

Bucky straightened up at that, and his sudden springing to life made Steve smile a little. “Stevie, you’re a genius. Give me your phone.”

Steve handed it back over without question. Bucky dialled in a number and spent a few moments tapping his foot and anxiously waiting for the line to be picked up.

Once it rang through, Bucky was talking almost immediately, “Nat? It’s Bucky.”

Despite being considerably closer this time, Steve still couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the line. Bucky seemed to relax upon hearing the voice of whoever it was, though, so Steve was content to only hear one side.

“I need a huge favour, like, a ‘you’re definitely going to hate me afterwards because I woke you up at 2AM’ kind of favour.”

There was some talking from the other person, and then Bucky spoke again.

“Right, so I want you to go to the apartment and climb up the fire escape. Y’know the one I climbed out... yeah.”

Steve really didn’t want to think about what kind of situation meant that Bucky had to climb out of a fire escape, so he tried not to.

“Alright, there’s a key taped underneath the right windowsill. I need you to grab it and go in through the back door, on the bed there’s a letter addressed to Brock and I need you to take it and save it for when I get back. And, look, I know you’re a nosey bitch but promise me you won’t read it?”

Steve could vaguely make out laughing on the other end, and then Bucky relaxed again.

“You’re the best, Nat. I love you.”

‘Nat’ said something in response, and handed the phone back. Steve didn’t ask, but the relieved look on Bucky’s face did wonders at lightening the mood.

They found the building Sam had sent him the address for without much strife, which was quite surprising considering their track record. Steve couldn’t help the anxiety welling up in his chest when he pressed the button for the elevator and watched the numbers slowly decline.

“Is it really that bad?” Bucky asked.

That knocked Steve out of his trance.

“What?”

Bucky glanced at the elevator, “Whatever’s waiting for you up there. Is it that bad?”

“It’s nothing,” Steve said, flippantly, turning back to the elevator and watching as the numbers crawled down. “It’s an ex...” he eventually admitted. “...Ex-something.”

“Does this ex-something have a name?”

God, this was the slowest elevator Steve had ever seen.

“Peggy,” Steve said. “I... uh... it’s been a while, since I saw her.”

Bucky nodded, he seemed to understand, but was still staring at Steve inquisitively, “Was it a bad breakup?”

“I’m not sure there’s another kind.”

The elevator finally opened then, and it took about as long going up as it had coming down, and when they finally stepped out onto the floor, Steve felt his heart drop to his feet. There were maybe ten or fifteen people there, and all of them were far too old to be at the party that Steve had been told was happening.

“This isn’t the right place,” Steve groaned, patting Bucky’s shoulder to direct him back to the elevator.

So, there they were, back to walking the streets of Manhattan with nowhere to go and nothing to do and no money to do anything with.

“Your friend wasn’t there,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed humorlessly, “No. Sam gave me the wrong address, but it’s not his fault; his dyslexia is really bad when he’s been drinking.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “Well, are you gonna call him, get the right address?”

Steve kicked at a can on the sidewalk, “I don’t think it matters, I’m not gonna bother. Y’know, I hear Central Park’s really safe this time of night.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks, and Steve was a little scared he was going to start crying again. He didn’t, though, he just stared at Steve with a slightly shocked expression.

"Christ, it really is bad."

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes, because he was sure if he did it again they’d roll right out of his head and down the street. “Maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not going.”

He turned defiantly and started walking again.

“I think you should,” Bucky called.

“And why is that?” Steve asked, turning around. “What’s in it for me? Well, other than facing my ex and her new, much smarter, more talented and attractive, boyfriend."

“Well, I’d be on your arm, wouldn’t I?” Bucky said. “You might not swing that way, Stevie, but you can’t deny that I’m excellent arm-candy.”

As if to prove his point, he slid his arm through the crook in Steve’s elbow. He snuggled up into Steve’s side, and Steve would be lying if he said the warmth wasn’t comforting. “You helped me, let me help you.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Fine, I’ll be your fake boyfriend.”

Bucky made a point of melodramatically celebrating that, making Steve laugh.

“And, for the record,” he said. “I swing both ways. So, this isn’t that unexpected.”

Bucky stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment, and then said, “Damn, I wanted to be the guy who turned you gay. Now, that would have been an excellent story.”

“I preferred moping Bucky,” Steve said, and Bucky bumped their hips together.

The place the party was actually in was much nicer than the hotel Steve had been sent to. It was a small bar with warm lighting, which was full of chatter and laughter when they opened the door. To Steve, it felt like entering a lion’s den, but it was a little easier with Bucky a warm, comforting, solid presence on his arm.

“Is this the right place?” Bucky said, as the door swung shut behind them.

Steve surveyed the party for anyone he recognised. He actually didn’t know that many people who were going to be there. Besides his childhood friends from Brooklyn, most of his friends were back in DC, not New York.

“Steve!” came a loud, drawn-out yell from somebody, which got closer and closer as his friend approached. He wrapped Steve in a bone-crushing hug, and Steve politely pushed him off.

“This is Sam?” Bucky eyed the guy up and down.

The man was pretty short, and the glaze over his eyes showed just how drunk he was.

“No, this is Tony. Tony, this is Bucky.” Steve lowered his voice a little to talk to Bucky. “It’s actually Tony’s engagement they’re celebrating tonight.”

Bucky made a quiet, “Oh,” sound, and Tony held out his hand for Bucky to shake. When Bucky just blinked at it, Tony realised he was holding out the wrong hand, laughed, dropped it and didn’t try again. He spoke to Steve, instead.

“I tried to get you the whole four hundred and sixty, but I only had two hundred on me and Sam had one and I wasn’t gonna go to an ATM, so we got, like, fifty dollars from Quill but that was all we could get because apparently I don’t have enough rich friends. So, you’ve got... what, three hundred and fifty?”

Bucky interjected, “It’s alright, we sorted it out. I don’t need the money anymore.”

Tony looked genuinely crestfallen for a moment, “But... I sold a kidney to get this.”

He was so sincere that there was a split second when Bucky was actually worried that this guy had sold a kidney. Steve just stared, unimpressed, at Tony, because he knew where this was going.

“I mean, it wasn’t my kidney. But what am I gonna tell the hooker when she wakes up?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Tony clapped Bucky on the shoulder, “Don’t look so scared, Buckaroo, I’m joking. She’s not gonna wake up!”

Thankfully, Sam stepped into the conversation at that exact moment, so Bucky didn’t have to reply to him. Sam was tall, dark and extremely attractive. Before he got married, Sam would have been the exact type of guy Bucky would go for.

“Steve, man, I’m so glad you could make it!” he pulled Steve into a hug that was definitely more comfortable than Tony’s had been.

“Hey, man,” Steve said, just as Tony noticed somebody else and wandered off to talk to them.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, “Were you at Grand Central all day? I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. Bucky cleared his throat from beside him, catching the attention of both men, and Steve realised what he wanted when he looked at him, “Oh, yeah. Sam, this is Bucky. Buck, this is Sam.”

The nickname slipped out without Steve thinking about it, and Bucky stared at him for an extra second but didn’t say anything, instead he shook Sam’s hand and they slipped into an easy dialogue. Steve, zoning out on the conversation, caught sight of someone over Sam’s shoulder.

It was as if everything slowed to a halt when he saw Peggy, and the familiar curl of dark hair and the curve of her jaw made his heart seize. She turned and caught his eye. He quickly looked away back to Sam and Bucky, who were now talking about Sam’s VA work back in DC. Bucky seemed genuinely interested by it, which was a first for people listening to Sam’s work stories.

Steve didn’t even notice Peggy was coming over until he was all-encompassed by her smell and a light hand was on his elbow.

“Steve?”

He turned like he hadn’t noticed her yet, “Peggy!”

She pulled him into a hug, and Sam shared a look with Bucky before disappearing back into the crowd of people.

They stepped back from each other, and Steve remembered who was stood beside him. He gestured between Bucky and the woman, “Peggy Carter, James Barnes.”

“Steve, come on.” Bucky admonished gently, the back of his hand softly brushing Steve’s chest. Peggy followed the movement with careful eyes. “Call me Bucky, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you, too, James,” Peggy said. She appeared to almost forget that Bucky was there after that, speaking to Steve again. “Sam told me that your flight got in late, I’ve been meaning to catch you all week so that we could chat, but I just keep missing you.”

Steve couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, “Yeah, you do.”

It seemed like Peggy didn’t really know how to respond to that. She rolled her red-painted lips for a moment, tucked her hair behind her ear, shuffled her feet, until she decided that speaking to Bucky was probably the easiest route.

“So, do you know Pepper and Tony? I know they’ve been taking people on for the internship programme...” she asked.

Bucky laughed politely. He was charming as hell, no doubt about it. Even Peggy seemed impressed. “No, no, I wish I was young enough to still be an intern. I’m just here with Stevie tonight.”

The nickname warmed Steve’s chest a little, and Bucky slipped his hand around the crook of Steve’s elbow again, leaning in a bit. It was almost admirable how good he was at this.

“Oh,” Peggy looked between them. Steve could practically see her brain fitting the pieces together. “Right, so, you’re from DC?”

“No, Brooklyn. Me and Stevie met when we were kids, we ran into each other again when I was in DC for work, reconnected...”

He seemed a little lost, so Steve finished for him, “And the rest is history.”

There was a small smile on Peggy’s face, now. Steve felt bad. He felt really, really bad.

“And the rest is history,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Could I get you both a drink?”

Bucky looked like he was going to agree, but Steve interrupted before he could, “No. Thanks. We – uh – we actually have a thing... Bucky wanted to meet the gang, so that’s why we stopped by...”

“Have you been telling people about me, Rogers?” Peggy laughed.

“Always,” Steve said. "Well, we have to go. I'll see you around?"

“Bye, Steve,” she said, just as they left.

They found a bench to sit on a block away. Steve had seemed determined to carry on and get as far away as possible, but Bucky practically forced him to sit down. He stayed stood up, though, looking down at Steve and the self-pity that was coming off him in waves.

“Why did we have to run out of there?” Bucky asked.

Steve was bent almost completely forward, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands so that Bucky couldn’t see his face. His voice was muffled. “I’m not running.”

“Really? Because, what you did back there definitely looked like running,” Bucky said. “Take it from me; I’m practically the poster boy for running from my problems.”

Steve didn’t reply, so Bucky kicked the toe of his shoe. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make Steve look at him. There was some silent confrontation between them that Bucky didn’t think either of them understood, and then Steve shook his head and chuckled breathily.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. You’d think after not seeing her for six years, rehearsing that moment in my head, I’d have had something more interesting to say,” Steve buried his face in his hands again.

“Hey,” Bucky said, softly, just as Steve had done earlier. He sat on Steve’s left side so that he could place his hand on Steve’s knee comfortingly. “I’m sure she felt the same.”

Steve murmured something that vaguely sounded like “I don’t think so,” and Bucky sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. He dropped his hand from Steve’s knee and ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip.

“Six years... How’d you meet?” he asked.

“The army, if you’d believe it.” Steve said, and Bucky whistled. “Yeah. I... uh, I enlisted a couple months after my mom died. She would never have approved me enlisting but, well, it was always just me and her, so when she died I didn’t have anything. Before me, she was an army nurse, and my dad died in Libya a couple months before I was born. A part of me always wanted to be like them, no matter how much my mom insisted that she would never let me enlist. I guess it was uh... a way to honour her, or something. Feel close to her and my dad when they were both gone,” he swallowed thickly and hoped Bucky didn’t notice.

Bucky had been listening intently, “I’m so sorry.”

Steve huffed out a breath, “Don’t be. That’s not the point, um... So, we were sent to the camp after our training, and I remember being all lined up in a row for briefing by Peggy – who was this officer, or agent or something. She was far more successful than any of us would ever be and she was only, what, twenty-two?”

“That’s amazing,” Bucky said, just so Steve knew he was still listening.

“She is,” Steve agreed. He cleared his throat, “I think a lot of the guys felt quite intimidated by her... So, we’re all lined up and one of the guys starts acting up. He’s, y’know, trying to flirt with her and grab at her and she’s not having it. Instead of calling over a superior officer like she should have done, she asks him to step forward – deadpan as anything – and punches him right in the face. Sends him to the ground, too. None of us tried to mess with her after that.”

Bucky laughed, “Oh, my god. That’s incredible.”

Steve had a fond, reminiscent smile on his face, “I know. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I think that was the moment I fell in love with her.”

He seemed to have perked up a little, telling that story, but Bucky was a little bit confused.

“I have one question...” he said. Steve glanced at him expectantly, “How did you get into the army if you have asthma?”

Steve chuckled like he’d been expecting that question, “Another reason I joined the army after my mom died is because nobody would be able to prove that I lied on the enlistment form.”

“You lied...” Bucky said, in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. Is that why you don’t serve anymore?”

Steve shook his head, “No, uh, I was discharged two years in after an evac mission went wrong. I... well, I was abducted and tortured and then sent home.”

He said it so casually, like it was every day you got kidnapped and tortured, and Bucky couldn’t help his eyebrows raising in shock. “Fuck...”

“It was fine, though. I met Sam at one of his VA meetings, he pushed me to pursue art, go to college – I’d spent the years after high school looking after my mom, so I’d never had the chance – and I started playing the trumpet again. It helped... uh... with the tremors.”

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking very minutely, and Bucky felt extremely ignorant, because all this time he’d thought that was because of the cold. The view he’d had of Steve had completely changed, now, he hadn’t thought this guy had that much to him. But there was so much lying under the surface that Bucky was happy he’d heard. He wanted to hear more but wasn’t sure if Steve wanted to tell him.

“So, what happened with Peggy?” he eventually asked.

“She stayed on for two years after I was discharged,” Steve said. “We stayed together, video called a lot, and one day she tells me that she’s got big news that she wants to tell me when she gets home – she tried to come home as much as she could, a day or two here and there. For months, I’d been planning on proposing to her on her next visit.”

“Oh, no...” Bucky couldn’t help from saying.

Steve looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t, “So I wait for her at the airport, and I’d been thinking about doing it there, but I knew she hated attention like that. So, I brought her home, where I’d set up the apartment all romantic. She walked in, saw the rose petals, I got down on one knee, and she told me that she’d been offered a position at MI6, and was moving back to London.”

“Steve...” Bucky exhaled.

Closing his eyes, Steve nodded once, “She wanted me to go with her, but I’d spent the last two years building a life for myself in DC, and I couldn’t let that go. She didn’t want a long-distance relationship again, which I understood, so we broke it off. The last time I saw her she was packing up her stuff and moving out. Until tonight.”

There was something in Steve’s expression that Bucky knew too well, from first-hand experience. He put his arm around Steve and pulled him close just so that he didn’t have to see it anymore, but the guy was far too broad for Bucky to hold properly, so he just buried his own face into the crook of Steve’s neck and hoped it was comforting.

“I’m sorry...” he said into Steve’s jacket.

“About what?” Steve asked, and Bucky felt the rumble of his voice.

“For letting you sit here and talk about it and not making you go back.”

Steve jumped back at that, immediately standing up and breaking their embrace.

“No,” Steve said. “That’s not happening.”

Bucky groaned inwardly, “Steve, you didn’t come all the way to New York to do nothing.”

“I didn’t come all the way to New York to get my ass kicked, either,” Steve said, because yeah, he was sure if he tried anything with Peggy she’d kick his ass. That would definitely happen. He could see it.

Bucky pushed himself up from the bench, “I’m not letting you leave without trying. I swear.”

“I hate you,” Steve said, but there was no heat behind his words, which Bucky took as a good thing.

He held out his hand toward Steve, “Come on.”

Steve couldn’t quite believe he was doing this, as he took Bucky’s hand and let himself be led back towards the bar. He saw Peggy the moment they walked in, and nearly turned around and walked back out. Bucky pushed back against him though, forcing him inside.

“I can’t do this,” Steve said, through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you can,” Bucky insisted. “Go.”

Letting Steve’s hand go felt a lot like watching a child take their first steps. Steve was unsure as he stepped into the crowd, but once he was a few feet away from Peggy, who was facing the bar, he took a deep breath, set his shoulders and strode confidently towards her. Watching him talk easily to her, Bucky felt full of pride, and a little bit of something he didn’t quite want to address.

He stepped outside so that he didn’t have to, and leaned up against the wall of the bar. He blindly flicked open the cigarette box where it was at the bottom of the deep pocket in his coat, placed one in his mouth and tried to light it.

It was really just his luck that his lighter chose that moment to not work. No matter how many times he tried, it would only give him a pathetic little spark and nothing more. He groaned, dropping his head back against the wall.

“Need a light?” someone asked.

Bucky opened his eyes to see Steve’s friend from earlier. Not the short one with the hooker, but the handsome one... Sam.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth so that he could answer, “Could I?”

Sam held out his lighter, and Bucky placed the cigarette back in his mouth to light it. The relief that hit him the moment he took the first drag was just what he’d needed. He handed the lighter back, and Sam lit his own cigarette.

“Your boy’s in there,” Sam said, nodding to the bar.

“I know,” Bucky replied, smoke coming out of his nose as he did so.

“You not worried he’s gonna talk to his ex?” Sam asked.

“I told him to,” Bucky said, flicking off the ash and putting it back in his mouth.

Sam looked confused but didn’t pry. “Steve hasn’t mentioned you before.”

Bucky glanced at his feet, “We didn’t want to rush into anything. We, uh, we haven’t been together that long. Since I live in New York, it's, uh, difficult.”

“Right,” Sam said, and Bucky was slightly worried that he didn’t believe him.

Then again, it didn’t really matter if Sam believed him or not. It wasn’t him Steve wanted to make jealous.

“He really cares about you,” Sam said, after a moment.

Bucky glanced at him, humored, “He tell you that?”

He wondered if Steve had put Sam up to this so that Bucky wouldn’t be alone. If he’d actually convinced his best friend like that, this lie really had gone too far.

Sam shook his head, “I can tell. Steve’s been my best friend for the best part of ten years. When you’re close to someone like that, you just know. It’s in the eyes.”

He made a weird gesture around his eyes, and Bucky laughed.

“Sure it is,” he took another drag.

“Hey!” Sam pointed at Bucky with his cigarette. “Don’t try and be smart. I know Steve, alright? The guy doesn’t have a poker face. Also, nobody calls him Stevie and gets away with it.”

Bucky really didn’t know how to process this information. A couple of hours wasn’t enough for Steve to actually start caring about him so much that even his best friend could tell, right? Besides, he was still hung up on Peggy. He was just good at keeping up the act.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though, because before they could talk any more the door slammed open – so hard Bucky was surprised the glass didn’t shatter – and Steve was storming past them. Bucky shared an apologetic look with Sam, stubbed out his cigarette and chased Steve around the corner.

“Steve? How did it go?”

He had a pretty good idea of how it went. Like Sam said, Steve didn’t exactly have a poker face.

“She’s happy I came back, we’re going to lunch tomorrow,” Steve said.

It was Bucky’s turn to race to keep up. Steve was walking seriously fast. Surely lunch was a good thing, though?

“I told you!”

“The three of us,” Steve said.

“She invited me?” Bucky asked.

He wasn’t surprised but did feel a little bad, since he wasn’t going to be here tomorrow. He didn’t want to fuck this up for Steve.

Steve shook his head, “No.”

“Another guy?”

Steve had crossed his arms, now, “Nope.”

Who else could she have possibly invited that Steve could feel so mad about?

“Steve, who the hell did she -?”

Steve suddenly stopped, almost making Bucky run right into the back of him, and turned around.

“She’s pregnant,” he said.

Bucky’s face fell, “Steve... I’m...”

“If you’re gonna say you’re sorry, save it,” Steve said. “I’m fine, probably the most fine I’ve been in six years. Because at least I finally know something. I finally know it’s over. So, I guess I should thank you for that.”

There was nothing Bucky could do but wait for the other shoe to drop, because surely that wasn’t all Steve had to say. If he was Steve right now, he’d probably have punched Bucky and yelled in his face and gotten angry at him for ruining his life. At least, that’s what Bucky had wanted to do to himself a few hours ago. He guessed Steve would feel somewhat the same. He kind of hoped he did, because then at least he had a chance at understanding.

“She said she’s never been so happy,” Steve said, voice breaking, and he turned and ran a hand over his face to stop himself from crying. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t. “I guess I’ve gotta be okay with not being okay. Grow up a bit. So... thanks for that, too.”

Bucky was at a loss. Steve had all but accused him of ruining his life, but somehow, he was still being chivalrous about it.

“What do you want to do now?” was all Bucky could think to ask.

“Walk,” Steve said. “Think.”

Bucky nodded silently, and he felt helpless as walked by Steve’s side, unsure whether they should talk about it or not. He didn’t know whether to touch Steve, put his arm around him and hug him or bump their shoulders together to remind him he was there, or if he should just leave him alone.

He did an excellent job at leaving him alone until they reached the riverside, where the silence had become too stifling and Bucky couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I understand, y’know,” he said.

Steve looked at him for the first time in almost half an hour, and Bucky didn’t know where he was going with this.

“What it feels like when they love somebody else. I get it.” Bucky continued.

Steve scoffed, “Sure you do, Buck. You, with your marriage and your rich husband and your ballet. I’m sure you understand exactly how I feel.”

“I never said he was rich,” Bucky said, because apparently he couldn’t help but jump on the defensive rather than try to diffuse the situation. Good job, Barnes.

“You didn’t need to,” Steve said, and he was so fucking angry, and Bucky wished he wasn’t, but he really understood. He would be too. “You’ve run off to Manhattan in a peacoat and red bottom shoes and a Louis Vuitton wallet, and I’m pretty sure kids’ ballet coaching doesn’t pay that much. You don’t get it, Buck, you never will.”

“But I do!” Bucky hated how pathetic he sounded. “I fucking get it, Steve, okay? Other people have problems too. If you got off your fucking high horse for once you might actually realise that.”

The sudden anger from Bucky seemed to knock Steve down a peg. He chewed on his bottom lip, and then dropped down onto a bench. Bucky sat beside him.

“My anniversary with Brock is July 20th,” he said.

Steve cocked his head a little to the side, seeming confused why Bucky was bringing this up, so he took it as his cue to continue.

“He spends a lot of time in DC, because of his work. This year, he was gonna be there on our anniversary, so I wanted to surprise him. I went into his emails and, as I was looking for his schedule, a notification popped up. The subject was just ‘the 20th’. I thought maybe he’d planned something romantic for us, for our anniversary. I hate surprises, though, so I had to look. It was definitely a date. But not for us. It was at some fancy hotel in DC, signed off with ‘S.’.”

“He was...” Steve muttered.

Bucky nodded as if he couldn’t stand to hear Steve say it, “Yeah... He has the same password for everything, always has, so I signed into his email on my phone and put on alerts for that address. Over the next couple of months they emailed back and forth, he would call her Susan and she would sign back ‘Suzie’.”

He took a deep breath.

“I was so fucking angry. I couldn’t stop thinking about every time he’d pushed me around, taken out his anger on me, told me I wasn’t good enough, and...” He cleared his throat because fuck was somebody choking him right now? “I wondered why she was getting the best side of him, and I wasn’t.”

Steve seemed to be processing what Bucky was telling him, “What’d you do?”

“Nothing.” Bucky’s mouth was dry. “Until yesterday. He was going back to DC, and I saw the email where he told her that he was gonna be back in town and I wanted to fucking rip out his eyes. So, when he left, I wrote him a letter. I told him everything I knew and everything I wanted to say. And then, I took my ring and I put it in the envelope, put it on the bed where I knew he’d see it, and left.”

“Why Manhattan?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged, “I thought about going to Nat and Clint’s but I knew that would be the first place he’d check, so I was gonna go back to Brooklyn and stay with my ma, but I chickened out when I reached Grand Central. So, I got off the train, found a bar and spent a couple of hours feeling sorry for myself because I thought my marriage was over...”

“But now he’s coming home instead of seeing her,” Steve guessed. His eyes hadn’t moved from Bucky the entire story.

Tears stinging his eyes, all Bucky could do was nod.

“Sat in that bar, I realised all the moments that we shared and would share and everything that’s ever happened between us and I realised that I’d thrown away my one chance at happiness,” Bucky said, voice threatening to break.

Steve seemed sure of himself, his voice was soft, and his hand was grazing Bucky’s shoulder blade, “I don’t think you’ve thrown anything away. I think you deserve something much better than someone who is gonna cheat and lie and break your heart.”

Bucky smiled through his tears, which he hadn’t even realised had happened, “That’s nice, Stevie, but Brock is all I have.”

“Look at me, Buck,” Steve said, shifting slightly so that he was facing Bucky directly, “That’s him talking. He’s convinced you that you have no other option, that he is the only person who is ever gonna love you but it’s not true, okay? You have so many more people than that. Don’t let him trap you.”

Now Bucky really was crying. An ugly, painful sobbing sound that he couldn’t stop coming from the back of his throat, and he covered his face with his hand to try and calm himself down. He didn’t want Steve to see him cry, not again, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. Steve inched forward so that he could wrap his arms around Bucky and hold him close to his chest.

“I have a hotel room,” Steve said against Bucky’s hair, because he really didn’t know what else to suggest. “I’m sharing with Sam but I’m about eighty percent sure he’s gonna go home with Maria, so it should be free.”

Bucky laughed, and the movement was nice against Steve’s chest.

“I’m not trying anything, we just need somewhere warm.”

Bucky leaned back a little, hand lingering on Steve’s chest. “I know.”

Steve could have sworn, for a moment, Bucky’s eyes flicked to his lips. He didn’t mention it, though, and instead stood up and offered his arm.

The hotel wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and Steve was sure it was much shabbier than what Bucky was used to. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and Sam wasn’t there when they got there.

“Room service?” Steve asked, as Bucky took off his coat and scarf.

“I’m starving,” Bucky replied.

Steve nodded towards the bathroom, “You go first.”

Bucky thanked him quietly and disappeared into the bathroom. Steve waited until he could hear the shower running to order the food – the cheapest thing on the menu, because he only had about twenty dollars left.

Steve was stood in the middle of the room when Bucky came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a white hotel towel, wrapped around his waist. Steve couldn’t help it when his eyes were immediately drawn to Bucky’s left side.

Bucky’s arm stopped just below the shoulder, and there was puckered skin and scar tissue most of the way across his chest and partly up his neck. Steve wasn’t disgusted by it, or anything, because it wasn’t disgusting, but all he could think about was how much that must have hurt, and how it must have happened.

“Like what you see?” Bucky grinned, and he had stepped forward so that he was in Steve’s personal space.

“Could use a little work,” Steve teased.

Bucky made an offended scoffing sound and smacked Steve on the arm, “Asshole!”

His hand stayed on Steve’s arm, and fuck, okay, now he was definitely staring at Steve’s lips. He wasn’t doing anything about it, either, wasn’t moving away. If anything, he was moving closer. It could have just been Steve’s mind playing tricks on him, but Bucky’s face was getting closer and closer to his.

Before he knew it, Bucky’s mouth was pressed softly against his, and his hand had moved from Steve’s arm to the nape of his neck to hold him there. It took Steve’s body a moment to catch up with his mind, but when it did, his hands immediately moved to frame Bucky’s face.

They kissed like that, softly and close-mouthed, until Steve moved his hands again and pushed Bucky softly backwards.

“Buck,” he said gently, Bucky still looked like he wanted to pounce on Steve, so he made sure to hold him back a little. “Not that I don’t want this, but you need to be sure.”

Bucky’s mouth was slightly open, and his gaze flicked from Steve’s eyes to his lips to just past his shoulder. Then, he pushed Steve away and stepped backwards until he was sat on the bed.

“I’m not sure.” He looked like he’d just been slapped.

Steve tried to be reassuring, “That’s okay.” He sat down beside him. “It’s okay if you don’t know. You’re confused and upset, and I understand.”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, “Why are you so nice, Steve? You’re just... like, absolutely fucking perfect, but you’re so perfect that it makes you an asshole because you don’t know when to stop being nice.”

“I think you’re just not used to being treated right,” Steve replied.

Bucky called him an asshole again, but it wasn’t biting.

“Do you think we met for a reason, Stevie?” he asked after a beat of silence.

“I think we were meant to find each other,” Steve replied truthfully. “I think you were meant to miss that train, that your phone was meant to be broken and I think that we both have things we’ve been putting off for way too long. I think we’ve both realised that it’s time to stop running, and we were meant to meet so that we could learn that.”

Bucky’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, and he nodded once. He slipped his hand down Steve’s arm to until their palms were pressed flat together, and then laced their fingers.

“We can run later,” Bucky said, eventually. “For now, let’s just enjoy this.”

A few hours later, they were in a cab on their way back to Grand Central. They were both exhausted, their meeting – only five and a half hours before – felt like days ago. The cab ride was painfully quiet, with Bucky spending a large part of it anxiously picking at the knee of his jeans and repeatedly checking that he had his ticket.

Eventually, Steve placed his hand over Bucky’s to stop the fidgeting. Bucky stared at their hands, and then twisted his wrist so that he could link their fingers together again, much like he had the previous night. He smiled up at Steve, and Steve just smiled back.

Bucky didn’t let go of his hand as they got out of the cab, and as they walked into the station. He only let go when they reached a payphone which Steve insisted on picking up. Bucky couldn’t help but smile when he realised what Steve was doing.

“Steve? Hey, buddy, it’s you from the future.”

He covered the receiver with his hand and stage-whispered, “He bought it, sucker.” to Bucky, who laughed – a little teary, and then he put the phone back to his ear.

“I just wanted to give you a piece of advice. You’re gonna be playing one night, in Grand Central Terminal in Manhattan, thinking of every reason in the world to not go see the girl who broke your heart. Then, you’re gonna meet somebody. At first, he’s gonna seem cold, and you’ll know right away that he’s trouble. He’s gonna take all your money, lie to you, keep you awake and walking around Manhattan all night, you might even get punched, but... stick with him; you’re gonna end up needing him a lot more than he needs you.”

He locked eyes with Bucky as he spoke, and his voice wobbled a little bit, but he tried to control it as much as he could. They both had cried far too much over the past few hours. Bucky didn’t seem to have even noticed that a tear had slipped down his cheek.

“At the end of the night, when you’re seeing him off at Grand Central, you’re gonna wanna say some things. But, don’t. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know.”

Bucky wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and Steve carried on talking.

“Just give him a kiss, wish him good luck, and say thank you. Because he taught you something you would never have been able to teach yourself.”

As soon as he said that, Bucky surged forward, grabbed the lapel of Steve’s coat and kissed him. Steve dropped the phone in shock. The kiss was wet from tears, and Steve couldn’t tell if they were his or Bucky’s. Both of them, he thought, when Bucky moved back again. They kept their foreheads pressed together for a few more moments.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, quietly.

Then, he stepped back and walked away.

Steve was frozen in place. All he could do was watch Bucky as he walked down onto the platform. And, if Bucky glanced back at Steve a few times, nobody had to know.

There was a man playing the trumpet in Grand Central Terminal. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people passed by him while he played. Some would drop money into his open case, others would pass without acknowledgment, another would enter and leave his life in the same night.

The night would be insignificant in the grander scheme of things, and, in the time after, he would meet so many more people. They would laugh and cry and have weekly poker nights, and he wouldn’t think about Peggy no matter how much it hurt. He would go on trips to Las Vegas and California and he’d go back to Brooklyn, visit his mom’s grave and spend hours talking to her as if she could hear. His hands would still shake, but he would spend hours mapping out long, dark hair and a sharply curved jaw in his sketchbook.

He would be back at Grand Central Terminal before he’d even realised that he’d left, and he would be knocked off his feet by a man in a hurry.

The man would turn around to help him up, and he’d look up into grey eyes flashing with recognition, and the man would exhale, “Steve.” and Steve would chuckle out a “Buck.”, and it was as if they had never left at all.

30 notes · View notes

destiel-love-forever · 5 years

Note

Thank you! #24 is : “Don’t come back until you’re fucking sober.”

This is an AU with no spoilers. Any character deaths/relationships/etc. don’t reflect anything that’s happened in the actual show. Established Destiel - Castiel’s a high school teacher, they’ve been dating since college, Dean’s been sober three years, they live together in an apartment/house. Mary Winchester just died before fic begins.

Read on my Ao3 or below!

Jack & Coke, and One Red Rose

Dean

When Castiel falls asleep beside me, I carefully extract myself from our bed and tip toe out of the room. The dark, quiet house is a relief. Peaceful. No Castiel asking me every few minutes if I need anything or if I’m okay. No Sam falling apart for me to hold and comfort. No old friends from school I could care less about offering me empty apologies. No extended family making passive aggressive comments about my life style or my drinking problem.

No dead mom.

What’s even more peaceful is when I show up to the bar. It’s like a breath of fresh air. Everything from the shitty jukebox crackling in the corner to the sticky, stained bar top are a comfort. I wave down the bartender, giving him a charming smile. “Double Jack and Coke, please.”

He nods and begins to pour. This stranger wearing a blue cotton shirt with a stain on the hem, quick hands mixing drinks, has no idea I’m three years sober. He has no idea that the last time I drank, I ended up in the hospital. Someone had found me in a puddle of my own vomit my final year of college and called an ambulance. Castiel and I had been dating for two months at that point - I had been doing a pretty good job at keeping my problem from him. When I woke up in the hospital, he had been holding my hand, tears drying on his face. He made me promise that I’d go to rehab and get help. That I’d never drink again. I said yes.

I exchange a five-dollar bill with the bartender in return for my drink. The smell alone makes me dizzy. Leaning against the bar, I rotate my wrist so I can watch the ice swirl. It’s mesmerizing. It’s exactly what I need. Just one drink, and it won’t be so hard to stay alive. Just one drink, and I won’t see my mom lying in that grave every time I close my eyes.

Just one drink.

Just one.

-----

When the bartender does last call, his eyes are glued to me specifically. He stopped serving me an hour ago but his hopes for me to sober up did absolutely nothing. I’m in that mental state when you know you’re shit faced, and you want to stop giggling and talking and doing stupid shit, but you just can’t.

“Buddy, you ain’t driving home tonight. Want me to call a cab? Or help you call a friend? Family?”

“Buried my ma today.” I look up at him and giggle again, even though it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly, in a way that I actually believe. “Do you have any family in town for the funeral? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? Anyone? Maybe it’s best if you call one of them instead of a cab. Might be good if you’re not alone tonight.”

“Home,” I mumble.

“Do you have someone at home?”

“Cas.” I lay my head on the bartop. It may be sticky and smells of tomato juice and vodka, but it’s cool against my overheated skin and that feels amazing. “Gonna be mad.”

Someone comes up beside me and hands the bartender the money for their bill. The place is incredibly quiet. When I lift my head to glance around, I see that I’m alone. Just me and the poor bartender.

The guy motions for me to lift my head so he can wipe down the bartop beneath my face. I immediately press my cheek against it again when he’s done. It’s much more pleasing now that it smells like lemony soap.

“Give me your phone, buddy.”

I slap around my pockets a few times before finding my phone and waving it in the air for him. “Don’ call Cas. Be mad ‘t me.”

Castiel

My phone ringing wakes me from the restless state of sleep I’d been struggling through. I roll over to look at Dean, hoping it doesn’t wake him when I know he was having a hard time falling asleep, but his side of the bed is empty. With one hand, I answer my phone. With the other, I reach out and feel that his spot is cold.

“H - hello?”

“Hi. This is - well, okay. This is going to sound weird but I have a really drunk guy here mumbling about a Cas and you’re Cas in his phone.” I stare at the place where my boyfriend of three years should be lying. “He said his mom’s funeral was today? Ring any bells?”

I close my eyes and tell myself not to cry. “Yup. He’s mine.”

“Awesome. Would you be able to come get him? I didn’t want to send him off in a cab. He’s kind of - well, he’s a fucking mess, to be honest.”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I shove the blankets back, trying to keep calm because this poor bartender doesn’t need to deal with my emotions. As I scavenge on the floor for some decent clothes to throw on, I ask, “What bar?”

“Rookies. Do you know where we’re at? Downtown?”

I slap a hand at my cheek, stopping the one tear that slipped from my control. “Of course. Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Can you please wait with him?”

“Of course. We’ll be here.”

Once I’m dressed and in the car, it truly sinks in that he relapsed. I should have known better. I should have fucking known. How could I be so stupid? I should have stayed awake until I knew he was asleep. I should have stayed awake all night if it was what he needed.

No. You know what? He fucking should have woken me up when he was struggling. He knows better than to drink. He’s a big fucking boy. All he had to do was wake me up.

By the time I’m at the bar, I’m pissed. Furious, actually.

By the time I see Dean, I’m heart broken.

He’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging between his legs as he heaves up all the alcohol he drank. A gruff man standing behind him gives me a kind smile. “Cas?”

“Yeah. Thank you so much for this. Uh, what’s his tab?”

“Fifty-two.”

I close my eyes until I’m confident that I won’t cry. Then I grab my wallet and hand him eighty bucks. “Keep the change.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.”

“No problem. I know how he gets when he’s drinking.” I get down on a knee, a few feet away from Dean so I’m not kneeling in his vomit. “Dean?”

Impossibly green eyes surrounded by red veins lift to look at me. “Told him not to call you.”

“Where did you plan on going, then?”

“Dunno.”

“Mmm.” I try to help him stand up but he starts to cry. Big, wet sobs. His entire body shakes and heaves. The bartender helps me get him fully to his feet and takes one of his arms as we guide a stumbling, crying Dean to my car.

Just before closing the door to the backseat where we dumped him, Dean blinks up at me and whispers, “Sorry broke the promise.”

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“Go to a meetin’ tomorrow. Promise.”

“Sure. Let’s just get you home.”

He parts his lips to speak again but I slam the door and press my hands against it, hanging my head. I forgot the bartender was even still standing there until he says in a thick voice, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic.”

I give him a broken smile, not even caring anymore that my eyes are watering. “He’s charming. You’d never know unless he told you. Don’t worry about it.”

With a polite nod, the man backs away and heads inside the bar. I crouch down and bury my face in my hands, giving myself a minute to fall apart before I have to be the strong one for Dean. When the minute is done, I can’t stop sobbing. So, I give myself one more.

Dean

I try. I really fucking try. Sam picks me up in the morning and brings me, and my pounding, aching head, to an AA meeting. We sip cheap, shitty coffee. I walk up to the podium and admit I relapsed. Everyone looks at me with a mixture of pity and fear, because they’ve all either been there or are terrified they’ll be there soon.

We grab a bite to eat after and Sam delicately lectures me about staying sober. About calling him if I need him. About honesty and humility and all the other shit him and Castiel have been spouting for years.

I make promises, but even as they fall from my lips, I know they’re lies. Then he drops me off at home and I find out that Castiel stayed home from work to babysit me. He’s much more upset than Sam. No lectures. No coddling. Just a cold shoulder and a clearly broken heart. When I wake up from a nap on the couch, he looks at me with a sad smile and tells me he loves me. It sounds a lot like the promises I made to Sam. Empty. Unrealistic.

How could he love me? Especially now?

The second he falls asleep, I’m out the door. Fuck being sober. Where did that ever get me? A dead mom. A job I hate. A long-term boyfriend who deserves so much more.

I slide onto the bar stool and smile when I see the same bartender from the night before. He frowns when he sees me, then glances around like he’s expecting something or someone. Waving a five dollar bill in the air, I tell him, “Double Jack and Coke, please.”

“Dean, I think you should go home.”

“Um, no.” I slap the bill on the bartop. “What I will do is take a Double Jack and Coke.”

“Does Cas know you’re here?”

Narrowing my eyes, I tell him through gritted teeth, “Don’t say his name.”

“If you can’t even hear his name as you’re about to drink, maybe you shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” I push away from the bar and start to leave. The bar is in the busy downtown area. My options are not at all limited.

The bartender wraps a hand around my bicep and tugs me toward the bar stool I was just sitting on. “Alright. You gonna get shit faced, might as well do it here so you don’t get your stupid ass killed or something.”

When he hands me the drink after a minute, I make eye contact and hold him there. “At the end of the night, call a cab. Not Cas.”

Something flashes in his eyes but then he gives me a curt nod. “Whatever you say, man. It’s your life you’re fuckin’ up.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, slamming the drink in one go and pushing it toward him for a refill. “It is.”

Castiel

For the eighth night in a row, he stumbles into the house. Tonight, he trips over my leather messenger bag stuffed full of shitty high school student essays. Ones I haven’t even graded yet, because all I do every night is sit up watching reruns on Netflix and crying. Except for tonight. Tonight, I watched reruns on Netflix and just stared in a stunned emptiness.

He falls to his hands and knees, immediately chuckling. When he squints in the living room light and spots me, he laughs harder. “Cas! Missed you!”

“Are you sure?” I stand up, shoving my hands in my sweatpants pockets. Actually, his sweatpants. I like his better because they’re nice and baggy. I’ll have to buy some in his size when he moves out. Lord knows I can’t keep a pair here. The smell of him alone will break me and I’ll go running back to him. That’s what I do best. Running back to Dean Winchester. “Doesn’t feel like you missed me.”

“‘Course silly! Missed you lots.”

“Then stop leaving me.”

His green eyes narrow as he stares up at me from where he’s still on the floor. If it was a few days ago, I would offer to help him stand. Not anymore. I’m so unbelievably done. “I’d never leave you, Cas.”

“You leave me every night, Dean.”

“Well, yeaaaaaaah!” he giggles, slowly pushing to his feet. “But ‘ways come back home to ya.”

I stand and watch him as he wavers on his feet. With just a slight wind, he’d be on his ass again. “I can’t keep doing this, Dean.”

“Doin’ what?”

“This.” I gesture between us. “I need you to stay at Sam’s from now on.”

“S- Sam’s?” He shakes his head like he can make the words disappear. “What? No. We’re - we - this ‘s m’ home.”

Ignoring the tears slipping down my cheeks, I swallow around the giant lump in my throat and inform him, “No. This is not your home anymore, Dean.”

He starts to cry. Then I start to cry. On shaking legs, he hurries over to me, backing me into the wall. His lips are on mine and he tastes like whiskey and regret, but I can’t get myself to pull away. When his hands grab the backs of my thighs, I let him lift me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. We get each other’s shirts off by some miracle, our mouths barely separating. I think he makes sure it’s that way so I can’t tell him to leave again. It’s not like I’m exactly committed to it. Apparently, Dean Winchester still has all the power. Not sure why that surprises me. It wasn’t a problem before his relapse, because he didn’t abuse the power. He took care of me. He was kind. Funny. Loving. Caring. Gentle. Sure, a pain in the ass sometimes, but not like this. Not a fucking mess. On night four, he told me to fuck off. On night six, he came home so angry he started throwing things. I don’t like drunk Dean. Drunk Dean isn’t my Dean.

Things turn angry fast. I start to yank at his hair and claw at the bare skin of his back. He finally pulls his lips from my mouth only to clamp down on the side of my neck, biting and sucking all the way down to my shoulder before moving to the other side and doing it all over again.

“Dean,” I whisper, reminding myself that this was supposed to be a break-up. Or, at the very least, an I-need-space-up.

“Shh,” he whispers against my abused skin. “Just, shhhh.”

I rest my head against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. He stops and I’m not sure I want him to stop anymore because I’m too afraid to lose him now. The words are stuck in my throat and I can’t get them out, even though nothing sexual is happening between us anymore. Even wasted, Dean picked up on my mood. He knows I’m not okay.

“Come on. Let’s go sleep,” he whispers.

“No. Stay.” I cling to him, shaking now. “Stay. Here. Fuck me.”

“Cas-”

“Dean, fuck me or leave.”

He looks away, shame clear across his face. “I don’t wanna leave, Cas. Don’t make me leave you.”

“Then fuck me.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, then gives me a tight smile. “Can we at least go to the bedroom?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I give him the same tight smile back. “Because you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight, babe.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. That’s - yeah. That’s fair.”

Before either of us can think of anything else to say, he’s pressing a searing kiss to my lips. I shiver and melt against him. When he presses me harder into the wall, I help him undo our pants, shoving them awkwardly the best we can. He rips my underwear in the back instead of trying to maneuver around them but I don't care. I just want him to fuck me. To remind me of the love we share, because I can't seem to find it anymore.

After a sloppy and quick prep with his fingers and spit, he’s pushing inside me. He groans and buries his face in my neck. “God, baby. ‘S been s’ long.”

Maybe if you weren’t getting wasted every fucking night, we could be having sex more often. Instead of saying that, I just grab a fistful of his hair and bring his mouth back to mine, pressing our lips together again. I have no idea if this break-up sex or make-up sex or what, but I know one thing. It might be our last time. So, I free myself from all the anger and sadness and loneliness, and give myself one more night with the love of my life.

Dean

The bartender at Rookies, who I now know is named Benny, is just a year older than me, and is really invested in my life for some reason, hands me my final glass of whiskey for the night. At some point I stopped even asking for the soda along with it. What’s the point, right?

I stare down into the glass and think about what I’ve been thinking about all night long. Castiel. I know he was trying to break-up with me last night. I know it was wrong that I used sex against him. I know I’m being a piece of shit lately. Drinking. Smoking. Getting into fights. Yelling at Castiel. Being crabby and hungover all day just to sneak away and get wasted at night.

Not even sneak away anymore. I left while he was still awake tonight. He was sitting on the couch grading papers and drinking coffee, like he was planning on staying awake for a while, so I decided to just leave instead of trying to wait him out. What if he didn’t fall asleep fast enough and I missed bar close? Then what would I drink? So, I left. Walked right out. Avoided eye contact.

Except the guilt is haunting me. It’s the first time since I relapsed that I haven’t been able to enjoy myself at the bar. No loud karaoke. No meaningless flirting. No nachos. No playing card games with some of the regulars. Just me and my glass of whiskey, freaking the fuck out.

He wanted me to leave. He was trying to break-up. He’s done with me. Fuck. What will I go home to tonight? Will he still be there? Will he demand I leave? How do I fix this?

Two assholes are laughing at the end of the bar. I keep looking at them, hoping that they’ll get the picture that they’re annoying the fuck out of me, but they just get louder. More obnoxious. When one of them spews something about “fags” I launch to my feet.

“Woah, buddy,” Benny immediately says, putting a hand out to stop me. “Not worth it.”

“Nothin’s worth it ‘n more.”

“Dean!”

I hurry to the guy that’s closest to me and slam my fist against his face, smiling as the blood sprays from his nose. He stumbles back but before I can pursue him, his friend is jumping on me. We fall to the floor but I quickly gain the upper hand, rolling us so I’m on top. I land a few good punches before the first guy is pulling me off and slamming me into the bartop. As he hits me, I start to laugh like a fucking maniac.

Castiel

The knock on the door wakes me from where I’m sleeping on the couch. I rub my eyes and look at the time. It’s still an hour to bar close so I’m not sure why Dean’s already home. Or why he can’t use his goddamn key.

Even more annoyed than usual, I storm over to the door and unlock it, then yank it open. I gasp when I see that Dean’s not alone. Benny, the nice bartender that’s been trying to keep him as safe as possible during his recent bender, is holding him up. Dean’s bleeding and one eye is swelling shut. When he sees me, though, he starts to laugh and walk toward me. I back away and he stumbles, but with a hand on the wall he stabilizes himself and stands up straight. His grin is bloody and terrifying.

“Hey you,” he slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smiling again, this time a softer, loving smile. It makes me nauseous.

I look at Benny and give him a tight, thankful smile. “Sorry about this.”

“I’m sorry. The fight happened too fast. It didn’t last long, I got his ass out of there the second I could.”

“Thank you, Benny.”

“Are you,” he pauses, looking at Dean before looking at me again. “Are you okay here, Cas? Do you want a ride somewhere? Or I can take him somewhere else? He’s bad tonight.”

“‘Ay, fuck off, asshole! He’s mine,” Dean shouts, stabbing a finger in the air toward Benny. “Leave!”

Knowing that I’m now crying, I pretend like I’m not and wave Benny off. “It’s fine. I promise. Thank you, again.”

He looks nervous leaving me but after a few seconds he nods and closes the door behind himself. I stare at Dean, trying to recognize him. Trying to understand how, in nine short days, we got here.

“I can’t do this anymore, Dean.”

“‘Ll get better. ‘Swear.”

“It doesn’t feel like it’s getting better.”

“Jus’ fuckin’ buried my ma, Cas! Wha’ ya wan’ from me?”

Unable to look him in the eye, I stare at the ground and whisper, “I want you to leave.”

“Fuck you.” As he walks by, he shoulder checks me. It’s the most violent he’s ever been with me - which is saying a lot, because people constantly shoulder check people - but it still sets me off.

Whipping around, I put my hands on his back and shove him. He goes stumbling across the floor before turning to stare at me with wide eyes. “Jesus christ, you’re fuckin’ crazy!”

“I want you out of this house!”

“No. ‘s our house.”

“Actually, it’s not. It’s mine. You just have a key.” I swallow down the pain I’m feeling and force myself to look straight at him, lifting my chin to look more confident than I actually feel. “I will pack your things and bring them to Sam’s tomorrow.”

“No.” He shakes his head, laughing. “You don’ get to break up with me. That - ‘s not how it works.”

I go to the door and yank it open, pointing out toward the sidewalk. “Leave. Now.”

The nearest thing to him is an end table with a lamp and a picture frame on it. He growls and turns to it, lashing out and dragging his hands across the surface. He sends the lamp crashing to the ground and the picture flying. It lands a few feet from me, picture facing up, the broken glass spidering across my smiling face. Dean’s face is left untouched.

Staring down at our broken image, I tell him, “Leave on your own right now, or I’ll call Sam. Who doesn’t even know you’re still drinking, by the way. So I suggest you don’t make me do that.”

“How dare you?” he chokes out. “My ma died.”

“That excuse stopped working a few days ago, Dean. You need help.”

“I need you.”

“I’m not available right now.”

He makes a weird sound that draws my attention. When I look up at him, he’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize me. His face is covered in tears. “Don’ do this, Cas. ‘can fix this.”

“No you can’t.”

The sadness morphs to anger, like it always does with Dean Winchester. He starts throwing everything in sight. None in my direction, like I said, he’d never hurt me. But it still makes me start to shake. I openly sob but it doesn’t matter to him. He’s too busy screaming about how selfish and judgemental I am. How he deserves better than me. How I’m an asshole. How I’m heartless. How I’m the worst person he’s ever met.

At some point, I got myself to dial Sam’s number. I couldn’t speak through the sobs but he could clearly hear Dean screaming at me. He lives three streets away from us. By the time I hear him enter the house, Dean hasn’t even run out of steam yet. He punches the wall right before Sam hugs him from behind, pulling him away from the new hole in the drywall, grabbing his bleeding hand to keep it from getting injured further.

I lift my chin to look at Dean as Sam drags him toward the door. Sam is in responsible big brother mode, shifting between apologizing to me and asking if I’m okay, to hushing and whispering to Dean that everything will be fine. When they get directly in front of me, Dean’s eyes meet mine. They’re full of so much hate and pain and love that I have to take a step back.

“Don’ do this, Cas,” he whispers a final time, voice raw from his screaming. “Don’ make me leave.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” I whisper in a voice just as broken, even though I’ve barely raised my voice since he got home. “I can't be with you like this.”

“You're heartless. You never loved me, did you?”

“How can you even say that? Of course I did. I still do! But I can't anymore. You have to stop this.”

“Fuck you! I need you ‘n you're fuckin’ abandonin’ me!”

Sam tries pulling him away but Dean pulls his arm back, his elbow hitting Sam in the nose. He takes advantage of his freedom by coming for me. I back away out the door so he will follow me outside, then turn so I'm closest to the door.

“Don't speak to me like that, Dean.”

“Fuck. You.” He spits at me. “I'll be back. You'll be beggin’ me to.”

“No, Dean.” Wiping at my face, I tell him in the strongest, most confident tone I can muster, “I swear to god. Don’t come back until you’re fucking sober.”

His lips part but I turn my back to him and run inside, slamming the door and locking it. Then I slump down on the ground and curl in on myself, not sure if I just made the best decision of my life, or the worst mistake.

Dean

17 hours sober.

Well, since my last drink. I doubt I'm even sober yet, considering the amount of alcohol in my system. Still, 17 hours is impressive for me, so I'm counting it.

I rest my cheek against the cool toilet seat, vomit dripping from the corner of my mouth. Sam enters the bathroom, placing a glass of water on the counter before wringing out a cold cloth over my head, sending refreshingly cold water down my body. He runs it under cold water again before resting it on the back of my neck.

“Thanks, Sammy,” I whisper through chattering teeth. I wish my fucking body would stop shaking so hard. It's starting to hurt. Every muscle is aching. With each heave as I vomit, my body protests. It feels like I'm being ripped into ten different directions.

------

37 hours sober.

I sit at the back of my second meeting of the day, bouncing my knees to the rhythm of my pounding heart. The man speaking to the group is talking about being sober for ten years. There's a wedding ring on his finger. I stare at it as he talks with his hands. It was just last month I was at the jewelry store with my mom, browsing rings for when I proposed to Castiel. We said we would go back and make a final decision but we never did.

Now she's dead.

Now, Castiel would probably throw the ring at my face.

Don't come back until you're fucking sober.

I want to go home right now. Technically, I've sobered up. I purged all the alcohol out of my system through vomit, sweat, and time. Now I'm left with a shaky, empty shell of myself. Not the man Castiel is hoping will return, I'm sure.

------

42 hours sober.

I want a drink so fucking bad. My hands are trembling so hard and I know what they're begging me for. I know they want the comfort of wrapping around a glass of whiskey. My whole body wants something to do with the liquid gold. My tongue longs for the taste. My throat for the burn. My stomach for the heat that spreads through it. My veins want to be pumping alcohol. My mind wants help shutting off.

I scrub a rough hand over my face, my knees bouncing double time. I should go to another meeting. I'm sure there's one right now, even though it's late. If I was more determined, I'd find one. I'm not though. I'm worried if I get off the couch and allow my feet to move, they will bring me to the nearest bar. So, I sit on Sam's couch with the TV on mute so I don't wake his family up. I sit until I don't need a drink.

I end up falling asleep first.

------

56 hours sober.

God, I miss him. I miss him so fucking much. I need him. Almost as much as I need a drink. Since I know that's wrong, since I know he deserves someone who needs him more than anything, especially more than whiskey, I still don't go back.

------

6 days sober.

The cravings still thrum beneath the surface of my skin. The piercing headache I’ve had for three days straight now still won’t go away. But, when I sweat, it doesn’t smell like booze anymore. I can now eat three meals a day without throwing them up. The trembling has mostly stopped. It only returns when I’m anxious or unable to sleep. That’s probably my biggest problem now, besides the Castiel issue. I can’t sleep well.

It’s mostly that I can’t even fall asleep. Too restless. Too many thoughts. Too upset. When I do manage to fall asleep, I’m battling nightmares. Nightmares about the horrors of my past. Nightmares about dying alone. Nightmares of Castiel dead like my mom, lying stiff in a coffin. Nightmares of Castiel finding someone else. Nightmares of me trying to go back, proud of being sober, only to be told he can no longer love me.

------

12 days sober.

I dial his number after work, drumming the fingers of my free hand nervously against my thigh. I've sent him two texts since he kicked me out. One when I first detoxed, apologizing and promising I would get better. The second a few days ago, just saying I miss and love him, and want him to take all the time he needs. He didn't answer either.

He doesn't answer the phone call either. It takes a lot for me to not throw my phone at the wall. It takes even more for me not to drink. I go for a run instead. 8 miles. Sam would be so proud.

------

30 days sober.

I get my bronze chip at my daily meeting. Everyone claps for me. I even smile.

I visit my mom's grave, apologizing for being gone so long. She listens to me talk and cry. She sits with me in silence.

I ask Sam if Castiel is okay. Sam promises he is. I can't decide if I'm relieved or hurt by that. All I know is I fucking need him, and it's killing me that he doesn't need me too.

Castiel

34 days alone.

The first apology arrives during the school day in the middle of my lesson on Ernest Hemingway. 37 pink roses and one red rose. They come with a note written in Dean’s beautifully messy handwriting: 37 pink roses for every month we’ve been together, and one red for this past month that we’ve had to spend apart. I’m so sorry I made it so we needed a red rose… I promise to try and make sure we never have another one again. I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

Telling my students to read the short story I just introduced, I hurry off to the staff bathroom and lock myself in. With the note crumpled in my hand, I let myself cry. I cry for every pink rose. I cry even harder for the red one.

------

37 days alone.

The second apology is in my mailbox the next morning. An envelope with just my name on it, in that same handwriting as the note with the roses. I bring it inside and open it as I eat my breakfast. It’s a gift certificate for a full day at the spa in town. With it is a note that reads: You talk all the time about how stressed you are. With work. Your kids. Coworkers. Family. Even with me. I never tell you enough how much I appreciate you. How I appreciate that even if you get home after dark, you still make us dinner. How I appreciate that even when you’re exhausted, you still wake up with me when I have my nightmares. How I appreciate your never ending patience and understanding. How I appreciate that you planned my mom’s funeral since Sam and I were too upset. I promise to appreciate you more. I promise to tell you more. I’m nowhere near the man you deserve.. But I’m going to try my hardest to become him for you. I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

------

40 days alone.

The third apology is a pink gift bag on my front porch when I come home at the end of the day. I bring it inside and place it on the breakfast bar. After I’ve changed into more comfortable clothes and poured myself a glass of wine, I open it. A note is tied with a ribbon off one of the handles. I open it and read: I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

When I look inside, I see that the bag is actually packed full of notes. Little folded up slips of paper. With shaking hands, I open the first and read: You don’t know this, but the first time we met wasn’t actually the first time I’d seen you. I saw you a week before that, when walking across campus to the dorms. It was a cool, windy, fall day. You were in this chunky, burgundy sweater. A plaid flannel blanket was wrapped around you, falling off one shoulder. You were sitting on the ground with your back against a tree. Reading. Always reading. My cute little nerd. The wind kept blowing your crazy curls around and I just stood there in awe. You were so beautiful. I remember when I saw you at that party the week after, I just knew. I knew you were the one. It was fate.

Clamping down on my bottom lip to keep from crying, I grab a new one and read: I know you hate my homemade lasagna, babe. But thanks for always pretending anyway.

I laugh softly, the smile feeling foreign on my face. I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled, instead of the forced ones I give in public to keep up appearances. It’s not really a surprise that Dean Winchester is the one to get me to smile again. He was always quite good at that.

I read another one: I’m sorry for that terrible fucking haircut I gave you last year… that was… oh boy.. That was terrible babe. I wasn’t lying though. You still looked gorgeous.

This makes me laugh until I’m breathless. I remember that day. I had a meeting the next morning and it had completely slipped my mind to go to the salon. All I needed was a trim so my curls weren’t falling in my eyes. He butchered it so bad I wore a weird fedora like hat to the meeting, which my coworkers to this day still tease me about. The laughter is relieving. Almost all of the pressure that’s been building on my chest the last 40 days lifts. I can almost breathe again.

I read another: When I make love to you, your sexy legs wrapped around my waist and your arms around my back, holding me close so we can kiss, you make the most beautiful noises. I get lost in your eyes sometimes and forget to even move my hips. You’ve never pointed it out. Sometimes I wonder if you get lost in me too. If you don’t even notice.

My heart flutters.

I read another: When we were both still in the dorms on campus, you accused me of stealing one of your favorite sweaters. It was blue, almost identical to your eyes, and so fucking soft. My favorite part though was that it smelled like you. So… yeah… I totally lied. I stole that. I’m really sorry. It just made me feel safe and it helped with my nightmares. I slept with it every night, even long after it stopped smelling like you. When we moved in together, I was afraid to tell you… so I hid it. It’s in our bedroom closet right now if you want it back. In a box labeled ‘Dean’s College Shit’. Maybe it smells like me… maybe it can help you sleep now.

“I fucking knew he stole that,” I grumble, unable to stop myself from smiling. I go to the closet and find the sweater, exactly where he said it’d be. It’s slightly dusty but it does still smell like him. Actually, it smells like us. A smell the rest of this house is starting to lose. I pull the sweater on over my shirt and sink into it.

Going back to the kitchen, now wrapped in my own Dean security blanket, I read another: I love you so much, Cas. You make my entire world spin. It feels like everything is standing still lately… you know how much I hate being still.

And another: I miss you.

And another: Sam’s dog is under the impression we are now best friends, and he sleeps on the couch with me every night. He’s lucky he’s cute because this couch is fucking small.

Another: I love when you read to me at night while I fall asleep, even when it’s your students’ terrible essays that I know drive you nuts. God.. I miss your voice, babe.

Another: When we kissed for the first time, you tasted like skittles. I never asked if you had been eating them, or maybe drinking something earlier. I wonder what it was.

Another: It’s raining tonight. Thunderstorming. I know how much you love them. I hope you’re sitting in the window seat with a book and a mug of tea, enjoying it. You deserve peaceful moments like that.

It hasn’t thunderstormed in two weeks. He's been writing these over the time we’ve been apart, instead of all at once for this apology gift like I thought.

My resolve crumbles.

I read another: I love you.

I read every single one. Most of them more than once. By the time the sun is setting, the wine bottle is empty and I’m dialing Dean’s number.

He answers before the phone can ring a second time. “Cas?” he asks breathlessly. The desperation and hope in his voice breaks my heart.

With a smile, I say what I’ve wanted to for 40 days now. “Dean. Come home.”

#destiel #supernatural #prompts #love #angst #writing #feels #savingpeoplewritingprompts #au #dean #castiel #domestic au #alcohol #relapse

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lavenderprose · 5 years

Text

Here’s the beginning of a fic I’ve been sitting on for a few months?? Hopefully getting a little feedback will jumpstart my stupid lizard brain into doing something

On a blustery morning in mid-September, a dog shows up on Yuuri’s front porch.

Yuuri, who’s in a bit of a hurry to get to town because he promised Phichit that he would help at the shop today, is struck momentarily motionless at the sight of a large silver-beige poodle sitting on his front porch, grinning up a storm and panting large plooms of condensation into the chilly morning air.

When his limbs recall their functions after several long beats, Yuuri steps down off the doorway ledge and onto the porch, cautious even though the dog looks like nothing would please them more than Yuuri coming closer. He glances up and down the road, looking for an owner. Yuuri’s house is set back about a hundred yards from the road, but he can still see it through the branches of the trees. There is nothing and nobody on the road. It’s just Yuuri and a poodle, alone in the cold air and odd stillness of a northern Michigan autumn morning.

Until Vicchan nudges up against the back of Yuuri’s legs and sets to whining, either at the sight of the other dog or at the fact that Yuuri is blocking his access to the yard.

“Shush,” he says to Vicchan, who subsides. He turns back to the other dog, still panting and still regarding Yuuri with large, friendly black eyes. Yuuri steps a little closer.

“Hi, puppy,” he says, kneeling slowly down to eye-level with the poodle. “Who’re you?” The dog lunges forward to try and lick Yuuri’s face; Yuuri laughs and fends him off, gets hold of his collar and reads the tags. Vicchan steps onto the porch and busily sets about sniffing the other dog’s butt.

“Makkachin, huh?” he says, turning the simple bone-shaped nametag in his hands. The reverse side of the tag gives an address, which is only one number off from Yuuri’s on the same road. Yuuri, who had sort of anticipated the dog belonging to a neighbor, isn’t surprised. He pats Makkachin’s head and then, because the name doesn’t really indicate a gender, at least not one that Yuuri can discern, he takes a glance underneath the dog. Makkachin stays still for the indignity, and Vicchan prances back and forth through the open door, unsure what to do with himself.

Makkachin, it turns out, is a girl.

“Alright, let’s get you back home.” Yuuri stands up and clicks his tongue, mostly to attract the attention of Vicchan. He comes barreling back out onto the porch, and Yuuri closes and locks the door. Vicchan rampages towards the car, barking his joy. Makkachin stays put and gazes up at Yuuri, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Yuuri, who’s noticing now the amount of gray that Makkachin has on her muzzle, takes a step towards the porch steps and pats his leg. With that visual cue, Makkachin hops to it, following along behind Yuuri and Vicchan down the driveway.

Yuuri’s car is a pickup, which is one of only a few types of cars that one can drive with any sense of security through northern Michigan winters. Yuuri spent one awful, terrifying winter after college driving his ’05 Toyota Corolla through foot-high snowdrifts, white knuckling the steering wheel the whole way. In March of that year, he got on the internet and googled best cars for snow, clicked the first result, and went and bought himself a black standard cab pickup. It’s not the kind of car he ever really saw himself driving, and he thinks it might lean a little too far into the whole rural archetype, but he supposes that archetypes become archetypes for a reason—the image of a pickup truck driving down a country road has been in the cultural zeitgeist for practically as long as there have been cars.

Although Yuuri anticipates that Makkachin might need help getting up into the cab, she only really has trouble clamoring into the back to sit on the jumpseat with Vicchan, and she manages it even with Yuuri telling her that she doesn’t need to sit in the back. Once both dogs are settled, Yuuri hops in and turns on the car, backing out along the driveway.

Yuuri’s property doesn’t extend very far, but his neighbor’s property is big enough that the drive up to their front door takes about five minutes. Makkachin is looking out the window and, although she must recognize all of the landmarks they’re passing, doesn’t kick up a fuss.

The house of Makkachin’s owner is relatively large, but only in that it has a slightly bigger footprint than Yuuri’s, coupled with what appears to be a half second floor. It’s nowhere near as extravagant as the McMansions that dot this same road closer to town, where they can be hooked up to the city water and it isn’t a half-hour drive to anywhere worth being. It’s a nice house, though, and might have some history behind it—it has a look of a house that probably wasn’t built this century. The land surrounding the house is well-kept. Further back, the property fades into woods, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t have at least some woodland on their property out this way, unless that person was a farmer.

There are two other cars parked in the driveway—a pickup and a jeep that Yuuri (with his only tangential knowledge of cars which are not the car he currently owns) thinks is a Wrangler. The jeep is a common choice in this area, mostly because it’s essentially a street-legal tank, so Yuuri isn’t surprised to see it. The pickup truck is old though—like, seventies or eighties old, and it’s a strange creamy salmon color that Yuuri has never seen before.

It might be, Yuuri thinks, one of those cars that people buy their sixteen-year-olds to learn to drive in, unafraid to see it damaged since they only spent 700 dollars buying it. It could, on the other hand, be someone’s prized antique. It’s hard to tell in this area.

Yuuri dismounts from the car and pats the seat for Makkachin. She comes clamoring out, and Yuuri does help her this time—mostly because he doesn’t want her trying to jump down herself, old as she might be. Vicchan tries to sneak out after her, but Yuuri presses him back into the car.

“You’ll get to run around all day at the shop,” Yuuri tells him, when his ears droop. “Be good.”

Vicchan settles back onto the seat so that Yuuri can close the door, but Yuuri sees his little head pop up over the steering wheel a moment later. Yuuri laughs, seeing it.

The front door opens almost immediately after Yuuri knocks, disorientating him slightly. The man standing in front of Yuuri looks like he’s just about to head out the door as well—he’s wearing a gray parka and black scarf, knit hat pulled down over what looks to be platinum hair, and thick leather gloves on his hands. He and Yuuri, surprised to see each other, blink and say nothing for a moment.

“Is that my dog?” says Makkachin’s owner at last, having seen Makkachin lurking behind Yuuri’s knees.

“Um, yes.” Yuuri glances back at Makkachin, who snorts happily at her owner and trots into the house, blissfully dismissive of the two men still on the porch, who now have to slog through social niceties. Yuuri doesn’t necessarily think that Makkachin’s owner will be difficult to deal with—but he is, Yuuri can’t help but notice, deeply attractive, so it’ll probably be fun for Yuuri’s seven AM brain to deal with that.

“How did she get out?” Makkachin’s owner follows hers fluffy retreating butt with a bewildered gaze. “I just—she’s only been out of the house for twenty minutes. How far did she get?”

“She was on my front porch,” Yuuri says, pointing in the direction he lives. “I live down the road about a mile. Our properties adjoin.”

“She’s not supposed to—” Makkachin’s owner sighs, shakes his head and switches his gaze from Makkachin’s retreat into the house to Yuuri, who he smiles at. “I’m sorry. She’s trained not to leave the property line, so I just let her wander most mornings. She’s getting old, though, so maybe she just…got lost.”

“It’s no problem,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “She’s a sweetheart.”

Makkachin’s owner smiles as though Yuuri has just complimented him, and not his dog. “She really is! I’m Viktor, by the way. Probably rude of me that I’ve never introduced myself, seeing as we’re neighbors.”

Viktor has a very slight accent that becomes more prominent the longer Yuuri hears him talk. He at first thinks it might be Scottish, but eventually his ear adjusts and he realizes it’s something Slavic. It’s a melodic baritone voice and the inflection that he uses is Pure Michigan. First generation in America, maybe, or naturalized as a child as Yuuri himself was. Yuuri realizes he’s been musing on all of this, instead of responding to what Viktor’s actually said, when that welcoming smile slips into confusion.

“It’s fine!” Yuuri rushes to assure, shaking his hands. “It’s just—I don’t really know any? Of my neighbors? I just—there’s so much distance between—I think people are happier just—y’know, not?”

“Right, of course.” Viktor nods, smile still benevolent, but a little more shut off. “Yeah, I guess…people move out here to be…away.”

“Right.” Yuuri clears his throat, hands slipping into pockets. “Yeah, that’s—” It’s definitely why Yuuri moved here, although he’s trying desperately not to anxiously overshare with this man whose only relationship to him is a lost dog. He chooses not to mention it, for obvious reasons. “That’s right.”

There is a staircase visible behind Viktor’s back, down which a blond-haired youth now stomps. He isn’t initially looking at the door, only at Viktor’s back, and when he reaches the floor says, “Viktor, what are you doing—” then sees Yuuri.

“Yuri!” Viktor says, and Yuuri wonders how Viktor knows his name without him ever saying it, before he realizes that the blond is also Yuri. “This man found Makkachin!”

“Makkachin was missing?” Yuri asks, dripping teenaged ambivalence. He looks at Yuuri, his face contracts into something unpleasant, and he barks, “Thanks I guess!” before sweeping away, to parts of the house unseen.

“He’s shy,” Viktor says, watching him go, then turns back to Yuuri.

“His name is Yuri?”

“Yes, although he usually goes by Yura.” Viktor’s eyes widen at the end of that statement, and he’s quick to assure, “He’s my brother, not my son. I’m not old enough to have a sixteen-year-old.”

“Oh, no, yeah, I can tell. I was just asking because that’s—Yuuri, that’s my name.” He clears his throat, feeling awkward. “The Japanese one, not the—uh—Ukrain..ian…?”

“Russian.”

“Right, Russian. It’s not the Russian spelling. Um…” He clears his throat, glances back towards his car. “I’m gonna—go.”

Viktor smiles again. “Sure. Have a nice day! Thanks for bringing Makkachin back.”

Yuuri, inexplicably, gives Viktor a thumbs up, and stumbles backwards off the porch into a rose bush.

By the time he climbs back into the car, his face is red and his jeans are torn.

“We can never come back here,” he tells Vicchan, as he rapidly reverses out of Viktor-Makkachin’s-Owner’s driveway.

Vicchan wuffs at him balefully from under his own ears.

(“What happened to you?” Phichit demands from behind the ice cream counter, when Yuuri rolls into the shop toting Vicchan, half an hour late and still showing evidence of his mauling by rose bush.

“A very attractive man’s very cute dog was on my porch this morning,” says Yuuri, depositing Vicchan in his dog bed (<3 VICCHAN <3 on the side because Phichit spoils him) and grabbing an apron off the peg behind the counter.

“Oh Yuuri,” says Phichit in a pitying tone. “Oh honey. Oh no.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Yuuri, miserably, and conks his head onto a cooling table, where it stays until a customer comes in and, tentatively, asks Phichit if the guy over by the fudge is, uh, ok?)

#Maggie's Fic #Victuuri #YOI #Viktor Nikiforov #Yuuri Katsuki

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yukheii · 6 years

Text

one hundred ways to say i love you

× notes: reposted request from my old blog with a few minor edits

× 020. “you can borrow mine” + boyfriend!jeongguk

“You’re such a little piece of shit.”

Jeongguk can’t help but smile, both layers of teeth on display as he takes in your out-of-breath appearance and less that happy face. He thinks you look stupidly cute. You think he’s just stupid.

“Pray, tell, love, whatever do you mean,” he grins bigger (and otherwise you’d think he looked precious, ethereal even, but not after the stunt he’d just pulled), and leans against his doorframe.

“Don’t give me that, Jeongguk. You’re the one that turned off my alarm when I was napping—you’re the reason I was late!”

You’re huffing and puffing and all sorts of outraged, but he still thinks you’re so cute. So fucking cute.

He laughs, it’s too angelic for someone with the soul of a demon, and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But, hey, since you’re here, wanna stay the night?”

And there it is. Only Jeon fucking Jeongguk would turn off your alarm while you were sleeping and sabotage your chances of taking the late, and only, bus that runs on Saturdays to get back home because he was too prideful (and shy) to ask you to stay the night like any other normal boyfriend, or normal human being for that matter.

“What, no I—Jeongguk, I want to go home and now it’s nearly eleven and there are no more busses and I have to spend eighty bucks on an Uber because somebody thought it would be funny to—”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you spend eighty dollars on a cab service at this time of night.”

“Just twenty minutes ago you were okay with me dashing out of here like a madman to catch a bus that you knew I was going to miss.”

He grins again and places his oversized hands on the small of your back. “That’s because I knew you’d come running back to me, dear.”

You slap his chest and he chuckles with his head thrown back.

“What, not a fan of the nickname? What do you prefer? Love? Babe? Pumpkin? Noon—”

He flinches as your hand comes into contact with his chest again.

“I would prefer to be in bed,” you retort.

“Mine is available,” he hums, wrapping you in a full hug.

“And what about in the morning? I don’t have a toothbrush.”

“I have extras.”

“I don’t have a hairbrush.”

“I do.”

“Gross, your coconut head shavings are on that.”

“Alright, go out looking like a rabid raccoon for all I care.”

Another slap on his back.

“I didn’t bring any of my makeup.”

“You don’t need it.”

You roll your eyes. Cheeseball.

“I didn’t—”

“The only thing you don’t have is a reason not to come inside and cuddle up next to me.”

He murmurs his words into the crook of your neck, leaves a little kiss there after for good measure. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’m a great cuddle buddy. We can watch that Netflix show you like and when you get bored 45 minutes in, you can help me kick Taehyung’s ass in Overwatch.”

He breaks the hug and tilts his head perfectly to the side. “Please?”

You roll your eyes again. “You’re such an overgrown puppy. But fine, except tomorrow you have to—”

You don’t have time to finish as Jeongguk’s already dragging you inside, locking the door behind you and carrying you up the stairs. He screams about how much fun you’ll have and how this is going to be—his words not yours—the best sleepover of all time; and you can’t help but wonder how this child is the same human being that sabotaged you and stood in the doorway with a devilish smirk on his face merely minutes ago. Jeon Jeongguk sure is something.

He tosses you on his bed with the biggest smile of the night on his face. He thinks something is eerily right about the picture before him. You look good on his bed, not in a sexual way (although he’s not immune or shy to thoughts like that)—but you look at home in his bed. It feels nice, right, to have you here with him. It feels right to know that he’s gonna fall asleep next to you and that you’ll be here in the morning. He almost blushes and for once is thankful for your never ending string of questions that breaks his trance.

“Wait, Guk, I don’t have any pajamas,” you say.

And the smirk is back. “That’s fine, you can just sleep in your underwear.”

“Jeon Jeongguk!” you toss a pillow him. He dodges it, of course, but that infectious laugh of his fills the room once again.

“I’m just joking, babe, relax,” he crawls and hovers above you, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. “You can borrow mine.”

And then he kisses you for real and suddenly Netflix and Taehyung are long forgotten.

#bts scenarios #bts reactions #bts fake texts #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook scenarios #jeongguk scenario #100 ways

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ebmordecai · 7 years

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Gendrya prompt from timecubed... My response

Five times Arya cooked for Gendry + one time Gendry cooked for Arya

@timecubed

Life has that funny way of reminding you that you’re not in control. I had plans for myself. I was going to graduate from culinary school as this famous chef and then travel the world, but life decided to throw me a curve ball and remind me that I’m powerless. So, instead of traveling the world I find myself with two jobs and barely any time left to sleep.

The first job, which is my day job, is a waitress gig at a fancy Italian restaurant. Not my ideal choice, but I need the money. My second job, at night, is closer to my degree, but far from my dreams of traveling. I’m the chef for a billionaire tycoon. I wish I could say he was someone you could easily hate, but that’s far from being true.

Gendry Waters had earn his money the hard way, working his way from the ground up. He owned numerous business dealing with iron and metals. He had taken his skills and turned it into a billion dollar industry. I respected the hell out of him. He was a private man, staying out of the spotlight as much as possible. There wasn’t any heavy scandals with his name involved, yet he remained a total stranger to people, including the people who worked for him.

Monday…

I pay the cab fare, as the man driving stares out at the mansion I work in. The kitchen is my fortress, and everyone knows to give me space as I work. Tonight’s menu is lamb with mint sauce, asparagus seared in butter, hot rolls and a glass of chardonnay. Mr. Waters has a set menu that he seldom strays from, which makes my life simple seeing as I’m sleep deprived and I don’t need to give much effort to the menu.

Mrs. Caldwell, my supervisor awaits my arrival with instructions for tonight’s dinner. As usual, Mr. Waters will be eating alone. He never has dinner guests, not that I’ve seen in the three months I’ve worked for him.

When I enter the dining room He’s already seated, his face hidden in a newspaper. I serve him the hot meal and stand off to the side against the wall in case he needs anything. These silent moments are my favorite, for I get to watch him without him being aware of it. He’s still wearing his three piece charcoal suit from work, looking like a Greek god. I see why he’s considered Westeros’ most eligible bachelor.

His hair is as dark as night, worn short in the back and long in the front. His bangs almost come to his eyelids and I watch him push the hair from his forehead several times. The few times we’ve made eye contact I’ve come face to face with a set of sea-blue beautiful eyes. His sleeves are rolled up giving me a clear view of sculpted arms. So, yeah, I have a crush on my boss.

Tuesday…

My feet hurt. That’s all I can think as I enter Mr. Water’s home. I need rest, a vacation, but I know that’s never going to happen. My mind’s heavy tonight, but I don’t have time to think on all my problems. I need this job and it’s good pay, badly.

Tonight’s menu is spaghetti and meatballs. I had laughed the first time Mrs. Caldwell showed me the menu that he wanted. Spaghetti was the last thing I thought someone like Gendry Waters would want. He was country clubs and yachts. But I cooked him what he wanted, my grandmother’s special recipe.

He seemed to like it more than the lamb, and I’m caught off guard when he looks up at me. Our eyes meet and I stand a little taller, trying to ignore the screaming pain in my feet. He gives me one of his rare smiles and I feel my cheeks burn. He never speaks, not to me, but his smiles say the words his mouth doesn’t. Thank you for reminding me that I’m human, it says, just by serving me spaghetti. He’s as lonely as I am… his smile says that too.

Wednesday…

I’m running late tonight and my head is pounding from the table of twenty I served at the restaurant. Old men taking more grabs at me than they should, their drinks of rum coming every five seconds seems like. I’m in a foul mood, and my cell ringing doesn’t help. I swear if it’s Mrs. Caldwell I’ll hang up on the woman with the first word. Yes, I know I’m late.

“Hello?” I mumble.

“Hello, Miss. Stark, this is Nancy Forrester.”

I freeze on the cold sidewalk as the world around me shifts. I forget the pain in my head immediately. The blood runs from my face, leaving me chilled. Something’s happened.

“Are you there?” she asked, concerned. “Y—yes,” I answered, softly.

“There’s no easy way for me to say this, Miss Stark, but the money has run out. It’s time to think of other options. We can give you a few days, but by Saturday we need you to make other arrangements. We will help you any way we can.”

I’m feel lost and alone. I knew this day would come, but I thought with the two jobs I could stay ahead of this dreaded day.

“How much do I need to come up with?”

“Two thousand dollars, Miss Stark.”

The weight upon me becomes heavier, and as I hurry into the kitchen at Mr. Waters home I’m fighting back the tears. I can’t come up with that money by Saturday. I barely have six hundred in the bank. I don’t have a choice. I ignore Mrs. Caldwell’s beady eyes as I place the Lobster Bisk and cob salad on the plate and hurry out to the dining room. Wednesday’s are Mr. Water’s light days. Soup and salad. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s late or in a foul mood.

Five minutes after I place his food on the table, he enters mumbling under his breath about stupid investments. His tie hangs loosely at his neck and he digs right in. The more time that passes in silence the more I know what I need to do, but I’m scared to open my mouth. Mr. Waters can help me if he chooses. He’s really the only option I have, and I’ll do anything at this point. I wait till he’s done and he looks up at me. There’s no smile tonight, but I press forward.

“I was wondering, sir, if you wouldn’t mind giving me an advancement on my check. I’ll pick up other chores around the house to pay you back quicker.”

He stares at me, surprised that I’ve spoken to him. For what seems like forever no word is spoken.

“Arya, correct?”

“Y—Yes, sir.”

He nods his head, but let’s more minutes pass before answering. “And you need this advancement because?” he questions.

No one, not even my boss, knows my issues. I don’t want, nor need, anyone’s sympathy. I’ve made the decision to take on this burden, and until now I’ve needed no help. It’s the least I can do.

“Personal reasons.”

His eyebrows raise, “I see. I don’t give advancements. I’m sorry.”

With that, he stands from his chair and leaves me standing in shock. I feel hot tears in my eyes, but I blink them back. I’ve lost the only option I had in a matter of seconds.

Thursday…

I’ve picked up two extra shifts and talked to a loan officer, but all that gives me is fifteen hundred. I’m five hundred short. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours and all of the stress is making me sick. My hands shake as I place the ribeye steak next to the baked potato and broccoli on the plate. Mrs. Caldwell is watching me closely, but I ignore her.

I almost don’t make it to the table before dropping the plate. He’s there, his hands reaching out to steady me. I don’t make eye contact with him, but I feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as I take my place in the corner. I want to sleep for days and not wake up, but life doesn’t give me that option.

“What’s the advancement for?” he asked, making me jump in shock.

When I look at him, his blue eyes are intense. If I tell him the truth he’ll fire me. He will know my baggage and question my reliability. He’s never shown interest in me, so I hoped I could get the advancement no questions asked… I was wrong.

“I’m sorry I asked for the money, Mr. Waters. I don’t need it.” I barely got the words out. I need the money more than anything.

“Are you in some kind of trouble? And call me Gendry. My father was Mr. Waters.

“No, sir. Nothing like that, Mr—Gendry.”

“You’re not doing drugs? No gambling debt?”

I clenched my jaw, trying my best not to be pissed. He’s only trying to help, I tell myself.

“There’s nothing like that going on, I promise you.”

Mr. Waters… Gendry wiped his mouth with his napkin and stands. I think He’s going to leave it there, but he stops half way out the door and turns to me. “How can you expect me to help you if you don’t even trust me enough to tell me why.”

I’m left feeling worse about my situation as he storms out of the room.

Friday…

I’ve searched every pocket of jeans, every hole and crack that money could fall in and I’m still four hundred-eighty five dollars short. I allowed myself two hours of sleep before my double at the restaurant and then Gendry’s. My last hope is my tips I could make tonight, though it’s been slow this past week.

When I walk in my manager is waiting at the door for me and signals for me to follow. I swallow the lump in my throat as I sit before his large desk.

“I’ve had to cut back, and I regret to tell you that you’re no longer needed here. You’ve served me well, Arya, but I need full time staff, not part time.”

I felt sick to my stomach, and I stood from the chair and left without a word. Before his door closed I heard him say my last check would be mailed to me in two weeks. I’m not down just a little anymore. I’m down the whole amount, for I needed that last check early. No check… no loan officer. I spend the rest of the day on the phone, calling around for another option to my problem. It’s not good.

When I finally entered Gendry’s kitchen my eyes were red and swollen, but it couldn’t be helped. I had come to the end of the line. Mrs. Caldwell scolded me twice when I burnt the chicken and had to start over. I wanted to throw the chicken in her face, but this was my last job… a last way to get money. Finally, the Zuni Roast Chicken with Fennel Panzanella was finished and laid out for Gendry. I walked to my corner of the room and waited… and waited… and waited. The food I slaved over for two hours grew cold, yet the door never opened.

“He won’t be dining at home tonight, Miss Stark. He said to have his meal wrapped up and sent home with you,” said Mrs. Caldwell.

I didn’t want it, couldn’t eat it even if I did want it. I gathered the food and dumped it in the garbage bin outside. Any other day and I would have wanted to dump it on Gendry’s head for wasting the food, but not today.

I took a cab to the only place I knew I needed to be this late. It was after midnight, and usually they don’t allow visitors this late, but Kate is working. She always let’s me in. Sure enough, she pulls the door open and ushers me in, making sure no one saw me.

I enter a darkened room, but I know this room as well as I know my own bedroom. I’ve spent the majority of my time here for the past six months. This room is the reason I don’t sleep some nights. The person laying in the bed is the reason my burdens are so heavy.

“Hey, Sansa,” I whispered, knowing she’s not going to answer me. She hasn’t answered me for six months.

I reached out and took her hand in mine, laying my cheek upon her smooth skin. My older sister doesn’t respond to my touch. She’s all I’ve had since I was twelve. Our parents died in a car accident. She was seventeen when she took over my care. We had each other, and no one else. Now, our roles are reversed and it’s me taking care of her.

Or I was taking care of her. The insurance money we saved from our parent’s deaths has run out. There’s no money left, and I’m having to take her out of the care home she’s in, but I have no where to take her. Six month ago Sansa walked out of our apartment to go to the store and never came back. She suffered a brain aneurysm in the store and has been asleep ever since. There’s some brain activity but not much. One of the options they will discuss with me come morning is letting my sister go. I can’t do that. She’s all I have left.

I laid my head on her bed and allowed the tears to fall. It’s the only time, in the darkness, that I allow myself to feel hopeless and alone. No one can see my weakness.

“Please, Sansa. I don’t know what to do,” I cried, softly. “Come back to me.”

There’s no response. Just the silence and my soft sobs. Tomorrow will come soon, so for tonight I give in to my grief.

Saturday…

“Miss Stark.”

I come awake with a start to see Nancy Forrester standing in my sister’s room. I feel the dread consume me, knowing what’s about to happen. I have no answers to this problem.

“M—Mrs. Forrester. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I came in last night to pack my sister’s things and fell asleep,” I said, not wanting to get Kate in trouble.

Mrs. Forrester looked at me, confusion in her features. “Are you moving your sister? But, I thought after you paid the entire year you were keeping her here.”

Her words took several moments to register in my mind. I couldn’t have heard her right. I opened and closed my mouth, not able to comprehend what was happening.

“W—What?” I said, my words choking me.

“We received your payment for the rest of the year. I was coming by to make sure your sister was comfortable and in good care.”

“That’s impossible,” I whispered, my vision blurred in tears.

She looked confused and laughed, as if uncomfortable. “I assure you there is no mistake. The person on the phone said he was a cousin of yours, said he would send money whenever it was needed, and that he wanted Sansa well taken care of.”

“He?” I said, and before she could finish I was on my feet and out of the door.

The fifteen minute ride to Gendry’s was the longest of my life. I laughed, smiled, cried… every emotion hit me at once.

I entered the house, realizing it was unlocked and no butler to meet me. I searched the house, every room, until I heard movement in the dining room. When I entered I noticed the dining table fixed up for two. The plates were laid out with wine glasses ready to be drank.

Gendry came from the side door connected to the kitchen with a large pot in his hand. When he saw me, he froze. He had his sleeves rolled up, sweat dripping from his brow. Had he been cooking?

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he said, hurrying to sit the pot on the table.

“Gendry,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Come and sit. We can talk after we eat.”

He pulled a chair out for me, and I sat down feeling like I’m in a dream. He poured us a glass of white wine. When he raised the top off the steaming pot, and I saw what was inside, I burst out laughing. All of these months I struggled with my sister and being alone came out of me in those few seconds. For the first time I sobbed in front of someone.

“Do You know why I ask for spaghetti on Tuesdays?” he asked, pointing to the hot spaghetti in front of me. I shook my head no. “My parents died on a Tuesday. They left me to grow up in an orphanage. The last memory I have of them is my mother in the kitchen making me spaghetti. Every Tuesday I visit their graves. It’s the hardest day of the week for me. When you cook this for me, it helps me to cope with the loss. Now, I want to help you the same way, so I slaved over this spaghetti and I pray it’s half as good as yours.”

I take a bite and am surprised at how good it really is. I look up and meet his kind blue eyes and smile. “Its delicious,” I whisper.

“Good. You eat while I talk, then. I did some research and found out about your sister. I hope you aren’t mad at the intrusion, but I worried. When I found out that they were releasing her everything made sense to me. I couldn’t let that happen. I paid for the entire year and have set up an account to keep your sister stable for as long as she needs it.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he doesn’t let me.

“Eat. Not on only that, but I’m flying in three experts in the field of brain trauma to look over your sister’s case. If there is a solution they will find it, but even if they don’t she will never want for anything. You will never have to worry for her.”

“But, why? Why are you doing this?” I ask, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“Because, you may not realize it but you take care of me, and I wanted to return the favor. And…”

He hesitates, unsure of himself. “And?” I ask.

“Since the moment you walked into my house three months ago I’ve tried to get up the nerve to tell you how you’ve captured me mind, body and soul. I didn’t help your sister for payment, but I couldn’t allow you to do this on your own. And… if you will allow me, I’d like to take care of you as well. I’d like to take you on a date, Miss Stark,” he says, his cheeks growing red.

I am up and out of my chair before I know what I’m doing. I wrap my arms around Gendry, feeling his heart beat as wildly as my own. His arms snake around my waste and hold me tightly. In that moment I let go of all of my baggage, all of my hurts and pains. It’s going to be okay now. I can finally say it’s going to be okay… and I say it over a pot of spaghetti. Maybe life does know better than me.

#gendrya #arya and gendry #gendry and arya #gendry waters #arya stark #game of thrones #arya x gendry #gendry x arya #prompts #modern au #give me prompts

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stone-man-warrior · 5 years

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August 5, 2018: 3:22 pm:

August 5, 2018: 3:07 PM:<br><br>The usual suspects today. Monroe Screen Actor... StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T18:22:38-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-05T18:22:38-0400

August 5, 2018: 3:07 PM:

The usual suspects today. Monroe Screen Actor Guild Seventh Day Adventist Vatican terrorist soldiers working with Wesely Crowel Screen Actor Guild Seventh Day Adventist Vatican "Flock" family terrorist soldier for "Rig-Run-Down" service to attempt to run me over with a large, late model, Ford Crew-Cab Pick-Up truck at the Mailbox. The truck is very dark green, so dark that it appears to be black. The only ones who know the truck is green are those who are very observant, or those who can read the information printed on the title of the truck. The Very Dark Green Paint is most likely a custom factory color option. It is likely that the Very Dark Green paint on the Big Crew Cab of Crowel is a "One-Off" paint job, and not available off the lot. Don't be confused with the "Out-of Town-Terror-Big-Black-Ford" at 445 Bell cannibal terrorist cell. The theme could possibly be Garden Party by Rick Nelson and the Stone Canyon Band. ===================================================== "Garden Party" I went to a garden party To reminisce with my old friends A chance to share old memories And play our songs again When I got to the garden party They all knew my name No one recognized me I didn't look the same But it's all right now I learned my lesson well You see, ya can't please everyone So ya got to please yourself People came from miles around Everyone was there Yoko brought her walrus There was magic in the air 'N' over in the corner Much to my surprise Mr Hughes hid in Dylan's shoes Wearing his disguise But it's all right now I learned my lesson well You see, ya can't please everyone So ya got to please yourself Lott-in-dah-dah lot-in-dah-dah-dah Played them all the old songs Thought that's why they came No one heard the music We didn't look the same I said hello to "Mary Lou" She belongs to me When I sang a song about a honky-tonk It was time to leave But it's all right now I learned my lesson well You see, ya can't please everyone So ya got to please yourself Lot-dah-dah (lot-dah-dah-dah) Lot-in-dah-dah-dah Someone opened up a closet door And out stepped Johnny B Goode Playing guitar Like a-ringin' a bell And lookin' like he should If you gotta play at garden parties I wish you a lotta luck But if memories were all I sang I rather drive a truck But it's all right now I learned my lesson well You see, ya can't please everyone So ya got to please yourself Lot-dah-dah (lot-dah-dah-dah) Lot-in-dah-dah-dah 'N' it's all right now Learned my lesson well You see, ya can't please everyone So you got to please yourself Songwriters: Ricky Nelson Garden Party lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC 1972

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+1'd by: 80s Rock And Metal, New Ford Cars

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T18:37:38-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-05T20:02:00-0400

Sunday. I like this one. This is pre-invasion music. Some clues as to the band trying to inform the public of the impending invasion are evident in the information provided at Wiki-Pedia. If you view some old videos of the band "Free" performing live, or doing interviews, or on early Music Video recordings, you will notice some things that are better left to your own judgement and observations. Please pay special attention to Paul Kossoff, the guitar player. Notice his behavior. Notice the way he moves and responds to the amplifiers. Mr. Kossoff shows signs of captivity training. He appears to respond in ways that suggest he was kept in confinement and forced to learn he instrument. That's is my impression, what do you think? ==================================== "All Right Now" Writer/s: ANDY FRASER, PAUL BERNARD RODGERS Publisher: COHEN AND COHEN From the Album "Fire and Water" 1970. Whoa-oh-oh-oh-woha There she stood in the street Smilin' from her head to her feet; I said, "Hey, what is this? Now maybe, baby, Maybe she's in need of a kiss." I said, "Hey, what's your name? Maybe we can see things the same. "Now don't you wait, or hesitate. Let's move before they raise the parking rate." All right now, baby, it's a-all right now. All right now, baby, it's a-all right now. (Let me tell you now) I took her home to my place, Watchin' every move on her face; She said, "Look, what's your game? Are you tryin' to put me to shame?" I said "Slow, don't go so fast, don't you think that love can last?" She said, "Love, Lord above, Now you're tryin' to trick me in love." All right now, baby, it's a-all right now. All right now, baby, it's a-all right now B-side "Mouthful of Grass" Released May 1970 Format 7-inch single Recorded January 1970, Trident and Island Studios (London, England) Genre Hard rock[1]blues rock[1] Length 4:14 (single version)5:31 (album version) Label Island Songwriter(s) Andy FraserPaul Rodgers Producer(s) Free Dio, after outing Ozzy, and joining Black Sabbath Vatican Soldier Tony Iommi, in a song called "Heaven and Hell", referenced the ideas of this song by Free. The lyrics of "Heaven and Hell' are interesting in mind blowing ways once understood by non-Vatican soldiers. The lyrics include the musical verse: "Well if it seems to be real, it's illusion For every moment of truth, there's confusion in life Love can be seen as the answer, but nobody bleeds for the dancer And it's on and on, on and on and on and on and on and on and on" There is much to be said about the song by Black Sabbath, under the leadership of Tony Iommi, without Ozzy Osborne, and with the Vatican plant replacement, Ronnie James Dio. Love, referred to in the song by free, is the outward expression of opposition to being fooled by someone, a dominant male, trying to take advantage of a feminine victim under the guise of love. The victim refuses to be taken by the ways of the dominant male hunter, but rather succumbs to the inherent desires of her own human needs. The dominant male is not concerned with the methods or details associated with taking the victim, the end result is all that is important to him. The dominant male has his way, unspoken in the song, but is successful. The Feminine victim in the song by Free is taken, her needs are served, and she chooses not to "kiss and tell". The feminine victim in the Free song is not aware that she has been victimized... fooled. She will never admit it, she is too proud.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T18:59:12-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-05T19:01:53-0400

Sunday: Warp in the Higgs-Field: Squirrel with a nut. Yesterday: Lonely Rack. Dollar in the apple tree.StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T19:09:15-0400August 5, 2018: Sunday: Incoming call from American Medical Response. No message was left. Terrorist cart drivers looking for victim pick-up instructions. "Blone".

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T20:30:11-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-06T04:05:24-0400

August 5, 2018: 5:02 PM: Black Sabbath Heaven and Hell From the album of the same name. ========================================= Sing me a song, you're a singer Do me a wrong, you're a bringer of evil The Devil is never a maker The less that you give, you're a taker So it's on and on and on, it's Heaven and Hell, oh well The lover of life's not a sinner The ending is just a beginner The closer you get to the meaning The sooner you'll know that you're dreaming So it's on and on and on, oh it's on and on and on It goes on and on and on, Heaven and Hell I can tell, fool, fool! Well if it seems to be real, it's illusion For every moment of truth, there's confusion in life Love can be seen as the answer, but nobody bleeds for the dancer And it's on and on, on and on and on.... They say that life's a carousel Spinning fast, you've got to ride it well The world is full of Kings and Queens Who blind your eyes and steal your dreams It's Heaven and Hell, oh well And they'll tell you black is really white The moon is just the sun at night And when you walk in golden halls You get to keep the gold that falls It's Heaven and Hell, oh no! Fool, fool! You've got to bleed for the dancer! Fool, fool! Look for the answer! Fool, fool, fool! =============================================== "Heaven and Hell" Song by Black Sabbath from the album Heaven and Hell Released 25 April 1980 Recorded 1979 Studio Criteria Recording, Miami, Florida Studio Ferber, Paris Genre Heavy metal Length 6:58 Label Warner Bros. Songwriter(s) Ronnie James Dio Tony Iommi Geezer Butler Bill Ward Producer(s) Martin Birch =================================================== This album, Heaven and Hell, may be the single most powerful studio recorded album ever produced. The music driving, and driven. The lyrics are meaningful, powerful, and thought provoking. The songs are the pinnacle of the Pope's Pointy Hat. If there is one song, only one song that could be used to universally decipher all of the terrorism in all of the world, Heaven and Hell by Black Sabbath lead by Tony Iommi, and fronted by Ronnie James Dio is that song. Ozzy Osborn would not do as he was told. He was not a bad guy, is not a bad guy. He was replaced when he would not behave. Ronnie James Dio outed the seated prince of darkness and took over as King. Even the King has a superior ruler, Toni Iommi. Mr. Iommi is the unsung Prince of Darkness". He uses an axe, a guitar wielded like an Excalibur under the direction of the Vatican. The Guitar weapon sounds are the ammunition that is fed into the cannon, a stack of one-hundred watt, tube driven amplifiers, that when aimed by a skilled operator, can literally remove the heads of anything in it's path. Tony Iommi is indeed a skilled operator and he uses a cross to aim with. Cross-hairs. Hair bands. Glam rock. Rock of the ages equals Rock of the eighties, Rock of the A.D.'s where A and D are not only the obvious abbreviation, but are likely to represent the tips of Mr. Iommi's fingers that were cut from his hand by the Pope himself as a means of making certain that he remains submissive to the Vatican and reminded eternally of the "Toss" of the tips of his fingers, and of the "After Death". Tony Iommi's Guitar is the equivalent of a musical guillotine. Metal/Rock & Roll. Ozzy Osborne was attacked by the Seventh Day Adventists and was destroyed from within his own home. A woman, sent by the Vatican, under the guise of his manager, married him, and took the wealth he generated, took his focus, took his children... her children, and redirected all of it in directions unintended by Mr. Osborne. Mr. Osborne was unaware that he had been victimized. When he realized what had happened, he chose not to "kiss and tell". Ozzy Ozborne was too proud to save himself by exposing the truth. Mrs. Osborne is a Seventh Day Adventist operative. The Osborne's were sent out to pasture and given a television show as a punishment. "Too proud to live, too young to die." ~Quoted from the song "Cherokee People" by Paul Revere and the Raiders" I'll be expecting representatives from Yngvie Malmsteen, or his enormous Ego as a result of this entry. Mr. Malmsteen is similar to Mr. Iommi. Yngwie Malmsteen is the master of the Marshall Amplifier Stack Assault Weapon of Mass Destruction and is cut from the same cloth as Mr. Iommi. Mr. Malmsteen uses signature scalloped fret-board on his Guitars, suitable for gripping the neck and wringing out the last drop of sonic harmonic feedback. The music I love is driven by terrorism. It is also the music you love. I continue to love the music while being mindful of it's nature, and respectful of those who create it. ===================================================== From Wikipedia: Osbourne in 2012 Born Sharon Rachel Levy[1] 9 October 1952 (age 65) Brixton, London, England, United Kingdom Residence Jordans, Buckinghamshire, England, U.K. Malibu, California, U.S. Nationality British Occupation Music manager, promoter, businesswoman,[2] television talent competition judge, talk show host, author Years active 1979–present Television The Osbournes The X Factor America's Got Talent The Talk Spouse(s) Ozzy Osbourne (m. 1982) Children Aimee Osbourne Kelly Osbourne Jack Osbourne Parent(s) Don Arden Hope Shaw Website Sharon Rachel Osbourne (née Levy; born 9 October 1952)[3] is an English television host, media personality, television talent competition judge, author, music manager, modern impresario, businesswoman, and promoter, and the wife of heavy metal singer-songwriter Ozzy Osbourne. She first came into public prominence after appearing in The Osbournes, a reality television show that followed her family's daily life. Osbourne later became a talent show judge on shows such as the British and original version of The X Factor, from 2004 to 2007, 2013, and 2016 onwards. She also was a judge on America's Got Talent from 2007 until 2012. Homepage

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T20:34:49-0400

August 5, 2018: 5:32 PM: There are performers in the world, and there are those who watch the entertainment. When those who watch, the audience, are entertained, they dance. Will no one bleed for the dancer?

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T21:38:52-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-05T22:29:35-0400

August 5, 2018: 6:18 PM: The Screen Actor Guild Heroin Dealer at 601 ""MyStreet" is making the kinds of noises that could be defined as "the throw before the toss". The kinds of noises that carry through a neighborhood and are made by the tinkering, sharpening, cobbling and crafting of some kind of a thing. This kind of activity of crafting something was once a welcomed sound. Now, the sounds of creativity are the sounds of destruction. Crafting and hobby activities are Forbidden here. No one is allowed to engage in hobbies, music, or any kind of enjoyable pass-time and that notion is strictly adhered to. With the notion that the activities that are being done at Dietrick Screen Actor Guild heroin terrorist family cell are forbidden, and with the personal experience of the results of repeated attacks from them, I know that in the coming hours or tomorrow, there will be some kind of an attack. Some kind of a contraption is being made or maintained at the location. There was, however, a call for soldiers, chickens as they call themselves when being called to weather a storm, to discontinue activities, go dark, return the the coup to roost for a while and weather the storm. There was also a suggestion that this is a good time to maintain equipment, repair broken tools, weapons, contraptions, and that there are specialists available through normal channels to help with repair and maintenance of equipment and such. Perhaps they are just making a new blade for the pneumatic, ram driven, electric guillotine. There are more than one ram driven guillotines in the area. They require maintenance and lubrication from time to time. terrorists must put some oil in the grooves periodically so the blade comes down nice and smooth. The electric guillotines are automatic, they reset themselves and operate at about six chops per minute. Victims are guided through the guillotine's as they walk through doors in bottle-neck areas of shopping centers, vertically. This is real terrorism, not the kind that is seen on television. This is the USA. This is home. I don't like it. Maybe they are just doing a brake job over there. Maybe. Today's entries have included two kinds of Guillotines. One is a metaphor of the use of a Guitar as a weapon, and the other is a fabricated blade that travels along a vertical, grooved, framework and is a modern, electro-pneumatically driven replication of the same equipment of antiquity. Don't be confused, there are two kinds of similar weapons being discussed on today's entries.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T21:54:04-0400

August 5, 2018: 6:50 PM: The fires in the nearby area have started up again. I don't know exactly where the fires are burning, but visibility is limited, there is smoke in the air and hovers at ground level, and the scent of smoke is present. The Fire Fighting equipment and manpower proving unsuccessful at stopping the impending Salvage Timber Sale that happens every year. The Baby is still on Fire.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T23:09:38-0400

August 5, 2018: 8:04 PM: Dietrick Din is currently being followed by Monroe scary lawnmower service. They read this page. "Fuck-Off somewhere else Monroe!" Go back to Quebec! So it's not all that scary to see and hear someone using a lawnmower, until you realize that it is all intentionally designed to terrify. And you have already lost your children and entire family to the terrorist bastards. When terrorism is the norm, people become terrified, and in turn, terrified people become fearless. Absolutely terrified.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-05T23:31:59-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-05T23:38:27-040

Sunday: Warp in the Higgs-Field: Baby Dinosaurs. Jurassic Driveway. Silurian Epoch. Gravel Gobblers. Don't stand on the casino floor, you have to keep Mooooooviiing. (Rick Wakeman: Journey to the center of the Earth.)StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-06T00:46:26-0400Sunday evening: 9:38 PM: Unbelievable: If my radar is working the way it usually does, then, Mr. Hagar is upset. If so, he would be upset about Joe. Joe, if you are familiar with this page, also is Aaron Porter. Mr. Porter did not make it, he checked out. That would be why the Weebles were Wobblin' yesterday. The world works in mysterious ways. Local representatives of terror town made the announcement moments ago... announcements are sent through the trees, treasonous bastards use the trees as an echo chamber. It's complicated, but I get the message.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-06T03:08:47-0400 - Updated: 2018-08-06T05:07:18-0400

Sunday night: 11:12 Pm Religous Noises: My recent entries into this page are a glimpse into my thoughts as time passes. Readers have seen a quick and decisive focus on the source of the problems that exist. It is clear, suddenly, that the conditions I experience in Oregon are present and are advancing world-wide. Eastern Asian countries are currently under attack and have been for some time. If those Asian countries succumb to the advances of western USA media and entertainment, then, they will be conquered and consumed by them. To be fooled into accepting the ways and manipulative means by which the Western Entertainment industry advances is to be consumed by the Vatican in the same way that South America was taken by the Spanish Conquistadors in the 16th Century. Eastern Asia must resist the advances or be rendered extinct as a people, a culture. Readers of this page have noticed, in just a few days, that my focus has been drawn squarely, and swiftly, on the Vatican as the source of the Worlds Greed, and the source of all of the hatred that is dividing everyone, from everything, as they always have done. Now, the Pope uses heroin to keep his soldiers loyal to the cross... to the Vatican... to the Bible... loyal to the Holy Heroin and free of the Jones that comes to those who fall from the cross. The Pope gets his Heroin from the spoils of the War in Afghanistan, from the United Nations, from the Allied Forces, the Pope's Poppy Plantation. The war against ISIS, and all of the other Boogie Men such as Osama Bin Laddin, are all a hoax and carried out as a Happy Heroine Hunting Ground where US soldiers are killed and replaced with Pope People, some of whom are the news media anchors and reporters world-wide, and others are the movie stars and musicians we worship, and most are the young men and women that used to be our sons and daughters who returned from war as impostors. Why is there an Easter Bunny in Christianity? Why is there a fat bearded man wearing red and white pajamas in the chimney in Christianity? Heroin, it's because of heroin, and the exploitation of your children's vulnerabilities. All of the wars that the US gets involved in are at places where there are Poppy fields, and oil, and they are always in places that are not Christian based cultures. We must stop the advancement of the Poppy Plundering Papacy. The soldiers of the Vatican use divide and conquer techniques over a blanket of fear. They lay down the fear, then use that as a foundation to advance a division wedge, thin and pointy at first, and then driven in until the thick, wide part of the wedge is sunk deep into the substrate of fear that they created. When the division provides a suitable door for entering, wide and non threatening to them, they enter with bandwidth of manpower, equipment, and more fear, taking everyone and everything along the way. The crusades have never ended, the crusades have simply been washed from the history books of current events, or rather, current event history accounts have not recognized the contemporary social catastrophe's as products of the same crusade of antiquity. The Pope's Pointy Hat is a lethal weapon, a wedge used to divide and conquer those who bought the story of Heaven and Hell, a terrifying horror story. Those who buy it, get what they pay for... don't buy in. The Christians bloody crusade has never ended, it continues to advance devouring entire cultures of people along it's bloody path. The children who are left in it's wake are trained to be soldiers of the Vatican, and are forced to advance an agenda that was responsible for killing their families. The Vatican, in this way, has absolutely nothing invested in the advancement. They consume, recycle, reuse, redirect, remove, and replace everything. The only investment they have is the nominal cost of continuous brain washing of the populations of the world through the television, newspaper, internet and other media, media that they conquered and took over long ago. Such annexed media is actually a cash-flow generator through advertising revenue, and is used to promote the Bible. This Bible promotion is done subliminally, it is not straight forward, and is designed to set the world up for consumption by the people who bring the brain washing... the Vatican feeds us what they need in order for us to be ripened to be killed by them. Religious Noises. The Vatican is the worlds teeth, the people are it's food. The Vatican is the vat in which meat is blended, and prepared for consumption. They use the Bible as a table setting, where we sit and then eat our own children. They have absolutely nothing but the cost of printing the Bibles invested. In return, ten percent of the earnings of every church goer is requested, and then used to kill those who provided the tithing. The USA has been consumed, I am convinced it is a done deal and only a matter of capturing a few remaining Americans for consumption. Did Mr. Putin get my message? The Vatican is at his house, and they brought Bibles.

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theauthorandi · 6 years

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Sky Davis groaned as the flour settled on every inch of the kitchen around her. This was their doing, she had no doubt about that. Sky was used to the interferences. She'd known they were there from the day she'd understood that the woman who called herself mother wasn't the same woman who had given birth to her. Before that, she'd thought she was just clumsy, or unlucky. Now she knew for a fact why the flour had fallen from the shelf and she wasn't happy about it.

Just then, Christian walked in.

"Really?" He asked. There was a tinge of disappointment in his tone.

Sky sighed, resigned. Christian didn't understand. She'd tried to explain, at the very start of their relationship. She'd warned him that weird things happened around her. She hadn't gotten around to explaining why that was, though. He'd cut her off and insisted that there weren't coincidences or things like bad luck. It was her choice if these things continued to happen, Christian thought. He never once considered the idea that Sky's dead parents might have something to do with it.

Ghosts weren't real, after all.

"It's not my fault." Sky grumbled, even as she turned to grab a broom and clean up the mess. There was flour coating her clothing and hair, though. It looked like some kind of bomb had gone off and she was sure it would take more energy than Sky had to both clean up the mess and argue with the man watching her.

"If you say so," Christain said. His voice was taunting, doubtful. Sky hated it. Despite everything she loved about him, there were still flaws that she wasn't sure she could forgive. Being a condescending dick was one of them. "Just remember, you bring this kind of thing on yourself."

"Don't you have a class to get to?" Sky snapped. Christian raised an eyebrow, but then nodded and turned away. No attempt to help her clean up. No questions about how her day was. Sometimes Sky wondered if he cared about her at all. Then he'd show up unannounced with some takeaway Thai food and a single rose and she hated herself for doubting.

When the flour was cleaned up and Sky was changed into clothing that didn't make her look like she'd been attacked by a giant powdered donut, she crossed her arms and faced the empty kitchen. She waited, knowing they would appear.

Regardless of the anger she felt towards their actions, Sky knew her parents loved her. They would face the consequences of their actions or they would be banished from the apartment. It wasn't the first time she'd done it, after all.

"Come on." She said when her patience for waiting wore thin.

A cupboard creaked open. She raised a single eyebrow and it swung closed again.

"Do you have anything to say for yourselves?"

Nothing moved, the temperature stayed the same. For anyone looking in, all they would see was a young woman with dark hair and a darker expression glowering at an empty kitchen. Sky knew better. She'd been through this more times than she could count.

There was the time her best friend in high school had been cheating off of her during an exam, and her pencil kept flying off and hitting other people in the head. Sky had ended up with a month's detention for disturbing the test.

Then there was the time when Sky was trying to get a job at a nearby convenience store. She remembered showing up to the interview nervous but prepared. Yet, she'd walked out of there without a job and without her dignity. The till had managed to jam, the security cameras had faded in and out before going on a loop that contained only Sky's entrance to the store and the manager greeting her. No less than twelve cans of soda had burst when she'd asked what kind of hours they were offering.

The most memorable encounter was when she'd turned twenty-three. It was the one time that Sky was grateful to have two nosy ghosts following her around at all times. She'd gone to the bar with a few friends, left her drink unattended for a quick trip to the bathroom, and ended up in the alleyway later that night trying to regain her sense of direction. The man who followed her had been obviously creepy.

He'd taken her in his arms, guiding her further down the alley and away from anyone else. If it weren't for her parents watching over her, that night would have taken a turn that Sky was sure she'd never have recovered from.

As it was, a ladder from a fire escape had dropped at just the right time. The man had been knocked out cold and Sky had wandered back to the bar. The cab ride home was cheaper than she'd ever seen a cab ride be, and the driver didn't look happy about his tracker malfunctioning. Sky was grateful though, when she realized the man was charging exactly the amount of cash she had on her person. Five dollars and eighty-five cents would not have cut it if it weren't for the attention to detail her parents had put into keeping her safe that evening.

"I get it." Sky said, a rueful smile on her face. "You don't like Christian. You've never liked him."

The faucet started dripping.

"That doesn't mean you need to throw a fit every time he comes over." She added. The drip stopped. "I am an adult, in an adult relationship. Do you realize how creepy it is that my dead parents are trying to control my love life? Just because Christan and I don't agree on things like religion and the nature of the universe doesn't mean we can't make it work. We're both committed to each other, and your input isn't appreciated."

She waited, and waited, and waited. Neither of her parents did anything to respond. There were no plates crashing to the floor. No terrible groaning that only Sky could hear. Not a single sign that they'd heard her. She sighed, running a hand through her hair before turning away towards the living room.

Sitting on her coffee table, lonely and forgotten, was Christian's phone.

His class was only an hour long. It wouldn't do him much good if she raced over to the campus just to give it to him when he'd be back for it sooner or later. She ignored it and reached for the remote instead.

As her hand passed over top the phone in an effort to reach the remote, the screen came to life. It was password protected, and she wasn't the kind of girl to snoop. She valued her privacy as much as he did, and there wasn't any reason not to trust him.

Well, besides the dislike her parents seemed to have.

Sitting back on the couch, Sky flicked on the television. She needed something mindless to calm her down. It was always exhausting to argue over her love life with her intangible, invisible parents. She'd had a long day as it was, and the flour explosion had been the icing on the cake.

The television whirred to life. She flicked mindlessly through the channels, uninterested in the thousands of sitcom reruns that were playing just then. Cartoons, she decided, were exactly what she needed.

Just as she'd settled in on the Disney channel, the poltergeist activity started up again. the volume went from a nice 15 down to zero in about six seconds. She sighed and turned it up again. It stayed for a moment and then shot back down to zero. Huffing, she crossed her arms and glared at the television.

Slowly it inched it's way up to a decent volume. Just as she was certain her parents were done, however, the television shut off entirely.

"Oh my god, stop." She groaned. Reaching out for the remote again, she leaned forward just far enough to see that Christian's phone was lit up and that the home screen had been unlocked. She was about to turn away, maybe to ignore her parents by taking a nice nap or perhaps even pulling out the ingredients for the banishing spell just in case the threat was needed.

Then the messaging app opened on its own, and her eyes were glued to the three unread texts that were waiting. Two of them were from some girl named Cynthia, and another was from Sky's friend Amber.

She didn't need to open them to see what they said. The beginning of each text was enough to tell what was going on. Cynthia was dying to see Christan, wanted him inside her. Amber was wondering if he was on his way over yet, a text that was sent at almost the exact same time Christain had said his Sociology course would be running.

Sky felt cold. Not the kind of cold that came from realizing she was being cheated on, though that was also running through her mind in a terribly destructive fashion. It was the kind of cold that came when her parents got too close. It was a comforting cold, the touch of a mother long dead, still watching out for her after all these years.

Suddenly the flour in the kitchen didn't seem like such a terrible thing.

Just like that night in the alley, her parents had been watching out for her. From the day they died, when she was only six months old, they'd stayed on the earthly plane just to make sure she didn't find herself in some terrible situation. They'd saved her again, though they couldn't keep the heartbreak at bay. Still, Sky would rather feel cold and heartbroken with her parents sitting beside her any day if it meant knowing that someone was watching, protecting, caring for her.

"Dad?" She asked, a hint of a smile gracing her face as she realized there was more than just irritating hauntings and the rare save that her parents might be willing to do. "What do you think about haunting Christian for a bit? I think he was right when he said people brought bad things upon themselves. It's time he got a little of what he deserved, don't you think?"

The resulting bang that came from the nearby window shutters made Sky laugh. Her life wasn't perfect, but at least she had people who cared. It didn't matter that they were dead. It only mattered that they were hers.

Hey there! I hope you enjoyed Sky's small story of realization. Now, if you’re interested in seeing more Cards Against Humanity Promptsfulfilled check out my website. If you have any CAHprompts to submit, send me an ask. And as always, if you’re looking for updates and interesting stories of The Author’s life, subscribe to my email list!

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briefbouquetcreatorlove-blog · 6 years

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