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heli0s-writes · 4 years

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III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie.

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering.

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild.

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone.

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost.

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.”

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.”

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me?

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath.

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor.

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm.

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away.

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room.

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth.

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do.

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #pacific rim #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction

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miraculousbelladonna · 4 years

Text

The Edict, Part 3

Part 1, Part 2 - AO3

Wang Fu hadn’t realized, hadn’t stopped to think for even a moment about the power of the miraculous. The power behind it. The power of destruction. A cataclysm. What it could do to a person, to their soul.

*****

Marinette sits at her desk with the miracle box next to her. If her parents come in, it’ll look to them like she’s just working on another design project, because to everyone’s eyes but her own, the miracle box looks like a sewing machine. It’s ingenious, and Tikki promised to explain more about the magic behind it once they’ve gotten her more settled as the guardian.

First, the old tongue.

She grabs one of her many empty notebooks, ready to take notes, as one does when learning a new language, but Tikki tells her she doesn’t need it.

She’s confused at first, but then soon finds that when Tikki speaks in the old tongue, she can understand it. She knows what Tikki is saying, and is able to respond in kind if she focuses.

The old tongue feels like a rumble going through her with a tinge of magic and something timeless, something unknowable, and as she speaks it she realizes that it sounds and feels unlike any language she’s ever heard or spoken in her entire life.

Tikki smiles at Marinette’s excitement after she realizes she is able to respond in kind (and it’s so telling of what kind of person Marinette is that her first instinct was to respond back in the old tongue. Her first instinct was to try to respond to Tikki in kind, in Tikki’s native language, and she succeeded on her first try. The knowledge is intrinsic, yes, but it has taken many guardians at least 3 tries to get it right, to focus completely. It brings tears to her eyes if she thinks of it too long) and explains. “The old tongue is known by all the Kwami, and it is passed onto the guardian so they are able to communicate and connect with us. It’s intrinsic, the knowledge just appears, and disappears once guardianship is passed.”

“That’s amazing! It’s so cool that I could understand you, does it work with other languages? You guys probably know all of them already, but would I be able to know them too? Is there a way for me to have that knowledge? It would be so great to be able to talk with everyone in their native language as Ladybug, I think that’s something that’s really important to make people feel more comfortable and safe.”

Tikki sits on the desk silently as Marinette continues. The girl is rambling now, scribbling in her notebook all the languages she’s heard spoken around Paris, which ones are more common, and in what parts of the city, etc.

And the thing is, Tikki knows how good Marinette is. She created her soul. But having the evidence here in front of her is almost too much.

Here is Marinette, a physically small 15 year old girl, fresh out of the hospital after dying no less than 5 times in one night, and her first thought is of how she can help others. How she can do better. Be better. She is always striving for greatness, and she’s never satisfied, which grates on her because the world is so cruel and she is so kind.

She wouldn’t have had to be if Chat had been a true destruction soul. It would have never devolved into this. The chaos of destruction would have tempered the chaos of creation and all of this would never have happened.

The imbalance has taken a toll on Marinette’s body, in ways she never even realized or thought to disclose because she’s so used to handling everything herself, of holding the weight of the world on her shoulders, which was only exacerbated by Chat not being a true soul of destruction.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get over this. She won’t forget that Wayzz didn’t know. That even Plagg didn’t know. That he couldn’t tell, which means that Fu had done something to either Adrien or the miraculous in order for Plagg not to be able to tell that Adrien was not a true destruction soul.

The edict has been passed and Marinette is alive and well, and it should be enough but Tikki is as old as time and life itself and she is still angry. She is still angry. She has lived thousands of years. One day is not enough time for her anger to dissipate. It may not for hundreds of years. The last time she was even close to being this furious, the humans called it the Dark Ages.

Marinette wouldn’t want her to be this angry on her behalf.

But no one else is. No one else is at Marinette’s back. Not the old master. Not her old partner. Not her parents, not her friends at school, because they can’t know. She is, effectively, alone.

She is under no delusions that interaction with Kwami can substitute for human contact. Tikki is too small to brush her hair, her arms are not big enough to envelop Marinette in a hug when she desperately needs it. She tries her best, and Marinette knows it and would never, ever, fault her for it, but sometimes it isn’t enough.

So the least she can do is be angry for her. To remind her that it’s ok to not be ok. It’s ok to be upset, angry even, about how she’s been treated. It’s ok to have negative feelings, it doesn’t make her less than. The only thing it does is makes her human.

Hawkmoth is a sick, cruel man.

*****

She doesn’t go to school for the next week, the doctors were adamant about her being on bedrest, nothing strenuous, nothing stressful, and her parents agreed immediately.

She huffs a sigh as her dad puts her down on her bed. “Papa. How many times do I have to tell you. It’s been 3 days! I can walk up the stairs by myself!”

He ruffles her hair with one huge hand and grins. “I know, I know. It’s just been so long since I got to carry you like this! Let your old papa reminisce a little, won't you?”

She rolls her eyes, trying hard to at least keep looking annoyed in the face of her father’s sunshiney grin, but he smiles wider at her, and she loses. She can’t help but smile back at him.

“Fine. Fine! But only for this week! I have two perfectly functioning legs and I plan on using them as soon as possible!”

“Of course, of course.” He kisses her on the forehead, and calls out an “I love you!” as he walks back down the stairs.

“I love you too!” She hollers back as his footsteps fade away.

Tikki flies up into her line of sight and winces, “I’m sorry Marinette. I guess I healed you too well too fast, huh.”

“It’s not your fault Tikki, it’s just a little frustrating being cooped up like this. I know everyone’s worried about me, but I’m fine! I feel fine.”

Tikki nods in agreement. “I know. But it’s ok if you aren’t. I wish you had more time, I wish I could give you more time, but a new Chat Noir has to be chosen as soon as possible. The imbalance has already taken a toll on your body, the human body can only handle so much.” Her face hardens as she remembers all the headaches and bruises Marinette brushed off. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner. There’s no excuse.”

Marinette opens her mouth to respond but a rapid knocking on her door interrupts her, and Tikki rushes to hide herself before it opens abruptly, and Alya all but stumbles in.

“Mari! Girl! Oh man. Oh my god we’ve been so worried. You weren’t in school and they obviously couldn’t tell us what happened, and your parents wouldn’t tell us much because they didn’t want us to worry so as soon as they said you might be up for visitors I ran up here! Are you? Up for visitors? Because if not I can leave. I can leave like. Right now. Just say the word.”

She can’t help but grin at Alya’s word vomit. It’s something she would do, and it’s endearing to see that she’s rubbed off on Alya as much as Alya has rubbed off on her.

“Of course you don’t have to leave, Alya. I’m fine! The doctors put me on bed rest for the week, which is a little overkill if you ask me, but I’m fine.”

Alya’s face crumples, and it looks like she’s trying not to cry. She comes up and sits next to Marinette on her bed. She grabs a hold of both of her hands and looks right into her eyes. “Mari. Your parents told me - they told me what happened. You don’t have to pretend to be ok to make me feel better, to make us feel better. You’re allowed to feel however you feel and you don’t need to pretend to not be feeling it for our sake.”

Marinette blinks at her in shock. “Alya, I - I’m not … I really am fine. Nothing hurts that much anymore, and I’m only on bedrest to make sure I’m forced to give my heart a rest. I am frustrated, being cooped up like this when I feel perfectly fine, but that’s it, really. I’m not lying or faking or pretending or anything. I swear. I don’t even remember most of it. Any of it, really. I just remember I had a bad cough that didn’t go away, and then I woke up in the hospital. But I’m fine.”

Marinette squeezes Alya’s hands in hers and says, “You’re such a great friend. The best. I love you, girl.” Alya huffs out a laugh at the familiar term of endearment, and let’s go of Marinette’s hands to wipe the tears off her face.

“No girl, I love you.”

“No no no! I love you the most! You have to let me win this one, Alya!” She throws herself back onto her bed and raises her hand to her forehead dramatically. “I’ve been injured! I’m on bedrest, Alya! You must let me win!”

Alya rolls her eyes and sits cross legged on the bed across from Marinette. “Fine. Just this once! And only because you’re on bed rest!”

Marinette smiles smugly at her as she sits up, and Alya immediately shoves her back into her pillow.

“Alya! I’m injured!”

“Oh, whatever. Now sit up so we can do each other’s nails and talk about what’s been going on this week. You’ll never believe how Adrien has been acting.”

Marinette goes cold, and she uses the excuse of going to get the nail supplies to take the time to collect herself.

Tikki phases into the bag of nail supplies when Alya looks away, probably busy texting the class that Marinette is fine.

“Marinette. He can’t get you here. He doesn’t know who you are. He made his bed and now he’s lying in it, and it is not your fault. If you want to blame anyone, blame me. If he wants to blame anyone, he can blame me.” Her face is solemn as she looks into Marinette’s eyes and uses the old tongue, to remind her who she’s speaking to, to remind her what Tikki is. “It was my decision.”

Marinette nods shakily, and she closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “I know. I know. Thank you. You’re right. It’s just - still a bit of a shock. Ok, a big shock. Knowing that Chat is … was him. It’s just. It makes me kind of sick, to be honest. Now I know what kind of person he really is. I’ve seen his true face. The person he is when his actions don’t have consequences. I hate it. I hate it.”

“Marinette! Do you need help grabbing the stuff? You’re still technically on bed rest! Girl! Let me grab those!” Alya is suddenly next to her, all but snatching the bag of supplies out of her hands, and notices that Marinette’s complexion is kind of pale, her eyes a little distant.

“Mari? Do you need to sit down? Do you need me to get your parents?”

She blinks back at her, and smiles sheepishly. “No, but you’re right, the bag was a little much for me to be carrying at this point, even though I thought I felt fine. I think I just need to sit down for a little bit. Thank you.”

They spend the rest of the night doing each other’s nails and makeup and gossiping, and Alya notices Marinette’s attempts at steering the conversation away from Adrien, and takes the hint. Maybe the life and death experience has made her realize something she’s not ready to share, and she needs to move on. She’s not pushing it. Not this soon, maybe not ever unless Marinette is truly willing to talk about it.

All she can do is be here to support Marinette, to be there for her.

*****

Wang Fu has made countless mistakes in his life. The most recent of which, which is also the last mistake he’ll ever make, was pissing off the Kwami of Creation. He will die soon, but Tikki made sure to give him enough time to dwell on his mistakes, which is exactly what he’s doing.

Now that he’s forced to think about it, he has to admit, at least to himself, that he doesn’t really know what he was thinking. He can’t recall why he made the decisions he did. What prompted him. What drove him.

He knew Adrien wasn’t a true destruction soul. He knew. He even performed a spell on Adrien that he found in the grimoire before he gave him the miraculous.

It was a spell to unleash the spirit of destruction from whomever it was cast upon. It was used on true destruction souls to help solidify their bond with Plagg, to help them come into their full potential sooner in times of dire need.

He hadn’t known it was only to be used on true destruction souls. He didn’t know what it would do to a soul that wasn’t one of true destruction. He hadn’t realized, hadn’t stopped to think for even a moment about the power of the miraculous. The power behind it. The power of destruction. A cataclysm. What it could do to a person, to their soul.

He didn’t realize it until now, lying on the floor of his shop, body bruised and broken at the hands of the boy he once trusted with the power of destruction. He saw the look in Adrien’s eyes. He knew something wasn’t right.

He didn’t realize it until it was too late. Too late for him, at least.

Before he passes out from the pain he has one fleeting thought. He’s grateful. He’s grateful that Tikki saw what was happening, saw what he couldn’t, what he wouldn’t. Tikki took the actions needed. He will die, but Marinette is alive. She will be a good guardian. The greatest.

He has to die for her to live, to thrive. He has made too many mistakes, and although he won’t make any more, he would never have acknowledged them if it weren’t for this. He was too selfish, too stubborn, and Tikki knew that. This is the only way.

He’s just sorry it took this long.

*****

tags (there are some names that it wouldn’t let me tag, I don’t know why but I did my best to get everyone so sorry if you’re one of the ones that didn’t get tagged!): @smolplantmum @vixen-uchiha @lavenderchaitea @tired-butterfly @marinettepotterandplagg @interobanginyourmom @saphiraazure2708 @starwindmaden @valeks-princess @scribblinggraveyard @justanothersepticeyefan @gray-of-the-fallen @alissasmith21 @corabeth11 @northernbluetongue @cravethosecrazysquares @elmokingkong @emeraldpuffguide @hauntedwintersweets @legendaryneckjudgestudent @nanakeid @akalovelymaybe @the-potato-beeper @trainflavor @seraphichana @gwennex @jinxthe1 @thequeenofpotatoeunicornss @demigodgirl20031 @silvergold-swirl @random-posts-and-stuff @literalfantrash @miss-chaos-2710 @elliecake5 @themamaravenclaw @echpr @risingmoonyue @jeminiikrystal @athena452 @reyna-avila-ramirez-alreanaldo @hufflejournals @ladybug-182 @im-a-useless-and-shitty-blob @silviastudentmoon @marinahrasauce @adrianarfox @dorianelle @maya-custodios-dionach @sarcastic-jenny @purefandomsalt

#ml salt #ml salt fic #adrien salt #marinette dupain cheng #tikki #alya cesaire #master fu #adrien agreste #angry tikki #my fic #the edict

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agentkatie · 4 years

Note

Cullen/Shepard coffee shop AU?

This prompt is *squints at drafts* 84 years old, but after joking about it for so long I’ve finally written it! Enjoy!

The whole thing is below the cut, or alternatively you can read it all over on AO3.

5,394 words, in which Cullen repeatedly orders coffee despite Shepard’s flagrant misspelling of his name. Rated M for Shepard’s singular ability to lower the tone.

- - - - -

Cullen squinted at the blackboard behind the counter, struggling to make sense of the menu. When the Iron Bull had suggested grabbing coffee outside of the office Cullen had been hesitant, keen to continue his work at his desk, but for the sake of getting to know his new colleagues he had relented. He now regretted that decision. The artisan coffee shop across the street was too small and too loud, the haze of chatter making it difficult for him to think and the rich aromas invading his senses, and he longed to be back at his desk with a simple, pronounceable cup of tea.

“Great, she’s got her Antivan flatbread in again,” Bull said, inspecting the glass cabinet full of cakes and muffins with great interest. “Made your mind up yet?”

Cullen glanced at the indecipherable list of coffees once more before shrugging his shoulders. “I think I shall just have something back at the office.”

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Cullen said. “My choice in coffee is just generally less…”

Bull smirked at him. “Interesting?”

“Pretentious.”

“Hi!”

The sudden bright voice behind him made him jump, and his heart sank as he swivelled around to find one of the shop’s employees behind him: a small redhead in a coffee-stained apron and a name badge which simply read Shepard. Her eyes bore into him, one eyebrow arched as she regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement, and in any other circumstance he might have been impressed by her ability to intimidate with just a look; as it was, he only hoped she wasn’t about to put salt in his coffee.

“Shepard’s House of Pretentious Coffee,” she said, stepping behind the counter and fixing him with a smile which didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How may I help?”

“Ah — forgive me,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the telltale prickle of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I did not intend—”

“Of course not; that would have been rude.” She turned to Bull, her smile softening into a more genuine one. “Hey, Bull. Who’s your friend?”

“Shep, this is Cullen,” Bull grinned back at her, clearly amused by the situation. “He’s our new city editor. Cullen, Shepard.”

“And what can I get you?”

Cullen took one final look at the menu above her head before resigning himself to being undoubtedly her most boring customer all day. “One black coffee, please. To go.”

“Sure. Any specifics?”

“How specific can you get with a black coffee?”

He meant it as a genuine question but it came out derisive and flippant, and she shot Bull a look of clear chastisement for daring to bring such a philistine into the shop. “One black coffee, then. Bull? The usual?”

Bull nodded. “And some of that flatbread.”

They moved to the side as a new stream of customers entered, most of whom he recognised from the office, and though Bull chatted idly to him Cullen found his attention instead drawn to Shepard. She set about brewing their coffee quickly and efficiently, humming a half-tune to herself as she worked, the broad smile and easy manner she offered each new customer far warmer than it had been towards him — and he fleetingly wished he hadn’t been so him, so that he might have seen that smile properly for himself. Still, she was pleasant enough when she handed their drinks over, and his coffee tasted good, the perfect mix of bitter and sharp; he almost considered ordering a cake to go with it, but restrained himself, figuring he’d annoyed the woman enough already.

It wasn’t until he was outside and walking back towards their offices that he glanced at the side of his cup, and saw the name she’d scrawled there.

“I think I upset her.”

“Who, Shep?“ Bull asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Cullen nodded. “Nah. She’s got thick skin.”

“She wrote ‘Colon’ on my cup.”

Bull snorted with amusement as Cullen held out his cup as proof. “Well, she also likes a bit of conflict.”

Cullen groaned as the prickle of embarrassment rushed back to him, this time for the impression he’d created with his new colleague. “Maker’s breath,” he said, taking a long gulp of his drink in the hope it would hide the colour his cheeks were turning.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bull told him, chuckling as he clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s plenty of coffee in the staff room.”

—

Cullen’s mornings started earlier than most. He left his flat each day before the trickle of commuters could give rise to the full stream, the tubes quiet save for the rattle of the rails, just he and a handful of bleary-eyed businesspeople committed to such a routine. He’d intended to head straight to the office as usual, giving him a few solid hours to work before the noise and bustle descended, but as he passed the little coffee shop on the final stretch he felt compelled to go inside.

Because Shepard’s was the name of the shop. He groaned as his eyes landed on the name, not having realised he’d insulted the owner the previous day and feeling even more foolish for it. It would only be a matter of time before he’d be cajoled into going again, either by Bull or someone else in the office, and so he figured he might as well get it out of the way — and, he hoped, if he apologised now maybe it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable later.

And besides, he could do with a cup of coffee.

Despite the early hour he wasn’t alone in the shop, though it was far calmer, the muted conversations of tired workers cut across by the clanging of spoons against mugs. Shepard however appeared fresh faced, seemingly deep in thought as she arranged the day’s pastries in the cabinet.

He hadn’t noticed on their first meeting just how pretty she was. Now, as he hesitated by the cash register and hoped she’d spot him there, it was hard to think of anything else — hard not to be taken in by her wide brown eyes, and the crimson hair carefully weaved into a braid, and the charming splash of freckles across her cheeks. He supposed he’d been too distracted by his own tactlessness before to pay such things any mind, but he wasn’t sure being distracted in this way was better.

At length she glanced in his direction, her look of surprise quickly shifting to a more neutral one. “Hi,” she said, giving him a wan smile as she moved behind the counter. “Black coffee again?”

“You remembered.”

Her smile widened a fraction. “It’s not a hard one.”

He cringed internally as she started on his order, because of course she remembered the man who’d insulted her business and his boring black coffee. “I wanted to apologise for what I said yesterday,” he blurted out. “I was being…”

“Pompous?” she suggested. “Ignorant? A pain in the ass?”

He frowned at her, his remorse flickering. “Are you like this to all your customers?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised anyone comes back.” She smiled at him again, but it was a different one this time, a mischievous grin which invited him in as a co-conspirator, and he just couldn’t help but return it. “Don��t worry about it; I’ll take it as a challenge. I’ll have you ordering little cinnamon sticks in your coffee before the year is out.”

He scoffed before he could catch the impulse. “I highly doubt that.”

“Are you like this to everyone in the service industry?”

He was about to apologise for a second time, cursing himself for his immediate return to boorishness — but then he caught the mirth in her eyes, and how she’d reflected his question back at him, and he hoped he could say something she’d appreciate more. “Yes. I’m surprised anywhere lets me in.”

She grinned again, with a soft laugh this time, her demeanour relaxing further as she returned her attention to his drink. “So — city editor, huh? Where did you work before?”

He was briefly surprised that she’d remembered such a trivial detail, but recovered himself quickly. “Uh— freelance, mainly. I’ve been looking for a permanent post for some time.”

“That’s a step up.”

“I know,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fortunately Mr Trevelyan was willing to give me a chance.”

“Marcus is a good guy,” she said, an unmistakable fondness in her tone now. “You know, for a twelve year old who’s somehow running an entire newspaper.”

“I am sure he’s older than he looks,” Cullen chuckled. “How do you know him?”

“Your building is half my customer base,” she said with a shrug. “If your paper ever goes out of business then so will I. Pastry?”

“Uh— yes. Maybe.” He didn’t want a pastry, for he rarely ever ate breakfast, but he answered without thinking, struck by a ridiculous urge to keep talking to her. “I suppose that’s also how you know the Iron Bull?” he asked as he inspected the selection she’d laid out in the cabinet.

“No, actually. We go to the same gym. He’s my boxing partner.”

He looked up at her, eyeing her critically now, unsure how or why a woman a head shorter than him had teamed up with a Qunari who towered over them both. “That seems a little… mismatched.”

“You don’t think I can take him?” she said, arching an eyebrow at him as though daring him to contradict her. He held his hands up in surrender, not wanting to return to her bad books — or find out whether she could take him too.

“I just meant you are clearly in different weight categories.”

“You sound just like our instructor. He’s also a pain in the ass.”

He let out a snort of laughter, an unexpected and completely undignified sound he would have been embarrassed about if only she hadn’t smiled in return, and why he was amused by this woman’s oddly cheerful insults was beyond him. “Oi! Jar!” a voice interrupted them, and he pulled his attention away from Shepard to find an elf with a haphazard haircut roughly pushing a tray of mugs onto the counter. “Twice. Don’t think I didn’t hear you before.”

“Ass doesn’t count.”

“Does too. And does three.” Shepard cursed again as she pulled a handful of coins from her pocket, shoving them into a half-filled jar on the counter labelled tips/swears. “Four,” the elf told her, and with a groan she threw another coin in. “And when you’re done flirting, you said you’d help with the tables.”

“I forgot you ran the place,” Shepard grumbled, but the elf merely blew a raspberry at her before returning to her work. “Give me a shout when you’ve picked,” she told him. “The cannoli are great.”

She left him then, alone save for the strange fluttering in his chest which had erupted at the word flirting, and it became painfully obvious why he was browsing pastries and laughing so obnoxiously. He had a crush on her. How utterly predictable.

And she’d written Colon on his cup again.

—

He returned several times a week after that, either by himself in the mornings or with a colleague who’d pestered him into lunch, though in truth he didn’t need much persuading — for the coffee was good, and Shepard’s warm smile each time she greeted him was better. It was a frivolous, pointless crush, yet one he was content to indulge in, taking pleasure from their small snippets of conversation each day without expecting anything more. She continued to get his name wrong, and he wasn’t sure whether she actually thought his name was Colon or if she was just trying to wind him up; he’d almost corrected her, once, before her fingers had brushed his as she’d handed him his drink, and his ability to form sentences had fallen straight from his mind.

The elf, Sera, he suspected knew of his infatuation, for each time he entered the shop she rolled her eyes and muttered something he couldn’t quite catch to Shepard, and it might have scared him off if Shepard didn’t seem to brush off whatever she’d said with ease. The rest of her staff were nicer to him, though variable in their ability to manage the place; the queues were twice as long when an elf from Antiva was serving, and it was rowdier when the man everyone addressed as ‘Hawke’ was around, and the Krogan she’d employed for the grand total of a week had turned the area behind the counter into a war zone. Yet he found himself growing to like the chaos of the place, sometimes even staying to drink his coffee inside — and the fact that Shepard would chat longer with him when he did so was only part of the reason for that.

A month had gone by at his new job before he knew it, and Bull insisted on going out for lunch to mark the occasion; Cullen agreed with very little protest, knowing by now that lunch only ever referred to one place. Shepard’s was busier than usual, and it took several minutes for them to reach the front of the queue, though Shepard herself looked unfazed by the bustle, greeting them both with the same, beautiful smile she always wore.

“Back already?” she said to Cullen, who’d already picked up a coffee that morning. “It must be my lucky day.” She often spoke to him like this, with casual comments somewhere between mockery and flirtation, and she meant nothing by them but his stomach still did a ridiculous flip in response every time. “You boys staying in?”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Usual for me, Shep. And—”

“The flatbread; I know. How about you? Same again?”

Cullen hesitated, torn between his stubbornness and the curiosity he’d been surprised to discover in himself, before resigning himself to the choice he’d been considering for a week. Even though he knew he’d get teased for it. “Actually, I was— I thought I might like to try something else.”

Shepard’s face lit up as she broke into the broadest grin he’d ever seen her wear, leaning on the counter and propping her chin on her hands. “I knew I’d get you,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. “Go on then. What’ll it be?”

“I— uh—” he floundered, having planned up to this part but never being able to settle on a choice in his mind. “What would you recommend?”

“I don’t think you and me have the same taste, Mr One Black Coffee,” she told him, which was a better name than Colon but which still made heat prickle at the back of his neck. “But if it were me, I’d go for a caramel macchiato.”

“Ah. That may be a little…” he trailed off before he said the word ‘sickly’, but the roll of her eyes told him she knew where his sentence had been going.

“I’ll make you a vanilla latte, then. That’s pretty much you in drink form.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do I feel like you’re insulting me through the medium of coffee?”

She gasped, putting her hand over her chest in mock hurt. “How could you think I would do such a thing? To my valued customers?” He was on the verge of pointing out her persistent misspelling of his name, but then she winked at him and he all but forgot what his name was; instead he descended into awkward silence as she made their drinks, all the while growing increasingly annoyed at Bull’s easy banter with her.

The pair made their way over to a free table by the window, and it was only when they were seated that Cullen registered Bull’s smug expression. “What?”

“You’re into her.”

“Wha— no,” Cullen said. “Why would you think— I barely know her, and she doesn’t— I wouldn’t even—”

“Sure,” Bull cut off his increasingly inarticulate protests with a knowing smile. “Nice sprinkles.” He said it as though agreeing to chocolate sprinkles was an egregious declaration of love, and Cullen glared at his coffee, mentally making a note never to accept Bull’s offer of lunch again. “She’s single, by the way. And fun. You should ask her out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you harass all of your colleagues like this?” Bull merely scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he began to eat his flatbread, and Cullen knew for his own sake he should drop the subject but there was still one thing on his mind. “She keeps spelling my name… poorly,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing as he said it. “Could tell her that I’m not actually named after the large intestine?”

“Nah,” he grinned at him. “You’ll have to tell her that yourself.”

“Maker’s breath.”

He took a sip of his coffee, surprised first by its sweetness and second by the fact he didn’t hate it, and his gaze involuntarily drifted back to Shepard; she’d started serving someone else but caught his eyes even so, her expression curious as she mouthed good? at him.

Good, he mouthed back, which was perhaps overstating it, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

Good, she repeated, her smile lighting up her features once more, and his heart fluttered in his chest in response.

Maker, but it was a beautiful smile.

He shook his head to clear it from the absurd hopes which itched at the corners of his mind, taking another sip of his drink and determinedly avoiding Bull’s gaze. Perhaps it was time for him to start making coffee at home.

—

Cullen’s resolve to visit Shepard’s less lasted until 7 a.m. the following morning. During the final stretch of his commute he found his feet leading him into her shop of their own volition, and he would have been annoyed with himself if only he hadn’t been greeted with that smile.

“Morning!” Shepard called out as he entered. “So, have I converted you? Another latte?”

He’d made it halfway through his latte before it became too sweet for him, but he finished it regardless, not wanting to leave a half-finished mug behind. Still, he didn’t like her quite enough to keep ordering it. “Ah— no,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for the time being.”

“Really? Are you really going to break my heart like that?” He simultaneously wished she’d say more and less things like that, equally flustered and captivated by her casual flirtation, and it was that exact reason why he ought to spend less time around her. “Go on then, enlighten me: what didn’t you like about it?”

“I— will you be offended?”

“Depends if it’s the coffee or how I made it.”

“Well, I— the vanilla was a bit strong. And there was too much milk; I could barely taste the coffee.”

“So you actually like black coffee?” she asked. “Rather than you have no fu—uh, no clue what the others are?”

He chuckled at her last-minute recovery, eyeing the tip-slash-swear jar which grew fuller with each passing day. He couldn’t be certain what or who contributed the most to it, but from Hawke and Sera’s constant screeches of ‘jar!’ across the shop floor he had a fairly good idea. “It may be a bit of both,” he admitted.

She considered him for a long moment, seemingly deep in thought with her lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed, and he feared she was about to denounce him as a lost cause. “Alright,” she said just as the silence began to grow uncomfortable. “I know what we’ll do. I’ll give you your black coffee, but I get to experiment with different beans.”

“I like the ones you’ve been using.”

“Oh really?” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Which ones are they?”

“I…” he trailed off immediately, because of course he had no idea about the beans — and she knew it too, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement as he struggled not to seem a total fool. “The ones on the left?” he guessed, glancing at the large jars behind her.

“Nice try,” she told him. “I’ll figure out your roast first, then I’ll move onto the blends. But you’ll have to pay attention to what they actually taste like.”

“This sounds a lot like homework. I don’t think I signed up for this.”

“Well, too bad — I’m bored, and you’re cute when you make your little frowny face into your drink.” He somehow managed to choke on the air he was breathing, letting out an inelegant splutter as she broke into an impish grin, and he was now certain she was saying these things to solely to fluster him; he did his best to glare at her, yet that only seemed to spur him on. “That’s the one. Absolutely adorable.”

“Maker’s breath,” he grumbled, sure his whole face was bright red by this point. “I am going to stop coming here.”

“No you aren’t.”

He was going to protest, but he noticed for the first time a hint of blush creeping up her neck, and the way she idly fiddled with a loose strand of her hair — and, for a brief moment, he wondered if maybe her flirtation wasn’t malevolent after all. “No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

She held his gaze for a fraction too long before breaking it, turning from him as she began to prepare his order, and for one flash of insanity he considered taking Bull’s advice after all. An offer of food outside her place of work was hardly a great commitment, and if the worst came to it he’d just have to avoid her, or perhaps relocate—

“So, how’s work coming along?”

She spoke before him, addressing him over her shoulder in her usual easy tone as she continued to work, and he winced internally as his chance firmly passed him by. But perhaps that was for the best. “Uh— good. Thank you.”

“I read your article the other day. About the new housing policies in Lowtown.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised — and more than a little pleased — that she’d gone to the effort. “What did you think?”

“I think you could’ve thrown in a few jokes.”

“It is a notoriously humorous subject.”

She chuckled, a soft sound that shot a renewed burst of affection through his chest, and how was it possible that he could be so enthralled by simply a laugh? “I actually found it interesting,” she told him. “And it was nice to hear about something good happening. Even if it sounds like it’ll take ages.” She turned back to him as she snapped the lid on his cup, scrawling his name — incorrectly, as always — on the side before he could make any sort of correction. “You’ve got a light roast today. It might not be… coffee-y enough for you, but you have to start somewhere.”

He smirked, unable to resist teasing her just this once. “Is that the technical term?”

“It’s the term I use for the dumbasses who can’t decipher the menu.”

His smirk widened. “Jar.”

She swore again, far more colourfully this time, thrusting a handful of coins into the pot before handing over his drink. He handed over his money in turn, but he hesitated on the spot before leaving, struck once more by that ridiculous urge to keep talking to her. “Thank you,” he said. “I — uh — I shall let know what I think the next time I come in.”

It sounded weak even to his ears, but to his surprise she didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t leave me waiting too long,” she told him, fixing him with a devastating smile.

He had to leave then, because if he stayed she was going to see him turn bright red again, and as he stepped into the sun and glanced at her scrawl on his cup he realised two things. First, that if she’d read his article, then she knew very well how to spell Cullen. And second, that he was completely and hopelessly enamoured with her.

—

The light roast was, as Shepard had predicted, not to Cullen’s taste, but he found the medium far more appealing; emboldened by her success she began experimenting with different blends, and Cullen looked forward to discovering what she had to offer each day. And he looked forward to seeing her, too. She laughed with him over the concoctions he’d hated, and teased him whenever he gave a particularly inept description of a blend, and she smiled at him, as always, with a sincere see you soon when he left.

He wasn’t foolish enough to presume that she treated him alone like this, or that it was anything other than a way for her to pass the time — and he knew, deep down, that how he felt would only cause him heartache in the end. Because it wasn’t just her smile, or laugh, or her beautiful, endless eyes; it was her, her very energy drawing him in with each word and action, and now he’d seen her he couldn’t bear to look away. And so he continued, with vague reassurances to himself that it remained simply a crush, despite knowing that to long be untrue.

He tried his best to avoid lunch with Bull, for he was invariably insufferable each time they set foot in Shepard’s, but there were some days he couldn’t escape it. On this particular one he’d roped Mr Trevelyan into his persuasion; not wanting to disappoint him, he dutifully followed them across the street and into the shop, hoping that Bull wouldn’t mock him too much in front of their boss.

Mercifully, Bull’s attention was distracted by the distinct lack of flatbreads on display, giving Cullen room to discuss his current projects with Trevelyan as he tried not to look at Shepard too often. Which, of course, he failed in. She’d styled her hair differently for once, her crimson hair free from its usual braid and instead piled into a messy bun, and whenever she turned the loose strands at her neck shone copper in the sunlight, drawing his attention back to her each time.

He really should have turned down lunch.

“Hey, Shep,” Bull greeted her as they reached the counter. “Where’s—”

“Don’t start with me,” she warned him, which was not her usual way of greeting her customers, but Cullen sensed she’d had this discussion with Bull more than once before. “I told you I’m not getting it anymore.”

“But—”

“Bull, no-one else buys that bread. You’ll just have to have a panini like everybody else.”

Bull made a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat, frowning at her selection of sandwiches as he muttered something vaguely insulting about customer service. “I got in something new for you,” she turned her attention to Cullen. “It’s a bit nuttier than the blends you’ve been having; I think you’ll like it.”

He was sure she hadn’t bought in anything specifically for him, but it made warmth bloom in his chest all the same, and he didn’t even try to prevent the undoubtedly dopey smile which broke across his face. “I would like that.”

“I see how it is,” Bull grumbled. “You get him fancy beans and my flatbread pays the price.”

“Yeah, well — he’s prettier than you are.” He didn’t even have time to react before she turned next to Trevelyan, which in a way was good, because he had no idea how to respond without stuttering like a fool. “Marcus?”

“Well, I like everything,” Trevelyan told her, offering her an amiable smile which she returned instantly.

“And that’s why you’re my favourite,” she replied, and Cullen tried his very best not to be irrationally jealous. “The usual, and…?”

“And…” he paused to consider the options in front of him. “The tuna melt, please.”

They waited patiently for their orders, Shepard chatting easily with them as they did, and when she handed Cullen his drink he rushed to hide the name she’d written on it from Trevelyan. Bull, however, seemed intent on ruining everyone’s day now his had been, and grinned malevolently at Cullen.

“Why are you holding your cup like that?”

Cullen glared at him as he took — what he intended to be — a nonchalant a sip of his drink. “I am not holding my cup like anything.”

“Yeah you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What are you— oh,” Trevelyan laughed, craning his neck to see the side of the cup Cullen was desperately trying to hide from him. “Shepard, you’ve—”

If he hadn’t been his boss, Cullen might have kicked him to shut him up, but it was Bull who put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. “Hold it. Cullen’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing,” was Cullen’s knee-jerk reply, but he regretted it instantly, knowing that he’d gone far too long without correcting her — and that if he didn’t do it now then his boss would likely never respect him. “It’s just— it’s Cullen. My name.”

“I know,” Shepard told him. “That’s what I’ve been writing. Colon.”

“Cullen.”

“Colon.”

“Cullen.”

“Callum?”

Bull, whose shoulders had been shaking with silent laughter beside him, finally spoke at that, his voice full of barely-concealed glee. “Give it up, Shep. You lost.”

“You cheated,” she glared at him. “I’m not paying up.”

“I won’t make you pay if you get me my flatbread back.”

“Oh I’ll bring it back, but you’ll be fucking barred when I do.”

“Jar!” Hawke called out, pushing said jar towards her without even looking up from the drink he was making, and with two further curses Shepard threw a handful of coins in it.

“What’s going on here?” Cullen asked, realisation dawning on him as he took in Shepard’s decidedly shifty expression. “Did you bet that I wouldn’t—” he began, but his answer was clear in the way she looked everywhere except at him, and he felt as vindicated as he did embarrassed. “I knew you were doing this deliberately!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she held her hands up in surrender. “I run a terribly unprofessional establishment, although you probably should have realised that by now. Your coffee’s on me by way of apology.”

“Make it dinner, and I might consider forgiving you.”

He had absolutely no idea where that came from, the words leaving his mouth before he’d even started to think them, and he winced as the laughter in her eyes fell away. “I— forgive me,” he said, hurrying to backpedal before she banned him from her shop along with Bull. “That is— I shouldn’t— uh…”

But there was no outrage in her expression, only delight, and that faint blush he’d seen but a handful of times, and as his words faltered under her stare she filled the silence as always. “I close up at seven,” she told him. “I like that sushi place with the big fish tank.”

He blinked, once, as her words sank in, and he coughed to clear his suddenly-dry throat before replying. “I shall see you here at seven, then,” he told her in as level a voice as he could manage.

“See you then,” she grinned. “Cullen.”

He nodded to her and his colleagues before turning on his heel, keen to leave before she came to her senses, his heart beating a frantic tune as he strode back towards his office. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it, but somehow what he’d hoped for hadn’t been as impossible as he’d believed — and he might have thought he’d imagined it all, if it wasn’t for the cup of coffee grasped tightly in his hand.

He had a date with Shepard. And now he just had to figure out which sushi place she’d been talking about.

—

“So,” Bull said as the three of them watched Cullen march out of the shop. “I guess he’s not having lunch with us.”

“I guess not,” Marcus agreed. “That escalated… bizarrely.”

“Yeah,” Shepard said, unable to contain her grin at the sight of him hurrying away — and she hated that Bull had won their bet, but at least she didn’t have to hold back now. She couldn’t very well have called him Colon on a date. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna fuck him.”

[Fic Masterpost]

#cullen x shepard #cullen x oc #coffee shop au #dragon age #mass effect #crossover #my writing #mollie shepard #this fic is essentially #cullen: the pretty lady sure is nice for helping me with the coffee #shepard ordering new beans at 2am: i better get laid out of this #Anonymous #oh wow so formatting on tumblr is an absolute nightmare huh

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12redsky34 · 7 years

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Confused

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

FanFiction.net - This story

Hey guys! It seems every one of you enjoyed chapter one, so here's chapter 2! I unfortunately do not have a preview for the third bonus chapter, but it is definitely coming, so don't worry about that. One of you asked if this would be in Natsu's point of view, and you will be pleased to know it definitely is! We get to see what he was thinking and his view of the situation here, so enjoy!

Natsu was confused.

And not the kind of confused where he could punch the problem to make it leave then eat twice his weight in food and sleep until he forgot all about said problem, nor was it the kind where if he ignored it for long enough it would go away and leave him alone.

He was pretty sure punching and/or ignoring his best friend, partner and love would really make her upset and angry, and that was the last thing he wanted. Not to mention he absolutely despised the idea of hurting her in any way. Just the thought of it made him sick.

Speaking of Lucy, he had walked into the guild that day and almost immediately spotted her talking to Levy near the back of the main hall. He almost always knew where she was if they were anywhere near each other. He had considered going over to say hi to the two, but one look at the heated conversation they were having told him he would get bored very quickly. It was only too obvious they were talking about some book.

So he decided to eat instead. He may have also punched Gray a few times while doing so. What could he say, the guy annoyed him to no end. Those punches eventually led to a brawl, as usual. During the fight, he snuck glances at his blonde-haired partner and noticed her conversation with Levy had taken a turn down a road definitely not involving books. At least not entirely. Lucy looked crestfallen for some reason, and it looked like her blue-haired best friend was trying her hardest to keep her from crying.

While he appreciated his guildmate's efforts to do what he was slacking on at the moment, he felt a surge of concern and immediately made to approach the table and find out what was going on with Lucy. He only made it two steps before someone grabbed his collar and dragged him towards one of the back doors leading behind the guild, and while he thrashed and complained loudly, his captor didn't let go until they were standing in the courtyard.

The Fire Dragon Slayer spun around, assuming it was Gray and ready to punch him, but paused when he saw it was Gajeel standing there with his arms crossed looking simultaneously bored and irritated. Seeing the other male obviously didn't want to fight, Natsu scowled and relaxed slightly from his battle stance.

"What do you want, Metal Head?" He growled, more than irritated that he had been prevented from trying to comfort his partner.

"I'm making Levy's job easier."

Um… That made no sense to Natsu, no matter which way he turned it in his head.

"What?" He narrowed his eyes, brows furrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, I know you and Shrimp are planning something, and that it has everything to do with Bunny Girl. Whatever they just finished talking about, I know for a fact she'll want to talk to you about it." The raven-haired man grunted, scowling and tapping his foot impatiently as if he had something else to do other than babysit Natsu.

"What? What would they be talking about that she'd want to-"

"There you are, Natsu!" The woman they had been discussing (well, one of them anyway) interrupted him, striding through the open space with a determined look on her face. Gajeel's annoying scowl turned into an equally if not more infuriating smirk, and he chuckled his queer laugh.

"Gi hee. What took ya so long Shrimp?" He teased, sharp fangs glinting in the sunlight.

"I was looking for Natsu, thank you very much Gajeel." Levy quipped, crossing her arms. "Now, go away. Me and Natsu have some things to talk about."

"Yeah yeah, you go ahead with your little schemes. Try not to break Bunny Girl while you're at it, it's annoying when she's upset." He replied gruffly, striding back into the guild and slamming the door shut. Despite his harsh statement, Natsu knew Gajeel was just using tough words to hide his gooey interior. He was almost as intent on finding and beating up anyone who made the girl upset as Natsu was. He let his expression soften at the thought. The guild really loved his partner, even if she didn't think they did.

"Natsu Dragneel! I can't believe you kissed Lucy just to steal cotton candy from her!" Levy scolded, making the male stiffen and blush in mortification.

"H-Huh?" He stammered dumbly, eyes blown wide. "Wha… How did you find out?!" He settled for asking, wondering if someone had seen them and nattered off to her.

"How else? Lucy told me." Levy replied. Ah. That was the most reasonable and likely explanation. "And I'm kind of annoyed neither of you told me. Especially you." She added, puffing her cheeks out. It was cute, but when Lucy did it she made it way cuter. That's why he loved to annoy her so much.

"W-Well, I… I wasn't exactly thinking about it at the time, so…" He trailed off helplessly, looking at a pebble in front of his shoe. He wondered if kicking it would make him look even more like the shy dork he really was when it came to romance.

"And that is part of why I want to talk to you. Why did you kiss her?" Levy demanded, hands propped on her hips.

"I… Don't know." He admitted quietly, eyes averted to the side. "After I did it I hoped she would show me if she liked it or not, but… I dunno… I couldn't tell." He pouted behind his scarf, a little put down by the memory. She hadn't kicked him like he expected her to, but she hadn't kissed him back or asked for another one any time after the whole event, so he wasn't so sure he would call that a victory on his part. More like a stalemate. A stalemate he didn't know how to break in his favour, if it was even possible in the first place.

This whole situation was a confusing battle of emotions he didn't know what to do with, as if he was given weapons he had never seen or heard of before and was expected to use them like an expert on the first try. He knew from experience that was pretty much impossible. So he stopped trying after the first go-around, at least for now.

"Natsu, you can't just do that and not do anything else afterwards!" Levy scolded, frowning disapprovingly at him.

"Then what was I supposed to do?!" Natsu asked desperately. He had found somewhat unexpected help in Levy when trying to find ways to figure out what to do about his feelings for the resident Celestial Mage, and they had talked a couple times already about what he should do but neither agreeing on a solution as of yet.

She had suggested romantic dates and flowers and gifts, and while he wouldn't mind the gifting part, he vetoed the idea of acting romantic for the sake of winning Lucy's heart. He had argued that he wanted Lucy to love him for who he was, and as desperate as he was for her to return his feelings of affection, he refused to turn towards acting like someone he wasn't to get it.

He had suggested taking her on a mission and bringing it up somehow then (just winging it, basically) but Levy had quickly struck down that idea, her most compelling argument being that Lucy was very unlikely to appreciate him telling her how he felt in the middle of a fight with a ragtag bunch of bandits or something. He begrudgingly agreed.

"Definitely not leave her hanging! She was about to get very upset today about the whole thing you know!" Levy snapped. Natsu flinched like he had been struck, eyes filling with worry and a vague horror.

"She-She was crying about me kissing her?" He asked, heart sinking in his ribcage as he remembered that his partner did indeed look very close to bursting into tears before he was dragged outside. "Oh Mavis. I knew it. She doesn't like me that way. She probably hates me now. I mean, I think that was her first kiss and I basically stole it from her. Fuck. What am I gonna do to make it up to her? Will she ever look at me the same way again? Dammit. I really messed up. Maybe some gold will make her happy. Girls like shiny things, right? Yeah, gold will-" He had begun muttering to himself and pacing in small circles, panicking over the new findings and trying to find a way to resolve the situation. A small hand on his chest stopped him, however, and he noticed Levy had stepped forward to halt him in his tracks.

"Calm down, Natsu. Lucy doesn't hate you." She said firmly but soothingly. Natsu swallowed but nodded silently. "She was upset because you kissed her and did nothing afterwards, not because of the kiss itself." She explained. "She didn't know what to make of it, and she certainly didn't know if you were actually interested in her from just one kiss."

"Oh." Natsu murmured, not knowing what else to say. It made sense to him. He was exactly the same. Her lack of a reaction made him doubt himself, and he kept quiet and refrained from any further action. This really was a stalemate, he mused silently.

"Now, since I refuse to be the one to tell Lu-chan that you like her, as much as I want to, you have to suck it up, be a man, and tell her yourself. Take her somewhere nice or somewhere you're both comfortable, and tell her." Levy said with a no-business tone, poking Natsu in the chest. "Tell her you're sorry for making her confused. Even if she doesn't like you back, it's something she should know." Natsu nodded, but he wasn't convinced.

"But if she knows and doesn't like me… what will that do to us? Will either of us be able to look at each other the same way again?" He asked helplessly, his main and most crushing fear in this situation coming to the surface. Fear had been a foreign concept to him until his fight with Gildarts in the S-class exam, and while he better understood it now, he still struggled in the area of dealing with it.

Most of the time punching the thing that scared him made it go away, but it wasn't an option in this situation.

"Honestly. At this rate, you're never going to find out one way or the other." Levy sighed. Natsu agreed, but it didn't make it any better. "Look at it this way; would you rather ask her and know you had at least tried getting her to be with you, and maybe even reap positive rewards from it, or would you keep silent and forever ask yourself 'what if', never knowing for sure what her feelings for you are?"

She made a good point. One he couldn't argue with. And one he knew the answer to.

"I'd rather ask her." He replied strongly, fists clenching at his sides. He knew all too well what things like 'what if's did to people, spending too much time as a kid asking himself what would happen if things had been different, if he would have still been with Igneel. Over time he accepted that it was what it was, and that life had just dealt him his proverbial cards and left him with the hand he had now. And while he missed Igneel with all his heart, he was glad to have his friends and family and, in more recent years, Lucy, by his side.

Part of him was now afraid to ask the 'what if'. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what a life without Lucy would be like, and if fate had handed him a different deck, he didn't know if he would have met the wonderful woman that had planted herself in his life like the brightest star in the sky that was always there every night without fail.

"Good." Levy nodded, grinning approvingly. "Now go! Don't think, just do!" She exclaimed, shooing him back towards the guild. "She's most likely back at her apartment, so that's where you'll find her. I'd better be haring positive results from you tomorrow!" She almost threatened, and Natsu grinned without a verbal reply as he re-entered the guild.

"This better work by morning, or I owe Mira a lot of money…" Levy muttered to herself.

Natsu walked down the streets towards Lucy's apartment, formulating a rough plan of action in his head as he followed her scent back to her place. Even if Lucy had not gone back home, he had memorised her scent thoroughly by now and would have had no problems tracking her through Magnolia. Her path never strayed from the direction of her apartment, however, so he was safe in assuming she was indeed home.

He didn't have any details to flesh out his plan, but he had always been a man of action, so he didn't worry too much. For now, his plan consisted of going to her place, making sure they were alone, and just telling her outright that he liked her. Or maybe he would go straight to love. He didn't know yet.

Levy had seemed surprised when he admitted his love for the Celestial Mage, and asked him how long he felt that way. He hadn't been sure himself when exactly he had fallen for her, but part of him felt like he had loved her from the start. Maybe not the way he did now, but he had definitely loved her as a friend and partner, someone he could rely on and who he knew relied on him.

Eventually those feelings had only grown and strengthened into what he felt in the present. He knew for certain that there would be no one else for him, that she was his lifelong Mate. But he also knew that if she rejected him (and crushed him in the process), he would rather she be happy than force her into being with him just because it would tear him apart to see her with someone else.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he noticed he had arrived at Lucy's apartment and jumped up to her windowsill almost completely unconsciously. He slid the window open, smiling to find it unlocked, and hopped inside, shutting it behind him as he did a quick perusal of his surroundings.

Lucy was sitting at her desk, writing in her notebook and pausing occasionally to think before resuming. Natsu stood staring at her for several minutes, entranced by the image of her hair gleaming in the sunlight coming through the window like spun threads of gold. She looked so peaceful sitting there in her little apartment.

He cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak, but she heard him and jumped with a squeak before turning around to face him.

"Oh, it's you Natsu." She breathed, hand going to her chest and a small smile gracing her face. "Don't scare me like that." She playfully scolded, turning back to her notebook. Natsu stood there dumbly for a few minutes, staring at her and contemplating the best way to initiate his plan.

After several moments of prolonged silence and virtually no movement on his part, Lucy turned around to face him again, this time with a confused frown.

"Natsu? Is something wrong?" She asked worriedly, brow furrowed as she looked him up and down. Nasu looked at her then, and as their eyes met, everything he had planned on saying to her vanished like smoke being blown away in the wind.

His body moved without conscious thought. With long, determined strides, he walked up to where she was seated at her desk and grabbed her upper arm, ignoring her startled squeak as he tugged her to her feet. He swept in, squeezing his eyes shut as their lips met, and he tried his hardest to convey everything he couldn't find words for in the way he moved against her.

He tensed slightly, preparing for a kick to the face or somewhere equally painful, but he jolted slightly when slim fingers reached up to tangle in his hair and pull him closer. He growled, the sound rumbling through their connected lips as he leaned forwards, his hands going around her waist and pulling her snug against his body. Her little mewl at the action emboldened the pink-haired male, and he grinned, daring a peek at her only to see her own eyes closed as she sank against him and his touch.

They broke away, panting slightly, and Natsu almost wanted to crow in victory. If her returning the kiss wasn't a simultaneous return of his feelings, he didn't know what was.

"N… Natsu?" She breathed, voice cracking.

"Lucy, I love you." He interrupted before she could overthink what had happened. Her eyes widened significantly and he belatedly realised his blunt statement probably wasn't much better, and he started to panic again. "L-Like, I love you love you. As in, I love everyone in the guild, but as a family, y'know? The way I love you is different and stuff. And I've felt this way for ages but we always had something going on and I really wanted to find Igneel but now everything's kinda slowed down and I've had time to think I realised I wanted to, um, pursue you? Ugh that sounds terrible now I've said it-"

"Natsu…"

"A-And when I kissed you at the fair I wasn't thinking about it you just looked really cute and I wanted to know what it was like and I realised I'm such a jerk for kissing you and not telling you what it meant, especially since it was your first kiss-"

"Uh, Natsu-"

"But Levy told me off for being a wimp and even if you don't love me back that's fine, okay maybe not really, it would kill me if you chose someone else, but I would deal with it because I want you to be happy and if you're happy with someone else then I'd rather that happen than force you to be with me and be miserable for the rest of your life-"

"Natsu!"

He clicked his jaw shut at her shout, hurriedly hunching his shoulders to hide his blush in his scarf. Though he wasn't sure it was entirely effective since he felt like his whole head was about to light on fire.

He was more embarrassed that he ended up spewing everything he could put into words at her like some word fountain or something like that, but he hoped that despite his obvious inexperience and nervousness that she more or less understood what he was telling her.

"You… You love me?" Came the tentative question from his blonde partner, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers from their previous position looking at their feet. He nodded resolutely, knowing that now his feelings were out in the open, he had no reason to lie to her. He just hoped she didn't go running for the hills, or he wasn't sure he would know what to do with himself.

"I love you, Luce. Even if you move on and forget about me, I'll never love anyone else." He rumbled, making sure she saw he was completely serious and not pulling a prank on her. He didn't want there to be any more confusion between them about their feelings for each other.

Luckily it seemed luck was on his side for once, because in the next moment Lucy was practically jumping into his arms and kissing him like he'd never been kissed before. His arms immediately went back around her waist and he made a low noise of pleasure, loving how it felt to have her pressed against him like this.

It was heaven.

They broke away again, and Natsu gazed at her beaming smile with hope in his eyes.

"Does that mean you love me too?" He asked tentatively, grinning when she nodded wordlessly, her hair bobbing everywhere with the force of her movements. Joyful tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, and as Natsu leaned in for another kiss, he lifted his hands to wipe away the few drops that escaped her control.

Feeling a surge of playfulness, giddy from his elation at finding out his love returned his feelings wholeheartedly, he lifted her and spun her around, grinning into her neck and her surprised shriek and giggles while she grabbed at his shoulders for support. He tripped and fell onto her bed, the blonde landing on top of him and knocking the breath from his lungs.

Natsu hardly cared. The woman he loved was in his arms, smiling at him like she won the lottery and he was the reason behind it, and he didn't think he had ever been happier in his life.

"I love you so much, Luce." He murmured, smiling up at her as her hair fell around their faces like a golden curtain. A few strands landed on his mouth, and he blew them away, grinning at her giggle at his actions.

"I love you too, Natsu." She replied, voice thick with emotions he could barely even begin to name. He gave her a nuzzle with the tip of his nose, purring deep in his chest when she returned the action all to willingly and added stolen little kisses here and there.

They spent some time like that, swapping words of devotion and love and interrupting each other for kisses.

And as the sun began to set, neither noticing as they engaged in a tickle fight, both knew without a doubt that there would be no more confusion about their relationship with each other from there on out.

#my writing #fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #levy mcgarden #gajeel redfox #nalu #gale

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texanredrose · 7 years

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Based off a suggestion from Salty Crusader on the RarePair Rave discord. (@cass-burger, could you blease send him the link? Thanks!), with our monochrome duo on a partner swap mission where things go awry. Consider this the ‘governments actually use anti-virus software’ AU, where Cinder’s plan is thwarted by the mundane, routine check of Atlas’ systems and nothing big and bad happens. (Also, yes, I’m aware I probably have a few mistakes in this; I’ll clean it up when possible.) Honestly, this is just Blake being a dork and Weiss being extra, as usual.

Blake bit her lip, trying her hardest to bite back and swallow down the question on her tongue. However, despite how many times she'd already asked, it left her lips once again. "Weiss-"

"For the last- urk- time, Belladonna- hmph- I'm not- huh- I'm not leaving you- shit- behind!" Every labored breath grated on all four of her ears and made her chest tightened as she did everything in her power not to move. The last thing she wanted to do was make things more difficult for the young woman carrying her. "That’s- ugh- final!"

The Faunus sighed, ears straining against her bow as they tried to lay back against her skull in contrition. Three years into their Huntress training, one would think she'd have the foresight to keep better track of her position when dealing with a bed of King Taijitu, but her concentration had slipped ever so slightly. Before she knew it, her right leg was clamped between one head's powerful jaws and she was thrown about, knocking into trees and boulders, wearing down her already depleted aura.

Their week long mission through the Emerald Forest, clearing out the Grimm that had encroached on Vale's boarders in preparation for the first years' trial in a few months time, had put both of them through the wringer, with the infestation much worse than it had been in years past. As an added challenge, the third year students had swapped partners, putting their skills to the test in a fashion they seldom exercised during their usual classes. For the most part, this didn't upset the balance Team RWBY had established over their time together; Yang's brute strength coupled with Ruby's speed made the sisters a deadly pair, and Weiss and Blake had learned to move to a new rhythm together, their swords sailing through the air as two halves to a whole threat.

However, they'd run into trouble early on with a pack of alpha Beowolves, and the combination of greater numbers with more cunning adversaries meant they couldn't recuperate, couldn't replenish the energy nearly as quickly as they expended it. Add to that a split second of distraction- really, if it hadn't been for the white Nevermore Weiss summoned, Blake would probably be much worse off than a simple broken leg and some bruised ribs.

Careful not to hinder the woman's trudging pace in any way, Blake looked down at her wounded leg, bound in a makeshift splint by wood and fabric ripped from the formerly white jacket Weiss wore, now soiled almost beyond salvation by dirt and the smokey remnants of downed Grimm. More strips from the woman's jacket were wrapped around her arms, staunching the bleeding that resulted form being tossed around without her aura to protect her- dull aches but nothing life threatening. Moving on her own, though, wouldn't be possible in her condition, and she'd tried her very best to argue that Weiss should leave her in the cleared out cave, where she could at least deter any wandering Grimm from a decently defensible position.

Apparently, she must've hit her head as well, because she honestly thought she could win an argument against the resident heiress of Beacon.

"A break?" She suggested, feigning that it was her intention initially to ask that. "Is a break too much to ask?"

Although it took a moment, the woman's gait slowed until she finally came to a stop, allowing Blake to feel the trembling in muscled far overtaxed with exertion. They were still at least a click from the extraction point with no signs of their teammates or anyone else. If only their scrolls hadn't gotten damaged during that first ambush, if they hadn't stubbornly thought they could complete the mission without the communications devices in hand- so many fleeting regrets that wouldn't serve them any good now.

"Fine. A break." Changing course, Weiss managed to make it to a large tree, carefully shifting their combined weight until the Faunus could get her good foot under her, the iron grip on her wrist released so they could disengage completely. Being carried slung across the woman's shoulders wasn't dignified in the slightest, but it kept a hand free for each of them, which meant Gambol Shroud and Myrtenaster could both be brought to bear, were they to encounter trouble.

Although she could probably managed just fine on her own, Weiss helped her sit down with her back to the tree. Truthfully, aside from the change in position, sitting down didn't offer much benefit. Her leg throbbed angrily with the change in direction, radiating from the point of the break despite the immobilizing splint, but she didn't suggest the stop for her sake. Instead, amber eyes fell on her teammate's form as the woman paced around a little, trying to subtly work out the cramps in her legs and back. It also helped hide the faint tremble, her muscles obviously fatigued- Blake grimaced at the thought of how sore the woman would be once this was all over.

Their relationship had changed drastically over the course of their years at Beacon. At first, they were more enemies than friends, arguing and fighting until the fateful day she'd spoken without thinking, revealing her heritage to the stunned young women in their dorm room. A few days and a completely thrashed shipyard later, Weiss acted like their previous differences didn't matter at all, that they could be teammates. She hadn't quite believed a few words were all it took to wash away years of bad blood, but she was willing to try. And to her surprise, it went much better than she could've imagined; after the docks incident, Weiss did almost a complete one-eighty- well, by her standards, of course, because there weren't enough good intentions in the world to dull the bite of her cutting replies- and either supported or questioned the Faunus on anything regarding her people, absent the clear disdain she'd shown just before their first appearance in the Vytal tournament. She still made mistakes from time to time but she got better, more open, and Blake, in turn, learned a bit more about the woman's home life. She'd always assumed that the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, the most powerful corporation in Remnant, would want for nothing her entire life.

She was very wrong.

"It shouldn't be too much farther now." Blue eyes scanned the horizon, picking out the distinct jutting of the cliff in the distance that served as their only landmark. "A quick rest and we'll be on our way."

"We're close enough now," she said, bracing against the sharp look leveled at her. "If you go on ahead-"

"Blake Belladonna, so help me Maidens, I will find a way to glyph your mouth shut if you make that suggestion one more time." Weiss scowled, glancing at the cliff briefly. "We began this mission together and we will end it together. I'll not have it said that I left- that I left a teammate behind. Am I clear?"

Well, that went about as well as every other attempt to make the suggestion, so she couldn't even feign surprise. Instead, she leaned her head back against the tree and sighed, eyes closing as she tried to mentally work out whether reaching the rendezvous point was even feasible, considering their condition.

"Blake." She opened one eye to see the woman as she took a step forward, crouching down until they were on eye level with each other. The Faunus could see something glinting in her teammate's eyes, words she wanted to say but wouldn't. "How's your leg?"

That wasn't it but they both silently agreed to pretend like it was. "Still hurts, but I guess that's a good thing."

Carefully, Weiss checked the splint and the bandages- thankfully, she'd somehow avoided a compound fracture, but she probably wouldn't be able to move around without the aid of a crutch or cane for a week at best- and stood, nodding to herself.

The whole while the Faunus watched, she could feel the sour tint to her mood worsen. Even if she wasn't in the best condition following their run-in with the lats batch of Grimm, she could plainly see the cuts and scrapes along Weiss' skin that she'd purposefully held back her aura from healing. They were both running low on energy and strength and the fact she couldn't return the favor, ensure the woman's wounds were as inconsequential as she suggested, burned her.

Reciprocity, it turned out, proved to be the foundations of their bond as teammates and friends. The more Blake spoke of the early days of the White Fang, of the mines and the camps, of leaving Menagerie and joining Adam, of rejecting his methods and her struggle to survive until Beacon, the more she learned about the Schnee heiress, the perfect princess who grew up in an expansive, cold castle with nothing more than impossible goals to keep her company, facing down tests and trials of her own. Because if the man who currently sat at the head of such a corrupt company could be so cold and cruel to an entire people for the sake of his pocketbook, what really made anyone think he would be kind to his own flesh and blood? But she never tried to compare or liken her childhood to the plight of the Faunus- she'd learned her lesson in that regard. A difficult childhood, she'd said, produced a difficult child, but she aimed to 'grow up' and thanks Blake for her help in that matter. But it went both ways; even if most humans at Beacon didn't outright discriminate against Faunus, few stood against it vocally or visibly the way Weiss started to towards the end of that first year. She seemed determined to go out on her terms, if she ended up not being able to return to Beacon at all.

When Weiss was cut off from the family accounts during that first tournament, the entire team thought things might change dramatically. After all, what would the woman do without the one constant she'd had her whole life? And the ultimatum that followed didn't bolster their confidence any, especially after seeing how abrasive Winter- eldest of the Schnee children- could be normally. But they'd underestimated just how stubborn Weiss could be and how much she emulated her elder sister, who diverted from their father's path and found her own way in the world. After the break following their first year, Weiss returned to the school grounds with just a single suitcase and her sword. No more cold mansion, no more demanding father, and no more money, but Blake vividly recalled the smile on the woman's face when she'd seen her teammates and proudly announced herself entirely divested of the title 'heiress'.

They'd spent that second year bonding even further as a team, growing closer on missions and while trying to stay awake during classes, bent over homework or cleaning their respective weapons. Free of the burden of her family's name, Weiss blossomed into a much kinder- if still blunt and occasionally narrow minded- person. Likewise, the Faunus liked to think that, without the weight of hiding her past and heritage from her closest friends, she'd become more open with them, less inclined to deflect or hide away what she felt and thought.

Of course... that didn't quite apply to everything.

"Blake?" She looked up as Weiss hurried over- well, nearly stumbled would be more apt. "Are you alright? Have you lost too much blood?"

"No?" She raised a brow. "Why do you ask?"

"You're sitting there with a broken leg and a smile; I'm fairly certain those two things are mutually exclusive in all but cases of severe blood loss," the woman replied, a worried crease to your brow.

Now that she'd mentioned it, the pain had lessened, either from her brain blocking out the nerve signals or numbness. She couldn't be sure which. "I was just thinking of a happy memory. No cause for alarm."

With suspicion shining brightly in her eyes, Weiss shook her head. "We need to get moving again. You need the medical attention."

She wanted to argue some more, maybe bait the woman into a rant, but it would do neither of them any good at this point. Especially with Myrtenaster's tip pointed at the ground, a familiar glyph appearing a few short feet away. In a flash of light, Weiss' summoned knight appeared, kneeling down to acknowledge the woman before turning its sights on Blake.

"Weiss?" Although an extremely useful skill in battle, the summoning of former enemies was still a new aspect to Weiss' fighting style, having only truly manifested towards the end of last year. That didn't make it any easier to accept the ten foot tall, gleaming white knight that stood and walked over to the tree, kneeling beside her. The pinpricks of blue set deep into the visor always worried her, because the light there seemed more than just a projection, as if it was... alive, in a way.

"We were too far away before; I wasn't sure I could maintain the summon." The knight reached out with its unoccupied hand while Weiss came around to help her move into leaning against the summon's arm. "This should make the remainder of the trip much quicker."

Amber eyes darted to the sky, beginning to tinge orange with the setting sun. "Good idea."

Seated in the crook of the knight's elbow and pulled tight against its chest, Blake grabbed onto its breastplate and it stood and turned, heading towards the cliffs with Weiss trailing behind them. Despite the knight's cumbersome size, it could move at a surprisingly quick pace, the looming cliffside drawing closer with every step.

Unfortunately, this meant the Faunus couldn't see Weiss, nor could she heard the woman's softer gait over the knight's heavy tread.

Blake bit her lip, debating on calling out to ask for her teammate to walk beside the summon or in front- somewhere the Faunus could see or hear her moving. It would be foolish, though; Weiss and her summons always shared a bond, moving as if they were one entity. Without the knight setting the pace, they wouldn't move as quickly, and she could imagine every point and counterpoint to exist in that impending argument, which she would lose simply because she couldn't think of nearly as good a reason to request the change as the truth, which she couldn't say, either.

Surreal as it seemed, Weiss wasn't the cold, spoiled brat she appeared to be when they first met three years ago, and she wasn't the same jaded Faunus, either. They'd grown together, relearned how to trust, and while their respective partners were big factors in that development, it didn't deepen the bonds the partners shared quite as much as between the former ideological enemies. When Blake wanted to unwind with a book, she could count on Yang to try and coax her out into the city- a park somewhere, which would be outdoors enough for the blonde but not as quiet as the Faunus preferred- on Ruby to try and either get invested in the book as well or leave her to her own devices, and Weiss to exist in the same space without making too much noise and engrossed in her own quiet task. Coexisting with the woman, after their initial unpleasantness subsided, was easy as breathing, and they shared many interests if not the same taste.

Lately, Blake had started wondering if, perhaps, there was a reason for that. Her mother asking if anyone caught her eye during her days at Beacon probably contributed to the thought that maybe... well, Weiss was intelligent, with a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and while her outlook on several issues had changed and evolved over time, her core beliefs remained as solid as ever. Graceful when she fought, thoughtful in her interactions, able to switch between a cool placid lake and a fiery volcano in the blink of an eye, and just...

The Faunus sighed, slumping slightly against the knight's arm. She quite possibly had developed a bit of a crush on the woman in the past several months. There really existed no better explanation for why she got so excited about a simple partner swap assignment in the Emerald Forest, or why she'd gotten surprised by the King Taijitu in the first place- she'd gotten distracted, watching as Weiss wove her way through the four lunging heads and slicing into them with the same ease as one might cut through butter wielding a hot knife, making the whole battle seem like a dance. Even tired, dirty, and drained, Weiss looked stunning, poetry in motion- she'd never seen anything half as beautiful.

Suddenly, the knight shifted, the hand holding its longsword switching to a backwards grip and allowing the tip to drag through the dirt.

"Weiss?"

"Just... marking the path." She could hear the slightly breathless quality to the woman's voice, as if the exertion of the day was finally catching up to her. "That bed might become a hot spot next time. Easier to find this way."

Reluctantly accepting the explanation- she had seen Weiss summoning the odd glyph now and then earlier, and summoning more glyphs would likely break her concentration- Blake settled back against the summon's arm, noting those pinpricks of blue light watching her for a moment before looking forward again. Honestly, aside from the strange sensation of the... light... that constituted the knight's physical form pressing against her, like electricity barely contained behind glass, she might be able to fall asleep to its gentle and steady pace. Everything hurt, a dull throb that radiated from her leg and seemed to bounce around every joint, calling her to sleep- she might've even drifted off, briefly, but found herself startled wide awake when the knight's stride faltered.

It caught itself and kept going, dragging its sword and carrying her without difficulty, yet she could sense something was wrong. It didn't feel the same as before, as if the energy was fading, and a glance up proved that little flakes of the summon were breaking off and drifting away, disappearing into nothingness. She'd seen enough of Weiss' summoned allies disperse to realize the knight wouldn't remain a physical construct much longer, but rather than be concerned by her impending fall, she called out.

"Weiss?" She struggled, trying to get a grip on the smooth white armor to no avail, unable to turn her hips enough to use her good leg for leverage. "Weiss?" No answer came from behind the knight as it started to stagger. "Weiss!"

"Blake!" She turned, catching sight of the rendezvous point and several of her classmates standing around, waiting for the missing members of their teams to return. Of their number, she could pick out Yang and Ruby easily, running towards her in the orange glow of the setting sun. Her partner was the one to call out, a wide smile on her lips that could be seen even from the several meters between them as the summon staggered out of the brush. "You okay?"

"Weiss is hurt!" She yelled out, trying to motion around the knight's bulky frame. "Keep going! Find her!"

Yang slowed down, brow furrowing in confusion, but Ruby heard loud and clear, turning into a red blur as she raced past the collapsing summon to find their missing teammate. The knight had the presence to kneel down, extending its arm so she could be transferred to Yang before more of it broke off, turning into little white specks. The blonde grunted when her shoulder collided with the woman's chest a bit more forcefully than any of them intended, but she managed to keep from hitting the splint when she curled her arms up, taking the Faunus' weight away from the summon as it dispersed entirely.

"Whoa, Blakey, you two have a rough time or what?" Worried lilac eyes looked her up and down before the brawler turned on heel, marching back to where the others stood, confusion turning to startled shouts for medical attention.

"Yang, we have to go back, Weiss is out there-" Once again, Blake tried worming her way out of the arms holding her, but she simply lacked the strength at this point.

"Ruby'll find her." Four people rushed past, looking to follow the line left by the knight's sword. "And Team JNPR will bring them back, safe and sound. They've got this and you're in no condition to go yourself."

"Yang!"

"Blake!" The blonde smirked. "See? I can do that, too."

"This isn't funny." She growled, tempted to try finding just a little bit of leverage- she couldn't overpower her partner, but she could out maneuver her nine times out of ten- but the teachers rushing over effectively killed that plan. Outmaneuvering Yang might be easy in comparison, even with a broken leg, but outrunning Doctor Oobleck was out of the question.

"Hey," her partner said, waiting for amber to meet lilac before she continued. "I know, alright? But you know as well as I do that if you aren't on your way to the infirmary by the time they bring her back, none of us will hear the end of it for years." Her lips quirked up into a small grin. "She wanted to make sure you got back safe, so when we bring her back, you can be the one to give her an earful, deal?"

Blake fought the impulse to argue further, bow crinkling once again as her ears laid back in frustration. "Deal."

With that, she stopped struggling, hoping they would find the woman passed out along the trail they've carved and bring her back, sore but no worse for wear.

If something happened to Weiss while she was out there... she'd never forgive herself.

Laying in the infirmary with her leg set up in a proper cast was the purest form of torture she'd ever known. No scroll to distract her, no news from her team, drugs to help her aura recover so the bone would heal quicker robbing her of focus and entirely coherent thought- she could've laid there for days, staring blankly at the ceiling without noticing the time. Luckily, she heard the click of the door, her head lolling so she could look in the direction of the sound. To her immense relief, the first person through the door was Yang, both hands wrapped around the handles of a stretcher.

"Hey, Blakey. Brought you a present."

The Faunus pushed herself up, sluggishly rising just enough to watch as the sisters entered the room with Weiss on a stretcher between them, looking far too still and pale, despite the dirt and grime on her face. "Is she-"

"Oh, she's just sleeping really hard." Their team leader piped up, obviously just as relieved as Blake. "Total aura depletion can really take it out of a person and they also had some emergency medicine down at the rendezvous."

"Both of you will be out of commission for a while." The blonde continued, giving a wordless count off before the sisters lowered their teammate in tandem. "You for the leg and her for the drugs to wear off." With her burden deposited, Yang turned and looked at her partner, hands on her hips and head cocking to the side. "Must be a helluva fight for both of you to be in this condition."

Threaded between the words lay half a dozen unspoken fears as the brawler did everything in her power not to come off as the mother hen she could be at any given moment. The woman had a big heart and cared deeply for her teammates, so Blake consciously opted to not make light of her concern. "We'll tell you the story when she wakes up. I... made a few mistakes, and it cost us."

"It happens to everyone," Ruby said, offering an encouraging smile. "I'm sure it was just a fluke! No reason to beat yourself up about it."

The Faunus chuckled. "Isn't that more of a Weiss thing?"

"I think it's very much a 'you two' thing." The blonde looked back at her sister. "Wanna help me transfer her to the bed."

The younger of the duo looked down at her partners legs, a frown on her lips. "Uh... where do I... grab?"

"Don't worry about it, was just askin' anyway." Yang knelt down. "Say, how about you head down to the cafeteria and grab them some real food? They'll both need it."

"Ice cream and cookies, got it!" The team leader joked, rushing over to Blake's bedside to throw her arms around her slightly larger frame. "I'm glad you're both okay."

"Thanks, Ruby," she replied, returning the hug with one arm before letting the younger woman head out, closing the door behind her while Yang scooped their teammate into her arms and put her on the bed, finding an extra blanket to tuck her in with before turning lilac eyes towards the Faunus. Before she could really think about it, the words left her tongue. "I'm sorry-"

"Are you apologizing to me or her?" The blonde sighed, shaking her head and crossing the room. "Blake, look, we're all just glad you're okay, and you're crazy if you think Weiss won't agree with that."

"But she's the one lying there unconscious-"

"And you have your leg in a cast." Yang waved a hand, dismissing her next argument. "Look, we can nitpick this to death or we can just agree- both of you need to talk, and the sooner the better." The only person she could possibly entrust with such a secret as her confusing, growing feelings for Weiss was her partner, and the blonde had obviously seen straight through the entire situation without an explanation at all. "I know Frosty over here would go to the ends of Remnant for any one of us, but she went above and beyond for you, Blake. I really think that means something."

"We didn't have much of a choice." She looked away, a blush rising in her cheeks as it always did whenever they actually talked about it. Having a crush was bad, having a more-than-likely unrequited crush was worse, but compounding that was having a best friend who seemed intent on getting to the bottom of it all. "She wouldn't leave me there-"

"And she had half a vial left of red dust." One brow raised up. "Why didn't you two just hole up for a bit? She could've set an acre on fire with a flick of her wrist, and there's nothing in the Emerald Forest capable of doing that so quickly." She paused, grimacing. "At least, nothing that wouldn't take half of us to bring down. Everyone would've known to converge on the smoke, anyway."

Blake blinked slowly, her mouth hanging open just a little. "We... didn't even think about that."

With a sigh, Yang sat down on the edge of her bed and gave her a pointed look. "You honestly think little Miss 'I-am-always-prepared-for-everything' Weiss, Miss 'here's-a-specially-design-magazine-with-special-dust-infused-rounds' Weiss, Miss 'I-read-an-article-six-years-ago-on-Vacuon-binding-practices' Weiss, Miss 'I-ace-every-test-without-studying-but-study-anyway-with-color-coded-notes' Weiss, didn't think about a signal fire?"

"Well... I didn't think about it." She muttered, slumping back against the bed.

"Nah, of course not; knowing you, you told her to go on without you and get help, right?" The blonde chuckled, reaching over to untie the bow binding her ears, giving the right one a playful flick. "And she said nuts to that and insisted she have her knight carry you back, and you were in too much pain to really argue like you usually do. Am I right?"

Blake frowned, her ears drooping in tandem. "She carried me, actually. Until she couldn't anymore."

"Whoa, no wonder she's exhausted." She shrugged. "Point still stands, Blakey. You two are more complex than Crescent Rose, but it doesn't take Ruby to figure out how each of you operates. Weiss definitely thought of a signal fire, and then decided she couldn't just sit and wait for someone to come. It would've driven her insane being so helpless with you in pain."

Biting her lip briefly, the Faunus looked up at her partner, not giving her request half as much thought as it deserved before she spoke, still too loopy from the medicine to properly censor herself. "Yang... could you..." Amber eyes flicked towards Weiss' bed. "Please?"

"Say no more." The blonde got up, grabbing two chairs from the corner of the room and dragging them over to their teammate's bedside, setting them up across from each other and parallel to the bed itself. She then came back and, with a little clumsy help, picked up Blake and carried her over to the chairs, ensuring the cast got propped up.

Honestly, the chair was uncomfortable on her lower back, but she managed to smile rather than grimace at her best friend. "Thanks."

"No problem. Now, I think I'll go see what's keeping Ruby." She started towards the door, throwing a wink over her shoulder. "Ya know, make sure it takes double, that sorta stuff. Keep an eye on Frosty for us, won't ya, Blakey?"

With a fond shake of her head, she waved her friend off, leaning back in the chair and sighing. Amber eyes traced up and down Weiss' body, her vision slightly blurry but at least clear enough for her to make out the steady rise and fall of her chest, which mollified the Faunus a little. She could already imagine how cross the woman would be when she woke up and saw Blake out of bed but, well, some things were more important, she thought, a small smile on her lips.

"I can't believe you sometimes," she said, her voice soft. "One minute, you're on the rest of us about taking care of ourselves, eating properly, going to bed at a decent hour, studying... and then the next, you're throwing yourself into the first danger to rear its head." Her gaze slid up, landing on her teammates face, peaceful in slumber despite it not being a natural one. "Sometimes, I ask myself why- why you do it, why you keep doing it, why you won't let one of us share that burden. You're so selfless." A sigh escaped her then, gaze dropping with her shoulders and ears. "I've always admired that about you. I wish I'd told you that sooner. Or... at all." She looked away, as if that would somehow hide the blush rising to her cheeks, doubly ineffective since the only other person in the room happened to be unconscious. "Listen to me- I sound like this is one of those dramatic, near death scenes in my books, where the whole chapter makes you fear the worst... but you'll be good as new in a few days. If that, knowing you."

A low grunt caught her attention, ear flicking towards the sound before she looked back up, breath catching in her throat. Weiss had flinched in her sleep, her brow furrowed in some unknown emotion and tension running through her frame, breathing coming quicker. Blake had seen this before, though rarely; one of the woman's nightmares had taken hold, dragging her through some unknown, unpleasant place that usually ended with her sitting bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. Right now, though, Weiss needed to sleep and recoup her energy, so the Faunus reached out, searching under the covers until she could find her teammate's hand, clasping it in hers.

"Weiss, listen to me. You're safe, you're okay." She reached out with her left hand, cupping the woman's cheek. Twisting around so her leg remained on the other chair wasn't exactly comfortable but, at this point, she could honestly care less about her personal comfort. "Wherever you think you are, you're not there. Go somewhere happier. You're safe here, with me."

Blake waited, hoping she could get through; usually, she awoke to the sounds of her teammate's erratic breathing and flinching, remaining in her bed until she heard the woman wake up and go to the bathroom to splash water on her face. Then, she'd pretend she woke up to the noise of someone leaving the room, ask if Weiss was alright, and if she needed anything. The response she always got was a tight lipped smile and a 'I'm fine' before they'd both return to bed. She always kicked herself, wishing she would actually go and wake the woman up, but then she'd open herself up to the inevitable questions- did she always wake up, why didn't she say anything, it wasn't intentional- and the anxiety kept her listening during those infrequent nights when the shadows lurking in Weiss' mind got the better of her.

Eventually, the woman's breathing evened out, the crease to her brow fading back into a peaceful expression. The Faunus let out a sigh of relief, though she couldn't find it within herself to draw away just yet.

"You know, if this was one of my books... this would definitely be the part where I kiss you." A chuckle slipped passed her lips, the absurdity of the sentence striking her. Not that it wasn't true, of course, but rather because she'd never actually manage to say something so ridiculously sappy to Weiss. Despite her love of romance novels- and 'romance' novels- her ability to be romantic was often hindered by a fierce blush and an inability to think coherently when she needed to most. "It'd take away the nightmares and you'd wake up, eyelids fluttering as you sat up, strong as before and free. Or so the stories go. True love's kiss is pretty powerful, they say."

"Given how awful I feel, I'd be willing to try it." Blake's shoulders jumped, her gaze snapping to the woman's face as a small grin lifted one side of her mouth. "Not sure about the sitting up part, though. The kiss would have to be quite exceptional-"

"You heard all that?" She cringed, realizing a second too late how dumb the question was, all things considered. "I mean, I can explain-"

"Blake?" Apparently summoning all her strength, Weiss opened her eyes, blue orbs meet her gaze for a brief moment. "You utter dolt. If you're about to take all that back, you might as well start hobbling away now." That seemed to be the extent of her recovered strength, though, as her eyes closed again and she let out a sigh. "Did the knight make it back? I... can't remember..."

"Yeah, it did." Risking the lecture that would follow were she caught, the Faunus pulled her broken leg off the other chair so she could turn and look at the woman more comfortably. "You got me back to the rendezvous point."

"Good." A few deep, long breaths followed, and she almost thought the woman had fallen back asleep until she spoke again. "So... this true love's kiss... I hear there's different types of love. Platonic, familial... romantic." The hand still clasped in hers twitched slightly, fingers curling around hers on the last word. "If this was one of your books, which type of kiss would this be?"

Blake froze, many words trapped in her throat while she remained entirely unsure of which words, exactly, they were. It... it really couldn't be, could it? That Yang was right, that Weiss returned her feelings, that they might actually have a chance- her silly crush was just that, wasn't it?

"Well, if... if it were up to me," she said, the poor attempt at stalling followed by her clearing her throat. "If it were up to me, I'd say... romantic."

Weiss squeezed her hand, her grin broadening into a full fledged smile. "Good. We're on the same page, then." She cracked one eye open. "I think that's a pretty important part of the kiss working."

"It is."

"Then, what are you waiting for?" Her eye closed again, voice becoming thick as sleep called her back to the depths. "I don't bite."

"Shame," she replied, thankful that Weiss couldn't see her in that exact moment as a blush lit up her cheeks.

"Well, I'm always open to learning new tricks."

Shaking her head, Blake carefully lifted herself out of the chair and leaned over, brushing their lips together in a soft kiss. When she drew back, mindful to keep her weight off her right leg, the Faunus could honestly say she felt lighter than ever, a smile spreading across her face. "I can't believe you carried me five clicks until you literally passed out from exhaustion for a kiss. I can't imagine what you'll do for a date."

"I'll fight to stay awake." Weiss cracked her eyes open again, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. "At this point, that seems to be a nigh insurmountable task."

"I'd rather you rest for now." Noting that Yang had accidentally- or, perhaps, very intentionally- placed the woman more to one side of the bed than the center, she hobbled around to the other side and laid down, careful to put her injured leg down on the bed gently. She'd prefer laying with the cast on the outside of them but, considering her teammate- girlfriend?- could hardly move, this seemed like the more pragmatic answer. "We can discuss heroic deeds and wooing once we can both move around without assistance."

"Sounds reasonable."

She couldn't be sure if the words were a last ditch effort at remaining conscious or an acquiescence, but Weiss slipped back into slumber a moment later, their shoulders just barely touching. A kiss and closeness while they convalesced- it wasn't much but, after how far they'd come, it felt wonderful knowing they still had much further to go, and Blake closed her eyes and slipped into a peaceful slumber.

#Monochrome #Monochrome Monday #TRR writes

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