The void was still haunting you, and the guilt remained, the team try to figure out what she saw.
Warnings: death, sokovia accords, guilt.
Pairings: og avenger reader x thunderbolts, no use of y/n
You hated it, being called âThe New Avengersâ being a hero again. You were part of it without choice, and it felt pathetic that all of you had been roped into it by Valentina. Being back in the Tower brought back too many memories.
The Void had changed everyone, dragging out shame buried so deeply in the past. You found Yelena in her room- she told you she trying quit drinking for good. Alexei had finally come to terms with Yelena. He saw the biggest mistake of his life clearly now, the day he agreed to give Yelena and Natasha to the Red Room. John started making amends, trying to patch things up in court so he could see his kid on weekends. Ava finally told you how her parents died in an explosion, how it left her with the curse she called her powers.
Bucky tried to bring it up with you once. You assumed his was probably the worst. HYDRA had left too much behind, and somehow he still managed to put on a brave face after all of it. But it wasnât, his rooms were fast and hazy like a bad memory, some of them were completely blank, he still couldnât remember the things he did as the winter soldier, most of the things he saw he learned to cope with by making amends as who is now. He didnât force you to bring yours up.
Everyone made sure Bob never found out what actually happened in void.
And You never opened up about yours. It was too painful for you to even think about.
You were staring down at the breakfast Bob had made that morning when Yelena snapped you out of it.
âHey, you okay?â
âIâm fine.â You forced it out. âJust a headache.â
You stood up, walked away, and locked yourself in your room. You had work, or at least you were supposed to. It all felt out of reach. The new team, the missions, everything.
Bucky noticed. He always did.
âHave any of you asked her about what she saw?â
Yelena shrugged. âI tried, but she didnât break.â
Ava nodded. âDo any of us even know whatâs bothering her? Sheâs been so out of it lately.â
Alexei chimed in. âMaybe just a bad patch, eh? She is sad. Moping around like lost puppy.â
John sat quietly in the back before speaking. âIf you narrow it down, itâs somewhere between Ultron and the Blip, right?â
Bucky sighed.
âItâs the Accords maybe,â he muttered, leaning against the far wall. He looked tired. âI saw her file once. Thereâs a whole section labeled âAsset 4-B.â Itâs mostly just blacked out.â
It was. And you still remembered the day
The sky was bruised purple, filled with the roar of Ultronâs sentries. She stood in the middle of a narrow street, but she was a ghost in her own memory. She watched herself straining to hold up the corner of a collapsing tenement building while civilians fled underneath.
The Void didnât show her failing because she was weak. It showed her failing because she made a choice. A completely avoidable choice. It was all coming back to haunt her.
In the loop, Sokovia replayed again and again and again until Bucky dragged her out.
The sound made it worse. The screech of rebar snapping like dry twigs. The building collapsing. It didnât just fall. It crushed a school beneath ten stories of stone. She tried. She ran toward the kids, desperate to reach them, but all she heard were their cries buried under the rubble.
Then it reset.
She was slammed back to the start of the street. The building stood whole again. The children again. And she had to watch herself make the same mistake, over and over, unable to warn herself, unable to change it
No one blamed her. She saved more people than anyone that day, The Avengers tried their best to protect her, But Tonyâs words still echoed in her head.
âI tried to protect you. I told them you were just a kid, that it was an accident. But you wouldnât sign. You donât have to go with Rogers.â
âI didnât want to be a weapon, Tony.â
âI put my neck on the line so they wouldnât classify you as a weapon of mass destruction.â
She remembered what they said about her. How they saw her- A kid who dropped a city block on a dozen children.
âAnd if you donât sign this, acknowledging that you are a threat under government jurisdiction, then I canât stop them from putting you in a coma just to keep the world safe from you. Sign it. If you sign it you know Rogerâs will have no choice but to sign it too.â
So it was simple. Accept that youâre a monster, and maybe you get a nice cage instead of a cold one.
And she wished she had just signed it. Maybe then Tony would still be alive. Maybe they would all still be together. Maybe the team would have never broken apart, Yelena would still have Natasha, Morgan would have her dad, Wanda would have vision, and the team wouldnât have fallen apart like it it. Only if.
I may or may not take this into a whole story collectively or leave it as a short blurb? Please let me know if you enjoyed it :)!
Summary: Red Hood and Robin crash your monopoly game with the Penguin!
Word count | 752
Tags: Eventual romance, banter, grumpy x sunshine, chaotic reader, no plot just vibes, crack fic, ooc villains
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Expensive cologne lingers around the Iceberg Lounge. Itâs unfamiliar, mixed with too many loud men who didnât know when to shut up.
Still, youâre sitting at a table in a private room, legs crossed, an arm thrown over the back of your chair like you own the place.
Oswald Cobblepot sits across from you, adjusting his monocle with an angry flick of his finger.
âYou understand,â he says smoothly, âthis is not a game.â
Out of all the villains youâve met, this one manages to piss you off. Not an easy feat.
You nod solemnly. âOf course. Monopoly ruins friendships, families, and now apparently crime syndicates.â
Tony, the henchman whoâd given Cobblepot your resume, snorts quietly before straightening when the Penguin shoots him a look.
When you asked Tony to get you into deep shit, the kind only a vigilante could pull you out of, youâd been thinking Killer Croc, Poison Ivy, maybe even someone new like Catwoman. You always thought she was cool.
Youâd completely forgotten Tony worked for the Penguin. Figures. The loyal bastard had to get you involved with the pettiest bird-themed criminal in Gotham. He is so not getting homemade pastries anymore.
âSo,â you say, rolling the dice, âjust to be clear. If I winââ
âYou get your penguin,â Cobblepot cuts in.
âAnd if I lose?â
His smile curls cruelly. âThen you work for me as a spy.â
Tony coughs from the side, his face screwing up like heâs trying not to burst out laughing. He probably thinks youâd be a shit spy.
Focusing back on Cobblepot, you put on your fakest smile. âHigh stakes for fake money.â
The door behind you creaks. You donât need to turn to know it was Red Hood. His presence presses into the room.
âWhy,â his voice growls, distorted by the helmet, âare you playing Monopoly with Penguin?â
Oswald smiles, sharp teeth glinting. âAh. Red Hood. Right on time.â
You beam. âMy love!â You nearly fall out of your chair when you turn to face him.
Robin stands beside him, eyes flicking between the two of you, taking in your relaxed posture like itâs a sin. He looks about thirteen, his hair brushing the space between Hoodâs shoulder and elbow.
Red Hood steps closer, fingers twitching toward his gun. Tension rolls off him in waves. âWhatever he promised you, itâs not worth getting tangled up in this mess.â
You scoff. âThe only thing I plan to be tangled in is your sheeââ You stop when Robin tilts his head.
âUm. Sheep.â
Robin stares at you, eyes narrowed.
âNot that this reunion isnât delightful,â Oswald cuts in, his voice slick and oily, sliding over your skin and making you cringe, âbut we have far more pressing matters to attend to.â
âHush,â you mutter to Oswald as Red Hood raises his gun and aims it at the Penguin. âShut the hell up.â
Cobblepot bristles, his beak-like nose twitching.
You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. How Red Hood doesnât have more fans is beyond you. Heâs hot when heâs annoyed.
âThis is the imbecile whoâs in love with you, then?â Robin asks, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
You smile, unfazed. If anything, the kid is cute.
Red Hood ignores him. Heâs too busy watching you. âWhatâs he giving you if you win?â
âA penguin,â you reply without missing a beat.
âThen Iâll get you a fucking fish like a normal person.â
Robin tsks. âLet her have the penguin, Hood. If you are to be a good husband, you must submit to your wifeâs whims.â He sounds far more interested now.
âThatâs because you also want a penguin,â Red mutters.
âI admit nothing.â
You gesture at Robin. âIf the kid wants a penguin, you get him a penguin.â
âI second that,â Tony pipes up.
Instinctively, Red Hood swings the gun toward Tony.
You grab his arm. âHey, no. Thatâs my bitch, my side piece, my favorite lowlife, myââ
âYour nothing.â
Your grip tightens. âDonât hurt him. Pretty please?â You look up at him.
He lets you move his arm away, the gun pointing back at the Penguin, who watches the scene with quiet, calculating interest.
âCan I shoot him?â you whisper to Red.
A sudden laugh pulls out of him. Youâre close enough to feel his body shake, to feel his warmth through the armor.
âMaybe another day, sweetheart.â
Your eyes donât meet his, not really. The white lenses cover them. Even so, you share a secretive look, one that feels heavier than words.
comment to be added or removed! (and lmk if i forgot anyone)
a/n: Thank you, guys for showing your support for this series. It means a lot and keeps me motavated :) Also, this was mostly filler. But I promise in the next part, there will be an identity reveal (mostly by accident ofc) and more of their relationship developing. It's gonna be long đ I wanted to add more tension to this one, but I won't subject Damian to that.
ââ there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin ââ
ââ .⊠synopsis Between shared love for literature and forbidden desires one mustnât act on, love blossoms in the Ton, an unsuspecting, shocking match between the diamond of the season and most sought after gentleman (by the Mamas) of the year. What starts with friendship, then a relationship under false pretences, quickly tumbles into something that is scarily real.
In a Bridgeton-esque world, you and Jason have a meet-cute in the Wayne Manor Library.
âpt.2.á ...declarations of love?!
You and Jason canât seem to keep the other out of their mind, and seemingly, out of each otherâs presence. A book that leads to letters, a friendship toâŠdeclarations of love?!
âpt.3.á
(coming soonâŠ)
âpt.4.á
(coming soonâŠ)
âpt.5.á
(coming soonâŠ)
â series taglist .á @adv3rs1ty, @starfiremylove, @m-0ona, @athenxt, @wellidktbh, @starshinegrl, @bunnylr4er, @depressed-eternal, @drdeathifying, @isavibeee, @hepprine, @ayyisasra, @ariiiloves, @pjmgojo, @vanessa-1313, @eeeekshush, @duchesz, @nice-nice-dazey, @busenxr, @artsyfoot, @daddylokisqueen, @hanahanabiaxolotl , @marcspectorondeeznuts, @profoundgreenturtle, @pink-batgirl, @i-am-typing, @itachisrealm, @givemefinganame, @justyna4a, @cotton-eee, @elita1, @physlara, @itzmeme, @rainystrangerwasteland, @onlyfeng, @anne-chloe, @entenkinds, @baikuto, @biggetywitch, @reiofsuns2001, @itzmeme, @jellykuni. please let me know if you want to be added or removed!!
áŻâ 's P.S. can you tell i struggle so much with names?
SUMMARY: In a Bridgeton-esque world, you and Jason have a meet-cute in the Wayne Manor Library.
WARNINGS: none.
TAGS: bridgeton/regency au, historic inaccuracies, on my âjason has facial scarsâ agenda, reader is basically the âdiamondâ of the season, wayne manor library and âpride and prejudiceâ, i know i advocate for rizzless jay but he has rizz in this one idk.
áŻâ NOTES: please accept this while i continue to procrastinate on knight!jason. i need to work on the way i describe things is literally my literary achilles heel.
âBut Mama!â
âNo arguments. You must look your best! The second Wayne son is finally making an appearance, you must blow his socks off with your beauty.â Your mother barks out as the seamstress gives a tug, making you hiss as the corset tightens your waist by another inch.
âYou must charm him and marry into that family!â Your monster mother continues. âMust youâAh!â You start but are interrupted by another tug. âMust you behave like all other Mamasâ? Pouncing on every other eligible bachelor?â
âYou will never again get a chance like this! We must make sure you have at the least one dance with him. It is said that he dislikes talkative women, which happens to be your entire personality. You must stay quiet in his presence.â
âThis is absurd.â You murmur to yourself.
Just another season in the Ton. A special one since you debuted this time, your first season as a woman eligible to marry. Which has sent your entire family into a frenzy. Youâve attended two other balls since you debuted, entertained about a dozen suitors. Dubbed by all gossip magazines as the most eligible!
But goodness, you felt miserable.
And now this man! A man youâve never met. A man everyone calls a barbarian! Everyone says heâs rash and rough, scary looking. And your mother wants you to wed him when youâve never even seen him! Just because his father happens to be prestigious!
The ball is in full swing when you get there. Itâs the Wayne Ball, the most glamorous one of the Ton, barring the Royal ball of course. Itâs hosted every season at the Wayne Manor, you may not like the people, but you definitely like the house.
Itâs like a palace out of a dream.
Multiple wings, each with their own purpose. A private art collection that filled the main ball room, the one of display the Annual Ball. You had briefly chatted with the oldest Wayne son, Mr.Dick Grayson, and he had mentioned that they also had a private pond-like area in the Manor where one could take a leisure swim.
But that isnât why you adore it. Itâs the library. The vast expanse of shelves and hundreds, if not thousands, of books stacked neatly. The smell, the atmosphere, everything about this place, it feels comforting, like home.
You manage to sneak away after a few dances and endless small talk of suitors rambling about things that naught matter to you. A candle stick you manage to snag and the ornate oak doors creak as you manage to push it open just enough to slip in.
The short train of your dress trails behind you as you weave through the shelves. Oh, what you would give to spend the rest of eternity in this place, with warmth, endless tea and snacks, you could read forever and ever, to your hearts content with no one to bother you about it.
You stop when it feels right, turning into a shelve and bringing the candles up just close enough that the warm light illuminates the book titles. When one catches your eye, you set the stick down on the closest table, returning to run your finger over the name, the sound of your nail scratching against the leather bound echoing in the vast space. Pride and Prejudice.
You pluck it from its peaceful nest of other books. Thereâs a thin film of dust settling on places a regular dusting canât reach, like the book hadnât been touched in a while. The familiar weight in your hands is an immediate comfort from the world outside the room. You pull open the cover, to the name of the book on the first page, along with someoneâs signature.
Property of Jason Todd.
âI see a fellow traveller has taken refuge in this library.â A manly voice causes you to flinch, jumping a step back. Heâs a tall man, one you have not seen before. The dim light casts shadows on his face, enhancing the sharp cuts of his features. Even like this, you can tell he is ratherâŠhandsome.
âI apologise for scaring you, Miss..?â He murmurs, still leaning against the shelve behind you, no urgency in his posture. Thereâs a few strand of white hair on the front of his hairline, glowing yellow now. His shoulders are wide, a man of labour perhaps, as his hands are tucked into pockets.
You offer him your name after taking a few calming breaths, âI must take my leave, we cannot be spotted without a chaperone, Sir.â You nod your head in acknowledgement, moving to slot the book back into place. âNot to worry. Alfred is here.â An older man, butler you presume, steps out of the shadow, bowing his head slightly to you.
The tall man, yet to identify himself, pushes off the shelve, walks closer to you. His eyes catch the book in your hands and yours catch his face. Scars decorate his cheek, one runs from his lip to his ear, another intercepting it, forming something reminiscent of a âJâ.
âI adore that novel.â He murmurs as you glance away from his face and he glances towards yours. âSeems interesting.â You comment. Shallow of him, but the first thing he notices is that youâre beautiful. Not just the traditional sense, but the serenity in your expression, the allure of your presence. The way the light reflects off your dress makes you shimmer like the night sky.
âDo you like to read, Miss?â
A soft smile makes it way to your lips. âMy mama says itâll scare the suitors if a Lady is well read. But I enjoy the company of these stories regardless.â The man stops a respectful distance away from you, a smile mirroring yours, gracing his handsome features, his eyes baring into yours.
You can see him more clearly now, that he stepped into the might casted by the lone candlestick you brought with you. His clothes are one of grandeur, indicating his higher position in society, but theyâre worn with casual carelessness, his inner coat vest was unbuttoned, and his collar undone. His hair tousled like someone ran their hand through it one too many times.
âAre you not enjoying the festivities? Is it not to your liking?â He asks, glancing to the door. âI tire of mindless dancing with suitors. Since it is my first season, I must entertain all.â His eyes dip to your lips as you talk and you pretend not to notice. âWhy are you here?â You question.
âI tire of the Mamasâ hounding me with their proposals even when their daughters cower away from me in fear.â He walks closer, holding his hand out and you place the book in it.
âMust be your height.â You jest, eyes fleeting to his scars for a moment. Surprisingly, he chuckles, the voice hits your ears like fine whiskey. âMust be.â He gives you a genuine smile. He seems even taller like his, beside you.
A moment of silence, thick silence settles over the space as his eyes glitter when they look into yours. You bite your lips, beginning to ramble to fill the silence. âI must stay till the second Wayne son arrives and I must acquire a dance with him. My mission for tonight is to charm him into to marrying me.â A sliver of distain slipping into your voice.
âDo you dislike him?â Jasonâs eyes furrow as his lips threaten to turn his smile into a smirk. You sigh wistfully, stepping closer to the shelve, running your hand over the remaining books. âIâve heard stories of him. That heâs aâŠWell, the gossip papers do not speak kindly of him.â
âButâŠ?â Jason prompts. He can tell youâre dissatisfied, wouldnât take a genius to figure that out. And you seem comfortable enough around him to express it, instead of fear. He takes that as a compliment.
You fall silent for a moment, âI think we mustnât judge a person till you meet them. Who knows? He might be my perfect match.â You offer him a soft amused smile, as he turns the book around in his hand.
Jason always loved this library. Always his favourite room in this preposterously large Manor. And maybe it was fate, if he ever believed in such a thing, that he ran onto you here, especially as you picked out the one book he adored the most out of the thousands here.
âIf you say itâs good, I must borrow it from the Royal library.â You say as you contain your hand from itching out and doing something as ridiculous as touching his face, tracing his scars. âI donât think they would notice if you took it from here.â The mystery man says with a raise of his eyebrow.
You scoff in offence, painted mouth forming an âOâ. âFor one, that is theft. Secondly,â You point to the book. âI think Sir Todd,â You recall out his name. âWould most definitely mind if his book went missing.â
âI donât mind.â He smirks. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. A soft, âexcuse me?â, leaves your mouth.
âMy name is Jason Todd-Wayne. Second Son of Duke Bruce Wayne.â Jason extends his hand, almost as one does when asking for a dance, as a soft gasp leaves your mouth before you shut your eyes momentarily in embarrassment.
âI apologise, Mr. Toddââ You say as you place your hand in his. âJust Jason.â He whispers, interrupting you, as he brings up your hand, placing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitches as youâre rendered speechless for a moment. Many others had done this of course, itâs common for suitors to try and âseduceâ this way butâŠ
There was a charge in the air, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. His lips linger for a moment too long before pulling away just enough to run his thumb over the area where his lips had just been, his breath still warm was brushing against your bare knuckles.
You repeat his name to him, so soft that it might as well have been a gust of wind, the inappropriateness of the whole ordeal catching up to you slowly.
You clear your throat as you pull away your hand, Jason gives you a suppressed smile. He holds up the book between the two of you, offering it to you. âI would like you to have it. Read it and maybeâŠâ
The sound of music and laughter from outside creeps into the room louder than before. You glance to the door, you know you must take your leave soon but itâs been a while since you enjoyed the company of a man in conversation.
âMaybe we would discuss it? I wouldâŠlove to hear your thoughts.â His voice snaps you out of your quiet days, the hesitance in his voice evident. Perhaps heâs trying not to scare you off, but truly, he isnât as horrid they say, he isnât horrid at all.
âSurely.â You whisper as you reach for the book and he pulls back just as your fingertips graze it. âOnly if you promise me another conversation, Miss.â He says, extracting a breathy giggle from you. You give him a firm nod as he finally place the book in your hand.
âIâll be looking forward to it, Mr. ToddâJason.â
You donât take the candle stick with you, just the book is what you return with. You do your best not to glance back as you walk to the door but you canât help yourself. âMay I say, for the record? You arenâtâŠas they say.â You blurt out hurriedly, before you could second guess yourself.
âWhy do you reckon that is?â He calls out. A small smile makes its way to your lips. You chuckle before you call out.
âOne mustnât judge a book by its cover.â
áŻâ 's P.S. do we fw the new theme i love it so much. chat is this a safe space to say i donât enjoy musicalsâŠidk how thatâs relevant but i needed to admit that to someoneâŠ
donât forget to leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed!
Summary: A Poison Ivy attack turns into an unexpectedly peaceful meetingâuntil Red Hood storms in and hauls you out like itâs his job. Though when you start interrogating him about his late-night activities, he starts to seriously regret playing hero.
Word count | 1.5k
Tags: Eventual romance, banter, slice of life, fluff, grumpy x sunshine, chaotic reader, no plot just vibes, suggestive
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a/n: It wasn't supposed to be this long, but I fear I got carried away
Some people scream as vines sneak over the subway, shaking and rocking the cart with the passengers still inside. The metal rattles, making you cover your ears.Â
Near your feet, some flowers pop up from the ground, creating cracks in the polished granite flooring. You wince, those just got repaired, courtesy of Bruce Wayne.Â
The little buds start to flourish. They pay no mind to the destruction around, blooming into vibrant red peonies.Â
You thought it was brave of them, to choose to grow in a place thatâs crumbling, knowing that sooner or later theyâll be stomped on.Â
You pick a few, gently tucking them into your purse.Â
When the doors to the train slide open, crowds of people run out of the station. You should run with them, but you haven't seen Red Hood in forever, so you make the rash decision to slip into the subway, wrestling through the masses and dodging thorny plants.Â
Your fingers tighten around your bag as you move. Inside it, you have a crumbled up paper with a checklist scribbled on it. Red will probably tear it apart when he sees it. A giddy feeling surges through your chest. It took days for you to come up with things he may enjoy in bed. You hope thereâs at least something on the list to his liking.Â
You grip the cold metal bar the moment you step inside. The ground wobbles beneath your feet. A heavy breath tumbles out of you, and behind you, the door hisses as it snaps shut.
Poison Ivy sat on some sort of plant throne, her hand propping her chin up. Her eyes lazily find yours.Â
You smile.Â
âI really liked those peonies you grew out there.â You should be more scared, but living here tore out any sense of self preservation you ever had.Â
A vine, halfway curling around your foot pauses.Â
âYou noticed?â Her voice slid over your skin, sending chills.Â
âYeah, they were a nice red color, reminds me of someone I care about.â You take a seat a few feet away from her. The little vine follows you.Â
You pet it.
Ivy raises a brow âYou are foolish enough to touch them?â
âItâs not like itâs poisonousâŠright?â You continue petting the vine, who twists around your wrist.Â
âMy name is Poison Ivy,â she says slowly as if she couldn't believe such a person existed.Â
Cheerfully, you tell her your name in return.
Ivy sighs. A vine erupts from behind her, shooting towards you. It drops a small bottle into your lap before retreating. It was a cream.Â
âUse that for the rashes.â
You drop it into your bag and thank her. âAre the flowers poisonous too?â
âNo, those were normal.âÂ
The cart rattles again, the vines crawling over the windows now, casting shadows inside.
âCan I ask what youâre doing?âÂ
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't attack you.Â
âThe usual.â A pause. âA company is dumping toxic industrial runoff beneath the subway tunnels and itâs killing rare fungi colonies.â
You blink. She was doing thisâŠfor fungi colonies? You didn't say how ineffective this was. Canât she just threaten the Ceo? Surely that would work better than destroying a way of transportation.Â
Still, she hasn't hurt you yet.Â
âThat's nice. I have a friend who lives in the sewers, hopefully he isn't affected.â
Ivy gives you a weird look.Â
A loud creaking noise catches her attention. Someone wrenches open the door.Â
Nightwing.
His muscles strain until thereâs enough room for him to come through.Â
âHood, we have a civilian hostage in here,â Nightwing says into his comms while taking out his escrima sticks. You perk up at the mention of your future husband.Â
Poison Ivy stands, slowly, as if she had no worry in the world.
âNightwing,â she greets, âThe girl is no hostage. If anything, sheâd make a lovely sidekick.â
Huh?Â
Her vines whirl towards Nightwing at an ungodly speed. He dodges and throws a smoke bomb at her.Â
You cough, as it surrounds you. You have to squint in order to see them fight.Â
Something soft wraps around your wrists, holding you still. Looking down you see the vine from earlier.
âHey! I show you love and this is how you repay me?!â you yell at the vine. A leaf flails, in silent apology.Â
Your shoulders drop forward. âAww I canât be mad at a cute thing like you.â you coo
Red Hood comes barreling in, the smoke doing nothing to dull his senses, both his guns aim towards Poison Ivy. âYou? Needing a human sidekâ
He falters when he sees you cooing at a vine.
âWhat the hell.â
He immediately closes the distance between you, shoves both guns into his holsters, and takes out a curved knife. Your eyes widen and you try to step back, but the vines are strong.Â
âNo! Donât hurt it!â
He says your name, roughly. âStop moving.â He keeps you close, his gloved hand holding you from wiggling.Â
He easily cuts through the vines.Â
âIâm taking her.â he calls out to Nightwing. Sheathing the knife back into his belt, he hauls you into his arms and carries you out. The air clears around you, and you can finally breathe.Â
Your heart thumps in your chest, you're not sure if itâs adrenaline or from being in Redâs arms again.Â
âSoâŠIâm guessing youâre not into bondage.âÂ
He almost trips.
âWhat?!â
âYou didnât like seeing me tied up.âÂ
âI donât like seeing you in danger, dumbass.â His hold on you tightens.Â
âSo it's still on the table then? What do you prefer? ropes? cuffs?â
He ignores you. Â
Pouting, you get more comfortable, nestling your head in the crook of his neck. His thumb traces lazy circles over your knee, his arm hooked securely beneath you.Â
He takes you to a rundown apartment. You scrunch your nose.Â
âTell me this isnât where you live. the walls are thin, your neighbors might complain. Iâm kinda loud duringââ
he drops you on the bed, then pulls you to the edge.Â
Your heart flutters.Â
âWhat were you thinking?â He says, towering over you, while you sit on the bed.Â
ââYouâre at eye level with his crotch, and your lips twitch as you bite back laughter.
âThat you probably have a size kink, especially with how big you are.âÂ
Jason clears his throat. âDonât⊠donât say stuff like that out loud.â
An idea makes its way into your mind.Â
âOkayâŠon one condition,â you say, grinning.
 He leans back, letting out a long, sharp sigh. âWhat is it?â
âTake off your helmet, and help with a checklist of mine.â
âDemanding little thing,â he mutters under his breath, yet still complies.Â
Slowly, he removes the helmet.Â
You canât look away. The domino mask still covers half his face, but his black hair, damp and wild, and his clenched jaw is enough to steal your breath. The white slits of the mask fix on you, narrowing like they can see straight through your thoughts.Â
Holy shit.
You swallow back your emotions. âSo, how do you feel about keeping the mask on during sex?â you ask, weakly.Â
In an instant, he went from dangerous to a blushing boy. Pink blooms over his neck and eventually to the tips of his ears.Â
âBecause I think I'd really like thatâ you continue, wanting to reach out and trace his jaw with your fingers.
âYou just did it again.â His voice rasped, low and dry, like gravel scraping against stone.
You tilt your head. He's certainly got the dominant voice down.
"Cause you haven't helped me with the checklist," you say, knowing damn well you weren't going to stop after that.Â
You rummage through your bag, fishing out a wrinkled paper. You unfold it, and hand it to him.
The longer he looks through it, the redder he gets.Â
âYouâve put a lot of thought into thisâŠâÂ
âCause Iâm always thinking about you.âÂ
âWell⊠stopâŠâ Thereâs an edge of exasperation in his voice.
He changed the subject. âYou need to be more careful. Youâre lucky she liked you.â He glances at your wrists, clearly torn between worry and irritation.
You sit up straighter, lips pulling into a small smile. âI like her too.â
âCriminals liking you is not a good thing!â he snaps, crossing his arms, though his eyes soften at your grin.
âCanât help that Iâm so charming.â You sweep your hair back dramatically.Â
He kneels in front of you. His fingers curl around your checklist.Â
You open your mouth to say something inappropriate but he cuts you off.
"Knock it off."
Your cheeks flush, not from embarrassment but from the thrill of his gaze locking on you.
"You're the one doing insanely hot things!"
He raises an eyebrow, but thereâs a twitch in his jaw that tells you heâs secretly trying not to melt.Â
âYou really planned all of this just to see me?âÂ
âI mean⊠not really. I sort of wandered into the subway and decided to have a chat with Poison Ivy.â
Red Hood leans closer. âYouâre⊠reckless.â
âAnd you like it,â you tease, voice dropping just enough to be intimate. Your knee nudges his leg, but he doesnât move away.
âAre you going to kiss me now?â you ask, hope filling your heart the closer he leans.
comment to be added or removed! (and lmk if i forgot you)
2 a/n: Hope you guys liked it! I wasn't expecting so many people to like the first two parts, so thank you for reading!! đ€ also Pt 4 will probably be out sometime next week!
á°.á canât stop thinking about it being your first winter in gotham and jason cannot handle how underprepared you are. iâm talking, jason who canât shut up about how youâve gravely misinterpreted what winter in gotham is. for example, the coat you wear the first snowâŠis barely a coat. light, breezy, barely insulated. mostly cute rather than practical, and when jason lays eyes on it, heâs running his stupid mouth a mile a minute.
âfuck no. what in the absolute hell are you wearing, babe?â jason barks the minute you step outside. his hands have found their way out of his thick puffer coatâs pockets, snowflakes catching and melting on his black gloves as points to your attire.
you shrug, eyes already teary from the chill, âa coat? i wore it all the time back home.â you grab jasonâs arm, pulling yourself into his warmth, âcâmon, i wanna get food before gotham decides to get colder. duke said freeze went berserk last year, iâm not jinxing it.
jason rolls his eyes at you, your sorry excuse for a coat, and the mention of mr. freeze, âwe can get food after you come back out here in something built for the weather.â
you go to argue, but jason cuts you off with a tsk and an expression you would go as far to call snooty, âseriously. what the fuck were you thinking? weâve already got five inches of snow and single digit temps through the nightâŠand you come out here wearing a fuckinâ raincoat.â
âitâs not a raincoat, you ass!â by this point your fighting not to shiver in front of him. damn this gotham cold, and damn your gothamite boyfriend. itâs not your fault you underestimated how bad this shitty cityâs winter could be.
jason looks at you for a long second. really looks. the way your shoulders are creeping up toward your ears, the way your nose is already running, the way youâre trying to pretend youâre not thirty seconds from becoming a human popsicle. his jaw tightens, âyouâre literally vibrating.â he says flatly.
âi am not!â you immediately shiver. like, full body. teeth chattering and all.
he just stares at you. âfuck. i cannot believe you.â heâs glaring down at you, no hatred in it, just actual, jason todd, disappointment.
âyouâre my girl, i canât have you frozen in this city in the name of soup and hot chocolate.â and with that, heâs shrugging off that black puffer of his, exposing the obvious extra layers underneath it. youâre embarrassed heâs actually dressed for the weather. gloves, beanie, hoodie, thick sweater, and a thermal longsleeve. damn him to hell.
heâs shoving you into the (actual) coat before he even starts muttering, âwear this. youâre fucking crazy. actually fucking insane, babe.â
he doesnât even wait for your permission. he just grabs your shoulders and turns you, shoves you forward a step, then swings the puffer around you.
itâs immediately too big. it swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past your hands.
but itâs also warm. so warm that is causes you to make a small, traitorous sound in your throat.
jason stops, slowly looks down at you, and squints.
âdid you just fuckinâ purr?â
âno.â you lie.
he snorts and starts tugging the zipper up himself because of course his control freak psyche has taken the reigns. his fingers are quick and practiced even in gloves, like heâs stripping a gun instead of zipping up his girlfriend.
âunbelievable,â he mutters. âyou come to gotham, walk out into a blizzard in a glorified windbreaker, and the second youâre too proud to admit defeat, youâre all, âoh, actually this is fine.ââ
you burrow into the coat on instinct. it smells like his soap and cologne and a little like the metal of a gun, âthis is really warm.â
âyeah. because itâs a real coat. thatâs what they do.â he presses two fingers to your forehead like heâs checking for a fever, expression sardonic. âyou got hypothermia already, baby? brain gone?â
you swat his hand. âbe nice, todd. i just didnât think itâd be that bad.â
he gives you a look. the kind that says heâs deciding whether to roast you alive, lecture you, or pick you up and carry you back inside your apartment.
he settles for the lecture, roasting hidden within.
âyouâre in gotham city.â he says flatly. âwinter here isnât cute. itâs not a little chilly. gotham is actively trying to kill us all at all times. weather included, and sometimes with a guy in a cryo suit.â
âi already said duke told me about freezeââ
âyeah, and you still dressed like aâwhat the fuck is it calledâuber outfits mannequin.â
you glare, âfirst of all, itâs urban outfitters. and second, iâm fine now.â you throw up your arms, puffer sleeves still covering your hands, âso can weâŠgo? or are you going to starve me?â
âgod forbid i starve you for five seconds to prevent you from becoming a human icicle.â he huffs, but holds his hand out for you to grab, âcome on, letâs get food.â
you hum, both happy to win and happy heâs finally letting you live down walking out in basically a raincoat.
âiâm getting you actual winter clothes after this, you little fucking embarrassment.â he pulls you closer, guiding you through the snowy sidewalk. âwalkinâ out here like itâs fifty out and not fifteen.â
heâs lucky heâs cute. and that youâre still too cold to move your arms away from the heat of your body. still, you let him be disgruntled about your poor taste in appropriate winter attire. itâs nice that he cares so much.
besides, heâll end up paying for the, no doubt, hideous (weather-friendly) gear. might as well listen to him complain. youâll get it right next year.
maybe.
WRITERâS NOTE
iâm snowed in, cold, and stir crazy. my laptop is away at war (being fixed) and thereâs only so much stardew and cult of the lamb i can play before i go insane. so pls have this probably terrible blurb i wrote on my (new!!!) phone. if the formatting is stupid you have my permission to stone me. ik iâm barely here, but hopefully this was okay enough that you guys donât hate me. having a full time job and doing school is not for the weakâŠand i am the weak :(
nothing on this god's green earth can convince me that peter parker doesn't have an ao3 account where he is elbows deep in a 'rise of skywalker' fix-it fic. like, fully invested in it, been writing it pre-spider bite with ned, who is just as enthusiastic about it. but the thing is, it's really hard to do updates when you are literally spider-man.
every three months he'll post and in the author's note there's some shit like "sorry this took a while, i got shot seven times :/" or "i know it's been a minute, i literally got hit by a bus and then stabbed in the leg, but i'm all good!" or sometimes ned would log in and post with a note "hey i'm a friend posting on the author's behalf, they're healing from severe hypothermia but promised an update, so here it is!"
and the fic just gets increasingly more popular for the author notes alone. a good handful of the comments are something along the lines of "i'm not even in the star wars fandom, i'm just here to see if the author is good" or "every update i cheer for another day the author gets to live at this point"
and any reader who is a native new yorker kind of pieces together that holy shit the author might be spider-man because the timeline adds up, and they just fully embrace it. spider-man will stop a robbery and the guy behind the counter will ask when the next chapter will be up. spider-man returns a stolen backpack to a girl and she'll tell him that he "really got poe's voice down so well, it's really impressive."
ned thinks it is hilarious. mj finds out about the fic from twitter, to peter's absolute horror, and changes peter's contact name to "friendly neighborhood ao3 author". but the worst thing to happen is after an avengers battle where peter took a pretty big hit and ends up in med-bay. and during a press conference, when someone asks how spider-man is healing, tony just drops "spidey won't be down for too long. the star wars fic will be updated within the week, probably."
âOh, Iâm fine. I have a great past, so Iâm totally fine.â
By popular demand, the sequel/prequel (time travel is funny like that) of i see grey hair, and children that look like you
Tags: Time Travel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Meet-Cute, Canon Divergence, Slice of Life, Flirting, Flustered Bucky Barnes, Culture Shock, Happy Ending, Gratuitous Use of Ellipses, Thunderbolts!Bucky
It all happens so fast. Resigning from Congress. Moving back to New York. Taking up the name of the Avengers, albeit dubiously. A new team, new uniform, new weight to bear.
But Bucky keeps his head on swivel for a whole other reason these days. Her presence clings to him long after she is gone. He doesnât know what to do with himself, but for once he knows why. It throws him entirely off balance.
Could she have been at that press briefing, face buried in a notebook and he hadnât noticed? Or sitting at the coffee shop he likes on 37th obscured behind a billow of steam? His mind runs with every permutation, every calculation. Had she been in the city when the Void took over? Was she safe? Maybe that had been the key to how he crossed over into a future that had angelic vignettes around the edges.
Some days, he thinks he sees her, somewhere passing in the crowd then disappearing like a puff of smoke. He becomes a tourist in his own city. He wanders the Met, and pays no attention to the painted faces. He pops into the shops at Chelsea Market and doesnât even register what they sell. Sometimes he takes the subway between boroughs just to people-watch. To her credit, this was the kick he needed to stop isolating himself. Bucky is constantly surrounding himself with people, in hopes that just one might be right.
His patterns shift. His training changes. When he tugs his running shoes on in the common room, he gets stares.
âWhere are you going?â Ava questioned.
âFor a jog.â
âWe have a treadmill, you know,â Walker points out matter-of-factly, earning a scowl.
âJustâŠprefer the fresh air.â
âThis New York! There is no fresh air!â Yelena calls after him.
He runs anyway, up to Central Park and along the Reservoir, legs pumping and clearing his head enough to dissect every detail of their encounter like it will help him predict when sheâll materialize. The bedroom was wallpapered, he thinks, the barest hint of botanical pattern that bled warmth into the careful design. She must like flowers, with all the plants inside and out. There was a bouquet on the kitchen counter. Hollyhocks? No, gladiolus. He hopes that thereâs always a fresh bouquet in that vase, and that sheâs always delighted by what he brings home. And his daughter. Oh, his precious little girl. Heâll be sure to spoil her rotten, too. He thinks to call her Winnie, after his mother, give her the life that she tried to provide and wanted for him. But really, he would just be happy to have her.
When darkness blankets the city and his nightmares grip him like a vice, he presses his hand to his cheek and imagines that it were hers. On nights he canât sleep at all, instead of staring at his ceiling Bucky goes up to the helipad and stares up at the sky, comforted by the fact that somewhere, she was under it too. His thoughts drift to picturing what his life will be like. In those few moments alone, he felt younger. Grounded. More at peace. Back to the cool concrete, he imagines how many stars he would see in their cottage outside the city. What was he going to say to her, anyway? âHey, I saw the future this one time and you were my wife in itâ?
Ew. Gross.
Heâll workshop it.
Seasons pass, fall, and spring, and fall again. To his horror, the more time that goes by her image starts to slip away, the slope of her nose and curl of her lashes fading, her silhouette falling through his fingers like sand. Bucky kicks himself for not asking more questions, for more to hold onto. Where did she grow up? Is she a morning person? What does she do for work? At least then, he would have some sort of direction to track her by. He almost asks Bob if he could try to send him back, but figures that would just be cruel for the both of them. He wouldnât dare tell a soul, anyway.
So he stops looking.
Bucky has never been a patient man, but he waits. He lives day-by-day, comes to terms with the fact that some things cannot be forced. Instead, it leaves room for doubt to come creeping in. The dark parts of his brain starts to convince him it was a hoax. It was too good to be true. He should have known. Shouldnât have thought anything otherwise or assumed he was worthy of anything more.
Like all good things, that is exactly when it happens.
The sun beams down on Manhattan, not that anyone can tell from the scaffolding and skyscrapers of Midtown shading the streets. Bucky looks like he hasnât slept in days, because he hasnât, too busy drowning in mission reports and beating himself up for being naive enough to want. To top off his joyous start to the morning, somebody has emptied the carafe without starting another and finished off the milk in the kitchen without any consideration for the consequences of caffeine deprivation.
So, after cursing under his breath, Bucky throws on the baggiest hoodie in his closet, rips the grocery list off of the fridge and grumbles all the way down to street-level.
The bell above the corner store door chimes as he pushes through and slips a basket over his elbow, relieved when the usually-chatty cashier ignores him for another patron. The dairy case is overwhelming as always. There used to just be milk, why did society have to go and make it complicated? He sighs and grabs the whole milk anyway. Bucky makes his way through his list. Bob and Yelena used up the last of the mac-and-cheese. Ava and Walker had fought over the last protein shake, so it was best if he picked some of those up, too. If they had the Wheaties back in stock, Alexei wanted another box.
Bucky is reaching for the package plastered with their faces when he hears it, from the next aisle.
âYes, Mum, Iâm settling in just fineâŠYes, I know New York makes you nervousâŠâ
His hand hovers in mid-air.
âNo, I havenât met any strange men! Youâre being dramatic!â
His body moves on autopilot, basket abandoned on the linoleum in favour of fixing his hair in the reflection of a fridge door.
âThe apartment is fine. Iâm just not used to all the noise. Iâll learn to sleep through it eventually, I guessâŠâ
He rounds the endcap and his breath sucks out of his lungs like an airlock.
Because sheâs real.
Standing in front of the candy display wearing kitten heels and the smile etched into his very being. Every detail comes flooding back into vivid clarity. Bucky would recognize her anywhere. Sheâs younger, sure, dressed differently with her hair shorter and styled, but in many ways, in all the ways that matter, she is much the same.
Her ear presses her phone to her shoulder as she juggles her conversation and scans the label on the back of a bag of chocolates. âOkay. I love you too, mum! Send my love to everyone! Mwah!â
Her manicured nail taps the screen of her smartphone and drops it into her purse before sensing the presence lurking at the end of the aisle.
âOh, sorry! Am I in your way?â
Tongue-tied.
âN-no! No, youâre good. Sâfine.â
He waited nearly two years to see that smile again. It was worth every second.
âThatâs a relief. I came in trying to find this one kind of chocolate bar, or at least something similar because I was feeling homesick thinking it would make me feel better, and I just seem to keep getting in everyoneâs way.â
Bucky must make some kind of face, because she shrinks.
âSorry, Iâll stop rambling. I know New Yorkers arenât ones for small-talk. Iâve got to get used to that too.â
âDonât,â he blurts. âI mean, you donât have to. ItâsâŠnice. Change of pace.â
âYou donât have to lie. Iâm catching dirty looks in the elevator at my place all the time.â
âMânot, I promise. This city will suck your soul out if you let it. Your first lesson in being a New Yorker, donât care about what anyone else thinks of you. Still workinâ on that one, and I was born here.â He hopes the smile he offers puts her at ease.
âWell, thank you. Itâs been quite the adjustment. Iâm not really blunt like everyone else is here. Just keep doing my best trying not to take up too much space.â
âWe do mean well.â
âDo you?â
ââŠMost of the time.â
âSayâŠdidnât I see your face on a cereal box back there?â
âI will neither confirm nor deny.â
Her laugh is sunshine and summer incarnate. âAnd what was your name, strange man from the cereal aisle?â
ââŠJames. Yours?â
And he finally hears it. He repeats it back, forming the syllables carefully in his mouth. It tastes sweet. It suits her.
âWell, James, since youâre a local and Iâm new to the area,âshe begins, scrounging around in her purse for a scrap piece of paper and a pen, âIâd love it if you showed me around sometimeâŠOr maybe just meeting up for coffee?â
His response tumbles out faster than he can quell it. âYes. Yeah, Iâd love that too. Thatâd be great. I know a good spot. All the good spots.â
She chuckles to herself and presses the torn-out sheet against the store shelf to scribble across it, then folds it crooked and holds it out in offer. âMy number. So we can make a plan. My schedule is pretty open.â
He catches a waft of her perfume when she reaches out, and itâs like he steps back in time. Or forward, because itâs the exact same scent that ripples down his spine as all his muscles release tension. He doesnât even look down to confirm what she handed him wasnât just a used candy wrapper before responding.
âIâll call you later. Today. When I get home. Did yaâŠfind what you were looking for here?â
âSomething better, I think.â Her eyes never break from his, her thoughts suddenly hard to decipher from the rise in her cheekbones and mysterious glint in her eyes, but he thinks he sees the upward shift at the corner of her lips and decides it means well. âIt was really nice meeting you, James.â
She passes by him with a brush of shoulders, disappearing into the masses on Park Ave. A moment of panic washes over him in a chill once sheâs out of sight, but when he looks down, the paper is still resting crumpled in his palm.
Tangible. Solid. Real.
Electricity thrums in his veins. Bucky all but floats back to the Tower, forgoing the elevator entirely to bound up 90 flights of stairs before he even realizes what heâs done. Chest heaving, he strides into the penthouse like heâs 22 again and just come back from a date at Coney Island with a grin he is unable to wipe.
Yelena comes to investigate the sound of the usually-unused stairwell door opening, brow quirked and chipped coffee mug in hand.
âDid you get the milk?â
âŠCrap.
A/N: I never expected this story to blow up like it did or that people would want a sequel! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for 100 followers! And my greatest thanks to @heldbybarnes for the shoutout that got me to this milestone. Iâve been a longtime reader of yours so it is a huge honour that you enjoyed my work! I fangirled so hard when I saw you in my notifs đ
i see grey hair, and children that look like you | bucky barnes x reader
AO3 | Word Count: 2.8k
Bucky is at a desperate crossroads. The life he is leading is unsustainable and any sense of purpose or direction still eludes him. When he enters The Void, he is resigned to his fate. But what if, instead of just seeing his nightmaresâŠhe also catches a glimpse of his future?
Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Slice of Life, Married Life, The Void Shame Rooms, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Thunderbolts!Bucky
Memories plague his senses one after the other.
Of torture. Of demons. Of iron on his tongue and fury crowding his lungs. Bucky charges through them all like a bull.
But he lands in a room he doesnât recall. His former self is nowhere to be found.
A bedroom. The bed is made, more pillows than blankets. Piled on top of the blues and seafoam greens of the comforter, the fabric lays wrinkled like it knows it will just be mussed again in a handful of hours. Matching bedside tables flank the headboard, littered with personal effects and a novel each, one in near perfect condition, the other weathered and worn with its cover detaching at the spine.
There are photographs. Some faces he knows, some he canât identify. He finds himself in many. Candids he doesnât remember being taken. Achievements he has yet to attain. In the centre of them all, wearing a tuxedo, holding a woman draped in white. Hair shorter, grayer, his beard more salt than pepper. His smile lines deeper.
The space is tidy, but lived in. A sock or two left on the rug from a missed toss to the hamper, the closet door left slightly ajar. The rocking chair in the corner with the handmade blanket draped over the back still smells of pine, a bassinet tucked close to the side of the bed. The top of a dresser pushed against the far wall has mostly been converted into a changing table, diapers and wipes stacked next to a jewelry box and some fragrances.
A perfume bottle sits next to his usual cologne.
Bucky tears open the drapes and recognizes nothing of what he sees. A backyard on a rolling hill that sweeps down to an inlet, water sparkling where it laps lazily against the rocky shore. Garden boxes overflowing with flowers, sweet potato vines spilling over the edges, their bright green heart-shaped foliage bringing the world outside further into technicolor. If he craned his neck, he could just see the arm of a porch swing, just hear the chains creaking in the gentle breeze and the wind-chimes hanging from the rafters.
Not a soul in sight. Just the silence of open land and old bones.
Until he hears a voice.
A soft humming coming from somewhere else in the house.
The words are muffled, the accent one he canât quite place. Itâs a voice he swears heâs never heard before, but it settles into his bones like it belongs there, his pounding heart rate slowing to near-resting.
The sound draws closer with the groan of the floorboards until it is right on the other side of the door and he freezes, head snapping to watch as the brass knob turns and the woman from the photographs materializes in front of him.
Buckyâs heart hasnât skipped a beat like that since 1942.
She wears faded blue jeans and a ratty old t-shirt with a baby nestled into her hip, barefaced and hair messy. There are bags under her eyes, but she smiles brightly.
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
âOh, honey! You startled me! You must have snuck past, I didnât even hear you come in!â She slips past him into the bedroom, and as she does, places a kiss on his stunned shoulder. âI had no idea you had a half-day today. I would have booked us a sitterâŠâ She was talking more to herself than to him as she dug through one of the drawers of the dresser, paying no mind to the gaping hole in the drywall where he had crashed through, pulling out another old shirt that looked suspiciously like one in his wardrobe at home.
Her bare feet planted, Bucky follows with his eyes as she looks him over from head to toe and back again, then sets the baby in the cradle and rounds the bed to the ensuite bathroom. âKeep an eye on her for a minute, please? Just going to change, that girlâs spit-up is no joke.â
And she vanishes again behind the rumble of a barn door, like all of the skeletons he kept locked away so tightly hadnât just been ripped from the closet moments before.
She reemerges in seconds, hair loose andâŠyup, that is definitely his shirt. âWell, this is a treat. You look weary, love. Itâs good youâre taking a break. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so you have perfect timing. Isnât that right, little one?â she coos, tracing her pointer finger down the bridge of the babyâs nose before scooping her up again and resting her against her clavicle.
Against his better judgement, Bucky follows her like a rip current down the picture-lined hall, through a door that leads, not into another nightmare, but further into the house.
âI hope Bob didnât give you too much trouble trying to get here,â she rambles, rounding the kitchen island and pouring a cup of coffee onehanded. âHeâs a really sweet boy. Still got some things to work through, I think, but he has a good heart. They all do.â
Bucky blanches. ââŠHow do you know about that?âHis fingernails bite into his palm, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.
Her mouth curls into a lowercase âoâ in a flash of panic. âItâs alright, James. Youâre safe here. This isnât one of your bad memories.â
âNo, thisâŠThis isnât my memory at all, itâsâŠâhe breathes. âIâm not supposed to be here. Iâm sorry, but I donât know you.â
She just smiles expectantly. âYou will someday. Not long now.â She presses the mug into his palms, prying open his clenched fingers and wrapping them one after the other over the porcelain. Buckyâs brow tightens. It was made just like he always drank it: a heap of sugar and just a dribble of cream.
Bucky looks down at his trembling hands for the first time since he got here. Really looks. The skin around his fingernails isnât inflamed and peeling where he usually picks at them from the compounding stress. His knuckles arenât bruised or cracking. Etched right into the vibranium is a wide gold band thatâs new, tucked up against the joint of his fourth finger.
âThoseâŠThe picturesâŠThis canât...â
A gust of wind in his general direction could have bowled him over as the pieces come together. Bucky braces himself on the closest chair back. His head swims, heartbeat in his ears and thoughts dying on his tongue. He shakes his head, drilling his eyes shut to make sense of what he is seeing, whether it would all disappear when he opens them.
It doesnât.
A hand finds hold of his wrist. Featherlight. Steadying. He can feel her pulse hammering through her fingertips.
âBreathe, James,â she appeases. âCome sit down, alright? Iâll explain. Answer as many questions as you have.â
She manages to coax him into the open living room and places the infant into a baby swing, colourful rings and things dangling from the top bar. The little girl snuggles into the cushion beneath her without a fuss and shakes her soft toy contentedly, cooing to herself as it rattles in her miniature fist. The woman then settles at the far end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, inviting but granting him distance.
Bucky still hesitates.
The sofa looks like it will swallow him whole, the cushions plush and deep. Another blanket is bundled in a heap on the armrest (there were blankets everywhere in this house it seemed). He reaches out to run the fringed edge between his fingers.
âThis is all very strange, I know,â she breaks the silence. âWeâre not sure how this happened, just that it did. It took you a long time to believe even that much. I wish I had a more satisfying answer for you. Bob is still getting a handle on his powers, but even now he has no idea.â
Finally. The first thing sheâs said thatâs made any sense. Bucky tries to rationalize it, but heâs grasping at straws. Time travel is not a new concept to him. He knows the consequences, that the past can change the future. Knowing too much alters the course of history or leaves it shattered in its wake. One small deviation and the world shifts on its axis. His head spins instead.
âThereâs probably nothing I can say that will prove it to you, but you are supposed to be here, James. I was starting to wonder when youâd come around, but timeâs been a little relative to me these days. Jamie asked me not to spook you when you arrived, though I think I kind of failed at that. It took me a second to realize that you werenâtâŠyou.â
Jamie. Heâs hung up on that. Nobody has called him that name in decades, and he canât help but like the way it sounds when she says it.
âYou knew I was coming?â
âEventually. You and I talked about it not long after we met; what you saw, what it changed for you. Could never pin down what the date was so it was always going to be a waiting game, but Iâm glad youâre here now. You look like you could use something peaceful.â
He continues to tread carefully. âWhere is this?â
âOur house. Upstate New York. We bought this old fixer-upper on the bay and did all the fixing ourselves. Well, mainly you. I picked paint colours, watched you tear down walls and told you when you screwed cabinet doors on upside-down.â
The room they occupy has a wide bay window that spans almost from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with light. Houseplants thrive in every corner, nook and cranny. A cat tree is set up overlooking the front yard, a fluffy white tail swishing over the edge of the highest perch, unfazed by whoever this strange visitor is in the felineâs house. Bookcases are built into one wall, filled with sci-fi and fantasy and romance novels. More photos are displayed in small frames dotted across the shelving, between alphabetized authors and mementos. His turntable, the only real luxury he owns in his bare-bones DC apartment, sits proud on its shelf, worn by years of use but otherwise exactly the same. A collection of vinyls he could only dream of occupies its own shelf below.
âYou built those bookshelves from scratch. I always tell people that we were sold on the house when we saw that wall because it was the perfect place for them, where we could start our library. Felt like we looked at dozens of houses but this place just felt right. Perfectly imperfect.â
âIâm reading again?â
âWhen you have the time. Right over there,â she points with her sightline to an armchair with a floor lamp curving over it, âwith a cup of tea and your little old man reading glasses.â
Bucky huffs out a laugh through the fog.
Oh, her smile. âItâs a good life. Quiet. Your favourite thing to do is take a nap on the couch in the sun with the baby scrunched up on your chest. I want to say that we sleep through the night, but thatâs kind of changed as of late. We smile. Laugh a lot.â The list keeps growing. Going to farmers markets on the weekends. Board game nights. Beach days in the summertime. âWe try a new recipe every week for dinner and dance in the kitchen. I still step on your toes sometimes. Weâre working on finishing the nursery for when this big girl grows out of her bassinet.â
âWhatâs her name?â he nearly pleads, voice so soft.
âThat would ruin the surprise, Bucky!â
âHow old is she, then?â
The woman absolutely illuminates with pride. âAlmost 3 months now. Runs this whole house. You cried when you held her for the first time. Sheâs had you wrapped around her finger from the day she was born.â
ââŠWasnât sure ifâŠthey did something to me. Never knew if Iâd even be able to have kids.â
âNeither did I. Sheâs our little miracle.â
His daughterâs bright blue, undeniably-Barnes eyes peer up at him without an ounce of fear for the man crusted in dirt and dust. Bucky doesnât need to know her name to know that heâll adore her, canât take his eyes off of her. Something so small, so fragile, yet trusts him completely. To his daughter, he isnât a soldier or a vigilante. Heâll just be Dad, when the only thing heâll have to fight is the monster under the bed.
Bucky swears he sees her smile at him, and his ribs cave in.
âShe just started doing that last week. All gums, smiling up atcha like youâre her whole world. I hope she never grows out of that.â
Neither does he.
Bucky marvels in it, this place, this safe haven that he had supposedly helped build, helped make warm and comforting and whole. Someone wanted him. For all the hurdles he crossed, all the evils he fought, someone saw this shell of a man and chose him. Built a life with him. Had a child with him.
But the more he looks around, he sombers. Shrinks.
âHey, I know that look. What is it, James?â
ââŠI feel like I donât deserve this.â
âHey, none of that. Youâre wrong. You have earned this and so, so much more, but for now this is what makes you happy. Iâll remind you as many times as you need me to.â
Tears begins to leech into his five-oâclock shadow as his shoulders begin to quiver.
This woman, this incredible woman, had been trying to keep her distance not to spook him. He saw how her fingers twitched, how she wanted to reach out and stopped herself. This time she couldnât. The couch cushion to his side sinks as she gathers him in her arms.
And he lets her.
Bucky lets out a whimper like a wounded animal into her neck, his hands finding solace loosely on her hips. âI want to stay,â he whispers, any louder and his voice would begin to crackle. âI want to hit fast-forward. Itâs selfish, I know, but Iâve spent so many nights wishinâ for a life like this.â
Her hold tightens around him. âAnd I would let you stay here forever if I could. Youâll have the rest of your life to enjoy this, but I canât keep you right now. Your ragtag team of hellions still needs you. Yelena would never forgive me.â
He turns away from her, cheek pressed into her shoulder so she canât see the contorted expression he makes to prevent a sob from leeching out, nose scrunched and teeth gritted, his hair falling into his face.
âYou have more memories to go through to get to the others. Be brave, just a little longer.â
Bucky wants to get on his knees, to beg, plead and pray to any god he could conjure that this would in fact be real someday, that his life would turn out just like this. That all the pain, suffering, blood and sweat wouldnât have been for naught. âWhat do I have to do to see you again? To make it real?â he croaks.
âLook at me, James.â She is so tender as she guides him to meet her gaze, pressing her forehead to his. âItâs already real. Itâs already set in motion, just be patient. Keep doing what you feel is right. Until then, youâll dream. Of what you want to call her, what sheâll call you one day. Of what you want to plant in the spring and what new project youâll tinker with. Of me,â she titters, âif you want. Whatever it takes. And when itâs time, weâll find each other. Donât forget about us, okay? About this.â
He takes deep cycled breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth to the rhythm of her hand skating between his shoulders. ââŠThey really need me?â he murmurs.
âThey do.â
Bucky flicks away the lingering tears with his thumb, pulling back enough to justâŠlook at her. Memorize the curve of her lips and cheeks, the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair. Taking the moment to lock it away where no one could ever take it from him. His wife.
ââŠOkay.â
âYou will be,â she assures him.
It takes every ounce of strength he has left to pry himself from her steadiness, but the floor feels solid beneath his boots.
The front door remains the only obstacle.
She hugs her torso and trails a few steps behind as he stalks up to it, whatever horror that waits on the other side suddenly not as daunting. The oak is solid, but the doorknob threatens to crumble under the vibranium. Bucky turns back for one last glimpse and inhales with a shudder.
âThank you.â
With glassy eyes, she blows him a kiss.
He rolls his shoulder. Readjusts his grip. Turns his wrist a beat after the exhaleâŠand puts one foot in front of the other.
Find part 2 here!
A/N: Had to release this before Doomsday ruins meâŠStarted writing this before the new trailers, but in light of the parallels, why not include a Chris Evans-inspired title anyway?
Just got a chatgpt ad where the use case was "can't decide a new years resolution". I can't think of anything more sad than needing a robot to tell you what your own ambitions are. Loser shit.
the tragedy of tumblr is you will inevitably meet people who you should be having a sleepover with. you should be rolling around on their floor and rummaging through their fridge and watching shitty movies with. you should be shopping with should be going out to a cafe with should be wandering through the aquarium with. people who you should be experiencing quotidian joys with... and you cannot! because they live one million miles away
