The last of the Nein shuts their door for the night, and Caleb starts counting.
After one minute, Essek steals a glance at him over the top of his book. Caleb meets it with a raised eyebrow, and he retreats with a pleased smirk buried between the pages.
At five minutes, Caleb sets his own book down on the table with a stretch and a contented hum. "How is your reading?"
Essek turns the page. There is something deliberate in the way he moves his fingers that suggests he knows the way Caleb is watching. "Dull," he says mildly. "Have you made any progress on the amplification we spoke of?"
They discuss their research until the fifteen minute mark, at which point Caleb's hand finds its way atop Essek's knee. Twenty minutes, and it's traveled to his thigh. Twenty-five, and Essek begins to thread his fingers through the ends of Caleb's hair, twice as scandalous.
Twenty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.
"I think it is likely our friends have settled--"
"Good."
Then Caleb climbs halfway into Essek's lap and is dragged the rest of the way, and this is what he’s been itching for all day.
“H–” is probably intended to be a hello, but Caleb kisses it out of his mouth. The little sound that replaces it is sweet enough to swallow.
"I have missed you," comes out hoarse when the two of them can bear to part long enough for words.
Essek gives him a fond hum and leans up to rest their foreheads together. "I have missed you, as well," he echoes. "Dearly."
Essek has learned to be handsy when drunk - a very intriguing development that Caleb intends to explore to the fullest. To celebrate the Mighty Nein’s reunion, they’ve all gotten into the Brenattos’ wine cellar tonight, a fact which is clear from the way Essek’s hands are straying. It has been a long time since Caleb last felt this warm.
“Hmm.”
Caleb bites back a bereft sigh as Essek pulls back. He’s wearing his thinking face - a very, very attractive one, but perhaps not the one Caleb would choose at this moment.
“Regarding the spell,” he says. “Have you considered compensating for the larger area of effect by increasing the– Caleb.”
“Hmm?” Caleb hums into the hollow of Essek’s throat.
“Are you listening?”
“Hmm.”
The sound that escapes him when Essek takes a handful of his hair and pulls until they’re eye to eye is positively obscene. The look on Essek’s face is one of fond exasperation - but notably, he doesn’t let go.
“The components.”
“Ja.”
“Have you considered increasing the quality?”
“Ja.”
“By what factor?”
Caleb manages to stumble over his words only once as he tells him. Essek clicks his tongue. He rattles off a suggestion that is certainly very clever. Later, Caleb will be happy to absorb it all in great detail; just now, it’s easier to pay attention to the clipped, deliberate way his accent shapes the words than to the meaning of the words themselves.
“Caleb.”
“Hmm, ja?”
Oh, the way Caleb has mussed Essek’s hair is evident when he shakes his head.
“You are terrible, are you aware?”
Caleb grins. “I am–” and he pauses for emphasis– “drunk.” He presses one finger to Essek’s lips–very warm, very soft, they ought to be kissed a great deal more–before he can reply. “On both the wine and the company.”
Essek is welcome to roll his eyes as dramatically as he wishes, and takes the opportunity - but there is no hiding the flush across his face.
“Fool,” he murmurs.
Caleb retracts his finger. "Oh?"
In soft apology, Essek brushes a thumb over Caleb's lower lip and chases it with a kiss.
"Bright man," he whispers on warm breath. Another kiss, less chaste this time, and it seems the spell is forgotten. "Brilliant man."
There is little else to do but kiss him back.
It goes very nicely, for a while. Hands find bare slivers of skin, shared breath mingles between them, and everything tastes vaguely of wine. At this moment, the world could be vacant save for the two of them.
Then the bottom stair creaks, and both of them snap their heads toward the stairwell where Fjord stands frozen like a child with his hand stuck in the cookie jar.
For a moment (three seconds, four, five), no one so much as breathes.
Then Fjord squeaks a whispered, "Sorry," and the tension collapses.
Somewhat surprisingly, Caleb does not find himself evicted from Essek's lap. He had imagined that, in a situation like this, the touch-shy modesty of their early courtship might shine through again. Instead, Essek’s hand stays firmly on his shoulder, gaze so imperious as to dare Fjord to say something untoward, reminding Caleb very much of a cat who has just taken a tumble from the windowsill and means to silence any witnesses.
For his part, Fjord looks as though he would rather be anywhere else.
“So sorry, I just– my throat was very dry, and I– there’s water down here. Downstairs. In the kitchen. Did not know that you two were…” He clicks his tongue twice to illustrate, then appears to regret it immediately. “I’m going to…”
He points back toward the stairs and begins edging back the way he came.
“Fjord.” Essek’s sharp voice stops him in his tracks. There’s something of the cool demeanor of the Shadowhand in the way he nods toward the kitchen. “Go and get your drink.”
Caleb will wait until Fjord is out of earshot before begging Essek to take that tone of voice with him. He is still very much in Essek's lap, however, and the amusement in Essek's eyes as they shift back to Caleb says that other parts of him are already asking.
In the kitchen, the sound of rattling glass and ceramic is followed by a muffled curse, and Essek presses a hand over his eyes.
“We should have retired to the tower.”
Caleb hooks one hand behind Essek’s neck, rubbing his thumb in what he hopes are comforting circles. For just a moment, Essek’s posture stiffens at the touch as his eyes flick to the doorway. Then, with a sigh, he relaxes. It’s lucky that Fjord is downstairs rather than Beauregard; she would never let Caleb live down the mawkish smile on his face.
“Forgive my impatience,” he murmurs.
Essek gives him a look. “I am as much at fault as you are,” he admits. With another sigh, he rakes a hand down his face. “They will all know by the end of the night, won’t they?”
“No, no!” Fjord whisper-shouts from the doorway, and Caleb’s thumb stills on Essek’s neck as they both turn to look again. “Your secret is safe with me.”
He mimes locking the corner of his mouth, then tossing the invisible key over his shoulder. To Essek’s credit, his sigh is released so slowly as to be imperceptible to anyone but Caleb.
“I, uh…” Fjord gestures toward the stairs with his water glass. “Sleep well! If you’re planning on sleeping? Don’t answer that. I don’t know why I said that. Goodnight!”
Caleb half wonders if he’s about to Far Step up the stairs in his haste. Instead, he retreats on his own two feet, leaving the two of them in silence again.
Atop deflating shoulders, Essek’s head falls forward until his forehead knocks into Caleb’s chest. Caleb pats him on the back, wondering just how thoroughly the moment has slipped away from them. He runs a finger down the bumps of Essek’s spine, leaning down closer.
“We were in the middle of something, ja?” he murmurs. His free hand finds Essek’s hair. There is a certain way of moving his fingers here that gets Essek keyed up without fail. A moment or two of that, and he ought to be–
Fjord pops his head back into the room, framed by a pair of thumbs up.
"I'm very happy for you!" he stage whispers, and away he ducks again. This time, the sound of footsteps is followed by a door clicking shut.
The silence is so deep as to buzz. He counts Essek’s breaths: slow, steady, warm.
“Well,” says Caleb. “That is thirty seconds.”
For his trouble, he receives a puff of laughter against his chest.
“Cast your tower, Widogast,” Essek says– and oh, he had certainly worked out how much Caleb enjoyed that tone. “I find that I’m short on patience.”
He straightens until their faces are no more than an inch apart, and Caleb fights down a shiver at the spark in his eyes. His wand is in his pocket, the stained glass and granite in a pouch discarded on the coffee table, the cat tucked into a pouch in his jacket.
Somewhere in the haze of waking up after Onigashima, Zoro became aware of Momo rambling enthusiastically about Joyboy this and Nika that, and how Luffy was a god now. It was only afterward that he realized it should have been strange that his first thought was well no shit, it's Luffy, and not anything else… but it wasn't. Because this was Luffy, and Luffy stretched himself into you and wrapped his ridiculous rubber limbs around your heart and squeezed and squeezed and it was an entirely different kind of pressure than anything Enma could ever put him through, but Zoro had known for more than two years that the day that pressure released would probably be the day he'd actually be willing to die.
the first of what will (hopefully) be a collection of small zolu ficlets
--
relationship: monkey d. luffy/roronoa zoro, monkey d. luffy & roronoa zoro
rating: gen
word count: 1,668
spoilers through the end of wano!
holding my breath ('til i can say all of the words i wanna say)
Beca goes home with Chloe for thanksgiving.
For @beca-mitchell
Read on AO3, or below.
Chloe regrets asking the moment it comes out of her mouth.
“Come home with me.”
It's not that she doesn't want to bring Beca—her wonderful and loving girlfriend of over a year—home to visit her family, it's more the fact of how do you tell your wonderful and loving girlfriend of over a year that you didn't actually tell your parents that you two were dating because they're homophobic.
Yeah, she has a slight problem.
Chloe wasn't even sure if Beca would even say yes to begin with. It's her third year at Barden, and her third thanksgiving that she'd be spending on campus. Rather than taking a trip back to Seattle to visit her mother, Beca had explained that she prefers her alone time in the comfort of her room, away from all the reminders of her rocky childhood. Chloe gets it.
But more selfishly than not wanting to leave her girlfriend back in Atlanta alone—aka with most of the Bellas and very much not alone—Chloe didn't want to spend a week away from Beca. That's what brings them to this very moment.
Beca’s clearly taken aback by the question, and Chloe finds the slight blush that's creeping across her cheeks absolutely adorable.
“You're serious?” This is her out, Chloe thinks. Make it sound less appealing, tell her the truth, or just completely take back the offer and—
“Totes serious.” Well fuck.
The smug grin that grows on Beca’s face is enough to vanish all her worries for the moment. Chloe’s quick to reflect one back as Beca pulls her in for a kiss, a version of a ‘yes’ in her own, sweet language.
When Beca mumbles an “I love you,” against her lips, Chloe feels her knees go weak.
***
She doesn't bring it up.
It's sitting in the back of her mind at all times in the weeks following, but she doesn't bring it up.
Beca's seemingly excited to go on this trip to Portland. She says she's never been, and Chloe finds herself looking forward to showing her all of the places where she grew up. She ignores it when Beca tells her that she's excited to see her parents again, and jokingly teases her that she thinks they like her better.
Beca really has no idea.
It's on their final descent when Chloe realizes her mistake. She feels Beca’s hand squeeze in her own, looking over to see her wearing a soft smile—one of comfort and warmth—as if Beca could read her mind. She wishes it were true, it would make things so much easier.
But Beca simply mouths ‘you’re okay,’ and attributes Chloe’s nervous energy to flight anxiety. That’s truly the least of her worries right now, honestly the plane crashing to the ground seems like it could be a better scenario to what she’s going to have to do. Easier, and chances are less painful, too.
Beca squeezes her hand again, waiting for Chloe to squeeze back—their own little form of communication, a way for Chloe to say ‘I’m okay,’ without saying it aloud. Chloe shakes herself from her morbid thoughts, and kisses Beca’s cheek instead, before nuzzling herself into Beca’s shoulder. She feels herself relax slightly as Beca drops her head onto hers, and lets out a quiet hum.
She knows she's messed up. She goes over all the possible outcomes in her head as she watches other passengers deboard the plane. It's the one where she breaks Beca’s trust, and her heart that sticks out the most to her.
Beca never lets go of her hand as they walk off the plane. Chloe can hear her speaking, probably talking about all the new music ideas she thought of on their long flight over, but she can't make out any of the words—she's too lost in her own mind.
“Chlo?” She’s snapped out of her non stop reel of scenarios when Beca stops in place, tilting her head in concern. Beca knows her so well, it makes her want to cry. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired.” She lies, and offers a smile. It seems to satisfy Beca, who grins back and squeezes her hand again gently before going to resume their trail to the baggage claim.
This is it. She has to do it.
“Bec, wait—” Her voice catches in her throat when Beca looks back, eyes full of questions and concern—so patient and so loving. She thinks she might throw up.
She lets go of Beca’s hand.
“They don't know you’re my girlfriend. Please don't tell them, I’m sorry.” Chloe takes a deep breath, fighting back her tears, because God forbid she cries in the middle of this damn airport.
One glance at Beca’s face and her heart feels like it's being crushed inside her chest. She can't say anything else, she can't even look at her.
“Um— Our bags, lets go get our bags.”
***
They meet Chloe’s parents outside of the airport about a half hour later, the silence that had been deafening between her and Beca finally breaking.
Alice greets Beca with a smile and a tight hug. “We’re so happy Chloe was able to talk you into coming home with her.”
“She didn’t have to say much, I’m glad to be here. Thanks for letting me stay with you guys.” Beca says it so sincerely, it only makes Chloe feel worse.
“Please, Beca, you know you’re a part of the family. You can visit anytime, even without this one here.” Dale points to Chloe, giving Beca a wink and one of his signature Beale smiles. Beca giggles and looks over to her Chloe with a soft smile.
Chloe turns to look out the window instead.
The drive to the Beale family home is longer than Chloe remembers—louder too, as her dad sings along obnoxiously to the songs on the radio, and her thoughts continue to echo inside of her head. Beca’s more silent than usual though, and Chloe takes the risk of glancing over to check on her.
Beca’s the one peering out the window now, headphones plugged in as she listens to her own music. It almost makes Chloe smile, just seeing Beca next to her, as they drive through her hometown. The feeling is fleeting however, as Chloe takes note of Beca chewing the skin on her thumb—a nervous habit most likely brought on by all of the shit Chloe sprung on her at the airport. She wants nothing more than to reach over and pull her hand away, entangle their fingers together and squeeze Beca’s hand tightly.
She meets her mothers gaze in the mirror, and immediately realizes how bad of an idea this was.
***
It’s later that night—after Chloe had spent ten minutes convincing, more like begging, her mother to let Beca sleep in her room upstairs and not in the basement
(“It’s freezing down there. I’ll just make a bed for myself on the floor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Chloe.”)
—that Beca finally broaches the subject.
“Chloe?” She hears Beca whisper through the dark. She lays silently, debating whether or not she should answer, or pretend to be asleep and hope that Beca lets it go—she already knows what she's about to ask.
“Baby, I know you're awake.” She could insist that she is asleep—continue to hold her breath and fight back the tears that are already pricking from behind her eyelids—but she knows that Beca knows her better than anyone else, knows that Beca’s worried about her from the way that her hand now softly brushes through her hair.
“Chlo—”
“Yeah, I'm awake.” Chloe whispers, rolling around to face her girlfriend. She feels the guilt swirl in her stomach immediately with just one look at the sad eyes in front of her.
She knew it was coming, but when Beca mumbles “Why didn't you tell them? I—I don't mean to pry, I’m sorry, I just—Are you okay?” tears immediately spill from her eyes, and she has to choke back the sob that threatens to come out.
It makes her heart clench to think about how far her and Beca have come since that day at the activities fair. It had taken so long to get Beca to open up to her, to even just accept a hug from her. It makes her sick to think about how disappointed her parents would be if they walked in on the two of them at this moment—their daughter wrapped up in her girlfriends arms as Beca continues to rub her back soothingly.
She feels so fucking guilty. A disappointment to both her family, and towards the woman she loves. She hates herself for it.
Beca's hands feel so soft against her cheeks as she holds them and lightly brushes her tears away. It's dark in the room, but she can still clearly make out Beca’s features in the moonlight that spills in from the window. Beca looks beautiful, she looks sad, but she’s so beautiful.
“I didn't know how to tell you.” Her voice sounds unrecognizable to her own ears, it's raspy with tears, and she can hear the lie within her own speech. It's not that she didn't know how to, it's that she didn't want to.
How was she supposed to tell her best friend—her girlfriend—that her parents would hate her? How was she supposed to explain that yes, they had met her before and treated her like a second daughter, but as soon as they found out Beca was more than just a friend, they'd look at her with pure disgust and detest? How was she supposed to bring that up in a conversation where Beca’s telling her that her father has been putting more effort in, that he's happy for the two of them and that he’d like to have both over for dinner one night?
She's never wanted Beca to feel as if she was a secret, that their blooming relationship was something that Chloe was ashamed of. And now, Chloe doesn't even know why she invited Beca here in the first place, because while reserved, Beca’s the proudest of their relationship, and she can see it in her face right now how much she's hurting.
Chloe knows it's her fault.
“I'm not mad at you.” Beca's smiling softly at her—a sad smile—one of encouragement, or one to try to deter the situation, because she knows that Chloe’ll be upset if Beca shows that she’s upset, Chloe doesn't know. She doesn’t really care either, she just wants to go home. Atlanta home, away from this life she had so happily left behind.
What she does know, is that Beca is one of the most patient, and selfless people she's ever met. She knows she doesn't have to say anything, that she could simply ignore the situation entirely, tell Beca that she's tired, and it'd get dropped. She knows Beca wouldn't push her if she wasn't ready to tell her.
But she also knows that Beca deserves an answer.
“They would hate me if they found out, Bec.” She realizes that it's been a while since she admitted this dark secret of hers aloud. Not since her first year at Barden, when she confided in Aubrey over a bottle of cheap wine.
“It's not that I'm not proud to be with you, I promise. It's just that— I’m scared to lose them. I don't want to lose you, but I can't lose them either, Beca. I'm so sorry.”
She's crying again—she doesn't know if she ever really stopped—but Beca’s soft lips are soon pressed against hers; familiar, comforting, safe.
“You'd never lose me.” Beca whispers against her lips in between kisses, and it's like a blanket of warmth courses through Chloe’s body. It's still crazy to her how in the midst of feeling so sad and confused, Beca can make her feel so loved, make her thoughts that had just moments ago felt so jumbled, suddenly so clear.
“I will tell them.” She states, breaking apart from Beca’s kiss, nodding her head in affirmation.
“You don't have to.”
“I will. Eventually, I will. Maybe not this week, but one day I will.” And Beca’s smile in response is enough for her to know that she’s supported, that Beca will hold her hand through it all.
“I think you're really brave, Chloe.” She doesn't expect that as a response, and she's ready to open her mouth and argue against Beca’s words—tell her that she doesn't feel brave at all—but Beca beats her to it. “No, you really are, and it's one of the things I love most about you. Thank you for telling me.”
There’s something about Beca Mitchell that Chloe finds so captivating. Perhaps it’s the way she smiles so genuinely and so lovingly at her, before she breaks out into a cheeky grin and pulls Chloe back in for another kiss. Maybe it’s the trust that she seems to give Chloe unconditionally, something that she’s seen Beca struggle with so much over the course of knowing her. Beca’s passion, loyalty, determination… Perhaps it’s just Beca’s big heart, that tends to tug on her own, and make her feel weak in the knees.
“You know I love you, right?” Chloe can tell Beca’s getting tired by the pure laziness that’s beginning to leak into her kisses, her heavy hands that are no longer roaming, but holding her close and still against her.
“You’ve told me a few times. I love you, too. I’m fucking exhausted, your family is insane. Sorry that was—”
“Bec, it’s okay.” Chloe laughs softly squeezing Beca’s hand that continues to lay softly on her hip. “They really are, you’re right. But I have you, I think I’m pretty lucky.”
“Oh, my God—you’re gross. So gross. Go to sleep or I’m moving down to the basement.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Merlin (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Gwen & Morgana (Merlin)
Characters: Morgana (Merlin), Gwen (Merlin)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Revealed, Canon Era, Good Morgana (Merlin), Morgana’s Magic Revealed (Merlin), can be interpreted as both romantic and platonic, bc the author cannot differentiate between the two
Summary: Morgana runs away from Camelot but Gwen comes to the rescue.
but it’s golden, like daylight | chapter one: that girl is a [censored] problem
Summary:
After protecting her from the Mandarin’s men, Steve Rogers becomes friends with benefits with Tony's little sister, Nicolette Stark. What was supposed to be a little fun becomes much more than what they originally bargained for. Post 2012 Avengers through Endgame.
Preview:
“Holy fuck, there’s a bunch of Avengers in my dressing room,” Nicolette laughs.
“I told you, Cap doesn’t like that kind of talk,” Tony smirks.
“Sorry,” she says in a tone that isn’t apologetic in the slightest. Yep, she’s a Stark.
(big big big thank you to @weheistin for motivating me and helping edit this!!)
Ryan is tired, Gavin is in trouble, and there’s not enough whiskey in the world that can help make sense of these feelings
Another long day, another failed heist, and another glass of whiskey. Heists used to be their thing; now it seemed like even getting to the location took longer than the entire process used to. Ryan was beginning to doubt if it was even worth the risk anymore, with all the fumbling around, the almost getting caught every other job, and that stupid smile Gavin would get on his face after messing up yet another alarm deactivation; everything annoyed him at this point. The Gavin thing seemed to be getting to him a lot more recently, if he was being honest. He’s always been an idiot, that much is true, but lately every little thing he does just pissed Ryan off to avail. As he tipped back the rest of the Jim Beam in his glass, he let out a sharp sigh of aggravation.
“Fuck it, I’m getting too old for this childish shit. I’ve got a good day job, I don’t need this stress anymore,” Ryan mumbled under his breath before setting his glass in the sink and splashing some cold water onto his tired face. He had always been a pretty safe guy. Paid his taxes on time, made sure to water his house plants, never missed a day of work at the tech shop, he was safe. Seems that’s why he was so excited when Michael asked him to join the crew all those years ago: it gave him a sense of danger and excitement; the extra cash didn’t hurt either, but now he was just so tired.
Going for another round of water to the face, he heard his phone buzzing on the coffee table. Great, it was Gavin. He sighed and picked up the phone, letting out a hefty “What?” as he answered.
“Geeze, someone woke up on the wrong side of the recliner this morning,” teased that stupid accent of his.
“It’s 11pm you idiot, what do you want?” he didn’t have the patience for any more fuckery tonight. Attempting to answer, he was drowned out by the sound of gunshots and yelling in the background. “Gavin...what’s going on?” A little out of breath, Ryan heard Michael’s voice now on the line.
“Hey man, yeah we could use your help, apparently someone didn’t disable the cameras like they thought this morning and the cops are here and shits fucked, so if you could get down here that would be great!” Before Ryan could even ask where the idiots were, the call ended and he was left to his own devices.
“Hmm, I could just let them deal with it on their own. It’s not my job to clean up Gavin’s messes all the time.” This sounded like a good plan, he could just let them deal with it, either get out of the situation or find a new home in the county morgue, not his problem… Yeah, no, he couldn’t do that. As annoyed and fed up as he was, these were still his friends, so of course it was up to him to put himself at risk once again and help them. He took a swig from the whiskey bottle, grabbed his leather jacket, his mask, and his pistol and headed out the door.
While neither Michael or Gavin said where they were, Ryan somehow always knew exactly where to look. He had a bad hunch and headed out towards the outskirts of town until he heard the sound of a lot of cops with a lot of guns in the distance. “Goddammit, why did they go back?” Ryan slammed his hands on the wheel in realization that the dumbassess went back to the airplane hanger from the job that morning. They were so goddamn stupid, not only for going back, but for going back without any of them… what could be worth returning to the scene of the crime for?
Ryan parked a few streets over and ran as fast as he could to the hanger lot. There were at least six LSPD cars surrounding the hanger, and one chopper floating above the building. This would be a lot easier than he anticipated; he was the tech guy after all. He reached into his bag and pulled out his ever so trusty signal jammer. After so many years of evading the cops, taking down one single helicopter was a walk in the park. Just jam the signal, hack into the autopilot controls, and send it straight on down into the unsuspecting members of the LSPD.
“Fuck yeah!” he proudly exclaimed to himself; this stuff gave him such a thrill, why would he ever want to stop? In the midst of the commotion, ya know the kind a two ton helicopter crashing in a fiery explosion would create, Ryan ran to the back door of the hanger and saw Michael and Gavin hiding behind a Pyro riddled with bullet holes. Michael looked up at Ryan and instead of his usual cheeky grin, his face was covered in fear. Gavin wasn’t moving.
Steve Rogers has been in combat, in new centuries and old. Steve Rogers has fought a million battles, but this is the only war that has ever been able to bring Steve to his knees.
Word Count: 1.6k
Notes: this is set immediately post-CATWS. lots of angst, recovering!bucky, steve definitely has PTSD, and a semi-positive ending? not exactly. i’m not 100% happy with this but i desperately needed to write + publish something to jumpstart the writing process. so here it is! i hope you guys enjoy.
After DC, all Steve can think about is why. The questions damn near drives him mad. Why did Bucky (the soldier?) save him? Why was he pulled from the river? Nothing about this situation sits right with him. Steve feels like he’s cursed to wander in circles around James Buchanan Barnes and no matter what happens, the cycle will not be broken. Steve’s tried.
The thing is, Steve has done this too many times before. Steve has spent decades in a world without Bucky. He knows, intimately, how terrifying it is to wake up from a nightmare and to reach over to the other side of an empty bed, seeking a comfort that has not existed for a hundred years. He knows all too well how it feels to wake up and go to work knowing that you will never look upon the face of the one you love most. He knows how torturous it is to have the last moments of your loved one’s life play behind your eyelids every time you close your eyes. The scream Bucky let out as he fell, as Steve didn’t catch him, haunts Steve’s every move.
Steve Rogers has been in combat, in new centuries and old, Steve Rogers has fought a million battles, but this is the only war that has ever been able to bring Steve to his knees.
Steve closes his eyes for a second and tries to remember how to breathe. There is suddenly a small breeze, barely there but still noticeable. When Steve opens his eyes, his mouth falls open with a tiny gasp. Nothing about his life seems realistic anymore.
“Don’t speak, don’t move, don’t do anything,” the man says.
Steve nods breathlessly. “Okay,” he says, swallowing loudly.
It’s too silent in this room. There’s the dull hum of hospital machinery but Steve can barely hear it over the sound of his own heart beating out of his chest.
“You don’t remember me, but I remember you,” Steve finally says. It’s not a question.
He’s standing there, at the end of Steve’s hospital bed. The ghost of his best friend-- lover. Every bone in his body is screaming for Steve to get up, to not let him slip away again. Not only would that be a bad idea given the fact that his body is about two bone breaks away from giving out completely, but because Steve isn’t exactly sure that he’d be able to stop himself from doing something insane if the conspiring events didn’t go his way.
The soldier doesn’t say anything. He stares blankly, hands lying limp at his sides.
“I remember parts.”
Steve swallows at hearing his voice again. It’s deeper, rougher, no doubt choked with words he wasn’t allowed to say for 70 years. Steve knows the feeling well. “Which parts?”
“Snow. Ice. Trains.” The soldier looks towards the window. It’s pitch black outside, save for a full moon shining in through the thin curtains.
“You letting me fall,” the soldier spits harshly.
Steve can’t breathe.
“Do you know what it’s like to land in snow and ice after falling hundreds of feet, only to notice red seeping out from your body, discovering that your entire arm is gone?” the soldier snarls.
Steve’s eyes widen and his chest tightens painfully. It’s as if the words He gapes as he watches the soldier leave again, slipping into the shadows. He’s retreated back into the darkness, taking Steve’s heart with him again. It’s not as if Steve’s heart every really belonged to himself anyway.
He wakes up again three hours later. Steve hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep again.
Sam tells him it was just a dream.
The next time the soldier comes, Steve is near tears. He’s on the verge of tearing half of his apartment apart, ripping up the files he’s been looking over for damn near weeks now. His body may have healed but his mind hasn’t. Everything is falling apart around him. He hasn’t slept in days. S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, top-secret missions and hidden case files and confidential personnel files control his brain.
“Come on, dammit!” Steve yells, near hysteria bringing his hand down hard against the counter’s stone edge. He’s standing in his kitchen, files and old photographs and screencaps of newsreels and camera footage littering the floor. He wishes the impact of his palm against the counter hurt more than it does. Steve feels insane, he feels drunk, he feels like he’s going to lose his fucking mind because he’s always been two feet behind Bucky Barnes. The man has always been two steps ahead of him, even now, when everything has gone to shit, and Steve is just barely keeping his head above the water. “Goddammit. Goddammit Goddammit Goddammit.”
Steve is looking for answers and he isn’t sure they exist in this vague paper trail. Natasha has pulled all the strings she has in her back pocket, and Steve still isn’t sure it will be enough. This goes deeper and farther than Steve ever could have imagined. It’s deeper than the Red Room and runs far below the streets of the United States Capitol. It’s an international crisis six decades in the making and Steve’s head is about to explode.
“We were lovers.”
“Jesus,” Steve gasps, whirling around to find the soldier standing there. Steve has no idea how he got there, and part of him doesn’t want to ask. The soldier looks completely exhausted, like the experience of the past two weeks has stripped him down to bare bones. In short, he looks like he’s been to hell and back. The black eyeliner is gone, and the armor and weaponry are too, and even under the shitty lighting in his kitchen, Steve can see the shadows under his eyes from fatigue and the aftermath of murder.
“We were lovers,” he says again, expecting a response, and Steve really, desperately wishes he was capable of getting drunk. He feels too unstable to be dealing with this right now. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask for this broken, almost-there version of the love of his life to come waltzing back into this life. He used to be resentful of this curse, of the fact that Bucky’s ghost would always haunt him. Steve had finally accepted that this was his life, that this was the curse he’d been dealt, and then, Bucky was back. He balls his right hand into a fist, suddenly fighting the urge to take a swing at something, and takes a deep breath.
His mind flashes back to when they were kids in Brooklyn, skinned knees, and bloody knuckles, running around the cobblestone streets like nothing could ever hurt them. He thinks of the way they held each other close before Bucky left for training, the night after he saved Steve’s ass in an alleyway, the way they still sought each other out for years. For fuck’s sake, Bucky made into Europe before he did, and yet they still ended up together, because something in this godforsaken universe has tied them together. He looks to the floor, and doesn’t think of the night they found each other again, touching and breathing each other in under a starlit sky in the middle of Nazi-occupied Germany.
Steve realized, with crushing finality, that it was never meant to be anything other than this. It was always Steve and Bucky, and while they may have been able to outrun it for all these years, it has caught up with them now. It’s as if Steve’s soul is tangible, as if he’s holding it in his hands, willingly handing it over to Bucky, every single damn day of eternity, now and for forever.
He can’t.
“Yes,” Steve says, opening his eyes suddenly. The memory fades away, cataloged in the back of his mind. He seals it shut again, and compartmentalizes his feelings before he speaks again.
The soldier exhales, contemplating his next move. “You loved him.”
Steve flinches. “I loved you, yeah.”
“Not me. Him,” the soldier says.
“Yeah,” Steve says weakly. “Are you going to leave again?”
The stranger shrugs. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I don’t- I don’t know,” Steve says honestly.
“I can’t be him,” the soldier murmurs, whispering as he comes forward into the light. Steve stands up straight, hand twitching like he wants to take him into his arms again.
The soldier notices and doesn’t take another step forward. Steve curses himself for being so humanly desperate. It has been so long since Steve has held this man in his arms and he would kill twenty men to be able to hold him right now.
The soldier swallows. “I can’t be him. I can only be me. This broken, damaged thing. I can’t be him. But I can be better. I can- I can fix it. Not the things I’ve done, but. Me.”
“I believe in you,” Steve says, letting the words wash over him and sink into his skin, his bones. His heart.
“I can fix you,” the man (Bucky?) says. It shatters Steve’s heart. That, that right there, is Bucky, his Bucky, shining through. It’s almost painful how Bucky-like that statement is. He was always more concerned with making sure the soldier standing next to him made it home. It’s part of the reason Steve fell for him back in the first place.
Bucky was a good man. And this man, whoever he might grow to be, will always carry parts of the man Steve knew as Bucky.
Steve takes a chance with a smile. “Let’s focus on getting you patched up first, yeah?”
The soldier doesn’t smile, but the twitch of his lips is enough to convince Steve that he understands.
“What should I call you?” Steve says, turning away from the man long enough to grab two glasses and begin filling them up with water.
“James,” the man breathes. “You can call me James.”
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.
It’s been a long time since either one of them had a new beginning.
Derek bites back the ‘good luck with that’ that’s on the tip of his tongue, forcing himself to remember that Lardo isn’t a free spirited art major anymore. No, she’s a sergeant in the NYPD who carries a gun and probably would not hesitate to shoot his toe or something to prove a point.
“You are working on a new series, and instead of just doing research like a normal fucking person, you want to shadow one of my detectives?” Lardo rubs at her temple, giving Derek a look like she’s totally over his bull shit.
“This detective,” Derek clarifies, tapping the newspaper article sitting between them on Lardo’s desk. “He’s the one.”
“Derek…” Lardo squints at him, her mouth tilting up in a sideways smirk. “I’m not going to burden my best detective with your distracting ass if this is just about your thing for gingers in uniform.”
Derek lets out an undignified squawk of protest. “This is serious Lards!” He yelps, throwing his hands up in the air. “I want this series to have that grit to them, that real life feel, and I can’t do that without being immersed in a case!”
They stare at each other for a tense moment, Lardo’s dark brown eyes undoubtedly trying to set him on fire or something terrible. He’s not being dramatic okay, Larissa Duan can be fucking scary when she wants to be.
“Fine.” Lardo reaches for her desk phone, pressing a few buttons and cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. Derek can hear the tinny sound of a greeting on the other end. “Poindexter,” Lardo snaps in her I’m In Charge voice. “Can you come on in to my office, I have an assignment for you.” She hangs up before the voice on the other end can even respond.
A silence descends over the office, and Derek can’t help but start to get jittery. Because the thing is… the thing is that he was being truthful with Lardo, he definitely needs this, and Poindexter’s the best detective in the City, but like also… he’s hot as fuck. So like, Derek might be a little bit nervous about this, is all. After another moment he jumps up out of his chair, pacing around for a few seconds before settling awkwardly on the corner of Lardo’s desk.
“What the fuck, Nursey?” She whispers, but Derek isn’t about to look at her. He’s focusing deeply on maintaining that cool, collected, charming exterior he’s perfected over the years, ever since his publisher insisted on putting his photo on the book jacket for Blood on the Beach. Luckily a knock on the door interrupts any further harassment from Lardo. And then the door swings open, and Derek realizes that this was a terrible, terrible idea.
Present Day
Derek sighs and rolls over for what feels like the hundredth time in half an hour. This was probably all part of Shay’s plan to make his life miserable. Or well, she’s not doing it in a malicious way, she undoubtedly thinks it’s for his own good, but god dammit this is fucking torture.
He can still see it clearly in his mind, the first time he saw Dex in the flesh. It was like some kind of wet dream, Dex’s hair slightly damp, his stiff blue button up shirt hanging open to reveal a thin white undershirt beneath. That white fabric was tight and translucent and Derek swore he could see the outline of Dex’s pecs from across the room. Dex had darted a glance at him, eyes widening just barely, a slight flush rising on his cheeks, and Derek had kind of wanted to die. Dex said something about coming back from the gym to Lardo, but all Derek could think about was how he wanted to get his mouth all over that.
And now, thanks to his evil ex-wife, he has gotten his mouth all up on that. Or well, they’ve kissed, twice. And the second kiss was definitely not something he would be forgetting about soon. He knew the fake boyfriends thing was a terrible idea, but Derek has never claimed to have good ideas, especially when it comes to pretty boys.
Closing his eyes, he breathes in deeply, starting to count down from one hundred. He makes it all the way to seventy five before the numbers in his head are replaced with the image of Angela pouncing on Dex, giggling as Dex fakes his own death with over the top dramatics. Dex is laughing too, his chin tilted back and his eyes sparkling, and Derek’s stomach hurts with how much he wants. From there it’s only natural to replay the kiss, starting with Dex’s big hands curled around his forearms. He can almost taste Dex’s lips, warm and soft and sweet with wine. He can still hear Dex calling him Buttercup, can still see the way Dex’s pupils were blown wide when they broke the kiss, can still feel the tingle from Dex’s stubble dragging against his own.
Derek sighs and starts counting again. It’s going to be a long night.
The next morning, he considers not going in to the station. It’s not his actual job or anything, and like, he could always claim that he needed to take a day to work on some actual writing instead of following Poindexter around like lost puppy. (And yes, in the daylight it’s Poindexter, not Dex). But he knows what that will look like to Poindexter, and he doesn’t have it in him to leave Poindexter to deal with Birkholtz and Chow’s harassment all by himself. It’ll be fine, he reasons. He can act like last night was all a great and amazing joke, like he can’t still feel the ghost of Poindexter’s lips against his own.
“Not fucking cool,” Derek whispers to himself as he pushes apart the elevator doors, eyes going immediately to Poindexter. Over the past six months, Derek had gotten fairly used to Poindexter and all of his ridiculousness. He doesn’t laugh awkwardly at Poindexter’s jokes anymore, didn’t stare too long at his biceps or anything weird. But Poindexter had the nerve to wear a god damn sweater today, and for some reason all Derek can think about is getting his hands all over it. Which is just… not fucking cool.
“Hey Poindexter, your boyfriend’s here!” Birkholtz bellows, his chuckle bordering on obnoxious. Derek considers hitting him, because the dude can be annoying as fuck, but he gets distracted by the bright flush spreading from Poindexter’s oversized ears to his cheeks. A grown ass man blushing shouldn’t do anything for Derek, but it has his chest feeling tight and an urge to press kisses all across that pink skin rising up inside him regardless.
“Hey babe,” Derek says, shooting finger guns at Poindexter for good measure. It makes Chow laugh, and Poindexter rolls his eyes, but Derek can’t stop staring at Poindexter’s mouth. He doesn’t even have good lips, is the fucking thing. They’re thin and always grimacing or frowning, and really, not ideal for kissing. But last night… last night Derek just wanted those stupid lips all over his entire body.
“Fingerprints came back on our vic,” Poindexter starts as Derek half falls into his chair, setting the tray of coffees down beside him. “Ryanne Combs, nineteen, worked as a go-go dancer at a nightclub, lives at home with her mother in Queens.” Poindexter is all business, though it doesn’t really go with that indecently soft looking blue sweater or the faint blush still covering his cheeks. Derek is staring, and he knows it, but he can’t quite bring himself to stop. “You two,” Poindexter continues, pointing at Chow and Birkholtz, “Go visit the mother. She’s already been notified of her daughter’s death. See if she knows what Ryanne was doing in Greenwich Village. Nurse and I are going to take her place of employment.”
“Spending some more quality time together, huh?” Birkholtz adds, waggling his eyebrows. Nurse would flip him off, but Poindexter’s already glaring, so he figures he should try not to add more fuel to the fire.
“As if you and Chow want to be split up,” Poindexter shoots back easily, standing up in one smooth motion. Derek can’t help but watch as Poindexter holsters his gun and pins on his badge, his NYPD jacket pulling tight across his broad shoulders. It’s a powerful image, something full of serious responsibility and just a tinge of raw sexuality that Derek has been trying to capture in writing Detective Wilder for months now. Grabbing his pen, he hastily scribbles down as few sentences in his notepad, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he can trick his readers into falling in love with Wilder, the same way he accidently fell in love with Poindexter.
It takes Derek a moment to realize he just thought the love word to himself, about Poindexter, and he kind of wants to bleach out his brain. This was not part of the plan, this cannot be happening, there is a big difference between lust and love and Derek did not realize he was so close to that dangerous line.
“Coming Nurse? Or you gonna hang out and write weird metaphors all day?” Poindexter smirks at him, that smug little grin that shows off his teeth and makes Derek’s skin feel too hot.
“I must follow the detective with hair the color of a taco bell hot sauce packet – mild, of course,” Derek half sings. Poindexter laughs, and not for the first time, Derek thanks his parents for skin that doesn’t easily flush. He is so, so, fucked.
The Grind is exactly the kind of place Derek would have as a backdrop for one of his more cheesy mystery novels. In the light of day the place is almost eerie, all those blank walls and velvet couches lit up with sunlight. In the dark with colored lights and fog machines going, it probably seems more… sensual, but for now, it’s just kind of strange. Of course it doesn’t help that Poindexter would be out of place here no matter the time of day, clearly uncomfortable with the atmosphere judging by the stiffness of his movements. It would probably be comical, if Derek could stop thinking about the good time he’d show Poindexter at one of the clubs he likes to frequent. He can just imagine Poindexter with glitter sticking to his sweaty skin, smiling easier with a beer in his hand, pupils blown wide as he watches Derek dance.
“Yeah I know Ryanne,” the club manager huffs, wiping a cloth across the sticky top of one of the VIP tables. “She’s missed three shifts now, what kind of trouble has she gotten into this time?” The manager seems tired, her violet braids tied up in a big bun on top of her head. She looks like what Derek imagines Aphrodite to be, with her deep brown eyes and darker skin, her body full of soft curves, from her lips to her hips and waist. He knows instantly that he’ll be writing a character around her at some point, almost captivated with the way her lips part in shock when Poindexter breaks the news to her.
“Well now that I think of it,” she’s saying as Derek brings himself back to reality. “There was a guy, he showed up here several times, always on Ryanne’s nights… he’d just stand there and stare at her while she danced. It was creepy as hell. I don’t think he was here during the shifts she missed either.”
Poindexter nods seriously, scribbling something down in his notebook. “Could you help us identify this man? We need to track him down.”
“He was here just a few days ago, I can have someone in security pull the footage from the front door and send it over.”
“That would be great, thanks Olivia.” Poindexter hands her his card, shoving his notebook back in his pocket. “Give me a call when you find the footage, or if you think of anything else.”
Derek follows Poindexter out of the club in a haze, mind working overtime as he thinks about how he will add Olivia to his book. Perhaps as Detective Wilder’s best friend, who he has unmistakable UST with. Or maybe as a rival FBI agent, always showing up to take over Wilder’s cases before he can solve them. There’s so many possibilities here, and it feels good to add a character that’s outside of Wilder’s core group of fellow detectives that the story is built around.
“So,” Poindexter says, his voice catching in his throat. Derek blinks and forces himself to the present, only to realize that they’re in Poindexter’s SUV, and have been driving for a few minutes at least. “About last night…” Derek swallows hard. He has no idea where Poindexter is going with this, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it. “When we… um… kissed… I just uh, wanted to make sure that I didn’t like over step or anything… you know, we didn’t really talk about it.”
Derek can’t help but grin. Poindexter’s actually being almost chivalrous. It’s ridiculous, is what it is, but god dammit, it’s kind of cute. “Dude, you’re all good, don’t worry about it,” Derek pats absently at Poindexter’s arm. “That was like, top five material anyways bro, so thanks for that.”
Poindexter lets out a choking sound, and when Derek looks at him, his entire face has gone bright red. Derek replays that last sentence in his head.
“Uh…” he starts, wracking his brain for some sort of explanation that isn’t totally humiliating but also doesn’t totally wreck his chances of getting to kiss Poindexter again.
“Top five material,” Poindexter asks, his voice jumping an octave. “Only top five, seriously?”
And that isn’t exactly where Derek thought this was going. He shifts sideways in his seat so that he can smirk at Poindexter head on. “Where do you rank our kiss, Poindexter?”
“This isn’t about my experiences,” Poindexter scowls, full flush returning to his ears and neck. “It’s just not acceptable to me to be any lower than third place.” He sets his jaw, defiant, as they pull into the precinct lot, and Derek has to tamp down on the sudden urge to set his teeth on the sharp edge of Poindexter’s jawbone.
“Well you’re sitting solidly in fifth place,” Derek lies, purposefully not moving from his seat as Poindexter parks the SUV. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips, blood racing hot through his veins. “Moving up in the ranks is all up to you, dude.”
The tension in the car is palpable, like electricity zipping back and forth between Derek and Poindexter as they stare at each other across the center console. Poindexter’s eyes flick down to Derek’s lips and back up again, and Derek feels like he’s suddenly back at sixteen and kissing Tiffany Brown for the very first time. “Yeah, okay,” Poindexter breathes, his voice low and thick and full of determination. Derek’s not ready for Poindexter to reach for him, one big, calloused hand curling around the back of his neck, dragging him gently forward. He’s not ready for the slow drag of Poindexter’s upturned nose up the length of his throat, the shivery heat of his breath against his ear. He is ready by the time their eyes lock though, ready for Dex’s lips on his, ready for anything Dex could throw at him.
“Is it okay if I kiss you?” Dex asks, and it’s cliché and annoying, and the answer is obviously yes, and Derek clearly shouldn’t be swooning, but he is. Oh he is.
“Yeah,” Derek breathes, already starting to close the distance between them. This kiss is different than the last, rougher, hotter. Their lips slot together for only a moment before Dex’s teeth are involved, nipping and tugging, soothing the sting with his tongue. Derek thinks he might be dying, possibly, when he pushes his fingers into Dex’s hair and Dex straight up whines. He’s uncomfortably aware of how hard his dick is all of a sudden, but he can’t really bring himself to care, when Dex’s teeth tug gently at his ear. “Jesus Dex,” he sighs, tilting his head to the side in an effort to offer up more skin.
Dex hums, pressing chaste kisses all along Derek’s jaw as he works his way back to his mouth. When their lips meet again it’s clearly with the distinct purpose of reducing Derek to a puddle in the passenger seat of this SUV. It’s the perfect combination of tongue and teeth and lips, like Dex somehow got his hands on a Kissing Derek Nurse: For Dummies book and memorized it word for word. Derek wants to take off Dex’s shirt, wants to take off his own shirt, wants to move this to the backseat and take Dex apart piece by piece. He wants to take Dex home, wants him in his bed and in his kitchen and wants to watch him read Harry Potter to Angela at bed time.
And that… that is scary as fuck, but he’s pretty sure he’s passed the point of no return on this one.
“So,” Dex whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips. “Where do I rank now?” Derek blinks at him, for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to play this.
“Solid third,” he says finally, watching a smirk lift Dex’s lips. “Can’t give you any higher than that though.” Dex’s eyes narrow momentarily, before a smug (insanely hot) grin takes over his face.
“We’ll see about that.” Dex has the audacity to wink at him before turning and climbing out of the SUV, an irritating swagger evident as he heads towards the precinct. Derek hurries after him, praying that he doesn’t look freshly ravaged and beyond annoyed that it’s still daylight and he’s reverted to referring to him as Dex in his head instead of Poindexter.
Dex holds the door for him, which is completely out of character, but Derek isn’t going to complain about getting to enjoy a tension filled elevator ride with the guy he apparently wants to get all domestic with. “You know,” Dex says, as the elevator passes the second floor. “You’re probably like, a solid fifth for me.” It’s a lie, Derek thinks, judging by the vaguely guilty look on Dex’s face.
Derek can’t help but grin as the elevator opens on the third floor, more than happy to watch the flex of Dex’s shoulders as he shoves the doors all the way open. “We’ll see about that.”
Dex flips him the bird over his shoulder, but it’s totally worth it.
