GUYS FALLING FOR THE ENEMY HIT 2 MILLION READS WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH SO PLEASE HAVE THIS CHAPTER.
I WROTE FIVE DIFFERENT ENDINGS FOR IT. ENDED UP WITH THIS ONE.
HOPE YOU LIKE IT YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE.
~
SLAM.
The shock of seeing the infamous man with the metal arm – or as I know him to be, Buckaboobear – is fairly short lived, for we are quite literally jolted to a start when a car that is evidently driven by HYDRA agents slams into the back of our own. He only uses this as an opportunity to launch himself back onto the roof of our vehicle.
Sammy immediately starts driving once more, attempting to adeptly swerve the Winter Soldier off of our car. However, this is also short lived, because seconds later, Sammy finds himself without a steering wheel to even steer.
Balls.
Leaves from the vine
Falling so slow
Like fragile, tiny shells
Drifting in the foam.
Nat tries shooting at the hostile where she can, but the Soldier has already leapt atop the hood of the HYDRA car behind us. Snapping my gaze to stare through the now broken back window, I flick my hand out of the small space and earnestly watch as jagged shards of ice dart towards the car and the Soldier. It's obvious neither parties expected this, if their abrupt and panicked swerving is anything to go off.
Around the sharp icicles that sink their way into the hostile car, I barely register a metal gloved hand reach for and snap a small handgun into action, narrowly dodging the bits of lead aimed at my head. Ducking down below the seats, I hear a concerned "Lilly!" from the front seat, making me ground out an "I'm fine," to the super soldier in return.
Another jolt disturbs our car's driving, and before I even know it, the vehicle begins to aggressively swerve and tumble, jostling my senses. Hissing in pain at a strong thump to my head, I snap my foot out and kick off the car door closest to me, faintly aware of Steve doing the same in the front. Sticking my hands out in preparation – even though I know this will still hurt like a bitch – I launch myself out of the car whilst simultaneously shooting snow and ice from my palms to soften the landing.
For a good ten to twenty meters (32-65ft), I tumble mercilessly across snow covered concrete, fresh bruises sweeping across my entire body. It's nowhere near as brutal as it could be, my new suit preventing any and all scrapes, as well as buffering the impact for the most part. Another reason why I have to give Lucas and Stella a big thank you for the improvements.
Staring further up the road, I hazily discern Steve and Nat still scraping down the road on the detached car door, Sam having rolled off a few meters before them, whilst I still try to jog my senses after the rough tumble.
Little soldier boy
Comes marching home
Brave soldier boy
Comes marching home.
The HYDRA car has driven out in front of us by this point, parking in a way that blocks a sizeable portion of our side of the highway. Gritting my teeth, I place my black gloved palms flat against the snowy floor, weakly pushing myself up from the ground. Face scrunched in aggravation, I manage to rise to my full height, stumbling towards Sammy, reaching him just as a grenade launcher shoots out a grenade at Steve and knocks him clean off the bridge. Thank God for that shield.
Crouching behind a car with Sam, a small huff of annoyance tinged with pain bursts past my lips at the torrent of bullets that began to rain down on us moments after Steve's little trip over the side of the bridge, Tasha taking cover behind the car a little bit ahead of us.
"You got any fire power on you?" Sam asks over the roar of bullets eating their way into the metal of the car. He only realises his interesting choice of words after they've fallen past his lips.
"Why yes, Sammy," I grin, immensely pleased with myself. "I do have fire power on me."
Wait, shit, I don't. Do I? Lokimotion said they'd come back eventually, but have they?
Holding my right hand palm up, I narrow my gaze and sternly concentrate on my hand, willing something, anything to happen. The smallest of flames flickers for but a moment, too weak and definitely too short a time for me to even consider using any fire power anytime soon.
"I retract my statement from the record," I bitterly recant, scowling and dropping my hand. "Don't need fire to be a badass though."
Most of the heat of the gunfire seems to be pointed at Natasha when I peek over the hood of the car, watching her leap over the side of the bridge in a desperate attempt to dodge the grenade and onslaught of bullets. It's almost as if they've forgotten Sammy and I are here, for the whole group of agents and the Winter Soldier pause in their firing to head to the side of the bridge, an obvious attempt to locate Steve and Natasha.
In very little time I slip the half-way ski styled mask over the lower half of my face, a reminiscence of the Winter Soldier's own – minus the goggles he also wears with his – just in case of any gas attacks. Un-holstering one of my handguns – always have two for back up these days – I slam it into Sammy's chest and wink. Stumbling for a moment, he stares sternly at me, the both of scrambling for some semblance of control of the situation. "If we're gonna get back to Steve and Natasha, we're going to need an escape plan," Sam announces, earning an amused snort from me.
My voice sounds more robotic – yet still female – and fairly altered as a result of the inbuilt voice synthesizer in my mask when I respond. "Escape plan? You say that like any of them will be left alive to escape from."
Ash in the snow
Falling so slow
Like fragile, broken hearts
With no place to go.
Rolling out into the open, I rise to a stand and narrow my arrogant gaze on the HYDRA agents closest to me. Cocking my head to the side, a rather smug smirk remains glued to my lips even though none can see it, and I find myself unable to hold back the small, dry chuckle that escapes the back of my throat. "So, they call you the Winter Soldier? Oh honey, didn't you hear? I own winter."
Cartwheeling, a raging swarm of frost follows and dances around my movements swiftly, surging towards the group of hostiles in a few seconds flat. Some narrowly dodge from what I can see, but others prove not to be so lucky. Cries of agony and pain as frost burns and eats into the skin of the agents affected convulse in the air, the sounds jumping in an out of my ears in between my cartwheels and high kicks. However, it doesn't take long before the open fire of bullets is turned onto me.
Some men head off to find Nat, others presumably to find Steve, but a generous amount remain behind to shoot at Sam and I, one of them being the Winter Soldier himself.
Little soldier boy
Come marching home
Brave soldier boy
Come marching home
His standard military issue semi-automatic is aimed directly at me, and I have mere moments to bolt to the side of the road and vault over the divider in the middle of the highway to avoid the fire. As I run, my hands swoop to the side, as if flicking someone away, resulting in a forceful torrent of frost to knock all the agents off their feet and momentarily freeze the lower halves of their bodies in place, giving Sammy a chance to take out a few more at a quicker rate. The Winter Soldier, however, slams his metal hand into the concrete, keeping himself firmly planted on the ground and shattering the ice collected at his feet.
Another gust of frost swells and billows around me, sweeping under a car and haphazardly tossing it in the direction of the Winter Soldier, leaving a jagged, slanted pillar of ice at least 10 meters (32ft) tall where the car had previously been. He dodges it with ease, prompting me to repeat the manoeuvre another two times before he has to all but throw himself over the side of the bridge.
Bolting towards where he leapt, I hiss and jerk back when yet another bullet skims past mere centimetres away from my face from down below, stepping back and growling. The Winter Soldier has over seventy years more experience than me, but that doesn't mean he's better.
And even if he did, like hell would I openly admit it.
Racing to the opposite side of the highway, I swiftly launch myself over the other side of the bridge and cringe when the soles of my boots slam into the solid slide of ice forming beneath me, struggling to maintain my balance as I crouch and slide the whole way down. The Soldier unfortunately notices my reappearance under the other side of the bridge before I reach the solid earth again, and wastes no time in opening fire upon the fragile ice slide.
The cracks and breaks in the ice sound like roars to my ears, and yet I maintain a level head. Vaulting over the side before I even reach the ground, I land with a solid slam and roll into a crouch behind another car, narrowly dodging a bullet that skims and pricks my left arm.
The sound of bullets biting into steel and concrete halts, prompting a perplexed eyebrow furrow from me. As much as I adore the idea of him packing up and going home because he's tired – because honestly, same bro – the brief time I spent as his psychiatrist gave me insight into just how driven the Winter Soldier is. Which, when you're trying not to kill him and beat him at the same time, is a royal pain in the ass.
Cautiously peeking around a tyre, I can feel my eyes widen to the size of tennis balls when I see him pull the trigger on his grenade launcher several feet away. Springing up and soaring out of the way, the force of the detonating grenade surges me forward all that bit more and mercilessly into the windshield of another car, the glass cracking to look like a spider web.
The hood of the second hand Mercedes groans contemptuously under my weight as I roll in pain, hissing out between clenched teeth. "Someone owned that car asshole. Insurance isn't cheap you know."
Says me, the woman who used to hotwire and steal cars all the time in my own assassin days.
Brows in a hard line and face like a brewing storm, step by step the Winter Soldier makes his way to where I lay, until he's close enough to seize me by one of my ankles and yank me towards him. My other leg snaps reflexively, bending into my stomach until I'm sat on the edge of the hood, the sole of my free foot planting itself on his chest whilst his grip moves up from my ankle to my thigh. The proximity between us is almost non-existent, something I've always found very intimate about a good fight.
Usually, when you're close enough in hand to hand combat, you can see the miniature shifts in their stance, or the way their eyes will give away their next move by momentarily focusing on the next point of contact. It's easy to gauge their emotions – or lack thereof – when you're not occupied by your probable imminent death, you have time to register and think about their reactions. In the heat of battle, however, you have much less time and a great deal of your concentration spent on trying to protect yourself. Being something I've known all my life, fighting is second nature to me. I can register and process such shifts and signs in my opponent, even amidst the strenuous demands that conflict calls for.
Trying to gauge the thoughts and next moves of a super soldier who has been brainwashed with half his face covered, however, is plenty more difficult than you may think.
But hey, at least our hair is matching.
That's a lie, mine is in a side part, layered and is overall better kempt.
It's the same length though, so...
"Twinning!"
The chirpy outburst elicits a twitch in his stony facade, and yet not his movements or strength. Nonetheless, I snatch a fistful of his hair and fiercely slam his head into mine, sure to make contact with the right part of my head so I don't injure myself.
Pushing him back with the foot I have planted on his chest, he still has yet to release my other ankle, dragging me back with him. I have to catch myself backwards before my back makes contact with the floor.
He's a heavy man, made of muscle and metal, but my legs have always been the strongest parts of my body. Allowing myself to fall back onto my elbows and forearms, I yank him back towards me with the ankle held into his grip, my free foot hooked around the back of his knee, and impetuously propel him over me onto the hood of the car. His free, normal hand barely shoots out before him in time, the sound of his forehead making a light thump against the hood, but nowhere near as heavy and forceful as what I was gunning for.
Having finally released my ankle, I roll clear out of the way and spring to my feet, the two of us face to face once more.
"No one here remembers me, even though I've tried to get them to, but you..." The words, spoken behind my own mask, breathily hang between us. "I will make sure you remember Steve. You matter to him, and he matters to me. Our own barely-there-history be damned—"
More burning nausea ruthlessly rolls over me at the most inopportune time, my insides feeling like they're caught tumbling in the barrel of a powerful wave. I noticeably keel over from the abrupt onslaught, something that the Soldier takes gross advantage of.
Cool, biting metal snakes around my neck, a sensation I'm certain is a reminiscent of Death's hand itself. The limb lifts me up, off the ground, dangling in the air helplessly, the sickness from before still not washing away and impairing my better judgement.
Air... Bucky... pain... so much pain...
Gurgling and coughing for breath, the very act taken in ragged, painful portions, I rip my mask from my face in an attempt to allow more air into my lungs. Perhaps, that way, I can think a bit more clearly.
The act, for the strangest of reasons, seems to wake the Winter Soldier up like someone poured a bucket of iced water all over him. My very identity seems to have burned him, for in milliseconds flat he's released me and jolted back, as if I were a snake. Even what little of his face is evident behind his mask falls, head tilted to the side questioningly.
"Lilly?"
He thought he knew
What he was fighting for,
But the sight of blood
Made him question war
It's said so soft, so unsure, so devoid of all emotion aside from a drop of – what? Hope? Confusion? I don't even know by this point – that I need a few moments to comprehend that the uttered word belongs to the lost man in front of me.
What. The. Fuck.
For months now, I haven't even bothered attempting to jog the memories of those I know, because to them, those memories don't even exist. And here, standing in front of me, the man who doesn't own any memories, who doesn't remember anyone he used to know, remembers me; the undercover assassin who was his psychiatrist for a few months at the most.
This has to be the world's most twisted joke. This is Thanos, laughing and mocking me from wherever that little shit – that goddamn purple space grape – is sat.
He doesn't even remember himself, but he remembers me.
ME.
The entirety of our professional and somewhat-not-so-professional relationship, I addressed him as Soldier, only slipping up once or twice in calling him James or Bucky. I was a cold bitch in my assassin days, my sarcasm, immaturity and playfulness throwing people off enough that they would forget just how much I really didn't care. Sure, I don't kill kids or pregnant women, but the act of taking a life itself? Never mattered to me. Still doesn't, if I'm being honest, but I am trying to be more considerate, not just for Steve, but for myself.
When I was his psychiatrist, I was still like that, but seeing just how inhumane HYDRA was treating him, how they were playing God and tearing away pieces of his mind only to mould it back together in shapes of their choosing, I developed what one would consider to be a protective instinct over the man. Always so lost, always so hurt, always trying so hard to remember something when it was only him, his thoughts and I sat in a room so silent that even a low breath sounded a roar. Sympathy. It was something I only ever felt for Ally or Nick, and there I was, feeling it for someone who wasn't either of them.
Perhaps, that is why I began to confuse my feelings between Steve and Bucky after the infinity stones strengthened my connection to the brainwashed assassin. In spite of my mutated blood, Bucky and I share the same blood type. It was my blood, and a portion of my liver that saved him from death on a mission long ago. His liver was completely shredded from shrapnel, poison lacing it. Giving a portion of my liver wasn't too much of a big deal, due to how the liver is capable of regenerating itself to a certain degree. That is what triggered our connection once the infinity stones began mutating my blood even more.
Reliving those memories, the first flicker of warmth and unadulterated humanity I experienced before meeting Steve, muddled my emotions, like I was trying to see what I properly felt for each man through a fogged up window.
What I felt, what I feel for Bucky, is a passionate fondness for a man who first cracked the ice around my heart. What I feel for Steve, is the true love that melted it.
Not that I would ever say all this out loud; I generally avoid talking about my own emotions like they're the black plague, my time in Asgard and the recuperation that followed being the only exemptions because I was literally on the verge of insanity. I've never even sat down and openly discussed the gaping hole that Ally's death left inside of me.
Steve, Tony and Nicky – and perhaps Bucky and Sam Hemmings – are the only people I would ever feel mildly comfortable talking about my feelings with, and one is presumably dead, another is a brainwashed assassin, and the other two aren't here.
Ergo, no Dr. Phil moments this fight.
Poor soldier boy
Cold and alone
Bomb fall like rain,
He's all alone
With one of my gloved hands pressing, clenching and twisting the fabric of my suit above my stomach, the queasiness coming and going, I use the other to feebly lean against the side of a nearby car, having trouble finding what to say for once in my life. "You... remember me?"
One slow, cautious nod is what I receive in response, as if he is quite unsure himself. He falters where he stands, like he's forgotten his orders and is now waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Moving closer to the car to now lean my shoulder and right side of my body against it for additional support, the brief lapse in fighting allows for me to collect my thoughts and breath.
"Then you'll remember that I'm on your side Soldier," I try to reason, voice levelled and reasonable. My Doctor Timp tone. "I care about your wellbeing. I was your doctor, your psychiatrist. I was taken away from you because HYDRA wants to treat you like a mindless weapon, whereas I was treating you like an actual human being. There is a lot more for you to remember..." Weakly, I lift my right hand up from where it was bracing me against the car, outstretching to the Soldier a few feet away. "But I need you to trust me, as you once did."
War rages behind the gaze of the lost man, and when one is lost in the midst of war, one forgets which side they are truly fighting for. Or, in his case, I suppose the more pressing detail would be who he's fighting against.
"Soldier," I try urging again, my sensible tone cracking into more of a plea.
BANG.
Those leaves did grow
From branches overgrown
Drifting slowly down
Resting in the snow.
A gunshot shatters the fragile moment like glass, any chance of reasoning with the man completely obliterated. One of the HYDRA agents on the bridge above takes another shot at me, missing me just as he did the first time. Scowling, I push myself off the car abruptly and roll fully under the bridge, bathing in the shade cast by the structure. My hazel eyes glance analytically behind me to gauge Bucky's next course of action, only to find the Winter Soldier once again in his stead.
"Your friend is my mission," he evenly dishes out as a warning. Quiet, demanding, coldly empty. "Stay out of my way."
My teeth clench until it's almost painful, trying not to get frustrated with the situation at hand. "Can we take a rain check on this fight, please? I'm just not really feeling it today—"
I merely blink and he already has a gun snapped out and pointed at me. He doesn't fire, though. It merely hangs there between us, a warning and a promise. He almost seems as frustrated with the situation as I. "Leave."
Laconic as always, no more than a few words leaving his mouth at a time. I could try to reason once more, but I feel as if that opportunity has already long passed.
Little soldier boy
Taken form home
Forced to fight a war
That is not his own.
Red, white and blue flies past me in a blur, a sign that has become a form of comfort over the past couple years. Now, unfortunately though, that sign is more of a badly timed inconvenience than anything.
The shield knocks the gun clean out of the Winter Soldier's grip, smoothly rebounding off a nearby street light before returning to the hands of its owner. "Lilly, find Natasha and Sam and go," Steve orders, situating himself between the assassin and I.
The protective act is endearing, but not necessary. And I tell him as much. "S'all good Gramps, I got this covered," I wave him off; though I don't think my weak state and deep breathing grant my words too much credit.
"Got him..."
My breathing is ragged and constricting, like my lungs have forgotten how to function.
"...right where I want him."
Dots dance back and forth – or, perhaps that's Bucky and Steve? The grunts and telltale gunfire of a fight numbly ring in my ears. Sometimes it's loud, sometimes it's quiet, as if someone is fiddling with the volume controls of my own hearing. My vision isn't much better. Apart from the dark dots blooming in and out of my sight, my eyes keep blurring and clarifying, similar to a camera unable to focus.
Metal. Bitter. Blood? My gloved fingers manage to find my lips whilst my weakened body continues to pathetically lean against the car for support, sliding down to the concrete road bit by bit. Pulling my hand back, I have to hold my fingers directly in front of my face to even focus on the crimson liquid.
Blood. Bucky never punched me in the face, did he? No, and his strangulation would only have created bruises, going off how long and strongly he choked me.
BANG.
Gunshot. That was a gunshot, wasn't it? Goddammit, why can't I think clearly? Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot. That was a gunshot. Who shot who? Was I shot? My adrenalin could be numbing down my pain so I can actually focus on protecting and fighting for my own goddamn life, but judging by how I still feel like shit, that's not likely.
A body collapses against the car next to me, grunting and hissing in subdued agony. Startled, I fall flat on the floor, straight onto my side. Eyes zoom in and out, disorientated but on as high alert as I can be. Red. Red hair. Natasha? Her hand nurses her shoulder, which is also turning red. Blood. More blood. Natasha was shot. When did she get here?
Leaves from the vine
Changing so slow
Like empty, fallen souls
Looking for a home
Cold. I feel ridiculously cold. How am I only noticing this now? Even though Natasha is the one who has a bullet in her shoulder, she seems to be staring at me. Fearful. Concerned. Determined. She's hovering, lips moving like a silent movie, nothing coming out of them. Nothing I can hear over my own breathing anyway. Why is my breathing so fucking loud?
Cold breath dances in front of my face when I next exhale, the kind you would see early on a snowy winter's morning. Snow. Ice. Snow. Snow? There's white in her hair. Snow. Yes, but why? It's Spring. That couldn't be me, could it? I've never made it snow before.
Pain. So much pain. It convulses inside of me like it's alive, feeding off of me. The back of my head rests on the road, eyes screwing shut as Natasha disappears from my vision. Rolling around and numbly scrambling around on my knees and feet, I don't know where I'm going, but I just need to get away.
I'm in the middle of the road now, I think. There's so much white, the bright dots playing with the black dots still flitting around. Bitter metal continues to taint my tongue, but this time I feel a dampness tricking down my upper lip. Haphazardly wiping my nose, kneeling in the middle of the street, more blood comes off. Nothing too severe, but I can't think for the life of me why I would be bleeding. Why I would be sick. Why I can't fucking think.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Pain. Wait. I know this pain. This is the pain of when Loki supposedly removed any remnants of that goddamn Dark stone from inside of me. This is what I have been feeling on and off for days now. Not some common cold or stomach bug. I shouldn't be feeling this; he got rid of the thing. He was supposed to get rid of the thing. And he did. He did.
I haven't felt or had severely ugly, traitorous, violent thoughts, just my regularly violent thoughts. I should've known that it wasn't as simple as touching one of the stones that started all this and poof, problems gone. It was too easy.
Something sits uncomfortably in the back of my throat, and before I know it, I'm hacking up my guts onto the street in front of me. At first, I think its blood, but upon a closer look, eyes still focusing and obscuring, I note that it's not a deep red, but a pitch black liquid, almost sludge.
If I wasn't in such a sickening, disorientated state, I'm sure I could think of a joke involving a shitty liquid diet and how well that it's working out for me.
Black sludge, red blood, white snow. I keep staring down at it like it's going to change, like I'm going to blink and find out that no, none of that came out of me or is raining down from the sky because of me. That could be Natasha's blood for all I know—
Natasha. Steve. Sammy. Bucky. Shit, I forgot that they're here.
Feeling a bit better after spewing my heart out, I twist my neck in an attempt to find any of them, and instead begin to register the multitudes of black sedans and SUVs swarming around us. As my vision starts returning, so does my hearing, sirens booming and pulsating in my ears so prominently they're almost throbbing.
Somehow, I still manage to find Steve amongst the chaos, staring at a smouldering, upturned car with an expression crossed between someone who has seen a ghost, and the expression he wore at the abandoned military base back in New Jersey. Bucky. He found out about Bucky.
The moment agents dressed in nothing but black, cumbersome armour flock around us, he seems to snap out of it. Dazed confusion is abruptly replaced with the iconic brows of concern, the poor man almost getting whiplash when he swivels his baby blues towards me.
Warmth blooms in my chest. He just found out that his best friend from World War II is up and about, working and assassinating in the name of the terrorist espionage organisation out to get him, and he still feels like he needs to help me. After that little display of mine, I can't exactly blame him.
Did he see? Did any of them see? Sammy is here too now, not that I remember him flying in. It's still snowing, so they know I'm responsible for that, but was Natasha the only one who saw me the way I was?
All three of my friends are being yelled at, forced onto their knees and cuffed like common criminals. I can hear agents yelling at me too, several more guns pointed at me than at Sammy or Natasha.
"Get on your knees freak!"
I snort, scowling, having forgotten about the blood still on my lips and in my teeth. "I'm already on my knees you fucking twat."
The butt of a gun slams mercilessly into my face, snapping my head to the side as more blood pools in my mouth, this time from the injury. The act seems to cause my arrested companions to bristle, who have remained otherwise silent until now.
"Hey asshole, knock it off!"
Sammy.
"She's sick, come on Rumlow!"
Steve.
Next thing I know, the unwelcomingly familiar boots of Brock Rumlow appear in my line of sight. Evidently, he has already had his word with Steve, and has now decided to have one with me.
Glancing up weakly, I immediately note his furrowed brows. "You look like shit Nightshade," he bluntly observes as his men roughly yank my arms behind my back, cuffs cutting into my wrists. Tone is devoid of any emotion, but if I wasn't still so dazed, I could probably find a trace or two in his gaze.
"Feel like shit Rumlow," I bluntly respond in return, spitting out more blood in the direction of the agent who hit me across the face. "Doesn't help that you've got your lackeys hitting me when I've already surrendered."
Brock's lips are in a thin line, grim. Something that could almost, almost, be considered regret. "You picked the wrong side Lillian. We've had our differences, but I always thought you were a damn good fighter. This..." His eyes trail me up and down, nearing on disappointment. "This is a lost and dangerous threat to the American society—"
"Don't give me that bullshit Brock," I growl, weakly squirming as the agents lift me feebly to my feet. "I'm not a threat to the American society; I'm a threat to HYDRA. They're scared of me, aren't they?" I revel in how his jaw twitches, how his tough facade wavers when I continue talking. "I'm a powerful unknown, someone who completely popped out of the blue straight onto SHIELD radar and immediately began buddy-ing up with their number one threat. Someone who has a sister and best friend just as strong as I, and just as mysterious as I. Huh, Pierce's hair must getting greyer by the minute—"
A hard, solid slap strikes my face to the side once more, more blood flying from my lips as a result. The sound of a "Get down!" followed by another solid hit and grunt is heard somewhere behind me, but my head is far too dizzy for me to try and see who had been hit.
Not even standing on my feet anymore, but rather hanging limply by the agents holding me up, Brock crouches to my level and glares at me dead in the eye. "If we weren't in a public place, surrounded by civilians, I would've done a hell of a lot more than that Nightshade. Now, stop making it snow, and get in the damn car."
If I'm honest, I don't know if the snow really is slowing to a stop or not, putting every last ounce of energy into suppressing my powers. With my eyes drooping, I barely even see out of my lowered lids, and yet I must be doing something right, because instead of being struck again, I can feel my feet being carelessly dragged across concrete to a black, armoured van. Once thrown in and secured, I allow my eyes to slowly shut until there's nothing but black, the sound of the van doors slamming shut nothing but white noise to my ears.
Little solider boy
Thought that he could soar
Little solider boy
Who died in their war.
A/N: I cried when Iroh sung this in Avatar: The Last Airbender. What an iconic character, who also loves tea just as much as I do.
Sorry it took so long to update! Four months, I know, between finishing school, going on holidays (a cruise which was bomb af), starting my new job(s) and my best friend leaving for the army, I've been a mix of ridiculously tired and busy, as well as anti-social when I do have time off.
I'm trying to be better. I really am.
Hope y'all liked the chapter though!
Btw, I've seen Black Panther twice, and no spoilers, but can I plz have a Shuri. What a ball of sunshine. I really hope she meets Peter in Infinity War.
QOTD: If you could control/bend an element, which would you choose?
AOTD: Water, because that bitch is everywhere. (I need to stop swearing, it's gotten worse smh)
Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx
~ T.L