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curly-bangtan · 5 years

Text

Blizzard (M)

Pairing: roommate!Jungkook x reader

Summary: When a blizzard hits your town, you and your shy awkward roommate are forced to spend time together, not being able to leave the house due to the strong snowstorm. To make matters worse, the power gets cut in the middle of his shower. Which also means no heating.

Genre: roommate au, domestic au, fluff, smut, strangers to lovers

Warnings: bit of a slow burner, vanilla!Jungkook, virgin!reader, dry humping, penetrative sex, fingering, oral (m receiving), losing virginity, shy soft boy Koo with a crush and a noona kink, your heart could possibly burst from how cute he is

Word Count: 15.5k oops

A/N: (This fic is written in parallel to Heatwave, with an opposing concept in mind. You don’t have to read Heatwave to read this, but it would be interesting and funny to see the differences in the two scenarios that both lead to roommates hooking up.) Also, happy birthday, bunny boy! Sorry this was a day late, I was honestly swarmed. I love you, koo. Writing this very much gave me a bias crisis but it was all worth it. Enjoy! :”)

PS. Think April 2019 Jungkook

‘A severe snowstorm is set to hit us this weekend with temperatures dropping down to -16˚C. It is therefore ill-advised for anyone to leave their houses during this period until the blizzard subsides as the fifth snow-induced traffic accident has been reported this week in our town…’

You have always marvelled at how the weather lady announces such things with such a passionate captivating tone.

‘The calculated probability of a city-wide power cut is currently at 72%, so please be well-equipped to stay indoors for the next two days.’

Oh shit. A power cut?

This is not good at all. Not like you have any plans for this weekend anyway, and you wouldn’t necessarily mind being stuck inside since you are good at entertaining yourself. But to possibly have no warm water, no internet in the duration of these few days?

You are currently snugly rolled up in the warmth of your blanket burrito, a mug of chamomile tea fitted in your hands, the steam of which evaporates under your chin into a slick coat. Friday evenings have never been eventful for you as long as Jimin doesn’t drag you out to some bar with him. As introverted as one can get, you much prefer staying in and watching TV or endlessly browsing the web.

The distinct rattling of keys spins your attention to the front door. Hearing the plunge of the metal into the keyhole is strangely satisfying to your ears. In steps a pink-nosed, frost-dusted Jungkook, all wrapped up in winter apparel thick enough to make him waddle clumsily.

A gust of cold flares inside from the harsh outdoors, stray flakes of snow flying in after him and landing on the rich oak tiles of the foyer. From the couch, you see his silhouette breathe out a visible grey huff. The door behind him falls shut, once again entrapping the warm temperature into the confines of these walls.

You watch your roommate, humming to himself with his black earpods hooked in his ears, as he unties the scarf around his neck. He probably hasn’t noticed your presence yet; he’s always been a little clueless afterall.

Then he looks up and meets your lingering gaze.

You both jump a little, his humming ceases instantly, eyes scrambling, darting away to your surroundings: the quiet television, the arching lamp, the white powdered window panes. Anywhere but at each other.

Clearing your throat, you greet him softly . ‘Hi.’ Your thumb rubs at the lip-shaped tea stain on the rim of your mug.

‘Um, hi. Good evening, noona.’ He dips his head at you, hood drooping lower over his head. You are two years his senior, and despite your supposed familiarity, he insists on formalities.

The weather lady has now been replaced with the anchorman, who is droning on about the car accident this morning. Awkwardness hangs in the air between you, as it always does every time you speak. It’s now your turn to say something, you’re painfully aware. But what do you say?

‘Snow storm.’ It is a statement more than anything. As if he hasn’t noticed… Nice one. You immediately want to hide your face in the mint furry throw you’re wrapped in.

‘Yeah. Snow storm.’ The rubbery sound of the careless removal of his shoes against the floor is louder than his response. ‘Jimin didn’t make it.’

Your blood freezes. ‘Wait what?! Oh my god! What happened to him?’ It takes the blanket sliding off you for you to realise that you’ve stood up abruptly. Your body is immediately flushed with a breeze of cold, devoid of insulation.

The car accident… It can’t be…

Jungkook’s attention flickers to the glaring screen as he paces towards you and realises how he must’ve sounded. ‘Woah, sorry, I worded it badly. I mean, Jimin’s stuck at Taehyung’s because the snow is too thick for him to drive back. And the service on his phone is whack, so he can’t reach you. Taehyung told me. Sorry, I didn’t mean he didn’t make it.’ Nervous chuckle. Scratching the back of his head.

Never has he said this many words to you in one go, this must be a record. That, as well as your own silly misunderstanding of his words, makes you release a humoured breath. ‘Oh right… Haha… I’m stupid.’

‘No. my bad.’

Wow. If you two keep this up, this might just be your longest running conversation in the history of living together.

Because he’s looking at the floor rather than you, you feel the liberation to look directly at his face. His round nose is red from the freezing temperature, his teeth gnawing at his chapped lips. You follow his gaze travel across the dark wooden panels, reaching a halt at your feet.

‘You’ve got a hole in your sock, noona.’ He states.

Indeed you do. Under his wide-eyed glare, you can’t help but curl your toes inwards as if it would hide your pinkie jutting out of the fabric. The way he addresses you, how his lips form a pouted ring when he pronounces the “oo”, makes you particularly self conscious. ‘Oh… Yeah, I know, it’s fine. It’s my only pair of fuzzy socks.’ These socks have sheltered your feet for three winters only to betray you now, during a bloody blizzard. The icy floor licks at your exposed skin tauntingly.

Silence draws taut between you. Like you’re tied to opposite ends of a string and are both trying desperately to escape, to walk away from each other.

It’s his move now… Why isn’t he saying something? But at the same time, what can he possibly respond to ‘It’s my only pair of fuzzy socks.’?

‘Right… See you.’ Jungkook nods politely and heads for his room. And you know you probably won’t see him reemerge until tomorrow; it’s practically his batcave in there.

A shudder courses through your body. Though it’s not from the cold but rather the embarrassment of that encounter. Quickly switching off the TV, you hide back in the comforts of your blanket like a Halloween ghost and scurry into your own room to avoid seeing him again.

Jeon Jungkook.

Even the thought of his name makes you crease inward involuntarily like it’s some bad memory. Despite having lived under the same roof for more or less six months, neither of you have warmed to the other in the slightest. It’s not that you have anything against him; you’re sure he must be a lovely boy, but…

Well, when you put two shy individuals next to each other, you can’t really expect them to bond over their bashfulness. No, they both tend to retract into their shells.

How you came about living together is three simple syllables: Park Jimin. If it wasn’t for this one common thread you share, your worlds would never have collided.

Ever the caring friend, it goes without saying that Jimin would rent out his vacant room in his three-bedroom house to you without even a second of hesitation after Hoseok ditches the boys to move in with his girlfriend. You’ve met all his friends before. Jimin is a social butterfly afterall, how could he resist forcing all his best mates into a confined space and make them talk to each other, or more commonly known as a party?

Namjoon and you get along just fine, seeing as you both are whores for literature. Seokjin? As long as you compliment his cooking and force a giggle at his jokes, he’ll accept your friendship. Surprisingly, Yoongi took a liking to you; you guess is due to your mild mellow nature which must clear his headaches caused by this chaotic bunch. Unsurprisingly, Hoseok took a liking to you, well, because he’s Hoseok and incapable of negativity. Much to Jimin’s jealousy, you have a soft spot for Taehyung, his mysterious charm and boyish charisma; your friendship was almost instant.

But then Jungkook…

Your introduction was a blur of awkward hellos and unmet eyes. Every time you spoke to each other, it’s a nervous stutter from him or unwarranted silence from you. Worse, if the two of you happened to bump into each other in public, neither of you knew whether or not to say hi and commence a conversation like normal acquainted people, so it always ended up being an uncomfortably long pause before nodding out of courtesy then parting ways. It’s not like you belong to the same friendship group and see each other every week or anything.

Jungkook’s playful childisness shines brightly when surrounded by the boys, witch-cackle laugh and all. However, for some reason unbeknownst to anyone, this goofy side to him is immediately switched off in your presence, as if you’re the rain that extinguishes the flame of his candle. His body stiffens, eyes widen, voice stammers. Which only leads you to mirror his behaviour.

‘He’s just really uncomfortable around girls.’ Jimin has tried to offer the only plausible explanation. ‘Poor kid went to an all boys’ school his whole life, has only ever had one girlfriend who dumped him on their one year anniversary. Your femaleness scares him.’

That would be kind of cute, you guess, if you weren’t also a socially-uncomfortable hermit who requires soft gentle prodding in order to befriend. Because then you become two logs sitting beside each other, neither willing to inch towards the other.

Forgive Jimin’s mistake of thinking that sharing a roof would change this. Because how wrong was he… If anything, it only led to increased timidity around each other.

When you first moved in, Jungkook was eager to help you carry and unpack everything, seeing as he is the most physically apt person in the house. So you thought that it was his first step towards you, and that your dynamic was finally making progress into becoming one that’s more comfortable. He even lingered around your room the first few days with Jimin to help you open all your cardboard boxes.

However, he has since struggled to utter more than five words to you. Which has continued forth until this day. In the morning rush to class, you never encounter him due to your proneness to punctuality and his to tardiness. If you ever do, it’s only ever just a quick good morning, noona without looking up from his cereal. You both enjoy the safety of your own rooms, hence rarely peak your head out unless it’s for food. Jimin is always the one to drag you out by the foot, even if its just to his room or the sofa to watch a film with him. You say drag, but really you just enjoy seeing Jimin all pouty and whiny and sucking up to you in order to earn precious quality time with you; you actually enjoy being around Jimin. It’s worse for Jungkook though because he has his own ensuite bathroom, orders Deliveroo instead of coming out to eat with you two, and only ever joins social gatherings that you’re also involved in if a high enough bribe is offered.

Hence the time you and Jungkook are exposed to each other gradually diminished over time despite being roommates. At first you only suspected, but now you know for a fact, that he is purposely avoiding you like the plague.

It baffles you, if Jimin’s theory is true, how he could possibly be scared of you, regardless of his shyness towards the female specimen. Look at you, you’re this soft-mannered, quiet-spoken creature with a meek presence. You have more reason to be intimidated by his melon-sized biceps and aggressive shouts that echo from his room when he’s gaming at 2am.

So due to this mutually reciprocated mousiness, this awkward friendship-but-not-quite thing, has never been overcome in these months.

This is not a result of lack of trying, at least from your end. You do try to talk to him, exerting enough friendliness to burst your balloon of introversion. And you suppose he does make as much effort as he can as well. He once left you a note telling you to help yourself to the leftover pizza in the fridge. On your birthday, he gave you a card in which he drew cute little cartoon illustrations of you three housemates and wrote a short message.

Happy birthday, Y/N noona!

You are such a kind person, I hope we can speak more.

Jungkook :)

You thought the exclamation mark and smiley face were above and beyond for his standards. It made you smile for the rest of the day.

It’s 6:23pm and your growling stomach is exacerbated by the cold that has made itself at home in your bones. You’ve always been an early dinner person while Jimin and Jungkook are the opposite.

You’ve managed to get a hold of Jimin through Taehyung; your FaceTime call with him lasted a total of twelve minutes before the connection got too poor that it hung up on its own. Berating Jimin for leaving you alone with Jungkook, especially in this snow storm where everyone is basically on house arrest, all he did was laugh at your feign annoyance. You know it isn’t Jimin’s fault but you still like to blame him for all the awkward predicaments that are bound to happen.

After this chapter of the book you’re reading, you’ll go out to the kitchen and make some dinner, you decide.

Wait a second... Do you even have enough food in the pantry to last a whole weekend? Particularly since Jungkook can easily demolish three bowls of rice and a whole pound of meat, and still have room for dessert?

Looking out the window, you realise it’s snowing way too hard for you to feel confident to pop to the nearest grocery store without slipping and dying.

Shit! What are you going to eat these few days? Especially since the electricity can cut any minute?

Just then, you hear the echo of the front door shutting. Oh no… Jungkook did not just go out in this weather. He probably noticed the lack of food as well and decided to go for a shop. You know what he’s like, he’s a boy who’s really certain of his capabilities, over certain in fact. He probably does not see the hazard of leaving the house in such heavy snow, especially in the evening. Because nothing stands in the way between Jungkook and Food.

Do you go after him? Hell, if you do, you would probably get lost somewhere and slowly freeze to your inevitable death. You can barely navigate in perfect daylight.

Scrambling for your phone, you begin searching for his number. You’ve embarrassingly only called him once, and that was when you and Jimin got locked out of the house after a pub night.

No one is picking up.

In fact, when you check your screen, you don’t even have signal. The blizzard must be getting so bad that it’s refracting the radio waves. Which means it’s even worse for Jungkook to be out right now.

He’s such an idiot. Why did he think it’s okay to just take a walk to the supermarket right now in the middle of a snow storm? You’re such an idiot. Why were you too lazy to stock up on food during the day?

You pace around your room, phone clutched in your hand in case you miraculously get signal somehow. How on earth would you explain to Jimin that your roommate, his friend, whom he left in your care since you’re his senior, went out in a blizzard to buy food that you were supposed to have gotten this morning, and ended up dead from hypothermia?

Are you overreacting? Surely you’re overreacting. Everything is going to be fine! Deep breaths.

He’s going to come back any minute now and see you losing your mind over nothing. Right? Right.

Jungkook isn’t going to die. You’re being paranoid. Ridiculous. Overly anxious as usual.

But you can’t help yourself from pressing your face against your window to try to peek outside for a sign of him. The glass is ice cold against your skin, and it sends a blood-chilling shock through your veins. You can barely make out any shapes in the sea of greys and whites.

If you can’t even see out the window, how is he walking outside right now?

Screw it, you’re going to find him.

You’re a tornado getting dressed, whipping on your massive faux-fur lined puffer coat over two layers of fleece. A pair of gloves, double layer of socks, snow boots. Useless phone and hand warmers shoved in your pockets, you storm out of the house.

The cold that greets you burns up your nostrils and painfully invade your lungs. Snow is flying directly at your face, and you’re barely sheltered by your hood as you feel the icy flakes stab at your skin and melt away. Step by wary step, you steadily walk off your porch, careful not to slip. Your heart leaps out of your chest when your feet sink down at least 10 inches of snow, your squeal is muffled by the scarf you’re using as a ski mask.

It’s now been at least 10 minutes since he’s left. Jungkook is a fast walker, but in the snow, perhaps you could catch up with him.

The flickering lamp posts light up the night, but they may as well not be working because all you can see is white. Barely able to keep your eyes open, and batting away the heavy wind that’s threatening to blow you over, you trek in the direction of the local supermarket.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you realise that you don’t recognise the way anymore. Everything is a blur of snow. The cars, houses, street signs. All snow. Google maps is failing you; you’ve given up removing your gloves each time, your fingers instantly freezing at the exposure, to zoom in or rotate the navigation which keeps hopping from location to location.

You’re utterly and undeniably - lost.

Stopping dead in your tracks, you just plop down on your ass in defeat.

Where the hell are you? Where the hell is Jungkook?

Fear and frustration bubbles in your chest. It must have been half an hour now since you left the house. Surely he should be back, and surely he would’ve intercepted you on the way. That could either mean one of two possibilities: he got lost, slash, injured, slash, died on his way, or you have somehow strayed from the route to the store and he’s now frantically searching for you.

The lump in your throat festers into a ball of panic and despair. Looking around you, there’s absolutely no one. Just eerily-still buildings and snow-hidden cars. The only sound is the howl of the winter gust and your own uneven breathing.

You’re scared, and cold, and alone.

Why the hell did you think you could find him in this snow storm? You watch your warm visible exhale disperse in the icy air, the stinging of desperate tears piercing the back of your eyes. What are you supposed to do now?

And then it hits you. Perhaps you could trace your steps back since your feet have imprinted a trail in the snow. Looking behind you, you see that the downpour of snow has already began filling the footprints nearest to you. You’re praying that they haven’t already entirely covered your earlier steps closer to the house.

Gathering yourself together, you exert a lot of effort to stand up from the ground. Your butt is now wet, and a damp chill is seeping into your underwear. Determined, you follow your footsteps, which are growing fainter, back home.

You’re hoping you recognise the way now, that you’re not just convincing yourself that the street looks familiar.

Then an awful realisation hits you.

Both your hands are stuffed into your pockets, holding those hand-warming packets and your phone. But not your keys. You forgot your keys.

‘Fuck!’ Cursing is rare for you, but anyone would probably deem this situation as a very reasonable one to swear at.

Hot gushes of tears begin flooding down your face, painting streaks of cold that freeze over in a matter of seconds. How could you be this dumb? The snow is getting heavier right now. Checking the time on your phone, it’s 7 o’clock. The streetlights are dimming due to the weather, and the pitch dark night is starting to settle in around you.

You sink to a crouch.

This is it then, you guess. You’ve met your inexorable demise, rooted from your own stupidity. And Jungkook.

You can’t believe you’re going to die trying to find Jungkook in a goddamn snow storm.

The quiet sobs and sniffles that escape you are muted by the hood around your ears. A shiver overtakes your body as your muscles tremble as a last attempt to keep you alive. Your whole face is numb, teeth clattering, eyes clamped shut to stop the tears from freezing on your cheeks.

‘Noona?’

The voice is muffled but you recognise it instantly. Your eyes fly open to see a pair of shoes halted in front of you. You look up.

And there Jungkook is, eyes wide in shock, quivering lips parted in concern, carrying four plastic bags full of food and supplies. The streetlight situated directly behind him shines a halo around his head, painting a heavenly image of him. You’ve never been more glad to see anyone in your life.

Unable to contain yourself, you fling your ice-stiffened arms around his waist and bury your face in his coat-clad torso. Your knees give in and hit the ground. New tears spring from your eyes, but this time it’s tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of gratitude. A surge of his warmth washes over you, and all of a sudden, the cold cannot touch you.

‘W-What happened? Are you- Are you okay?’ Jungkook is rooted to the ground, he wants to wrap an arm around your small head or help you up but his hands are full with the groceries.

Gripping his sleeves, you tug yourself up to face him. You probably look like a mess, red eyes, nose and cheeks. But you don’t care. Jungkook is alive, you’re alive, and you’ve found each other. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, Jungkook. Everything is fine.’

‘You’re crying, noona.’ His ears are neatly tucked under his black knitted beanie.

‘Not anymore, I’m good now.’ Ferociously wiping the liquids profusely leaking out of your orifices, you give him the biggest grin your frozen cheek muscles would allow. ‘Let’s go home. Do you need help with the bags?’

‘No, don’t worry about them.’

Standing an inch apart, you walk side by side following his lead, assuming he knows the way. The material of your coats scrape at each other when either of you leans a bit too far towards the other.

‘What are you doing out here though?’ He asks quietly.

What are you doing out here? How do you give him an explanation that does not depict you as an idiot? Because once again, you’ve been stupid and dramatic and stressed over absolutely nothing. It’s twice in the same day now that you thought one of your roommates have died. When both of them turned out to be alive and well.

‘Um… Well, I thought it was dangerous for you to go outside alone in this weather, especially since it’s getting dark... I tried calling you but had no signal so, uh, I decided to... uh, come out to find you…’ Embarrassment begins to creep it’s way to your senses, it claws digging into your skin.

You peak at him in your peripheral vision to see him stiffen, eyes eerily focused on the snowy path in front. What is he thinking? Is he going to laugh at you? Think you’re dumb? Find you weird and obsessive?

‘Oh… Um.’ Clearing his throat, he glances at you and you quickly look away. Flustered. ‘You didn’t have to, I’m fine. I know this neighbourhood like the back of my hand, noona.’

‘Yeah, but you took so long. I got worried…’ You whisper the last bit.

An awkward pause is birthed. Your fists tighten around the hand warmers in your pockets.

‘I- I’m sorry for worrying you, noona.’ You hear his own fists tighten around the handle of bags as well, the plastic crinkling. ‘The supermarket around the corner was shut so I had to find another one that wasn’t. I made it just in time, though, right before this one closed as well. Then I also had to find a store that sells those so-’ He stops abruptly when he realises that he’s rambling.

‘Sells what?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Jungkook mumbles.

Another silence. The night has fallen, looking around, if it isn’t for the scarce light casted by the lamp posts, everything would be pitch dark. You’re so glad you’re not alone. Worse come to worse, you would’ve had to knock on these random houses and beg them to take you in for the night.

‘Wait,’ he says, ‘That doesn’t explain why you were crying.’

Well, crap. What are you supposed to say?

‘Uhh… Well, I got lost and my phone wasn’t working, so… I just kinda panicked.’ If your face wasn’t red from the cold and embarrassment from before, it definitely is now. You feel the blood pumping to your head, enough to make you sway a little.

‘Oh shit. I’m sorry, that was all my fault. I- I should’ve told you I was popping out in the first place. Ugh, noona, I’m sorry.’ You’ve never seen him display much emotion towards you, but currently, seeing him so alive with exasperation… It’s kind of endearing.

Screw earlier, this is the longest conversation the two of you have had, ever.

‘No, Jungkook, stop apologising. It wasn’t your fault at all!’

To be fair, you couldn’t have wandered that far if Jungkook found you on his way back from whatever shop he went to; you must’ve been close at least.

And so you two arrive safely to your house. Carefully wobbling up the porch slippery with slush, you stop in front of the door.

He looks at you expectantly. ‘Keys, noona?’ Of course, his hands are full.

Here you are, thinking you could’ve gotten away with not telling him you had moronically left your keys at home. ‘Um, I forgot to bring them with me.’ You utter, then add. ‘I was in a hurry.’

For a second, Jungkook looks like he’s about to tell you off for endangering yourself with such stupidity. But he just lets out a half-laugh half-sigh and bites down on his lip. ‘Mine are in my left, no, right back jean pocket.’

Right. He is asking you to get his keys from his back pocket.

His back pocket.

You freeze.

You’ve never so much as touched Jungkook, if you don’t count brushing shoulders. Hugging him back there was purely out of hysteria, which you retracted from the second you registered your action. Now, you’re going to grope his ass. This day just keeps getting you more familiar with him, doesn’t it?

Gulping, you suck up your cowardice and slide your hand into his back pocket, intentionally not looking at him while doing so. The firmness of his buttcheek fits snugly in your palm while your index finger hooks around his keyring. And what the hell, you strangely get the urge to squeeze it.

You yank your hand out of there before it can betray you and act on that impulse. Glimpsing up, you see that his cheeks are also crimson as he stares up at the ceiling a little too attentively.

After changing into some warm dry clothes and setting your snow-dampened ones on the radiator, you go out to the kitchen to see Jungkook cooking some ramen, which doesn’t come as a surprise as he practically lives off them. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a black hoodie; after cupping his ass through his back pocket, you can’t help but notice how round his rear is, especially in those bottoms.

God, what is wrong with you? You cannot seriously be checking Jungkook’s ass out.

This time his hood his down, and you appreciate how fluffy his hair is starting to grow. You can’t help but wonder what it sme-

Woah.

Why are you thinking so much about Jungkook?

Truth be told, that scare he gave you just now opened your eye as to how much you actually care about him. Despite never really saying much to each other, you guess you’ve grown a sort of fondness for him that you didn’t realise you have. It’s only natural; you have known each other for close to a year now, and half of which was spent under the same roof. Of course you would worry for his well being, you tell yourself.

The kitchen fan must be blocking his hearing because he doesn’t sense your approach, he’s singing softly to himself. He’s got a lovely voice, both your roommates do. But whereas Jimin sings loudly and proudly, Jungkook only does so in the shower or when he doesn’t think anybody is listening.

When he notices you finally, you’re peering over his shoulder. He jumps. You jump. The chopsticks he’s using to stir the noodles fly out of his hands, clattering on the counter.

‘Oh jeez, you scared me.’ He picks up the chopsticks.

‘Sorry.’ You squeak and take a step back when you realise your proximity.

‘Haha…’ He chuckles nervously, embarrassed. ‘Noona, you like jajangmyeon, right?’

Do you like jajangmyeon? You live and breathe jajangmyeon. You can’t go a week without jajangmyeon. You’ve had it for breakfast, lunch and dinner before all in one day. Those noodles in that sauce… Mmm…

‘Yeah, they’re my favourite.’ Is all you say though, you figure he probably doesn’t care for a whole speech about your love for them. Surely he knows at this point, there isn’t a single day in this house where the ramen cupboard is devoid of jajangmyeon.

‘Great, I’m making you some.’

Oh. Jungkook is cooking for you. A warmth creeps into your cheeks, and you’re not sure why.

‘You don’t have to, Jungkook. Just cook for yourself, I’ll make myself dinner after you.’ But then your stomach chooses now to bellow aloud like a bullfrog traitorously. You look at him, abashed.

A smile is playing at his lips, though he’s trying not to show it.

‘Go sit down, noona. It’ll be ready in a second.’ His eyes are fixed on the bubbling water, chopsticks hauling up the softening noodles to check their texture. Though you’ve never tasted his cooking, you don’t doubt ramen mastery, so you nod compliantly.

The bags of shopping are half unpacked on the dining table, so you decide to finish sorting them out. He’s bought gimbap, bread, cheese, some salad, mostly food that doesn’t require cooking; you can tell he has thought ahead for the potential blackout.

Then something else in the bag catches your eye.

‘Dinner’s ready.’ Jungkook carries two bowls of brown noodles, garnished with sausage and cucumber, just the way you like it.

He sets the bowls opposite each other on the end of the table that’s not packed with groceries. This feels extremely weird and domestic. Although you live together, you don’t remember the last time you’ve had a meal together on this table, just the two of you without Jimin. Yet now, you’re about to eat jajangmyeon that he cooked for you, right across each other. Extremely weird.

‘Thank you so much for cooking, Jungkook.’ You bow your head at him politely and take a seat opposite him.

‘You’re welcome, noona.’ He also mirrors your action. You can kind of understand why it must be so annoying to Jimin how you’re so formal to each other, it must sound so forced and awkward.

Which is what this meal is going to be. Forced and Awkward.

Jungkook waits for you to take the first bite before digging, which you have to do so without rolling your eyes back and moaning out loud in satisfaction. Jajangmyeon tastes so flipping good! Your one and only true love.

You’re too focused on slurping down the noodles that you don’t notice him smiling fondly at the rare sight of you so blatantly excited.

The meal goes by quietly, neither of you are talkers to begin with, much less while eating. Whether it’s because it’s your favourite dish, or because it’s a freezing cold winter day, or even maybe because it’s Jungkook’s own cooking, the food tastes especially scrumptious.

‘This is delicious.’ Your eyes are practically glowing at him; he shys away from the praise by sipping on his can of coke. Who drinks coke in this weather? A smile stretches your lips at the oddity of this boy’s taste.

Jungkook mumbles a thanks, avoiding your eye as usual. But the jajangmyeon has put you in a good mood, you’re feeling rather chatty actually. ‘Also, Jungkook, I saw you bought-’ You dig into one of the grocery bags and pull out what you spotted earlier.

‘Oh yeah.’ Jungkook stares at the two-pack of fluffy socks in your hand, wearing a slightly mortified expression. ‘Um… I thought... you could do with some new ones.’

Surprised, your whole body tenses. You had thought he bought them for himself after seeing you wear yours so comfortably. All thought flaps away from your mind like a flock of frightened birds, leaving an empty field. He- Why- What do you-

‘Oh.’ Clearing your throat, you murmur. ‘Wow, thank you so much.’ Unable to look at him for any longer, your eyes fall onto your noodles. Your hand holding the socks drop onto the table at the weight of his kindness. Then a realisation creeps up on you. ‘Wait… They don’t sell these socks in supermarkets…’

Glancing up, you find him fiddling with his fingers nervously. ‘Uh. I went to another shop that does.’

Knots upon knots begin to tie in your stomach. So that’s why he took so long out there, not only did he have to find another supermarket that was open, he also searched for a store that sells fuzzy socks. For you.

Why do you feel so warm everywhere?

When you fall into a silent trance of your own thinking, Jungkook gets worried. ‘Noona, do you not like them? Did I get the wrong ones?’

‘No, no, no!’ You frantically dispute, forcing yourself to look at him. ‘These are perfect! I’m just surprised… and touched. That’s all. Jungkook, you really didn’t have to.’ The fabric of the socks feel heavenly to touch, your thumb sinks into the clouds of its softness. Truly, this has taken you by surprise and you don’t know how to react.

‘It’s okay…’ Redness blooms across his cheeks like drops of watercolour.

First he cooks you your favourite meal, then he buys you fuzzy socks? Is this the same Jungkook you’ve been living with all these months?

‘No, here…’ You rip open the card of the packet and snap the plastic wire that holds the four socks together. ‘Take a pair, I only need one anyway.’

At you waving the socks in front of him, he leans back in refusal, shaking his head and muttering a string of no no no’s. You’re not at all a strong-willed person by any means, but you’re not backing down on this, not when he’s been so lovely to you all night. When he realises that you won’t take no for an answer, he sighs, scratching the back of his ears. ‘Okay, okay. You can have the mint ones.’

One pair is mint and the other is pink. You blink. He wants the pink ones?

When he realises what must be going through your head, he quickly says, ‘Mint is your favourite colour right?’

Mint is your favourite colour. Though how does he know? All your possessions are in a variety of pastels: baby blue, cotton candy pink, mint green and lilac purple. He couldn’t have possibly guessed…?

‘Yes, it is… But I seriously don’t mind if you want the mint ones, I’m not gonna make you take the pink ones.’

‘No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.’ Jungkook snatches the pink fluffy socks from you before you can argue and stuff them onto his lap.

Your heart does a little thing that you can’t describe.

The two of you finish your dinner in silence, mirroring each other with one hand gripping the socks ever so tightly and the other hand picking up the noodles with your chopsticks. Awkwardly, Jungkook take a glimpse at you. A tiny smear of sauce stains the corner of your mouth.

Does he tell you? It would make it awkward though, wouldn’t it? But then again, it would be worse for you to find out yourself when you look in the mirror and think that he didn’t tell you you have sauce on your face.

‘Sauce.’ He accidentally says before he could finish formulating what he’s going to say to you. Shit. What’s wrong with him? Why did he say it like that? In response to your confused expression, he gestures dumbly at the corner of his own mouth.

Instantly a blush flames across the apples of your cheeks. You are about to wipe it away with your sleeve when you realise a second too late that you’re wearing a white sweater.

Your hand dangles a centimetre from your face, wrist caught in Jungkook’s fingers as he notices the mistake in your action before you. His whole body is leaned over the table in order to reach you. Wide eyes locked on each other, neither of you dare to move at his sudden outburst of motion towards you.

‘Um.’ He peeps. ‘Careful, I’ll do it, noona.’

Before you can register, he lets go of your arm allowing it to fall onto your lap. When his index knuckle brushes against the end of your mouth, a wave of shock zaps down your spine. Your heart lurches down an abyss at how soft his skin feels on your sensitive lips. Then his touch is gone, leaving a warmth tingling in his wake.

As he looks around for something to wipe his finger on, pupils round like a puppy, your eyes refuse to leave him. Thank you sits at the tip of your tongue but your throat is too clogged to utter a sound. The clockworks are trying to turn in your brain but all you can focus on is Jungkook.

How is he this nice, kind, gentle boy? And how have you completely missed this about him? In fact, why have you been so demure with him when he’s… an angel?

Watching his tongue poke at the inside of his cheek, a much scarier thought dawns on you.

Do you have a crush on Jungkook?

White screen glaring at you, the words of your unfinished essay frowns at your lack of attention in disapproval. You can’t write about Jane Austen’s exploration of feminism when Jungkook has overtaken your capacity to concentrate on anything other than him.

The radiator by your desk acts as your foot rest, blazing the pleasant heat up your legs. Ever few seconds, your eyes would wander to those mint green fuzzy socks you’re wearing, so brand new that its fluff caresses your toes like a flower bed. Just the thought that he went out of his way to replace your old hole-ridden pair…

Stop.

Jane Austen. Focus.

But the phantom touch of his finger sweeping across the plump of your bottom lip is etched on your skin, the picture of his doe eyes staring at your mouth refusing to leave your memory.

What has happened to you? How have you just swung from two extremes: from hardly able to speak a word to him without stuttering, to daydreaming about his kindness towards you?

The cold is making you delirious. It has to be this godforsaken cold, because why else would you all of a sudden be so flustered from the thought of Jungkook?

You take a long hard sip of your coffee, and mark it as a new leaf. From now on, no more thinking about anyone else other than Jane Austen. Pushing up your sleeves, you straighten your slouching back and face the monster of you assignment head on.

Not 5 minutes later, your desk lamp begins to flicker. You throw it a quick glance as your fingers type on your keyboard. Weird, you just changed the bulb a few weeks ago. Nevermind it.

Then all of a sudden, all the lights in your room go out. Frowning, you get up and try the switch several times to no avail. Peaking outside your room, all that greets you is a cold darkness. So you turn on the flashlight on your phone and try other light switches of the house. Nothing. Even the heat begins to seep away from the heaters as they dim to a cool. Oh no, right now?

Using your phone as a torch, you pad towards Jungkook’s room and open his door before you can remember to knock. Perhaps your anxiety has overridden your common sense and courtesy. Unfamiliar with the orientation of his room, you trail your side against the wall to guide you.

‘Jungkook? I think the power’s ou-’

Your phone shines onto a tall silhouette, illuminating a view that makes you shriek and stumble back.

There he is, standing with a white towel around his waist, beads of water splattered across his naked body and dripping rapidly out his wet slicked back hair. The swell of his biceps catch your attention first, lined with prominent veins running all the way down to his large hands placed on his hips. Which leads your gaze to the illustrious v of his hips that arch down to-

Without meaning to, your eyes travel down to this bulge. His hefty unmissable bulge. The towel protrudes out like a tiny hill, and you want to scream at it.

If you had a drink in your mouth right now, you would surely spit it out all over him and choke to your death. But you don’t, so all that comes out of you is a strangled cat noise. Looking away from that sinful area as quickly as you can, you arrive at his face - shocked, alarmed and confused. Your cheeks burning in the flames of hell, you spin away hastily to sprint out of his room in horror.

Except you run into the wall.

The impact hits your forehead and thankfully not your nose. Phone flung onto the ground with the light facing up, you fall onto you knees clutching at the eruption of pain. But nothing hurts more than your pride and image.

‘Noona!’ One hand securing the towel covering his manhood and preserving his dignity, he scrambles over to help you despite himself.

You flinch away at his hand on your shoulder because he is now right beside you. And it’s as if you’ve zoomed in too far on a picture because his nakedness is suddenly magnified 100x. You want to Ctrl Z yourself out of his room and back into your own desk. Because what. the. hell.

What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?

Transfixed on the ridges of this abdomen, you cannot focus on anything other than the way his muscles groove up and down so smoothly to form a six pack. Shadows casted by the flashlight sculpting more definition onto his marble chest. Goosebumps are raised on his blemishless skin, which you almost want to stroke away with your warmth.

‘I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.’ You chant cataleptically in a daze. It’s more for your own reassurance than his. His bare upper body needs to let you breathe.

‘Are you sure?’ His concern is apparent in his expression, eyes examining your entire face for your injury.

‘Yes, yes.’ Desperately wanting to shoo him away, you wince at the pulsing ache burgeoning in your forehead.

‘I’m sorry.’ You both say in unison, though neither of you understand why the other is apologising.

Though he seems abashed about being shirtless, his humiliation comes nowhere near your level. Why isn’t he scrambling to put a shirt on?

To be fair Jungkook does seem awfully self conscious, you’ve caught him looking down at himself for about the fifteenth time now as he helps you up to your feet.

‘I’ll let you get dressed, sorry.’ Is all you say after snatching your phone off the ground, not even bothering to check for a cracked screen, before making your timely escape. This time more successful than the last.

Clutching your throbbing head, you race to your room and catapult onto your bed. The picture of a wet, shirtless Jungkook with only a towel to shield you from his crotch is now ingrained in your mind. You think shutting your eyes will help but you still see his divine abs behind your lids.

Holy shit.

What perhaps scares you more is how attracted you are to him. Since when did you find your roommate hot? This is shy, quiet Jungkook who plays overwatch until 4am. How dare he have a Greek God’s body to confuse you like this?

You need to stop thinking about his naked body right now.

Instead you check outside your window to see that the streetlights are off as well; it must be a blackout across the whole town, if not city. Without heating, the cold air begins to harshly sting your exposed skin. Panic starts to fester in your chest. How long can you last with no electricity whatsoever? You don’t even have phone signal, or something to charge your phone with except the one portable charger that may or may not be dead right now.

Though your door is wide open, Jungkook knocks on it politely outside your room. Which is what you should’ve done with him, you mentally scold yourself. Though he is now dressed in an oversized hoodie, your image of him is forever changed after seeing him fresh out the shower, hair still dripping. You blink hard in attempt to rid that thought.

‘Hi…’ He whispers. He’s holding two burning candles against his chest, their flames lighting up the underside of his sharp jaw.

‘Hi, come in.’

You can sense his hesitancy, the unease in the air between you, when he enters your room gingerly, feet clad in those pink fuzzy socks.

‘Sorry-’ You both say at the same time again, then release a breath of laughter. Mirth twinkles in his eyes, though his shyness does not stray from him.

‘I’m sorry for barging into your room like that.’ It’s an effort not to glance down at his adorable socks. ‘That was completely my fault, so don’t apologise.’

He swallows. ‘It’s okay, noona.’

His eyes hold yours for a solid moment before dispersing. A familiar blush is starting to paint your cheeks, you feel the heat from your chest blare up to your entire face. Unable to help imagining those solid muscles underneath his clothes, you tug at the hem of your sweater.

‘So,’ Jungkook places one of the candles on your desk. ‘This is for you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Instead of using the flashlight of your phone, use the candle or one of the torches I’ve put on the table outside to save your battery. I’ve checked the main fuse, it isn’t switching back on. Good thing is that we still have running water and plumbing, just no heating or any electricity.’ He glances at your own socks. ‘We need to use the water sparingly though or the reservoir will run out. From the shops, I’ve bought some food that we can eat without cooking like gimbap or sandwiches. There’s also a stash of hand warmers in the drawer of the TV stand if you’re cold.’

That’s a lot of words to come out of Jungkook’s mouth in one go, all spoken to you. What he’s saying is sinking in and relief washes over you, yet you can’t help but focus your attention on the way his lips move as he speaks. The dark red gleaming with lip balm, curving over each syllable so prettily.

‘That’s great, thank you.’ You finally snap out of it. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ That last sentence slips out of you before you could stop it.

Pupils widening a fraction, Jungkook’s lips part in reaction. Why did you tell him that? Maybe you should just lock yourself in your room after continuously embarrassing yourself tonight. But then he pulls into a smile that melts away the ice that’s numbing your limbs and burning your lungs. The front of his teeth slightly jutting out sweetly.

Again, a fondness tickles your chest.

‘Me too.’ The tingle spreads into a pulse that crushes your throat. Is that why they call it a crush?

You simply cannot suppress your own growing grin.

Jungkook begins to walk away, but then stops at your door and turns back. There’s a reluctance, an uncertainty to his slow movement as he faces you.

‘If… If you get too cold without the radiator… you can…’ His voice barely a husk. ‘You can come over to mine.’

Then he’s gone. The aura lit up by his candle gradually diminishes away from you as he walks down the hallway to his room.

Frozen in place, you’re not even sure if your heart is beating anymore. Those final words ring in your ear like wind chimes.

You can come over to mine.

Does he mean what you think he means? Is he offering to keep you warm during the night?

You watch the candle he’d placed on your desk, its flame mirroring the small fire kindling in your core for the boy who went out during a blizzard to buy you fuzzy socks so your feet don’t get cold.

On the other side of the wall, Jungkook is on the verge of combustion at his bold proposition to you, red burning the tips of his ears. Though the memory of the look of pure euphoria on your face when you took your first bite of jajangmyeon burns his heart hotter yet.

The cold is brutal and shows no mercy. Despite your tossing and turning and effort to warm yourself up, sleep does not grace you. Part of the blame goes to Jungkook, you have not been able to cease thinking about him and everything he has done tonight. It makes you reflect on all your past moments together, whether he has always been like this and you were only too closed off to pay heed.

Sitting up from your bed, you decide you won’t be able to fall asleep without extra warmth. You need hand warmers stuffed down your pyjamas.

So, muscles stiff from the cold, you clamber out the little warm burrow of your covers and head for the living room, forsaking any light since your vision has adapted to the dark. On your way there, you walk past Jungkook’s room. Without knowing why, your legs betray you and stop outside his door.

You can come over to mine.

The low rasp of his voice still echoes in your head, stirring your unwarranted feelings for him into a warm pot of honey.

Had he really meant it? Did he honestly invite you to his share his bed? Surely not - this is Jeon Jungkook you’re thinking of, he doesn’t even speak to you most days, can’t not cower away from your glare. And he also knows what you’re like, how it took you two whole months to even warm to all of Jimin’s friends, how you only recently stopped using honorifics with those older than you.

And surely he must be at least mildly aware of the lack of boys and romance in your life, living just down the hall from you. Jimin is the closest male friend you have, and even so, you aren’t completely comfortable with sleeping beside him.

But then… All that has transpired about Jungkook’s character tonight, how sweet and kind and thoughtful he is which completely falls outside your predictions of the boy…

You realise you want to know more, want to explore the depths and mysteries that is your strange roommate. This intangible force that has been building up in the mere hours you’ve spent together this cold winter’s night draws you to him.

So screw those hand warmers, they last way too short anyway. Who needs those fidgety packets when there’s a whole Jeon Jungkook next door?

Gathering all the courage you can muster, you knock on his door.

The wood sends tendrils of cold into your knuckles. There’s a pause at first which leaves you thinking that he’s asleep, and to be fair, this late at night he has every reason to be. You’re about to turn away and head forth down the hall when you hear sheets moving, followed by his muffled come in.

Timidly, you step into his room, mind still fresh with the memory of what had happened last time you entered here unannounced, mere hours ago. Let’s not think about that right now, shall we?

Jungkook is sat up in his bed, black hood engulfing half his head. A single scented candle lit on his bedside table beside him illuminates the whole room into a golden ochre hue, it smells of freshly washed sheets.

‘Hi…’ You peep out, stopping in front of his bed.

‘Everything ok, noona?’ His eyes are fixed on your face in wonder, but when you meet them, they dart to your socks.

‘Um, yes.’ How do you put this? How do you formulate those words? ‘I just… It’s absolutely freezing with the radiators not working. Maybe- D-’ You exhale shakily. He’s gaze slowly crawls back up to your face as he realises where you’re going with this. ‘You know how you suggested that we should… sleep tog- on the same bed… to keep each other warm…? Well...’

Jungkook blinks at you. For a heartbeat, all you want to do is curl up into a ball and roll out of here. You couldn’t even finish what you were saying because your jaw has simply refused to move, refused to let you carry on embarrass yourself.

Then, although he was already on one side of the bed, he scooches over to the left. He doesn’t look at you when he replies, ‘Of course.’

Your heart is pumping fast, almost making you choke on your constricting throat. Warily you clamber onto his bed, but stop when only your knee is on the mattress. The bed frame creaks. Jungkook is regarding you with an unreadable expression, nibbling on his bottom lip. ‘Wait, if this is weird, just tell me to go.’

‘N-No. It’s fine.’ Pulling the covers over his chest, he crosses his arms shyly. There’s a pink tint to his cheeks, though you could be mistaken due to the odd lighting. ‘I was struggling to fall asleep from the cold as well.’ He adds when you don’t seem convinced.

Both of you are making this a bigger deal than it actually is, you are fully aware. It honestly pains you how awkward you two are with each other; if this were Jimin, he’d be dragging you onto his bed by the waist, letting you flounder about in his arms like a cat trying to escape before smothering you with his affection. But this is Jungkook. Quiet, shy, awkward Jungkook. Jungkook who hasn’t spoken more than ten words a day to you before the events of tonight even though you live together. Jungkook who you’re slowly learning more and more about during this blizzard.

Plus, he was the one who offered to share his bed earlier in the first place. This is fine, just fine. Act normal.

Overly conscious of how he’s watching your every movement carefully, you slowly burrow into the comfort of his bed. Immediately you’re enveloped in his residual body heat under the duvet. Now you realise that he moved over to the other side of the bed, the cold side, so you can relish in the warmth that he’s been collecting under these covers.

Why is Jungkook so… considerate?

Again, the same fuzzy feeling as before tugs at your heartstrings. Suddenly you want to reach out to him, but instead, you tug at your sleeves.

You’re both staring at the blank ceiling as if it is some fascinating art piece, with enough space between you to fit a Jimin. The candle has casted long grey shadows across the room, occasionally flickering haphazardly.

Everything that is currently whizzing through your head is driving you insane. This is actually happening. You are sharing a bed with Jungkook, the guy who you can’t even look in the eye when speaking to, your roommate who has only ever tried to avoid you. This day is a jack-in-the-box of Jungkook-themed surprises. What’s going to be next?

‘Feeling warmer, noona?’ He breaks the silence first, and you can’t help but glance over at him. His side profile is mostly masked by his hood, yet you can still see his jaw clenching. You can only imagine how uneasy he is currently feeling.

‘Yes.’ It’s barely a whisper you manage, so you clear your throat. ‘Much better Jungkook, thank you.’

Another silence. Though this is an improvement from before, you still feel a chill in your bones; the cold is a resilient pest that aches your muscles and numbs your face.

‘Should I blow out the candle then?’ You ask.

‘Oh right, yeah.’

You huff at the small flame but it refuses to go out, and you kind of don’t want it to as it provides a strong beacon of heat as its smoke licks at your face. You huff again. Still, it only wavers. You’re so cold that you don’t even have the strength to take out a candle. Peaking over at Jungkook, his eyes are locked on you patiently.

‘I’ll do it.’ He leans across the bed over you, you feel his warmth radiate into your proximity as his should hovers over your face. His scent, a clean soft musk, swims up your nose; you never noticed how pleasant he smells. The veins on his neck are protruding as he strains to reach over. When he extinguishes the candle with a single harsh blow, embarrassment rains on you.

Darkness enshrouds you two. As he returns to his position, you notice that he’s closer to you than before, now only less than a foot away. The sound of his breathing provides a steady rhythm that soothes your wild thoughts.

Though your social skills are subpar by nature, Jungkook has a way of magnifying your awkwardness. Should you say something? Good night? Thank him again?

Then you realise, he’s shivering. Of course, his hair must still be wet from his unfinished shower that was cut short by the blackout. God, he must be freezing.

‘You’re cold.’ You state, though you mean it more as a question.

‘I’m fine.’ Hums his response, yet his inhale is shaky.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you know what you’re going to do next is completely out of character and will require more guts than you actually possess. Your hand gropes at the space between you until you find his hand. It’s ice cold. Jungkook jumps at the contact and you hear him turn his head towards you. You hope his sight hasn’t adjusted to the dark yet so he can’t see how abashed you are.

‘You’re not fine.’ His fingers are stiff when you interlock yours between his. Everything is screaming inside you. What are you doing? What the heck? If Jimin were here to see this his jaw would drop all the way down to hell.

Unable to suppress the urge either, you also turn to look at him. In the dark, you can barely make out the outline of his face, the shape of his glossy eyes reflecting the moonlight seeping in through the window. Slowly, his fingers curl up around your hand. Your heart flips.

Blood roaring in your ears, you inch towards him like a frightened deer until your sides are pressed against each other. Your faces must be a hand’s width apart, but the darkness fuels you with a brazenness that allows you to not cringe away. His whole body tenses in response.

‘Better?’ Voice so soft he strains to hear you.

Jungkook nods, eyes never leaving yours. ‘Better.’ His response rumbles into your ear and percolate into your mind, and only now are you aware of how close he is.

An amalgamation of unidentifiable emotions stir inside you. You feel your own warmth trickle towards him as his does with you, and slowly his presence plucks away the cold you are plagued with.

‘Good night, Jungkook.’

‘Good night, Y/N noona.’

Though it’s only briefest of movements, you feel his thumb stroke over yours once, twice, as your eyelids fall shut.

The next morning, you wake up first with your head fitted cosily on his heavily breathing chest, his arm draped across your shoulder, shielding you from the chilly morning air.

The power still isn’t back on.

It’s now nearing 24 hours since the blackout first hit.

You’ve wasted the day wandering about the house, unsure of what to do with yourself. Though you tell yourself it’s the withdrawal symptoms from the internet, it’s mostly due to the fact that you slept next to Jungkook last night.

The earlier half of the day was spent subtly avoiding him because what the hell are you supposed to say to him? Do you just carry on your usual selves around each other or are you, like, friends now? You caught yourself watching him sleep this morning, serene breaths in and out through his nose. There’s a tiny mole under his lips that you’ve never noticed before. You had poked it with your pinky before you could stop yourself. And thankfully he’s a heavy sleeper, he didn’t even stir.

With more effort than you thought would require, you pried yourself out of his arms, a cold breeze instantly welcoming you in an embrace as you left his bed.

Those scenes keep replaying in your head: him finding you out in the blizzard, watching him cook you jajangmyeon, discovering that he when out of his way to buy you new sock, then walking in on him almost stark naked from the shower, and finally, falling asleep enveloped in his warm and scent.

You’re definitely crushing on him.

You’ve stopped denying it when you saw him meander wearily out his room at noon, bed head ruffled, eyes still droopy from sleep. Wordlessly, you had passed him the ham and cheese sandwich you prepared for yourself and you don’t even know why because you were absolutely starving.

The downpour of snow only stopped for a good 10 minutes this afternoon, a tiny window in which you poked your head out for some fresh air. Jungkook had tried to shovel away some snow to clear the porch, but quickly ran back inside when he saw your worried face plastered to the window watching him.

There isn’t much either of you can do with no electricity, no internet, no television, trapped indoors. So you occupy your day curled up on the couch, nose buried in a novel, completely immersed in that beautifully crafted fictional world.

Until Jungkook walks out in a white t-shirt and shorts.

Your eyebrow raises, peeking at him from behind the pages.

‘I’m gonna work out here, if you don’t mind. There isn’t enough space in my room.’ He scratches the back of his head.

‘Sure.’ You exhale, knowing your demise is looming over your head like a storm cloud. A lot of self control is exercised in order to not ogle at his calves.

Training your eyes at the novel in front of you with great determination, you turn the page. The first minute is easy enough, you just have to angle your book to block your view of him. But then his breathing grows heavier, panting every rep. At that, you can’t help but glimpse past the corner of your page.

Oh Lord. He’s doing push ups.

Though his biceps are mostly covered by his sleeves, the muscles of his forearms tensing at every contraction catch you eye. You marvel at the way his tendons flex out, and the way his serpentine of veins snake down his hands.

Jeez.

Then he lets out an unholy grunt, setting your whole skin on aflame. Scarlet stains your cheeks, you’re sure of it. But the sinful sounds do not stop. Sweat his now seeping through his shirt, rendering the material transparent down his back. And his ass…

You snap your focus back to your novel.

Just in time as well because he stops onto his knees, head falling back as he sits on his ankles, panting. His neck is shimmering with his perspiration, droplets trickling down like a brook.

Jungkook glances over at you to see you reading intently, jaw clenched from what he guesses is due to the excitement of the plot.

But then you stand up so abruptly that it startles him. You can’t sit here and spy on his workout any longer, you physically cannot take it. Not to mention, it makes you feel so awful, like you’re perving on the poor clueless boy who only wants to break a sweat.

The both of you just stare at each other, flustered for different reasons. His breathing slows.

‘I’m gonna-’ You don’t know where you’re going with the sentence. Gulp. ‘Uh, see you later.’

Scampering away into your room, you don’t wait for his response. Why are you panting heavier than he is when he’s the one exercising? Your book is pressed tightly against your pounding chest as you lean your back on your door. Your legs give way and you slowly slide down onto the cool floor.

There’s one thing you know for sure.

Jeon Jungkook is not good for your heart.

It’s almost midnight and Jungkook is standing outside your door. Fist clenched, inches away from rapping on the wood, but completely frozen in action.

Just do it, idiot. He scolds himself.

After an ice cold post-workout shower, this time early enough so he doesn’t have to sleep with wet hair, you both had gimbap for dinner. It was an excruciatingly silent meal which he blames himself for, though he can’t help the way his tongue gets tied every time he wishes to speak to you.

And now, bed time, he is at a dilemma of whether or not to ask to sleep with you again. It may come across as too forward coming from a guy, he doesn’t want to scare you. But he also knows that he will be missing the warmth of your body beside him if he goes to bed alone.

Jungkook sighs and lets his hanging hand fall to his side.

If you wanted to, you would have gone to his room anyway. Might as well save the awkward rejection and just take this as a no.

However, your door suddenly swings open. He’s confronted with a pyjama-wearing, baby-faced you, flinching back a step at the surprising sight of him.

‘Op- I was just....’ His sentence falls flat. He was just what?

‘I was just coming to find you.’ You mutter, eyes softening if he isn’t mistaken. A flood of relief rushes at him, so you were planning on coming to him tonight.

Wordlessly, you pad after him to his room. Everything is dark but you see his figure clearly in front of you. It gives you a false sense of confidence which leads you to trip over his charger wire you so clumsily missed.

You don’t know how he reacts so quickly to your yelp of distress, but he turns around in time to catch your outstretched arms by the elbows. ‘Watch out.’ Feet fumbling over each other, he stumbles back onto his bed as you fall onto him. The weight of your bodies sink down onto the mattress.

Hard muscle cushions your fall. Chests pressed against each other, you don’t realise your hands have instinctively circled around his shoulders for balance. Your nose is touching his fabric of his collar, his musk instantly overriding your senses. When you look up, his eyes are a crystal clear pool somehow reflecting the constellations of the night sky in this darkness. His breath caresses your forehead. Your gaze drops to his mouth, pink and parted.

You want to kiss him, you realise. So badly. Every fibre of your being is currently yearning to meet his lips, longing to know whether he tastes better than he smells.

But then your limbs are moving for you, propping yourself up and off him. Your own mouth forms and quiet ‘sorry’ as you shuffle under the sheets. It’s as if you’re watching your own actions through your eyes, controlled by your logic rather than desire. You couldn’t let yourself kiss him.

Jungkook silently squirms into his bed beside you, unwilling to look your direction as much as you’re averse to his.

So this is how it’s going to be again. Two sleeping logs next to each other.

There’s an ache of regret in your heart for being so timid. Annoyance at yourself drips down your throat, fist clenching at the sheets. You should’ve kissed him right then and there, consequences be damned. When will you get another chance? But perhaps it was fate. You have no idea how he would’ve reacted; the pessimist in you thinks he would’ve been disgusted. Yes, it was fate. It was right not to have kissed him.

Wait, no. A boldness suddenly pours down on you. Shyness and introversion has gotten you nowhere before, and it will not help your situation now.

‘Jungkook.’ Your voice comes out crisp and clear.

‘Hm, Noona?’

‘I’m still cold.’ Turning to face him, you see innocent confusion settle in his expression. The sound of your thumping pulse has reached your ears, your heart is a speeding motor flying off to find him. ‘Come closer.’

The shadow of his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. His focus does not stray from you as he slides across the bed hesitantly.

‘Closer.’

He edges further towards you. You can now just about make out the shape of the scar that flecks his left cheek.

‘Closer.’

This time, his exhale tickles your neck. Warm bodies touching, confusion and perturbation cloud his glassy orbs as he scans your face for an answer to the plethora of questions swimming in his head.

‘Thank you.’ You breathe, though it feels like no air is entering you. You can’t believe what you’re doing. This close to him, you’re entire being bathes in his presence, his aura; a familiar tingling ails your soul as your eyes flicker to his lips.

Every single muscle in Jungkook is frozen in shock, unsure of what is going on and why the sudden change in your demeanour towards him. And when you turn onto your side away from him and inch by inch back your body onto his front, his heart

stops

beating.

Nose buried in your floral-scented hair, vacillating thoughts tell him to put his arm around your waist and hold you close to him. You sense his unsureness in the way his hand rests on your side and pauses for too long before pulling you into his chest.

His frame engulf yours, the curve of your back lining perfectly with his. You feel safe, protected. His furnace touch on your waist burns through the thick fabric of your jumper and seeps into your core. The effect he has on you is nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and neither have you ever been in this position with anyone. Although it isn’t much, merely just cuddling, this feels so remarkably intimate and intense, like you’ve finally stepped through a threshold built into the emotional wall that towers between you and him.

You’re not entirely sure if you’re breathing.

Despite being the one to instigate this, you’re awfully apprehensive, not daring to even twitch incase it rattles him and sets him scrambling away. The two of you are like a pair of squirrels, slowly approaching to sniff each other, curious yet easily frightened.

His hot breath rushes down your spine like smoke. You desperately want to know what he’s thinking. Is he as nervous as you? Do you feel comfortable to him as he does to you? Or is he already falling asleep?

You should close your eyes and try to. Though who are you kidding? You’d never manage to catch a wink when you’re an accidental turn of a face away from kissing him, at least not right away anyway, not until you calm yourself down with a mental meditation exercise or something.

The urge to check if he’s indeed asleep is yanking at you, but you use all your willpower to resist, not wanting to risk rousing him when he’s as skittish as you.

But then you feel it.

Him.

It’s subtle at first, just a gentle pressure at your bottom.

Innocent and untainted as you are, you don’t even realise what it is at first, so you shift your hips unconsciously.

Then it’s stiffness grows, and grows, until it’s a baton poking at your rear.

Something in your core ignites, your chest constricts, and a wildfire of lust you’ve never felt before smoulders from your scalp to your toes before finally rooting itself in your sex. Ten hells, Jungkook’s boner is touching your ass. Jungkook has a boner and it’s touching your ass. Jungkook has a boner because of you and it’s touching your ass.

Your brain is devoid of all senses except a formidable hunger for him. Suddenly, though he’s almost surrounding you completely, the only thing you can feel is his hard member prodding you.

Is he asleep or not, you need to know.

Then a strange force possesses your lower half, and like a puppet on a string, your ass sinks back further onto him until his length is tunnelled between your cheeks.

The softest moan escapes him, almost a gasp even.

You think he’s going to say something, move away or stand up and leave. Instead he pulls himself away and slowly thrusts forward again. His clothed length slides smoothly up your crack, brushing ever so slightly over your slit. It sends a wave of arousal convulsing up your core, so powerful you almost choke.

Continuing to encourage him, your hips move in tandem with his, rubbing your ass all over his pulsing erection, occasionally letting it slide between your thighs against your clit. A pleasured mewl escapes, though you’re not sure who from. You’ve never felt anything like this, the ruin that overtakes your core at the friction. This is a divine sensation, luxury of the gods.

Jungkook’s fingers dig into your waist as his pace increases, his breathing slowly shifting into wavering panting. Finally you succumb to the urge to twist around to look at him. Your heart erupts at the pure devastation contorting his face. His brows angled in pleasure, teeth clamped down on his lip to suppress those unholy noises, lids hanging heavy at the weight of his thirst for you. When his eyes lock on yours, something unleashes in him and devours you wholly.

Fire and ice. His lips feel like both fire and ice. Fire because your entire mind is burning at his smoothness, fuelled by your unkempt want for him to take over you. Ice because everything that isn’t him feels numb and insignificant, and your feelings for this man holding you is the purest flake of snow.

Your first kiss, and it’s already the best kiss you’ll ever have, you’re sure. Because the way his lips meld onto your, the desperation in the way he leans so far into you, the heat of his arousal forging it’s mark between your legs. Nothing in this world can top that.

‘Noona.’ He sighs into you. It drives you absolutely insane.

Fingers grappling in his wavy locks, you reposition yourself completely to face him. His length twitches against you as your leg swings behind him to pull him closer. He is holding your neck with a heartbreaking delicacy, thumb stroking your jaw like it’s the most fragile of chinas.

‘Jung-’ You whimper. ‘Koo…’

Tasting of mint, his tongue gently laps at yours when you open for him. You’re drowning in his essence, lungs filling with his air, though you welcome your sweet painless death like it’s a heavenly gift.

Knowing his docile nature, you move his hand underneath your top, giving him permission to roam freely on your skin. He snakes around your back and circles around your front before finally meeting your sore breasts. As he kneads them tenderly, you feel a warmth ooze out of you into a puddle of concupiscence in your pants.

Oh God.

Your own hands wander beneath his hoodie, raking up the bumps of his god-sculpted abdomen and taking hold of his muscular chest. His wet kisses are a drug, and you’re completely and utterly under its control.

‘Jungkook, I want you.’ You moan.

When his eyes fly open, you’re met with pools of desire, seething into you like jets of lust. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d experience him like this, covetous for you and withering under your touch.

‘Noona… Fuck.’ He trembles as your hand travels down his navel, daring to slide under the band of his sweatpants. ‘I want you so bad, noona.’

The whimper that leaves his mouth when you palm him through his boxers sends a flood of yearning down to your core.

Holy shit.

He feels…

Massive.

Heavy with girth, only about half of his length fits in your palm. You have to stretch your fingers in order to fully encompass him. He is fully at your disposal, groaning, grip tightening on you.

As he huffs into the edge of your jaw, his own hand comes down to find your pussy pulsing for his touch. When his touches your clothed slit, a compulsion forces your hips to buckle forwards. And when he begins to rub circles right on that tender spot, waves upon waves of ecstasy hit you.

Whining like an animal, your head falls back at the newfound pleasure he’s showing you. With you neck presented so openly to him like a platter of dessert, he plants dulcet kisses onto you, his gentleness kindling your fire for him. Despite your attempt to wind your focus back to him, your grip on his erection slackens at his vibrations on your cunt.

‘Can I?’ Jungkook whispers into your ear, softness tickling your lobe. You don’t waste a second before nodding eagerly.

Then his fingers slide underneath your panties. Sensitivity explodes at the contact between the pad of his thumb and your clit. A string of moans release from you. His fingers stroke tactfully up your slick, lubricated by your wetness for him. And when he slides his digit into you, the thread that holds your soul to sanity snaps.

‘Oh my god.’ He pushes through the sleek pressure of your walls. ‘Jungkook.’ The whimper of his name rolling off your tongue sends a rush of blood down to his aching cock.

‘Noona, is that okay?’ The genuity in his voice squeezes your heart.

‘Yes, it feels so, argh, good.’

He latches his lips onto your neck and sucks clouds of lavender to your smooth seamless sky. His finger is slowly pumping in and out. It is a foreign feeling, so strange and unfamiliar, yet all the more exciting. The rise of his knuckles hit your wall at eye-rolling angles. Your hips roll in his rhythm to help him reach newer depths. The pleasure is unforgiving, relentless.

Another feeling gnaws at your chest, a longing to please him.

‘I want to make you feel good, Jungkook.’ You mumble, shy.

He looks up at you, finger gradually ceasing its movement. The pure passion alit in his eyes drives you thrumming for him.

‘O-Okay.’

‘You… You have to teach me though.’ Redness flushes your cheeks.

‘Okay.’ He says again, and you wonder if you’ve broken him at the way he’s frozen.

Sheepishly tugging down his pants, you inch yourself down and settle between his legs, the duvet rested upon your shoulders. He bobs free from the restraint of his apparel.

Your eyes bulge at his cock that is, despite the darkness, standing tall and proud, beaming at you. How is that monster going to fit inside you?

A strong vein runs down the course of his length. Angry red tip swollen and trickling with a clear liquid. You look up to find him staring helplessly down at you, gulping. A nervous fear is eating away at your throat; you’ve never done this before, how are you supposed to know how right now?

‘Teach me.’ Your fingers come around the base of his shaft and he gasps audibly.

‘Uh-’ Another gulp. ‘Lick the tip.’

You lick the tip. Drawing your tongue over his engorged head, tasting his salty precum that continues to leak out of him profusely. He curses.

‘Like that?’ Your mouth doesn’t leave him as you say.

‘Mhmm.’ He runs his hand through his dark locks in exasperation. ‘Suck on it gently.’

You suck on it gently. Lips wrapped around his tip like a vacuum while you breath him in. Your cheeks hollow. You look up at him for approval. One eye is clamped shut, the other is barely held open to witness the most seraphic scene.

‘Fuck, noona, like this.’

You try to take in more, letting his wide cock slide into your mouth, careful not to scrape your teeth against his hilt. When he hits the back of your throat, you gag and splutter around him. Embarrassment shoots at you, yet when you glance up, he doesn’t seem to care.

Instead, he brushes your hair behind your ear and coos, ‘Careful, noona.’ He’s so sweet, so dear, you feel a crack in your heart.

So you try again, this time slower, swallowing as much of him as you can. Your hand swirl around his shaft while his massages the back of your scalp. You roll your tongue around his head every time you come up, flickering at his slit. Soon, your pace increases along with your confidence. Jungkook is a mess under you, thighs quivering, toes curling. Humming in satisfaction, your vibrations resonate into his dick and he yelps.

‘Noona, stop before I cum.’ The way he pleads sends your cunt throbbing. You pull his member out of your mouth almost obscenely, inhaling sharply for air.

He gently places you on your back, finger tracing your drenched lips in endearment. ‘Was that ok?’

‘That was perfect, noona. Are you sure that was your first time?’ Doe eyes wide in awe of you. You giggle and nod, glowing in timid pride. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

At that, the reality of this situation hits you. This is happening, this is actually happening. You’re going to have sex for the first time. With Jungkook.

Are you sure you want to do this?

You are sure you want to do this. If not with him, then no one else.

‘Yes.’ You state firmly, eyes never once wavering from his.

His gaze on you is so soft, yet so intense, you want to melt under him. ‘Okay. I- I need to go find a condom in Jimin’s room.’

Fuzzy with your feelings for him, you watch him scramble off in the dark to the other room. Loud clangs echo down the hall, you can’t help but smile at the thought of him digging through Jimin’s pig sty, frantically searching with his rock hard cock.

Jungkook returns moments later to the sight of you completely naked on his bed. Gaping like a little boy, he almost falls onto you as he climbs onto the bed while he tears off his own top. For a minute, you two just stare at each other’s bodies, allowing the beauty to sink in and etch itself forever in your souls.

‘Noona, you’re so beautiful. Do you know that?’ He leans over to kiss all over your face.

A warm prickle sieges your heart. No one has ever called you beautiful before. Emotion floods you like an ocean, and you’re suddenly met with a familiar sting behind your eyes.

He hovers over your lips, nose rubbing on yours so lovingly you want to cry. You’re at a loss for words, so you just nod, not daring to peep a sound lest a tear escapes from you.

His hands are shaking as he rolls on the condom. Prudently, he kisses up your inner thighs before spreading them open with care. Finally, he pecks the top of your flower fondly.

Then slowly he rests his elbow beside your head and situate himself between your legs. Both your breaths are wobbly, you search his face for security and find it. His irises reflect his galaxy - you. And your fear ebbs away.

Stroking his tip along your wetness, he kisses the shell of your ear. ‘Are you really really sure?’

‘Yes, Jungkook.’ Your fingers entangle in his hair assuringly.

‘Tell me to stop if it hurts a lot. Promise, noona?’ His concern is heart wrenching.

‘Promise.’ You whisper, other hand locking with his.

Only then does he begin to ease into you. At first you don’t feel much, just his tip diving into you. Then the rest of his length pushes in, plunging through a tremendous pressure built into your walls. Pain blooms inside you as he enters deeper and deeper, it’s an ache that you anticipated but never imagined. You both cry out, though for different reasons.

‘Are you okay?’ You can tell he’s struggling to stay still, shoulders tensing at the temptation to thrust again.

‘Mhmm.’ You manage to gripe. Because despite the blinding pain, you are okay.

‘I’m gonna go as slow as I can.’ He ensures you, fingers tightening around yours.

When he plunges into you again, you expect the hurt to lessen, but it doesn’t. It overwhelms your whole body, yanking inside you. Though, every time he kisses your lips so tenderly, your forget the soreness he’s impaling into you for a fresh second. Opening your eyes, you see him panting at your tightness, trying with every muscle in his body not to go wild at you.

‘Fuck, noona.’ He exhales, forehead rested on yours.

Seeing him so berserk with pleasure calms your running anxiety. His thrusts inevitably quickens, and you just about begin to see pass the pain. Behind the ache, there’s a gratifying sting clenching your walls. The slap of his hips against your thighs ring loud.

‘Still okay?’ Jungkook asks again, worry painting his face at your silence.

‘Yes, you can go faster.’ You answer despite the ever-present soreness. When he drives hard into you, stars and tears blurring your vision.

Something in him snaps as you feel him twitch inside you. His movements grow sloppy and feral, just like the grunts that he heaves. Chasing his climax, you can tell how close he is to his sweet release.

‘Oh- Noona, I’m so cl-ose.�� He’s whimpering into your neck.

‘Jungkook, baby. Come for me.’

At your name for him, he goes crazy, ramming into you with a strength and stamina that you couldn’t expect less of from him. ‘Noona…’ He begs. The pressure inside you is easing, pain dulling, though you know you won’t feel any pleasure this time round.

Then, in one last powerful push, he ejects into you with a loud cry. You pull his lips to yours immediately to soothe his euphoria. This look of pure pleasure on his face rips you to shred as he refuses to let go of your hand. His hips jerk into yours to ride out is high as his whole body deflates onto you.

Although it’s a freezing night, goosebump plaguing both your skins, neither of you feel cold. Instead, you are enshrouded by the warmth of your passion and desire, all you feel is each other.

You, wrapped tightly around him, and him, spasming inside you.

Heavy with exhaustion, he nuzzles up to kiss you. Long, slow and hard. You have never truly appreciated his beauty until this point, under the subtle snow-clouded moon, eyes boring into you with a never-dimming glow of adoration.

Jungkook removes himself from you, hastily disposing the condom to not miss a moment by your side. Dressing you first so you don’t catch a breeze of cold, his touch feels so much warmer, gentler.

Snuggled up under the covers, he holds you so close to him that you hear his beating heart. For a timeless passage, you stare into each other wordlessly, fingers tracing delicately over every patch of skin.

‘Y/N...’ He muses out loud. ‘Y/N… You don’t know how perfect you are…’

Again, he has rendered you speechless.

Caressing your cheek in his palm, he continues. ‘I wish you could see yourself through my eyes because then you would understand why I’m so completely in love with you.’

At his words, your throat constrict. ‘What?’ You choke out.

‘I’m in love with you, noona.’ His lips are trembling, chest pounding against you. Disquietude emanates from how he’s peering at you.

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t know how you never knew, I mean- I guess it’s pretty obvious from the way I act around you. Even Yoongi-hyung spotted it right away…’ He begins to ramble, focus hopping to the collar of your jumper that he’s toying with. ‘I just… I don’t know. There’s something so special about you that I can’t find in anyone else. I thought it was just a crush but... but then you moved in with us and… And my feelings for you just drove me insane. That’s why I kept trying to avoid you. I know I wouldn’t be able to hide it if I actually spent time with you, I’m kinda stupid when it comes to girls if you can’t tell already.

‘But the truth is,’ he takes a deep breath and sighs, ‘I am truly, deeply, madly in love with you, Y/N noona. Everything about you. The way you devour jajangmyeon as easily as breathing. The way you never go a day in winter without wearing these fuzzy socks. The way you only drink lattes and chamomile tea. The way you would rather spend your friday nights curled up with a book. The way you pretend to find Jimin annoying but secretly love the attention he gives you. The way you rushed out to find me in the snow and forgot the bring your keys. And the way you can’t talk to me without stuttering just like how I can’t look you in the eye when we have a conversation.

‘I know this is a lot to spring onto you, and I don’t expect you to love me back at all. But just know that I’m here for you whenever you need. I’m your furnace in a snowstorm, hand warmer in a blizzard. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same for me, I’ll still be here.’

Jungkook finishes with a final huff.

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his confession. Emotion floods your veins at the revelation, and you can all but break down into sobs. Jaw gaping, you regard him from his arms, trying to piece together your scattered thoughts.

‘Noona, say someth-’

You kiss him, urgently and desperately. Like you’ve been drowning in a sea of lostness, aimlessly floating about to try to find your way, and he’s your first gulp of air. Mist of perplexity is finally starting to clear away, and you see the path ahead of you with crystal lucidity.

It’s Jungkook. Jungkook, who knows your favourite colour when even your own mother doesn’t. Jungkook, who waddled out into the freezing snow to buy you new socks. Jungkook, who so gently and delicately made love to you tonight. Jungkook, who has loved you unconditionally and will continue doing so regardless of your feelings towards him.

‘I think… I think I’m falling truly, deeply, madly in love with you too, Jungkook.’

End

extras: christmas special

@shookpreme @hazelelizabeth99 @teenage-hippie @bunbundesu @tangledsparkles @gingerpeachtae idk who wanted to be tagged lol 😬

02/09/2019

12K notes · View notes

actress4him · 3 years

Text

So, this isn’t DoD related, but some of my readers ( @nevquariel and @coolmegan123 , specifically) were interested in hearing more about the other KH project I have in the works. As I mentioned in the comments of my last post, I started writing it while editing Sorrow’s Promise, and have dabbled with it off and on since then, though not for a while. I’m not sure when it will get finished and posted, I may take a break from KH for a little bit after I finish DoD, but we’ll see.

This story is multi-chap but stand alone, not a series. It’s really unlike anything else I’ve written. I generally stick with at least partially canon-verse in my fanfiction, but this one is definitely an AU, and not just by being canon-divergent or having an original character. Nope, this is set in a completely different world, in my own, made-up era, and only the characters (and a few fun parallels to canon here and there) stay the same. I’ve tried to keep everyone in character as much as possible, though Sora is the most changed just because of his circumstances. We see more of the real Sora in the flashbacks at the beginning of every chapter.

TL;DR, aka the tagline for the story -

In which Sora is Roxas, Xemnas is a mobster, Kairi is an actual princess, Axel is everyone's slightly unstable big brother, and Riku just wants to fix his mistakes...but what's new about that?

Starring Sora and Riku, with Axel and Naminé in primary support roles, Xion, Kairi, and Saix in secondary support roles, and pretty much every other KH character you can think of as the ensemble.

And now, because I love to spoil you guys, a sneak peek at chapter 1, below the cut. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Chapter 1

Sora stumbled off of the train car and into Central Station, bumping right into Riku's back. The older boy had halted in his path and was gazing around at the grand building, and Sora followed suite, eyes wide with wonder. There were so many people everywhere. They had never encountered a crowd quite like this one back at home.

As they began moving forward again, Sora reached out and clung to Riku's shirt, afraid that they might get separated. Soon they found themselves being swept out the front door and into the sunshine of Twilight Town. We made it. We're actually here.

“Where do we go now?”

Riku glanced back at Sora, scratching the back of his head. “Uh...why don't we just walk around for a while, get a feel for the place?” To anyone else, he would have sounded like he knew exactly what he was talking about. Only Sora had known him for long enough to detect the hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Yeah, okay.” Sora swallowed, trying not to feel too nervous, himself. This is what we wanted, remember? A new town, new people...anything but what we had.

Riku led the way through the unfamiliar streets, pointing out various shops that they passed along the way, obviously doing his best to make them both feel at ease. Sora tried his best to relax and enjoy the sights, but his rumbling stomach wasn't doing much to help in that area.

“Can we get something to eat? I'm starving.”

Riku stopped walking and turned to face Sora, a frown on his face. “Well, we don't have a lot of munny left.” Digging the pouch out of his pocket, he tugged it open and peered inside. “The train tickets cost more than I thought they would. So, we can get food, but only a little, okay? We've still got to figure out where we're gonna sleep tonight, too.”

Sora nodded. “Yeah, I'm really tired.” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned as if to prove the point. Laughing, Riku knocked Sora on the head. “I told you you should've slept on the train.”

They started to head into a nearby cafe, but were interrupted by someone calling out, “Hey, kids!”

Wrinkling his nose, Sora turned to see a couple of older teens, one with bright red hair and one with blue, walking towards them. “Are you talking to us?” he asked, pointing to his chest.

“We're not kids.” Riku crossed his arms and glared at the newcomers.

“Right, right.” The redhead waved his hands apologetically. “I'm sure you're much older and tougher than you look.”

“I'm Isa, and this is Lea,” the one with the long, blue hair and a strange scar between his eyes spoke up.

“You can call me Axel,” the redhead countered.

Riku studied them for a moment longer before dropping his arms. “Riku. That's Sora.”

“Great. Look, we couldn't help but overhear a little of your conversation,” Axel commented. “You guys new to town?”

“Just got here,” Sora piped up.

“Where are you from?” Isa questioned.

Riku shook his head. “Doesn't matter. We're never going back there.”

Axel and Isa exchanged a look that Sora couldn't read before Axel spoke again. “Listen, if you're looking for something to eat and somewhere to stay, we know a place. There's this guy we work for, along with a bunch of others just like you, and he lets us all sleep and eat at his place, too. It's a pretty good deal...a bit of work for him, in exchange for a bed and free meals.” He smiled earnestly and looked each of the boys in the eye. “What do you think, sound good?”

Sora cut his eyes over to Riku. It sounded great to him, but as the oldest, Riku was always the one to make the decisions. He could tell his friend was mulling over the offer. Finally he nodded to Sora, then smiled at the two older boys. “Sounds good. Lead the way.”

.o.0.O.0.o.

“Hey. Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

A hand was pummeling Sora's head down into his pillow. Instinctively, his fist shot out and made contact with something hard, prompting a stream of curses from the human alarm clock. Much more awake now, Sora rolled over, shaking his hand and glaring at Axel, who had retreated to his own bunk across the narrow room to whimper and rub his jaw.

“Serves you right,” Sora growled.

“Hey, I'm just trying to do you a favor and keep you out of trouble.” Axel gestured towards the rest of the bunks with the hand that wasn't holding his face. “You're the last one up. Again. They're not gonna be serving breakfast for much longer.”

Groaning, Sora pried himself up off the hard mattress and fumbled for his black boots underneath the bed. A moment later, he was up and shuffling sleepily towards the door.

“You know, a 'thank you' wouldn't kill you!” Axel called after him.

The thought of food was enough to prod Sora into a jog as he made his way down first one stark white hallway, then another. When he finally reached the mess hall, the usual din of clanging plates and murmuring voices met his ears. Axel had been right, everyone else was already here. Hurrying over to the kitchen window, Sora cleared his throat to catch the attention of the server. The response was a side eye, a snarl, then thankfully, a piece of bread and a spoonful of mush slapped onto a plate and shoved across the counter towards him. Sora breathed a sigh of relief. Just in the nick of time. I really should thank Axel later.

As Sora turned to look for a place to sit, he found himself face to, well, chest with one of his least favorite people in the world. He lifted his chin to meet Marluxia's stare with a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Heard you had issues in Agrabah yesterday.” The tall, muscular man shook his pink mane.

“What's it to you if I did?”

“Personally, I'm hoping that means you'll get kicked off that mission and I'll get it instead.” This comment came from Larxene, who had walked up just out of range of Sora's peripheral vision. He whirled around to glare at her instead. “I'm getting really tired of Wonderland, after all,” she continued, chewing idly on a piece of bread.

Sora's eyes narrowed. Wait, that bread... It only took him a second to make the connection. “Give it back, Larxene!” He lunged forward to snatch it out of her mouth, not even caring that she had contaminated it.

She ran a few steps back, smirking. “Come and get it!”

He would have done exactly that, had he not felt a pull at the plate in his hand. Marluxia had a hold of it, and though Sora was pretty strong, he was no match for those muscles. The older man wrenched it out of his grasp in a matter of seconds. Gritting his teeth, Sora gave up the mush for lost and chose to go after Larxene instead, hoping to salvage whatever bread might be left. He ran straight into her, tackling her to the floor.

Before either of them could get in any punches, however, a loud voice rang out across the room. “No fighting!”

Eyes going wide, Sora scrambled off of the blonde and stumbled away as fast as he could. No crust of bread was worth getting punished for fighting. His stomach wasn't exactly sure it agreed, however. It protested its emptiness harshly enough to make him grimace as he sank down to the floor in an empty corner of the room, watching with clenched fists as Marluxia and Larxene sauntered away to find their next unsuspecting victim.

“Here.” Sora had been so engrossed in his anger that he hadn't even noticed Axel enter the room and plop down next to him. “Take this. It's from last night. I was saving it for later, but you need it more than I do.”

Sora stared down at the proffered food for a moment, then turned his head away. “I don't need you to take care of me.”

Axel sighed loudly. “No, I know you don't. But you also don't need to go out in the field today not having eaten since yesterday morning. I'm well aware that you didn't get dinner last night because of whatever went wrong in Agrabah.”

“It's not my fault that some towns actually have decent government in place.” Sora shook his head slightly. “People see somebody like us skulking around, they tell the authorities. I'm lucky I saw them coming and got out of there without being questioned or imprisoned.”

“Yeah, you are. I know it's unfair, Rox, you don't have to tell me that.” Catching sight of the daggers that Sora was shooting from his eyes, Axel put up a hand in apology for the name blunder. “I mean Sora, sorry. Now would you just take the food? Neither of us really want to know what the penalty is for passing out and not making it back from a mission.”

Sora snatched the small bundle out of his hand with a grunt. “Fine.” The food wasn't much, but it would certainly be better than nothing. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could pilfer an apple or something while on the job later. “Thanks,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“No problem.” Axel ran a hand over his wild red hair, the flattened spikes immediately popping back up into place. “Try to play it cool with Saix when you see him. Confident, like you know you're capable of doing the job, but not too cocky. He'll probably dock you down to something more menial than territory expansion, but you'd better not show him one speck of attitude about it or...”

“Or I'll regret it, I know the drill.” Sora finished off the food and licked a crumb from his finger. “You ready? Might as well get it over with.”

“Yeah.” Axel pushed himself up to his feet, then held out a mass of black fabric. “Here, I brought these. You forgot yours in your rush.”

Grunting his thanks, Sora took the cloak and fastened it around his neck. On the other side of the room, most of the other soldiers, as they were unofficially called, were already lining up to receive their assignments. When his turn came, Sora stepped in front of Saix, meeting his cold gaze but trying his best to keep his own expression neutral.

“Roxas.” Saix's eyes flicked down to the clipboard in his hand, then back up to Sora's. “Debt collection. Twilight Town, east side.”

Sora blinked, the familiarity of that name sending a jolt through his brain, but forced himself to nod stiffly and pull his hood up over his face.

“You don't need a portal for Twilight Town,” Saix sneered after a moment of silence. Sora glanced back up at him, and he pointed to the door. “Go.”

Right. Nodding silently again, Sora stepped out of line and headed back across the room and out the door. So, this really was more punishment. Not only was he stuck with his least favorite task of debt collection, but he had also been relegated to the town that was so close by, you could walk to it rather than being sent by portal. A fabulous trek on a nearly empty stomach.

In another half hour, the walls of Twilight Town came into view, with the clock tower in the center of town poking out up above. That jolt ran through him once again. Several years ago, when they had first joined The Organization, he and Riku had often worked Twilight Town together. But that had been a long time ago, back before they had gotten promoted to bigger and better locations. On occasion after that, each of them would work a shift here, but Sora had not been back in a while. Not since Riku...

Shaking his head violently, Sora stamped out those thoughts before they could fully materialize. Stick with the present. Dwelling on the past never gets you anywhere. With a sigh, he walked through the gates of the city and surveyed the quiet streets. Well, this munny isn't going to collect itself.

DO NOT REPOST OR REBLOG WITHOUT CREDIT!

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kingdom hearts au #fanfic #fanfiction

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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In Sorrento

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Francesca/NotMel

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: After Mel dies, Francesca is left to her own devices in Sorrento, and meets another American tourist. If you don’t know who Francesca is, introduce yourself by reading Venezia and Coup de Grace, I swear you won’t regret it.

You look at me as if you love me, but I know you do not.

In Sorrento, the first words of the book—her book—come back to haunt her. Not unlike the clouds that roll over the distant Vesuvius.

Francesca sips an Americano, watches another fat, happy cirrus cloud float ever closer to the volcano, and wonders if that was not what she was doing all along, in writing the book—obscuring the obvious, clouding over a dormant and distant empty wound.

In the hotel balcony overlooking the cliffs, Carlo, her publisher, rushes up the lobby steps with unexpected, joyous vigor, in his hands the book —fresh out of the battered brown envelope decorated with colorful rows of stamps, not unlike a weary wartime general arriving with news of impending victory. Greedily he had opened the package first and now, as he sits opposite her, he opens the book and almost immediately breaks its spine with the gentle reverence of a priest sacrificing a bull to Apis.

She knows about Apis now, had read those mythology books that she had inherited—or plundered, as some of the less tactless estate executors had implied. You said I could take as many books as I wanted. I wanted them all. I took everything. I took them because they meant everything to you and I thought if I owned them I would own you the way you owned me—but I was a possession you never intended to buy. I thought then I would mean something to you, more than a lengthy, comforting footnote. I have low expectations.

Carlo smirks in his wily old man fashion. "Ah, Francesca," he coos. "If I cannot make love to you, I will make love to your book." He is a book man to his bones and his attentions, more fickle than those of any woman he ridicules, now focus on the book: the splendid font that indelibly anchors her words with their preening serifs—he chose it himself, Bembo of course, that venerable type first created for a Venetian printer—the thickly luxurious paper sibilant and alive against his dry fingertips, like the dress of a beautiful woman that begs for removal. In the end he praises not her, but her words: "Even in English, it is perfect. That first sentence, always—there is an undertow to it, like in the sea. It seduces and warns all at once. It—" He stops, shakes his head, looks at her. His mocking lust is gone, and with solemn, fatherly pride he hands the book to her.

She is 32 years old. One year short of crucifixion, as Carlo had said recently.

The town does not smell of lemons, as he had had promised. Instead the scents of beer, money, tourists, escape, destination, the sea—real and imagined, pungent and ethereal—crosshatched the air's dense, humid weave. She is a tourist in her own country, a fair-haired northerner to be mistrusted, as foreign to them as an American; her accent, a Venetian's cold and calculating tongue, bewilders them. It does not stop them from looking at her, as both an affluent mark and an object of desire.

But whenever she goes on walks away from the town—following the gradual ascent of the main road that lifts into the hills, into a winding pilgrimage to the cliffs, the moneyed hotels, the remote villas—there, with the sun warm along her bare shoulders, she takes pleasure in the smell of the olives, silvery green and hard, easily within reach.

She thought that once the book was finished, printed, bound, and out into the world, it would be done. Here, in Sorrento, she wants to become another woman.

In Mykonos, you said, you became another woman. The sea made you wild, your hair was loose and rough from so much swimming, your body tighter. Your lover, who had fallen into complaisance, wanted you as much as she did when she first laid eyes upon you.

In the Piazza Tasso she sits, mimicking the life she normally leads: Sitting alone in a café with a book—this time her book—under a golden awning, surrounded by local men arguing, playing chess, reading newspapers, slurping soups and cappuccinos, trying, always trying, to claim her attention. Only the sun's memento-mori caress is different; after so many days her shoulders finally loosen under its blazing constancy. She tries to pretend that she is reading the book she wrote for the first time. In a manner, she is—this is the first time she has read it in English, and under the shimmering Sorrento sun.

It's when she looks up that she notices the woman, or at least, aspects of her: a lovely neck craning, a serious face parallel with her pages, tendrils of espresso-colored hair touching the edge of the book with an odd, proprietary intimacy.

Their eyes meet. The woman offers a broad, sheepish grin and the one word known to all tourists: "Scusi."

"It's okay," Francesca replies softly. In English.

"It's been a while since I've seen a book—well, anything, in English." She sits at the empty table next to Francesca.

"Perhaps it's been a while since you have spoken English?"

"That too." The woman laughs nervously before her face falls in comic shock. "God, do I sound that bad?"

This confession and its subsequent horror unleashes the floodgates; the cappuccino Francesca buys her no doubt aids and abets the English tide. Francesca discovers that the woman—American, of course—has been traveling the continent for nearly a month now and, having lost her traveling companion to an infatuation with a boy in Prague, alone for over a week.

"Maybe I need an infatuation of my own," she muses quietly, and gazes into the now-empty cup as if the rich black grounds and milky dregs serve the same oracle-like function as tea leaves.

"An infatuation?" A smile threatens to break Francesca's reserve; only momentarily she fights the persuasive pull of her facial muscles, before surrendering to the flush of amusement, of pleasure.

"Yeah. Sounds very quaint, very Henry James, doesn't it?" She pauses and looks at Francesca intently, with genuine curiosity. "Have you read any Henry James?" The question lacked the usual American imperviousness.

Which pleased Francesca. "Yes."

"I'm being practically Victorian. An affair, if you prefer." A blush darkens her tan. The tiny table she's sitting at is dominated not by food or drink but a frighteningly large canvas bag brimming with sunglasses and maps, sun lotion and a bottle of iced tea, a book and a sweater. Her tanned thighs press into the metal frame of the chair. She seems one of those impetuous types, the one who scrambles to jump on the bus at the last second and only then gazes at the map to realize oh shit, I'm heading the wrong way. She is curious about every little thing in this sad tourist town, even the dreary little museum that Francesca could not bear to enter, even on a boring rainy morning—in fact, so bountiful and infectious is her enthusiasm that Francesca is not entirely surprised that the woman has utterly, completely convinced her that they must see the museum immediately.

Fortunately, it is open. At least the guard decides to amuse them and opens the door.

On the third floor of the Museum Correale di Terranova —they had decided to work their way down from the top floor—they walk gingerly among porcelain and majolica, a dance of dullness to Francesca, who thinks of the grandmotherly collection of knick-knacks she had inherited from Sofia and that now sit in a box in her dusty Venetian flat, but the American woman scrutinizes nearly every piece with the solemnity of the museum-going tourist. On the second floor they make fun of the Rubens paintings and the woman tantalizes with crumbs of information: "Sometimes my ex would tell me I was Rubenesque—I was bigger then, I grant you, but I swear I wanted to kill him every goddamned time." And Francesca decides that perhaps the artist was trying—and failing spectacularly—to capture the beauty of someone not unlike the woman who was standing next to her.

On the ground floor they look at a death mask of Tasso the poet, and Francesca's skin goosebumps with delight when the woman's knuckles brush her forearm, even though ostensibly the caress was meant to direct Francesca's attention toward one of Tasso's handwritten manuscripts—predictably, her gaze falls on lines of provocation: And now he sees a woman's face arise / and now her breasts and nipples, and below / where modest eyes would be ashamed to go. / So would a goddess or a nymph arise / from the stage in the theater at night.

On the way out they look at archaeological artifacts, both Greek and Roman in origin, and Francesca confesses that she once loved someone who would have loved this—both the artifacts and the manuscripts, the past alive in things and words. This she confesses, and not that she has written an entire book centering around that certain someone. Not to mention her former occupation. Nor that said book has been banned by the Vatican—a sure guarantee of success that had thrilled Carlo. No, that would be skipping too far ahead in the plot.

"Someone?" The woman's lips pucker playfully, mocking this attempt at gender neutrality.

The game is on. It has taken Francesca a long time to adjust to this: Sex not as a business negotiation, not as a bargaining chip with someone—yes, someone, yes you, Melinda—with whom she wanted so much more, but sex as pleasure, pursuit, acquisition.

"A woman. Much older than I."

"Ah." In one agonizing syllable she leaves Francesca hanging as she walks away, her index finger performing evenly spaced arabesques along the metal edge of a vitrine case. But when Francesca catches up to her—with a perfectly formed, lighthearted retort at the ready to put the woman at ease, and in English so disarmingly smooth because she had spent months and years perfecting it to please someone incapable of love, to mirror her beloved's flawless Italian and flawless fucking—the woman's smile is, this time, quick and shy: "So we're on the same page then?"

"Oh, yes." Francesca pauses, disquieted at her lack of self-possession, evident in this breathless oh-yes. The book of disquiet. Which she had never finished. The book of breathlessness. This she was about to begin. She imagines the pages of her own book fluttering, marking the passage of time: A girl, a whore, a woman in love, a notorious writer. Now this—a tourist in her own country, wondering about the many shaded meanings glimpsed in the smiles of one American woman. What page was she on, really?

Outside, the disorienting sun burns away the musty aura of the museum. "I'll buy you a drink," the woman says, as she slips behind the mask of her sunglasses. "To thank you for playing tour guide. Or tour follower, as the case may be."

"And what else?"

"Dinner?"

Francesca presses her advantage. She feels blood beating through her veins. Or perhaps it is just the sun pounding down relentlessly on her bare head. "And what else?"

They stop meandering through the piazza.

An appraisal takes place behind the dark sunglasses—if Francesca learned nothing else from years of being a whore, she knew that calculated look of desire held in check. "You know, before I left for this trip, my friends who had been abroad warned me about how pushy and charming Italian men were."

"And my friends would assure you that, in comparison to them, I am as decorous as the mother of God."

"Why didn't you just say the madonna?"

"I did not want you to think of that terrible singer."

"Ah. Thanks."

They walk again, this time with a heightened sense of purpose.

There are no good trattorias in Sorrento; there is, however, enough wine to make one forget lumpy gnocchi and oily sauces. After that, after all the drinks that framed the flirtatious discourse in a bar that alternately blared disco music and a Manchester United game, Francesca pulls her into the dank, desolate bathroom and kisses her. Sorrento finally, begrudgingly unravels in their kiss, in the overpowering taste of limoncello—lemons sweet and strong, right there in this stranger's mouth, caught in the gossamer of alcohol fumes, the scent coexisting in the dark fine netting of her hair and the nape of her neck, in the tantalizing descent to her breasts.

Her hands fill themselves with flesh, every desperate motion dictated by the treacherous curves of hips and thighs. Desire again, she thinks. An undertow that seduces and warns.

The woman breaks the kiss. "Can we get out of here?"

Francesca laughs nervously, presses her flushed face against the woman's shoulder—as firmly unyielding and tempting as an underripe peach, so much so that she bites into it, then feels a burst of movement along her hands. "No," she murmurs into broken skin. "Yes."

"Indecisive, aren't you? If I wanted to do this in a bathroom stall, I never would have left Newark Airport."

"So who is waiting for you at this Newark Airport?"

She laughs. "No one."

"Why did you come here?"

"I don't know. The usual reasons—I needed a break from my life, I wanted to not be myself for a while. The usual reasons people run away on sudden vacations. I guess that's all a way of saying I don't know." Again, that beautiful grin. "But aren't you glad I did?"

In the dark of Francesca's hotel room the romantic view of the cliffs is a mirage, a blackened monolith only hinted at in distant, distinct moonlit etchings—like a nocturne that the artist abandoned in favor of the warming flames of absinthe. The perfect backstage for Tasso's theater at night. No nymph or goddess arises, however—just a woman, and for Francesca that is more than satisfactory.

Desperation, typically not a quality never worth seeking, takes on a different aspect in bed—that of distinct, heightened advantage: She fucks as if there's no tomorrow, as if daylight will not arrive, and welcomes every kiss and touch and fumbling entry, every thrust into her body that threatens to break her, but doesn't. It only makes her wetter, open and aching for that long-awaited moment when the woman presses her face between Francesca's legs, inhaling the salt of the sea, drawing her in and devouring her. In Sorrento, she becomes another woman.

In the morning Francesca awakens to find the woman still there, sitting naked and cross-legged upon the bed, nibbling at a thumbnail and reading her book. She greets Francesca with a sly ghost of a smile that, Francesca hopes, encompasses desire and affection, perhaps even expectation.

The ghosts will be there, always, in every woman. Francesca returns the smile.

"Tell me your name," she says.

End

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #fanfiction #femslash

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aprilqueen84 · 5 years

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When You Least Expect It (5/?)

A/N: Here is the next chapter, this is probably my favorite chapter so far and I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it. Also a huge thanks to @hollyethecurious for being my new beta.

Summary: Killian and Emma had been wanting to start a family for a while now but not had any luck. Soon they would learn that the best things happen when you least expect it. Except not everything is as is seems.

Tag List: @hollyethecurious, @xemmaloveskillianx, @resident-of-storybrooke, @winterbaby89, @nikkiemms, @jennjenn615, @kymbersmith-90, @kmomof4, @lieutenantpirate, @teamhook, @ilovemesomekillianjones

“The Calm”

Two days later on a beautiful Saturday morning, the three of them were on their way to the docks to begin their voyage. As soon as Emma pulled into the lot, Henry was out of the Bug before it was even in park. “Someone’s excited,” Emma chuckled as she and Killian got out of car.

“Aye love, it’s not everyday that a young man gets to sail a fine vessel like the Jolly Roger by himself,” Killian said giving her a cheeky grin as they made their way hand in hand down the docks.

Henry was waiting for them impatiently at the bottom of the gangplank. “Finally! Come on let’s go,” he said as he raced up to the deck.

When Killian and Emma made it onto the deck, Killian walked over to Henry and clasped him on his shoulder, “Henry lad, calm down. it’s not wise for a captain to be impatient because-”

“Because impatience make for mistakes, I know. I guess I’m just a little nervous,” Henry said. Contrite in his behavior, he looked over to Emma. “Sorry, mom.”

Emma smiled at him and put a hand on his arm. “It’s ok, kid. It’s alright to be a little nervous, but we know you are going to do great, and just know that Killian will be right there if you need him, okay?” He nodded his head at her and she gave his arm a squeeze. “Alright, let’s get ready.”

After they prepared the Jolly to set sail, they were off with Henry at the helm. He guided them smoothly out of the harbour and into open waters. Their destination was a small stretch of beach about ten miles down the coast, isolated but still within Storybrooke’s limits.

Emma stood by the railing staring out at the water when Killian came up behind her and slipped his arms around her middle. She smiled and leaned back against him. “Hey! How is everything going?”

“Fantastic, love He’s such a natural,” Killian said with pride in his voice.

Emma turned to face him, looping her arms around his neck. “Well of course he is. He was taught by a former Royal Naval lieutenant and pirate.” She said, beaming up at him.

He gave her one of his bashful smiles. “You flatter me, Swan. But honestly, he is such an amazing sailor, just like a Jo-” he stopped, catching himself before he could finish his sentence. “Sorry love, I almost misspoke,” he said with his head downcast.

Emma brought her hands up to his cheeks, and lifted his head to have him meet her eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. He is just as much of a Jones as he is a Swan, a Mills, and a Charming.” She pulled him into a hug, stroking the back of his neck soothingly. After they pulled away from each other Emma said, “I am so happy that you think of Henry as your son, okay, and I am so glad he has you in his life.”

He looked at her tenderly “I am so grateful to have both of you in my life.” He leaned forward and captured her lips, their arms tightening around each other as they completely lost themselves in the moment.

“Oh come on guys! Really?” Henry called out to them in disgust.

They broke apart looking sheepishly at Henry. “Sorry, lad,” Killian said. Though, he anything but.

Henry just shook his head and pointed out in front of him. “We’re here. Killian, is this a good place for us to anchor?” he asked as he began to steer the ship parallel to the shore.

“Aye Henry, keep the old girl steady and I’ll drop the anchor.” Killian moved over and pulled the lever that dropped the anchor, while Emma went below deck to collect their bags.

Sometime later, after they had some lunch, Emma sat on a blanket that they had placed on the sand and watched Killian and Henry sword fight. She smiled fondly at them, always amazed at how much Henry had learned from Killian over the years. The two of them made a flurry of movements that ended in Henry disarming Killian with a twirl of his sword.

Henry stared down at Killian’s sword laying on the ground before he gave a excited shout, while Killian let out a hearty laugh. “Excellent, my boy! First rate technique.” He picked up his sword from the sand and sheathed it then walked over to Henry and gave him a clap on the back. They spoke quietly to each other before they both nodded their heads and turned to Emma. “Did you see that, Swan? The perfect disarming.”

“It was amazing, kid,” Emma praised.

“Oh it was nothing,” Henry stated with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Now don’t be modest, lad. You bested me, and not many people can say they have beaten Captain Hook in swordplay,” Killian said beaming with pride.

“Killian’s right you were excellent, Henry.”

“Thanks mom, Killian,” he paused, looking down the beach then back to them. “Hey, I’m going to take my sketch book and go draw for awhile.” Henry bent down to open his backpack and pulled out his book and pencils.

“Okay, kid but stay kind of close alright? We are going to be heading back soon,” Emma told him as Kilian settled down next to her on the blanket. Henry nodded his head before heading down the beach.

Killian turned to Emma with a devilishly handsome grin as soon as Henry was out of sight. “Alone at last.” Leaning forward, he caught her lips in a passionate kiss, his hand cupping the back of her head as he pulled her flush against him.

Emma let out a muffled gasp of surprise, not expecting him to be so bold with Henry so close. “Mm... Killian, wait a minute.” She pulled back slightly breathless, but that didn’t deter Killian. He began placing feather light kisses to her cheek then started down her neck. “Hey easy tiger, what about Henry?” she said, putting a hand to his chest and pushing him gently back.”

“Don’t worry, love. Henry is not going to bother us,” he said playing with a lock of her hair.

Emma gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“That my gracious step-son is giving his mother and I a little alone time,” he informed her with a raise of his eyebrow.

Emma stared at him for a minute before remembering the two of them talking after their sword practice. Suddenly, her eyes went wide, “Oh God! Please tell me you two didn’t agree to-”

Killian stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Swan stop, it’s not like that. This was all Henry’s doing. He wanted us to have some alone time together today,” he told her hoping to calm her.

She relaxed a little. “Really?”

“Aye, it was a bit of a surprise to me as well, love. Why do you think he brought his drawing supplies?” He stood suddenly and held his hand out to her. “So, how about it Mrs. Jones, care to go for a romantic stroll with your husband?”

She smiled at him and placed her hand in his to allow him to pull her to her feet. “Lead the way, Captain.” He lifted her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckles before tucking it into the crook of his arm, leading them down the beach, arm in arm.

When they eventually made their way back, Henry was waiting for them by the blanket. “Hey kid. You weren’t waiting very long, were you?”

Henry shook his head. “Nah, I just got back myself,” he said as he put his things back into his backpack.

They decided it was time to head back home. As they were packing up, Emma noticed that Killian kept looking off into the distance. “Killian what’s wrong?”

“There’s storm clouds rolling in,” he said pointing to the sky.

Emma turned to look in the direction he was pointing. Dark, almost pitch black clouds could be seen on the horizon, and were coming toward them fast. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

“It’s not,” he said concerned. “We need to get back to the Jolly, now!” They hurried and gathered the rest of their things.

When they made it back to the to the ship the wind had picked up, and rain was just starting to come down. “Henry! Help me tie everything down. Emma, go below deck and close the portholes,” he commanded, going into full captain mode.

When Emma came back up, Killian and Henry were tying the last rope to the wheel. While she had been below deck the weather had gotten worse. The rain was now coming down in sheets, hitting her skin like shards of glass, and the waves were beating against the sides of the ship with enough force to rock it.

Killian spotted her by the hatch, holding on to it after a gust of wind engulfed them. “Emma!” He called out to her, but it was obvious she could not hear him over the howling winds. He grabbed Henry by the arm, and they made their way over to her. “Are you alright, love?” She nodded her head and held onto him tightly.

“Killian, what’s going on?” Emma shouted over the deafening wind.

“I don’t know love, but you and Henry need to get below deck,” Killian said while gently pushing Henry towards the open hatch.

Emma shook her head. “What about you?”

“There are still a few things I need to tie down, and then I’ll follow,” he explained, turning her towards the hatch as well.

As Henry started down the stairs, Emma faced Killian. “No! You can’t stay up here, this storm is getting worse.” No sooner had the words left her mouth, a bolt of lighting came out of nowhere and struck the bow of the ship, the force of which sent them falling onto the deck.

Killian rolled, taking the brunt of the impact. “Are you are alright, Swan?” he asked as they slowly made their way to their knees, his hand going to her cheek.

Emma nodded her head. Her eyes suddenly widened and she scrambled over to the hatch door that had slammed shut. Yanking it open, she yelled, “Henry!” as Killian came to her side.

There was silence for a second until Henry’s voice called out “Yeah mom, I’m fine!”

Both their bodies sagged in relief that their son was okay. “Stay there lad, we’re coming down.” When Killian faced Emma, he saw her eyes wide with fear at something behind him. He turned, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Coming toward them, almost in slow motion, was a wall of water about one hundred feet high. They both sprang to their feet.

“Bloody Hell!” he exclaimed.

Emma looked to him. “Killian, what do we do?” she asked, her voice trembling in fear.

Killian looked at Emma, then to the wall of water that was getting closer. “Nothing more we can do but brace ourselves” he said as he pulled her closer.

They heard the sound of rapid foot falls on deck. “Mom! Dad!” Henry yelled as he reached them, “I saw it coming through the window.”

The three of them huddled together on the deck, arms around each other, not knowing if this was going to be their final moments together. Emma looked at the two most important men in her life and pressed a hand against each of their cheeks. “I love you both so much,” she said tearfully.

She pulled them close, eyes tightly shut, waiting for the impact when suddenly everything, the rain, the wind stopped. They lifted their heads and watched in amazement as the wall of water disappeared, and the sky became clear right before their eyes.

They looked at each other in shock. There was absolutely no trace of the storm. Other than being soaked to the bone, it was like it never happened.

“What the hell just happened?” Emma asked in disbelief.

Killian stared out in front of them, thinking. He had seen many storms over his long life, and there was only one reason for a storm to appear and disappear like this one had. He looked over to Emma and Henry, “Magic.”

“No!” The cloak figure yelled in anger as she stood over a bowl sitting atop the table. She had been so close to getting The Savior and The Pirate removed from the picture. She didn’t know how it happened. The spell was perfect and undetectable, it should have worked. She was running out of time, she needed the child’s magic, and she would get in no matter what.

The End

#Captain Swan #when you least expect it #Captain Cobra #captain cobra swan #married captain swan #emma swan jones #henry mills #killian jones

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imagine-hamilfluff · 7 years

Text

If I Had My Choice: Part 10

Alexander x Female Reader

Part One

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist

Word Count: 5529

Tags: @yehummno @robotic-space @isntthisenoughwhatwouldbeenough @unprofessional-inhumanbeing @sorryimacrapwriter @a-meme-you-cant-sweat-out @justanotherhamiltrash@marquiis-de-la-baguette @akarihamada @voldecrux @whowrotetheother51 @bruuuhhhh-here-i-am

A/N: Okay, kind of a big reveal in this one I’ve been wanting to get to for awhile. Also, this is the first chapter in a few that hasn’t been beta-ed, but I was too anxious to wait, so uh. Enjoy!

“I have something to show you.”

You shivered as you heard the voice murmur softly in your ear. A soft smile crossed your lips as the paper in your hand fell rejected to the desk. Biting your lip, you slowly turned to face the boy who grinned at you proudly. Reluctantly, you let out a sigh and slowly placed your hand in Alexander’s outstretched, waiting hand. You had reports to write and data to organize for your mother, but something in you always found time for Alexander’s antics.

His hand tightened around yours as he pulled you out of the desk chair and began leading you out of your room. Stiffening as you entered the hallway still clasping hands, you forced yourself to relax. Your mother was out visiting the vineyards for the day, and Bethany was on her daily stroll through their acres of gardens, which Alexander had apparently opted out of today. There wasn’t anyone who could run into you in this wing of the manor. You sighed, letting out the tension in your shoulders. A little over a month sneaking around with Alexander and you hadn’t become any less paranoid about being discovered.

Alexander led you gently through the labyrinth of hallways and soon you were almost certain you knew where he was leading you. You let a small smile curve at the edge of your lips as he gently tugged open the door to the stairway leading out to the roof. In a subdued excitement, he smiled at you and gestured for you to go first. Narrowing your eyes slightly at him, you reluctantly turned your back to him and began climbing. You weren’t sure what Alexander had planned for you, but you were beginning to become wary of his refusal to explain anything on your journey here.

As you pushed the door to the roof open, a cool breeze greeted you. A peaceful look overtook your face as you walked to the center of the roof, taking a few deep breaths. The fresh air felt good in your lungs today: it cleared your thoughts from the letter you had received from Philip that morning.

He and Theodosia had gotten their clearance. They were set to travel to Dmere in a few weeks, bypassing your mother’s strict border control. Up until this point, your correspondence with the other sectors had remained limited to their infiltrators contacting you. Directly leaving and reentering your sector was uncharted territory, and you couldn’t help to be concerned for your best friends. They were to be married in a year; they had their whole happy lives together ahead of them.

If something happened to them, you would never forgive yourself.

Heaving a sigh, you instead tried to focus on the cool autumn air. Philip and Theodosia could handle themselves. They would be alright, you told yourself over and over again.

Finally, you forced a smile on your face as you turned around, remembering Alexander was still with you. His eyes met yours with a smirk, and you noticed his hands were no longer empty. Glancing curiously down at them, you observed a crudely-bounded, well-worn stack of papers. Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked questionably back up at Alexander, wondering where he had gotten the papers, why, and when they appeared. He hadn’t been carrying them the whole time, had he?

Keeping his almost insufferably proud grin, he raised his eyebrows pointedly. “What? You think you’re the only one around here that has magic?” His question was playful, and you scoffed endearingly at it, rolling your eyes and shaking your head. Alexander’s face quickly became serious however, staring at you intently. “Y/N, why didn’t you tell me today was your birthday?” he inquired, disappointed. You froze.

How had he found out? You pouted and ignored Alexander’s pleading face as you crossed your arms across your chest. “Is that what this is all about?” you demanded, suddenly no longer wanting to be here. His face fell, and you averted your eyes to the ground as you shifted your weight on your feet uncomfortably. “I don’t celebrate my birthday,” you finally mumbled, still avoiding his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he insisted, sincerely. You glared up at him, annoyed with his confidence. He had never been here for one of your birthdays, what did he know? “Bethany told me you act out The Queen of Amaria every year on your birthday in the Great Dining Hall,” he confessed. You huffed in frustration, though you weren’t quite sure what at. Were you upset Bethany had told him or that you had forgotten to expect Bethany to tell him?

He stared at you pointedly as you let your eyes reluctantly meet his. Throwing your hands down, you admitted the claim in defeat. “That’s just a childhood tradition that hasn’t died out yet,” you explained. You didn’t want to celebrate your birthday. Your mother had always made a point to ignore it, and eventually, it just became easier if you did too. By now, it was almost a tradition in itself to pretend it was, in fact, just another day.

Alexander considered you sadly for a few moments. Then he finally sighed. “Will you please let me celebrate with you?” he asked, his eyes begging you. But he could see in your eyes how hesitant you were, so he scrambled to offer an alternative. “At least just accept my present,” he offered, pushing the papers towards you.

You wished to decline, but he had seemed so excited to bring you up here and show you what he now held in his hands. It didn’t seem like he spent any of his precious and closely monitored money on you, which would have made you feel even more guilty. You considered the options, and finally gritted your teeth. Curiosity won.

Slowly, you padded up to Alexander and delicately took the papers into your hands. Your eyes met Alexander’s as he held his breath and you slowly lowered them to the top page on the stack. The papers looked and felt as if they had been religiously gone through; the discoloration of them made them a yellowish tint. In the center of the top page, in neat, black, bold print was the title.

Immortal Until the Day We Die: Stories and Essays by Rachel Buck

You stared at the words, unable to comprehend them for the longest time. Your mouth hung open as you tried to ask the thousands of questions running through your mind. Eventually, you wordlessly caught Alexander’s amused eyes with your wide ones. Trying to form a question, he stopped you gently.

“Your copy looks well worn, and the bookmark is in a different area of it every time I’m in your room, so I assumed you were a fan,” he explained sheepishly. You looked back down at the papers in your hands.

“I am,” you confirmed, breathlessly. Rachel Buck had been your favorite novelist and essayist since you were a child. Her hidden themes dangerously paralleled your mother’s regime, but it never prevented her from continuing to publish. Immortal Until the Day We Die remained your favorite book for many years: it was the perfect blend of Buck’s essays into her captivating stories. The copy you held in your hands had to been one of the first published, before the presses eventually picked it up and produced it more modernly.

You grazed your hand over the top page of the book in wonder. “This was my mother’s copy,” he supplied softly. Your eyes looked up at him widely, about to protest, but he held his hands up in defense. “She would want you to have it, Y/N,” he insisted, not allowing you to give back the gift.

Gazing back down that the invaluable gift, you wondered wistfully, “Your mother must have been one of the first people to own this book.”

Alexander gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah, something like that,” he admitted bashfully. You shot your eyes up to his, furrowing your eyebrows. He avoid your eyes by staring at the book and clearing his throat. “Uh, this is actually the original copy of Immortal,” he explained, cheeks beginning to grow warm.

Every function in your body grinded to a stop. You’re surprised you didn’t drop the book right then and there. All of Rachel Buck’s originals had disappeared with her. There were hundreds of people who were willing to pay thousands of gold pieces for any of them that surfaced. Many tried to pawn off their early copies as the original, but it was said Buck wrote notes all over the inside of her copies, and that wasn’t easy to forge.

Swallowing thickly, you warily glanced back down at the book as your trembling hand flipped open to a random page. You let out an uncontrollable sob as you recognized the swoopy handwriting. It was here, in your hands. The object historians had searched desperately for for almost ten years now had just been handed to you.

Your eyes narrowed as you noticed a different, vaguely familiar handwriting in between Buck’s. Staring at it a little longer, your breath caught in your throat as you recognized the writing.

Scanning Alexander’s face with disbelief and mouth hung open, he let you fight for your question. “Did you write in this?” you finally asked incredulously. He smiled sheepishly, and your eyes widened. He wasn’t prepared for the anger that spewed from your lips next. “Alexander, this is invaluable. You know that right? You may have just ruined an artifact from one of the greatest authors in history. How could you-” Your words stuck in your stomach as your eyes drifted back down to where his handwriting intertwined with Buck’s.

But instead of treating his actions as seriously as you wished him to, Alexander merely chuckled at your reaction. You glared back up at him, but he softly held his hands up in defense with an amused smile. “Y/N, Y/N,” he tried to plead, but the smile still infected his voice. “She asked me to,” he explained simply.

Thousands of questions ran through your mind, but only one made it to the surface. “Who?” you demanded.

“My mother,” he responded softly. But he didn’t give you enough time to question the statement. “Rachel Buck.”

Your hands quickly shoved the book back into Alexander’s hands unconsciously as you turned around and took a few steps away. Air, you needed air. You were outside, how much more air could you get, you chided yourself. Your hands found their way to your forehead as you tried to focus on the information that was just presented to you.

Alexander was Rachel Buck’s son. Rachel Buck was Alexander’s mother. Your love interest was the spawn of the woman you looked up to and aspired to be every day for thirteen years. The woman who inspired you and kept you fighting every day raised the boy you were falling for. All of your thoughts spun in an endless loop.

A laugh escaped your lips as you shook your head. Slowly, you turned around and met Alexander’s mildly frightened eyes. Of course he was her son. From his attitude, to his views, to his writing style, the similarities were uncanny; you were honestly surprised you hadn’t noticed it before now. He was the embodiment of her, and he had offered you her: her book, her notes, her thoughts, himself.

Without saying a word, you walked back over to Alexander; he opened his mouth to say something, but you quickly cut him off by pressing your lips hard against his and digging your fingers in his hair. After a brief moment of being stunned, Alexander quickly reciprocated the kiss until you pulled away with tears brimming in your eyes.

Placing your hands gently on top of the book he still held, you looked up at him regretfully. “Thank you, Alexander,” you whispered. “Thank you for offering this--this incredible gift, but I cannot accept it.” The words came out with a bit of remorse, but his mother wasn’t for you. Your eyes averted from his and stared longingly at the sought after publication.

Two soft fingers touched lightly under your chin and gently pulled it upwards until your eyes met once again. “I wasn’t lying when I said she would want you to have it,” he insisted, holding the book out to you with sincerity. “She told me to write all my thoughts, opinions and ideas down in it, as I could improve and use everything she had written from a different perspective, and then pass it on to the next great mind that could surpass both of us.”

You could only hear the sound of your heart beating as you stared at Alexander with trepidation. “That’s a lot of pressure,” you tried to joke lightheartedly, but your face remained pensive as you bit your lip and considered the book being handed out to you. “Are you sure you want to give it to me?” you finally asked nervously. “You live with Lady Aremine now. You’re in meetings and walking by some of the greatest minds of our time every week. Surely one of them could-”

“Y/N, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. If I’m ever to pass on my mother’s original copies, the only person I would trust with them is you. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you are single-handedly the greatest mind of our time. The things you could add to this book, from your personal experience, to infiltrating Lady Aremine, to your overall intellect and perception, are endless. You have to accept this gift. It would be an injustice to my mother if you refused,” he urged you, in a passionate speech with every word calculated.

You stared at him helplessly, his speech rendering you incapable of forming a sentence. Your cheeks burned bright red from the onslaught of confidence in you. For a moment, you tried to let yourself believe the words he spoke, but quickly you rushed the thought out of your head. You only did what you had to. You weren’t trying to be the greatest; you just wanted to be free of your guilty conscious granted to you by your mother. But Alexander’s eyes remained unwavering. Clenching your eyes shut and letting out a sigh, you finally cracked.

“Okay,” you whispered. “If you’re sure… then okay.” He beamed and wrapped you in a tight hug as you let out a little laugh. Then the book was once again passed to you and you held it as if it were the most precious object in the world--for technically, it might be. Your eyes met Alexander’s and held them. “I will protect this with my life,” you promised.

He smiled softly. “I know you will,” he assured you. After a beat of silence, he threw his arm around your shoulder and gently began to lead you back down the steps as you marveled through the first page of notes. Pure joy elicited itself from his eyes as he watched your appreciation for his mother’s words. “Can I join your reenactment of The Queen of Amaria tonight?” he asked suddenly, tearing your thoughts from the page.

You looked up at him and surprise, and softened your eyes. “Of course,” you replied, offering a smile. He wrapped you in a hug before you exited the staircase and reentered the real world.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he mumbled softly into your hair. Goosebumps covered your skin as you sighed blissfully in response. Alexander had single-handedly restored happiness to your birthday.

You were incredibly screwed by how much you felt for this boy.

It was a couple weeks after you birthday you finally worked up the nerve to sit down with the original copy of Immortal, pen in hand. You had scoured through all the notes of the book at least four times by now, but you were simply to scared to pen down any of your thoughts. Alexander could think what he wanted, but your insights were nothing compared to what his mother had come up with.

You stared at a seemingly easy passage to write on and groaned in frustration as your pen didn’t move. Concentrating on the task at hand, you seemingly missed the sound of your door opening and closing quietly.

“Have you filled it to the brim with your ideas yet?” Alexander’s voice infiltrated the room, making you jump. He laughed amused at your reaction as he made his way over to you. Your cheeks pinked as he looked over your shoulder to observe what you had been writing. Noticing the lack of your handwriting on the page, he flipped back a page, and then another, trying to locate your familiar handwriting. When he looked down at you, he noticed the embarrassed expression on your face and the underappreciated pen in your hand. “Have you written anything?” he asked softly, a kind understanding in his voice as you hid your face in your hands.

You were silent for awhile and then glanced up at him pleadingly. “It doesn’t matter how long I stare at it, I can’t think of anything to write that won’t sound illiterate,” you confessed ashamed. He offered you a comforting smile as he stooped down to your level.

“Y/N, you won’t sound illiterate. This is just your opinions, your views. They could be completely different, add on to, or support anything that’s already written in here. Don’t stress about it,” he consoled you. Taking your hand in his, he squeezed it gently, and you shot him a grateful smile.

“Thank you. I’ll try again later,” you promised, kissing his knuckles and setting your pen down on the desk beside the book. Then you both stood as you led him over to the place you both unofficially deemed your spot for catching up for the day: the bay window. Both of you curled up facing each other and began discussing the events of the past few days.

A short lull entered the conversation, as most of your activities had been discussed, before Alexander impulsively tried to fill it.

“Y/N, have you heard of the Choice Hierarchy?”

Your heart immediately lurched to a stop as you felt the blood drain from your face.

Alexander stared at you expectantly as you tried to form a simple response, but your mouth was too dry to accomplish any task you set before it. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest as you tried to calm yourself down. Maybe this wasn’t as big of a deal as you immediately perceived it to be, you reasoned with yourself. Maybe Alexander had just heard of the Choice Hierarchy and was inquiring if you knew what it was.

Swallowing thickly and taking a shuddering deep breath, you managed to squeak out a word with hardly any panic in it. “Yeah,” you tried to play off nonchalantly. Immediately, however, you knew you said the wrong answer.

Alexander’s face quickly became stone cold, and he retreated ever so slightly from your touch. “You have?” he asked in disbelief, and you cringed at the anger and disappointment that laced his voice. What were you thinking? You should have just told him you hadn’t heard of it. Of course he was angry now. Your body began shaking trying to think of any excuse to get you out of this mess, but coming up short, you instead nodded your head and lowered your eyes to your fidgeting hands.

The air was a tense silence for several moments. You could feel the tears building in the back of your eyes, but held them back through sheer will.

Finally, Alexander attempted to interrupt the quiet. “Why haven’t you-“

Unable to handle hearing the end of his question, you forcibly pushed yourself out of the window seat and stood with your back to him, your hands flying up to hold your head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you called out, clearly upset and wishing the issue could just be dropped. But anyone who knew Alexander in the slightest knew that that was an impossibility.

“No,” Alexander retorted angrily. “We are talking about this, Y/N.”

“Alexander-“

“The Choice Hierarchy allows someone of older and nobler blood to override a Choice,” Alexander reiterated what you were already aware of with desperation in his voice. “It even restores the Choice of the other girl.” He let the words hang in the air as he waited for a response, which you weren’t too keen to give at the moment.

With a shaky breath, you attempted to reason with him. “It’s a really outdated practice. It’s seen as taboo anymore,” you forced out lightly, still keeping your back to Alexander. If you could wish for anything in your entire life, it would be for him to just drop this. Drop this before you hurt him.

“Have you considered it?” he demanded, ignoring your information.

You hesitated. “Yes,” you eventually admitted, cringing. A single tear emitted itself from your eye, and you knew it wouldn’t be the first to fall today.

“Why didn’t you talk it over with me?” Alexander asked, becoming increasingly frustrated.

Determinedly, you turned around and looked him straight in the eye. You knew he deserved to see you when you told him. “Because I can’t, so it doesn’t matter,” you admitted, more tears maring your cheeks as he looked visibly slapped by your words.

He observed you, slightly stunned, for several moments before he gritted his teeth and you saw the fire flash behind the tears building in his eyes. “Why can’t you?” he growled clenching his fist. You flinched at his anger. “Is it because of your mother?” You let out a little scoff at this and shook your head, which may have increased his anger. “Is it because of Bethany?”

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath. “No, Alexander,” you gritted at him, pleading.

“Then what is it?” he all but screamed.

Your eyes flew open and met his. Holding his eyes, you considered him for a few moments. Eventually, with a sigh, you relented. “John,” you admitted, defeated.

A strange expression washed over Alexander’s face as he processed through your answer. You bit your lip and endured the streams leaving your eyes as you watched him become increasingly dismayed and withdraw from you. A few tears escaped his own eyes as he considered you for a long while; you waited tensely for what he would say. But instead of voicing any of the thousands of words running through his mind, he silently began walking to the door purposefully.

You felt your chest cave in as you realized he was leaving you; he couldn’t leave you. Quickly you ran after him and grabbed his forearm tightly. He stopped with a huff and turned to meet you with an unemotional face.

“Please, Alexander,” you pleaded with him. “Please understand that I want to. I want to Choose you. I want you, us. I just, I can’t, and-“

He cut you off by gently removing your hand from his arm and staring at you hard. “If you’re hoping for John, how much of an ‘us’ exists for you to want?” You bit your cheeks at the blow and watched Alexander turn and exit the room silently.

As the door closed, you collapsed to your knees and buried your face in your hands. After a beat of trying to hold it in, you let out your uncontrollable sobs. You didn’t realize Alexander was looking for ways the two of you could actually be together; you didn’t realize you had been misleading by assuming he assumed it was an impossibility. How had you made this such a colossal mess?

Alexander pointedly avoided you for the two days following your half-confession. You knew he wouldn’t be as mad at you if you had just told him the whole truth. But you didn’t want to admit it out loud. It would make the pain too real to acknowledge John’s role in your relationship with Alexander. So you let him believe what he wanted and coped by endlessly sulking in your room.

By the third day of being ignored, you were ready to just not get out of bed. You zoned out more regularly and accomplished almost no work. In the afternoon, you found yourself staring aimlessly outside your bay window at the rain; briefly you considered going up to the roof and just lying in the precipitation so you couldn’t feel the tears run down your face anymore.

You sighed, frustrated and exhausted from being upset for so long, when movement caught your eye outside. Squinting, you could make out through the blurry windowpanes that a carriage was making its way up the drive. You sat up and watched as the vehicle closed in on your manor. A breath caught in your throat as you recognized the Burr crest on the side of the coach. In a split second decision, you flew from the window and snatched the paper that had been sitting on your desk for the past three days now as you made your way determinedly out of your bedroom door.

You made it to the entrance of the manor as Lady Burr and Theodosia exited the downpour for your foyer. One of your mother’s assistants stood waiting and greeted them pleasantly. Making your presence known, you walked up to them forcing a light hearted expression on your face. All three pairs of eyes trained on you in harmonic confusion.

“Welcome, Lady Burr,” you acknowledged. “May I borrow your assistant?” You pointedly glanced over at Theodosia who was fighting to keep a neutral face, but truly wished to know the nature behind your ambush. Lady Burr gave a hesitating side glance towards your friend, which you quickly worked to assuage. “It’ll only be for a few short moments.”

Relief washed through you as the Lady gave a short nod, and you quickly grasped Theodosia’s arm and dragged her to a side room, shutting the door behind you.

“Y/N, what’s going on? Did something catastrophic happen with CP or-“

You regretfully had to quickly cut off her concern by shoving the piece of paper you were holding in her hands. “Is this real?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she unfolded the paper and gazed over the words. She froze and looked up at your desperate eyes in concern. “We’re having this conversation now?” she demanded, her voice laced with frustration and confusion. You bit your lip and begged. “Y/N, I expected this conversation almost three years ago, not now. Surely you know.” Theodosia struggled with trying to be sympathetic and comforting and hiding her anguish at having to be silent on the matter for years.

“I just need to hear it from you,” you confessed, tears filling your eyes.

She sighed and considered you. “Why now?” she demanded.

“Please, Theodosia,” you begged her again.

After a beat of silence, she handed the paper back to you. “Of course it’s real,” she confirmed, and you felt punched in the gut. “Not only that, but our field operatives saw him die themselves. You know, Philip and I had a whole speech prepared for you. We thought we’d all cope together, as we were all friends. But you left us behind.”

Tears emitted themselves from your eyes as Theodosia gritted back the tears. “I’m so sorry,” you managed to mumble, completely stunned at her friends confession. You had been so wrapped up in your own feelings when you had received the letter; you hadn’t even stopped to think how your friends were feeling. They lost John too.

With a sigh, she gently rested her hand on your cheek. “I know,” she whispered. “We forgave you years ago.” She wrapped you tightly in a hug as you tried not to completely unravel. When you both pulled back, you wiped the tears from your cheek as she spoke again. “What brought this on now, Y/N?” Theodosia inquired again softly. But you shook your head with a sarcastic laugh towards yourself.

“It’s not important,” you replied. “Be careful on your journey next week.” The words came out mumbled in a desperate attempt for your friend to forget her question. By the look on her face, she looked like she was about to protest, but something in her convinced her it wasn’t worth it. Instead she nodded slightly, squeezed your hand comfortingly, and exited the room to rejoin her Lady. You remained the room numb for several minutes.

Eventually, your feet carried you on autopilot back to your room, clutching John’s letter desperately. When you turned the hall to your room, you stopped short at the sight of Alexander walking towards you. He also stopped, and the two of you were at a standstill. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days, which you were sure was exactly the look you were sporting.

Alexander quickly broke the silence, however. “I was too harsh and forward, I’m sorry, Y/N,” he confessed, the words piling out of his mouth. “It was wrong of me to assume you wanted to Choose me, and I completely respect your feelings.” Instead of responding, however, you broke down sobbing.

Frightened, Alexander quickly made his way over to you and held you gently, trying to think of anything to say. But he was at a complete loss on the whole situation.

With shuddering breaths, you tried to calm yourself down enough to speak. “John’s dead,” you sobbed when you were able. Alexander stared at you confused, as he thought you had already known this, but you shook your head hysterically. “I mean really dead. No doubt about it. And I- Alexander, I did something so awful.” You buried face in his chest to continue crying. But he eventually pulled you away from his body and looked at you concerned.

“Y/N, what did you do?” he asked calmly, his comforting eyes searching your face for anything that could help soothe you.

You tried to hold it in; you had held it in for so long. Not a single person beside yourself knew, and it had to be better off that way. But the concern in Alexander’s eyes, the support of his hands softly pressed on his shoulders, and confirmation of what you knew all this time, you shuddered unable to bear the burden alone any longer.

“I Chose him,” you confessed with a loud sob, you hand immediately covering your mouth as you felt Alexander’s hands leave your shoulders. You watched as he unconsciously took a step away from you, trying to comprehend your words, or maybe un-hear them.

His eyes clouded over as he attempted to think of anything to say. The seconds seemed to drag on waiting for him to say something, anything.

“When?” he finally asked with a shaky voice.

Removing your hand from your mouth, you clutched it tightly against your chest. “The day he left for the war,” you disclosed quietly. “I- I thought it would bring him back to me. And I was so young and desperate and in love, I didn’t care if it didn’t. I would live out my days being bound to him.” Your voice cracked, tears spilling onto your face. “But now all I can think of when I think of him is how disappointed he would be in me. All he wanted from me was to move on and be happy, and I can’t do even that.” You buried your face in your palms and once again began crying.

Softly you heard him pad over to you and wrap you in his arms. “He’s not disappointed in you,” he murmured as he stroked your hair. “And neither am I. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I- I didn’t know you were dealing with this, or I wouldn’t have pushed the subject. You’re not stupid; you haven’t done anything awful. And absolutely none of this changes the way I feel about you.” You pulled back from him surprised, connecting your wide swollen eyes with his sincere ones with a bit of a question. “I am not going to leave you, Y/N,” he promised, and you felt every muscle in your body relax with relief.

Impulsively, you threw your arms around his neck and gently pressed your lips against his. His arms tightened around your waist, and pulled you flush against his body as he passionately returned the kiss. Both of you then settled into a tight hug, you squeezing your eyes and hooking your chin around his shoulder. You let out a shuddering breath, relieved to be lifted slightly from your mistake.

But when you opened your eyes, you froze, noticing a figure watching you down the hall. Ungracefully removing yourself from Alexander’s embrace, you stepped to the side of him and let your shoulders fall recognizing the person who now knew of your relationship.

Your hands began shaking as you called out, “Father?”

A/N: Get it? You thought all along the title of this piece was a play on words referencing the traditions of this society, but actually the title is referencing the fact that she literally does not have her Choice *laughs awkwardly*. Pls don’t hate me.

#iihmc #if i had my choice #alexander x reader #alexander hamilton x reader #hamilton x reader #hamilfluff #hamilton imagine #alexander hamilton imagine #alex x reader

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the-chubbiest-dumpling · 7 years

Text

Endings and Beginnings: Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve: Your Pal, Your Buddy

Summary: You’re just an ordinary 25-year-old photographer working in a small studio in downtown Toronto. Your life is as normal as it could possibly be, except the fact that you are given an opportunity most people only dream of.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 16 678

Warnings: Swearing. There will always be swearing. Small mention of Neo-nazis.

A/N: Obviously I have no self-control when it comes to how long these chapters are getting.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue

Tags: @shamvictoria11 @blazeshira

As promised, Dr. Markson wakes you up at 7:30am for your therapy. It was a shitty sleep, considering you woke up two more times. You’re absolutely jaded, and are not ready for the day. It takes a few extensive shakes to keep you from falling asleep again. You force yourself awake using the fact that Bucky will be with you all day. Maybe. Hopefully. At least some of it. Guaranteed.

Dr. Markson removes your Foley catheter like he said, and also the IV drip after some consideration. He changes your bandages before giving you your breakfast: scrambled eggs paired with a mixed berry smoothie. Not too bad; a healthy way to start your day. You eat moderately, and listen to Dr. Markson as you eat.

“It has now been eight days since your gunshot wound has been treated,” he starts. “I used non-dissolvable stitches. Normally, they can be removed within three to twenty-one days. But since I am who I am, that may not be necessary. I could remove them today or tomorrow. It all depends on how well you do in rehab today. Do not strain yourself, or else you may cause the stitches to break and re-open your wound. And we cannot have that.”

You gulp down your smoothie and nod as you do so. That’s some good news, at least. The quicker you get outta here, the faster you can get back on your feet and do missions. Plus, you were kind of hoping that since Tony has all this advanced technology, and the medical world has progressed so much, a gunshot wound to the leg wouldn’t be too hard to treat. You vaguely remember Natasha mentioning a Dr. Cho. You can hardly remember it, but the woman really seemed like she knew what she was doing with the Cradle thing she created. You’d love to meet her someday.

After finishing your breakfast, Dr. Markson removes the electrodes attached to your chest, and very carefully helps you out of bed. You grip his arm as you put pressure on your right foot. You grimace, the pain instantly shooting up your leg. The moment he realizes that you’re in pain, he leads you over to a wheelchair he brought for this exact reason. Your arms shake as you grip the armrests, and slowly lower yourself down into the seat. Dr. Markson raises the right footplate to ease some of the pressure on your leg. You grunt when it feels better, but it’s still sore. Once you’re situated, he pushes you over to the elevator punches in the number for the second floor.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Can’t complain,” you reply. “I’m just ready to be over and done with this.”

The elevator dings, and Dr. Markson brings you to the office where administrative affairs of the Avengers are conducted. Inside, you’re greeted by a young woman in a pantsuit, her hair neatly tucked up into a tight bun. She smiles kindly as she stands up from behind her desk.

“Good morning, Dr. Markson, _______,” she says.

“Mornin’,” you answer.

“Good morning, Dr. Laine,” Dr. Markson replies.

You’ve never really been in here before. An office is supposed to have a considerable amount of space anyway, but this is just pushing it. The whole room could easily be 500 square feet. There’s bookshelves on either end of the walls, lined with hundreds of books on physiotherapy, psychology, counselling and the like. To your left is a seating area for speaking to multiple people at a time, and on the other end is equipment used for those who require physiotherapy and physical therapy. The one you recognize right away that you might use are the parallel bars. Yawning, you wipe a hand down your face and give Dr. Laine a very tired look.

“For today, we will have a one-hour session,” she explains, rounding her desk to lean against it. “Having spent eight days in recovery already, I would hope that your wound has been healing well. Nevertheless, we are going to take it slow and see where you’re at.”

“Okay,” you say wearily.

“I leave her in your care, Dr. Laine,” Dr. Markson says. “Please update me on any developments.”

“Will do,” she nods. “Have a nice day, sir.”

He nods back, and gives you an encouraging pat on the head before he takes his leave. An awkward silence passes as neither of you two speak. Your new doctor decides to break that.

“Have you tried walking yet?”

“No,” you reply. “I mean, I tried when I was getting in this wheelchair, but it hurt too much.”

“I see. Since most of your time here will be spent training and regaining your strength in your leg, there’s only one piece of equipment for you to focus on.”

She gestures to the parallel bars behind you. You knew it.

“Alrighty,” you say, turning back around. “Now I know what to look forward to every time I come up here.”

She smiles kindly at your dismay.

“You’ll feel better in no time,” she says. “I can guarantee it.”

“Mm. I hope so.”

“Also. Dr. Markson gave me his report on your wound,” she starts, picking up a file from her desk and skimming through the pages. “You’ve been responding well to treatment, and you’re in good health. I’d say the only thing you need is determination.”

“Trust me, doctor,” you cut in. “I am determined as ever to get out of this chair and walk on my own.”

She slaps the file shut and sets it back on her desk.

“Let’s get to it then, shall we?”

Using the bars was more painful than you thought.

Dr. Laine took the first fifteen minutes to explain how she’s going to evaluate you and deem which exercises are the most beneficial to help you recover. And depending on how you progress, you’ll be permitted to push yourself a little more. It sounded spectacular, but it’s going to take time. And if there’s one thing you know about time, is that it’s unpredictable. You never know what may happen.

Currently, she’s seeing how well you can handle yourself while using the bars. She writes down notes for herself as she observes you. You can use them perfectly fine, your left foot firmly planted on the floor. As for your right foot, the most pressure you can use is from going on your tippy toes to avoid having piercing pain spread through you. You exhaust the strength of your arms to keep you upright. For the most part, it’s an easy thing to do, but without being able to use your right leg at all, you’ll have to endure the agonizing pain of using crutches again.

Once you reach the end of the bars, you breathe through the pain as Dr. Laine comes over and kneels down to examine you.

“Can you stretch your entire leg out for me?”

Nodding, you grip the bars and look down as you shakily extend your leg for her. She grips your foot, and gradually starts bending your leg. Your eye twitches in anticipation. When you can’t take the pain anymore, you tell her to stop. Your leg ends at about a 45° angle, then she gently lets you go to write down her findings. She stands up again, holding her notebook firmly in front of her, and tells you to go again.

“This is to get you used to the feeling of walking again,” she explains. “The more you walk, the more you’ll improve. But, as Dr. Markson said, it takes time. So don’t push yourself when our sessions are complete.”

“Un. I know.”

Taking a breath, you turn back around, careful not to bump your thigh into the bar, and begin again.

After your first rehab session with Dr. Laine is over, you thank her, and promise to follow her instructions. She gives you a pair of crutches, as promised, then you waddle your way to the elevator, going back to the main floor. As you exit the doors, you immediately smell something good. You have the strongest urge to go see who it is and what they’re cooking, but you’re still in your hospital gown. You can’t go walking around with your backside showing, so you quietly make your way to your room. No one notices you along the way; you shut the door quietly, and sigh in relief.

“Finally out of that goddamn bed.”

The first thing you do is go to your dresser. You lean your crutches against it and start untying your gown. Letting it drop to the floor, you pick out a brand new shirt, and a pair of loose shorts. You need to be able to change your bandages by yourself when the time comes, so easy access is the key.

You put on your shirt first, then debate how you’re going to put on your shorts. You can’t bend your leg, and the most comfortable it’s going to be is when it’s almost straight. Looking at your bed, you sigh sadly. You opt to limp over, then carefully lay yourself down. You loop the left side of your shorts over your foot before doing the same to your right. Reaching forward, you grab the hem and start shimmying them up your legs until they reach your hips, then button them up. There. That wasn’t so hard. You glance over to your crutches leaning against your dresser.

“Shit.”

You ungracefully flop off your bed, then use the strength of your left leg to push you off the floor and grab onto your desk. You grab your crutches once you’re upright, then make way for the bathroom to fix your face.

A quick face wash, brush of your teeth, and a ponytail later, you’re finally ready to face the day.

Maybe.

You come out of your room again, wondering who’s making the best-smelling thing you’ve ever smelt in the past eight days. As you round the corner, you smile widely at Steve’s Dorito back. Being as quiet as possible, you sneak up to the island and take a seat, waiting for him to turn around. You lean to the side to see what he’s cooking, but you can’t really tell. Something in a pot.

I wonder if he’s used to not boiling things anymore.

You giggle at the thought, which in turn gains Steve’s attention. He does a double-take, and smiles heartily when he realizes it’s you.

“_______!” he cheers.

“Hey,” you say, the biggest grin on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d be up and walking today.”

“Neither did I. It’s more limping than anything, though. Can’t really use my right leg yet.”

“Baby steps is still progress,” he comments, giving a glance to your crutches.

“Definitely,” you agree. “The faster this goes by, the closer I get to being back out in the field.”

“Slow your horses, _______,” he chides, turning back to his pot. “Take it easy for once.”

“I know, I know,” you say, waving him off. “I will. I don’t want the stitches to re-open, so trust me. I’m not gonna be bouncing on trampolines or go roller blading any time soon.”

“Good to hear it.”

“What’re you making, by the way?”

“Stew.”

“Stew? At nine in the morning?”

“It’s for dinner! It takes a while.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“After getting over the fact that I didn’t have to boil things anymore, I got into the groove of things and decided to see what today’s technology had to offer.”

“And you opted for stew.”

“Yup.”

“Something that you can boil.”

He gives you a smile over his shoulder, then nods his head.

“Alright,” you say, holding your hands up. “I’m not judging. I just didn’t expect to see you doing that so early.”

“There’s a lot of things that you wouldn’t expect from me,” he cheekily adds.

“Should I be worried?” you ask.

“I dunno. Should you be?”

“Don’t turn it around like that, Steve Rogers. You’re making it sound like I should expect the worst from you.”

He shrugs indifferently, then focuses back on his stew. You shake your head and laugh to yourself.

“You sure are something, Dorito,” you say.

“And what is it with this ‘Dorito’?” he asks, turning back around. “Do I look–Bucky.”

You look over your shoulder; you didn’t even hear him come in. He looks a little worse for wear. His stubble is scruffier, his hair wilder, his eye-bags a little deeper. Despite his outward appearance, he manages a small smile.

“Hey,” he says softly, looking at you. “Feeling good?”

“More or less,” you say shyly. “I’m gonna be crippled until further notice.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he says, walking up to the island. “Better than being dead.”

“Got that right,” you agree, turning forward to look at him. “But it won’t be all that bad.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause I get to hang out with you the whole time.”

You’re surprised you were able to say that with a straight face. The corner of your mouth twitches, threatening to break out into a smile, but you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself under control. He smiles and looks towards the floor.

“I don’t know how much fun I’ll be,” he says honestly.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “Just having another person around will satisfy me.”

“If you say so.”

Steve stirs his stew absentmindedly, and smiles to himself as he listens to you and Bucky talk. He gives Bucky a quick glimpse over his shoulder. Bucky notices, but doesn’t react. He just plants his hands on the counter and rolls back and forth. You look down at your hands, and pick at a hangnail. Another awkward silence fills the air. Steve slyly stares at Bucky, and rolls his thumb in a circle then nods at you. Bucky doesn’t seem to get it.

“iPod,” Steve mouths, then nods at you again.

Bucky “oh”s, nodding in understanding. He clears his throat and crosses his arms.

“Thanks again for the iPod,” he says, peeking up at you. You look at him too and smile. “It’s uh… I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” you say kindly. “Have you learned a little bit?”

“A bit,” he confesses. “A lot of things have changed.”

“Good change?” you ask.

“A nice transition,” he clarifies. “It’s different. But I like it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Mm.”

“Mmmaybe I could show you a little more later. I know Steve made a list for all the things he missed while he was asleep. I could do the same for you, if you’d like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Steve is living right now. Bucky’s finally opening up and talking more with someone that isn’t him. He seems to be doing a lot better these days, but Steve knows how much effort it takes to smile and power through the day when everything seems to be bugging you. He puts the lid on his pot and turns off the stove top.

“You two seem like you’re gonna have a productive day of doing nothing,” Steve announces. You and Bucky turn to him in unison.

“Ah, well,” you muse, shrugging. “I think it’ll be fun. I love teaching people new things. And I’m gonna say right now, I’m sorry if I get a little ahead of myself. Being immersed in technology is a blessing. A little bit of a curse too, because you can never put it down. I get all excited about it, so just be prepared for that.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replies.

“_______!” a new sing-song voice chimes in. You immediately know who it is.

“Wandaaa!” you cheer happily. You twist in your seat to accept her hug as she stretches out her arms.

“How are you?” she asks as she pulls away.

“Better,” you say. “I’ll get by with the crutches, but I can’t wait for them to be gone.”

“At least you’re up and walking. Somewhat,” she adds, smiling brightly.

This girl is a dream.

She nods to Bucky to acknowledge him, and he does the same thing back. It’s sort of weird seeing them in the same room together. You don’t really know how they act towards one another. Do they just pass each other by? Or do they have conversations sometimes? You’ll have to ask her that when Bucky isn’t within earshot.

“What’re you up to today?” Wanda asks as she goes to the fridge to get some fruit.

“Not much,” you reply. “Just hanging around.”

She sets her fruit bowl down on the island, and looks towards Steve.

“Is she allowed to go outside yet?” she asks him, biting into a strawberry.

“Honestly, I’d prefer not,” he admits.

“Tony said I’m on house arrest,” you add in. “But who knows how long I’m gonna follow that demand.”

“_______,” Steve groans, shaking his head.

“What? I don’t wanna be cooped up in here until I’m better. Getting fresh air is good, y’know.”

“I know, but–“

“Ah ah ah. I don’t wanna hear it. If I wanna go out, then I’ll drag someone along with me. Deal?”

“…Fine.”

You and Steve shake on it, making Wanda, and even Bucky, smile.

“So, sorry if you wanted to take me out today, Wanda,” you apologize. She waves you off.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I can wait until you’re a little better.”

“Sounds good.”

Wanda takes her fruit bowl and goes back to her room to change before going out. Steve gives you and Bucky a hearty goodbye, then leaves the room as well. You grip your hands, mentally cursing Steve and Wanda for leaving you alone with Bucky. But you might as well get this started.

“Well. Looks like we won’t have our presence graced with anyone else for a while. Wanna start your lesson?”

“Lesson?”

“On technology.”

“Oh. Right.”

You get out of your seat, grabbing your crutches and make your way over to the living room. You plop your self down on the couch, Bucky taking a seat to your left. He’s in for a whirlwind of progression.

You started with the basics: how to use an iPhone, and all that comes with owning an Apple product. Most of the stuff Bucky couldn’t care less for, like iCloud or Airplay. The only thing he would really need a cellphone for is making calls. You taught him the art of text messaging and emojis, also things he didn’t really think were important. Though texting could be useful, he feels phone calls are easier and more efficient.

The next thing was apps, like the built-in ones Apple provides, and additional apps you can either download for free or buy. You don’t have many games yourself, just social media, but you have at least one or two for when you’re bored. After that was the actual social media apps. Explaining Facebook was simple enough; he grasped it easily. Now you’re onto one of your favourites: Twitter.

“Okay, so Twitter shouldn’t be a free app with all the stuff that goes down,” you start, opening the app itself and turning your phone to show Bucky.

“Why?” he asks, leaning forward to look at the screen.

“It’s just… firstly, you’d have to understand a lot of internet humour to know what the hell is going on sometimes,” you explain, scrolling through your news feed. “I get it just fine. But I don’t know if you’d wanna hear me go on forever about memes.”

“Me–“

“Don’t even ask,” you stop him, putting up your hand. “For now, lemme just get through the apps.” He blinks in surprise, but remains silent and let’s you continue.

“On here, you ‘tweet’. Basically it’s like updating your status on Facebook, but much wilder. You can use hashtags too. There’s ‘trending topics’ that hashtags are primarily used for. They let you know what’s going on around the world or in a certain country. This is the search icon, your notifications, and direct messages. When you swipe left, you can go to your profile and settings. You can post whatever you want, but be warned of some triggering stuff too. The last thing you want to see is a neo-Nazi on your feed.”

Bucky turns completely serious, and sits back in the couch, staring at you in shock. He’s frowning deeply, and his hands clench and unclench.

“What’re you talking about?”

You’ve never heard him sound so serious before. It’s kind of unnerving, but you’re not about to tell him that. He’s had enough of people telling him how dangerous he looks. Sighing, you lean back into the couch too and shake your head.

“Believe it or not, there are still Nazis out there,” you say. “Not exactly like Nazi Germany, but they come pretty damn close. There’s… HYDRA still, but even regular people act so terribly because they have beliefs like Hitler. Anti-Semitists, homophobes, misogynists, racists, xenophobes… it’s disgusting.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Bucky shakes his head, thinking that all he fought for was a lost cause. That he wasted his years as a soldier, fighting for freedom, when in the end, nothing would change. He sighs and closes his eyes, fighting back the urge to punch something. When you notice him tensing up, you change the direction of the conversation.

“But there were also huge victories,” you say. He opens his eyes. “The Civil Rights Movement, breaking down the Berlin Wall, the feminist movement, gay rights movement, legalizing abortion, the invention of the internet… there’s a lot of amazing things that have happened since World War two ended. There’s still a lot of improvements to be made, but we’re getting there. And it’s always something to celebrate.”

Bucky turns his head to you, his eyes drifting downwards before finding your face again. He smiles softly. He’s sure you’ll give him the rundown of all those things after he gets past the technology part; plus, he thinks you’re just trying to calm him down from hearing that his enemies, past and present, are still roaming the earth. He shoves those thoughts to the back of his mind and clears his throat.

“Uhhh. So the, um. Tweeting?”

“Twitter,” you smile widely. You look down at your phone and close the app, then open Instagram. “That’s basically it for Twitter. This is Instagram.” You turn your phone towards him again. “It’s a photo-sharing site. You upload photos of almost anything. There’s guidelines for things you can’t post, like any other kind of social media platforms. Again, this is the home page, the search icon, adding a new photo, notifications, and profile. These bubbles up here with people’s faces in them are their stories. It’s something that all your followers will see. You can also do live videos, like Facebook, but they just copied SnapChat.”

“SnapChat?”

You give him a smug look, but he just raises a brow at you. You pat his thigh, and knowingly shake your head.

“Oh, Bucky,” you say. “This is one of my personal favourites.”

He eyes your hand on his thigh. He doesn’t mind; he’s just not used to people delicately touching him or showing him… affection? You’re touching him so gently, so he’s gonna count this as affection. You open your SnapChat, lean to the side, and tell Bucky to look at you. You tap on his face, and choose the filter that makes your eyes and lips huge. You laugh as you take the picture, then turn your phone around to show him. He blinks in disbelief, leaning his head forward to further examine his photo.

“That’s not what I look like!” he shouts, taking the phone from your hands.

“I know it’s not!” you laugh, shuffling closer to look at it with him. “It’s a filter, Bucky. It changes your face.”

“To look like that?” he questions, trying to zoom in like you showed him earlier.

“More or less,” you say. You take your phone back, and swipe left. “There’s also colour filters after you’ve taken the photo. And sometimes when you’re in a certain city, they’ll have their own personal filters. Aaaaand… looks like Tony has one of his own.”

There’s a border of little Iron Man faces surrounding Bucky’s picture. He doesn’t like it very much, so he reaches over and swipes right again. You snort, and settle on no extra filter. You save the photo to your Memories, and delete the picture.

“What’s the point of this app, then?”

“It’s a photo messaging app. So, I take a picture of me or whatever I want, and then I send it to someone on my friend’s list. You can also send a snap to your story, and it can be seen by your friends list. They last for twenty-four hours, depending on the time you took them.”

He makes a face that still says “what’s-the-point-of-this-app”, so you enlighten him.

“Trust me,” you say. “It’s a lot more fun than it looks. It’s one of my favourite things to use.”

“If you say so,” he snorts. You just give him a smile and move on with your lesson.

“Let’s see. Oh yeah! YouTube. It’s a search engine for videos. You can find almost anything on there when it comes to videos. Past events, songs, webcasts, concerts, movies. You could be on there for hours and never get enough of–Oh. My. God. Speaking of videos, I have to show you this.”

Going a little off track, you open your Tumblr app (you decide not to show him that one because it’s a shitshow sometimes), then go to your favourites where you keep all your vine compilations. You sit up a little more to face Bucky head-on, and turn serious for a moment. Though your smile gives it away.

“Vine is one of the best things to happen, okay?” you start. “Like. You cannot get better than this when it comes to entertainment. A six-second video on loop will make your day.”

Clearly, he doesn’t understand how and why something as short as six seconds could make your day, but he’s certainly about to find out. You show him your most recently liked video, handing him your phone, and side-eye him to see which ones he finds funny.

For the first minute or so, he’s either confused, or blatantly surprised. You cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing when there’s dicks involved. He really reacts to the guy slipping on a banana peel to see if it’s actually slippery like in the cartoons.

“Oh, god,” Bucky says, covering his mouth. “Is he okay?”

“I-I think so,” you choke out, trying to keep yourself from bursting out laughing. Other than that particular vine, Bucky doesn’t react much. He smiles at the little boy that gets excited about an avocado he got for Christmas, raises his eyebrows at the guy who throws his phone because Flappy Bird is challenging, and nods along when people ask what the weather’s like for outside seating when they came in from the outside.

He hands you back your phone, and you close all your apps. He takes a minute to get his thoughts together.

“That was… interesting,” he concludes.

“There’s a lot more where that came from,” you say. “However. I haven’t showed you one of the most important things ever created. The internet.”

Opening your safari app, you type in “google”. The Google search engine comes up, and you scooch closer to him to show him how it works. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest from being so close to him.

“Google is a search engine,” you say. “Anything you want to know, you can find. And don’t let anyone try to tell you that Bing is better. Because it’s not.” You think about what to search; something safe, and something that won’t trigger anything inside him. That’s the last thing you want to do. Shrugging your shoulders, you type in “types of flowers”. In less than a second, multiple links come up. Bucky squints at the screen.

“Wanna know what kinds of flowers there are? You can search it. Wanna know the meanings of certain flowers? You can do that too. Wanna learn about hanakotoba, the language of flowers, from Japan? No doubt Google will have it. Song lyrics, world events, celebrity gossip, types of cars, medical terms, kinds of animals; the internet has it all. But the number one thing that you must remember, is that not everything on the internet is true. It’s sort of easy to tell when something isn’t accurate, but you never know. And watch out for virus’. They’re a nasty way of getting into your computer and screwing everything up. And possibly stealing personal information and locating you. They’re easy to spot, though. I’ll show you those so you never have to deal with that. But if you ever get confused about anything, just come ask one of us and we’ll clear it up.”

Bucky blows his lips after taking in all this new technological information. He doesn’t know if he’d ever use the apps you showed him, but the internet certainly sounds captivating. Anything he wants to know, anything at all, he can look it up? Just like that? It sounds too good to be true. He looks over at you fiddling with your phone now, wondering how lame he’ll sound if he just says “thanks”.

“Thanks for this… lesson,” he says. Wow. Double lame.

“You’re very welcome,” you grin. “But I don’t want to stop there, if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” he says without missing a beat. Despite having mixed opinions on today’s technology, it’s funny to him to see you talk about something that excites you. He wishes he could do that more often. You struggle as you try to stand up, pushing your hands into the couch to force yourself up, but you end up losing your balance and sitting again. Bucky stands up and offers you his hand.

“Thanks,” you say, squeezing his flesh hand to pull yourself up. You grab your crutches next and lead the way to your room. You push the door open with the bottom of your crutch and walk over to your desk. Leaning over the glass, you open the lid of your laptop and type in your password. Once it’s unlocked, you leave your crutches against the wall and hop over to your bed and sit down, mindful of your right leg’s position. You pat the seat beside you, inviting Bucky to sit with you. He obliges, sitting on your left again.

“Another thing that’s changed–or rather, evolved–is photography,” you start, opening Google chrome. “You probably already knew that, but I like to make comparisons.” In the images tab, you search “old photography”, and up pops hundreds of black and white and sepia toned photographs.

“There’s an obvious difference. The posing, lighting, style, the quality. Reminds you of the old days, doesn’t it?”

“…Yeah.”

Bucky stares intensely at the photos, his eyes wandering all over the place as you scroll further down the page. He noticed some words at the top of the page, and asks you to go all the way back up.

“What’re those?” he asks, pointing to the coloured words.

“They’re suggestions based on your search,” you say. “Just an extra little something in case you want to pair something with your original search.” One of the suggestions says New York City. Giving Bucky a quick glance, you click on it. Multiple images of Times Square come up, along with the skyline and little boys in their Sunday best.

I wonder if he had to dress like that at one point.

Bucky’s expression softens as he looks at the images. Though he was born in Indiana, he has fond memories of him and Steve in New York City. Bits and fragments floating around in his head, wondering if he’ll ever piece them back together. One thing for sure he remembers: he used to save Steve’s ass a lot.

You remove the New York City tag, and instead search “times square 1945”. V-E Day. The very first image is the infamous photo of the sailor kissing a woman in the middle of the street. A sad smile appears on Bucky’s face.

“This was on May 8 in 1945. Victory over Europe day,” you say gently. “When the Allies accepted Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender. On August 15, the Japan Empire surrendered which ended the whole war.”

Originally, you wanted to show the difference between photography back then and now, using your own photos, but Bucky seems so immersed in the past that you leave him be for a bit. You set your computer in his lap.

“Here. Have a look.”

He nods, and hovers his fingers over the trackpad, and scrolls down using two fingers like you did to look at more photos. You sit back until you hit the wall, and watch Bucky fondly delve into the past. He didn’t get to see that day. He didn’t get to be sent home, nor celebrate with his fellow comrades, the Hollowing Commandos. He’s missed out on so much, but that’s why you’re getting him back in the groove of things. To help him catch up and learn about the world that passed him by during his time as the Winter Soldier. Thankfully, those days are way behind him, so he has nothing to worry about. And you damn well hope that Vision taking away his trigger words stays out of Bucky’s mind. It’s gone smoothly, and you still can’t remember what Vision took away from you first. Vision is close to being perfect in design, so you pray his abilities are permanent.

So far so good.

After a few minutes of silent scrolling, Bucky hands you your laptop back. You set it down beside you and stare at the side of his face. He’s pulling his lips to the side, and bouncing his knee. As he rubs his hands together, you shuffle forward again. You contemplate about rubbing his back, but you opt to keep your hands to yourself. This time, at least.

“You okay?”

He separates his hands, and shrugs as if to say “I-don’t-know”. Very understandable. He didn’t get to be a part of all these celebrations and move on with life like everyone else did back then. Instead, he got pulled into the deepest circles of hell that is HYDRA. Beaten, broken, and used, he crawled his way out to his redemption, all because of Steve. He was Steve’s anchor during the war, but now the roles are reversed. Steve is everything he has in keeping him grounded. He’s still learning to accept new people into his life, like you, but he’s keeping his walls up and heavily guarded. He’s not ready to let himself go yet.

“I’ll be alright,” he answers, gazing at you. You gaze right back, staring at his incredible blue eyes. The only other time you’ve been this close to him was when you were fixing his face after his fight with Sam. But even then you weren’t able to gawk at him like you are right now. The light coming in from the window illuminates his face in just the right places. His stubble could easily be a beard by now from how thick it is. The crinkles around his eyes show his age, probably just shy of thirty biologically. His hair falls over his face in the most perfect way, and his lips… you can’t even begin to describe how amazing they look when he’s not smiling nor frowning. You can’t let this opportunity get away.

“Stay as still as you can,” you whisper.

“Why?” he whispers back.

You don’t give him an answer. You gingerly stand up to go get your camera. You pull the body out of your bag and attach a 50mm, a perfect lens for up-close portrait shots. You turn it on as you sit back down on your bed, and change the settings accordingly before bringing the camera to your face.

“Stay still, Bucky,” you ask quietly. “And look at me.”

You put the focus point on his eye for absolute sharpness. You half-press the shutter before capturing the moment completely. You smile tenderly when you lower the camera from your face. Bucky’s eyes trail to the unknown object in your hands.

“What’s that?”

“A camera. Specifically, a dSLR, but ‘camera’ works just fine.” You shuffle back next to him and show him the photo you just took of him.

Absolutely stunning.

It seems you’ll be receiving the same reaction from him every time you show him something he’s never seen before: complete surprise.

“A little different from what you guys used back in the day, isn’t it?” you smile, zooming in on his face. He raises his eyebrows.

“Totally,” he whispers, watching you zoom in on different parts of his face.

“I can capture something instantaneously, change the colour scheme, change the focus, zoom in and out, look at the photos I just took… there’s a mountain of things you can do with a camera now.”

“Mm.”

He can’t get over the fact that that’s what his face looks like in a photo now. It’s so clear, the background is blurred out, and the sole focus is him himself. You notice he hasn’t taken his eyes away from it. You smile slyly.

“Lemme show you something.”

You turn off your camera and eject the memory card, then slip it into the side of your laptop. A folder for the card pops up, and you open it, then scroll all the way to the bottom to enlarge the photo you took of Bucky. You let him look at it on the bigger screen, and laugh when you see how dumbfounded he is.

“This is…” He can’t even finish his thought. He’s so impressed by the technology that he can’t say anything else.

“If this is the reaction I get when I show you that,” you start, minimizing the photo and opening Photoshop, “then you’re gonna love this.”

You open up the image in Photoshop, and do a basic edit. You create a new layer to get rid of background distractions, like the corner of your desk and the side of your dresser. After that, another layer for a curves adjustment and contrast to give the photo a little more punch. You crop it to 11 x 14, then change the colour scheme to black and white. You don’t even need to erase any blemishes on Bucky’s face; he doesn’t have any. You sharpen the photo, then simply save it as “Bucky” to your desktop. You pull up the two photos to show the difference.

“That’s… amazing,” he says softly, flicking his eyes left and right to see the difference.

“Th–“

“You’re amazing.”

You’re left with your mouth gaping when he smoothly adds that in. You blush and look away, finding the floor a lot more interesting.

“It’s nothing, really,” you say, embarrassed.

“The smallest things can have the biggest impact, _______,” he counters.

Your heartbeat quickens when he tags your name at the end of a sentence like that. It’s such a simple compliment and phrase, and you’d accept it without hesitating from anybody else. But it’s a whole other story when it’s coming from Bucky. Of course, of course you’d crush on the most beautiful man in the world. Steve is way up there too, maybe even tied for first, but all of your tastes tie into Bucky’s entire being. He’s not the same suave, charming, Sergeant Barnes from the 107th infantry regiment anymore; nor is he the merciless Winter Soldier. He’s a mix of the two, even as he tries to push the most corrupt parts of him away. Despite all that, you can’t help but love his little eccentricities.

“What else can you do with this?” he asks, nodding at the screen.

“Oh! Um.” You pause to bring up your own photos again. “Anything, really. It’s used a lot to edit portraits, food, sports, and all that. But there’s also movie posters, movies themselves, and even drawing.”

You pull up a picture you took during the fall of a woman wearing a fancy, red dress made with red and yellow leaves decorating the bottom and boddess. The sun shines right behind her head, giving the photo a heavenly glow. A leaf crown also adorns her head, and in her hands she’s cradling a lotus flower.

“It’s pretty,” Bucky says.

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“I made this.”

“What?”

“I made this.”

You select the original and edited photo, press the space bar, and go full-screen. You watch Bucky’s reaction again when you go left and right, showing him the major differences and effort that went into making the photo. Surprise, surprise (but not really). He’s flabbergasted. You turn the laptop towards him, and let him compare the photos.

In the original photo, the woman was wearing nothing but a plain red dress, holding a pink lotus flower. The lighting is a little dark and dull, and there’s little distractions on the ground he hadn’t noticed, like a stump, some acorns, and camera spots. Skipping to the edited photo, he notices the drastic difference in brightness. The sunlight is honey-coloured instead of white, the woman’s face is smooth, the flower crown is flawless, and the lotus flower is slightly larger. The overall work of the dress is impeccable, and he definitely wouldn’t be able to tell if it was fake or real.

“I… how do you do this?” he asks.

“With lots of long hours of practice,” you reply. “It’s not often that I take on major edits like this. So if the client is willing to pay for it, then I’ll do it.”

“What happens when you don’t want to do it?”

“I refer them to an expert editor, which happens to be a friend of mine. He has his own team, and they take on projects like this one.”

“You’re pretty talented people, being able to do things like this.”

“W-Well it’s part of our business, so we’d need to hire the best there is…”

“Can you show me more?”

“Uh. Yeah, sure.”

You didn’t think Bucky would take such an interest in this. Being shown the progression of photography maybe, but wanting to see more of your work? It feels intimate, because this is your own personal work that none of the team has seen. Some of your work has been posted to the company’s website with a credit, but you have no website of your own to share what you’re capable of. A lot of your photographs haven’t been seen by the public, and you’re a little bit worried about what Bucky may think. Times may have changed, but he still has his own opinions. It’s naïve to think that he’d give a full criticism about your work, but if he says something even slightly negative, you’re going to carry it around with you. And why? Well it’s obvious.

You like him. And when anything the person you like says something that’s not optimistic, then it’s going to drag you down because their opinion is so valid to you.

Clenching your jaw, you force those thoughts away and instead pull up a slideshow of a family of five (including their border collie) that you made for them. You make it full-screen and play the video for him. You explain that day as the instrumental music plays in the background.

“I was ambivalent about this one,” you start, planting your hands on either side of your hips. You lean back and pull your lips to the side. “I don’t usually work with pets because they’re harder to control. But their dog was pretty tame. Didn’t bark, followed commands. The only thing I had to worry about was getting the right shots. It was sunny, thank god. Makes my life shooting outdoors that much easier. Their two kids got past the stage of screaming and whining about getting their photo taken. This family was a blessing when it comes to stuff like that, lemme tell ya. They were so chatty and loved to play around with their kids. It made for a great day and photoshoot.”

For the whole of the slideshow, Bucky’s smiling warmly. He remembers seeing mothers dragging their little boys around on the streets of New York, making sure they don’t get lost in the crowd. Fathers carrying their daughters around on their shoulders, groups of friends hoop rolling down the sidewalks, and, of course, adults relentlessly chasing down their dogs that managed to escape their leashes. It makes Bucky laugh as he watches your photos come in and out of view. You’re not even watching the video anymore; you’re staring at Bucky again.

He carries his own presence; he can make heads turn when he walks into a room (hopefully more for good reasons than bad). One little smile and your day is instantly brightened. The sound of his voice is so smooth, it’ll make all of your fears disappear. Bucky Barnes. A person to be protected. You look down and continue to fantasize about him.

While you dozed off into fantasy land, Bucky had looked away from the screen to admire you instead. He gazed at your features, trailing his eyes from your eyes, to the tip of your nose, to your lips. He stared at the bandages around your leg, and how you would clench the sheets while you’re deep in thought (daydreaming about him). It wasn’t exactly a requirement for him to know how to read people when he was the Winter Soldier, since his sole purpose was to kill without being seen. But he knows enough to recognize when someone is hiding something, or when they’re being timid. From what he’s seen so far, he inferences that you’re trying to shy away from this situation to calm yourself down. Why? He doesn’t know yet. But he’ll do his best to make you feel comfortable.

When you finally raise your head and see that Bucky’s holding his gaze with you, you quickly flit your eyes to the screen and rub the back of your neck. The slideshow has already ended.

“Oh.”

You sit up and exit out of the window, and absentmindedly scroll through your many sessions with clients.

“Sooo. Yeah. That was that.”

Bucky breaks himself out of his stupor and comes back down to earth, clearing his throat and straightening his posture.

“That was great, _______,” he says, nodding his head while smiling.

“Thanks,” you say. You stop scrolling, your fingers hovering over the trackpad. Your bite your cheek and furrow your brows intensely. Licking your lips, you cock your head to the side and debate whether or not to ask Bucky for more photos of him. He let you take one, probably to be polite, but asking him a second time? You don’t know if he’d be comfortable with that. You know how he shields his left arm from everyone. He’s sat on your left side twice now, away from his metal arm. If he’s so insecure about it, he may say no if you ask.

But you give it a go anyway.

Ejecting your memory card safely, you put it back into your camera and turn it on. You close your laptop and shove it off to the side. You tap your finger on the shutter button, and glance up at Bucky.

“Would it be all right if I took more pictures of you?” you ask, slightly hesitant. His eyes go to the floor to give it a quick consideration. He hopes the photos would only be for your viewing, because god knows Steve wouldn’t stop rambling on about it if you ever showed him. He has enough trust in you to know you wouldn’t publish the pictures to show the entire world where they can find the Winter Soldier. Other than pure enjoyment, he doesn’t see why not. But he needs to make sure.

“They would be… kept in private, I hope?”

“Of course,” you reply. “These photos won’t be going anywhere.”

“Then it’s okay.”

Smiling widely, you raise your camera, and start taking pictures.

Another hour later, and you’re a smiling, giggling mess. You didn’t know having a mini-photoshoot with Bucky would be so energizing. He’s been a good sport about it the entire time, and you even had him laughing at some parts. You wanted him to just be himself while you suggested poses for him to do. Obviously he’s not used to it because he was pretty stiff, but you managed to loosen him up by using your usual relaxing techniques. Your leg would be a bother, shooting out stinging pain; but you would ignore it, because the pain was worth to see Bucky have a good time.

It felt ten times more intimate, however, when you took macro photos of his metal arm. You hate to admit it, but the craftsmanship is unbelievable. Watching the plates shift into place, the soft whirring, the tiny details; it’s a beautiful piece of work. Though Bucky might not think so, you’ll make damn well sure that he knows that you don’t care. You recognize the horrors he’s done and been through, but that doesn’t mean he has to go through it again. His arm will be used to protect instead of assassination.

“You take a good picture, Bucky,” you tell him as you go through the photos on the camera. “You don’t even need to try.”

He smiles and looks down at the floor, licking his lips. You notice he does that a lot when you compliment him: divert his gaze somewhere else, accompanied by a tick. Licking his lips, biting them, fiddling with his fingers. He would do all this before murmuring a small “thank you”.

What a sweetheart.

You plug your memory card back in your laptop to show him. You select all the images and press the spacebar, then press the play button. There’s quite a few of them, well over a hundred, so you hand your laptop to him and go to the bathroom. It’s painful, sitting down then standing back up, but you power through it, and manage to come back out without the stitches ripping open. When you look up, you snort.

“Comfortable?”

Bucky’s sprawled himself out on your bed, your laptop sitting on his lap, his metal arm behind his head. He looks up at you when you hover over him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he chuckles, sitting up again.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I was just gonna get something to eat. I’m starving. Wanna come?”

“Sure.”

He remembers how to stop the slideshow, so he does that then closes the lid before following you out of your room and to the kitchen. You don’t know what you can have to eat, since Dr. Markson said you can’t take solid foods yet. But you don’t want to just keep eating pudding and soup. Surely there’s an in-between. You sift through the cupboards, pushing things around to see what you can have. You leave your crutches against the counter and just hop along the length of the counter, searching for some lunch.

“Ah ha ha!”

You notice some noodles on the second shelf and grab a pack, then use one of your crutches to open a drawer to get a pot. You see Bucky is sitting at the island, silently watching you work your way around the kitchen.

“Want some?” you ask. He shakes his head no. “You sure? I can make you something else if–”

“Really, _______, I’m fine.”

“If you say so.”

Ten minutes later, your noodles are boiled to perfection, and eating them standing up across the island from Bucky. You eat them in silence, and notice Bucky smiling at you amusingly as you slurp them up. It doesn’t feel awkward at all. You’ve been with him since your rehab session ended, so when you have nothing to say, it isn’t as suffocating. Halfway through your meal, you can hear the elevator ding to this floor. You lean to the side to see who it is. Lo and behold, it’s Tony and Dr. Markson.

Oh boy.

You keep your head down as they chat their way into the kitchen. They both give you warm smiles, and nod at Bucky. Bucky nods back, but doesn’t say anything. He knows they’re not here for him.

“_______,” Dr. Markson greets you. He sees the lunch you’re eating, and refrains from commenting. However, you notice his look of disdain and make a comment of your own.

“Technically not a solid food,” you say. “It’s stringy and easy to swallow whole. It’s okay, right?”

“Well–“

“I guess it doesn’t really matter since I’m eating it anyway.”

You scoop another forkful into your mouth and grin at the pair of them. Tony raises a brow as he eats his chocolate covered raisins.

“Still disobeying orders, I see.”

“Still a senile old man, I see.”

Tony scoffs at your remark and plops another raisin in his mouth. He rounds the island and trails his eyes down at your leg.

“How’s that doin’, champ?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

“Fine,” you reply, shoving more noodles in your mouth. “It sucks trying to sit down and stand up again. Or try to put pressure on it. But I can manage.”

“Good to hear it. Markson has somethin’ for ya.”

You look at him, and see him carrying a plastic bag. He sets it on the island and explains what’s inside it.

“Inside are your painkillers,” he says. “Take one every eight hours, everyday, until you run out. When you’re finished, come to me and I’ll evaluate if you need more. There’s some other medical supplies in here as well. Also.” He pulls out two different pieces of paper from the bag and lays them out. “One is how to clean and dry your wound when you shower, the other is for changing the bandages. It has healed enough that you can continue taking them. We gave you a sponge bath while you were incapacitated, but you should–“

“Oh. My god.”

You drop your fork dramatically and slam your hands on the island. You purse your lips in anger–and embarrassment–and glare at Dr. Markson. Given, it’s nice that you’re not completely gross, having not showered properly in so long, but to be given a sponge bath while unconscious? It’s just gross and violating. And having Bucky hear that is just… you could kill someone right now, you’re so humiliated.

“Anything else you wish to disclose?” you grit through your teeth.

“You should shower with some plastic covering your bandages so they don’t get wet. And elevate your leg if there’s any swelling.”

“Great. Alright. Awesome. You can go now.”

“Miss _______, you sh–“

“Nope! I don’t wanna hear it. Thanks for the drugs and cleaning instructions. If something happens I’ll come find you. Goodbye.”

“Come on, kid. Li–“

“Don’t ‘come on, kid’, me, Tony. You can leave too. Hi, hello, goodbye. I’m fine. Enjoy your day.”

“Hon–“

“I said enjoy your day!”

Tony backs off, but smirks, knowing that you’re feeling better, and embarrassed. He stands up straight and walks off with Dr. Markson again, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He’s still not used to Bucky’s presence, clearly. He doesn’t care, though; as long as you’re okay. When you and Bucky are left alone again, you smack your lips together and discard your dishes in the sink.

“Well I certainly didn’t need to hear that,” you say after a moment of silence, grabbing a glass of water. You take one of the painkillers, then shove your instruction sheets in your short’s pockets. You stare at Bucky, wondering what to do.

“Wanna watch some Netflix?” you offer. You know he’s about to ask what that is, so you answer him before he even opens his mouth. “You can stream TV shows and movies. Pretty useful for when you’re bored and have nothing to do.”

“Sure,” he nods.

“Great.”

You scurry over to the living room, and Bucky helps you sit down and elevate your leg.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

You get it set up, enter your account, and start scrolling through your list. You wonder how long Bucky has gone without seeing a movie. Probably since 1944, so he most likely has no idea how much the movie industry has evolved. Or special effects. You don’t know what he’d like, since all movies from his time were in black and white, and a lot of the actors are dead. You hand the remote to him, and let him choose.

“You can scroll over an option and read the description,” you say. “If you think it’ll be good, then press play.” He looks from the remote, to the TV, to you, a little unsure of himself.

“You sure?” he asks, already scrolling through the movies.

“Mhmm,” you hum. “I’ve seen most of them, and they’re pretty good in my opinion. Then again, I usually like every movie I watch.”

After some consideration, Bucky chooses The Revenant. Netflix’s synopsis’ sound like a shitpost sometimes, but they give a good summary anyway. For The Revenant, the summary is “This father will do anything to claim his just revenge; even come back alive from an icy grave”. Short and sweet, but to the point. This time, Bucky sits on your right, giving you a clear view of his metal arm. Relaxing into the couch, you wrap a blanket around yourself, and quietly watch the movie with Bucky.

Usually, Bucky would have shifted away from anyone that got too close to his metal arm. He didn’t know if it would ever go haywire on its own, or if HYDRA secretly added a component that would make his arm controllable from anywhere in the world and given its members access to it. Nothing’s happened since he got out of cryo, but he’s still on the defensive about it. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt unintentionally because of him. So far so good, but he still worries.

An hour into the movie, he notices you nodding off a few times. He shifted a few inches away before, keeping his metal arm close to him, but now, he places it in the space between you in case you fall over. Or if you want to lean on him. He hasn’t experienced affectionate interaction in a very, very long time. Sure, Steve makes time for him and gives him supportive hugs and talks, but it’s in Steve’s nature. All of his goodness got amplified to a hundred after the serum, so now he’s the world’s most protective man (and sometimes reckless). It’s also a positive reminder for Bucky that Steve will always be around to pick him off the ground when he’s at his worst. Bucky thanks all the gods for Steve, but sometimes, it’s just not what he wants. He’s known his best friend all his life, but now, he wants to connect more with new people. Like you.

Right from the get-go, he’s called you “doll”. He remembers it as an endearing term for an attractive woman. He’s seen plenty of pretty girls in his life, and he knows one when he sees one. He didn’t know why he just had to say it when he spoke with you on the plane ride to the compound, but he couldn’t help himself. His mind must’ve triggered a time when he would throw the word around like the swaggy man he was, and out it came. You seem to have taking a liking to it, since you haven’t protested against him using it in any way.

The face of the modern-day woman has changed drastically over the past 70 years, but that doesn’t stop Bucky from knowing what he likes. It’s no use comparing last century’s women to today’s, since they’re all 100-years-old or dead. And he’s glad there’s someone like you that he gets to be around. You carry a whole other energy with you wherever you go. It’s so different than what he’s used to, but it’s a good different. The girls he used to know were so shy around him, and were quick to be enchanted by his charm. But you, on the other hand, are loud, rambunctious, and carefree. You can hold a conversation with him no problem, and you’re cautious to avoid sensitive topics, which he appreciates. You’re unpredictable at times, too; he would know. You chased after him, Steve, and Sam because none of them told you about the trick glass wall. Some days you would be reserved, other days you would be laughing until you cried. And that just happened to be one of Bucky’s favourite looks on you.

You curled up in a blanket with your eyes fluttering and fighting to stay open is another one.

Instead of pushing himself away, he moves closer to you, careful not to disturb you if you actually managed to fall asleep. He clasps his hands together in his lap, and leans forward a bit, trying to see if you’re awake or not.

You see him peering down at you, so you flick you eyes up to him, a wide grin spreading across your face.

“Don’t worry, I’m still awake,” you snicker.

He nods his head and quickly sits back against the couch, clearing his throat before regaining his attention on the movie. You smile at the fact that he just checked to see if you had dozed off in the middle of a movie.

How thoughtful.

The remainder of the movie is spent in very comfortable silence, and you almost had the courage to lay your head against Bucky’s arm. Almost. It would’ve been uncomfortable anyway because your leg is resting on the coffee table and you would’ve put more strain on it than you’d like. Despite not being about to cuddle the hell out of Bucky, it was nice to spend time with him anyway. You sit up and stretch when the credits start rolling.

“What’d you think?” you ask, looking at him tiredly. He takes a second to get over how cute you look when you’re tired before answering.

“I liked it,” he replies. “Good storyline, amazing acting, beautiful scenery…”

“It’s certainly worthy of the Oscars it received for best director, best cinematography, and best actor,” you say. “I’m glad you liked it.”

You shift in your seat to lower your leg to the ground, then ask Bucky for help again to stand up. You grab your crutches, and slowly bend your knee to reduce some of the tension that built up from being in a horizontal position for so long. You go to the kitchen again, and beckon Bucky to come along.

“I’m gonna try and shower,” you tell him. “Would you mind wrapping my leg in plastic wrap?”

He nods, searching for some cellophane in the drawers. You point to the right one, then tell him where the scissors are. You take a seat by the island, and slowly raise your leg onto another chair. Bucky takes the roll out of the cardboard box, and starts wrapping it around your bandages.

“A few layers should be good,” you tell him. “But not too tight.”

He nods again, carefully maneuvering his hands around your leg. You stare at your leg instead of his face because he’s so close again; you don’t want to be obvious about it. When he’s finished, he makes the cut, and you stuff the end into the top. He helps lower your leg, and you stretch to see how it feels.

“Should be fine,” you say. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You pick up your crutches again and go to your room to shower, leaving Bucky alone for thirty minutes. When you come back out, you feel like a new woman. Your hair is shiny and smells magnificent, your skin soft and smooth. Cleaning off eight days-worth of sweat, dirt, and grime is the most satisfying thing in the world. A sponge bath doesn’t cut it; scrubbing away the filth yourself is much more reassuring. You choose to wear a dress this time, as one layer is less troublesome. You pin some of your hair up and let it air-dry. No point in looking presentable if you’re not going anywhere. You take off the plastic wrap, and sigh in relief when you see your bandages didn’t get wet. When you come back out, you don’t see Bucky.

“Bucky?” you call. “You there?”

“Barnes went to one of the training rooms.”

You gasp for air at Natasha’s sudden surprise. You glower at her as she gives you a good-natured smirk. You cannot believe her sometimes.

“Thanks for that heart attack,” you say, gathering yourself.

“All part of the package,” she says.

“Well can I get my money back then?” you joke. “I don’t remember a daily heart attack being part of the deal.”

“I thought you would be used to my sneaking,” she smiles.

“Apparently not.”

You stride over to the fridge to get something else to eat, but after seeing the look on Dr. Markson’s face after he caught you eating noodles, you think better of it. Instead, you decide to make another smoothie. While you gather your fruit, Natasha has a seat by the island and speaks to you.

“How have you been with Barnes?” she asks. You stop what you’re doing, giving her a confused look.

That’s a strange thing to ask.

“Okay, I guess?” you answer cautiously. “He’s been doing well.”

“And you?”

“I’ve been doing well too.”

“I see.”

You give Natasha the side-eye as you reach in the cupboard for the blender. She looks back, a sly smile on her face. She doesn’t say anything else; not until you have the fruit and ice already in the blender.

“You need some flirting lessons.”

You don’t even hear her from the blender being so loud. You stop after thirty seconds to see how well it’s been mixed in. Natasha takes the opportunity to ask again, since you didn’t hear her the first time.

“I think you need some–“

You start the blender again, cutting her off for a second time. She closes her mouth and sighs, waiting again for another opportunity. She’s grown to hold her patience. Something as small and insignificant as you making a smoothie is a walk in the park for her. Once you’re pouring the smoothie in your glass, she speaks up for a third time.

“I’m going to be giving you flirting lessons.”

You nearly drop the glass to the floor. She smiles at your reaction and sits up in her seat. Once you’ve collected yourself, you clear your throat and give her an incredulous look.

“What makes you think I need flirting lessons?” you scoff, taking a sip of your drink. She sees right past your faux confidence. You know as well as anyone that you need a tip or two here and there. Or maybe a whole rundown of the book. You limp over to the island and set your drink down, staring at the quartz.

“When do we start?” you ask quietly, avoiding her gaze.

“Right now, if you’d like,” she says, glad to have you on board without protesting.

“Um. Sure, I guess.”

“First rule of flirting,” she says, jumping right into it. “Never sound passive. It gives off the vibe that you’re susceptible to submission.”

You flick your eyes up to her, nodding in understanding. You keep sipping your smoothie as she speaks, but cut her off for a moment.

“Do I need to be writing this down or…?”

“If you think it would help, yes. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay. Gimme a sec.”

Trotting back to your room, you grab an empty notepad and pen, then return to Natasha. She’s moved over to the couch, so you take a seat next to her. You write down what she said about being passive, then look expectantly at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Keep eye-contact,” she says. “Always make sure their attention is on you. Sit with your body open. That means you cannot hold your arms, nor turn away from them. Back straight, chest out, and face towards them. You want them to know you’re interested. So you’ve got to show that you are.”

You haphazardly scribble everything down, nodding along, opting to just get her words and then go back to rewrite everything later in a more organized fashion.

“As you may know, men like to talk about themselves.” You roll your eyes at that. “Inflate their ego. It gets them talking. Move your eyes, as well. A lot can be said with the expression of your eyes. You asked your target to dance. Not a bad angle. Makes it easier for them to lower their guard and for you to take them elsewhere if need be.”

Natasha goes on and on about tips and tricks when it comes to flirting, especially phrases. That’s what you have trouble with the most. Sweet-talking is an art form all on its own, and you want–need, to learn all about it. And what better way than from an expert themselves? It’s certainly one thing being taught, but it’s a whole other situation when you have to execute it in real life. Natasha gives you a solid “C” grade based on your performance on your first solo mission. You’re embarrassed and a little self-conscious at first, but the feeling passes because you know she’s spot on. And that’s exactly why she’s giving you this informative tutorial.

“Now, if you want to make an entire room come to a halt,” she explains, now onto a new topic, “it’s all based on how you carry yourself. Dressing up helps with the seduction. But your self-confidence will grab their attention. Stand tall. Lift your head, push your chest out, shoulders back, make precise, smooth movements. Trail your eyes through the entire room once, never looking at the same person twice. Go to your designated location, and let them come to you.”

That seems like a vital piece of information.

You keep that piece of intelligence in mind in case you ever need to… impress someone. Natasha even gives some examples to help you grasp the material better. You really feel like you’re in school again. She uses herself, of course, and shows you her body language and facial expressions. You write it down in words, getting it as close as you can to what she’s showing you.

And all for free.

Your least favourite thing is when she asks you to show her what you’ve just learned. Now you really feel like this is school all over again. You’re nervous that you’ll mess up and just embarrass yourself even more. But you deem Natasha as sympathetic, so maybe she’ll give you a free slide and tone down her criticism.

She doesn’t.

Being the expert that she is, and that she cares about your well-being, she wants you to get this right for future missions that require you to seduce the target. And next time, hopefully, you’ll be spot on and will not hesitate to make a decision.

You practice with Natasha for almost two hours, and during that time, Wanda returned from her trip to the city, and joined in on the fun. To her, of course it’s fun. She has her own charm that can get her out of sticky situations. Though her power alone is enough. Natasha made you practice on Wanda, as well. That just made your heart beat faster. Flirting with a woman is completely different than flirting with a man. You just get even more tense and nervous. And those feelings double when the woman is attractive as Wanda.

Right as you’re in the middle of playing the cards with Wanda, Steve rounds the corner, sweaty from training. He starts when he sees what’s happening.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” he says, holding his hands out to shield his eyes. “Should I be seeing this?”

You burst out laughing when Steve doesn’t know how to react. You pull away from being so close to her to address Steve. You open your mouth to answer him, but then a funnier response comes to mind.

“People can be gay, Steve,” you say.

He lowers his arms and almost looks afraid. You said it with such seriousness, and he doesn’t know if he’s just crossed a line.

“I-I, uh. I’m sorry, _______. I didn’t mean–“ You burst out laughing again at his reaction. He’s such a sweet man, never wanting to unintentionally hurt someone’s feelings or feel like he’s stepped into sensitive territory.

“It’s okay, Steve. I’m joking.”

He puts a hand on his heart and lets out a shaky laugh.

“You scared me for a second, _______,” he says, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize. “I just wanted to see what’d you’d do.”

He smiles fondly, and takes a few sips of his water before nodding towards you three.

“What’ve you guys been up to?” he asks. “Really?”

“I was teaching _______ how to successfully seduce a target into obedience,” Natasha answers proudly. “Despite her naïve way of thinking and inexperience, she’s doing alright for herself.”

Steve’s smile only grows, so much that he can’t even drink his water.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask, smiling yourself.

“Nothing,” he replies, standing behind the couch. “Just glad to see that my suggestions are being considered and implemented.”

“Steeeve,” you whine, covering your face. He just shrugs his shoulders and wishes you the best before taking his leave.

“He’s such a dork,” you snort.

“He is indeed,” Wanda agrees.

“But he’s also totally precious,” you add. “I love him so much.”

“He is a very good man,” Natasha pipes in. “He’s very admirable for all his work.”

“Got that right,” you agree.

Instead of continuing with the flirting lessons, you’ve moved the conversation to a new topic: Steve. Recalling what you read in the Smithsonian, the internet, and recent events when he did something funny. Complimenting his eyes, hair, new physique, his “good man” nature. There’s nothing bad you can say about Steve Rogers. He’s a total sweetheart to be around, and doesn’t shrug you off when you’re telling him about something that excites you. Of course, he also has his off days, wanting some time alone. And that’s something all of you do for each other. No matter how good of a day you’re having, when another teammate needs their space, you’re more than willing to stay out of their way.

But you’re always there if they need someone to talk to.

Soon enough, you’ve immersed yourself in an Avengers rant about the team. You already talked about Steve, but you add in a few more bits, speaking very highly of him. Next was Tony.

“Okay, despite his arrogant attitude and narcissism,” you begin, “he’s funny, caring, and always willing to put his life on the line for the ones he loves. I mean, when I first saw him as Iron Man, I thought it was amazing. Creating something like that is unbelievable, and shutting down his company was something I’d never thought he’d do. Yeah, I thought he was selfish a while after that, because whenever I saw the footage, he had an essence of egotism. Only fighting for himself. But fighting alongside him made all the difference. He tries to right his wrongs, sometimes being a little too extreme, but all that matters it that he cares.”

After him, Sam.

“Sam is such a treasure. Basically he’s similar to Steve with his boyish behaviour and protective tendencies. But since he’s of this century, it’s easier to talk to him about current events and connect with each other. He’s a total gem when it comes to cheering people up, and when you need a friend instead of a teammate. He’s so agile when he’s using his Falcon wings. I’m so impressed by technology these days, and it’s such a privilege to own something incredible as that. He’s cautious, open-minded, and will not hesitate to cut a bitch if they trample on his friend’s feelings. He’s good like that.”

You make a face as you try to describe Vision.

“Vision’s a little harder to describe because he’s so transparent. He speaks his honest opinion, which I appreciate, but at times, it can get a little annoying. He’s basically perfect, in scientific terms, I guess. That gem in his forehead certainly is something else. Part Ultron and part J.A.R.V.I.S. Two minds in one is… unprecedented, I say. I mean, if anyone could do it, I believe that it’d be Tony. And the fact that he has a British accent is just so fricken hilarious. Did Tony do that on purpose? Or was it an added bonus? Anyway. Yeah. Vision is a character, alright. I’d never thought there’d be someone like him. We’re lucky to have him.”

Since Thor, Dr. Bruce Banner, and Clint Barton are not currently present, you make a brief statement about their heroics and from what you can guess about their personalities from what you’ve seen on the news and internet. You guess they’re very well-rounded men, and also extremely protective and secretive.

Natasha comes after.

“You, are a work of art, if I might say. I just… have you seen yourself? Like… Where have you been all my life? You’re the most ruthless, kickass woman I’ve ever met. I’ve never been so serious in my life. Self-defence, infiltration, gun handling, sweet-talking, hand-to-hand combat, gathering intel, collecting background information… you’re the complete package. I’ve never seen a woman more skilled than you are. You’re a great mentor, and never lie, especially when it comes to me when you’re trying to improve my own skills. You don’t sugarcoat things, and even if it hurts my feelings sometimes, I know you’re just trying to help. You’re also the type of attractive person that makes someone question their sexuality, so thanks for being the best person ever, on behalf of all us girls.”

Natasha smiles fondly as you gush about her. She knows you’re being genuine because of the way your eyes light up in excitement. She also knows that you know that she knows the only reason why she is the person that she is is because she was trained to be able to do everything you listed off. The other women in the Red Room were a makeshift family; but here, with the Avengers, she knows she has a place to be herself. She watches Wanda as you start to ramble on about her instead.

Finally, the best is saved for last.

“And you, Wanda. Wanda Wanda Wanda. You’re the cutest, most precious person I’ve ever met. You’re soft, funny, adorable, and an overall good person. Honestly, your power is one of my favourites. Telekinesis, telepathy, and energy manipulation? Is there anything you can’t do? You kick me on my ass pretty easily when we train together, but you still go easy on me, which, obviously, I appreciate. I try not to go too hard on you too, by the way. I don’t wanna burn your loveable face. And the way you show your power is so different than what I usually see on TV. Like, you can actually see your power, instead of everything being invisible. You use your hands at all times instead of just using your mind to do all the work. And I think it’s beneficial for you because you can see what you’re controlling, which also helps us. Let’s us know where not to be when you’re on attack mode. You’re completely ruthless, and you could step on me any day of the week and I’d say ‘thank you’. You’re such a great person to talk to about anything. You’re basically my sister, if you don’t mind me saying. Also! You’re the soft, bubbly, cute type of attractive. And again, I’d like to thank you on behalf of the girls in this world.”

Wanda’s smiling the whole time, and subtly avoiding eye-contact as she blushes towards the floor. It’s extremely refreshing to have someone tell her how valuable she is outside of her power. She finds that you’re always quick to give her a compliment about any aspect of herself when you’re together: her hair, her smile, her personality. She appreciates it immensely, and she’s extremely grateful to have you in her life.

You let out a huge sigh after rambling on about your friends and lay against the couch. You don’t know if you’ve ever spoken that much in one sitting before. You cover your face with your hands and shake your head.

“I am so sorry if I talked too much just now,” you apologize (Though you’re not really sorry). “I just got really excited.”

“It is not a problem,” Wanda answers, smiling widely. “It was nice to see you in such a state. Especially when you’re injured.”

“No kidding,” you agree. “I completely forgot I was crippled.”

Natasha turns towards you, supporting her cheek with her fist. She wears a smile that suggests that you left something out. You cock your head to the side when you look at her.

“What?” you laugh.

“You forgot someone,” she says.

“I couldn’t have,” you defend, counting on your fingers. “There was Steve, and Tony, and Vision and–“

“Barnes,” she cuts in. “You forgot to talk about him.”

You stop talking, now frozen in place in your seat. Why does she keep mentioning him? Does she just want to hear your honest opinion of him? Haven’t you done that already? You lower your hand and sigh, staring into your lap.

“There’s nothing to tell, really,” you say quietly.

“I think there is,” Wanda says, joining in on the fun. She’s dying to know as well. She may have not told you about the time she took the smallest look into your mind and saw Bucky. A lot. She purses her lips and waits for you to say something.

A small smile appears on your face, now unable to keep your mouth shut about him. You just know that they’ll keep pestering you about him, so you might as well say something to satisfy them.

Unbeknownst to any of you, Bucky is listening intently around the corner, already finished with his training. He feels like he shouldn’t be hearing this, but on the other hand, why the hell not? It’d be good for him to hear your honest opinion of him. He leans against the wall, and listens on quietly.

“He’s really great,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “He’s just… he’s been through a lot, y’know? From a small boy to a Sergeant in World War two to HYDRA’s bitch to something in-between. He can’t take back all that he’s done, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of him hating himself and blaming himself for everything that’s happened. So I thought I’d help him, because I wanted to. I know Steve would’ve definitely done it if he knew how. And so far, after Vision took away what needed to be erased, he’s been doing well. From what I’ve seen, anyway. What he does behind closed doors is for him alone. But when I’m with him he’s… calmer. I’ve told him many times that he can come to any of us if he’s having troubles with anything, but I think Steve is his only bet on that.”

You pause for a minute, and stare down at your lap, trying to think of what to say next. You don’t want to reveal anything to them about your feelings for him, so you need to tread carefully. Wanda, however, eggs you on for more.

“I know there’s more than that,” she says, smiling gently. “You know there’s more than that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say quickly, trying to wave her off. “I know there is. I just… there’s no one way to describe him, you know? He’s sweet and funny and caring. He can be dismissive and secretive, but that’s who he is. He just wants to live without worrying about if he’ll lose control again… He was so pure when I was teaching him about my phone. He wouldn’t need to use any of it, but it was a lot of fun watching his reactions and showing him modern technology. He’s probably seen it, but not really used it. Oh. My god. And when I’m teaching him, Steve, and Sam the dance? He’s the most compliant of the three. One time, when they finished their complaining, Bucky asked me to keep practicing with him. Which is weird, because I thought Sam would crack first, to be honest. Anyway, Bucky kept at it, and was so serious about it. I got a little fed up when he wouldn’t pay attention, but I was joking about it. It’s always nice to see him laugh. My favourite thing is when he smiles. It makes me happy when he’s smiling, but even more so when I’m making him smile. I’d do anything to keep seeing him like that.”

Wanda and Natasha look at each other knowingly, then peer down at you as you’re wrapped up in your own world.

“Oh, _______,” Natasha starts, smiling sweetly at you. “Sounds to me like you’re a serious love bug.”

“Hm? Oh, I guess so,” you shrug.

“I think so as well,” Wanda agrees. “You have much love to give. And we know exactly where you can put it.”

“A-And where do you think that is?” you ask hesitantly.

Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it don’t s–

“Bucky,” they say in unison.

You sigh, knowing that they would go there. You wipe your hands down your face and lean your head back against the couch. You stare up at the ceiling, and without even thinking about it, you give them your answer.

“It’s already there.”

Behind the safety of the kitchen wall, Bucky’s eyes widen in shock. He never expected to hear words like that directed towards him again. Ever. Much less from you. He chews his bottom lip, wondering what the hell he’s going to do with this new information. His emotions towards you have been sifting through him, questioning what those emotions are. He’s very fond of you, having helped him and all, but there’s a lot more to it than that. His use of the word “doll”, the fact that second to Steve, he feels at home with you. You don’t judge him, and you make an effort to see him laugh and have a good time. It gets him through the day at times. And when he saw you stumble through the living room, bloody and bruised, he was worried sick. The initial reaction was because his friend got shot, then his mind shifted into the feeling of losing you. He panicked when you fell into his arms, afraid about what was happening to you. And now that he knows your true feelings for him… he’s not too sure what to feel. He hasn’t given himself time to process the emotions he has for you, but he sure as hell has the time now.

Backing away, he decides to retreat to the public showers downstairs to clear his head.

Meanwhile, Natasha and Wanda express their happiness at you finally admitting to them how you truly feel about Bucky. You smile along with them, but you yourself are still a little wary about it all. Is it love, or infatuation? It’d be important to find that out first before going to Wanda and Natasha to divulge their curiosity. It’s nearing dinnertime, so you interrupt their excited chatter to get something to eat. You stop yourself from opening the freezer, then call out to the F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Yes, miss _______?”

“Is Dr. Markson around?”

“He is in the medical laboratory.”

“Can you ask him what I can eat for dinner?”

“Certainly.”

You tap the kitchen counter as you wait, your back to Wanda and Natasha. You’d rather them not see your face as you continue to have thoughts about your feelings for Bucky.

“Dr. Markson suggests rice and vegetables.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

One of the easiest things to make, you immediately get to it, no matter how much of an inconvenience your crutches are. You haven’t read the instructions Dr. Markson gave you about binding your leg on your own yet, so you’ll do that when you go to bed. And also take another painkiller. You avoid Wanda’s and Natasha’s pestering questions about your confession, so you either shut them up completely, or offer another topic of discussion. They opt to make their own dinner as well, giving you the chance to eat in peace. That is, only if you were able to go to your room while holding a bowl on rice and vegetables and using your crutches at the same time. You end up eating in the kitchen, and make idle chatter with Wanda and Natasha.

You wonder where Bucky has been the past few hours. Maybe still in one of the training rooms, or out with Steve. Is he even allowed out in the city yet? Or maybe he’s on the second floor shooting billiard by himself. It’s something Steve would do, and already has, so perhaps Bucky would be into that sort of thing too. You’re so immersed in your thoughts about where he is that you don’t even notice him walk behind you three to go to his room. You only notice when Natasha says hi to him, but you only get the view of his back. You finish your dinner with a small smile on your face.

One thing that can be said about you and be 100% true is that you’re a night owl. You drag your night on just to stay up longer, and because you don’t want to go to bed so early. It’s a little eerie since you’re the only one up sometimes, but it’s nice to have a lot of time to yourself to think. It’s currently 11 p.m., and you’re sitting in the living room wrapped in a blanket, watching TV and rereading the instructions on how to change your bandages. It seems simple enough, and you’re sure you can do it yourself, but the thing is: you don’t want to. Why do it yourself when there are other perfectly capable human beings in the building to do it for you? And you’re not talking about the medical staff.

You slide to one end of the couch and put both your legs up, then lay the blanket over yourself. You stare at the TV for a few seconds before looking up at the ceiling. A short nap should energize you a bit. Taking the chance, you shuffle further into the couch, turn your head to the side, and close your eyes.

Turns out, it’s not a short nap.

You’re still snoozing away an hour and a half later, the room dark, the only source of light being the TV screen. You’ve done this many times before: falling asleep on the couch after closing your eyes for a few minutes. All you wanted was a quick ten minutes to freshen yourself up, but it always turns into a snooze fest. Some night owl you are.

And it looks like you’re not the only one.

Bucky comes striding out of his room wearing only grey sweats, and makes a beeline for the fridge. He’s dying for some water, and gulps down half of it in one go. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a few deep breaths. He leans over the sink, and splashes his face with some cold water. He’s found that this has been the most helpful after having a nightmare. It wakes him up, making it harder for him to fall asleep, and gives him the chance to think of excuses to give Steve when he asks why he looks so jaded.

After drying his face, he finally notices that the TV is still on. He takes sips of his water as he walks towards the living room, and is surprised to see you sleeping there. He sets his water down, and squints at you to see if you’re actually asleep. When you don’t correct him, he believes it’s his responsibility to bring you back to your bed. He kneels down in front of you, and gently shakes your shoulder.

“_______?” he whispers. “Wake up, _______.”

You make a pained expression, groaning and shifting around from being rudely awakened from your sleep. You don’t open your eyes, opting to just turn to the side and go back to sleep. Bucky sighs tiredly, but keeps trying.

“_______,” he says again. “Time to go to bed. Come on.”

Groaning louder, you agonizingly open your eyes and look over your shoulder to see who’s bothering you.

“Bucky?” you say, your voice hoarse. You blink a few times to get a clearer vision of him. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he smiles. “Come on. Get up. I’m sure your bed is much comfier than this.”

“I don’t wanna get up,” you protest, pulling the blanket closer to your chest.

“_______,” he warns. “If you don’t get up, I’m gonna have to carry you back to bed.”

“Be my guest,” you yawn, believing he won’t do it. You hear his knees crack as he stands up. You think he’s about to just leave you there, but he carefully slides his hands under you and hoists you up in his arms.

“Bucky!” you gasp, clutching your leg. It doesn’t hurt much, but you’re still mindful of it.

“I told you I’d carry you,” he tells you, also picking up his water bottle as he heads to your room. Sighing in defeat, you let him do as he pleases. Besides, it’s kind of rewarding. Bucky gets to carry you, and you get to smell him. And touch his bare chest. The blanket got taken with you, so you get to stay warm when Bucky lays you down on your bed.

“Thanks,” you mumble drowsily.

“No problem,” he smiles, smoothing your hair down. You peek up at him for a few seconds, getting a fantastic view of his body. Once you’re settled in, he starts backing away. You groan in annoyance when you remember something.

“Bucky,” you call out. He stops and turns back at you. “I hate to sound selfish, but could you change my bandages for me, please? I’m too exhausted to do it myself.”

“Sure thing.”

He comes back instantly, and you carefully bend over your bed to grab the bag of medical gauze, instructions, and supplies Dr. Markson left for you. He sits on the edge of your bed and takes out a roll, then grabs the scissors as well. You unravel yourself from your blanket, sit up, then move over to give Bucky some room. You pull up the hem of your dress, then settle it between your legs. You yawn repeatedly as Bucky cuts the gauze already on your leg and when he starts wrapping it back up.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” you say, giving him an apologetic look. “I’m supposed to change it when I wake up and go to bed, but I didn’t think I’d fall asleep for that long.”

“It’s okay,” he says, his eyes trained on your thigh. “I was already up.”

“Oh. Well, still. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is looking a lot better, though.”

“Yeah, it is. Still a little gross looking, but the pain’s not as bad.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

You fight to keep your eyes open this time, your head drooping along with your eyes every time you feel like you’re nodding off. Bucky notices and smiles, thinking about how adorable you are when you’re tired. When he’s done wrapping, he cuts off the end and lets it sit on your thigh. He gets the medical tape and wraps it around your leg twice, secure but not too tight. He gently pats your thigh when he’s finished, and gives you a fond smile.

“Thanks,” you mumble, swaying your leg side to side.

“You’re welcome,” he says. When you try to force yourself awake again, he takes notice of how dry your lips look. He hands you his water bottle and offers you some. You mutter another “thanks” and take two considerate gulps before giving it back to him and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You shake your head, now being even more selfish.

“Sorry, but could you do one more thing for me?” you ask.

“Sure,” he says.

“Can you grab me a shirt?” you request. “Any black shirt from the dresser on the left. Middle drawer.”

He nods, then gets up from your bed and shuffles over to the end of your room. You blatantly stare at his bare back without shame because of how exhausted you are. Bucky comes back with one of your old band t-shirts and tosses it at you.

“Think fast,” he says as it lands on your face. You huff a laugh before dragging it down.

“How sweet,” you joke. He smiles again before sitting on your bed again. You certainly don’t mind; you just don’t know what you can talk about with him now. Thankfully, one thing comes to mind.

“You disappeared after I showered,” you say, fiddling with the shirt in your hands. His smile drops a little and he guiltily looks towards the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, looking back at you. “I should’ve told you first.”

“No, no,” you wave him off. “It’s okay. I just wondered where you went. Was my technology lesson really that boring?”

“It was not,” he replies honestly. “I myself wouldn’t use it, but I am very informed now.”

“Good. Because you’re gonna have a lot of lessons with me when it comes to all the things that’ve changed over the last seven decades. Movies, music, historical movements. You’re gonna hate me by the end of it because I’ll never shut up about it.”

“I could never hate you.”

“That’s reassuring. I’ll just talk your ear off then.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You give him a small laugh before you yawn again. You rub your eyes and swipe a hand through your hair, and Bucky can’t help think about what he overheard earlier today. It’s a little far-fetched to say that you’re in love with him, only because you didn’t say that. You’ve only caught feelings for him, and nothing else. So far. He still doesn’t know what to think, even after pondering it for hours after he heard you say it. He feels like he’s being a bad person because he’s not telling you he heard you, but at the same time, he’s probably saving you the embarrassment of having your confession being eavesdropped on. He sighs, deciding to just keep his mouth shut about it for now. His feelings are still a mystery to him towards you, so he needs to figure himself out as well before he tells you anything.

“I should get going,” he says, standing up. “You should get some rest.”

“As should you,” you say, smiling at him. “I know designer eye bags when I see them.”

“Goodnight, _______,” he grins, making his way for the door.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say back. You eye him up and down again when he’s not looking, and wave to him when he shuts the door. Sighing sadly, you take off your dress and pull on your t-shirt before scooching down into bed and getting comfy. You close your eyes, hoping that one day, you’ll be able to muster up the courage to tell him you love him to his face.

Hopefully.

E/A/N: Screw it. I’m posting this. Chapter Thirteen is nearly complete, and Chapter Fourteen is in the works too. In the next chapter, you get to take Bucky into the city finally!

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