SAM NO WAIT
here’s an accidentally noodle-armed hot hairdresser dadjaku
I’m with you till the end of the line.
imagine bucky and steve taking shots of like 100 proof vodka and trying to get DRUNK and steve is totally unaffected but after the 20th shot or something bucky is drunk as fuck and he looks at steve really seriously (while swaying slightly in his chair) and steve is kind of nervous because bucky hasn’t looked at him this intently since before the war when steve came home with two broken ribs and bucky just stared at him for five minutes before giving him the longest lecture of his entire life so yeah steve is kinda nervous. finally bucky rubs his hand over his face, sighs and says, “steve, i fucking hate it when you wear khakis” and steve laughs so hard he can’t breathe
The backstory: Magic is forbidden. It has been for so long that most people have forgotten a time when magical creatures lived freely and scholars created new spells and potions, reaching for the stars and almost achieving it.
Times changed. It was no one person, no one government that started the movement. But now, in the 21st century, magic is dying .Those that descend from magical creatures and those who have been born with magical leanings are hunted.
The few humans born with magic have learned to hide it, never exploring their birthright. Knowledge of potions, spells, and charms have crumbled. Some tricks have been passed down by word of mouth or in codes long sense deemed unbreakable and unreachable by the modern world.
Non-humans, half humans, creatures of magic survive on the fringes of society, living in fear of discovery. Those that cannot pass for humans buy charms from the criminal underground, using the black market spells to cover green skin, oddly colored eyes, and keep their magic under control.
The black market is a deadly game all are forced to play. The charms are made with the little knowledge still left in the world are far from pure. The ingredients are hard to come by because of the destruction of the environment and the destruction of magical hot spots. Incantations and runes are so few they are used in broad ways and often incorrectly.
But in order to survive charms are needed. No price can be put on a potion that keeps a werewolf from losing consciousness on the full moon. No price can be put on a charm needed for hiding fairy skin or elven eyes. And because there is no price on life, the gangs running the sales of lifesaving magics can ask almost any price and are never held responsible if the magic goes wrong.
And magic will go wrong. Werewolfs will end up with potion that along the line came in contact with a silver knife. Those with more fairy blood than human blood will end up sick for months because of iron in talismans. Nothing is done to help them, no hospital will take in a mermaid or a fire witch. Governments turn a blind eye to the death toll, after all magic is illegal.
Paris as a city plays host to more magic than its citizens would ever dream of. Most parisians never think twice of magic and if they do its because someone mentioned the despicable creatures, the illegal ones in hiding, the ones that hurt. Werewolves, fire witches, and fairies are used in most houses to keep children in at night. They show up on the news every so often, a human death as a result of the magical community. That is all they know.
They do not know about the Underground. In basement of buildings that on the outside look abandoned, in the catacombs, in the dark parts of the city magic is alive. The Underground is the unofficial name and location, from the fairy court in a basement club to the blackmarket in the catacombs, a weak magic is kept burning.
Apparently, searching for the Winter Soldier means moving to New York and hell no is Sam Wilson moving to Brooklyn.
"Nah, man," he explained. "I love you like whoa, but hell no. Harlem or bust."
Steve didn’t get it, but whatever. He offered to let Sam have his floor in Stark’s godawful tower, but again: hell to the no.
"I know people in Harlem," he explained further.
He should have known that sentence would put a cloud over Steve, but at least the argument held water for him. That was what Brooklyn was about, anyway. He was going to where he used to have people.
So Sam moved back to Harlem.
At three AM on a Thursday night, the buzzer for the front door of his apartment went off.
"If you’re here to kill me, come back in at least five hours," he told whoever it was through the intercom.
"Sorry, Sam," came Natasha’s voice. "We need a place to lie low."
Fucking whatever. He buzzed her up.
She had a different buff, blonde superhero with her this time. He introduced himself as Clint and shook Sam’s hand. Then he winced and shook out his hand which Sam could now see was turning no-good-very-bad colors.
Natasha shrugged. “You should see the other guy,” she said.
"Other guys,” Clint corrected. “So many other guys. At least twenty.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"Fifty," Clint continued. "Probably fifty."
Sam repeated internally: fucking whatever.
"I left my straightener in DC," he told Natasha. "Bad for your hair anyway."
"Please," she scoffed. "Straight hair is so last year."
Two months later, Clint showed up with Bruce Banner. A lot of people in Harlem knew about Bruce Banner.
Sam put on the Enya CD he always told people he only had because an ex left it in his apartment. (This was a lie.)
Clint gave him a look.
"Look, Harlem thanks the dude for stopping the other dinosaur dude and everything," Sam explained. "But he is not allowed to break my apartment. I don’t have the funds to build a new one from scratch."
Bruce looked…not green, not in the bad way, but green like sea-sick sort of green. Like a hangover or something. His head was lolling and Clint was basically holding him upright.
Bruce Banner showed up in the daylight hours two days later with Tony Stark. Tony made fun of Sam’s CD collection. Bruce Banner fixed his leaky shower.
Sam thought to himself, OK, this is my life now.
Tony had to help with the shower. It went off and soaked them both and they left wearing all of Sam’s clean jogging clothes.
Steve came by with the Winter Soldier—“he’s Bucky"—in the middle of the night a couple weeks later.
Sam kept the place stocked with first aid kits and poptarts these days.
About an hour after they arrived, Natasha and Thor arrived. Then ten minutes later, Clint and Tony. Then Bruce.
"Everybody gets poptarts and beer," Sam announced as he ushered Bruce in. "It’s all I have on hand."
The Winter Soldier—Bucky—looked so fucking stunned at the suggestion that Sam made a bag of microwave popcorn just to fill the sudden depth of “feed this boy” feelings that had swelled up. It was something he inherited from his mom, no doubt. She was always feeding people who looked like that.
Yeah. This was his life now.
There were superheroes having a slumber party in his living room.
SCREAM. How is this the utter fucking best?
i could be drawing. i could be writing. and yet here we are
Remember who you are
the best part of this, though, is that steve waits until he’s saved the world to do it - like, he’s completed *his* mission, and now he can lay down and die, can let bucky kill him if necessary, because even if he’s saved the world (again!), he doesn’t want to live in it without bucky again (lbr, he didn’t want to do it the first time- there is not a significant passage of time between bucky falling from that train and steve refusing to eject from the valkyrie - i don’t think it’s a conscious suicide attempt, but he’s certainly not invested in getting out alive, and nothing that’s happened to him since has really ameliorated that; steve’s always been reckless, but his recklessness has a death-wishy edge to it post-bucky’s death), not now that he knows bucky’s alive. he’s already admitted he doesn’t know how to be happy in this brave new world, every certainty he had has been shaken, and then he discovers that his best friend - whose death he carried - suffered a fate worse than death, because if you’re dead they can’t kill you over and over again by turning you into a thing to be used, a weapon to be aimed and fired and then put away until the next time, and steve blames himself for that, for the fact that even after he grew eight inches and a hundred pounds, he still wasn’t good enough, strong enough to save bucky. but here it’s not physical strength that saves him, but love, because steve’s heart has always been his strongest muscle.
holy shit i am crying
o yea forgot this one