It’s been two hours since he saw the paper, and he still hasn’t started packing up his shit. They probably have some sort of a lead on where he is, he needs to leave, and yet–

Yet he’s spent the last two hours watching Curtis cut up a magazine and stick his tongue slightly past his lips as he decides the best way to glue them onto the paper. He’s spent two hours trying to figure out how to tell Curtis he’s leaving.

      “Îți amintești ce să faci dacă cineva întreabă despre mine, nu?”

It’s funny, how you forget about the trouble in the world when you’re home. Some days, it’s like the world will swallow you down. Others, you can pick up a fucking hobby and pass a peaceful night away.

Until Bucky is asking him a question he’s been asked a hundred times. He wants to reply simply; that’s not going to happen. But the sooner he can get through the question, the sooner he can go back to making something to give to Bucky when he’s finished it.

          “Uh, da?”               He doesn’t like when Bucky doesn’t have a smile.               So he gives his own, raising his head properly.                                  “Dar asta niciodata nu se va întâmpla. Nu vă faceți griji.”

delusions: correction;

she is still not ready to show him the final little thing from the pile of other gifts, something holding her back. um, common sense? and while she shifts uncomfortably in her spot, eyes lowered and lip squeezed between her teeth, it’s regret that slithers through her mind. one thought and then another pull her in different directions, but before she falls he’s there. so close it makes all doubt and concern vanish into nothingness. the movement of her body is left unnoticed as she leans closer, eyes fixed on his.

hearing her own name upon his lips ( leslie. not mercy. ) pulls the corners of hers up into a smile. it feels warm and good. it feels right.                         just as having him close does. 

but it’s that realization, the sudden awareness of her own increased heart rate that sends a stream of cold water across her body. it wasn’t rare. she’d catch herself feeling something when he’d say something, move closer or touch her. and it was always a struggle to pinpoint what it truly was. just like she could never pinpoint what he was to her.

          “that’s not it…”

trying to avoid thinking of that problem, she accidentally steps on the previous one and it’s too late to sneak out of the situation. her fingers are still wrapped around the soft fabric, when she pulls the toy up to show him.

          “i saw it and it reminded me of you and- i just thought-                     you know- it’s a bear and- and you like them and-”

she’s a mess, still unsure whether it was the best idea ever or something extremely stupid. if it were any other day, another situation, leslie could easily play it off as a joke, but she was afraid it might hurt his feelings.

          “they took the ribbon, but other than that it’s all good…                     and, uh- if you don’t want it- if you don’t like it, i can                                         get you something else…”

they're trying to fit together like misshapen puzzle pieces,  both worn and frayed and pushed together so many times that they fit only by illusion. they used to fit together so well, with jokes and jabs and a common feeling of you mean the  world to me, but i will never tell you as much.

now, they are frayed and broken children trying to understand something that is bigger than either of them, yet smaller than anything else. his mind is rotten like flowers after a frost, and even her warmth and her words can't hide that scent. but still he hangs on, holds on, tries dig roots into snow that won't ever melt. it won't ever melt.

                            "h'?"

the previous break forgotten, it isn't in his worries to forget again if he pulls back; and yet. maybe somewhere, he knows. somewhere stops him from letting go fully, only pulling back enough so he can tilt his head down and see what she is giving him. and that warmth in his chest remains at the sight.

                    "bear..."

the child in him comes back, but he pulls the adult with him, too. she worries about whether he'll like it, or if the lack of a ribbon (make it easier, get yourself before the tail does, make it easier) will bother him; but he's already pulling the soft plush up against his chest with one hand while the other remains on her arm as an anchor. they might be two different puzzles now, but sometimes you can make it work.

                  "he's amazing, leslie." leslie, leslie, leslie, "thank you."

for a moment, he feels more anchored than he has in what feels like years while holding the soft toy, and for a moment, all he can do is move to brush his lips to her cheek. they haven’t kissed in what is also years, but his heart still beats warm.

                   "you-- just made my week.                             i-- does he have a name?" i'm here. we’re here.

Bucky steps into Curtis’ path, blocking him from leaving. 

      “No, you’re not. ‘Cause you’re just gonna go get yourself         hurt to feel better about the fact that I’d give my life for         you. Also, quit bullshitting and acting like you wouldn’t         do the same damn thing. That’s what people who love         each other do.”

His indignation is immediate, apparent, and bitter.

         “What I do at times I want to destress is my business.            I’m not going to die out there, Buck. And that’s--            it’s not-- it’s different.”                                            It isn’t, really.                                                       “-- just get out of my way.”

      it took me four hours to make those brownies, janet.

#i will tell everyone about you and gary

       what happened at the christmas party is none of your business

fromthetail started following you

     fuckin took you long enough.

       fuckin fight me helen

Veronica Roth, Insurgent (via upchuckfactor)

@fromthetail: haha i made a facebook for curtis me: 

me: i’m not surprised

listen i had to start somewhere

NO YOU FUCK OFF

        AT first, max genuinely believes the man                 in front of him is just another hallucination.                 another faceless victim of all the times he’s                 fucked up, in some way or another. but the                 way the man moves, the way his clothes and                 his face remain crisp and don’t blur along the                 edges make max check again. the body is real,                 alive and breathing and telling him to move-                 which he doesn’t really want to do. he doesn’t                 wanna go back out into the storm, thank you                 very much. he shuffles to the side of the entrance,                 but there still isn’t much room, and shrugs his                 shoulders.

                  YEARS had passed since he'd seen another human like                                  the one in front of him. he and them didn't really                                  get along, in the long runs. for all the collapsed                                  tunnels and hideaways behind him, paranoia                                  grew fast in the underground. what little morals                                  they had left, left. curtis can only eye the gap                                  given to him for a moment before curling a lip.

                                           'that isn't moving.'

                                 the storm outside doesn't look like anything either                                  of them should be going into, but curtis doesn't                                  exactly want to let the stranger in to where his                                  personal-- a pause, held and swallowed. damn it.

Well, that backfired on him pretty spectacularly. Shit.

      “If something ever happens, you can fight me on         it then. Until then, you’re just gonna have to deal         with it, alright?”

       “Yeah. Great.”

For all Bucky’s charm, support, love, and all the other bullshit preventing Curtis really going off at him; he sure could be a fool. A fool Curtis can see later, after going out and getting a drink alone.

       “I’m going out.         Don’t do anything dangerous until I get back,         or I’ll kill you myself.”

And really, he’s only half joking.

       “Достаточно.” Karpov’s voice cut through the stale air of the bunker like a knife. The word clipped and stiff with cold and displeasure and contempt all wrapped into a single sound; he thought it could have sounded like something else, like crunching gravel under his boots or the squeaking wheel of a hot dog stand. All sounds annoying but irrelevant to the task and so he discarded the thought and the feeling and instead he took a step backwards, standing instead at attention.

It had been hours. Hours since he had been ordered to train the American; their methods were harsh and brutal as life, lessons learned through pain and failure and more pain, always pain. The American would suffer more before the day was over but whether by his hand or anothers wasn’t up to him. “Мы снова начать через час.”

The soldier watched as Karpov left the room, his eyes lingering on his back, glancing to the man behind the gate whom buzzed the door to the training room open. He watched as the door opened, as Karpov stepped over the threshold and counted the seconds before the door hissed closed behind him. Six seconds to get from where he stood and through the door, more than enough time. He would need to report that to Karpov.

       “If you don’t improve you’re going to die.”

Somehow, it burned the worst; that voice. That disappointment. All that should have mattered was his orders, not every aching bone in his body from being pushed too far, then further. Every breath sucked in hurt, and every second he stayed on his knees trying to breathe was another failed. Nothing else should have mattered. A soldier isn't supposed to stay on his knees. There's nothing for him to do but to try stand again, for the moment ignoring his trainer to push back up, one legged locked after the other. Being locked in isn’t a concept registered; he can’t leave.

The rush he feels in his chest and spiked through his mind isn't anger at Karpov, anger at the pain or anger even at why he’s there; it's anger at himself, and anger at the perfected soldier in front of him. They shouldn't feel anger, and the soldier was right; he would die if he didn't improve. But that doesn't stop him sucking in a rattled breath and setting his stance all over again.

Blood in his mouth and running from his nose doesn't stop him speaking, spitting out his words with an anger and frustration he shouldn't have been feeling.

"Тогда мы идем, пока моей смерти."

Another facet to learn, languages, but not one he struggled with as much as combat. Or, as the world swayed some and he readjusted his footing, consciousness.

n ah humanity doesn’t deserve to be saved. hope u packed a winter jacket lol bye

   i hope u go to lick ur lips and ur tongue gets stuck to ur bitch ass helmet ala pole style