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asm5129 · 11 months

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Flash Thoughts ⚡ A New World Part 4: Finale

Well, here we are. The last episode of the flash, and a farewell to the arrowverse–at least, for the foreseeable future. God damn, i’ll miss it. I don’t care what anyone says, this world, these characters, they’ve meant so much to me. They’ve been by my side through the worst moments of my life, through into a better time where I feel more fulfilled and happy, I feel genuine joy in my life, my family is healthier, and my pain, while not gone, is lessened. That kind of reliable companionship, whether through a human or a story, is rare. And I will treasure it, always. My hope remains that in a few years, people will start softening on the Arrowverse the way they have Andrew Garfield’s Spider-Man or the Star Wars prequels, and maybe all the work that was put into this world–ten years, 6 shows not counting Superman and Lois or Stargirl–can get a bit of a resurgence. It’s already built out the most complete multiverse brought screen after all.

But anyways. The finale. I liked it a lot. It was imperfect to be sure, a bit rushed, and it really wasted it’s returning villains. But I liked it. It was really lovely and hopeful. And I know Grant Gustin pushed for a hero’s death, but I actually stand with Eric Wallace on this one. The Flash, long before Wallace was showrunner, was about hope, and love. We can argue whether he took it to places it didn’t work, but that was always what it was about. Barry brought a light Oliver couldn’t. That was established in the pilot episode. So him meeting a similar end to Oliver I think, as epic as it may have been, wouldn’t have made sense in the grand scheme of things. No, ultimately, it was the right call to make The Flash’s final episode about hope, and love, and family, and–most importantly–coexistence.

While I liked Khione, her inclusion had no real grounded logic to it. There’s no reason what Caitlin did in the season 8 finale should have created Khione. Yet regardless–I think she was the perfect vessel for the message of coexistence. As long as Thawne was the Avatar of the negative speed force, there was no chance for coexistence. There was no path forward with him. But the NSF screwed up when it chose to try and corrupt a good man. This is, genuinely, the first time Barry talking a Big Bad down worked in Eric Wallace’s Flash, because Eddie was a good man who was in pain. He hadn’t chosen to be cruel, so much as he felt he had to make someone cruel happy for him to be happy. But it wasn’t natural for him. And while it was a bit rushed, I think it worked well.

There will always be those we butt heads with, those standing in our way. But if we’re smart, and we’re kind, that doesn’t always mean there has to be pain. Conflict and contrasting viewpoints are healthy and important, as long as it doesn’t spiral out of control. Barry could have sworn off Eddie as just another Eobard, but he knew Eddie. He knew there was more to him than the pain and the fear that was pushing him to these extremes. So he chose peace, and let Eddie see the man he was becoming. I know it’s very idealistic, but fuck it, there are a billion other stories that refuse to entertain the idea of coexistence, that have the heroes just murdering whomever they consider a threat, or even just getting mad and pursuing vengeance without any care for the lives of others. There’s maybe ten mainstream stories that entertain the idea that maybe some people could change and that could make a better world. Less, most likely. If you wanna expend your energy getting upset over that, god, what a waste.

I also really, really like that Barry’s choice to let Thawne kill himself ended up really mattering here. I felt that was very strange in season 8 and the beginning of season 9 because such a big deal was made during Armageddon about saving him, even though he was only a victim of his own actions just as he was in the S8 finale So for Barry to know the same thing could happen to Eddie and being desperate to not repeat his choice in season 8 was a great payoff to that. You can argue whether it’s rational to want to save those trying to kill him and his loved ones, but it’s who Barry is. He values every life. Every single one. We need hope. We need idealism. We need kindness. And The Flash didn’t always execute it right, and it’s failures at it deserve criticism, but I don’t feel this episode was one of those failures.

Onto some criticism though… As I mentioned, I think this episode absolutely wastes its returning villains.

The first episode of A New World really oughta have been the last appearance of the Reverse-Flash I think if this was all they were gonna do with him. I don’t think this episode cheapened that one at all, but it still felt like a much less satisfying final appearance. And Chester having black hole powers that protected him from being murdered by Thanwe was just cheap.

Savitar did almost nothing, and everything that made him interesting from season 3 was gone.

Godspeed was just…ugh. He did less than nothing, because he did something and it had zero impact on anything and then Cecile just knocked him out with a thought. Godspeed really was the most underwhelming of all of them, he was mediocre in season 7 and mediocre here, and I wish his slot was filled by the Red Death, just to at least connect her to the rest of the season somehow. Bart finally got a mention in the last 15 minutes or so, but he wasn’t part of the episode despite Godspeed supposedly being “his Thanwe”. I guess the actor just wasn’t available or something, but God it’s so weird that they have spent so, so much time this season on Nora and there was just a single mention of Bart all season. and Zoom was eh.

Did kinda enjoy all their egos clashing and their grandstanding, and I did appreciate the tension between Eobard and Eddie. Honestly what I might have done instead of these villains would be to have Matt Letscher’s Thawne and Tom Cavanaugh’s Thawne be recruited together. Could have made for some fun dynamics, clashing egos and both Thawnes hating that they were recruited by Eddie–plus finally seeing the two Thanwes onscreen together would have been a great way to say farewell.

Ah well. Not sure how I feel about the return of Caitlin, but I did very much like that her and Barry got a chance to talk again and reconcile what happened between them. So regardless of how I feel about the fact that she’s suddenly safe and sound, I do like something we got from it. And Frost still being dead at least makes this not a total about-face. I do like Chester and Allegra together, but I do think the will they/won’t they didn’t need to go on as long as it did. I did however adore Joe FINALLY proposing to Cecile. There were times I had to actually look up whether they were married or not, since they were dating so long, living together, had a kid, etc

And after Joe having such a hard time with love before Cecile, in retrospect I actually really appreciate that she didn’t push him. Sure, the ring and everything is nice, and it’s made clear she wanted it, but she clearly didn’t need a ring or a binding piece of paper to know that Joe was in it for the long haul. It was a really, really nice moment for the finale. Nora being present at her own birth, and even holding herself as a baby…yeah barry was right, even for the Flash family that’s a lot.

But I really appreciated all the moments with baby Nora, especially Joe singing with iris’ memories flashing across the screen and Barry asking baby Nora to believe in something impossible.

and actually on that note, let me close out by saying–I fucking love that that line, the very first line of the pilot episode, was at the core of the finale. “I need you to believe in the impossible.” It began as a way to describe a world of metahumans, aliens, time travel and multiverses.

But here, it’s about believing in a new world, a better world, one that doesn’t accept that a cycle of pain and violence could ever pass for the natural order of things. And I dunno–maybe it’s also a little message that the Arrowverse might have a future some day. That it will get it’s due. Some say that’s impossible, but maybe I’ll listen to Barry on this one, and believe in it anyway.

Thank you for following my Flash Thoughts during this final season. It was really enjoyable to write them up for folks. Chat soon folks. You’re all wonderful. stay safe.

#arrowverse positivity #arrowverse #flash thoughts #flash spoilers #flash cw #flash season 9 #grant gustin #candice patton #hope #coexistence #peace #love #idealism #future #series finale #season finale

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mainsfolder · 2 years

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Nexuiz classic servers

Nexuiz classic servers full#

Item-Drop Mechanic: Weapons can fall from dead enemies after they're killed.BERSERKER! note 20 kills CARNAGE! note 25 kills ARMAGEDDON!!! note 30 kills Idiosyncratic Combo Levels: Triple kill! note 3 kills Rage! note 5 kills Massacre! note 10 kills MAYHEM! note 15 kills.Slimepit Revisited (reslimed) even features some acid traps. Hollywood Acid: Prevalent on both Toxic and The Slime Pit.High-Altitude Battle: The maps Blue Sky and Farewell take place atop a clean futuristic base and a castle atop of a mountain respectively.You won't notice this is the case (the only info given to you is that you only get a Laser) unless you start racking up deaths. Guide Dang It!: Match #22 of the 2.5 Ladder (Evilspace) is a Last Man Standing match.The Electro's secondary fire works the same as the Mortar, but launches instead small, bouncing energy balls which explode on contact with enemies (and Electro primary shots).The Mortar's secondary fire launches grenades.Unlike other games, there's a limited amount of shots you can do, so you might want to restock when it respawns. Grappling-Hook Pistol: The Grappling Hook.Gotta Catch 'Em All: The Key Hunt gametype involves collecting all of the other teams' keys in order to score points.Gateless Ghetto: Downer is set in one such area.Eternal Engine: Many of the maps, such as Aneurysm, Diesel Power, The Slimepit, Slimepit Revisited and Ruiner.What's the point of living without ammo?" Driven to Suicide: Aside of the usual methods, this can happen to a player in Minstagib if they run out of ammo during a long time.Needless to say, you can burn yourself with it, but if you know where to place it, you can deal a ton of damage. For once, Video Game Flamethrowers Suck is subverted, as the game's version throws a fireball to the ground which hurts at proximity, dealing a lot of damage.Know when to use the Lasergun and you can beat this stage in a beat. Getting it to correctly steer can turn it into a powerful weapon capable of dealing lots of damage to the heaviest armored enemies. It has a new function where you can guide the rocket as an exchange for a slower speed. That said, at the right position, you can deal a lot of damage with them. Getting to shoot those balls in the middle of a match can be quite the challenge, let alone get the enemies to step into them as they are one of the game's equivalents to mines. This leads to situations where players explode their own rockets in their own face, hurting or killing themselves. Mission 17: Stormkeep of the 2.0 campaign), the Rocket keeps its primary fire, but holding it doesn't work anymore (hitting primary fire again will make the rocket to explode while in midair) and the secondary fire toggles the guiding laser. But when playing with the Laser Guided missiles mutator (i.e. Normally the Rocket Launcher works with the primary fire button firing the rocket, holding primary guiding the rocket a la Half-Life and the secondary fire button exploding the rocket mid air. Damn You, Muscle Memory!: In a rare "same game" version.Cut-and-Paste Environments: The all-common Aggressor map, already present in other games such as OpenArena, is also present in this game.Cool Starship: The map Bleach takes place in one.Stormkeep and Stormkeep 2 as well qualify.

Nexuiz classic servers full#

Convection, Schmonvection: Final Rage is a castle with several areas full of lava.

Charged Attack: The Laser can be charged for extra damage or higher jumps.

Obviously, the quickest way to rack up points is to capture the flag (25 points). Unlike other games, your teams' frag count also count towards your team's score.

Capture the Flag: The eponymous gametype.

As expected, it has the accompanying announcement.

Boom, Headshot!: It's possible to do this with both the Sniper Rifle and the Nex.

Battle in the Rain: Ruiner takes place in an industrial setting in the middle of a rainfall.

#Nexuiz classic servers

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kissmyhandcallmedarling · 3 years

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until forever falls apart

james march x reader

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Until the sun falls from the sky, and the heavens burn, in conflagration.

When he spoke these words to you, you thought it nothing more than a declaration of undying love and devotion. Never had it crossed your mind that it would actually happen. The end of eternity always seemed so far away. And yet, the hysteria of armageddon took a strong grasp of the LA streets below. Before your eyes, people were screaming, crying, and desperately holding on to the ones they loved. The whole of the world was united by uncertainty and fear. And you couldn't deny it; you were scared.

You were in the lobby, staring out the windows, eyes transfixed by the chaos outside. There was the faint buzz of the radio; the anchor informing the world of the nuclear bombings that had taken place in Europe and Asia. The hotel's residents, including yourself, were gathered. Iris, Liz, Will, Ms Evers, Tristan... but James was yet to make an appearance.

"Well. Shit." You smelt the cloud of smoke pass you by as Sally joined the group.

"Yeah." Liz sighed, her hand resting on your shoulder.

"I have to admit it," Iris piped up. "I didn't think this was how I was going to go."

"What in God's name is going to happen to us?!" Ms Evers was flustered. "Are we going to pass over? Oh dear lord, how am I going to launder the linens??!!!"

"The world is literally burning, and all you can think of is laundry?" Sally blew a puff of smoke towards the maid, before once again clenching the cigarette between her teeth. She shook her head.

"How do we know this is really happening?" Will spoke. "I mean, it could just be some sick hoax? Couldn't it?"

Sally scoffed. "Now that, would be the ultimate cosmic joke."

"Yeah, I mean maybe some group of kids have hacked into the..."

"It's not a hoax." The smooth, feminine voice of the Countess slithered its way into the conversation, as she made her way down the stairs to join you. "It's true. The world is ending."

"But, how can you be so sure?" Iris replied.

"Are you not familiar with the prophecies of the antichrist? A child born into this world, but with parentage of another realm. The son of Satan." the Countess strode over to the window, placing a gloved hand lightly on the glass. "Blue eyes, blonde hair, he is rumoured."

Will Drake's voice slices through hers. "Hold on... did you say-" But not before she cuts him off, clearly choosing to disregard whatever he was about to state.

"With great power. A child born from pure evil. Capable of bringing about the end of time." Fear radiated off her features, a rarity if you ever saw one. "There is no going back now."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tristan rest his head on the shoulder of his lover. Alex pulled Holden closer to her, embracing him.

"A tragedy if I ever witnessed it." You turned your head. James March stood behind you, smiling sadly. You could tell he was using every inch of self-control in his soul to hold back tears.

"So that's it then?" Sally's cheeks were wet, her gaze fixated on the floor beneath her feet.

"I believe farewells are in order," James spoke to the group. "I want to thank you spirits, for your loyalty... maintaining the walls of my hotel... looking out for my dear y/n. It's more than I deserve. Thank you."

"See you hell, March." Sally smirked sadly.

One by one, you bid goodbye to...

Liz...

"I'll miss you, sweetie. Thanks for all the good times." Her makeup was running down her cheeks, and you hugged her tightly.

Iris...

"Take care of yourself, y/n. We love you."

Will...

"Never have I had the pleasure of working with such a wonderful muse."

...all of your friends.

You glanced over to James, conversing with Ms Evers.

"Y/n?" The Countess whispered. While you had always respected the woman, there was always a form of unspoken tension and jealousy between the two of you.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to thank you for being there for him." She spoke with a vulnerability you had not seen in her before. "He truly loves you... something which I never gave him. You are good to him. He needs you. Do whatever you can to stay by his side. You will be missed, my dear." You were taken aback by her honesty and compassion, even more so when she pulled you into a hug. "Now go. You two deserve to spend these final moments together."

You smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Elizabeth."

***

You grasped James's arm tightly, as you made your way up to room 64. It was not until you step foot into your shared boudoir, that it hit you... you may never get to see your love again. The world was ending, and there was nothing you could do about it. You collapsed onto the bed and began to sob. James's arms were instantly wrapped around you. He made you feel so safe. He was trying his best to be strong for you, but he too was on the verge of tears.

"Darling..." he kissed your head, rubbing your back softly. "I am truly sorry."

"I love you so much, James." You looked up and met his eyes. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

"And I love you, my dear. If it so happens that we are not united, when we reach the other side... I wish to assure you, my love, that my heart will always be yours."

You hold his hand tightly and let out a sigh. James's thumb grazes your cheek lightly, and dabs at your eyes lightly with his handkerchief.

"I'll miss you..."

"I know my dear... Lie with me. Let us spend the final moments on earth in each other's arms."

You smile. "Yes. Let us go out in style, Mr March."

***

James's favourite record plays in the background as you lay in your husband's embrace. Your hands were entwined. You were at peace.

"When we said our vows," you began. "I promised to love you until forever fell apart."

"Yes."

"Well, I realised I was wrong. I promise to love you beyond forever. Wherever we end up after this, together or not..."

"Our hearts will always be united..." James finished your sentence. He placed a gentle kiss on your lips. Time seemed to come to a holt, as you lay with your dearly beloved.

The rumbles grew louder and louder, nearing closer and closer. Your final moments alive.

"Shut your eyes, darling. Let us be oblivious to all but each other. If only just for a few more moments..."

#ahs jpm #jpm x reader #james patrick march #james march #evan peters #imagine #ahs hotel #ahs apocalypse

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kitkatt0430 · 2 years

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Armageddon Revised - Episode Four

Welcome to the penultimate episode of my rewrite of the Armageddon miniseries. The time for the big showdown against Thawne has arrived, but there's another villain waiting in the wings.

When I started this, I thought I'd write something a lot shorter than five separate and very long posts. But I realized pretty quickly that there was so much I wanted to do differently that tackling this in a single weekend just... wasn't going to happen. I'm pretty pleased with how this all turned out, though; well worth all the time it took to write it all up.

In a way this is my farewell to keeping up with the show. Though I intend to keep writing fanfic and participating with fandom, I've hit my limit when it comes to the show's writing. There's been a noticeable drop in quality since the early seasons and at some point I have to stop hoping it'll improve and admit that it won't.

I do hope that those of you still finding enjoyment in the show continue to do so. There is still a lot to love about the show - though I think what I've come to love most about it is the other people in the fandom it's connected me to.

What Went Wrong - Episode Four

Continuing to push the Frost/Chillblaine and the Allegra/Chester romances was a big problem. Blaine is a poorly written character and while this show has repeatedly shown that a good actor can make up for bad writing... that's not the performance we're getting for this guy. Having Blaine go shirtless makes it worse. Dude really needs to keep his shirt on.

Then there's the Allegra/Chester pairing that the writers have been hinting at here and there, but the actors chemistry together is nonexistent. They're somewhat believable as friends, but their energy together is so awkward that trying to ship them is repellant, at least for me and I know I'm not alone feeling this way. Not every character needs to be in a romantic relationship in order to have interesting side plots. And if the writers really want Frost, Allegra, and/or Chester to have a romantic ship happening... this would be the time to finally have a main character on the show be openly queer.

Make Chester bi. Have Frost figure out she's pan. Allegra realizes that she's queer. The show really missed the mark by writing out having a canonically queer main cast member from the get go by removing Hartley from the original pilot script; keeping David Singh as a recurring character (David being Hartley's love interest in the comics) didn't really help. Especially as David's recurred less and less as the show marches on. This could have been a good episode to make it clear they were rectifying the lack of canonical queer representation on the show during the course of the latest season and... instead we get a lesbian character shilling for a straight couple with zero romantic chemistry and spouting some of the most aphobic bullshit I've heard in an Arrow-verse show ever. Alex should know better than to say any of that and if she'd been written by the Supergirl writing team then she would have.

Then there's Eobard's plan. Every scene with Eobard in it sizzles because Tom Cavanagh is a scene thief. He's a great actor with pretty much instant on screen chemistry with everyone - something he has in common with Carlos Valdes and Candice Patton. It's a great reminder of how much we lost by him leaving as a series regular. But unfortunately not even Tom can make Eobard's plan, as revealed in this episode, work.

So Eobard was trying to ruin Barry's reputation as the Flash. Wait, no, he was trying to swap fates with Barry so that now Eobard's the Flash and Barry's the Reverse Flash. Wait, no, he killed Barry as a baby, set himself up as the Flash, and Barry doesn't exist anymore (yet is somehow still the Reverse Flash until he fades from existence???). It's a mess, it's incoherent, it's... what the hell happened to Eobard the chess master from season one? Or season five? If someone finds him, please let me know.

Damien Darhk just happens to have the time stone that convinces him immediately that Barry's telling the truth about his daughter. Normally I'd let something like that slide, but atop all the other plot problems with the episode in general and the whole story arc as a whole... it's just another instance of what's started to feel like the writing staff themselves were phoning this whole thing in.

And because Barry's never actually interacted with Nora Darhk, they used a flashback from the Legends... but a flashback with Barry interacting with Nora after her marriage to Ray would have worked a lot better in context.

I also wonder how Barry's suit changed into the Reverse Flash suit too when he clearly arrived in the Flash suit. Much like with Damien's convenient magic trinket, I'd probably let this point go in an episode that wasn't already teaming with plot holes. While I love Barry being forced into a role he isn't meant for and trying to make the best of it, if Barry is still the 2021 version of himself then why isn't the suit that came with him still the 2021 version too?

It's also odd that Cecile can sense Barry feels he's telling the truth, but doesn't notice how weirdly smug Eobard is about all of this. There was room here for an interesting story about Team Flash falling apart around Eobard because he can't actually live up to being the Flash all while blaming Barry for his little fantasy falling apart. Because he can never quite seem to understand that the real problem isn't Barry, it's Eobard. (And yet somehow they went with the red string strangulation?)

Once again, if Barry causes Armageddon as the Reverse Flash then why did Despero think the Flash was responsible? I know I keep bringing this one up, but it just bugs me so much. He didn't know the identity beneath the cowl until Barry told him. Three whole episodes fall apart when fridge logic is applied, all because of this giant plot hole.

Then there's the ending. Eobard appears in the Time Vault, gives an excellent mini-speech, and appears to be telling Gideon she's going to help him. It's a great stinger... and it gets no pay off in the following episode. Knowing there's no actual payoff makes the scene flop on rewatch in a way it didn't the first time through.

Armageddon: Revised - Episode Four

On the roof deck of Jitters, Barry and Iris meet. She tells him about the first time she met the Flash there and asks what their first meeting was really like. So Barry tells her they were children and how much he'd adored her. She was always brave and knew what she wanted in life and he'd been awed by her convictions. It took him so much longer to find his own courage and calling in life. When she'd met him as the Flash on this rooftop for the first time, Barry'd promised Joe not to tell her the truth. Keeping that promise was, in retrospect, one of the biggest mistakes of Barry's life.

Iris asks about their daughter and Barry tells her about Nora. And about Bart. Their time traveling children... not even born yet in 2021 when Barry's from. But he knows they'd have at least Nora already by 2031, if not Bart too. By then Iris has heard more than enough. She hands Barry an audio transmitter and tells him that if he confronts Eobard - if he can get the man to brag about what he's done - she can use that to turn Team Flash against Eobard. And she tells Barry that he'd better do whatever it takes, no matter what, to fix what Eobard's broken. Barry tells her he'll need the PED to do that and Iris promises to retrieve it for him.

In 2021, Cecile and Top test run the device meant to let them take out Xotar. But Cecile is overwhelmed by the input from the device and struggles to make it work. Similar to the show, Top tells Cecile that if her emotions are turning into a liability then she needs to bury them. She does no one any good if she's being controlled by her emotions instead of her controlling them. Afterwards, though, Caitlin talks to Cecile about losing Ronnie and the two of them have a nice bonding moment, similar to the one seen on the show. Cecile finally admits to the toll her powers take on her as Iris joins them.

Allegra asks how Frost's search for Chillblaine went and Frost tells her that she gave up on the search after running into Lisa Snart, Captain Cold's sister. The two of them hit it off and now Frost's questioning her orientation and confused. She's afraid Caitlin won't approve of her feelings for Lisa any more than for Blaine, especially given Lisa's flirty history with Cisco. Allegra seems to take an instant dislike of Lisa and seems jealous. When she goes to talk it over with Chester, though, he's busy doing science with Ryan, which Allegra also reacts uncomfortably to.

In 2031, with Deon's help they retune the Still Force detector to locate the source of the Negative Still Force. Now all they need is the Time Stone, the PED, and to destroy the artificial Still Force. Then Barry should have a straight shot at fixing the timeline. The problem is, Barry realizes, that the speeds and distance required will lead to the world tearing itself apart if he fails. The consequences will already be noticeable within minutes of him starting. Meaning once Barry starts... there's no going back. And while Barry's connection to the speed force has been slowly regenerating since Jefferson's forced attack on him... he's still not fully recovered. And in this timeline, Eobard's faster.

In 2021, Cecile and Top track down Xotar and use their own empathic abilities to try to short circuit Xotar's telepathy. Xotar tries to lure Top over to her side and at first it seems to be working. But Cecile comes through with a burst of power, knocking out Xotar and all of Xotar's mind controlled minions. She thanks Top for distracting Xotar while lending Cecile the strength of her powers and Top blows it off, saying having Team Flash owe her a favor is a lot more useful in the long run than having Xotar's non-existent gratefulness. After Rosa leaves, however, Cecile notes there's a lot more going on under the surface than Rosa wants to admit.

Jefferson and Iris wind up talking about Joe, whom Jefferson wishes he could have had the chance to know. He hopes that when the timeline is restored that, perhaps, he'll have that chance. Iris gets a chance to really talk about her relationship with Joe and her grief over losing him, something she's been struggling to let herself experience because she feels like she has to be strong for everyone. But not even knowing that soon she won't even remember him being dead doesn't make that grief easier to bear. And without Barry there as her support, it's even harder. Jefferson tells Iris that she doesn't have to be strong for everyone. It's okay to let herself take those vulnerable moments for herself, to let her friends be the ones who give her strength. Not just Barry, but everyone she holds dear.

In the STAR Labs cortex, Kamilla asks Cisco if he thinks Eobard will fix the timeline and return soon. Very carefully, Cisco tells her that he's sure the Flash will come back to them soon. Cisco then mutters to himself that Barry had better hurry up. They're running out of time.

Back to 2031, Barry returns with a stolen Time Stone and hands it off to Damian. He then sends Deon to Iris, to let her know that Barry's about to confront Eobard, so she'd better be ready to transmit the audio to all of Team Flash.

At STAR Labs, Alex confronts Allegra about her lies in the previous episode and Allegra finally admits the truth. Frost's relationship with Lisa had caused Allegra to realize she had a crush on the other woman, but she'd also had feelings for Chester. They'd played a late, and perhaps a bit lusty, D&D campaign, one thing led to another, and the two of them slept together. But Allegra hadn't really known who she'd really wanted and when she woke up alone that morning, she'd panicked. Even though Chester left a note saying he'd be back soon, Allegra left... ruining her friendship with Chester. And when she realized that Frost was too interested in Lisa to notice her, Allegra ran away to London to escape a bad situation she'd created herself. She'd never meant to hurt Chester, but by the time she realized she'd messed up by running away from him... the damage was done. The truth is that at twenty-two she hadn't been ready for a committed relationship and it was easier to tell herself it wasn't her fault than to admit that she'd made a mess. Alex tells her its not to late to salvage her friendship with Chester, but she's going to have to be honest with him which she owes him - and herself - after all this time.

Outside STAR Labs, Barry taunts Eobard into a fight, only to be surprised when Despero joins in too. Seemingly on Eobard's side at first, it quickly becomes clear Despero intends to kill both speedsters. Either one of them could be responsible for destroying the world that evening and Despero doesn't care which it is. Iris pipes the transmitted audio over the STAR Labs speakers and Team Flash heads out to join the fight, clearing the way for Iris to get the PED to Deon. Of course... Team Flash doesn't know who they should be helping anymore, as Eobard's comments were suspicious and shady. Barry risks injury protecting Allegra from Despero's attack and Team Flash rallies around him.

Together with Team Flash (and assorted allies) Barry is able to disrupt Despero's connection to the Flames of Pytar and Despero's angry rant afterwards reveals the truth. He's an imposter playing at being one of the very people who deposed him, the true ruler and tyrant of Kalanor. And with Kalanor currently beyond his control... his true intentions are to conquer Earth so he might use the peoples of this world to retake his own. Can't conquer a planet that's been destroyed and as he has no way off Earth or fallback plan... after his little villainous breakdown, Despero leaves rather than allow himself to be captured. Alex notes that she'll need to put out the DEO's equivalent of an APB for Despero and recall Kara from her second honeymoon with Lena off planet, something Alex's sister in law won't be happy about.

Eobard rages at Barry for turning 'his team' against him and Barry admits that he was just the distraction for Eobard while Iris and Deon stole the PED and Damian destroyed the artificial Still Force - there'd be a cut here to Damian ripping apart the negative Still Force tech gleefully before Deon shows up to take both Damian and the PED he acquired from Iris back to Damian's apartment. Back with the extended Team Flash, Barry points out that Eobard's façade was never going to hold up because all Eobard cares about is himself. He doesn't see people as being real, they're just prizes to win. And his biggest mistake was treating Iris that way, because Iris has always been more important than Eobard would ever willingly acknowledge. Saying that without Iris West there would be no Flash wasn't just sophistry, it's the truth. Because without Iris West, there'd be no Speed Force. But Eobard's complete disrespect for the importance of the people around him means he's missed the obvious flaws in his plans.

Right as Eobard's about to attack Barry, Iris shoots him with the anti-velocity gun and tells Barry that if he's going to undo Eobard's plans it needs to be now, while Eobard's incapacitated. Barry nods and returns to Damian's apartment, swapping the Reverse Flash suit for the Flash suit he arrived in and donning the PED + Time Stone device Deon and Damian put together. It'll suck up all the negative Still Force in the timeline while Barry runs, but it'll keep glowing until Barry's got it all. So he can't stop - even though it'll mean over-shooting 2021 - until the glow is gone. By then Barry's connection to the Speed Force should be repaired entirely and Barry should be able to just run back into the Speed Force and go home. Barry nods his understanding and heads into the street outside before taking off.

Armageddon starts and Team Flash + Alex appear on the Central City Citizen video network to warn Central City that the Flash isn't who he seems to be and that all citizens should steer clear for their own safety. Eobard runs after Barry, but Barry's renewed connection to Iris is already strengthening his connection to the Speed Force. In the end, Eobard just isn't fast enough to stop him... but he does follow Barry into the Speed Force.

They eventually arrive in the past outside a hospital. It's storming outside and the hospital is shown to be located in a small town not far from Central City. Barry's forced to chase after Eobard to stop him from throwing a fit and harming anyone in the hospital. Their fight causes the electricity to flicker as two different families prepare to have babies. One family being quite familiar, as Nora Allen's contractions grow closer together and she squeezes Henry's hand. When the obstetrician arrives, however, he introduces himself as Dr. Gilmore. He leaves to go check on the nurse after Henry accuses the man of being drunk.

Barry's able to force Eobard back into the Speed Force where Eobard escapes. Frustrated, Barry returns to 2021 and everything seems relatively back to normal. However Barry quickly learns that while Cisco's back to having no powers and Joe, Ray, and Nora are alive and well again, Barry's still under FBI investigation. Also he apparently missed out on Cecile kicking Xotar's butt with Rosa's help, though they all remember him being there for that.

Iris fills in Barry on what they've found out in their investigation of the photographs the FBI think prove Barry to be a mole. The phone number spoofed by the anonymous caller had once belonged to one Dr. Gilmore. He had tried to get in touch with Barry while he was in college, which was why Iris recognized the number. Gilmore's associate had reached out to Joe and Iris for help contacting Barry while he was out of state. Barry remembers coming back over a long weekend to meet with Gilmore, but the man had passed away the night before and Barry never learned what the man intended to tell him.

On the other side of Central City, Eobard falls out of the Speed Force in the tattered remains of his Flash suit. The Speed Force was not pleased with Eobard and he's clearly in pain as he drags the cowl off his face. A shadow falls over him and Eobard looks up. He say's Barry's name, but the person standing over him just laughs.

"Not even remotely."

"Savitar?"

"What does a Hindu god have to do with anything? My name is Malcolm Thawne. And I've been looking for an opportunity like this for a while, Eobard."

Wrapping Up the Episode

I rather like the idea of Rosa subverting the expectation that she betrays Cecile; in the real third episode it was pretty obvious from the get go that Top would turn on them when the time came. The switch up would give us that villain and hero dynamic that the show writers were aiming for with Chillblaine and Frost, but with a villain who is more interesting than Chillblaine and who actually knows what shirts are for. (I hate Chillblaine's costume so much...) Rosa's also turning into such a complex character, it'd be a shame if we don't see her again for another season. And because the fight with Xotar still happened in the fixed timeline, Top's interactions with Team Flash haven't been erased here.

This revised episode brings us full circle on the events of the teaser from the first episode, filling in the gaps as to why Team Flash was denouncing the Flash in a live broadcast. It also gets us that fun revelation that Barry has to destroy the world to save it. But things don't just end there with Eobard, with the fight scene in the hospital meant to be a bit of a call back to event that set things in motion for Barry at the very start of the series: Eobard's fight with the Flash at the Allen family home that ended in Nora's death. Only this time they're fighting at the hospital where Barry was born, avoiding impacting history... for the most part, anyway.

And while I couldn't keep Jefferson and Barry's conversations, I was able to work in a similarly themed discussion between Jefferson and Iris. While it's a shame neither of them will remember it, perhaps thanks to Iris being a little unstuck in time, the advice will stick with her. She doesn't always have to be the strong one; it's okay for her to lean on her loved ones for support.

The FBI investigation still being in play opens up space to introduce another one of the Flash's enemies from the comics. Malcolm Thawne, Barry's long lost evil twin. I think it'd be fun to give Grant another chance to play both the hero and villain simultaneously. And Malcolm's powers as Cobalt Blue are pretty fascinating.

With the events of Armageddon basically wrapped up in this episode, that just leaves episode five as a sort of epilogue, closing out the last of the plot threads from the episodes up until this point and opening up Malcolm Thawne as a dangerous, recurring villain. Picking up the baton, as it were, from Eobard. Though maybe stealing the baton from Eobard might be a better turn of phrase.

This episode is basically it on the Allegra/Chester romance drama for now, though if I were to go on to do a full season from here I probably would have the drama Allegra describes about her feelings for Chester and Frost confusing her and leading to that ill-fated D&D campaign actually happen. But unlike the bad future, Chester does talk to her. And they both come to realize that sleeping together was a mistake - their friendship is more important. Maybe things are still awkward for a while, but their friendship comes out of it stronger than ever. Much as I don't like the Allegra/Chester romance, there aren't enough examples of people staying friends after a romantic entanglement ends, so using them to create a healthy example of that would be nice. Especially if it's not fraught with the will-they won't-they nonsense that Laurel and Oliver had over on the Arrow. Can we please show that exes can be friends without having to drown them in sexual tension?

In the larger season we'd also get more Lisa showing up as she returns to Central City, finally ready to face the city since her brother's death. She'd be there reforming the rogues and courting Frost and Lisa's first choice in new Rogues might even be the lovely Rosa Dillon. If Chillblaine ever did reappear, I think Lisa in particular would take offense to his knock-off Captain Cold style. I don't really specify a lot for her to do here, but she'd be taking part in the big fight against Despero alongside Frost and generally treating Caitlin as her sister-in-law.

I think the only thing I'm really unsure about is that future Allegra likely comes off as unsympathetic here. Not that she was particularly sympathetic in the actual future episode from the show. But in this version she was having feelings for two very different people, one of whom was causing her to question her sexuality, and Allegra handled it very poorly. That's kind of why I like the idea of similar circumstances happening in the full season, but showing that with some support and friendship that Allegra can pull herself together and both make up for her mistakes with Chester as well as learn a little self acceptance with regards to her feelings for Frost. And given Allegra's on screen chemistry with Frost is a lot more obvious than with Chester (admittedly, your mileage may vary), at least one of those two crushes isn't coming out of left field.

#ArmageddonRevised #the flash #the flash meta #fanfiction #episode rewrite #armageddon revised episode four #outline-ish format

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warriors-wyrms-writing · 3 years

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For once the storm was tasteless, the lightning bland, the rain without a hint of flavor, the clouds only detectable in one’s mouth by the texture. I could let this storm take its course, hope for a hint of sweetness or spice next time, or I could muffle the storm in my arms, shield the world from the violent frenzy. I reached out, catching a fork of lightning before it split a tree, and sucked on the end like it was a pencil. What is one to do when you hate the storm and hate the earth, when you want the world to end but am not strictly favorable towards that which is to end it? The unflavored lightning crackled in my mouth. I didn’t care. I’d lost the ability to feel pain long ago. Couldn’t Armageddon at least taste better?

All the other ones I’d experienced had exploded with flavor, but this one is like a human’s life. Bland, dull, short. Such is the nature of things, they believe. They don’t know that theirs is the only world I’ve ever seen like that. All the others were longer lived, colorful, or at least more populous and bigger. And all of the others were smarter. And even if this storm had a taste, just like the Armageddon of the other worlds, the other universes, they’d still taste better. Because if this storm had a taste, it would taste like rotting fish and burning wood, like smoke from a great metal behemoth. All the world’s ends mirror the lives of their inhabitants, and all of them are storms. I suppose I’ll let this one run its course and hope for something, anything more flavorful next time. The next world should be beautifully short, and sweet. Even if I say it should, I am merely the Destroyer, The World-Ender, The Taster Of Storms. I know the taste, I do not dictate it.

To this world, to the human’s earth, I bid you farewell in a flavorless storm.

#look who it is #finally #my writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #yeah no this is weird #but i love it #its also like #one of the best things I’ve written #unreality #armaggedon #end of the world #storm-taster

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hezzabeth · 5 months

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The trumpets were old plastic souvenirs painted gold, so the off-key wailing was hardly surprising. A band of disheveled people marched onto the stage, still blowing on the plastic trumpets. Surprisingly, Isabeau was among them, her face displaying a bored, blank expression. They abruptly stopped once they reached the center of the scaffold, the wood creaking under their feet.

A man wearing green tights and a shirt reading "Medieval Christmas market 3345" on it walked onto the stage. His hair had been cut into a peculiar bowl shape with a blunt fringe, and someone had painted red circles on his cheeks.

"All hail Sister Morganna! Conduit of the one true god," the man bellowed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Did you bring your solar flare gun?” Dityaa asked.

“Of course I did! I never go anywhere without it,” Revati snapped back.

Revati had never seen Sister Morganna up close. During her childhood visits, Sister Morganna was a distant figure. Glimpses of her gloved hands could be seen waving from the castle windows. Every summer solstice, she would lead a parade across the park, carried by men in a gold and white carriage. Through the mesh curtain windows, her shadowy figure could be seen shifting about. Now, Sister Morganna was walking across the scaffold boldly and freely.

She was dressed in a sky-blue and emerald dress, with a thick red and golden scarf covering her scalp, the ends trailing down her shoulders. Slowly, she turned toward the waiting audience, and Revati gasped. Sister Morganna's skin was the same color as fresh lavender. A single round, circular eye glanced about—an eye that could see and understand everything, even things that had yet to be—an eye that could glance into the very nature of people.

“She’s an alien!” whispered Dityaa.

It was an eye that could read minds; no wonder she had successfully started a cult.

“Technically, she’s a human from a faraway planet,” Revati hissed back.

The "faraway planet" was the closest the solar system got to actual aliens. Over a thousand years ago, a group of scientists set off to colonize Pluto. Obviously, they vanished, the ship sinking into the darkness of space. Three hundred years ago, their descendants returned. They were, of course, different.

Sister Morganna calmly walked across the stage and raised her hand.

“Praise be to Marduk, son of the sun, radiant is he,” Sister Morganna said.

“Radiant is he,” the crowd echoed, their expressions blank.

“Who’s Marduk?” Hissed Dityaa.

Revati merely shrugged, completely confused.

“Today we bring forward two heretics, those who smother the great transition,” Sister Morganna said, gesturing towards Bridgadeiro and Aurora.

“Heretic? I don’t even understand what I did! All I said was 'Bless Goup' when my new friend sneezed,” Bridgadeiro argued, nodding at Aurora.

“And I didn’t do anything! I swear,” Aurora cried.

“Goup is a lie! A false prophet created by an ancient snake oil seller,” Sister Morganna said with a small, tight smile.

“False prophet? The rainbow mat of crystal light has been proven to work! It balances your mind, body, and spirit,” Bridgadeiro smiled, and Sister Morganna turned to him, her one eye slowly blinking.

“I can see you standing on that mat, praying to the dark,” she whispered. “Your brother, he drowned, didn’t he? On that hot summer night? You cried and prayed! You think it was her that brought him back,” she added, and the smile dropped from Bridgadeiro’s face.

“She did save him! Goup saved him,” Bridgadeiro said, and Sister Morganna shook her head.

“Oh, you’re a true believer... you poor little boy,” she sighed. “Some gods are lies, but Marduk is true and ancient. My people have lived on his surface! We have been blessed with his gifts! Praise Marduk,” Sister Morganna said.

“Praise Marduk,” the entire crowd screamed, including Revati, who found herself clapping her hand over her mouth. Sister Marduk had hijacked her vocal cords.

“Now repent and embrace Marduk or sacrifice your light to his glory,” Sister Marduk cried.

“I repent! All hail Marduk!” Aurora cried, bursting into tears.

“Well, I’m not repenting. Marduk is just another name for your home planet that blew up centuries ago,” Bridgadeiro said with a small shrug.

“Very well,” Sister Morganna said. Revati sighed, pulling out her solar gun and setting the final charge to maximum.

“Oh, you’re not going to…” whispered Dityaa, and Revati nodded, pulling the trigger.

The solar flare hit the stage in a blinding loop of ultraviolet light. Sister Morganna screamed, flying upwards and landing face-first in the crowd, her body twitching.

“Praise Marduk! This must be an omen!” Aurora smartly yelled from the stage.

The crowd, no longer under Sister Morganna’s control, began to scatter in all directions. Some stumbled towards the fallen leader, striking her with whatever they could find. Others pushed and shoved each other, stumbling over cobblestones.

Through it all, Bridgadeiro stood, completely confused, his hands still tied behind his back. People pushed and shoved, stumbling over each other and tripping on the slick cobblestones. Revati fought through the tidal wave of chaos until she reached the scaffold again. Bridgadeiro was staring down at her, completely transfixed.

“Did you just save my life again?” He asked.

“Yes!” Revati replied, climbing up to the scaffold.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen! He said it so quickly,” Aurora said as Revati began to undo her bound hands.

“It was pure instinct!” protested Bridgadeiro.

The crowd was starting to swarm towards the stage like ants around a sugar cube. From above, Revati could see the smoking, twitching form of Sister Morganna.

“What are they doing?” Bridgadeiro asked, and there was a faint creaking sound as Isabeau joined Revati.

“They’re probably going to kill her; none of them wanted to worship an ancient Babylonian god!” Isabeau said and then she smiled. An actual smile. “I can talk normally again! She’s really gone!” Isabeau cried with delight as Aurora pulled her hands free.

“She’s gone!” Aurora echoed, grabbing Isabeau. Revati watched them kiss for a fraction of a second before politely turning her head.

“Did she really control all these people with her mind? Why would she do that?” Bridgadeiro asked as Revati began to undo his constraints.

“The tornado and the second invasion messed a lot of people up,” Revati merely replied.

“You seem fine,” Bridgadeiro replied, and Revati chuckled.

“Trust me, I’m not fine,” Revati said firmly. Life on Baker Street before the tornado had been hard. But there had been drawing lessons with her father. There had been fairytales with her mother. There had been tea parties with Dityaa. Dityaa.

“Where’s Dityaa?” Revati said as Bridgadeiro tugged his hands free. There was no telltale flash of Snow White silk in the crowd. Everyone was dressed in shades of green and mud brown.

“She was out there before,” Bridgadeiro said, gesturing to the bottom left corner of the courtyard. Revati jumped swiftly off the scaffold, ignoring the pain searing up her ankles. People were pressing in from all sides, shrieking, laughing, and, in some cases, singing. A blur of purple skin and red fabric passed her head on outstretched hands.

“Did you see a girl in a white dress?” Revati screamed in general; no one answered, and the crowd pushed her forward. People were spilling out of the courtyard into the laneways. Someone had decided to start looting the shops. Revati felt herself thrown against a wall, crushed face-first into the bricks. A hand grabbed hers, calloused, well-worn fingers gripping her wrist.

“I saw her at the end of the crowd! This way!” Bridgadeiro ordered her.

“You’re helping,” Revati gasped; something hot and red was trickling down her cheek. Revati was bleeding.

“Let the crowd push you forward; don’t fight it and try not to stumble,” Bridgadeiro said firmly, still holding her hand. The crowd surged and pressed in. Revati could see nothing but gleeful faces, smell nothing but hot, foul sweat.

Then suddenly, the crowd began to break into pieces, trickling away like water. They had reached the back wall of Medieval Faire. There was a hole in the wall. A massive hole. Beyond the hole lay the freezing wilderness of Mars. People were climbing out of the hole, running into the cube-shaped snow. One of them was Dityaa, spinning around and dancing with the Duke of Io. Dityaa spotted them and waved happily.

“They’re all going to freeze to death,” Revati realized, marching to the hole.

“It looks like some of them had enough to steal jackets,” Bridgadeiro added. Revati and Dityaa rarely left the park. When they did, Amma always made them wear her old protective gear. Dityaa seemed oblivious to the cold. It was almost as if the Duke's love was covering her in a warm, sacred light.

The escaping people were beginning to join in with their dancing.

“Look! He was waiting for me outside the wall,” Dityaa yelled, resting her head on his shoulder. Revati stepped closer to the wall. Revati let go of Bridgadeiro’s hand and carefully climbed through the hole. The freezing winter of Mars blew around her, fighting against the park's atmospheric heating system. Snow began to blow around her chest, and Revati felt flushed and dizzy.

The Duke was dressed in the same outfit from the night before. The same thin jacket and trousers. Up close, his blue hair was a little too shiny. Up close, Revati could actually feel heat wafting off his body.

“The Duke was waiting for you… outside in that outfit?” Revati asked suspiciously. Dityaa’s expression froze for a moment as if considering this.

“Sissy’s right! Let’s get out of the cold, darling; I have so much to tell you,” smiled Dityaa. The Duke held up a hand. The tip of his finger turned blue.

“Ah, the sister,” he remarked, reaching towards Revati. His eyes glowed with the brilliance of true Ai, and darkness prevailed.

Here's the revised text with corrected spelling and grammar:

True, jet-black, soothing darkness.

For Revati, who spent most of her nights lost in nightmares, it was actually comforting.

In fact, Revati felt herself sink into it.

The darkness was as soft as the mattress she once slept on.

“Oh, don’t sink into it, Dimpy. It’s not time for that,” her father’s voice whispered in her ear.

Dimpy.

Revati was Dimpy, Dityaa was Rinky.

Jay would draw pictures of them flying across the stars with wings.

Dimpy and Rinky; the sisters were so close they could be twins.

“You’re not real. You died, and your consciousness is in a plastic box,” Revati muttered.

The darkness was warm and sleepy, lulling Revati into nothing at all.

“Some of me is in that box, but scientists don’t know everything. Some of me is also in you, in your sister, and in your mother,” her father’s voice said.

“And I’m guessing I’m dead?” Revati whispered.

“No, you’re just recovering from a traumatic brain injury. Someone has placed a standard issue healing pad on your forehead,” Jay’s voice replied soothingly.

“And how do you know that?” Revati groaned doubtfully.

A distant, tiny light had appeared in the dark.

A pinprick that seemed to strip away things.

“Dimpy, you know I was a nurse! Relax, your glia cells are busy repairing themselves. Look, they move like fireflies,” her father said.

He was right; more dots of light had appeared.

They buzzed around gently.

For a moment, one of them flashed, lighting up everything.

Revati, in that second, saw a much younger Dityaa handing her a doll.

“I remember that doll. I bought it the day Dityaa was born,” her father said.

“Dityaa tried to give it to me after we buried you. I told her I’d take the book of fairy tales instead,” Revati remembered.

“Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Mithila, the earth yielded a miraculous gift. A baby girl was born. She was discovered in a furrow by King Janaka and named Sita. As she grew, her grace and beauty were matched only by her wisdom and strength of character.

One day, Rama, a prince known for his valor and virtue, won her hand in marriage by stringing the mighty bow of Lord Shiva.

Soon after the wedding, Rama and his best friend were exiled to the forest. Sita, full of devotion, followed.

The forest was dark and full of dangers.

The most dangerous being was the demon king Ravana,” a woman’s voice, the voice of the maternity droid, whispered.

The lights were growing stronger, and Revati remembered something.

“Dityaa’s in trouble,” Revati realized.

“Yes, she is,” her father replied.

Revati’s mind was so bright she could see her father.

He looked younger than what she remembered.

He was dressed in the blue protective outfit Amma kept packed away.

Standing next to him was a woman.

A familiar woman cloaked in a fuchsia and green saree.

“You’re the lost princess,” Revati realized, and the Princess nodded.

“Wake me up, wake me up, and I will find my daughter,” the Lost Princess insisted.

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo2023 #science fiction #life on mars #saying farewell to armageddon #speculative worldbuilding #speculative fiction #futurism #nibiru #spilled writing #writing science fiction #sci fi ya #sci fi

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barnesandco · 4 years

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White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

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#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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prince-toffee · 4 years

Text

Fallin’ For A Fallin’ Angel

Perfect.

Another day, another three hour meeting with the Hillian Council. Yet another time Niro has been forced to listen to the idiotic and outdated ramblings of the Council’s Priests, or ‘High Priests’ or ‘Grand Priests’, whatever their full damn title was. He hated them. With every fibre in his body. Just hearing their proposals and demands sparked flames that burned through his chest. He was King! For crying out loud! He shouldn’t have been able to be chained and caged like this, imprisoned in his own Council Room, in his own castle, IN HIS OWN KINGDOM! He was the monarch of this land, it’s King! Yet he felt trapped, thanks to the devious and manipulative web spun across the oceans of politics and government. He felt powerless in his own throne, well that was because he was utterly powerless, the title of King didn’t mean much, it was an honorary title, the Priests were the ones whom truly held the power.

Niro attempted to circumvent their laws and rules - he had a child. More importantly a daughter - a Princess. The teenage girl held more power than him, Princesses ruled this world, and the Princesses were ruled by a Queen. But one thing at a time. Through Amanda he managed to control certain things, but not the entire chessboard. Of course one of the things he was unable to control was the participation, attendance, timing and frequency of Council Meetings. And so he was trapped, punished for being a leader of his people.

Niro immediately knew it was going to be a bad day, he didn’t believe in a higher power, but he had that feeling, that the world was against him. Started with the knot in his neck when he woke up, then being called to attend a morning meeting, which took half an hour longer than usual. Something about a red streak flashing across the night sky a few weeks back. Apparently it was an omen of bad things to come. The worship ceremonies and the communities which indulged in them were becoming more and more unnerved and panicky. Spouting messages of the end times. Niro used all the strength in his mind and soul not to reply, ‘So want’s new?’ in the most sarcastic way possible.

He plastered on a fake smile, the best one he had, and powered through the encounter. Not giving a thought to the rambling old scorpions. Eventually after what felt like an eternity, the suffering ended. He practically power-walked out of the room, making as much distance between the robed men as possible. Once he made it past the first turn of the hallway he gave out a relieved sigh. Out of the blast zone.

Another day, another day he walked out past the town square monument of Queen Angella of BrightMoon, he despised that statue. He often just scowled at it from afar from his balcony. There she was, every day, at the centre, at the heart of HIS kingdom. The Immortal Angel. She had no place here, she and her people in no way contributed to Scorpion Hill. When his mother begged on her knees for the Queen to aid them, nothing came. Hillians were always on their own, never received help from foreign powers, never needed it - but that was just Niro’s pride talking. The kingdom did need help. The supplies of water were running low, as were building materials. The kingdom shrank with each year. Without proper financial support in the desert’s drastic conditions, towns and villages couldn’t have been repaired. Sandstorms, sink holes... raids. The land faced many issues, all of which Niro felt helpless and powerless to stop or improve.

And so settlements were abandoned. People decided to migrate closer inward to the heart of the Scorpion Hill Kingdom. Which stood as Angella. That wasn’t right. The runestone was meant to represent the kingdom’s beating heart, the castle that surrounded it and the hill on which it was built apon.

Another day poverty and homelessness were running rampant, increasing to new heights. Niro needed a blessing. Or a distraction from the morbid topic. Luckily he got one, in the form of his daughter who snuck up on him from behind. Gave him quite a fright. He railed back, placing a claw on his chest making sure his heart didn’t leap out of his ribcage. Anger didn’t surface even for a moment, he burst out laughing even before Amanda did. The two shared a moment of mirth, just for a few seconds the world lit up, and it wasn’t too bad. Amanda gave him a knowing look and Niro rolled his eyes, he knew what it meant. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too bad of a day.

His daughter practically dragged him to her fitting room to show off her new line of clothing. He agreed to be her model. What could he say, the kid had a talent, and they didn’t spend enough time together, some perfect moment for father daughter bonding. ‘Anda had plenty on her plate as a Princess, her duties as a royal, as a leader of a nation came first, but the girl had other aspirations and dreams. Well, she was more of a woman now, but Niro couldn’t quite lit his little baby go yet. Little girl, it was.

Niro admitted that he wasn’t a big dress fan, but when he tried them on, honestly, not too bad. ‘Anda was going to change the world, he knew that, he saw it in her eyes. That same spark that burned in his own eyes, but it was freer, she could do things he never could. She could fight back in ways he couldn’t. She was stronger than him.

“I don’t know, ‘Anda.” Niro looked over his back and then at the bare thigh exposed by the side slit in the dress, “I don’t think it fits me. I think I’ll just wear my armour to the Princess Prom. Same as always.” His daughter emerged from her closet, traversing the hilly terrain of cloths she threw around. Clutching her arms she held yet another dress, she claimed with confidence that this one was THE one. Niro reminded her she said that the first twenty times. But she assured him that it was perfect now. The King gave way, he could never win arguments with her, he couldn’t say no to that face.

Somewhere around the fourth following dress, the two heard a knock on the door frame, which caught their attention. Their heads swung around to see an overseeing figure at the door. How did she open the door without him noticing? How long was she been standing there?! Her face guard was covering it up with dark cloth, but he could practically see her grinning. He felt demeaned, a King found in a dress, the embarrassment was unbearable.

“Can I help you Force-Captain?” Niro asked not keeping eye contact. He retreated back into the small changing cubical and slide the curtain close after him.

Opal found it quite amusing. She gave a slight nod to the Princess, Amanda returned with a small wave. This didn’t seem like the right situation to indulge in a friendly conversation, so Opal just spoke directly to the King himself, “Your majesty, there is a matter that requires your attention.”

“Can’t it wait?” The disembodied voice from beyond the curtain asked with as much frustration as it could’ve mustered. The noise of zippers and fabric folding could have been heard from behind, alongside a few bumps and clanks along the way. Opal was never going to let him live this down.

“I could take care of it.” Amanda stated pointing her thumbs back at herself, in a jokey manner, “Available Princess waiting on stand by.” She said as she wiggled her shoulders.

“Thanks, Amanda, but this one needs your father. Top-top-secret-classified-stuff. When you get the throne, you’ll be drowning in these fun little puzzles too. Enjoy your youth.” Opal stated as she waved the file in her hand.

The curtain pulled back and Niro marched out. He gave Amanda a light playful noogie, ruffing up her black straightened hair as he passed her. “See you at dinner pumpkin!” He said his farewell and marched past Opal dismissively. The Force-Captain rolled her eyes and marched forward alongside the King. She passed him the yellow file folder without a word. Niro of course took it, opened it and began to look through it.

“You’re not mad are you?” Opal raised her eyebrow at her King, her voice trembling with the vibration of laughter coming up through her vocal cords. She found the circumstance hilarious in a way. Niro remained silent, trying to focus on the sheets of paper of information and their tiny ink squiggles. But he couldn’t quite. He wasn’t mad. Why would he be mad? He was happy for Amanda, he wasn’t over-bearing or over-protective, he was a cool dad, cool, he was cool. He was happy for them.

“You know, about the whole...” Opal continued to push the matter, forcing Niro’s blood pressure to rise, “My daughter going out with yours. The fact that we could be family soon.” The possibility of that future made a few rubber bands snap inside Niro’s head.

He changed the subject immediately, “What’s this?” He lifted the file up. He flipped a page to reveal a picture paperclipped to the side. The photo framed a distant, dark, jagged object in the middle of the desert. Niro squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen, clearly not a rock or a cliff, ruins of First Ones technology perhaps. Or some kind of outpost for the raiders?

“Armageddon. Well, at least that’s what the Priests are saying.”

Niro scoffed and rolled his eyes, passing the file back over to Opal completely disinterested, “I told you I don’t care about their moronic superstition. I haven’t seen my daughter in days, because of this work schedule and you interrupted me for THIS? Ramblings of old mad men? What el-”

“Niro.” She interrupted, “This thing crash landed there.” The scorpion King stopped in his tracks. Machinery that could actually fly? Astonishing. But the astonishment didn’t last long, his mind began to race and consider worst case scenarios. What if one of their enemies have discovered the gift of flight. Was this a test run? And so close to them, in Hillian territory? Absolute dread washed over the King, all he could think to ask himself was: Did this mean war was coming? Did BrightMoon or Dryl or Salineas finally snap, did they finally get fed-up with Niro’s insults and unattendance? This was bad. Very bad. He turned to Opal wearing his worried face, she saw it and read. “Whatever that thing is, it doesn’t bare any insignias of any known Kingdoms.” The cogs turned again, that was good, that meant no imminent war while Scorpion Hill is disorganised. But, also bad news, an unknown threat.

“Is it First Ones?”

“We don’t know. It’s too far out.”

“What do you mean TOO far out?! Assemble a detachment and survey the area! I don’t understand w-”

“Niro, we DID sent a detachment in... the thing is they DIDN’T come back.”

The King of Scorpion Hill fell silent. An unknown opponent had just entered the game, right under his nose, no less. This couldn’t mean anything good. A full detachment, at least dozen missing. Maybe dead, since no ransom demands were made. Everyday he felt his Kingdom crumble beneath his feet, control slipping from his grasp, all his life he felt so weak, like he had nothing to contribute to his Kingdom, to his people. Another day, another failure.

But not this time, today was a day for change. Niro turned to Opal and barked an order, “Prepare my horse. I am leaving to investigate this at once.”

“But-”

“Did I not make myself clear?”

“No, you did. Right away, sir.” Opal, slightly shook by the power of the response, saluted the King and made her way swiftly to the royal stable to ready a steed for the mission.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another day, another awful, exhausting, miserable day on this worthless backwater planet. HTK218-666 swiped the coolant dripping from his forehead, he was perspiring too much, because of the damn heat. The environment on this planet was unbearable. And worse than the heat itself was the lack of logical explanation for the heat. This system had NO SUN! How life was sustained 218 did not know. Nothing on this planet made sense. He hated it.

Another day he felt nothing but hatred. A part of him wished to give up, just give into the heat and let the earth consume him. Die in dignity and silence. It seemed like the best way to go. But there was another side of him, and it screamed at him, yelled and shrilled, that side forced him to stand up each morning and continue on. The loyal side of him, the pride, the thought of reuniting with his Brother.

He was a Horde trooper. He had to persevere.

And so he stood up and he persisted. The glass cover of his personal pod got jammed again. He only just awoke and already a problem troubled his head. He gave an exhausted sigh, rubbed his eyes and then the bridge of his nasal cavity. He forced the cover open with his foot, he knew his lower body had more muscle mass and strength as oppose to his upper half. He heard something going loose, a hiss of gases escaping the structure - must’ve been the cryogenic mechanism. The pod no longer supported long term recharge functions. Which was bad. It meant 218 had a time limit on how long he could remain on this planet. 218 dislodged the pod cables connected to his back and stumbled out. He fell to his knees a couple of times before gaining balance.

He reached out for his clothing, sitting on a bench near the corner. He decided, for some inexplicable reason he’d recharge without his uniform, bare chested. He liked it better without the fabric of the uniform catching on the inside of his ports, he hated having to pull strings of fabric out. The uniform’s short cape was torn off and used to drape over and around 218′s head and neck, to protect him from the heat. Even though, once again he wasn’t sure it’d help, since there was no SUN! It mattered little. He just had to push forward.

And so he did. Another day, another routine check up. He entered the control room, scaled the tall steps and approached the central panel. He stood stiff as the systems attempted to boot up again. He thought he might install a chair in that spot. He hated having to stand for so long.

The ship was an absolute mess. The lights in the room flickered, another thing on the list to fix was the power fluctuations in the power grid. But he couldn’t reach the power core chamber, because it was bored deep beneath the surface and blocked off by quite sizeable debris. Which he could access with the aid of maintenance robots. But all bots were destroyed or damaged during the fall. So he salvaged spare parts from the damaged units and substituted missing elements with objects that of the ship itself. He was a general, he held countless data streams related to construction and engineering, thanks to accessing his brothers’ minds multiple times every day of his life.

And so he managed to construct a couple of spherical quadruped bots as substitutes. He spent, what he assumed were nights on this planet, working on those. The bots were no great feat of engineering, they were uneven, tripped over their own feet, walked into walls and in some cases even combusted, leaving 218 to complete various repairs on the ship by himself.

He got very little recharge, he was sluggish and uncoordinated, the lack of self-maintenance probably did not help the black outs. The clone trooper noted that the faintings were getting worse and worse, more frequent, longer and more painful. But his tiredness was nothing compared to the feeling of guilt and disgust in his belly. He was dismantling the designs of his Big Brother. And then on top of that, he was altering them, he was dissecting perfection and then tainting it with his defective influence. He felt ashamed. But machine gave way to man and animal and the urge to survive came through.

The control panel veered to life with green lights. The display showed the schematic of the warship, but not much beyond it, the sensors were in bad shape, half melted from the entry to the planet. The ship picked nothing up from the surroundings. 218′s eyes had to do it on their own. He wasn’t sure if there were any threats near him, he spotted a few nomads pass by. They hadn’t started anything so the general felt safe for now. But he couldn’t be too sure, after all he was but a defect, he could not win in a physical confrontation. So put it apon himself to set up multiple traps around the wreck, it wasn’t much, but perhaps a warning would be enough for now. He also doubted that the welders on the bots were enough to act as a deterrent, so he hoped to install firearms into the bots as soon as possibly.

The half built, hull missing, spherical bots rose up and they too veered to life with a green light, well... life was a stretch. They weren’t alive. They weren’t supposed to be. Where they?

The hand full of bots began to march onward, continuing their duties. 218 sighed in relief, they worked, and none of them imploded, a sign of progress. He stretched his aching bones - he really needed a chair here. The general liked being above his troops, seeing from a vantage point as progress was being made. He liked it. Feeling larger than life. Untouchable. It made him feel safer. He heard a ping on his screen, he turned around to see the small red light blinking at sector seven. A malfunctioning bot. Perhaps he should retract that statement about progress. He sighed, collected himself mentally. 218 marched forward and to sector seven. The hallways were dark, only lit up by red emergency lights and an occasional spark of electricity from a loose wires. 218′s mind made a mental note of every problem as he pass it in the corridors, took it into a list of things to fix, if possible. He worried most of the damage might’ve been irreversible.

But he couldn’t focus on that, he wasn’t stuck here, he was going to get off of this insignificant planet. He was going to stand by his Big Brother’s side soon, once again. He was going to win in the end. The walk to sector seven wasn’t long, a few levels up and he was starring at a massive hole in the hull, half of the sector was incinerated, it sustained most damage, it was useless to 218. So it was being taken completely apart and reused for other purposes. He remembered sending one of his own bots to start the process. The clone trooper spotted the semi-spherical drone ontop of a metal beam above him.

218 scaled the near wall, he knew his frail body would shatter instantly apon impact if he fell, but he chose to purge the thought out of his mind. He’s bones ached and his flesh burned, this was why he had bots. He leaped from the wall to the jagged beam, his arms wrapped around it, but gravity took it’s toll. He screamed out in pain, his arms felt like they were about to rip out of their sockets. He had very little upper body strength left in his decaying arms, but he pulled himself up, grunting in pain. Walked forward on the beam, loosing balance a couple of times now and again. He made it to the bot.

It was shacking, a noise of it’s inner components could have been heard shifting and knocking into one another. 218 looked around the bot to check for any external damage. He did in fact find a pretty sizable indent in it’s hull, which had several cracks running out of it. The general recalled during one of his previous panic episodes a few days ago he snapped and unloaded at one of the bots he was constructing. His thoughts went to dark places many times, his mental state wasn’t getting much better. Worse actually, it was getting worse with every day. But his Big Brother was going to come for him, he knew it, he needed him.

218 dislodged the bot from the beam and it fell down to the floor beneath. It looked like it jammed as it was cutting the beam down. He gave out an order to collect unusable metals, he planned to smelt them down and then repurpose them with greater applicability through that process. He planned to use the power core to do it, but he had to get it first, hopefully the newly built bots were making good work of that debris. Good five or so stomps at the edge of the hot cut and the beam fell down. 218 sat down huffing in exhaustion, he hated being tired out by basic duties, he hated being weak, hated showing it. The broken man quickly realised he was going to have to drag the beam down to the power room himself, since the bot was currently walking on his side. He couldn’t help but rub the bridge of his nasal cavity. Morning, and he was fed up with life already.

218 elected to give himself a short break to gather his sanity, or not so short if he wished. After all, there was no one to hurry him. It felt nice, even thou a little guilt and selfish. He had too much freedom than he knew what to do with. The general looked up to see a cloud of dust kicking up in the distance. His eyes widened. Natives? Intruders!

-------------------------------------------------------------------

He looked over the horizon of the desert, a barren wasteland no more apparently. The clone spotted a band of unknown individuals, the strange thing was they weren’t approaching the wreck of the warship, 218 studied their movements. They were scouting, they were studying HIM, checking out the surroundings of the ship. Rightfully so, the general wasn’t an idiot, if it wasn’t some sort of raiders it would have been rapid animals, he knew an invasion was a matter of time, so he prepared.

He set up traps, all around the perimeter. They would act as safety measures, at first, soon enough they adapted to serve a different purpose. It would trap sustenance. Disconnected from his Brother’s holy word, away from his life sustaining Purification Solution, which once burned through his veins and made him pure. Through pain, he became worthy. And so he was willing to endure it now, and remain strong as long as he needed to, to finally prove himself to Him. But to survive without his Brother’s life essence, he had to resort to... unwanted alternatives.

He started to feel light headed, his stomach giving off sharp pains, as if a blackhole was forming in his body. He didn’t know what it was, this desperation, to hunt. His traps never capture anything deserving of awe, a lizard scurrying here and there, a small scorpion, those were the crunchy ones, in rare instances even a bird, those had the most amount meat on the bones. Again, nothing huge, but it helped him survive.

He chose to swipe over the perimeter, see what his traps got him tonight. Nothing major he counted two rats, a lizard and it seemed a trap malfunctioned and impaled a rock... Although, he thought, it was quite peculiar. He found no rocks or stones around the vicinity, from a quick observation it seemed like it was thrown in... they were testing the booby traps. Perhaps 218 had to move up his schedule and start the weaponization process right away.

And so the scheming went into motion. He was a strategist, he fought against overwhelming odds countless of times, this was no different. He might have been alone, without his brothers’ voices, but that only meant he had more place for his own thoughts to fill the void - work helped. The traps he set up around were contraptions he put together from scraps of the firing silos. He practically had weapons set out already. Ignition pins which impaled explosive material and lit it, incineration plates which drew power from solar energy - not very useful on this world, and laser emitters, often used to cut through waste in the way of the warships. All deadly tools if used right.

His soon to be attackers were armed no doubt, and coming in large numbers - he spotted at least half a dozen at the same time. He had to level the playing field.

Clones had an agreement among each other, the defects did anyway, a saying they told each other: Whatever happened on Epsilon-19, stays on Epsilon-19. No one wished to relive those painful memories, well, they didn’t have a choice, everyone had night terrors. The initiative was a blood bath. But technically no one was around to hear him, he was alone with his own thoughts. So he wasn't really breaking the agreement. Clones were thrown to the dirt with scraps and were expected to adapt. There was a strategy they enacted, the defects on the frontlines would leave the middle section of a trench open and retreat to the left and right wings of the dug out. The enemy proceeded to storm the trench, thinking it had been left undefended unintentionally. Once the enemy forces trickled in, they were caged, and imprisoned, no space to move, they were easily picked off.

History repeats itself.

218 removed several traps creating a clear path straight from the outskirts to the opening of the ship wreck. Even though he got the notification of breaking through to the power room, he recalled the bots back to him, and carefully refitted them with deadly force. Fortunately, the bots did not look like futuristic miracles of science, but rather clumped pieces of scrap, or debris. 218 positioned them at the sides of the entrance, both inside and out. Having his enemy pinned, helplessly.

Well timed too. The preparations took him all day. He looked over the sky as it slowly pushed its light to the side and darkness took its place. 218 did prefer working under the cover of shadow. The field of sight was limited, 218 had an advantage with the contacts infused into his eyes. People at night were typically more jumpy and uncoordinated.

Everybody was afraid of the dark. It was a strangely universal phobia. The dark. 218 traversed the known universe, going from planet to planet and every world he set foot on, the native inhabitants always feared it. The unknown, that what they could not see, the dark held power over people. But there was one who did not fear it, one who made it his eternal mission to eradicate the darkness, to save the universe from itself, to purify it. His holy Brother. Hord-

218′s internal monologue was cut off by the sight of a distant red flame being ignited. They were trying to light their path. Many attempted to tread the path of righteousness without his Brother’s hand, without his light. A righteous path without his eyes watching over you is not a righteous one at all.

The general counted a dozen invaders. Not for long. They made their way slowly and wearingly to the hull breach. 218 watched the group come closer and closer, from a vantage point above them, observing through the hole in section seven. His talon hovered over a data-pad, ready to boot up the bots for the strike. Three. Two... One. The talon fell down. The bots among the debris and scraps whirred to life clearly startling the group. The one protecting the rear ran, clearly the coward of the group, they didn’t last long once the treaded off the path and landed on an incineration mine.

The rest retreated inward where met with two drones with incorporated laser canons. He knew he shouldn’t show emotion, it was forbidden in the Horde, but he couldn’t help but smile. He quite loved when everything went according to plan. The rest of the four attack drones outside caught the stragglers attempting to push through. 218 mentally pated himself on the back, a solid plan and it worked perf... ectly? Perhaps he should’ve reserved the self-appointed congratulations for later. The mission wasn’t done.

A bot failed- malfunctioned. Prime damnit! It was the same one. The semi-spherical bot practically exploded in flames. The blow damaged the near by units as well.

It looked like he was on his own.

He turned around and sprinted off into the dark, shadow filled corridors. He didn’t have much. He had his talons, his fangs, and his mind. He didn’t even manage to finish the handheld taser, he had an idea to refashion the lights from the hallways into some sort of staff, or baton. It wasn’t anything lethal, but it would’ve at least been something.

But he was a Horde trooper. A disciple of his holy Brother. He could not falter. He couldn’t fail. He was a Horde trooper the reflection of his Brother’s perfection. He needed to represent it.

218 rounded the corner ready to take a stand against the survivors, but the red pincer claw that collided with his face had other plans. The impact of the punch shook his entire body. And a single hit was enough to bring him to the floor. As quickly as he could he put his two hands underneath him and he pushed up, attempting to get back to the fight as fast as possible. But alas, before he even fully turned to face his attacker, another hit landed. It clearly ruptured some blood vessels as his nasal cavity began to bleed out.

Everything went blurry, he remained conscious, but 218 didn’t know how long he was going to last. A large red claw clamped around his neck, pain shot across his whole body, the pincer dug into his defective skin around his neck, and 218 let out an ungodly scream.

Yet again the animalist survival instinct kicked in and 218 flailed his hand at the opponents face, his talons scratching the attacker’s face, distracting them. 218 reached out with his hand to the wall, grabbing a pipe sticking out from the wall and with the remaining might in his arms he ripped the loose pipe out and swung it against his enemy’s head. Which freed him from his enemies grasp.

218 shot up onto his feet and sprinted off down the corridor. He didn’t even know where he was going, all those damn corridors looked the same! No, focus. Each had a different distinguishing factor, each was different in a surtain way. He memorised all the faults and damage in the corridors. 218 looked up and spotted the same sparking loose wires, he recognised them, he composed himself and knew where he was, which meant... the power core wasn’t far. He heard his pursuers behind him, shouting out his location. He fled deeper into the bowls of the ship into the power core chamber.

There at the centre of the room stood the power core, he noticed that instead of it’s usual bright green colour, it was now a dark red. If 218 remembered right, it was a critical failure alert. The best theory 218 could have come up with at the spot was that the power grid overloaded itself when he kicked the shields into overdrive as the ship fell through the atmosphere and hit the surface.

A problem for another day. He stopped infront of the core and waited. If he couldn’t win through his physicality, he’d win with his intellect. One of his attackers ran into the room, they didn’t stop, good, 218 needed the momentum. The attacker went in for the hit, but missed as 218 lowered himself grabbed hold of the individual and rolled them over his back into the power core. Perhaps not the most painless death, but the heat was quick. The body fell at 218′s feet.

He turned back to the entrance. There stood another invader. They did not charge, they stood in place. Stiff. Probably a reaction caused by the sight of both his comrade dead on the floor and the black silhouette of the monster over them that killed them.

The intimidation was only going to go so far, he needed to think fast, 218 surveyed the area around him. There. At his feet, lay a long spanning uninsulated cable. 218 was the one on the offensive now, he picked up the cable and ran at his opponent. He shoved the cable into the enemies chest, and the figure stumbled back, but did not fall. Electricity resistant? Noted.

The general soon realised his mistake, he let himself get too close. The opponent grabbed hold of the clone and slammed him into the nearby wall. Vision once again became blurry. 218 couldn’t stand. This was it. He failed. He felt being lifted up and thrown further down the corridor, scrapping the floor. Then a kick. And another and another. Defeat. 218 lay broken on the floor, his bones screaming and his muscles crying. He spitted out the green solution that ran through his veins as it began to leak out of his mouth. He then, barely, through the pain, felt being dragged by the cloth of his uniform.

He was thrown again. His eyes attempted to adjust, he was outside, at the scene of the ambush. The clone lay beneath another one of his enemies, this one holding a spear, looking down on him.

“This it?” The one with the spear asked, clearly in charge. This was the first time 218 truly saw what they looked like. He had watched his people from a distance, seeing them study his defences. But he didn’t notice anything disenable apart from brown cloaks wrapped around them and the four legged mounts they travelled on. But now he had a proper close up view. He did not know what creature they were, he didn’t recognise them as anything he had ever encountered among his many voyages across the stars. Everything on this planet was new and different.

The creature had broad features. The creature that stood over, infront of him had a pair of deep red claws, like the rest. A tail of some sort, with a sharp tip, perhaps it could contain a poison of some kind - he did not look forward to finding out. A platinum colour turf of hair. An exoskeleton shell all across his body, it had sharp spikes coming out of it, and many visible scratches and scraps. The commanding individual had clearly seen action. They were soldiers, like him.

No. Not like him. No one was like him. No one on this planet.

He was a Horde trooper! He was a Horde trooper! He was different. He had something no one else on this planet had! PURPOSE! 218 was on an eternal mission, even now - when stranded, separated and banished. He had to fulfil his Brother’s will. And then the Horde trooper realised something - his Brother’s absolutely perfect wisdom! No one had been touched on this world by the light of Prime! This- This was his purpose. His new meaning! His holy Big Brother’s actions and punishments made absolute sense. His wisdom was truly limitless and far-reaching. He was sent here for a reason! To spread the light of his Brother!

“Yes, sir. There were no other threats... any survivors?”

“No. We’re it.” He turned to face the bleeding clone, “Who are you?” He asked firmly, making it less of an ask and more of a command. But 218 remained silent. His loyalty and honour held his lips shut, these intruders would get nothing out of him. He would not betray his Brother. He would say nothing, tell them nothing - these creatures were going to extract nothing out of him. He had to show his Brother - who sees all - who watches always - that he was not weak, he was strong.

“I said: Who are you?!” 218 did not reply, and so the spear wielding scorpion man grasped him by the hair and dragged him up, and slammed him down into the ground. He had to be strong. “Who sent you?!” 218 said nothing. The claw crashed into 218′s face. “Did the other Kingdoms hire you?!” No answer. He was a Horde trooper! He was a Horde trooper!! Another hit collided with the pale white facial plates, cracking and bruising. “What is this structure! Is it First Ones?!! What do you know about the First Ones?! Where did it come from?! Where did you come from?!” And the clone remained silent, through the several following hits directly to the face, one after another, the world going more black each time. It was a miracle he still had all his teeth.

He had to be strong. He had to win. Even now as blackness surrounded him, the mission stood. Nothing matters but the mission. No exceptions. No faltering. He had to bring the Horde’s light to this world. And all must suffer to be pure.

Another day, full of failures and mistakes. But they were the mistakes of a general, a tactician. What the scorpion creature didn’t realise was that he let 218 get too close. And so the clone general spit into the eyes of his opponent and while blinded he grabbed the spear and ran it through the chest of his attacker. The creature fell. 218 pulled out the bloodied spear and swung it at the scorpion behind him. The reinforced wood shattered as it impacted the scorpion’s head.

This was it. His victorious moment. It was time for him to proclaim his mission, who he was. He was a Horde trooper! And he stood in this dark world as the only indication of his Brother’s light, he was all this world had.

“I AM A HORD-” His voice was cut as the tail of the scorpion slashed across 218′s neck, “-AK!!!” The clone stumbled past the soldier and fell to his knees, grasping for his throat. Feeling his consciousness fade. Definitely some sort of poison located in the tail tip. He looked back at the figure that managed to sting him, they had collapsed. He wanted to fight it - 218 mustered all the strength he could, all the willpower in his soul, but it wasn’t good enough. Never good enough, was he?

218 fell into unconsciousness. He failed. And as he closed his eyes he let the darkness take him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another day.

Another day full of surprises and twists. The horse treaded the open path carefully, death trap contraptions on each side. The horse was ordered to stop by it’s rider and was dismounted. Force-Captain Opal pulled out a basin full of clean water and placed it under the animal to reward it for working under heat of the desert.

King Niro didn’t look back, but rather forward - at the dozen bodies laying dead on the ground. Over time Niro got used to seeing his own people dead, desensitised to the slow dying of the Hillian spirit. But these were soldiers, they knew the risk and the commitment asked of them, they died - but they died for a greater cause - for Scorpion Hill.

The king kneeled down, near one of the presumed lifeless corpses, his eyes narrowed. The chest - it was raising and falling slightly - breathing. “Force-Captain, medic! We have a survivor here! Maybe two, if we hurry!” The medic made it to the person first. Opal was behind him. Niro placed a claw on her shoulder stopping her from seeing the body, without a word the king communicated to her that she needed to brace for it.

As she approached the body, Niro saw even for a briefest of moments her eyes widen, letting a glint of light reflecting off of the moisture. But she said nothing, composed herself like the warrior she was. She let no emotion through.

There was another soldier who seemed to have made it, Niro checked his pulse. But Niro’s eyes fell on a different sight. There was a third body. The king slowly and cautiously approached the strange looking life-form. Strange didn’t begin to describe it, they weren’t any race he recognised, and Scorpion Hill housed almost all of them, from the poorest to the rarest. And yet the being before him was a mystery. He brandished his spear. He utilised the blade at the far end of the staff to turn over the body so it was facing upward.

Niro didn’t exactly know what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. The being that resided in a mysterious structure that just appeared out of nowhere didn’t look like one would imagine. It didn’t look... frightening. Or he. Or sh- e? They? Niro couldn’t tell, but the creature looked humanoid, nothing threatening about it. Especially not with a resting sleeping baby face. Kind of cute. A killer too. Niro’s two favourite qualities.

He spoke quietly in a whisper to himself, “Alright, universe, I’ll take the bait.”

He placed his pincer at his mouth and gave a sharp whistle to the medic and the Force-Captain behind him, he pointed at the clone, “Them too!” He very well could find to regret that decision, bringing a unknown combatant into his own Kingdom, someone who can take out his soldiers. How was he going to explain this to the Council. Great, he had to now get started on the P.O.W paper work.

Perfect.

#hordak #king niro #scorpia's grandfather #horo #nidak #my writing #sweetened toffee

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warsofasoiaf · 4 years

Note

Thank you for your take on French military history. Being French and passionate about History, it always annoys me when I see people bringing the "french always surrender" idea. IMO the anon was trying to troll but maybe not. How strong do you think this wrong idea of french history is on the US and why is it still persisiting ? Thank you for your amazing answers as always.

Always great to hear where my readers are coming from, accounts and Anon’s both. Love interacting with folks from all over.

If you’re looking for just a witty response to clap back, just say “We had to bring the average down after Napoleon. Can’t flex on the world all the time.”

I must reiterate that American school curricula are determined primarily at the state and local level for public school and the school organization itself for private school. This isn’t to say that the federal has no influence on schools, but schools can differ wildly between state to state and district to district. Primary school education, when it comes to history, typically focuses on the 18-20th century (and probably the 21st century, but the 21st century was happening after I left primary school) and focuses on American history.

Typically France comes into play primarily as it relates to foreign policy. French contributions to the American Revolutionary War are usually mentioned, the Statue of Liberty is usually explained as a joint U.S.-French endeavor and indicative of our country’s strong alliance, the Louisiana Purchase is covered although the context of what that money meant to Napoleon usually isn’t. The War of 1812 is treated as a big deal as opposed to being considered more of a sideshow to the Napoleonic Wars that a European observer (or heck, even an observer without a dog in the fight) would conclude. World War I is usually summarized as a bunch of alliance networks bringing everyone into a big scrum, and an overemphasis on Americans joining the war as being one of the reasons for the war successfully being concluded in favor of the Entente. World War 2 gets a lot of focus, and then after that US history usually ends up going more into the domestic sphere covering the civil rights movement, Vietnam, and so on.

So, with that context, the conception of the French as perennial jobbers comes primarily from the Fall of France and the need to invade Nazi-occupied Europe, as well as jokes taken too seriously. Most folks don’t look into earlier European history because they feel like they don’t need it. The Cold War is sort of glossed over in a lot of US primary school, which is a shame because I can see a lot of great classroom activities that can really bring across just how dangerous the era was, how close we came to nuclear armageddon more than a few times. I understand though, that such a concept is probably too advanced for younger kids and might stress folks out, so I can see why it’s cut even if I believe that the knowledge of it forms vital context for understanding 20th century American History (and world history too). The relationship between the US and France is quite interesting in the 20th century, because you have friction like with de Gaulle removing himself from NATO integrated command or the 1956 Suez Crisis, but you also have success stories such as the French post-war recovery from the Marshall Plan or the utility that France and the United States received from the Farewell Dossier.

Whatever the jokes are, I like France and the French people (insert joke about the French flag here) even when I disagree with them, I believe our alliance is of mutual benefit to both of our nations, and I want it to continue and for both of our nations to enjoy shared prosperity and success.

Thanks for the shout, French Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#france #history

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mostweakhamlets · 4 years

Text

SummerOmens: Ice Cream

Written for @thetunewillcome‘s summer omens prompt list! Again, I’m doing fileflies, but the husbands make an appearance in this one.

All of the prompts I’m filling are also on my AO3 in one work!

Dagon knew that it wouldn’t be the smoothest outing of their time on Earth, but she had gotten along fairly well with Aziraphale and Crowley once they had all made peace. As much peace as they all could after thousands of years of torment on Hell’s end and one traumatizing farewell to Crowley. The traitors had promised they had no intention of harming the demons (a relief as Beelzebub now had no power over Crowley who was both physically and supernaturally intimidating to them) and were only interested in a quiet life alone--with exceptions to help Beelzebub and Dagon adjust so long as the pair played fair. There were awkward, tense dinners and afternoons in one another’s gardens before they were all comfortable enough to bury the proverbial hatchet.

Beelzebub looked at themselves one last time in the mirror. Dagon had convinced them to wear a pair of jeans out rather than their typical full suit. It was far too hot for such an outfit, and even Dagon had toned down her usual look in favor a grey t-shirt and light trousers.

“It’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a little bit, and the traitors promised that we’ll enjoy where they’re taking us.”

“I don’t trust them,” Beelzebub said, looking at their floral, short-sleeved button-up. “And it’s called sloth. We’re demons. We’re supposed to embrace and enjoy doing nothing.”

“It’s called depression, and I know you’re not enjoying laying in your own sweat and filth for hours every day. Probably. Maybe you do.” Beelzebub did like their filth, but Dagon doubted that their recent habits were motivated by enjoyment. “And I don’t trust them, either.”

“Then why are we going?”

“Because it’s something to do up here, and the angel wouldn’t let me say no.”

“You’re a Lord of Hell and you couldn’t say no to a principality?”

“I’m as much of a Lord as you are a Prince right now.” Dagon regretted snapping as soon as Beelzebub clenched their jaw and looked back to the mirror. “And he’s not just any principality. He’s immune to Hell fire and stopped Armageddon. He must have done something to not let me say no. A mind trick or something.”

In reality, Aziraphale had just used his pushy charm and insisted again and again that she couldn’t say no, that he and Crowley would plan the trip, and how does Wednesday at noon sound to you, dear? Before Dagon knew it, she had solidified a date and time and Crowley looked amused.

“Where are we going?” Beelzebub said.

“Not far from here. If you’re uncomfortable, we can turn around.”

Beelzebub nodded. “I’m uncomfortable.”

“I meant if you’re uncomfortable once we get there.”

“Fine.”

~*~

Aziraphale had rambled for a good 10 minutes about how beautiful the old quarter of the town was, how nostalgic for the 19th century he was in the middle of it, and where all the divine places to dine were. Crowley listened with a sappy expression. Beelzebub tuned him out. Dagon actually took mental notes for future reference, though she didn’t acknowledge him.

“I hope you don’t mind walking,” Aziraphale said after finishing his one-sided discussion on the cafes. “It’s a lovely day, and I insisted on enjoying the weather.”

“It’s fine,” Dagon said. “Beelzebub needs the exercise.”

Beelzebub only responded with a huff. Crowley snorted and smirked until Aziraphale said, “Crowley did as well.”

By the time they arrived to the Old Town, they had drifted back into silence. Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look and a smile and lead them into the narrow streets of shops, pubs, and cafes.

~*~

Beelzebub would never admit that they enjoyed looking into the windows of shops and seeing the various things on display--odd dolls, old books, and various knick-knacks selling at high-prices.

“A lot of it is to get tourists to waste their money,” Crowley whispered to them as Aziraphale stood by street musicians, listening with a wide smile and hands clasped together. “Humans are gullible when it comes to this type of stuff.”

Beelzebub smirked. “So, humans are taking advantage of other humans with useless shopping?”

“Sort of. But it makes the other humans happy. They sort of know they’re being taken advantage of, and they don’t mind it if they can be happy in the moment.”

The smirk disappeared. “Oh.”

“But it is still... pretty evil. It’s capitalism at its worst if you ask me.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Yup.”

~*~

Dagon entered a shop with Aziraphale to look at secondhand books. She hadn’t taken to leisurely reading books yet (only gossipy tabloids), but was secretly interested in looking into them. She was used to pouring over paperwork in Hell, and with her new free time, she longed for something to hold in her hands and consume for hours on end while Beelzebub slept or moped.

“What are looking for?” Aziraphale asked.

“A book.”

“Well, we’ve walked into the right shop.” He laughed at his own joke, perhaps one he would have told to his own customers if he had actually enjoyed their presence. “What do you want to read about is what I’m asking.”

“What are books about?”

Aziraphale lifted a hand to his chest and sighed. “Anything you can imagine.”

“Then find me something about death.”

Aziraphale’s smile became tight, but then relaxed into something a little ornery. “Luckily, humans can be just as morbid as demons. I think something historical would suit you. How do you feel about tyrannical rulers?”

“I know most of them.”

“Let’s see what they have, then.”

~*~

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand as they strolled down the street. “What do you say to a treat?”

Crowley followed his gaze to an ice cream parlor a few shops down from where they currently stood. He turned around.

“Do you two know what ice cream is?”

Dagon and Beelzebub shook their heads. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped.

It sounded appalling to Beelzebub. Cream that had been turned to ice? They didn't like the sound of that. And what was its purpose?

“We have to now, dear. The poor things have never had it. Think of the disservice we’d be doing to them if we didn’t--”

“We can get ice cream, angel! No one said ‘no.’“

Crowley turned back to the confused demons. “Do you want to try it?”

Dagon and Beelzebub looked at each other. Beelzebub shrugged. They hadn’t been asked about they wanted to do in a long time. They were both used to following and giving orders.

“What’s it like?” Dagon said.

“Uh... it’s creamy and, uh, ice-y. It’s like soft, frozen, sugary milk. You can get it in different flavors.”

“Is there a pasta flavor?” Beelzebub asked. They were only familiar with pasta.

“No. You can usually get chocolate or vanilla. Sometimes there’s little things in it like sweets.”

“We’ll help you decide,” Aziraphale said.

And no one had offered to help them with anything before, so Beelzebub and Dagon stared at the angel. It was more autonomy and assistance that they had had in their entire existence because, despite willingly revolting against Heaven and their strict regiment, they had lived by rules and high expectations sculpted by fear and Her writings.

They finally nodded together, unfamiliar with the feeling they both had in their chests and stomachs.

Aziraphale ended up suggesting they start with vanilla, and they were handed two shallow cups with two scoops in each. They sat together at a patio table outside the shop where the sun could irritatingly beam in their eyes and the wind could whip their hair around. But as soon as they were settled and after Beelzebub fixed their hair for the third time, the wind died and clouds slid over the glaring sun.

Dagon scooped a small bite on her spoon. Beelzebub followed suit and put it in their mouth.

It was as Crowley had described it--soft, frozen, sugary milk. But it was lovely. It was creamy and rich and the perfect balance of sweet and bland. Beelzebub wondered what the other flavors tasted like, if they were equally sweet and had the same texture. They wondered what the cone that Aziraphale had tasted like.

They wanted to experiment with the sweets in the little jars inside the parlor tasted like when combined with the vanilla and the other flavors. The imagined a crunch to it if they added chocolate chips or a stickiness to it if they had chocolate sauce.

Their tongue was cold and the sugar rested on the very back of it, encouraging them to eat more to remind of the fresh flavor. Their lips were sticky, and they licked the corners of their mouth to swipe what they had missed.

“Ow.”

Dagon sat her spoon down and pressed her hand to her forehead. Her eyes were squeezed together in pain. Beelzebub touched her shoulder, forgetting about the frozen treat they had wanted a love affair with.

“It’ll pass,” Crowley said, smiling as he took another spoonful.

Beelzebub glared. They knew the whole trip was a ploy. If they could, they would have set the entire table ablaze with Hell fire. They would sent a swarm of flies out. They would have called on other demons to pull Crowley and Aziraphale down to the deepest pit they had in Hell.

But then Dagon sat up seconds later, fine. “What was that?”

“It’s called a brain freeze,” Aziraphale said. “It happens if you eat something too cold too fast. It’s nothing harmful. Just annoying.”

Dagon pushed her ice cream away. “I think I’ll pass on this in the future.”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip stuck out. “I’m so sorry, dear. We should have warned you. It took us by surprise the first time it happened to us.”

Beelzebub made sure to take small, slow bites of their ice cream until it was gone and when they reached for Dagon’s half-melted, abandoned cup, no one said anything.

#good omens #fileflies #fly wives cottage au #beez likes human food okay

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elenatria · 5 years

Note

After the interrogation scene, Boris was surprised that Charkov didn’t arrest him

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349599

ChairmanCharkov wasn’t there when the former First Deputy Director of the KurchatovInstitute of Atomic Energy was sent off to his living grave in a stern KGBvehicle, grim as a coffin and suitably black. Instead he waited for his ride atthe back of the Hall of Culture where the trial took place.

He glancedback at the young soldier who was accompanying him with his weapon in hand, motionlessas a statue. He felt relieved. Proud. This ridiculous charade was over. He wasa public official and was expected to attend Party meetings, May Day parades,trials, but if it was up to him he would avoid all that unnecessary exposurejust as his hard-earned status had ridden him of supervising arrests andtorture. He had witnessed too many shock therapies in his youth, too manywaterboarding sessions, too many beatings. He was tired.

He knew theParty wasn’t done with him just as he knew he had so much more to give to theParty. But the Chernobyl affair had drained him. Never in his life had he felthis country’s reputation weighing so heavily on his shoulders. They alldepended on him. The wives, the elderly, the children, they were all hisresponsibility. How could he fail them? How could he let those entitled and self-righteousimperialists with their prying satellites humiliate them? The self-sacrificingworkers, the very soil he walked on, they were all his to protect.

Vain?

Maybe. He wasa soldier who acknowledged his flaws but no man can achieve anything withoutthe smallest portion of vanity. Maybe that was his only sin, the thought thathe was doing his job more efficiently than the others; that he was better thanthe others. But he was. And theproof of his efficiency was being sent back to his miserable little apartmentin Moscow, never to be seen, never to be heard of again.

Vain?

Absolutely.But at least he wasn’t a traitor.

There wouldbe heroes and there would be villains and there would be May Day parades foryears to come and red flags everywhere but there would be no martyrs, and notraitors. Not if he had any say in the matter.

His thoughtswere dissolved by the muffled coughing behind him, the rustling of heavy footstepsdragging through the barren radioactive dust.

Shewas gone but he wasn’t. He was still here.

Thatimpossible Ukrainian sod.

He turned onhis heels effortlessly, his glittering weasel eyes blinking behind thick expressionlessglasses.

“ComradeShcherbina!” he exclaimed through wolfish teeth, his smile colder than thepebbles crushed underneath his polished shoes.

The DeputyChairman of the Council of Ministers and head of the Bureau for Fuel and Energyhalted in front of him, gaze dark with despair, breath caught by something worsethan walking in large hasty steps to catch up with him. Something stronger.

And then, thoseeyes; the steely eyes of a lion searching for his lost cub.

“What are yougoing to do with him?”

No evasions,no allusions, just a simple sentence and underneath a world of agony, like boilinglava; restless and unforgiving.

Charkov felta twinge of satisfaction uncoiling in his gut. “Him?”

“Legasov,professor Legasov,” Boris growled urgently, “what are you going to do with him?Where are you taking him?”

“Taking him?”Charkov huffed with an inconspicuous smile. “To his apartment in Moscow ofcourse. What did you think? After all he’s been through I do believe the mandeserves a ride back home. It’s the least we could do.”

Boris gnashedhis teeth as he made a motion towards him, his bulk towering over Charkov likean unspoken threat, ominous enough to make the soldier accompanying thechairman clutch his weapon and take a warning step forward. Charkov waved himoff briskly.

“You kept himdown there after the trial,” Boris insisted. “In the kitchen. What did you doto him?”

“Do? Iassure you nothing at all,” Charkov shrugged.

Boris tookone more step towards him, careful not to alarm the soldier and end up with agun in his face, as his nails dug deep into his fists.

“Do youimagine yourself a decent person?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do youimagine yourself an apostle, a crusader, a man on a holy mission?” Borissnarled. “Is that what you think you are?”

“ComradeShcherbina, I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking a-”

“ANSWERME!” Boris roared, his thick fingers clenching and unclenching on his sidesas if yearning to strangle more than air.

Charkovcrossed his hands and balanced on his heels like a teacher in class. He wasamused.

“An apostle? Aholy mission? No,” he gave a condescending smile. “I’m not religious, comrade.Crusaders bit off more than they could chew and I assure you I know exactly whereI’m standing and how far I can go. But if you’re asking if I did the rightthing-”

“I’m askingwhat you did to him,” Boris scowled. “And you’re not answering myquestion. I’m asking what happened in the kitchen and why Val… Why Legasovwas sent off without a word, why the soldiers didn’t let us get close to him,talk to him-”

“And bidhim farewell?” Charkov cut him off with a knowing nonchalant nod.

He grinnedtriumphantly at Boris’ hitched breath.

He knew. He kneweverything.

The fearless broad-shoulderedminister, the fierce and powerful politician lost all his nerve when he was finallyconfronted with the bitter truth; his ally was gone. His friend would be erasedfrom history books and there was nothing he could do about it.

“You reallyliked him, didn’t you?” Charkov gloated walking half a circle around him, likea hyena waiting to attack. “You must have bonded, the two of you, all thoseendless nights trying to avert Armageddon, like comrades in arms clinging toeach other for hope.” He clicked his tongue in mockery. “Very touching.”

Boris’ eyesturned an icy shade of blue as his lips went thin and pale like a sheet ofpaper.

Charkov’sgrin grew wider wrinkling his aged face until it reached the corners of hissparkling eyes.

“Do not fret,I did not hurt him,” he said in a cruel casual tone. “Not physically anyway.He’ll live for the rest of his days – what’s left of them anyway – in thesafety of his little apartment. He’ll go to work regularly. He’ll buy hisnewspaper. He’ll eat his dinner out of cans with tomato soup. We spared himbecause you see…” Charkov gestured at the soldier’s weapon, “there are thingsworse than death.”

“What do youmean?” Boris hissed, the deadly paleness of his lips spreading all over hisworn face.

Charkov shookhis head as he sank his hands into his pockets. “No need to go into detailsnow, do we?” was his cryptic reply. “You’ll find out yourself when he won’t beanswering your phone calls because he knows that the Deputy Chairman Shcherbinacould accidentally trip and fall off the stairs of his own house or die in hissleep. Why would he risk talking to you when your life depends on his silence?I’m sure you know him better than I do. His… feelings I mean.”

Boris’ eyeswere welling up with hate. Still, not one tear rolled down his cheek.

Pity.

Charkov hadcherished those fragile little beads in his youth when men and women, strippedof all hope and decency, were begging on their knees for a single bullet.

Charkov hadno bullets anymore. Just open prisons for traitors like Legasov and oceans of despairfor those who loved him. He was more sophisticated now.

He pattedBoris’ arm like a father comforting his son after a good beating.

“If anything,you can find consolation in the reason behind his silence,” he reassured him. “Hewouldn’t answer your phone calls if his life depended on it. That’s how much heloves you, comrade Shcherbina.”

Boris’ mouthslacked open but not a word fell from his lips. Charkov was drinking in hishate and despair like a bee sucking honey. He would drain him if he could inmore ways than one but he decided he had enough satisfaction for one day. Theworld wasn’t a perfect place but at least two of the enemies of the state weredefeated.

Hisenemies.

“He loves you,”he stated coldly. “That’s why you’ll never see him again.”

Boris blinkedaway the tears and pursed his lips as if to smother a sob. Charkov couldn’thelp but smile seeing how overwhelmed he was. How utterly alone.

ValeryLegasov’s best friend, his only friend, turned quickly on his heel andleft.

Charkov gazedat the imposing figure as it disappeared into the building and wondered if hewould have felt bad in another universe, in another life. Probably not. He neverquestioned his own methods and he wouldn’t do it now, just a few years beforeretirement. Because he was going to retire, he was going to leave it allbehind.

Except hisbeliefs.

There waslove and there was duty and there was that little space in-between thatwhispered to him there was a way to have everything without sacrificing one forthe other, but he quickly stifled that voice. Shcherbina had made his choiceand so had he.

To him therewas nothing stronger than duty.

Not evenlove.

#chernobyl #valoris #valery legasov #boris shcherbina #charkov #kgb #alan williams #jared harris #chernobyl fanfiction #valoris fanfiction

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snormynight · 5 years

Text

Sweet Embers

A sickAziraphale fic I was too embarrassed to post on the Ark hive🍯

Also this is my first time posting here so sorry if the read more doesn’t work google docs can suck my toe

[[MORE]]

Crowley found that he could match Aziraphale’s impudent nature with some cheekiness of his own. Together, the two were a force of nature and by balancing each other out, they were able to create their own sort of paradise on their little planet called Earth. Crowley didn't care about anything. The end was coming whether he liked it or not and all he could think about was that maybe it really had been part of God’s great plan for he and Aziraphale to meet.

But things were different now. Before Armageddont, he wasn't nearly so paranoid. A miracle could fix up the simplest of problems. But now they had pissed off the higher ups, who in many ways, were much more powerful than them. (But apparently, not smarter.) They'd surely find them out sooner or later, but they definitely could could stave them off by masking their miracle signatures. Like disappearing off the face of Heaven and Hell respectively. So far, it seemed to be working.

They didn't talk much about their fears. The thwarting of Armageddon was a great victory and by golly they were going to celebrate. Even if they were still very much afraid. But neither one wanted to be the first to admit so. So they kind of danced around it, until it seemed to get the best of them.

Aziraphale had cut one night suspiciously short. He hadn't been very cheerful all night and had been short with Crowley, even when asked the most innocent of questions. He had bid him farewell, and Crowley thought that maybe he required just a little alone time. Fine by him. He wanted some time to bond with his bentley after just getting her back. Maybe rekindle over a few Queen tracks.

The night didn't settle with him though. His mind remained busy and it always went back to Aziraphale.

So he decided he'd drop by around lunch time tomorrow. He’d known Aziraphale and his routines long enough to predict that a crisp Autumn morning like today would tempt him to enjoy a cup of tea in bliss solitude, probably with nothing short of a toasted brioche. And he thought that the Angel would be in a great mood when it was time to eat again at lunch. Maybe Crowley could even apologize for whatever he had done.

He was on the doorstep, about to invite himself in when his eyes fell on the the window sign, which had evidently not yet been flipped from closed to open. Crowley tensed, as he knew Aziraphale always opened next to the sun’s waking hour and his mind immediately went to the worst. He ventured inside, and did his best to mask his worry.

“Angel? You about? Y’know, I don't consider this a very good business practice, though I suppose it’s in my best interest to keep that to myself.”

He entered the bookshop which was quaint as ever but eerily silent. Everything was just as he last recalled, except Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Crowley demanded he’d get to the bottom of this.

“Aziraphale, let’s talk! Demon to Angel. If you could just humor me on what happened last night i'd really appreciate it.”

He moved around the shop, and it was when he reached the nook near the kitchenette where he felt slight relief. There he found his angel, hunched over a bowl of cheerios and snoring something awful. Crowley blinked away his surprise and walked over, assessing the scene. The milk was still cold, a sign that he had been conscious only moments before. Crowley grabbed a fistfull of golden locks and lugged Aziraphale into an upright position.

“Angel.”

He looked terrible. Dark bags hung from his eyes like he hadn't caught a wink the night before. His face was flush and slick with fever and his nose was akin to a cherry tomato. The cheerios stuck to his face, accenting the look.

Aziraphale moaned, roused by the movement and Crowley could only stare as he cracked his eyes open, giving the former a weak smile.

“Ah hello, dear boy.” His voice was thick with congestion. “It was so very sweet of you to drop by.”

He'd been the picture of health only hours ago. Crowley couldn't believe the development. Maybe he had just been distracted? He had been off last night, but he had surely chalked it up to being Crowley's own doing. And now it sent a weird pang through Crowley's heart to think that he hid this from him just so he wouldn't have to send Crowley away early. The short gripiness should have been a dead giveaway that his angel was unwell. And even though he was a bit upset with himself not seeing the signs, he was quite angry that Aziraphale hadn't said anything.

He glared down at him, but any biting words he had died on his tongue. Aziraphale’s big blue eyes seemed to know what he wanted to say. They had their ways of speaking back. He looked weary and guilty and Crowley felt like he needed to spare him.

“You look terrible,” he settled on.

Aziraphale couldn't help but chuckle and Crowley cringed, as it really just sounded like a wheeze. He must've still looked like something fierce, because Aziraphale looked away and curled in on himself. He still felt like he could let him have it, but a relief to see that the Archangels hadn't actually ganged up on him like he feared far outweighed his anger. He placed his fingers on his jaw, eyebrows raising at the heat he found there.

“Look at me.”

Aziraphale compiled, letting his cheek find comfort in the palm of Crowley's cool hand. He sighed, sagging into the touch and cleared his throat with a few more chesty coughs. When he was finished, Crowley reached for a cloth near the sink, dampened it and then began to run it over his Cheerio sodden face.

Unfortunately, it was not quite damp enough to avoid irritating the angel’s nose. His breath caught only once as he grabbed Crowley’s hand, clasping the cloth against his face.

“hihh!...Heh-chiew! Eh-shoo!”

Crowley found it hard to be disgusted, what with the look of relief Aziraphale was now sporting. His expression turned to one of shame quickly.

“Im’b so sorry, my dear,” he said hoarsely.

Crowley forewent disgust and cast the ruined cloth aside. He rubbed his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms, eliciting a shiver out of the other. Just feeling him and his recoiled aura around him. Aziraphale could have sneezed right in his face and he wouldn't have cared. He was still just happy that he was alive. He’d take any chance to distract him from the impending doom that was the higher-ups.

“No matter. How about we get you into something warmer, hm?”

After a very wobbly trek to the sofa, Crowley had Aziraphale bundled up in several blankets over some of his warmer pajamas. Even though he looked cozy he seemed physically miserable as ever.

“Hih-hichiew! Hhh...h-hehh, o-oh dearhhh!-heh’choo! Hah-chiew!!”

He sniffed and punctuated that with a groan. He almost snapped his fingers, but quickly regained himself and reached for the tissues.

“This is all just made worse by the fact that we shan't use miracles.”

Crowlys chest ached as he caught Aziraphaels fearful gaze up above them. He hadn't noticed it before. He knew he wasn't particularly fond of hell, but Aziraphale never looked down at hell in fear. More like disdain. Contempt. Maybe even a little jealousy. He used to whine to Crowley how it must've been easier to perform temptations than holy miracles. And how his bosses were a lot more ruthless. That couldn't possibly be true.

He didn't want to fight tonight. All he wanted was to stop this paranoia and to make his angel feel better. And sitting here wasn't doing him much good. He had an idea, but knew it’d require some temptation on his part. He slithered up next to him on the sofa and reached up to rub at Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Oh c’mon, Angel, don't be like that. ‘Cant’sa strong strong word. We might be under lockdown, sure, but we’re free to do whatever we want. I think I can figure out what you want.”

“Mhmm. what did you have in mind?’

A bath.

It bubbled over and steamed like a sauna, becoming them over with promises of security and warmth.

And oh how it tempted. Both moved toward it, clothing cast aside, in all their glory.

Crowley’s the first to dip, slinking down and flattening himself against the edge of the basin. Once settled, he beckoned Aziraphale over with an outstretched hand.

“Get in, Angel.”

Aziraphale obeyed, grabbing the offered hand and slowly hoisted himself in. At first he gasped at the sudden change in temperature, but he kept going, knowing that once submerged, this'll be the desired setting.

He sat down in the tub with help from Crowley and scooted backwards so his hips were now touching Crowleys inner thighs. He sighed in relief as the steam rose to meet his face.

Crowley smirked and leaned forward so he could whisper in his ear.

“Better?”

Aziraphale nodded but his comfort was short lived. Crowley retracted a bit when the Angel’s breath hitched and his shoulders jolted upward.

“H-hiH! H-haihshuu! AISH’Huuh!”

Crowley grimaced. “Oh, Ange-”

“Wuh...w-one morehhh! h’hEGSHuu!”

When he's done, Aziraphale sagged against one side of the tub with a pitiful moan. Crowley tutted as he blew his nose.

“Oh sweet Angel, you poor thing,” he continued. “That's no good.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Ugh, my head.”

Reaching toward the edge of the tub, Crowley squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his hand. It smelled of oats and lavender.

“Well that wont do, now will it?”

Tenderly, he reached for the golden locks and massaged his hands into the scalp. Rubbing in small circles caused it to grow foamy and eventually the smell wafts to Aziraphale’s nose. This time he moaned in delight.

“No, I suppose it won't,” he replied. Crowley watched the angel’s body relax as he worked his hands down the back of his neck and then down to his shoulders. Soon it's like a giant soapy cloud has taken refuge on Aziraphale’s backside.

He's pretty pleased with himself until he noticed the unease as Aziraphale shifted in the tub. He won't say anything though. That's for Crowley to draw out.

“Spit it out, Angel. Am I being too rough?”

Aziraphale was quick to wave his hands dismissively. “No! Oh no, it's all rather lovely. It just occurred to me that, well, how you've spent your time looking after me. I hate to be an inconvenience. You could probably find more productive ways to spend your evening.”

Crowley stared at the soap bubble Bentley he so expertly crafted on the backside of the being he loved most in this world.

“Eh maybe. Trust me. M’doing just fine.”

Short quips seemed to do him the most comfort. Crowley was not one for drawled out speeches.

After he had successfully rinsed the soap away, they both sat in the still water, simply enjoying each other's company. In fact, they sat there for so long, Crowley hadn't noticed that the water had gotten cold until Aziraphael shivered violently.

“Right then, Angel,’ he says softly. “Out we go.”

He braced himself and waited patiently as Aziraphale shakily got onto his feet before moving himself. He drained the bathtub and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He retrieved another one and a robe and helped wrap those around his shivering angel.

“Thank you,” he graced.

Crowley saw that even though he seemed much fresher, his droopy eyelids and dopey smile indicated that he needed to have a lie down real quick.

“Come on now,” he beckoned, and with a hand steadying his back, he lead the sickly angel to the warm invites of the lounge. He set him down on the recliner and the angel stretched his arms to the heavens with a great big yawn and apologized once more for his antics.

“Don't be,” Crowley said. He grabbed the fluffy quilt off the floor and draped it over the sleepy angel. “I'll be off then,’ he said, fighting off the lump of hesitation in his throat. He thought it might be best to leave Aziraphale to fend this off by himself. “Will that be all?”

Before he could finish his statement, a hand shot out from under the blanket, grabbing hold of Crowley’s wrist. Aziraphale stared up at him with those big hopeful eyes.

“Don't go,” he pleaded softly. “I don't think I could bear a night alone like this. Please.”

Crowly softened as a few tears welled up in the angels eyes. He was always more emotional whenever he felt unwell and Crowley knew the guilt would eat him alive if he left him like this. He didn't want to leave anyway. So he surrendered and threw up his hands.

“Alright. Where do you want me?”

Aziraphale shakily pushed himself upright and scooted as far to the right as he could and pointed to the snug spot beside him. Crowley rolled his eyes but obeyed and squeezed in next to him. Once settled, Aziraphale threw an arm and a leg over the demons body and pulled the blanket around the both of them. Aziraphale snuggled closer to the demon and hummed contently once he was comfy. Crowley reached up and prodded for the remote on the coffee table beside them. He found it and hovered it in front of his face.

“Fancy anything?”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale yawned. “Just absolutely thrilled you're here.”

Crowley hid a smile as he laid a kiss at the top of his sweet head. Then he made it his mission to find something relaxing to watch. Nothing sad. Definitely nothing scary. Unfortunately that's what seemed to be in store for nearly fifty channels on cable. Until he stumbled across a How It’s Made type of deal. Bicycle tires. It was quite mesmerizing.

A snore floated up to his ear and Crowley's eyes sauntered down to the lump lying across him. Aziraphale, the poor thing, had fallen asleep, exhausted by the whole ordeal of a day he'd had. He didn't sound any less congested, but his worry lines faded away and he seemed peaceful in sleep. Almost like...well, an angel.

There was something about this one that seemed to quelm Crowley’s anxiety instantly. All of a sudden the fears before him seemed so small compared to the comforting weight of the snoring angel pressed into his side. It really felt like it had always been the two of them against the universe. But Crowley didn't mind that. Even as sniffly and sickly his angel could be.

#snzblr #snzfic #rosierites

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