The man kneeling at your feet let out a quiet, involuntary whimper at your cooed words, and you had to fight back a smile. He truly was a sight to behold when he was on his knees.
You were sitting in a plush, cushioned chair above him, stroking the cheek that he had pressed against your thigh. His bruising grip around your ankle was the only sign of tension in his otherwise relaxed body. And the adoration in his gaze—the need—almost made you want to hold out on him a little bit longer.
"Please," he choked, leaving light, fluttering kisses anywhere he could reach. You buried a hand in his hair and gave the strands a firm tug when he scraped the tips of his fangs against your skin. The effort to lift his eyes to yours and retract his them looked painful, but he was nothing if not patient.
"Did you wait to eat the whole time I was gone?" you asked, releasing your grip when you were sure he wouldn't be tempted to bite again and stroking your fingers through the messy strands of his hair. He nodded, squeezing your ankle tighter as if in an attempt to convey his hunger and desperation. "My love, you didn't need to."
You both knew it was a lie. He needed this—the torture, the teasing, and the satisfaction when he finally sank his teeth into your soft, fragile flesh. When you finally let him have a taste...he wanted to starve himself each and every day just to hold on to the euphoria.
But this was the hardest part...having you here, so close that he could practically taste your blood, but being told to wait.
And he would. Of course he would. He would do anything you said, and you knew it.
"Poor thing. You must be hungry," you muttered, releasing his hair and placing a gentle hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes, turning his face into the touch and kissing your palm, "or maybe...we should rest a while before dinner."
"N-no," he croaked, eyes widening the moment the word left his lips. "I mean, I-"
"So desperate," you said, clicking your tongue and grasping his chin between your fingers, "fine. Just a taste for now."
He nodded, eager and needy and so, so hungry.
"Just a taste," he repeated, gaze falling to where you held your wrist in front of him. He glanced up at you one more time, and at your nod, sunk his teeth eagerly into your arm. You gasped when his fangs broke the thin layer of skin and added two wounds to a growing collection of small scars dotting your wrist. He moaned, eyes rolling back as he finally got to eat—finally got to taste you. It had been days since you'd left, and he wasn't sure what he would have done if you'd returned any later.
Just a taste, he reminded himself. He gripped your arm, squeezing tight enough to bruise as a groan slipped from his throat. He didn't register the feeling of tears building in the corners of his eyes until one slipped down his cheek. There was no use trying to fight them back—not when he was finally getting to sink his teeth into your flesh and feast like a man starved.
"That's enough for now," you said lightly when the salty drop of water hit your skin. Immediately, he relaxed his mouth and extracted his fangs. You brushed your thumb over the trail that his tear had left behind as he swiped his tongue over the spots of blood that bloomed from the pair of fresh wounds on your wrist, leaving no drop wasted.
"You were so patient for me," you said quietly as he left delicate kisses over his bite marks. "So good. And you stopped when I asked."
He nodded—he had been patient, but even if his hunger had gotten unbearable while you were away, the thought of drinking someone else's blood made him feel sick. You'd ruined him—if he ever lost you, he'd likely starve before ever finding blood that satiated this all-consuming need that you roused within him.
"Thank you..." he muttered, still insatiably hungry, but what you'd given him was more than enough to quell the painful pangs of hunger he'd felt only moments earlier.
"You can have more soon, my love. Once we've both rested."
He assented with an unintelligible murmur as you led him to the bedroom, knowing that he'd be well taken care of before the sun rose.
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an indulgent wip wednesday, i come bearing rotefic. something from a larger fool character study sort of thing i may finish one day, spanning the events of assassin's quest to fool's fate. this is a 'deleted scene' from the cabin days of fool's errand.
“You kissed me,” Fitz says, one evening. You both are warmed by the fire, and the brandy in your stomachs, and only you, perhaps, by being in his presence. “Before you left me in the Mountains.”
In truth, there is a part of you that can barely recall it, an act of childish instinct and fear at the idea of leaving him. In another, you still feel the shocked gasp of air from his mouth as you sealed yours over it. The heat of him, the scratch of his beard on your chin, and the moment before you pulled away and went dragon-backed into the sky, where it felt like he may have kissed you back.
You wish he would ask you why. You wish he would push the boundary, the one who had not quite realised was even there until now. So much of Fitz has always eluded you (including Fitz himself, at one time). His thoughts, though you may be able to read them from time to time on his face, still remain his. Closed off, not wholly yours.
You think: if I kissed him now, if he came to me, if we met in the middle of this liminal place perhaps there could be something. Here, in these walls, where it is safest. If he knew—but he does—but he does not know it all, does he? All the ifs and buts colliding in your mind, swirling in your stomach. If only so many things.
You think: this is not yours for the taking, he has never offered it to you and he never will. He loves you anyway, in the ways that he can. Fate did not dictate this, no matter how much you may desire it. You cannot have what is not truly yours.
You think: if we kissed now, he would taste of apricots.
You say, “Yes.”
And he says no more.
He watches silently as his rival, a man who hates him on the ice, and is at best indifferent to him off the ice, squeezes shampoo into his hand. Those hands that manage to drive Shane crazy; big and strong and dexterous. His fingers are thick and long, and Shane hates to admit to himself how much he loves sucking them into his mouth, especially when he knows Rozanov is going to use them to open him up.
“Hollander,” he hears, drawing his attention back to Rozanov. He’s shaking the shampoo bottle in his face and Shane’s mind races to catch up. Apparently his mind lags for longer than Rozanov has patience for, because before he can reach to take the bottle, he huffs a laugh and shakes his head. He puts the shampoo bottle back and steps in close to Shane.
“I will do it myself,” Rozanov murmurs. Before Shane can respond, Ilya Rozanov’s hands are in Shane’s hair, scrubbing shampoo into his scalp.
-
or; set in early 2016, one of Shane and Ilya's hook ups starts to feel like it might be something bigger than either of them realized when they shower together after having sex.
tybur tells them tales passed down since the war and the fall of the great houses. stories told only by his family now, or else locked in government crypts underground to be brought out and used against them every now and then. histories become fables. powers become curses. words become weapons. wedding songs become death marches.
in the old days, the eldian empire spanned kingdoms and kingdoms across mountains and river and woods. things were not then as they are now. no general or emperor commanded the nine titans. six. now, down to five. in the golden days, before the schism, before the prophets became priests and the empire became one, before the civil wars, before kingdom fought kingdom and man fought man and titan fought titan, before the dissenters were slaughtered and the emperor was crowned and the great houses were seated and the titans came under one throne, before syringes and transfers and classification, before religion was trampled in the name of science—
in the old days, inheritance was not controlled. sometimes powers awakened in babes. demolished entire villages to craters. sometimes warriors were hunted and held down and had their spines sucked dry before they died. sometimes a king got his hands on a shifter. sometimes the holy men did. their tomes and scrolls are filled with tales of giant men and strange beasts. rumors and whispers, born in villages and mill towns and palaces, a hundred pages of a thousand variations, with armor and scales and heat and fangs, mythical things only collated as nine distinct types after the new empire’s bureaucratic stratification of knowledge from temples and schools across the land.
in the old days, marleyans passed a crown from father to son. in eldia, no blood was as powerful as a spinal elixir. a son was only as good as his father’s leashed beasts, and kings spent their lives hunting and bargaining and soothsaying to bring the wealth of titans to their kingdoms. kings spent their bloodlines on soldiers and seekers for the chance to find a warrior. the only royal blood that mattered was the house of fritz, an anomaly, and they kept that so tightly woven into their family tree, every fritz in the last century was born with golden hair, a broken nose, and a penchant for madness.
that is to say, tybur explains, in the traditional way, eldian kings and queens married their children for advantage, not for heirs or bloodlines. a prince married a princess, or a prince, or sometimes both— for land, for grain, for alliances. priestesses bore children in the baths of the three-starred temples and named newborns under the watchful eyes of the night. the empire prospered.
the newspapers print it like this:
ELDIAN WARRIORS TO WED IN ANCIENT CUSTOM, PROVING HUMILITY AND OBEISANCE TO MARLEY’S MIGHT
sentiments that echo against the flash of camera bulbs, like lightning strikes, as the voice of the cultural minister rings throughout the square, her careful enunciation, emphatic on the right words, pruned to play the hand just so.
“so was the old way of the eldian empire,” she says. “these so-called traditions are outdated and impure, the work of a true devilish race.”
the minister speaks from a podium. reporters crowd the stone steps before her. behind her, the palace of justice. on either side, she is flanked by generals and counselors and cultural affair officers. they have been murmuring amongst themselves all morning. such an ill prospect, but a good idea nonetheless. let’s get this out of the way and then start the next. the cart, of course. why have we not been breeding our own warriors all along?
from the palace balcony, reiner listens. half hears whatever is being said. it is raining, a grey drizzle in the port capital. he can see the sea, past the city, over the wall, beyond the zone. just a sliver of grey-blue out there, an ocean he once crossed, a world he once knew. he dreamt of the island when he first returned, but he realizes now he has hardly thought of it at all lately. it has been somewhat of a blur. the marriage, the wedding. the deed was already done before a judge and a tribunal in a basement of the palace where they stand. a special license, a law written into existence just for them. now is just the announcement, the ceremony, and then a feast afterwards for generals and consulars to pat themselves on the back for pacifying the eldian problem for one more day.
“but through the generosity of the great state of marley, and the noble heart of his grace, the governor-king, such a marriage may be made honorable once more. purified in the light of the sun over marley’s waters, the union of two triumphant warriors shall make our great nation stronger than ever. the armored and the colossal are humbled to be shown the way by—“
“do you feel humbled?” bertholdt asks suddenly.
reiner stands still. says nothing. stares straight ahead at the sliver of sea over the wall and thinks what he wouldn’t give to dream of those days one more time.
“they can’t hear us up here,” bertholdt continues. “we’re just for show.”
it is the first time they have been alone together since the marriage, the proposition, the return. fifty feet in the air covered in rain with branches of wreathed flowers in their hair and fur cloaks wrapped around their shoulders. the way the kings of their people once dressed. the way men once took their vows and were buried. a sight the marleyans below gawk at, photograph, sketch in damp notebooks in exaggerated cartoons that will appear in papers for weeks to come.
he hears bertholdt sigh. softer, through the rain, “i certainly do.”
“i would have married you,” reiner says before he can help himself. “if we had been princes of old.”
bertholdt’s first response is silence. then he gives reiner a slow, sad smile, the light of a dead mirth kindling somewhere in his hazy eyes.
“we wouldn’t have been princes, you and i,” he says. “i think we were meant to be warriors.”
“in the old days, that was a great honor.”
“it still is. but chances are good no one would have known. in the first century, after the schism, the wars, no one saw the colossal for almost a hundred years. they finally found it when a fisherman’s son on the southern coast exploded during a lightning storm while crabbing with his father. it destroyed the boat. the port. half the town. killed his father. somehow he lived. imperial agents heard the report and got to the boy in time. fed him to one of their soldiers.”
when he finishes, he is staring past the crowds and over the wall. grey rain drizzles onto his skin, drops slipping past his nose. “imagine being able to disappear.”
“we could.” reiner thinks of the guards behind the doors. the fall. only fifty feet. there is a train station half a mile away. there are passersby gawking on the street, leaning out of their cars with the ignition running. “where would you go?”
“the bottom of the sea that marley loves so much. i’d become a creature of the deep.”
reiner imagines that. sailors tell stories of the sea, the things that wake them in the dead of night. beasts that lurk in the depths below, waiting to devour ships whole. creatures with a hundred eyes and even more claws. monsters with a hunger that never ends.
he feels bertholdt look at him. “where would you go?”
he does not even have to think. suddenly he is aware of bertholdt’s hand in his, the pose they hold, two arms clasped tightly between them as if they are made of the same stone.
“the sea,” reiner says. he sees it all in bertholdt’s eyes. “if you go, i go.”
HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.
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notes: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. (warnings: diving deep into humans as test subjects in this one. heavy self deprecation, pstd, panic attacks, a lot of apologies for some reason?) (6,670 words)
9: THE THIRD LAW OF NEWTON
It’s Friday morning. The Wakandan Princess arrived earlier in an airship that resembled something like a flying Bugatti and made the Quinjet look like a bicycle. Two spear-wielding female warriors - the Dora Milaje, you’ve recently learned - flanked her as she came out of it, which you thought was a little overkill. Royalty treatment, you suppose.
They’re now guarding the doors to the room you’re having your first deprogramming session in, pretending they don’t see you stare.
You’re nervously bouncing your knee up and down as you wait; up and down. Up and down. Up and down. One of the warriors flick her eyes in your direction.
It makes you stop. The movement resumes involuntarily when she looks away.
You’re hoping you won’t regret this. Like every other decision you make, it was an impulsive one; stemmed out of the need to delete every trace of HYDRA that was still in you.
You were born for the use of HYDRA.
That day, when you were showering your frustration away, you took a bath sponge and for the first time in your life, tried to scrub the numbers off.
7463000195.
The skin on your arm is still a little raw, their mark still inked deeply on it.
This procedure has to be the next best thing.
“Try not to look too excited, Shuri might get self conscious.”
You look up suddenly; Bucky is hovering above you, a smirk countering the usual exhaustion in his eyes.
“I just can’t contain myself,” You say, getting up and past him. “What are you doing down here?”
Bucky shrugs. “Moral support?”
Steve walks in just as his best friend says the words, and you hold back a groan. He’s been supporting your decision since you made it; of course he’d be here too.
You just have to pray Shuri is truly the genius people have been raving about.
The room Stark has assigned for the Wakandans is right down the hall from his own lab - and if that one was high-tech, then you didn’t have an adjective for this one. Shuri’s sleek, white and silver equipment now lined the walls, and holograms occupied the space physical screens would be.
“Impressive, no?”
“It’s a little flashy,” You grimace once you realize who you’re talking to; out of the corner of your eye, one of the warrior women tightens the grip on her spear. “Sorry, my…my lady. Your highness?”
The princess laughs. “Please, let’s end the formalities. I’ll be rummaging through your head for the next hour, it’s only fair you just call me Shuri.”
You hold back the urge to say As you wish, Your Highness and bow. “How exactly is this going to work?”
“Essentially the same process we’re doing to Sargeant Barnes. Find the source of your triggers. Unravel the memory and sever the connection to the problematic behaviors.” Her choice of wording makes you frown. “In generic terms.”
“You’re wiping me.”
HYDRA has never wiped your memories - at least you don’t think they have - so you don’t really know how it feels. All you know is that is not a fun time.
Your eyes find the two war veterans just outside the room, two armoire-sized men who could drag you right back in if you made a run for it. You’re almost certain they would never.
But still. They could.
Shuri speaks again as your breaths shallow, “We’re not taking any of your memories away. They will still be in your head, but have no effect on present you. This will be more like… unplugging a cable from the port.”
“Like disarming a bomb.”
It’s not exactly comforting. But it’s not wrong.
“Exactly.” Shuri shifts in place as if you’re making her self conscious. “Not that you—”
“Oh, I am.” You shrug. “Let’s do this, Your High— Shuri?”
Shuri hands you a sort of metal headband and leads you to something that almost looks like a tanning bed, but with all glass casing and soft padding inside. You try not to think of how it looks like a coffin, or a fancy cryopod, instead focusing on the memory of the machine that made Steve Rogers into a super soldier. That one’s a little better.
The contraption you’re getting into looks like all of these combined, with the sci-fi makeover all over it. Shuri takes her place behind a multitude of hologram screens and out of the corner of your eye, you see Rogers on the doorway.
Good to know the Dora Milaje let him walk about like that.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions so we can narrow in your trigger memories,” Shuri says, and you nod. There’s some beeping around your head. Your fingers flex at your sides. “Try not to move too much. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”
“Yeah… alright. Fuck it. I’m ready.”
A second passes.
“Where were you born?”
“I… I’m not actually sure.”
There’s a pause. It’s brief, but you notice anyway. You can’t really see anything from where you’re laying down, so you just keep your eyes to the ceiling.
“Where did you grow up?”
At least you know the answer to this one.
“The Brutkasten. 18 miles south from Erda, Norway.” You still remember vividly the trek through the snow during your escape, how you reached the tiny town in less than adequate clothing and with a bullet wound to your side.
You’re sure your raggedy, unexpected appearance raised many questions, but you couldn’t provide answers: mostly because you don’t speak Norwegian.
HYDRA made sure you were made into an island.
“Who was in charge of your programming? Who trained it into you?”
You pull a breath in - no wonder Bucky needed his quiet time after this. The questions are precise and equally invasive, and even if you tried skirting around the spoken answer the memory was already in your head. No running from it.
“Baron Von Strucker. Wolfgang Von Strucker. Head of all of HYDRA’s enhanced human projects, including mine.”
Shuri pauses again. “That’s… are you sure you remember right? I’m having conflicting results.”
Your hands are starting to sweat.
“Strucker trained the programming into me. He was always there to activate—” You interrupt yourself, as something in your head clicks. It makes you consider her question again, and chase another memory instead. “Steiner. Hermann Steiner said he made me. It has to be him.”
“That’s it. Keep going,”
“He…he tampered with my DNA to give me my powers. He said I needed an off-switch. A fail-safe. The-the whole purpose of the words is to keep them under control, I think. If they’re not activated I can’t use my powers properly, and if they are, I’m HYDRA’s perfect weapon.” Your lungs feel empty, and it’s suddenly hard to get them full again. It’s strange to echo Steiner’s words like that. It takes you back to that conversation.
To the warning.
You can hear something beeping and can only guess it’s to do with your vitals. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t—”
“You mentioned something about activation words. Can you recite them for me?”
Your fingers tighten against the soft padding you’re laying on. You need to get through this.
You must. “…and blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.”
“Shuri, perhaps we should—”
“One second, Captain Rogers. Just one second.” Shuri’s voice feels distant, and you can see her turn to someone out of your line of sight. Steve, maybe. The glass upper-half of your pod is open, but it weighs on you all the same.
“Vernetzt. Vernetzt. Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem. Hail HY- HY—”
“Got it.”
Your voice dies inside your throat. They’re talking, you can hear the muffled voices to the left of your pod. You’re buried under the snow, icy rubble burning your skin as your nails dig into cotton fabric and foam. “…not a fail-safe. I’d call it a muzzle.”
Getmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeout
The words don’t come. Your limbs are stuck. You’re a vicious dog, too terrified to leave its cage.
You have no idea the damage you can cause—
The light dies for a few seconds.
Tony Stark’s wail travels from down the darkened hall: the Pac Man.
Not again…
“He really needs to get a no-break for that thing,” Steve’s voice cuts between your frazzled panting, pulling you back into reality all the way from Norway. The lights are back on. You make a pathetic little sound that should have been a chuckle.
Something warm and sturdy helps you sit up, and you realize too late it’s a pair of very muscular, very patriotic arms. “Can we take a break? I need… a minute. Maybe ten,”
“Of course. Let’s do fifteen,”
“I think we can call it a day here. It’s lunchtime anyway.”
“Lunch? It’s 11:30, Captain.”
“That’s lunchtime if you’re retirement home age.” You say matter-of-factly, hopping off the pod. “And he is way past that by this point.”
Steve rolls his eyes, and you shrug. “I’m not saying she’s right, but…” Bucky walks in as the Dora quit guarding the door. “Look I’m not saying retirement but—”
“C’mon, not you too…”
“A vacation! You really need it, bud.”
Steve protests. You nod your head solemnly, stifling a laugh. You push through jellified legs in order to leave the room, fully embracing the lunch time excuse.
“What, you’re not comin’?”
You bite your lip. You want to say it - you really want to say it.
“Where?”
“Lunch. The diner,” Bucky raises one eyebrow at Steve. “You didn’t invite her?”
It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Oh, I see how it is.”
“I was going to—” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Was just going to make sure you’re okay first. You know, to go out.”
Bucky waves his metal hand between you and Steve. “Please. This isn’t a date. I’ll be right there.”
Motherfucker.
“Barnes—”
This isn’t a date.
Bucky is right there, across from you and Steve.
And you’re not making out with anyone except this cheeseburger.
They took you to a place named Nemo’s, a diner in Brooklyn that is traditional in every way: burgundy booths made out of that are cracked in places. Silver metal tables. Checkered floors, low lighting even though it’s barely noon.
It’s apparently almost as old as they are, and they’ve been coming here since they were teens; it doesn’t surprise you at all. Creatures of habit, these two. Not to mention the food is to die for.
“Easy, tiger.” Bucky says, making you look up from your sandwich. He tosses you a napkin. “Here. You got grease all over yourself,”
You roll your eyes, but wipe your mouth anyways.
“Let her be, Buck.” You look at Steve in surprise, but he only shrugs and takes a bite out of his own burger. Old-school, with the sliced bread loaf instead of buns and everything. Too many pickles for your taste though.
Bucky’s response is to slap the brim of Roger’s baseball cap, eliciting a laugh out of you.
This is nothing like you’re used to. You’ve been to dinners and Pizza Night at the compound, but those are different. It’s more crowded. There’s more pressure. Even Steve seems at ease here, his shoulders relaxed despite his disguise being flimsy at best. A baseball cap, that’s it? Not even a mustache? Even Bucky’s singular glove is more inconspicuous.
You realize you’re staring when he meets your gaze, a hint of a crooked smile curling his lip upwards. Maybe you should’ve shared the seat with Barnes instead.
“What?”
You breathe in. He looks awfully good under this awful lighting.
Get it the fuck together.
“There’s ketchup on your cheek.” It’s a lie.
But it works: Steve swiftly moves to grab a couple of napkins. The other super soldier is eyeing you suspiciously.
You have to resort to stuffing your face of his fries, which causes enough commotion to allow your cheeks to return to their regular temperature.
“Is Stark not feeding you enough? Jesus,”
You shrug. “These are just really good, and mine are gone. See?” You show him your empty basket and Steve mumbles something about ordering more. “Thanks for bringing me here by the way. I know it’s you guy’s thing.”
“Figured it could lift your spirits after this morning. Like ice cream after the dentist,” Steve says, and you nod. Your spirits are indeed lifted. It feels easy, to just be around them like this.
Because despite your resistance, these two know all of the terrible parts of you. They think there’s hope for you yet, which is the sort of optimism you’re still working on.
“Yeah. If you stayed back you’d just be overthinking yourself to death. And that’s not allowed here.”
You sigh. “It’s just a lot. You guys saw what happened today and it was only the first ever session. If Steiner’s right about me it could be a huge disaster. What if I lose control? What if—” A french fry is flung in your direction, turning concern into vexation.
“No overthinking at Nemo’s.”
“Dick.” You throw the fry back, and he pops it into his mouth with a grin.
“Buck’s got a point, actually. We need to take one step at a time and suffering by anticipation won’t help.”
It’s Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “You’re agreeing with me? Who are you?”
You chuckle. “Seriously, Steve? Not even him?” Bucky makes a face of resignation, shaking his head.
“Besides, you’re one to talk…” He added, quietly.
Steve exhales. “You two gangin’ up on me now? This friendship of yours is really something,”
“We’re the cryo-crew. The HYDRA… rejects. The frozen guinea-pigs?” You and Bucky do a high-five as Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You’re both in remission now, the nicknames can stop—”
“I like cryo-crew.”
Steve groans. “I can’t believe this.”
Cryo-Crew it is.
Your body stiffens once you notice a man standing slightly northeast to your booth. He’s looking right at you; eyes too focused to have anything but recognition in them. You should’ve known your reprieve wouldn’t last. The months living in the compound made you forget how it felt like, to live on high alert. Bucky is next, frowning at your body language and turning towards your gaze. Then Steve. He streches his right arm across the table in front of your chest. The light bulb right above you flickers.
The man approaches the table, but he doesn’t seem nearly as tense as either three of you. Steve stands. Bucky remains seated but with a tight grip on the back rest of the booth.
Fight or flight, practical demonstration.
“S-sorry sir, Captain Rogers, sir. It’s so hard to find you out on the town like this, I couldn’t help it. Michael Lawrence. VP of the Sentinels of Liberty.” Steve lets out air through his nose, him and Barnes relaxing at the same time. He takes Michael’s hopeful, outstretched hand and shakes it, clapping an amicable hand on his shoulder then towing him away from you and Bucky.
“What. Was that…?”
“Must be ‘nother one of his biggest fans,” Bucky chuckles, pulling the strings of his hoodie. “He’s got a few devoted fan clubs, I always tell him the baseball cap is not enough.”
You scoff. “Right? Like, look at him. He can’t be thinking that’s making him anonymous.” Bucky grins. You’re still on edge, but the tension is dissipating slowly. You can see Steve’s back from here, shaking another few hands and displaying his signature Captain America smile. “I thought it was trouble for a second. Geez.”
“As much trouble as civilians can be. Buncha’ nerds geeking out over a bigger nerd,” He shrugs. “You’re off the hook, Sparky. Relax.”
“Look at where we live, Buck-o. ” He makes a face at the nickname, and you shrug. A Buck-o for a Sparky, it’s only fair. “We’re never off the hook.”
“You got that right.” He sighs. “Even if it was trouble. Those fuckers are not laying their hands on you, or me, ever again.”
You nod. The reassurance makes your chest tighten. You’ve been getting a lot of that lately. You didn’t know you needed it. “It’s not just them though. It’s… S.W.O.R.D. General Hoss, Fury. I feel - I know - they’ve got their eyes on me, just waiting for the moment I slip.” Even Stark. He was funny and he seemed to care, but his initiative towards the Sokovia Accords made it clear he held a high standard for fuck-ups. And you were a big one.
Your knee starts bouncing, making Bucky land a kick on your shin. You send him a glare, but he just smiles fiendishly.
“The Compound situation is… complicated. It’s Hoss’ kennel. The longer we stay, the more strings they got on us.” You nod again, slowly this time. Bucky drums his gloved metal fingers on the table, looking around the diner before speaking. “Won’t be our permanent residence for much longer, though.”
“What? You plan on running off into the sunset with Steve or something?
“Please. He’s not my boyfriend,”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I see the way you look at him. And vice-versa.” You roll your eyes.
“I don’t look at him any sort of way, Barnes. Except maybe disgust. Okay?”
Boyfriend. Some bullshit.
Bucky shakes his head. “Sure thing.”
“…he tell you anything?”
“Nah. He doesn’t kiss n’ tell. Should I ask?”
“No.” You refute quickly, and he narrows his eyes.
You’re not sure why he’s acting like this. Rogers wouldn’t have much to tell anyways.
“Right. Think you fool me with this act—”
You hold back the urge of pulling his hoodie strings and choking him with them, mostly because this place is public and because Steve is now back, shoving the cap back in his head like he’s not six-foot-four and super-soldier shaped.
He slides back beside you, and you scold yourself for relaxing when he does. Dammit.
Bucky gestures vaguely at the both of you.
“Sharin’ a booth and everything.” Now you really want to choke him. With his own arm, maybe. He shrugs. “Alright. I’m gonna go check if the bathroom stall has that poem we wrote still.” Bucky says, leaving you and Steve at the table with a wink.
Fucking goddammit.
“What’s he on about?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like—”
“It’s nothing, Rogers.” You grit your teeth. You can’t have him noticing how transparent you are, too. He’s now got a hurt look in his eyes, making you sigh. “He’s a shithead. What did uh - Michael - want with you, anyway?”
“He’s got this World War reenactment event, and he wanted to know if I could make an appearance. Gave him an autograph and a picture and sent him on his way.”
Your jaw drops. “What?”
“I know, I know. I don’t really do autographs. But he asked for one—”
“That’s not— he wanted you to do war reenacting with him and his buddies?”
“Yeah. It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that.” Steve shrugs as you shake your head incredulously. “They wanted me to play myself in a movie, too.”
“That’s fucking twisted. Wait, you have a movie?”
“Yes and no. They got some bodybuilder to play me instead. ‘S coming out in a couple months.”
You let the fact sink in for a second.
“Can we go watch it?”
He glares at you. “Absolutely not.” Then laughs. You join him, imagining how ridiculous it would be to watch some action-hero-esque Steve Rogers next to the real thing. “Plenty of better things to watch instead.”
He leans his elbows on the table, looking back at you. The cap conceals most of his expression, but surprisingly you can still see his smile clearly.
It kinda sounds like flirting, even though you know it’s not. Your heart does a somersault regardless.
“Deal.”
Keep it together.
A waitress approaches you after a few minutes. “Can I get you two cuties anything? A milkshake, two straws?”
The table becomes a cacophony of - Oh, no; we’re not—; not like that - as the poor woman stands there with an awkward look on her face. You scoot away from Steve quickly - you hadn’t realized your elbows were brushing this entire time - while he looks around for Bucky.
“He’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”
“Yup. Think he got stuck in the toilet?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s outside already. We should probably vacate the table anyway,” He says, getting up.
Reality sets in as he does, the blood that had rushed up to your face settling back where it’s supposed to be. You watch him drop a couple fifties on the table and half-cover them with his plate. “One for bill. One for tips.”
“I don’t think you know how tips work,” You quip, not at all surprised by his generosity.
Turns out Bucky was not outside. And neither was the car you rode into town.
You’ve been robbed. Three Avengers, actually maybe one and two halves, robbed. You’re 60% sure it was Michael, Cap’s Biggest Fan #37.
You’re staring exasperated at the empty spot on the narrow street you’d parked when Steve comes out of the diner. “Can’t find Bucky anywhere.”
“And we’ve been robbed! Look,” You cry out, pointing at where the Jeep should be.
A look of realization crosses Steve’s face and he groans, rubbing his face.
“What?”
“We weren’t robbed. Bucky took the car and left us here.”
“What?!” Your voice bounces against the brick walls of the buildings around you. “How? Why? You gave him your keys?”
He shook his head. “Must’ve swiped it off my pocket at some point. He’s good at that.”
Goddamn him and his nimble metal fingers. You’re more alike than you thought.
You were about to ask the universe why when the answer chimes in on both your phones.
Have a nice date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! J.B.
“J.B. Fucking ridiculous.” You read the date part again and turn to Steve, showing him your phone screen as if he doesn’t have a twin message on his. “Did you plan this?”
He scowls. “Plan this? Bucky leaving us stranded in Brooklyn?”
“Yeah.” You don’t explain it’s because of the date thing. But you know he’s got it, because his scowl deepens and he suddenly looks offended.
“No. I didn’t plan this.” He takes a step forward, getting right on your face. “You think I couldn’t get myself a date if I wanted one?”
The mention of how easily he could score himself a piece of ass makes you see red for some reason. “Mr. D’Artagnan over here! Good on you,”
“That’s not— do you mean Casanova?”
“Please, don’t act like you’re the king of pop culture.” You cross your arms against your chest. “So you didn’t tell Bucky anything?”
“No. I didn’t.” He breathes out. “I didn’t ask for his help, either. He’s a shit wingman.”
“Can’t argue with that.” You feel betrayed, somehow. There’s no better way to explain it. Like this has been a trap, even though Steve has had nothing to do with it, but his best friend had and he wasn’t here to receive the brunt of your blows. “It’s just— he’s been an ass about this whole date-not-date thing all day, I’m sick of it. And now this.”
Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair that leaves it all over the place.
“I thought it was obvious there was nothing like that. This was his idea. A stupid wingman move, that’s it.” The way he says it makes you grit your teeth. “I just don’t get why you’re so angry about it— why do you hate me so much?”
“Because!” You explode. “Because you annoy the shit out of me. Because of you wake me up at 6 a.m. to run. Because you beat my ass during combat training every time, as if letting me win would give you hives. Because you’re too fucking nice and then you’re the Captain again and it’s fucking confusing!”
Because the idea of you dating Steve Rogers is fucking preposterous and you don’t get why suddenly everyone is bothering you about it.
“I’ve done nothing but try and help you. We were fine 10 minutes ago—”
“I can’t tell if you want to help or just sanitize me. You tell me I’m enough when it’s just so obvious I’m not. Just tell me you hate me back, Rogers.” He shakes his head, and you hit his chest, fruitlessly trying to shove him away. “Come on! Be angry back. Say it. I hate you.”
“Stop.” He grabs one of your arms, then the other when you don’t relent. He’s so gentle about it that it makes your eyes well up. “Stop—”
“You hate HYDRA. And you hate me. Just fucking say it—”
“I can’t! I don’t hate you. I don’t. I’m sorry.” His words finally do the trick; you slack on his hold, nearly collapsing into his chest. “I care about you and you— you need to start dealing with that.”
You suck in a sharp breath - the weight of today’s events crashing down all at once - and you finally understand the reason behind your mood swing. Despite Nemo’s rule, you have been overthinking non stop. He cares, even if you don’t deserve it. You only hate his guts some of the time. And you have to deal with that.
The reason why you can’t fucking stand all the nagging is because you know can’t allow yourself to want a silly, normal thing like a date. Not yet.
Steve splays a large hand at your back, the other resting at your hair as your breathing returns to normal. His steady presence helps - you even let a tear or two fall, but you’re composed again in a few minutes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. Thanks for— everything you’ve been doing. And sorry.”
He moves as if he’s not going to let you step away, but his hands fall at his sides. “It’s okay. You’ve had a tough day.”
You scoff. “It’s not okay, Rogers! God. Stop being so… understanding.” You say, putting your hands on your hips but doing your best to keep your attitude at bay. Apologies are not your strong suit. “I’m sorry for a reason. So you have to say ‘apology accepted’ so we can move on.”
Steve raises one eyebrow. “Apology accepted,”
“Great.” You nod. “What now?”
He blinks, finally averting his eyes from you as he looks back to the main street. “There’s a station down two blocks away. Or we can… get a cab.” You make a face, and he nods in agreement. “I could hot wire a car. Maybe not the best idea.”
“You want to steal a car?” You frown. “You know how to steal a car?”
It’s not like the idea isn’t exciting. But the image of Steve Rogers hot wiring a car seems a little surreal to you. Then again, he’s been in the army. He probably knows how to do a lot of illegal shit.
“I’d just return it tomorrow.” He chuckles when you deflate. “Guess we’re taking the train. We can ask Nat to get us at the Compound station.”
“God, this is so humiliating.”
“Sam, then.”
“That’s not better.”
“Better than walk—” His words are cut off by the screeching of tires next to you.
It’s the Jeep.
It’s James Buchanan Barnes.
“Yeah yeah, I was nearly at the Interstate but I felt bad. I think it’s gonna rain. Get in.”
You don’t waste any time. He’s here and it beats asking for Sam, or Nat, to rescue you. Even though you’re itching to get home, to barge into her room and tell her all about it.
“Fucking hell, Bucky. You’re an asshole. Fuck you.”
He grimaces. “Deserved that. Sorry.”
Steve is still out of the car, bracing his hands on the passenger window. “Get out. Let’s switch.” Bucky tilts his head. “You don’t have a license.”
“I’m 93 years old. I know how to drive.” He pauses, then entering a glaring contest with Steve. “I’m an Avenger - sort of. Doubt my lack of license will be their first concern when pulling us over.”
Steve just stares. Your eyes flit from him, to Bucky, and back. Finally, Barnes just sighs and allows the other nonagenarian to take the wheel.
“I could drive.” You’re also an Avenger - sort of.
They both turn to you at the same time. “No.”
Jesus. Okay then.
You don’t go back to the diner on next Friday’s deprogramming session - Steve couldn’t make it, so you and Bucky decided to not go without him despite his protests. Neither of you have valid licenses, after all. Instead you two lounged under the sun and Bucky made you a rum and coke so large that kept you drunk for three hours.
It’s for the best. You went for the intensive program - between two or three sessions a week - and you were in need of something to take off the extra edge.
Shuri’s prodding at your brain is showing results - if those are good or bad, it’s yet to be decided. Your powers have been slipping out of control more often. Tony finally got that nobreak for his Pac-Man machine. You’re running through electric toothbrushes faster than a piranha, but - strangely - you haven’t had a headache in days. The crossroads approaches, you can feel it; you’re gonna have to make a decision soon. Finish the job and lose the little control you had, meaning learning to use your powers from like a baby deer learning to walk, with imminent risk of causing more damage than you can afford, or cutting it short and dealing with a possible head implosion.
It’s great.
You already know what Steve’s opinion is, but you’re yet to make up your own mind about it. You appreciate his faith in you - and everyone else’s. But the more faith they have, the more disappointment you can cause.
It’s getting increasingly harder to detach yourself from them, and if you’re being real honest, you’ve already stopped trying. Whatever plans you’ve had of figuring out your faulty powers and bolting, fading back into anonymity, has been crushed way before the media started calling you Dynamo.
It’s terrifying, because even if bleak, that was a known path forward. And now, you can’t see anything clearly ahead. Just that crossroads.
You’re not fully healed from your old ways, though. Steve Rogers is on national television, back under the limelight and the scrutiny of a bleached blonde host wearing a brightly-colored skirt suit. And you made watching the interview a personal form of self-flagellation.
Holed up in your room, eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet Stark had lent you - you didn’t go for the big TV because Natasha would chastise you for doing this. But you can’t help it. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel… even.
You mute the TV when a picture of you is shown on screen. You look serious, geared up, menacing. The kinda side of yourself the mirror never shows. The question the host asks Steve makes him look to the floor, and you’re glad you can’t hear his answer. Something akin to the one he gave about the risks of allowing Bucky to walk free, you’re sure. You catch the twitch of his lips, the tension in his knuckles. But he takes it in stride, flashing a charming smile when he’s done. Of course he does. He’s Steve Rogers, and the people love him.T
hat’s why he goes to that stuff and not you, or Nat, much less Bucky.
Truth be told, you’re dying to break this cycle, maybe burn the Compound to the ground and throw Captain America’s shield in the garbage. It would cause havoc, for sure. But it would set you all free.
He ends the interview with some heartfelt speech about everyone’s part in keeping the peace. The audience claps.
You wrap your arms around your knees.
You half-watch-half-look at a couple of episodes of Survivor before getting up, headed towards the big kitchen on the communal floor below. There’s a hole in your middle that can only possibly be fixed with food.
And there he is.
Leaning over the balcony, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He got back quicker than you expected, no doubt taking the motorcycle or a helicopter to the CBS News Headquarters.
“Does alcohol have any effect on you?”
You expected him to startle - he doesn’t.
“No. This is mostly wishful thinking,” Steve says, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.
“All this pressure and you can’t even be an alcoholic about it. Shame.”
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” He shrugs. “What are you doing up this late?”
You give him a look. You’re positive it’s barely past 11 p.m. “What am I, fourteen?” You retort and he flashes you a sheepish, tired smile. “I wanted a snack. Then I saw you were back from the interview, brooding and trying to get yourself drunk.”
“I wasn’t brooding. I just… needed some air.” He clears his throat. “The interview went well, I mean. But it’s a whole thing. Wardrobe, hair, microphones, shaking hands. The commute.”
You raise your eyebrow, wondering why he can’t bring himself to say the word tired. “As well as something can go when Kaitlyn Holloway and her pink blazer are trying to get you to say something compromising.”
“You watched it.”
“Don’t tell Nat.” You nod when he does. “Figured I should. I put it on mute when you were talking about me though.”
Steve sips his drink and makes a face. “Only good things.”
Laughter escapes you, getting him to raise his head to look at you. “Right, I forget. You’re Steve Rogers and you’re incapable of hating anyone.”
The things he told you last week have been carved into your head. You couldn’t stop mulling it over, and over.
He shakes his head. “No, I hate plenty of things. Like crude language. Wet snow. Bullies.” You knit your eyebrows. Wet snow is new. “…I hate HYDRA and I hate what they’ve done to you. To Bucky.”
Your hands tighten against the railing. “And I hate what the army did to you. What S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hoss are doing.” Your vision goes blurry, and you have to close your eyes.
He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I volunteered for all of that.”
“It’s still—”
“Bullshit?”
You draw in a sharp breath. “Yeah. But no. It’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. I just never saw it that way I s’pose.” His eyes are focused on the horizon, and then his gaze lowers. You shift on your feet.
He doesn’t have to say it. It’s duty. To him, it’s what all of this has always been about.
“Can I ask you a question?” You suddenly feel cold and under dressed, especially comparing your large T-shirt and shorts to Steve’s more formal attire. But that is not unusual. He looks at you, so openly that it makes you shiver. Maybe it’s just the cold wind. “About what you said that day… at the gym. That you can’t, you know—”
He blinks, the memory probably resurfacing. It’s kind of been a long time since you had sex. “Yeah…it’s a bonus effect of the serum apparently. Once you have a family, your priorities change. Serving the country is not your biggest concern anymore, so they went ahead and made sure to kill any chance of that happening.”
Your mouth parts. “You didn’t know,” It comes out in a whisper.
He shakes his head. He’s looking at the whiskey like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Found out after I was thawed out. Routine check-up.”
You clench your fingers. You’re not sure what to say. It makes you want to punch someone – not him this time – but someone.
It’s not fucking fair.
It takes you a moment to answer. “So stubborn as you are, you went and got yourself a family anyways.” You say, gesturing vaguely at the place the Avengers made into their home and trying on a lighthearted tone. You can only hope it works. “And now they’re your biggest priority instead.”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s why you gave up the shield to Tony, isn’t it? And that you have to do everything S.W.O.R.D. tells you to—”
“Not everything—”
“But a lot.”
He nods.
“So they let you get them out of the Raft and come live here.”
He nods again.
“I don’t think they’d want this if they knew, Steve.”
“They know and they don’t.”
You stare at him for a second.
“So just—pack your bags and get out of here! Retire or something. Get out of character.”
“I can’t retire. I can help people for a long time still. Besides, people don’t like me out of character. They want Captain America,”
“I don’t.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, fair enough. Is that why you’re always trying to make me lose my temper?”
“Maybe.” You smile coyly. “I’m not saying I like you for you or anything. Just that what I see behind the mask – the shield – is better. ‘Cause it’s real.”
“Look… I’m not two people in one, darlin’. There isn’t this interior battle, or mask, that you think there is. The Captain is me. I’m not sure I know how to not be that anymore. It makes things easier.”
“For who?”
“For everyone,”
“I’m not everyone.”
“Yeah, you’re definitely one of a kind.”
“And you make my life very not-easy.” Understatement of the century.
He chuckles. “This place… might not be paradise, but it has a purpose. Look around you. Controlled environment and plenty of support for Bucky, amnesty for Natasha, a safe place for Wanda… it’s not like you’ve done any differently. You’re using this place and its resources as much as I am.”
“It’s different. I’m doing this because I wanted to. I’m selfish. I was reluctant at first… but it was my choice for my own benefit.” He doesn’t seem to agree, but you only shrug. “I just think you should start doing what you want for a change.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Steve leans in, and it’s like he’s captured you with nothing but his eyes. So, so blue. And grey. Like the sky, that is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. Tonight, you can almost see stars in them if you look hard enough. While you were caught, you hadn’t noticed his hand come up to tuck your hair behind your ear, stopping when it cups your jaw.
“What are you doing?” You whisper, like it’s a secret. Because it might be.
“I’m doing what I want, for a change.”
His nose brushes yours before he kisses you, much less urgently than last time. It’s tender. So much so it leaves you paralyzed, your fingers tingling.
You don’t know what to do; this is a one of a kind thing to you. He kisses you like he wants you to sigh when you think about him. Like he wants you to write his name on your notebook and circle it with a heart. Like… like he wants you.
When he pulls back, your eyes are still closed. He’s smiling when you finally open them, a crooked thing. None of that poster-like shit.
“Goodnight, darlin’.”
You stand there, shell shocked, willing yourself to move and to affirm that you hate him. You can’t.
Steve Rogers picks up the empty glass and starts making his way back inside, stopping to look at you before closing the sliding doors. He stays there for a bit, nodding as if he’s decided something, and then holds the doors open, half inside and looking back at you in invitation. You hesitate for a split second. Then, your legs begin moving, half on their own accord, and he smiles like the sun.
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“If you walk away, I’d beg you on my knees to stay”
TW: Mentions of Sexual Assault (Marked if you need to skip)
It had been a full day since your.. less than a professional encounter with Hotch, and it’s safe to say that you had been left reeling. Not only was it unbelievably unprofessional- you enjoyed it and wanted more of it, and that was what made you the most angry. You had never even considered being attracted to him- aside from the occasional dream fantasy- and now? You were all in your head about what this meant, not focusing on the task and case at hand. Your teammates had taken notice, and had all tried to inquire in their own way- Emily bluntly, Garcia by sweetalking, Morgan by flirting- but you had pushed aside every effort and kept to yourself- making an extra effort not to make direct eye contact with Hotch, if you could help it. And that had been successful- until now, that is.
“It’s possible that we need a decoy. Someone to see how his methods work, up close and personal.” Reid offers to Hotch, and Hotch nods, his gaze shifting to your desk, where you were chewing on the tip of a pen, eyes glazed over and deep in thought about- something. “Someone he knows, someone he’s comfortable with. So he can feel like he’s winning.” Reid follows his gaze, pausing, “Sir, if I may- __ seems to be distracted at the moment and it may not be best for her to-” Hotch is ignoring him, closing the case shut and motioning in your direction. “Agent __, Agent Prentiss, I’d like to speak with you two.”
Emily snaps her fingers in front of your face- but you had already come to the sound of Hotch saying your last name. You rolled your eyes at her, trailing behind her and positioning yourself out of Hotch’s gaze. “We need you two to go undercover, in order to fully grasp the methods our unsub is using, adapted from Viper’s.” “So, we need to get Viper to try his moves on us.” Emily sighs, nodding. You talk softly, gritting your teeth slightly, “Yes, sir.” Hotch’s eyes find yours, finally, “Agent, you can sit this one out, if you feel unsafe-” “No. I can do it.” Your voice comes out bitter and sharp, so you hastily add a “Sir.” at the end to cover your tracks. You follow Emily into the women’s locker room, grabbing your go bag and angrily digging through it. “You okay?” Emily raises her eyebrow at you, well versed at reading women by now. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
The familiar lights of the, once again, still sleazy bar hit your face as you walk in, carefully trailing behind Emily, with eyes alert. You had both changed into less FBI-agent like clothes, grabbing a drink from the bar as you found a seat n the corner. Before long, the familiar sharp scent of cheap cologne met your nostrils as Viper emerged behind you. “Well, well, well. Look who’s back for a taste. Who’s your friend?” You see Emily swallow a snarky remark, “Emily Prentiss.” “Enchante.” Viper smirks, bowing dramatically as his eyes find you. “So, tell me, did my methods work?” “You could say that, I suppose.” You hear Hotch’s voice in your head, Agent, you can sit this one out, and you grit your teeth, leaning in closer and continuing to banter with him.
SKIP HERE FOR SA TRIGGER!! At a certain point, you feel Emily tugging on your shirt, and you whip around to see her slyly following a man in a fedora. You turned back to Viper, “This has been.. Nice, but I have to go now, I’m afraid. Look me up on Facebook- unless you’re too off-grid for that.” Viper’s eyes change, grabbing onto your arm and pulling you to him quickly. “I don’t think so.” He growls, dragging you back into the depths of the bar. You freeze, going limp as you realize the danger you’ve put yourself in. You fumble for your gun- shit, you had gone in unarmed and unwired. You found yourself in the same dark corner you had been in earlier, just in daylight- it was much scarier now. Viper’s rough hands found your body, as you shook your head, trying to protest, or fight back, “Stop, please-” “Don’t fight it.” His hand found your mouth, muffling your protests.
You sunk your head against the brick wall, closing your eyes as tears streaked down your face- until a sharp voice broke through the dark. “FBI, Freeze, hands behind your back! Now!” You blinked quickly, seeing the blurry vision of Hotch aiming a gun at your attacker through your tears. Viper scoffed as Morgan cuffed him, and you fell against the wall, your knees crumbling underneath you. Hotch immediately put his gun away, moving towards you- but you summoned every bit of strength left in you and threw your arms around him. He stiffened at first, but just as quickly wrapped his arms around you, tightly holding you and using his free hand to stroke your hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”
Since we didn't get much of any SCC in the new chapters (aside from Cap'n being...Cap'n), here's a typical lazy morning in the Sweet Cap'n Cakes' music shop.
