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gingerbreadmonsters · 2 years

Text

五二零

or: whoever said french was the language of love clearly never met vincent solaire.

gn!reader, no content warnings, hand-over-hand fluff and i won’t apologise. the 520 fic arrives at last!! let’s all make one thing very clear - i would both kill and die for rennie, rae’s lovely oc, she is my world the love of my life the girl of my dreams, okay? then you can consider this my love letter to her and my darling @sri-rachaa who singlehandedly revived this wip from the dead, our woman in STEM and absolute POWERHOUSE of chemistry - rae 加油！ oh, and of course some love for @ejunkiet for rallying hard for the east-asian vincent brigade - it’s canon to me and you lot are just going to have to deal with it, alright? a little bit of housekeeping before we get started: this fic does assume that lovely doesn't speak mandarin, but vincent does. vincent having a mindblank for just over 5200 words.

batsman: so you’re DEFINITELY free on friday?? like the whole day??

me: yeah he said we could move it to sunday

batsman: YESSS

me: ???? what’s happening on friday

batsman: nothing nothing

batsman: i just get to spend a whole day w you :DDD

me: :DDD

me: ok it’s starting now

me: see you when i get back

me: also i love you hehe

batsman: have fun little one!! 520

Vincent Solaire is up to something.

You're not sure what, and you don't really know why, but he's got that look - you know the one. The one he gets whenever he spies the final jam tart sitting unguarded on the table, whenever he notices William's left his instant camera unattended, whenever Sam says he's leaving you two alone with Fred and his partner, don't touch anything. It's the look that means he's plotting something nefarious again - one of his diabolical schemes that should send anyone with common sense running for the hills, and that probably means you either need to find your passport, renew your life insurance, or check the stability of every flat surface in the house.

(Actually, now that you think about it, how does life insurance work now that you're a vampire? Are there special empowered insurance providers? Do you get a payout if you get turned into a vampire? Are you or a loved one eligible for financial compensation? Mental note: ask William at tea on Sunday.)

He says it’s nothing. Yeah, right. You’d almost believe him if it weren’t for that cheeky grin he’s been sporting for the last week whenever he thinks you’re not looking, tapping away on his laptop of an evening like a man possessed, stifling a laugh every ten minutes or so. Meddling little so-and-so. He thinks he’s so slick, but you know better. Vincent Solaire has got something up his perfectly tailored, meticulously ironed, ridiculously expensive sleeve, and you are going to find out what it is.

You’ve got a pretty decent idea of where this particular scheme has come from, so that’s a good start. He was out with Gavin a few weeks ago, one of their little mothers’ meetings, and you’re sure whatever he’s planning is the product of that. The pair of them are terrible when they’re together - they gossip like you wouldn’t believe, wander round Dahlia charming the (thankfully metaphorical) pants off of everyone they meet, and they both drink like fishes if there’s nobody around to supervise. They’ll have cooked up one of their signature (read: stupid) ideas that sounded really good at the time, and now you and Gavin’s partner - who, let it be said, has the patience of an absolute saint when it comes to Vincent and Gavin’s collective bullshit - have to deal with the fallout. You know the drill.

(To be perfectly honest, you’re still not over last time - they’d come stumbling down the street at some ungodly hour, absolutely sloshed as usual, tottering arm in arm towards your front door and giggling uncontrollably at some half-baked joke Vincent was trying to remember. You and Gavin’s other half had been forced to pause your show for some emergency damage control when the dynamic duo finally managed to get the key in the door, and to this day you’re not sure how they managed to get Gavin safely out of those shoes and into pyjamas without some sort of divine intervention.)

Anyway, you have no doubt that they’ve come up with some Machiavellian (or, more likely, Rube Goldberg-ian) plan or other, the bastards, which probably means the only option is to brace for impact. Not to mention, if Gavin’s had anything to do with it, there could be literally anything at all coming your way. Vincent's already a menace all by himself, practically a force of nature, and he tends to get what he wants - the stranger the better, and he’s had some pretty strange ideas.

(Strange might be putting it a bit lightly. The day Sam stops reminding him about the roller skates incident is the day hell freezes over - you don’t even want to know how they managed to get the vampire-shaped dents out of the rear bumper.)

It shouldn’t be too bad though, whatever it turns out to be. Vincent is a lot of things, but mean-spirited isn’t one of them - you’re not worried about it being really embarrassing or stressful or something. He knows you, bless his little heart, and he knows what makes you uncomfortable. And to his credit, he’s never once done anything on purpose that he knew would push you too far, or that he wasn’t sure you’d be okay with. He asks, always asks. Is this alright? Would that be too much? How about this instead? Never pushy, never unwilling to back down. Do you like that? Can I hold you? May I kiss you? He plays it off as part of the charm, but you know better. He’s genuinely thoughtful, even when he doesn’t quite realise it, and he’s kinder than he gives himself credit for. He always has been, and he can’t hide it, least of all from you.

You’re not afraid. Never afraid, not of him. You’re just… suspicious.

Vincent, for his part, is not helping.

It’s been, what, a week now? And he’s been acting differently - it’s not a bad different, just suspicious different. He’s been very affectionate, even more so than usual (you hadn’t thought that was even possible), and he keeps being really… nice? Obviously, he’s always nice, but he keeps getting you glasses of water and offering you shoulder rubs and letting you decide which show to watch even when it’s his turn - all in the space of about five minutes. He’s even been playing that piece you’d said was your favourite of his on the piano whenever he’s in the front room, the one from that film you watched together ages ago. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s broken something by accident again and is trying to butter you up, but you’ve done a thorough check of all the major appliances, every light fixture, every picture frame, and every window in the house. Nothing is amiss, except for the fact that he definitely said he’d done the load of washing that’s still sitting in the laundry basket in the bathroom. (So that’s where that shirt had gone!)

The suitcases in the attic are still exactly where you left them, so he’s probably not planning on going anywhere. He likes to have things packed in advance, which is honestly a bit weird considering the general state of chaos that he tends to exist in when nobody’s looking. In any case, nothing’s been disturbed up here so he’s definitely not taking you anywhere very far away, if at all. Speaking of, is your passport still in date? Probably ought to check, actually. Vincent loves taking you to all sorts of places on holiday, seemingly at random, even though he’s not a huge fan of planes - which is a bit of a problem when everywhere he wants to take you is at least ten hours away.

(Aeroplanes are actually quite difficult for vampires, as has been gravely imparted to you - on several occasions, actually, pre and post-turning. You have to make sure it's night time when you leave and when you arrive, which can make managing timezones and travel itineraries very complicated - lest you accidentally end up like Vincent and Alexis, who once got stuck in an airport in France and were forced to wait five or six hours until sunset before they could leave, edging gingerly through the terminal as the sunlight moved across the floor.)

(William had to come and pick them up, and was met with a distinctly miserable pair of hungry, sleep-deprived progenies, grumbling about stupid massive windows, who even needs that much glass anyway? You’ve seen the photos - Vincent’s bedhead is bad at the best of times, but apparently it’s truly magnificent after eleven hours on the plane and six very tense hours creeping around the airport trying to avoid the sun - and although you’re sworn to secrecy, it hasn’t stopped you from taking the piss out of Vincent every time he tries to suggest going on holiday. Look, if he didn’t want you to make jokes, he shouldn’t have shown you the picture of him and Alexis, passed out and covered in sunscreen, piled up on top of the suitcases, being carted through the airport by William on a luggage trolley. Come on - the jokes write themselves!)

Honestly, the most frustrating question isn’t what he’s going to do - his little gremlin brain is far too bizarre for you to even begin to narrow down the list of things that might be on his radar, from the hilarious to the romantic to the just plain weird. The real question is why? He’s made a point of checking that you’re free for the whole of Friday, so you assume that that’s whenever he’s planning is going to happen. It’s only May, so your anniversary isn’t for a while, and you know it’s not a birthday thing… Is there something you’re missing? A clan thing or a vampire thing or some kind of empowered bank holiday that you don’t know about? That has to be it. But who could you ask to explain it to you?

me: ok can i ask a maybe stupid question

grandmaker: Of course. What would you like to ask about? I’m always happy to answer your questions.

grandmaker: (As long as it’s not about roller skates again. He’s still not allowed, and don’t let him bribe you into finding him another pair.)

me: it’s not about the roller skates dw

me: it’s just about vincent

grandmaker: What about him?

me: idk how to put it he’s like

me: he’s being really nice to me?? like nicer than normal?? and he’s definitely planning something for friday but he won’t say why?? idk what’s happening and i feel like i’m forgetting something

grandmaker: I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to say that the issue is “Vincent’s being too nice to me, his partner and progeny, who he loves very much and would do anything for, and it’s making me nervous”.

me: LOOK IT’S NOT A BAD THING

me: i just can’t figure out why he’s doing this NOW and i’m a bit worried i’m forgetting an anniversary or a holiday or something

me: is there a special clan thing coming up he hasn’t told me about? or an empowered thing that idk about? damn wasn’t very good at catching humanborns up to speed on stuff like that

grandmaker: I don’t think so. The next clan meeting isn’t until mid-June, and there aren’t any special events planned until the masquerade.

grandmaker: To my knowledge, there aren’t very many empowered-specific holidays or celebrations aside from the Solstices, and certainly none coming up immediately - the risk of breaking covert has, in my lifetime at least, rather stifled that sort of thing. Some, such as our friends in the Shaw Pack, will have their own more localised traditions, but historically it has been always difficult for empowered people to communicate and coordinate on a large enough scale to organise that sort of thing.

grandmaker: I would say that it has only really been possible for about fifty years or so, maybe less. Perhaps in the future this will change, but to answer your question - no, I can’t recall any special events coming up that Vincent might be planning to celebrate.

me: damn ok ty

me: guess he’s just having a moment then lmao

grandmaker: I suppose so. If you figure it out, do let me know - I’m curious as well, now.

me: cool i will

me: we’re still on for sunday right??

grandmaker: Yes, of course. I look forward to seeing you then. :)

me: :D

No luck with William, unfortunately, which is a bit of a blow. You’d hoped that he’d have some idea of what Vincent might be doing, seeing as he’s known him the longest, but alas. Looks like it’s time to bring out the big guns - it seems that drastic times call for drastic measures. Good thing you have a certain shifter’s number.

me: what’s he planning :) tell me :)

sandwich cullen: Hello to you too

me: ik he’s told you something i saw you two plotting together at the last clan meeting while fred was talking

me: i see all :))) you cannot hide :))) tell me what he’s planning

sandwich cullen: Who says we were planning something

sandwich cullen: We could have been talking about anything

me: ????? i have vampire ears now i could HEAR you talking about it

me: also your mate told me that he was at your house yesterday and you were booking something online together BUSTED

sandwich cullen: First of all rude

sandwich cullen: Maybe we were planning something for my mate

me: liar you weren’t your mate HATES surprises

me: if you were planning a surprise you would have at least told them that you were going to do SOMETHING

me: and i already asked them and they said you haven’t mentioned anything BUSTED

me: TELL ME

sandwich cullen: No

me: WHY :(((

sandwich cullen: Vincent would kill me I don’t need that

me: spoilsport :(

me: at least a hint??

sandwich cullen: No

sandwich cullen: It’s nothing bad and he says you’ll like it

me: …fine i see how it is

me: have fun when i invite your mate to the masquerade first and you have to turn up with vincent instead

sandwich cullen: WHAT

me: bc they WILL say yes

me: and you know how william gets about everybody entering in pairs

sandwich cullen: DONT YOU DARE

sandwich cullen: GET BACK HERE

sandwich cullen is typing…

Hmmm. A fruitful conversation to be sure, but just not in the way you were hoping, and no real new information gained.

The most annoying part about it is that none of it is helping you figure out what he’s planning. He’s just being stupidly adorable, your golden retriever vampire boyfriend, and it’s too difficult to theorise when your heart is too busy melting right into his hands. It can’t be that bad, right? All you can do is cross your fingers and hope that whatever it is, it doesn’t involve roller skates. Please, never again.

“Morning, lovely.”

“...”

“...Lovely?” A voice. Vincent’s voice. Mmm, Vincent. He’s so cute. Where is he?

“Mm-hnnrg,” you reply eloquently, through a mouthful of pillow. Something’s wrong. Why is it so cold? “Hmm?” You blindly reach out towards his side of the bed when-

“Over here, baby. No, no- other side, this side!” From behind you, a warm hand settles on your exposed shoulder and gently tips you onto your back, slipping up to turn your chin so you can see the very familiar vampire perching on the bit of mattress by your hip. He’s smiling softly, backlit by the early moonlight streaming in through the window where he's pushed the blackout curtains open. “There you are.”

It doesn’t look like he’s been up for long, still in his pyjamas (the really soft ones that are good for stealing), dark hair still ruffled and sticking up on one side. Silver eyes a little heavy with sleep, pillow creases faintly visible on his cheek. tongue barely peeking out to lick his lips as he finishes yawning - oh, he is precious.

“Breakfast?”

He’s also looking remarkably pleased with himself, which is always a sign of danger. You sit up and take the offered blood bag warily, narrowing your eyes at him as you bite into the plastic, although your death glare is probably undercut by the fact that you keep having to wipe the sleep out of your eyes. He seems unaffected, giving you a big, innocent grin that you absolutely don’t believe for a second.

“Mmm, thank you,” You tip your head back to squeeze the last few drops out of the bag, before leaning over and dropping it in the bin by the bedside table. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Of course I did,” he chuckles, thumbing a stray drop of blood from the corner of your lip and popping it neatly in his mouth. “I had my lovely in my arms, didn’t I?”

Still a bit groggy from sleep and a little dazed by his soft smile, you’re caught without a comeback - in lieu of words, you make do by pulling at the hem of his shirt until he’s close enough to cuddle properly. You settle your face into his shoulder, turning your head just a little to kiss his neck as he sighs happily into your hair, and it would be so, so easy to fall back asleep.

Well, it would be, if he wasn’t doing that (adorably dorky, ridiculously cute) stupid thing where he pretends to play the piano across your back, pads of his fingers tapping lightly across your shoulderblades as you hazily try to figure out what he’s playing. The light pressure isn’t distracting enough to outweigh his general utility as a pillow though, so you make yourself comfy melting against his warmth, closing your eyes against the moonlight from the window.

A little while passes, until suddenly it hits you.

“Are you-” He really is a dork. “Are you playing Heart and Soul?”

“What? No!” The fingers on your back freeze for a moment, before resuming in a decidedly more complicated pattern than before. “I would never.”

Liar. “You were humming it yesterday while you were brushing your teeth.”

“Pure coincidence, I assure you,” he scoffs, giving up on his silent concert in favour of wrapping his arms snugly around your waist, crushing you against him. "You must be mistaken, little lovely. How could I possibly do such a thing when my heart and soul are already yours -aghh!"

The reward for his vast devotion is swift, silver-tongued bastard that he is - he yelps as you give him a teasing little nip just below his jaw, hard enough to leave a decent mark but not quite breaking the skin, scrambling away from you almost fast enough to hide the subtle flush spreading across his face. “Stop trying to eat me, you menace,” he whines, "Those fangs of yours get enough practice as it is!" Snickering, you watch as he busies himself tidying up the vanity, pointedly facing away from you all the while.

(Alas, he appears to have forgotten that vampires are not, in fact, invisible in mirrors. The blooming mark under his jaw and the giddy little smile his reflection wears are very, very pretty.)

"In any case, little leech, you'd better get dressed. We've got the whole day to ourselves, remember?"

"How could I forget? You wouldn't stop asking if I was free," you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. "I take it you've got something in mind…?"

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says, which is Vincent-speak for I definitely have something in mind, and you’re going to be spoilt absolutely rotten if I have anything to say about it. “Doesn’t change the fact that today’s a special day, and I want to spend it with my lovely.”

“Flirt.”

“Oh, with pleasure. Anywhere in particular?”

“You know exactly what I meant, genius,” You shake your head good-naturedly, nudging him out of the way with your hip as you make for the wardrobe. “Although I am a little surprised. Normally, when we've got the whole day to ourselves, clothes don’t really factor into it."

“You-” What little of his blush that had receded comes back in full force, and he’s almost fast enough to hide it by making a hasty retreat to the safety of the kitchen, your laughter chasing him down the hallway. “Just- just get dressed!”

Still smiling, you turn back to the wardrobe. Looks like you have an ill-defined date night (do you really need to say night when you do everything at night nowadays?) to get ready for.

He’s lost it. Completely. Right here, right now, Vincent Solaire has gone absolutely, totally off his rocker.

Barring a few more intense moments, it had been a pretty normal date night - cuddles on the sofa, some lazy dancing in the kitchen, a liberal dose of kisses every time he thinks you’ve got too far (read: further than about two metres) away. You’d steamrollered him at Mario Kart, and he’d got you back with a surprise bout of tickles that had you squirming out of his lap and onto the floor in an unceremonious heap of laughter. Making fun of the TV, terrible innuendos, flicking water at him when you wash your hands. An ordinary date night, and you couldn’t possibly ask for more.

“It’s in the bedroom. Try it on for me?”

Vincent, however, has always been very good at more.

He watches you disappear around the corner, and as you open the bedroom door you can hear him fiddling around with something back in the living room. Oh, God, what on earth is he going to pull now? He’d better not be t-

Oh.

So that’s what he’s been hiding.

The garment bag isn’t entirely transparent, so you can’t make out the details, but you know exactly what’s inside. You remember seeing it online while shopping for potential masquerade outfits with Vincent, maybe six months ago? Seven? He’d offered to get it for you then, but you’d refused - it’s too expensive, I don’t really need it, I can find something else. However long it’s been, Vincent clearly hasn’t forgotten - sliding the hanger out of the bag reveals a very familiar silhouette, the fabric just as you remember it, and you’d bet that when you put it on, the size will be exactly as you wanted. As if that wasn’t enough, the box sitting next to it on the bed - yep, those are the shoes. How did he even find out about those? You swear you’d only told-

Damn. Of course. You’d told David’s mate, who must have told Sam, who must have snitched on you to Vincent. Ooh, you’re getting him back for this.

knuckle sandwich: yeah i can go to the masquerade with you

knuckle sandwich: what did he do this time

At least one of them has any sense. It doesn’t take you too long to get dressed, all things considered, and the knock at the door is very much welcome.

“Lovely? May I come in?”

You open the door, and are met with what you’re sure is the loveliest sight known to man (vampire?) - Vincent Solaire, in his goddamn Sunday best, a bunch of roses in one hand and a gentle smile on his face.

“You- oh, wow-”

Both of you stutter over each other, flustered hands struggling to settle and weight shifting from one foot to the other. Vincent manages to regain his composure slightly before you, folding your fingers around the bouquet and thankfully letting you hide your face in it. He’s all you want to look at, almond eyes crinkled into happy crescents and colour rising in his cheeks, but you worry that if you look too long, you’re seriously at risk of finding out if vampires can have heart attacks.

“Ready to go?” Wait, you’re going somewhere? That would explain why he’s all dolled up, but it’s, like, 1am - where on earth could he possibly be taking you that’s even open at this hour?

He must take your confused silence as a yes, linking his elbow with yours and taking you down to the garage. Before long, you’re racing into Dahlia proper, lights blurring past and music turned up, singing as loudly as you can to the CD - one of his early-2000s albums that seems to live permanently in the glovebox. It’s not a long drive, only a little more than half an hour, yet somehow he manages to get you out of the car and sitting at a very nice, very expensive table almost before you know what’s going on.

“How is this place even open?”, you hiss, hiding your face from the waiter with the excessively-tall menu. “It’s the middle of the night!”

Across from you, one dark eyebrow arches gracefully, but not unkindly. “Not for us, lovely. Cornerstone city, remember? All sorts of places are open for us, if you know where to look. Remember that gallery by the station? The one where the guy spilled his drink all over the floor?”

“That was your fault!” If there wasn’t anybody else here, you’d smack him with the menu - as it is, you settle for lightly knocking his shin with the side of your shoe under the table. “If you’d been able to keep your hands to yourself for five minutes-”

“Not my fault you couldn’t stay quiet!” He even has the nerve to stick his tongue out at you, the little menace.

“I’m not the one who wanted to start a tickle fight in the middle of an art gallery!”

“Okay, maybe I had something to do with it,” he admits, inclining his head towards the waiter who’s been patiently waiting just out of earshot for you two to decide what you want. “But you can’t say it wasn’t funny! And he was talking so loudly - honestly, I think we did everyone else in there a favour.”

“Th-” You’re about to retort when the waiter clears his throat unobtrusively, obviously trying to be polite, but really hoping you’re going to get on with it so he can go and do something else. “Uh, do you know what you’re going to have?”

“Mm, I don’t know…”

Dinner goes… well.

It’s a very nice dinner, to be sure - neither of you really need food any more, but that doesn’t stop it from being delicious. Once Vincent’s finished explaining the nighttime workings of Dahlia, the conversation lapses back into much more relaxed territory, and the hand-holding under the table doesn’t hurt either. The pleasant haze of his attention, the comfortable sway of his affection - behind the blackout windows of the restaurant, the silver evening becomes a golden early morning.

There’s only one question left to ask.

“...Vincent?”

“Hmm?” He looks up from where he’s toying with his credit card, spinning it between his fingers as you wait for the waiter to come back with the machine. “What is it, lovely?”

“Why are we, you know…” you start, unsure of how exactly to phrase it. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to go on dates with you, I like spending time with you and being with you and I love you so so much but-”

“What?” His hand on your cheek stops you in your tracks, and you can’t help but lean into the warmth of his palm. “But what, lovely?”

There’s no good way to say it - better just get it over with. “Is there something happening today that I’m meant to know about? Why did we, y’know, come here today?”

His hand freezes momentarily, fingers tensing almost imperceptibly against your face as his mouth drops open slightly, eyes widening. He looks… surprised, you think? It’s hard to tell, seeing as he almost immediately buries his face in his arms, groaning into the table in what looks like frustration.

“I knew I’d forgotten something!”

…Forgotten something?

“What did you forget?” In the corner of your eye, the poor waiter can very clearly tell that now isn’t a great time, and retreats to the safety of the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

“No!” he mumbles, half-muffled by his sleeve. Reaching over to ruffle his hair in silent comfort, you wait for him to actually tell you what the problem is. “I thought I’d told you already - I think I just kind of assumed that you’d know, and Gavin said that he’d heard about it so then I didn’t really think about it, but he’s, like, a million years old and knows everything about this stuff, so-”

He takes a deep breath, sitting up and gently detangling your hand from his hair. “Do you know what date it is today?”

“The twentieth, right? No, the twenty-first.”

“No, you’re right, it’s the twentieth. May twentieth. Does that date mean anything to you?”

You shake your head, utterly lost. “...Should it?”

“Fuck, I really did forget,” he mutters to himself. “Lovely, you know when I text you, I always say something at the end, right?”

“Yeah, the numbers. Five-two-zero. I thought it was, like, one of your 90s emoticon things, isn’t it?”

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say - he looks even more embarrassed now. “No, it’s- it’s not. It’s a Chinese thing.”

Nope, that… doesn’t explain it. Your expression clearly tells him as much, as he starts to ramble. “So, like, the way to say I love you in Mandarin is wo ai ni, you know? Like, wo means I, ai means love - you know what I mean, I say that to you a lot, right?”

Now that he says it, it sounds familiar. “Right.”

“Well, it’s kind of like acronyms in English, I guess, like when you text? Short, fast ways of saying a phrase? Chinese has the same thing, but obviously they’re a bit different - I love you isn’t the letters I-L-Y, it’s the numbers 5-2-0. Five-two-zero is wu er ling, which sounds like wo ai ni when you say it fast.”

“Okay…?” It takes a second for it to make sense, but you think you get it. Also, now that you think about it, this recontextualises a lot of his texts to you. “And that has something to do with today?”

He doesn’t answer, instead reaching into his inside pocket and switching on his phone, sliding it across the table to face you. Right there on the display, above the picture of you asleep on his shoulder (wait, when did he take that?), it reads 02:50AM, 05.20.23.

“Today, the twentieth, is kind of like a Valentine’s Day for Chinese people.”

Oh. May twentieth. 5.20. I love you.

(He also does a bit of a double take at the time, but doesn’t explain this one. “Er bai wu… yeah, that sounds about right.” It’s probably not anything very polite, if you had to guess.)

You’re not exactly sure where to go with this, but there’s one option that always seems to work. You slip your hand under his jaw, pressing just slightly on the mark you left there earlier, and tilt his face to yours for a kiss. It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up, but when it does he reciprocates in full, eyes falling blissfully shut as his tongue traces across your lip.

When you finally remember where you are, you pull away just enough to breathe, dodging his petulant attempt to chase your lips by ducking your head to the side for a second. He catches your cheek instead, whining softly when you press your palm to his chest to get his attention.

“Happy Valentine’s-in-May, pretty boy.” Your voice is low and quiet, but he hears you all the same, giving you that big fangy grin that makes your mind go all fizzy, entirely charmed. “I love you, Vincent Solaire.”

(He doesn’t reply in English, but you know exactly what he means.)

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fluff #redacted vincent #redacted lovely #ginger posting twice in two days??? what madness is this #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

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luna-rainbow · 2 years

Text

Inspired by @possibleplatypus lovely meta.

Also tagging @capitainrogers for thoughts.

"I'm invisible."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, you're just short."

Bucky laughed at his own joke, while Steve pulled a grimace that's halfway between peevish and resigned.

People frequently asked Bucky why he's friends with Steve. He couldn't understand why they even had to ask.

He had never met anyone as brave as Steve's reckless boldness, as funny as Steve's dry humour, as riveting as the world Steve imagines and paints, nor as thoughtful or talented or resourceful or compassionate.

He wanted people to see the Steve he knew, but after another group outing where he had to fish Steve out from a corner of the room, Steve griped, "I'm invisible." When Bucky laughed, Steve frowned, "You don't understand."

Bucky didn't really understand, but he let Steve be.

Then he got drafted.

His parents were going to be alright, and his sisters were old enough to look after themselves.

It was Steve he worried about. Who was going to look after him? Make sure he was having his meals on time? Make sure he was dressed right for the weather? Make sure his pesky neighbour stopped taking away his only weekend off from his two jobs to help out around their home?

"Seems like what you want for him is a wife, not a friend," his sister said.

He didn't quite understand the teasing glint in her smile. He was too busy mulling over her words.

A wife. He had never thought about it. But it was only natural. Steve was well into marriageable age.

He ignored the glumness sitting on his chest and put it down to his imminent departure.

He started dragging Steve out to double dates. It wasn't that he was interested -- he was about to sail out and who knew how long the war was going to last. He couldn't put a girl through the anxiety of the endless wait.

"You're about to be the last eligible man in New York," he said to Steve’s dour scowl.

"I'd settle for just one."

And Bucky would settle for any girl who could rein Steve back from signing up to certain death.

"There are men laying down their lives. I've got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand."

Bucky clenched his jaw. No, he didn't understand. The news coming from the frontline were getting worse everyday. The stories he was hearing from more senior recruits put out any hopes of romance.

He was headed to war, and the only thing that made the thought bearable was that all his loved ones were here, home, safe.

Steve insisted, "This isn't about me."

He looked at Steve, all five feet and a bit (God forbid if he shaved 4 inches off Steve's height in front of his face) of righteous fervour, and wanted to tell him you're not invisible. You don't have to prove anything. I just want you to be safe.

But what came out was, "Right. Cos you've got nothing to prove."

They glared at each other across the noisy corridor. It was his last day before leaving for places he had only seen on a map. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Fighting down his frustration, he warned, “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

The war was indiscriminately cruel, taking people who were too young, too smart, too experienced, too good, too kind to die. For most, a condolence card went home in their place while their bodies were left stranded on foreign soil.

For some, there were no family to send a card to. Bucky wrote their names down in a small notebook he carried with him.

Someone had to remember that these men had trekked halfway across the world and laid down their lives, that they were more than a statistic and more than a serial number, that they had a name and a face and someone who missed them.

Even if that someone was only him.

In Azzano, the men rallied each other with rousing stories of how their allies would charge in to rescue them. They were deep in the bowels of a Hydra facility, and as days stretched to weeks, the stories grew more fantastical as hope dwindled.

He was delirious. They had injected him with something and their questions were playing with his mind.

"Why do you keep repeating your name, Sergeant? No one cares for it. No one will remember your death."

He doggedly continued, wondering if this was the way it would end.

At least this meant the idiot back home would not do anything stupid for the rest of his life.

His only regrets were the many things he wanted to tell him. Maybe he should have written, instead of saying everything had been fine.

Maybe he should have written that he didn't like Europe very much, that it wasn’t like their books at all, and Steve wasn't missing out on much.

Maybe he should have written the names of his colleagues who were killed, so at least their names were carried back home.

Most of all maybe he should have written the words he wished he had said before he left. You are not invisible. You were never invisible to me. You don't have to prove anything. I love you. I miss you...so terribly I'm hallucinating you into life.

It took hours for the feverish stupor to clear and for reality to sink in.

Oh God.

What had Steve done to himself?

“Let’s hear it for Captain America!” he shouted, but his throat was hoarse with anxiety.

This was a war, Steve. He had seen men die. He nearly died. And now the one person he could not bear to watch get hurt was in the thick of it.

“You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

Was English beer always so bitter?

He wanted to go home. He never expected home to come charging to the frontline six foot tall and dressed in red, white and blue.

But he couldn’t tell Steve, broad-shouldered in his pressed uniform, self-assured and scrupulous and charismatic, just as he had always known him to be.

While he in his dimly lit corner could barely muster the energy to withstand the noise of boisterous celebration. He took another swig from the glass and wondered why he still couldn’t get drunk.

“Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run from a fight. I’m following him.”

Hydra had taken his book of names away when the unit was captured. Maybe it was just as well. He felt drained and shrivelled, and his heart didn’t have space for that many people.

It could only hold Steve, but luckily even if the world forgot Steve Rogers and only saw Captain America, he would never need a notebook to remind him.

They turned towards the hush that had taken over the bar to see the woman standing in the door, her bright dress a stark contrast to the yellowed gloom of the bar. Where she passed, men fell silent and straightened their backs and turned their heads to watch.

She spoke to Steve, two beautiful people who commanded the attention of the entire room. They were within an arm’s length of him, but never had he felt so alone, so unseen, so unneeded.

“I might even, when this is all over, go dancing,” the dark-haired beauty said.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky pushed for an acknowledgement.

But neither the woman nor the man spared a glance his way.

“The right partner,” the woman said meaningfully to Steve, who reciprocated with a small smile.

Maybe it was the alcohol, although he didn’t feel drunk.

Maybe it was the ache in his sternum that still lingered from Azzano.

Maybe it was that damn drunken tune echoing in the din of the bar.

And remember that the best of friends must part He left me for a damsel dark And now my love once true to me, Takes that dark damsel on his knee

He hadn't meant to sour the celebrations, but the words slipped from his lips.

“I’m invisible.”

Was this what Steve meant? To stand in the crowd and not be seen, to speak and not be heard?

Bucky had never noticed how isolating the rowdiness and bustle felt until he no longer wanted to be a part of it.

“I’m turning into you.”

He had meant to say something else, something reassuring or at least charitable, but the bitterness of the beer coated his throat and made it hard to breathe.

No. It was worse. He was invisible even to Steve.

In the bloodiest of battles and the darkest of nights, Steve was his beacon that led him to one tomorrow and another. War had taken so much from him already, but now it had come for his dearest.

He didn’t have a name for the ugly emotion rearing up. It wasn’t jealousy, but it was selfish and possessive and churlish, and it tasted like despair.

He had wanted the world to see how wonderful Steve was, but now he didn’t. He had wanted Steve to find the right girl, but now he didn’t. He had wanted to promise Steve he’d bring all his stupid back home, but now…he couldn’t.

“It’s a horrible dream.”

He was becoming a ghost.

And now how was he supposed to find his way home?

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #stucky fanfic #stucky meta #fanfiction #ehhh #not my proudest #but for me that moment was more prophetic than about character #it was more a story moment than a character moment if that makes sense #it served to foreshadow Bucky’s tragedy than to expose his darkness #but if he did have a darkness it came from the war #and whatever emotion he was trying to vent in that moment #still did not overcome his love and support for Steve #my writing

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