pure i m a g i n a t i o n [fics & stuff]

[ExcaliburEsque]

'cause you and i

we were b o r n t o d i e

~~~​

When women threw themselves at you, where was the fun in that? There was no sport, no thrill of conquering the unwilling prey. The moment he had stepped out of his brother's suffocating shadow, independence had struck him like a rush of ice-water. He was no longer Thor's slimy younger brother, he was Loki and women rather liked Loki.

Or so he had learned over the past few years. He was just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday and Loki had been on his own since his twentieth. It was one thing to leave behind the wealth and stability of the Odinsons, but Loki had tore himself away from a family that had never truly been his to begin with. Being the unwanted spawn of one of the most despised business moguls would not have been so bad if his entire life hadn't been one giant lie.

It had come to him all at once, why Thor had always been the favoured son, why dear old Odin found it so easy to dismiss him, why any and all of his achievements had never meant a damn thing to them, his so-called family. Loki spat on that word. He had no use for it.

Unwanted though he might have been, Loki now bore the very name of the man who had abandoned him. He wasn't particularly fond of it, and yet, it seemed far more fitting than the falsity he had worn all his life. He was Loki Laufeyson now if anyone were to ask and perhaps in time he would come to accept it.

Friday nights at various clubs had become something of a ritual for Loki. It was odd to think of the world's largest misanthrope standing among a throng of loud and obnoxious people but observing was something he had learned from a very early age and it had granted him a small but meaningful advantage over his false brother. Loki understood the workings of humans better than most and perhaps it was for that reason that he had successfully embezzled a large sum of money from morons who trusted dishonesty. He didn't need Odin and his wealth, Loki had enough brains and schemes to last him a lifetime.

Clubs, however, were not a means of finding the newest sucker to swindle. A misanthrope he was, but Loki was not above the desires of all men. He too needed to indulge himself every now and then in the sins of the flesh and women were plenty and willing. But they were cheap and Loki grew bored with their tittering very easily.

It was a Friday night like any other when Loki's eyes found his future. Said future was causing quite the ruckus and as such it had been difficult not to notice him. He was a tall youth and even from where Loki sat, ignoring the mindless prattle of his newest admirer, he could make out that smug sense of entitlement that so often became the staple of the wealthy. He looked young and Loki estimated that he could not have been much more than 21. His hair was a rather mousy shade of brown and looked to be in an awkward stage of growing out. Still, he had a well-defined jaw and a mouth that looked as soft as it was wicked and big hazel eyes that would have earned him a second glance or two.

Loki believed that he had seen that very face on the news once for causing a public disturbance of some sort. A name was beginning to form somewhere in the back of his mind. It was a family that could not have stayed out of the public eye even if the witness protection program had gotten involved. The famous Borgias and if Loki wasn't mistaken (which he never was) then this was Juan Borgia.

Well, things had gotten interesting.

"Let me conclude this for you, darling, I enjoy listening to you speak about your mundane life about as much as a person would enjoy a root canal. Do you understand? I certainly hope so. If you'll excuse me, I seem to have found an acceptable distraction."

Loki didn't bother to gauge the girl's reaction before he took off in the direction of where Juan stood, clearly antagonizing a much larger man. For a moment, he was reminded of his false brother Thor who had always been quick to pick fights if anyone dared wound his fragile pride. The oaf. Loki had always held back what he truly wanted to say and played the part of a loyal brother until Odin came down on them both.

But Juan wasn't Thor. Rather, he seemed nothing like the idiot blond he hadn't seen or spoken to in years. Juan had a certain something to him that made all the imbeciles writhing around in hopeless abandon obsolete. Loki had his prey in sight and now he was going in for the kill. That was, if the oversized muttonhead didn't beat him to the punch.

"Do you know who I am?" were the first words Loki heard Juan Borgia utter as he pushed past the crowd of people. The haughty manner in which the question was posed brought a smirk to Loki's lips. Arrogance with a side of aggression and a pretty face to boot. Oh, he was going to enjoy this one.

"My cousin," he said, stepping in in full-view of all onlookers. At first, Juan took no notice of him for he was too busy glaring at his opponent but pretty soon the buzz became too much to ignore. He cast those blazing hazel eyes on Loki with a look of contempt bordering on suspicious and Loki had to smile.

He turned to the angry-looking fellow and inclined his head apologetically. "My cousin speaks before he thinks. An angry young man as you can plainly see. He begs your pardon and implores you to be the bigger man and walk away with your pride intact. Don't worry, I'll see to it that he's taken care of."

Juan seemed to have been struck dumb as he goggled at his unlikely saviour. Though, judging by the way that delicious jugular vein pulsated at his neck, Loki gathered that saving was the last thing he wanted. No matter. Loki would set him straight in due time. "Please," he continued, addressing the man and purposefully ignoring Juan, "Let's not make a mess of things."

The man studied Loki curiously and his suspicion mirrored the stare Juan had bestowed upon him, but he seemed far more interested than coming out the victor of this spat than actually continuing it. Loki was giving him an out and he was grasping it. He watched the man turn to Juan and point a meaty finger at his face.

"You're lucky you got such a well-mannered babysitter, son," he threatened and Loki closed his eyes briefly to ward off the impending headache. They never did learn when to walk away. Before Juan could lunge at the idiot, Loki stretched an arm out to prevent any retaliation and in doing so, batted the man's finger away. The narrowed slits of his green eyes showed the stranger how little he cared for his attitude.

"You've had your fun and I've given you my word," he spoke calmly, though it was a voice that dripped with the venomous promise of a threat should the man continue, "I think it's time you left."

To his credit, Juan waited until the nimrod and his buzzed cronies had left before removing Loki's arm from his presence. Loki didn't mind, he supposed his ego had suffered enough damage for a night. Still, he was very interested in what Juan had to say.

"Cousins, are we?" he sneered, "That's strange, because any true cousin of mine would know not to interfere the way you did. I had it handled without your help."

"Oh, I could see that," was Loki's blithe reply. He couldn't fight the smile even if he had wanted to. Juan looked so very angry and flushed, it was both entertaining and deliciously arousing. He decided then and there that he had to have him and Loki always got what he wanted. Leaving the Odinsons behind had been the first step towards a life of his own where nothing was denied of him. Not even this petulant, pampered, princeling.

Juan scowled and spun around. "Piss off," he dismissed and promptly began to walk towards the bar.

Loki might have allowed him a moment's space but he followed behind as though Juan were expecting him to. There were two empty stools just waiting for them and he had himself a seat next to the disgruntled brunette.

"I'm sorry, was my British slang a little too contemporary for you to follow?" Juan queried mockingly, "Let me see, how about you leave me the fuck alone? Does that make sense?"

Loki's smile was indulgent and his tone patient as he ordered himself water and nothing more. He could feel Juan's eyes on him as if judging him for his selection. "My dear, boy," he crooned, "I do believe this bar is welcome to all. Are you within your rights to tell me to leave and then expect it? You'll be disappointed."

"And whatever it is that you want from me, I can almost guarantee that you'll be disappointed," Juan shot back.

"Well, it hasn't happened yet," Loki replied.

"So, you admit that there is something you want," Juan ventured.

"Oh, not something," he grinned, taking a light sip of his ice-water, "rather someone."

Juan glanced at him briefly before breaking out into a grin of his own. "Disappointment awaits you, cousin," he lamented mockingly before rising from his seat. It was a move Loki hadn't yet anticipated and his hand shot out accordingly to grip Juan's wrist. The response was automatic and before Juan's fist could collide with his face, Loki seized it and gave it a good, hard twist. It was rough enough to elicit a cry of pain from the younger male but not quite rough to cause any physical damage. Loki couldn't say the same for Juan's pride.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Juan hissed.

"But I do," Loki answered in that same calm tone, neither tightening nor releasing his hold, regardless of how hard his captive struggled, "Juan Borgia, son of Rodrigo Borgia and his... mistress?"

The struggles amplified and Loki was so surprised by the show of strength that he almost lost his advantage. Clearly Juan didn't appreciate him airing his mother's literal but offensive title around. "Now, now, there's no need to get angry. Truth be told, I'm a bastard myself."

"Another word, and I swear I'll kill you."

"You'd have to break free in order to do that," Loki added, "But don't worry, I'm quite through angering you, I hope. But I'd rather not have to force your attention. Wouldn't it be better for us to sit down like two reasonable adults and discuss things quietly?"

Juan seemed to struggle with himself but Loki was willing to give him all the time in the world to come to the right decision. He could be very patient when he wanted to be.

"What do you want?" Juan asked coldly.

Loki looked almost taken aback as if the answer were the most simple thing in the world to grasp. "Well, isn't it obvious, I want you." The silence that followed had him releasing Juan from his hold and he watched the younger man frown and lower his wrists like a scorned child which only resulted in his grin widening. This fiery little Spaniard was adorable.

"I want you," he continued, "To come back to my place and allow me to make up for my boorish behaviour. It isn't far and I think you'll like what you find."

If anything, Loki hadn't expected Juan to laugh the way that he did and for the first time that night he felt the initial prickling of real anger. Was his little find laughing at him? It was a barking sound, carefree and calculating and it lit up Juan's handsome face to the point where Loki almost forgave him his impertinence.

"Please, let me in on the joke," he said in a low voice.

"You want me, me to come back to your place?" Juan questioned with a look so superior Loki felt his cock throb in his pants, "Granted, you clean up nicer than most but you can't expect a Borgia to wander off with riffraff such as yourself. I'm sure even you can understand that."

This time, Loki joined in on the laughter, though the look in his eyes was deadly calm and piercing. He reached out and grasped the back of Juan's neck, fingers curling around the soft nape in a possessive grip as he drew his face towards himself. They were so close he could feel the younger man's warm breath on his skin. The feeling was electric, but Loki didn't forget insults.

"I believe this alleged riffraff has enough power in him to snap your pretty little neck should he will it," he explained softly. He leaned forward to close what little distance there was between them and pressed his lips to the warm shell of Juan's ear. "I too come from a wealthy background. Wealthier than your family, in fact, but I don't parade around dressed in the accomplishments of those who came before me. You were born into the greatness bestowed upon you. Don't pretend even for a minute that you are above me."

When he pulled back, he could read the anger in Juan's eyes and there was a defiance there that made his belly feel warm and strange. Juan's superiority complex was simply exquisite and contrary to what he had just said, Loki welcomed it with open arms. Here was a man who knew his worth and didn't hide behind false modesty. It was a lesson many could have learned and few heeded.

His face softened in a smile as he dragged his thumb along the younger man's lips to little protest. "But you are lovely," he noted with a fondness that surprised him, "And I want you as I'll never want these empty-headed sycophants. Tell me, Juan, aren't you tired of being pandered to by leeching nobodies? Would it not benefit you to associate with one of your own caliber. Someone who understands your frustration with society's shortcomings?"

Juan snorted, though he made no move to escape Loki's ever-growing advances. "And I suppose that someone is you?"

Loki widened his eyes in faux-surprise. "Why, nothing gets past you, does it?" he teased. Juan's lips appeared even softer up close and Loki hadn't witnessed such an inviting sight for many moons. He wouldn't take no for an answer. "What do you say? Will you honour me with your company, Signore Borgia?" He granted himself one final meaningful brush to those plush lips before dropping his hand.

The gears were shifting in Juan's head, Loki could tell. It was as if the younger man were picking him apart piece by piece. Loki almost felt naked under such a watchful gaze but the relief washed over him in waves when he heard Juan's reply.

"Sure, why not."

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

incomplete drabble nonsense

[size=-2]Fear

Loki can sense it as the ants scurry about trying to escape his wrath. He can feel it pulsate under his impossibly cold fingers as they wrap around his favourite servant's throat. He can taste it when he claims Brady's pliant lips in a brutal kiss.

Fear sustains him in ways his brother will never understand.

Scent

It's one he has come to know. Brady smells of cleanliness and vices all mixed together in a sweet bundle of limbs. Ofttimes he will bury his nose in that tangle of gold and inhale deeply. He smells youth and hardships. He smells sex and debauchery. And when he dismisses his servant from his side, he can still smell him on his fingers. Brady's scent is unworthy of a God but it's Brady's scent that he remembers long after the human has fallen asleep.

Rain

Brady hates the rain but it's Loki's reaction to the darkening skies that distracts him from his own displeasure. Brady doesn't know the alien well enough to piece his story together, but the fact alone that Loki's impenetrable mask is slipping away seems significant. There's a longing in his eyes that goes beyond anything Brady has seen before. It's enough to discomfit anyone.

And so Brady seats himself beside the god of lies and carefully takes his hand between his own. "My lord," he murmurs. For now, it seems like it's enough.

When Loki turns to face him, the mask is securely in place and Brady isn't sure if this is his victory.

Cold

Loki is some kind of walking icicle, Brady has gathered by now. He manipulates this ability well, particularly where vulnerable, tender, naked flesh is concerned. His naked flesh. It's bad enough when Loki's rubbing his frozen fingertips over his nipples but when he goes the extra mile and decides to thaw his cock up his arse, Brady has to say something.

Worship

It isn't a desire so much as it is his right. He is a God and a God demands his worship. Loki takes no pleasure in easy conquests but the sight of Brady kneeling before him is deeply satisfying. Even a man so proud can bend before the will of a God and he is a God like no other.

Mine

It isn't that Loki wants to hear him say it, it's that he needs to hear him say it. He has dealt with Brady's flippant tongue before and the dried flecks of blood beneath his fingernails is but a reminder of what he can and will do if Brady should push.

He threads his icy fingers through the veritable rat's nest, noting with some hidden scorn how the numerous knots can't diminish the bright glow. There's warmth to be found in each individual strand. Brady looks more Asgardian than he ever will.

A hard yank to the human's hair has him yelping and Loki fists the locks tight while his body beats mercilessly against his backside. His breath is frosted with aggression as he growls his demands into the mortal's ears.

"Whom do you serve?" he asks calmly, "Who do you belong to, Brady?"

The hesitation is enough to have Loki seething in silent fury. Another rough yank has his little servant crying out and Loki drives himself deeper than he has ever recalled going before.

"I asked you a question, Brady," he whispers, carefully tracing the shell of the human's ear with his frozen tongue, "To whom do you belong...?"

He can feel the human break before the first words manage to slip past those delicate lips in a rushed plea. "You," he pants weakly, "Yours, m'lord. All yours."

A slow smile curls over Loki's lips. "Mine," he agrees as he wraps his warming fingers around his servant's twitching cock, "And no one else's..."

Feel

Loki could have Brady's head for bringing him to such a place. The sight of all the writhing bodies and idiotic looks of pleasure disgust him. He does not belong here with the likes of these kneelers. They should be on their knees in his presence but they continue on as if a God were not among them. The ignorance of these humans is breathtaking.

But Loki cannot dwell on these thoughts for very long. Amidst the sea of faces, Brady's is the only one he cannot see. He can feel the human grinding his backside against his clothed groin and for a moment, Loki can only look puzzled. A shapely brow lifts to signify his bemusement as he leans closer to be heard over the thundering beat.

"What are you doing?"

He cannot see it, but he knows Brady is smirking that insufferable smirk of his. And of course the human offers the simplest of replies. "Dancing."

Loki snorts. Dancing in a dance club. But of course.

Regret

Brady tries not to have any and only results in harbouring several. He knows the moment he throws all caution to the wind and remerges on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s side that Loki will do everything in his power to see that he suffers for it. Though, Brady knows the alien well enough to understand that Loki doesn't buy his act. They both play their parts well enough to survive. It isn't his own regrets that Brady worries about.

Game

Their entire relationship is one never-ending game. They are master chessman, only Brady is far too intelligent to plan two moves ahead. It isn't about predicting his opponent's move. It's about making the right one and if he's truly as good as the world thinks him to be, then one is all he'll need.

Checkmate.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~​

[size=-2]15 minutes. Long enough to smoke a cigarette. Long enough to guzzle down lukewarm coffee. By his calculations, long enough to achieve a mind-blowing orgasm.

And Brady never miscalculated.

The past nine and a half minutes had been devoted to a dance as old as time but Brady didn't feel very graceful. On the contrary, lodged against the nearest wall with the sharp edge of a wooden desk digging into his clutching palms, he felt and looked rather undignified.

Still... It had been nine minutes of carnal heaven and they still had six minutes to spare.

Time was precious and reasoning was something he abhorred during these trysts. Every time his mountain of a boyfriend dared to utter any words beyond 'yes', Brady made sure to shut him up right quick. They had no time for words. Not really. They only had time for each other and fortunately, that time involved sex at its grittiest.

Gabe was really giving it to him now. Even amidst his helpless pleasure and frequent mewling, Brady had the sense to take note of his boyfriend's behaviour. The harder he pounded, the closer he got and right about now, Brady was almost certain his arse cheeks were red and raw.

It wasn't Brady's observations and astuteness that allowed them to continue without anyone being the wiser. Oh no. He owed some credit to Gabe who had likely been studying Brady as well and could accurately predict whenever he needed his mouth occupied. He had been swallowing moans and silencing cries with his lips for weeks and it both delighted and infuriated Brady.

12 minutes in and Gabe was applying a firmer grip to Brady's skinny thighs. He held him in place with a bruising sincerity, somehow finding it within himself to hold his gaze and keep it. Even here in a cramped office of some precinct that was long overdue in purchasing new furniture, Gabe managed to take him away from it all. Somewhere between the three remaining minutes, he always lost himself in the stormy blue-grey of his boyfriend's irises.

He was close. They were both close. Gabe was hammering away at his prostate with maddening precision, making his cock jump with every thrust. They were sweating, Gabe's grip slipping on the slick skin but he wouldn't let anything deter him. Brady was watching him, studying every microexpression he could.

His head was beginning to feel too heavy for his neck to support, though he wasn't granted the opportunity to allow it to lull back. Gabe was doing that freaky mind-reading thing that he had clearly learned from hours spent by Brady's side. Or so he haughtily liked to think, if he could think at all with his boyfriend's strong, knowing fingers curling around the back of his damp neck.

His hold was both gentle and rough and Brady was finding it harder and harder to bite back the moans that demanded to slip through his quivering lips. As if on cue, Gabe was pulling him in for a demanding, deep, grunt-filled kiss. The movement of his hips was a blur before his eyes closed.

This was it. He could let go.

"Mmmph...!" And just like that, Brady came in white, hot bursts, splattering come all over his flat stomach.

Gabe almost never had to jerk him off to get him to come. What a bitch.

The detective wasn't too far behind. He kept his lips locked with Brady's and it took a few more erratic jerks of his hips before he went rigid and hummed something unintelligible against their joint mouths, emptying himself into the condom he wore.

14 minutes.

Brady felt him pull out and winced at the slight pain it caused. He always hated this part the most. The thought of having to move at all after such great physical exertion was taxing but Gabe was also responsible along with being a ridiculously good lay. He only bothered to open his eyes when he felt the familiar sensation of tissue swiping over his stomach.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Yes. His darling lover even cleaned up after him. How perfectly adorable. It took a good 10 seconds but soon enough, he was being hauled up onto his feet. As expected, his legs felt like jelly but it was difficult to worry when one had something solid to fall back on. Pulling his pants up was something he had to do on his own.

Can't spoil you, Gabe had once said with this awful parental air about him. Brady could only wonder why.

Becoming presentable was more of an issue for Gabe. Frankly, Brady didn't give a toss but by the time they were all tucked in, he was the only one who showed any signs of rule-breaking. Perhaps this level of skill came with practice. He didn't care to learn himself but he found himself casting an admiring look at his nearly immaculate boyfriend all the same.

Brady glanced at the clock.

15 minutes.

He made sure to pat Gabe's ass on the way out.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~​

[size=-2]When Gabe was inside of him, Brady forgot that there was such a thing as sorrow. He forgot how to worry. He forgot that they lived in a world so full of danger and sadness that even now none of them understood its purpose. He forgot that he had ever been alone. He forgot about every bad thing that had ever happened to him. He forgot that he was physically broken and emotionally shattered.

When Gabe was inside of him, Brady forgot to breathe.

For all his kindness and worrying, Gabe could fuck. He was a total beast in the sack as Brady had discovered shortly after they had begun to officially date. If it wasn't against a wall, it was on a coffee table. If they had no viable surface, the detective would simply hoist him into the air and hold him in place. And for someone who had never been with another man (and Brady knew these things, he always knew) Gabe was frighteningly good at taking charge.

It had taken him a few weeks where it would have taken anyone else a few years to discover every little thing that made Brady blush and gasp and moan and beg. By the time they were through, Gabe had always left him sweaty and sated and tired enough to sleep peacefully. But that was just one side of the detective.

Brady had always hated foreplay. He hated the idea of having to wait and tease and endure while they could have just gotten to the good part and saved the both of them a lot of time. Sometimes he was too practical, people said. He couldn't very well help it, being who he was. Practicality came with being a bonafide genius.

Gabe had granted him many privileges and adjusted himself to suit Brady's personality and needs. But the romantic in him, that well-masked Don Juan, couldn't be totally silenced and it hadn't been very long before he had taken even more initiative. It had started off small. Sometimes it would take longer for Brady to whine at him and get him to stop licking the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Other times Gabe would kiss and grind until Brady was certain he would shoot in his pants. These tiny allowances had slowly escalated into Gabe pinning Brady's wrists down while he left hickeys all over his throat and chest. It still made him blush to recall that one time Gabe had forced him onto his front and groped and smacked his arse-cheeks till they were red and raw.

But it wasn't just the foreplay that had changed. Gabe had gone from fucking him into next week to... Well. Gabe called it making love. Brady called it a colossal injustice and coloured pink whenever his boyfriend professed to wanting to do it again. They still fucked. Brady would have gone insane if they didn't fuck. But Gabe was far too fond of taking things slow and Brady could no nothing but lie there and oblige. Every time Gabe pushed into him, all complaints were forgotten and all he could do was open himself up to the older man. He ceased to be just Brady when they were tangled up in this languid dance as old as time. He was Gabe's Brady and that made all the difference.

Which was where he found himself tonight.

It was early fall and the weather was crisp and chilly but the windows had remained open nevertheless, for the heat in the room was enough to melt anyone.

Brady was spread out on a queen-sized bed, the formally immaculate sheets now wrinkled and sticking to his sweaty back. His head was resting comfortably on a plump, cushy pillow and his hair was fanned out around him, wild and blond and damp.

He was naked and the light of the moon was casting an almost surreal glow to his pale skin. His legs were spread and bent as they curled around the body currently moving between them.

Gabe was thrusting slowly, having propped himself up by his hands which were currently planted on either sides of Brady's body. It was dark in the room, but not quite so dark that they couldn't see each other's faces and Gabe had his blue-grey eyes locked on Brady and refused to budge. Other than his harsh breathing and infrequent low groans, the detective was more or less silent.

The same couldn't be said for Brady who was letting forth little gasps and long-drawn out moans whenever Gabe purposefully brushed his prostate with the head of his cock. His boyfriend was no small man and his flesh had to stretch and strain to swallow him down but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't worth it. Gabe was inside of him and Brady had no intentions of letting him go.

The two lovers were gazing at each other and they moved as one solid being. Brady swayed in time with his boyfriend's moving hips, pushing and pulling, rising and falling. Ever so often he would lift a hand and trail it down Gabe's toned front, both marveling and admiring the deep indents and ridges of muscle. Gabe had a body to die for and had both women and men alike vying for his attention... but he had chosen Brady.

Gabe had chosen Brady.

Brady lifted his head and found Gabe leaning in to meet him halfway for a much-desired kiss. Their mouths locked and sealed, lips gliding and rubbing and caressing in perfect harmony. His boyfriend was swallowing down his moans and cries and soon their slick tongues were dancing for dominance. Brady didn't think there could be a loser in a fight such as this. When they finally parted for air, he was very much aware of how much saliva had gathered between their joint mouths and he licked the taste of Gabe off of his lips with a soft whimper.

Gabe's eyes narrowed in approval and he moved his lips to the side, gently kissing the flesh just beneath Brady's ear before shifting towards his pale throat.

Brady arched automatically to offer the detective better access, quivering at the gentle touch of Gabe's butterfly kisses. Through it all, his boyfriend still rocked with him, driving his cock in deeper and deeper but still not fucking him the way Brady always wanted it. Right now, all he wanted was Gabe and he had Gabe so there was no problem.

He could feel the pressure coiling at his belly. Gabe's thrusts were very precise and despite the slowness of their shared rhythm, every movement was hitting home. He was soaked in sweat and trembling beneath his boyfriend's warm body. He needed to come.

Dropping his hand from its current position around Gabe's neck, Brady tried to reach for his twitching cock and was stunned to find the detective batting his arm away. He went so far as to drag his hand up and pin it against the pillow, linking their fingers tight and squeezing for good measure.

Brady's pale blue eyes widened. "I... I want-"

"I'm gonna make you come," Gabe reassured in his husky, deep voice. His pupils were blown wide with arousal but there was a conviction in his gaze that led Brady to believe him.

He flopped back down onto the bed with a sigh that turned into a strangled cry as he felt a tongue swipe over his incredibly sensitive nipple. He glanced down with bulging eyes and almost wished he hadn't for he could clearly see and feel his boyfriend rolling the tiny bud between his even teeth. Brady wailed and thrashed, squeezing Gabe's fingers hard enough to crack. His other hand fisted the detective's dark hair as he bucked violently.

"Nnng...G-Gabe...!" he cried, his cock twitching again and again with each practiced swipe of Gabe's tongue. His eyes rolled at the back of his head when his boyfriend moved onto the other. "Oh God," he sobbed, the pleasure blinding him into a frightening delirium of no and yes.

Gabe's hips began to move faster now and Brady's foot dug into his boyfriend's arse in an attempt to pull him in deeper. "Yessss," he wailed helplessly, tugging harshly at the short, brown strands in his fingers, "Gabe... Gabe, Gabe, Gabe," he chanted.

His boyfriend's only response was to move faster and suck harder until Brady gave a truly tremendous scream and arched so high off of the bed that he looked as though he would float clear into the sky. His cock spurted forth his young life in violent white bursts and his cries were loud and hoarse. The hand that had formally been ripping the hair from Gabe's scalp now clawed down his back in desperation.

At last, Gabe released the nipple from his wicked mouth and watched, actually watched him come undone with a look of wonder and amazement on his handsome face.

Brady would have felt naked and damn near vulnerable under such watchful eyes but he was too busy losing himself to care. The tight rippling of his arse appeared to shatter Gabe's control and with a helpless groan that was partly muffled into his damp skin, the detective came as well, spilling his seed inside of Brady's hot arse.

No condom. Not tonight.

For a while, they were nothing but a pair of panting dogs who did their absolute best to get themselves under control. It took some time but Brady found himself wincing right along with Gabe when the detective finally pulled out of him. The stream of come that followed his boyfriend's departure had his eyelids fluttering with hot embarrassment but he was too tired to do anything about it.

Brady simply lay there underneath Gabe's furnace of a body, finally coming to his senses once more. His boyfriend was no longer inside of him and the world was what it was again.

Gabe didn't say anything for the longest time, nor did he move. Brady was half-curious to see if he would reach for the tissues in order to wipe the both of them clean and was partially surprised to find his big softie of a boyfriend smiling a shy but utterly beautiful smile.

He pressed tender kiss after tender kiss to Brady's lips until the blond found himself practically melting into a puddle of ecstatic goo. Every time their mouths met, his stomach tied itself into little knots and sent pleasurable jolts throughout his body that made him feel stupidly happy.

With one final kiss to his forehead, Gabe slid off of him. The departure wasn't long-lived as Brady soon found himself being tugged into the warm comfort of his boyfriend's strong arms. He rested his wearied head against Gabe's sweaty chest, finding himself completely soothed by the sound of his heartbeat. Slow and steady, just like their lovemaking.

"You want me to close the window?" Gabe asked quietly while his fingers rubbed soothing patterns into Brady's naked back. "Is it too cold?"

Brady shifted and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's chest. "You move, you die."

He heard Gabe chuckle softly but was too tired to get a read. He was aware of everything again. The good and the bad but he was slowly beginning to realise that when he was with Gabe, nothing else really mattered. All he had to worry about now was getting to sleep and if he knew his boyfriend (which he did) he knew he'd be waking up to a hot meal and a kiss.

Life wasn't perfect but for the first time in a long time, life was good.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~​

[size=-2]From a letter to Gabe

Hey honeybunch,

I'm writing this while sitting here in a cafe along the waterfront in Cannes. It's currently hot as shit but I've got my shades and my layers with the added coverage of sunblock so I think I'm well protected. I met with Maureen O'Sullivan the other day (you recall my mentioning her having a hand in the Wizards project) and I don't think she's very fond of me. She might even downright hate me but I'll reserve me judgment until the tests are done. Nothing is conclusive but I'm pretty stoked about it. The pseudo-science brings out the little boy in me, don't cha know?

Sorry that I haven't been able to skype but I can assure you that I'll try and arrange something for next week because I'm crazy busy and only taking the time to write this because I miss you and I'm conceited enough to believe that getting this letter will make your day. It's a lot more sentimental than an email and I'll even rub the paper on my privates before sending it. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I hope not. I'm not savvy enough to manage that without getting several paper cuts.

Four weeks is an obscene amount of time to be away from home but just think of the incredible sex we'll have when I get back. Only, don't think too hard because you might just start experiencing withdrawal symptoms. I've heard fucking me will do that. I hope you're reading this when you're alone because I can practically see you grinning.

I wish you were here. I haven't gotten around to doing the touristy stuff as yet. It won't be nearly as much fun without you but I'll take pictures for Ben and Evanna. I think she'd like the Croisette gardens, right?

Anyway, I guess I should end this because I really need to check in with Phil before he files a missing persons report. Try not to miss me too much. I love you, Gabe. Know that yours is the face I imagine when I wank at night.

Love,

Brady

~​

From an email to Gabe

Hey,

Just sending you a quick email to let you know that I haven't frozen my arse off and I'm sorry for cutting our call short. I'll make it up to you tonight. You don't have to come get me, I'll just cab it to your place. Keep the sheets warm, kay? Kisses.

P.S. I'm never taking a Greyhound bus again.

~​

From a text to Gabe

My professor is incompetent and I'm horny. Be a good boyfriend and send me pictures of your cock. Kgo.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

heaven holds the faithful departed

~​

[size=-2]Damn it, Costigan. You went soft on me.

That was all Staff Sergeant Digman could really come up with. It didn't do a good job of justifying the untimely demise of one Billy Costigan but being the hard ass that he was, there was no way he'd fall into a pool of guilt. Though, had he looked into it a little more, he'd realize that he was already there.

There were so many maybes and Dignam had gone through just about enough to drive his sanity off a fucking cliff. Maybe if he had been there sooner, maybe if he hadn't resigned like the hothead he had proved to be on more than one occasion. Maybe Billy would still be alive.

Christ. The kid was gone. It was a simple concept to grasp and sure, Dignam had taken the news like any other man would have - silence and then the anger. Fuck Sullivan, that rat shit. If there was one thing that Dignam couldn't stand, it was rats who expected praise and this son of a bitch actually got it in the end. But it wasn't really the end.

When Billy had stepped into that office, Dignam had done his own job of sizing him up. He'd noticed the stiff manner in which he sat down and the simple automatic replies. The kid didn't flaunt any forced bravery like most stateys who liked to bite off more than they could chew. Dignam liked that but wild horses couldn't get him to say it aloud. Billy had this vulnerability to him that set off his radar loud and clear, but he had a temper. Right from the start Dignam had wanted to harness that aggression. This kid had potential, and Dignam saw that.

It was in his nature to push buttons. Every insult that flew out of his mouth was natural. He'd spent too many of his childhood days choking on soap. Apparently his dirty mouth had yet to be cleansed and his mother would be turning in her grave now if she saw the way he treated people. But with Billy it was different. He pushed his buttons and pushed them hard to make something of this kid. Billy had it in him to get things done. Dignam trusted a small amount of people in his field and in life, even less, but Billy he could. They didn't see eye to eye at all and Dignam was pretty sure the only thing they shared was the desire to nail Costello. Even still, he secretly liked the kid but more so just enjoyed pissing him off. The twitching and tensing of his face muscles got Dignam off in a healthy way.

He had wanted to tell him that after he was done with all this, Billy would easily become one of the elite, these elite being those who didn't give him homicidal urges.

The fear he had heard in Billy's voice had been apparent during their phone calls. Dignam almost wanted to feel bad then but it would have been dishonest. He didn't feel bad. He encouraged this because he knew Costigan was someone who would get somewhere in life and make his fucking mark, whether people knew it or not. He knew and that was enough to satisfy.

He had wanted to tell Billy that Queenan had been like a father to him and with every good guy earned the big guy upstairs had to knock one off. So it was Queenan's time. Dignam wasn't happy about it, hence the resigning, but he didn't expect Billy to go too. That was fucked and now, so was Sullivan.

Dignam stood before Sullivan, gun pointed as his eyes bore down into his cheese-gnawing soul. The bitch had groceries. Bunch of dairy products, no doubt.

Sullivan seemed to accept his fate and gave a dismissive okay before turning his head to the side as if Dignam's face were too repulsive to stare at for very long.

You ain't Miss-Fucking-Universe yourself, Dignam wanted to say but no. Without so much as flinching, he let his gun do the talking and that said it all. He watched with no satisfaction whatsoever as Sullivan crumpled to the floor, groceries littering the otherwise spotless floor. Queenan was gone and so was Billy. But hey, at least he could go to bed tonight and know that somewhere out there, the kid was probably tensing and twitching those fucking face muscles, probably thinking, took you long enough, you hardheaded bastard.

Dignam turned to leave. Job him good in the afterlife, kid.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

[size=-2]With a broken wrist and just a few cuts and bruises along his temple, Brady would have considered this a success.

Going undercover wasn't anything out of the ordinary for him. No, a part of him firmly believed that he was born to do the things otherwise deemed unfit for someone of his stature and curious disposition. When the plan had gone awry, Brady had been forced to think on his feet which often worked in his favour, but he'd been dealing with a man who didn't see patience as a virtue. He was, at the end of the day, a raging sociopath. They were hardest to read of all and when the situation had turned to his being a hostage for what seemed like the millionth time, Brady had not repeated the same mistakes. He was no longer a kid and somehow, someway, he had gotten out alive. He couldn't say the same for Franklin who had been gunned down the second Gabe had had a clear shot.

Gabe.

It had been Gabe all along.

For the past three months Brady had resigned himself to accept the fact that he was dating again. The days had been breezy and mostly painless. In spite of the fact that Gabe had initially been a startling reminder of all that he had lost, he had soon discovered that there were several layers he had needed to peel away to find the real Gabriel Newark.

He was a strapping man who stood at an even 6'5 with short brown hair and light blue eyes that always shined when he smiled, and what a smile it was. He was a man who more or less had his life together but Brady being Brady had discovered that like any other human being in their Godforsaken world, the detective had some unresolved issues of his own. He was generous and kind and could even be fussy at times which was easily the last thing Brady needed considering all the nannies he already had in his life but it was charming all the same. Gabe had that innate desire to take care of someone and while Brady had been reluctant at first, he had let his guard down little by little. They still had ways to go but it was a comforting thought when he realised he usually had someone to see during the week. Someone who in turn wanted to see him and just be with him. That was a relationship, right?

It was funny how these near-death incidents really opened up the doors for some substantial thoughts. For the past three months, Brady had allowed himself to get comfortable with the idea that he wasn't alone anymore. Slowly and with the greatest of care, Gabe was somehow relieving him of the misery Danny's departure had left behind. It was a collective effort. Gabe's gentle kisses and the way he would always reach for him when Brady showed even the barest sign of ankle-induced fatigue were a part of it. He made him tea when he sniffled. He brushed the hair out of his face when it got particularly windy outside. He always reached over and squeezed his knee when they came to a stoplight.

Gabe was being the boyfriend Brady wanted him to be, needed him to be and it was touching to know that all of these traits were inherent. Gabe could be downright scary when he wanted to be but at the core, he was a sweet man who wanted to love and be loved. It was what anyone ever wanted.

All of these thoughts ran through his somewhat muddled brain. He could still feel the razor sharp edge of Franklin's switchblade against his throat though it had fallen right along with its wielder the moment the bullet pierced his skull. He still hated that sound. He would always hate that sound.

He stood a few feet away from a dead body that had ceased convulsing and now simply lay still and bled out. Sunlight was pooling through the cracks in the boarded up windows of the abandoned building where he had been forcibly taken several hours before. Officers and paramedics were moving all around him, voices chattering away at a disagreeably loud volume.

Through the blur of faces, Brady only saw Gabe who had lowered his gun and was fixing him with a guilty look and he almost wanted to smack him for it. This isn't your fault, he wanted to say, it was never your fault. Instead, he kept his silence and watched the tall man approach him. He could tell that Gabe wanted to reach for him by the way he just barely lifted his hands and promptly lowered them, clenching his fists. The guilt only intensified when mingled with worry in those blue, blue eyes.

Brady regarded him in a thoughtful silence, knowing he had to be the one to break it.

"Nice shot, detective," he commented in a relatively calm voice despite the intense beating of his heart. He had been afraid. He would have been stupid not to. "You saved my life." The pain in his wrist was intense but he had broken it before and somehow, he was bearing it in favour of organizing the sudden onslaught of frantic thoughts.

Gabe was eyeing the cuts and bruises on his face, he knew, and then his eyes were dropping down to the swollen wrist. His deep guilt was punctuated by a visible wince as he struggled with himself. He wanted to say something but instead he signaled for the paramedics to come over and attend to 'Fitzgerald'.

Brady blinked and appeared to grow paler than ever. That single word had awoken the fears he had tried so desperately to bury but in a situation like this where death was waiting at his door and the world stood by to judge him, he couldn't do anything but accept the naked truth.

Fitzgerald. It was so... detached. One of the few things Brady had noticed about Gabe right off the bat was his desire to keep things on a first-name basis. Oh sure, he would throw in an affectionate kid every now and then but he had always been Brady. Until now...

All at once he was reminded of Danny. How they had despised each other from the start. And then that mutual dislike had grown into something strong. Brady had allowed himself to think that he would spend the rest of his life with the man who had given and taken the best two and a half years of his life.

Danny had saved him and loved him and cared for him... but in the end... his career had taken precedence over the love. Brady had understood that on an objective level but it had hurt so bad to be second place. He was never good enough. Not for his father. Not for his mother. Not for Danny. But Gabe...

Brady needed to know. There had once been a time where Brady had thought that he would never come out of his heartache-induced depression but Gabe had thrown him a lifeline and coaxed him out of his protective shell with his kindness and willingness to accept who he was. But was he willing to take everything that came with him?

Ignoring the gentle hands of the paramedics who wished to guide him away, Brady took shaky steps towards Gabe until he stood only a few inches apart. He wasn't a short man by any means but Gabe dwarfed the best of them. He was looking at Brady with a level of alarm that was kind of adorable.

"You should let them help you," he urged softly, "You're hurt."

Brady heard all of it and none of it. He kept his arms lowered at his sides and wordlessly leaned up until his lips touched Gabe's and held them there. It wasn't hard. He had kissed Gabe plenty of times and enjoyed the familiarity of the gesture but this was different. Like Danny before him, they had unconsciously decided to keep a certain level of discretion and decorum when in the presence of their colleagues. Like Danny, Gabe was fiercely in love with his job and would have given it his all. Brady just wanted to know if the similarities between the two would make them or break them. Was Gabe the one? Or would he fade into nothing more than a fond but bitter memory.

The initial resistance had been felt and Brady had held his breath and his place. He didn't release Gabe from the kiss until he was satisfied. It had taken a few seconds but what he had felt then was a definite response. It was the way in which his boyfriend applied the gentlest of pressure against his mouth and tenderly mouthed at his lower lip as if he were fearful of hurting him.

The kiss had lasted no more than 20 seconds which would seem a lifetime with everyone watching. He pulled away and held his breath. When he studied Gabe, he was afraid of finding anger or disappointment or disapproval - everything Danny would have shown if Brady had kissed him in plain sight of his co-workers.

Brady knew he was being selfish and he knew that this could potentially alienate Gabe from the male officers and detectives but he had to know. He couldn't continue on if he knew he was fighting a battle he would never win. It wasn't a fight he was ready for. He never would be.

The pause was making his heart hammer painfully in his chest and for a moment, Brady lost the ability to read anything and all he saw was what his fears allowed him to see. But then Gabe's face was softening and the detective reached out and pulled him forwards. His hand was gentle and soon enough Brady was engulfed by the familiar warmth and solidity of his boyfriend's body. He could feel Gabe's steady fingers rubbing soothing circles into his tense back and then he pressed a kiss to his forehead and Brady knew.

He knew.

He looked up into the detective's eyes and found that he was smiling a tired but utterly beautiful smile. He put his strong arm around Brady's slender shoulders and carefully spun him around.

"Come on. Let's get you looked at."

And Brady agreed. [/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

[size=-2]When realization had dawned on him, Loki had felt his knees collapse beneath him. His legs had always been strong enough to bear his weight. They were reliable and they had stomped away many threats and come out the victor. But now the weight his legs had bore for a lifetime had become too much in that single instant and for the first time in years, the King had fallen.

Loss was a concept he had learned from the very beginning. From losing his false kin to pride and birthrights, to seeing good men fall before him in a rebellion that would earn him the coveted throne. Loki had lost everything to gain what he had and yet, those past misgivings seemed inconsequential now. It was as if he had never truly known what loss was until this moment. He had never grieved as he grieved now. It was a choking feeling that clouded his sensibilities and left him smothered, gasping for air and groping blindly for the relief that would never come. Even a King could not stand between death and its prey.

They had found him lying in a morgue. The search for his son had waged on for days and nights. He had never thought to seek him out in a morgue. The mere suggestion had thrown him into such a rage that even Sigyn didn't dare approach him lest she incur his wrath. He had put it off for as long as he could, waiting for some sign that Brady had been found in a tavern, drunk but otherwise well and alive. The scolding he would get when he arrived would be legendary. Loki often excused his son's less than savoury behaviour but this time he had gone too far and wasted valuable time.

As the days passed, no news had arrived and Sigyn seemed to work up the courage at last to implore him to seek out the one possibility he didn't want to entertain. In the end, Loki had grown far too restless and agreed to go if only to silence the nasty whispers.

The search had been thorough but grueling. The stench of the poor souls rotting away was unbearable but Loki had been adamant that every body be examined. They had found peasants and orphans, drunkards and seamen, but no princes. This was the dead house of the poor. His son could never be resting here among the wretched and forgotten. The mere thought turned his stomach.

It was a terribly poignant moment when his gaze drifted to the farthest corner of the morgue, the one place he hadn't yet looked, coincidentally the one place he might have missed all together. But his keen eyes missed nothing and Loki's footsteps had echoed in the silence as he walked towards that lonely corner where a single body lay upon the table, looking strangely peaceful in its eternal slumber.

Heavy had been his heart as he neared the body and long before his eyes caught a glimpse of gold, Loki had known. He had known all along, but the stubbornness that had won him his throne and helped keep that very throne wouldn't allow him to even fathom the idea that his son could be dead. Not his son.

He had wanted to turn around and leave before he discovered a truth he could never escape from but his legs had moved forward of their own accord. The hand he no longer controlled had reached out to remove the filthy sheet that covered the unmoving form and as it fell away, so had the King's sanity.

The sound that left him was like that of a wounded animal howling out the last of its agony. He had fallen down before the unmoving figure of his son, seen that lifeless face and cursed the Gods for their cruelty. His eyes had witnessed many things and they would never mistake the face of the child Sigyn had bore him 19 years past.

They had carried him, they said. Their proud King had fallen before their eyes and they had carried him back to his palace like a crippled thing. A burial was required, they told him. They wished to cover his son in the cold earth and have him waste away into nothing. They wished for him to be there while they did it.

Loki had refused.

His days had been filled with unrest. He had eaten nothing. He slept not for a moment. He did not leave the room where his son lay, dressed in the finest clothing Loki could find. In life, Brady had loved his fineries and been the envy of all at court. He would have wanted Loki to dress him in his best.

The only time the King showed any signs of life at all were when he moved to examine the stab wounds left behind on his son's body. Someone had murdered his son and tossed him into the river as if he were garbage. Loki could not even muster the strength needed for vengeance. Grief had eaten away at his anger. He wanted nothing more than to see his son rise again and laugh at the world as though it were a secret jape only he seemed privy to. Brady had laughed often much to the annoyance of others, at times the King himself. But it had been a musical laugh, a truly beautiful sound that had rung through the halls when he was a child. To think he would never hear that sound again made him feel faint.

To grieve was one thing, but to grieve alone was something else entirely. It was his tears and his tears alone that salted his son's brow as he wept over him. Not the commoners, not his daughters, not his sons, not even Sigyn who had nursed this corpse at her breast so many years ago. No one cried for his son. Who had stolen away their compassion?

"We have grieved for him for too many years now, Your Grace," was his eldest son's reply. His expression was stone, his eyes cold, "He was lost to us long ago."

"Leave us," had been the only words Loki could manage. His hands had appeared two trembling doves, useless in flight as if the death of his son had clipped away their wings. These very hands had once held a squalling, pink-faced infant. He had been born with a fine tuft of fair hair and pale blue eyes that had mesmerized wet nurses and become the talk of the palace for many months, he remembered. Brady had always been beautiful beyond compare.

He was Loki's only blond child. That hair had grown out into long, yellow waves that gave him a cherubic appeal. Mischievous from the very beginning, it was often those sunshine tresses and rosy cheeks that won him the favour of men and women alike. He was Loki's youngest, his golden boy, his Brady. And he had been taken from him.

"Would you have seen him dead?" Loki asked Sigyn. The room had been heavy with the scent of death but he had refused to part with his son's body. He would let him lie there and watch him, for if he stayed with him, then who would dare take him then...?

The silence was heavy between them, laced with years of disagreements and pain, but to her credit, Sigyn had stood by him through it all. And now, with the death of their youngest hanging over them like an ugly cloud, she was still here.

"No," she replied at last and Loki felt a momentary bout of relief at the pain he recognised in her voice. She too had cause to grieve. "He was our son," she continued quietly, her gaze falling upon the figure laid out handsomely on the altar. She could never stare at it for long. Loki could only wonder why.

"There are many times I wished he had not been born," she said as if it were a confession she needed Loki to hear and understand.

He heard it, but he could never understand.

"You must let him go," she urged softly whilst reaching for him, but Loki had shaken his head and pulled away. He pulled away from her, from his children, from the palace, from Kingship. He pulled away from it all and went to his son, bending over the body to gaze upon his face and hoping against hope that Brady would take him away if he followed.

"I cannot," he replied quietly as the tears ran down his cheeks, "I will not."

It was the discovery of his son's murderer that shattered all that Loki had left behind. Vali, his reliable son, the one who had helped secure his rights to the throne, had killed his brother in cold blood. How he had allowed such enmity to go unnoticed between his sons was an even greater anguish. The death of his son and the ruin of his family was his own doing, he realized. Vali's long, difficult confession had been as hard on his son as it had been on Loki. While he couldn't bear to look at him when knowing what he had done, the pain he heard in his voice was far worse than anything he could have possibly said.

"You favoured him above all and I never once hated you for it, but you robbed me of my rights, father. It should have been me, not him, who wore the armour. And I would kill my brother a thousand times over to protect our family. To protect you. Everything I have done has always been for you and you only cared for him, your precious Prince."

The words were like knives and yet, Vali's pain cut deeper and Loki had buried his face in his hands as his eldest left him to his grief. Loki could not blame Vali. He could only blame himself. Had he truly been so blind to Brady's faults? He had seen what he wished to see through a father's eyes. He had given Brady all that he could and more, for Brady needed it. He was young and impetuous, and Loki had hoped that that reckless streak would end with age. Rather, it had ended all together with something far more final. Everyone in the Kingdom had lost hope in his youngest, all but Loki and what was he to do now?

What was supposed to be a most wondrous celebration of marriage and union between his daughter and her suitor had become a mockery of his loss. As his children danced, they danced upon the grave of their brother. There would be no tears for the son he had failed at every turn.

The music had become but a distant echo as Loki approached the altar. His legs felt useless and his steps as heavy as cinder-blocks but he had not stopped until he stood before his son. He studied the face closely and with the greatest effort, reached out to touch it. The flesh felt cold under his fingertips but Loki did not pull away. Instead, he gathered the body into his arms as carefully as though he were handling porcelain.

And what he saw nearly took his breath away.

He saw Brady as he had been in life. The child he held in his arms could have been sleeping and Loki had no desire to wake him. A fond smile stretched across his face and he leaned down to gently kiss the boy's lips and lightly grasp the small fingers in his own. He had to be very careful. Brady hated to be woken up.

He carried his son out of the palace, laid him out on the grass and dug his grave with his bare hands. Loki had never known a more painful task and his eyes continued to drift over to the sleeping child, praying that he would awaken at any moment and chastise his father for disturbing him from his glorious sleep.

But Brady lay still and Loki continued to dig. Covered in earth and gasping for breath, Loki looked to the skies and held his dirt-covered hands up. "We have sinned, allfather," he said, his voice feeling hoarse from pent-up emotion that threatened to spill forth in a tidal wave that would cover the earth whole, "Do not punish our son for our mistakes. Grant him peace."

With that, Loki stepped out of the grave and reached for his son. Dragging him into the hollow proved too taxing for his weakening bones and Loki cried bitterly as he laid Brady to rest, risking one final glance at that face. Not a child at all, but a man. A man who had come undone before his very eyes and gone ignored. And yet, Loki still saw the child he had lulled to sleep when his nurse's singing simply wouldn't do. He saw the little boy he had doted on, the little who had grown into the bitter man he had failed.

He placed his filthy hands upon his son's brow and drew in a ragged breath. "I would have given you the world," he confessed in a voice that trembled and broke, "Forgive me my sins, dear one." He had only the dirt left to cover his son's body and when at last the earth had swallowed him whole, Loki journeyed back to the palace.

It was the journey to Vogar that proved longest and Loki knew nothing until the carriage stopped before a lesser palace, yet no less radiant than the son he had left behind. He took the long staircase step by step, paying no mind to the guards who allowed him passage wordlessly. The passing stares and surprised exclamations of those around him meant very little. He did not stop until he found who he had come for.

The girl was a delicate beauty, dark haired and bright eyed with a childish spray of freckles across her face. She had always appeared a timid creature at her husband's side but now she looked positively frightened and he could not blame her. He would have looked a horror in his filthy clothes and disheveled hair. He was gaunt-faced and pale but he had words with the lady of Vogar.

"Your Grace," she gasped, immediately rushing to his side with wide, worried eyes.

Loki gazed at her with a vacant, glassy stare but he shed no tears. He had spent himself of tears, it seemed. "I have buried my son," he declared quietly. Later, he would recall catching Nelly as she fainted and carrying her to her bed just as he had carried his son to his grave. Only, Nelly had awakened and Loki had vowed that she would never fall again.

"Our sins are grievous and we will spend a lifetime repenting for all that we have robbed from you." The words that would have seemed so difficult a lifetime ago poured out of him in quick succession as though they were all he had left. In a sense, they were all he had, his last defense against all the wrong he had done. He could not save Brady, nor could he return Nelly the husband she had lost, but he would grant her what comfort he could.

He took the Princess' hands between his own and kissed them gently, silently begging for a forgiveness he did not deserve. "We hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive us some day," he breathed shakily. A single tear ran down his pale cheek and trembled at his jaw before dropping off onto the linens below. "But as a father who loved his son beyond reason, I ask one thing of you..."

~

The labour had been long and hard. As King, Loki had no real place among the women who shuffled in and out of the birthing room and yet he paced tirelessly at all hours, cringing at the sound of Nelly's screams as she struggled to bring her child into the world.

The longer the wait, the more worried Loki would become and the anxious faces of the midwives did nothing to calm his nerves. He refused all drink and fell onto his knees to pray. The Gods had taken one life from him and he would not bear the loss of another. For many months now he had kept the Princess of Vargo at his side and made sure that her every need was saw to. Making peace with his family proved far more difficult but Loki had not let that stop him. He was determined not to lose any more of his children to his pride.

The heavens heeded his silent call with the most beautiful sound he could ever have hoped to hear. A loud cry rang out of the room and grew louder and louder and Loki sank against the nearest wall, releasing the breath he had unknowingly been holding. That was the unmistakable sound of a newborn crying. It was the sound of life, his grandchild's life.

It was the midwives who beckoned him forward, telling him the Princess desired his presence. Loki stepped into the room a man reborn. He saw her propped up on what looked to be about a dozen pillows, her forehead glistening with sweat and yet, she had never looked quite so lovely as she did then. It was the glow of a mother who had stared death in the face and defied it.

But Loki only had eyes for the squirming bundle nestled in her arms. From where he stood, it was a tiny, pink blob with no aim other than to seek out the warmth of the womb it had been forced to leave behind. It was a cold, new world for the infant but Loki promised himself that his grandchild would not come to loathe it as his son had.

"You have a grandson, Your Grace," Nelly rasped as he came closer.

A grandson. The Gods had heard his prayers after all.

Without warning, Nelly lifted the child and carefully placed him in Loki's waiting arms. He did not need her words to understand that she had been waiting to do that for a very long time and Loki had not the words to thank her for it. And so, he gazed down at his grandson in awe. He had been born with hair just like his late father and when Loki gently brushed his thumb over an impossibly soft cheek, the baby opened his eyes to reveal irises as blue and clear as the ones he had fallen in love with so many years ago.

It was as if he held Brady in his arms and Loki was loathe to let him go. "He is beautiful, dear daughter," he whispered.

She smiled a tired smile and reached out to tenderly graze her fingers along the infant's fine hair. "I would have you name him, Your Grace."

It was enough to have him tearing his gaze away from his enchanting grandson to favour Nelly with a look of surprise. Her smile was all the answer he needed and Loki pressed a kiss to the infant's brow, watching in delight as tiny fingers curled around his own. "Bradaigh, I call you, the second of his name, Prince of Asgard, Duke of Vorga-"

"Brady," she cut in and when Loki looked to her, there were tears in her eyes.

"Brady," he agreed, and the baby smiled. [/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

[size=-2]"Brady, look! The fireworks!"

"I see 'em, Jess."

"But, look, it's all patriotic and shit, come on, let's stand by the water. We'll push people aside with Buck's arm."

"He really is too cute to be your boyfriend," Bucky grinned.

"I concur," Brady replied with a snort as he watched Jesse scamper off into a crowd. He was easy enough to identify in his bright red, white and blue hoodie, an ensemble he had insisted upon earlier.

"It's either this or I wear my lady liberty shirt," Jesse had stated, "You decide, mon amour."

Brady moved easily enough with his friends in tow. Three burly gentlemen and a pretty boy with a walking stick was enough of a reason for people to provide a wide berth. He settled in beside Jesse who had his hands on the rail. He shook like an excited toddler and fidgeted like a house-broken puppy, typical Pinkman.

It was almost enough to bring a proper smile to Brady's face. It was so like Jesse to be thrilled about the smallest things and it always succeeded in reminding him that it was okay to let loose and enjoy himself from time to time. To think, this little outing had almost been cancelled but Brady had fought hard to take a few hours off to be with someone who was more than a significant other. Besides, nothing would have prepared him for Jesse's crestfallen face if he had backed out.

"Aw, sick," Jesse breathed appreciatively, his blue eyes fixed on the colourful sky. Every now and then he would glance back as if confirming Brady's presence.

I'm here, Brady wanted to reach out and say, I'm right here.

For a man who considered himself incapable of reading people, Jesse sure had a knack for hearing him. He moved with all the subtlety of a bull but Brady hardly minded. They were packed close enough that he couldn't see what Jesse was doing but soon enough he felt their fingers link together in a silent gesture that spoke volumes.

Bursts of light rained down on them and Brady took a moment to scan the crowd for the Bs who had chosen to scatter to their own respective comfort zones. Bucky chose the front out of habit, Bae chose the back to avoid touching people and Ben was somewhere in between, a fact that many women seemed to appreciate.

"I don't really wanna go," Jesse admitted after a time.

Brady glanced to the side and saw that his boyfriend was still admiring the fireworks but there was a tension in his jaw that his well-trained eyes understood.

"Don't you wanna see Badger?" he ventured, resting his skinny arms on the railing. They had spoken about Jesse flying out to celebrate his friend's birthday but even over the phone Brady had identified the sadness in his boyfriend's tone.

"Yeah," Jesse replied, chewing on his lip and looking quite thoughtful, too thoughtful for a man who would only be gone for a couple of days at best.

Brady didn't press. Experience had taught him that people spoke on their own terms and at their own pace and more often than not it was the best way to get them to say what was on their minds.

Jesse turned to look at him, his back facing the water. It was an unconscious signal. You're worthy of my attention, that posture said and Brady would never really figure out what he had done to earn it.

"I do, but, going back... It's not the same," Jesse explained, squinting as he struggled to find the right words. He seemed to settle on an explanation that covered all bases before favouring Brady with a look that was both confident and vulnerable all at once.

"It's not home anymore," he said with a finality that stretched across his handsome face in a smile so bright it shamed the night sky, "Home is here, with you."

Brady felt a squeeze to his fingers. Jesse was looking at him as he so often did. There was devotion in those eyes that he still didn't entirely understand but they had come long way in terms of acceptance. At least Brady wasn't pushing anymore, or worse, running.

"Aw, Jess, you'll make me cry," he cracked, although the sentiment remained. Being apart, however brief, wasn't easy for either of them.

Jesse tilted his head up and nodded. "Guess they're about done."

"Nope," Brady replied and pulled Jesse forward against his lips. The immediate result that followed the meeting of their mouths was explosive and people gasped in unison at the beautiful flurry of colours that danced around them. It was comforting, being on one's home turf, but Jesse was right. Home wasn't a city, or a state, or even a country, it was where you were loved and these days Brady had a lot of that.

He pulled back just the slightest and studied the dizzy glint in Jesse's gaze. He was smirking as he slipped his arms around his slender waist. "Is this the part where I sing you that Katy Perry song?"

"Who?"

Jesse laughed and pressed his forehead to Brady's. "I love you, B."

"Yeah, yeah. Happy fourth of July, bitch."[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

[size=-2]"Hold still, darling."

Brady grumbled in response to an order so easily issued. Holding still with a finger lodged tightly up his arse wasn't the simplest thing to obey.

He was currently wind up tighter than a two dollar watch. The sheets were melded to his body like second skin, silk and satin and all things metallic. Bae kept a cool house but Brady's flesh was boiling at a fever pitch.

Bae smiled indulgently, although Brady would have to spit his own hair out to see him properly. Noah Baelfire was going to be his undoing but Brady had long since reconciled with the fact that he no longer cared. Bae loved him and Brady loved Bae. There was no need to complicate it.

"I only ask because I'm afraid of hurting you," Bae explained patiently, his voice a warm, velvet shroud that swept over one's senses like a drug, "you're very tight."

Brady snorted and pinched the tips of his slender fingers over his pillowcase. "Just hand me a dollar for every time I've heard that and I'll be richer than you."

Brady deliberately trained his eyes on Bae's face, studying his reaction. In the past, the merest implication of any trust trysts with other men would have set the Englishman off but Bae had come a long way. Indeed, the smile currently gracing his handsome face was all the proof that was necessary.

"You are as rich as me. My wealth is your wealth, Brady, we discussed this at length."

"No, you discussed and I liste- aaaaahn!"

"Don't speak," Bae hushed with an infuriating smirk. He was twisting his finger around, toying with Brady's slickness and prodding at the little nub inside of him that was sure to drive him wild.

"You look so good like this," Bae breathed and even in his love drunk state Brady could make out the obsession in his voice, "I love seeing your face contort when I find your prostrate and the way your body writhes is like an erotic dance only for my viewing pleasure. You're art unfolding, my love."

Brady had a clever reply somewhere on the tip of his tongue but had to bite it back in favour of a loud cry; Bae's finger had pressed down on that bloody nub extra hard.

"Hey, baby," Bae whispered, lips pressed to Brady's flushed brow, "your little hole is so red, I wish you could see it. The more excited you get, the redder it gets. You blush everywhere, don't you?"

"Fuck you," Brady managed to gasp as Bae added another finger to the torment. He bent his back in a smooth curve not unlike the iconic bow bridge of his childhood. His fingers gripped Bae's steely arm, biting into the clothed skin. Fucker was still fully dressed, Brady realise deliriously. That shirt probably cost more than his car insurance.

"I will fuck you," Bae promised with a growl in his tone that sent shivers down Brady's naked spine, "I'll fuck you every night until you can't think of anything but your need for my cock. I'm going to use you till you cry out my name, I'm going to make you tell me you're mine. You'll feel nothing but pleasure from here on out, Brady, I swear. I love you."

Brady's grip on Bae was slippery but his lover hardly seemed to mind. "Fine," he relented, sweat-soaked and growing desperate, "But I want your dick in my mouth before you decide to do any of that."

Bae's face split into a grin and a soft laugh followed that tugged at Brady's heart strings in ways he struggled to explain. Bae's eyes lit up when he laughed and all the shadows would pass at once, giving way to the boy he might have once been, before life took its toll on him, before he was forced to hide.

"That sounds fair," Bae agreed. He tilted Brady's chin up gently and claimed his lips in a tender kiss. "Love you," he murmured, stubble scraping over Brady's soft skin, "I love you so much."

They wound up in a tangle of limbs. At one point Brady was convinced that Bae had breached him deeper than was humanly possible, that they had become one being and would never come undone. If Bae was the beginning then Brady was his end. They rocked faster and faster, perspiring and panting and moaning around deep kisses. It was the closest to heaven either of them would ever get and it was enough.

With come dribbling out of his sore ass, Brady lay as still as he could while his boyfriend licked him clean. Every now and then Bae would find a particularly sensitive spot and send Brady jerking high.

"Noah," he whimpered under his breath, and Bae would glance up long enough to send him a look that would have his worries fading away.

Green eyes, Brady thought blearily, the greenest eyes I've ever seen. My green-eyed boyfriend.

"Baby, why are you looking at me like that?"

Brady had to smirk. Bae was the one guy who could successfully convince everyone and himself that the opinion of others meant nothing to him and yet every time he caught himself under Brady's gaze he felt bashful and unsure. It could reduce his raw sex appeal to boyish charm and Brady found it terribly endearing.

"Would you relax," Brady groaned with an exaggerated stretch of his sticky body, "You know damn well that you're the best lookin" guy I've ever dated."

To his credit, Bae looked unfazed by this remark and Brady had to laugh. The arrogance of Bae, however put upon, was hilarious.

"I want to be the best period," Bae insisted, his eyebrows raising in a way that Brady recognized - the insecurities were mounting.

"You are," Brady replied absently. He felt Bae's long fingers grasp his delicate chin and direct his gaze towards him.

"I want to be perfect for you," Bae reasoned stubbornly. He was stroking his hand through the drying come on Brady's stomach and affectively making the muscles clench.

"No one is perfect," Brady countered patiently.

"You are."

"I walked into that one," he sighed. He could have read Bae's frantic need for approval with his eyes closed. Brady was tempted to grab him and tell him to shut up but he knew how counterproductive that could be. Bae didn't mean to act this way, they were all of them products of their environments and Bae probably had to fight harder than most for approval.

"I love you the most," Bae declared.

"I know-"

"No, you don't," Bae interrupted, looking both sad and frustrated, "I wasn't good to you before but I swear, Brady, no one can love you like I can or as much as I can. I love you more than Jon Snow or Jesss Pinkman ever could. Please believe that. Please."

Brady saw the tears forming in those otherwise mesmerizing greens and felt as though he had already lost the battle, one which he had never wanted to take part in. Still, he reached up and wrapped himself around Bae like the smaller spoon and kissed him passionately. They had more problems than any relationship Brady had ever been in but everything seemed so trivial when they were together like this. Bae stirred something inside of him Brady hadn't known he could feel. He wanted more things from his lover than he dared admit but Bae was willing to give him more.

"I love you the most," Bae echoed against their joint mouths, "please don't forget..."

~~~

Brady didn't jolt awake so much as he slowly slipped into consciousness. It was dark still but the first little inklings of light were creeping through the cracks in the sky and Brady knew that they would all soon be bathed in light.

It was early in the morning and while he had many things to do on this working day. for now, he could lie there and enjoy the silence.

A thought suddenly occurred to him as wakefulness won the battle. He was supposed to meet Bae later that day.

Well, fuck.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

[size=-2]The jacket smelled like Jesse.

It would. It was an unspoken agreement between them that they were to use separate brands of laundry detergent. Brady's was spring, Jesse's was summer and with each gust of wind he was treated to the scent of wildflowers and morning dew and, was what that? A red sun in the New Mexican desert. The scent of a man, he thought amusedly.

Hooah.

The wind chill was considerable for the month of May. The east coast may have known cooler Springs but not from Brady's recollection. Near the presence of water, no matter how small in quantity, it only ever seemed worse.

He stood on the iconic Bow Bridge, a backdrop of various romantic comedy films. To most it was merely an impressive landmark in the man-made marvel known as Central Park but to Brady it was so much more.

He'd known so many beginnings and far too many ends on this cast-iron beauty. His reflection had rippled against the waters of the lake from youth to adulthood and even now it stared back at him, pale but alive and surviving.

He was always surviving.

His first goodbye had been that morning when Jesse had confronted him at the door. Brady had never known a more earnest face; Jesse Pinkman could hide nothing and his vulnerabilities were laid bare for the world to understand manipulate to their will.

Only Brady wouldn't let them. Not now, and not ever.

"Yo, it's like mad early to be alive. Where you going?"

"Out."

"Your specificity is such a turn on. Haha, are you proud I got that word right?"

His darling Jesse. Brady had spent months accepting his clinginess. Jesse was not a man capable of holding back and as such, his devotion had smothered Brady in the sweetest way. It was his love that Brady couldn't run from and these days he was finally beginning to accept that staying put was the brave thing to do.

It was the right thing to do.

Jesse had spared him the puppy dog eyes because he understood. He may never have been as perceptive as most, but Jesse was coming to understand Brady's needs at an admirable pace. Brady needed the space and Jesse had granted it to him.

His second and third goodbyes were harder to place. The skies were darkening and light droplets were beginning to spatter all around him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of an approaching figure. It was the scent that triggered his recognition and within moments Brady heard the light pop of an umbrella that was promptly held above his head.

Brady turned his gaze and met the brilliant, dancing blues that were Jesse Pinkman's eyes. He was smiling in a way that Brady had seen him do many times. Still, it hadn't yet ceased to take his breath away.

"Do you not check the weather network? Like at all? It's supposed to pour like a bitch and I know you hate the rain."

Brady inched away from the edge but his graceful fingertips remained on the cold banister as if he wasn't prepared to let go just yet.

Jesse stepped forward and placed his free hand atop Brady's, rubbing his warm thumb over knuckles with all the tenderness of a mother hen. "You okay, B?"

Brady waited. He didn't know what he was waiting for or if it would even come but today he was defying his reliance on science and the logical. He needed a sign and Jesse would be the one to provide it.

Moments after the thought had entered Brady's troubled mind, Jesse gathered his hand in his own and brought it to his lips in a silent vow. Brady didn't need words. Everything Jesse had said to him and was still saying to him was written all over his handsome face.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Brady looked past his boyfriend to where the bridge came to an end. On that very spot he had once thought he would die. He dipped his chin down and pressed it to the warm cotton of the jacket he wore. Jesse had placed it his over his shoulders that very morning, just as another man had done so long ago.

It wasn't easy, letting go, but it was the only way. There was a life beyond this bridge and Brady had a man ready to guide him off of it. The difference was, Jesse wouldn't let go.

And neither would Brady.

He exhaled as the skies began to pour and Jesse closed what small distance lay between them, wrapping Brady up in his arms and locking him in a gentle embrace.

"Let's get you home, Birdie."

Goodbye.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~~~​

[size=-2]Brady eyed the clock. He had been doing that for the past hour or so and Bucky found it rather strange. He wasn’t expecting anyone and he sure as hell didn’t give a rat’s ass about birthdays. And yet…

“Welp, it’s midnight,” Brady announced in a voice that would have sounded dry to the untrained ear, but Bucky knew better.

“So?” He tried to keep it nonchalant. His posture remained loose as he leaned over the plump cushions that would had to have been Ben’s doing. Brady didn’t have an eye for these types of things.

His friend’s eyes were too shrewd for Bucky to think he could play it cute. He broke out into a small smile that seemed forced to the strained muscles in his face. It had been difficult to smile these past few weeks. So much had happened in Brady’s life that affected them all directly. Brady would never admit to it, but he was the glue that held them all together and they so often forgot that even glue needed a bit of reinforcement when it faltered.

“Happy birthday to me,” he replied, sounding more tired than he had any right to.

Brady didn’t respond right away and Bucky knew why. He was reading him and Bucky wasn’t sure if uncomfortable was the right way to describe how he felt. He had known for years that Brady could see things in people that others could not. He was what they called a truth wizard, a person who could identify deception with a startling amount of accuracy but there was more to it than that, he knew. Brady saw people until they were stripped bare and incapable of hiding a thing.

Bucky had a lot to hide and to this day the guilt of his past followed him around like a shadow (or a metal arm) but he couldn’t hide things from Brady. It had taken him years to discover that he didn’t want to hide things from Brady.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky conceded under that knowing gaze. He could hear his phone going off with what was surely a string of birthday texts and he had to fight the urge to reach over and turn it off. It seemed cruel, somehow, and wrong. He hated being wrong in Brady’s eyes.

Their relationship was a strange one. He had a good six years on Brady yet he felt like the little brother sometimes. Brady had a century’s worth of wisdom packed neatly into a tiny body. Even as a 14 year old he had always struck Bucky as so smart. The guys on his platoon had given him a hard-time but not enough for him to question his writing back.

“You got yourself a little girlfriend, Barnes?”

“Boyfriend. They talk in code so no one can impinge on their love story.”

It might have been years ago but Bucky clearly remembered holding up one of countless letters and thinking: Brady Fitzgerald, some day you’re going to change the world.

And so he had. Bucky’s world. The fact that he was sitting here far, far away from his troubles and leading a comfortable life in his hometown was a testament to Brady’s persistence.

“Don’t you fuckin’ quit on me, Bucks,” he had said, “You still owe me a drink.”

Bucky could now say with some measure of relief that he had made good on his promise but Brady was no longer a 14 year old boy from a far away place. He was a man, he was here and he was suffering. And as far as Bucky could tell, no one alive seemed capable of helping him.

“It’s not much of a happy birthday,” he admitted, feeling vulnerable and compelled to explain himself at the same time.

“Why?” Brady asked.

“Because your grandfather just passed. Because your dad’s back and I know none of us get what’s going on there but we’ve got our ideas and you’re having an awful time of things and-“

Bucky faltered in his words as he felt two skinny arms wrap around him. It took him by surprise; Brady was not a hugger.

“Ah, birthday hugs?” he grinned gently, carefully putting his own good arm around the much slighter man.

Any second now Brady would let go and set him straight. His tongue was razor-sharp, but Bucky knew he didn’t mince his words for a reason. No one could get a point across quite like Brady Fitzgerald.

He opened his mouth to say something until he realized that Brady was still hugging him. That struck him as odd. Normally by now his friend would be halfway across the room. Affection chased Brady as hard as he ran from it. What had gotten into him?

“Hey…” Bucky said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He felt Brady’s arms tighten and was unsure of how to respond. Had something happened that he was unaware of? Was Brady trying to tell him something?

“Brady?”

He received no verbal response but he thought he felt his friend’s face press into his shoulder.

It was five minutes past midnight and the apartment was utterly silent. It gave Bucky the opportunity to think. How long had it been since he’d been embraced like this? He thought of his mother who had hugged him just hard enough to avoid the cold bite of his metal arm when he’d shown up on her doorstep. He thought of Natasha, the only woman who had stayed in his bed long into the morning. She had felt small in his hold but strong.

Brady felt like a puppy he had once rescued from a contaminated house, small and frail but too spirited to give in to his fate. If he turned his face to the side he’d be able to smell the clean scent of his friend’s hair. It was like being confronted by his memories only they were good ones and Bucky felt the first prickling of tears in his eyes.

Showing up at Brady’s had been one of the most difficult things he would ever do in this or any other lifetime. He had been a mess then, all scruffy-faced and long-haired but it was the shame of knowing what he had narrowly escaped that made it worse. But Brady had seen him just as he had always seen him in those letters and Bucky had known he was home for good now.

He didn’t realize it when a sob escaped him, nor would he have particularly cared if he had. It was easy to cry then, easier than anything he had done in ages. How Brady had known he would need this still surprised him, even after years of witnessing his miracles, and once Bucky had started, it was difficult to stop. And Brady never let go.

“Happy birthday, Buck,” he whispered, “You metal-armed fuck.”



Bucky laughed. He had to laugh.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~~~​

[size=-2]"Who's Brady?"

Two syllables and he can scarcely breathe. It's been a long time since he's heard that name, and yet, he must have spoken it aloud just a moment ago. Or perhaps it's been a century. He can't be sure, yet he knows it will be a long time before he ever hears that name again.

"Loki?" calls a voice from somewhere within the room. Maybe it belongs to the boy. He can't be sure. Nor does he claim to care.

He smiles and responds with practiced ease.

"Somebody I don't care to remember." And incidentally, somebody he can't ever forget.[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

Who the hell is Brady?

~~~​

[size=-2]“Hey, Buck.”

They approached each other, moving at a pace better left to angry, wounded animals. Such descriptors could very well have been applied to the pair of them; they had only been battling for a year.

It was the older of the two who stopped first, the hesitation in his eyes unclear to any average man, but his opponent knew better. His opponent knew far too much. At that moment, James Buchanan Barnes was afraid, very, very afraid.

“Sun’s gettin’ real low,” the blond crooned, a jarring contrast to the state of him. His hair was dishevelled, his face caked with soot and blood, yet still, he managed to do the one thing he hadn’t done during the entirety of their relationship: smile.

To his credit, Bucky never broke face, at least, not where it counted. Neither of them missed the awkwardness of his gait, the fatigue in his movements, or the way his hand rested carefully on the rifle he was carrying. War had become a way of life for them and here, at the end of all things, it would reach its thrilling climax.

“We should have-“

“Run away,” Brady interrupted, uncharacteristically impatient in his desire to die. His eyes were as blue as Bucky’s, but colder somehow, like an eternal winter’s morning. If only they had frozen in time like they’d dreamt of many moons ago.

“I thought I was the one who couldn’t let go of the past.”

This time Bucky did break face. He winced, the pain ebbing and flowing like a sudden current. His grip on the rifle didn’t loosen, but he managed to free his other hand long enough to retrieve a pistol. It seemed almost comical when faced with the gallery of weaponry he had tucked away, but even the smallest of things could make all the difference.

They both studied the pistol until their eyes met in a silent conversation. Whatever war they had been fighting, whatever they had lost along the way, it all ended here.

“I don’t think I can do it,” Bucky said. The admission was painful, and the assassin did nothing to conceal the sudden mist in his cloudy eyes. The salt of his sorrows streamed down his face, leaving muddy streaks where it touched the dirt.

It would be like Brady to jest in that moment, but as everything else unravelled around them, so it seemed would he. The forest in which they stood was eerily quiet, calm, close to the cabin they had rebuilt together. The memory of it would have broken through the morbid serenity they had somehow managed to capture, so no one made any mention of it. Things needed to be buried and so did they.

“I know you don’t,” Brady conceded in a different voice. He cast his eyes to the side and fell silent for a time.

“Then we shouldn’t,” Bucky said, seizing the opportunity to press the matter. He took a step forward, looking desperate, looking so much younger than the 100 year old man he had become.

“Solnyshko-“

“Don’t.”

“Don’t tell me not to!” Bucky screamed, loud enough to startle the other, something he felt guilty for, even now. He advanced as quickly as Brady backed away, until Brady could go no farther and collided with a tree. Bucky’s hands shot up and grasped the smaller man by his face, the face he’d idolized for so long now, the face he now defied not to look at him, “I love you.”

Brady stared right back, seemingly devoid of anything, too cold to be honest. “I don’t.”

There was a pregnant pause followed by Bucky reaching down and grabbing Brady’s hands, noting the crossed fingers with a look of exasperation.

“Okay, I love you,” Brady relented in a voice laced with the kind of blind devotion that could not be questioned. Something in his voice said that he had loved Bucky for a lifetime, and would continue loving him long after that. He shrank away from the conviction he saw in his husband’s eyes, “But I could never love myself. Not even now. Especially not now.”

“I loved you enough for both of us,” Bucky pressed. The gun was positioned uncomfortably against their middles and somewhere between their confessions, Brady had managed to retrieve his own.

“You were always faster than me,” Bucky admitted, smiling beautifully in spite of the tears, “The last time we were this close you had your legs wrapped around my head and were trying to choke me.”

“If I recall, you were enjoying it a bit too much there, Barnes.”

“That’s Fitzgerald to you,” Bucky corrected harmlessly, but the weight of his words hung heavy between them, heavier than any bullet. He paused, taking in the sight of the face he’d never truly get to admire ever again. “We could have disappeared.”

“Too late for that now.” The regret was palpable, but neither of them could do a thing to alleviate the other. It had been the strongpoint of their relationship, the shared trauma, the unfailing ability to save the other, but it wasn’t enough.

It was Bucky who was first to pull Brady into his arms and even as Brady spoke, he paid it no mind and held fast to the smaller man. It may very well have been the last time they held each other.

“They’ll wipe you. After this, you won’t even remember that I existed,” Brady explained in that insufferably matter-of-fact voice that Bucky had come to love, “It’s for the best. Why think when you have the option not to. Why remember?”

“Moy dorogoy,” Bucky whispered, pressing his lips to Brady’s brow, “Shut up. Where you go, I go.”

“Evidently,” Brady said. He aligned himself so that he was close enough to feel the last bit of warmth he’d ever receive. “Make it count.”

Even through the layers of leather, the pair of them could feel the cold bite of each pistol. The countdown was silent and Bucky’s finger slipped over the trigger like he had promised. It was only after he had fired the first that he realized he was still standing.

Why was he still standing?

Only one had been loaded.

“No,” he whispered, watching his husband’s body crumple and hit the ground with a resounding thud. It was the dead of winter. He had always confessed to hating the winter.

“No,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it untrue.

The screaming would last a long time. Eventually, someone would hear him.

—

“You… you lied. Baby, mIlaya moyna… You were always the best liar. Why did you lie to me?”

Even as they swarmed around him, even as he held Brady in his arms, rocking him gently as if coercing him out of a long nap, even as he tasted the metallic tang of blood against his lips, Bucky spoke as though he’d get an answer.

“You can count on me like one, two, three,” he sang brokenly, “Was that how it went? All these years and I never once bothered to put it on my iPod. I always had you to sing it to me.” He laughed, laughed hard as the government agents in their black clothing and with their black guns struggled to free him of the white corpse in his arms.

“Will you sing it for me again? One last time, Bradoshka. Either that or our daughter will have to sing it. Do you know she’s waiting? We can’t keep her waiting, baby. Wake up. Please. Please, darling, wake up.”

—

Hey, Buck. Sun’s gettin’ real low.

“What?”

Bucky looked up at the new arrival, eyes blazing something terrible.

He was met with a look of confusion, undercut by deep concern that was somehow unfaltering. There was always concern to be seen in those blue eyes. That was just Steve.

“Everything okay?” his best friend asked quietly.

Bucky wasn’t too sure. It was something… He had heard that somewhere before, and it occurred to him after a few moments of silence that Steve hadn’t uttered a word of it. Thinking about it was enough to force a sharp pain to his temples and it was almost enough for him to want to dismiss the thought entirely. It took a while, but eventually the words became meaningless, a distant worry he was frightened to revisit. Something about the almost memory of it seemed agonizing and Bucky had had quite enough of that to last him four lifetimes.

The words were a thing of the past.

Much like the man who had once spoken them.

“Yeah…” he stated after a while, “Yeah, I’m fine.”[/size]

 

[ExcaliburEsque]

~​

[size=-2]“Look at him, Tony.”

“I can’t.”

“But you can. And you do. Every day.”

Tony had no immediate response. Steve was right, of course. Steve was always right. And it was in his rightness that Steve shined. His look was hardly arrogant; Steve was looking at him the same he’d been looking at him for years - with pure love and a exceeding amount of patience.

Tony knew a lot about Steve and he knew that Steve was no fan of repeating himself and so, like so many other times, Tony Stark relented when confronted by those blue, blue eyes.

His son was easy enough to spot. He was in the process of building a fully functional foosball table, a feat that would have been remarkable enough for any child: Brady was five.

With his little hand wrapped around the individual wires, Brady looked the picture of calm and Tony had only felt the first pangs of worry when this little project had gone underway but Brady had proven him wrong with a headstrong certainty and a level of skill that exceeded his years. Now, as he listened in on the successful sound of a buzzer going off, Tony only felt pride.

Pride, with a side of guilt.

Steve folded his arms across his broad chest and Tony watched as his better half’s body turned towards Brady. Tony was struck again by their physical similarities. Brady had genetically inherited Steve’s golden hair and blue eyes and in many ways, Tony was grateful. All the goodness that came with Steve Rogers had been packed away in a tiny body, but Brady’s brains, those were all his.

“Look at him,” Steve repeated, only this time it wasn’t a command and Tony could have read the love in his tone a mile off.

“He’s got the size down,” Tony remarked, “but the design’s a little bland for my tastes.”

Steve cut him off with a look and Tony felt shamed enough to exhale all of his falsities. He didn’t always mean for them to show up, they were just there.

“He’s growing fast,” Tony observed, pocketing the hands he’d only now noticed had been fidgeting relentlessly, “We’re not cutting his hair.” It was a definitive thing to say in a very definitive way. The more people mistook Brady for a girl, the stronger was Tony’s resolve. He would have sooner shaved his face than touched a single golden strand on his son’s perfect head.

A smile threatened to grace his face and for once, Tony didn’t bother to fight it. Perfect didn’t even begin to describe what he and Steve had made.

Steve took notice and Tony felt the familiar weight of his partner’s hand resting on his shoulder. He leaned into Steve’s touch and the sound of Brady’s laughter echoed through the spacious lab like so many little bells. It was more of a mini-lab slash nursery, really, one that Tony had designed himself from the moment he became aware of his impending fatherhood.

“You want to hold him,” Steve said gently, and at that moment Tony could not have loved him more. That was Steve, he could somehow order you around without actually ordering you around, “You have that right, Tony. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Except himself. Why Steve was choosing to omit that little part was beyond Tony but he was too high-strung to be reading into things too deeply. Steve was right. He did want to hold Brady. He wanted to hold him very badly.

“Hey, buddy boy,” he called out, his brain registering that he’d spoken long after his heart, “C’mere.”

Tony watched the way Brady hesitated, a moment’s pause that broke Tony’s heart into a million little pieces. He had planted that seed of doubt in his child’s mind from the beginning and in doing so he had become everything he had wanted to avoid: the absent father. He had no defences at his door, history repeated itself in the ugliest of ways, and he had been slumming in Howard’s shadow for what felt like centuries.

But, like a child of five with a trust so infinite and pure it could swallow the earth, Brady’s doubt subsided almost immediately and he dashed towards the pair of them as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Tony was quick to scoop him up. His son smelled of powder and shampoo and syrup, a scent Tony would log into his mind for years to come.

“You want to help daddy get a jump on that micro-dryer?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the tiny button his son called a nose.

“Darbis?” Brady queried, looking to the skies as if expecting his constant companion to answer. And he did. Tony had made sure he always would. If he couldn’t be a father then Jarvis sure as hell would.

“I will accompany you wherever you go, little sir,” came the automatic response.

That was all the confirmation Brady seemingly needed and he settled into Tony’s arms obediently. There was something melancholy to that compliance, it was the silent gesture that screamed loud enough for Tony to hear and yet, he’d been willfully deaf to his son’s pleas. All any son wanted was the approval of his father and Tony only wished he had the words to express how proud he was of Brady for simply existing.

Tony looked to Steve who had his large hand pressed protectively against their son’s back. It was a rare picture, the three of them together, and Tony knew that he was entirely to blame, but he would put off blaming himself for now. Right now his son needed his attention and every once in a blue moon he could comply.

He didn’t need to be that man today.[/size]