thefictionfairy

the fiction fairy

a (fanfic) writing sideblog | merry | ao3: thefictionfairy | main: amerrymasquerade | mcu sideblog: spideromanoff

627 posts

Oh Gods I Just Archive Binged The Trash Party And Now I Keep Thinking About The "Bucky Thinks Steve Is

Oh gods I just archive binged the trash party and now I keep thinking about the "Bucky thinks Steve is his handler" ones except it's not Steve it's some poor sod who looks like twink-form Steve and is very confused about everything

“Dice the onions,” George ordered.

Luke took the cutting board and began chopping through the onion with speed and accuracy that were slowly becoming more dazzling than horrific.

The dead-eyed stranger wasn’t really named Luke, but George had to call him something. He looked like a Luke.

He’d looked like a nightmare the first time George had seen him. Tall, dark, and filthy, and definitely stalking George as he walked home from the grocery. George had slipped down an alley and weaved in and out of the crowd on the next street over - sometimes his small stature had its advantages - and had assumed he’d lost the stalker.

Until he shut off the TV later that night and saw Luke’s reflection on the black screen. He’d been standing behind the couch for possibly hours, totally silent.

He smashed George’s phone before he could even try to dial 911. He moved so fast, George barely saw him.

George had blustered, threatened, begged. He’d offered all his valuables.

The stranger had only stood, staring.

Eventually, the stress of waiting to be killed or maimed grew overwhelming, and George had either passed out or dozed off.

He’d woken hours later. The lights were off and he was in bed with what felt like all the blankets in his house piled on top of him. The stranger was beside the bed, bent over and staring George in the face like a cobra waiting to strike.

George had screamed. “Out! Get out!”

And to his amazement, the stranger did.

George yanked the towel rack out of the bathroom wall, brandishing it when he crept out of the bedroom. The stranger was kneeling in the hallway. His body was tense. His dead eyes were wet with tears.

It had been a week now. Luke refused to leave George’s side, except when he was told to retrieve something. It was damn lucky that George worked from home, or his benevolent stalker’s appearance would be hard to explain. Luke was still barely speaking. Maybe George could order him to answer, but that felt wrong. Creepy.

Luke made a soft sound. The onion was perfectly diced, and he held out the cutting board as if asking for approval.

“Great,” George said. “Thanks. Now add it to the pan, would you?”

Luke nodded. The onions started sizzling as George laid out the tortillas on their plates. Luke insisted on doing all the actual cooking. Maybe he thought he had to. Or maybe he didn’t trust George not to harm him with a knife.

But George was about as happy with this arrangement as he could possibly be. Maybe that was a sign of Stockholm syndrome, but it was clear that Luke could kill him if he wanted. He wouldn’t even need a knife: one blow to the head from that metal arm, and George would be dead. He wasn’t. So Luke either liked him or needed him.

And in spite of his best efforts otherwise, George liked him back. He wanted to help, to get Luke talking.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said when Luke shut off the stove. “These are gonna be great fajitas, I can tell.”

And Luke gave the faintest hint of a smile.

It would have been a perfect moment, except that’s when Captain America chose to kick in the front door. And then the Falcon crashed through the dining room window.

“Oh, come on!” George shouted, trying to shield Luke as Luke was trying to shield him. “I don’t have room for three of you!”