Whumptober, days 21-25
Oct. 25th, 2019 09:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerPenultimate set of Whumptober prompts! We’re entering the home stretch!
Alt. prompt 13. Lost. Winter Soldier Bucky right after shooting Nick Fury.
The asset stops running in a dark alleyway, panting, breathless, his heart pounding pleasurably. No footsteps behind him.
The asset is briefly disappointed: he went slow specifically so the blond man could keep up. But, after all, he’ll probably be here any minute. Will he bring his metal disc with him, the one he threw at the asset across the rooftops?
The asset can still feel the sting of the impact in his shoulder. He can’t remember the last time an opponent got so close to landing a hit.
He’s fizzing in his chest like a shaken soda pop. A worthy foe. A challenge. A playmate.
And he’ll be here any moment, that blond man. He’ll be here, and they’ll fight right here in this alleyway, trading blows, well-matched opponents, like a boxing match, duking it out in the center of a cheering ring, till they’re both battered and bloodied but unbowed, and then the asset will sling an arm around the blond man’s shoulder and they’ll break up the fight to play stickball -
Stickball?
The asset’s soap bubble fantasy pops.
What the fuck? Adults do not play stickball.
And there’s still no sound of footsteps. No one is following him. The blond man is not a worthy opponent, after all: he could not keep up, even though the asset went slow.
The asset rubs a hand over his mouth, or tries to. The muzzle gets in the way.
It’s just as well. They couldn’t play stickball, really. He couldn’t sling his arm around the blond man’s shoulder at the end and walk off friends. They would have had to fight to the death.
The asset’s feet, so light when he imagined the blond man chasing him across the rooftops, clomp heavily as he trudges down the alley. He has a mission report to make. Mission accomplished, of course. He cannot remember the other missions he has accomplished, but he knows that he is very, very good. Much better than the blond man, who couldn’t even follow to try to avenge his friend’s death.
Clearly the blond man isn’t a good friend, anyway.
22. Hallucination. Steve hallucinates as he freezes on the Valkyrie.
Sometime after he crashed the Valkyrie - after the slow rise of the icy water numbed the pain from his broken body, but before he drowned - Steve saw Bucky sitting in the pilot’s chair.
He looked real, not like a ghost at all: not misty and insubstantial, but solid, touchable. A hallucination, probably.
“Hey,” Steve said, because at least his jaw wasn’t broken. He even managed a smile, more or less, and he said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Bucky smiled back, but he didn’t say anything. That didn’t bother Steve. It seemed like a final mercy to spend his last moments with a friend, even a hallucinatory one: a gift from the gods, a sign of favor, their way of telling him that he had done well. He had been given the gift of a god-like body and in return they had expected a sacrifice, and he had drunk the cup to its dregs.
“I was so sad when you died,” Steve told Bucky, “but it looks like I’m coming right after. Tagging along, as usual. Hope you’ll slow down a little so I can catch up.”
Bucky held out his hand. Steve wanted to take it, but his arm didn’t move when he tried to lift it. “Sorry,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled again, just as forgiving as he had always been of Steve’s physical infirmities.
The Valkyrie groaned. The water level rose, so that Steve was no longer lying on the floor but floating in the icy waters. He had begun to feel warm, which meant he was about to die, and he didn’t mind. Better to freeze than drown.
“This will make a great ending to those comic books,” Steve told Bucky, who had not moved, although the water now lapped at the seat of the pilot’s chair. “Artistic unity. Maybe they’ll make a movie about us. Hope they’ll get someone good to play you…”
The water lapped over Steve’s face, into his mouth. He choked on the icy salt water.
Then something warm cradled the back of his head. Bucky had reached out to him: Bucky had lifted Steve’s head above water. Bucky smiled down at him, like the Madonna smiling at her child, ave Maria, and now it was Steve’s mother’s face, not the face from her only photograph but her own sweet living face, smiling down at him, her face suffused with light - and then all faces brightened into a radiance of light, and warmth, and all was well, and all was well, and all may yet be very well.
23. Bleeding out. Temis.
asakiyume requested more fic about Temis, so here we are. This is actually in the nature of a prequel: the book itself (if it ever exists) will begin with the end of the war.
***
“Medic!” Temis shouted.
It felt futile trying to shout above the noise of the battlefield, but mere futility, Temis had found, never stopped anyone from doing anything. “Medic!” she shouted again, and pressed her hand harder against the man’s leg, although it barely seemed to slow the blood pumping out of the wound in his thigh.
Wonder of wonders: a red coat materialized out of the thick gray smoke. “Medic!” Temis shouted, and this time the man raised his voice as well, although he could not shout very loudly.
The woman - little more than a girl, really - dropped to her knees to look at the leg. Then she looked up, first at Temis, and then at the man, her lips parted as if she had been stricken herself.
“I’m for it, aren’t I?” the man said gently. “I see it in your face, lass. Don’t waste your time on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “It struck an artery. You are going to bleed out as soon as the captain removes her hand.”
The blood rushed from Temis’s hand. She felt she might faint, and by the time her wavering vision cleared, the girl had disappeared in the smoke like a ghost.
“Will you see my tags make their way back to my people?” the soldier asked. I’m from Alba, over in the Uplands, west near the border of Raveness; the name’s Shostis bel Ghira.”
“My mother is also named Ghira,” Temis said, and although Ghira was a common enough name in all faith, it seemed a significant coincidence in that instant, and Shostis bel Ghira let out a shuddering breath and managed a smile. All the color had drained out beneath his skin.
He took off his dog tags and held them out to her. The tags caught the sunlight briefly. “I’m ready,” he said. Temis licked her lips with a dry tongue, and tasted soot and blood.
“We’ll win this war for you,” she promised him.
Then she took her hand off his leg to accept the tags from his hand. He let out a breath, almost a gasp, and then he was dead; and Temis left bloody fingerprints on his eyelids when she closed his eyes.
24. Secret injury. Norah & Wally from BIllabong
littlerhymes wanted a Billabong ficlet for “secret injury.” After much struggle I realized that the Billabong crew is almost unwhumpable - but nonetheless, I did my best. Norah refused to do something as silly as hide an injury, but in the end I managed to foist it off on Wally.
***
If Wally hadn’t fallen off his horse, Norah might never have seen the shrapnel wound on his arm.
He insisted that he was well enough to ride, and Norah allowed herself to be convinced even though he had only recently recovered from his fever, because she hoped that a good ride across the countryside might raise his spirits. Perhaps he could remember the good times they used to have, Wally and Norah and Jim, riding together around Billabong, and then Jim’s death would begin to hurt him less.
But on their way back, Wally muffed an easy jump and tumbled off his horse. Norah jumped off her own horse, her heart in her throat so she could not shout, You can’t die too!
Wally was already sitting up, rather slowly. Norah went over to him, her heart pounding from her fright. “Are you all right?” she asked, as cheerfully as she could manage. “I can see you’ve banged up your arm there. Let me have a look - ”
“No!” Wally hid his arm behind his back.
Norah stopped, amazed. A deep ugly flush came into Wally’s drawn, pale face. “Oh, fine,” he said, and gracelessly thrust the arm toward her.
Norah knelt beside him and gently pushed aside the torn sleeve. Now that she was this close, she could see that what had caught her eye wasn’t a new injury, but an almost-healed gash in his arm, pink and angry where the stitches had recently been removed.
“Oh, Wally,” she said.
Wally brushed his free hand over his eyes. “I would have shown you sooner,” he said. “Only I felt so bad coming back when Jim was gone that I hated to bother you about anything, and after all this is only a shrapnel wound, and it had already been stitched up…”
Norah pressed his hand between hers. His skin was cold under her warm hands. “Who took the stitches out?”
“I did,” Wally said. His eyes remained lowered. He slipped his hand from her grasp and held his arm against his stomach. “A few nights ago.”
“You know Jim would want us to look after you just as if you were him.”
“I wish I could have died instead of Jim,” Wally replied. “I would have done it if I could.”
“And so would I,” Norah said, and Wally looked up at the unexpected savagery of her voice. Norah’s hands balled into fists. “Do you think I like staying here safe? I’d a thousand times rather share the danger with you boys, as we always did at Billabong. I wish I could have taken that shell instead of Jim, and give Dad his son back and you your best chum.”
“Norah.” Wally sounded shocked. “We wouldn’t make that trade, you know. Neither your dad nor I. And Jim wouldn’t have wanted it.”
“And Jim wouldn’t have wanted you to die in his place, either,” Norah said. She managed to unclench her fists. “And no matter how much we want to, none of us can trade places with Jim, anyway. We can’t do anything to help Jim now. Certainly it doesn’t do him a bit of good for you to hide your wounds from us, and take out your stitches yourself, Wally. Imagine how it distracts him from the trout-fishing in heaven to have to watch you do such a thing.”
Wally let out a short laugh, almost despite himself. “I hope there are leaky rowboats in heaven,” he said. “You know Jim won’t enjoy the trout-fishing nearly so much if he never has the pleasure of swimming for the shore after the boat sinks right out from under his feet.”
“Of course,” Norah said, mock-solemnly. “Why, he’s probably wringing out his heavenly robes just this minute.”
The image of Jim in sopping wet angel robes proved too much for them both: they laughed until they had tears in their eyes, and Norah reached out and put her hands on Wally’s. “You aren’t hiding any other injuries, are you? Broken ribs - after effects of mustard gas?”
“No - no. Oh, it was a fool thing to do, I can see that now; only I did want to lessen your burdens somehow, and that was the only thing I could think of.”
“Can’t you see that the only way to lessen burdens is to carry them together?” Norah stood up and offered Wally a hand. His grip, weakened by his recent illness, was not strong, but nonetheless she pulled him to his feet.
“Now we’ve been serious long enough,” she said. “We’ll ride the rest of the way home by the road. There’s a farmhouse where we can get pikelets nearly as good as Brownies - if you think you could muster an appetite.”
“I could probably stomach a few,” Wally allowed. “If only to defend the title of Brownie’s pikelets as the world pikelet champion.”
Norah laughed at him. But she also watched him carefully as they rode; and she had some trouble getting to sleep at night, but lay awake in the dark imagining Wally removing the stitches from his own arm, rather than ask for help.
25. Humiliation. Winter Soldier Bucky & Alexander Pierce.
“Ah, there you are,” Pierce said, when the asset peered around the door. “Come in. John, Tom, this is my asset. Let them have a look at you, don’t be shy.”
The asset sidled inside. The cold night air seemed to cling to his armor. He brought a smell of gunpowder and metal at odds with the cozy crackling fire, the scent of old books, the three elegant upholstered armchairs where Pierce sat in conference with two fellow heads of Hydra.
John and Tom eyed the asset warily, much as Pierce always eyed Tom’s pet tiger. Good.
Pierce let the silence build for a few seconds, let John and Tom consider the lethal possibilities of the asset’s shining metal arm and his three visible guns. Then Pierce patted his thigh. “Come have a seat,” he told the asset.
The asset looked at Pierce, but didn’t move toward him. Above his muzzle, his forehead crinkled. Pierce patted his thigh again, with more emphasis, and the asset crossed the room and perched gingerly on Pierce’s knee.
Pierce nearly gasped at the weight. He shoved the asset off, so the asset landed awkwardly on the Turkish carpet at his feet. “We’d better put you on a diet, young man.”
John and Tom laughed. The asset blushed, the color staining his cheeks above his muzzle. He tried to stand up, but Pierce put a hand on his head and pushed him firmly back to the carpet. Then he ruffled the asset’s hair. “Why don’t you stay a while?” he told the asset. “Get warmed up. Must be a cold night out there.”
The words were only a suggestion, the tone jocular, but his hand on the asset’s head brooked no protest, so the asset subsided and leaned against the chair. Pierce slid a hand under his chin, tilting the asset’s head up sharply to look at him. The asset’s nostrils flared. His eyes looked sullen, resentful.
If it weren’t for the muzzle, Pierce would have kissed him on the mouth, just to show that he could. Instead, he kissed the asset on the forehead. His guests snickered. Pierce let the asset lower his head again and dropped a hand to stroke his hair negligently, as one might caress the ears of a faithful hunting dog. “More brandy, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Don’t mind if I do.” John rose to splash more in his snifter. He poured the brandy as if it were cheap box wine. “Want some for your hunting dog, Alex?”
Tom snorted. Pierce smiled and tightened his hand in the asset’s hair, because the asset had jerked as if he might just rip out John’s throat with his teeth.
“Just a little water,” Pierce said, smiling. “You don’t want to see what he’s capable of when he’s drunk.”
Alt. prompt 13. Lost. Winter Soldier Bucky right after shooting Nick Fury.
The asset stops running in a dark alleyway, panting, breathless, his heart pounding pleasurably. No footsteps behind him.
The asset is briefly disappointed: he went slow specifically so the blond man could keep up. But, after all, he’ll probably be here any minute. Will he bring his metal disc with him, the one he threw at the asset across the rooftops?
The asset can still feel the sting of the impact in his shoulder. He can’t remember the last time an opponent got so close to landing a hit.
He’s fizzing in his chest like a shaken soda pop. A worthy foe. A challenge. A playmate.
And he’ll be here any moment, that blond man. He’ll be here, and they’ll fight right here in this alleyway, trading blows, well-matched opponents, like a boxing match, duking it out in the center of a cheering ring, till they’re both battered and bloodied but unbowed, and then the asset will sling an arm around the blond man’s shoulder and they’ll break up the fight to play stickball -
Stickball?
The asset’s soap bubble fantasy pops.
What the fuck? Adults do not play stickball.
And there’s still no sound of footsteps. No one is following him. The blond man is not a worthy opponent, after all: he could not keep up, even though the asset went slow.
The asset rubs a hand over his mouth, or tries to. The muzzle gets in the way.
It’s just as well. They couldn’t play stickball, really. He couldn’t sling his arm around the blond man’s shoulder at the end and walk off friends. They would have had to fight to the death.
The asset’s feet, so light when he imagined the blond man chasing him across the rooftops, clomp heavily as he trudges down the alley. He has a mission report to make. Mission accomplished, of course. He cannot remember the other missions he has accomplished, but he knows that he is very, very good. Much better than the blond man, who couldn’t even follow to try to avenge his friend’s death.
Clearly the blond man isn’t a good friend, anyway.
22. Hallucination. Steve hallucinates as he freezes on the Valkyrie.
Sometime after he crashed the Valkyrie - after the slow rise of the icy water numbed the pain from his broken body, but before he drowned - Steve saw Bucky sitting in the pilot’s chair.
He looked real, not like a ghost at all: not misty and insubstantial, but solid, touchable. A hallucination, probably.
“Hey,” Steve said, because at least his jaw wasn’t broken. He even managed a smile, more or less, and he said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Bucky smiled back, but he didn’t say anything. That didn’t bother Steve. It seemed like a final mercy to spend his last moments with a friend, even a hallucinatory one: a gift from the gods, a sign of favor, their way of telling him that he had done well. He had been given the gift of a god-like body and in return they had expected a sacrifice, and he had drunk the cup to its dregs.
“I was so sad when you died,” Steve told Bucky, “but it looks like I’m coming right after. Tagging along, as usual. Hope you’ll slow down a little so I can catch up.”
Bucky held out his hand. Steve wanted to take it, but his arm didn’t move when he tried to lift it. “Sorry,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled again, just as forgiving as he had always been of Steve’s physical infirmities.
The Valkyrie groaned. The water level rose, so that Steve was no longer lying on the floor but floating in the icy waters. He had begun to feel warm, which meant he was about to die, and he didn’t mind. Better to freeze than drown.
“This will make a great ending to those comic books,” Steve told Bucky, who had not moved, although the water now lapped at the seat of the pilot’s chair. “Artistic unity. Maybe they’ll make a movie about us. Hope they’ll get someone good to play you…”
The water lapped over Steve’s face, into his mouth. He choked on the icy salt water.
Then something warm cradled the back of his head. Bucky had reached out to him: Bucky had lifted Steve’s head above water. Bucky smiled down at him, like the Madonna smiling at her child, ave Maria, and now it was Steve’s mother’s face, not the face from her only photograph but her own sweet living face, smiling down at him, her face suffused with light - and then all faces brightened into a radiance of light, and warmth, and all was well, and all was well, and all may yet be very well.
23. Bleeding out. Temis.
asakiyume requested more fic about Temis, so here we are. This is actually in the nature of a prequel: the book itself (if it ever exists) will begin with the end of the war.***
“Medic!” Temis shouted.
It felt futile trying to shout above the noise of the battlefield, but mere futility, Temis had found, never stopped anyone from doing anything. “Medic!” she shouted again, and pressed her hand harder against the man’s leg, although it barely seemed to slow the blood pumping out of the wound in his thigh.
Wonder of wonders: a red coat materialized out of the thick gray smoke. “Medic!” Temis shouted, and this time the man raised his voice as well, although he could not shout very loudly.
The woman - little more than a girl, really - dropped to her knees to look at the leg. Then she looked up, first at Temis, and then at the man, her lips parted as if she had been stricken herself.
“I’m for it, aren’t I?” the man said gently. “I see it in your face, lass. Don’t waste your time on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “It struck an artery. You are going to bleed out as soon as the captain removes her hand.”
The blood rushed from Temis’s hand. She felt she might faint, and by the time her wavering vision cleared, the girl had disappeared in the smoke like a ghost.
“Will you see my tags make their way back to my people?” the soldier asked. I’m from Alba, over in the Uplands, west near the border of Raveness; the name’s Shostis bel Ghira.”
“My mother is also named Ghira,” Temis said, and although Ghira was a common enough name in all faith, it seemed a significant coincidence in that instant, and Shostis bel Ghira let out a shuddering breath and managed a smile. All the color had drained out beneath his skin.
He took off his dog tags and held them out to her. The tags caught the sunlight briefly. “I’m ready,” he said. Temis licked her lips with a dry tongue, and tasted soot and blood.
“We’ll win this war for you,” she promised him.
Then she took her hand off his leg to accept the tags from his hand. He let out a breath, almost a gasp, and then he was dead; and Temis left bloody fingerprints on his eyelids when she closed his eyes.
24. Secret injury. Norah & Wally from BIllabong
littlerhymes wanted a Billabong ficlet for “secret injury.” After much struggle I realized that the Billabong crew is almost unwhumpable - but nonetheless, I did my best. Norah refused to do something as silly as hide an injury, but in the end I managed to foist it off on Wally. ***
If Wally hadn’t fallen off his horse, Norah might never have seen the shrapnel wound on his arm.
He insisted that he was well enough to ride, and Norah allowed herself to be convinced even though he had only recently recovered from his fever, because she hoped that a good ride across the countryside might raise his spirits. Perhaps he could remember the good times they used to have, Wally and Norah and Jim, riding together around Billabong, and then Jim’s death would begin to hurt him less.
But on their way back, Wally muffed an easy jump and tumbled off his horse. Norah jumped off her own horse, her heart in her throat so she could not shout, You can’t die too!
Wally was already sitting up, rather slowly. Norah went over to him, her heart pounding from her fright. “Are you all right?” she asked, as cheerfully as she could manage. “I can see you’ve banged up your arm there. Let me have a look - ”
“No!” Wally hid his arm behind his back.
Norah stopped, amazed. A deep ugly flush came into Wally’s drawn, pale face. “Oh, fine,” he said, and gracelessly thrust the arm toward her.
Norah knelt beside him and gently pushed aside the torn sleeve. Now that she was this close, she could see that what had caught her eye wasn’t a new injury, but an almost-healed gash in his arm, pink and angry where the stitches had recently been removed.
“Oh, Wally,” she said.
Wally brushed his free hand over his eyes. “I would have shown you sooner,” he said. “Only I felt so bad coming back when Jim was gone that I hated to bother you about anything, and after all this is only a shrapnel wound, and it had already been stitched up…”
Norah pressed his hand between hers. His skin was cold under her warm hands. “Who took the stitches out?”
“I did,” Wally said. His eyes remained lowered. He slipped his hand from her grasp and held his arm against his stomach. “A few nights ago.”
“You know Jim would want us to look after you just as if you were him.”
“I wish I could have died instead of Jim,” Wally replied. “I would have done it if I could.”
“And so would I,” Norah said, and Wally looked up at the unexpected savagery of her voice. Norah’s hands balled into fists. “Do you think I like staying here safe? I’d a thousand times rather share the danger with you boys, as we always did at Billabong. I wish I could have taken that shell instead of Jim, and give Dad his son back and you your best chum.”
“Norah.” Wally sounded shocked. “We wouldn’t make that trade, you know. Neither your dad nor I. And Jim wouldn’t have wanted it.”
“And Jim wouldn’t have wanted you to die in his place, either,” Norah said. She managed to unclench her fists. “And no matter how much we want to, none of us can trade places with Jim, anyway. We can’t do anything to help Jim now. Certainly it doesn’t do him a bit of good for you to hide your wounds from us, and take out your stitches yourself, Wally. Imagine how it distracts him from the trout-fishing in heaven to have to watch you do such a thing.”
Wally let out a short laugh, almost despite himself. “I hope there are leaky rowboats in heaven,” he said. “You know Jim won’t enjoy the trout-fishing nearly so much if he never has the pleasure of swimming for the shore after the boat sinks right out from under his feet.”
“Of course,” Norah said, mock-solemnly. “Why, he’s probably wringing out his heavenly robes just this minute.”
The image of Jim in sopping wet angel robes proved too much for them both: they laughed until they had tears in their eyes, and Norah reached out and put her hands on Wally’s. “You aren’t hiding any other injuries, are you? Broken ribs - after effects of mustard gas?”
“No - no. Oh, it was a fool thing to do, I can see that now; only I did want to lessen your burdens somehow, and that was the only thing I could think of.”
“Can’t you see that the only way to lessen burdens is to carry them together?” Norah stood up and offered Wally a hand. His grip, weakened by his recent illness, was not strong, but nonetheless she pulled him to his feet.
“Now we’ve been serious long enough,” she said. “We’ll ride the rest of the way home by the road. There’s a farmhouse where we can get pikelets nearly as good as Brownies - if you think you could muster an appetite.”
“I could probably stomach a few,” Wally allowed. “If only to defend the title of Brownie’s pikelets as the world pikelet champion.”
Norah laughed at him. But she also watched him carefully as they rode; and she had some trouble getting to sleep at night, but lay awake in the dark imagining Wally removing the stitches from his own arm, rather than ask for help.
25. Humiliation. Winter Soldier Bucky & Alexander Pierce.
“Ah, there you are,” Pierce said, when the asset peered around the door. “Come in. John, Tom, this is my asset. Let them have a look at you, don’t be shy.”
The asset sidled inside. The cold night air seemed to cling to his armor. He brought a smell of gunpowder and metal at odds with the cozy crackling fire, the scent of old books, the three elegant upholstered armchairs where Pierce sat in conference with two fellow heads of Hydra.
John and Tom eyed the asset warily, much as Pierce always eyed Tom’s pet tiger. Good.
Pierce let the silence build for a few seconds, let John and Tom consider the lethal possibilities of the asset’s shining metal arm and his three visible guns. Then Pierce patted his thigh. “Come have a seat,” he told the asset.
The asset looked at Pierce, but didn’t move toward him. Above his muzzle, his forehead crinkled. Pierce patted his thigh again, with more emphasis, and the asset crossed the room and perched gingerly on Pierce’s knee.
Pierce nearly gasped at the weight. He shoved the asset off, so the asset landed awkwardly on the Turkish carpet at his feet. “We’d better put you on a diet, young man.”
John and Tom laughed. The asset blushed, the color staining his cheeks above his muzzle. He tried to stand up, but Pierce put a hand on his head and pushed him firmly back to the carpet. Then he ruffled the asset’s hair. “Why don’t you stay a while?” he told the asset. “Get warmed up. Must be a cold night out there.”
The words were only a suggestion, the tone jocular, but his hand on the asset’s head brooked no protest, so the asset subsided and leaned against the chair. Pierce slid a hand under his chin, tilting the asset’s head up sharply to look at him. The asset’s nostrils flared. His eyes looked sullen, resentful.
If it weren’t for the muzzle, Pierce would have kissed him on the mouth, just to show that he could. Instead, he kissed the asset on the forehead. His guests snickered. Pierce let the asset lower his head again and dropped a hand to stroke his hair negligently, as one might caress the ears of a faithful hunting dog. “More brandy, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Don’t mind if I do.” John rose to splash more in his snifter. He poured the brandy as if it were cheap box wine. “Want some for your hunting dog, Alex?”
Tom snorted. Pierce smiled and tightened his hand in the asset’s hair, because the asset had jerked as if he might just rip out John’s throat with his teeth.
“Just a little water,” Pierce said, smiling. “You don’t want to see what he’s capable of when he’s drunk.”
no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 08:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 05:11 pm (UTC)In some AU, the Asset ripped Alexander Pierce's throat out with that useful metal fist.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 09:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 06:49 pm (UTC)And Steve seeing Bucky and his mom on the Valkyrie! Auuugh.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-25 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-27 11:48 am (UTC)Those Winter Soldier ones... I'm so sad for hallucinating Steve! And every time I think I could not possibly hate Alexander Pierce more, you prove me wrong lol!
no subject
Date: 2019-10-27 01:10 pm (UTC)Do you think when Steve wakes up in the future, he's going to be at least a little sad that he wasn't actually going to heaven with his mom and Bucky?
no subject
Date: 2019-10-28 02:59 am (UTC)Lost
Date: 2019-10-27 11:51 pm (UTC)then the asset will sling an arm around the blond man’s shoulder and they’ll break up the fight to play stickball -
Stickball?
The asset’s soap bubble fantasy pops.
What the fuck? Adults do not play stickball.
Awwww!! Poor guy. And then the ending:
He cannot remember the other missions he has accomplished, but he knows that he is very, very good. Much better than the blond man, who couldn’t even follow to try to avenge his friend’s death.
Clearly the blond man isn’t a good friend, anyway.
Heart = squeezed like orange in a juicer.
Re: Lost
Date: 2019-10-28 12:26 pm (UTC)hallucination
Date: 2019-10-27 11:53 pm (UTC)Re: hallucination
Date: 2019-10-28 12:54 am (UTC)bleeding out
Date: 2019-10-27 11:58 pm (UTC)“We’ll win this war for you,” she promised him
OH TEMIS NO. MY HEART.
And the bloody fingerprints on the eyelids. AaaaaAAAAAaaaaa.....
Re: bleeding out
Date: 2019-10-28 12:25 pm (UTC)secret injury
Date: 2019-10-28 12:04 am (UTC)I like Norah! I like the way the argument goes about dying in Jim's place--very good!
“Of course,” Norah said, mock-solemnly. “Why, he’s probably ringing out his heavenly robes just this minute.”
---great line :-) I don't know the show at all, but I loved this.
Re: secret injury
Date: 2019-10-28 12:59 am (UTC)This is actually not a show, but a series of famous early twentieth-century Australian children's books that I had never heard of until an Australian friend proposed that we should read then. We've traded a number of books and it's been sort of fascinating to see how many things - even books that are popular and well-known in one country or the other - have never crossed the Pacific. And of course England, being the mother country and all, has managed to export loads of books to both Australia and America.
Humiliation
Date: 2019-10-28 12:07 am (UTC)Re: Humiliation
Date: 2019-10-28 12:55 am (UTC)