navy pea coat

Baby, I'm out numbered in my head

Bucky dreams of puffs of billowing smoke, piles of ash painting the bottom of his bare feet black, dreams of the sky crumbling in a sea of fire, of a heavy weight across his chest and flames licking at his body. He can feel them, every nerve lighting up like a Christmas tree and his stomach heaves; rebels against the pollution he’s inhaling.

Kindling.

He is being used as kindling to start a fire, strike a match on his temple and he’ll burn everything in his path.

This is not the future he’d envisioned.

This is not the future he wants, he has a reason to stay alive now and someone to miss him when he’s gone so he pushes against the weight until his arms shake, kicks aside the lower half of the object.

He’s surprised to find that the item isn’t heavy at all when he pushes it aside. It’s familiar; a navy blue pea coat and at its side are pants that he vaguely recalls.

By this point the room is filled with fumes but still he takes the time to strip out of his ratty clothing and into someone else’. He doesn’t feel anything like the man who wore them in a decade that he can’t recall but the sleeves and cut are a nearly perfect fit (aside from being tight around the biceps). It’s familiar.

The infrastructure begins to crumble around him but he cannot go, his feet refuse to cooperate.

“STEVE!,” he yells at the top of his lungs (it burns, it burns, make it stop).

Steve will find him, he always does.

As the flames consume him his last thoughts are of baby blue’s and a crooked smile.

Only he doesn’t die. Strange frigid hands drag him upward and carry him out, strap him onto a clinical metal table.

“We’re not done with you yet, sargent,” the voice has a blank face where a nose, eyes and lips should be. His rank is spit out like venom, they’re taunting him; crawling into his head and stealing memories and secrets.

“STEVE!,” he repeats.

There is no answer.

The needle stings as it harshly punctures his skin again and again and he wonders how many times a man can die before they allow him the dignity of remaining dead.

“STEVE, HELP ME!”

“Do you actually think he’s going to save you? You’re not worth the hassle,” a voice mocks.

They strap what can only be described as a muzzle over his mouth and nose and everything goes black.

“Buck, Bucky can you hear me?”

Bucky slides his eyes open and is disappointed to find that he’s still alive.

“Squeeze my hand if you’re here with me,” Steve says, softly.

He came, Bucky knew he would. He gives Steve’s hand a tight squeeze and marvels at how his whole demeanor shifts - his shoulders slump as if a heavy weight has been lifted and he grips Bucky’s hand hard enough that it hurts.

“I’m here,” Bucky mumbles, throat hoarse and dry.

Bucky sits up and takes in his surroundings; pale blue walls, moonlight reflecting against a tiny window, crisp white sheets, two framed photographs on a dresser (one of him in his uniform after he’d came home on leave with the news that he’d been promoted to sgt and one of Peggy Carter with a tiny smile and soft wavy curls), two pillows and a worried Steve.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes, I’m in Brooklyn NY and it’s 2:45 a.m,” he says to himself, repeats the words to remind him that he’s safe here and touch doesn’t hurt.

Steve nods - “Can I..?”

Bucky shakes his head yes and Steve surges forward with arms around his waist, face against the scruff on Bucky’s jawline. After a moment he tries to move away but Bucky pulls him back in and wraps both arms around Steve’s middle, feels the rise and fall of his breath & it becomes his focal point.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes, I’m in Brooklyn NY and it’s 2:55 a.m.”

Steve holds him tighter, closer, carefully eases them onto the bed once more and curls around Bucky in a way that Bucky imagines a cocoon must feel when cradling life inside - fragile yet strong at the same time.

Bucky turns in his arms, hand seeking a beating heart to remind him that this is not a cruel joke, that he’s not dying.

“This is real, I’m here and so are you. This is our apartment and our bed. These are our blue walls; you picked out the color and we painted them together. You had a bad dream is all.”

Bucky remembers moving in, buying two beds and ending up in Steve’s instead because being alone in the dark was terrifying, purchasing buckets of paint and getting smudges on their skin, listening to the record player and resisting the urge to ask Steve to dance with him. He’d blanked out for about twenty minutes but it’d returned as it always did.

“Steve,” he whispers; fingers brushing against Steve’s cheek and trailing over his jawline.

Steve’s eyes flutter closed and he pulls Bucky closer against him until their chests are pressed together, legs tangled up in Steve’s and the one thing that hadn’t changed in over 70 years; the expression that Steve gave him (was he even aware of how transparent he was?) was still the same; all soft eyes as he opened them and faint smile.

“You didn’t come back for me,” Bucky murmurs, clutching Steve harder.

“I would’ve, Buck, you know I would’ve but they told me that there was no way you could’ve survived the fall.”

They’ve had this conversation like clockwork and Bucky is beyond tired of his own mind reminding him of Steve’s one fault.

“Steve.”

“ ‘mm right here Buck, not going anywhere,” Steve says with a yawn.

“Look at me.”

Steve tilts his chin downward toward Bucky in order to see him more clearly and Bucky takes this as confirmation that Steve wants the same thing as him.

He hooks a finger under it and cautiously presses his lips to Steve’s. The minute they touch he knows there is no coming back from this but that’s always been the case when it comes to Steve.

To his surprise Steve doesn’t shove him away or demand that he sleep in his own bed, instead he tilts his head to the side and licks a hot path against the seam of Bucky’s lips, moans.

“Bucky,” he whispers then gently brushes the hair back from Bucky’s forehead and leaves a small kiss there - there; the scar that required stitches when Bucky wrecked the neighbors bike (age 10). There are some things that the serum didn’t touch.

“Is this okay?,” Steve questions; one handle cradling Bucky’s cheek and the other resting on his thigh.

It’s more than okay as far as Bucky is concerned; the world isn’t a raging wildfire around them, he’s not being killed and then brought back to life again over and over, he’s safe and Steve had actually kissed him back.

It’s real, it’s real, it’s real. He’s real.

“Thank you.”

Steve smiles - “For what?”

“For saving me. I was…the room was on fire but I heard your voice and you found me. I thought…”

Bucky thought that history had been repeating itself; that he was once more helpless against Hydra’s advances as he had been that final time; when Steve was buried under ice and frigid water; both silently waiting for the other but knowing it was in vain.

Blue eyes fill with unshed tears - “I’ll always find you, Buck.”

“Till the end?,” Bucky questions.

Steve leans forward and brushes their noses together then moves onto Bucky’s lips to give him a wet kiss.

“Till the bitter end,” he answers. 

This is their normal; nightmares and cold sweats, waking up screaming and lashing out, passing out on the couch together while a movie continues to play, burning pancakes and overcooking eggs for breakfast but lying and saying it’s delicious, running with Sam on Friday mornings and now; now kisses worked into everyday and Bucky felt himself slowly healing with every caress of Steve’s lips against his own. 

Father Fire, Father Bones

Summery: When Gaster and his two sons, Papyrus and Sans, somehow get transported to a different timeline, they meet a fire Elemental named Grillby and his two adopted sons… Papyrus and Sans?Now the six of them need to figure out how to get the three wayward travelers back to their own timeline. But that’s easier said than done, and it seems like their progress is being stopped by something. Or perhaps someone.

Warnings for mentions of abuse, child experimentation, stuff like that.

—–


“Daddy! It’s cold here! Where are we?!”

A small skeleton with a puffy orange shirt stomped his foot in the snow covered ground, pointing. He looked up expectantly at a taller, older skeleton wearing a navy blue pea coat. Standing next to him was another small skeleton, a child just like the first, but a bit taller and older. He was wearing a sky blue shirt that had ‘bone to be wild’ on it.      

The skeleton in the coat sighed as he looked around.

“Judging by all this snow, I’d say we’re in the forest near Snowdin.” He answered the child. The other child grinned. “That sounds like snow place to be.” He joked, earning an annoyed groan from the shorter skeleton.

Saaans, that was awful!” He scolded the other, putting his hands on his hips. Sans grinned. “I thought it was a very ice pun, Papyrus.” This earned another groan.

The adult chuckled at Sans’ joke, shaking his head slightly. Then he became serious again. He needed to focus. How did they end up here? And why? Was it possible that his machine had somehow brought them here? But that couldn’t be. It wasn’t supposed to teleport people. Besides it was just a prototype, it didn’t work.

So how did they get here..?

“I’m going to go check out Snowdin. I’ll see if I can find anything out. You two stay here.” He told the two children. He searched the pocket of his coat, and pulled out a large, fuzzy orange scarf. He handed it to Sans and Papyrus, then began to head towards Snowdin.

He was going to find out what was going on, or his name wasn’t Wingdings Gaster.

——-

Gaster walked around Snowdin, making sure not to draw too much attention to him.

It was just like he remembered it. It was snowy with bright houses and full of cheer. It was enough to make him smile fondly, recalling old memories of the little village. He had been 18 when his first time here, and he remembered looking at the snow in astonishment, for he had never seen snow before, and he couldn’t help but look around at the snow in wonder.

He remembered reaching down and touching the snow, somewhat startled by its cold, but also fascinated. He remembered packing some of the snow into a little ball, and throwing it at his mentor, Calibri.

Calibri…

Gaster shook himself. Now was not the time to be going down memory lane. He needed to focus on the situation and get information. See if there was anything different.

He walked into the Library (and chuckled at the misspelled sign) and looked around until he found a Calendar. He walked over to it and checked the date.

It was the 18th.

Gaster blinked in confusion. It had been the 17th, hadn’t it? How was it suddenly the 18th?

Something was definitely wrong, and he was going to find out what. He quietly left the building, and began to head back towards the forest. He wanted to make sure that his kids were okay, and that they were warm enough with the scarf.