fan fic side blog :3

You had escaped the Winter Soldier, not without a few injuries to show for it, but altogether it could have been worse. Finding yourself limping along the sidewalk, a hoodie you stole pulled over your head and a pair of ripped jeans you'd normally never wear to go along with it.

From what you could tell, you were at least a day away from where he had been holding you, a small safe house just big enough for the two of you. The further you got from him, the better chance you had at staying out of his grasp. Going to a hospital or clinic would be risky; he knew you were injured and would likely be checking many nearby medical places within walking distance. Similarly, going to the cops would be just as bad; one, you didn't fuck around with cops, and two, he might have already sent out a missing persons report, in which case you'd be handed back to him as soon as you tried getting help from them. You debated going to the other Avengers for help, but for multiple reasons that was off the board.

The pain in your ankle was starting to get to be too much, a horrible stabbing sensation shooting up your left leg every time you put weight on it. At this rate you wouldn't make it much further without medical help of some kind. So now you had to decide: risk going to a hospital or clinic, or try to steal some medical supplies and help yourself. Neither were extremely good options, both having cons to them that set off alarms in your mind.

Sitting down on a bench in the park, you tried to formulate a plan. You couldn't go to other Avengers, and you wouldn't go to the cops. What about other superhero teams? The Fantastic Four would be too hard to reach. The X-Men didn't really handle affairs outside of mutant kind, which you were not a part of. The Thunderbolts were a horrible idea. West Coast Avengers? Maybe more likely to help, but you weren't anywhere near California, and even taking a Greyhound there would take a while, and you didn't have that much time to spare. The Champions didn't have the resources to keep the Winter Soldier away from you, and you didn't even know where their base was.

Maybe you could get in contact with one of the more street-level heroes? Spider-Man might be able to recruit more help, but you aren't sure he'd believe you. Daredevil didn't really deal with anything that didn't pertain to Hell's Kitchen. Even SHIELD probably wouldn't help out since you're just one citizen.

So you were on your own then, trying to escape a trained assassin and spy with an injured ankle and not a dollar to your name.

And as you thought about your game plan, where you would go from here, and how you would get money, the sound of a motorcycle distantly made your ears perk up. You hoped and prayed that it wasn't who you thought it was. A quick glance back at where the sound was coming from and you knew. You had to hide.

All that was nearby was a bush, just large enough for you to hide in, though it would definitely cut you up. There was no way he didn't already see you, especially as you drew attention to yourself by hopping into the bush. Shit, you were so caught, he'd know it was you.

Heavy breaths.

Trying to push the panic from your mind and focus on the outside sounds.

The motorcycle stops.

There are light footsteps coming near you.

Closer.

Closer.

They stop right in front of the bush. You hold your breath. The silence in your ears is deafening, terrifying like a hand gripping your heart.

And just when you think he might leave, walk away from your hiding spot, a metal hand snatches around your injured ankle.

A grinding pain explodes in your eyes as you're dragged out of the bush. Vaguely you recognize that you're screaming, pleading for someone to help you. If passersby hear and see you, they don't do anything. And how could they? The Winter Soldier has chosen a target. A few random civilians would be doomed to try and stop him.

"Please! Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" You shout as he continues to drag you across the sidewalk by your ankle, letting your head run painfully against the pavement. Your whole body is tense as you try to kick out of his bruising grasp, grabbing onto grass and tree roots trying to stop him from pulling you back to that godforsaken place he called your home.

"Don't make me use the sedative." He frowned, like drugging you would hurt him far more than it would hurt you. Finally you gave up, sobbing as he pulled you up into his arms, securing soft fabric cuffs onto your wrists. They were the only thing kind about your existence with him, metal boning keeping you from slipping them off, but miles better than the metal ones they used in jail.

It's an ache that's bone deep. It infects every muscle, every joint, and every nerve. It leaves a fatigue bad enough that you stumble over your own feet. The pain leaves your skin feeling warm and feverish, something Bucky took note of quickly about two weeks ago.

At first the two of you thought it was just some sort of infection, the flu, or something. You tried to let it run its course; both of you have had your shots on top of being dosed with Infinity Formula a little while back, so whatever it was wouldn't last long, right?

Except it just kept getting worse and worse. You became lethargic; you stopped going on morning walks with Bucky, citing your lack of energy and saying you'd join him tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd get out of the house. Tomorrow you'd go on your weekly date night; tonight you just couldn't. But tomorrow kept coming and going. Before you knew it, a week had passed.

That's when Bucky called Reed, asking if he could take a look at you and try to figure out what's wrong. In hindsight you almost wished you hadn't gone along with it, dug your heels into the sand, and been stubborn. But that damn concerned face Bucky had broke any will to fight it.

A few high-tech tests you didn't really understand later, and Reed hesitantly broke the news.

"I'm sorry... You're dying."

That was a week ago now. You've been drifting in and out of feeling real, like maybe you were coming in and out of consciousness. Any second you'd wake up to Bucky at your side, waiting for your nightmare to be over so he can hold you tight. No matter how many times you pinched yourself, you've never woken up from this.

You come back to reality, high definition and loud, and Bucky's making breakfast. It's difficult to tell if it's breakfast for breakfast or breakfast for dinner. A light streaming in through the windows tells you it's the former.

The TV in the living room draws your attention, pulling you away from your partner at the stovetop. The volume on the TV is loud enough for you to hear.

"—Avengers saved the city from yet another Hydra attack led by Lady Hydra. Fire and Rescue on the scene are saying there is minimal structural damage to the surrounding buildings and little to no casualties. Our reporter Jake has more news. Jake?"

The world fades just a bit as the blonde newscaster stops talking, her voice cutting over to the reporter, Jake. You realize you're stuck in your head again, eyes unfocusing and outside sensations going fuzzy. You should be helping with that fight. Bucky should be too. If any of them got hurt you'd never let yourself live it down. Especially if it was Nat or Steve.

A plate being set down next to you on the counter pulls you back from your thoughts. Bucky stares at you, concerned again. That face is starting to get irritating. You know he doesn't mean to be patronizing. The two of you have been friends since you were kids, and he's processing that his partner that's been with him for as long as he can remember will be checking out of this plane soon. But you can't help the swell of anger at the look, the one you've seen on so many people. Pity.

When Hydra took your brain and played with it, you got faces of pity from Steve. When people learned that the two of you were forced to kill against your will, photos of you both spread out across TV stations without consent, and you saw people on the street looking at you with fear and sadness. Even the faces of the Avengers when Steve used the cube to return your memories were of pity and fear.

You and Bucky have always been scrappy. Doing what you could or had to get by. It's what made you both such good soldiers in the war, doing what Cap couldn't or wouldn't. You almost believe you'll survive this, all of the years of getting lucky, chancing death, and surviving bad odds. Maybe she was angry at you or something.

"Hey, where'd you go?" A simple phrase the two of you used when the occasional memory resurfaced and the war returned. This time you knew the war was over. It had been for a long time. And you were starting to feel the effects of it.

"Just... trying to process. Remind myself who I am." It was a half-lie. You are trying to process it still, but both of you knew that wasn't why you were in your head.

"Really?" He stared you down, taking a bite of his eggs. Two could play at that game. "No—I'm not trying to start a staring contest with you. Jesus, they really wired us the same way." There was a smile on his face, small but noticeable to you. A sigh escaped your throat.

"I'm a little annoyed, that's all. You keep looking at me like I'm some lost soul you saw on the street. Reed said I have a year with that medication he's synthesizing; it's not like I'm going anywhere soon." Roughly you stuck a bit of your breakfast into your mouth, trying not to stab your own tongue with your fork in the process. You realized you were acting like a moody teenager, and yet you did nothing to change it.

Bucky's faint smile dropped. "A year will never feel like long enough. We only got back to ourselves not long ago, and now I'm losing you." You knew this conversation had been coming, the two of you dancing around the subject, not wanting to tip the other off. "There's so many sorcerers, mutants, people who could help more—give us more time."

Just as the quiet settled in, with the monotonous sound of the TV droning on in the background, you spoke up again. "I wish we hadn't gone to see Reed." Your words were simple, with an underlying message in them: "I didn't want you to be this worried about me."

Bucky caught on, of course, leaning his elbows onto the counter, arms crossed. His eyebrows were pulled down, creating a shadow over his eyes. It would be menacing if you were any other person, if you couldn't see the fear and worry lying underneath the scowl. "I'm not gonna stop caring about you just because you think you don't deserve love, doll."

"Maybe this is all for a reason. Maybe this is karma catching up to me." You grit your teeth. Backing down now would kill your ego, and it's not something you're going to let go of until they put your ashes in a fucking painting.

"If that's the case, then why are you dying and not me?"

You stand up from your seat. Bucky straightens his back.

"Maybe you have actual good in you, maybe you have more potential than me."

"Why can't you see that you're a good person too?"

"Because I hurt people, Bucky."

"We've both hurt people—"

"Before the war. Before we got turned into mindless pawns in a battle! Before everything!!"

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized you fucked up. Your breath runs ragged after yelling.

Neither you nor Bucky talk much about your lives before the war; you knew a few things about him and how he lost his family, but you never found much worth in dwelling on what was. Even at the age of fourteen, your childhood had been long gone by the time you joined Captain America with Bucky. He knew that much. But you never told him what your home life was like exactly, or why you ran away. And he never asked.

Your head hurts. Your muscles and joints ache, and you can feel your heart thumping heavily in your chest. Most of all you feel like you're going to collapse, emotionally and physically.

Bucky's there before your knees hit the ground, arms tight around your waist. You want to struggle and move away, but you don't move an inch, like all of your muscles just decided to stop working. Gently, he helped you sit down on the tiled ground, still holding you tight. Your breaths were coming out uneven and heavy, something stuck in your throat, and your cheeks felt wet.

Belatedly you realize you're crying. For the first time in... a long, long time. Like a tidal wave it just wouldn't stop. Every emotion you've shoved down for decades was bubbling up. Your eyes burned, your throat felt constricted, and your nose was running, and you were sure you looked absolutely pathetic.

Bucky drew a breath in before pulling you close to his chest, running his non-metal hand over your back. You couldn't see it, but his eyes were wide. He had never seen you cry before. He had never seen you so broken.

A man like you who had seen so much, been subjected to so much, crumbling in Bucky's arms. It made his stomach twist. Whatever was happening was worse than Reed predicted, you had never acted like this before.

Clint knew that Bucky kept secrets under lock and key, ones he would never know. Clint knew that some of those secrets were important; some of them could risk lives if let out.

Clint understood this innate fact about his partner. He had long since come to terms with the fact that some things he just wouldn't know. If Bucky put up walls or got defensive about a question, he'd drop it.

But when the questions he started getting defensive about were "Where have you been," "Are you okay," and "What happened?" It raised some red flags. Ones that made Clint worried.

It didn't go on for very much longer after that. Clint slowly pulled away from the relationship mentally and physically, Bucky packed his bags one day and never came back. The only time they saw each other was when they begrudgingly helped out Nat together or the occasional sighting at whatever Avengers mission they had to do. Clint didn't go to those fancy Avengers parties that Tony threw, nor did Bucky. Neither of them lived at the Avengers base, which made it even less likely for them to see each other.

This added to the surprise when Bucky opened his front door at 1am, having been in the middle of sleeping on his couch, to the sight of Clint Barton. Blonde hair sticking out at odd angles, sporting a black eye and bleeding onto the front porch. For a moment Bucky just stared—glared, really. A second passed by. Then two. Bucky wondered if this was really Clint or some sort of trick. He knew of more than a couple shapeshifters and other such beings, but what goal would they have standing at his doorstep bleeding out? Mystique wouldn't go to him for help, and if this was a Skrull, they picked a horrible person to disguise as to get help.

Just as he was pondering the possibilities of who this could be if it wasn't actually Clint, the blonde man spoke up. "...Hey." He heaved a breath after his single word, like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. Bucky immediately recognized the way he swayed slightly from side to side and how his eyes closed for a bit longer than a blink should last.

Silently he opened the door wider and stepped back, letting his ex inside. It was a rare sight for Clint to be accepting help, especially from Bucky now, but he chose not to think about that too much.

"Sorry. Didn't have anywhere else to go, and I don't exactly have the money for a hotel at the moment." Clint mumbled, taking a look around. Not much had changed since he was last here, for a small little present exchange last December Nat made him go to. It was still as barren as it was then: a sofa with a blanket draped over it, a tiny kitchen with just the bare essentials, and a dining room table that was never used.

Bucky busied himself getting the med kit out of the closet, stocked with everything an ex-Hydra assassin turned Avenger would need. He didn't ask what happened or why the hell Clint looked half dead; at this point it was just as common as Alpine knocking a cup off of the table or his back aching from refusing to sleep on a bed. It was just the way things went, and from his time dating him, he knew not to ask how or why it happened but instead to question where it hurt and what injuries he got.

The amount of injuries Clint sustained consistently at the very least made him knowledgeable about what kind of injuries felt like what. It was easier on Bucky too. He gestured vaguely at his ex, trying to get him to talk.

"Some gashes on my ribs and stomach, no damage to internal organs, other than that just a few scrapes here and there." As he talks Clint gently pulls off his shirt, wincing as the fabric drags against the cuts painfully. He wads up the piece of clothing, holding onto it so as not to dirty any of Bucky’s things with his blood. He already felt like a giant asshole coming here so late, bleeding all over the front porch and asking to come in.

Silently Bucky gazes over Clint's abdomen, trying hard to not make it awkward, and grabs a needle, medical thread, antiseptic cream, and a cleaning wipe. For the first time that night he spoke, voice scratchy from sleep. "Sit down." It was less an ask or a plea and more a command. A command by a man far past tired, who wanted nothing to do with Clint but wouldn't leave him out in the cold to bleed to death.

Wide-eyed, Clint sat down without another word. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Bucky clean and stitch his wounds. He wanted desperately to speak up, to say he could do it himself, but he knew that Bucky wouldn't let him. As much as Clint was good at dressing his wounds, he did come here. To Bucky. And Bucky found it irritating to watch the blonde try to do all of that himself.

Once he was finished, he pulled away completely, dumping the trash and closing the med kit. "The bedroom is down the hall. Haven't used the bed since I moved in." Clint wanted to ask why he even had a bed if he'd never use it but refrained himself to nodding and thanking Bucky.

The bedroom was small, barely enough space for a cupboard and a twin-sized bed. The covers were neatly tucked under the mattress, and the pillows were stacked like a stock image. Clint set his shirt on the bare nightstand, the only thing on it being a simplistic lamp. He'd have to go and get a replacement shirt at some point; the rips on the sides were just too large for him to mend.

Just as Clint dug the heel of his hand into his eye, thinking about how much work he still had to do, Bucky leaned in through the crack between the door and the frame. "Started a shower for you." His voice was flat and monotone; not another word was spoken before he walked back down the short hallway. Clint didn't even get the chance to answer, blankly staring where his ex had been standing.

"What?" He mumbled to himself. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier and Clint's ex-boyfriend, just started a shower for him. Unprompted. Slowly he walked down the hall, uneasy in his footing. None of his relationships ever really ended on horrible terms per se, but none of his relationships ever ended in a healthy way either. Between his divorce and his... problem with dating teammates, he never really experienced a clean breakup. Though he couldn't really blame anyone but himself for those instances. But Bucky, caring even just a little, starting a shower, stitching him up when he knew he could do it himself...

It made Clint feel horrible.

Bucky was never an outwardly affectionate person. He never said "I love you," and neither did Clint. But the way he would come home to a full coffee pot and Bucky trying—and failing, but the thought counted—to figure out how to turn on the VCR with the dog cop episodes on it showed how much he cared. He liked to do things for people. He liked to be helpful.

Clint stepped into the shower after locking the door, stripping off the rest of his grimy clothes, and setting his hearing aid on the counter. The water was the perfect temperature, the one he always set it to. Hot enough for steam to fill up the room and make his skin blotchy and red. Most importantly, it always washed away the feeling of exhaustion and replaced it with relaxed muscles and a warmth that could keep any room from freezing.

He brought his hands up to his eyes again, trying not to let the feeling of deep guilt and sorrow take over every last part of him. Clint mumbled expletives to himself as he ran his hands down himself, trying to wash away the dirt and blood that remained on his skin. He didn't want to use Bucky’s soap. He didn't want to be reminded what it smelled like. He didn't want to remember the nights where Bucky would curl against him in bed after a hot shower.

This was a horrible decision. He should have just slept in an alleyway with his bow in hand. It's not like he's never done it before; the only problem was the gashes that had been in his side. Clint sighed heavily, wearily, and got out of the shower. He hesitantly used one of the spare towels sitting on a shelf to dry off, staring into space as he wiped the cooling water off of his skin.

Just as he was about to pull on his dirty clothes again, he spotted a stack of clean ones sitting on the toilet lid. He immediately recognized the shirt, one he would frequently steal from Bucky when they were dating. There was also a pair of comfortable pajama pants and a pair of socks, but Clint couldn't stop staring at the shirt.

It wasn't like Bucky stopped caring when he moved out of Clint's small apartment. Gently he folded some of his clothes he had just washed, setting them on the toilet seat for his ex. It gave him something to do while he waited for the shower to warm up. He noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly, wavering in their place as he finished neatly stacking the shirt, pants, and socks.

He huffed a breath, checking the shower temp before letting Clint know he started a shower for him. The way his voice wavered, he was sure Clint would hear it. He was sure Clint could see how him showing up was affecting his emotions.

Bucky still blamed himself for what happened. Lies told, questions brushed off or left completely unanswered, and even instances of him not coming home until late to avoid talking to Clint. His therapist had described him as avoidant, anti-social, and unstable in relationships. He always thought that he would somehow work past that once he got with Clint, that somehow he would start letting him in.

Of course in hindsight that was stupid. He could have worked through it. But instead he waited around for it to just happen, like Clint would fix all of his problems magically. And despite the number of sorcerers and people with superpowers, a magic like that just didn't exist. That he knew of. And if it did exist, it wouldn't happen to Bucky nor Clint.

It wasn't that Bucky didn't want it to magically be fixed by some super powerful mutant or something, but at the end of the day, waiting around for that would be the end of everything.

He stared off into space, sitting on his couch. Alpine sauntered over to him, curling up on the cushion to his left. The guilt of how his relationship with Clint ended ate at him as he sat; it was a horrible feeling of dread. Anxiety, maybe. Bucky didn't really know what the name of the feeling was. He wasn't good at naming any of his feelings. But this was a bad one; he at least knew that.

When he heard the door to the bathroom open again, his head perked up. His ears picked up on footsteps getting closer from down the hall.

"Thank you."

Clint appeared, leaning on the wall wearing the clothes Bucky had lent to him. Seeing the blonde in that shirt again, faded dark red in stark contrast to his usual purple clothing, brought up a few memories Bucky wished weren't still in his head.

He hummed in response, staring blankly at the other man. He should apologize to Clint. He should say something, anything, to make the situation better. And for once his mouth listens to his brain.

"I'm sorry."

Clint looks surprised, eyes wide, and the tentative smile he had fading quickly. "What?"

"For all I didn't say." Bucky kept his hands stiff on his thighs, trying to get the shaking to not be noticeable. He was sure Clint could see how his shoulders drew up and the way his eyes squinted ever so slightly.

Clint stared for a while. The silence consumed Bucky. He refused to meet his blue eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes, relax. You look like you're going to explode." Clint's words sound like they're poking fun, but all humor is drained from his voice. If anything, he sounds annoyed. "I know me coming here has obviously brought up... something." He gestured with his hand, waving it almost dismissively. "And I'm not about to say that apology means nothing to me..." Clint trailed off long enough for Bucky to look up at him. His blonde eyebrows were pulled together, but he was staring off at one of the blank white walls of the room.

"But?"

Clint's jaw clenched visibly. "But, if you're trying to make up for guilt, this is kind of a shitty way to go about it."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, shoulders sagging just slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Bucky, I know you. We dated for nearly a year—which I'll remind you is in the running for my longest relationship without being on and off—and you apologize when you feel guilty about something, but most importantly you don't explain what you did wrong or why you did it."

Bucky was stunned into silence.

Clint wasn't mad, really. He was annoyed, sure. He was remembering times in their relationship where Bucky would just say, "I'm sorry," and then not talk for the rest of the night, absolutely. But he wasn't mad. He couldn't be because he was being a huge fucking hypocrite, and he knew it.

When there were problems, Clint wouldn't open up. He wouldn't say a word. He would shut himself off, avoid it, and bottle it up until it became absolutely unbearable, to the point he would blow up at Bucky or someone else.

Clint dug the heels of his hands into his eyes for what felt like the millionth time tonight. "I'm sorry too. For how I pulled away instead of trying to be there for whatever you were going through. I'm sorry that I never communicated. I know I fucked up too. I didn't really know what to say or how to start that conversation. And… I was afraid if I said anything, the relationship would end sooner."

Now the silence ate at Clint. Both of them think about how if they were different people, they could have had this conversation much earlier. If they were more healthy, less traumatized, people.

"Maybe we just weren't going to work out." Bucky mumbled, picking Alpine up and setting her on his lap so he could scoot over, making room for Clint to sit down. "I didn't mean to hurt you with the things I said and did before it all... before we broke up." He started petting his cat, trying to relieve some of the anxiety stirring in his stomach, especially as his ex sat down next to him. "I don't have many answers for you. I stayed out late because I wasn't used to considering other people and their feelings for me. I got defensive over simple questions because it felt like you were actually seeing me, and that... was terrifying."

The silence returned, but this time it felt just a little more comfortable. Both of the men sat quietly, staring at the ground to avoid looking at the other.

After a few minutes of Alpine purring, Clint spoke up. "We're both terrible partners, aren't we?"

"Yeah." Bucky sighed. "You pulled your stitches, didn't you."

Clint smiled. "Yeah. Would you patch me up again, old man?"

no. 2: Immortality & no 9: flashbacks (Logan Howlett & gn reader, Alex Summers x gn reader)

no. 3: isolation (yandere Charles Xavier x gn reader)

no. 4: loss of powers (Cherik x male reader)

no. 11: hidden injury (Scott & Jean x male reader)

no. 13: forced retirement (Peter Maximoff x male reader)

no. 17: internal bleeding (Alex Summers x male reader)

no. 18: environmental whump (Logan Howlett x male reader)

no. 24: amnesia (Peter Maximoff x gn reader)

no. 27: surgical scars (Warren Worthington III x male reader)

no. 28: backstabbing & creative restraints (General male reader-insert, past Alex Summers x male reader, Charles Xavier & male reader) [Part 2.]

no. 30: burn it down (Alex Summers x male reader) [Part 1.]

no. 31: Bleeding out & rescued by the enemy (Scott Summers x male reader)

A searing pain in your side. The sigh of the older man who you thought was on your side. The horrified gasp of the man who you thought was your enemy.

"He was getting too... attached to humans." He turned you too, still levitating off the ground like the egotistical asshole he is. "Don't think I didn't know about you helping out that human."

You had helped one human survive an accident where they would've been killed. In your mind you thought it wasn't that big of a deal. It was one human—one inconsequential little human who was going to get killed like the bumbling fool it was. Who were you to not guide the monkey who made fire but didn't know how to put it out? It's not like it mattered in the end. You guessed it mattered to Magneto. That much was obvious.

Just like that, Magneto—Erik—floated away from you, leaving you slumped up against the brick wall and bleeding profusely. He took the metal shard with him to prevent you from turning it into a bandage or a phone to call for help. At least he was smart in his betrayal.

Cyclops just stared at you, hands lifted slightly from his sides like he wanted to do something, like he wanted to help you.

"What are you staring at, X-Man? Don't you have a flight to catch?" You knew the team would be leaving any minute. They finished their mission, they saved the humans once again, and they prevented Magneto from taking over. You assumed the only person not on the plane was him; the rest were most likely trying to contact him through the earpiece he was wearing.

He scowled, looking up at the sky where Erik had left you. "So, what, you're just gonna lay there and wait to bleed out?"

You gave him your best "no fucking shit" look with your waning energy, deadpan and annoyed. Cyclops just shook his head and took a few steps towards you. On instinct you tried to back away, failing as you were already up against the brick corner in this dingy alleyway. If he were going to do something to you, you'd have no way of escaping.

He raised his hands up in surrender. "I'm not gonna hurt you; it seems like your boss already did the worst." After you wearily let your guard down, he held out a hand. "Think you can stand?"

You huffed out a breath, placing your hand in his and pulling yourself up. It was agony on your wound, but through it all you kept a stoic facade. You wouldn't let an X-Man see how much pain you're in.

He wrapped his arm around your back to stabilize you, starting to walk in the direction the two of you came from. You were half limping, having probably sprained your ankle running over here.

"Why the hell are you helping me, Cyclops?" Your words barely had the bite they usually would, drained of most of your anger.

"It's Scott." You couldn't tell where he was looking from underneath his visor, but you had the feeling he was staring at you from the corner of his eyes.

"What?"

"My name is Scott. You don't have to call me Cyclops." You looked over at him, nearly letting a smile pull at your lips before you corrected yourself.

"You're avoiding the question, Scott."

The only response you got was a shrug as the two of you kept walking. There was only a brief moment of silence before Scott started talking again, though it wasn't to you.

"I might be a bit; I've got an injured mutant that'll be joining us."

You half expected the man to dump you into a cop's hands or something, not allow you on the ship with the rest of the X-Men.

"That seems like a security hazard," you pointed out. He just turned to look at you blankly; the way he stared at you was intense, the kind that gave you the impression that you should stop talking. So you shut your mouth.

The longer you two walked, the more blood you were losing; it was difficult putting pressure on the wound since you were up and about. When you removed your hand, you caught a glance, seeing your skin covered in the red liquid. A shuddering breath left you at the sight. This was too much blood, and judging by the trail you were leaving behind, you didn't have long before you collapsed.

You would let it happen. Whatever the X-Men were planning to do to you once you got on that plane was far worse than dying here in the street. Besides, you didn't have a home to go back to anymore. Magneto effectively renounced your allegiance to the Brotherhood himself. This would only go so many ways: one, you die here while Scott is trying to save you. Two, you get saved and then are kicked out into the streets. Or three, you get saved and then turned over to the police. There was no way Professor Xavier would let you stay in his house after what you'd done, and you weren't really looking for that situation either. So dying in the street it is. It was easier this way.

When your knees suddenly gave out, you didn't fight it. You nearly took Scott down with you, with him trying and failing to counterbalance your weight. He sat you down gently on the sidewalk, kneeling in front of you. "Are you trying to get us both injured?"

"I'm bleeding out, asshole. Rather it be here than on your fancy plane while y'all interrogate me."

The other mutant just stared at you, lips drawn into a thin line and eyebrows pulled together. He sighed and dug his hands under your back and under your knees, deadlifting you from the ground. For how scrawny he looked, he was pretty strong.

"We're not gonna interrogate you. We're going to take you back to the mansion where we can get you medical help. Then you're welcome to stay with us, or you can leave."

It was hard to read Scott's face without being able to see his eyes. You were never one to trust easily—especially with people who have been targeted as your enemy for years now—this was no exception. Then again, the guy who you thought was on your side stabbed you with a shard of fucking metal like he's off his rocker, so things were different than usual.

Still, it didn't hurt to say something about it. "How can I trust you?"

He seemed annoyed and exhausted, his mouth twitching downwards into a frown at your question. "You don't. I'm already carrying you anyways, so personally, I would shut the fuck up."

You grumbled a bit but didn't struggle as he continued walking to the plane. You just wished he hadn't picked you up bridal style like you were some helpless maiden in need of rescuing.

When the two of you finally came across where the jet had landed, the rest of the X-Men were waiting on you. You could see the Wolverine tense up at one look at you, bleeding profusely in Scott's arms.

"The hell is he doing here?" His shoulders were tense, his hand balled into fists and seemingly ready to attack. As if you'd be able to fight at all, let alone stand. It's not like you were being princess-carried by the fucking Cyclops because you wanted to be.

Scott sat you down in one of the seats in the back of the plane while Storm started it up. You were practically seething silently, boring holes into the Wolverine with your eyes.

"He's injured. Magneto turned his back on him. Figured he needed help." Scott shrugged again as if this was the regular, picking up injured strays and nursing them back to health.

You stayed silent as the two of them argued, watching them get progressively more agitated the longer this went on. Jesus christ you were starting to feel bad for Scott; he was getting hounded on by Wolverine for no fucking reason, and he saved your ass.

Back and forth, the man with the mutton chops kept saying that you were a liability, with Scott arguing that Wolvie was the same way before. So you were right; Scott did have a tendency to save injured strays. Then Wolverine had the gall to say that you might just be some sort of spy, that Magneto hurt you so you would get taken in by the X-Men.

"I'm not a fucking spy." Your voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through all sounds in the plane. Everyone turned to you, staring at you silently as if you were a dog that just spoke. You tried to continue even through your labored breathing. "Magneto nearly killed me. Don't need to go all aggro on Scott for saving me from bleeding out, Wolverine."

When Scott turned back to Wolverine with a smug smile, you wanted nothing more than to deck him in the face. The corners of your vision were going black; you knew you'd be out soon. You'd gladly take that rather than watching those two fight like toddlers again.

Just before you passed out, you vaguely heard Wolverine say something about "Sleeping Beauty is out" and a scoff.

When you came to, you were handcuffed down to some sort of bed. It seemed they had you hopped up on some sort of pain meds because you could barely feel the stitches in your side. You let out a scoff as you transformed the handcuffs into paper. Or at least you tried to transform the handcuffs. They just wouldn't budge.

"Those won't transfigure. Neither will anything else around you." Jean spoke to you; she was on the other side of the room, holding a clipboard. Obviously at some point she had changed out of her X-Man suit and into a lab coat.

You groaned loudly, trying to yank your wrists free. "Why am I restrained? What, am I gonna punch someone while I'm still recovering from blood loss?"

She seemed unperturbed by your anger. "We've had incidents before." She takes a look at your heart rate monitor, writing down something on her clipboard. "But don't worry, you'll be let out of those soon. It was a precaution for when you woke up."

You watched her walk around the high-tech lab, putting things away, writing things down, and looking at the screens around you. After a few minutes she pressed some buttons, and the handcuffs retreated into the frame of the bed. You sat up and rubbed your wrists where they had gotten sore from pulling at the restraints, careful not to tug on the IV.

"So, what did you do to my powers?"

"Just a temporary mental block to make sure you didn't transfigure anything important." She seemed so nonchalant about this situation, for you to be unable to use your powers. It made you feel uneasy. Maybe that was some lasting hatred for humans. You felt human. It was disgusting. Magneto was wrong for thinking you had gone soft for that species.

You turned your head at the sound of a door opening, the whirring of motors like the ones at the grocery store.

"I see the princess is awake." You rolled your eyes at Scott. He had sunglasses on now instead of his visor; they were tinted red and had a pretty nasty glare to them due to the bright lights in the room.

"Oh, my knight in shining armor hath come back. I was beginning to think thou hadst passed in the night." Sarcasm practically dripped from your tongue with each word. You threw your legs over the side of the table, moving to stand. Right as you did, both Jean and Scott tried to stop you, quickly moving towards you as you jumped onto the ground from the slightly elevated surface.

"No, no, no, don't—"

You stumbled slightly, hunching over in pain. Seems those meds weren't as strong as you were hoping. Jean got to you first.

"You weren't supposed to get up yet; you'll pull your stitches—" She sounded worried, grabbing you by the shoulders and trying to get you back into the bed.

In your panic you transformed the bed into a shard of metal, a near copy of the one Magneto used to stab you. Jean let out a yelp as the shard clattered to the floor right where the bed had been.

Scott came up to your side while Jean tried to calm you down.

"It's okay, you're gonna be okay; if you keep panicking, you're going to change more objects." You tried taking deep breaths as Scott put a hand on your mid-back. Soon enough you could focus on changing the metal shard back into the bed, allowing the other mutants to set you down on it.

While Jean checked your stitches, Scott hovered over you, watching her work. When he looked up at your face, he smiled. "You sure you don't need more saving, princess?"

"You call me princess again and I'm transforming your glasses into confetti, Cyclops." Despite your biting words, a smile forced its way onto your face.

Jean shook her head with a grin. You let out a yelp from her pulling the bandages off of your freshly torn stitches.

"Your hair is goin' grey."

You looked up at Clint, where he was studying your hair intently. Honestly, you had no idea why he was doing this or what caused him to; he just suddenly started to run his fingers through it a couple minutes ago. You let him do it since it wasn't bothering you much and he had been silent up until now. It felt nice to have a small moment like this in your lives.

"Not surprised," you shrugged. "You sound surprised though. Shocked your boyfriend's gettin' old, bird boy?"

He just grinned at you as you stuck a random piece of paper between the pages and closed your book.

"You're not that old; that's why I'm surprised." He kept playing with your hair, parting it slightly to see the grey roots through the other color. "Not even Matt's got gray hairs; sometimes I think he'll keel over from the stress of his jobs."

You rolled your eyes, tugging on his shirt to get him to sit in your lap. "Yeah, well, Matt might as well be a fuckin' mutant. Maybe he's got slower aging or whatever and can handle more stress."

Clint sat down, knees on either side of your hips, planted firmly into the couch. His hands slipped down to hold your face softly, like you were porcelain.

"Got a good view, babe?" You teased him like this often.

"Oh yeah, silver fox." He stuck his tongue out at you, grinning like a child.

"Hey! I am not a silver fox yet; do you see all this not-gray hair?"

"You mean the dyed stuff?"

You hit him gently on the shoulder, and he laughed. A silence stretched over the small apartment. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that made you feel safe and loved.

"You'd look good with gray hair, y'know." You raised a brow at your boyfriend's comment but only hummed in response. "Maybe you could grow it out some day." He pressed a kiss to your head, over the gray roots.