An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He agrees to spend the night at Sun Estate.
He has failed so spectacularly, so simply, in the purest form of the word. His mind is roaring with it. There is nothing to be done.
Unless.
Never thought I'd write something for this pairing but here we are! Can be read as romantic or platonic, whatever suits your fancy. 90% grief, 10% Corbitant schenanigans.
Reblogs, kudos, and comments always very appreciated!
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He says, “What do you want for dinner?” and you shrug. You say, “I can just make something at home.” You microwave leftover soup and he slaps together a sandwich an hour later, and you eat at separate times without remembering to check if the other is hungry.
You go out with his family, ask afterwards if he’d like to sketch with you, or have you read to him. He doesn’t. He wants to do his thing. You say, “We always do your thing.”
He says, “We never did before.”
“But we do now,” and you know it doesn’t matter. “I’m not even asking to do my thing, then. Just something different.”
He stops responding, and gets his phone to do his thing. You go to your laptop and sit across the room.
You watch how absorbed he is in his world. It feels as though he’s only ever doing something with you thirty percent of the time. You’re tired of fighting for another ten.
You bring home a book you think he’ll like. He smiles and says “cool,” but it sits on the counter until you drop it back into the library’s return slot.
Not speaking for hours–not out of cold hostility, but each of you wrapped up in separate tasks–becomes routine. You start to prefer the routine. It’s easier to shrug off another hour of solidarity than it is to break the tension.
He rarely looks up.
Conversations aren’t playing tennis, they’re firing a tennis-ball machine at someone who doesn’t hit back. He answers all your questions, sure–in detail, even. But he never asks you something in return.
You aren’t even tired anymore. Resignation is one hell of a drug, and the two of you reside in it like a gelatin. There is no moving on, only the illusion of stagnancy, suspension. Things will have to change soon, you know, but for now they suppress the urge to breathe.
Somewhere between the lines, you struggle to remember what you’ve left behind.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“Steve.” He chokes into his comm. “They’re–Steve, I need medical.”
“On its way,” And Steve’s voice grounds him, just a little. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Not for me,” Barnes says. He’s already assessing the room in earnest, now, sorting out the casualties from the living. This boy shakes from his touch and he shushes him as he braces his broken leg.
He can hear the moment it clicks. “The kids–?”
Or: Short 'n not-so-sweet thing based on the idea that Hydra had no boundaries when it came to experimenting on kids. It's grim but Bucky does his best to make that rescue tag happen.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Peter knows as soon as the door to his cell is thrown aside by Rhodey’s gauntlet. It’s done. He’s free. Everyone keeps telling him that, keeps repeating it over and over as they lead him outside, and he can’t figure out why.
(Or: the second half of a rescue roadtrip for our traumatized kid.)
