comment_fic 913-918: Avengers, HL, original
Title: Three times, ‘tis said, a sinking man comes up to face the skies
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Dickinson
Warnings: mentions of abuse/violence/death/Hydra being a fuckwad
Pairings: gen with MAJOR Steve/Bucky leanings (of course)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 430
Point of view: second
Prompt: MCU, any, "If you say (any)'s name three times she/he/it'll turn up."
Bucky? the target says, and deep inside, something shivers.
James Buchanan Barnes, the target says, and deep inside, something howls.
...
Someone, somewhere, is waiting for you to return, to sit in the chair, to submit, to sleep. Someone, somewhere, will die beneath your fists, your blades, your guns. Someone, somewhere, is panicking because you will not arrive in a timely manner.
No. There is no schedule to follow, no commands to obey. There is no master, now.
You are your own master, and your fists are clenched, and your jaw is tight, and your will never submit or obey again. You will arrive when you choose, and it will be with the sweeping fury of a hurricane, the implacable wrath of winter.
Deep inside, something roars.
...
They search for you, your one-time masters and your one-time target, both. You are following them the whole time, picking off the would-be masters and guarding the steps of the one-time target.
What to do with him, this Captain America and his winged friend? Protect them both, study them, discern their mission, yes, but beyond that?
One day, all the heads will be cut off, all the stumps cauterized, and the monster will lie dead, broken and hollow. What will you do then?
Who will you be, then, with no targets at all?
…
Steve Rogers was once your whole world. You remember that time when you sleep; those dreams are far more restful than your memories as Hydra’s fist. You once protected Captain America as you did Steve Rogers, but you never followed the icon. You followed that little guy from Brooklyn, the one too dumb not to run away from a fight.
Steve has been getting into more foolish and desperate fights, leaving his back wide open. You know why, and so does Sam Wilson, who berates him for it nightly. His tirades are not as fearsome as the ones Steve’s long-dead friend used to give him while icing his bruises, while bandaging his wounds.
Steve’s long-dead friend…
Deep inside, something snarls.
…
Steve opens the door barely half a minute after you knock. You have timed this perfectly; Steve goes on runs at the same time every morning, while stateside, as he is right now. Sam Wilson was injured during their last raid on Hydra. Hydra’s greatest weapon, rogue for a year now, provided them with cover fire during their exit.
Steve blinks at you, mouth open in shock. “Bucky?” he breathes, eyes wide.
Deep inside, something settles into place, and you nod. “Hey, Steve,” you (Bucky) say, smiling your first smile since 1945.
Title: It seems too much to hope
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov
Warnings: mentions of character death/violence/torture/brainwashing; spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier
Pairings: Steve/Bucky
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 255
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, If I'd known what we made would be gone like yesterday...--Goodbye by Glenn Morrison feat. Islove
There is a world where Bucky never fell, and there's a world where Steve fell with him, and there's a world where Steve never met Erskine, or Bucky was never captured by Hydra, and there's a world where Bucky's family didn't move to Brooklyn, and where Steve died at ten months old.
But in this world, Bucky fell, and Steve went into the ice, and while Steve slept, horrible things happened to Bucky, and Bucky's body did horrible things that Steve will never blame him for, and what is left of Bucky pulls Steve out of the water and leaves him there, barely alive but already healing.
In this world, Steve and Bucky were best friends, closer than brothers, two halves of the same whole. In this world, Steve risked everything to save Bucky once, and he's more than willing to do it again. In this world, Bucky picked up Steve's shield on a train and he'd do it again. In this world, decades of programming start to break down because Steve says, "Bucky?"
In this world, Steve begins hunting down Hydra and looking for Bucky, and what’s left of Bucky does the same.
In this world, Bucky spent the majority of his 26 years protecting, caring for, and loving Steve Rogers. The 70 years without him are nothing but a nightmare and shards.
In this world, Hydra is on the run, Bucky and Steve at opposite ends and cutting off heads, and when they meet in the middle -
“Bucky,” Steve says.
“Steve,” Bucky says back.
Title: amongst the stars
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my character
Warnings: far in the future
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 90
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any SF/F fandom, Eldorado to the Moon, Michael Nesmith
Humanity has come a long way, he thinks, watching the stars through the window. A long way indeed.
There are so few of his kind left, and none of the young ones (well, the youngest ones) know how it once felt to gaze at the night sky and wonder.
Wonders are commonplace in a life where planets are merely a few weeks' ride away. There are no wonders left, truly.
He remembers it well; three centuries of interstellar travel is nothing compared to the sixty that came before it.
Title: tempest in a teacup (don’t wake the sleeping ones)
Original, gen, PG
515 words
Prompt: Any, any, not a bird in a cage
There are some beasts so big no cage in the world could contain them. They shrug their shoulders and mountains quake; they yawn and hurricanes swirl in the ocean. They sleep and countries form on their spines.
The Great Ones wake and the world shudders; the Great Ones stretch and the world crumbles.
.
She blinks; her arms (arms?) are chained to each other at the (wrists?), her legs at the ankles (what words are these, what language? how does she know it -- how does she know?), and there are men glaring at her over the mouths of weapons she has never seen before.
"Who are you?" one of them demands.
How long has she slept? How did she come to be in this body?
She blinks at the shackles, at the man who demands an answer, and then she reaches - oh, she thinks, oh, you clever little things.
She laughs.
.
Magick is a powerful, if wielded correctly. It is deadly if wielded wrong. Once, there was a sorcerer who strained for magick out of his grasp: the magick of stars and planets, of the dark fathoms of space. He prayed to the Great Ones for aid in his quest to rein in the greatest of magicks; he prayed, and something answered.
Every being in every realm in every world has a natural enemy of some sort. The Great Ones are not above the law of nature.
It was their enemy who answered the sorcerer, and so the Great Ones came to be chained. The sorcerer thought to use magick, but only magic answered his summons.
.
They are scattered over the worlds, separated for the first time since they slept. Everything is out of balance; they should not be awake yet, not for long millennia. She should still be spread out with the (Alps) along her back.
But here she is, locked away in a dark room, angry little things demanding to know how she appeared in their inner sanctum. Her family are in similar places: in trouble with those in command. Such is the magick of hatred. Such is the power of revenge.
She does not answer, of course, shackled hand and foot, hungry and hurt.
Their enemy believes them to be powerless in these weak forms. The Enemy believes them to be easy prey.
Some things were not meant to be caged. Some things cannot be contained. She is a Great One no matter her form. She inhales and the temperature drops; she exhales and the bindings on her body shatter.
She rises to her (feet) and whirlwinds fill the air.
.
There are certain lines not meant to be crossed by mere sorcerers. Magic, to leash the ancients? Oh, there is a laugh to shake the cosmos.
She steps into sunlight, reaching again - a sister to the east, and a brother to the north… the only ones here on this tiny little planet.
They should not be awake. They are, nonetheless. She laughs, stretching her weak body just to feel the tremor all the way into the core of the earth.
Title: end of an age
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: talk of violence/death
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 295
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Methos, Meeting his younger self wouldn't be so bad except for how many younger selves he was so happy to leave behind.
Methos at 1000 was enamored with mortals, with their mayfly lives.
Methos at 2000 was experimenting with death, learning all the ways there were to kill.
Methos at 3000 was relearning how to live, how to blend, how to rule from the shadows.
Methos at 4000 was traveling, seeing the far corners of the world that were yet unexplored.
Methos at 5000 was mastering technology, enthralled with what the internet would become.
Methos at 6000 -
“I remember this,” he tells the child, barely 500 and still so wild.
The child glares at him, grubby fingers around a sharpened rock. “We survive,” he tells the child gently. “We grow so much stronger. And we will always have another day.”
He speaks a language not yet created in the child’s world; but he will remember, and he will understand the words one day.
Methos at 500 was mad, angry at existence and helpless to do anything about it. Methos at 6000 is the most powerful person in the world.
“I will send you back,” he tells the child. “But know that one day you will be where I am - one day, we will have the stars at our command.”
The child’s fingers clench on the rock; Methos murmurs the incantation, sending him back to the fertile plain of their youth.
A very long time ago, Methos looked upon himself in fear and in wonder, and he did not understand for millennia. The Game had not yet been invented and Methos had thought himself alone, the only one to die and then live again.
He rises to his feet and strides to the window, looking out over his empire. He is a benevolent ruler; very few people even know they live by his will alone.
The Game is won.
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Dickinson
Warnings: mentions of abuse/violence/death/Hydra being a fuckwad
Pairings: gen with MAJOR Steve/Bucky leanings (of course)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 430
Point of view: second
Prompt: MCU, any, "If you say (any)'s name three times she/he/it'll turn up."
Bucky? the target says, and deep inside, something shivers.
James Buchanan Barnes, the target says, and deep inside, something howls.
...
Someone, somewhere, is waiting for you to return, to sit in the chair, to submit, to sleep. Someone, somewhere, will die beneath your fists, your blades, your guns. Someone, somewhere, is panicking because you will not arrive in a timely manner.
No. There is no schedule to follow, no commands to obey. There is no master, now.
You are your own master, and your fists are clenched, and your jaw is tight, and your will never submit or obey again. You will arrive when you choose, and it will be with the sweeping fury of a hurricane, the implacable wrath of winter.
Deep inside, something roars.
...
They search for you, your one-time masters and your one-time target, both. You are following them the whole time, picking off the would-be masters and guarding the steps of the one-time target.
What to do with him, this Captain America and his winged friend? Protect them both, study them, discern their mission, yes, but beyond that?
One day, all the heads will be cut off, all the stumps cauterized, and the monster will lie dead, broken and hollow. What will you do then?
Who will you be, then, with no targets at all?
…
Steve Rogers was once your whole world. You remember that time when you sleep; those dreams are far more restful than your memories as Hydra’s fist. You once protected Captain America as you did Steve Rogers, but you never followed the icon. You followed that little guy from Brooklyn, the one too dumb not to run away from a fight.
Steve has been getting into more foolish and desperate fights, leaving his back wide open. You know why, and so does Sam Wilson, who berates him for it nightly. His tirades are not as fearsome as the ones Steve’s long-dead friend used to give him while icing his bruises, while bandaging his wounds.
Steve’s long-dead friend…
Deep inside, something snarls.
…
Steve opens the door barely half a minute after you knock. You have timed this perfectly; Steve goes on runs at the same time every morning, while stateside, as he is right now. Sam Wilson was injured during their last raid on Hydra. Hydra’s greatest weapon, rogue for a year now, provided them with cover fire during their exit.
Steve blinks at you, mouth open in shock. “Bucky?” he breathes, eyes wide.
Deep inside, something settles into place, and you nod. “Hey, Steve,” you (Bucky) say, smiling your first smile since 1945.
Title: It seems too much to hope
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov
Warnings: mentions of character death/violence/torture/brainwashing; spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier
Pairings: Steve/Bucky
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 255
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, If I'd known what we made would be gone like yesterday...--Goodbye by Glenn Morrison feat. Islove
There is a world where Bucky never fell, and there's a world where Steve fell with him, and there's a world where Steve never met Erskine, or Bucky was never captured by Hydra, and there's a world where Bucky's family didn't move to Brooklyn, and where Steve died at ten months old.
But in this world, Bucky fell, and Steve went into the ice, and while Steve slept, horrible things happened to Bucky, and Bucky's body did horrible things that Steve will never blame him for, and what is left of Bucky pulls Steve out of the water and leaves him there, barely alive but already healing.
In this world, Steve and Bucky were best friends, closer than brothers, two halves of the same whole. In this world, Steve risked everything to save Bucky once, and he's more than willing to do it again. In this world, Bucky picked up Steve's shield on a train and he'd do it again. In this world, decades of programming start to break down because Steve says, "Bucky?"
In this world, Steve begins hunting down Hydra and looking for Bucky, and what’s left of Bucky does the same.
In this world, Bucky spent the majority of his 26 years protecting, caring for, and loving Steve Rogers. The 70 years without him are nothing but a nightmare and shards.
In this world, Hydra is on the run, Bucky and Steve at opposite ends and cutting off heads, and when they meet in the middle -
“Bucky,” Steve says.
“Steve,” Bucky says back.
Title: amongst the stars
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my character
Warnings: far in the future
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 90
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any SF/F fandom, Eldorado to the Moon, Michael Nesmith
Humanity has come a long way, he thinks, watching the stars through the window. A long way indeed.
There are so few of his kind left, and none of the young ones (well, the youngest ones) know how it once felt to gaze at the night sky and wonder.
Wonders are commonplace in a life where planets are merely a few weeks' ride away. There are no wonders left, truly.
He remembers it well; three centuries of interstellar travel is nothing compared to the sixty that came before it.
Title: tempest in a teacup (don’t wake the sleeping ones)
Original, gen, PG
515 words
Prompt: Any, any, not a bird in a cage
There are some beasts so big no cage in the world could contain them. They shrug their shoulders and mountains quake; they yawn and hurricanes swirl in the ocean. They sleep and countries form on their spines.
The Great Ones wake and the world shudders; the Great Ones stretch and the world crumbles.
.
She blinks; her arms (arms?) are chained to each other at the (wrists?), her legs at the ankles (what words are these, what language? how does she know it -- how does she know?), and there are men glaring at her over the mouths of weapons she has never seen before.
"Who are you?" one of them demands.
How long has she slept? How did she come to be in this body?
She blinks at the shackles, at the man who demands an answer, and then she reaches - oh, she thinks, oh, you clever little things.
She laughs.
.
Magick is a powerful, if wielded correctly. It is deadly if wielded wrong. Once, there was a sorcerer who strained for magick out of his grasp: the magick of stars and planets, of the dark fathoms of space. He prayed to the Great Ones for aid in his quest to rein in the greatest of magicks; he prayed, and something answered.
Every being in every realm in every world has a natural enemy of some sort. The Great Ones are not above the law of nature.
It was their enemy who answered the sorcerer, and so the Great Ones came to be chained. The sorcerer thought to use magick, but only magic answered his summons.
.
They are scattered over the worlds, separated for the first time since they slept. Everything is out of balance; they should not be awake yet, not for long millennia. She should still be spread out with the (Alps) along her back.
But here she is, locked away in a dark room, angry little things demanding to know how she appeared in their inner sanctum. Her family are in similar places: in trouble with those in command. Such is the magick of hatred. Such is the power of revenge.
She does not answer, of course, shackled hand and foot, hungry and hurt.
Their enemy believes them to be powerless in these weak forms. The Enemy believes them to be easy prey.
Some things were not meant to be caged. Some things cannot be contained. She is a Great One no matter her form. She inhales and the temperature drops; she exhales and the bindings on her body shatter.
She rises to her (feet) and whirlwinds fill the air.
.
There are certain lines not meant to be crossed by mere sorcerers. Magic, to leash the ancients? Oh, there is a laugh to shake the cosmos.
She steps into sunlight, reaching again - a sister to the east, and a brother to the north… the only ones here on this tiny little planet.
They should not be awake. They are, nonetheless. She laughs, stretching her weak body just to feel the tremor all the way into the core of the earth.
Title: end of an age
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: talk of violence/death
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 295
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Methos, Meeting his younger self wouldn't be so bad except for how many younger selves he was so happy to leave behind.
Methos at 1000 was enamored with mortals, with their mayfly lives.
Methos at 2000 was experimenting with death, learning all the ways there were to kill.
Methos at 3000 was relearning how to live, how to blend, how to rule from the shadows.
Methos at 4000 was traveling, seeing the far corners of the world that were yet unexplored.
Methos at 5000 was mastering technology, enthralled with what the internet would become.
Methos at 6000 -
“I remember this,” he tells the child, barely 500 and still so wild.
The child glares at him, grubby fingers around a sharpened rock. “We survive,” he tells the child gently. “We grow so much stronger. And we will always have another day.”
He speaks a language not yet created in the child’s world; but he will remember, and he will understand the words one day.
Methos at 500 was mad, angry at existence and helpless to do anything about it. Methos at 6000 is the most powerful person in the world.
“I will send you back,” he tells the child. “But know that one day you will be where I am - one day, we will have the stars at our command.”
The child’s fingers clench on the rock; Methos murmurs the incantation, sending him back to the fertile plain of their youth.
A very long time ago, Methos looked upon himself in fear and in wonder, and he did not understand for millennia. The Game had not yet been invented and Methos had thought himself alone, the only one to die and then live again.
He rises to his feet and strides to the window, looking out over his empire. He is a benevolent ruler; very few people even know they live by his will alone.
The Game is won.