#polarnoid.

his throat is bone-dry as he scoffs, a weak rush of air. vittorio has tried to be above these pretenses, threats and taunts alike from his knight with the aim of baiting vittorio into sharing information with him. he knows that he will die before he submits; he has done enough to his people by leading tarhos here. knowledge is power, and he will not doom the world further by giving tarhos his.

his knight looms above his slumped figure -- they are no longer separated by the prison bars. tarhos had showed no hesitation in entering his captive's cell, and why would he? it is not like vittorio poses any physical threat. especially now, weak and starved as he is.

vittorio has tried not to respond to tarhos' cruel words, but now he can't help himself at the incredulity.

"you are no friend of mine. not anymore." he keeps his head turned away. watches a patch of mold on the wall rather than dignify the traitor knight with the hurt in his gaze. "telling you what you want to hear will not bring back the people you've killed. my people." his peasants, the villagers dependent on vittorio's rule for protection, and in his blindness he'd delivered them to a monster.

it’s morning, early morning, but outside rain trickles down in pitiful sprinkles. the light that comes from her agape curtains is dimmer than usual, diffused through clouds. nat’s arm is wrapped across james’ shoulders, effectively tucking him as close to her as she can manage, her feet tucked underneath his legs. she has a few strands of his hair between her fingers, idly playing. she has never been one for idle actions, restless movement, but things come differently to her when it’s just him there.

@polarnoid ‘s bucky barnes for nat. "that scar. how did you get that one?"

his right hand on her stomach, index on that particularly gnarly mound of scar tissue. to anyone else, there wouldn’t be a tipoff to her discomfort. she knows every muscle in her body, knows how to smooth over the instinct to freeze, to tense, to stop. she keeps rubbing the locks of hair between the pads of her fingers, her breathing steady. nothing is supposed to break through this wall of careful detachment. few things do. james has an unfortunate knack for slipping through the cracks. she doesn’t know if he can tell she’s been thrown off her game.

excuses and half truths and narratives come without thought, climbing up her vocal chords. she could say anything. any mission gone wrong, any slight slip up. the truth isn’t her domain and she doesn’t want to tell it. something small and weak in her wants to protect him from the past, from moments he shouldn’t have to recover in his memory. with effort, she silences that voice that wants her to protect him. it’s a habit from a lifetime in the red room to grind out any nurturing feeling that pops up, sure, but that’s not why she’s telling him the truth. his past isn’t hers to hide.

now, for instance -- at first, bruce had been pretty sure that men liking men wasn't even on the radar of a soldier from the 1940s. and then it seemed like there was maybe something else going on, but that thing was going on with steve, and bruce so much did not want to get involved in all that drama. so that's that, except.

except that maybe they broke up, or had a fight, or something, because bucky spends much more time at bruce's apartment than he used to, and steve's name has become a sort of non-topic at this house, if bruce isn't imagining that.

except for the way bucky's been invading his personal space more and more recently. bringing him the occasional blood-stained duffel bag full of cash ("for groceries," he'd said once bruce had tried to ask him about it) in a way that weirdly reminded bruce of his aunt's cat leaving dead mice in his bed when he was growing up. the way bruce finds his eyes drawn to the way bucky's mouth turns up, smile slanted and sweet, when he offers a compliment.

now, for instance, where he's boxing bruce in against the kitchen counter, as he reaches for something in the cabinet above bruce's head. and bruce is looking at him, and bucky is looking back, and there is definite staring.

❛ 27 . a kiss to end the sexual tension ft. @polarnoid's BUCKY BARNES.

"which of us is the one with the doctorates, plural, again?" bruce doesn't like bringing up his seven doctorates, generally, as he finds it somewhat rude. but what is ruder is breaking into someone's apartment, again, with a gunshot wound still bleeding, and letting said someone (in this case bruce) find you (in this case, the kgb's missing asset or whatever the hell the winter soldier -- sorry, sergeant winter soldier -- actually is) stitching yourself up in the kitchen when the party of the first part goes to get a glass of water in the middle of the night.

"okay, you win." kitty doesn't admit defeat easily, but lance has earned it. "you were right. this is pretty cool."

they're on the roof of the school, at night. it's maybe the third or fourth time since the two of them started this whole sneaking-out thing. even the best of the x-mansion's defenses can't keep in an intangible girl who knows her way around when she wants out, and besides, the professor has no reason to think any of them would actually want to sneak out. (sure, he's a smart guy and everything, but sometimes kitty wonders if he knows anything about teenagers, like, at all.)

anyway, this isn't their first time doing this, but it might be the first time that actually feels like a date. kitty's wearing a brand-new lip gloss, and she was almost late because she spent so long agonizing over whether to wear the lavender sweater or the blue crop-top. (and, yeah, okay, she wishes she'd brought along the sweater. it's chilly up here!) lance picked the spot, and it was child's play for her to get them through the locked doors up to the roof.

"you can see the whole city from here!" she enthuses, rocking on the heels of her feet, all excess energy.

someone rumbles out a laugh. the spy didn’t quite catch what caused it. that’s alright, though. she knows this routine by heart. the script is memorized, movements blocked. bucky at the sink, bruce leaning against the countertop, nat sitting atop the surface, everyone well within arms reach of each other. the familiar pattern of their voices is nice, steady, as they go around in a conversation they've definitely had before. everyone plays off each other well.

nat blinks to attention with no particular prompting, newly focused gaze pinpointing in on bruce. she’s easily done more on less sleep, so exhaustion isn’t the excuse, but she lets herself pretend it is. he’s bullied out of his spot beside her, insistent hands pulling the doctor inbetween her knees. a break in the conversation, both men leaving space for her to explain her unabashed manhandling. natasha wraps both arms loosely around bruce’s waist, her forehead lowering to rest against his neck. she feels like she can breathe deeper now that one of them is strung up in her web. her voice is raspier than normal when she speaks, yet, authoritative as ever. "carry on."