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kookiebunnii · 4 years

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lucky in love || min yoongi

→ summary: you didn’t expect to start your day with an arrow to the heart, quite literally, but neither did you expect to meet cupid himself. quickly realizing that you aren’t dramatically falling in love from the effects of cupid’s arrow, the two of you unexpectedly team up to solve this curious dilemma. however, at the end of it all, what if cupid is the one falling in love?

→ pairing: cupid!yoongi x reader

→ genre: roman/greek mythology au, fluff

→ word count: 6.6k

→ warnings: mature language

→ a/n: this is sort of a half-gift to myself and @cinnaminsvga, the author who actually inspired me to write again. i just hit 200 followers, and i guess i also wanted zee to know that her works definitely motivate and inspire others!

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Sitting in your armchair, embroidering little white carnations into the hem of the wedding dress in your hands, you truly thought that you couldn’t be any more content. This particular order had recently prompted the idea of “love” into your mind whenever you worked, as your customer had practically beamed with excitement when talking about her fiancée. Although your family and friends seemingly had your relationship status on the forefront of their minds, it wasn’t something you chose to fret about. You’d had your fair share of boyfriends, men you enjoyed spending time with and even one you thought about a “happily ever after” with. But of course, your career and independent personality typically got in the way.

It had led to heartaches and internal turmoil early on in your life, but now you were a freelancer, a fashion designer making clothes from your apartment. It wasn’t the most luxurious life imaginable, but it was the life you wanted. You were able to do what you loved while helping others. Romantic love just wasn’t on this week’s to-do list...orders were.

You set the piece down and slowly rotate your wrists to chase the stiffness away from your joints. Taking a sip of your chamomile tea, you watch as the horizon outside your window lights the buildings aglow with an orange and pink hue. The colors are beautiful, and you’re briefly inspired. Heading to your workbench in the room next to you, you grab your pocket notebook and scribble down the colors you see outside. You always wrote little notes in this particular journal, hoping to use it for your own creative works someday if not for a future customer’s order. Examining the words “pink, orange, yellow blending” in your casual scrawl, you flip to previous pages to reread your past bouts of inspiration.

You sigh, knowing that this wedding dress was your last big order for the month. Perhaps you now have enough time and funds saved up to work on something for yourself next week.

Your discarded cell phone on the couch begins beeping incessantly, so you set your notebook back down and skirt over to check what it’s for. You make a small sound of happiness, remembering that you had ordered Thai food for dinner tonight. Taking off your work apron and hanging it on a hook in your office, you find the warmest coat you own before rushing out the door.

Weather these days is like a finicky child who can’t make up his mind. In the daylight you’d have to pull on a t-shirt and a long skirt to fully appreciate the rare breezes that danced through the open windows. However, after sunset, temperatures could drop quite steeply. You’re reminded of this again when you’re forced to tuck your hands into your pockets and tell yourself to hurry.

The street is lit with soft lamplight and despite the cold and hunger resting in your belly, the artist in you can’t help but appreciate how beautiful this sight is as well. Round circles of yellow going from intense to faded against a midnight blue backdrop fill your thoughts. It’s so distracting that you almost walk past your destination without realizing.

Quickly backpedaling a few steps, you head into Thai Us Together—you must give the owners credit for their pun-tastic name—and greet the familiar worker at the front desk. She engages you in some polite conversation before handing you your usual order and bidding you goodbye.

It’s only when you are a few steps away from the entrance to your apartment complex that you are hit in the chest by an arrow.

You realize this not because you feel any sort of pain from the attack, but because a translucent arrow radiating a pinkish glow is now visibly protruding from your front. Firmly planted above your ribs, you’re momentarily at a loss. Perhaps any normal person would be screaming in terror, but you just stare, wide-eyed, wondering if you were dreaming. Things never got this crazy in your dreams though.

“Why isn’t it working?”

You blink and suddenly there’s a dark-haired, pale-faced man in front of you. He doesn’t look much older than you, as he stands in front of you with his arms crossed. Frowning in discontent, he stares in the direction of your chest unabashedly and you feel that you have the right to be more than a little offended.

“Um, hello? My eyes are up here.”

When his eyes finally find yours, they’re filled with shock with a little bit of fear mixed in. You almost wonder if you’d grown a second head or something, with the way he was staring at you.

“You can see me?” he asks, pointing at himself as you roll your eyes in response.

“Who else is staring at my chest around here? Yes, you.”

The boy starts laughing, his gums showing cutely in response to your curt reply. You can feel your cheeks warming as you wonder whether your statement deserved to be received with this much amusement.

“You’re a funny one,” he finally notes, before a worried expression takes over his features again, “But you’re human aren’t you? You shouldn’t be able to see me.”

You adjust your takeout in your hands before resting a hand on your hip, “Well, I see you very clearly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have pad thai to enjoy and an arrow to the heart to deal with.”

He grabs your arm, and the touch is so palpable that you know now that you’re definitely not dreaming. You turn to meet the stranger’s gaze again, and the curiosity filling his brown eyes is undeniable.

“You see the arrow too?” he whispers in awe, gesturing to the faint but very noticeable projectile still lodged in your front.

Sighing, you say, “Okay at least I’m not hallucinating this then. Look, I need to try and get this thing out and get to my dinner. If you don’t have any suggestions on how to remove arrows that don’t even feel like they’re actually there, then I suggest you head home.”

He follows you through the gate, matching your hurried steps with ease until you finally snap and turn on him. He almost bumps into you as a result of your sudden halt but quickly readjusts himself and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

After a short glaring contest, he gives you a small smile with a glint in his eye, “I know exactly how to get that out. In fact, I was the one who shot it.”

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Maybe all these years of living alone has finally dulled your warning senses to the point where you were fine letting dangerous strangers into your home. You’d always been too trusting of a person, but you felt too tired and confused to put up much of a fight tonight anyways. You just wanted to enjoy one of your favorite noodle dishes and get rid of whatever black magic was involved in this painless arrow buried inside you. If it meant inviting a random puzzling but handsome individual into your abode, then so be it.

As you dig into your meal, you watch as your guest sips on his glass of water. He had denied your offer of food, but you could at least say you were a polite host. With your stomach now appeased, you take your own gulp of water before launching into an interrogation.

“Who are you?” you ask.

He tilts his head, observing you for what feels like the seventh time that day. Finally, he leans back in his seat in thought. The silence permeates your residence for a good minute before he finally utters, “I’m Cupid, God of desire, attraction, and affection.”

You stop mid-chew to openly gawk at the black-haired male in front of you. This boy, dressed in a large hoodie and ripped jeans, is supposed to be the fat baby featured on Valentine’s Day cards? Maybe you brought a crackhead into your home.

“I know what you’re thinking. You mortals have ruined my image recently and as a result I am no longer receiving the respect I deserve,” he purses his lips before setting his water glass aside and openly observing you again, “But I am in fact Cupid.

“Okay let’s say you are Cupid or whatever and you shot me. Doesn’t this mean I’m supposed to fall in love now or something? I don’t feel anything other than a desire to finish the rest of this delicious pad thai.”

He doesn’t even smile at your attempt at lighthearted humor, instead wrinkling his brow further at your words.

“That is rather curious.”

Fiddling with a stray bean sprout on your plate, you add, “Well, could we start with removing this first?”

He finally gives you an amused grin when you gesture to the faint outline of an arrow above your ribs, which appears to be growing increasingly hard to see as time passes. Maybe you are finally going off the deep end.

“It’ll disappear soon,” and as soon as the words leave his lips, the arrow has faded entirely. He turns slightly, and a quiver suddenly appears on his back. You count 11 arrows before another slowly fills the remaining empty spot to complete the final dozen.

Your jaw is practically on the floor at this display.

“I need to figure out why this is happening,” he muses, resting his chin on his hand and training his unwavering gaze on you once again.

Jeez, you were starting to feel like an exhibit at the zoo.

“Look, as much as I appreciate meeting a god, I have work to do and a deadline to meet. I’m sure this is very fascinating, but frankly I’d rather not fall in love anyways so I’m quite glad this didn’t work,” you stand up to set your cleared dish in the sink before heading for the door to escort him out.

“Why not?” he asks, as if he couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever not want to be in love.

You turn after undoing the lock at your door to find that he still hasn’t budged from his chair. Clearly not on the same page as you are, you saunter over to him and do your best to give him a menacing look, “I’m happy the way I am. Now are you leaving?”

You definitely weren’t usually this rude, but the amalgamation of your anxiety to get back to work and the confusion of trying to understand what was happening to you made for a deadly combo. Today’s events were definitely giving you a short fuse. If this offends him, Cupid sure doesn’t show it, because he just gives you a small tilt of his lips before heading to your kitchen to wash his empty cup.

You watch, mystified, as he sets his cup on the drying rack before washing the plate you had left in the sink earlier. At this point you rush forward, embarrassed, but he simply shakes the excess water off the plate before leaving it next to his discarded cup. You thought Cupid was supposed to be mischievous, and maybe this guy was, but he was definitely going out of his way to be nice to you.

“Thanks” you mumble halfheartedly, suddenly feeling a bit regretful that you were trying your damnedest to shoo him out earlier.

He chuckles, drying his hands on your teacloth hanging nearby before asking, “Can I ask you some questions?”

Deciding that no ill-natured person would go through the trouble of washing your dishes before murdering you, you lead him to your living room where you were previously working on embroidery. The wedding dress is still resting on the arm of the chair you previously occupied, so you briefly excuse yourself to move the large piece back to your workspace.

When you come back, he seems to be running his tongue against the inside of his cheek in thought. It distracts you for a bit until he finally asks, “Are you getting married?”

Sputtering with a bright fuchsia across your cheekbones, you quickly reply, “No! No, it’s an order for a customer. I’m a designer.”

He sighs in relief, “Thank Zeus, I honestly thought I had lost all of my powers including my sense. Maybe it’s just my arrows that are faulty.”

When he notices how you’re looking at him quizzically, he kindly explains, “Usually, getting hit with my arrow means you fall in love with the person I’ve assigned. For some reason that clearly hasn’t happened for you. Besides, you’re definitely not supposed to see me or my arrows unless I will it to happen.”

You frown, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you think. If this dark-haired boy is to be trusted, was there actually something wrong with you? Additionally, who had he chosen for you? Maybe if it was meant to be and all that jazz, you could just have Cupid introduce the two of you and he can be on his way. That’d be much simpler than trying to wrap your head around the idea that Roman Gods existed.

“Who’s the person?”

He smirks, appearing to be amused at your shy remark, “Mortals are simple creatures. It matters more whether your significant other is as good-looking as you imagined than the possibility that something is very wrong with you.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. Besides, you could just wingman me with the guy you picked and then go back to shooting people for fun. You’re acting like the end of the world is coming.”

Lounging on your couch, he grabs one of the decorative pillows next to him and begins playing with the loose strands like an easily entertained cat. You sit down next to him, grabbing the other cushion to hold in your arms for security while he exhales in disappointment.

“It’s not that easy. This isn’t something that’s supposed to happen,” he admits, tossing the pillow aside and training his eyes on you.

“Well, you could always ask one of your fellow gods, right? Isn’t your mom Venus or something? I’m sure she has plenty of experience in the love department,” you suggest, wondering if you were being too gullible by accepting and participating in his fantastical stories.

He scoffs, “If she knew about you, she’d just tell me to kill you.”

“Okay so we won’t be asking her for help under any circumstances. Got it.”

He laughs again, and you can’t help but crack a smile of your own. Maybe in another world, if he just happened to be a random boy you bumped into one day, you’d actually want to be friends with him. But in your reality, he was supposed to be a god. If your lessons in Roman mythology meant anything, humans should probably fear those like him instead of inviting them into their one-bedroom apartments.

“You’re probably one of the more amusing mortals I’ve met recently,” he grins, “Do you still want to know who I chose for you?”

Heart racing, it was as if you could feel your pulse thrumming in anticipation. Wasn’t this what every person wanted? To know who they would end up with, to know who they were supposed to love until their last breath? Even if you were a self-declared non-romantic, the idea was still interesting. Its appeal was still undeniable, even if it wasn’t a priority for you.

But then you hesitated, wondering if it was beneficial for you to even know this. Did you like the idea of this cheeky boy just randomly selecting a guy for you? Maybe free will was just an illusion, but how would you even go about your life if you knew that you were supposed to be with someone—no alternatives? That kind of pressure just didn’t float your boat at all.

“Never mind actually. It’s probably better if you don’t tell me.”

This statement surprises him, because he actually leans forward to rest his palm against your forehead with a concerned expression on his features. Up close, you can see the pretty faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and the small speckles of gold in his irises. No, this boy is definitely not human.

“What happened to Y/N?” he jokes, laughing when you brush his hand away to look at him with a frown.

“Look, it doesn’t mean I’m not curious. Besides, now I can pick who I want to be with without your ministrations being a part of it,” you huff, crossing your arms.

Smirking, you can see the mischievousness lighting up his eyes at your words, “And how will you know that the man you’ve ‘picked’ isn’t just someone else I’ve chosen to hit you through the heart with?”

You don’t respond at his teasing question which causes your guest to lean back once again with satisfaction. If he really was the omnipotent entity he claimed to be, you guess you wouldn’t really know if you liked someone out of your own volition. At least you could now pin the blame of being with some of your past exes as a result of Cupid’s interference and not your lack of good judgment.

“I’m going to have to monitor you for a few days. I’ll head back to Olympus every once in a while, seeing if I can find any answers for this oddity. If anything strange happens, just call for me.”

You pull out your cell on instinct, and he laughs while taking the device and slipping it back into your pocket. Instead, he takes your hands in his and intertwines your fingers together as if you were praying.

“You want me to pray to you and you’ll just show up?” you ask incredulously, trying hard to ignore the way you could feel the blood rushing to your head at his warm touch against the backs of your hands.

He nods, “It’s how it used to be, back when you all believed in us. I’ll be off now. See you tomorrow.”

One second, he’s there and the next he’s not. Standing awkwardly in the middle of your living room, fingers interlocked, you could genuinely convince yourself that you had just had an extremely hyper realistic dream. Unfortunately, the lingering heat of his hold on you remains undeniable.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Enjoying the tart taste spreading across your tongue from your homemade lemon tea, you set your glass down before admiring the semi-finished piece in front of you. You had set the wedding dress onto a mannequin in your studio after completing the final details to better observe the overall look. You need to pull in the waist a bit more and fix the neckline, so you step forward to remove the dress and get to work again.

“It looks nice.”

The sudden words cause you to almost trip over your own feet and you have no choice but to grab your mannequin for balance. Cupid chuckles from behind you, and you glance at him wide-eyed long enough to catch what look like wings folding behind his back before they disappear.

“Hello,” you squeak, surprised at his random entrance after leaving you alone for two days.

“You’re quite talented for someone who designs and makes the pieces herself,” he muses, stepping closer to you to catch the fabric of the lace sleeve in his fingertips.

“It’s nothing really. I’m just a decent option for someone looking for something original and unique, I suppose.”

He tilts your chin up to look at him and the motion sends an entire series of shockwaves through your system. No one had been this close to you in a long time, so maybe you were just reacting because of the unfamiliarity.

Yeah, that’s probably what it was.

Cupid hesitates, as if he had lost his train of thought, before quickly recovering, “Give yourself more credit, love.”

Pulling away from you, he leans back against your workbench with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Shaking the bangs away from his eyes, he says, “Do you feel any different?”

“No. I had half the mind that I just dreamt the whole thing,” you reply, finally letting go of the mannequin and stepping towards your desk to find some thread and a sewing needle.

He hums in thought, watching your movements as he says, “I haven’t had much luck either. I went to Vulcan, asked him if he could look at my arrows. He said they were in good working order but replaced a few of them anyways at my request.”

“Vulcan? Is that Hephaestus’s Roman name?”

“Yes, I wonder why Greek names are more familiar to you. Perhaps schooling is different nowadays,” he comments, watching as you take a seat across from him and begin making your adjustments.

“If it’s any consolation, they do look shinier than before,” you tease, pointing at the quiver appearing on his back.

He gives you an amused chuckle, pulling out one of the arrows to examine it from its point to the sleek feathers at its very end. When it finally disappears from his hands to return to its home on his back, he quips, “Are you sure you’re not a demigod?”

The question catches you off guard for sure, but you decide to play his game anyways, and think back to your parents. Did they ever do anything that seemed…otherworldly? Did they seem like the type of people to run off and have a tryst with some Olympian god or goddess?

Haha, definitely not.

You shake your head, giggling at the possibility since you knew your parents very well. He takes your answer with a nod and continues looking out towards the large window at the scene outside. The sky is a pale blue today with fluffy white clouds gliding by with ease. You were almost done with this order, and you planned to ship it to your customer this weekend. Maybe you’d enjoy a picnic outside to celebrate afterwards.

“Do you…have another name that you use? Calling you Cupid just seems weird. I still can’t get the name to disassociate from the image of a chubby winged baby in my head.”

He takes your question seriously, a trait you notice by the way he’s seemingly lost in thought. You wait patiently though, continuing to work on your methodical stiches as he ponders.

“Yoongi,” he finally says, appearing satisfied.

“Yoongi? That’s an interesting choice,” you reply, feeling the way this new name rolled off your tongue.

“It was the name of a mortal I knew. I quite like it.”

You accept his choice, finishing your alteration on the neckline and deciding to call it a day. You’ll spend the next few days attaching the sequins, which was bound to be an exhausting task. Just as you’re about to set the dress back on your trusty mannequin, the sound of glass breaking causes you to scream.

A creature seemingly out of your worst nightmares crawls through the windowpane, flames of fire spilling from its mouth. You can’t help but cling onto the back of Yoongi’s sweatshirt once he backs up against you in a defensive stance. The monster looks like a lion from the front, but you notice what appears to be a snake lazily dancing back and forth from where its tail ought to be. Oh, and was that the head of a goat sticking out from its back?

You never thought about how you would die, but this sure wasn’t at the top of your list.

“Fuck, why is this here?” Yoongi growls, and the deep sound that resonates from his chest makes you tighten your fingers on him.

“What is it?” you ask, but the way your voice is compressed in fear barely lets the words escape from your lips. It seems to ignore Cupid altogether, the blazing coals it calls eyes refusing to look away from your fearful expression.

He ignores your question, instead sweeping you off your feet and uttering, “Hold on tight” before skirting around the edge of the room with the creature hot on his heels. You don’t need to be told twice, immediately ducking your head into his shoulder, trying your best to ignore the way the beast sounded dangerously close. When you finally dare to open your eyes, Yoongi has ducked through the gaping hole where your window once was with his hand on the back of your head. He looks down at you briefly before jumping off the ledge.

Your scream sticks in your throat, as you feel the pit of your stomach fall alongside your body. A second later however, the two of you are gliding upwards as if flying. The buildings are a blur with how fast you are going, so you opt to just close your eyes and keep a locked grip on your savior. Even though you had no clue where you were being taken, you sure as hell weren’t about to return to your apartment even if it hadn’t turned into a pile of ashes by now.

When Yoongi finally stops, it feels like an eternity has passed, and your head is so dizzy that you’re forced to lean against a tree for support. As you try to keep the contents of your stomach from making an appearance, you make out the blurry form of your new friend pacing back and forth with his hair a mess. He is very clearly stressed, so you shift to grip the side of his pant leg when he paces closer to you.

“We’re fine now,” you mumble, tugging him closer. You hope he sits down so you could lean your head on his shoulder. It was starting to get chilly and you want to get ahold of whatever warmth was currently available.

Perhaps he can read your mind too because he kneels in the grass in front of you and fixes the locks of hair plastered to your clammy skin. He doesn’t seem the least bit grossed out, instead having what looks like worry in those odd eyes of his.

“I can’t believe you’re reassuring me when I’m pretty sure you would’ve died if I weren’t there.”

The words bring you back to reality as you shudder uncontrollably. You definitely would’ve died. That thing looked like it could rip you in two if it truly wanted to, and you weren’t exactly skilled in self-defense. Maybe you were too dumb to realize the danger of the current situation, but you were more concerned by the fact that Yoongi looked deathly afraid.

“Was that something from…your world?” you ask, grateful for the gentle grasp Yoongi had on your wrists. It comforted you knowing that you weren’t alone in this chaos.

“That was a chimera. Our worlds are essentially one and the same, but yes, creatures like that usually don’t just stop by for a house party,” he grunts, shifting so he can sit in front of you with his legs splayed to corner you against the tree.

You still have your legs pulled against your chest, so you lean your cheek against your knees as you regard him intently. He didn’t look anything like a god, and if you saw Yoongi walking on the street you probably wouldn’t have given him a second look. This whole ordeal balanced on the edge of surreal, but you were sure now that with whatever just happened, you were in danger. You wish the arrow worked on you earlier. You would’ve fell in love with some random person but at least you wouldn’t be fearing for your life. Maybe you wouldn’t have met the living embodiment of attraction, but you would’ve been back to normalcy. Isn’t that well worth it?

Struggling to understand why your heart hesitated at the possibility of never meeting Yoongi, you’re barely aware that he is pulling you to your feet until he has an arm wrapped around your waist to support your weak form.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and his fingers feel like they are burning against your side. Even through your sweater, you clearly feel each indent against your skin.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you give him your best attempt at a smile, following him as he walks you further into the forest. Thankfully, he eventually lets you go when he’s assured that you can walk without passing out. His proximity was doing crazy things to your senses, so you are grateful that he let you process your experiences without distraction.

He’s led you to an inconspicuous cave whose entrance is covered by a few hanging willow branches. He brushes these aside before letting you crawl in. The inside is surprisingly dry and you finally take a seat on a smooth, protruding boulder in the corner to stretch your legs out from the trek.

“It’s not a 5-star hotel, but it should do for now. You’ll be safe here until I find out what’s going in,” he says, and in the darkness you can barely make out his form in front of you.

Snapping his fingers, a fire appears in front of you. As you realize that this fire appears to be without a fuel source, you are once again forced to accept that your life is never going to be the same. Hesitantly reaching out to warm your shaking fingers against the heat, you watch as the light of the flickering flames dance across Yoongi’s face. He looks worried and concerned for you, so you can’t help but look away.

Your hands itch for your notebook, but you simply make a mental note to yourself instead: fire and shadows, a golden-eyed boy, warmth.

At this point, he takes off his hoodie and you can’t help the way your eyes immediately dart to the sliver of skin that shows at his waist when his t-shirt rises alongside his movements. When Yoongi finally emerges, a hand running through his locks, you hope that the heat you’re feeling is only from the fire.

He wraps the garment around your shoulders before tying the sleeves around your arms without a word. Taking one last look at you, he lets his touch linger for a second too long against your thigh before he stands to take his leave. This time, you keep your eyes trained on his as he begins to slowly dissipate. You tell yourself that you won’t blink because as long as you’re looking, he can’t leave. Your weary gaze finally betrays you, and when you open your eyes, he’s gone.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Turns out you wouldn’t have to worry about food, because every couple of hours, you’d magically find some food appearing by the fire Yoongi had made for you. Your phone had long since died, so you weren’t even sure what day it was. Using the appearance of the regular meals to gage the passing of time, you hoped that Cupid would come back for you soon. Your customer’s order would be due soon anyways. At this, you couldn’t help but giggle when you realized how much your commitments meant to you-- even if you were on the verge of getting eaten by a lion hybrid.

It appears that Yoongi had been more observant that you gave him credit for. Every meal, he has only given you pad thai with the ingredients you ordered the night you met him. It was cute how he went with something he knew you liked, likely worried that he could choose something you were allergic to or disliked. He did alternate between cool lemon tea in the mornings and warm chamomile tea in the evenings, but you are sure you won’t be ordering thai food for a long time after you get out of here.

Just as you finish the last of your tea while pondering actually praying to him to get him to show up, Yoongi appears before you. Without a second thought, you scramble up to give him a hug. It seems that even for a god, he doesn’t expect this. Your tackle causes him to briefly lose his balance.

“Easy there,” he laughs, his deep voice mixing beautifully with his laughter as it echoes against his chest.

“Sorry,” you fumble, pulling away quickly and wondering if mortals were allowed to be hugging Roman Gods.

“Have you been alright?” he asks, ruffling your hair fondly with a smile.

You hum in agreement, relishing the way his fingers felt tugging against your locks, “Might need to take a break from pad thai for a while though.”

Chuckling, he extinguishes the fire with a wave of his hand before tugging you out of the cave. The sudden sunlight causes you cover your eyes, gripping his sleeve instead to guide you as you walk. Instead, he carries you in his arms once again before flying off to god-knows-where. At this point, you simply submit in his hold, as you trust him enough as the only person who knew better than you did at the moment.

You’re pleasantly surprised to find that he has brought you to your apartment, and even more pleased to find that your window has been returned to its original state. In fact, everything inside remains perfectly undisturbed.

“How’d we get in if the window is fixed?” you ask, pressing your fingertips against the glass to ensure that it was indeed repaired.

“I stopped by before the chimera appeared without having to bust your windows open, if you remember,” he teases, pulling the curtains aside to let in some light.

“Fair enough.”

You immediately head inside to ensure that the wedding dress was still in your office. You let a relieved sigh escape your lips when you notice it resting happily on your mannequin in the corner, looking as perfect as before.

“Y/N, we need to talk about something,” Yoongi says, pulling out a chair and straddling it as he watches you work with the bag of sequins you prepared earlier for this project.

“What’s up?” you ask, already getting back to work by sewing each individual sparkle into the layers of fabric.

“The chimera from earlier, it was sent by someone.”

His words cause your hand to falter, but you remind yourself that you have to make up for lost time, so you continue working furiously.

“Who have I angered?” you ask, trying to keep the concern out of your tone.

Cupid sighs, and when he finally replies, you’re forced to drop the dress entirely.

“Venus? So, she found out about me?” you bite your lip to stop it from trembling under this revelation.

He grips your hands in his own now that yours are no longer busy with working. The emotions swirling in his gaze allows the weird feelings to return to your heart once again. When he makes a request of you, you can’t help but take notice of the way he’s practically begging.

“Y/N, please let me protect you. I can take you somewhere she’ll never find you. We can be together, and you’ll be safe for the rest of your life. I promise.”

Of course, the offer is tempting. You aren’t sure if it’s the confusing feelings you’re beginning to develop for him or if he’s working some sort of love magic on you, but you actually consider his proposition for a good second or two. But eventually, the dazzle of the pearl white dress on your workbench breaks you out of your reverie. Did you want to spend the rest of your life in hiding? Would you still be able to do what you loved? Would you still be able to see your family and friends?

“I can’t,” you reply, giving him a sad smile and a small squeeze with your hands. You can’t accept the hurt on his face, so you go back to work so you can focus on the shiny beads on the waistline of the dress instead.

“I can’t let you die.”

His voice sounds so broken, so lost, so defeated that you almost didn’t recognize its owner. Brushing aside the wetness suddenly flowing across your cheeks as a result of his words and your own fear, you try your best not to let your tears fall onto your customer’s order.

“Y/N please. Look at me?” Yoongi begs, and when you risk a look at him, the tear clinging to edge of his waterline finally rolls down his cheek.

When you realize you’re kissing him, the first thought that manages to form is that his lips are so soft. It’s like you pressed your mouth against a carefree cloud, or some bright pink cotton candy based on the gentle sweetness that slowly begins spreading throughout your body. His cheeks are damp, and you can’t help but whisper “please, don’t cry” against his lips. His laugh mixes with a sob, as he tightens his grip on your waist.

You pull back, and for a second you forget that the man before you is an all-powerful god. As he sits in front of you, brushing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, he is simply a soft-hearted boy crying over imagining a tomorrow without you. You wonder momentarily if it were possible for him to fall in love, because you were already beginning to feel the rush of falling.

“Am I crazy for liking you?” he chuckles, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer were written there, “I make others fall in love for the shits and giggles, and now I’m the butt of the joke.”

“How did I attract a god?” you muse, pinching his cheeks for your own personal enjoyment.

Yoongi falls back into his thoughts again, and you once again wait patiently for him to form his words. You were willing to wait, because you knew that when he finally spoke, it meant that he had truly considered each and every word he uttered.

“You’re witty. You love to crack jokes, especially when the situation turns awkward. It’s endearing, so much so that I just want to kiss the satisfied grin off your mouth. You’re hardworking and talented, placing the needs of others before your own. You commit yourself to your job, creating art as if it’s second nature. Even after your life gets hit with a whole shitstorm, you work on a wedding dress someone else ordered and tell me not to cry.”

A laugh escapes you as a desperate attempt to cover the fact that you’re certain you are as red as a cherry tomato and that you have the sudden urge to kiss Yoongi again.

The two of you decide to enjoy the simple happiness you feel with your newfound feelings for as long as you can without discussing Venus again. Once again, you find yourself working on the silky fabric of a bride-to-be’s wedding dress in your armchair in the living room. Except this time, Cupid has his arms wrapped around you as you sit in his lap. The two of you watch the sunset together after you decide to take a break, and he massages your wrists for you.

“I don’t want to hide, Yoongi.”

He makes a small noise acknowledging your words, seemingly more invested in nuzzling the exposed skin at the crook of your neck. You pinch his thigh to get his attention before continuing, “I can’t live like that. I’d rather die doing what I loved and enjoying every moment than being locked away somewhere—even if I were with you. Does that make sense?”

“Of course, my stubborn Y/N. I’ll do my best to keep you safe from her nevertheless.”

Raising an eyebrow, you shift in your seat so you can finally look at your brown-haired boy with surprise. You almost regret this decision, because the amount of adoration pouring from the personification of affection himself is almost too much for your mortal self to handle.

“I’m your Y/N now?”

He chuckles, smoothing out your furrowed brow with the tips of his fingers, each stroke leaving a lingering trail of warmth against your skin.

“Are you forgetting the vow I just gave you? A god just promised to protect you, mortal. Have some decorum.”

You frown, feeling too foolishly emboldened to be stopped now.

“Yeah well the witty, hardworking, and talented mortal just asked you a question,” you say smartly, playing with the strands of hair at the edge of his ear.

The golden stars in Yoongi’s eyes seem to shine brighter than before as he says, “For as long as you’ll have me. I’ll love you.”

♡

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fanfic-me-up · 4 years

Text

Unwithering | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader (1)

Part Two

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader

Prompt: Flower shop AU, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Warnings: Mild Swearing. Flowery language (pun intended 😉... I’ll show myself out)

Word Count: 2,250

Taglist: Reply to this post if you want to be added for future chapters!

A/N: This is for @bnhabookclub event going on! Thank you for giving new writers in the fandom, like me, a place to promote their work. Shout out to @smolmilkyways for letting me use this beautiful piece of fanart above! Go check them out! Also, thanks @gallickingun for letting me tag you in my first fic. You gave me some pretty solid advice that pushed me to get this out here. This was originally a one-shot, but of course it turned into a multi-chap, so stay tuned for more!

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your fists gripped the hem of your dress. The sunflowers on it reminded you of him; a burning sun at the center of your universe. The boy in front of you crinkled his forehead at your statement; as if the love you spent years building up the courage to confess was no more than a pebble - insignificant - that he could kick to the side without a second thought.

Midoriya gave you a slight thumbs up from the back, but the rest of the boys cackled with no remorse.

“You hear that, Bakugou? She looovvveesss you!”

“Freaky flower girl and Bakugou sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G”

“Awww is she gonna cry?”

The lump in your throat was difficult to swallow, but you refused to prove them right. It would only add fuel to the fire threatening to burn the seed planted in your heart.

He stepped toward you. The scent of burnt sugar filled your lungs; like fresh apples picked from your mother’s garden, dipped in melted caramel. You heard it’s a side effect from his quirk, but it was the first time you were close enough to experience it for yourself.

You willed your eyes to find his. The soft breeze blowing past provided a cooling relief to the intense heat felt in your cheeks. When your eyes locked, a spark flashed within his own. You couldn’t catch it in time, but your heart stuttered in response.

Any chance of a flower blooming died the next moment.

“I’ll never love a weak girl like you.”

A year passed before you saw Katsuki Bakugou again.

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

“Here’s your pickup order, Tanaka-san, I’m sure your wife will love them!”

You ring up the older gentleman who’s been a regular at your mother’s flower shop for years. His wife loves the smell of scented geranium, a sweet apricot that never fails to remind her of the orchards back home. He’s convinced your flowers are the reason she’s still here; the true medicine to her illness.

You always deny this statement, shaking your head with a playful giggle, but the compliment warms you. It’s nice to hear people cared about your flowers.

“She loves only the ones made by you, dearest.”

He winks as his shaking hands grab the large bouquet. You smile and turn your hand, palm up, towards Tanaka whose eyes never fail to widen in awe at your quirk in action. A small stem sprouts from the center of your palm, growing taller by the second. You hone in on the bright yellow dot on the center of each petal. A wash of white forms around each dot, acting as a transition for the violet that envelops the rest of the petals.

Each petal opens up one by one to reveal a golden bud.

You hand the flower to Tanaka.

“On the house,” you wink back.

“Oh very nice, very nice, indeed,” he bows in thanks, “What is the meaning of this one?”

“Irises give hope. In Chinese tradition, it is referred to as ‘the purple butterfly’ because its petals flutter like butterflies.”

The breeze from outside trails in at the perfect time and the petals flutter about.

“Very pretty,” Tanaka remarks, “I’ll be sure to let the misses know about this one!”

He thanks you one more time before walking out with a newfound spring in his step; the lone flower nestled in the pocket of his worn out janitor uniform.

You’ve been working at Paradise Blooms for the past three years after your parents separated, and your mom needed the extra hand more than ever. It was difficult balancing school and work, especially when you were busy prepping for U.A. exams last year, but you could never say no to your mom. She’s been the constant in your life since day one.

The back door to the supply room squeaks.

“A little help here?”

All you see is the top of your mom’s head, adorned with a multi-colored flower crown. Her face is covered by the high pile of crates she’s trying not to drop. You rush to catch the top crate before it tumbles.

“Phew. That was a close one. Thanks, honey!”

She bends down to take the supplies out, arranging the items on the counters around the shop. She weaves through the aisles - it looks more like a garden than an actual shop, in your opinion, but you think it gives the place character. She stops at the row of potted flowers sitting on the far right of the shop, soaking in the sunlight cast through the window. It’s the new collection your mom got in time for the 2020 Garden Glow Event. Every year, flower shops all over the city participated in an annual gardening event to educate the public on gardening techniques with fun activities for the children. Your mom spent hours on the phone dealing with difficult vendors to get this specific collection for the event. Water sprinkles out from her palm as she takes the time to water each and every flower.

Since there’s no customers at the moment, you grab the broom from the storeroom and set to sweeping around the shop. It’s not long before your mom’s watering routine is interrupted by her phone ringing.

“Hello?” You continue sweeping, gently humming along to the tune playing through the speakers, but your voice catches when you hear, “Mitsuki! Hi! How are you?”

Mitsuki? Your mom couldn’t possibly be talking to Mitsuki... Bakugou?

Your knuckles turn white from squeezing the life out of the poor broom as you wait for confirmation.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The memories you tried so hard to forget come flooding all at once.

“I’ll never love a weak girl like you.”

You’re snapped out of the memory.

“Yes, bring him in! Great! See you in a few, bye.”

Your mother returns to watering the flowers like nothing happened - like that single phone call didn’t just turn your world upside down, after you spent the last year flipping it right side up.

“Who was that?”

You’re afraid of the answer.

You promised yourself you moved on from Katsuki Bakugou. It proved to be easier said than done. Even if you both went to separate high schools and most of your days were spent either studying or working; at night is when your thoughts strayed. You wondered what he was up to… was he passing all his classes? You’d giggle at the absurdity of Katsuki not being number one. Was he still bullying Midoriya? Did you ever cross his mind?

Was he happy?

Because more than anything, you wished him happiness - even if that happiness was not with you. Was that weakness? Was wishing for someone’s happiness, who could care less about you, considered weakness?

“Hm?” Your mom turns to you, “Oh! That was Mitsuki Bakugou. Her son, Katsuki - I believe you went to school with him? Well, he needs a part-time job to help pay for tuition. Can you believe he got into U.A.? Mitsuki must be so proud of him.”

“I figured you’d be happy,” she continues, " I know you’ve been struggling with balancing school and work, so I thought having another person around would help lighten the load a little bit. Besides, I owed Mitsuki a favor.”

Your mother blushes at the last part.

Favor? What favor?

But that’s the last thing on your mind when you suddenly feel the need to pass out.

Katsuki… is… working… here?

“Honey, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I - I’m not sure I can…” you trail off. Your mom didn’t know about your confession to Katsuki. When you came home in tears that day, with your dress all wrinkled, you told her it was because kids were bullying you for trying and failing to get into U.A.

It was the half-truth.

“Y/N, did something happen between you and Katsuki? I can call Mitsuki back right now if you don’t feel comfortable with him around.”

It was as easy as breathing or using your quirk, second nature, all you had to do was utter a two letter word and your mom would immediately have Mitsuki on the line, apologizing for the inconvenience, but making sure to recommend a few places in the area who were hiring. A simple “no” and your world would become right side up again, the boy you loved long forgotten during the day and only remembered at night when there’s nothing to consume your mind, but him.

Taking the easy way called out to you, beckoning you to relinquish your strength, and give in. But if you couldn’t face one boy, then maybe Katsuki was right. Maybe you were weak.

“I’m fine, mom, I can work with him,” you say.

Pounding footsteps against the pavement outside cut your mom off from her next words.

“OI! LET ME GO, OLD WOMAN, I’LL KILL YOU!”

“CALL ME THAT ONE MORE TIME AND SEE WHERE IT GETS YOU!”

Your breath hitches at the sound. You haven’t heard that voice in over a year; it’s gotten deeper, raspier in tone. You take a few breaths in and out to calm yourself so you don’t melt into the floor at first glance.

The door swings open - the “We’re Open” sign rattles dangerously against the glass - and in barges Mitsuki Bakugou, dragging her son by the ear.

Katsuki struggles to get out of his mother’s grasp, his arms stretch toward the door, but Mitsuki pulls him all the way inside.

“I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF TRAINING, WOMAN!”

“AND NOW YOU’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF GETTING A JOB!”

“I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT!”

“YOU’LL MAKE TIME!”

Katsuki growls. His palms curving into themselves like he’s trying to reign in his quirk from exploding Paradise Blooms where it stands.

You and your mom look at each other, unsure how to inject yourselves in the rather awkward exchange. Truthfully, you’re not surprised by the interaction; you’ve seen Katsuki and his family at school events in the past. The Bakugous had an… interesting family dynamic.

Mitsuki notices the both of you watching and immediately releases Katsuki. She smiles and greets your mom with a hug as if the previous interaction never happened.

“Y/Mom’s/N, it’s great to see you! How’s the event planning coming along?”

Your mom and Mitsuki engage in small talk for a couple minutes leaving you to sneak a quick glance over at Katsuki leaning against the door. He’s looking out the window with a scowl on his face. He crosses his arms to stop himself from fisting his palms, a sign you picked up on when he’s itching to get on the field and obliterate.

You find yourself thinking how beautiful and destructive at the same time.

Once Mitsuki and your mom finish catching up, she directs her attention towards you.

“And you must be Y/N? Your mother has told me so much about you!”

You catch the flash of recognition in Katsuki’s eyes, but you’re wrapped in a hug before you can think. The hug is a bit awkward with the counter digging into your side, but the warmth radiating off Mitsuki makes you feel at home. She lets go of you and turns around to where Katsuki is still standing by the door, ready to leave the first chance he gets.

“And this is my son, Katsuki,” she beckons him over, but when he doesn’t move she barks, “Don’t be rude! Get over here and introduce yourself.”

Katsuki grumbles under his breath, but trudges over.

“Sup.”

Mitsuki growls and slaps Katsuki over the head, “Oi! Where are your manners!?”

She glances apologetically, “I’m sorry. He’s… a bit much to handle. I really appreciate you agreeing to hire him. He’s had trouble in the past with defying authority.”

Katsuki scowls at the ground when Mitsuki pats his head affectionately this time.

“But he’s a good kid at heart, a little rough around the edges, but overall a good kid. I hope you’re able to see that and work with him.”

She bows; her hand on Katsuki’s head nudges him to do the same. His nose twitches, but he listens this time.

Your mother is an empathetic person, able to walk all paths of life and notice the beauty in each one. It wasn’t like her to turn someone down in need.

Your mom smiles, “I’m happy to work with Katsuki. What about you, Y/N?”

She’s giving you a way out for the last time.

Mitsuki looks at you, hope in her eyes.

Doubt laid out its hand for you to take; to lead you away from the pain that still ate away at you everyday. The teasing. The pointing. The rejection from U.A. and from Katsuki. Working with him would force you to face the pain head on.

“I’ll never love a weak girl like you.”

You lock eyes with Katsuki for the first time since that day many moons ago; he’s awaiting your answer, a twinge of hope laced in his eyes overshadowed by a grimace.

You wonder if you now hold the fuel to the fire threatening to burn the tiny seed of hope he’s trying so hard to bury.

For better or for worse, you were also a person who found beauty in all paths of life.

“Welcome aboard,” you say.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha #bnhabookclub #bnha x reader #fanfic-me-up #bnha fanfic #mha #mha x reader #mha fanfic

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samingtonwilson · 4 years

Text

Apartment 8C - Chapter 2

Finding Your Independence

SERIES MASTERLIST // PREVIOUS PART

Summary: college au. you and bucky are the closest of friends, the most functional of roommates, and… exes. but just because it didn’t work out romantically doesn’t mean he has to move out! it’s not like he’s so deeply in love that he can barely breathe. totally not in love. at all. not even a little. maybe.

Pairing: bucky x reader

Warnings: language

A/N: the chapter title is ironic because this chapter is about how dependent these two are on each other.

A scream startles you from accidental sleep. Deep, broken, and utterly terrified.

It’s half-past six. Your room is bathed in gold. Fading sunlight and emerging city lights leak through the thin drapes over your windows. You set your chin onto an open textbook.

Your eyes open narrowly. You need to listen carefully. You could have dreamt the scream.

A slow second passes, your eyes nearly shut, and then—

Another scream. This time of your name. Your eyes snap back open.

You flip the pen you fell asleep holding, gripping it as a weapon while groggily— but with great haste, of course— climbing out of bed.

Heartbeat in your ears, you sigh and kick away the thick purple blanket your feet are tangled in, throwing your door open to an empty living room.

The front door is shut, your television hasn’t been ripped from the wall, everything is in its place. Even Bucky’s laptop sits undisturbed on the coffee table next to an almost totally flat bag of Doritos.

You tilt your head.

From behind the bathroom door, your name is screamed again. And a whimper punctuates it.

In all your time of knowing Bucky, you’ve never once heard him so terrified.

You swallow over the tension tightening your throat and pick up the first semi-threatening object you see: the penis-shaped vase Bucky had “unintentionally” made in ceramics during the semester he’d devoted to discovering his artistic side.

You toss the pink peonies it houses aside and grip the vase tightly, pen poised in your other hand. You use your elbow to open the door, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted in an attempt to look tough. Objects held above your head, you’re about to strike when—

When you see Bucky standing on top of the toilet. Towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, chestnut hair dripping, his blue eyes wild. He’s also pale as a ghost, but his fearful expression takes only seconds to shift into one of confusion.

One which matches yours. “You’re not being murdered?”

“No!” he shouts back to meet your volume. He points at the glass wall enclosing the shower, finger shaking. “There’s a fucking spider in there!”

Your teeth grit again. But this time in anger. “You shrieked like someone was beheading you over a spider?”

Seconds later, you gasp dramatically as you ask, “You woke me up from a nap over a spider?”

He at least has the decency to be sheepish. “S’a big spider.”

“You’re six-feet tall and have, like, 185 pounds on that spider.”

“Size doesn’t matter. I raise you the poisonous spiders of Australia.”

Nodding, you hold out your forearm to help Bucky off the toilet seat. You grunt at the weight of him.

Maybe 185 is a stingy estimation.

“Okay, I see your poisonous spiders of Australia and raise you ‘we’re in New fucking York, Bucky.’”

Standing on the floor now, he winces when you use the back of your hand to slap his bicep. “There are poisonous spiders in New York, too, okay? We’re all afraid of something.”

Silence as you regard him, a sigh as you concede. “Okay.” You ignore his victorious smile. “I’ll take care of it. Can you just turn the water off, please?”

“And get close to that thing again?” he demands, outrage clear in his voice. He tries to keep his towel in place with one hand as he gesticulates with the other. “No! You do it.”

“My clothes will get wet and I’m not in the mood to strip for you right now.”

He smiles at that. “S’not like I haven’t seen it all before.”

“Yeah? You wanna make ‘we’ve fucked before’ jokes right now? When the fate of you ever using this bathroom again is in my hands?”

An almost pathetic whimper and he relents with hands held up in surrender. He approaches the shower slowly and, with a scowl, reaches for the knob once, twice, three times before finally gripping it and turning it to the left.

Once the steady stream of water is reduced to mere drops, Bucky stands back and sends you a glare. “Happy?”

“Elated.” You set your weapons on the counter and rip off two sheets of paper towel.

“Kill it quickly.”

“I’m not gonna kill it.”

He snorts as he stands leant against the doorframe. “What, are you gonna adopt it as the apartment pet?”

“No, funny guy. I’m gonna let it go on the balcony.”

“What if it comes back in?”

“Then we’ll get the Five Families together and let the Mafia handle it.”

When you finally spot the thick, quarter-sized spider, you inhale through your nose and step into the shower stall slowly. You brace yourself with one hand wrapped around the edge of the glass wall. Your features are pinched.

Bucky grins at the sight. “You scared, baby?”

A sarcastic bark of laughter, and you crack one eye open. You almost convince him. “Please.”

It takes little coaxing for the brown spider to crawl onto the paper towel and you immediately fold each side of it closed. There’s a soft scratch of the spider’s legs against the paper walls, more felt than heard, and you forcefully choke back vomit.

You bump into Bucky as you race out of the bathroom, his towel very nearly slipping from his fingers, and don’t slow your steps until you’re across the living room and have pushed the balcony doors open.

Carefully, you unfold one side of the makeshift cocoon and squeal quietly to yourself as the spider stumbles into a flower box attached to the metal rail. It quickly scurries behind a wilting tulip and you make a mental note to water the plants more.

“You were coming to protect me with this?”

Bucky, now dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants, is holding the penis vase when you turn. He stands at a safe distance, shielded by the door, and has the nerve to wear a shit-eating grin. “You know there’s a baseball bat behind the couch, right?”

“Now I do.”

“I also gave you pepper spray when you enrolled in that nine PM lecture,” he adds as you walk through the door and right past him. He places the vase back on its shelf and nods his head toward the kitchen. “There are knives right there, too.”

You pick up the bag of Doritos, confirm that it is indeed empty, and frown. “Disgusting. I’d never stab someone.”

“Even if they were murdering me like you thought?” He takes the bag from you and balls it up to throw in the trash. He wants to open the refrigerator but knows the groceries he forgot to buy won’t magically appear on the shelves.

“Knives are such a cliché, everyone uses knives. He’d see it coming.” You grin at Bucky through the explanation from your favorite corner of the couch and he stills behind the kitchen counter. “The key is throwing him off his rhythm. Penis vase serves that purpose.”

He laughs, albeit a bit oddly, rolling his eyes as he opens the Notes app on his phone. And he draws a blank. “What, uh— What foods do you like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have any favorite foods?”

He’s met with silence.

He decides to explain. Sort of. “Like, what do you want to eat most of the time? What is it that you crave? Food-wise,” he adds with a cocked eyebrow. “What is it you know how to make that you enjoy eating? Are you acting out of lunacy again and dieting for no fuckin’ reason?”

Seconds go by and you have yet to answer. He looks up from his phone and answers the question over your features with, “Just out of curiosity.”

“Not because you have zero idea what to buy from the store?”

“Can’t a guy wonder what his friend, ex-girlfriend, and roommate is eating these days? Just for fun? To bond?”

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “Not when that guy is you and it’s your turn to go grocery shopping. I thought I gave you a list a few days ago.”

“You yell random items at me on your way out the door for class and I’m expected to remember it all?”

“You yelled your feelings at me constantly and I was expected to remember it all,” you return as you rise from the couch and draw closer to him only to sit in one of the barstools at the counter. You watch as he opens his Notes application again and stare as he struggles to come up with anything. “Green apples, white peaches, red bell peppers, yellow onions. Don’t look at me like that. The colors are important.”

“Yeah, yeah. What are you doing for dinner? Might take me some time to decipher colors at the store.”

Chin propped up on your palm, you slide his phone over and ignore his expression of protest to add eggs, sourdough bread, avocados, pre-cut mushrooms, celery, hummus, whatever pasta is shaped like a spiral, tortilla chips, oat milk, any flavor of microwave popcorn Wanda won’t finish, and for God’s sake, you fucking wreck, buy your own gum for once to the grocery list.

“S’okay. I’m not really hungry anyway.”

“You’re always hungry.”

You gasp in offense with a small, contradictory smile. “How dare you? That’s not something you say to a lady.”

He smiles sarcastically before rolling his eyes. “If you need me to rush so you can make something, I will.”

“Too tired to make anything. Also just too untalented to.”

“Come with me, then. We can stop somewhere on the way back.” He sees you begin to refuse and cuts you off with a quick, “I’ll pay.”

“If you think you paying for my food is incentive enough for me to put on human pants and walk out that door,” you begin, pointing at the door, “then you’re absolutely correct. Give me a second to put jeans on.”

You hear Bucky’s chuckle as you walk into your room, tossing away that pair of fleece pants your mother had begged you to burn to ash the last time you’d seen her and replacing them with a pair of jeans your mother had also begged you to burn to ash. “How do you feel about Sam and Nat?”

“About Sam, negatively. About Tasha, positively.” He’s patting the pockets of his sweats and tossing couch cushions every which way to look under them, hair in disarray, when you hop into the room with only your right boot on. In a mumbled, barely present voice, he adds, “So I guess that balances out to feeling neutral about them together.”

Slipping on and zipping up your left boot, you cock an eyebrow at the elephant throw pillow which is sent smacking against your ankles. “Have you lost something?”

He doesn’t look up from the sofa as he replies, “Keys. Where the shit are my fucking keys?”

“D’you check the cabinet closest to the fridge?”

“Why the fuck—”

You sigh and begin to set the cushions back where they belong, placing the elephant gingerly at the center of the couch. “Just check.”

Bucky’s grumbles as he passes by, his scoffs of disbelief, and sighs of annoyance are ignored until you hear his every noise abruptly end as he stares at the cabinet he is now standing before.

“Find ‘em?”

There are equal parts shock, fear, and exasperation over his features. He slams the cabinet shut. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? Some kind of freaky, all knowing witch?”

“Yes. Do you have your wallet?”

A pat on each of his pockets, then one against his ass— despite not having a pocket there. He bares his teeth for a moment. “You wanna tell me where that is, too?”

“Can I get three guesses this time?”

“Two,” he states, leaning against the counter. “Impress me.”

“First of all, I couldn’t give half a shit about impressing you.” Bucky snorts at that. “It’s either in the freezer—”

He opens the freezer and the next thing you hear is a loud, “Ha! Whoo! You’re wrong!”

“I have another guess.”

He visibly deflates, smug smile wiped clean. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

“Counter of your bathroom, in the pocket of whatever jeans you wore to class.”

You run a few steps behind his long strides to the bathroom and stand in the doorway as he fishes through the pile of dirty clothes beside the sink.

He thinks he might hate the smile you’re wearing when he pulls his wallet from the depths of denim, but he can’t bring himself to hate it— he feels quite the opposite about it, actually. It’s worth the inevitable gloating and the crazy accurate interpretation of a celebratory dance you saw a football player you can’t remember the name of do after a touchdown.

You’re laughing when he brushes past you to walk to the door and grin as you pass him so he can lock it behind you. “What would you do without me, Buck?”

He honestly doesn’t know.

—

Your laughter captures Bucky’s attention. Delighted, excited, and entirely too loud.

He’s been nursing a red Solo cup of lukewarm supermarket-brand cola for about two hours now.

It’s disgusting. Watered-down now that the ice has melted, but still too sweet and a little flat. He would’ve liked to cut it with the bitterness of anything alcoholic, but he can’t.

He’s designated driver tonight, after all. The miserable result of a miserable coin toss.

He’d suggested thumb wrestling— but you weren’t having it. Something about his thumb being far larger than yours, giving him an unfair advantage. Almost as if you’d known he’d chosen thumb wrestling for that precise reason.

So he’s spent the night pouting.

Complaining.

Glowering at anyone that dares to make conversation with him.

Because he hates the cheap soda Steve buys. He hates the sticky counters Sam waits hours to wipe down. And he hates hearing underclassmen talk about how hot you are when your ping pong ball skates over the rim of one of Natasha’s cups.

But he smiles at the sound of your laughter. At the way you grin, all smug and victorious. It lights up otherwise glossy eyes, drunken giggles growing clumsy as Natasha frowns down at a cup matching his.

“You gotta drink it down, babe!” You lean your hip against the plastic table set up in the kitchen and purse your lips when Natasha fishes the beer-soaked ball from her cup to toss at your shoulder. “Poor sportsmanship is unbecoming on you.”

Natasha rolls green eyes over the top of the cup, chugging its contents easily. “Just like cockiness is on you.”

“Let’s not lie to ourselves, Nat.” Natasha is already struggling against a smile. “We all know cockiness is dead sexy on me.”

Beside Bucky, Sam laughs. He raises his hands in innocence and surrender when Natasha shoots him a glare. “Not pickin’ sides, that was just funny.”

“You’re not picking your girlfriend’s side automatically?” is Bucky’s question asked in a voice exaggeratedly naïve. He grins lopsidedly as he takes a sip of soda only to retch as it goes down. “That’s brave.”

You watch as Natasha pitches her next shot over the rim of one of four remaining cups. You send Bucky a smile as you retrieve it. “Bucky was always on my side when we were together.”

His devious smile is like a secret between the two of you. He hums in agreement. “Blindly.”

“Loyally.” You hold the cup at your lips, stomach and cheeks warm from three hours of generous beer and mixed drink helpings. Your next swallow goes down with a shudder.

“I’d root against myself for her.”

“S’more pathetic than loyal,” Sam snorts only to earn a squeak of indignation and an empty cup to the chest in response. Despite purported offense, he chuckles at your delighted laughter and quickly sobers to point a stern finger. “Makin’ a mess of my kitchen like this. Rogers’ll kill you.”

In challenge, you cock an eyebrow. “He’ll kill you first when he sees all the candy missing from his secret stash.”

“Barnes ate all that.”

Bucky’s stomach flips at the way you tilt your head and narrow your eyes, at the soft flutter of your eyelashes, the promise in your voice when you say, “Blind loyalty, Sammy. That isn’t the story I’ll tell Steve.”

“You aren’t even dating anymore.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll always be on Bucky’s side. Plus if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

Pointedly at a glowering Sam, Bucky tears the wrapper of a fun-size Twix bar and takes as big a bite as the small bar will allow.

There’s caramel in his teeth and smug satisfaction in his eyes as he stuffs the gold foil into the pocket of Sam’s bomber jacket, laughing when the latter slaps his hand away.

What feels like a lifetime passes and Bucky waits until you’ve completed a second game— this time defeated by a furious and candy-less Steve— to Irish goodbye.

It’s his signature.

He hasn’t said a proper goodbye to anyone in years.

Your drunkenness, however, foils his plan. You insist on pressing kisses to the forehead of each of your friends— lingering a bit longer for Sam just to earn a snort from Natasha— and you tap the fishbowl housing a temperamental turquoise Betta fish named Marcel twice as you couldn’t just exclude Marcel and hurt his feelings. You even leave them with an ominous, “I hope we will all meet again.”

He lets you climb onto his back when you stumble out of his car to your building, tripping over the four-inch block heel of your boots, and soon the elevator stall is filled with your humming. Unintelligible, entirely out of tune. And you swing your legs. Dysrhythmic, offbeat.

He smiles when you set your chin upon the crown of his head, his hold on you tightening as the metallic doors slide open on the eighth floor. He feels the deep breath you take against his back, his attention drawn away from the short walk down the hall when your feather-like fingertips trace his jaw.

Nails skimming over the bristly hairs of his stubbly beard to the hidden divot in his chin, you— already flush against him— attempt to push yourself even closer. And huff in disappointment when you’re unable to.

You feel him come to a stop. “Sweetheart?”

A short hum, this time in question.

“I gotta unlock the door.”

You open your eyes slowly, blink away some of the drowsiness. You think offhandedly that the pale yellow door could use a fresh coat of paint. “I’ll do it.” You hold out a hand and wiggle your fingers. “Keys?”

“In my left pocket.” He chuckles when your right hand slides down the incorrect side. “Other left.”

You heave a deep sigh, your other hand slipping into his left pocket to feel around. The jingle of keys is muted by your triumphant shout, fingers sorting through the bundle of steel to find the one semi-coated in bright pink nail polish. You decide that should be repainted first lest the two of you mix up your keys again.

Bucky watches as you attempt to stretch enough to reach the doorknob, jolting each time you urge yourself forward. He grins when you whimper pathetically. “You can ask me to move closer.”

The arm still wrapped around his neck tightens a bit and you press your cheek to the roughness of his. You strain toward the door once more in stubborn perseverance, then knock your heels against the side of his thighs. He laughs at the growl in his ear.

“Ask me verbally. I’m not a horse.”

“Got the name of one,” you mumble, crossing your ankles at his waist as he grips you harder. “Longer you stand there refusing to move, the longer you have-ta hold me up.”

“Been lifting with Steve. I’m content to stand here all night.”

“What, trying to get that post-breakup revenge body?”

“Gotta do something to fill all my new free time.”

A hiccup punctuates your giggles and Bucky feels you straighten before leaning back ever so slightly.

Suddenly, you jerk forward with all of your might, sending Bucky lurching to the door. He has to remove a hand from your legs to steady himself against the wall, breath shallow and heart in his ears when he notices he’s only centimeters from smashing into the wood. “Hey!”

You, still holding on, shush him as you slip the key into the brass latch, whispering, “Our neighbors are sleeping.”

Once you’re able to throw the door open and Bucky walks inside, you detangle your ankles and leap to the floor as the lights flicker on. You laugh when your knees very nearly buckle, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter under a wave of lightheadedness. Your stomach flips and every trace of humor fades. “Yikes.”

Bucky, halfway through removing the leather jacket he’d worn over a black hoodie, watches as you lay your torso across the counter. He smiles when you press your cheek to the cool marble, his laughter mingling with the groans that leave your lips.

Your muffled grumble sounds vaguely like, “Oh, shut up.”

His steps are slow and quiet. He offers you an apologetic smile when you startle at his touch, brushing stray strands of hair from your shut eyes. He wrinkles his nose at your answering scowl, watching as glassy eyes still filled with such potent brightness narrow in an attempt at intimidation. “Need a lift to your bathroom?”

You shake your head. Propping yourself up onto your forearms, you nod toward your room. “It’ll be too shaky. Maybe just guide me there?”

His fingers lace through yours and he tugs you upright. He doesn’t mind supporting the weight of you, doesn’t care that he has to dodge the books and shoes you’ve left littered over your bedroom floor.

Your bathroom light is switched on and you pull away from Bucky to take quick, stuttering steps to the toilet. He winces to himself when you fall to your knees, your trembling hands clamoring to push the seat cover up.

As you feel that maybe your stomach has turned itself inside out, Bucky gathers your hair in one hand and holds you close to his chest with the other— just in case you need the support. Until then, though, he rubs comforting circles which warm you even through the satin fabric of your shirt.

“Twix and beer are a horrible combination coming up,” you remark, voice rough, minutes later. You’re seated against him once you’ve thoroughly emptied your system, head falling back onto his shoulder. “That last game of beer pong was a mistake.”

He feels your breath wash over his skin and, despite how perfectly okay he would be with sitting there for hours, turns his head away. “Sweetheart, I want to be here for you but— but I can’t when your breath smells like that.”

Stunned pause, and you burst into laughter. Tired hands are used as leverage and you stand, boots long ago removed and thrown aside. You send him a smile over your shoulder and roll your eyes but face the sink as he grins dopily back. “You’re weak, Barnes.”

He meets your playful gaze in the mirror and, at the sight of pooled dried mascara underlining your eyes and the thin layer of sweat spread over the bridge of your nose, he forces himself to take a steadying breath. “You have no idea. Hungry?”

Loading your toothbrush with translucent paste, you shrug. “Maybe.”

“Grilled cheese or pancakes?”

“If I say both, will you judge me?”

“I just held your hair back while you threw up a keg’s worth of beer and you’re afraid I’ll start to judge you now?”

You smile as you scrub your teeth in rapid strokes. “There was some vodka in there, too.”

Shoulder leant against the doorframe, his eyes are alight. “My mistake. Anything else you’d like while I’m at it?”

“Some ibuprofen?” you ask after spitting the foam from your mouth. “I’m all out here.”

A frown of consideration, and he nods. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I believe it will be.” Before he can walk out, you call his name. “What would I do without you?”

He honestly hopes you’ll never have to find out.

CHAPTER 3: GETTING BACK IN THE GAME

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes college au #a8c

703 notes · View notes

suntrastar · 4 years

Text

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It’s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don��t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.

But you don’t have it.

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.

63 notes · View notes

quiet-kunoichi · 3 years

Note

“ please….stay, just for tonight. ”

[ misc quotes meme | @suck-my-tomato | verse; post-modern ]

She had come over.

Well, that's not entirely true. Initially, Sasuke had showed up to her apartment after a missed call from her, followed by a quick [text:] im sorry about that. So; in lieu of their weird and strangled conversation the other night, where he offered his support any time she felt close to relapsing (or otherwise, but he wasn't ready to say that aloud just yet) -- Sasuke's slingshot brain thought of the worst conclusion and immediately called her back. But in fact, the call back wasn't so immediate, after all. It had been forty minutes since she had attempted initial contact. She doesn't pick up, and her awkward and uncertain voice tells him 'sorry you missed me. uh, yeah - leave a message and i'll get back to you .. eventually. probably.' The beep of her voicemail catches him off guard; a weird beat of silence begins the message before he mutters a quick, "Hey.. I hope you're alright-- Call me, okay?" Minutes pass with him staring expectantly at the screen. She doesn't call him back; he curses himself for getting caught up in his most recent painting. Unable to contain the swirl of emotions, Sasuke rises to his restless feet. He paces the room a few times, biting at the skin of his lip and glancing over to his blackened phone screen now and again. He even tried sitting back down at his canvas, picking up the brush and the palette again: just to get his mind off of it. Sasuke knew it would be pushing boundaries if he just showed up because she didn't reply in.. twelve minutes. "She's probably fine," He told the room, the drying paint, himself. But clearly he wasn't certain enough - because when his phone vibrates against the coffee table, Sasuke risks the detailed linework by nearly diving out of his seat to snatch his phone. But his once high-strung heart was now rocking heavy in his gut and making him seasick. Just a text from Naruto. He doesn't even bother to read it - instead pulling up the sporadic text conversation with Kimiko and rereading her short message as if he could read between the lines. Fuck it. In cases of recovering addicts, sometimes boundaries would have to be pushed; he was personally familiar. So, Sasuke snatched his car keys from their place beside the door and heads for her apartment. His hands were clammy and stuck to the steering wheel with an iron grip the whole time. What was he going to walk in on? Would this behavior bring up old, bruised memories - would it roll their hesitant friendship back a few steps? Maybe she truly didn't mean to call; maybe she was not even home. Or she was home, but had someone else over. That thought tightened his throat. But nothing compared to the nagging gnat of trauma whispering something much more foul in his ear: perhaps he didn't come soon enough, and the apartment would already be empty. Worse yet - a repeat of the scene he came across a few months ago. No. Sasuke refused to let his brain run down that beaten path: instead, he barely made it through a yellow light and parked on the street across from her apartment building. The next time he blinked, Sasuke was standing in front of her door, fist hanging in the air. Had he already knocked? He can't remember. Kimiko hadn't even the time to quickly soak up the leftover water from her hair and wrap up decently when the second knock came. It sends a zip of fear up her spine; her mouth is gummy, so she cannot even reply. She just wraps the nearest towel tightly around herself and quickly ( and carefully ) pads over to the front door of her rather.. 'minimalistic' apartment. No, she hadn't unpacked fully, yet. It wasn't that she was expecting to pick up and disappear at the drop of a hat; it was just too hard a task, truthfully. Opening the door a crack (seeing as this apartment didn't have the foresight to install peepholes) Kimiko peers through a sliver, a single dull yellow eye landing upon his face. Oh --

Blinking a few times, Kimiko's death grip on her door is slackened in surprise. The door comes open a few more inches, and reveals that she indeed just got out of the bath. "..Sasuke?" She questions, as though the man before her might chameleon into someone else with her next blink. He stammers a reply; an apology - and she tells herself that the color of his cheeks was likely due to the strangeness of his voice, because she could not picture any other reason why he'd feel embarrassed. "H-hey. Uh, I'm sorry. I was just --" He's struggling to figure out how to express his thoughts coherently while she's standing there with her hair dripping and a towel tucked tightly around her slender frame. "You didn't answer, so.. I'm just checking in on you." Was it more awkward to look at her while she was sorta-kinda indecent, or more glaringly awkward to obviously not look at her at all? Her neighbor's door opens; Sasuke is ogled at from across the hall. Kimiko's stare slides over and the decision is made for her: she opens the door and gingerly takes his wrist, beckoning him inside. Closing the door behind him and locking ( the knob, the dead bolt, the chain, the swing-bar guard ) it, Kimiko turns to him and draws his attention back from where it wandered about her empty apartment. Well - mostly empty. Suppose the issue of not having any clutter or decorations was that a lone bottle of whiskey appeared like a glaring centerpiece on her coffee table. She'll behave as though it didn't exist. "Sorry. It's nothing personal; she stares at me, too." Kimiko murmurs, catching that telltale look of concern hardly concealed in his stare as he turns back to her. "Kimiko.." His voice is careful, as though they stood on thin ice and he was chancing the very real possibility that whatever he would say next could make them fall through and catch hypothermia. "I should get dressed," She'd reply, dipping her head and passing him by on her way back to the bathroom. Despite her hope that he would ignore the obvious, too - Kimiko returns to the front room once dressed, and Sasuke is leaning his weight into the arm of her couch rather than sitting upon it. She catches him in a staring contest with the bottle of liquor. Arms tucked across her midsection, she stands adjacent to him and awaits the backfire from being caught -- even if she hadn't indulged in it (yet). "I'm sorry I didn't pick up." Instead of scolding her, Sasuke apologizes. It's.. strange, but quietly welcomed in the stead of worse repercussions. She doesn't respond, because she doesn't know quite how to. So, with fingers steepled and head dipped to the floor between them, he speaks up again; but it's not without strain. "I know I said I'd be available for support if you needed it-" She's expecting him to follow this sentence with a 'but I said it too soon' or a 'but I changed my mind', and she doesn't want the heartache that would follow hearing that kind of statement, so Kimiko cuts him off. "It's fine, Sasuke. Really.. I'm fine." She shouldn't lie like that, but old habits die painfully slow. At last, his gaze lifts and they share a look; one that's hard to place. She knows that he knows she's lying, and she swallows the guilt and shame that comes with that. "I didn't have any. The cap is sealed, if you want to check." She offers the olive branch, and Sasuke truly considers it: but decides against it, in an attempt to show his trust in her claim. Even still, a short sigh escapes her; fingers come up to rub at her eye. Now having a proper look at her, Sasuke recognizes an old shirt she used to wear in high school. It draws attention to how much she's thinned down since then, the fabric now loose in places that it used to hold onto her curves. Dark crescents are worn like ghosts under her eyes, her cheekbones are taut and pronounced in a way he hasn't noticed before. Kimiko speaks up before he has the chance. "I did think about it," She admits, sounding tired. "And I did call," Another admittance, this one with a twinge more shame behind it. He gives a little wince. "But I walked away from it." A half-hearted shrug follows. Actually, she had tossed her phone on the couch and fled to the bathroom, mid-panic attack and desperate to scald and then simmer in a soup of flashbulb memories: just so she could watch them wash down the drain with the soapy bathwater. But a knock on the door interrupted that sequence, and now here they both were.

"It's okay that you didn't answer. I know that .." She hesitates, the fingers at her side starting to pluck at the edge of her shirt. "I know you're busy, with stuff." Ah, real smooth, Kimiko. That totally wasn't obvious. Her lips press firm, and she can no longer bear to hold his gaze, so she drops her own while slowly curling her grip over opposite arm. "And I'm fine to handle it on my own. I've done it before." Yeah, that probably wasn't the best thing to add in, either. "I was working on a painting." Sasuke replies, then turns over his palms to expose the flecks and streaks of paint that litter his pale skin. He's not sure why he felt like she needed the visual proof; but she had offered some tactile evidence with the sealed cap to her bottle of whiskey, earlier - and he wanted to extend the same offering in exchange. To make it a two-lane street, like his therapist had mentioned last week. Before her.. self-inflicted incident - Kimiko had been the only one expressing her efforts to make amends. He wasn't proud of the result; so now, in light of the aftermath: Sasuke wanted to try, too. "Oh." She replies, dumbly. "Um," Umber hues roam around the room, but he continues to look up at her. "..Sorry you came all the way out here to check on me. I didn't have my phone, I was in the bath, and-" Her fingers are plucked from her side and engulfed by the dual caress of both of his palms. He holds her small hand in his own, and places his other hand on top. It strikes her heart, giving it a kickstart as she looks between their clasped hands and back up to him. "Don't apologize." He begins, "I came to check on you because I wanted to." A thumb runs over the top of her hand, trying to soothe. Instead it just gets her heart in a weird flutter; unused to this intimacy, even after all this time. Or, perhaps especially after all this time. "I see." Is her quiet reply. Parting his lips, Sasuke realizes that she's transfixed on her hand sandwiched between his own. He returns it, but admittedly, it isn't without some reluctance: like pulling apart two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle after finally connecting their uneven ends. "..Have you eaten?" He asks, and she appears dumbfounded by the question. "What?" It comes from her mouth laced in confusion. "Have you had dinner? I parked by a sushi restaurant and I was thinking of ordering takeout." He looks up at her expectantly: Kimiko clearly hasn't been eating well enough, and he wouldn't let that slide by him. So, without an answer - Sasuke is already pulling up the menu on his phone, swiping a finger down the menu. "Do you still like salmon, and eel?" He gives her an upward glance; she's getting obviously flustered. "Sasuke.." Now it was her turn to lace her voice with the careful and wary tone of warning. It dawns on him, then -- He'd just invited himself to stay in her space. Casually, too: as if it were commonality. It hadn't been, not in a long time. The realization ( and deflation ) must have been rather obviously etched upon his features, because Kimi is quick to the draw and apologizing. "I'm sorry, it's just- I don't mean-" His hand comes up, and she quiets down. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped the gun like that." He rises to his feet, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "It's not like that,.." She trails off, and without transparency, Sasuke decides to play it safe. "It's okay to be uncomfortable, Kimiko. You've done well to respect my boundaries, and I don't want to push you. I'm glad you didn't relapse." They stand there for a few beats more - until he can't take it anymore, all the things left unsaid hanging between them; he heads for the door. "Sasuke, wait." Kimiko's voice is pressed with a twinge of urgency; she's gone as far as to take a few strides and grasp for his wrist. When he stops and looks down at her over his shoulder, Kimiko reflects the little girl at the playground all those years ago: doe-eyed, perpetually a tad afraid, knowing what she wanted but not yet certain on how to ask for it. She lets go of his wrist and returns her hands to herself, one arm still tucked around her center as the now free hand comes up to collect a strand of her hair. Sasuke turns to face her properly.

"It's not that I don't want to spend time with you," She begins to explain, pressing the knuckle of her finger ( wrapped with a coil of dark hair ) into her cheek. "I really appreciate the offer of sushi, and.. your time." A little inaudible gulp, and a stolen glance back up at him. "I just don't want to be here, really." At last, she's admitted the true hang-up to this entire situation. Slowly, his eyebrows raise -- he understands where her reluctance is coming from, almost immediately. "Kimiko, did he send-?" His concerned question is cut off with a quick toss of her head: No. Or, more likely: No, I don't want to talk about this right now. With a nod of acknowledgement, Sasuke folds his lips before proposing a solution. "Do you want to take the sushi to my place, then? We could watch a movie." His offer is received with a hopeful look on her part: like he had offered a child if they'd like to get ice-cream instead of doing their homework. "..Are you sure?" She has to ask, and it brings a little smile from him, exhaling through his nose. "Yeah, I'm sure." ------------- So their night together had officially begun; ( Kimiko did in fact still like salmon and eel ) - sushi was secured, the drive to his place was shared in amicable silence with the background of music, and the movie was picked effortlessly. Of course, she had perked up after that first ( and hesitant ) bite - and also to nobody's surprise, Kimiko had easily agreed to the movie he suggested; for it was a movie that she was planning to watch, anyway. The night played on without a single scratch or trip in the record, and conversations flowed back and forth without a hitch. They were truly getting along without so much as a hiccup or awkward pause along the way. Now satisfied and lulled, Kimiko was starting to drift upon his couch, curled against the pillow between them. The TV screen washed in red, and Sasuke hums in amusement, dipping his ear towards his shoulder and murmuring, "I guess you were right, Brenda didn't last longer than Stacy. Still, I don't think there's going to be a Final Girl." Kimiko hums something nonsensical, half-muffled by the pillow she'd nuzzled down into. Properly looking over now, Sasuke double-takes the scene beside him; and his heart swells. She was ..well, undoubtedly cute, curled up and dozing off in the smack-middle of a slasher movie. In the moment of privacy, Sasuke unfolds into an unseen smile. A few moments pass as he studies her sleep-slackened face, peaceful and unmarred from bruises or tears. Picturesque from their early highschool years. A little sigh escapes his nostrils, the familiar sense of nostalgia clutching him. Reaching forward, Sasuke plucks the remote from the coffee table and turns down the movie a notch or two before rising to his feet and taking care of the takeout boxes. She's done well to eat most of her food; he's proud that she made the effort. Returning to the couch, Sasuke brings with him a clean blanket from his storage closet. Gingerly, it's draped over the slumbering girl. He returns to her side, arms stretching into his wingspan across the back of the couch. His weight pressing into the cushions beside her causes Kimiko to stir; she tucks herself closer to him, nose following his familiar scent and notching against his shoulder. Sasuke stills in his spot as his old flame stitches slowly back into his side, the familiarity in such an action eliciting a similar response from him. His arm lifts from the back of the couch; it hovers just over her shoulders before slowly settling upon her. A hand cups her arm, sinking down into his seat on the couch and feeling his heart hammer in his chest: God, how he felt like a teenager, again. Those first few instances of intimate physical contact with his best friend whom he had an enthralling crush on: it came rushing back in, now. That twist of excitement tightening his chest in all the right ways, a weird warm flutter in his gut.

Thumb slowly begins to slide up and down over her bicep, Sasuke looking right through the TV screen as he dares let his cheek lower, one centimeter at a time, until it brushes just over the top of her head. He could just close his eyes and be content like this, turn into a statue forever in this position that he didn't realize how much he truly missed. But a shrill shriek from the movie is enough to pull Kimiko from her dreams; eyes slowly blink open before she realizes the circumstance and quickly retreats from the intimate embrace. Kimiko's heart is thunderous in her ears as she reels from the comedown of her otherwise peaceful slumber - eyes rounded into full moons that blink at him while she tries to collect her surroundings. "I- God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I just; I fell asleep." She's tripping over apologies and excuses for her 'inappropriate' behavior, and Sasuke's face is burning with the childish shame of being caught. Now he's flustered, too. "No- It's fine, really -uh, I didn't mind; you were just sleeping- I know." Their awkward dance stifled down into an even worse silence. His fingers twitched at the back of the couch, wanting to reach out and grip her arm so gently, to just quietly pull her in and tuck her under his chin, like the old times. But he doesn't, and her unforgiving grip on the pillow clutched to her chest slowly comes undone. Sasuke watches her, but again, she's receded back into her shell, unable to look over at him while coming down from the level of embarrassment she'd catapulted herself into. On the table between them, Sasuke's phone lights up with a text. Neither of them can see who its from, but Kimiko catches the time before the screen goes dark. "It's late.." She trails off; and he doesn't pick up on what she was insinuating. It was one in the morning, and he’d received a text. She could’ve read the name if she really tried, but she already had a good guess; and it made her stomach curdle. So, with a small swallow, Kimiko rubs her arm and starts to stand up. "I should get going." Suddenly, Sasuke understands - and he cannot bear the thought at this moment, not after all that's transpired: even if given the option this morning, he would've likely not felt any one particular way. Or maybe he would have - thoughts and feelings are scattered all over the place. But one thing was for certain, it was screaming in his head as she collected her things and tucked hair behind her ear, lingering; as though she were waiting for him to say something, anything, god damnit-- "Um, well. Thank you for dinner, and.. sorry I couldn't stay awake through the movie. Guess I'm aging fast," Her attempt at a little laugh breaks his heart. He feels like such an idiot, his tongue tangled into knots and sitting useless in his mouth, his body sewn into the couch. She must think he was just sitting there, waiting for her to excuse herself from his apartment on her own. Fuck. So much time has dragged by, when in reality it was only a single beat of silence before she cleared her throat softly and dropped her arms down. "Don't worry about driving me back, I know the bus routes." Her voice falters at the end, and suddenly, she's turned on her heel and heading with purpose towards his door - like ripping off a band aid. "Kimiko, wait-" Finally, words choke from his throat with his sheer desperation to keep her from leaving. Not again. Up on his feet now, Sasuke made it a whole three feet before realizing with subdued surprise that she had in fact ..waited. Almost as though she were hesitant to actually leave, in the first place. So, she stalls facing the front door and clutching her phone to her chest, lingering - waiting to hear him out. A single golden beam rolls over her shoulder and drinks him in, eyebrow dipped up in an expression of both uncertainty and hope. “ please... stay, just for tonight. ”

Slowly, quietly, Kimiko turns. They share a encapsulating moment, holding a tender stare from across the room. She recognizes the fear etched into his face - that telltale look of expectant abandonment, the childish shrinking away from his own vulnerability. Kimiko won’t leave him; not like she had, before. Before she weighed the fear of entangling him into her corrupted life against the knowledge that every time she slipped away and into the night, a little piece of his heart broke loose. So, as long as he would ask her to -- Kimiko would stay. He holds his heart in the base of his throat - truly expecting that she would turn back around and leave him here, alone. Maybe laugh at him for the inflated hope that she would stay for the night; be there when he woke up in the morning. Instead, Kimi breaks his expectations and approaches with careful, practiced steps - returning to his side. Without a hint of hesitation this time, Sasuke reaches out and scoops her into his embrace. His body was moving of its own accord, playing out the complicated desires of his heart. Kimiko doesn't fight it, nor does she still into ice. In fact, the girl just melts against him; doing what came naturally. It was second nature to tuck her head into the crook of his collarbone, to delicately slip her arms beneath his and hook her fingers into the fabric just over his shoulder blades. His chin rests atop her head, fingers gingerly running large, comforting circles over her back. Everything fell back into place; as natural and second-nature as breathing. There was no effort involved, in this moment of soft re-collision. Only a wish, on both of their parts - that this connection would have happened sooner. That their selfish games of head vs. heart would have been silenced and put out well before this night. Accompanying that desire was the hope that things would really be okay, this time: he would ask her to stay, and she would - he wouldn't mind, and it wouldn't be just for tonight. So, Kimiko had come over; and in the end, she wouldn’t leave his side unless he had asked her to.

#suckmytomato #CAN YOU BELIEVE IT #im unstoppable #i hope you enjoyed this episode of: im obsessed with our otp #HAPPY ENDINGS BABEY #answered;#verse; post modern

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kazimakuwabara · 4 years

Text

Buttercream

Summary: A reuquest sent into me that I wanted to try: Usopp impressing Sanji with his baking skills? Maybe include the line: “baking is just edible chemistry.” (can be taken as light Sanuso or at the least Sanji & Usopp friendship and support)

****

"What are you doing?" Sanji asked, his voice a mixture of exhaustion, bewilderment, and aggravation, not yet approaching anger.

Not yet.

Usopp, frozen like a rabbit caught in the sights of a fox, stared at Sanji holding a small spatula, the tool just hovering over a cake. Flour was on the floor, on Usopp's face, and in his hair. The sugar bowl was spilled over, and an egg was smashed on the ground near the fridge. Sanji, fished out a cigarette, and plopped it in his mouth, hurrying to light it while he tried not to get angry, but oh, he was getting awfully close to-

He froze.

On the counter, just beneath Usopp's trembling hand, was the most marvelous cake he had ever seen.

(The Most beautiful Buttercream cakes you could ever see)

It was half done. Base layer of the cake was white, and Usopp was delicately sculpting yellow and orange buttercream flowers into the side of the cake. Layering them on top in globs, before somehow shaping them into a blooming flower. Two other piping bags, filled with green and pink buttercream were set aside, and Sanji let the cigarette fall from his mouth so he could ask in a reverent breath, "What will you do with the green and pink bags?"

Usopp slowly, carefully, catiously---relaxed, eyes full of doubt, suspicion, and anxiety. He flicked his eyes down to Sanji's leg, and then back up to Sanji, who was walking forward, his eyes only on Usopp's cake.

"Green... for leaves, and the pink is for a big rose for the top. I thought about... putting dewdrops on the petals... but I don't... I couldn't find any blue... for... for the buttercream," Usopp answered carefully.

"I ran out of the dye drops when I made Nami's birthday cake," Sanji admitted. He had made her an ocean. A cake with rolling waves, and dusted in gold glitter. He had been proud. That cake was nothing, compared to Usopp's half-finished masterpiece.

Sanji turned to his pantry, and disappeared before reappearing with a head of red cabbage. With a dismissive wave, he muttered, "Keep working. I'll make you blue dye."

Usopp watched Sanji chop the head of cabbage, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Sanji made no movement towards him. Neither leg nor voice was raised. For now... Usopp was alive, and seemingly given permission to continue with his project.

He turned back to his task of shaping flowers into the cake.

With nervous energy, Usopp created his pristine flowers. Sanji was saying nothing. Not asking about how Usopp broke into the fridge, or why he was doing what he was doing. The kitchen was silent.

After thirty or so minutes, Usopp went back to his work, consumed by his edible art project.

Sanji in the meantime sent the cabbage to boil, and after twenty or so minutes strained the cabbage. He set it aside for later. He could make stirfry tomorrow, perhaps, or sneak it into an omelet. No... maybe the stirfry was best. Sanji could decide later. With the purple water, he poured it carefully into a pan, and slowly began to reduce it. A task that should take him at least forty-five minutes.

In that time, he would sneak looks at Usopp's hands. The sniper, with the gentlest of touches, was shaping a yellow petal, curling it gently as if it was naturally blooming. He worked slowly, and quietly, his face focused on his task completely. Sanji was in awe. Why in the world, had Usopp never baked a cake before? Sanji hoped, sincerely hoped, he hadn't chased Usopp out and away from the kitchen, but Sanji couldn't recall the sniper ever asking to bake something.

To Sanji's knowledge, Usopp hadn't shown any interest in baking before.

Well, maybe eating the baked goods, but not making them.

When the purple cabbage liquid had reduced enough, Sanji poured it into a bowl and added a tablespoon of baking soda. He stirred it slowly, and the concoction bubbled slightly, and then... the deep purple liquid shifted into a rich deep blue. Smiling, he picked up the bowl and brought it over to Usopp. The whole method had taken Sanji almost two hours... and in that time Usopp had completed his cake.

The cake was a garden. A living mound of yellow and orange flowers, with a big pink rose on top, bloomed and curling delicately on the top.

Sanji offered the bowl to Usopp, "Natural blue dye. It may... weaken your buttercream a little, so don't use a lot,"

Usopp startled, looking up at Sanji. He had forgotten the cook was there. He nodded numbly, and took the bowl. Dipping his spoon in the blue dye, he transferred it to his white buttercream and stirred, creating a very gentle blue. He pulled a chopstick from the counter, already lightly coated in various colors, and gently added light blue dew drops to his flower.

Sixteen total and he was done.

Gawking, the pair stood over the cake and Sanji let out a shaky breath, "How?"

Usopp shrugged, shrinking into himself. For once, a lie didn't spring to his lips. He seemed at a loss for how to answer.

"Usopp... this... this is beautiful. How did you learn to do this?" Sanji asked again. He was beyond exhausted, and now that the cake was completed, he remembered he had come in here to start preparing meat for dinner tomorrow, and then prepping breakfast for the crew. He peaked out the door, the sky already begining to grow pale.

He'd have to change the menu today in order to feed everyone on time.

He looked at the cake. It made him emotional in a way that only truly marvelous food could.

This beautiful cake was worth changing his menu.

"How?" Sanji asked again, and then an excitable, "Why?"

Usopp, twiddled his messy fingers, "Mom used to make cakes. For fun. And she was pretty good. We always made one together... and went all out on her birthday. I... I kept up the tradition. Even after she was..." Usopp shrugged a shoulder again, sealing his mouth shut.

Sanji looked at Usopp, a frown set on his face, "We've been on the sea for years."

Usopp nodded, "Yeah."

"And you get up, in the dead of night, and do this? Alone?"

"Yup," Usopp murmured popping the 'p,' loudly.

"What do you do with the cake?" Sanji asked looking back at Usopp's new creation. It had to be three-layered. It was a hearty cake.

"Eat it in a private place, before anyone knows," Usopp mutters again, and then laughs, "Always makes me super sick."

Sanji is hugging Usopp before he is aware he wants to. Usopp hesitates, but then clings to him. Sanji, spotless, clings to the dirty young man in his arms, Usopp's strong arms somehow foreign to the Usopp in Sanji's mind's eye. In his head, Usopp is still small, still scared and unsure, and still needing protection. This Usopp is stronger now, and surer of himself, he really doesn't need to be coddled. But Sanji squeezes him, thinks of the years Usopp had spent alone, sneakily making a cake to honor his mother, and thinks Usopp could still use a little protecting.

Or at least some support.

"Ask. Any time you want to bake... just.... just ask! It can't interrupt our mealtimes, but I'm not going to stop you from doing a family tradition," Sanji says, voice thick.

Usopp trembles against Sanji a little, and nods his head. The, 'thanks,' he mutters is very faint and weak, but Sanji hears it.

They push away from each other, and Sanji looks at the cake, so Usopp can hide his tears. He's seen Usopp cry before, but knows Usopp would appreciate him not looking now.

Usopp clears his throat and picks up a knife, and Sanji gasps as Usopp cuts into the cake.

"No!"

Usopp laughs at Sanji's horror, "It can't last forever, let's eat up."

Sanji sighs, knowing Usopp is right, but still... he's a little sad to see the cake cut so soon. It should be displayed for longer, or allowed to set up in the fridge. He shakes his head with regret as Usopp offers him a slice. Sanji takes the extended cake and then asks, "Are you sure I can have a piece?"

Usopp cuts himself a slice, toppling it gently on the plate. A flower smooshes, and Sanji mourns again. Usopp smiles, "Your hard work deserves a reward! Besides... I'd like to hear what you think. I've had to guess at the measurements, but this is just like figuring out gunpowder ratios..."

Sanji snorts, "Ah, so baking is just edible chemistry to you?"

Usopp grins, his eyes still brimmed with unshed tears. He waggles his eyebrows and adds, "Most of my ammo is just edible chemistry."

They share a quiet laugh.

Sanji takes a bite. It is plain vanilla, and a little denser than he likes, but it is decent. Good, even. With some coaching in flavor, Usopp could make his cake taste as exceptional as it looks. He smiles, "...Maybe next year I could help you change the flavor. Lemon? Or even rose and saffron to go with your theme..."

Usopp blushes, "You'd... you'd like to do this again with me?"

Sanji nods, taking another bite, scooping up a half bloomed yellow rose on his fork. He examines the piece before grinning back at the sniper, "If you'll let me."

Usopp puffed up his chest, "Why the great Captain Usopp, famous Pâtissier amongst the beautiful mermaids in all the sea, would be glad to have you along!" He took an exaggerated bite of his cake, and added, "It's easier to eat a cake between two people anyway."

Sanji swallows his chunk, a gentle gaze landing on Usopp's face, "You don't want to share this cake with the crew?"

Some of Usopp's bravado deflates, and his hand trembles a little as he takes another bite, "N-Not... not this year."

Sanji nods, and runs a hand over Usopp's back. He lets them have peace for another few minutes. Sanji keeps his hand on Usopp's back the whole time.

When Sanji's piece of cake is gone, he picks up a dishtowel and swats it at Usopp's face, "Clean my kitchen up! I'll work on the cake. it better be sparkling by the time I finish my half."

"But! But-"

Sanji leveled a glare at Usopp, "You messed it up, you clean it! And chop, chop! Or Luffy's gonna know who to be mad at when breakfast is delayed!"

Usopp jumped up, and rushed for the utility closet, tripping over his feet in his hurry. Sanji snickered and turned back to the cake. Picking up the spatula Usopp had used to shape a gently sloping leaf, Sanji tries to turn it upwards. He ruins it as soon as he touches it.

He shook his head, marveling at Usopp's skill again.

Usopp was an artist.

Usopp cried out as he spilled half a bucket of water on the floor.

He was lucky this cake was so astounding, or he'd be a dead artist for the dreadful state of Sanji's kitchen!

"You better not scratch my floors!" Sanji growled in warning, stabbing another piece of cake.

He feels a little bit of pleasure from Usopp's worried whimper.

#kazi fanfic #one piece #Usopp #Sanji #Sanuso #kinda. more subtle #friendship #cooking with feelings #giving support #toucha angst

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nevertherose · 3 years

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One Hundred Seconds to Midnight- Chapters 9-13

"All Roman wanted to do was take Logan on a Doctor Who LARP within the Imagination.

But with Thomas's Sides at their figurative breaking point after the disastrous wedding, the Imagination may just have a few ideas of her own..."

Chapters 1-8 are here.

Chapters 14-17 are here.

Here's the next chunk:

Chapter 9- Gridlock

“This Martha. She must mean an awful lot to you.”

“Hardly know her. I was too busy showing off. And I lied to her. Couldn’t help it, just lied.”

Patton felt strange.

Well, he’d felt strange for a while now, ever since this odd little adventure had started, but it grew worse the further into the asylum they traveled. His limbs were strangely heavy, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and there was a chill in his core that no amount of self-hugging could alleviate.

And he kept having these flashes of…well, anger. Like, sure, being stuck in the Imagination in the middle of the night was a tad frustrating, but that was no reason to feel this…this blind, red rage that welled up from time to time.

What was wrong with him?

Patton needed a hug.

He wondered if Janus would give him one, if he asked.

Eh…maybe not. Janus was many things: smart, cunning, arrogant, fiercely caring…but huggable wasn’t a word that immediately came to mind.

The ladder from the escape pod had led down a long shaft that dumped out into an empty metal hallway; dark, rusty, and with water dripping everywhere. Janus had found a computer terminal and scanned the area, plotting out a route that would lead them around various knots of warring aliens. He located Remus’ tiny prison almost immediately, and ignored it in favor of scanning for a teleportation chamber.

“If I have to be in this stupid adventure,” he informed Patton tersely, “I want my damned TARDIS back.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” Patton spread his hands.

“We’ll have to cross four hangers and a maze of corridors to reach the room,” Janus mused, irritatedly rubbing the scales on his face. “And it looks like most of this area is still infected with the nano cloud.”

“I know,” Patton whispered as Janus strode off.

Patton would feel a lot better about their chances if this hadn’t been the fifth time they’d had this exact conversation.

One empty hanger and two hallways later, Janus stopped at another terminal.

“Janus…” Patton started.

“There’s Remus’s prison,” Janus muttered, staring at the screen and ignoring him completely. “But where’s…ah. There’s a teleportation chamber about three hangers away. We should head for that.”

“But…”

“No, Patton, we are not going after Remus first.” Janus sighed, and itched his face. “If I have to be in this stupid adventure—”

“You want your damned TARDIS back, I know!” Patton yelled.

Janus blinked at him, and narrowed his eyes.

“You never swear.”

I never feel like this. Why am I acting like this?

“And you are being affected by the nano cloud,” Patton said hurriedly. “We keep having this same conversation over and over! I am begging you, please wear the bracelet for a while. ”

He held out his wrist, which Janus absently took in his hands. His mouth compressed, so hard that the skin around the snakelike slit grew pale.

“Or let me go ahead of you, and try to deactivate the cloud,” Patton offered.

“You wouldn’t be able to hack the system.” Janus shook his head. “I have all the Master’s knowledge, which is why I can.”

“Then you take the bracelet and do it!”

“We’re not splitting up, Patton.”

Patton growled softly and turned away, walking in a small circle to calm himself down.

“You…just…I am getting really frustrated with you, mister,” he sputtered. “Take. The. Bracelet.”

“I’m tough, Patton. I can handle it.” Janus smiled bitterly. “Maybe the cloud is messing with my memory a little, but it will never be able to actually convert me.”

Patton frowned…or tried to. His facial expressions felt weirdly stiff.

“Why’s that?”

“You remember the whole ‘how do you make a Dalek’ schtick?” Janus’s grin grew wider, fangs flashing behind his lips. “‘Erase love, add anger’? Well. My heart is already cold and hard. There’s no love to erase, and thus, nothing to convert.”

Patton felt his own heart break, to hear Janus say such awful things about himself…but…maybe he had an inadvertent point. Patton knew that he himself, on his best days, was a squishy ball of excessive caring and emotion, prone to bouts of both effervescence and melancholy (or so Roman had described him, once). Nothing to be ashamed of; as Thomas’s heart, that’s just who Patton was.

But as such, maybe…maybe the nano cloud really would have an awful, immediate effect on him. He already felt so strange…

Maybe Janus was right to insist he keep the bracelet on.

Well. Patton put his hands on his hips, huffing. That doesn’t mean he gets to talk bad about himself.

“Hello?” a strange, almost furry-sounding voice called.

Two aliens rounded the corner behind them. They looked almost human, except for their furred bodies, large, feline ears and catlike faces. They moved hesitantly, with inhuman grace, their long tails flicking nervously behind them.

“Ooh, Janus, they’re Catkind!” Patton gasped softly, clasping his hands together. “I always wanted to see one up close…”

“But where the hell did they come from?” Janus groused. “We were just in that corridor…and also, may I remind you that you’re allergic?”

“Hello there!” Patton called as the Cat People approached, ignoring Janus’s eye roll. “Where did you come from?”

“I’m not sure.” The tabby-like Cat Person rubbed their furred hands together. “One moment we were in our hover van, watching the newscast as always, and then…oh!”

The Cat Person’s eyes widened as they drew up to Patton. Janus quickly stepped between them and lifted his hands.

“It’s okay, we’re lost here, just like you,” he said smoothly.

“Well. I guess strange times make strange bedfellows, or something like that,” the tabby Cat joked, flashing a mouthful of feline teeth.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Janus crooned. “You were saying…?”

Patton was beginning to sense, more and more, that Janus was actively, purposefully hiding something from him.

But now wasn’t exactly a good time to ask.

“We were watching the TV,” the second Cat Person said. They were shorter, their voice and fur color both lighter than that of their companion, and they wore a sling pouch across their body. “And something flickered across the screen; I can’t remember exactly what it was. A gray face, or…” They shrugged, furred shoulders rippling. “And then we were just…here.”

A tiny face popped out of the sling as they spoke. It meowed, and Patton let out a very undignified squeal.

“Is that a kitten?” he all but squeaked, holding hands up to his face. It was so cute!

“Oh! Yes.” The pale Cat smiled down at the sling. “Our six babes. They sleep better when I keep them close.”

“Can I pet them?” Patton was practically vibrating. “Pretty please? I’ll be very careful.”

The Cat frowned, exchanging a glance with their partner, but carefully extracted a kitten and cradled it. Patton ran a trembling finger down its spine and cooed when it started to purr.

Janus, meanwhile, was stroking his bottom lip.

“Catkind…hover van…were you on the Motorway in New New York, by chance?”

The tabby Cat frowned. “Well, of course.”

“The Gridlock episode,” Janus said quietly to Patton. “Which was set in the far future, if I recall. But where…or I suppose, ‘when’…does the asylum episode fall within that timeline?”

Patton shrugged. He didn’t have Logan’s or, he supposed, Janus’s patience for untangling complex plot threads in TV shows, and time was so wibbly wobbly within the Doctor Who universe anyway. Plus, knowing “when” the Cat People were from didn’t explain how they spontaneously ended up here, in this hallway.

They’re just…here, like that Tivolian in the escape pod. Sadness rushed through him. The asylum was no place for innocent people like this, especially a couple with babies!

“If I may,” the tabby Cat said as their partner resettled their kittens in the sling. “Where did the two of you come from? And where are we?”

“Ah, well, that’s a rather long story,” Janus said. “We—”

“Ah-ha! More intruders in our quadrant!”

Six or so squat Sontarans, all helmeted and bristling with blaster rifles, flooded into the corridor. The two Cat People froze, eyes growing wide.

“Terminate them,” the Sontaran leader shouted, pointing. “For the glory of Sontar!

“Invasion of the Potato People,” Janus snarked, fangs flashing, as he flicked a setting on his sonic laser. “Just what we need.”

The aliens raised their guns.

“Now, er, fellas,” Patton tried, raising his arms. “There’s…there’s no need for violence. Can’t we all just, uh, get along?”

“The Sontaran Empire does not take orders from your kind, metal scum!” the lead Sontaran snarled. “Fire!”

“Run!” Janus shouted, seizing Patton’s arm and shoving the two terrified Cat People ahead of him.

There was a confused, mad rush through a half dozen corridors, dodging blaster fire, as Janus occasionally fired back with his laser and stopped to hack closed doors as they encountered them.

The clomp of boots and chanting echoed behind them.

“Sontar-ha! Sontar-ha!”

At one junction, the Cat People peeled off down a smaller random hallway before Patton could even protest.

“Splitting up is safer! We can’t worry about them!” Janus yelled, yanking Patton a different direction. That corridor ended in a door that Janus couldn’t seem to hack, and they had to backtrack to a tiny alcove, folding themselves inside and catching their breath.

There was barely enough room for the two of them.

Janus pressed one yellow-clad hand against Patton’s chest as they waited, warily, for the bootsteps and yelling to pass, their breaths filling the space. He was so close that Patton could count the individual scales on his cheekbone and the green flecks in his yellow slitted eye. Unfamiliar facial hair…familiar, hooded gaze.

It occurred to Patton, suddenly, that he’d never stood this close to Janus before. Close enough to feel his slight warmth, to breathe in the spicy, subtle aroma emanating from his clothes…

“Did you know you smell like cloves?” Patton blurted out when the corridor was silent again. It had been such an odd thing to notice.

It also wasn’t unpleasant.

Janus didn’t acknowledge that, but instead massaged his temples.

“Ugh, my head is killing me.”

“Say…” Patton narrowed his eyes as he realized he was looking down at the other Side. “Aren’t I shorter than you? In the mindspace anyway.”

If Patton hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the way Janus’s eyes widened infinitesimally.

“Well.” Janus shrugged, all expression gone. “I hadn’t paid much attention.”

Liar.

Something stone-like settled in Patton’s stomach.

“No, you’re definitely supposed to be taller,” he said, more firmly.

Deceit.

“If the Imagination altered our clothes coming in, surely it could have altered our heights.”

Janus’s voice was as smooth as ever, and for a moment, Patton hated how easily the snake-faced Side did this. The unfamiliar anger at the back of his mind swirled.

Deceit, come on.

“Well, then why didn’t I sneeze when I pet that kitten?” Patton demanded. “You yourself pointed out that I’m allergic.”

“Kittens don’t produce the protein that triggers an allergic reaction.” Janus’s eyes went distant for a moment. “I do hope that couple found a safe place to hide.”

“Gosh, yeah, me too…” Patton murmured, and then frowned. “Oh, no you don’t, mister, you’re trying to change the subject! I wasn’t allergic to the parents, either; explain that!”

Janus shrugged, still infuriatingly calm.

“Maybe Catkind as a whole don’t produce ordinary feline dander.”

“Why won’t you just tell me what it is you’re hiding!” Patton snapped, grabbing the other Side’s shoulders and raising a hand…wait.

What…am I doing?

Janus had paled, and the spark of actual fear flashing in his eyes was enough to snap Patton out of…whatever that was. He stared at his hands and for a moment, he swore he saw…

But then it was gone.

And Janus had pulled away, stepping out into the now-empty corridor.

“We should keep moving,” he threw over his shoulder, jacket flapping as he stalked away, leaving Patton to stumble after him.

“Janus.”

Janus’s shoulders flinched but he kept walking, his boots clacking harshly on the concrete floor.

Patton hurried to catch up.

“Janus!”

The snake-faced Side turned a corner, taking him out of Patton’s line of sight for a moment. Patton broke into a run, rounding the corner and almost crashing into him.

He’d stopped, and was typing away at yet another terminal.

Patton realized they were back at the door from before, the one Janus hadn’t been able to hack. Muffled shrieks and shouts echoed through the thick metal from the other side.

“Almost got it,” Janus muttered, absently rubbing his head; hadn’t he mentioned a headache earlier? He’s always concealing things. I wish he could just…but Patton still felt shaken by what had happened earlier, so he decided to let it go for now.

Best to avoid another quarrel.

“Are you sure we want to go this way?” he said instead. “It sounds like a battle on the other side.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Patton.” Janus waved a hand, not looking at him. “I already looked. It’s just some people milling around; they likely won’t even notice us. And the teleportation chamber we need is on the other side.”

Patton frowned, and hunched to peer through the smudged rectangle of glass on the door. It was difficult to make out specifics, but he definitely saw blaster fire, and knots of very large aliens running back and forth.

“That is not just people, J—” he started, but then the door slid open and Janus was already striding through.

“—Janus, no!” Patton yelped and followed.

That door, it turned out, had been blocking a great deal of noise. Yelling, clanging, blaster fire hitting metal, horribly familiar robotic voices screeching. Knots of hulking Judoon fought a proper horde of green Silurians, with a few commanding Daleks thrown in on both sides.

It was impossible to tell who was winning, if anyone; or what, if anything, they were fighting over.

Patton caught up to Janus and grabbed his jacket collar.

“See, Patton?” Janus shot him an easygoing smirk that made Patton’s stomach twist in alarm, and waved a hand. “It’s just people.”

“Oh, no, I remember this bit now,” Patton murmured.

He seized Janus’s face.

“Janus Sanders, the nanocloud is altering your perception,” he said, twisting the other Side around. “Look again, look!”

Janus looked, and Patton heard his swift intake of breath.

“EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! THE CARGO DOOR HAS BEEN BREACHED!”

Several Daleks split off from the battle and rolled toward the two of them, drawing a few curious Silurians along. Patton huffed.

“And now they’ve seen us.”

He again held up his arms, though logically he knew negotiating with Daleks was a worse non-starter than placating Sontarans. Still…it never hurt to try.

A Silurian grabbed one of their neighbors, and pointed at him.

“It has a nano repeller!” they called. “Seize it!”

“Well, that’s new,” Janus snarked.

“Run?” Patton squeaked as more Silurians peeled off from the main battle.

“Run,” Janus confirmed.

They bolted across the hanger and through the thick of the fight.

The pursuing Daleks actually proved to be a useful distraction, charging after them with blasters blazing, drawing enemy fire away from the two Sides. But the pursuing Silurians were faster, and they kept chasing long after the Daleks found other, more engaging targets.

The Silurians tailed Patton and Janus into the adjoining corridor, briefly catching up when Janus had to stop and hack yet another door. The door slid open as green hands scrabbled at Patton’s arms. Janus zapped one with his laser and pulled Patton through, slamming the inside panel with his other hand.

The door slid shut, and Janus fried the controls so it couldn’t be easily opened again.

Patton breathed.

They were safe, again, for the moment.

At least Patton thought they were….until he happened to glance down at his hands.

“Janus!” he yelled shrilly. “My bracelet is gone! Oh no, oh no, oh no…I thought if we didn’t lose it in the escape pod we wouldn’t lose it at all…”

“Patton.” Janus was abruptly in his face, gloved hands gripping his jawline. “Patton, breathe.”

“I’m sorry!” Patton sobbed. “I lost it and now we’re both going to turn into Daleks, Janus, I’m so sorry—!”

“Nonsense.” Janus’s voice grew sharp. “You have nothing to worry about.”

And something…truthy...in the timbre of those words cut through Patton’s rising panic like a slap to the face.

“And why is that?” Patton asked, just as sharply.

Janus hesitated.

He very clearly hesitated, his fingers digging into the nape of Patton’s neck. Patton held his breath.

“Because…” Janus swallowed, his eyes darting away. “Because nobody in this universe or any other could possibly exhaust the well of love that is Patton Sanders’ heart.”

And with that he whirled away, stalking to the raised teleportation platform and sliding under the glass floor.

With an effort, Patton closed his gaping mouth (darn his stiff muscles). He’d never been so certain in all his life that Janus had just lied to him, again…but it was also the sweetest and most vulnerable thing he’d ever heard the other say. It sent a shock of warmth down to Patton’s too-cold toes.

Janus…Janus truly believed that Patton’s heart held too much love for the Daleks to steal?

“Oh.” Patton exhaled, gaze drawn to Janus as he rewired the platform; jacket sleeves rolled up his forearms, sonic held between his teeth and a look of utter concentration on his face.

That strange, and oddly beautiful face.

Oh.

Chapter 10- Silence in the Library

“The shadows are moving again. Those people are depending on you. Only you can save them. Only you.”

“What I want to know,” Roman griped as he and Logan slumped against yet another corridor wall, “is where all these blasted aliens are coming from.”

Ever since giving Remus’s “Silurian army” the slip, they’d encountered one obstacle after another. They’d been pursued what felt like halfway across the asylum by a pair of crafty Saturnynians wanting their nano bracelets; Roman had singlehandedly fought off a horde of Tritovores; Logan had outsmarted a Sontaran troop by trapping them in a small chamber with only one working door; and they had only just outrun a platoon of Judoon.

All with Logan unable to see anything more than five feet in front his face.

Roman, if he was being honest with himself, kind of didn’t mind being Logan’s eyes. Sure, his sword arm was sore from fending off aliens trying to rob them or kill them (Roman fought with the flat of his blade, of course; no need for pointless killing). But having his crush depend on him to see threats coming, and to keep from crashing into things…it was nice to feel needed.

For once.

Plus…Roman could compose entire sonnets on how beautiful Logan’s galaxy-dark eyes were, when they weren’t hidden behind glasses.

“Remus,” Logan called, straightening up. “We could use some help.”

Roman scoffed. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“If Logan offers to pay in dick pics, I might get something up,” Remus’s whiny voice commented from the wall behind them, making them both jump.

Roman sputtered.

Did his brother really have to keep…was it even flirting, when it was that crude? Roman knew logically he was only doing it to get a reaction, but gosh darn Remus for going straight for his metaphorical heart.

“We are all anatomically the same, Remus.” Logan frowned. “Why you would wish to see my—?”

“Logan, I implore you not to finish that sentence.” Roman flapped his hands.

Logan leaned over to squint at him. And quite apart from Remus's inappropriate commentary, Roman wished he could figure out what that intense, narrow-eyed look Logan kept giving him meant. Right now he was sure his face must be as red as his missing Prince sash.

“It would be helpful,” Logan went on, turning to face the general direction of the wall speaker, “if I could see a current life-form reading for the whole planet. Then we would know which areas to avoid. Remus, is that something you can hack into?”

“Only for you, Logie-bear,” Remus answered. “Or should I say Nina? There’s a terminal with a screen just down the hallway.”

“Remus, I swear…” Roman brandished his sword at the speaker as Logan climbed to his feet.

But Remus only giggled, and Roman didn’t know how to finish the threat without prompting uncomfortable questions, anyway.

The screen showed the whole planet, with life-form density marked in red and notes written in some alien tongue. Logan leaned close, typing in various commands, looking at different areas; his frown grew deeper as he worked.

“Is that, like, a whole lot of red, or do I just not know how to read this thing?” Roman asked.

“No, it doesn’t make any sense,” Logan muttered, mostly to himself. “Remus. Will you read that number to me? Perhaps the Doctor’s command of this language is incomplete…”

“You mean the part where it says there are currently 13 billion life forms on the planet?” Remus said.

“What?” Roman sputtered.

“Exactly. It’s preposterous.” Logan nodded. “Nearly twice the population of humans on Earth. We’d be packed into this asylum like sardines, were the population really so high. Perhaps it’s aggregate?”

“Hmm, you know people can aggregate, too, especially during orgies when they f…”

“Remus, while normally I would applaud a creative use of vocabulary,” Logan cut in with a flat expression. “I do not wish to discuss group copulation at this time, or any other.”

Roman, meanwhile ran a hand down his (flushing) face.

“‘Copulation’, my ass,” he grumbled.

“Yes, that is usually how it works among men,” Remus crooned.

“REMUS!”

“Both of you!” Logan snapped. “Enough. Remus, please.”

“Fiiiine. Here’s your stats over a span of weeks.” Remus flashed another chart on the screen. “And here’s months, and years.”

More charts.

“See, this math makes more sense.” Logan reached up as if to adjust his glasses, but dropped his hand when he realized they weren’t there. “A constant flow of new aliens, while a smaller number disappear every day. That is unfortunately as I would expect in such a volatile environment.”

He peered closer to the screen.

“However, nearly eighty percent of the abnormally high life form readings are concentrated in a few clusters around the asylum; mostly in isolated, out of the way places. Remus, can you provide a visual for one of those areas?”

Remus did so, the screen switching to what appeared to be a security feed, pointed at a storage room. A room which was conspicuously empty, except for a few piles of long, white objects.

“Come on, quit fucking around,” Roman complained.

“Language.” Remus’s voice tsked.

Roman scoffed. “Oh, put a maggoty sock in it, Remus; you aren’t Patton.”

“Careful with those metaphors, brother mine, or you’ll start to sound like me.”

“Why you—!”

“Hush!” Logan snapped with a frown. “No, these…these are the correct coordinates. According to this data, there are several million life forms packed into that space.”

Roman and Remus gasped in unison, causing Logan to shoot Roman an alarmed look.

“How big are the ‘life forms’ that chart is picking up?” Roman demanded.

“Way ahead of you.” Remus threw more readouts onto the screen. “But I’ll bet my favorite stick of deodorant that they’re really, really small.”

“They appear to be microscopic, in fact,” Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “And those white objects…”

“Bones,” Roman whispered. “‘A million million life forms, and silence in the library’.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “Vashta Narada?”

“Vashta Narada!” Remus screeched, startling them both.

It took Roman a moment to realize his brother had screeched with glee.

“Ooh, look, there are so many of them!” Remus pulled up a chart of the whole planet, with clusters illuminated in red. Logan whipped out his screwdriver and scanned the screen.

“I did wonder why the Daleks always avoided the shadows, and ooh, look! Bones! Piles and piles of bones!” Remus showed another security feed; Roman quickly turned away. “They’re so clean.”

“I have downloaded the locations of the worst nests,” Logan flashed his sonic. “So we can avoid those areas, too.”

“Well, that’s just boring,” Remus complained. “One of you could surely sacrifice a leg or something. Aren’t you curious to see what your skeleton looks like?”

“Nobody wants to see that!” Roman felt slightly nauseated at the idea.

“Well, and if they did,” Logan added, ever literal, “that is what X-rays are for.”

“The Vashta Narada are his favorite Doctor Who alien,” Roman said in a lower voice. “He talked about that episode for weeks—”

The lights cut out, and the Voice…that’s what Roman had taken to calling it, anyway…mumbled its incomprehensible speech. It had happened several times on their journey now.

“What is that?” he demanded once the lights came back up.

“I think I heard ‘tower’, that time, and something about seconds,” Logan commented.

Roman shrugged.

“I may regret this, but…Remus, what do you think?” he asked with a grimace.

Silence.

Roman sighed. “Typical.”

A blast down the hall interrupted them.

Several Daleks rolled into the hallway, screeching in their room-filling, robotic voices. Roman seized Logan’s arm and pulled them into an alcove, placing his hand over Logan’s mouth when the logical Side started to protest.

“Daleks, super close,” Roman whispered.

He swore he felt Logan shiver in his grasp, and tried not to hyperfocus on the other’s rapid breathing, and heated skin, and…

One of the Daleks rolled in their direction. “INTRUDER! COME OUT AT ONCE!”

Logan pried Roman’s hand away.

“If we are at the scene in the asylum episode that I believe we are,” he said lowly, “then this should be the Dalek that runs out of power. If so, I remember how to defeat it.”

“And if it’s not?” Roman whisper-demanded.

“INTRUDER!”

“Then we will think of something else.”

“But—!”

Logan pulled Roman’s face very close, effectively shutting him up. His dark pupils were wide with adrenaline, his skin flushed with all the running they’d done. Roman couldn’t help it; his gaze flickered to Logan’s lips.

Those well-bitten, unfairly kissable lips.

“Roman,” Logan said softly, the words puffing against Roman’s face. “Do you trust me?”

“Oh, you…you can’t just quote Aladdin at me, Lo,” Roman protested weakly. “That’s not fair.”

“I would not be here to quote it, if you hadn’t gotten us this far. I outwitted the Sontarans; let me handle this.” Logan leaned even closer, and Roman couldn’t move even if he wanted to. “Do you trust me?”

Always, Doctor.

Roman nodded.

“INTRU—der—!”

As if on cue, the Dalek sputtered to a stop just before it reached their hiding place.

Logan shot Roman a devastating smirk and stepped out.

“All right, you rolling tin can.” Logan flicked his wrists and performed a mocking bow. Even half-blind, he was so fully and completely the Doctor in that moment that the performer inside Roman could only swoon.

Well, their Source was an actor, after all. Even his Logic instinctively knew how to work an audience.

“Identify me. Access your files. Who am I?” Logan’s voice dropped. “Come on. I’m tired and blind and just want to go home. Who’s your daddy?”

Roman choked and slapped a hand over his mouth.

“YOU ARE THE PREDATOR,” the Dalek declared.

“And what are your standing orders concerning the Predator?” Logan asked.

“THE PREDATOR MUST BE DESTROYED.” The Dalek attempted to use its gunstick, but only managed to wiggle it around.

“And how are you going to do that, Dalek?” Logan smirked, making Roman swallow another soft noise. “Without a gun, you’re a tricycle with a roof. How are you going to destroy me?”

“SELF-DESTRUCT INITIATED,” the Dalek warned, a light inside its eyepiece flashing red.

“Oh, heck, I remember this!” Roman rushed out to join Logan, as the other pulled out his sonic and lifted the Dalek’s lid.

“Exactly, Roman.” Logan ran the screwdriver along the shell’s insides.

“SELF-DESTRUCT CANNOT BE COUNTERMANDED.”

“I’m not looking for a countermand, dear.” Logan slammed the lid down. “I was looking for reverse.”

The Dalek whizzed backwards, flailing its appendages, its lights flashing frantically.

“FORWARD! FORWARD!”

It sped back into the chamber it had vacated, where several other Daleks waited.

“Run!”

Logan pulled Roman along (nearly running them into a wall; Roman quickly righted their direction), barely making it to the other end of the hallway when the Dalek exploded. Roman pushed them both down, crouching protectively over Logan as heat blasted against both their backs.

The asylum shook.

Grit rained down on their heads.

When it stopped, Roman pulled Logan to his feet and led them back through the newly-cleared chamber, dust still settling in the air. Dalek shells lay scattered, cracked and smoking; he had to guide Logan around them.

(There were a few other…bodies, too, which Roman determinedly looked away from and didn’t mention.)

“Oh my gosh, Roman! Logan!” a somewhat familiar voice shouted.

A Cyberman came barreling across the floor, prompting Roman to raise his sword…but relaxed when he realized it was only Patton.

“Janus, I’ve found the others!” Patton shouted over his shoulder. Roman squinted but didn’t see anyone else. “Boy, am I glad to see you guys!”

“We are pleased to see you as well, Patton.” Logan scrunched his face up in that adorable squint again; Roman caught himself smiling fondly, and swallowed the expression.

“Although unfortunately,” Logan added, “I mean ‘see’ in an entirely metaphorical sense right now.”

“Oh no, Logan, did you lose your glasses?” Patton caught up to them, as clunky and metal and frankly scary-looking as before. “Well, come on. Janus found a teleportation room, and is almost finished rewiring it to get us out of here.”

He led them across the exploded chamber, around a bend, and directly into a room with a raised glass platform, and machinery-covered walls. The platform itself looked half-disassembled, with dozens of wires and components sticking out.

Janus lay, collapsed and unmoving, at the base of it.

Chapter 11- The Power of Three

“I’m not running away from things, I am running to them before they flare and fade forever.”

Patton screeched.

There was no other word for the unholy noise that came out of his mouth, Logan decided. The moral Side-turned-Cyberman rushed to Janus’s collapsed form, shaking him and calling his name.

“I don’t know what happened!” he cried, rocking back on his heels. “He was fine when I left…well, not fine, he hasn’t been exactly fine this whole time, but he was awake!”

Logan knelt beside the downed Side and scanned him.

“He does not appear to have suffered any sort of electrical shock or other accident.” Logan peered at his screwdriver, reading numbers on the tiny screen.

(Yes, it had a readout, something he’d never noticed from the show.)

“Hmm. It would seem that the nano cloud is having an unexpected effect on his serpentine biology,” Logan explained, leaning over to place a hand under Janus’s jaw, and then over his heart. “It is making him too cold.”

“Oh!” Patton’s stance shifted. It was difficult to read his body language in his current state. “So do we need to, like, cuddle him or something? Body heat is good for cold, right?”

“Well I’m certainly not cuddling that viper!” Roman announced, folding his arms.

Patton awkwardly rubbed his head. “I mean…I could do it.”

It was on the tip of Logan’s tongue to point out that Patton would not be warming anyone up with his cold, metallic body…but it was clear he still didn’t know. And if Janus still hadn’t told him, Logan certainly wasn’t going to do it right now.

Patton having an identity crisis would be a distraction they didn’t need.

Roman stared at Patton with narrowed eyes, looking ready to protest. Logan stepped in before an argument could begin in earnest.

“Body heat would not be enough,” he said. “But I believe if I reconfigure one of our protective bracelets to counter those particular effects, he would revive on his own. Of course, that would mean one of us temporarily going without nano cloud protection.”

Patton sighed and rubbed his wrist.

“I’d give up mine in a heartbeat, except I already lost it earlier.”

Typical Patton. Logan bit back a sigh of exasperation. His was the bracelet he'd been hoping to use, as Patton didn't actually need it. Always willing to sacrifice his own wellbeing, and always losing things.

Well, that meant there was only one way to wake Janus.

He’d begun the process of unfastening his own bracelet when a strong, warm hand stopped him.

“Hang on, Calculator Watch.” Roman separated Logan’s hands. Annoyed caramel eyes stared into his own. “Why do you automatically assume you should be the one to give up your only means of protection?”

Logan frowned.

“Of the two of us, Roman, I am the least emotional. Obviously it has to be me.”

Roman let go and paced the room, coming back with determination sparking in his gaze.

“Look, I’m going to be logical here, because I know that’s the one thing you understand,” he said.

“Roman, we don’t have time—” Logan started, but Roman silenced him with a finger over his lips.

Logan noted, absently, how his skin reacted to the touch.

“We have to finish this game before Thomas wakes up, right?” Roman sighed, his eyes flickering down to Janus. “And as much as it pains me to admit it, the snake is smarter than me. We need both brainiacs on this team awake and thinking clearly to get us out of here.”

“Roman, you—” Logan protested.

“We both know I’m the expendable one here!” Roman yelled, pushing his bracelet-ed wrist into Logan’s face. “So just take it and fix him.”

“Falsehood!” Logan shoved at Roman’s arm. “May I remind you that the nano cloud subtracts love and adds anger; ergo, it manipulates feelings. As I have said many times before, and let me know if I lose you, I am not a feeling. I am Logic. It won’t—”

“You are Thomas’s Logic, you big-brained idiot!” Roman got in his face again. “And no part of Thomas could simply lack the ability to feel things. It's not in him. That's why you are not just Logic; you are Logan, and you already have a temper problem. The last thing you need is more anger!”

Logan whipped out his stack of vocabulary cards and flipped through them.

“As they say: ‘pot, meet kettle’,” he snapped, holding one up.

Roman growled, raising his hand like he’d knock the card away, but seemed to realize that would only prove Logan’s point. The hand clenched into a fist, which fell resignedly onto Logan’s chest.

Like a soft shock against his skin.

Logan was quite sure Roman’s touch didn’t always do that.

“Using mine will buy us more time. The conversation will take longer with me,” Roman said through thin, angry lips, staring at the floor.

“Why?” Logan whispered.

Roman’s fist flattened into a palm, still resting against Logan’s chest.

“It’s just arithmetic. It’ll take longer with me because…”

Logan inhaled sharply, and Roman’s suddenly wide eyes came up to meet his.

“It'll take longer with me because we both know, we've always known, that, the basic fact of our relationship is that I love you more than you love me.”

Without even realizing it, they’d been reenacting the fight between Amy and Rory.

Logan placed his own hand over Roman’s, wondering if the other could feel how rapidly his heart was beating. Does…does Roman really believe I care for him less than he does for me?

Well.

Thinking back over their tumultuous friendship, the fights, the insults; he realized he’d given the creative Side every reason to believe that. But then another realization crashed over Logan, which he felt like a physical shock through his system.

Do I…do I love Roman?

Headstrong, stubborn Roman, who knew exactly how to get under his skin with his ridiculous ideas and over-the-top facial expressions and twisty, rapid-fire cleverness. Brave, selfless Roman, who’d sacrificed his own dreams just to ensure their Source could keep a clear conscience.

Roman, with that wild hair and pouting lower lip and those fiery, passionate eyes that made Logan feel warm just from looking into them. He defied all logic, all sense, all attempts to constrain or catalogue or categorize him.

And Logan…Logan absolutely loved him for that.

“So…so it has to be me,” Roman concluded, glaring, finally snatching his hand away.

It took Logan a moment to remember what they’d actually been arguing about. He grabbed at Roman’s wrist as the other began blindly removing his bracelet, both hands held high above Logan’s head.

“Roman, no, you’re…you’re making a mistake,” he grated, as Roman continued to keep his arms out of reach. No matter how he tried, Logan couldn’t budge him; the other Side was much stronger.

“Yeah?” Roman succeeded in unsnapping his bracelet. “Well, get a pen and get in line, Specs. I have a list.”

He thrust the device into Logan’s hands and stomped away, avoiding Patton’s questioning gaze.

Logan shook his head, hand tightening around Roman’s bracelet until the edges bit into his skin. Stubborn.

So, so stubborn.

Like you, a quiet part of his mind whispered. He’s your equal, your check. That’s why you like him.

…and that’s why it could never work.

He exhaled, resigned.

Then he pulled out his sonic, and set about reprograming the bracelet to wake Janus.

Chapter 12- A Good Man Goes to War

“Good men don’t need rules. Today is not the day to find out why I have so many.”

Janus awoke with a pounding headache and a frayed temper. He sat up, digging at his face so hard he dislodged a scale. Irritably flicking it away, he saw that Patton had managed to find both Logan and Roman.

Good. That means we can all get out of here.

“Janus—” Patton started, but Janus held up a finger.

“Do not.”

He stood up, swaying a little, hating the way they all clustered around him.

“Stop hovering, I’m fine,” he grumbled, waving them away. Aside from the headache, his body felt stiff and sluggish…probably similar to how Patton feels, he realized, which did not help his sour mood.

“What happened to me?” he demanded, flexing his hands.

“The nano particles caused your internal body temperature to drop too quickly,” Logan explained. “Which, due to your unique biology, caused you to pass out. Your reflexes may be impaired for a few minutes as the bracelet continues to counteract the effects.”

Janus glanced down at his wrist, noting the bulky black bracelet with its cheerfully blinking light. Who…? Not Patton, his was lost; so probably Logan…but no, Logan still wore his. But that leaves…

Sure enough, both of Roman’s wrists were bare.

Janus raised an eyebrow, but the princely Side refused to meet his gaze.

Whatever.

“I am getting us off this rock and back to our TARDISs,” Janus groused, stalking to the abandoned panel and picking up the wire cutters he’d found. “Feel free to either help, or preferably stay the hell out of my way.”

“Ooooh, Jan Jan sounds a widdle angwy.” Remus’s sing-song voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “Pretty soon he’s going to try and kill you.”

“That does it!” Janus whirled and threw the cutters at the wall, eliciting a startled noise from Roman when they narrowly missed his face. “Logan, you reprogram the damned panel. I am going to deal with Remus.”

“Oh no, I’m so scared!” Remus gushed, not sounding one bit scared.

Janus marched to the chamber door, only to be stopped by Roman’s outstretched arm.

“Move,” Janus growled, clenching a gloved hand.

Roman didn’t budge.

“What are you even going to do?” he demanded. “If this is like the episode, then he’s already a Dalek and we can’t exactly bring him along for a ride.”

“I’ll figure it out when I get there.” Janus knocked Roman’s arm aside. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and seeing him in person will be enough to satisfy the Imagination. We have to at least make the attempt.”

“Well, then I’m going with you!”

Janus stopped at that, turning slowly to face Roman.

“Why?” he said flatly. “Surely not because you crave the pleasure of my company.”

Roman mirrored Janus’s folded-arm stance.

“Maybe I don’t trust you.”

“Because you haven’t already made that crystal clear.”

“And maybe I have my own score to settle with my brother,” Roman added in a louder voice, glaring around the room as though waiting for Remus to butt in.

For once, Remus did not.

But maybe that was because the Voice chose that moment to override the comms again, dimming the lights and rattling off its garbled message. Logan narrowed his eyes, Patton cocked his head, but Roman simply looked annoyed.

The Prince does hate to be interrupted when he’s picking a fight. Janus rolled his eyes. Or maybe it’s the nano cloud, which would serve him right…

“You know,” Patton commented, once it was over. “That weird little speech almost sounds like Virgil, when he gets really upset and his voice goes all deep and layered.”

Janus’s eyes widened and he inadvertently met Logan’s shocked gaze.

It did.

It sounded very much like Virgil’s Tempest Tongue, and Virgil had been inexplicably missing from this entire adventure, and why had none of them made that connection?? Once again, Janus found himself both impressed and unsurprised that Patton had been the one to put the pieces together.

“If that’s true,” Logan began.

“You know it is,” Janus cut in, a little sharper than he meant to. Logan held up his hands.

“I was not disputing the validity of Patton’s claim,” he said.

“Uh, overprotective much, snake?” Roman said with an eye roll, making Janus’s scales bristle and his nostrils flare.

“If that is Virgil, and Patton is correct; it seems very likely,” Logan enunciated, still holding up his hands. “Then he is part of this LARP, and has been the entire time. If reunification is indeed the ultimate goal, we will need to locate him as well, in order to meet the Imagination’s requirements.”

“Well, I’m not fighting my way back through this goddamned, alien-infested haystack to look for one overdramatic, anxious eyeshadow palette,” Janus declared, turning toward the door again. “Not without my TARDIS. Virgil can sit on his moody ass and wait.”

“Language!” Patton called after him.

Roman, more annoyingly, followed; surprisingly quickly, given his short-skirted outfit.

“Mixed metaphors aside,” the creative Side said as Janus stalked across the exploded chamber. “I still demand to know what you mean to do when we reach my brother…will you slow down?”

Janus stormed into a far corridor, making a sharp left and leaving Roman to stumble along afterward. Two lefts, a right, a straight shot through Intensive Care and we should find Clara’s…or rather Remus’s…chamber.

“Come on,” he threw irritatedly over his shoulder. “Or is Mr. Really Obviously Muscular And Nice having a hard time keeping up? What are all those muscles for, anyway?”

“Don’t you dare bring up that courtroom right now, Deceit,” Roman said darkly, still trailing behind. “Don’t you dare.”

“Still refusing to use my name, I see,” Janus snarked. His fast, angry footfalls echoed on the concrete floor.

“Show me where you’ve earned the right to be called anything except what you are, Deceit,” Roman spat. “I can wait.”

Janus stopped and whirled, coat flaring, almost causing Roman to collide with him. He thrust a gloved finger into Roman’s face.

“You don’t get it. You still don’t get it, because you are too spoiled, entitled, and self-absorbed to even attempt to understand another Side’s point of view.”

Janus started walking again, ignoring the pinched, insulted look he knew Roman was giving the back of his head.

“And what exactly am I supposed to understand?” Roman demanded, catching up.

“Why do you know my name at all, W-R-O-M-M-I-N?” Janus asked.

Roman exhaled carefully, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Ignoring that obvious bait, we know your name because you told us.”

“Exactly! I told you!” Janus paused just outside the Intensive Care ward, facing Roman fully. “You know Deceit’s true name because Deceit willingly revealed it.” He let his voice drop. “Now why do you suppose he did that?”

“Stop referring to yourself in the third person like some creepy, two-faced Elmo doll,” Roman groused. “Obviously you wanted to manipulate Thomas into trusting you for some nefarious purpose of your own.”

“Oh, for—!” Janus exhaled, barely resisting the urge to beat his head against the wall. “I could have told Thomas my name any time I pleased, if his trust was the only thing I wanted.”

Roman smirked. “Ah-ha, so you admit you have an agenda—”

“I wanted your trust, Roman!” Janus roared, silencing the other. “Yours, and Patton’s. I thought taking my glove off would be enough of a symbolic gesture, and how did you repay me? With laughter!”

Roman just stared.

Janus sighed.

“You were on my side, in that courtroom,” he said in a quieter voice. “Whether you are willing to admit it or not, Creativity and Self Preservation make a strong team for Thomas, and I don’t hate you, Roman.”

Roman scoffed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

“I have been trying to be more than just Deceit, to Thomas, to…all of you,” Janus went on. “Given how well our Purposes align, I cannot understand why you, of all Sssides, have been the most resistant to the notion that I am not evil!”

“Then let me enlighten you, Jack the Fibber.” Roman leaned close, eyes ablaze with fury. “Remember that courtroom scenario you just bragged about? The one where you claim I was on your side?”

Janus made a “duh” gesture with his hand.

“Did you conveniently forget that you spent the entire time patronizing me, emotionally manipulating me, and making me look and feel like a fool?” Roman folded his arms. “Because if that’s how you treat your so-called ‘allies’, then I would hate to be an actual enemy.”

Janus frowned. It was true; he had done a bit of twisting Roman around his finger, hadn’t he?

“Nobody trusted me then, and I needed you to help Thomas make the right choice,” he explained. “Your pride and your little rivalry with me make you irrational at times. I couldn’t risk either getting in the way.”

Roman let out a humorless chuckle.

“See, you say things like that,” he gestured angrily, “and then act shocked when I do the honest thing and side with Patton.”

“Which you and I both now know was a missstake!” Janus snapped. He tapped a series of numbers into the control panel by the Intensive Care door, which slid open.

They went in, but Roman, unfortunately for Janus, was not finished.

“And don’t forget the part where you manipulated us all again, by removing Logan and impersonating him,” Roman said.

“Because you and Patton were handling that situation so admirably on your own,” Janus snarked.

“That is not the point! That has never been the point!” Roman waved his arms for emphasis, almost knocking into one of the cells along the walls.

“Even here, now, when I’m trying to have an actual conversation with you,” and he jabbed Janus’s chest, “you’re still trying to manipulate me. The only time you’ve called me by my actual name is when you’re like ‘oh, Roman, woe is me, why won’t you trust me’? The rest of the time it’s all mockery.”

“It’s almost like it hurts when someone refuses to call you by your actual name.” Janus leaned into Roman’s space, baring his fangs. “Doesssn’t it?”

Roman winced. It was a tiny, tiny motion, but Janus saw it.

“Fine. Janus. But lying and manipulation are still wrong,” Roman said in a firm voice. “It doesn’t matter why you do it. It doesn’t matter what mistakes I make, or Patton makes, or even Logan or Virgil make without you. Lying fixes nothing.”

Janus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are missing the bigger picture—”

“No! Stop pushing me to accept the things you’ve done to me just because you maybe, maybe, had good intentions!” Roman shouted. “As long as you believe deception is a legitimate path to making Thomas do what you want…even when it turns out to be the right call…you and I will never see eye to eye, and I will never trust you!”

Janus’s mouth lifted into a snarl.

“You know what? So be it. I do not have to defend my purpose or my methods to you.” He yanked out his sonic laser and placed it under Roman’s chin, relishing the momentary flare of fear in those caramel eyes.

“I just want to know one thing, oh noble Prince Roman, and be honest. When you were creating this cute little adventure for yourself and Logan, did you really have nothing to do with me being cast as the villain? The Master?”

The last word he cracked like a whip, and it echoed down the long, straight corridor.

“…master?” a staticky voice echoed from one of the cells, and a small yellow light flickered to life on the wall.

Cells that were, Janus noticed for the first time, unsettlingly empty...except for the rows and rows of fist-sized metal spheres along the walls, which began to light up, one by one.

“Uh…” Roman whispered. “What is happening? Where are the Daleks?”

Other voices joined in the chorus of “master, master”, until the corridor buzzed with echoes and Janus’s blood ran cold as ice in his body. The weird, almost childlike cadence was unsettlingly familiar…

“There are no Daleks.” He stared at the spheres, realization crashing over him.

“What?” Roman looked around wildly at the mass of yellow and now red lights, sword hilt gripped so tight that his knuckles were white.

The spheres began to detach from the walls.

“There are no insane Daleks in here,” Janus repeated, his voice rising. “They’re Toclafane! Run!”

He sprinted down the corridor as the first laser blast burst at his heels. Roman yelped, and then they were both running for the far door. A few cells were blasted open, though the little aliens were small enough to slip right through the bars, and the air suddenly swarmed with spiky, fist-sized metal balls.

“What…Toclafane?!” Roman yelled as they ran, dodging blasts. “Why? And why are they shooting at us?”

“The Master betrayed us! Kill the Master!” Metallic spikes whirred.

“They’re shooting at me!” Janus yelled back, shooting a wild blast with his laser over his shoulder. “Or rather, at the Master!”

Laser fire exploded at Roman’s feet, sending him careening into a cell as they ran.

“Well, tell them they have terrible aim!” the Prince retorted.

“Yes, I’m sure they’ll take advice from the character who canonically used and betrayed them,” Janus snarked, zapping a Toclafane and sending it spinning into its neighbor.

They reached the far door and slid to a halt, Janus seizing the control panel to open the door.

“Funny,” Roman said breathlessly, catching up and drawing his sword. “I can relate.”

Janus rolled his eyes as Roman spun to face the oncoming horde of tiny aliens, batting away a few spinning metal spikes.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, use this!” Janus thrust his sonic into Roman’s hands. Roman, to his credit, didn’t argue, but switched his sword to his left hand and readied both.

“Remus!” Janus shouted, focusing all his attention on the door’s keypad. “A little help would be appreciated.”

Behind him, he heard his sonic buzz and the sound of Roman’s sword crunching against something metal. The ozone smell of burnt electronics was starting to hurt his lungs.

“You have to say pleeeeeeease,” Remus’s voice said.

Janus slammed a hand against the panel.

“REMUS, I SWEAR TO APOPHIS I WILL REMOVE EACH ONE OF YOUR ORGANS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER—!” he roared.

“Which alphabet?” Remus cut in.

“REMUS SANDERS—!”

“All right, all right! So violent. I love it!” Remus crowed. “Here you go.”

The door opened.

They tumbled through, Roman zapping away one last murder ball as the door slid shut again.

Chapter 12- Can You Hear Me?

“I’m still quite socially awkward, so I’m just going to subtly walk towards the console and look at something. And then, in a minute, I’ll think of something that I should’ve said…that might have been helpful.”

Roman leaned against the door for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the bright white light that filled the circular chamber. Compared to the dimness of the rest of the asylum, it was downright blinding.

“IT’S ABOUT TIME,” a harsh Dalek voice rasped, making both Roman and Janus jump and whirl.

A Dalek sat, motionless and menacing, at the far side of the room, bound in layers of chains. Its casing was green with silver trimming, and it wiggled its green-glowing eyestalk in a way that was almost…suggestive.

“I suppose that’s you, Remus?” Janus asked, visibly relaxing.

Roman sheathed his sword and realized he still had Janus’s sonic, which he tucked against his wrist. As little as he liked the unchivalrous weapon, he didn’t feel like handing it back over just yet.

“IN THE FLESH. BUT NOT REALLY.” Dalek-Remus burst into metallic giggles, sounding all the more bizarre coming from the killing machine he currently inhabited.

He probably likes being a Dalek, Roman thought sourly.

“ZAP MY CHAINS, MASTER JAN.” Remus wiggled, attempting to move. “AND LETS GO FIND THE EMO.”

Janus pulled a face.

“You…actually want to come with us?” Roman raised an eyebrow.

“THAT IS WHAT I SAID.”

Roman scrubbed a hand through his hair. He hadn’t considered what they would do if the dream didn’t end once they actually found Remus, and he definitely hadn’t considered the possibility of Remus actually wanting to be rescued. He’d assumed his brother was just, well, being himself. Taunting them, testing them, before fucking off (sometimes literally, ick) to do his own thing.

“I had hoped the scenario would end once we reached this room,” Roman confessed aloud, side-eyeing Janus.

Janus scoffed. “Well, it didn’t. Any other bright ideas, Creativity?”

“Well, we can’t take him,” Roman began, and startled backward when Remus screeched.

“EXCUSE YOU!”

“I’m sorry, Remus, but you’ve seen this episode! This is where your involvement in the story canonically ends.” Roman threw his hands up. “If we bring you along, it could mess up all the parameters we’ve established so far. And if finding you wasn’t enough, that means Specs was right; we really do have to track down old Panic at the Everywhere before the Imagination will let us go.”

“And since we haven’t the faintest idea where to start, we’ll need our TARDISs.” Janus walked back to the door and sighed. “We’ll have to run the Toclafane gauntlet again.

Roman cracked his neck. “I’m ready if you are, snake.”

“I’ll have my sonic back first.” Janus held out a hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to secret it away.”

Roman’s mouth twisted, but he handed it over.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Roman readied his sword. Janus slapped the panel.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he hit it again, but the door remained obstinately closed. Roman’s stomach sank.

Can’t one aspect of this disaster be easy? Just one?

“Remus, open the door,” Janus snapped.

“WHY SHOULD I?”

Both Sides slowly turned to face the Dalek.

“Exsscuse me?” Janus said, dipping his head to glower.

Remus’s twin head lights flashed. “WHY SHOULD I LET YOU GO?”

“Because we need to end this game, Remus! You know that!” Roman ran a hand exasperatedly down his face. “Are you choosing now to be contrary? Really?”

“EXCUSES!” Remus snapped. “THE TRUTH IS, YOU DON’T WANT MY COMPANY.”

“Remus…that’s not it,” Janus started.

“Oh, that is absolutely it.” Roman folded his arms. “You pride yourself on how many different ways you can gross someone out within the span of five minutes, and then you’re surprised that nobody wants you around?”

“I HAVE BEEN HELPING YOU THIS ENTIRE NIGHT.” Remus rattled his chains; one of them snapped. “AND YOU MAKE PLANS IN THIS ROOM LIKE I’M NOT EVEN HERE. YOU WOULD LEAVE ME BEHIND WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t do the same for a laugh, if it suited you!”

“BUT I DO NOT CALL MYSELF A HERO.”

Roman felt those words like a punch to the solar plexus. He physically recoiled, his grip on his sword tightening.

“Look, Remus—” Janus started.

“I AM EVERYTHING THOMAS FINDS DISGUSTING AND ABHORANT,” Remus continued. “UNLIKE SOME, I DO NOT PRETEND TO BE ANYTHING ELSE.”

That barb seemed to be aimed at Janus, who flinched, and Roman almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

“WHY SHOULD I ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE HERE IN TRIUMPH, JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE THE SO CALLED GOOD GUYS?” Remus surged forward, snapping the rest of his chains, and raised his gunstick. “THOMAS IS SUPPOSED TO REJECT ME, BUT WHY I SHOULD ACCEPT THE SAME FROM YOU?”

The gunstick began to glow.

Roman felt the wall at his back; out of time, out of options, again. What would they do if Remus decided to actually shoot them?

They were trapped in here.

“KILLING YOU WOULD END THE GAME, WOULDN’T IT?” Remus shrieked, shrill even for a Dalek. He rolled forward until his eyestalk was inches from Roman’s face. “TELL ME WHY I SHOULDN’T!”

Like looking in a funhouse mirror.

Roman saw his own terrified face, reflected in a Dalek eyestalk. Is this what I would be like, if I became someone Thomas…didn’t need anymore?

“Maybe you should,” Roman said quietly, the words just slipping out.

Remus stopped. “WHAT.”

“Roman, what the hell?” Janus snapped beside him. He had his sonic aimed at Remus’s headpiece, clearly ready to return fire if necessary.

Roman chuckled, bitterly.

“You Dark Sides always know how to hit where it hurts, you know? You’re right, Remus, I’m not a hero. Thomas even said so. So maybe…maybe killing us really is the fastest way to end this game. Clean reset. Done.”

“Don’t be a moron,” Janus retorted. “Thomas said no such thing. I was there for that conversation, if you’ll remember.”

“Shut up, snake!” Roman bared his teeth. “He thinks it, and don’t pretend like you aren’t the reason; you and my brother both! I knew who I was, and Thomas knew who I was, and everything was fine until you two started showing up with your lies and your lewd grossness and making Thomas doubt everything he is!” He dropped his gaze, eyes stinging. “Everything I am.”

Remus backed up a few inches. “AT LEAST YOU ARE HEEDED.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roman said tiredly, still biting back tears.

“YOU NEVER HAD TO SHOUT TO BE HEARD. WHEREAS I WILL ALWAYS BE A MONSTER.”

Janus’s face shuttered. “Remus. We’ve talked about this.”

Remus aimed his eyestalk at the deceptive Side. “I AM NOT LIKE YOU. I NEITHER WANT NOR NEED ACCEPTANCE FROM OUR SOURCE, BECAUSE I AM THE INCEPTION AND DEPOSITORY OF EVERYTHING THAT HE FINDS UNACCEPTABLE.”

“But you still want it from us,” Janus finished quietly. “Is that what this is about, Rem?”

Remus said nothing.

Roman glanced between them. Somehow he had a hard time picturing his chaotic brother sitting down and just…talking, especially about heavy stuff like purposes and whatnot. Especially with Janus?

Janus exhaled.

“Honestly, neither of you know how to change, and I have watched it hold both of you back.”

He held up fingers to forestall both their protests, and pointed at Roman.

“You have always bathed in the light with Thomas, and so you’ve never needed the motivation to be better. And you,” he pointed at Remus, “have never been accepted by anyone, and therefore have never had the opportunity.”

“But the clock ticks on, and Thomas is growing up,” Janus went on, beginning to pace. “Which means all of us, including the two of you, must adapt. This whole ‘light Side, dark Side’ nonsense has to stop if Thomas is ever to achieve any sort of peace within himself.”

“EASY FOR YOU TO SAY,” Remus said. “NOW THAT YOU HAVE A SEAT AT THE TABLE.”

“As much as I hate to agree with Remus.” Roman folded his arms again. “I have to agree with Remus. What makes you the expert in how we need to change?”

“I am Thomas’s self-preservation!” Janus snapped, stalking back to Roman. “Adaptability is one of my core functions, because those who cannot change, do not survive.”

Roman frowned. “That seems like an oversimplification—”

“You really want to know why we ‘dark Sides’ have become such a problem for you, Roman?” Janus interrupted. “It’s because you, and Patton, and to a small extent Logan, have kept Thomas trapped in a familiar, oversimplified pattern of thinking, like an ill-fitting jacket bursting at the seams!”

Janus held up a finger. “Virgil was the first tear, lighting the metaphorical flame under your butts to think deeper, think wider, think differently. And when he, too, got too used to squeezing himself to fit into that safe little kid jacket, you got me.”

He smirked.

“You got me, pushing you to understand that the world is bigger than black and white, good and evil, and that sometimes the solutions to problems are not wholly one thing or another. And when you wouldn’t heed my words, you got someone even more blunt.”

He gestured at Remus as he spoke, then exhaled and adjusted his coat.

“We are not evil alien forces creeping about in Thomas’s head, making trouble for no reason, Roman. We have purposes, too. And if you’d take one moment, and use that creative brain instead of lashing out with your fantasy-trope, holier-than-thou, six-year-old mores, I know you are capable of seeing that.”

Roman huffed, and looked away.

The problem was…he did see it.

Maybe he couldn’t have put it in such articulate terms; he wasn’t Logan, after all. But anyone who looked into Thomas’s dejected eyes lately could deduce that the so-called Dark Sides were a symptom of something deeper, not the cause of it.

He just hated when Deceit…fine, Janus…was right, and lately it felt like the snake Side was turning out to be right about a lot of things. If Roman was ever going to change…if he was ever going to be better…he needed to reign in his pride, and acknowledge the truth in Janus’s words.

“The god of doorways, of beginnings and endings,” Roman said quietly. “One face to the past and one to the future.”

Janus blinked, clearly shocked; his snake eye slitted to the merest sliver.

“I am Creativity,” Roman added, enjoying the other’s momentary discomfiture. “Do you really think I’m not familiar with all the mythology Thomas has studied over the years?”

“If you knew what it meant.” Janus spoke barely above a whisper, looking away. “Then why did you mock it?”

Roman pressed his lips together. In all honesty, despite all his posturing, he’d never been proud of how he’d acted that day.

“I was jealous,” he admitted, just as softly. “Thomas needed you, a Side he’s always seen as morally abhorrent, more than he needed me, his…his hero…” he trailed off, staring hard at Remus’s Dalek shell. “What was I supposed to think? What does that make me?”

Janus sighed, deeply, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It was never a competition. The metaphorical table is big enough for all of us. And I…” he sighed again. “I was wrong, to dig at your insecurities the way that I did. It was unworthy of me.”

Roman gaped at him. “By Odin’s beard. Was that…was that an apology?”

Janus grimaced, and flicked out his forked tongue. “Don’t get usssed to it.”

“GET OUT.”

Both Sides turned to face Remus, who’d been blessedly, unusually quiet up to that point.

“Excuse me?” Roman said.

“I HAVE LOWERED THE PLANET’S SHIELD.” Remus gestured with his gunstick as the door to his prison slid open. “WE HAVE JUST UNDER TWO MINUTES TO GET BACK TO THE TELEPORTATION CHAMBER.”

“Are you crazy?” Roman yelled, drawing his sword as the Toclafane outside swarmed toward the door.

“Kill the Master!”

A distant explosion rocked the asylum, making Roman and Janus stumble.

“IT HAS STARTED.” Remus slammed his body into Roman, pushing him toward the door. “TWO MINUTES, THE PLANET BLOWS UP. TICK TOCK.”

“What about them!” Janus shouted, zapping a Toclafane that tried to breach the doorway and hauling Roman back by one of his denim suspenders.

“I WILL CLEAR THE WAY.”

Remus rolled out into the carnage, firing his gunstick and laughing maniacally.

“EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!”

Laser bursts and smoke clogged the air, Toclafane swarmed and fell in his wake, but finally the little murder balls began fleeing en mass.

Another explosion shook the ground, closer this time.

They ran.

“What made you change your mind?” Janus panted as they rounded a corner.

“THE SCENARIO MUST END.” Remus easily kept up, despite being a tin can on wheels. “THOMAS IS ATTEMPTING TO WAKE UP.”

“What about Virgil?” Roman demanded.

“IT DOESN’T MATTER NOW.”

“You didn’t kill us,” Roman pointed out.

Remus made a grating noise that might have been a chuckle.

“MAYBE YOU DON’T KNOW ME AS WELL AS YOU THINK,” he said. “OR PERHAPS THIS IS MORE FUN.”

The floor shook violently, sending cracks knifing up the walls.

“We have a problem!” Janus, bringing up the rear, shouted as they sprinted down the last hallway. “A big, fiery problem!”

Roman felt scorching heat on his neck and glanced back. His heart dropped; the corridor behind them was rapidly being engulfed in flames.

“This bit seemed so much cooler in the episode!” he yelled, putting on a burst of speed.

“Shut up! Go, go, go!”

Patton was waiting outside the teleportation chamber, his Cyberman head swiveling back and forth. He let out a metallic screech as they approached.

“Don’t shoot the Dalek, it’s just Remus!” Janus shouted, waving his hands. “Get inside!”

They all stumbled in.

Logan crouched by the translucent floor panel, sonic poised, obviously ready to activate the teleport. Roman had never been so happy to see his nerd.

“Patton, Roman, what—?” Logan squawked when Roman grabbed his arm to haul him up on the platform. Remus levitated the last few feet; he was the last one on.

“No time, Specs!” Roman yelled cheerfully. “Step on it!”

An explosion, near and violent, rocked the platform and sent everyone but Remus stumbling into each other. Roman caught himself on Logan’s shoulders…completely by accident, of course.

“Step on…what?” Logan squinted at Roman’s face. “What’s—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Janus seized Logan’s sonic and pointed it down at the panel, whirring it to life.

Light blasted up from their feet as fire filled the doorway.

Roman braced for a fireball…but the room seemed to disintegrate around them and the awful heat vanished. He sagged against Logan’s back. Soft weight enclosed his arms…sleeves…and he realized his outfit was shifting back into his familiar Princely attire.

They had done it!

“BY THE way.” Remus’s voice warped from a Dalek’s screech to his own whiny tenor. “Whose idea was it to make Patton a Cyberman?”

Stunned silence.

“I’m a WHAT now?” Patton’s shocked voice rang out.

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frobster · 4 years

Text

Offer of a Lifetime - Ch 3

This only took a million years.

Completely SFW chapter. Bucky takes MJ and Peter to Olive Garden for dinner and talking.

Find the whole story on ao3!

☆☆☆

MJ and Bucky flanked Peter as they walked into the restaurant, which ended up being an Olive Garden. Nothing fancy, like Bucky had promised, but still nice enough to be a treat to Peter. Bucky didn’t even need to say anything to the hostess before she gathered up menus and led them to a corner booth. Peter was once again in the middle.

Bucky had his arm up along the back of the booth like he wanted to wrap around Peter’s shoulders, looking as casual as possible in a family restaurant. He flipped idly through the menu and Peter had to remind himself that the prices didn’t matter even though $20 for a plate of pasta seemed absolutely outrageous to him.

“Order whatever you want, Peter,” Bucky said as he set his menu down, having apparently already decided. “Any appetizers you want? Hell, order everything. You can take the leftovers home.”

Peter swallowed nervously and glanced over to MJ. She seemed vaguely surprised too, but more excited about it than Peter.

“Could we get the sample platter?” MJ looked over at Bucky and gave him a winning smile. He nodded easily and looked down at Peter.

“You want anything in particular? They got fried vegetables. Ain’t really healthy being fried, but vegetables are still good.” Already, Bucky was trying to take care of Peter somehow. MJ snickered beside him and Peter blushed, ducking his head to avoid looking at Bucky.

“Sure, sounds good,” Peter mumbled.

MJ could easily tell that Peter was feeling a bit overwhelmed, a bit out of place. She knew he struggled with his self-confidence at times and agreeing that he deserved nice things. This was one of those moments - where the option to be pampered and spoiled was right in front of him and yet he was ready to turn it down.

So she nudged him gently and offered a smile when he looked at her. Peter managed a small smile in return and leaned over to lay against her. MJ wrapped her arm around his shoulders and rubbed his arm soothingly.

Bucky watched and made a mental note of the bond between the two. Peter clearly trusted MJ and needed reassurance from her. He didn’t feel slighted, he was actually glad that Peter was so willing to ask for support even when out in public.

“How about those veggies?” MJ asked, her voice soft almost like a mother talking to her child. “You like green beans, right?”

Peter sat up and took a deep breath, looking more settled after his moment with MJ. He nodded and finally opened the menu that was set in front of him when they were first seated, skimming over the appetizer section. The sample platter didn’t have the fried green beans so maybe he could ask for those too.

“Could we get those too?” Peter asked as he looked over to Bucky.

“Of course we can. I told you, you can order anything you want.” Bucky was never known for being gentle in his line of work, quite the opposite. But Peter had him feeling soft inside and he just wanted to make the boy happy however he could.

Soon, the waitress came over to ask for their drink orders and if they wanted any appetizers. MJ got to order her one alcoholic drink, a pomegranate mojito, and Peter ordered lemonade. Bucky asked for just water for himself and ordered the two appetizers.

With their appetizers on the way, MJ flipped her menu to the entree section. She was fully intent on ordering whatever had the most food in it so she could take some home and have leftovers for a day or two. Peter knew that Bucky had the money to buy everything on the menu a hundred times over, but he still felt guilty looking at dishes that cost more than $20.

“You’re allowed to order whatever you want,” Bucky reminded Peter, having leaned over to speak near his ear.

Peter startled, not realizing that Bucky had leaned in so close.

“Y-yeah, I know. I just… Do people really spend so much for pasta? I could make this at home for like five bucks if I had the skill.”

Bucky chuckled and reached up to ruffle Peter’s hair, finding him to be absolutely adorable. Peter grumbled and tried to fix his hair while MJ snickered at the scene. The casual touches between them didn’t feel so awkward or scary like Peter had feared, and MJ could tell that he was starting to feel more comfortable.

“Hell, get two meals. You can eat a little of both then take the rest home. I just want you to order whatever you think sounds good.”

Even when his aunt was still alive, Peter was never able to order two meals. They had to be frugal with their money and rarely went out to eat at all, only on special occasions. Getting to peek into the life of a rich person nearly had Peter’s head spinning. But MJ nudged him again and pointed to a shrimp scampi dish that came with pasta, and suddenly Peter was much more willing to order.

“Oh, shrimp.” Peter focused on the seafood section of the menu, skimming for shrimp dishes.

Bucky watched, making another note of Peter’s love for shrimp. Maybe he could use it as a treat in the future - offering to make a shrimp dish for dinner if Peter came over again, mentioning that the gala he wanted to take Peter to would have a refreshment table with shrimp cocktail. He chuckled to himself as he continued to look over the menu just to keep his gaze off Peter to avoid making the younger man uncomfortable.

The waitress returned with their drinks and MJ eagerly accepted hers, taking a testing sip before nodding and sipping again. Peter made a face at the lemon seeds clearly visible in his glass and Bucky, ever attentive to Peter, made his own sound of dissatisfaction.

“Excuse me, could we get a lemonade without any seeds? They just make it difficult to drink.” Bucky was looking intensely at the waitress. It wasn’t really her fault, but he wasn’t going to let her leave without fixing the situation. She nodded and snatched the glass away again before hurrying back to the kitchen.

Peter flushed again, embarrassed about being fussed over. He could’ve picked them out with his straw just fine. But Bucky seemed like someone who didn’t let go of details, no matter how small, and Peter would just have to get used to that if he was going to agree to Bucky’s deal. Even though they didn’t really know much about each other, Peter could already tell that Bucky was a very controlling type and used to having everything go his way.

The waitress soon returned with a new glass of lemonade, no seeds visible, and Bucky nodded in approval. She scampered off to fulfill their dinner order and Peter sipped at his drink. He relaxed a little, always comforted by the familiar tang of the drink like his aunt used to hand-squeeze every summer. The memory made him lean into MJ again and she just pet his head gently.

“You gotta try making it yourself one day,” she insisted, knowing exactly where his mind went.

“It wouldn’t be the same.” Peter took another sip. It wasn’t as sweet as May used to make.

“Add some strawberries, make it pink.” MJ set her drink down, which was a deep maroon from the pomegranate syrup used to make it.

Peter had always been more drawn to pretty, “feminine” colors and themes rather than the typical masculine aesthetic. Light yellow lemonade mixed with the pale red of mashed strawberries sounded like a beautiful drink. Maybe if he could afford fresh fruit one week, he would try it.

“I got a juice press back at the apartment,” Bucky mentioned. Peter glanced back over, immediately interested. “You could come over any time you want and use it.”

MJ grinned, not that Peter saw. She appreciated that Bucky understood the situation and wanted to offer his help as well. Peter’s happiness really was important to him and that was what she wanted to ensure. If Bucky didn’t truly care for Peter, she wouldn’t let Peter run off with him.

“Maybe we can all go back to your place after this? I wanna make sure Peter will be comfortable if he does decide to stay with you.” MJ was as overbearing as ever and Peter just ducked his head. He felt like a kid with his two parents talking about him, much like he did whenever her and Ned spoke. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, but it did leave him feeling a little helpless.

“If you both feel up to it, sure. I can get Peter security clearance so he can visit any time. And with that clearance, he can bring guests. So you and Ned can visit as well, so long as he is with you.” Bucky’s easy agreement had MJ nodding as she rubbed Peter’s arm to draw his attention back to the conversation.

“Sounds good,” he agreed as he sat up again. Seeming like a needy child probably wouldn’t endear him to Bucky. And he didn’t want to let his chance at a better life slip away before he could make his decision.

“So Bucky, how’d you get into this line of work?” MJ asked casually before sipping at her drink again.

Peter froze, immediately assuming that Bucky would just up and leave after such an invasive question. Did she really have to jump right into the deep end? He wanted to glare at her but before he could even turn his head to do so, he felt Bucky moving next to him.

“Well,” Bucky started as he shifted in his seat. “That is a long story, and not one I feel inclined to share in a public space. If you truly want to know, I can tell you in the future. But you are essentially a stranger still and that isn’t a story I tell to just anyone.”

It was an evasive yet understandable answer. Peter didn’t expect Bucky to pour out his life story during their second meeting. The man was powerful and private and would likely never share any personal information in a public space.

“Would I be in any danger?” Peter asked softly. He was no stranger to an unsteady life, and working the streets came with its own risks. But living with a mafia boss was a far different experience.

“No. I would never allow that.” Bucky’s voice was firm as he looked at Peter, their first moment of eye contact since they entered the restaurant.

“But you can’t really control it, can you?” MJ was leaning in close, eyes narrowed. This was what she wanted - the chance to really interrogate Bucky.

“Yes I can. I own my apartment building, and most of the buildings on that block. I chose the security myself, I had systems installed, I have them checked every month. My building is safe and Peter will be safe there.”

“I’m just gonna be some kept boy you leave at home while you do whatever you want?” Now Peter sounded offended. He was used to freedom, maybe a little too much. While being taken care of sounded nice, he wasn’t about to be a house pet.

Bucky huffed, sounding as annoyed as Peter felt. MJ watched with interest, curious to see how their first disagreement was handled. Peter was glaring at Bucky and Bucky was glaring at the table. The hustle and bustle of the restaurant around them seemed to fade into the distance as both men tried to mentally prepare themselves for the discussion that could easily become an argument.

“You wouldn’t be a kept boy,” Bucky finally said, looking up again. “I could assign you a security detail so at least one other person is with you whenever you aren’t at my apartment. I could put you and MJ in self-defense classes. I just want you to be safe.”

The raw honesty that caught Peter off-guard in the car hit him again. He blinked at Bucky as he tried to figure out where this affection could have possibly come from. One night together and suddenly Bucky was completely attached?

“I’ll teach you how to handle a knife, how to handle a gun. You’ll be able to protect yourself but you’ll still have security with you. The city isn’t safe, you know that, and I can’t let anything happen to you, Peter.” There was an unusual expression on Bucky’s face, his eyes swimming with emotion that Peter wasn’t used to seeing directed at him. It made his breath hitch and cheeks turn pink.

“Okay,” Peter managed to say, his voice faint as if he had forgotten how to speak.

MJ was wary next to him, but she stayed quiet. This was a conversation for Peter and Bucky, not for her. She would just take mental notes and text Ned so they could decide together if Peter would truly be safe and happy if he decided to live with Bucky.

“Okay?” Bucky brought his arm down from being draped on the booth behind Peter and set his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe with me, I promise. And I ain’t the kinda person who breaks promises.”

Peter had a vague idea how to handle knives. He kept a pocket knife and pepper spray at all times just due to his job. There were only a handful of times where he had to make use of them but he managed well enough. Actually getting training to protect himself, to be lethal if necessary, sent a thrill through him. That was… exciting. He wanted that power.

It was surprising to him and Peter wasn’t sure what to think about his reaction, so he just tucked it away to think about later.

“Okay,” he said again, voice a little stronger. “I wanna learn how to defend myself. MJ too.” If Bucky had all the money and resources in the world, surely he could manage to fit MJ into the training.

“MJ too,” Bucky agreed with a nod.

The tense mood between them eased off a bit, just in time for their food to arrive. Peter’s eyes lit up at the sight of his plate - shrimp scampi with an indulgent amount of shrimp. It was soaked in butter and lemon juice, and his mouth was already watering. Everyone had their entree in front of them, and the appetizers were set in the middle. Apparently their order was rushed, so it all finished at the same time.

“Enjoy.” Bucky smiled at Peter, who managed to smile back. He most certainly would enjoy this meal, even if there was no possible way that he could finish it all.

Peter didn't know where to start. Should he try the appetizers first, since that was the point of them? He bit his lip as he looked over the full table and tried to figure out what to eat first. There had never been so many options available before.

Taking initiative, Bucky scooped some fried green beans onto a small plate and nudged Peter's entree plate away. The little plate took its place and Peter felt a bit of relief at not having to choose. He felt MJ watching them even as she ate, trying to pretend she wasn't.

"Thanks," Peter said softly as he picked up a green bean, crunching into it and letting out a happy hum. Bucky set the cup of sauce on Peter's plate too and Peter was happy to dip his green beans. Rather than eating, Bucky just openly watched Peter eat with a smile, seeming quite content with himself.

It wasn't until Peter finished his green beans that he realized Bucky was watching him too. He glanced over and blushed, feeling embarrassed under the open attention.

"What? I get sauce on my face?" Peter immediately grabbed a napkin and rubbed at his face.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head, turning his attention to his own plate finally.

"No, doll. I just wanna make sure you're enjoying your food," Bucky answered with a smile. Peter huffed and pushed the small plate away so he could focus on his own entree.

The table was quiet for a bit as all three of them ate. MJ continued to watch the other two from the corner of her eye as she ate silently. She had a decent feeling about Bucky despite his dangerous affiliations and she appreciated that he had paid attention to Peter.

Peter's dish was rich and he had to eat slowly. The shrimp was perfectly cooked and the lemon butter sauce lit up his taste buds like never before. He winced and shivered at a particularly sour bite and Bucky immediately leaned in again to check on him.

"I'm okay. Just not used to such strong flavors.” Peter managed a small smile again, feeling shy and uncertain under Bucky’s attention.

Peter had been trying to build up his self-confidence over the years. MJ had been a big help since he met her after high school and Ned was always available to talk in case he needed cheering up. Top surgery had done wonders for his physical confidence, but Peter still stumbled over words and struggled to process his emotions. He did his best to hide it behind a snarky facade, but Bucky had somehow broken right through that.

Bucky was clearly out of his depth too. Despite the powerful aura around him, there was an undercurrent of doubt as well. Peter could sense it and felt a little less nervous knowing that Bucky actually cared enough to be worried. He scooted a little closer to Bucky, which prompted the older man to drop his arm from the back of the booth to drape it around Peter’s shoulders instead.

Despite being a prostitute, Peter was not very used to affection. Maybe because his line of work wasn’t actually affectionate. He knew twenty ways to suck a dick, but cuddling was way out of his familiarity. It was awkward to have Bucky holding him if only because he didn’t know what to do. What did people usually do when they cuddled?

Peter glanced over to MJ who just grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. He rolled his eyes and she snickered before going back to her food. Peter tried to eat too, but leaning into Bucky got him dangerously close to the man’s fancy, expensive suit and he didn’t want to risk getting any food on it. Bucky liked him, but he was sure there were limits to that affection. Likely ending at getting his suit ruined.

“Are you full?” Bucky gently rubbed Peter’s shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“Um, n-not yet. I just didn’t wanna get anything on you,” Peter mumbled, ears going red with embarrassment.

Bucky huffed, whether in annoyance or amusement, Peter wasn’t sure. He shifted nervously as Bucky pulled his arm away and immediately assumed he had done something wrong. But all that happened was Bucky taking his suit jacket off to drape over the booth on his other side before grabbing another napkin to lay over his lap.

“There, now you don’t have to worry,” Bucky said with a smile as he wrapped his arm around Peter again.

Peter was continuously surprised by the generosity and thoughtfulness of Bucky’s actions towards him. He blinked for a moment before leaning in again and stabbing another forkful of shrimp pasta.

“Thank you,” he murmured after he swallowed, still blushing.

Their meal continued peacefully with the waitress coming to check on them almost every ten minutes. She was quick to refill drinks and clear empty plates away, clearly not wanting to upset Bucky. Whether she knew who he was or not, Peter knew anyone would fear Bucky. His eyes could get cold and emotionless as a glacier when he glared, and he could convey a threat without even opening his mouth. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

By the time everyone was full, Peter felt like he would never need to eat again. He was leaning heavily into Bucky and knew he had eaten too much. But it was all so delicious and he couldn’t help himself. A few other waitstaff came over to get their food into boxes to take back home and Peter was grateful that he didn’t have to move and do it himself.

MJ seemed happy enough so far, but she was still determined to go to Bucky’s apartment and make sure Peter would be comfortable and cared for there. She wanted to make sure the building was safe, that Peter wouldn’t be risking his life just by being associated with Bucky.

Bucky paid for the meal once everything was packed up, purposefully angling the bill away from Peter so he couldn’t panic about it. When everything was settled, Bucky slid out of the booth and pulled his jacket on again before holding out a hand for Peter.

“I promised we would go to my apartment together. Are you still feeling up for that?” Bucky asked as he held Peter’s hand again.

Peter glanced over to MJ, who nodded as she gathered up the bags.

“I’m not letting Peter out of my sight. And I need to give your place my stamp of approval before anything else happens.” Her tone was firm and confident, everything Peter tried to be.

“As you wish.” Bucky led them out of the restaurant and into the same car as before. Peter tucked closer to Bucky this time. “You two can spend the night in a spare room or I can drive you both back to your own homes. Up to you.”

The car started moving but Peter didn’t sway as much that time. He was comfortably tucked against Bucky, eyes closed and hands on his stomach. A sleepy, lazy feeling had settled over him after eating so much and all he wanted to do was take a nap. Whether in his own bed or Bucky’s, he didn’t really mind.

“I think Peter may have already made that decision for us,” MJ joked with a smile.

Bucky was happy to hold Peter, to make sure he was comfortable during the drive to his apartment. Both he and MJ had their own protective feelings towards Peter, and MJ knew this. She was growing to appreciate Bucky’s efforts rather than being suspicious of them.

“I’ll still have him sleep in a separate room from mine. It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of his exhaustion,” Bucky insisted. He wanted MJ to like him. She was a good person and meant so much to Peter.

MJ just nodded and leaned back in her seat. Maybe they would spend the night. It would give her more time to explore and think through everything. She didn’t want to overlook any detail that could lead to Peter’s discomfort or unhappiness.

Both Bucky and MJ were thinking the same thing: Peter deserved perfect happiness.

#winterspider #bucky/peter #bucky barnes #peter parker #michelle jones #marvel fic #winterspider fic #my writing #offer of a lifetime #i tried to do a read more and i hope it works sjdfhsdj

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rohad93 · 4 years

Text

Green Thumbs

It started with a few tiny, golden, colored flowers that Blue had given her on a return trip from one of her former colonies that had needed her intervention in dismantling some of the more complicated systems.

It had long petals that tapered into near razor-sharp points and nearly matched the hue of the glimmering gem in her chest.

She’d accepted the gift with thanks and a look that no doubt spelled out her confusion to her partner. At least she assumed by the way Blue laughed quietly at her under her breath with that fond look that seemed to be reserved only for her, different from the look she would gaze at Steven or Spinel with.

“They reminded me of you.” was the simple explanation for the plant. If nothing else, that made her hold the tiny organic fauna all the tighter.

Later she had placed the flowers in her personal rooms and would look at them often, but within a few rotations, they had started to sag down, their brilliantly colored leaves beginning to wrinkle and coil at the edges.

She reached out and ran her fingers gently over the petals that had begun to pucker and shrivel and frowned.

Her knowledge of regular organic life was limited, except for ways to destroy it. In terms of fauna, she knew even less, but she did know someone who was more than knowledgeable on the subject.

The diamond line didn’t ring long before the youngest diamond appeared on screen, surprised by her call no doubt.

She held the plant up for him to inspect and explained the situation.

“A gift from Blue, huh?” He smiled knowingly and Yellow only huffed but didn’t argue.

Steven was happy to explain how to keep the plant alive, even sending her several digital copies about how to care for all manner of plants. He wasn’t confident it would survive though since his area of expertise was earth plant life and this had come from a faraway star system he had never even heard of, but hopefully, the same principles would apply.

She watered it and it did perk back up after a few cycles, color, and plumpness returning to its soft petals and stems.

Yellow smiled to herself as she ran a gentle hand over the reinvigorated petals and then couldn’t help but notice how empty the large shelf looked with the single plant sitting on it.

Which was really how it started.

That one plant eventually became two and three and before she knew it Yellow’s rooms had become a veritable garden of plants and flowers that ranged from every size shape and color imaginable, even having stepped shelving build into the room to hold the plethora of fauna that now took up so much of the once cavernous space.

Since most of the plants had come from far off places in the galaxy Steven’s advice on caring for them could only take her so far, instead, she dove into her extensive library of notes about every planet that she took a plant from, careful to only take plants that lived on worlds that had similar atmospheric conditions to Homeworld after the first plant that all but exploded after only a few cycles on the planet’s surface.

Apparently, unlike the gems that were created out of these plants’ mineral resources, the organic life was a bit more… sensitive. Something she kept in mind, carefully monitoring each new addition to her growing greenhouse for a while after its introduction, though she found the word to be lacking as there was a plethora of colors now splattered through the room, though if she were honest with herself, there was more than a handful of blue and pink toned plants and flowers dotting the room.

She didn’t need to look too deeply into what that meant. She was nothing if not self-aware.

Even with Steven and Spinel to help fill the void, there were times when her gem ached fiercely at the sight of anything with those bright magenta hues, but as sharp as that pain sometimes was, it was more often than not a dull warmness. A fleeting thought, and sometimes not so fleeting, at how pleased Pink would be with everything as it was now.

Yellow snorted to herself as she gazed down at a plump, blush-colored flower with an uncountable amount of tiny layered petals making it up, even as that pain tried to ignite itself in her core.

The once smallest diamond would have been absolutely beside herself to see the three of them now, perhaps herself especially.

Tearing her gaze away from the plants in question, her eyes immediately found what she might say was her personal favorite.

A flower from a faraway world on the edges of the once empire

It’s six nearly symmetrical petals were a pale almost violet color at the center, darkening toward the tips into rich cobalt, where they the curled ever so gently under.

They were small, considering all the plants around her that dwarfed them in size and grandeur, but it fit in the palm of her hand and the deep, complex colors and simple beauty reminded her so much of Blue that she’d planted a number of them to make up for their lack of size and presence.

While she could visit her counterpart anytime she wished Yellow still had many things to make up for and an immeasurable amount of damage to fix as far as shattered gems and her experiments were concerned, such as the cluster, luckily she had an eternity to correct it, in fact she often lost track of the time and Spinel was forced to come and fetch her when she had worked past an appointment time.

She could spend long amounts of time at her desk, carefully piecing together even the smallest nearly microscopic shards until she had a whole gem. Sometimes though, she just didn’t have all the pieces. Those were not good days. Those were days she would have to walk away, with the air crackling with the unspoken threat of an electrical storm.

Today was just such a day.

She had gone through every bubble in her possession and couldn’t find the last pieces she needed to fix the gem she was currently working on. These bubbles had been early, smaller prototypes of the cluster, so none the gems here were part of the cluster, meaning that the pieces she needed were simply gone, lost.

A frustrated noise worked its way out of her throat as she carefully placed the incomplete gemstone, with its jagged, splintered edges back in her bubble and looked at it for a long moment before setting it specifically to the other side of the room, where several other similar gems sat, incomplete, for always.

A grim reminder that while she could work nonstop till Homeworld ceased to exist, that she would never be able to completely erase all the mistakes she had made, nor fix all the pain she had caused.

The longer she stared at her failures the more energy began to burn and sizzle across her skin in little sparks but then in jumping arcs or brilliant yellow light.

Her jaw set and electricity buzzed around her closed fists. She turned, ready to unleash the pent up energy when the sight of all the vibrant plants helped her reign it in, as one wrong placed firing of her powers could send the whole room up in a blaze and she had worked much too hard carefully cultivating all the fauna to let her temper send it all up in flames within mere moments.

She lowered her raised hand and sighed, letting her powers fizzle out as quickly as they had reared their head.

She could still feel the pent up energy crackling beneath just beneath the surface and set about watering and pruning the plants, losing herself in the calming monotony of the tasks, much like when she put gems back together. The frustrated energy bleeding out with every snip of her tiny shears and pruning of a wilted leaf or flower as she knelt on the floor, the remains becoming ash nearly instantly in her hands.

She became so engrossed in the task that she never heard the doors slide open with a quiet hiss, nor the quiet rustling of fabric.

"I very much like what you've done with your rooms."

Yellow jerked, looking over her shoulder to find Blue, standing behind her, admiring all the plants that littered every available space that wasn’t needed for walking or working.

“Blue! I didn’t hear you come in…” She stood, brushing any specs of soil, imaginary, or otherwise from her form.

“So I noticed.” She smiled a hint of laughter in her voice. “It’s beautiful, Yellow. Whatever made you decide to take this up?”

“Thank you.” She set the shears down and clasped her hands behind her back. “It wasn’t something I planned…It just happened, I suppose.” Her eyes looked over the dozens of plants, easily finding the source of the indoor garden. Blue followed her gaze and saw what she was looking at.

The golden flowered plant that she had given her nearly a month previously, a bright spot, nestled between two of Yellow’s favorite blue, flowering plants.

“Oh!” Blue walked quickly over to the plant and ran her fingers over the bright, healthy leaves. “You still have this?” She looked surprised and Yellow looked affronted.

“Of course,” she huffed. “I never dispose of a gift.”

Blue leveled a long look at her and she scoffed.

“I never dispose of a gift from you,” she clarified, and Blue smiled.

“I know you don’t, but to be honest, I didn’t expect it to live this long,”

She was doing her best not to laugh in the face of the scandalized look Yellow was now making.

“I’m glad I was wrong though, and I very much like all the additions. It adds some much-needed cheer in here.”

Yellow only grunted, turning to look at the flowers instead of Blue, who walked up beside the quiet gem, adamantly refusing to look at her and laid a gentle hand on her arm, stopping at her side.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, darling, only that caring and nurturing organic life is just so… different from what you did before it’s surprising is all. It is very beautiful,” she insisted.

Yellow hummed in acknowledgment, diamond-shaped pupils finally sliding over to meet Blue’s, who smiled at her when she did, tightening her hold on the golden gems arm.

“Considering how adept she was at breathing life into all manner of things, I think Pink would be very proud of what you’ve done as well.” She hummed, laying her head on Yellow’s shoulder as she looked at all the brightly colored plants, eyes drawn to the brilliant fuchsia ones just behind the ones she had given Yellow.

A hand reached up to lay itself gently over the one she had curled around Yellow’s arm and she looked up to find golden eyes fixed on her.

“I think she would be proud of all of us.” The tone left no room for argument and Blue only smiled, laying her head back on Yellow’s shoulder.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

#bellow summer bash #bellow diamond #yellow diamond #blue diamond #fic

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god-fucking-dammit-mizutani · 4 years

Text

Just This Once 2

Word Count: ~7048 Part: 2/? Summary: Taichi gets invited along on a free vacation with the Izumi family to a quaint little cabin where there promises to be great food, plenty of activity, and sun in the forecast. The catch? The whole family thinks he’s dating Koushirou.

Taichi wishes it were true

Read First Chapter Here

Read on in Full on Ao3 or Below to Continue

Years of conditioning for soccer has rendered the act of sleeping-in a useless feat for Taichi. That, and the aroma of coffee slowly permeating into the room beckons him to find the source and consume, at minimum, fifty cups to get through the day.

It must be a little before seven when he finally wrestles off the strip of the blanket he had thrown over his stomach at some point in the night, rolling off his side of the bed as silently as he can muster. His phone confirms his suspicions, the little analogue clock rearranging the numbers into the new hour. A small sense of pride wells in Taichi’s chest to know he had been right.

He fishes through his duffel bag for the first pair of sweatpants, slipping them up and over his thighs swiftly. He spares a glance back over his shoulder, to make sure he hasn’t yet disturbed his roommate—No, wait, his boyfriend— and lets out a relieved sigh when Koushirou seems no less awake.

He grimaces a moment later when the bedroom door squeaks upon opening, and practically howls when he pulls it back towards himself on the other side, trying his best to be careful. He considers letting the door sit where it is, so as not to test fate by sealing it closed, but Taichi frowns. He can already hear cluttering down the hallway, where he remembers passing through the kitchen last night. Of course Koushirou would hear any bits of conversation or clattering of items with the door opened and so he makes sure to listen for the dead bolt to click into place, keeping the one barrier between Koushirou and sleep fastened tightly.

Without the resistance of their bedroom door, the scent of coffee is far more pervasive. Taichi takes a deep, indulgent breath in where he stands and it is enough to feel just that little more awake. He hums in anticipation, following the fragrance all the way down the hallway and into the kitchen where the coffee pot greets him with the chatter of promise.

Someone has hoisted themselves onto the counter adjacent, kneeling just in front of an army of mugs placed beside them. Taichi just about offers his services when they bounce back to the hardwood floors and he recognizes Koushirou’s mother, smiling as she notices him.

“Did you sleep well?” Kae wonders, her demeanor disarmingly cheerful for the time of morning. She closes the cabinet door she had just been rummaging through, another coffee cup in her hands.

Taichi only hums. It’s simpler than telling her, “Your son is too pretty for my health and I spent the whole night contemplating my life’s choices, thanks.”

Behind her the coffee machine sputters and hisses, reminding him of why he had come here in the first place.

“Would you like some?” she asks. Taichi counts the cups already sitting out and surmises there must be enough for almost every member of the family. Kae places the mug she had hazarded out of the cabinet onto the counter among it’s kin. It proudly exclaims, “You’re Stressing Meowt,” around a little silhouette of a cartoon cat.

Taichi smiles at the image before he remembers to say, “Yes, please!”

“It’s only going to be black for now,” she warns him, checking on the machine. It looks more than halfway to the full line point and so Taichi waits on the edge of the kitchen, teetering from one foot to the next, not sure if he should retire himself to the living room and stay out of her hair.

But Kae smiles back at him and asks, “How was your drive in last night? Masami says you boys got in pretty late.”

“It was pretty late,” Taichi reasserts. His fingers catch an edge of the countertop where the stiff, wallpaper-like overlay hasn’t been properly cut away, running his hand back and forth along it, watching as it springs back to the center after every pull or push. He remembers when his family had similar counters back home, a sickly yellow that always clashed with the faded blue backsplash up until the apartment complex renovated all the units with marble slabs instead. Taichi kind of likes how it looks in the cabin— rustic, comes to mind again as he flicks at the paper. It’s a nice light green, blending kindly into the accent wallpaper between the counter and the walls, where odd little cows graze on a grassy pasture with blue skies and puffy white clouds. He remembers to add in, “The drive was fine,” when she tilts her head, still waiting on the answer.

“Good to hear,” she says, still smiling brightly. The kitchen falls silent. Kae perks up at the lack of noise, and turns her focus back on the now full carafe and takes it from the hot plate. Little bits of liquid pass through the top and sizzle on the burner in its absence. She pours the dark liquid into each of the cups on the counter, humming a tune Taichi can’t quite place. Over her back sun leaks in through the kitchen window, sifting through her hair as she dips back and forth over her work, making the edges of every strand appear more blonde than he knows them to be.

Kae hands him the cat mug he had been admiring earlier. Taichi accepts it with the highest level of gratitude he can muster. He doesn’t have the patience, or state of mind, to wait, already tipping back his first sip. It burns the tip of his tongue and tastes awful without the sweetness of sugar to chase out the bitter notes, but Taichi already feels the effects. It’s a shame coffee always smells better than it tastes.

“Would you—” Kae starts, then pauses, her fingers already around a second cup. Taichi beckons her to continue. “Would you mind taking this to my sister-in-law?” she holds up the mug briefly before settling it back on the counter. “I was going to bring Masami’s to him in bed,” she says, a sweet, rosey color tinting her cheeks as she admits it. “But Keiko’s waiting for it on the front deck and I—”

“No worries,” Taichi pushes through quickly, taking the mug off the counter. His heart sings at the prospect of being useful, even for such a small task. It isn’t quite a new feeling, but he wonders if it’s in no small part a vague desire for redempedation, for the trickery he has and will play on them in the coming week. The thought settles thick and hot in his stomach, like a full pot of coffee. He swallows. “I was going to take mine out there, too,” he tells her, sheepishly.

Kae beams at him. It could rival the sun, he thinks.

Keiko is as boisterous as Taichi had gathered from Koushirou’s briefing of the events yesterday. She calls him over with an enthusiastic waving motion over the brim of her wide sun hat and a bright, “Taichi!” before the screen door can even shut.

He drops the ceramic cup onto the glass countertop in front of her, frightened for only a moment that he might have cracked something. She simply smiles up at him. Dark black hair curls around her ears from beneath her hat, and even in the shade of it Tacihi can tell she’s as pale as the rest of the Izumi’s he’s been familiar with. Though her eyes are covered in thick, dark sunglasses, Taichi can feel the bright intensity of her gaze on him.

It’s much cooler out here, than in the city, but it is still so damn muggy. Taichi considers taking his coffee out to the dock where he can dip his feet into the lake. He hadn’t noticed it at all last night, in the dark, but under the sun the polished wood is bright, the structure swaying peacefully over the quiet ripples of the lake stirred only by a slight breeze.

As if sensing his defection, Keiko pats the cushion beside her and urges Taichi to, “Take a seat!” And as if it will help anything she adds, “I don’t bite!”

Which is always so very welcoming.

Taichi casts a forlorn glance at the lake, already missing the feel of the water around his skin, and takes the proffered seat instead.

“I’m Keiko,” she says. “Koushirou’s aunt.” Taichi doesn’t know how to answer, since she already seems to know his name, but he offers it up anyway. “Of course you are,” she says, lightly touching a hand to his shoulder. He suspects she’s been out here for a while now, yet her fingers are still cool where they graze his skin. “I’m so glad I’m finally meeting you,” she gushes.

She says it in a way that sounds like it’s been months, or years, and not just a little over a week since Koushirou started the ruse. Before Taichi became a part of it. He keeps his mouth pressed together, almost afraid that any syllable left uncheck might be a giveaway, that he could possibly be speaking every thought aloud. In contrast her smile is long and exuberant, colored brightly in a shade of red that reminds Taichi of Koushirou’s hair and he wishes he were up and out here with him, if for nothing more than in camaraderie of their shared secret.

Taichi downs a longer sip of coffee. It’s a mistake, the liquid far too hot for consumption still that it burns his throat all the down. Keiko takes her own mug from the table and blows across the top of it for a moment, before gracefully taking her own sip. If it is still too hot, she shows no signs. Taichi frowns at his lap.

“Is Koushirou still asleep?” she wonders. This time she does not look directly at him, her face down into her own cup. She seems, somehow, small and it feels uncharacteristic in the short time he has known her. Taichi just nods. “What time did you boys make it in last night?”

“Late,” Taichi offers at first. He takes another gulp of coffee and specifies, “Sometime after one, I think?” He’s glad she must not have heard the door slamming last night, when they’d first come in.

She frowns at him. “What time did you leave yesterday?”

They’re very innocent questions, Taichi reminds himself, but more than one feels like an interrogation. His eyes focus on the lake. There’s an unopened umbrella sitting in a hole in the center of the table, obscuring part of the view. He almost thinks to open it, but somehow feels like it will be an admission of guilt. Which is just ridiculous.

He should have stayed in bed. Taichi’s heart prickles, wondering if Koushirou would have greeted him with a tired, little smile, and contemplates if it would be weird to just go back now, and take a nap.

Instead he answers, “After dinner. But they, uh, shutdown two lanes of traffic for a huge accident.”

“No!” Keiko gasps. Taichi stiffens for a moment— this is it —but Keiko just watches him, her mouth partially slack open in horror as she asks, “Neither of you were hurt, right?”

Oh. His leg bounces just under the table. “No, we, uh, just hit the backend of the traffic. So everything was down to one lane for miles.”

“Koushirou must have loved that,” she huffs out a laugh. “I bet he just typed away every hour of it.”

“He drove the whole time,” Taichi tells her.

Keiko stares at him from behind her shades. He thinks he can see her eyes, blinking at him, stricken by this information. Just as quickly she recovers, leaning against the table with another long smile, a single finger lifted over it as if she’s whispering something conspiratorial to him. “Koushirou must really love you,” is not what he expects.

“I don’t—” he tries, not really sure what the proper response should be in this scenario. Is it, “Thank you”? A, “I don’t know”? Does he say, “I really love him, too”? He can barely think with his heart pounding aggressively in his chest, all the blood in his body pooling to his head but none of it actually coming to the aid of his brain.

“Oh, Taichi,” Keiko coos, her lips curling upward even more. She presses the red of them together and tells him, “You look like a cooked lobster!”

He’s ready to scream like one, too.

The screen door opens just about then, Kae ducking out from behind it. She looks at them both questiongly for a moment, before she tells them, “I’m heading off to the store. Does anyone want anything?”

“Breakfast!” Keiko shouts, standing up from the table immediately. “Let me get you some money.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kae starts as her sister-in-law passes by her to get back inside. She sends Taichi a fond, exasperated smile. He knows now where Koushirou picked up the habit from. Her expression fades to a more concerned one as she takes in what Taichi presumes to be his still red face. “Are you getting burnt already? If you need sunblock there’s some in the little basket by the couch, okay?”

“I’m fine,” he manages. His heart doesn’t seem to take the cue and settle down, but on the bright side the breeze that passes over them feels much cooler than it had before.

He leans forward into his hand and stares down the lake. Koushirou loves you, is something he has only ever dreamed of hearing someone else say. It feels surreal, even when he reminds himself that it is, in fact, not real.

“Bring back something you think everyone will want,” he hears Keiko instructing Kae a moment later. He looks over to see the darker haired woman shoving a wad of bills into Kae’s purse, smiling proudly. “Should be enough for some groceries, too!”

“It’s no problem—”

“It’s my treat,” Keiko insists, coming back to sit beside Taichi on the deck.

“How about you, Taichi?” Kae asks. A moment later she clarifies, “Is there anything you want me to pick up for you?”

“Oh, uhm,” Taichi starts. Grocery shopping isn’t exactly high on his activity list, but he does need something to eat later, and so he asks, “Can I actually come with you?”

Kae looks taken aback. He wonders if no one usually offers. “Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay here.”

“Nah it’s fine,” he insists standing up. “I can help load the car, too.” He offers up his best attempt at a grin and watches as Kae’s shoulder’s droop, her smile back at him grateful. “Just let me get dressed.”

“I’ll start the car!”

Koushirou is still fast asleep when Taichi opens the door to their shared living quarters. He breathes in slowly, almost fearful that any quick gasps of air might disturb him into waking. This time Taichi keeps the door just ever slightly ajar so he won’t have to shut it more than once and digs through his things. With more light to aid him, it’s easier to find a more presentable shirt and jeans.

He’s reaching for his wallet off the nightstand where he had left it, when he notices the pair of dark eyes quistively watching him. “Morning,” he whispers, leaning over the comforter and resting his head on his crossed arms. “Did I wake you?” he wonders, but Koushirou merely shakes his head.

He does, in fact, send Taichi a small, still sleepy smile, his eyes barely able to keep open. Instead of words all Taichi receives is a grunt, which he chooses to read as a Good Morning back.

“I’m going to the store with your mother,” Taichi informs him. Koushirou blinks. He wonders if it’s a form of morse code that he was supposed to learn before coming here. “Did you want to come?”

Koushirou groans.

Taichi smiles into his elbow, poking Koushirou on the cheek with his other hand. “Is that a no?”

Koushirou huffs back at him, throwing the duvet over his face.

“Okay,” he laughs. “Did you want me to pick you up anything?”

This time he gets no response and Taichi pats the only tuft of red still poking out from beneath the covers. “Have a good nap,” he tells Koushirou. He makes sure to actually grab his wallet this time and place it in his back pocket before heading out to meet with Kae.

It is only after Kae pulls out of the driveway that Taichi realizes his mistake.

In all the years of his friendship with Koushirou there have of course been pockets of time when Taichi has been alone with his mother. With a movie playing in the background; at a dinner table; waiting for everyone else outside of the bathroom at the movies, or the zoo, or museums. Places where there was something to talk about, or activities to pass the time.

Back then, he’d simply been Koushirou’s best friend. But now, he was supposed to be his boyfriend. He hadn’t given any thought to how heavy that title would feel until it was sitting between them.

For miles there is nothing but dirt and trees. Taichi watches them silently, trying to memorize any specific characteristics in case he has to roll out of the car and escape.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Kae comments on a short laugh. It might be his imagination, but maybe she’s just as nervous as he is.

Taichi takes a deep breath in but nothing telling really comes to mind so he simply says, “Yeah,” as they pull out onto a main road. He assumes there’s nothing on the radio, and he’s too afraid to ask if she has any tapes or CDs.

He touches his forehead to the cool glass of the passenger seat. Down the road a family of balloons wave at him, several blue and one gold, ruffled by the wind generated by the cars speeding past it. Each of them are anchored to the earth by one of those signs Taichi associates with wet floors. He squints as they come up on it, a vibrantly printed sign pasted on the front. Fun! Rides! Prizes!, it promises him with a prominent display of a ferris wheel set in the background. A carnival, he assumes, as their own car whizzes by too fast to read the whole thing.

“I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,” Kae continues after another round of silence.

“I don’t really have anything to do until school starts back up. But, uh, thank you for letting me come,” he mentions, feeling his cheeks heating up. His mother would be disappointed he waited so long to say it, but Taichi’s always had trouble with timing. “And for being, uh,” he thinks about the shared room, of Koushirou’s sleeping face under the moonlight and feels his cheeks heat up as he decides on the word, “Open. About everything.”

“Oh,” is all Kae says for a while, puckering her lips. “That’s—you don’t have to...” She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, but anything she means to add to the conversation seems to trail off there.

Taichi doesn’t recognize any of the names on the store fronts when they pull up to a small-scale mall. He suspects the main grocers are probably a local chain judging by the signage and coupons laying in the outside crates. He grabs one out of curiosity on their way in, skimming down through the non-perishable section. There’s a sale on cereal, he notes wryly. He had half expected their outing to be at some farmer’s market, but he’s both disappointed and grateful it’s not the case.

Kae wipes down the handle of a cart, pulling it away from the rest with a quick tug. She finishes wiping off her own hands before throwing the soiled towelette away in the nearby receptacle and smiling at him. “I’m going to grab the dry items first,” she explains, pointing towards the far end of the store. “You’re welcome to look around on your own,” she offers. “It’s a small store so we shouldn’t get too lost.”

“Oh,” Taichi says. “Sure.”

Kae beams at him.

He hates to think of it as relief, the moment Kae disappears down one of the far aisles, but it can’t be anything else. It feels nice to be relatively alone for a moment.

Taichi takes his own hand basket and peruses the aisles leiserously. He’s used to the stores in the city, where it’s generally ten people to a cramped aisle on weekdays, but here it feels like he could wander the whole store and only ever see two other people. It’s nice. He takes his time in the easily prepared meal section, pulling out a few microwave meals and sprinkles some junk food into the cart as well. In the drink aisle he grabs a few options of almost fluorescent colored sports drinks and pauses for a moment where he’s crouched.

Just to the left of his fingers is the shelf stable tea drinks. Taichi considers them for a moment, and then grabs several of the tall bottles of Oolong. They’re heavy, weighing down his basket and almost knocking him over onto the hard tiled floor as he tries to stand back up straight.

He only runs into Kae when he’s waiting behind the only other person in the store, at the only open register. She pulls up right behind him with her shopping cart brimming with groceries.

“Find everything okay?” She asks brightly, placing a few of the items right behind his on the conveyor belt.

“Yep,” he answers, placing one of the dividers between their items and then helping her with the rest of her stuff. Taichi has never seen this many groceries before in his life. She must have taken half the store’s stock of eggs alone. He’s glad he decided to come and help.

By the time the person in front of them has finished up both his purchases and friendly chat with the clerk, they’ve already unloaded the entire cart. Taichi tries not to look surprised that they all fit, even with his own still up there. Kae slides past him elegantly, standing in front of the cashier and Taichi feels his shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t know how to remind her that he’s next. She doesn’t seem to notice either when the clerk starts scanning all the items he’d grabbed, just smiling and making polite conversation about how lovely the day has been, how bright the sun is.

As the clerk notices the divider at the end of his personal items, Taichi takes a step closer to pay, but Kae waves at her and says, “Sorry, we’re together.”

Taichi stares as she starts handing him back the already filled bags of his groceries, telling him to put them in the cart. “I—” he starts when Kae moves to give him another bag. “I have money,” he mentions, sheepishly. He taps the wallet in his back pocket, ready to relinquish a couple of dollars on her just as Keiko had done, but Kae snorts at his words like he has told a rather well-timed joke.

“Nonsense,” she tells him. “You’re our guest this week.” When she grabs for the last of his now bagged items, she gently pulls out one of the bottles of Oolong, staring at the label quizzically. “I didn’t know you liked this drink.”

“Can’t stand it,” he admits. Just the thought of it coats his tongue with an unpleasant memory. Kae looks taken aback for a moment before her face brightens with a grin and she hands him off the bag.

“He’ll be happy,” she tells him quietly.

Taichi watches the numbers on the register go higher and higher, like it’s competing to match his pulse. The clerk smiles pleasantly at him when their eyes meet by accident and she asks him about his day. All he can manage is, “Fine,” and feels like that’s a lie. He hates to think it’s becoming a habit now.

“You’re so helpful, Taichi,” Kae gushes as they finish loading up the car. He can’t read a single flippant motive in her expression as they slip into their respective seats.

“Can I get that in writing?” he jokes. He slips on the buckle of his seat belt and to her questioning gaze answers, “My mom wouldn’t believe it from anyone but you. She’s always raving about the way you raised Koushirou. Since he’s so polite.”

Kae colors a little under the praise, but the corners of her lips seem unable to settle. Instead she places a hand on the back of his seat and watches the back window over her arm as she pulls out of the parking spot. On habit, Taichi turns and looks along with her.

Even though there’s no other cars on the road in either direction, Kae hesitates for a while at the end of the parking lot. The only bit of her expression Taichi can read with her sunglasses flipped back down over her eyes is the puckering of her lips, the white of her knuckles as she holds the steering wheel unnecessarily tight.

“Do—” she hesitates longer. Taichi waits. “Do your parents—know? About you and Koushirou?”

Taichi whips his gaze forward at that, the same stiffness returning to his shoulders. Kae turns out of the parking lot and back down the road they had been on probably about an hour ago.

“No,” he finally manages. His knee bounces on the carpeted floor, his eyes darting towards his side of the road. It’s barely a different view than before.

“Oh,” she says back. Kae lets out a long breath— an almost contented sounding sigh. Then a moment later she seems to startle and wonders quickly, “Would they be— your parents wouldn’t—?”

“Oh, no!” Taichi realizes, waving his hands as if to dispel the very thought. “My parents are fine, I just, uh. We thought—” he breathes in, trying to remember what Koushirou had said to him yesterday and explains, “Koushirou and I thought it would be better to wait, before telling anyone. In case it didn’t work out, you know. It's, uh, a big change."

He doesn’t tell her it’s not meant to work. Taichi looks up to the bright blue of the sky and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto, his head thumping back against the seat. All at once it feels like a day's worth of fatigue has been dropped on him.

“But they know I,” he swallows. It feels weird coming out to someone else’s parent, even if they are his supposed boyfriend’s. “That I also like guys.”

Kae thumps a hand over her heart and lets out a very winded, “Oh, good,” as she relaxes further back into her own seat. Taichi watches her curiously. Kae catches his gaze and smiles back at him sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” she says, sparring him another quick glance before watching the road again.

"Koushirou said the same thing, but you know how he can be… I thought it was to spare our feelings, that maybe he didn't feel comfortable with us ," she wrings her hands on the steering wheel again. "Then I wondered if perhaps it was your family situation and I just wanted you to know, you're always welcome in our family."

She smiles at him quickly, something apologetic and welcoming. "I'm sorry," she repeats, softer, "that we made you two share it with us before you were ready."

Taichi looks down at his hands. “It’s alright.”

“I am glad it was you,” Kae admits to him. Her smile is only sweet now, lacking in anything facetious, when she turns it on him briefly. “You’ve always been like family,” she adds in. The admission makes his heart sing, his head dizzy as the words spin around it. “And Koushirou always seems much happier with you around, Taichi. You’re a good influence.”

“Now that I will definitely need in writing.”

Kae laughs.

They stop at a small diner somewhere near their turn back to the cabin. Kae orders several helpings of pancakes and grits and eggs to take back and Taichi’s stomach growls in anticipation. She takes the bag of food with her as soon as she turns off the engine, right back in her parking spot at the cabin. Taichi meets her around the back of the trunk, the whole thing lifting at once with a click of a button.

Taichi's arms are already sagging with the weight of one too many bags when a new face pokes around the edge of the car and offers, "Can I help?"

"Oh," Kae startles, pulling a few bags of her own out the trunk, "that would be very sweet of you, Kousuke!"

“You must be Taichi,” Kousuke says, staring up at him consideringly. After a moment he decides, "You're not what I was expecting."

"Sorry," is all Taichi can muster under the other's gaze. Kousuke's blue eyes remind him of Yamato's, deep and scrutinizing. A breeze passes between them, disturbing the shadows across the ground from the trees above their head. The plastic handles slip along his fingers, digging in and burning his skin.

"Don't be," Kousuke finally says, stepping around Taichi and accepting a few bags from Kae. He doesn't expand on either comment, heading back to the cabin with nothing more than an acknowledging nod back in Taichi's direction.

Great start.

Taichi traces the same path back to the cabin, eyes watching the dirt and pebbles as he walks. All he needs now is to trip and faceplant. He makes it to the stairs where Keiko greets him, all wide smiles.

"You can leave them right here," she tells Taichi, pointing to the top step. As he places the first one down, Keiko takes it up, humming on her way back into the kitchen. Taichi deposits the rest of his load, then turns back to check if there’s more.

Behind him, Taichi hears a set of footsteps quicken to meet up with him. Masami taps him with the full weight of his palm onto Taichi's shoulder saying, "You boys sure got in late last night."

He knows Koushirou's father well enough to read his words at face value and not the deadpan delivery of his tone, but Taichi still feels his stomach twist, his nerves walking on a tightrope over a volcano.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Sorry you had to wait up for us," he adds.

Masami hums, falling easily into step beside Taichi. "Wanted to make sure someone was up. In case you boys hit some trouble."

Taichi doesn't really know what to say to that so he settles on a simple, "Yeah."

Like a goddess of mercy, Kae passes them not a moment later. "You should be able to finish between you two," she relays, dropping the keys into her husband's hand. "I'll see you inside!"

She is right. Taichi's second load is considerably less, and with Masami they're able to clear out the entire trunk. Taichi drops his own bags to the dirt to help close the door as Masami locks it up.

Their walk back is silent. Masami takes the stairs first and heads directly into the kitchen. Taichi hesitates on the stoop.

It is odd, he decides. Taichi's never really felt uncomfortable around Koushirou's parents before. During soccer season Masami even humors him, keeping the sport's channel on in the mornings whenever Taichi spends the night, pretending he cares enough to know the player’s by name and number even when he can never seem to remember their positions.

Nothing has changed. Not really . He doesn't think either of them have changed in any case, but it just feels different.

Or maybe, it should be different. He doesn't really know.

"Is this the last of it?"

Taichi looks up. Koushirou stares back down at him from the top of the stairs, curiously, reaching out a hand to offer his assistance. Wind ruffles his hair lovingly, sun brushing gently through his fiery locks. Thoughtlessly, Taichi transfers over several of the bags. His skin feels warm beneath Taichi's palm for the briefest of moments. The shirt he’s slipped on is dark, a lovely compliment to his skin. Taichi wonders if he’ll get any color this week, other than sunburned. Unlikely, he knows.

"Morning sleepyhead," he manages in jest, hopping over the last step to follow Koushirou inside. He levels Taichi with a quick glare over his shoulder.

Behind them the screen door snaps back shut, but no one else in the kitchen pays it any mind. Kae and Masami are filling the shelves easily between the two of them, skirting around each other as if it were a practiced dance.

Koushirou drops the bags he'd taken from Taichi onto the counter, some of the items spilling out along the surface. Taichi follows suit, pulling a full bag of onions out and frowns. He looks around the kitchen, but there’s no indication of where the produce should go and there’s not enough room with the four of them to start opening every cabinet in the hopes he’ll find a clear sign.

Koushirou bumps against his side momentarily. Taichi freezes, even though he feels warm, right against him. "You've helped enough," he tells Taichi, his voice low and airy. "Procure some breakfast before my cousin comes back and devours it."

It's an out, he supposes. Taichi smiles graciously and takes it.

Taichi takes his plate back outside to the deck table where the only evidence of other people is the constant clattering of cabinet doors and small echoes of chatter let out through the screen window to his back. He cuts off a piece of one of his pancakes with the flat edge of his fork and even though it’s completely saturated in syrup, he still runs it through one of the amber puddles on his plate. Pancakes are, afterall, just a vessel for syrup.

Even as the sun ascends above him, beating down directly atop the crown of Taichi’s head, it is unarguably cooler out here than within the city limits of Odaiba.Taichi doesn't mind this type of heat, when a trickle of a breeze rolls through, the crisp scent of the outdoors and lake water riding past. He can breathe a little more easily here.

The coffee he had abandoned before his trek out to the store with Kae sits still in front of him. Taichi contemplates going back inside for milk or sugar, or to even pour the whole thing out for a fresh cup, but he decides better on it and takes a large gulp of the dark liquid. Even under the bearance of the sun, it has somehow cooled down, a decent enough temperature on his already scalded tongue.

"Let me get that for you, mom." Taichi thinks the voice sounds like Koushirou's aunt. His guess is proven correct when he can see Keiko's bright pink hat through the dark screen of the door, her back holding it open.

"Oh, don't fuss," another woman says. Despite her words, she sounds in no way as if she is scolding Keiko. Taichi recognizes Koushirou's grandmother, from a few dinners at the Izumi's household. He still remembers when she had first come over, telling Taichi he could call her, "Grandma," as well, if he was going to be part of the family’s festivities.

He wonders blithely if the invitation is open to ersatz boyfriends.

"Do you mind if mom joins you?" Keiko asks Taichi, sweetly, already dropping the other woman's plate onto the table across from him.

Taichi can't say no, so he settles on a rigid, "Sure."

"Good morning, Taichi," Grandma greets him, taking the already designated seat. Her head barely obscures the view behind her. Taichi remembers when Koushirou had once been shorter than her and hides his snort of laughter between a healthy bite of eggs.

"Isn't it pretty?" Grandma asks him, positioning herself in the chair to look back towards the lake. Wind plays with the curls of her pepper gray hair, a long, pleased smile crossing her lips.

"Sure is," Taichi breathes. She is, surprisingly, a calm presence, but Taichi still feels the prickle of nerves tip toeing across his shoulders. He hadn't considered the possibility of lying to Grandma.

The door slams shut again.

"Where are you going, Kousuke?" Grandma asks, frowning.

"For a swim," he tells her. Taichi wonders if he's struggling to not tack on a duh , as he motions to his bathing suit with the hefty beach towel draped over his shoulders.

Grandma purses her lips. "You'll get a cramp if you swim after eating."

"I'll be careful," he promises, already racing down the steps for the beach.

The temperature seems to rise for a moment, as if goading Taichi to take a swim himself. It sounds inviting right now. He cuts off the last piece of his pancake and runs it through the sticky, dried syrup clinging to his plate still.

"It's a common myth," a more familiar voice pipes up. Taichi smiles at Koushirou as he wrestles his own way out the door, both of his hands filled. He squeezes between the wall and Taichi’s chair, placing his own plate on the table and one of the large bottles of Oolong tea. “Statistically it’s improbable he’ll drown on just a full stomach alone.”

“Oh,” Grandma starts, perking up as Koushirou drops into the seat beside Taichi, “are you joining us?”

Koushirou looks caught at the suggestion, his fingers hesitating where he was uncapping the bottle of his drink. “Taichi is my guest,” he answers simply, before wrestling the cap off and taking a long sip.

Grandma settles him with a long, pointed stare before returning her attention back to the lake, where Kousuke has already divested himself of his sandals and towel on the small strip of sand.

Koushirou plops part of his egg atop one of the already cut pieces of pancake. “It all digests the same way,” he attests without even looking back at Taichi, taking another egregiously prepared bite.

“But it doesn’t all taste the same going down,” Taichi argues even knowing it’s a waste of breath. Instead he takes his own fork and cuts off a portion of Koushirou’s still intact pancake, sliding it along the syrup on his own plate and popping it into his mouth.

Koushirou levels him with a second half-hearted glare for the day, even as he takes another sip of his drink. When he caps it back on the table, he tells Taichi, “Mom says you acquired these on my behalf.”

“Yeah,” he says intelligently. “Thought you might want them.” He adds, “She bought them, though.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate the thought,” Koushirou tells him. “You indubitably are the world’s most superlative,” he pauses there, dark eyes flickering upwards, to their audience of one and finishes simply with, “boyfriend.”

And oh. Taichi likes the sentence when it doesn’t come with the extra adjective for their relationship. He almost pokes himself in the eye with his fork, when he clamps a hand over his mouth when his grin refuses to temper itself. Grandma meets his gaze where he’s trained it back towards the lake, her smile knowing and sincere. He really hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels.

“You’re welcome,” he manages.

Koushirou hums, still working slowly on his breakfast. As revenge, Taichi swipes another piece of plain pancake off his plate much to the other’s chagrin.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Grandma wonders, turning back in her chair and digging into her own food.

Taichi chews consideringly on his stolen meal. “I might hit the lake,” he decides.

“And risk cramps?” Koushirou asks wryly.

“Grandma will save me,” Taichi says. Across the beach, Kousuke cannonballs off the dock, the splash making its way to even Taichi’s ears. When Grandma doesn’t deny the possibility Taichi pushes, “Bet she could carry me and Kousuke back to shore single handedly.”

Koushirou snorts. Grandma levels him with a bemused look as she cuts a piece of egg herself.

Taichi takes another pancake piece and wonders, “What do you usually do on these vacations?”

“Sit inside,” Koushirou tells him, predictably. “Work.”

“You should come to the lake with me,” Taichi insists, leaning in a little closer until their shoulders bump. “You mentioned a kayak, right? We could take that out. I paddle, you work.”

Koushirou stares at him. Taichi shrugs.

“I’m not risking getting my laptop drenched.”

“What about without your laptop?”

“Improbable.”

“I’ll get you on the lake this week,” Taichi promises with a toothy grin. His eyes fall back on the glittering water and he doesn’t quite understand how someone could ignore the call of it, especially in this heat. If anyone can, he supposes, it would be Koushirou. Treat me as any other partner you’ve had slips through his mind and so he tacks on, “Babe,” nudging Koushirou’s elbow with his own.

Taichi hums when nothing else is said to his proclamation. Still, Koushirou says nothing. When Taichi looks over he’s already staring into the far off distance, somewhere between the treeline of the neighbor’s yard.

“What’s up?” Taichi asks, nudging against him once more.

Koushirou startles. “I,” he begins, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Nothing,” he says, gaze slowly trailing back to where it had been shortly before. “I thought I had spotted a painted turtle.” He points briefly in the direction, to the strip of lake still visible between the trees.

“Oh?” Taichi squints, but sees nothing. “If you take out the kayak with me, we could meet your friend.”

“I’d prefer not.”

“Oh, go swimming, Koushirou,” Grandma puts in.

“See?” Taichi says. “Grandma’s on my side. I’m sure she could pull you to shore, too.”

“I take back my last assessment,” Koushirou decides, taking a rather large bite of his pancake, his eyes narrowed at Taichi. “You are the worst.”

Taichi leans back in his chair, pulling his legs up to rest heavily against the edge of the table and feels his grin pull tighter. “I try my best.”

#taishirou #taishiro #sparkle garbage #digimon #Me?? updating??? wow

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korpuskat · 4 years

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Summary: He’s dangerous. The thought whispers in the back of your skull. You smother it. Overreacting. He’s scared. He didn’t hurt you. You couldn’t have brought someone dangerous into your house. You’re smarter than that. You glance to him, and find him sitting down on your couch again, watching the TV. Please, fuck, be smarter than that. Rating: Explicit (sexual content) WC: 7,785 Warnings: Soft citrus content, threatening/controlling/inappropriate/intrusive behavior from Michael, implicit violent threat to Reader >Chapter 1 >Chapter 2 >Chapter 3 >Chapter 4 >Chapter 5 >Chapter 6 >Chapter 7 >Epilogue

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You open your eyes already tired, bouts of wakefulness left you with broken sleep and the acute knowledge you were not alone. Even in the absolute dark, you felt him. You blink and rub your eyes, try to bring some alertness back to yourself before you sit up.

He sits in a chair at the corner of your room, the white latex illuminated in the low morning light that slips between your blinds. He watches as you rise; there’s no intensity to his mask this time, no hard line to his shoulders. You meet where his eyes should be, too tired to discern why he’s in your room this morning.

Should be obvious; he came in your underwear.

He’s watching you sleep.

That should be so much more concerning than it is, but in a way… You can’t help but like him. It’s nice to get attention, even if it’s so very different than what you had wanted. He’s demanding sometimes, and scary- but he wanted you. And as much as you want to ignore it, want so desperately to focus on the fact that he’s been so horrible injured- you want him, too. You’d dreamed of a real relationship one day, the kind with dinner dates and flowers, but you can’t really complain about whatever it is that’s happening between you and your stranger.

You were circling the drain; sooner or later you’d fall in, but for now the dance you had around each other was… new. Unique. Something so different than the normal dreary aspects of life, the closest you’ve come to romance. You just had to wait until he was well enough, until you could reconcile the fact you wanted someone who wouldn’t speak to you, who had blood on his clothes that was surely not exclusively his own. A wry smile curls at your lips. You don’t even know who he is, don’t even know his name.

You stretch your back, willing your muscles to wake and ready themselves for whatever else he’d do to you today. The mask lifts as you move and you imagine in the darkness he traces your shape with his eyes. "Good morning," You rasps and swallow compulsively. Must've slept with your mouth open.

Just as with yesterday, he follows you to your bathroom and watches you brush your teeth, but as far as you could tell he remains focused on your face. He even steps aside as you move to leave. Not enough, of course, forcing you to fit between his body and the door frame, but at least you didn’t have to guide him into moving out of the way. You don't hear his footsteps behind you through the hallway, but you trust he's here anyway.

“Breakfast, then I’ll check your bandages again?” You ask, turning to glance behind you. He actually doesn’t crowd into your kitchen this time, seemingly okay with just lingering in the hallway, only half visible. He doesn’t nod, but he certainly didn’t mind telling you when something displeased him, so you figure that’s okay.

You poke through your fridge, displeased at the remaining edible foodstuff. “We’re low on eggs, but I could make toast with it?” Some produce catches your eye. “Oh, I know. Breakfast might be a little small, but I can get groceries and we can make a soup for tonight. Got some potatoes and onion left here, could add corn? Would just need to grab some meat.” You peer over the top of the fridge door. You are unsurprised that he has not moved, still standing statuesque in the shadows of your hallway. You try to meet his eyes, silently ask him to answer: “I could make it without, too. Do you prefer meat?”

He nods. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile. Again, you pull out the eggs and a skillet. You press your luck. “Do you like coffee?”

He doesn’t move this time. Oh well. You crack your eggs and leave them to start cooking while scooping grounds into your coffee maker. You’d make an extra cup for him, just in case. Soon enough the smell of fresh brewed coffee filters through your home. The eggs- only really enough for one plate this time, follow soon after. Buttering bread and throwing it in the toaster is the final touch. You stick two pieces of toast on each plate and split the eggs between you.

He still waits in the hallway, having either forgotten or ignored your plea for him to sit down yesterday, so you fill a cup of water for him and hand him both the plate and the cup. “Go sit down, turn the TV on if you want.”

He stands there a moment as you turn and begin fixing your cup of coffee, balancing the bitter taste with how awake you want to be. This time, the floorboard does not creak. You only know that he leaves and enters the living room because the prickling feeling of being watched fades from between your shoulder blades. He does not turn on the TV, but he does sit in the same spot on the couch. You enter the living room just in time to see him rolling up the latex again.

He’s a little more controlled with his hunger this time- and a little more deft with his fork. You turn on the TV again, still early enough to catch the weather. You sip your coffee and watch as the local weatherman- a young man that’s gone gray much too early- talks about the chilly breezes coming through and the long, dark nights. He makes some off-color joke about not having someone to spend those nights with.

Crunching draws you back to your guest, already done with his eggs and moving on to the toast. You hoped it was close enough to how he liked it. Not that he'd tell you. Despite the calming of his hunger, he still drinks as if parched- and to your amazement, when his glass empties, he stands, goes to the kitchen, and with the sound of running water, he actually fills his own glass.

You aren’t quite sure what to make of it. Was he getting more comfortable with you and your house? It’d be nice- maybe he could relax more. Talk to you, maybe. He stays in the kitchen for a minute- you eat in peace for the first time in two days. The water runs again, but he does not return quite yet. You watch as the anchors speak distantly, caught up the glittering of the woman's necklace. From the corner of your eye, you see the man reappears in the entryway to the living room, but does not return to his seat.

You twist to look at him directly. There’s still little wet spots over the neck and chest of his coveralls, but his mask has already been pulled down, his hands empty. He stops in the doorway and just stands there, watching. Sometimes you, sometimes the TV. You sneak glances at him between bites, only letting your eyes loiter when you’re sure he’s fixated on the screen.

You finish your breakfast and take a while to just sip your coffee. It’s actually kind of normal. Drinking coffee on the brisk November morning, watching boring news reports, trying to budget your limited funds in your head. A stranger looming in the shadows. You almost do laugh: at this point, one of those might actually be scarier than the other.

You take another long sip before tabling your remaining half-full coffee and wave him over, “Bandage time.”

He is silent as resumes his place in the cushions- even turns slightly towards you. His chest rises and falls in steady pace, and once more, he does not undo his zipper for you. That’s fine. Behind his mask, he watches as you pull the zipper down with increasing confidence.

His bruises are lightening slowly; what the shower had darkened has faded, and slowly the purples along his pecs have faded, ceding the first vestiges of his natural skin tone back to the greens and yellows of lighter bruising. He heals fast for an old man. The mottled colors highlight the pale white of the round scars over his abdomen. You struggle not to touch them.

You check his hands first. The gauze over his stumps is clean, so you tape it back down. The knife wound along his right wrist had reopened during his shower, but now is clean and scabbed nicely. The slash higher on his arm is also clean, but you take your time smoothing the bandage down, feeling the shape of his arm. He doesn’t seem to mind.

You peel off the front gauze pad to his gunshot. It’s stained a yellow-pink across the bottom, a shiny, hard crust ringing the lower edge of the scab. Concern draws you mouth tight; you’d read a little about drainage in severe wounds. “I have to check this one more often.” You say more to yourself than him and touch his shoulder. You wish you could knit his skin yourself, to rub your thumb over the puckered hole and have it disappear entirely. “I think your others are closing nicely.”

You change the bandage easily; the man’s lack of pain reaction still astounds you. He doesn’t even flinch when you touch too close to the wound itself. With the new gauze pad taped into place, you’re done. It's much faster when you aren't having to clean him and not being disgusted by the gore.

“Alright, that’s it. You’re free.” You lean back and begin to stand to throw out his dirtied bandage. His hand wraps around your left wrist- tugs you back towards him. His breath whistles through the holes in his mask, a peculiar tightness to his grasp. You meet his eye line, searching the darkness for meaning.

Your voice is delicate, “What is it?”

He leans forward- the remaining fingers of his left hand grabbing a small bottle from your medkit. You set his dirty bandage aside and take the bottle with your free hand. It’s the burn salve. Worry pangs you, “Do your burns hurt?” You should’ve looked up more about them.

He’s still except for the movement of his chest. You expected a nod at least, he’d been practically talkative today! But he says nothing, betrays nothing at all. Perhaps he didn’t want to admit his injuries pained him? Or maybe it had just felt better with the salve. “It’s okay, I’ll put it on.”

His hand loosens, then slowly lets go, turning to offer you his palm. You unscrew the lid and look inside; it’s only about half full now, but that should last you long enough to cover his hands and neck again. You’ll have to get more when you’re out later.

You rub the cream into his skin, trying to gauge if you could tell if his burns were healing. The skin seemed less red and inflamed and the new skin is shiny and taut, but you couldn’t be sure how much it had changed since you first cleaned him up. You turn his hand over and rub the cream onto his knuckles. His index finger twitches, rubbing against your wrist, the nail scratching lightly.

You switch hands. The long, peeled burn on his forearm did look better, a little less aggressive than it had before. A lightness fills your chest at the sight; he is healing. Slowly, but surely- despite your total lack of medical expertise, he was on the mend. To be sure, you liberally coat it with more cream and spread it to cover every edge until a pastel mint color covers the entire wound.

You look up as you finish, finding the same pale mask staring you down. His hand lingers on yours, not breaking the soft contact between you, but you motion to his neck. “That too?”

The shifting of his head is so slight, you think you might’ve imagined it. But he’s confident enough to tell you when he doesn’t want something, so you scoot closer and move up to smear cream just above his clavicles. He must’ve nodded, because he doesn’t stop you. Instead he tips his head back, lifting the mask’s latex flaps so you can reach the burn easier.

The memory of yesterday makes you shiver and try to catch a glimpse of the eyes hidden beneath the mask. The foggy blue is gone now, the shadows obscuring his face. You follow the full circumference of his neck, even getting him to lean forward so you can get it on the nape of his neck. But it’s done quickly for how small and regular the red skin is, and after checking your work, you move away to put your kit back together.

The feeling of his hand on your wrist is becoming disturbingly commonplace. Again, his touch is slick on your wrist with the cream covering his fingertips. You look up to him. His grasp spasms; pulling too tight- pain lancing through your arm for a fraction of a second, before loosening, lingering on your skin. You wince, your eyes flit over the mask, searching for what it is he wants you to do. You tilt your head at him, raise on eyebrow. You’d checked all the wounds you’d bandaged- rubbed cream on his hand and neck. Did something else hurt him? Had you forgotten a wound?

He withdraws from you, the warmth of his hand pressed deep in your skin. His hands raise- and touch the edges of his mask, then every so slowly, he begins to peel it up and away. The same stubble you saw while eating returns, silvery gray and ever so slightly longer than when you’d found him. His lips are drawn in tight. When the mask rolls over the tip of his nose, he reaches up and grabs the mask by its brown hair and pulls it off.

He lays the latex in his lap, his gaze glued to it- and all you can see is the strong profile of his nose and jaw, the long lines of wrinkles of his aged face gathered around his eyes, yet somehow clear of laugh lines. You can see it without the blood and rage that had obscured his features; he must’ve been attractive when he was young. Young and before his eyes was damaged- not that you didn’t find a rugged handsomeness about the mismatched irises. There’s a strange innocence about his countenance- if he’d only smile he’d look angelic. But his eyes are sharp and piercing rather than soft and loving, yet with his pink lips, and well-shaped face, you can imagine the women fawning over him.

Without the last two digits of his left hand you hadn't even thought to look for a ring. You flush and look away.

What you need to focus on now is the glued skin of his cheek. That’s the only reason you can imagine he’d take his mask off for you. It’s the first time he’s done so- the only other time you saw his real face was when you had demasked him. The significance is not lost on you and you take care not to overwhelm him.

His budding trust in mind, you lick your lips and so delicately touch his jaw. You take it slow, giving him time to stop you if it’s too much. His stubble is prickly on your palms, but feels nice when you smooth it down with your thumb. The glue over his cheek is messy- specked with dirt and debris, but still in place. You guess he listened to you when you asked him not to scrub it. But you don’t know how to assess a wound that had skin glue on it, considering by nature it was sealed up tight. At best you would have to look at the inside of his mouth and you don’t think he’d be keen on literally opening up.

As long as it’s not still bleeding, you’ll take it as a good sign. The scar will be something nasty, though. The wound was rough and uneven when you’d last seen it open, and with your unskilled closing, that wouldn’t help. Not that he had much to lose; he already had a prominent facial scar. Your mouth is dry as you speak, “This one looks good, I think.”

You back off, try to assess how you'd reach the other head wound. “Could you, lean forward? I want to check the top of your head.”

His head turns slowly, and finally: the cold chill that runs down your spine is familiar, comfortable, terrifying; your eyes lock with his. He’s more guarded today- or perhaps you’re getting used to his hypnotic, electric gaze. You can breathe, your chest not lost to his will; a few moments hold is all it takes for you to be able to blink and look away. He does not move more. So, he won’t be cooperating entirely. You can still work with that.

You resettle on the couch, moving to kneel on the cushions and using the back to straighten yourself up enough to see the top of his head. You worry that he’ll try to follow you with his eyes again which would entirely spoil your ability to reach the wound you hadn’t been able to check in a long while. But he doesn’t. He’s unnaturally still except for the rhythmic sounds of his breathing, the soft lifting and dropping of his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t even blink.

Again, you find his cheek- reaching around to touch his already scarred cheek, and oh so gently guide him to turn fully towards you and drop his chin. You feel the muscle in his jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing, but he complies. It’s still not a great angle, he’s so tall and the wound is more behind him than anything. You try to straighten up a bit- at least so you can see around the edges-

Your knee slips between the cushions. You waver- You grab his shoulder to stop yourself from falling on him-

And one warm hand with only three fingers catches you at your ribs. The unexpected touch makes your breath stutter. You peer down at him, blink rapidly, feel your pulse against his palm, but his eyes are level, gazing somewhere far off. He’s under your shirt. That alone makes you shiver, feel the imprint of his fingers on your skin.

You don’t know how he was fast enough to slip up under the hem as you wobbled. Had he been waiting for it? Was it somehow an accident? You swallow thickly but can’t find it in yourself to say anything. His hand is warm, his touch is strange with only three fingers. With the extra support you can nearly see the whole wound, you move your hand from his shoulder to his cheek again-

His other hand finds you. He holds at your hip, just above the hem of your pants and under the hem of your now slightly raised shirt, but does nothing else. His breathing is still steady, low and consistent in contrast to your stuttering, shallow gasps. It’s nothing. You tell yourself, You nearly fell on him. It’s for balance. It's a lie and you know it, can't even accept your own placations. One hand might be an accident, but not both. Not both warm and squeezing softly into your skin, feeling your shape-

You bite your lip. You need to check the one last wound and then you'd be done. With one hand keeping balance on his shoulder that doesn't have a bullet wound, you reach with your other hand and touch around the edge of the scab. He hadn’t minded it before, and if it gets you out of his hands before you’re actually on his lap, it’s fine. The edges of the scab are irregular and bumpy, the clotting forming extra thickly, trapping a few short hairs in the clump of dark cells. But it feels okay- none of the crust you found on his shoulder or even active dampness of blood or drainage. He's regained control of his arm and aside from his muteness, he doesn't seem to have brain damage.

You start to move back, just a hair away-

His hands jerk once, then start to slide across your skin. The one at your hip slips over your back, his hand long enough to feel the line of your spine- then both move up, up- resting just before your curve of your chest. You shake, wanting to pull away and stop before it gets too far- and yet captivated by the feel of his fingers on your skin. He's nearly burning to the touch- the sensation new and strange and wonderful and more than that, you're taken by the wonder of what he’d do to you.

You don’t have to wonder long. His hands turn, finding your breasts in his palms. It’s odd how his touch is asymmetrical, three long fingers to five. He just holds them- long enough for you to question what he’s doing just sitting there, if this was even sexual for him. So calm while he’s unmaking you with hardly more than a touch. If it weren’t for your hold on his shoulder, you’d have collapsed into his hands, onto his chest. What would he have done then?

The pressure on your breasts tightens- he closes his fingers, squeezing; first gently, like he’s unsure of what he can do- then turning rougher, faster. He gains confidence at lightning speed, leaving you dizzy and confused. You press into his palms, the new feeling of being groped too good to ignore. His fingers pull at your skin, drawing from sternum to nipple, one calloused thumb catching sideways it by accident. You gasp, jolt in his hands-

He notices.

His touch is experimental, but firm: both thumbs center on your nipples now, feeling over their shape, swiping across in all directions, pressing and flicking-- you bite your lip, close your eyes to keep from crying out. You've never been so glad you can't see his face at this angle- if he were to see you now you might simply burn away. You find the back of his neck with your free hand- you want to pull him close, to give in, to give him whatever it is he wants from you despite every alarm you’ve ever had ringing at the mere sight of him.

His head shifts under you, his short hair moving over the back of your hand as he tips his head up-

For a moment, there’s teeth on your throat. He doesn’t get to close his jaw.

You gasp, and finally push away from him, falling back onto one side of the couch. You chest heaves and the sound of your panting breaths fill your ears; the memory of his touch tingles on your breasts. Through your pajamas, your nipples are hard, stiffened under his exploration. He moves- you sit upright, slide backwards until you're nearly crawling up the arm of the couch- but he only turns away from you, fingers already curled into the white latex. He pulls the mask back over his face, as if nothing had happened. With the jumpsuit curled around his waist, you can't even tell if he's hard.

Your legs wobble as you stand, but you make it all the way to your bedroom without stumbling.

You lock the door this time.

You didn’t want him to stop, it occurs to you. You don’t know anything about him and you hate yourself for wanting him anyway. You need to calm down.

The bathroom tile is freezing, but it’s refreshing. A solid connection to the real world outside of the all-absorbing nature of his gaze, his touch. You turn on the cold tap full blast, cupping your hands under the spray and pressing them to your face. Heat still lingers in your cheeks and in the mirror you can see teeth marks where you’d bit on your lip to keep quiet. There’s nothing on your neck- it’d been too brief.

You wished there were marks.

You spray your face cold again, rest your forehead on the faucet. You had to stop. You were supposed to care for him- all you have to do is wait it out until he’s healed or he’ll talk to you or maybe he’ll still go to the hospital. Even if he did-

He’s too much. The slightest touch of his skin has you shivering and now? Now you’ll never be able to forget what it felt like to have him be the first person to caress your chest, knowing his fingers were just as deft as they looked, injured or not. You bite at your lips, feel the sensitive spot you'd left there, and focus on the physical, the present. You were so screwed. If you don't get your head on straight before you did something you’d regret…

Well, at worst you’d have slept with a stranger... Of mysterious origins and questionable morality and dubious intent. But still, there were worse things in the world than giving it up to a handsome man.

You needed out of the house for a while. Just to get a breath of fresh air- ground yourself in a world that isn’t exclusively centered around your visitor. That's all this was: cabin fever.

Groceries. The light clicks on in your head. You needed to run errands. Yes, yes- you could go and get food and restock your first aid kit. That should give you time to calm down, to figure out what you were going to do about him. You shut off the water and pat your face dry. Normally you’d jot things down on your phone, but it’s still out there. With him. And you can’t trust yourself quite enough for that yet.

You dig around in your nightstand and produce a notepad and a pen that takes a few strokes before it leaves a dark blue mark. First, medical supplies. More bandages- and gauze pads for his shoulder. Burn cream, definitely. You had no idea how long he’d need that. You could do with more plain band-aids too. Food wise... Well. He didn’t seem very picky. You’d get some meat to make a stew tonight, you needed eggs, could probably do with more bread. Maybe you could grab some pasta? That’d be easy to make. Or a casserole?

You didn’t need to get a lot- you could go out again another day. Just enough to get you through a few nights.

You double check the door before undressing. The little turn-bit is firmly horizontal. A moment of paranoia makes you want to check if you can hear breathing on the otherwise of the plywood, but you shake that idea away. Even if he was there, he couldn't get in. You pick clean clothes from the dresser- it feels good to be dressed; it feels normal. A much needed break from the delirious dream you’d been stumbling through the last two days. You brush your hair in the mirror and straighten yourself up. You only needed control for a minute.

You stop at your door, one hand laid on the cool metal. Tell him you’re going to get groceries. Get your phone and keys. Leave. You only need control for a minute

You turn the knob. The empty space of the hallway surprises you- absurdity nearly makes you laugh. Had you really expected him to stand at your door and wait?

He’s still sitting, he’s too tall for the couch; his knees are folded up just too high, his hands laid serenely in his lap. The coveralls have been adjusted and rezipped, covering all the wounds you'd cleaned. He stares at the TV-- which is now on. The news plays, it’s the same anchor from yesterday morning. You can’t focus on her words, instead forcing your own voice from your throat. “I’m going to go to the store.”

The mask turns. He stands all at once- his height alone makes you tremble, makes your mind wander. You steel your spine, quiet the shuddering in your breathing. “To make soup. And to get more bandages for you.”

You can feel it again; a neediness in his gaze that threatens to consume you whole. But he doesn’t move towards you, just stands. Your knees nearly give out, but you make it to the coffee table and retrieve your phone. He doesn't move to stop you, does not follow you to the kitchen as you get your keys. He still stands in the living room and watches. You feel his displeasure and some part of you doesn't want to disappoint him. But you need to get out- if only for a little bit.

“It’s alright, I’ll be back in an hour or so.” The calmness in your voice surprises even you. Caring for him does come naturally and the purpose of your excursion is not entirely selfish. “Just sit and watch something. Let your wounds rest some more. It won’t be long.”

You want to leave without looking- to just let him deal with his problems himself. But you stand at the door for longer than you should’ve, wishing he’d sit and take your advice. To give you some unspoken approval, to give you permission. He doesn’t. His only response is the heavy breathing through the mask, nearly lost under the sound of the news station’s jingle playing.

You roll you teeth over your lip and leave.

He doesn’t stop you.

You lock the door behind you. The November air is crisp and fresh, the cool breeze breathing life into your frazzled nerves. And as you step into your car, you see a shape in your window. Peering through your blinds, a cracked white mask watches you leave.

It’s not there when you return.

Of course he isn’t. You scold yourself. He wouldn’t just stand there for half an hour. Your goods managed to fit in only two bags and you hang those on your wrists. They’re heavy, but it’s doable. All you have to do is get to the door anyway.

The key turns and you drop the bags inside- double checking that you locked your car. “Hey,” You call out- and get no response. About as expected. You close the door with your foot and manage to haul the bags around the corner and into the kitchen. The plastic left lines in your skin across your wrists, but you did it.

You peek out into the living room. The TV is still on, the fake judicial show having made a return. The judge bangs her gavel- and there’s no man on your couch. Or peering through the windows, or bleeding out on the floor. You blink, look down the hallway- he’s not there either. Must be in the bathroom, you reason and push the little voice in the back of your head down. The little thing whispering he’s gone.

He wouldn’t. He was weird and obsessed with you. Unpacking groceries eases the sudden fear- a normal, everyday thing. The plastic bag crinkles softly as you remove items one by one. It needed to be done, and as you put the beef away, you hear the soft click of a door latching.

The relaxation is instant, even if your self-hatred for still being so worked up is persistent. You pull out the potatoes and a cutting board. You can feel him again, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck; it’s not uncomfortable. “The potatoes have to boil, so I’m starting them now.” You speak to the void. It says nothing back.

You wash the tubers quickly, and take a knife from your block. There’s a sharp intake behind you; you turn. He’s back, as you had expected. No longer staying further back, he's taken his previous post of standing in the kitchen with you. It really confirms how damn silent he can be- and your brow furrows as you realize he's staring at you more intently than normal.

No, not you.

His mask dips just too low to be on you. The knife shines in your hand, glinting off the kitchen lights. A knife... Guilt lays heavy in your stomach. You turn, try to hide the blade behind your body. “Are you okay?” Did you bring back bad memories? He'd been stabbed and-

The mask snaps up to you, his right hand flexes. His breathing is loud, but steady, muffled through the latex. His nod is a sharp jerk of his chin.

You worry- but return to cooking. He’s been forward enough before. There’s something different about him now- before his agitation had been either of self-preservation (as warped as it was to avoid doctors) or... sexual in nature. You can’t tell- was he just anxious seeing you with a knife? Did he not... trust you?

You cube the first potato and push the thoughts away. You'd have to deal with them later, after you get everything cooking together. The sharp knife slides smoothly through it, thudding pleasantly on the wood board. You’re careful to cut them evenly- undercooked potatoes are torturous and you might as well spare your guest the additional trauma.

There’s a trauma you’d wish he’d spare you in return. The hunger- the devious heat behind his eyes is back, radiating in the air- his need to devour. Something predatory wafts off him, makes your hands shake. You swipe your pale cubes into a bowl and pull over another potato to begin again. Footsteps- and you can feel his presence over your shoulder, any closer and you would feel the heat of his body. His breath whistles in the narrow nose holes.

Your heart pounds in your chest and you feel like a rabbit in the wolf's maw. You steal a glance at him. His height is exaggerated from the high angle, towering over you- chin dropped to watch each motion of your hand. You tremble before him, your cutting paused so you don’t hurt yourself. He eyes slide up your arm to your face- the breathing even louder now.

You can’t imagine what he wants- you lick your lips. In the tight space, you manage to turn sideways towards him. “Do you... want to help?” You motion to the blade, hanging loosely in your hand.

His mask turns slow from you to the knife and back again. You move slow- if he was hesitant about knives you didn’t want to startle him. You turn the knife in your hand so you can offer him the black handle, the long silver point angled back at you. He stands there-

And slowly takes the kitchen knife. His hand is so big it dwarfs the black plastic, almost entirely hidden under his huge palm. In the transfer his finger brushes against yours and you nearly drop it. He squeezes; you watch his knuckles turn white. You think nothing of it, until he steps forward again.

The flat of the blade brushes against the side of your shirt- through the fabric you can feel the cold of the metal, solid and unwavering against your ribs. You gasp, try not to inhale too sharply. It’s exactly where he’d touched you before, where his right hand had paused before engulfing your chest, the heat still present in your mind. You search the blackness of his eye holes but find only that radiating power, the knowledge he could end your life with a flick of his wrist. It's no accident for him to do this- it's purposeful. He wants something-

And his wrist turns, the knife spinning sideways, scraping along your shirt- the cutting edge cradled delicately between two ribs. That thrilling, terrifying power surrounds you- the knife pressing closer for one agonizing moment. He’s fighting something, the dark impulse that guides him. All the other times he’s crowded you and threatened you or been inappropriate- it was for himself or to get a rise from you. Trying to goad you into giving in to whatever it is he wants- to not go to the hospital, to make some sexual pass at you.

But there’s no lust in this action; he could touch you with his other hand, or press the knife against your throat- hell, he could just choke you again if he was trying to punish you, to give you warning for some unseen trespass. But he stands there, the blade pressed just too hard into you, just on the edge of beginning to hurt. Your lips part of their own accord, drawing in a soft breath, seeking his eyes through the mask. You wished he’d show them to you again. You can’t look away now, can’t speak- can’t even will yourself to cry out or fight against him.

And then, he wins.

The knife moves away. You blink, wide-eyed up at him, silent despite the very real possibility that he would’ve killed you- that he wanted to spill your blood across your kitchen floor. Your side hurts. His mask turns, looks to the cutting board and the potato, half cut and forgotten behind you

He steps around you, and you follow his lead like a dancer, turning and letting him stand in front of the chopping board, lingering over his left side. You should be so much more afraid than you are. Your fingers tremble, everything about you trembles, but his heat is familiar, comforting- you can’t move away. “Try to cut them the same size, like mine.” You point to the ones already cut. “It’ll make them cook evenly.”

He holds the potato in place with his injured hand, you touch his arm, his back- he stiffens under the touch as he brings the knife back over the board. His arm flexes and the knife thuds into the board- too hard, but not hard enough to get the blade stuck. Light glints off it again and he raises it, scoots it over on the potato and tries again- still too hard, but working fine enough. You’ll just have to sharpen the blade later. His cuts are irregular, some bigger followed by smaller, like he’s trying to compensate but can’t judge it quite right. Must not cook often. You wonder if it’s to do with his eye.

You can’t help but smile; it’s kind of endearing. You could teach him to cook, at least some simple things. Another thud and he’s almost done with the cuts one way. “Now turn them,” You instruct, and watch as he holds the cuts together with his three fingers, and begins chopping longwise. You’ll definitely have some interesting potatoes.

bang

You jump, twisting your fingers into the man’s coveralls. The front door. He hesitates, turns to look at the exit of the kitchen. You shake your head. “I’ll get it, you keep working on those. It’ll only be a minute.” Now who would be calling on you? You certainly weren't expecting anyone- maybe one of your neighbors?

You round the corner out into the entryway, wiping your hands messily on your pants. A peer through the peephole does not assuage your fears. You undo the lock and open the thick wood.

A man stands before you in a pressed blue uniform, not too different from your guest’s. Except for the black belt covered in pouches- and the gun holstered on one hip and the shiny silver badge on his breast. He has tight gray coils and there is a warmth to his large, dark eyes. The fear pours into you- cops were never a good sign. Yet the fact you’d so nearly called them twice before is not lost on you.

His voice is smooth and deceptively happy. “Hello, I’m Officer Jake Windsor with the state police. May I come in?”

You introduce yourself curtly, but hesitate. “I’d rather not. Privacy and all.” Instead, you step outside and close the door behind you. Out in the driveway you can see the cop’s car parked next to yours, the lights off and empty. Alone.

He smiles and nods- it even looks genuine. Maybe it was. “I understand, we’re just out canvassing, looking for any leads on a recent case. Have you seen anything strange in the last few days?”

Case. What case? Could it be him? You try not to betray too much, “What do you mean by strange?”

He ducks his head, picks his words carefully. “Well, people that shouldn’t be around. Maybe someone wearing a mask after Halloween?” A rock plummets through your stomach, every muscle going tense. Had someone reported him missing? The man before you sighs and takes off his cap, to scratch at his short, thick hair. “Listen, between you and me, this is about the Myers case.”

“Myers?” The gears click in your head, the lens finally, excruciatingly coming into focus. Myers. The news story had been everywhere a few days ago. Your voice is far away, muffled in your own ears. “Michael Myers? The serial killer?”

Windsor nods, grimaces. “He escaped about a week ago now. Left a string of murders around Haddonfield. He was last seen at a cabin a few miles from here. Wasn’t much left, mostly just ashes-” his burns “-but until we know for certain that he’s dead, we just want to be cautious. Check if anyone's seen anything.”

You stare past him, out into the woods. Into piles of orange and brown leaves that have begun to rot. “I haven’t… seen anything.” You shake your head, how could you have not seen it? His wounds- the excess blood. He wasn’t attacked, he was the attacker. Oh, god you’d let him feel you up, he’s been in your room, and he- in your shower-- You wrap your arms around yourself in a weak attempt to keep the fear from pouring out of you.

The cop raises his hands, placating. “There’s no need to worry. If you see anyone unusual, call the police.” He shrugs, tries to come off as nonchalant, but you can see the shadow of worry over his dark eyes. “Just, don’t approach them.” He looks at you- and you can feel him trying to gauge your reaction. Did he have a clock on I almost slept with a murderer?

He sighs and steps away. Seems not. “That’s all I needed. You-”

“Is he dangerous?” Your voice comes out too fast, too worn to pass as anything other than terror.

Windsor bites his cheek and measures his options. He nods, “He’s killed seventeen people that we know of, this time. Plus the five he killed before.” He touches your forearms- gentle, just the tips of his fingers, trying to bring you back to the present. So different than- “Listen, we’re fairly sure he’s dead. Keep your doors locked and be cautious, you’ll be fine.”

You could yell. You could tell him right now in whispered words- could drive off with him until the cavalry arrives. It would only take a word, take two- he’s here.

You nod, and try to smile, your lips drawing tight across your face. “Thank you.” Why? Why why why-

Because it's not true. It can't be. He smiles back, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Don’t you worry. And have a good day.”

You nod, and watch him climb down your creaky wooden stairs- watch him all the way to getting in his car. He waves, and you wave back- and he drives off, kicking up gravel as he goes. You watch- and see your life going with him. It's not true. You knew better than that. You had to,

The breeze picks up again, but you’re already cold.

You turn the knob, hear the tumblers click, step inside. The warmth of your heater can do nothing for the chills on your skin, the icy knot in your stomach. You close the door and lean against it. You can’t mask this, what are you doing? If he knows you know, if it's true then- dread chokes at your throat.

There’s no thudding in the kitchen, no scraping of the knife on the board.

He knows.

Your heart races, blood rushing in your ears. A single boot steps into the entryway. Your eyes shoot up. Another footstep- and slowly, the blue coveralls return to view. He stands upright, tall and imposing, the white latex glaring down at you over his nose. He knows.

You have to. “Michael?” The name is foreign, strange as you say it. He wouldn’t respond. He was just your guest- not an escaped murderer. Just silent and scarred and traumatized. He couldn’t be.

He turns his wrist- the knife flashes in his hand.

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out, the tears finally spouting from your eyes, leaving hot tracks over your cheeks. You lick your lips and taste salt. How could you not recognize the mask? Not piece together who he was?

The handle creaks in his grasp, his head tilting ever so slowly. Your tongue is thick in your mouth, your whole body heavy under his gaze. You’d bandaged him, washed him- the white gauze on his left hand peeks out from under the sleeves. Your breath is ragged, and every fiber of you wants to run because he knows

The light shines through your living room windows and as he tilts his head, you catch his eyes.

You’re pinned, frozen where you are, tears blurring your vision even as you blink them away to hold onto the weak connection you have. He’s icy blue-gray, cold and far away, his pupils grown wide in something you can’t name. There’s a heat to them, a burning need somewhere inside him that threatens to consume- and you watch through the lit mask as his eyes narrow, one gray brow dipping into sight for a fraction of a second.

His mask turns upright, and the vision is gone. Your connection is gone. A sob catches in your throat and you just want to know why-

And he turns. Turns away from you. He walks down your long hallway with even, unhurried steps that creak at your floorboards. His shoulders hardly move. He turns out to your laundry room. He does not look back, does not even hesitate- and you hold your breath as you hear the turning of your back door's lock, the creaking of the old wood protesting opening.

You stand there for several long minute, time turning into a sluggish slurry. When he does not return you slide down the front door, your head spinning.

Wind filters through your house.

=====

Next Chapter

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#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #Michael myers x you #Slasher x reader #slasher x you #NSFT #Rest for the Wicked #Halloween

81 notes · View notes

ripspaghet · 4 years

Text

bff | 03

↳ series m.list | 00 | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 |

→ pairing: yoongi x reader

→ word count: 4,062

Prologue Summary; Your best friend’s boyfriend takes an unhealthy interest in you and just as he shows up something from your past starts to creep up on you again. Could this strange and mysterious man have something to do with it? And should you trust him, or your instincts to run far, far away from him?

→ warnings: none yet.

“____, come on. I know I can be boring when I teach but, please, at least act like you’re listening?” The odor of old books and dust wafted through musky air. Rarely any students come here anymore, opting to study elsewhere or not at all. So, it’s fairly quiet except for the few crickets jumping around outside the glass doors of the stuffy library.

“Ah, uh, sorry.” You pull your attention away from the tiled floor to look at your friend. He’s leaning over the table your both sat at. His long body looks awkward scrunched up in the small library chair, almost like he’s a grown man sitting in something made for a toddler.

A sigh passes his lips, “Let’s just call it a day. If you can’t focus it’s better to just get some sleep and study another time.” You nod along with his suggestion. He was beyond right. There’s no way you’re gonna be able to focus any time soon. Not when those dreams are still looming around in your mind and you remain unable to properly remember anything, which is no surprise but only furthers your annoyance.

“Oh, that reminds me! Sorry, I almost forgot to tell you. I’m going to be out of town for the next few days and won’t be able to help you study. Don’t panic though, I have a friend that agreed to help you until I’m back. He knows all about this stuff. He took it last year.”

Your shoulders fall limp, “You what?”

He began sliding his textbooks back into his bag with his other belongings, “I know, but it can’t be helped. My family is having a getaway and my parents wanted me to take a break with them.”

You click your tongue, “Only Kim Namjoon’s parents would want their kid to take a break from school. My mom might have my head if I ever even thought about taking a break. She’d think I was trying to drop out.”

Namjoon chuckled heartily, “I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t stress. My friend probably knows more about this stuff than me anyways. I’ll text you his number.”

“Is your friend Einstein??”

“Something like that, I guess.”

“Seriously,” You groan, losing your composure, and leaning back into your chair, “how could you do this to me? What if this guy tries to assault me or something? You can’t just leave me with some random.”

“You know, the more you hang out with Jimin the more you start to sound like him. This guy isn’t like that, trust me.”

“Jimin? What’s that supposed to-” A fist slams down on the table and you and Namjoon nearly jump out of your seats, “You’re leaving?!”

“Oh, Taehyung,” Namjoon laughs nervously, regaining his composure.

“Who’s gonna help me with my creative writing class?! I came here to ask you for help.”

You raise an eyebrow at the boy, “What the hell are you in a creative writing class for?” Taehyung doesn’t spare you a glance, keeping his eyes fixed on Namjoon, who’s checking twice for all his belongings.

“____ can help you with creative writing. She’s good with that stuff.”

Taehyung’s head whips over to you his eyes widened, “Really?”

“What?“ You adjust yourself to sit up straight in your chair, "Namjoon, don’t tell him that, I’m too busy as is. I can’t help him. Absolutely not.”

“Surely you could squeeze in a minute or two.”

“Namjoon,”

“It can’t be helped.”

“Namjoon.”

He just smiles at you knowingly, “I’ll be going. The weekend calls. Have fun you two.”

“Wait-”

“Bye, ____. Get home safe.” Your eyes flicker over to Taehyung and you squint up at him in irritation. He’s looking at you expectantly, tapping his foot.

"I’m sure Jimin can help you."

"You-”

“I don’t have the time.” You gather up your belongings, not sparing Taehyung another glance as you make your escape.

You’d made a habit out of avoiding Taehyung since you’d met him, as you did for all the frat guys at your university. It wasn’t anything personal - it's just that the whole school knows that they're bad news. In other words, party every night until we can’t walk straight anymore and mess around with as many girls as we want, types of bad news.

Your feet drag lazily across water-covered concrete once you make it outside. It had stopped raining for the time being, but that didn’t change the fact that it was now below freezing out due to the sun being replaced by a moon that was hidden behind dull rain clouds. The streets were empty aside from the few people making their way home from a late shift at work.

“You will soon.”

You grimace. Why is it so familiar? A voice very gravelly and intense, where have heard it before? You purse your lips in thought. Just at the remembrance of a voice, red begins to color your cheeks and your hands grow clammy. What is this? You’d never felt this way before. Except when reading something similar to a thrilling romance book. The dream had been so seemingly real, the voice so close to your ear that it was impossible to deny how intimate the situation had been.

You groan in frustration. Jimin can’t possibly be right about it being a wet dream though. “Right, because you never talk with any other man besides me.” You roll your eyes. You should’ve punched him in the gut right then. Plenty of guys talk to you, it’s just that you’re so obviously uninterested that they grow bored easily. You’re not interested in just some fling.

“Excuse me?” A tap on your shoulder drags you out of your whirlpool of thoughts, “You dropped this.” You turn, a bit startled to see a gold necklace dangled from elegant fingers, the gold clashing with the pale skin it rests on.

Deja vu.

“Oh, thank you.” You take the necklace from his fingers. It must have fallen from around your neck without you noticing.

“Oh,”

You lifted your gaze up from the gold now resting in the palm of your hand and meet brown orbs, that almost come off as black under the harsh yellow-toned street lamps. His dark hair hangs just above his eyes in unruly waves.

“Yoongi, ”

An expression of slight uninterest bores into your eyes despite his surprised tone, “What are you doing out so late?” Your hands attempt to bury themselves deeper into their pockets, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach as a familiar feeling of warmth consuming your chest.

“It not that late, is it?” You force a small smile that probably ended up looking a nervous cry for help.

He glances around at the dark city surrounding the two of you, “Seeing as it twelve o'clock at night, I’d say it is.“

"I was studying at the library with a friend. Lost track of time I suppose.” Another awkward smile.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“N-no, I’m fine. You don’t need to do that. My place isn’t too far and I always walk home late. I’ll be fine.”

“I insist.” His voice is firm and strict, making his words come off as more of a demand, rather than a suggestion.

“Ok, I-I guess it’s fine, ”

The walk home is quiet. You don’t spare another glance in Yoongi’s direction despite the taunting urge to. It didn’t help any that it felt like his eyes were constantly glancing over. How had the atmosphere between the two changed so much in such little time? How come you felt so utterly scandalous under his gaze? You can’t help but feel your insides coil as silence settles over the two of you and remain in it for the rest of the way to your dorm. And despite a nagging feeling telling you otherwise, nothing happens.

The next day is another cold one, but instead of there being snow, there’s a thin layer of ice stuck to the ground as gentle rain pats down against it. Namjoon texted you his friend’s number and address this morning and informed you he’d already talked to him about it. And as per usual, decisions were made without your consent. It was bad enough you had to get up early on a weekend for work, but now instead of head straight home to bed, you have to rush off to study with some random.

"I’m so sick of the smell of coffee. I go home, my clothes smell like coffee. I go to bed, my bed smells like coffee. Drag my ass out of bed and come here, to smell what? Coffee. It’s not even nice smelling coffee either. It’s bitter and too strong, like diesel gasoline.” You keep your eyes fixed on the coffee shop’s glass doors, opting to wait for the next custom rather than acknowledge your babbling coworker.

Namjoon told you that his friend had no other free time to spare. So, it was in the morning, or never.

“I mean, can’t they at least make it smell good? Heaven knows it already tastes like crap.” You learned rather quickly after taking this job that entertaining this man’s ranting would only add to the flames. You pity the people who walk in unknowingly and spark up a conversation with him simply for his good looks, to later find out that his mouth never shuts while doing something he despises, which would pertain to his entire job.

“____, are you even listening to me?” His voice goes up an octave, bringing his eyebrows along for the ride.

Reluctantly you turn your head away from the doors and stare blandly at his wide rounded eyes and parted lips, “Yes, Seokjin, I’m hearing every word of what you’re saying.”

He studies you for a moment before speaking again, something he rarely does, “Ah, that’s right, you’re not a morning person. I’m sure you have it much worse. I can’t imagine already being in a bad mood and having to come here.”

“Mhm,”

“And the customers are always so rude in the morning. I don’t know how you manage."

You don’t know how you’ve been able to keep yourself from shoving a bag of coffee beans down his throat, "Yeah,”

Work drags on as normal and as soon as the clock strikes 9:40 am you hang up your apron and fly out the door with the speed of light, completely ignoring Seokjin who calls after you, nagging about you not bothering to even tell him goodbye.

Once outside you follow your phone’s navigation down multiple streets, your hood up while you grip an arm around your waist in a sad attempt to retain even the smallest amount of body heat. Winter, what a season that you hated to love.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

You halt. Well, that wasn’t all too far. Looking up your gaze meets a tall luxurious building.

“Madam, may I assist you?"

You startle not realizing the man standing next to the building’s entryway, "Uh, yes? Maybe? I’m meeting a friend of mine. Would you happen to know someone by the name of Namjoon?” In your awestruck confusion, you figured that maybe the mention of Namjoon’s name would help in some way. You mean, Namjoon is the one who recommended the person who supposedly lives in, what appears to be, a tower of silver and gold.

“Ah, yes, follow me, Madam. I will show you to the floor."

"Ok,” Your voice turns into a small whisper as you look up the building again, feeling the sheer intimidation it radiates. This can’t be the place.

You follow the doorman inside as he leads you to an elevator at the center of a spacious lobby. Seeing as how early it is in the morning it’s not unprecedented that the whole place is empty. Most rich people probably leave as early as five in the morning to get a head start for the day, you’d assume.

“The Master is in the penthouse so we will be going rather high up. If you have a fear of heights I’d recommend avoiding the windows.” Your stomach turns as the elevator doors shut and you’re lurched up. The elevator dings each time it passes a floor and eventually you start to think that, maybe you’re going to hurl out of the top of the building and fall all the way back down to the ground because how could there be this many floors?? You supposed it was a fitting fate for one as tired as you. At least then you be getting some kind of rest.

“The Master?”

“All will be explained by the Master himself.” The doorman doesn’t even spare you a glance, his attention remaining on the rising floor number.

“Oh,” You nod and look away wondering what exactly Namjoon had signed you up for this time. Perhaps you were about to mean a famous business leader or a master of the arts? Knowing Namjoon had set this up left nothing off the table. That guy could probably arrange a meeting with the president of the United States with his whole family’s well regarded social status.

“Here we are, Madam. Be sure to push the doorbell before entering. The Master treasurers his privacy." The doorman bows his head and you step out of the elevator before closing the doors with the press of a button and ascending back down.

You turn to face the other way and push the doorbell to a pair of tall smooth wooden doors as instructed. But as you wait nothing happens. You hear nothing as a whole minute ticks away and you debate just going back down in the elevator to head home for your bed. Failing any of your classes isn’t an option for you though. You hesitantly ring the bell again and pull out your phone double-checking the address just in case. It wouldn’t be all too surprising if you were in the wrong place. What kind of person around your age, that just finished school a year ago, could afford a place like this?

Once again no one comes to let you in and your impatiens begin to teeter. You swear, if this guy made you come all the way out here this early in the morning just to stand you up, you’d kill Namjoon. So, with that thought in mind, you place your index finger back on the doorbell and let it have a piece of your mind. The dinging rings out over and over again. And finally, after what felt like a thousand dings you hear a door slam from somewhere inside the penthouse, then muffled swear words and stomping just before the large door is swung open so fast you feared it might be yanked off its hinges.

"What the hell do you want from me?!” A familiar head of messy black hair, that’s even messier than normal is laid over the wrong side of his head makes you gasp. His eyes are squinted and puffy as they stare back at you in an uncouth manner.

“Uh-”

“Wait,” He’s eyes get bigger and he reaches up to rub the sleep out of his eyes almost like he’s seeing things, “____?”

Your eyes dart away awkwardly as you try to find words to say in response, “I’ll be leaving now.” You turn on your heel to run for the elevator.

“Shit, are you Namjoon’s friend that needs tutoring? Fuck, I completely forgot about that.” You could tell from the sound of his voice he was running his fingers through that messy black hair of his, but you continued walking. Fuck that guy for being attractive. You’re getting the hell out of here. No more coincidental run-ins.

“Quite alright, no need to apologize. I’ll be going now.”

“No!” He ran out in front of you to block the elevator buttons, nearly falling down in his haste to stop you, “I mean, ” He paused hardening the expression, “I promised Namjoon I’d help you. You can’t just leave.” You looked him up and down. It was strange seeing this, a side of him normally only a girlfriend or best friend would see when you’d only just met. And you barely being qualified enough to be called an acquaintance made it so it shouldn’t have been a problem to feel so awkward, if it hadn’t been for a tiny part you that was thinking about how good Min Yoongi, not only looked in casual clothes but looked without a shirt in black baggy joggers, with bedhead, sporting a sleepy voice. In fact, the more you looked at the man the more pissed off you became. How dare he tempt you in sullying your friendship with Mina by looking like that.

Suddenly taking notice in your lingering gaze Yoongi tried composing himself, putting his hand atop his head in an attempt to hide his mess of hair, “Namjoon will kill me if I go back on my word. Just come inside.”

“Put some clothes on.” You spun around in annoyance, striding into the penthouse. In all honesty, you’d rather jump from this floor to the ground than stay here, but Yoongi had reminded you why you were here. Namjoon is gone and won’t be back until the day of the presentations and you know there’s no way in hell you’d manage on your own with an unfinished project that you knew would remain that way if not given a helping hand. You know yourself well enough to know that being uninformed and out of ideas would lead to you throwing in the towel without having even tried to make a fully finished piece.

Yoongi was close on your heels, shutting the door behind him, “Actually, I thought I’d tutor you naked. Just to switch things up a bit.”

“Excuse me?!” You spun again almost sure you’d get whiplash. Yoongi was just watching your reaction in amusement and it dawned on you he was being sarcastic.

“Just a joke, ____.”

You glared, “Yeah? Well, I’d appreciate if you didn’t joke about such things with me.”

He chuckled almost endearingly, “Why?”

“Why? What do you- You know what? This is inappropriate. I’m leaving.” Judging from this conversation you had no doubt in your mind that this man had the capability of cheating on your best friend.

You went for the door but Yoongi grabbed your upper arm before you could get past him, “You really shouldn’t take me seriously, ____. Now, stop being a child and let’s get this over with.” He removed his hand from around your arm as if it had never been there, to begin with, and walks away from you. “I’m going to put a shirt on and I’ll meet you back in here. Make yourself comfortable.” You feel like you’ve just undergone a full 360 in a short amount of time since you entered his home. Why are you here again?

Surveying up his home you walk further into what seems to be a rather cozy living room. All the colors in the room are either warm or extremely dark, except for the occasional white pillow or blanket laying around. Even the floor is tiled with warm reddish wood. The pitch-black walls contrast against the brightness flooding in through a window that covers the whole outer wall of the room. It’s similar to homes you’d only ever seen in magazines or movies.

“Wow,” you breathe out and take a seat down on a long black leather couch in the center in the room. The place has probably been professionally decorated just to Yoongi’s liking.

“Would you like something to drink? Have you eaten?”

You jump, startled, “N-no, I’m alright.”

He nods and holds a notebook out to you now sported a baggy black sweatshirt and unruly combed hair, “Here,” You hesitantly take it from him as he takes a seat next to you, “these are my old notes from when I was in school. They should be helpful. Is there anything in particular that you’re having trouble with?”

“Ah,” Right that’s what you came here for, “I’m not very good at this music stuff which is why I needed Namjoon’s help. Its extra credit for me is all. I’m majoring in film.” You pull your bag from your side, taking out all your own notes, a few hefty textbooks, and your laptop.

“What is your focus for the project then?” He leans over you watching as you open up all the proper program on your laptop. You nervously fidget, feeling your skin heat up and try leaning away from him without it being noticeable, “I want to present a completed song.” Yoongi gives you a look of ‘You can’t be fucking serious right?’ And you sigh, “Listen, I know I don’t even major in music and don’t really know what I’m doing, so it’s dumb of me to try this. But, I have a great love for music even though it isn’t my major. If I do something with this,” You point at your laptop screen, “I want it to be my very best. I really wanna try at it and I think I can hit all the points, I just need the opinion of a professional.”

He looks at you for a while before finally speaking, “You know, me helping you with this is kind of cheating.” You rose an eyebrow at him, gesturing that he elaborates. “It wouldn’t be fair to all the other students. Can’t you just choose a different route? Like, I don’t know? Doing a piece you’d put into a film or something? Something a little more down your alley?”

You shake your head, “I’ve already started. I don’t have the time to scrap anything and restart. Here,” You turn your attention back to the laptop and plug in a pair headphones then hand them to Yoongi, “Just listen and give me your thoughts.” Reluctantly he takes the headphones from you and puts them on. You press play and watch him closely, gauging his reaction as his breathe hitches not even five minutes into the song.

You quickly pause it and he takes off the headphones confused, “Was that you?”

“Was it bad? I suppose I can use auto-tune. That’s not breaking any rules right?”

“No, no, I mean,” He stops mid-sentence staring at you.

You turn away, facing your laptop, “You’re right, maybe I should just scrap it and start over.”

“No!” You flinched away from Yoongi at his sudden outburst, “No, you shouldn’t do that.” He’s to the laptop this time, studying all of your work, “It’s very good. It caught me off guard.” He puts the headphones back on then presses play again. You stare at him, in a loss for words. It was one thing to have Namjoon tell you your work was good when he was still in school, same as you. Yoongi, on the other hand, is already a music producer and judging by your surroundings he’s a very successful one.

“Is this all you have so far?” Yoongi slides the headphones back off, eyes on the screen of your laptop.

“Yeah…This is more of the ending rather than the beginning. I have parts written out and I’ve tried doing them myself like this but it just doesn’t sound the way I want it.”

Yoongi nods, “This has lots of potential. I’d like to see the beginning half. I think you can make an amazing piece with just this alone. I like how you’ve mixed the two genres. I can understand that it wouldn’t translate when using only your voice. With the way it flows, you’ll need to almost flip back a forth with two voices. Doing that will also add to the overall emotion in the song seeing as it’s a romantic piece. You’ll need someone with a lower octave that balances while with your own sound. Finding someone to do that should be hard as your voice is pretty enough on its own to captivate any listener. The difficult part is blending the just right amount of both that’s not overdoing it.”

You nod trying to ignore the flush you feel in your cheeks as you watch him flip from line to line on your recordings.

“I’m impressed.” He looks up to you and instantly looks away.

“Thank you.”