#swff

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice. Third installment of the Worth Fighting For Series.

Words: 1629

A/N: Gahhh. Hi. Watch for formatting, all done on mobile. I’ll fix it later. Probably.

Brooklyn. 1946.

The sky is a hazy shade of winter. The sun hides behind the gray that blankets the empty cemetery, long shadows of evening crawling across the snow. The feeling in your fingers and toes went out almost as soon as Howard left, the rattle of his engine disappearing with him. He left behind silence and a manilla envelope, the latter heavy in your hands.

Legs outstretched, the contents of said envelope flutter lazily in your lap. Your forearms hold the stack down, fingers numb as they slide along the edges of each page- some smeared with typewriter ink, others in graphite. The page on top is stamped, the red ink a barely legible smear over a grainy photograph in the top right corner: DECEASED.

The rest of the text is blurred, wet spots rubbing the ink onto your fingers. The back of your hand rubs raw against your frozen cheeks, trying to stop the few tears that you couldn’t hold back before they ruined the papers altogether.

Bucky’s name is neatly typed at the top of the form. Details that don’t matter punctuate the page beneath it. 72 inches tall. 172 lbs. Blue eyes. Not nearly enough to really describe the way he was- no detail about the sharpness in his cheeks, the lopsided grin or the way his breath felt against your face. At the bottom of the page, a signature that felt like a tattoo under your fingertips. His handwriting, scrawled too big over a sharp line.

The rest of the stack was a jumbled mess. Photographs taken at the camp, some during training. There was always a smile on his face, but black and white photos could never capture that sparkle in his eye.

Sniffling, your fingers traced the edge of the page, shuffling the intake forms to the back. A line of red appeared on your finger, a drop of blood escaping from the fresh wound and landing in the snow beside you. It didn’t hurt; the numbness held back any pain you could have felt from the outside world. You pause, staring at the thin mark. It didn’t last long. Your skin stitched back together with invisible thread, and the wound disappeared as though it hadn’t been there at all.

The last paper is almost yellow in color, worn in a grid pattern from being folded and unfolded over and over. It had lived in Howard’s pocket, most likely, for ages before it finally fell into your hands.

I read once that crows were responsible for carrying souls to the land of the dead. I think it was the Greeks- maybe the Celts. Sounds like something Steve would know, would carry around in that big head of his for a rainy day. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Crows. Wondering if I’m going to die here, and if I do, are crows native to Bulgaria? I haven’t seen any, but they might be like ghosts.

She came with us. I didn’t know if she’d say yes- knowing what I know now, I shoulda left her in the states. It isn’t safe here and I don’t know that I can protect her. Not that she needs me anyway. But sometimes I wake up and she’s already up and gone and it takes me a second to stop panicking.

I think if I die here, that’ll be okay. She’ll have Steve and the two of them are determined to win this war all on their own. I don’t think a crow will come collect my soul- I don’t have anything to give it anymore. I already gave it to her.

Wakanda. Present.

There’s fire in the sky when he slips into unconsciousness. It burns, sweltering hot- the sun, coming up over the horizon, casting long shadows from the surrounding trees along the eastern wall of the otherwise pale building face.

Clenching your fingers, tightening around his as the two of you stalk down the long hallway towards the medical bay, your eyes flicker back and forth, from the sleek white tiles beneath your and Bucky’s boots, to the world beyond the glass-lined walls.

Bucky stops walking, your arm tugging at the sudden lack of motion. Looking back, his face is calm, and brilliant blue eyes stare through the glass to where an expanse of field stretches out on the other side of the building.

“Bucky?”

His tongue darts over his lips and he squeezes your hand before he starts moving again. Hair falls over his eyes as he watches his feet move over the tiles.

“Are-“ your throat feels dry, and you clear your throat. Bucky glances up at you. “Are you scared?”

His brow furrows, the corners of his mouth tug down. “No,” he says. “Not… Scared.”

Nodding, you move closer, your turn to tug on his arm. He pauses, closing the gap between your bodies. One hand reaches into your hair, holding the back of your head as you press your forehead to his collarbone. “It’s for the best,” you murmur, voice low. Bucky rests a cheek against the top of your head. “This isn’t like it was before. You’re not a prisoner here.”

“I know that.” Bucky heaves a sigh and pulls back from you, a crooked sort of smirk on his lips. “And when I’m back—“

“When you’re awake,” you correct, your fingertips brushing the palm of his hand. “You’re not leaving, Bucky. You’ll be here the whole time. And so will I.”

“That a promise, Mrs. Barnes?”

You grin up at him as he toys with the ring around your finger. “Cross my heart.”

The medical bay doors open soundlessly, sliding apart as you carefully guide Bucky over the threshold. His hand tightens in yours and then lets go completely as a technician, a smiling, warm young woman in a sheer white lab coat, handed him a stack of white clothing.

Shifting on your feet, hands tucked in your pockets, you wait. The sound of approaching footsteps is muffled by the heartbeat in your ears. A hand brushes your elbow, startling you, and you’re face-to-face with Steve, who smiles sadly at you.

“You okay?”

You don’t have to answer; no shake of the head or frown on your lips could accurately convey how unready you are. Steve knows this, and he gives your elbow a squeeze as the doors Bucky vanished through reopen and he emerges, clad in white from head to toe. His hair is brushed, smooth, tucked behind his ears. He looks like he’s lying down for a nap.

Bucky moves to your other side, a nod of acknowledgment in Steve’s direction.

“You’re sure about this?” Steve clears his throat, tucking his hands into his pockets. You reach over, sliding your hand into Bucky’s. He threads his fingers with yours, chewing on his lip for a moment.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper on his lips, a no, but what choice do I have? that lingers in his mouth until he swallows it down.

Shuri is waiting, patient, quiet, her eyes flickering from you to Bucky to Steve to her tablet, fingers moving over what is probably Bejeweled, for no reason but to keep her eyes away from this private moment.

She looks up as Bucky approaches, nostrils flaring as he grips the sides of the translucent tube, and heaves a boot into it. He pauses, fractionally, before he pulls the other leg in and turns, his back against the soft cushioning.

There are no straps. The tube is clear, easily seen through, polished, white. All these things that make it different, but it doesn’t stop the panic hammering in his chest. He’s fighting it down, but his knuckles turn white, betraying the calm expression on his face.

Your shoulders sink and you move after him, into the space where the door would close. One hand presses against his chest, fingers splayed over the white shirt.

“It’ll be fast,” you assure him. He reaches up, wrapping a hand around yours. “I’ll be right here. Every day, I’ll come see you. I’ll tell you all the stupid shit Steve’s been up to and how my day is going and what I dreamed of— Every day, I’ll be by your side. I promise.”

Bucky’s other hand grabs your elbow, pulls you so close you almost fall on him, into the tube- if only- and wraps his arms around you. Pressing an ear to his chest, you listen to the hammering of his heart, enveloped in his warm embrace. You don’t move, even with his lips ghosting your cheek, the ends of his hair tickling your nose. The sounds of machinery, the hushed whispers from Shuri and Steve, are muffled by the heart pounding against your cheek. It starts to slow, gradually, as Bucky’s grasp reluctantly loosens. You peel away, your hand no longer pressed flat on his chest but gripping the white cotton over his chest, and Bucky takes a deep breath.

“To the end of the line, right?”

You nod as the glass closes between you. Bucky’s eyes close, slowly, and suddenly he’s Snow White— locked in a deep, dreamless slumber, in a coffin not made for the dead. Waiting to be saved.

It's the latest in a long line of many old archived sites to disappear, and with each one, it feels like the L/M fandom gets smaller.

STAR WARS: The Old Republic - Wrath

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic (Legends/EU) Pairing: Jedi Knight Male, Lord Scourge Summary: Kyros Urso is intrigued by his latest crew member, Lord Scourge, and perhaps in more ways than he'd like to admit. Little does he know that the former Emperor's Wrath is intrigued by him too.

Read on AO3! 

Something worth fighting for

The Romans took Camulodunum and supressed much of the south-east of Britannia 18 years ago. Rebel leaders have come and gone, men and women have fought and won and lost, but none have truly captured the hearts of the downtrodden and beaten masses in recent years. Britannia belongs to the empire now.

Clarke lives in Roman Camulodunum as a healer and is pressured into leaving the colony to help an injured child. What she finds instead is far more dangerous.

A Britannia AU set around AD 60 and the Boudica uprisings.

AO3

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