Nov. 7th, 2012

momebie: (Yellow gun)
Sometimes you're just itchy, you know? I wrote at the meeting last night, but I didn't get as far as I wanted to and when I got home I got sucked into other things and didn't type up what I had so that I COULD get as far as I wanted to. Instead I tried to go to sleep with this feeling of non-completion I just couldn't shake. That didn't work, so I sat up and banged out this paragraph from Bucky's point of view. Because I HAD to.

When he sees her again his blood runs cold. She and the fly boy are circling, predatory. Her haunches rock with each step and her hands are flitting about her waist. It’s like a spaghetti western, rewritten in grey and red and black. He realizes, for the first time with a clear head, that he loves her. It’s not the mind control. It’s not the circumstances. It’s not that he doesn’t have anyone else. He loves her. He feels like he always has. He knows he always will. It’s a truth he can carry with him, through all the different versions of himself that they create.

He steps out of the shadows with a low whistle, to surrender himself.


Sometimes you just have to, you know? Is there anything you've had to do this past week?

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