#captainsimagines

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really. 

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least. 

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen. 

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings. 

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over. 

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs. 

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved. 

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together. 

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility. 

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead. 

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted. 

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted. 

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh. 

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head. 

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade. 

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing. 

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up. 

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.”

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead. 

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way. 

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men. 

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny. 

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little. 

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers. 

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it. 

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it. 

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten. 

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s. 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices. 

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight. 

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts. 

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick. 

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized. 

He didn’t even know she could bruise. 

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others. 

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals. 

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions. 

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.”  She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims? 

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow. 

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused. 

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation. 

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable. 

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen. 

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone. 

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad. 

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body. 

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her. 

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows. 

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest. 

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all. 

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does. 

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.  

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others. 

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner. 

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room? 

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights. 

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him. 

There is a sunset on the screen. 

Silver glistens across her waterline. 

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay. 

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door. 

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training. 

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names. 

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat. 

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed. 

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should. 

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall. 

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men. 

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them. 

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human. 

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement. 

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips. 

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along. 

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted. 

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close. 

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well. 

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows. 

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak. 

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be. 

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes. 

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier. 

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach. 

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid. 

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way. 

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier. 

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all. 

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor. 

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own. 

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives. 

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in. 

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes. 

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement. 

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains. 

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers. 

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower. 

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower? 

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it. 

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all. 

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof. 

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards. 

The threat was internal. 

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head. 

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway. 

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining. 

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.  

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot. 

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated. 

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater. 

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic. 

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice. 

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!” 

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet. 

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body. 

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction. 

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it. 

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight. 

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters. 

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch. 

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did. 

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls. 

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same. 

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors. 

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones. 

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes. 

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.  

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal. 

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all. 

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage. 

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming. 

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base. 

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate. 

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either. 

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously. 

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions. 

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed. 

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer. 

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

 She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare. 

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for. 

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being. 

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now. 

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved. 

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before. 

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface. 

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told. 

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself. 

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down. 

It’s… 

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic. 

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it. 

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still. 

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however. 

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again. 

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him. 

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers. 

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides. 

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face. 

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself. 

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.” 

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth. 

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight. 

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void. 

They remind him of his own. 

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. 

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way. 

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow. 

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance. 

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach. 

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half. 

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.” 

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher. 

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts. 

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time. 

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him. 

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s. 

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat. 

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further. 

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know. 

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—” 

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless. 

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems. 

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion. 

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago. 

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately. 

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed. 

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority. 

If no one helps her, she’ll burn. 

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him. 

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.   

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was. 

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock. 

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes. 

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers. 

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it. 

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes. 

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand. 

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree. 

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath. 

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to. 

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her. 

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.  

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes. 

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.” 

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already. 

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches. 

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats. 

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night. 

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once. 

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist. 

He quite likes their flavor. 

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again. 

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag. 

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.   

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.  

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent. 

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared. 

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

xx

---

The first time Halsin heard Tav scream was during the invasion of the Last Light Inn, when Mol was snatched by a devil and Rolan dodged a blade as he reached to grab her. Tav had climbed the roof in time to see her being flown in the direction of Moonrise, and that was that. It was an angry scream, one that surprised him and Jaheira alike. Since finding Mol’s eyepatch and defeating Ketheric, Tav hadn’t made a sound resembling it. 

Good, he figured. There was no sense in acting reckless when the facts aren’t known, and a level-headed leader would serve the greater good. He had wanted to slip and scream his frustration for years now, but who would that benefit? Halsin found that if he and his companions held it in for just a while longer, then soon they could find peace, harmony, balance—he had to believe that.

For three hundred and fifty years, Halsin explored the minds, souls, and the willing bodies of countless people. He has taken and been taken, suffered and accepted, led and also been led a fool. Besides the shadow curse, there was nothing that truly haunted him to the very marrow of his bones. He was everything an Archdruid was expected to be, and that included being an expert at hiding one’s fear to level the playing field. 

But recently, he’s been haunted by an odd feeling in his stomach. Thaniel and Oliver were healing together, Ketheric Thorm had been defeated, and he and his companions were readying their supplies to take the two-night trip into Baldur’s Gate. There shouldn’t be anything else plaguing his muscles, and especially not his digestion. Not even the bear could truly keep food settled for long. He suspected that as the land healed, he felt it. He felt each vine untangle, each pebble overturn, each sick creature drain and die. He was usually familiar with plant life dying and sprouting anew, but this was something else entirely. It was the undead dying, the sickness shriveling, the living succumbing and promising their return. It was a sickness extinguished, a sickness that apparently needed to pass through him and any other person connected to nature in the surrounding area. 

He excused himself after dinner, and waited for the oddity to start.

Just as he nearly slipped into trance, the flap of his tent smacked him in the face. 

“Now that we’ve healed this land, where are you going to fuck off to?”

He grumbled, opening his eyes to meet those of a seemingly unbothered Tav. 

Halsin had a bit of a crush. A crush on the violent, self-serving narcissist drow who was going to get them all killed before they faced the real threat awaiting them in Baldur’s Gate. Granted, Halsin formed a bit of a crush on most people he encountered, but Tav was different. The feelings had snuck up on him.

Tav often spoke of utilizing the gifts the Dream Visitor had offered them, but he had never seen her actually consume an extra tadpole. Tav loved to fill Astarion’s and Gale’s heads about godhood, about revenge, but Halsin was there when she almost murdered Araj for suggesting Astarion bite her, and even accidentally wandered in on her and Gale watching the stars he had conjured. Hell, she was the first to grant Karlach that long-awaited hug. And when Shadowheart had the chance to prove herself worthy to her dark Lady, something raw flashed in Tav’s eyes. Something that ultimately persuaded Shadowheart differently. 

The only thing Tav had done recently that really pissed Halsin off was recruiting Minthara at Moonrise. What kind of person forgave someone who threatened a whole Grove? A whole civilization? His people.

But that was the thing: Tav was a person willing to forgive. Well, maybe not forgive. Forget, more like.

And he had forgiven her for the murder of Alfira because, Oak Father preserve him, he believed her confusion. Her surprise. Her… urges. Hells, he came close to killing Kahga back at the Emerald Grove. 

“Who says I’m fucking off anywhere else?”

Tav snorted, his curt response certainly something he’d been working on for a while now. He had remained civil with her, polite even. But the way she spoke to him had him questioning his abilities. He had cultivated mountains of patience over his long years, but she was just too good at breaking off pieces. No way she would be able to flatten him, but he worried himself over the prospect. 

“You’re seriously going to follow us to Baldur’s Gate?”

“I am no stranger to the city.”

Tav plopped down beside his bedroll and fiddled with the strap around his arm. He fought hard to keep so much as a twitch from his face. “It’s a shitty place. You’ll probably find one tree. Maybe two.”

“Do you want me to leave your side?”

Her expression held steady. “No. Just wondering what your plans were.”

Despite her attitude, Halsin had no doubts about whether or not Tav wanted him to remain. He never dropped hints about him leaving after the shadow-cursed lands were no more, and he completely expected to make the trip with everyone else. They helped him here, why wouldn’t he help them to the end? 

“Then you’ll have me. I will remain at your side until you have no use for me, or until my body can give no more. You need not worry about sudden disappearances or ill remarks from my end.”

She rolled his words around in her mind, the points of her ears wiggling slightly. “At least now I can see you in city clothes.”

He sat up slightly, his smirk wide. “Have you been fantasizing about what I would look like in such clothing?”

“Armor is a drag. I’ve been fantasizing what everyone would look like in silks and cotton.”

He hummed, settling back down and placing his hands behind his head. She definitely was a weird one. He couldn’t say for certain if she fancied him or not. She had inquired about past lovers, but hadn't pressed further when he mentioned bedding alone. She had joked about feeling lonely at nights and went so far as to wink at him, but she gave those same winks at Wyll. She had even fought to venture into the Shadowfell with him, but that same ferocity rose when she encountered Rolan fighting shadows alone. She was difficult to read, but he had only himself to blame. So occupied by the shadow curse, he had failed to get to know her. Or any of his companions, really. 

“I think I liked dresses before all of this,” she shared, surprising him. 

“What kind?”

She thought about it for a second, honesty in her lilac features. “The revealing kind. Where the lining dipped to my navel and my thighs were out.”

He was no stranger to such clothing. He had indulged in similar attire in his youth. “I imagine you would look beautiful in them.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But I think I also really liked elven armor.”

Halsin’s laugh came out as more of a grumble. “Is your drow armor unsuitable?”

“It doesn’t show off my curves.”

He couldn’t contain his smile. “Of course. What was I thinking?”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that. Her tent was pitched near Astarion’s, so he doubted she was looking to bunk with him tonight. This was her routine every night—check in with everyone, speak for a few minutes, maybe share a bottle of wine, and return to her own bedroll. Except this is the first time since rescuing Thaniel from the Shadowfell that she visited him.  

It was something he had thought about during their long travels. Did he say or do something that made her avoid him? Did she consider him a burden, only adding to their troubles without the promise of a cure for the damned tadpole? Volo had tried to do what he advised against, and Tav sported a pale blue eye because of it. 

But it looked good on her. Anything blue looked good on her. 

“You’re allowed to hate me, you know.”

He blinked an eye open, studying her vulnerable expression. Besides making questionable decisions and being rude to strangers they encountered, it was not enough to make him despise her. 

“I do not hate so easily.”

“You hate goblins.”

“They threatened my people. People in need.”

She hummed, “Taking in Minthara was like a slap to the face then.”

“There are other things to consider. Such as, you did not risk the grove when you first met her.”

“I killed a tiefling out of pure blindness. In my own camp.”

“And do you regret it?”

“I—I think I do.” She shook her head, as if arguing with her thoughts. “I also really wanted to kill Isobel.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could have.”

He sat up and sighed. Tav rolled her shoulders, uncomfortable with his closeness. He did his best to slide to the edge of his tent, but his frame wouldn’t allow much distance. “Are you here… to fight with me?”

Tav grumbled under a breath, avoiding his eyes. “Not exactly.”

He nodded, though confusion still weighed him down. “Then tell me how to best speak on this matter.”

“I don’t understand you,” she admitted, scooting to leave his tent. 

They had something in common, then. 

“When you’ve been alive for as long as I have, you come to understand those around you just a little bit more. Speak or don’t speak, I will not draw my blade. I know it is what you crave. You have fought everyone in this camp with your teeth, almost killed Gale when he confided in you about the orb, almost staked Astarion before you allowed him to feed from you. And you held a knife to my face when you rescued me from the goblin camp. If you wanted to kill one of us, you would have done it by now. If you wanted to kill me, you would have tried.”

Tav laughed and crossed her arms. Halsin averted his eyes from her muscles. “Tried,” she drawled.

He smiled again. “You would not succeed.”

“I take that as a challenge.”

“Take it however you’d like,” he said, sighing as he rested his head back onto his bedroll. “Now, will I receive some peace and quiet tonight?”

Tav squinted her eyes, a glint of mischief peeking through her long lashes. “Annoying oaf of a druid.”

“Annoying brat of a drow.”

That made her grin, teeth and all. Then, quieter, honestly, “Maybe all that torture I endured made me forget. Maybe it made me the way I am. Better today, but…”

Gods, he almost forgot. The odd necromancer they had encountered beneath Moonrise. What she said she had done to Tav, over and over, he could not imagine. First to be kidnapped, reduced to a wailing mess, cataloged like meaningless scraps, and pinned back together only to be ripped open again? And still, Tav did not remember. Thank the Gods she didn’t, and that the necromancer’s slices were simply numb visions. But to smell your own blood on a mind flayer pod, to have a vague recollection of betrayal, to walk right back into your prison…

He kept his voice soft, and tried to make his eyes speak better words than what he could currently form. “Do you mean violent?”

Any ounce of wisdom he carried seemed to die in front of her. She made his tongue twist, his mind rattle.

“Perverted.”

He said, forcefully, “You’re not perverted.”

“That’s why I speak with you, Halsin.” Tav opened the tent flap and stepped through. Her smile dropped, and he was no longer granted the privilege of a real one. “You say all the wrong things.”

---

“I’ve thanked you once already. Don’t be greedy.”

“You’ll find I’m exceptionally greedy,” Tav responded, clinking her beer with his wine. Rolan looked to the floor, fumbling as he tried desperately to flirt back. Halsin almost wanted to help the poor wizard, but that would probably do more harm than good.

“Darling, you’ve made the tiefling blush! How sweet!” Astarion observed, flicking his polished nails across his lips.

Tav shrugged a shoulder, then downed her beer in one go. “Don’t sweat it, Rolan! I have that effect on everyone!”

“Oh,” he lamented, his lips turning downward. Almost as suddenly, he corrected himself. Shoulders straightened, Rolan cleared his throat. “I thank you instead for clearing the road to Baldur’s Gate. When you can, make a visit to Sorcerous Sundries. I’ll give you a lovely discount on some scrolls.”

“Gale would certainly—”

“Gale would be appreciative indeed!” their resident wizard cheered, reaching to shake Rolan’s hand. “I plan on doing a little perusing of my own, of course. But any promise of a discount on some scrolls is certainly something I wouldn’t pass up! I say, Rolan! You and I need to speak one-on-one soon.”

Rolan stuttered over a breath. “That—Well, I’ll probably be preoccupied with my apprenticeship. But yes, that would be quite informative.”

“Gale, stop flirting with my favorite wizard. I wanted him in my bed, not yours,” Tav joked, winking at the blushing tiefling. Cal and Lia, listening at the other end of the bar, sputtered through their drinks.

Gale gasped, “Your favorite wizard? My word, how ugly of you, Tav! I thought we had something special.”

“Your—Your bed?” Rolan choked out, his smile growing. Halsin looked to Tav to tell her to cut it out, but what he saw was… authentic. Tav wasn’t joking, nor was she toying with the tiefling. She genuinely wanted to spend a night with him. Their banter had stretched from the grove to these cursed lands and Tav was nothing if not direct with her intentions. 

He and Tav shared banter… So it led Halsin back to his looming questions with no answers. Did he say or do something that made her avoid him? Was he a burden?

“Offers on the table, Rolan. I don’t ask twice,” she teased, ignoring Astarion’s gag and Gale’s responding chuckle.

“That sounds—” Rolan started, but his attention was pulled by a few of the tiefling children running up behind him. In their flurry of questions, he met Tav’s eye. “Apologies.”

Tav waved a hand and tried her best to smile at the children, who were now pulling at Rolan’s robes. Cal and Lia came to his aid, even going so far as to grab the children around their waists and run in the opposite direction. 

Rolan cleared his throat. “As much as it irks me to admit… I hope our paths cross again in Baldur’s Gate.”

Tav let her disappointment show for half a second before turning in the direction of the exit. Karlach, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel had claimed Isobel’s old room, while Wyll, Astarion, and Gale claimed the room where Art had been resting. Halsin had already mentioned he wasn’t going to rest tonight so he could help the tieflings pack, but he wondered where Tav was going to sleep. The only other room still standing was currently occupied by Rolan and his siblings, while the tiefling children were bunking with Dammon in the barn.  

Halsin quickly caught up with her, clearing his throat to gain her attention. “You were very forward with the tiefling.”

Tav shrugged, stripping her gloves from her sweaty hands. “We could die tomorrow. Might as well let my true desires show.”

“And that’s what desires you?”

She smirked. “Got something against tieflings? Or is it wizards, Halsin?”

“Not at all what I meant.” 

He followed her quietly until she led them to the lake’s edge, just a few feet away from Dannis and Bex. Tav chucked her shoes off and tore the corset from around her waist. It was a black and red corset she had looted from Minthara’s office back at the goblin camp, but her fellow drow seemed to not recognize it. Since rescuing her, Tav had made it her mission to try and get Minthara to notice. As if to say, I rescued you but I also bested you once before. Though he hardly spoke to the sharp-tongued drow, he understood her avoidance. Minthara had gained alliances in an unlikely place and vowed to fight by their side, an oath as strong as all others, and did not waste her breath on a petty argument. Especially an argument with her narcissistic Underdark kin.

“I meant to say, that I admire that in a person. I have been alive a long time and you so little, and yet you reach for what you want with ropes of experience.”

It was true. Halsin was no stranger to honey on the tongue or the caress of another. Sometimes he forgot that others have not racked up a roster like he had. Though, he wasn’t exactly keeping track. Every lover he had chosen had been sacred, willing, enthusiastic. It was nice to see others indulging, even if he did not feel the call right now. 

The bear hadn’t felt the call for a while now. Even back in the Emerald Grove, his only companion had been his hand. He didn’t know what changed. 

Tav sat down and leaned back on her hands, watching Dannis and Bex as they swayed in each other’s arms. When they had rescued Dannis from Moonrise a few nights ago, Halsin had been witness to their emotional reunion at this very lakeside. With as many people on his mental list of lovers, it would make sense that he had been in love before. But watching them reunite and cry in each other’s arms… Halsin realized he had never felt love in the way one was supposed to. Lust, admiration, respect—those feelings he was familiar with. Feelings that were reciprocated and cherished. This was different, foreign. 

Was he broken? Had the bear truly taken over that aspect of his life so much? Druids became more like their wildshape the more experienced and older they grew, and it wasn’t unheard of that some animal attributes bled into their daily lives. Or their physique. Nature had been his one calling as Archdruid, and though the realization that he had sorely missed out on the connection Dannis and Bex shared plagued his heart, he didn’t regret devoting his life to the Grove.

“I woke up on that nautiloid with absolutely no idea of who I was. I knew my name, and that was it. Along with a burning rage and desire for blood, I strangely felt free. In a way. This is me letting loose. Being the person I feel like I could have been,” Tav explained, her brow furrowing. Dannis and Bex shared a final kiss before retreating into the inn, giving both her and Halsin grateful nods. Tav sighed, “My memories, or the scraps of them at least, are tainted in red. I want new colors, Halsin.”

He sat down beside her, drawing his knees up so he could lay his arms across them. “I always imagined the color of lust as a light purple. When bodies connect in the most intimate of meanings, it is that streak of purple only the sky can mimic. A purple that only occurs in nature.”

“Poetic.”

“I’ll leave the poetry to Wyll.”

She watched the lake sway, now absent of dark creatures at its shore. He wondered if shadow-cursed creatures actually had also thrived underwater, but no one had reported such horrors. He wasn’t ignorant to think that the fish hadn’t shriveled, that the water wasn’t undrinkable, that the echoes of the Underworld hadn’t been waiting for bare feet.  

“I gave you all colors, you know.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Karlach is pink. As much as my blood yearns for the blood of others, I do not like the color red. Karlach is pink because she makes the darkest of places lighter. She makes my days lighter.”

He wouldn’t have assigned her that color, but Tav’s reasoning made sense. Karlach had a lot of blood on her hands, but blood would fade the more one scrubbed. 

“Gale is purple, of course. That damn robe he got abducted in is scorched into my brain,” Tav laughed. “Astarion is a dark blue. When I look at him, oddly enough, I have this intense feeling that his eyes were blue before he was turned. Blue like the sky he’s been cherishing these last few months.”

Halsin would be lying if he said Gale in purple didn’t stir something within him. After acquiring new robes or armor, Halsin always volunteered to dye it. Purple was instinct for Gale, but he had always found himself dying Astarion’s clothing red. Perhaps now he would reconsider.

“Lae’zel is orange,” Halsin added, grinning when Tav clapped her hands and cheered.

“Exactly! She doesn’t touch any other fruit besides those!”

He continued, ignoring the odd jump of his stomach. “Shadowheart is the color white. Her new hairstyle has nothing to do with it. You know, I was nervous when I saw her leaving camp with a dagger tucked away. Glad to know my nerves were unfounded.”

“Black washed her out,” Tav agreed. Her smile faltered as she picked around the dirt absentmindedly. “Black, however, is Minthara’s color. She radiates such… torment. Mentally, that is. As much as she tries to mask it, I can see right through her. And I think she sees right through me. We’re both terrified, and too angry to admit it.”

Terrified. In all the time he had been traveling with his companions, Halsin didn’t stop to think about what would happen if they lost. Tav had created this image of pure leadership, where everything that needed to be solved had a simple solution. Even Lae’zel portrayed as much. He did have moments where Tav’s questionable actions led him to believe someone would die, but not that anyone would kill them. 

“You just admitted it to me.”

Tav grumbled, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them. “The Oak Father will have your balls if you utter it to anyone else.”

“Didn’t know he answered to you.” He couldn’t help the blood flushing his cheeks.

“The gods love to hear me whine.” Tav's sarcasm coated her words and eye roll alike. Then quieter, angrier, she said, “I remember screaming for some.”

His chest caved in slightly, a burst of sympathy melting along his ribs. He had believed the Gods abandoned him when he was tied to that bedpost in the Underdark. He had believed the Gods abandoned him when the shadow curse prevailed and his fellow Druids didn’t run fast enough. He had believed the Gods abandoned him when the last of his family passed and he lowered them into the ground. But ever since, the Gods have answered his prayers. His Drow patrons couldn’t keep their disputes civil and he escaped after three, confusing years. He had sprinted fast enough to avoid the dark tendrils lapping at his paws and was fortunate enough to lead Rethewin’s survivors to safety. He was able to say a final goodbye to his mother. Even now they listened when he was rescued from that horrible goblin camp.

He didn’t quite catch if the Gods had answered any of Tav’s prayers yet since she herself doesn’t remember anything that happened prior, but he had it on good authority that every battle they’ve survived since had been blessed.

“And Wyll?” he asked, his tone softer as he reverted the topic of discussion back to color assignment.

“Green,” she answered quickly. “He reminds me of a park I used to walk around. A distant memory, a broken one. But I see him sitting in that green field, surrounded by wine and grapes and a lanceboard.”

He hadn’t spoken to Wyll all that much yet. Karlach and Gale were the two he found himself conversing with most often. Wyll always spoke of Baldur’s Gate, and though Halsin enjoyed hearing about their companions’ lives beforehand, he found that he did not have kind feelings for Wyll’s father. When he tried to maneuver the conversation away, Wyll always brought it back. 

And it made sense. Just as Halsin was preoccupied with the shadow curse and his role in its creation, so was Wyll and how he would prove to his father that his transformation was for the good of his citizens. Perhaps when his head was clear and his father found acceptance, Halsin would be able to speak to Wyll freely. To speak without thinking about how the city would be better off in Wyll’s hands instead.

Halsin wanted to punch Duke Ravengard in the fucking face. 

“And me?” he asked.

“Guess.”

“I assumed green, to be honest.”

Tav shook her head. She turned to him fully, the lilac of her face bright beneath the moon. For the first time since they had met, she showed him vulnerability. He knew it was killing her to do so. “You’re gold.”

Something foreign fluttered in his chest. “Gold?”

“You shimmer when you wildshape. But also, when you’re standing in the sun, your gray hair shines gold instead. You’re so damn joyful all the time and it reminds me of the sun. You’re sunlight incarnate, Halsin.”

He had been called wise, inspirational, large, and handsome. He had been called ruthless, uncontrollable, wild, and arousing. Never in his three hundred and fifty years had he been compared to sunlight, or directly called it. 

But he was sunlight to her.

She shook her head, a light chuckle beneath her breath. Then she stood and walked back in the direction of Last Light. Slowly, waiting.

“What color am I?”

She shifted her stance. Afraid of her own question, the answer it might bring. The truth of it. Halsin did not see her as a red tone. Far from it. Even her sleek red-orange hair wasn’t enough to classify her. Though red yearned for her, she did not want to claim it. There was a fire behind that fight, a fire that licked higher the more she resisted its call. Even in the midst of battle, drenched in blood, she did not harvest its bounty. Her and Gale were always the quickest to the stream, washing away the brutality. Gale out of pure disgust. Tav out of need. 

“You and I are at odds most of the time. We are two colors that clash, yet find a way to coexist in one setting. You are silver, Tav. The same color as your sword, of the lash of your words, of that fire in your eyes.”

“A silver menace, am I?”

He shrugged, too in his own head to truly argue it. “Silver is also the color of the ripples in water.”

“Ripples are the consequence of a disturbance.”

“They are proof of influence.”

She crossed her arms for warmth. Backing away, she pointed one finger at the sky, her grin nearly obscured by shadow. “And the color of the moon.”

---

The second time Halsin heard Tav scream was in camp a few nights later. A breathless one, but no less bone-rattling. The sound reverberated into his bone marrow, sucking out half and poisoning the rest. His first thought was Mol, that he had to save her this time, that a repeat of the grove was unacceptable and he finally had a chance to make things right. This was a job for the Archdruid. No tiefling would hurt under his watch. 

His second thought was that Tav was dying, and he needed to get up so his silver menace had a fighting chance. 

“Get away from him!”

Halsin woke from his meditation and caught a glimpse of a short, gray creature scurrying into the bushes. The further it retreated, the quicker its laughter came. A sound that scraped against his spine-bones, horribly akin to a goblin’s. 

He looked over his shoulder and watched as Tav held her shaking hands in front of herself. She breathed slowly, shutting her eyes as whatever troubled her began nudging at her once confident composure. 

“Tav?” he said lightly, slowly standing to his full height. In the campfire light, she was beauty incarnate. All her fine features threatened to stop his heart, his senses. And when those senses catapulted themselves into his brain, he saw pure fright on her lovely, scarred face.  

She trembled as she stepped closer to him, gagging on her next words. “Restrain me.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“Halsin,” she croaked. She glanced around camp, fidgeting even more as Shadowheart and Astarion poked their heads out from their tents. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to give into these urges if you don’t restrain me. I can’t control it—I’m trying—but I’m going to slaughter you in your sleep and all of your thoughts about me will be true—”

“Calm, Tav. I am awake, I am unharmed.” He took a step closer. “These urges… They are the ones you mentioned when you asked if they were possible effects of the tadpole?”

“Halsin,” she whispered, terror laced within those two syllables. “You piss me off, but I don’t want to kill you.”

That made him chuckle. “I will not let you.”

As quickly as he finished that sentence he saw the glimmer of a blade behind her back. She lurched forward, aiming for his heart. He reacted too late, but not late enough to get stabbed. An arrow whipped between them and lodged in Tav’s shoulder, sending her to the cold ground. Halsin yelled, panic gripping his stomach from the sight of her blood. 

“Wyll, give me the rope,” Astarion ordered, his skin somehow paler. He threw his bow to the side and immediately began tying Tav’s feet together. Wyll held her down by the shoulders, cursing when she managed to twist her neck far enough to bite him.

“What’s happening?” Karlach demanded, running up to the group. Nervous, caring hands burned with panic instead of the usual fury.

Tav thrashed, screaming wildly as Wyll bound her hands. He did his best to lean down and whisper in her ear, his horn smacking her cheek. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know this isn’t right, I’m sorry. 

“Dear Gods,” Jaheira breathed. “Not another one.”

Halsin had witnessed Jaheira mid-battle and post-battle. He understood that the older druid put on a face, the same face he perfected when he was at the grove. To be stoic in the face of chaos, of evil, was a necessary talent. But here, Halsin saw the mask fracture as she examined Tav’s mannerisms, her moans, her darkening eyes.

“What does that mean? Speak plainly, Jaheira,” he told her. The jump in his voice surprised him.

She huffed, sliding to Tav’s left side so she could check her pulse. At the same time, Shadowheart casted a calming spell. “I have only met one other who resisted the urges. The call for murder, of blood on the tongue, of death in every orifice of the body.”

Minthara blinked, her brow scrunching. “It cannot be!”

The pure terror lacing Minthara’s exclamation—ice pricked his veins.

“A Bhaalspawn,” Jaheira confirmed. “A tadpole-infected Bhaalspawn, at that.”

“A Bhaalspawn?” Karlach choked, though Halsin swore it was on a laugh. “In our camp? If my parents could see me now! Oh, this would make for the best How was your day? story around the dinner table!”

Gale rubbed at his chest, an awkward sound coming from him before he spoke. “That means Orin knows her from before the tadpole.”

“It means Orin tortured her and planted the tadpole herself, I am sure. When she betrayed me, she spoke of another that I now know was Tav. What she did, how her screams sounded—I was not fully listening as she was making an example out of me as well,” Minthara shared, her tone deadly. It was the most Halsin had ever heard her say in one sitting.

“Why wouldn’t the Emperor say anything?” Wyll cursed, quickly snatching his hand back as Tav tried to bite him again.

“It wasn’t its secret to tell,” Lae’zel said, though there was more hatred in her answer than understanding.

Tav shot forward, headbutting Jaheira and flipping onto her stomach. Just as her teeth nearly plunged into Astarion’s forearm, the vampire smacked an annoyed hand to her forehead. “Ah, ah, ah. We ask before we bite.”

“The spell wanes. Calming her emotions is not possible,” Shadowheart said, gritting her teeth. Jaheira, paying absolutely no mind to the bruise on her forehead, took over for the cleric.

“Hit her over the head with this pan,” Karlach offered, offense painting her face after Gale smacked it from her hands. She went to retrieve it, this time holding it over her head so Gale couldn’t reach it.

“Jaheira and I will stay with her,” Shadowheart spoke, her worry etched deep in the frown lines by her lips. “We will need—”

“My sword is yours,” Lae’zel volunteered, pulling her blade out to lie across her lap. She sat with her back straight, eyes focused. A soldier on guard, disguising her concern for a friend.

Halsin and Wyll carefully flipped Tav onto her back. “Are we absolutely positive this is what afflicts her? Maybe she inhaled some spores from your pack—” he tried to reason with the older druid. 

“Urgh—To taste a druid’s blood would be a carnal delight—to dig his heart out from the depths of his ribs and feast upon the muscle. To mutilate his corpse over and over and over—”

Jaheira’s chuckle was void of humor. “Ignore the wisdom of an old crone, why don’t you?”

“Halsin, are you sure you want to listen to this?” Shadowheart asked.

Yes!—he wanted to scream—he was a healer, it was his duty, he would do it for anyone else.

But something else ate away at him as he watched Tav squirm and suffer, biting at her own cheeks when the absence of his flesh famished her. This felt personal somehow, as if everyone else was merely an obstacle on her way to him. He was her target. 

Yet, he didn’t feel threatened. If he was her target, then so be it. She was the one person his body wouldn’t let him abandon because it knew she wouldn’t abandon him.

Tav choked on her saliva as she yelled, “Your bones would be put to good use inside my—”

“I can handle it,” he announced, the nerves in his shoulders loosening. Karlach and Wyll reluctantly returned to their tents as Halsin settled down beside Jaheira. 

“Come back to us, little one,” he said, his voice a hushed whisper. “I know you are still in there.” 

Tav whimpered, registering his attempt at calming her. Helping her.

“Feel the grass beneath your cheek. The soil wetting your skin. Let the Oak Father tend to your mind. Let nature pull you from this dread. It can take it. You can will it.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

Astarion diverted his gaze, swallowing a gulp of air his body didn’t need. He blinked rapidly before stalking into the trees, Gale trailing close behind.

Tav was his best friend. Devastatingly enough, the one friend here who had not yet claimed their own autonomy. Someone who was being controlled, forced to move and act at the will of another. His spawn blood stole his choice and allowed others to steal bits of his soul. Tav’s tainted blood stole her choice as well, but forced her to steal the souls of others. 

To be at the will of something sinister, to be forced to say and do awful things because something compelled them to… Halsin’s heart clenched at the comparison. But it leaped as it finally understood why Tav and Astarion were attached at the hip. How they could possibly heal each other. 

According to Tav, Halsin said all the wrong things. Maybe Astarion was her one source of truth.

“Do not apologize to me. There is no need.”

“I am sick.”

“You are fighting,” Jaheira clarified.

Tav sobbed, whipping her head from side to side. “I’m sorry, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart waved a hand, her smile small. “I didn’t feel like sleeping, anyway.”

The hours passed slowly, painfully, until the worst of it cleared. Lae’zel woke Karlach and Wyll to inform them, and Jaheira retreated to the dimly lit fire to regain some strength. Shadowheart sat back and waited, another spell prepared. But Tav sat up with her help, then calmly sent her away. 

It was just the two of them, quiet enough that Halsin could hear the beat of her heart.

She breathed in deeply, her burnt-orange hair falling across her face. She looked so… small. Defeated. Nothing like the fighter she had presented herself to be these past few weeks. Sweat stained her night clothes, yet she dug her toes into the dirt to find a sliver of warmth. 

“They say silver is supposed to keep evil spirits away,” Tav laughed brokenly.

He nodded. “That they do. That it does.”

“And yet, I can still see myself in the mirror.”

Halsin didn’t think she was trying to insult Astarion in the same sentence, but he understood what she was trying to say. A vampire equaled an evil spirit, and thus Astarion couldn’t see himself in mirrors. What plagued Tav was evil no doubt, and yet she was forced to see herself.

“Silver also promotes healing.”

She shook her head. “That’s your job.”

After a long pause, she whispered, “No one can heal from this. He’s in my blood. I am his.”

They didn’t say anything else. 

Tav watched the weakening flames until the sun came up, and Halsin watched her.

---

“Um, excuse me? I can’t find my mum.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Honest to the Gods, Tav could have simply smacked the poor girl and the physical lashing would have been less traumatizing. The young girl visibly recoiled, taking a small step back and almost tripping over her orange cat. Halsin reached out, but she moved further away.

Minthara snickered at Tav’s comment, though she didn’t aid in the verbal beating of the child herself.

“She had these spots all over her face and chest. She went out for some herbs and was supposed to come back already. Said she’d be four days at most. That was a tenday ago, though,” the girl mumbled, Yenna, and played with the loose thread of her sleeve.

“Sounds like your mom’s dead.”

“Tav!” Halsin scolded, something alarmingly bold rising within him. Tav made no indication she was affected by his outburst. Neither did Minthara.

“May I remind you you’re speaking to a child. In the middle of a refugee camp,” Gale said, brushing his hand through the warm air. His tone was lighter than his own, thankfully. The only other time Halsin had seen Rivington so crowded was days after the shadow curse rippled through the land and pushed the first round of refugees in.

“Which makes my observation that much more factual,” Tav stated, boredom polluting her fine face.

Astarion choked out a laugh, resting a delicate hand over his heart. “Oh, darling. I’m sure we can find you another squirrel to kick that doesn’t have opposable thumbs.” 

Tav rolled her eyes. Astarion continued, “You were so quick to shelter poor Arabella. What’s different now?”

“I would die for Arabella. I don’t give a shit about her.”

Yenna, surprisngly, chuckled. Tav snapped her gaze to the girl, raising an eyebrow. 

Halsin cut off their line of sight, stepping in front of Tav. He asked, his tone ghostly like a warning, “Do you give a shit about children?” 

Again, Tav gave nothing away as to whether his threatening aura unnerved her. Instead, she side-stepped him and reengaged the girl. “What uses do you provide?”

“Gods, you’re miraculous,” Astarion swooned.

Yenna straightened, lifting her freckled chin. “I can cook.”

“Gale cooks for us.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Ah!” Gale bent a knee, the crack obvious. “That would be I! Do you know your way around spices?”

Yenna grinned, sticking her chest out as she placed her small fists on her hips. “Mum taught me! Said I could rival the best chefs in Baldur’s Gate someday!”

“It’s settled then! I have a new apprentice.”

Minthara clicked her tongue. “One more mouth to feed.”

Gale gave Yenna a miniature version of their map and showed her where to find their camp. The girl scurried away, calling after her cat. Minthara and Astarion quickly left as well in search of some fashionable day clothes, leaving Halsin to deal with Tav’s attitude. 

The drow watched as Gale engaged in yet another bright conversation with a local, her scowl deepening. Confusion settling in.

“What color does the girl give off?” he asked her, a futile attempt to quiet both her annoyance and his anger. She stayed watching Gale and did not move when he settled right beside her, their shoulders brushing.

“Don’t know yet,” she said. 

He shook his head. Though it didn’t measure close, Halsin was slowly approaching the level of outrage he had felt when confronting Kagha. “You were too harsh.”

Tav hummed, then turned to strut down the hill to buy some fish. Completely insensitive and horribly remiss. “Best show her what to expect from me early on, no?”

She handed the fisherman some coin and waited as he bundled the fish. His stomach grumbled, but it wasn’t enough of an attempt at distracting from the matter at hand. 

“Lay aside your pride for a moment. Show kindness to children, would you?”

“That’s your job. Not mine. I have bigger matters to attend to.”

Whatever happened to the gut-wrenching apology she spewed a few nights before? What happened to the kind soul he saw save the tieflings twice over without question, the soul who defended Astarion every chance possible, the soul that almost regurgitated her breakfast while building the courage to tell Arabella her parents had died? 

“I didn’t think you so ugly.”

He said it before his mind weighed the consequences.

“Oh? Well, I know that’s not true. I have plenty of suitors. I have fucked plenty of people. No complaints.”

A mask just as fitted as Astarion’s, it seemed.

He followed close behind, sneaking a refugee some coin as she traveled the road back to their camp. He called out, but she did not turn to him. 

“Your beauty is not what I am commenting on. You are turning ugly inside, and I do not blame your blood for it. No sane soul deprives a child of food and shelter, even if it’s for one night.”

She shrugged, her hair blowing in the wind.“I am not sane. Don’t you get it, Halsin?” 

He nearly ran into her when she stopped and turned, crossing her arms in defiance. “I am weak, and I will give in to these urges soon enough.”

He snarled. “I didn’t take you as fragile and pathetic.”

Her eyes flickered with something… pained. As if he stung her. Then as quickly as it appeared, it disintegrated into the poisoned pot she stored most of her emotions in.

“Maybe I should have killed you the other night.”

“Strike me with your words all you want. I can take it.”

But it actually did strike him deep for some reason. So badly it nearly made him wince. She laughed, the sound piercing through the air and slicing him in two. 

He didn’t talk to her the whole walk back.

---

“Do you hate me?”

Halsin perked up at Yenna’s small voice. He nearly fell forward with the weight of his head as he forgot he was lounging in wild shape by the campfire. He located Tav and Yenna by the barn, Scratch and the unnamed owlbear running circles around them. 

“Hate is a strong word,” Tav mumbled, the cleaning of her boots uninterrupted as Yenna sat down next to her on the log. She kept a respectable distance, twiddling her thumbs. 

“I seeked someone kind-looking,” Yenna explained.

“I am quite beautiful.”

“I didn’t say that.” To that, Tav did halt her work. She turned to meet Yenna’s eye, the poor girl trembling as she tried to redeem herself. “Wait! I only meant that you looked kind, too.”

Tav straightened, her brow scrunching. “I’ve never been told that.”

“Don’t your friends tell you?”

“They’re not my friends.”

A blatant lie, Halsin thought.

Yenna frowned. “Oh. That’s sad.”

Clearly exasperated, Tav set down her boots. “What do you want, Yenna?”

The girl’s blue eyes widened, a small smile sneaking onto her face. “You know my name.”

“No, shit. I have functioning ears.”

“Well, if you don’t hate me, then why were you so mean to me?”

Tav shrugged, but didn’t pick up her boots. Instead, she leaned back and pulled her long hair into a bun. Yenna watched her, fascinated by the fair highlights in Tav’s hair. Yenna had mentioned to him that her mother kept her hair short out of necessity, that it was easier to steal the essentials without the threat of leaving a strand of hair behind. Now, Halsin bet she would grow it out.  

Tav, the silver ripple in the water. 

“I’m dangerous, kid.”

“There’s a bear in our camp right now.”

“Besides that.”

“And a Sharran—”

“She’s reformed.”

“And a vampire!”

Tav pointed a finger. “The kindest vampire you’ll ever meet, too.”

“How can he be kind, but you are not?” Yenna argued, squinting her bright eyes. Tav met her stare, unfaltering, and in that small moment Halsin recognized Tav’s unmistakable admiration. With Mol, that admiration spawned the moment she foolishly asked for her to steal the idol. For Arabella, it had been when Tav found her parents in the House of Healing—the knowledge that it would crush her spirit, but not her soul. Yenna’s growing confidence in a singular conversation was what was winning her over. 

Tav sighed, angling her gaze to him by the campfire. Halsin quickly feigned sleep. “I almost hurt that bear for fun.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone had to tie me up and hold me down until my mind quieted.”

Shame laced each syllable. Yenna scooted closer to her on the log. “So, you were mean because you didn’t want to hurt me with your hands?”

“I’m surprised I haven’t killed the dog or the owlbear,” Tav muttered, then jutted her chin up, “Or that cat of yours.”

They sat in silence for a good minute, Yenna watching Tav continue to wash her boots and Tav side-eyeing the girl. 

Halsin actually believed he should have been harsher with Tav when they first encountered the girl, but perhaps he failed to see right through her. Tav had aided him always, aided multiple others and merely joked about coin in return. And when Tav had burrowed into his past, with his permission of course, and saw the weight of responsibility he had put on his own shoulders… They saw in each other what others couldn’t: the inescapable need to form such a mountain of righteousness so that it casted a shadow over their countless wrongs. But it was near impossible climbing the height they had measured themselves.

For what Tav had almost done to him, why subject an innocent child to the possibility?  

“Thank you for telling me,” Yenna said, then softly poked Tav’s upper arm. A childish gesture, one that seemed to shock Tav still for a moment. 

Clearing her throat, Tav said, “Just keep your distance from me while I sleep, okay?”

“Where’s your tent?”

“Right next to Astarion’s.”

“Good. Vampires don’t die easily.”

There was a noticeable quirk in Tav’s upper lip, a movement that had Halsin’s stomach swooping and the bear audibly groaning.

“Set up your bedroll near Karlach’s tent. She’s the only one here who is physically capable of stopping me.”

“What about the Githyanki?”

Halsin thought about it for a bit, too. If Tav were to have another uncontrollable episode and she did not provide them warning like last time, who would be able to restrain and who would succumb? Halsin would like to believe his reflexes were spotless, but he had been nicked in battle one too many times already. It was Astarion who watched his back, muttering about what a disposable, yet practical shield he had proven to be. Astarion could definitely outmaneuver Tav on dexterity and flexibility alone. Gale, Wyll, and Shadowheart would probably react too late. Jaheria would put up a good fight. Lae’zel and Karlach were the only two Halsin knew could survive the bloodshed.

“Well, she camps far away from us,” Tav said, pointing to the tent closest to the barn’s exit. “Not because she doesn’t like us, but because if there’s ever an attack, she’ll swing first.”

“And she’ll go down first.”

Tav winced. “I think that’s how she shows she cares. It’s the only way she’ll ever let it be known that she’d die for us.”

Oak Father preserve him, he never noticed that before. The bear whined, and Halsin turned his heavy head to try and catch a glimpse of the fighter in her tent.

“I’m not so scared of you anymore,” Yenna declared, smiling brightly. She was missing her left canine. 

Tav hummed, “I’ll make sure to treat you extra poorly in the morning.”

---

“Final question,” the blacksmith said, his voice lowering an octave. “Would you be able to turn your weapon on those closest to you?”

Tav lifted her gaze, irises darkening. “What kind of question is that?”

Halsin made to step forward, but the blacksmith clocked the movement before he fully could. A twisted smile painted his sweaty face. Tav did not balk, nor did she raise a weapon. She merely inspected him, tilting her head to the side as if the angle offered more. 

“It allows me to know just how sharp I should make your blade, how heavy I should make the handle. Should your blade drive through the meat of the one you love most, oh so easily? So easily that the spray of their blood angles directly into your waiting mouth? Should I make the handle light so that when your troubled hands tremble, you are still able to strike true?”

Astarion shook his head as if the words he was hearing were coming from the tadpole itself. He muttered a quiet what the fuck beneath his breath.

“Forgive us,” Halsin interrupted, his face drawn tight. “But we are no longer in need of your services.”

The blacksmith took an audacious step right into Tav’s personal space. Halsin acted quickly, throwing his hands out to push at his armored shoulders. The blacksmith stumbled, but his smile did not falter. 

“You have already tried to steal this family’s breath, have you not? You have imagined what their insides look like, what wonderful necklaces you can wove from each string they offer?”

Halsin growled, his eyes burning gold. “I will savor your own if you do not walk away right now.”

Tav looked up at him, her surprise sincere. As if she truly believed he wouldn’t risk his life for hers. He had told her he would back in his tent in the shadow-cursed lands, promising his ears as well for when her mind needed relief. At this very moment, he would draw his staff and return whatever vile energy the creature before them harbored back to the Oak Father, where his vengeance striked true. Anything for her, for it was the least he could do.

But before anyone could pull a blade, the blacksmith cracked his own neck in a gruesome display of brute strength. His shoulders lifted then popped. His back bent forward, and his feet turned inward. And in a single burst of red, a pale woman stood in his place. Even paler eyes accompanied her vicious aura.

“Blood-kin! You would have this mountain of a servant speak for you?” she laughed, her sultry voice penetrating his chest. It made his heart beat wildly, made the bear cower. “Oh, but I do so enjoy the taste of druid.”

Tav snarled, her fists clenching as she stopped herself from striking a fellow Bhaalspawn. “Orin.”

“Took you long enough,” she judged, wringing out the final cracks of her neck. “It seems my poking and prodding did little to disturb your mind-matter. Or, did it?” 

She winked at Halsin, then circled the two as if they were trapped in a glass box. “Do you not remember who you are? Who we were? What you have done?”

“I remember enough.”

Orin giggled, and swiped a bloody hand across Astarion’s chest. The pale elf stood his ground, but Halsin saw the way his throat bobbed.

“Tell your orc to move aside. My eyes crave the fighter you have become. Though, I much prefer you dripping with innards.” Orin smiled until her red teeth practically took up half her face. A pretty face, Halsin secretly admitted to himself. But there was no lust behind that truth. She looked up at him, taking that same hand that touched Astarion and running it down his own chest. The armor protected him from feeling such grimy fingers, but she pushed and swiveled them the longer he stood still. 

“I can easily step through you,” she threatened, standing on her tip-toes so her foul breath met his nose.

“Step through me, then.”

When the feeling of her slick tongue met his chin, Halsin froze. His stomach dropped a million miles into the Oak Father’s soil, and his nerves splintered one by one. He was back in the Underdark, chained to the most spectacular of bedposts, throwing his head back in shame as the drow matron rode him, as her claws tore across his throat—

Tav gripped Orin by the back of the neck and flung her several feet away. Orin caught herself on an unfinished blade and used it to stand again, paying no mind to the slice in her palm. Her smile held, but a few strands of blond hair broke free from her neatly-kept braid. 

“Have you fucked this one, blood-kin? Have you sucked him dry? Have you come on his thin lips? On his wonder of a cock? Have you killed him, fucked his corpse, and revived him yet?”

“You truly are the bitch of the Gate, aren’t you?” Astarion bit, picking at invisible dirt beneath his fingernails. “Let it be known that if you step through the druid, which I would love to see if I’m being honest, you would have to go through me next. And I am very hard to kill, darling.”

“A challenge! To kill the undead over and over and over again! So many possibilities.”

“Yes, how wonderful. If your bitch-self is able to do that, you would then face the githyanki. And there, you absolute swine, is where you would crumble.”

Tav stepped in front of Halsin, even daring to raise a dagger at her sister. “They are not the only ones who would aid me in your defeat, Orin. I’ve recruited Minthara, and she holds the most brilliant of grudges.”

Orin finally frowned. “Father will see us battle soon enough, Tav. That is the name you chose for yourself all those years ago, no? Oh, wait. Excuse me. The name your mother chose for you.” 

Tav's jaw tightened. 

“How she screamed and whined and begged you not to kill her and your adoptive siblings. How she writhed even as Uncle lifted you from her corpse.”

“I look forward to sinking my teeth into your fucking neck, sister.”

“And I will writhe with the pleasure of it, my dear slaughter-kin.”

Orin disappeared, and Halsin regained feeling in his legs. He reached for Tav, and for the first time since they had met, he took her hand into his own. Her fingers intertwined with his, the size difference settling something dark within him. 

“I can teach you my technique,” Astarion said, his light voice clearing the stale air. “It’s all in the turn of your jaw, see. Then place your canines delicately over the carotid—”

“Tav,” Halsin whispered, squeezing her hand.

“She’s a shapeshifter. A fucking doppleganger. Orin can infiltrate our camp and kill us all.”

Astarion moaned, his worry expertly concealed. “She won’t be able to. We know one another.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “If I repeat it multiple times, maybe I’ll believe it, too.”

“You’re scared?” Tav asked, absent of judgment entirely. Her tone was more sad, if anything.

“She’s terrifying,” Astarion confirmed with a laugh. Then, more seriously, “And she will not touch you.”

Tav shook her head, her grip on Halsin’s hand strong. “I don’t think she’s going to stop coming after us until I accept her duel.”

“Dueling for what exactly?” Lae’zel finally sheathed her sword, but her yellow eyes followed each gust of wind, each insect that flew across her vision, each movement her companions made.

Tav grimaced as she said, shame dripping off the two words, “Bhaal’s chosen.”

Lae’zel straightened. “Is that what you want?”

“You have no opinion on the matter.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

Tav pulled her hand from Halsin’s, and he immediately felt the coldness seep through his skin. The action was almost enough to deafen him from Tav’s next announcement. 

“Let’s see what Gortash has to say.”

He scoffed, though he didn’t mean for the sound to signify displeasure. “His opinion is allowed?”

“He knows about Orin. More than me, considering. I should use all the weapons in my arsenal.”

It took everything in him not to outright fight her. Instead, he nodded and immediately regretted it. “You know best, I suppose.”

Her readied insult died as she didn't expect him to fold so easily. She was left looking up at him, studying his eyes for any change. She was fighting herself, fighting something besides her need to battle his every word. 

She cleared her throat, hiding from his gentle stare as she asked, “Could you make me that tea later? The one that’s a little bit spicy.”

He bowed slightly. “Of course.”

“And you—you can share a cup with me, if you want.”

Halsin swore the gold glimmer he possessed dripped along his ribs. “Until later then.”

He watched Tav walk away with Astarion at her side, their arms locked and her head resting on his shoulder. What he would give for that level of closeness with someone—with her, even—instead of people simply using him and vanishing within the month.

“She is strong. We are strong. We will assassinate Orin and leave a trail of blood for her followers to lick clean,” Lae’zel firmly established, her presence doing nothing to quell the sudden emptiness plaguing him. 

“Is it wrong to doubt our abilities?”

Lae’zel clicked her tongue. “Am I to give the old druid wisdom?”

He chuckled, “Advice, more like.”

Ever since embarking on this mission, Halsin questioned his right to give advice at all. The Grove almost fell because he went chasing after the past, he nearly banished Minthara without hearing her plea, and he allowed Mol’s capture because he was too enthralled by a comatose Flaming Fist. Jaheira could take up the mantle of wise druid. He wasn’t worthy of it anyway.

“There is no room for doubt in this fight. We must press on, and worry about the consequences afterwards. Pray that there is an afterwards, that there are consequences.”

He and Lae’zel decided to buy some desserts for the group, wholeheartedly believing that sugar might make everything weighing their shoulders down just a little bit more light.

---

“Tell me about your time in the Underdark, please?”

Halsin never thought he’d bring the topic up ever, especially to a friend. Sometimes there are things best kept hidden away for the risk of all the original emotions carved into his skin bleeding freely again. He had never told anyone, truly. When hinting at it, he kept the story brief. The more serious aspects were always downplayed, and he purposely skipped information so that he didn’t need to reteach himself how to forget.

But as he sat on his bed at the Elfsong with Tav cross-crossed on the floor, sipping the spicy tea he had made, he felt the need to tell her a little more. He had a feeling that she would be able to handle it, and that he would be able to bear the repercussions.

So he told her. Every last detail, down to the smallest he was sure he had forgotten a hundred years ago. But this time he could not smell the drow matron’s perfume, or taste the patron’s poisonous saliva. He couldn’t feel their lingering touch, no, not when Tav held out her empty teacup and softly asked for more. 

“Perhaps that’s why you hated me in the beginning.”

A genuine laugh jumped from his chest. He savored the growing smile on her lovely face. “I have never hated you. Was I skeptical about a female drow saving me from the goblin camp when Minthara camped right upstairs? Yes.”

She smirked, then took a long sip of her filled tea. The events from earlier that day had seemed to evaporate in each sip, and it made him damn near giddy to know it was his tea doing that. 

Tav caught herself before she could lower her gaze, her eyes meeting his hazel ones. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Though it was something plenty of people had uttered before, it still gave him a sense of calmness. Of reassurance. “Once you’ve lived for as long as I have, bad memories begin to turn into something distant. Numb, almost. And with enough time, their past associations change.”

“You’ve… you’ve convinced yourself it didn’t happen?”

No. Triggers existed, but they were rare for him. Orin’s tongue had transported him to that bad place, but Tav’s touch brought him back. “More like I have convinced myself that it was not as bad as I once thought it to be.”

He survived. And though it was entirely non-consensual, he had enjoyed some days. There was shame in that, shame he will carry forever. 

“It wasn’t your fault. You deserved better, Halsin.”

His shoulders fell before he could collect himself. Tav noticed, like she always did. 

“You did what you had to in order to survive, and they met a violent end. A fitting end.”

He actually never found out what became of his captors, but it wasn’t likely they survived a week-long ambush. “I—Thank you.”

“Are you alright?”

“The stress of today. Of yesterday. Of what’s to come. It’s really taking its toll.”

She nodded, looking down at her tea. “Don’t tell anybody this, but I’m terrified of what’s to come.”

The pure honesty in her voice… Halsin couldn’t breathe. 

“If you ever suspect I am Orin, ask me what Shadowheart’s favorite flower is. It’s a night orchid.”

The thought of Orin infiltrating their camp at all was enough to frighten even the bear, so much so that when Halsin attempted to bring him forward, that gold glimmer sparked and faded at his fingertips. 

“Shouldn’t the question be about you instead?”

“Shadowheart has only ever told me that. It’s one of the only things she remembers about herself. Orin would never know.”

Smart. He tried to think of something his companions had told him in secret, or something he had told them, but his mind fell blank. It wasn’t that he failed to get to know them properly, but that whenever he would lend an ear, he was simply the first of many. Which, in retrospect, was a proud thing. They were comfortable telling him first, but he did not hold their secrets for long. 

“If you ever suspect I am Orin, ask me about my mother. If my response isn't that she's doing well, you will know.” He was harboring no secrets of his own, besides the stirring of his heart for the drow sitting in front of him. “Everyone knows I am the last of my line. Orin would know it.”

“And if she takes someone else’s skin?”

“You know your companions well enough, no? It was me you were having difficulty with.”

Tav chuckled, and gulped the last of her tea. Standing, she went to grab his empty cup from his hands. “Thank you for the tea, Halsin.”

And before his mind could attach its wits to his mouth, he softly returned, “Anytime, my heart.”

Tav stilled, the cups rattling against each other as she held them close to her chest. Halsin counted the passing seconds, grappling with his common sense as his mouth formed around invisible words. 

Since joining this merry journey, his wisdom had plummeted to the depths of the Nine Hells. Stupidity flourished in his old, druid soul—

Tav scurried back to him, a dark blush coating her entire face. She planted a quick peck to his cheek, right on his tattoo. 

The gentleness of it lingered until he fell into a deep trance.

---

“Get away from me!”

Halsin startled awake, tripping over the damned sheets of his bed. He had never had blankets before. Or a mattress. Sure, when he shared beds with lovers he rested for a few hours, but he did not indulge in city culture while at the Grove. The only person who had a mattress was Nettie, and only because her back needed the support. 

Halsin wiped at his eyes to find Astarion backing away slowly, finding refuge by Tav’s bed. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, Tav stirred. She was up in an instant, a dagger pulled from underneath her pillow. 

“How in the Hells did you get in here?” she hissed. Meeting his eye across the room, he understood the signal to wake the others. One by one, as Tav and Astarion attempted to calm his siblings, Halsin shook his companions awake. Lae’zel and Jaheira took to the dark corners, Wyll and Gale spread out but lay low, Shadowheart drank a potion of invisibility, and he, Karlach, and Minthara picked up the heaviest of weapons to stroll straight into the quarrel with. The other vampires stared at them with bright, glowing eyes. Bristling, nearly twitching with each excited breath they took. 

Why didn’t Astarion’s eyes glow? Had the tadpole taken that feature away as well?

Tav succeeded in persuading Leon and Aurelia in seeing the truth behind Cazador’s lies, much to Astarion’s displeasure. He wanted her to lie, to tell them that they could all ascend by killing Cazador together. Halsin’s chest seized as he witnessed the craving of power in Astarion’s demeanor, and as he caught Tav hesitating in her speech. 

One of his siblings saddled closer to Karlach, mindful of the flames, but took a sniff nonetheless. Karlach recoiled. The spawn swallowed, ignoring Karlach’s reaction and Minthara’s glare, all to catch a whiff of his own blood. The spawn’s eyes glowed brighter, their irises vibrating uncontrollably.

The red glow was hunger. 

Astarion was no longer hungry. 

“By the absent Gods, Astarion… I believe you,” Leon said. But Aurelia clutched her stomach and groaned, whispering to Leon about how they couldn’t refuse orders. That Cazador was forcing them to kidnap Astarion, and a deal between them might as well be a joke. Leon pushed his sister behind him as he braced for a fight. Devastation glowed in his eyes, and he muttered a quick apology before he pulled a dagger from his pocket. 

Astarion raised his chin, empathy shown on his face. In his tone. “You can tell Cazador that when I find him, I will tear him limb from limb. I will smile upon his rotten corpse.”

Tav received the first slash. By stepping directly in front of Astarion. The pale elf’s eyes widened as he smelled her blood, her sacrifice. The very concept of mercy seeped from his mind altogether. He cut through his siblings desperately, dodging their blades and spells. 

Shadowheart stuck a blade in the spine of the smallest of the spawn, and fell backwards as they simply disappeared. Called back to their Master. Her blade lay bloody on the rug before it was suddenly picked up by Leon himself. 

And before he could drive it into her throat, Lae’zel burst from the shadows and tackled him. Her roar cracked through Halsin's eardrums, and an equally grating one sounded as she buried her blade deep in his abdomen. Same as his sibling, Leon disappeared from the Elfsong. 

It was pure luck he and his companions outnumbered them. He had just finished shooting an arrow through the shoulder of one aiming for Jaheira’s heart when he heard it. 

A quiet, garbled gasp. 

Tav gripped the dagger’s handle with both hands, leaving it inserted in her stomach. She merely stared at Aurelia. The spawn stared back, her lips trembling and head shaking in disbelief. 

Halsin was behind her in an instant, gripping her hair and swinging her to the floor. The spawn yelped, the last of her siblings infecting their camp. She scrambled backward, whatever she saw in Halsin’s eyes frightening her enough to abandon her own bow. He lifted her and slammed her against the wall, taking pleasure in her groan of pain. 

“Cazador would never let you die here, and yet you drive a blade through my friend’s skin?” he yelled, slamming her again. 

She cried, “Astarion! Please! He ordered us here, he ordered us to kill anyone who stepped in the way! I could not refuse. I could not refuse, I could not refuse, I could not refuse—“

Again and again she repeated it, tears staining her cheeks and drenching her collar. She thrashed, her throat clenching on itself. Again, again, again, again—

“Let her go, Halsin,” Astarion begrudgingly ordered, his bloody daggers limp at his sides. “She cannot disobey.”

“What and let her kill us? Let her take you?” he screamed over his shoulder. 

Minthara stepped forward, observing Aurelia with a sneer. “No,” she drawled. She sunk the broken tip of an arrow in the spawn’s throat. “We merely send her back.”

In a snap, she abandoned her orders for the sake of forced survival, following the rest of her empty-handed siblings. Halsin immediately dashed for Tav, kneeling in front of her to inspect the wound.

“Let me,” he said, his heart pounding.

“No.”

“Tav—“

“I told him I’d protect him and I almost failed tonight. I deserve this.” Still, she did not let go of the blade. The second she pulled, she would bleed out.

Halsin forced himself to breathe normally, shock enveloping his senses. Was that why she got involved with everyone and everything, put herself first in the face of danger, so she could somehow relieve their pain and take the brunt of it? 

“You deserve… pain?” he asked carefully. He had met others who self-harmed before, but he had never treated them directly. Nettie had always taken the lead role in those cases. And perhaps he wasn’t the best person to ask for help either, because his aged brain could only suggest they stop. 

Now, he understood why Tav did it—why she believed she deserved it. And instead of simply telling her to stop, he wanted to heal her from the inside-out so no thoughts like that ever afflicted her again.

“I deserve to be broken and pulled apart all over again, Halsin. I deserve to remember that torture Orin made me suffer.”

She tried to step around him, but Lae’zel’s glare halted her. He caught her arm before she could find an alternate route. 

Her breathing quickened. He loosened his grip, but still managed to tug her closer. To grip the blade’s handle himself. “It is a blessing you do not remember any of it.”

She smiled ruefully, fatigue dimming her eyes. “What do you think my punishment should be? More stabbings?”

“None whatsoever. Now, please let me tend to your wound.”

“If she really wants to break me, all she has to do is give me my memories back,” she laughed, though it was pained. From self-hatred or from the wound, he did not know. “But in her eyes, it would be a gift.”

Without much struggle, he laid her down and wordlessly instructed Wyll to bring fresh water and clean rags. She stared as he worked around the wound first, silent but present. Though no emotion painted her face, Halsin knew he wasn’t being scrutinized. There was something deeper there. Something akin to admiration, something holy. 

When Wyll returned and gripped Tav’s hand as Halsin quickly pulled the blade out, Halsin let his mind settle. He drowned out her cries and worked tirelessly, stitching her insides with magic and muttering sweet words under his breath. He didn’t think she was listening, but he said them just the same. 

“I couldn’t let them take him,” Tav breathed, her eyelids fluttering. “I think I was just as bad as Cazador, and if he had been taken…”

“You must not compare yourself to true evils, my heart. For you are not the person in absent memories, nor the person Orin wants you to be. I have it on good authority that Astarion would agree, and would kill you himself if you even matched Cazador in cruelty. For that, there is hope in your atonement yet.”

Somehow a smile broke through her exhausted face. “You are too nice to me.”

Halsin pulled the bedsheet over her healing stomach. And because she was barely conscious, he found the confidence to say, “Trust me, I am more than what I ever was when I am with you.”

---

“There’s absolutely no way, you little shit.”

Halsin had to blink so Tav’s words were processed fully. The way she spoke to children… At this point in their journey, there was only a sliver of guilt as he admitted he found it sort of funny.

Mol puffed out her chest, fists on her hips and face absent of an eyepatch. “Surprised to see me here? Well, right back at ya! Glad to see ya made it here in one piece!”

Tav listened intently as Mol described what she’d been up to all this time, all the trinkets she acquired roaming the Lower City, her new position in Guild. 

“Get away from my pockets, child,” Jaheira sneered, but there was a hint of pride hidden in her voice. In her slight grin. Something akin to respect. 

“I don’t need your scraps, ya old weirdo! I’ve got Nine-Fingers up my sleeve, a certain devil protecting my hide, and a handsome ol’ wizard slipping me scrolls whenever he can!”

Jaheira was unruffled by her insult, which made Mol even more assured. But the second she met Halsin's stare, a muscle in her jaw jumped, giving her away.

“Tell me you did not make that deal with Raphael, Mol,” Halsin pleaded.

“None of your business, tree-hugger.”

Wyll sighed, closing his eyes. “Raphael may talk sweet, but he’ll cut you quicker than you can beg. Whatever he’s promised, know that it cannot be met without repercussions or consequences. I should know, Mol.”

Tav set a gold chalice back on the wooden crate, leaning over to check out Mol’s jewelry collection instead. “Is that how you escaped Moonrise? And got your eyesight back?”

Her monotone voice confused the small tiefling—Why would two men care more about her situation? But Halsin recognized the trick. No sense of urgency, unlike all the other times she and Mol had met, would get her talking. Wanting to expand on her deal with Raphael just so she could prove that all she’s accomplished so far measured up to the way Tav saw her. 

“What’s the big deal now? I got out, and now I’ve gotta hold up my end.”

“Which is?” Wyll pressed. 

“He gave me a damn eyeball back! The deal could have been a lot worse.”

“Mol,” Halsin grumbled. 

“Thievery is my domain, druid. I’m his little thief.”

Wyll leaned in. “That’s all that was exchanged?”

Mol's nose curled. “Where’s ya head at, ya thick warlock? Of course that’s it!”

Wyll’s shoulders dropped. Halsin had never spoken to Mizora in the time she lounged around the Elfsong. Never asked Wyll to elaborate on their daily check-ins. Never asked about the other missions she had sent him on. Whatever Wyll shared with him, the group, Halsin was grateful for. 

Now he couldn’t stop wondering what his hands would look like wrapped around Mizora’s throat.

And he couldn’t stop the worry from hitting him square in the chest as Tav said her goodbyes. Would they leave Mol to the Guild? To Raphael’s slimy grasp? She and Yenna would probably get along, and Gods knew Yenna needed another girlfriend besides Karlach. 

“Here,” Mol said, handing Tav a pouch of coins and a sealed letter. “I trust you’ll deliver this for me?”

“Stupid assumption.”

Mol rolled her eyes. “Deliver it, will ya? It’s going to your favorite tiefling wiiiiizaaaarrrrd.”

Tav mimicked her voice, flicking the young tiefling off before turning on her heel. 

They can’t leave her here, they can’t leave her here, they can’t leave her here… He can’t leave her here.

“Astele would sooner die than harm a child of the Gate,” Jaheira whispered to him. “And the child is smart enough to gain her trust in time.”

“This is no place for a child."

“No, it isn’t,” Jaheira agreed, raising an eyebrow. “But what of Geraldus? He made his choice, and it was an honorable one. I tried to stop him and got put in my place by our resident cub. What of Arabella, wandering alone and told to simply trust the Weave? We let her go, and our hope reigns. What of Mattis and Umi and Bex and Dannis? We cannot save everyone, but we can help them along their path.” 

“Is leaving Mol here helping her?”

Jaheira looked over her shoulder, eyeing Mol as she showed a child around her own age the proper hand movements to reach inside a pocket. “It is acceptance. It is trust. It is the knowledge that we are capable of stepping back when we have to. Mol has proven herself a hundred times over, and this deal with Raphael will only be a lesson. Besides, what hypocrite you are for telling the same devil you would consider his offer about the crown instead of disagreeing immediately?”

Perhaps Jaheira was right. For years, Halsin had put the needs of others on his shoulders regardless of their weight. Unoccupied now, his days felt empty.

Tav was doing the same and it seemed like only he could see the true consequence of it. Everyone else in their camp was occupied with their own predicaments, Jaheira now having to find and stop Minsc, so no one had seen Tav’s height lowering. Without the threat of the shadow curse, he was no longer blind. Though their companions cared for Tav’s wellbeing, they could not see past their own mist. He did not blame them—he was strong enough to help her, nourish her, lift her. By helping Tav, he would help himself.

“Does this change our plans with Raphael?” Wyll asked, worrying his bottom lip. 

“No,” Tav promised. She pushed the doors open and ignored the grumbling from the two guards eyeing her every move. “We kill the bastard, steal the hammer, and make damn sure Mol never finds out.”

Easier said than done.

---

The third time he heard Tav scream was when she delivered the final blow that brutalized Lorroakan’s insides. With her sword lifted high and Karlach’s boot in his neck, Tav sliced open his abdomen and pulled out his large intestine. Wet and red, Tav squeezed, seemingly savoring the squelching noise that bounced off the windows of Ramazith’s Tower. 

And when she moved aside to let Dame Aylin through, Halsin savored the sound of his spine splitting upon her blessed knee. 

They had stopped at Sorcerous Sundries right after seeing Mol, the coin purse all too tempting for Astarion. When they arrived and took immediate note of the bruises scattered across Rolan’s handsome face, Halsin knew they wouldn’t just be dropping off the coin. 

Rolan had done a good job at keeping his composure until the questions began. 

“I can take the beatings. When I mess up a spell, his beatings are a practical way to make me get it right the next time. My track record is impressive—”

“Discipline is to be given with purpose,” Lae’zel had bit, snarling. “Your bruises are scattered. Careless. Smack a soldier’s hand for fumbling their blade, not their cheekbones. Break a child’s fingers for stealing, not puncture their stomachs. Lorroakan is toying with you, tiefling. That is no good teacher.”

And when Rolan confirmed it, Tav’s face had fallen flat. Scarily detached. Lae’zel had a similar reaction, but she nodded her head as if agreeing with the unspoken decision amongst the group. 

Lorroakan would be dead before the sun set. 

Now, Rolan panted as he hurried to their side and examined what was left of his old Master. “He’s really dead. The bastard’s dead.”

Tav looted Lorroakan’s corpse and passed Gale the magical trinkets she would have no use of. 

“And I seem to be out of scrolls,” Tav commented, wiping blood from her forehead. Standing up with a groan, she did her best to give Rolan a true smile. But the fight was tough, so much so that she had spent most of her time throwing healing potions to Karlach, who insisted on being in the middle of it all. “Would the new Master of Ramazith’s Tower kindly sell me some? I’d be willing to pay double.”

Rolan’s eyes watered, but that signature arrogance seeped through as he straightened his shoulders and sketched a bow. Silver menace, Halsin thought. He and Tav were so similar.  

Rolan’s eyes lit up as he remembered, “I promised you a discount.”

Tav waved a bored hand through the air. “You promised Gale a discount.”

Rolan closed his eyes for a second before throwing himself into Tav’s arms, holding her as tightly as his sore arms allowed. Tav stiffened, her cheek squished against Rolan’s hard chest and the top of her head directly beneath his chin. She met Halsin’s eye and found only encouragement. 

She wrapped her arms around the tiefling and squeezed, her eyes closing in comfort. 

“Master Rolan… I quite like the sound of that,” Rolan joked, clearing the sentiment from his throat. “I shall move Cal and Lia in at once!”

“I’m going to need as many wizards in this upcoming fight with the Absolute. I would like my favorite wizard at my side.”

Astarion snickered beside Gale, even going as far as poking his elbow into his ribs. Gale simply waved him off. 

“You will have the full force of Ramazith’s Towers at your service.” Then, softer and sweeter, “Thank you, Tav.”

Tav practically sparkled. Halsin forced himself to look away, only to meet Karlach’s knowing gaze. 

“I’m just sorry I can’t kill him again,” Tav said. “Know that you are always welcome at our camp. That you can always ask for our help with bitchy customers or entitled explorers.”

“And you will always have a room here if you need it.”

---

Halsin found her on the roof of the Elfsong, Lakrissa having whispered the hint when he inquired about Tav’s whereabouts. With a wink and a promise of a drink later, Lakrissa confirmed what he had worried about. People were starting to notice his feelings, his desires… People were starting to see right through him. 

Tav finished tying her hair up when she looked over her shoulder and smiled. It hit him so hard he fumbled over his own feet, a blush crawling up his neck. Tav pretended not to notice, and said nothing as he moved to sit on the cushion beside hers.  

As she looked over the balcony’s edge, watching the birds fly in triangles and the leaves float through the wind, Halsin watched her. Her skin was lighter than Minthara’s, and the pale burn stretching diagonally from the top right of her forehead to her bottom left cheek definitely set them apart. He wondered if she picked up that scar from battle, from her early days as a Bhaalspawn, or from the torture she had endured and forgot at Moonrise. She had never commented on it, nor did anyone bring it up. Yet, Halsin prayed it was a simple story like his own scar, nothing fancy, and that the brutal violence that seemed to follow their heels was altogether absent. 

With her hair up, he was able to outline the scar. Unable to control the desire to run his thumb down the extent of it. But he reeled it in, and sat beside her with his hands in his lap. 

“You know… I at least have an excuse for my violence. Lorroakan was just a bastard,” Tav suddenly shared, a worn chuckle breaking through. “But then again, going off of my logic, Orin has a valid excuse, too.”

“Orin is a different breed.”

Her mouth fell into a frown. “If she would have been kidnapped and infected with a tadpole, you would be sharing your tea with her. Rolan would be thanking her. You would be confiding in her.”

Halsin did not believe that true for one second. Orin was frightening, and the added effect of a tadpole was sure to make her everyone’s worst nightmare. Still, he replied with, “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Tav grumbled, unsatisfied. What else could he say? That she got out but her sister didn’t? That she was given a new chance at life and her sister was still wreaking havoc underground? Was he supposed to feel sorry for Orin? 

“I am one God’s chosen,” Tav whispered, then turned to him with a flicker of hope in her mismatched eyes. “But do you think I can pray to another god?”

“Yes.”

“Is your Oak Father free?”

“Silvanus?” he asked, the fluttering of his heart nearly booming in his ears. He wondered if she could hear it, if her own matched his rhythm. “Look at where you sit. You are surrounded by his creations, even if they are muted in this city. The air you breathe, the ground you walk on, the flowers you smell. Silvanus asks for little in return, other than nurture nature, each other, and yourself. If you are worried about whether or not Silvanus will hear your prayers, do not be. He hears them, and does what can be done.”

“I have killed hundreds of people. I have mutilated their corpses, stolen their coin, desecrated their gravesites.”

“Forgiveness is something all gods offer.”

“But do I deserve it?”

No longer a boom, but a crack echoed through his ears. 

“Does Astarion deserve it after all the souls he brought Cazador?” he asked.

“He’s changed,” Tav declares, defensive, “And the gods never answered him.”

“Perhaps his change and his current situation is answer enough.”

Yet another thing that maddened him. Why did no God answer Astarion’s pleas? Why was he discarded, as were his siblings, and forced to endure two-hundred years of pain? Why did Astarion have to change at all to gain recognition? He was split on whether Silvanus would help an undead creature, one who couldn’t even harvest the sun's bounty. Did the Oak Father consider Astarion an undead with a soul in need of saving, or an undead with nothing but a masked scent?

Would the Oak Father consider Tav a soul worth saving after she had stolen the very souls he sprouted? Was change enough for both her and Astarion that he would practice benevolence?

Tav sucked in a deep breath. Shame suddenly etched across her face, as did an unsatisfying flush in her cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly around an invisible word. He waited, and offered an encouraging smile.

“I don’t remember kissing anyone who wasn’t dead,” she admitted, her voice wholly dejected. As if this one admission was enough to squander any acceptance from Silvanus. “My memories are vague, of course. But I do remember one man. His heart was beating. I don’t think I ever killed him.”

Halsin had to tread carefully or else the reopening of her wounds could prove dangerous. 

“Did you want to kiss your victims?”

She paused. “I think Orin wanted me to.”

“Do you see Orin in those memories?”

“I see her laughing.”

What in the Hells was their dynamic like? Though not related by blood, Orin had played the role of evil elder sister and Tav the role of evil little one. But had Orin been the most depraved of the two? The most abhorrent and wicked? Was Tav a subject of immorality, but able to control her urges more often? To be a Bhaalspawn and to not resist the urge to maim… Tav’s blood was diluted, while Orin had been pumped full.

If Orin had been kidnapped and infected, Halsin wholeheartedly believed he would have died by her dagger that night, that the Grove would have fallen, that the shadow curse would have never been lifted. 

“She may have ordered me to do that stuff, but I still did it. I killed to honor my father, but kissing them? That was to satisfy Orin. To satisfy something darker than the urge. And when we saw Rolan today… I snapped. All I could see was his unwillingness to adhere to Lorroakan's insane orders. I saw his fear. And if any of my victims had felt that way, then avenging Rolan was as much of an apology as I could ever give them.”

To live a life with the knowledge it wasn’t entirely full, that there was a separate personality all along…

Halsin cleared his throat, shuffling the slightest bit closer to her. She stayed where she was, but marked his movement. “Do you remember anything else about that man you mentioned?”

Tav thought about it for a second. Something curious flashed across her face, but he couldn’t name it. “I—I just remember a gold hand.”

Dragonborn, maybe? He didn’t voice the theory obviously. 

But what he said next surprised him enough that his mouth dried instantly. 

“Would you like to kiss me?”

Tav’s eyes widened. “I don’t know how.”

“I can teach you.”

She chuckled, embarrassment evident in how she twiddled her thumbs. Her nails clinked together, the shine of the purple metallic polish sending a shiver down his spine. Oh, how it would feel to receive fresh, consensual scars from her. 

“The Oak Father won’t call it a disgrace?”

“I am positive he won’t,” he assured her. He moved closer, careful to not loom over her. Their knees touched. “I can be your beating heart.”

“And you want this?”

This was the time to be truthful. To bathe in the confidence he had cultivated and perfected by his hundredth year. To admit to her that what he was feeling was something else entirely than what his body had told him to feel for years. “For a long time, if I’m being honest. I go where my heart leads. It would be a lie to say you haven’t surprised me. Encouraged me, astonished me. You are magnificent. A beacon of hope, even if the shimmer is burning you from the inside-out.”

“I don’t want to simply be another notch on your belt.”

“Do not ever reduce yourself as such. My heart does not stir lightly,” he tried to reason, tried to pretend that her words didn’t hurt.

“But that’s what it is, Halsin. I appreciate the gesture, but I respect your place in nature. You are a creature who cannot stay in one place for a long time, and granted I am, too. Though I see myself moving with only one person on my arm, forever. If I ever beat this curse of mine, I want the choice. I want the opportunity. And I want to be someone’s only choice, selfishly.”

“I—”

“I am not asking you to change yourself for me,” she said, her breath quickening. “I know there have been plenty of lovers and there will be plenty more. But I have stolen loves from so many people. I have stolen their opportunities. It does not feel right to indulge, and it doesn’t feel right to indulge with you.”

“Perhaps I mistook our relationship, or rather our… tension, wrongly” he explained, masking his pain.

She let out a frustration moan. “I want you, but only if you’re just mine. And I can’t have you, because that’s not my fate.”

She believed that she did not deserve him. That he was a prize? Halsin couldn’t think of himself as such, nor could he believe that she was punishing herself so. But as he remembered how she stepped right into the path of danger when Astarion’s siblings attacked, how she did not want to be patched up, it finally made sense. 

Atonement. Atonement in the form of punishment. The punishment of loneliness. 

Like Gale, who hid himself away after absorbing the darkest Weave. Having no one to speak to besides Tara, besides letters with his mother. Who tried his hardest to create distance between him and Astarion, but failed when the vampire lured him with nothing but sweet, honeyed words. Like Karlach, who tried her hardest not to sneak away at night to visit Dammon. But with the Elfsong so close to his newest forge, she could not help overstepping her self–inflicted choice. Like Wyll, who made a deal with a devil and accepted exile. Who couldn’t speak the truth and fell into the belief that maybe he wasn’t ever meant to. Who would rather his father hate him from afar than know what he had become.

“What do you believe is your fate?” he asked, perhaps a little too harshly.

“To help all of you. Save Baldur’s Gate. And then die.”

He stood, his muscles straining as he tried to relax. He gripped the balcony’s edge. She did not move from her spot, frozen as she stared and burned through the back of his head.

And like Gale, Tav had chosen to blow up any chance at long-term redemption. Like Karlach, Tav had chosen to burn when it was all over. They had all chosen wrong.

How to prove to them that they were worth everything and more, how to prove that the world was better with them in it? How to prove to Tav that he wasn’t sure he was a wild heart anymore, and that maybe, just maybe, she was the reason. 

Selfish as she was apparently, he wanted to prove that he was ten times worse.

“A single kiss then. I ask nothing more, and expect nothing else in return.”

The sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow upon her scarred face. The heat was touching her, and oh how he envied it so. “Why?”

He turned, lifting his chin so that all she could see was sincerity. “Because you have been deprived of it. Because you are over a hundred years old and do not remember the caress of another. Because Bhaal has made you desensitized.”

“So, pity then?”

“Because it would be your choice.”

She glanced down at her hands, at the brick beneath her cushion. Whatever quarrel she was having with herself looked tiring. And Gods did he want her to relent. 

“Out of everyone here,” she breathed, “I don’t know why I only want to kiss you.”

His own breath came faster as she stood and walked to him. Placing a hand upon his chest, she caressed the fabric. Curiosity bloomed in her irises, and he let her roam for a minute or so. Let her have the chance at feeling another living being. She rested her palm over his heart, and muttered her count.

“Ten,” she said, closing her eyes, “Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”

“Endless,” he confirmed, reaching up to take that same palm in his hand. Though he recognized the lust in her eyes, he also saw the fear. He was so much taller than her, so much older, and in her opinion, good. But she had forgotten the bloodthirst he had in the goblin camp, the hand he had wrapped around Kagha’s throat, the fact that Isobel had fallen all those years ago because of his blade. If they were comparing their misdeeds, they were equal.

“Whenever you say stop,” he said, leaning down so their lips brushed, “We stop. Okay?”

Tav did her best to nod, but Halsin recognized that dazed movement anywhere. She was floating. 

“Come back to me, little one.”

With that, the glaze in Tav’s eyes disappeared. She leaned forward, pressing further until their lips moved as one. Halsin used a single finger to lift her chin, the kiss slow. He was in no hurry to rush it, no hurry to end what should be their only kiss. This was a transaction of sorts—

Tav wrapped a desperate hand around the back of his neck, pushing her upper body against him. In turn, their kiss deepended. Nearly ravenous, but full of all that bashfulness she had expressed earlier. When was the last time he had participated in such a chaste kiss? In his youth, surely. His past lovers were scattered, none staying around for more than a month. And he was just as guilty when it came to long-term predicaments. The bear roamed, and he answered its call. 

But here, with Tav’s lips molding so beautifully into his own with innocent need, he experienced the combination of love and lust. He wanted to continue kissing her, no matter where it led. He wanted to kiss her tomorrow, no matter the bear’s torment. He wanted to kiss her always, and be all she ever wanted. 

Tav pulled him in deeper, hungry, gaining more confidence as he followed her lead. He didn’t need to teach her anything, it seemed. Whether this was instinct or because she too felt the overwhelming desire to burrow into his skin, Halsin was more than happy to be her practice doll, more than happy to explore all impulses. Good or bad. 

Gods save him, good or bad. 

“Kiss me harder, please,” Tav pleaded, the gravel in her voice causing him to harden. He made sure his hips didn’t meet hers. But she was pushing deeper, stepping forward and neatly entangling their legs together. Halsin backed up, mindful of the balcony’s edge. He sat carefully and let her push herself between his open legs, and at this angle they were practically face to face. Tav kissed him harder, slipping her tongue over his bottom lip. A question. 

He opened his mouth and finally tasted her, groaning lowly. When they arrived at the Gate, their fruit assortment expanded. Here they were able to indulge in more than just apples and oranges. Tav tasted of kiwi and the lemon she squeezed in her morning tea. She tasted of the butter buns he always caught Karlach stealing, of the cinnamon cookies Yenna had tried her hand at baking yesterday. He knew he tasted of that same tea, but Halsin had found himself indulging more in grapes and cinnamon rolls Cher Rover saved specifically for him. Separating from Tav now would be a crime to everything sweet. 

“Halsin,” Tav rasped, her slender hands coming around to cup his scarred cheeks. He kept his own at her waist. “A single kiss.”

“A single kiss,” he repeated, sharing her breath. He dove in for more, their statement ignored and the two unbothered. They could extend this single kiss for hours and technically be right.

She suddenly gasped, stiffening against him. Her face pulled tight.

“Tav?” Halsin tried, worry spiking to the point he tried standing. Tav did not move, her grip on his shoulders too strong. 

Her eyes were watery with sorrow as she opened them. “I had a vision of pushing you off the balcony.”

Halsin held his breath. She made no move to do so. 

A nervous laugh escaped him. “I could just shapeshift into a bird, my heart.”

She waited, her mouth opening and closing awkwardly. The mere absurdity of the situation drew a short laugh from her, her eyes clearing simultaneously. She slid her hands down his neck, then settled them on his chest. Pulling back so their noses brushed, Tav nudged him slightly in question. Halsin nodded, completely basked in the glow of her exploration. Tav traced his curves and grooves, his scars and age marks, starved for touch alone. And when she reached his waistband, he pulled back to ask the same of her. 

She nodded, and he moved his hands up. 

Together they learned the whispers of their fingers and just how long they could hold their breaths. Together they slid their bodies closer, moving against one another to apply the necessary pressure needed to reach that delectable edge. Halsin kept his thick thigh planted between her legs, groaning as Tav rolled her cunt against it, chasing her high at a slow pace. 

Though she was desperate to feel such bliss with a willing partner, she did not rush it. Halsin didn’t want her to either. He would stay up here for hours, learning her likes and dislikes, learning how to properly sketch the length of her body with his tongue. 

“Gently,” he coaxed, bringing a hand up to tangle at the back of her head. He pulled her face from the crook of his sweaty shoulder and held her there, burning their gazes together as she took his order into consideration. She slowed her movements but bent deeper, so much so that her weight alone forced him to swallow down the savageness of the bear. “That’s it. There you go. I want you to learn your body first before you learn mine.”

“Fuck,” Tav rasped, bringing both hands to his head to mimic his grip. Halsin bit his lip to keep from pushing his hips up. She moved faster, no doubt the glow in her stomach at a full frenzy. 

“So beautiful,” he continued, his voice now at the lowest register he’d ever heard. Everything about this felt different—her scent relaxed his very core, her weight fought and won against the weight of his responsibilities, her noises sank deep into his chest and melted along his ribs. In his three-hundred and fifty years, he had never experienced such a connection. He would like to believe that he had been attentive to past lovers, but Tav… He wasn’t even actively providing the pleasure and yet she had destroyed his concept of sex from the inside-out.

“Make yourself come,” Halsin said, tempting her even further by pulling her in for a searing kiss. Tav whined, her hips losing their rhythm—

The hatch opened before Tav reached her climax, paralyzing her against Halsin’s chest. He held her tighter, and shot daggers at their intruder over her trembling shoulder. 

Wyll stood on the ladder wide-eyed, clutching his chest as if the scene before him had prompted heartburn. His face flushed with embarrassment, and he stuttered over his apology. “I can just… go get fresh air in the street.”

As the hatch shut, Tav removed herself from Halsin’s protective grip. He could not stop his body from reaching out for her.

“Tav.”

Backing away on wobbly legs, she did her best at offering a practiced smile. “Goodnight, Halsin.”

Later, when they rescued Minsc and dealt with the aftermath, Tav avoided his eyes and overcompensated with their newest arrival. Loud jokes, prolonged questioning—it made Halsin want to hide away forever, or until his beating heart called another’s name.

---

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Tav whispered, though her moan gave her away. Her slender fingers rose along his hips, tugging at his waistband. He had left his shirt behind, embracing the chill of nature. If he was going to bed Tav in the flowerbed near the Elfsong, he would do so with as little clothing in the way. The quicker his flesh met hers, the quicker the fire in his heart would settle. Though, Tav’s panting gave it the oxygen to thrive. Her tongue licked the flames, burning him brightly, to the point he dropped to his knees with all thoughts scorched except one. 

He devoured her, swiping his tongue along her slit and soaking up all she gave. She yelped, her fingers combing through his loose hair. She had taken his braids out one-by-one hours ago, massaging his scalp and whispering sweet-nothings along the sensitive skin of his pointy ears. Now, she gripped and pulled, relishing in the vibrations his groans made against her most intimate flesh. She pulled him in deeper, slapping one hand back against the stone of the building. Their companions could surely hear them—the windows were knocked open. And the thought invaded just as quickly as she came on his eager tongue: Astarion or Shadowheart—Gale—watching from the windowsill and getting themselves off at the same time. Learning from watching Halsin feast, from watching his cock drive into the beautiful woman wailing his name. 

“Halsin,” Tav breathed, pulling him up to stand. He let her use her strength, let her be in charge, guiding him in all places. “Fuck me. Fuck me until I can’t help crying your name. Fuck me and claim me as yours, forever. Come inside me, mark me as yours.”

The bear nearly broke loose, territorial to the highest extremes.

Halsin drove into her slowly, deeply, the squeeze stealing the air in his lungs and threatening to knock him out. She felt divine, like nothing he had ever felt before. He had many lovers, but none had wrapped around him with both sex-crazed madness and lo—

Halsin sucked in a gust of air, shooting upward in his bed. The beds at the Elfsong creaked when one changed position, and he had no doubt he had awakened someone close by. The nearest bunk to his left was Minthara’s, and Astarion to his right. But neither moved to indicate they heard him or scented his obvious arousal. 

Cursing softly, he laid back down and tried to steady the beating of his heart. Tav was far away enough, bunking near Karlach tonight, that she wouldn’t suspect anything. Hear anything. And he prayed the two nearest him wouldn’t hate him for this. 

Halsin reached below the sheets and gripped his hardness, shutting his eyes as that touch alone threatened to make him audible. Slowly he dragged his hand up and down, stopping at the tip to swipe. The quicker he got this over with, the quicker the shame could come and go. 

Tav had not sought him out after their kiss and… heavy-petting session, but he had seen the heat in her eyes. A promise that she had enjoyed their time together, his touch. The memory of that silver fire had him moving his hand faster. He reached to cup his balls with the other, biting his lip as the pleasure at the base of his spine grew. He remembered how her hips moved over his, how her mouth tasted, how her arousal smelled. How he had to keep the bear caged, and that made his grip on her even tighter. But it seemed Tav liked that, liked his roughness, and wanted to deliver the same amount. 

The pleasure built and built, until it finally erupted. Halsin choked on a shout, grinding the side of his face into the pillow. Pulling until he milked himself dry. He lay there panting, eyes shut as the guilt slowly crept along his extremities. 

“Darling, I at least have the good graces to please myself in the comfort of my own tent or in the bathroom.”

Halsin froze, and his stomach rotated when Minthara’s voice answered the vampire.

“Lies, Astarion. You haven’t pleased yourself in weeks. You have the wizard to thank for that.”

Astarion choked on his retort, but said nothing to contradict it.

---

“You’re here. Orin was telling the truth.”

Tav crossed her arms as she glared at Gortash, clicking her tongue when she noticed his eyes wandering. She was wearing thin armor today, tight around the waist and non-restricting around the neck. Halsin had stared for a long while before they had left their rooms, readjusting his trousers when she purposely bent down to grab her weapon of the day. She had winked, lifted her skirts to expose her thigh, and whispered a promise of lifting it higher when they returned. 

Now, as Gortash made a meal of her, it unsettled something greedy in Halsin. He had no right to shield Tav, but there was grime in the villain’s eyes. And he was done convincing himself he would feel this affected with just any lover.

Tav ignored Gortash’s initial surprise, allowing Wyll to take the lead.

“My father, Gortash. Let him go—”

“Oh, but I wasn’t talking to you, Wyll Ravengard,” Gortash snapped, a smile still playing on his pale lips. He gave Wyll an unimpressed once-over, then turned back to Tav. “My favorite little assassin… Tell me, how has the holiday been?”

"I could've done with less cultists, you absolute lunatic."

Wyll held his breath.

“I know it was Orin who kidnapped me from Baldur’s Gate. I want to know why.”

Gortash wasn’t exactly handsome, especially not when he frowned. The action seemed to drag his stress lines further. But he held himself like a man with power, and with power came confidence. 

“By the gods, they weren’t kidding. You truly don’t remember any of it, do you?” he said, huffing a simple laugh, one that scraped the walls of Halsin’s skull. “Why, it was us who orchestrated this grand design in the first place.”

The entire audience hall seemed to freeze as they processed Gortash’s outlandish claim. 

Tav swallowed, her lilac cheeks losing all color. “What?”

He made his way down the stairs, his robes swinging with each powerful stride. Tav stood her ground, but Karlach pointed her long ax at the new Archduke. Halsin inched closer to Tav as well, but he was more mindful of the rattling Steel Watch targeting Karlach.  

Gortash dismissed the metal monstrosity. He stood close enough now that Halsin smelled the city and a hint of rosemary on him. 

“The tadpoles, the brain, opening a Hells gate, the cult, everything. And Orin went and betrayed you, wanting the stones all to herself. Betrayed us.”

“It was… It was me? All of it?”

“Our raid of Mephistopheles’ lair will be spoken about in the Hells for centuries.”

“The crown…” Tav whispered, the memory of its abduction no doubt swimming in her mind. Then guilt clouded her features—for all of it. The infestation, the deaths they caused, Gale’s obsession with Karsus’s forbidden magic. She was spiraling, blaming herself for all it—

“My pretty little mastermind,” Gortash practically purred, raising a hand to gently swipe it down her cheek. Halsin growled, a low glimmer of gold coming off of him. Gortash grinned savagely. “I have tried to keep everything in order in your absence. All the things you entrusted me with.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Karlach screamed, alerting some Flaming Fists. Again, Gortash dismissed them with a simple wave.

“How do you know him?” Karlach inquired further.

Tav turned to the tiefling. “I—”

“Don’t tell me you forgot. Orin really did a number on you, didn’t she? Always a lapdog, she was. Begging to be Bhaal’s chosen ever since she learned how to whine. But she is careless, and too distracted.”

Gods, it made so much sense. The tadpoling center under Moonrise, Orin’s vendetta, Gortash’s odd truce. His chest ached with the need to hold her, to remind her that that wasn’t who she was anymore. She had changed, brought about a change in Astarion, Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Gale, Minthara—

Him. 

If he could take her away from all of this, meet her in the afterglow, he would sprint and never look back. She had done so much good these last few months and Gortash’s jealous speech was a threat to her already fragile sanity. 

“You… You worked with strategy. You had a purpose. You were determined. I tolerate Orin, but I liked you.”

He followed Tav’s distressed gaze to the golden glove encasing the purple netherstone. 

The gold hand.

“We worked all through the night, you and I. Perfecting this scheme. When you disappeared, I admit I worried for your safety,” Gortash said, his irises darkening. “I missed you.”

Halsin didn’t have to move—Tav reached for his hand and gripped it tight. Gortash noted their connection, but his smile only grew. A more tame twin of Orin’s, it seemed.

“What was I to you?” Tav insisted. “What were you to me?”

“This cannot be happening,” Karlach cringed, several dramatic gags accompanying her declaration.

Gortash rolled his eyes. “A travesty Orin erased so much. Perhaps I shouldn’t reminisce with your companions present.”

“Tell me what I did.”

Karlach gave an incredulous gasp of protest, but Tav remained adamant. 

“What you did… Enthusiastically, might I add. Seeing you now is overwhelming. The way your lips tasted, how your eyes would roll to the back of your head, your neck bared for me. I heard there is a spawn in your company… Do you give your neck to him? Do you scream for him like you screamed for me?” 

Tav snarled as Karlach exclaimed, “Liar!”

“Do not be a child, Karlach,” Gortash snapped. “Tav and I, two adults, were together even while you were by my side. I’m surprised you never met.”

“A secret,” Tav confirmed, though her statement came out more as a shameful question.

“It saddens me that you don’t remember anything but that. Perhaps we can come to an agreement over this Ravengard business.”

“What did you have in mind?” Wyll chimed in, seemingly unmoved by the revelation. If his relationship was something other with her, Halsin would too disregard Gortash’s claims. Tav’s past sex life was none of his business, neither was it Wyll’s, but the fact Gortash had such a lively role in it… The one living soul Tav remembered touching…

Something dark stirred in the pit of his stomach, its claws begging to rip open its cage and eviscerate his opponent. The bear had disemboweled plenty of enemies, but this one—this one Halsin wanted to tear apart with his bare hands.  

Gortash lowered his voice as he spoke next, enough of a signal that the surrounding Fists turned their heads. 

“I will hand over Duke Ravengard right now with a promise to keep him safe, if…” he trailed off, bowing his head to chuckle. “Listen to me bargaining. How unbecoming of me. I am a dealer, not a trader.”

“Speak plainly, Gortash,” Wyll pushed, the hair-raising tone causing Gortash’s brows to rise.

He turned to Tav. “If you agree to spend the night with me, Ravengard walks freely.”

“No deal.”

They were the first words Halsin had spoken since entering the audience hall. He couldn't give less of a shit for intruding on what was obviously Tav’s decision. 

“Halsin—” she hissed.

Gortash laid an elegant hand over his own chest. “How marvelous! Does he speak for you? Is no your answer, too?”

“It’s a no because I don’t want to touch you.”

“You begged for it before.”

Tav bared her teeth. “I won’t anymore.”

“Wyll? If you’re anything like your father, you’ll have some sense. Your father’s freedom, for her cunt.”

Wyll recoiled, his disgust multiplying as Gortash raised his hand yet again to brush Tav’s cheek. This time, however, Halsin shoved the man away. 

And was promptly held back by two Fists. Thrashing, Halsin fought to keep the bear within.  

“May the gods smite you, Gortash. May this land turn on you in your hour of greatest need,” Wyll threatened, taking the words right out of Halsin’s mouth.

Gortash raised a single brow, unimpressed. “Interesting company you keep nowadays. If you won’t give me what I desperately crave,” he drawled, causing a visible shiver to crawl up Tav’s spine, “then we shall explore other roads.”

“One more word from you and I will kill you.” The Fists were hesitant to grab Karlach, and the look she shot at them severed the idea completely. "And that was a trade, you dumb motherfucker!"

“Oh, but you’ll want to hear this, Karlach. I am on your side. I want nothing more than to save this city and rule side-by-side with Tav here. I am a fair man. And to show you I am a man true to my word, I shall warn you.”

“Threats? Seriously?” Karlach fumed.

“Not from me. By now you’ll have found out that Orin is a shapeshifter. And I warn you that she will strike soon. One of these nights, when you feel safest, she will deceive you.”

“And what do we owe you for this information?” Tav spit, lifting her chin.

Finally, Gortash intertwined his hands behind his back, seemingly aware that Tav was not going to take his absurd deal. Strangely respectful in that sense. 

“Kill Orin, reclaim your birthright, and make an ally of me.”

“Despicable piece of shit.” 

Gortash gestured at the Fists to release him. Halsin remained where he was, and he could have sworn relief flashed across Gortash’s face.  

“Kill Orin, bring me her stone, and I might just prolong the protection of your father, Wyll.” He turned back up the steps, his confidence stitching itself back into his body as it realized the audience was still looking at him. “Think about it, Tav. I am no liar, and my respect for you knows no bounds.”

That night, Tav drank herself to sleep and took residence in one of the booths downstairs. As annoyed as Alan was, he didn’t force her to leave. With the candles blown out, Tav remained curled-up on her side and blissfully unaware of the world around her. Responsibilities that once shackled her were drowned out, reality but a speck on the horizon. 

Halsin covered her with a blanket before retreating to the steps in the far corner. He sat at an angle where he could see her, foregoing sleep, and did not leave until the hangover roused her.

x

---

“Do you regret not claiming that power for yourself?” Tav asked Astarion, swinging her leg off the side of Astarion’s bed. The elf lounged with his back against the headboard, a pensive look boring into her curious one.

Halsin lounged by the fire with Shadowheart by his side, whittling a figurine of Scratch she had asked him to make. She was also making use of his chisel set, but instead of a complicated first endeavor, she had opted for carving a simple heart. 

He slowed his knife around the paws, half his attention on the conversation nearby. It didn’t feel like eavesdropping when Shadowheart so happily joined, pushing her hair behind her ears for better tuning.

“Oddly, no,” Astarion responded.

The fight with Cazador had gone as expected. Bloody, emotional, traumatizing. They nearly lost Astarion to the ritual and Minthara in battle. Tav had misty-stepped to Astarion’s aid and earned a couple of bat bites along the way, while Halsin and Gale worked to keep Cazador obstructed. Minthara had fallen first, failing to dodge a slash from one of the ghouls. He had believed Tav would scream for her, but she was occupied with guarding Astarion. What startled him—and Gale, funnily enough—was that the scream came from Halsin himself. He yelled as she went down, even abandoned his crowd of ghouls to heal her. To say she was surprised would be an understatement, and neither spoke of it since.

“How do you feel?” Tav asked.

There was a twinge of sadness in the soft hum Astarion let loose. “Numb, mostly.”

Tav nodded. “I’d do anything to feel numb.”

“You will reclaim yourself soon. You will break your chains. I did, and I can scarcely believe it.”

“I’m so proud of you, Astarion.”

The elf clicked his tongue. “Thank you, I guess.” 

They shared a laugh, and he and Shadowheart shared a look. 

“Don’t you dare take Gortash’s deal.”

Tav pursed her lips, though they threatened to pull upward. Astarion tilted his head in response to her upcoming sarcasm. 

“My cunt was never on the table.”

“I sure hope not. Bloody table was never a comfortable position. Not for me, at least.”

Shadowheart nudged his bicep, lifting her crooked heart at eye-level. She wore a proud grin, and Halsin rewarded her with one of his own. 

“How long do you think we can put off killing Orin?”

Tav’s question was itching at his insides as well. It had been a week since they spoke to Gortash and since Wyll broke his pact with Mizora. It had been almost a month since Orin deceived them in Rivington. They had all taken Gortash’s warning seriously, but Orin had yet to strike. Karlach would keep an extra close watch as Yenna traveled a few blocks down to buy ingredients for her signature soups, and Lae’zel had begun volunteering for more night shifts. And as much as it tired him, Gale had cast arcane locks every night once everyone retired to bed, holding the spells well into the morning hours. 

Soon Gortash would come asking for an update, and soon Orin would strike.

“Darling, I’m leaning more towards killing Gortash first.”

“Decisions, decisions,” Tav sang, as if their words weren’t inked with treason.

“What does our Emperor say about it? Gods know it will only speak to you.”

“Nothing. I think they’re keeping their opinion to themselves.”

---

He had been returning from buying some sweets with Wyll when he heard snippets of a very vibrant conversation between three enthusiastic sounding people. Well, two of them were happy-sounding and the third seemed to contradict everything they were saying. Peeking around the corner into the Elfsong’s kitchen, he found Tav, Yenna, and Minsc huddled close together near the boiling soups. Cher Rover eyed them suspiciously from the other end of the kitchen, but made no attempt at kicking them out. Halsin thought he quite enjoyed the company, even catching him sharing a pint with Jaheira the other day. 

“Boo believes love should be spontaneous!” Minsc exclaimed, earning a hush from the small girl. He ducked his head comically and lowered his voice. “And Minsc believes the same.”

Tav rolled her eyes. She quickly dipped a finger into the soup nearest her and licked it clean before Chef Rover turned around. 

“I say kiss him!” Yenna beamed, hopping in place. “He clearly likes you! You miss all the chances you don’t take!”

“But he hasn’t even tried kissing me again,” Tav lamented. 

Minsc let out a dramatic pfft sound. “Halsin is an honorable elf—Not as honorable as Minsc, of course. Minsc beats him in everything.”

“That’s why she should just walk up to him and kiss him! Be romantic! Just because you’re the girl doesn’t mean you have to act all scared.”

Tav pouted. “I’m not scared!”

“Looks that way to me, missy.”

“Fine!” Tav declared, a smile playing at her lips. “Next time I see him, I’ll kiss him.”

“Ah, but what about the next time Minsc sees him?”

“What?”

Halsin neglected to hide once all three pairs of eyes met his own. He smiled sheepishly, running a nervous hand through his hair. 

“Apologies.”

No one moved. Yenna snickered and poked Minsc’s side, the two simply waiting to see what happened next. 

He and Tav shared a moment of simple acknowledgment. And when Yenna snickered even louder, Tav straightened herself and marched across the kitchen, closing that pesky distance between them to plant a proper kiss to his eager lips. He responded immediately, kissing her back as innocently as possible with a child present. 

Immense and euphoric happiness swelled in his chest, and he found himself smiling through the kiss. Tav matched it easily. 

“We’re matchmakers!” Yenna cheered, high-fiving the joyous giant ranger. "Mum would have loved to see this!"

They separated rather quickly, but he spotted no shame in Tav’s face. She wanted to kiss him, found him willing, and took her chance. 

And if she was brave enough for spontaneity, then he would do everything in his power to prove he was a worthy partner.

"Yellow."

"What?"

"Yenna reminds me of the color yellow. Energy, audacity," Tav said, chuckling, "Childhood."

---

“You desire her.”

Halsin hadn’t been alone with Minthara the entire time they had traveled together. It was an unspoken agreement between them to simply acknowledge one another in conversation but to avoid private interaction. Though they came to a truce in the shadow lands, Halsin had never warmed up to her. He didn’t want to. The fight with Cazador had been a slip, a moment of panic in the grand scheme of things. She was their strongest fighter after all.

He watched as she placed a coin on the counter and took the mug of beer Alan offered her. She awaited his response, leaning on the wood with a single brow arched. Confident, regal, a cut-throat beauty. 

He sipped his soup, humming gleefully at the taste. “I do not know whom you speak of.”

She scoffed, “Do not treat me like a fool, druid. I speak of Tav, and you do best to speak openly to me.”

“I will not be forced to share my emotions with you, Minthara.”

A genuine laugh. The shock in his face made her laugh again. She sat opposite of him, surprisingly relaxed for how crowded the pub was. “It is not force. I am here, I am asking, and you have not spoken to our other allies about this at all.” 

No, but he assumed that Astarion knew. Tav told him everything. And if Astarion knew, then so did Gale. Gale found he enjoyed gossip with Wyll, and Wyll could keep nothing secret for long when it came to Karlach. Plus, Wyll was the one who discovered him devouring Tav on the roof, so. 

And Minsc definitely shared what happened in the kitchen yesterday with Jaheira. 

Honestly, Halsin felt like an idiot for even thinking he could keep his feelings secret at all.

“I too desired her for a while.”

A ball of jealousy weighed his full stomach down, and he bit into his bread to distract it. “I’m happy for you.”

Minthara squinted, a quirk in her lip. “But she turned me away. Do you know why?”

“Your personality?”

The quip came faster than he expected, before he could reel it back in and save himself a fist fight.

“So—” Minthara took a long gulp and when the mug lowered, her smile was brutal. Teeth and all. “The druid can bite.”

“That was humor, Minthara. When I bite, you’ll know,”

“Oh, I’ve seen you bite. When you are in wild shape, you are otherworldly.” Taking the time to scan his broad chest and shoulders, Minthara hummed her satisfaction. A blush rose to his cheeks. “You bite hardest when protecting my fellow kin. Understandable. She is of a different variety. Warm and sour, dangerous and cruel, kind and terrifying. You, druid, have the capability to handle it all.”

That might have been the sweetest thing he had ever heard her say. Perhaps the realest. 

And if Minthara, of all people, was to be the only one who approached him on this topic, then she deserved to be treated seriously. This must have taken a lot of… heart. Courage she was full of, but empathy?

He took a moment to watch her watch others. How her brow furrowed when friends embraced, how she snickered when a drunk fell from their stool, and how her eyes brightened when lovers snuck away to dark corners. She was new to this world, new to this city. And it hit him that he had been picking at the strands of this city all along. On their daily walks, Halsin complained and spoke of change, but Minthara was experiencing everything anew. He had been destroying her experience and hadn’t given one damn. Tav indulged him, her thrill for judgment obvious at those moments. It was Astarion who would shut him up sometimes, claiming that though he hated these streets at night, they were colorful during the day. Unknown. 

Minthara was approaching him with the intent of being friendly, and he was squandering it. So, pushing his fear of being understood down, he admitted, “But does she truly desire me?”

“I did not take you for a blind fool.”

“Honesty is required at this very moment, Minthara,” he said, pushing his empty bowl away. “I have experienced much in my life, but never the combination of love and lust. To be seen is unnerving, but to see someone in return is glorious.”

She nodded, though he didn’t think she was agreeing. She popped a grape in her mouth and took her time chewing. He waited, vulnerable, until finally her mask fell and she asked, “How does it feel?”

He pondered for a second, his tongue twisting as his heart hurried. “Deep. Like something is burrowing into my insides, to the very depths of my marrow, and filling me with this passion that I can almost taste. And once I get close to tasting its power, it’s… pulled away. Not maliciously, of course. It travels further, but I am more than happy to catch up with it. Because I know that once I grab it, if it’s reciprocated, I’ll feel sated.”

“I should kill you for stooping to such a level of desperation.”

Her loose threat pushed a surprised laugh from him. “You have a tender heart. Same as mine, I would say. You, however, are better at masking it.”

She grumbled, rolling her eyes. “You bleed desperation.”

“I think my biggest weakness is my transparency.”

“Good… You’re finally admitting it.”

They spoke about their past conquests, their errors when it came to people they thought they trusted, and the accomplishments they hadn’t quite considered positive until now. He discovered that her actions back in the goblin camp weren’t entirely her own, and that he had indeed endangered civilians by chasing after the past. And he hoped that she discovered her allies were not simply protecting her back because of honor, but because she had proven herself loyal. 

Hours passed until Alan announced last call, and he found that he had revealed much more than he ever intended to the drow. Much more than he ever did with Tav, really. But because of it, he felt he could share more than just his heart with her. He could find it within himself to share his soul. “Powerful tricks you have, Minthara.”

She smirked, then drank the last sip of her third drink of the night. “I am a drow. We are a manipulative bunch.”

She stood from the booth, everything about her more loose. Comfortable in his presence. Safe, he dare speculate.

He leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, content. And when she strode past him, she laid a gentle palm on his shoulder.

She squeezed once. 

And was gone before he could turn his head.

---

“We could just fight this thing.”

Tav’s suggestion went ignored as the group argued amongst themselves near the doorway. Raphael’s personal incubus waved at them from afar, spreading their legs wider in anticipation. Halsin shuddered, but he wasn't blind to the humor of this situation.

“I brought enough healing potions to defeat Raphael, not his incubus, too!” Shadowheart hissed, clutching her satchel with an incredulous glare. 

Tav rolled her eyes. “The pool here will heal us afterwards. Or would you like to fuck them, Shadowheart?”

Before Shadowheart could bite back, Gale whispered, “Are we sure they’re here out of their own free will?”

“They look excited enough.” Tav locked eyes with Harleep, curling her fingers enticingly. Harleep scoffed playfully, then pretended to swoon. Halsin merely blinked at her when she turned back, enough of a gesture that said he was insulted by that. Tav held in her laugh, and his nearly burst.

“Hells. We slaughtered the damn House of Healing, what’s to say we can’t slaughter the House of Hope?” Minthara suggested, leaning on her hip.

“Perhaps because we haven’t even found Hope yet,” Halsin answered.

Astarion huffed, “If you all want to fuck this thing, then do it. Count me out.” Then, shooting a quick hand in the sky, “I pull the trauma card!”

“Arsehole, beat me to it!” Shadowheart exclaimed.

“What cards do we have left?” Lae’zel asked, her confidence high considering no one would suggest she sleep with the incubus. Though, if Halsin truly had a say, the responsibility technically should have fallen to her. They were here to acquire the hammer necessary in freeing her prince, so. Technically.

“Gender, race, and experience cards,” Tav answered.

“Do we consider experience the same as age? If so, I am an old widower who has not yet gotten over the death of her beloved husband.”

“Fuck you, Jaheira,” Astarion snapped.

“If anyone should fuck the incubus,” Shadowheart added, “it should be Gale! Man has fucked a Goddess!”

“In the Weave, not the Hells!”

“What difference does that make?”

Gale shuffled on his feet, gripping his staff harder. With one look at Astarion, he had his answer. “I pull the race card! I’m human, I have a shorter lifespan! This memory will not simply dwindle!”

“You’re a wizard! Elminster is one-thousand years old!” Tav argued. 

“Then ask him to fuck the devil!”

“Guys…” Wyll interrupted, the crease between his brows deepening. “Karlach has been awfully quiet during this—”

“Really?” Karlach yelled, pointing a fiery finger at her new friend-turned-enemy, “You’re the devil now! Get on your knees—”

They went back and forth for a while longer, no one suggesting that Tav crawl under the incubus herself. Surprisingly, his name was left out of it, too. He could have volunteered, but the thought made him sick. Turning his stomach at the thought of himself beneath a stranger, a stranger wearing a devil’s face. If only he had packed more healing potions, and Gale more scrolls—

“Minsc proclaims—‘Give me my heart’s desire!’”

They all turned at the same time, shocked to find Minsc bloodied and bruised, but wearing the widest smile. He had lifted the painting beside the bed, a bed now carrying the limp body of the naked incubus, and grabbed what looked to be Raphael’s diary. 

“Boo has proven himself the greatest warrior amongst us! Now, let us steal this Hammer of Orphic!”

Astarion’s face twisted in disgust. “Did the hamster fuck the incubus?”

Minsc gasped, holding up both thumbs to cover Boo’s ears. “No! Does Minsc need to retell Boo’s heroic epics tonight? Weren’t you all listening?”

After they find Mol’s contract, free Hope, and defeat Raphael once and for all, Halsin finally lets himself breathe. 

They could do this. They could really save everyone and survive this fight. To kill a devil of Raphael’s stature only cemented his belief that Gortash and Orin would be easy targets. And seeing Tav celebrate with ale and jokes that night cemented his growing love for her.

They shared a kiss before bed, and it’s Halsin that pulled away before things heated. He would court her right, court her like she deserved. He would be all her firsts if she’d let him. 

Oak Father preserve him, he wanted her to be his last.

---

The wizard accompanied him to the river to bathe. Karlach and Shadowheart had claimed the two tubs first, but Gale could not wait to wash the hag’s blood off. The river was about a fifteen minute walk from the Elfsong, and Halsin had brought Astarion's shortsword just in case they took longer than expected and needed to search for dinner on their own. 

There, Gale spoke of his home in Waterdeep and his early schooling, a topic that absolutely fascinated Halsin. How the wizard kept a garden at the peak of his tower and treated his books as if they were his own children, it made Halsin yearn for a visit. Baldur’s Gate was grimy and savage, while Waterdeep seemed to provide a healthy alternative. Or perhaps it was because the wizard was Halsin’s idea of home. They were all starting to become his idea of a peaceful home, and to say it didn’t frighten him would be a lie. 

But what else did he need to prove? He had vanquished the shadow curse, relinquished his title as Archdruid of the Emerald Grove, and was currently hunting greater evils than those of his past. The bear within wanted to roam and see the world, meet new lovers and claim all of nature’s bounties. 

But the man he was becoming, the man he had ignored for the past century, was screaming for his slightest shuffle through dirt to be heard. Maybe it was time to listen to it. To delve into a whole new world with people who had quickly become friends. He was a friend to all, to all of nature, but something was different now. 

Tav had burrowed into his lively heart with her putrefied one, and that was the rare balance he had been searching for over the last few weeks, the very one she had urged him to seek and nourish. 

“Ow! What in the Nine Hells was that?”

Up on shore, Halsin pulled his trousers up his waist but left his shirt untouched. The bear had ruined his last comfortable attire when he had fumbled mid-transition due to the flaming tiefling sneaking up on him. He watched as Gale lifted a hand out of the water, resistance evident the higher he pulled. 

“Is this tar?” Gale observed, groaning as he tried taking a step out of the river. 

His defenses immediately raised as he witnessed his wizard struggle harder, as the water rippled angrily around him. But before he could ready a spell, before the bear could unleash itself, Halsin felt the sharp tip of an arrow pierce the hard muscle of his shoulder. His magic fought against the necrotic poison, failed, and he tumbled to the sand. He could vaguely hear Gale gagging, drowning maybe. 

Halsin curled his body, forcing his neck to turn to see if Gale was safe. But his vision was interrupted by red armor, armor that contorted and bent to his level. Then pale eyes bore in his closing ones. 

“Don’t worry, pet. I won’t touch the wizard. Not yet, at least,” Orin laughed, her grin pulling so wide Halsin had to blink to free himself of the horrid image. “Father only wants you.”

---

Slipping out from the covers, Tav stretched her sore arms and found her slippers. Everyone was fast asleep, snoring away like they didn’t just kill Ethel and avenge Marina today. Tomorrow, they would check-in with another of the names on the Bhaal list and stock up on supplies. She hadn’t seen Rolan in a while either, and she wanted to catch up with Cal and Lia over tea. 

As much as Tav wanted to lay down and never wake up again, she pushed herself to fight. To lead. To see the greater picture, the endgame. She could ignore the ache in her neck and the weight on her chest for a while longer. She had no doubts that everyone else was feeling the same way. 

But she had got them all into this mess. It was her responsibility, her atonement. 

Knocking softly on the nighttime window, she awaited the aggravated voice of the woman who provided them with meals at night. Withers hummed in the corner and traced a gray finger along a sentence he was reading, paying her no mind. She wrapped the thin robe over herself, and avoided breathing near him. 

No one in the Elfsong responded. 

The only water they had in their rooms was two days old and saved for morning baths, and Gale hadn’t returned yet to conjure up a glass. Nor was he here to cast arcane locks on their doors. She pushed the worry to the back of her mind. Gale was with Halsin, and it took an army to get through that wall of muscle. Honestly, she believed it would take an army to get through Gale as well. From the Grove to the Shadowlands to the Lower City, Gale had surprised her immensely. 

Stepping over Grub and Scratch, she quietly descended to the main floor and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. There were three citizens tucked away in the corner, but Alan had closed out all tabs for the night. Patting the dagger attached to her hip, Tav scurried into the kitchen and lit a lamp. She was hoping to at least run into Lakrissa, but the tiefling was most likely lounging on the roof.

Alone. 

Because Tav had stolen Alfira from her. 

She gripped the water pump until her knuckles turned white, cursing underneath a shallow breath. She would be haunted by that forever, too much of a coward to admit to Lakrissa what she had done. When Zevlor had asked if his people had made it to Last Light, Tav hadn’t told him that she had stolen one’s fighting chance. She looked Rolan in the eyes and flirted with him, and he never knew just how violent she had proven herself to be. She never told Halsin the nasty thoughts she had when that snake reached for Arabella, and the false, bloody images she enjoyed those first few nights. 

Steadying her breathing, she pushed herself away from the wall and cupped her hands beneath the faucet. Too distracted to feel someone creep up behind her. 

She was slammed face-down onto the counter, just out of reach of the knives. Her own dagger pressed into the stone. The stranger pressed their palm to her cheek, smashing their weight down to the point an involuntary whimper broke through her trembling lips. 

This was it. Gortash had found her and came to trade. She would be forced to remember and forced to play a part. And maybe her body would betray her and actually fall back into routine. She’d lose this new self. 

“Just lie still, my heart.”

No.

No.

“Halsin—” Tav tried to flip herself around, but Halsin forced his hand underneath her chin and pulled her to his chest. “What—”

“My heart,” he repeated, his lips caressing her jawline. The gravel of his voice when he said it… He had never said that name in lust. It was reserved for soft moments, for safe moments. Halsin understood that. And this Halsin… It didn’t sound right. “I apologize. But hearing Gortash merely speak of your cunt…”

Her stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat as one of his thick fingers came up to gently tug at her hair. Halsin smelled like pine and burning wood, and this person… They smelled like the city and rosemary. What every male in Baldur’s Gate smelled like to her.

“Get off of me,” she hissed, dragging her sharp nails across his forearms. She drew first blood, and that seemed to excite them even more. “Who are you?”

The person wearing Halsin’s face turned her neck to give her a bewildered expression, then dragged their finger over the fresh red lines on their arm. They licked the crimson, never breaking their gaze. 

“It’s me, my heart. I thought you liked feeling overpowered,” they said, grinning. Even the damn smile was a perfect replica. Tav sobbed, ashamed by the flip of her stomach. “I thought you liked relinquishing your control. Learning from me. You wanted to mold yourself into someone better, someone even the Oak Father would accept, no?”

She halted her thrashing, eyes wide in realization. 

Had the Halsin on the roof been… This person? No, not possible. She had smelled him, had felt safe, and he never rushed her. He made sure she was comfortable and that anything they did was with both their consent. This monster must have watched, or Orin had enlisted the services of some damned pigeons. 

Where was the real Halsin? Gods, where was Gale?

Their lips connected to her neck as a large palm lowered to cup a breast. “You taste… remarkable.” 

“Stop,” she tried, her voice coming out as a mere whisper. It was all her frightened body could conjure. Then, with a little more push in her lungs, “Astarion!”

The customers outside would hear her. They had to. She screamed again, but the door remained shut.

They slapped their hand over her mouth, then forced her down again. Her head pounded, the tadpole squirming. The tadpole. 

“My hand is yours to bite into,” they breathed, their hips meeting her backside. Clenching her eyes shut, Tav sent every feeling of fright and disgust down the tadpole’s connection, even begging the Emperor to do something. “We must keep quiet so the others do not hear.”

"They are rousing. Keep screaming," the Emperor ordered, its concern a small reprieve from this torment.

“Astarion!” she tried again, earning another smack and the sound of a belt unbuckling. And through a broken sob, she tried even louder. “Astarion!”

“Call for him all you want, Chosen of Bhaal. This is what Father asks. This is your punishment.”

Her punishment. Perhaps she deserved it. All those years of committing worse atrocities on innocents. She deserved it.

And yet, this was her punishment for defying her Father, not for the violence she had enacted. His vengeance was misplaced. This was something being done to her out of pure spite. 

“Fuck you,” she spit, groaning when they laid their heavy body over hers. This wasn’t Halsin, and that fact settled something sad inside of her. At least this punishment would be done by a stranger, as much of a stranger Orin was to her. It was the first time she thanked the Gods that the pale woman had destroyed her memory.  

At least she was face-down and wouldn’t be forced to watch Halsin do this to her.

“I will, blood-kin. I will.”

“I will kill you, Orin. I will split your skull and devour your hopes, your desires, your damned insanity!”

Hearing Orin laugh in Halsin’s body nearly had her crumbling. Tav spread her arms out and gripped the sides of the counter, trying desperately to slow her breathing. Calm, Halsin would have instructed. Calm yourself, build your strength, and then fight.

“Father wanted me to shift into all of your friends. Take turns using you, stripping you of that gods-awful pride and sentiment you’ve built. To remind you that such connections are worthless! But I told him it would destroy you more if the one you loved was the one to ruin you.”

One second Halsin’s false hand crept up her thigh. Then all that heinous weight was blasted across the room.

“Gods, Tav! We’re here. I’m here.”

Gale.

His soft hands helped her up. As she rose, she saw Astarion and Minthara directly behind him—a single dagger and a longsword pointed at her attacker. She had never seen Minthara so livid, so disheveled. Her night clothes were barely hanging to her shoulders. But as she held the sword up, there was no tremble. Astarion held the same rage in his red eyes, a hint of madness creeping through. Remembrance. Twin empathy. 

“I knew I should have started with that dreadful foreplay.” Finally, finally, Orin contorted and revealed her true self. Shedding Halsin's skin and giving Tav back her sanity. 

“The shamed wizard, the slave spawn, and the drow traitor to the rescue!” Her infamous dagger swept through the air as she named her friends off. It lodged into the wall beside Tav’s head. “Your druid is so terribly boring. With his reputation, I thought it would be simple giving him the same punishment.”

Tav’s heart plummeted, and Gale audibly winced.

“But he couldn’t find the… excitement. So I left him with a promise that I would give that punishment to you.”

“Rabid bitch!” Astarion roared. 

“My assumptions were wrong then? You do not share his bed?” Orin smiled, called her blade back, and twirled it. “Is it because his heart still pumps with juice? His mind is his own? Or is he the unwilling one? I say, dear blood-kin, you always were the ugliest of us.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Where do you think?” 

Tav recalled the pungent smell, the sticky floors, the never-ending screaming. That wasn’t a place for Halsin. That wasn’t a place for anyone with a good-natured heart. 

“Pick through your ravaged mind-matter and find home again. Slaughter your way there! Let the bear’s screams provide the most delightful music for your grand entrance!”

Before Minthara could strike true, Orin disappeared in a red blur. Instead she sliced across the wood, and watched as her weapon tumbled from her grip.

No one spoke. Tav faintly felt Astarion wrap his coat around her shoulders, the drops of water falling from Gale’s hair and to her slippers, and Minthara’s timid fingers as they came to cradle her cheek.

“She took Halsin,” Tav mumbled, swaying in Astarion’s grip. “She took him.” 

“Let’s wake the others. Minsc and Jaheira probably know where this place is located—” Gale started to reason.

“Astarion, she took him,” Tav pleaded, grabbing the elf's collar. “There’s no sun in the temple, Astarion! There are no plants and no light! He’s all alone!”

“Tav, darling,” he tried, his back meeting the wall from all her involuntary shoving. “Gale, help me.”

Gale took a step, but it was Minthara who turned her so she was facing her, wrapped her arms around Tav’s waist, and held her firm. Tav’s nose nestled into Minthara’s neck, her arms pinned between their bodies.

“His—his staff is still here. His bow.”

Minthara kept silent, words eluding her.

On the way back up to their room, Tav noticed the three citizens still at their booth, bleeding out from their necks. Her companions said nothing else about Orin’s assault on Tav, and Gale told everyone how he was unable to stop the abduction. Tav simply sat with her knees tucked tightly, Jaheira at the foot of her bed.

“We’re going to find him, yeah? Look at me, soldier,” Karlach promised from across the room. Clive sat in her lap, his tiny arms wiggling between Karlach’s fingers. “We’re going to bring that hunk of an elf back, safe and sound. Do you hear me?”

Tav tried to move any muscle, but none were cooperating. All she could feel was Orin behind her, and all she could think about was Halsin begging Orin not to touch him.

“He can’t die alone,” she whispered, looking Jaheira in the eye. The older elf did well to remain steady, but Tav saw the slightest jump in her jaw. “He’s all alone.”

Jaheira nodded, then kept watch as Tav attempted and failed to get some rest.

---

Both the trust of Jaheira and Minsc were tested, but when Tav chose to bathe in Sarevok’s blood instead, something tipped itself in the grand scheme of things. Something that proved Tav had changed, had rejected Bhaal’s influence. 

She was capable of good. Capable of chaos. Capable of sweetness and evil. Just like the rest of them.

Smearing Sarevok’s blood down her neck, between her breasts, and over her corset, Tav took a moment to regain her footing. No one spoke, though Wyll did place a gentle hand upon her red shoulder. Tav bristled slightly, but soon placed her own hand over his.

“You don’t have to watch this,” she warned, her voice monotone.

Minsc chuckled lightly, “A fact for you, Tav—you cannot do more carnage than Boo, here.”

She didn’t smile, didn’t react to his words. Instead, she went around and piled the bodies in the middle of the room and watched them sink into the pool. Slowly, the pool overflowed with darkening blood.  Slowly, she submerged herself into its depths. Slowly, the others lowered themselves to one knee. Even Valeria quieted. 

She emerged seeking vengeance. 

An oath to herself, to the bloody grand scheme of all things.

---

The only stop Tav made before descending into the sewers was Sorcerous Sundries. There she spent most of her coin on scrolls for Gale, healing potions, and a new dagger for Astarion. Rolan gave her that and more, descending into the library for scrolls mainly used in battle, and a longsword that was promised to an ancient soldier seeking redemption.

Rolan said she could keep it if she liked the weight of it. So she passed Sarevok's blade to Minthara and adopted the ancient silver steel for herself. 

Rolan trusted her with it.

It was the first time in Tav’s life that she kneeled before anyone and thanked them with tears in her eyes.

---

The fourth time Halsin heard the crack of Tav’s lungs was while he was strapped to Bhaal’s altar, praying to Silvanus for anyone to come and save him. How he missed Tav’s awkward smile and her genuine innocence to all things common. How he missed Gale’s blabbing and knowledge about topics Halsin had always wanted to explore. How he missed Lae’zel’s naiveness to all things Faerun and the way her high nose crinkled when annoyed. How he missed Karlach’s spontaneous attitude in the face of death and the way she practiced her dancing when the others made deals across the city. How he begged Silvanus to give him a fighting chance because he forgot to hug his vampire and tell him he was proud of his decision back at Cazador’s palace. How he needed to live because Wyll needed someone to tell him that his trying was starting to pay off and he did not need his father’s approval to show his face in the city again. How he wanted to learn from Jaheira, no matter their similarities, because she had explored much more of the Sword Coast than he ever did. And he needed to live because he forgot to tell Minthara that he respected her and that her words the other night had elated him to new heights. 

He wanted to live because before he met his companions, Halsin didn’t think he had truly lived at all.

Tav lunged for Orin, slicing up her back and cracking her armor. Orin wailed, her pale eyes darting toward the altar. She lunged forward, close enough to knick Halsin’s forearm, before smacking against the temple floor with the full weight of her sister. Tav wrapped her hands around Orin’s throat, nails digging into the meat.

The temple gave a great shake, and everything happened too fast. 

Orin’s bones broke and her muscles melted. Her face contorted and stretched. Her limbs grew and her nails punctured stone. Tav scrambled back, hitting Astarion’s knees. He too was frozen in shock, readying his daggers. One great strike and Astarion was sent into a crowd of Bhaalists, the spray of his stale blood igniting their most sadistic desires. Forgotten were Orin’s orders, and Shadowheart took the opportunity. Casting spirit guardians, she dashed for the small crowd and tore them down one by one, even drawing out the invisibles. Gale kept his distance, missiles flying directly into Orin’s back as she inched closer and closer to Tav. 

One massive step, and Tav had to jump back. Again and again. But each step brought Orin closer to Minthara, whose sharpened blade met the tendons of one of her monstrous arms. Orin bellowed, swinging blindly, which allowed Tav to nail a strike to her neck. And when Bhaal instilled more energy into Orin’s slayer form, they repeated the tiresome process. 

Though groggy, Halsin forced himself to sit up on the altar. To watch Tav land the long-awaited, final blow. The agony in her swing, the tortured crack of her throat, the absolute devastation on her face when Orin transformed back and crawled to her—melting and moaning, a single arm extended in a last attempt at landing another hit. 

When Orin was nothing but a rancid puddle and her Bhaalists quieted, Halsin stepped onto the ground. Wobbly on his feet, he was held up by Gale’s strong arms and handed his staff for extra support. Minthara made to loot Orin’s remains when the temple shook below their feet and darkness enveloped them. 

It only took a minute. One horrifying minute where Halsin and his companions stood paralyzed as they watched Tav reject Bhaal, and curse his name and line. One disturbing minute as they watched Bhaal steal back his blood in literal ribbons.

The ground quaked, as did the crimson walls. Bhaalists slowly retreated into the shadows, shame and fury keeping them from another fight. Bhaal’s likeness flared after each individual quake, as if trying to shake them from his domain. 

Bhaal didn’t need Tav anymore—He would choose another. He didn’t need her companions to keep her alive anymore. He didn’t need anything anymore.

Falling to his knees, Halsin cradled her head in his large palm. It didn’t seem like Bhaal had broken her bones. Just... drained her of all fluids. His blood. Holding her delicately, he hovered a palm over her chest. 

Nothing. No beat, no pump. Stale.

“Please,” Halsin whimpered, the force of his tears blinding him. “Defy your fate. Just one more time.”

Shadowheart tugged on Halsin’s bicep, begging him to carry Tav out instead. That they could work together underneath the sunlight, in the embrace of the Oak Father. But he could not pull himself away from her, could not stop pumping his hands into her fragile chest, could not stop sharing his air. Rational thought begged him to listen to Shadowheart, that the air of Bhaal’s temple would not nourish her orphaned lungs. Halsin could not stop trying, because the moment he stopped he understood it was the end.

The lilac of her face paled to an ashen white and when he lifted an eyelid to catch any form of light, he was cursed with the sight of bloodless and pale eyes. They retreated so far back into her skull that he caught a glimpse of the surrounding nerves. The silver fire had truly been extinguished. He yelled in frustration—in untamed misery. 

The temple shook violently, sending Astarion to his knees. He cursed, dodging falling rock and the crumbling altar. Halsin continued to pump her chest, his healing power slowly seeping through her skin. 

Not fast enough. All failing. 

Gale fumbled inside his robes and pulled out a scroll, determination evident through his panic. Halsin knew a scroll of revivify would be of no use. Gale persisted, cursing as he ripped a corner, and read it quickly. The temple shook again.

And through his worry, Gale lifted his chin and faced Bhaal’s likeness. Brow lowered and dark eyes fully unmasked, he said in a whisper like pure death, “You forget yourself, Bhaal. Tav is not the only Chosen standing before you.”

Casting globe of invulnerability, Halsin and Shadowheart were now free to work. Surprising not only Halsin but the pale elf beside him, Bhaal grew silent. Frozen. Strangely cooperative for Mystra’s shamed Chosen.

And through Halsin’s rapid breathing, he heard the unmistakable sigh of Withers.

---

It was Astarion who talked him off the ledge. A figurative one, thankfully. After Tav was revived, she was so damn happy and grateful that he… Distanced himself for a few hours. Orin had only psychologically tortured him, but not even to the extent he believed she would indulge in. It was like he was an afterthought, and he found himself wishing he wasn’t. If Halsin wasn’t the one receiving punishments, it meant Tav was. It meant another poor soul was under Orin’s knife. 

And in those rare moments of solace, when the smell of blood and shit clogged his nostrils so badly all other senses failed to work, he realized just how stupidly righteous he was. All this time he had mentored others on why self-care and self-love were the most important factors in one’s daily routine, and he had never participated in either practice. Halsin was huge on taking care of the body, getting the right amount of meditation, and nurturing one’s magic like a newly sprouted seedling. But where was the self-care that involved speaking well of himself, of sometimes selfishly taking a day off to do absolutely nothing? Where was the self-love that translated to being kind to himself, of acknowledging that he can’t win every battle? 

“A second chance means it’s all out in the open now, darling. Do not leave anything unspoken.”  

Tav was given a new lease on life, and he needed to realize he was, too. His inner turmoils needed to be dealt with, but never at the expense of his peace. His positivity needed to be channeled through multiple platforms, not just through pep-talks and health-related issues. His love, though bountiful, had taken root in one person, and after three hundred and fifty years he would finally follow the invisible string that had been glowing gold since fighting his way out of that goblin camp. 

Being righteous had its perks, but he learned that abusing all of them at once would only bring about a harsh end. If one wanted to be a tragic hero so badly, then the Gods would take pleasure weaving that fate. 

He decided that tragedy would have no place in his world, nor would it for Tav. 

“Tell me she did not hurt you,” he said, his heart jumping as he received a surprised gasp.

He felt her lingering not far, her scent one that would take millennia to forget and would be discovered carved into his spine-bones.

Their companions had cleared out an hour ago and were no doubt adding to the ruckus downstairs. Shadowheart’s parents had taken Yenna and the animals on a walk around the park. It was only Halsin in their rooms, lounging on his bed pretending to read the book Gale had let him borrow. Tav leaned against the wooden pillar as if waiting to be called into the gigantic space. Her lean frame was concealed under a heavy knitted sweater. 

Her mouth slightly parted. “Me? Tell me if she hurt you. Please.”

“She did not touch me, my heart.”

She walked to him slowly, pausing mid-way when he put the book down. 

“If I had never come up with that stupid tadpoling plan, if I had never stolen that godsdamned crown, if I would have just told you to stay at the Grove all those months ago—”

“You would be dead.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“If Orin hadn’t experimented on you and instead chose to kill you, we would all be dead. If you had never stolen that crown, Gale would have never gained the independence he so desperately needed from Mystra, and chosen to better himself for himself. If you had never had the idea for the tadpoles, Astarion would still be a slave with no way out. You wouldn’t have defeated Orin or gained your own freedom—been born again. And if I had listened to you and stayed at the Grove, I would still be wallowing in self-pity and estranged from the outside world.”

“I have caused so much travesty—” she began, tears pricking her waterline. Halsin would not stand for that.

“You were Hells sent, but by the Gods have you proven to be the most beautiful fallen devil.”

A single tear. That was all she let fall before wiping her cheek and lifting her chin. He stood and closed the distance, cupping her face and tracing his thumb over her scar. 

“Listen to me, you annoying brat of a drow. You were liberated for a reason,” he said, his throat clenching on itself. “You were given a second chance for a reason. It is not up to you to decide whether you deserve it or not. You do, and only soulless creatures will argue it.”

She copied his movements and smoothed over his own scars, her soft-hearted gaze just as powerful as her perfected vicious one. 

“For everything I’ve done… How is it possible for my prize to be you?”

“How is it possible that for all my years of unchanged routine, I want to discard everything I know to learn my first steps with you?”

“Please don’t discard everything,” Tav pleaded through a chuckle, “because if I must learn how to be good again, then I’ll need you by my side.”

“My heart, my love,” he declared, his thumb now hovering over her plump bottom lip. “Give yourself more credit.”

Tav catapulted into his arms, claiming his lips with her own in a kiss so anguished and starved he had nothing to compare it to. Every kiss before was now rendered a dull touch, and Tav was all he would ever know. Grateful as he was for the new reality, Halsin immediately responded to her eagerness, matching it with such force they threw each other into the walls. He had spent so long ignoring the undeniable urge to devour her wholly, to make a feast of her sweat and moans. 

Tav pushed forward, knocking him into Wyll’s bedpost. It dug into his spine, but he countered quickly. He dove even deeper, their teeth clanging momentarily as he pushed her into Jaheira’s alchemy set. It toppled to the ground, nothing spilled, but blocking their clumsy path all the same. He was trying to guide them back to her bed since his was currently covered with books, but it seemed like their legs weren’t cooperating with their decision. Tav didn’t seem to mind. She kissed him with a hunger that rivaled Gale’s orb, or Astarion’s bloodthirst. This was a kiss equivalent to a last one—like she was trying to make it count. 

He wanted to voice it: They were going to survive. Their allies were going to survive. They would live happily after this. Free of the dark urge, free of titles, free of responsibilities that weren’t their own. He would be by her side for however long she would have him. And Gods, did he hope that was forever. 

They toppled to the center of the room, the ever-blazing fire warming their already searing bodies. They detached for the sole reason of removing their upper layers, baring their skin and basking in the nearby orange glow. 

Pulling her close, Halsin savored the feeling of her breasts pressed against his burly chest. Her soft skin like velvet, it was everything Halsin imagined. Snaking his hands down her back, he made sure to leave a delicate path along her spine. She shivered as the pads of his fingers kissed each vertebrae, her nipples hardening against his skin. Tav attempted to do the same, but eager in her pursuit, she skipped his entire spine and went straight for his ass, cupping it so she could pull their hips together. There, she proved his readiness. 

He groaned softly, caressing her curves in return. “I will spend hours kissing every inch of your skin—”

“Halsin,” Tav rasped, pulling away with an expression that looked almost pained, “It’s getting late and the others will be returning soon. You can cash those hours another day, I promise. I want you to absolutely ravish me right now.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, gripping her hair and pulling her back in. She chuckled through the kiss, his spiced tea still lingering in her breath. He removed his trousers and hers, flicking her sandals over the railing and across the room. Laying her down, he could finally witness her beauty uncovered. Three parallel scars faded directly below her left breast, another just above her hip bone. A handful of stretch marks encircled her waist, the lilac skin pulled to its extent, probably during her younger years. And there were freckles dusted along her inner thighs, each a tantalizing path to her dripping center. He carefully pulled her thighs up and apart, spreading her open to take her in. 

She wiggled under his gaze, the rush of untainted and newly reclaimed blood staining her cheeks. A spectacular delight to know she belonged to herself now and was willingly allowing him to share in her discovery. 

“Do you not like me looking at you here?” he asked, running his fingertips close to where she pulsed. She swallowed hard and tried to shut her legs. 

“Even I haven’t seen myself down there, you annoying oaf of a druid.”

“Then it is settled.” His voice lowered to a dangerous level, inciting a spark of heat through his own stomach. “The next time I fuck you, it shall be with your back against my chest, my cock between your legs, and a mirror in front of us. Then you’ll gaze upon yourself and your argument will be shot to the Hells.”

Her eyes widened, an almost innocent look that had his cock jumping.

“Go get it now.”

An uncontrollable moan sprouted from his lungs, but he did as he was told. A total of ten seconds he was away as he hauled the mirror to the center of the room, but it was long enough for Tav to take matters into her own hands. He returned to find her fingers deep inside her cunt, another twisting the hardened peak of her nipple. 

“Give it to me,” he ordered, lowering to her level again. She gasped, moving to kneel before him. Taking her hand, he made sure to lock their eyes before taking two wet fingers into his mouth. She tasted earthly, original, delectable. The same taste that formed on his own tongue when he pleasured himself, when that spark of energy grew at the base of his spine and his chest rose with a battered scream. He sucked softly, savoring every drop, and took himself in his hand. 

Tav followed his movement, her yearning evident as it practically shot from her essence into his own. Warming his insides, sating his darkest wants. 

“You are no stranger to self-pleasure, yes?”

Tav shook her head. “I indulged.”

Guiding her hand back to herself, he continued stroking. He was fortunate enough to have an impressive length as well as girth, and something he would do for any and all lovers was prepare them. There was no Hell in this realm where he would hurt them to satisfy his needs quicker. 

“Show me,” he pleaded, jutting his chin. “Show me, and I’ll show you.”

Tav circled her clit slowly, switching from watching his face to watching his hand. “Tell me, druid. Did you ever fuck yourself while thinking of me?”

The smile he offered was feral. “Have you no manners? What an invasive question.”

She leaned back and opened her thighs again, and plunged two fingers into herself. A gold glimmer scurried up his skin, then disappeared. 

“I did it once,” she admitted, moaning softly as she went a little too deep. “It was the first time I ever thought about someone else while doing it, too. Do you want to know where and when I did it?”

Sliding his thumb over his slit, Halsin bit his tongue. He settled between her open legs, her knees knocking against the sides of his torso. So close that he could feel the heat of her arousal. 

“Tell me.”

She took her fingers out and paid close attention to her clit. “That night you returned from the Shadowfell and officially joined our group. I asked you about lovers and you mentioned that you bed alone. I—ah—didn’t know what that feeling was so I explored it. I came four times that night, all because you were so kind and Karlach never shut up about climbing you like a tree and I was curious—”

She came with her back arched and a cry on her moist lips, but her fingers never paused. Neither did her confession. 

“You made me so confused and angry all the time. Would you have fucked me all those months ago if I asked?”

Halsin expertly lifted her and flipped her around, cushioning his knees at the same time. They could see each other in the mirror now, exposed and glistening. His braids were loose and a sheen of sweat covered his biceps. He lowered Tav until her bottom rested on his thighs. She moved them slightly, her backside brushing against him tenderly. He hugged her firm, but loose enough that she could still move forward if needed. 

“No,” he admitted, reaching up to cup one of her breasts. Before he let her expression sour however, he added, “You weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. You said you did not want to be another notch on my belt, and I promise you that if you’ll have me, I will be your one and only. You will be my one and only. We see each other for who we are now, unburdened by inner turmoils. And I will continue seeing you long after we defeat the enemies that await us. So no, Tav. I would not have slept with you all those months ago.”

He lifted her carefully, and lined himself up. She watched the mirror intently.

“We see each other now,” he whispered into the crook of her neck. “The silver of this mirror meets the silver of your beauty, and I shall use the golden hues you see in me to light you in its presence.”

He slid into her, holding her steady with each new inch, muttering words of encouragement as she struggled. 

“Halsin,” she whimpered, raising her arms to use his hair as a grip. She could pull with all her strength and Halsin would bask in the pain. “By the gods, this can’t be real.”

Halsin chuckled, and finally all of him was seated inside her. He felt himself pulse with the need to move. She circled her hips, testing the waters, watching the way she stretched around him in the mirror. The pornographic sight had his hips stuttering. Each bounce she attempted had him breathing harder, a savage burn encasing his heart and lungs. Yet he held back, holding her around the stomach now as she explored the new feeling. 

“Hot,” she said, her smile genuine. “You feel hot against me. Inside me.”

“Tell me to burn hotter and I will.”

Adjusting her hips, she nodded at him in the mirror. 

A single thrust and his skin pricked deliciously, the guttural groan Tav gave because of it prompting him to thrust again. Together they moved and watched themselves in the mirror, gaining as much speed as their knees allowed. Plunging deeper and deeper, Halsin reined in the bear and forced himself to stay present. Never had the need to wildshape been this serious before. 

“You’re glowing,” Tav said, a sudden whine escaping her throat as he hit her from a particular angle. “I’m not about to have a bear’s cock inside me, am I? I can barely handle this one.”

His laugh melted into a moan. “No, my love. But we can explore that terrain another time.”

She scoffed playfully, “Damn druids.”

She yelped as he pushed her forward on her hands and knees, watching her face in case he overstepped. But all he saw was pure delight, excitement in being adored like this. It occurred to him that she had probably never been taken, and he doubted Gortash fucked her properly. 

Wrapping her hair in his fist, he lifted her head so she could watch him pound into her. He fucked her hard and fast, the slap of their skin reverberating through their quiet rooms. Her mouth dropped open as he kept his brutal pace, her eyelids drooping in perfect rapture.

“Ah! Fuck, I—Oh, fuck Halsin. This is—this is so fucking good,” she whined, then sucked in a deep breath. “It’s like you're in my stomach.”

“You’re doing perfectly, my heart. The feeling—the feeling around me…”

He couldn't finish his sentence. Tav dropped to her elbows and screamed, pushing her hips backward to take him deeper. He watched as he fucked into her, her arousal coating the sides of his cock and dripping down the backs of her thighs. Watched how the enticing curve of her spine met the base of her bowed neck and the damp baby hairs curling there. And in the mirror he was also able to catch a glimpse of the drool she failed to catch, of her hand coming to wipe at her chin and then quickly catch her weight again. 

“It feels so good I might cry,” she laughed, though the sound was overridden by more devious ones. 

“Your beautiful sounds are surely the talk of the pub right now,” he teased, slowing his thrusts purposely. “Do you think they can hear you cry for me? Do you think they hear as I fuck into you? Gods, you’re soaked and begging, aren’t you?”

Tav pushed her hips again, her frustration growing. 

“I pray they come and investigate. I can scarcely believe I’m not dreaming. And if they see me fucking you out in the open, how deep I am, my seed dripping out of you—”

The fifth time Halsin heard Tav scream was when she came so violently around his aching cock, tears of bliss on her blushed cheeks and a whole-body tremble seizing her, pulse after pulse threatening to milk him of everything he had. And she partially succeeded as he came inside her, a shout of his own syncing with hers. 

Floating for twenty or so seconds, they enjoyed the feeling of their entanglement before Halsin started moving again. Tender, silky slides that were louder now as his seed spilled out of her, coating them equally. Tav’s breath quickened, the rug burn on her elbows striking him with a powerful burst of elation. Soon he’ll match them on her knees, he’ll gladly accept them in return, and he’ll ask Tav to make him scream until his throat was raw. 

Though he fucked her deep, he kept his hands soft. Much to her surprise, he turned her onto her back and draped himself over her. 

Tav giggled and pulled her trapped hair from under her shoulders. “Your chest hair is ticklish.”

His heart swelled. If such a visceral reaction was possible from such a simple sound, how would he feel when that laugh rattled her chest and burst eardrums? He wasn’t above dropping dead—may his flesh nourish the soil she walked on, may his bones carry the weight of her decisions, and may his soul grant her peace. 

He stroked her right cheek with his index, loose strands of his hair kissing the left. “Apologies.”

“Don’t apologize. I know it’s wrong to say, but I am so glad you’re alive alongside me.”

“It’s not wrong to say,” he assured, sliding back into her with a short grunt. He bit her bottom lip as she gasped. “I’m just glad you’ve given me the chance to experience this alongside you.”

They shared their breaths as Halsin quickened his pace. Grabbing her left thigh and lifting it, he reached her most sensitive spot and kept at it. They were still in the middle of their highs, but his head was clearer. Sure, the idea of their companions walking in on them was intriguing, but Halsin found himself selfish now. Maybe another time they would discuss their fantasies—this was all for themselves. Practically shielding her, he felt the bear shimmer with…

Acceptance. Possessiveness. Satisfaction. Happiness. 

The urge to roam that lay dormant for the past few months vanished entirely. He was Tav’s and Tav’s was his, and no longer would they be slaves to expectations or the commands of others. This moment they shared would bleed into eternity. 

“I love you,” she said, her waterline silver. She repeated it, over and over, and he too admitted the same. 

“I love you, too.”

They came together again, their hearts aligned, their breathing timed for risk of stopping altogether. 

Later, when their companions returned and noticed the positive shift in their relationship, Halsin realized that though his love for Tav was unparalleled and rare, it also extended to the rowdy group of adventurers who had proven their loyalty ten times over. And if fate would allow it, he wanted to follow them long after their final battle proved victorious.

---

“Do you love me more than you love Bucky?”

“Hey, watch it.”

“Whisper it to me.”

Bucky sighed your name as he slid from the couch to the floor. “Don’t put ideas into his head.”

“We should think about getting him a friend!” To that, Axel sneezed and snorted.

“That was a weird sound,” Bucky pointed out, genuinely worried. It was a combination of breathing in and clearing the throat, and it sounded like it hurt.

“It’s probably allergies. Fall and winter do that to animals.”

“Dogs can get allergies?”

You hummed, smoothing the fur on Axel’s back. “Lainey’s dog used to get a yearly injection that helped with it. Or sometimes dogs breathe in things that block their nostrils. Something like that. He’ll pass it soon.”

Bucky grimaced, still unconvinced. “I’m going to overthink.”

You giggled, “I entirely expect you to. You’re a new dad, you have every right.”

Bucky blushed at that description. He had thought about having children in the 40s. Find a cute girl, either Jewish or Catholic to appease his parents, and pop out about four kids. Then the draft stole him from that opportunity and—

Bucky always wanted to be a dad. Nowadays, he’s not so sure.

He watched you brush through Axel’s hair, wondering if you planned on having children. If you could have children. If you never even thought about it.

If Bucky were going to have children still, he thinks having one with you would be nice.

“I’ll take him to the vet with you in the New Year. But trust me, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he allowed negative thoughts to taint this moment. Why he was thinking about it at all, really. It wasn’t like you gave him any indication of doing him dirty after all this.

But that voice was impossible to ignore as it cruelly whispered, She won’t just be yours in the New Years.  

“You… You still want to be my friend in January?”

“What? Was there a deadline to my friendship or—” Your realization sits like a block of wet cement in his stomach.  “...Something.”

He avoided eye contact as he said, “Stark pays you after the Christmas Ball.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t want to leave you.”

Fuck, your voice was so sincere as you said it, too. He didn’t doubt you wanted to remain his friend. But all your time was literally scheduled for him right now. What’s going to happen when your schedule clears and he’s simply back to being one of your clients?

Bucky was a client.

“You weren’t paid for more.”

You stopped petting Axel to look directly at him, angry. “I’m going to need you to stop reminding me of that, or trying to make me feel guilty for it.”

“It’s true. You wouldn’t have tried speaking to me if there weren't dollar signs attached,” he said, shrugging his heavy shoulders.

“Are you trying to get me to scream at you? Of course I wouldn’t have! You’re an Avenger, I’m a civilian. That’s like flirting with a celebrity and hoping they can get past the fact that I’m nothing.”

He grimaced, “Don’t call yourself nothing.”

“You’re treating me like a hooker,” you enunciated, voice low.

Bucky scoffed, standing to distance himself from you. From the conversation his dumbass had thrown himself in. “I’ve never once treated you like a hooker.”

It was silent for a few seconds. Bucky listened to the wisps from the candles, a sound you probably couldn’t even hear. He focused on the smell of the cookies you had just taken out of the oven. He focused on his own, damaged mind and how it dug a gigantic hole for him to jump in.

In the quietest voice he had ever heard from you, unnatural indeed, you breathed, “You just did.”

Something in his chest turned. Froze over and condemned him to Hell. He was back in that freezer, forced to watch the world spin on as he couldn’t lift a muscle.

Good, he thought. He deserved it.

You shook your head, as if physically shaking his words off you, and went to stand. “Look, if you didn’t want me… Then why did you ask for me?”

He said nothing. A muscle jumped in his cheek but still, he said nothing.

Because he hadn’t asked for you. He had sat back and followed an order.

“Look at me,” you confronted him. “I’m accepting that money because it’s a part of the job. But I will be your friend afterward. I will clear my schedule just to share breakfast with you. To walk Axel with you. You are my friend.”

“I can give you money.”

You reared back as if you had been hit. “How is that different?”

“A one time exchange. It’s not attached to my time or my sanity.”

You stared at him for a long while, blinking in confusion. In shock maybe, Bucky wasn’t so sure. “You’re gonna give me one hundred thousand dollars?”

“I will give you the sun and all its solar flares if it means remaining your friend.”

Something raw danced in your eyes. As if his words hit a sensitive patch.

Had you ever been in love? Had any of your clients pulled such a reaction from you? Had someone from your past nearly convince you to stay with them in your hometown?

Bucky wanted to be the only one. The only one to occupy your time, to share a seat at your dinner table, to joke around with.

At this point, you had helped heal half his soul. He could do without the other half if it meant remaining in your thoughts.

“Don’t try to buy me,” you commanded, swiping a stray hair from your forehead.

“Do you see my problem now?”

Your shoulders slumped. You stared at him with obvious indecision. Then, softly and without much anger added, you said, “You weren’t supposed to like me so much.”

This wasn’t just a friendship anymore. Not just companionship. Bucky hadn’t felt this way ever, not even before the war. He was either worrying about tuberculosis, paying rent, or getting shot. Never had he felt like he was allowed to just worry about one thing. To just worry about someone falling in love with him or not.

“But I do,” he admitted, matching your shrug. He stepped closer, pausing in case you wanted to take a step back. You remained where you were, arms at your side and watching him move.

“I’m not used to it,” you whispered, your eyes turning softer as Bucky cupped your cheeks in his hands. He laid his forehead against yours, holding you steady.

“Me neither.”

He could hear your heartbeat. If he listened too closely, he could also hear the blood rushing through your veins.

When he was forced on his stomach and told to lie still, he had tuned out the world and focused on the systems working inside his body. Listening to his cold blood was one of them. In those hours of pure horror, his blood swished and churned at the speed of light. No barriers, no stops, no obstacles to burst through.

Your blood ran, but ran warm.

A tear slipped from his eye, moistening his upper lip.

“Bucky…” you breathed, reaching up to cup his hands with yours.

“Can I touch you?”

He shut down the cruel voice purring at him, replacing it instead with his own.

He is your friend. Not your client.

You have a choice in who you sleep with. He is not forcing you.

He has a choice in who touches him. And you respect that.

He is your friend. You are his.

And he wants you.

You nodded quickly, lifting your eyes up to his. “Yes.”

Verbal permission was all he needed.

It takes a lot less time to strip each other of your multiple layers. To lay each other down and decide through gentle touches and soft words how you both wanted this to play out. Every kiss, every lick, every grip from your hands had Bucky seeing stars. Those stars that shined just for a single person, never for the rest of the world. Those stars hidden behind the fame chasers, their light stronger than those that came before them.

He responded to each one of your moans, listened to the sentences you formed, followed your fingers as they trailed down his naked chest. It was the knowledge that you enjoyed this too, that you wanted to take pleasure in his pleasure, that helped him stifle the voices in his head. He’d be lying if he said those voices weren’t talking non-stop, adding hideous meanings to everything you did. Voices that tried to convince Bucky you were faking this, that he was hurting you instead of loving you.

But all he had to do was look at you, hear your tender voice speak kind words he thought his mind would never fathom. All that trust that had been cultivated between you two over the last three weeks thus supporting his weight and helping him support yours.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, completely bare beneath him. Your chest brushed against his, a rather holy feeling. He had already spent fifteen minutes studying the feeling of each breast with his tongue.

“I’m sure,” he responded, holding his hard cock in his flesh hand, angling it toward your warm heat. You looked wetter than last time, and felt wetter, too. He ran the tip across your slit, reveling in the small sounds it pulled from your throat, then slowly pressed inside.

His body responded unlike what he originally believed.

Territorial, but in your beautiful favor.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, adjusting your hips. Bucky pushed in a little deeper, savoring the squeeze. He monitored every emotion that passed on your face, everything that was uttered from your lips. He did not want to detach his pleasure from yours.

He at least knew that. Sex was enjoyable when all members were enjoying it.

“You feel so good,” Bucky admitted, dipping his face into the crook of your neck. Once he was fully seated inside, he lowered his chest those few inches more so you were attached completely. You grasped at his back, keeping your nails from puncturing his skin. Then Bucky began moving, began chasing what he had lost so many years ago, only to find it much more polished and refined than the last time he saw it.

When there was a certain angle he hit that made you shout repeatedly, he made sure to hit it again and again. At a slow pace, deep, working that coil in your stomach to its bare bones. The base of his own spine tightened and drove him forward, begging him to bury himself inside you for all hours of the day.

And if his body cooperated, he wouldn’t argue with that prospect.

“Another,” you breathed, the word a struggle to form. “Another position.”

Bucky carefully removed himself from you, waiting as you readjusted yourself at the foot of the bed. But his breath caught in his lungs as you bent over, facing away from him, presenting yourself in all your eagerness.

“No,” he said, turning away.

“The mirror, Bucky,” you reasoned, holding yourself up with flat palms. “The mirror is right there. You’ll be able to see my face the entire time.”

He swallowed, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t even have to bend me over. Just hold me up, be behind me, try this with me.”

He hadn’t explicitly told you that this position wasn’t a good one for him. You probably pieced it together yourself. He didn’t want to think you were using this time to experiment, to hold up your end of the bargain. That would kill him.

But it was the light across your face, the innocence splattered there that showed Bucky you were just giving him the chance. The option. If he said no again, then you would plop right back down onto your back and enjoy it all the same.

Bucky doesn’t think he could ever be in that position himself again. It’s why he worked out alone, never danced to modern music, and why he piled pillows in front and behind him when he slept. It’s the one thing he won’t ever experiment with.

Having you in that position was ultimately a chance for Bucky to take something back. It wasn’t an invitation to do what was done to him, but to create an alternate image. A new image. Placing himself as the person behind, watching through the mirror as this position brought his partner pleasure.

He settled behind you, lifting you up. He slowly traced his hands down your body, over your breasts, over your stomach. The mirror offered him an amazing view. A thin layer of sweat covering both your bodies; your hair was disheveled, visible goosebumps erupted along your arms and thighs, and a delicious shine coated your inner thighs.

Bucky kicked your knees further apart, smiling when your voice jumped, and plunged back into you. Spreading a palm over your chest and a metal one across your lower stomach, he delighted in the new angle. Watching as your jaw slacked, how your throat bobbed with each difficult swallow, how your eyes closed then widened whenever he hit a particular spot. He watched it all through the mirror, how his cock went in and out of you. It was slightly visible—perhaps it would be obvious if he spread you even wider.

“Look at how I fuck you,” he groaned, holding your chin up as it threatened to fall. He met your gaze in the mirror, grinning as his words caused you to mewl wildly. “I want you to come around me. Can you do that?”

You nodded, your voice apparently still strangled. Your breathing quickened, and after a few deep thrusts, you complied. Coming around him with a shout, pushing your ass back to him in a plea to aid you until the end.

Bucky held you close to his chest, relishing in the complete warmth, and laid his sweaty cheek against yours. His hair fell from the hair tie, cascading in rich waves. He tried to plant kisses on your cheek, but it was hopeless. He came with a soft groan, cheek on cheek, his breath mingled with yours.

His trust in you glowing brilliant.

Afterward, he ran a bath and thanked the Heavens that your bathtub was big enough to fit yourself and a super soldier. You filled it with bubbles and lit a peppermint-scented candle. The two of you spent an hour cleaning up—or rather, thirty minutes cleaning and thirty minutes making Santa beards from the bubbles.

He would call that entirely productive.

~

    Your finger hovered over the button for ten minutes. Bucky peacefully slumbered on the left side of your bed, on his stomach and snoring softly. There were scars along his back, stretching down to his slender hips. His lower half was covered with the blanket, but you had seen the scars on his bottom and thighs, too.

Every inch of him was bruised and battered, deserving of kisses and gentle brushes.

You messaged your clients a short paragraph explaining why you were no longer able to take appointments or engage in sexual activity with them. The same paragraph, none mentioning finding someone else instead.

Then you finally clicked the button, and deleted your account.

Still, you were trying to find a reason not to spend money in that store.

Because the red dress on display was absolutely the dress of your dreams.

“Oh, shoot. I was going to buy that.”

You turned to the woman who had crept up beside you—the spy who had crept up beside you. “Sucks.”

Natasha’s smile split into a comical, incredulous one. Pure, unlike anything you’ve seen on the former Russian spy. “And the bite has come out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You Avengers have been pissing me off lately. In particular, the blond hunk.”

“He is a blond hunk, huh?”

“He may piss me off, but I won’t ignore the fact that he’s handsome.”

She nodded, agreeing. “So, you going to get the dress?”

“My bank account says no but my heart yearns.”

Natasha chuckled, going to catch the door as someone exited. She motioned at you to enter. You obliged, realizing there was no turning back now. The dress had you by the throat.

“I’ll be looking in the back for mine. Meet me in the dressing rooms when you’re ready,” she told you, walking to the back of the store like she owned the place. And perhaps she did, considering about five different women dropped what they were originally focused on to assist her.

“Can I help you?” one of the attendants asked, her glasses slipping down her nose.

“Could I try on that dress that’s on the mannequin?” you smiled shyly, telling her your dress size afterward. She scurried away, allowing you to find comfort on one of the giant sofas they had for customers.

The dresses all varied by occasion. Some looked like prom dresses, others more formal, some even resembling wedding dresses. The last time you had visited a place like this was for your fourth date ever, and Lainey had chosen all your dresses for you. Even offered to split the bill on your favorite. You had chosen a gorgeous, blue silk dress that had ended up ripped on your date’s floor by the end of the night. Lainey had only laughed, stitching it up after you got home. It’s still hanging at the back of your closet.

You debated wearing that one, but it wasn’t holiday appropriate. Maybe with some long, white gloves and diamonds. But this red dress was more festive, more relevant.

“Here you are!” the attendant announced, carrying the dress in her arms. “Third door on your left. I’ll be over there in a second.”

You took the dress from her, marveling at the velvet fabric. Perfect for the weather, too.

Locking yourself into one of the dressing rooms, you put the dress on as slowly as possible as to not accidentally rip a thread. The minute everything was where it was supposed to be, you slipped on the heels you brought with you, balancing on the wall for a second.

Lainey would have stolen this dress from you, absolutely.

It hugged you perfectly. The soft velvet brushed against your skin flawlessly, no itch and no weird folds. It was warm enough that it would keep you warm inside the compound. The dress had long sleeves ending in a diamond shape, as did the collar. When it reached your hips, the fabric loosened and draped down your legs. Non-suffocating, breezy, and exactly your size. You turned to see the back, eyes widening at how good your ass looked.

You accepted the compliments from the attendant, blushing as her praise started getting louder and louder. Then Natasha rounded the corner, and blew your breath away.

“You look so pretty,” you said honestly.

Natasha blushed pink, smoothing down the fabric at her stomach. Her dress also had sleeves, but they were flowing instead of tight like yours. Like one of those Renaissance dresses. A small voice in your head said you two should switch.

But the Black Widow, even if black and red were her colors, looked more… Real, in blue.

“I’ve never been called pretty in my life.”

You blinked at her. “What?”

“It’s always gorgeous or beautiful. Never pretty,” she said. Then, with a hint of a smile, “I like it better.”

“Well, blue looks really good on you.”

“And red looks amazing on you,” she complimented. You twirled in a tiny circle, earning a chuckle from her. The two of you met in front of the same mirror, modeling the dresses from all angles. Like two best friends on a shopping spree.

A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over you, lighting your heart on fire. In that moment, the realization hit.

You had been so lonely. You are so lonely. Natasha wasn’t even on a friend basis with you, possibly not ever, and yet this felt natural. A much needed feeling. A feeling your soul had been craving since Lainey died.

“It might not be my place, but I am an expert at sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You snorted, “Honestly, same.”

“What did you do to make him feel… safe again?” she asked, her face honest.

“What do you mean?”

Then, while looking at her feet in the mirror, she admitted, “He carried me out.”

“You mean, the other day?”

“He dug me out and carried me to the plane. All the way. For more than just a few seconds.”

Bucky hadn’t mentioned that the other day. And if what she was saying is true, Bucky had accomplished something massive. He was comfortable touching you, sure, but touching other people? You hadn’t explored those experiments yet. You always assumed you’d get a willing participant to practice with you two. Not in a sexual way, of course.

Just… Having Bucky learn how to shake someone else’s hand other than yours.

You shrugged, flustered. “I haven’t done much.”

Natasha scoffed softly, “Sure. He used to cry when our hands brushed during training.” Then, “And he’s smiling more. Yesterday he stayed and had a whole conversation with Clint while he was polishing his bows.”

He was accomplishing all this on his own. Joy and pride encased your heart, warming it a few degrees.

“Bucky just wants peace. The feel of it. Fuzzy blankets, cinnamon, greenery.”

“Yeah, but there’s more to it.”

You didn’t have a response that didn’t directly incriminate Bucky and your naughty time spent together, so you simply nodded.

“So, what would you recommend I do to strengthen our friendship?”

You didn’t know if she was asking for herself, or for a certain blonde Captain.

“He likes jokes. But only when it’s obvious that they’re jokes.”

Her smirk grew as she realized what you meant. “I have to work on being less serious.”

“Try being more open.”

She clicked her tongue, “Difficult, but possible.”

She turned back toward the dressing rooms, giving a quick jut of the head toward the attendant that said she was buying the dress.

Natasha gently called over a shoulder, “Get the dress. Trust me. I hope to see you Saturday.”

~

    The one thing you didn’t expect to happen when you walked into Bucky’s apartment was to have him catapult off the couch, nearly tripping over Axel, and smashing a rough kiss to your mouth.

You immediately responded, opening your mouth as you tilted your head, swallowing his sounds of greed. You initially believed that after kissing you once, it would take a lot for him to kiss you again. More steps in between. But Bucky kissed you like he had been kissing you for eighty plus years, since the 40s, since your souls were nothing but specks in the universe.

“I want to taste you,” he sighed, moving you backward until your back hit the wall. You moaned at the impact, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair. You didn’t pull, you didn’t brush your fingers against the base of his neck. Your touch was careful, calculated. You thanked whatever entity that allowed you to keep your common sense during a time like this.

Bucky received your touch with gentle moans here and there, his hands grasping at your clothing, as if desperate to tear them off. He stripped your heavy layers one by one, asking you each time he moved on to the next. And everytime you responded with an eager yes, nodding like mad and hoping he’d let you remove his layers as well. He stripped himself of his shirt, answering your siren call of a moan, and paused before he went back to attacking your neck. You took him in for the first time, studying his muscles and his permanent marks. The story of his life, written in his skin.

“I want to taste you,” he repeated, his blush spreading to his collarbones.

“Do you mean—?”

“Yes.”

You whimpered in response, going to grab his shoulders. But Bucky scooped you up, maneuvered your legs around his waist, and walked you to his bedroom. He kicked the door closed on Axel, the dog’s grumble of annoyance falling on deaf ears.

Laying you on the edge of his bed, Bucky kneeled before you. He dragged you forward, spreading your legs until he could fit in between. He looked calm, in tune with his body, almost in a trance.

“You with me?” you checked, swiping a strand of hair from his forehead.

He kissed a trail from your inner knee to mid-thigh, breathing faster. “I’m trying to go slow.”

“Do you need to stop?”

He groaned, his tongue poking out to lick a line against your soft skin. “I’m trying really hard to go slow because I can’t promise I won’t completely devour you. Half of me wants to taste you and bury my face in your warm pussy, while the other half wants to plunge my cock into you over and over until you come with a scream so loud everyone in the compound hears.”

Your breath stuttered, the suddenness of it actually hurting your chest. “No half wants to stop?”

He chuckled against you, his hot breath fanning your clothed center. “Fuck, no.”

It wasn’t an invitation to suddenly ignore his signs. If he started to turn his shoulders inward, if his face suddenly went blank, or tears started to fall, you had to notice. You had to be aware that these things could still happen. Being verbal was perhaps the best thing that Bucky could be. You just didn’t think it would translate into some of the most toe-curling dirty talk you had ever heard.

His fingers dipped into the waistband of your underwear, a pair you had purposely chosen with care this morning. You doubted Bucky cared what underwear you wore, or if you wore any at all. He snapped his glossy eyes up, swallowing in anticipation. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

He took them off quickly, careful not to tangle your toes within the fabric. He spread your legs even wider and threw your legs over his shoulders. “Talk to me while I do this, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, instantly cut off by your own moan as Bucky’s lips met your wet ones. He sucked, sinking in the feeling, starting off neutral. Then an experimental swipe of his tongue had you writhing awkwardly.

“Like that,” you moaned, clutching at the bedsheets. For this first time until you talked about it, you’d grab at anything besides his hair. Roughness was not what he needed. “Just like that!”

His mouth closed over your clit, nearly sending you from his strong grip.

“When you’re alone,” he started, licking one long swipe up. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”

You whimpered, “Of course I have. I bet you’re picturing it.”

“Bring your hand over here.”

You lifted your left, letting him guide it to your lower half. He moved your fingers through the wetness. “Touch yourself for me.”

You wanted nothing more than his lips back on you. But being watched as you pleasured yourself was an undeniable weakness, twisting something in your stomach to near completion. A thin layer of sweat coated your skin, shining on your chest. By all accounts, you looked amazing. You were still wearing your bra, but you figured Bucky would remove it if he wanted to. Knowing how good you looked encouraged your greedy hands, however. You moved your fingers the same way you did whenever you were alone, flicking at special corners and pinching your clit when needed. For a second, you forgot that Bucky had every intention of finishing you off himself.

You lifted your head, your legs still splayed over his shoulders, and saw him watching your moving hand. Eyebrows scrunched, seemingly concentrated, marveling at what was laid out before him. Studying. Taking notes for later.

Then you saw his flesh arm moving, back and forth, the endgame hidden from your view. You groaned, simply imagining what his cock must look like, and prayed that after he got you off he would let you put his cock in your mouth.

“Do you like watching me fuck myself, Bucky?” Your voice was tastefully clipped, higher than usual.

A muscle in his jaw clenched at the same time his hand did something delectable to himself. He closed his eyes softly, sucking in a long breath.

“I fucking love it.” Then, “How badly do you want to come?”

You rubbed your clit faster, your legs threatening to close. Bucky noticed this, his dark chuckle enough of an answer. “I want to come so bad.”

“How badly do you want my cock?”

You licked your lips, hoping he would understand the secret, but painfully obvious message you were trying to relay.

“I want you so badly,” you admitted, looking him directly in the eyes. Those beautiful, glossy blue eyes. “I want you to pleasure me for hours, and when you’re close, I want you to come inside me. I want you to look at me as you come.”

He moved you so quickly you barely registered being shoved up the bed. Your legs were still balanced on his strong shoulders, but you were bent in half. Your feet dangled in the air as Bucky devoured you once again, sucking and licking like a professional. You screamed as the delicious feeling washed over you, making your thighs vibrate. You threw your head back, screaming Bucky’s name with as much delight as you could muster. Anything to let him know he finished and did a good job.

Once the feeling dwindled to fogginess, Bucky lowered your legs onto the mattress. He immediately clutched at his clothed cock, his face contorting with discomfort.

“Can I?” you asked, licking your lips again.

Bucky hesitated, looking from you to his lower half. After a few teasing seconds, Bucky nodded. He moved to lay on his back, eyeing you as you moved to hover him.

“This okay?”

Bucky gulped a breath, but didn’t throw you off. You shimmied down until your face was in front of his cock, then another nod of his head gave you the permission to lower his sweatpants.

You knew he was massive, but you had painted a very dull picture in your head. Cocks weren’t inherently pretty, but his was. The same color of his toned stomach, veins curving around the girth, and a pretty pink tip. Though, by how close he was, the tip was redder than ever.

“Ready?” you said, wrapping a warm and steady around him. His hips shot off the mattress, but his hands remained at his sides. Clutching at the sheets similar to how you did. He clenched his eyes shut, baring his naked throat at you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his mouth parting. “Yes, please.”

“Well, because you asked so nicely.”

That invisible entity you had been praying to received another blessed praise the moment you tasted him. Not too salty, clean, and just the right amount of pre-come.

You worked him up and down, swallowing as much as you were able, using your fist for what you couldn’t fit. When you traveled up, you made sure to lick his dripping slit, to suck his tip like the expert you were.

Bucky wasn’t silent. Nowhere close to it. He panted and groaned with every suck, whined when your saliva began to drip from the corners of your mouth, and practically screamed when you clenched your throat.  

“Where do you want to come?”

Bucky answered quickly, “Not on your face. Never on your face.”

You refused to dwell on that comment. You moved off him and laid back down, letting him climb back on top of you to finish himself off. He worked his cock until his stomach clenched, then he spilled onto your stomach and lower half. He gripped the headboard with his metal hand, splintering the wood.

He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. When he was sober and neutral, he had a certain wonder attached to his presence. When he was flustered and drunk with pleasure, he had a carnal and divine look to him. Jaw falling slack, hooded eyes, those angelic strands of loose hair framing his soft cheeks.

It was safe to say, as Bucky Barnes unleashed himself upon your skin and in turn showed you his most vulnerable side, you felt as if you would die for him.

He fell beside you, chuckling as the lavender haze overtook him as well. “Let’s do that again.”

You went to eagerly accept, but a voice interrupted, cutting through the moment.

“I’ve taken the liberty of making your walls extra soundproof, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Was that God?” you asked, sitting up as you inspected the ceiling.

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “Don’t give Jarvis a complex.”

“Too late, Sergeant Barnes. Have a delightful second round.”

You flopped face-down onto your bed, releasing one long groan. When your lungs ached with the need for air, you sucked in a breath and repeated the process. Groaning until your throat was sore. You rolled over, instantly regretting it. You had washed your sheets, but not the pillowcases.

That heavenly mixture of snow and Starry Night. No swirling irises to accompany it, though.

“Do you want to come back the day after Christmas and show me how to jump?”

He chuckled, “It’s a date.”

You snapped up, replaying the words in your head.

Rockefeller Center, ice skating, the date.

Would Bucky remember? Would he even go?

You had to try. You missed Bucky, you missed Axel, you missed who you were when Bucky was with you. You missed the feeling of companionship. Of choosing who to spend that time with.

You didn’t want to be lonely anymore. Lainey would have kicked your ass all the way to Rockefeller by now, you bet.

After throwing on your winter jacket and boots, you sprinted out your front door, tripping only twice. Then turned back to your apartment, grabbed Bucky’s present, and repeated the tiring process of putting the key in the lock.

Stopping at Lainey’s old door, with absolutely no regard to whoever occupied it now, you declared, “I’m going to win him back. Because I love him, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

~

    “Are you sure she’ll be here?” Steve asked as he opened the car door for Bucky. Rockefeller Center looked to be even more crowded than the last time he had come. It was like a cruel joke, making the search for you that much harder.

“She was the one who suggested it,” Bucky explained. “And if what you said is true, she’s not mad at me.”

“Oh, she was mad. Maybe not with you entirely, but she was mad.”

Bucky scowled at his friend, though he was grateful to have a second pair of eyes aiding him. Bucky was grasping at straws. Either you remembered that you had suggested this date and had the same idea as him, or you forgot and he was here when he should be at your apartment.

Or—the worse option—you had remembered and chosen not to come.

Bucky hadn’t really thought about what he would do if that was the case. He was a big boy, and although it would hurt him to bits, he would have to survive. Your time teaching him how to receive touch again would not be wasted. He promised himself that.

“You take one side and I take the other?” Steve suggested, adjusting the baseball cap. “Or do you want to stick together?”

“We can cover more ground separated,” Bucky replied. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Steve studied him for a moment, then took his word. “Text me when you find her.”

Bucky nodded, watching as Steve blended into the crowd.

Step one: Pass through this chaos.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky prepared his mind. None of these people were out to get him and self-defense was not necessary. Most people were here with their family and friends, not plotting the end of the world with his metal fist in mind. He clutched your gift as he held it in his jacket pocket, then moved.

Bucky pushed through the crowd, apologizing for shoving people too hard and smacking his shoulders against them. Most people moved out of his way, allowing him some air. He searched every visible face, every occupied bench, every person exiting from the buildings. He guessed you would be near the ice rink considering that’s where the date was going to take place, but he still focused everywhere.

Someone’s shoulder brushed across his shoulder blades, paralyzing him for a moment. It was a quick touch, one that was over before he could truly dwell in it. His body told him to run back to the car, to find refuge in his mountain of blankets. That behind his apartment door is where he would be truly safe.

Though his body craved that comfortable feeling of safety, his idea of safety was no longer the loneliness found behind a closed door. His safety was encased in your touch, in your bedsheets, in your presence.

So he continued to push and shove through the crowd, counting his breaths and picturing your face. This was for you. It would always be for you.

His heart stopped as he took in your face for the first time since you walked away from him. You had painted your lips red and thrown on the same cardigan and jacket that had been hanging on the hook beside your front door for the entire month now. You caught his line of sight, freezing in place.

He pushed through the last of the crowd, stopping a few feet from you. You had your hands in your jacket pockets, but you were still shaking in your boots. Bucky wanted nothing more than to run to you and provide you some warmth, but there were words that needed to be said. Things that needed to be addressed.

“If you want to leave me, I will fight you.”

Your eyes widened a fraction at his unexpected declaration.

“When Stark told me to find a date, I refused because I physically could not swallow that reality. I said no, but I had no choice.”

He continued quickly when your face fell. “But I told Stark that I trusted his judgment. He gave me an out, but I had already met you. You were loud, and inappropriate, and reminded me of me from when I was young.”

“Bucky—”

“A part of my innocence was stolen from me long ago. And as much as it kills me, I know I’ll never get it back. I didn’t deserve to have it ripped from me. I deserved happiness, and a home to return to, and soft hands and soup and a little corner store to call my own. But life fucked me over, and I got none of that. I got tortured, and wiped, and… assaulted, in a thousand ways. And for the longest time, I thought they stole the whole of me. I thought there was no hope. That there were no soft touches left in the world. But you… You make me want to try again. You make me believe that people can still be good in this world. Because you’re good, and you’re good to me, and I love you. I love you more than hot chocolate, more than biscuits, more than the Santa Clause movies. I love you. And I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment you threw your arms up and introduced yourself. I’ve wanted you since our first picnic. I’ve wanted you since the first touch. I want you, I love you, and I just pray that you want me, too. That you love me, too.”

Multiple tears dripped from your eyes and down your cheeks. And when Bucky reached up, he found his cheeks were wet as well.

“I don’t expect you to quit your job or be solely mine. But I find myself running under your sweet nothings and I don’t want to abandon that feeling just yet. So I declare, the day after Christmas and surrounded by strangers, that I choose you too. I am scared of the world, and what they think of me, but I am not scared of you.”

“Bucky.”

Bucky sucked in a wobbly breath and pulled the bracelet from his pocket. It was handmade, green, and had a little L carved into the stone.

L for Lainey.

You stopped in front of him, turning the bracelet over in your fingers. Then you let him put it on your wrist. You cupped his cheeks with your surprisingly warm hands. Bucky whimpered sweetly, chasing the heat.

“I think you are courage incarnate, Bucky Barnes. Believe it or not, but you make me want to be strong. I have been lonely for so long and you showed me that friendship was still a real thing. I thought I had lost it forever, doomed to be stuck in a world that did not appreciate me.”

Bucky laid his forehead against yours, nearly hiccuping as your words pierced through his burning heart.

“I am yours. Only yours. And I’m sorry for being in my head too often.”

You pulled out a pair of fancy, leather gloves in his size, blushing. “It’s not as sentimental as the bracelet, but—”

He pressed a deep kiss to your mouth, holding you close. His chest warmed against yours instantly. His knees only needed to bend slightly to reach your lips. Your pinkies curled perfectly around each other.

How had he not noticed this before?

“Take me home,” he whispered, using his thumbs to wipe your tears away.

You nodded against him. Then, you giggled uncontrollably, melting against him.

“What?”

“Don’t forget Steve.”

Bucky shot a surprised look down at you. “How did you—”

“I know what his eyes feel like boring into my back by now.”

Sure enough, Bucky glanced up to see Steve watching your exchange with a genuine smile on his face.

~

     “Do you trust me?”

Steve huffed, his knuckles turning redder as his grip tightened against the railing. When Bucky had mentioned that Steve had always wanted to come to Rockefeller Center with him in the 1930s, you had assumed Steve knew how to ice skate. You didn’t expect a trembling Captain America scared to find his balance and refusing to let go of the support.

“I trust you, but if I fall then you’re going down with me by default.”

“Fair. Now let go of the railing,” you ordered, holding out your hand for him to take. You hadn’t told him you were a beginner ice skater yourself. But you figured, since Tony rented out the rink for private use for the next six hours, it was the perfect time to test this out.

Steve murmured a curse under his breath before reaching out his left hand. His right still held onto the railing, so he began stretching and involuntarily splitting his legs. “Help! Help!”

“Let go!” you laughed, taking his extended hand in your own. He slunk back together rather comically, wobbling as he gripped both your hands. “Now close your eyes and skate!”

“Wha—Why should I close my eyes?”

“It’s the only way to truly trust yourself!” you lied, sounding creepily authentic. You pushed off, taking him with you. He argued twice more before finally shutting his eyes, allowing you to lead him anywhere.

“There we go! You got it! Keep those eyes closed!”

He thankfully listened, unaware of where you were leading him. You would think his super soldier hearing would alert him of a new pair of skates on the ice, but his anxiety probably clouded his thoughts.

With a quick nod, you expertly exchanged Steve’s hands into Bucky’s.

Skating away but still at a close enough distance, you called out, “You can open your eyes now!”

Steve nearly tumbled, but his expression was one of pure elation. Uncontrollable, joyous laughter spilled from his mouth.

“Buck!”

Bucky only smiled, tugging Steve closer. Hand in hand, flesh on flesh, they skated the perimeter together. Not once did Bucky drop Steve’s hand.

It may have only been a battle won for Bucky, but this was an entire war won for Steve Rogers.

He was touching his best friend again. If it wasn’t for you, for Bucky’s determination and strength, it wouldn’t have been possible.

You skated to the railing and watched the childish men for the next hour, wiping away tears whenever they dropped from your eyes. Lifting your hands up, you snapped an imaginary picture. To save for later. To think about whenever you thought something was impossible.

Then you snapped another, a real one using your phone, for safekeeping.

Hydra had reentered his life and he shot it directly in the face. He had carried Natalia out even as his body begged him not to touch another human being. But the soft touch from Steve that was promised, he rejected.

And that hurt more than his memories nowadays.

It hurt that he was able to sit with you, dine with you, hold you—and not be able to hold Steve.

Or Sam or Clint, for that matter.

Steve has been his best friend since childhood. Bucky had held Steve as his body was wracked with pneumonia. Had held the spoonful of honey and whiskey to his mouth. Took punches to his torso whenever he broke up one of Steve’s fights.

Working with you… Bucky was fighting to get those things back.

“Is this our spot?” he asked, lifting his head to the sun in hopes that when the cloud passed it would warm his face.

“We could make it our spot if you’d like,” you said, uncapping your hot chocolate and blowing to cool it down. Your little picnic was bare today. You only had warm drinks and water for Axel. It seemed even the world was running slow. Or, the city of New York abandoned nature because Christmas shopping was nearing its deadline.

That reminded Bucky—He had to get you a gift. What do you give someone who is in the process of giving you back everything?

“I wonder what the tree looks like with leaves.”

You pursed your lips, squinting as if in deep thought. “Big.”

“Big.”

“Big.”

Bucky chuckled, staring at you for longer than intended. You didn’t comment, though. You seemed to welcome his looks, his constant analysis. Did you think he was judging? Did you think he was ogling? Did you think he was admiring?

In truth, Bucky was just trying to figure you out. You were an amazing person—amazing jokes, amazing laugh, amazing cooking, amazing view of the world. How was it that you had no friends? Or, why weren’t there any friends around for him to meet? Was Lainey your only friend in the city? It damn near broke Bucky in two to imagine you lonely in that apartment, cooking for yourself, watching television by yourself. It’s the goddamned holidays and you were just going to… Spend it alone?

Or maybe, you would have had a date. You would have spent the night with someone who was not him. Your caress, your mouth, your body would have never known him at all.

“I want to try dry humping.”

You opened your eyes from the calm daze you occupied, slowly turning your head to him. An undisturbed reaction, Bucky dare say. As if his words weren’t so sudden.

“I bet you do,” you teased as your mouth widened into a grin.

“I’m serious. I’m comfortable holding you now.”

“Then I think the word you’re looking for is cuddle.”

Bucky shook his head. “Dry hump.”

You studied him, probably deciding whether he was ready or not. It was your decision to agree, but it wasn’t your decision if he was ready or not. But he let you watch him. He liked your eyes on him.

“Well, okay,” you determined, sipping your hot chocolate casually. “I’m cool with that.”

“You’re not just saying that because—”

“No.”

Because you were being paid for it.

Oh, God. You were technically being paid for it.

“I’m not trying to take advantage of our situation.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for caring. But I want to do this.”

He nodded, still unsure if he was even in the position to ask. You two had spoken about graduating levels on the pyramid. But to skip about five of those levels was where things got jumbled.

“Is there anything I should know beforehand?”

“Don’t you want to kiss me first?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing to the point Bucky thought the crease would be permanent.

“Fuck.” He fucked up. “Yes, that first. Then—”

“Dry hump. I got that.”

Bucky awkwardly shimmied until he was lying on the blanket, face buried in Axel’s chest. The dog made no movement to remove him. He was too deep in his sleep to care.

“Was that too straightforward?” he asked, his voice muffled.

“It was certainly cute, but horribly executed.”

“Sorry.”

He peeked one eye open from his position, embarrassment painting his T-line red.

You smiled down at him, equally as flushed, and giggled into your cup. “Don’t apologize. I’m happy to dry hump you, Bucky Barnes.”

~

     The only other time your body had been wracked with this many nerves had been during your first week on the job. And though those were entirely negative, your toes still curled with the same anticipation. Your first experience was shit, but the fourth had been enjoyable. More than enjoyable, actually. Being chosen, feeling appreciated, wanted for both an outing and sex—It was intoxicating. Here, Bucky wanted you for real. For his own pleasure, your pleasure, for educational purposes.

Only once did you roleplay a professor-student dynamic, and you were the student.

Now, you’re the professor. Bucky’s trusted guide, his friend. You would do anything to ensure Bucky enjoyed his first kiss in nearly eighty years. It was a lot of pressure, but who better to give him this, ease him into this, than you?

“Whenever you’re ready,” you instructed, balancing more on your left foot than your right as you stood at the edge of the bed. Bucky was chilling against the wall, breathing in a repeated pattern.

He hummed lowly, his face falling peacefully. A good sign. He pushed off the wall and stalked toward you, leaving you with no time to prepare for his sudden closeness. He gripped your cheeks in both hands, one cold and one warm.

“Hi,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning your face. Intoxicating, indeed.

“Hi,” you responded, looking up at him. His massive build dwarfed yours, yet you were equal somehow. At this moment. Perhaps you were both students.

“You smell like your cookies.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

His smile widened, pure glee flooding not just that, but his shining blue eyes as well. The image of a man about to relearn the simplicities of life, of soft touch.

Slowly, he bent his head, drawing you into him. Taking charge, effectively deciding how he wanted this to happen. Completely fine, you thought. You were here for questions and to enjoy this, too.

Bucky smelled like snow and what you imagined Van Gogh’s Starry Night smelled like. All those swirls replicated in his eyes. All those colors laying a picnic and lighting a calm fire in your stomach. How anybody could torture this man… To steal his light, to mangle his dignity.  They were soulless.

The last thing you saw before Bucky’s lips finally touched yours and your eyes shut was the blurred cluster of Christmas tree lights in your living room. The press of his lips overwhelmed your senses, somehow rewriting the way you saw Bucky.

Because there was no coming back from this. No possibility of ignoring what you were feeling. Bucky Barnes was no longer just a friend. You wanted him by your side after this. You needed him to grow frantic with the need to kiss you. To have you.

The rational section of your brain reminded you that he was setting the pace and it could be ages before he wanted to take you entirely. To allow you to take him right back.

Then Bucky applied even more pressure to the kiss, slipping the tip of his tongue out to test the waters, and it was written in ancient stone that you had turned into the most patient person alive. And fuck, you would wait thousands of years to have Bucky Barnes.

In any way he offered.

You fell backward, opening your legs to allow space for him. Bucky reacted on instinct, crawling forward as you pushed backward, then settled comfortably in the space you provided. He made sure not to crush you under his weight, yet his enthusiasm pressed you into the mattress hard enough. Using his core to balance, Bucky used both hands to grip your thighs, his fingers leaving indents.

“You’re wearing pants,” he breathed, kissing alongside your chin and down your neck.

“Uh huh.”

“I want you to come. It’ll be difficult to stimulate you with jeans in the way.”

You opened your neck to him, whining when he pulled away. He met your eyes, the blue of his almost entirely gone. You figured yours were suffering the same effect.

“Can I remove them?” he asked, his fingers gripping your thighs harder. To be honest, he probably didn’t even need to remove your jeans. Massaging your thighs the way he was currently doing, even with the layers, was probably stimulation enough.

“Sure,” you agreed, lifting your hips to help him. He chucked them to the other side of your bedroom, lowering you back down. He was wearing sweatpants, those wonderful gray sweatpants men wore during the cold months. You were left in granny panties and your shirt, but you couldn’t care less.

“Do you want to be on top?” you asked.

“Please.”

You nodded against him, your face tucked between his collar and shoulder. You prepared yourself mentally for the feeling of Bucky Barnes, of possibly stopping before you got to come.

This was about him. Of course, he wanted you to enjoy it, too. There was absolutely no way he would be doing this if you didn’t voice your fervor for his touch.

He pressed his lower half to yours, and that was that.

He was larger than anyone you had ever been with. Pressed perfectly against your heat, his hands still pushing your thighs up and apart. Cramps a foreign concept.

“Bucky,” you sighed, stopping yourself from pushing your hips upward. This was at his pace, not yours.

Bucky whispered your name before he lowered his hips again, rolling them against you. The angle wasn’t exactly perfect, but it was too early to voice it. He was finding a rhythm, learning both your body and his. You’d let him experiment for however long he wanted.

He groaned when one particular roll positively turned his stomach. His body fell a little, the pleasure too overpowering. “It’s been years since I’ve felt this.”

You bit your lip, opting to forego a verbal response. Felt like this.

He meant pleasure. He didn’t say since I’ve had an orgasm for a reason.

“Keep going,” you urged, laying your palms on his hips. He seemed to equate your touch as a helpful influence, but he reached for your left hand to bring it back up toward the pillows. There, he intertwined his flesh fingers within yours.

His cock brushed against your clit in perfected motion, over and over and over. His hot breath fanned your neck and shoulder, warming you from every angle. You gripped his ass next, moaning your praise.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Bucky picked up the pace, his moans turning into short and delicious whimpers. He struggled to lift his face to watch yours, but he succeeded. With his cock pressed deep against you, stilling, he huffed, “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” you said honestly, moving your hips against him. He stayed still, watching you rub yourself against his covered erection.

“Tell me I can like it, too.”

In the midst of your pleasure, your heart cracked. Meeting his gaze, you insisted, “You can like this too, Bucky.”

He spread you wider with his metal arm, his flesh hand clutching at your own. Chest to chest, sharing breath. He kissed you with everything he had. All his strength, all his momentum, all his control. He rolled his hips right where you needed him.  

You knew what it meant. So you matched his movements, angling your own hips, hugging his body to yours. Repeated chants of yes, yes, yes spilled from your mouth. They were honest and true as the pleasure was near full bloom in your lower stomach, but they were also meant to encourage him. Encourage him to slide off that ledge with you. That it was safe to do so.

Bucky’s upper half fell forward, his mouth resting against your cheek, as his pleasure took over. He didn’t stop moving, making sure you reached your end as well. Your free hand came up to his metal arm, acrylics scratching, your grip tough. You came with a prolonged shout, and Bucky came with a low and satisfied groan.

He immediately rolled off, laying beside you. He panted heavily, eyes closed.

“You good?” you asked, trying your best to catch your breath.

Bucky said nothing. He reached down between you and found your hand, holding it tightly.

“I had forgotten how fun it was when both people wanted it.”

The only person he allowed to touch him when necessary was Steve, and even then Bucky had to remind himself that it was his best friend. The size of Steve’s body was not a danger. The command of his voice was for safety only, and not to order him to strip. The friendly claps on the back were meant to ease Bucky into the world, not to bend him over from behind.

Sometimes he believed he was getting better. Mornings were beautiful, food tasted great, and everyone greeted him with a smile. On those special days, Bucky's heart filled with hope. Hope he could sit in close proximity to someone else, hope he could travel outside the compound and not rely on his super soldier skills, hope he could get out of his head for one second.

But when someone entered a room too loudly, or when he was forced to physically fight an enemy—those special days crumbled to ash, now cruel illusions that sent Bucky on a downward spiral. A spiral Steve usually had to coax him out of with gentle words, words that scarily resembled begging.

So Bucky has given up on trying to fit in. On trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. On trying to feel human again.

And fuck all that bullshit about being human was to feel pain.

Pain was not a good emotion, and it was mean to give it relevance to the human condition.

It wasn’t an emotion every human had to suffer in order to be considered living. It was an emotion that was cruel and unforgiving and completely, completely exhausting.

If Bucky Barnes had to live his life without touch again, then so be it. If he had to step out of a room to calm his nerves with the repetition of his tapping fingers, then so be it. He did not want to feel trapped, or abused, or ridiculed ever again. He did not believe in soft touches or love making anymore.

First, the war stole his boyhood.

Then the Swiss Alps stole his life.

And Hydra stole his dignity.

His time with Hydra had been documented to horrible extremes. Extremes Bucky was certain were going to be plastered on media outlets and history books. But he had discovered one night, while on a solo-mission to the compound’s lounge, that those theories were unlikely.

Because he had found Tony Stark and Natalia Romanov scouring every database and paper trail about his torture… and completely destroying it. With help from Jarvis, Bucky’s recorded nightmares were erased. Washed out. Encrypted, set on fire, and utterly gone.

Neither Tony or Natalia ever spoke to him of it. He assumed Stark was simply avoiding an awkward conversation, and that he didn’t exactly do good with such rough topics. Natalia did write down the number of her therapist for him.

He threw the piece of paper away.

And on nights like these, he really wished he hadn’t.

Bucky curled up in his thin bedsheets and clutched them close, willing his body to stop sweating. He tried to touch his knees to his chest but he was too large. If he could feel pressure there, then he could fall asleep. If there was added pressure to his back, then the sleep would be immaculate.

He turned and piled the pillows high, setting them behind his back. The coldness of the cotton seeped into his skin, instantly relaxing him. He clutched a throw pillow to his chest and pressed it down, counting by even numbers.

Pressure, a sequence, and breathing.

He could tell by the bright white light shining through his curtains that it was still night. No light that bright could be anything but the moon. That was a reassuring constant for him.

“Shall I ring for Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes?” Jarvis whispered over the speakers in Bucky’s room.

Jarvis’s random voice didn’t scare Bucky anymore. At first, it had caused Bucky to spring into a full blown panic attack. But as time went on and Jarvis continued to speak with him randomly, at odd times, Bucky’s body got used to it. Expected it.

“No, Jarvis. I’m good.”

Jarvis hummed, pausing a little before saying, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He never took Jarvis up on that offer anyway.

He curled further into his mound of sheets and pillows and shut his eyes, forcing himself into a dreamless sleep.

He succeeded in sleeping, but relived memories twice over in the dark.

~

    “Twenty bucks says you don’t ask her,” Steve declared, pulling his wallet from his coat.

Wanda giggled from behind the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into her impossibly large mug. Pietro saddled up beside her, stealing the mug for himself.

Sam clicked his tongue. “Bet. I’ll do it today after dinner.”

Steve scoffs, “Fuck off. Another twenty says you won’t have the balls to ask until next week.”

Bucky snickered as he looked between his two friends. He sat with his left leg bent so he could rest his chin on his knee, comfortable enough to be casual this morning. He sipped at his hot chocolate, grateful Wanda gave him one of the festive mugs. It was December 1st, after all.

“After dinner,” Sam promised, slapping his own twenty onto the dining table.

Wanda leaned forward and snatched the money for herself. “I’ll keep this bet safe for the time being.”

“You think she’ll say yes?” Bucky asked, overly curious.

Sam asking Natasha to the annual Avengers Christmas ball? Yeah, right.

Sam puffed out his chest, his smile wide. “I’ll bet more money, Barnes. That’s how confident I am.”

Steve rolled his eyes. He finally picked up his fork and dug into his eggs. With his mouth full, he said, “If you think you know Romanoff, you don’t.”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Like I said, Cap. I’m confident about this.”

“Well, I think that’s a good attitude to have,” Pietro commented, sitting down beside Steve with own full plate of eggs and bacon. “And when it all crashes and fails, we get to be the ones to tell you ‘I told you so!’”

Sam flung a piece of bacon across the table, cursing Pietro’s name.

Bucky watched it all unfold, feeling both inside and outside the circle at once. He was a part of the conversation, but he still felt benched. His body would lurch forward on its own accord and try to join in—maybe to thump Pietro on the back of the head, slap Steve on the back, grab a mug of coffee from Wanda’s delicate hands.

It was funny, really. Being afraid of Wanda’s hands because of his own history and not because of the power she held within them.

He was both included, and not. There, and nowhere. Inside his head but forcing himself to step out of it. Dissociating for too long until the conversation was on another topic entirely.

Jarvis’s voice snapped them from their play fighting. “Sergeant Barnes, Sir has asked me to tell you that he would like your opinion on something.”

Bucky grumbled, drinking from his hot chocolate. “What does he want?”

“Oh, that’s the wonder of standing up and finding out for yourself, isn’t it, Sergeant Barnes?”

Sam howled, nearly choking on his last piece of bacon. “Jarvis really is Stark’s creation. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Bucky sighed, having been left with no choice. He placed his half-drunk mug in the sink and waved goodbye to everyone, trying hard not to stomp to Stark’s lab.

~

    Stark was under a massive machine with six arms and blue lasers when Bucky walked into the lab later that afternoon. He had ignored Jarvis’s constant badgering and decided to visit the lab after his morning run. Only after it Bucky was certain he wouldn’t physically fight Stark if what he had to say was idiotic.

“My one and only!”

Bucky rolled his eyes and sat at the farthest chair from the monster machine. “You called?”

“And you diddle-daddled.”

To this, Bucky actually laughs. Sometimes Stark got on his nerves, other times he was a breath of fresh, realist air.

Stark climbed out from underneath the metal monstrosity, wiping oil from his hands. Bucky waited patiently as Stark finally sat, cracking his neck three times before speaking.

“So… The Christmas Ball.”

“Uh huh.”

Stark adjusted his seating, slowly lowering himself in his rolly-chair. Bucky watched him become shorter, awkwardly staring at him and the walls simultaneously. Whatever Stark wanted to talk to him about, it was becoming less interesting to Bucky.

“Pepper has informed me that there is going to be an auction. A, donate thousands of dollars to take me out on a date, type thing.”

Bucky grimaced. “Isn’t that prostitution?”

“No, it’s escorting. Prostitution is the other honorable profession.”

Bucky hummed.

Stark wiped a stressed hand down his face, curling his lips as he continued speaking. “Pepper has also informed me that only Thor is being auctioned for real. Meaning, everyone else isn't actually on the roster. Their dates are going to be the highest bidder regardless of what anyone bids that night.”

Bucky frowned, stumped. “So, we’re denying money from actual bidders and rigging this thing?”

“No. Private donors have already given their fair share of money. We’ve flown past our goal for the evening.”

“Then why have the Ball in the first place?”

“Appearances, photo ops, meeting new people—You name it.”

So Steve and Sam were going to be “sold” to their highest bidder, who will also happen to be their dates for that evening. That nice coffee shop girl Steve has been dating for the past six months was already invited…

That meant she was bidding whatever amount she needed to, regardless of the price, for a date with Steve. Money that was already donated before the damn Ball even started.

Bucky looked to the white, marble floor for answers. But all he saw was his distorted reflection, staring back at him with creeping realization.

“What… What about me?”

Stark sighed, shrugging his shoulders empathetically. “I tried everything, Barnes. But the higher-ups forced us to include you, too.”

Bucky was going to throw up. That ball of nausea that often stuck to the back of his throat was crawling upward, scratching his tongue, begging to be let free. To spill all over this damned marble floor.

He whimpered silently, turning his face to his metal shoulder. His hair covered his anguished expression, but it was pointless to assume Stark hadn’t noticed. Bucky’s neck was already redder than the original color itself.

“Barnes, listen to me.” Bucky tried to follow the direction of Stark’s voice. When he blinked, his vision seemed to get blurrier. “Breathe. Tap those fingers. You remember you got fingers, right?”

Bucky counted to three, then began to tap his index and thumb together. He relished in the feel of his skin, in the lifted edges of his fingerprints, of his filed fingernails. Slowly, the world stopped spinning. The chair didn’t feel like it was caving in anymore. The walls stopped stretching and his ears stopped ringing.

The remnants of his panic attack settled in his chest, pulsing uncomfortably. But he could finally open his eyes long enough and not feel like passing out.

“Good, good. Now if you would just let me finish.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, easily amused by Stark’s sarcasm. It was a surprise how quickly the two fell into step after Bucky moved into the compound, seeking each other out for random answers and opinions. Steve had questioned it, but accepted that if Bucky was alright with it, he wouldn’t budge.

“I spoke with Pepper. You have two options: Let me find you a date who I promise will not leak anything to the press, touch you without permission, or annoy you until you feel like swallowing a bullet.”

Bucky blinked at him, eyebrows scrunching. Stark getting him a date? Bucky didn’t want to date any of Stark’s past flings or strangers he might pull off the streets. The rational part of his brain understands that this person will be vetted and practically stalked, but it’s the irrational side that’s telling him this person might just hurt him. They could convince the world they’re the most innocent thing ever, but when he’s alone with them that mask could easily fall off and reveal eight tentacles and a flaming skull.

“Or,” Stark enunciates, standing from his incredibly low chair. He blew a fast raspberry before saying, “You and Sam attend together, or you and Natasha.”

Okay, that seemed like the better option. He trusts both Sam and Natalia, trusts them to keep their hands to themselves and protect him. Yeah, that was obviously the better choice—

But Sam wanted to ask Natalia. Sam has been wanting to ask her a million things before the Ball was ever a reality. His friend had all this insane amount of exhilarating excitement when he even thought about the red head.

Bucky couldn’t take that away from him. Even if his own comfort was the victim in this situation.

“This… person. Will they be an escort?”

Stark’s eyes widened momentarily before he steadied himself. “Yes, and maybe no. They’ll be the person I believe can be most trusted. Are you okay with the possibility of taking a hooker to the Ball?”

Bucky grunted, “Don’t use that word.”

“It’s the 21st century, Barnes. Hooker means prostitute, prostitute means sex worker, and sex worker has a positive connotation nowadays.”

“Just say escort.”

Stark grumbled beneath his breath, turning to a nearby computer and typing something into the search bar. “Jarvis, make sure this web search is wiped from the center of the earth after I’m done with it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tony.” Stark knew that when Bucky used his first name, it was a call to turn around and look him in the eye. So that’s exactly what Stark did. “A sex worker expects sex, don’t they? I’m not giving them that, so how can you expect me to be fine with it?”

Stark tapped his fingers against random keys, deep in thought. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding offensive. Jarvis, help me out. How do I say, ‘You don’t have to fuck the person, you can just pay them,’ kindly?”

“We will be searching for people who have voluntarily enrolled in sex work, Sergeant Barnes. Any meeting you set up with them is consensual. And the beauty of consensual sex work is, without a doubt, the freedom of choice. So think about it like this, Sergeant Barnes: They will not touch you if you do not ask. You are investing time, and they will accept the money without a kiss exchanged if that is what you wanted.”

A companion?

Bucky had only ever had Steve and Sam after he returned to the compound. Only ever hung out with them outside in the real world, too. A random person entering the compound and pretending to be his date seemed a little extreme, no? Like he couldn’t make friends of his own.

But wasn’t that the real reason behind all this? Bucky didn’t have many contacts or love interests to take to this damn Christmas Ball so he was being punished for it. Forced to interact with a stranger and the stranger forced to interact with him.

“I can do a proper search of these websites with Jarvis’s and Hill’s help and get back to you in the morning, okay? Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I only have to meet them tomorrow and that’s it?”

Stark wobbled a flat hand in the air. “Kind of. Spend one day with them and tell me if you think you can last a whole night with them as your date. I don’t want you to be paired with someone I thought was great but you find repulsive.”

Okay, that was somewhat considerate. But a whole day? At best, Bucky will last a few hours before wanting to run under a hill.

“Okay,” he surrendered.

Stark sighed, “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, Barnes. It’s just… Maybe it’s not the ideal way, but meeting new people isn’t always a bad thing, you know?”

“Oh?” Bucky replied sarcastically.

“Oh. You think I didn’t suffer the same thing? People I knew since birth betrayed me. I’ve got trust issues too, my man.”

“We’re not comparing sad little tales, Stark.”

“Find it in your ice cold heart to be compassionate, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “So, tomorrow then?”

Stark nodded. “I’ll do my best to find you a hot piece of ass.”

“Stark!”

“Sorry! I joke. I kid. I jest.”

Bucky watched Stark toy with his experiments for ten minutes more before bidding him a good rest of his day.

Maybe a companion wouldn’t be so bad. He’d have someone to talk to after all. Text, get coffee with, watch movies with. He could do all those things with Steve and Sam but they were busy. Busy with work, busy with life, busy with everything Bucky avoided for good reason.

And even though his body is physically repulsed by the idea of being in close proximity with an absolute stranger, perhaps someone who was forced to be nice to him wasn’t exactly a lousy idea.

Maybe it was necessary.