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comment_fic 930-934: original & Avengers

Title: tempest in a teacup (don’t wake the sleeping ones)
Original, gen, PG
120 words
Prompt: Any, any, eldritch abomination in disguise
Note: follows this

He turns to watch her come, sunlight glinting off her hair. Her smile is wide, and his smile widens to meet it. “Whatever shall we do?” he asks, reaching a hand toward her.

It is quite odd, having hands. New. Exciting. He flexes his fingers, trailing one tip along her wrist. She shivers at the sensation.

“We are awake,” she says, caressing his skin. “Brother, we are awake.” She laughs in delight, and his smile widens even more at the sound.

They turn to watch their sister crest the hill. She laughs and runs toward them; the ground trembles beneath her feet, and they run to meet her, hands still joined. The earth behind them cracks open and they run faster, laughing.

Title: find all those places you must’ve dreamed of
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Emmylou Harris
Warnings: post-Winter Soldier
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 290
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any, any,

Throughout his life the same –
He's battled constantly.
This fight he cannot win –
A tired man they see no longer cares
("Unforgiven," Metallica)

He leaves the museum and he walks. He walks day and night, day and night, day and night. He stops to steal food when he can no longer stand the hunger (he thinks it is hunger, but he’s not sure he knows), and he drinks at public water fountains, puddles, birdbaths. And he walks and he walks and he walks.

As he walks, he remembers. Steve Rogers, tiny and always in fights. Zola’s laugh and his mother’s smile. Children, women, and men dead because they were the mission. His sisters crying because they went to bed hungry. How long it took Bucky Barnes to die, and how much he’d hate the ghost walking around in his corpse.

He has not slept since 1944. He stands, watching the sun rise, in 2014. He remembers that he should’ve been dead long ago. He should have died in the ice and snow, safe in the knowledge that Steve would live.

But he did not die. And Steve did not live for long.

He remembers that he loved Steve – but Bucky Barnes died in the snow. Who he is now…

Who he is now is tired. He has walked for days and nights and countryside surrounds him. He wanders further into the brush and lets himself fall onto the ground.

He has fully healed but he is so very tired. He no longer remembers how to sleep but he just lays there until his body figures it out.

His first dream in 70 years is of his sisters and Steve laughing together as Steve tells some story, and his mother and Steve’s are there, too, and then Steve pulls him into the middle, and –

He wakes with tears on his face. He is still tired.

Title: untitled
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: Bucky&Steve aren’t mine
Warnings: post-Avengers 2/Cap 3
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 100
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, "if you don't get out of my way, I'll f*cking kill you."

"Get out of the way," he says calmly. Nothing about him is tense, his hands loose at his side. He's even (barely) smiling.

"I can't do that," the baby agent says. "He - can't be disturbed."

He tilts his head to the side. “Get out of the way right now,” he says. This time, he bares his teeth but it couldn’t ever be called a smile.

The baby agent shudders. “Captain’s orders!” she says, firming her spine.

“Get out of the way or I’ll fucking kill you,” he says.

From inside the room, there’s a sigh. “Bucky, get in here!”

Title: tell the world, “no, you move”
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: only the narrator (and the boy he remembers) isn’t mine
Warnings: post-Winter Soldier; a drunken attempted sexual assault and everything that the presence of the Winter Soldier implies
Pairings: gen, really
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 620
Point of view: second
Prompt: Any, any + someone incredibly irritating/stupid, "Urge to kill, rising..."
Note: I wrote a second part to this that topped 4000 words but I’ve yet to decide what to do with it.

There is a drunk three tables over, sloshing beer all over the floor, ranting about his job and his house and his "bitch of a wife," and the girl he's with is no more than 20, and she's clearly looking around for an exit but too nervous to move --

Once upon a time, you knew someone who would've marched over there, planted himself firmly, and offered the girl a hand, with a speech that the drunk wouldn't remember, even if he did let it play all the way out.

Once upon a time, you would've hung back, just a little, letting him have his say, but ready for if the drunk made an aggressive move.

The drunk's hand slides under the table; the girl smiles the fakest smile you've seen since your handler --


No one but you is watching the drunk and the girl. He'd caught your eye the moment he entered the bar, strutting with his hand low on the girl's back. First date, you assessed. 45; married, unhappily; three children below 10. The girl -- undergraduate, one of the sciences; met online. Few months shy of 20. This date is not what the girl was expecting. New to town; transferred schools for a new start.

The man was tipsy before they arrived. The girl is too shy to walk out. This is the first date of her life.

Once upon a time, you knew someone who would have heroically swept in and saved her.

The girl flinches. Your fingers dig into the table, scarring the wood. The man is laughing, slurring about what a good time they’ll have.

No one is watching. No one sees.


You see. You are not a no one, not anymore. Even though that heroic boy you knew isn’t here, you are.

You rise to your feet and stalk three tables over. The drunk doesn’t notice you but the girl – oh, her eyes are so frightened. Your hair is too long, your clothes ratty and stolen, but you hold out a steady hand. “Would you care to dance?” you ask softly.

How long has it been since you spoke? Not since –

She hesitates, then shudders, and grabs your hand.

The drunk shouts as you gently pull her from her chair. You guide her to the empty space meant for dancing; you are the only two there. The drunk stumbles to his feet, but you turn so that the girl doesn’t have to watch him. You glare over her shoulder, letting a little –

He jerks, falling back into his chair, shuddering as he drains his bottle.

“Thank you,” the girl mumbles into your chest.

You speak again. “Is there anyone you can call?”

She shrugs. “My roommate, maybe? I just… he was so nice.”

You just keep your arms around her waist, hands barely resting on her back. Once the song is done, you lead her back to your table. “Call your roommate,” you say.

You listen in silence as she cries into the phone. Her roommate agrees to be there within 15 minutes. You sit with her until the woman arrives, and you shadow them as they leave, arms wrapped around each other. They get into a decent car and drive away.

The drunk is waiting just inside the door; he has given himself courage, and he is very angry.

So are you.

But. The boy you once knew wouldn’t kill him. You have done good tonight; you have been good for months now, ever since –

You do not kill him. You are sure to explain your mercy, and then you forward the most recent email conversation on his phone to his wife.

You leave him outside the bar and move on.

Title: but only because you were gone
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Warnings: AU during Winter Soldier; character death; implied violence/torture
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 500
Point of view: third
Prompt: Marvel, dark!Charles Xavier and/or dark!Steve Rogers and/or dark!any-Marvel-character-who-is-usually-depicted-as-sunshine-and-rainbows, Peace was never an option

“But I knew him,” the asset said and Alexander let out a sigh of disgust.

He stood and looked at Rumlow. “Get rid of it,” he ordered. “We need to clean this mess up.”

When Captain America sends out the call to arms, there is no Winter Soldier attacking those loyal to SHIELD. There is no Winter Soldier waiting on the helicarrier, so Captain America completes his mission much sooner.

Pierce still dies, loyal to the last, and Natasha still gives Steve a folder 70 years in the making.


Steve clears the DC bases first and he finds the cryo-chamber, the chair, and –

Everything happened so quickly that the disposal has yet to take place. It has been a week since the bridge, since Steve saw Bucky and Bucky –

Steve falls to his knees and Sam says, “Oh, fuck,” as he steps in behind him.

Two years of thinking Bucky dead, a week of knowing he was alive, and now…

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then rises to his feet. This isn’t going to be a rescue anymore. This isn’t going to be a gathering of intel, of trying to separate the wheat from the chaff. “Sam,” he says, “you might not want to follow me now.”

This is going to be wholesale slaughter and there’s no one left who will be able to stop him.


“Shouldn’t we… shouldn’t we stop him?” Bruce asks as Tony scans through the latest news report. The media hasn’t figured it out; Steve’s not carrying the shield anymore.

Tony remembers a cave in Afghanistan, piles of weapons that all had his name.

Natasha and Clint are still in the wind; Fury’s off searching for all the hydra’s heads. He’ll probably run into Steve soon enough. Tony wonders how that will end.

“Be my guest,” Tony tells him, “but I’m sure as fuck not getting in his way.”

Tony knows how many of the history books are filled with lies, and he grew up on stories of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.

If Steve asks for help, he might even give it. (He knows Steve won’t ask for help. Not for this.)


“Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,” Sam chants, following Steve from up high.

Every day, he thinks about telling Steve he’s done.

Every day, he doesn’t. Because Steve needs someone with him so he doesn’t lose himself more than he already has.

Sam survived a war, and then an attempted insurrection on his home turf. He may not survive Steve Rogers’ crusade for vengeance.

But he can’t leave. He won't.

Brock watched the asset, waiting to see if it would defend itself.

The asset watched him as all the technicians fled, as the Strike team readied themselves. Brock sighed, grabbed his gun, and aimed between the asset’s eyes.

“I knew him,” the asset said; Brock thought it sounded almost satisfied, but that couldn’t be. The asset didn’t feel.

He pulled the trigger.

“Deal with this,” he ordered the technicians, gesturing for his team to follow him out.


( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
Jul. 29th, 2014 03:24 am (UTC)
Aaaahhhhhh! I had things to say about the other winter soldier ones, but then I read the last one and OMFG! (I especially liked Sam I the background there, watching.)
Really well done!
Jul. 29th, 2014 01:27 pm (UTC)

Thank you so very much!
Jul. 29th, 2014 02:45 pm (UTC)
I can imagine Bucky walking... it's orangey yellow, like a peach, this feel *hugs him*

And how creative he can now be to defend, not just an action... sometimes better that way :)

And the last story was so chillingly sad *tissues* :*(
Jul. 29th, 2014 04:43 pm (UTC)

Yeah, that ficlet hurt to write.

Thanks for reading!
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )


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