#opening lines

2. this is (not) fine

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers. No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for. You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

3. the art of pretending

You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary. You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day. Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

4. close quarters

Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself. Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt.  That was the extent of your introduction. 

5. read between the lines

I’ve been tutoring Bucky. Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

6. his girls

You were careful. Or at least, you thought you were careful. For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall. You figured no one had noticed. Until today. It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

7. lessons in lovemaking

You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake. What the hell had Fury been thinking? You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

8. sweetpea

Being fucked over the table was not unwelcome but rather surprisingly pleasant, even if it derailed your breakfast plans.  Leif had always been a rather attentive lover, skilled at pulling orgasm after orgasm out of your needy cunt. He possessed stamina and a hint of roughness that stirred warmth within you, yet something still felt absent. This elusive quality lingered throughout your year together—an unexpressed awareness that simmered between you. Leif was kind, diligent, attractive, and strong. He was considerate, often surprising you with gifts and regularly praising your looks and cooking. Your friends approved of him. So even if that brief and passionate session had been perfect, him thrusting into you from behind so intensely that your toes curled and you had to press your face against the wooden surface to keep from screaming—you realised it was all somewhat melancholic. The thing that was missing between you and your Springbond was that fabled spark.

9. smog & spirits

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked.  The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents. 

10. a dish served cold

Rain was supposed to be a welcome sight.  The inhabitants of Crimson Junction had been thankful for the blessing, a relief from the drought that had plagued them. The surrounding areas had been unceremoniously crowned The Dustbowl after seven years of no rain. Fierce winds had blown in, kicking up the dirt, sand, and dust, blanketing the surrounding areas. Crops failed to grow, animals suffocated, and homes were buried. Most left the area, choosing to abandon their land in search of fruitful and safe territories. The canyons bled crimson the day the rains came; water mixed with the red soil and rock. The people of Crimson Junction celebrated, their prayers were finally answered. It was only as the valleys began to flood and the once barren riverbeds overflowed that the inhabitants considered the bleeding waters an omen. 

"I've never been one for smoking but taking a bullet to the chest will make you a lot less worried deaths of the world."

"I took a job I shouldn't have."

"I was a frog in a slow pot of boiling water or the first clown to get in the clown car. You don't know to get out until it's too late."

"One thing led to another and I found myself dancing with the devil in the moonlight."

"I won't bore you with the details, so I'll cut right to the quick."

"I can't count how many countries I cornered him in."

"He's running out of holes to hide in."

"Word of advice, if you're running away from your problems never become too attached to anything—family, lovers, briefcases on top of your car. Some things are best left behind."

"He's gone through pseudonym after pseudonym trying to cover his tracks but he always manages to fall back into the same familiar roles—drinking, fighting, flirting….dancing."

"Get your ass down here!"

"Don't move asshole! Show me your hands—not like that, put 'em down!"

"Why'd the music stop?"

"Do I know you friend?" "I said get down—what? How do you not-".

"Dave…Dave? Dave. Dave. Dave! Greg? Steve? Bill? Dave?" (None of those names are the other's name).

"I knew I recognized you! How's the wife?" "I don't have a wife! Stop stalling!"

"You're under arrest for the murder of far too many people to count!"

"You ran a good race there, buddy, but it's the end of the road for you."

"Did we date at some point?" "No we didn't date! The whole is a metaphor for when you shot me in the—" (realizes this conversation is happening telepathically).

"Car." (Driver looks back, screams, and swerves, narrowly avoiding crashing). "Holy shit, that was close." "We could have taken them." "What the hell does that have to do with—"

"How are you in my head?" "Why are you shouting?" "Get OUT of my head!" "You're still shouting!".

"Enough games."

(Character A is tied up with a martini) " Well I suppose I could stay here awhile—get comfortable. Lovely place you got here. Could use a bit more color—" "Enough with your bullshit!"

"There's no need for naming calling. Words can hurt you know. You could be a bit more courteous."

"Winkleheimer—wait just Winkleheimer?" "Alright I might have been having a little bit of fun with that one—"

"(bank), it's been years! How are you? How you doing? How's the family?"

"I've been waiting a long long time for this day."

"Wow there we all are. We look so young."

"Ah there's (blank). My heart still beats for (blank) to this day, but if (blank) saw me (blank) would probably carve mine out."

"How did you find all of this?" "I've always had them."

"That's so sweet—" "That's not sweet, that's sickening—" "Sickeningly sweet—"

"Look, I'm terribly sorry I didn't remember you. Memories start to get jumbled after awhile."

"Things get jumbled so easily—the when, the where, the why, and the how of it all. Who can keep track of it?"

"Oh, the train. Oh I remember the train. How long were we stuck in the snow for?"

"What?" "You don't remember? Oh that's okay, probably hasn't happened yet."

"A little spoiler alert for later to make it easier on you—we all did it."

(Puts finger to the tip of gun. Kisses it).

"What the hell is going on?" "Huh? I don't really know. Honestly, I don't understand anything anymore."

"I remember there's something I've been meaning to give you after all these years." (gives other person a hug). "I'm sorry."

"EXACTLY! None of this makes any sense! That's the beauty of it!"

"What about any of this is beautiful to you?"

"You killed people! So many people! You killed my friends!"

"It seems to me that you're trying to paint me as the bad guy—" "You ARE the bad guy!"

"You've been doing a real bang up job of it."

"You were off the radar for three years."

"Three years? What year was that exactly?"

"I've been obessed over this case for years. Every moment of every day, I've spent trying to hunt (blank) down."

"So why can't I remember?"

"Am I crazy?" "No no no. My friend you are NOT crazy. Don't let anyone ever tell you you're crazy."

"You're just too focused on the manusia of it—the details. The who killed who, the who slept with who—"

"It's impossible to know things that haven't happened yet."

"It's impossible to survive a bullet to the heart."

"This was all a nightmare I couldn't wake up from."

"My heart was pounding morse code in my ears but I'd never learned the language."

"My mind was like a hamster ball rolling down the freeway."

"No drifting off just yet—"

"It was my first year of clown college all over again—"

"Life needed a bit of madness, but why should death be any different?"

"You're a freshly born fawn trying to find your legs in a world that doesn't make sense."

"So just for tonight, let's just forget about the chasing, the killing, and the shooty-shooty bang bang—"