Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sleep was fitful these days.

Bucky had never really slept well, even before his nightmarish voyage through Layer 3. He was a night owl, restless, sleeping far too late. Back then, it was a regular thing to hear the playful jabs about how he may be nocturnal.

But now? He could see the way his friends’ eyes darted to the dark circles under his eyes before quickly righting themselves. They didn’t really joke about it like they used to. So many times he caught them asking if he felt alright, if he'd been sleeping, if he was sick. So many times, he’d been so close to telling them.

It never happened.

One memory of how scathing Giovanni could be or how hopelessly optimistic Olive and Walter always were, and the idea was instantly silenced. They wouldn’t believe him. And if they did, they’d just experience the same horrors that had been plaguing his nightmares, digging into his brain like rapidly invading roots. They couldn’t know. No one could. And so continued his restless nights.

Nightmares were like roulette. Some nights they were short, abstract twistings of his subconscious. Bucky was used to those by now, so much that they hardly disturbed his sleep anymore, and he would usually forget them when he woke up.

Other nights were different. Other nights had the poor beaver sobbing through gritted teeth as he slept. Sometimes it felt like days, trapped and suffocating in his own private torture. Oh, so vividly did he feel those monsters’ cold, waterlogged hands dragging him kicking and screaming to that cell. The dull waves of heat as he watched his friend’s skull burn and burn, his own hands forcing him into the hissing, bubbling oil. The way the screams gurgled and distorted from the liquid. The suffocating cold of the water that pressed in on him from every direction as he swam deeper and deeper down, far deeper than any lake should go, but poor Olive just kept sinking, and eventually Bucky’s lungs would spasm uncontrollably, begging for oxygen only to be smothered by the water that tasted so faintly of blood, his friends blood, and the dreams would go on and on and—

Bucky slept alone, thank goodness. He could practically hear Gio making fun of him for crying in his sleep like a child. He sighed, feeling heavy.

The small bed rested in the corner of Bucky’s bedroom, adorned with far too many pillows and a thick, colorful quilt. The walls were a soft ocean blue, only disturbed by the little mural of red sailboats Olive insisted on painting when they all moved in. They rested, eternally still, above the light wood nightstand to the left of the bed that held the seashell lamp lighting the room. A cup of tea, growing lukewarm, was making a little white ring where it rested on the worn dresser. Bucky glanced at the navy blue mug tiredly. He sighed again. Every night, the beaver slept in one of his many fraying tee shirts—sitting a bit too large, even on his frame—paired with sleep pants that were just comfortable enough to not be too hot. If he were anyone else, he could’ve slept as heavy as a boulder in a room like this. But his worn-down psyche didn’t really care about his clam shell nightlight.

Bucky strained to reach for the steadily cooling cup, the string of the chamomile tea bag wrapped around the handle. He really had no idea why Gio did that. Numbly, he took a small sip, his nose scrunching slightly upon tasting the over-steeped drink. Oh well. Bucky gave a small huff of laughter through his nose, imagining what would happen if the goose had poisoned his drink. Another part of him wondered if that would actually get him some sleep.

His sense of humor had really gotten messed up since he got back, hadn’t it?

People say insanity is defined as doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting different results. Unfortunately, Bucky had no choice. Resigning himself to the small hope his subconscious would be merciful, he flicked the small switch on his lamp, and sank heavily into the bed.

Bones and wood cracking blood splattering his arms hurt with the force he was using to pummel the chair into the figure below him until the wood splintered—

Bucky didn't recognize the dark, sour-smelling office building surrounding him and his victim for the night. He did note, with some horrified amusement, that one of the cubicles was missing its chair.

He almost choked out a laugh.

He was interrupted by the shaking shadow beneath him.

Calling his name.

No, it was begging.

The voice was weaving together in his ears like flowing yarn pulling taut. The chair stilled above his head.

“---are you doing this?! Please— Bucky stop it-!”

The voice was gurgling. Presumably due to the gratuitous blood coating the scene. It was fair to assume some was in Walter’s throat. In…

Oh, god.

The haze of dreaming seemed to disappear like resurfacing from the deep ocean, making the grotesque scene even more vivid. Bucky would've gasped for air, had he been in control of his own lungs. He could feel the sharp smell of iron stinging his nose, the splinters tearing at his trembling hands, his paws nearly slipping in the growing pool of blood coating the pristine white floors.

He could see his brother's soft brown eyes through the gore, wide and confused and scared, asking why his big brother would do this while his voice begged for the senseless brutality to stop, even for a moment. How could his brother be so cruel?

Why was he being so cruel?

The infinitesimal moment that their eyes met felt like a thousand eternities. Even with the complete loss of control of every facet of his body, Bucky found what strength he could.

“I'm sorry—”

His arms swung what remained of the chair onto Walter’s torso. The floral shirt tore into ribbons.

“I'm sorry—”

Again. The impact knocked the younger unconscious for a brief second. Only now did a hand reach out to grip the floor, desperately trying to pull its owner away.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry—”

Bucky’s voice stuttered and choked on a sob as the mangled chair cracked against his brother's head, snapping his neck forward and breaking one of his tusks in half.

“I'm sorry I'm so sorry, please, I'm sorry—!”

The body had stopped moving by now. If he wasn't dead, he would be within minutes. But the horrible strings tugging at his limbs were relentless.

Bucky’s apologies slurred into sobs as the chair came down again and again and again until all he was clutching was a busted wooden leg. The rest of it was either lodged in the walrus’ skin like hooks, or strewn across the ground, growing soft and damp with blood.

When whatever horrible control had been on his body released, Bucky simply fell to his knees, not caring about the blood matting his fur. Whatever logic remained in his grief-addled brain knew that this was far too much blood to be real. The edges of the room were melding and distorting. This wasn’t real. That didn’t mean he didn’t crawl to his brother’s mangled cadaver, and wrap his arms around it.

If Bucky had been sobbing for days, he would've been none the wiser. All he knew was the nauseatingly overwhelming scent of blood and his hands gripping what scraps were left of the blue floral shirt.

“...I’m sorry,” he hiccupped, hiding his face, twisted and lined with grief, in what remained of Walter’s chest.

“...Bucky?”

Bucky’s heart leapt to his throat, eyes snapping open. He stilled. The body wasn’t moving, how was it—

“Bucky, are you okay?”

Now he was hallucinating! Brilliant, he really had lost his mind. He’d finally cracked! He knew it would happen eventually, his psyche would just crumble—

“Bucky, wake up!”

Dream and reality were melting into a confusing whirl of light and static, someone was touching him, he wasn’t in that office anymore, was he still dreaming? Glassy, panicked blue eyes darted across what little was visible, taking in nothing. His heart thundered in his ears.

Bucky had shot up in his bed, hugging himself so hard it hurt, his blankets kicked to the floor amidst his unconscious writhing. He could only breathe in sobbing, gasping breaths, eyes still adjusting from the dingy office to the soft light of his bedroom. Trembling hands scrabbled at the sheets, trying to grip something, anything, so that he didn’t get pulled back into that horrible scene.

Two firm hands planted on his shoulders. His fur was damp with sweat.

Finally, Bucky’s tired eyes cleared enough to make out the shape of his brother. It was still swimming with sleep and tears and the inside of his skull still ached with fear but that was him. He was alive. He hadn’t killed him. He didn’t kill anyone.

He didn’t kill anyone.

“Bucky, I think you were having a nasty dream,” Walter’s voice rumbled gently, “I heard your cup fall over.”

Sure enough, Bucky’s eyes looked down at the cream carpet, chest hitching with shaking gasps of air, to see the little navy mug toppled onto the floor. The teabag was soaking into the rug, its little string still wrapped carefully around the mugs handle.

Glassy blue eyes, still blinking away tears, looked up to finally get a good look at his baby brother, wearing those same silly blue striped pajamas he wore every night. His soft brown eyes were darting back and forth across Bucky’s face, trying to process the alien occurence of seeing his older brother scared. His hands, much bigger than Bucky’s, held fast to his shoulders, providing a gentle, grounding pressure. He still had both his tusks.

“Is everything okay?” Walter’s voice was heartbreakingly gentle, as if his brother was a China doll cracking before his eyes.

“I–” Bucky stammered hopelessly, his mouth hanging open slightly.

He looked at the floor. He sniffled and wiped his tears away. He let out a shaky sigh. There was a little stain in the rug near where Walter was kneeling.

“Can you stay with me for tonight…?” he whispered with a croak, still swallowing the lump in his throat.

Walter’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the request before his expression bloomed into a gentle smile.

“Yeah,” he nodded, his eyes crinkling at the edges, “Of course.”

Luckily the tea hadn't spilled on the quilt. Bucky shuffled back until his back pressed against the pillows, leaving room for Walter to return the blanket to where it belonged. As he climbed in the bed, Bucky shuffled again to the side to make room.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Gio’s gonna kill me if I woke him up,” he added with a slight huff. Walter chuckled.

“Just little old me,” he reassured, clicking the lamp off, “And Olive sleeps like a rock.”

Bucky gave a weak chuckle, sniffling again. Walter’s arm rested on top of him, and he instinctively curled up, wrapping his flat tail around himself. Even in the dark, he could make out the details of his little brother’s face. Alive. The way Bucky hid his face in Walter’s chest made him feel like a baby. But he was beyond caring about that.

Like this, he could hear the strong steady heartbeat in his brother's chest, and that was all he needed.

Art for this chapter!

Chapter Text

The little house on Nulla Terra was usually quiet, each of its residents resigning themselves to their own tasks. Wulf and Stumbler didn't mind the company, especially considering it got some extra helping hands around the island. At least now they worked (mostly) willingly, rather than working off a prison sentence.

Every so often, though, the house would start buzzing with life after nightfall.

"You aaaalways pick the movie!" 

"Because I am always right!"

"Oh yeah? And what if I...steal the remote!"

Olive wiggled before launching herself across the raggedy green sofa, playful grin widening and her narrowed eyes locking onto Giovanni. The goose yelled at the impact, colliding with Bucky who was on the other end of the couch. 

"Ow-! Will you two knock it off?!" Bucky was scolding, but he gave a lopsided smile.

"He started it!" Olive pouted, wrestling the remote from Giovanni's wings and skittering away with her prize, "And I'm ending it! I win!"

With an indignant scoff, the goose pushed himself back up.

"She's impossible."

"You did start it," Bucky cocked an eyebrow and smirked as he righted himself, "You know she wins every time. You fight a futile battle, Gio."

Giovanni rolled his eyes and huffed.

"Maybe we should watch one of your old films, rodent."

"Ha, real funny."

"The one where you get buried alive is a real comfort film of mine."

"I think your character really shines when you cooked a dead mouse you murdered---"

"Alright, alright!"

Walter raised his hands to break up the squabble.

"It's Olive's turn to pick, anyway! It's only fair that everyone gets a turn."

The otter gave a victorious laugh, pumping her fist in the air before hopping off the arm of Walter's chair and rummaging through the VHS tape collection. Her tail was wagging furiously. When the loud clunking signaled that the tape was in, Olive practically bounded back to the couch, smushing herself between Bucky and Giovanni. Neither of them minded the forced separation. 

As the swelling orchestral music boomed from the tinny speakers and the lights were shut off, the group fell silent, watching intently. Bucky rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa, resting his head in his hand. 

This didn't feel right.

Awareness grew like a clock chime playing in reverse, ringing, growing, filling out the gaps in his muddled head.

First he became aware of the fact that he was waking up. That he existed beyond the melting ooze that was his mind. Then he remembered how he had fallen asleep: with his head in his hand, drifting off to the sound of the film's soundtrack and the rest of his friends playful bickering. Had he really been so tired? He remembered that his unnatural sleeping position had made his neck a bit sore. The moment he recalled the fact, a dull, throbbing pain engulfed the base of his neck. He grimaced slightly. His eyes were still closed.

Little by little, the resonance grew, the ringing in Bucky's ears growing clearer and clearer. He felt the threadbare couch beneath him, rough against his fur. His leathery tail was draped over him like a blanket. Why did the edge of sleep make you so much more aware of everything around you? His ear twitched.

When the blood ringing in his ears began to be drowned out by hissing white noise, Bucky blinked open his eyes.

The light from the television that so often accompanied their movie nights had become ghoulish gray static, the shifting noise in the darkened house making Bucky flinch and shield his squinting eyes with his hand. He took note that he was alone. Walter wasn't in the overstuffed brown armchair next to the TV. Olive and Gio weren't bickering next to him, pushing into his space. The entire house felt... dead. 

Still blocking the harsh strobing light from his eyes, Bucky pushed himself up from the couch, using the arm of it as leverage. He turned his back to the screen, leaning forward to squint into the kitchen.

"Olive?" he called out in a loud whisper, in case anyone else had fallen asleep, "Walter?"

It set in then, how—aside from the television still vomiting its incessant static—utterly, oppressively dark the house was. Bucky stood, paralyzed with confusion and a growing unease.

There was a soft noise behind him.

Bucky whirled around on his heel, falling off balance and scrabbling to grab the sofa for support. His chest tightened like a vice now, breathing harshly through his nose and darting his eyes. God, he could barely see with the damn static.

"If you guys are messing with me I'm not in the mood!" he called out, no longer bothering to whisper. After blindly fumbling for the remote for a minute or two, he felt hard plastic in his paws. Bucky's shoulders sagged with relief. He couldn't take that drilling static anymore. It was blocking out every coherent thought he tried to muster. 

Blocking his eyes again, the beaver aggressively clicked the device off. He gave a sigh as heavy as the island itself when it fizzled to a silent black screen. He was blind for a moment, dots pulsing in his vision as he adjusted to the smothering darkness of the living room. More objects took shape in his vision: the armchair, the side table, the front door, the windows.

Even the outside seemed unnaturally dark, Bucky could only make out two small stars. Normally Nulla Terra's location allowed for a beautiful view of the sky. Sometimes you could even see a galaxy. Bucky stepped closer to the window, squinting, trying to examine if it was just a cloudy night. His breath fogged up the glass a bit as he cupped his hands around his eyes to see.

They weren't stars.

Bucky's legs went weak and he slapped a hand over his mouth, choking down a scream and frantically stumbling backwards into the side of the couch as his mind finally comprehended the Dweller's eyes staring at him. Nothing but glass between them. Wheezing breaths tore from his chest and tears sprung up in his eyes. A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye.

Bucky's head snapped back to the darkened television, only now processing the hulking silhouette looming behind it. A thunderous, wet slam cracked against the window. A rotten red stain was left in its wake. Again. Again. Again. Bucky's watery blue eyes darted back and forth, horrified at the idea of taking his eyes off of either of the monsters. The one behind the bulky television, Walter, Nathan, lurched forward, ambling towards the beaver as if he had all the time in the world. 

There were rapid footsteps getting closer.

Bucky managed to whip around fast enough to see Giovanni darting at him faster than he could process, neck twisting like a spring and smelling of burnt flesh. He barely had the faculties to dive out of the way, landing in a heap near the front door. Another loud slam, accompanied by the sharp crack of the window beginning to give way. Bucky let a hopeless sob tear from his throat, the noise causing the quickest Starling to turn towards him. Its neck contorted grotesquely, the rest of its body still facing away. Another crack against the window.

This wasn't the Plaza. There were no carefully placed hiding spots, no candle, no tapes.

Just him.

He was surrounded, alone, barely able to see his attackers save for muddy outlines and the glint from the fork lodged in Giovanni's eye.

Seeing no point in doing anything else, he curled in on himself, he clutched his head until he was pulling fur, and he screamed. 

"---t the hell's the matter with him?!"

"---ust a dream, he's okay!"

A hand touched Bucky's shoulder, and he jerked his shaking body away, still sobbing. 

"Justkillmejustkillmepleasedon'tmakemedothisagain-!"

"Bucky!"

Larger, firmer hands tried to steady him. He screamed again, curling in on himself. He couldn't see. He refused to open his eyes.

"Bucky, it's okay, we promise!"

That was Olive's voice. He knew that. He didn't know if it was Olive.

"M'not stupid, stop— TOYING WITH ME!" 

When he shoved himself away again, Bucky landed hard on the carpeted floor, and his eyes briefly snapped open at the impact. 

It wasn't dark. There was no noise from the television. After his pained wail of anger, there seemed to be no noise at all. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, hiccuping a sob into his arms.

He'd just been dreaming. Again. 

And now they had all seen. 

So much for keeping it to himself. 

Walter gave a wide, worried glance at Olive, silently asking her what to do next. She gaped, brows furrowed helplessly. No answer came.

Simply doing what came to his mind, Walter kneeled next to his brother's shaking, curled up form, and slowly, gently, lowered a hand onto his back. The beaver flinched slightly, but didn't pull away.

"It's okay," the younger brother murmured. 

"'Okay'?" Giovanni hissed, tilting his head sharply, "He nearly gave us all a heart attack!"

Walter shot him a glare, narrowing his eyes. 

"Lay off, Gio."

The goose huffed in aggravation and dismissively waved a wing. Olive watched Walter rub gentle circles across Bucky's back. It was still heaving slightly with quiet sobs. 

"M'sorry," the beaver forced out with a stilted whisper like a dying engine. 

"It's okay, it's okay!" Olive urged as she kneeled next to Walter, "We just wanna make sure you're alright!"

Bucky laughed. A hopeless noise, closer to a sound like choking on tears. Olive and Walter exchanged another worried glance.

Finally, he lifted his head up.

The pair's blood went cold in tandem, seeing how glassy and foggy and bloodshot Bucky's eyes were. He barely looked like himself. 

"...How long has this been happening, Bucky?" Olive asked quietly. 

When he finally managed to take in his friend's faces, his chest twisted with guilt. 

"It's not 'mportant," he used the heel of his hand to wipe his eyes, still dryly smiling, "S'fine."

"It—It's not fine!" Olive squeaked, "We're worried about you!" 

As if she hadn't spoken, Bucky pulled himself into a standing position, ignoring the trembling in his knees. 

"Bucky—"

"There's no point explaining," Bucky shook his head, hands wringing the hem of his shirt, "You won't understand. And I don't want you to."

"Great, glad we got that riveting explanation," Giovanni rolled his eyes. Bucky winced. Both Olive and Walter could feel that a nerve had been tweaked. 

"...Fine," he huffed a laugh and waved a hand, turning to face the goose, "You wanna know why? Because there's monsters under the island. Because I went down there and I still don't know why I did it, and they looked like us. I had to wander this god-forsaken pitch black maze getting chased by monsters twice my size, with nothing but a goddamn candle! All to find out that something out there that looks like me is a murderer! So yeah, I've had a bit of trouble sleeping lately, Gio! Is that a satisfying enough answer?!"

The taut silence returned in the wake of Bucky's tirade, the intensity rising as he went on.

"... You're a damn lunatic."

"That's what I figured." Bucky hissed and turned back on his heel towards his room. No one followed him. 

"What if he's telling the truth?" 

"Of course he isn't! He's lost his damn mind!"

"Gio—"

"You actually believe that there's monsters underneath the island?!"

"Hornz lives on the island."

"Hornz isn't some gross version of us, though."

"Maybe it was just a bad dream?"

"Maybe, but something happened the other night, too. Another really nasty nightmare."

"It is a little weird...we all see each other again and all of the sudden Bucky isn't sleeping well. What if something did happen?"

"I cannot believe you're both actually entertaining this delusional nonsense."

"I've been with Bucky forever, I've never, ever, seen anything like this. I don't think he's lying."

Bucky listened to the long silence that followed his brother's last words. His knees were hugged to his chest, and the conversation was barely audible through his bedroom door.

"...So what do we do?"

"Stumbler and Chief know the island best. If anyone knows about this, it's gotta be them!"

"Or they'll think we are lunatics just like the rodent."

Bucky held his breath through the pause. Every ounce of his soul was begging them to drop it, to think he was insane and move on, not to dig deeper.

"...There's no harm in trying..."

Bucky's heart sank.

Chapter Text

Walter rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned loudly as he stepped out of his room, the foggy pink light of dawn flooding the hallway as he opened the door. He was the earliest riser in the house, usually followed by Giovanni, then Olive, with Bucky often waking in the early afternoon. Walter smiled at the memory of him shaking his brother awake at dawn to go fishing when they were young, usually resulting in Bucky grumbling something about the time and hiding under the covers. Walter had always been stubborn, though. He’d scale his big brother’s bed, shake him like a sack of flour, and beg and beg to go out on the boat. Bucky had never been able to say no to him, no matter how little sleep he’d gotten. Of course, that was before Walter's growth spurt. After that, all he had to do was snatch Bucky from his bed—usually shouting in surprised protest—and they'd be on their way. Walter could barely remember a life without him. 

Walter's fond smile fell away when he recalled the events of last night.

Over the past few days his view of his big brother had been turned on its head. Bucky was never afraid of anything, that was his big brother! But now, twice in one week, Walter had seen terror and confusion in his eyes that seemed to swallow him whole. While Walter was powerless to help him. As his chest heaved with a heavy sigh, the youngest made his way into the darkened kitchen, his slippers stepping softly onto the tile.

“Morning.”

Walter jumped, the remaining sleepiness vanishing in an instant as his slippers squeaked and a hand slapped onto the wall to balance himself. When the shock wore off, he realized the dry, raspy greeting had come from Bucky, sitting at the kitchen table. The beaver chuckled, managing the best playful smile he could with his dark, exhausted eyes, shuffling the mug of tea that rested on the plain dark wood.

“It's just me, scaredy cat,” he teased before taking a sip. There was no steam coming from the liquid.

“Bucky!” Walter put a hand over his heart, brow creasing with worry as he flicked the light switch on, “What are you doing awake? It's early even for me!”

The beaver shrugged and blinked against the light, his smirk faltering. His cloudy blue eyes seemed intent on studying the oversteeped drink. 

“... Didn't sleep.”

Walter sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. 

“You'll get yourself sick like that,” he chastised, absently putting the kettle back on the stove and lighting it, “Have you tried chamomile before bed?”

“Gio heard me complain and practically shoved it down my throat the other night,” Bucky scoffed, “I think he just wanted me to shut up, but I was scared he’d poison me or somethin’.”

The two laughed quietly. The house fell back into silence, the dull blue light of the brightening sky casting soft shadows across the room. There were still stars clinging to what remained of night, slowly blinking out. Walter looked back at Bucky, who was facing away from him, eyes boring into the window next to the front door. There were no cracks.

“Sky’s pretty, isn't it?” the younger brother murmured, afraid to disturb the reverent morning silence.

Bucky’s free hand wrung the hem of his threadbare shirt. The other tapped his fingers rapidly against his mug.

“...Yeah.” His voice was far away. Walter frowned.

Walter’s mouth opened and shut a few times, cutting off sentences before they began. He internally fumbled for words, trying to form the perfect thing to say that would assuage all of his brother’s fears—something that would fix this. Futile thoughts were interrupted by the rising whistle of the kettle cutting through the silence, which he quickly removed from the heat to avoid disturbing the other residents. He said the only thing he could muster.

“...We really should talk about last night—”

“No, no we shouldn’t, Walter.”

The walrus sighed again—he seemed to be making a habit of that—before sitting at the table with his own steaming mug. Gentle brown eyes tried to meet blue, but the older of the two was far too engrossed in his half-empty cup.

“I want ya to be alright, we all do…Well, a—at least me an’ Olive do.”

Bucky gripped his mug tighter, shutting his eyes.

“I have to deal with this… by myself.”

“You don't have to, Bucky,” Walter insisted, “We can help you!”

“No, you can't,” Bucky answered firmly, a tone he seldom took with his brother (Walter swallowed the sharp pang he felt in his chest upon hearing it), “I'm not dragging you into this. It's not safe.

“You know I do everything I can to take care of you. That's my job,” Bucky finally looked up for a moment, revealing misty eyes, before looking at the floor again, “And that's what I'm doing now. Protecting you.”

“Well maybe I want to protect you for once!” Walter steeled his gaze in a burst of confidence even he didn’t expect. Bucky looked up, eyes wide, arms frozen mid-movement. He blinked a few times, trying to ignore the ever-growing lump in his throat. There was silence in the kitchen, save for the soft calls of birds beginning to wake. 

“I’m…” Whatever Bucky was going to say trailed off. He wrapped the string of the tea bag around the mug’s handle, and then unwrapped it again. Without warning, he fumbled to his feet, eyes darting to anything except Walter’s.

“I—I'm, um,” he placed his cup in the sink with the tea bag still inside, “I'm going out, I just, I gotta get out of the house for a bit.”

“Bucky—” Walter began to rise from his chair to follow his brother, reaching a hand out. 

“Please, Walter, I—” Bucky’s back was turned to the kitchen as he hurried to the door, face lined with worry and exhaustion, “Just— Just give me a bit of time.”

Before he could protest any further, Walter watched his brother rush out the door. 

“Stumbler?”

Bucky stepped carefully into the town hall, where the front desk was, unsurprisingly, empty. He knew the path well by now, the hall leading to the entrance to the hare’s living quarters was easy to find. Stumbler was awfully social, so if he wasn’t here, he’d be in town. 

“Stumbler—”

Bucky’s mouth snapped shut when his eyes landed on Chief. The wolf’s ear immediately pivoted in his direction from where he was sitting, a scowl forming even before they met each other's eyes. Shrinking in on himself slightly, ears flat against his head, Bucky immediately began to step back.

“I'm— I'm sorry, I'll go,” he insisted before Wulf could speak. The wolf huffed and stood, gathering one of Stumbler’s canvases, presumably for the gallery. 

“Whaddaya want,” he asked dryly, tucking the canvas under his arm. It was a portrait of him and Stumbler.

“It’s not important, I—I can—”

“You look awful. You been sleeping?”

Bucky wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the wall behind Wulf, suddenly aware that he wasn’t at all dressed to be out in public as his paws clung to the worn fabric. Chief’s brows seemed to furrow with veiled concern rather than contempt.

“No,” he admitted, finally meeting Chief’s eye, “No, not really…That’s—” he paused, “what I wanted to talk to Stumbler about.”

“What do ya need him for?” Wulf’s good eye narrowed at the beaver, who shrunk away even further, “You got friends, don’t you?”

“They won’t understand,” Bucky protested, “They don’t…they don’t know the island like you two do.”

Wulf tensed slightly, gripping the canvas tighter. His eye drifted to the floor, then the wall, then the portrait. One could almost hear the gears turning in his head. After a few long moments, (that felt like an eternity to Bucky) Wulf huffed again and started towards the door.

“Come on, I ain’t gonna wait up.”

Blinking in confusion, but also relieved that he hadn’t been reprimanded, Bucky jogged to catch up with the chief. 

The theater was quiet this early in the morning, just how Stumbler liked it. He usually wasn’t much of an early riser, but he wanted to have a little exhibition this evening, and it was best to prepare early. A few minutes earlier, he had apologetically requested his partner to retrieve the painting he’d forgotten back at the hall, so he busied himself by cleaning up as best he could. What once had been exposed wounds at his elbows were now bandaged carefully, replaced every so often by Wulf’s assistant. He got by as best he could, leaning down to pick up an empty can from under a bench, then tossing it into the trash bin. 

When the theater’s door creaked open, Stumbler perked up and his ears stood straight. Even with the ample lighting, the cool light pouring in from outside was refreshing. He smiled fondly upon seeing Wulf, who was able to see the gratitude in his eyes before he even spoke. 

“Thank you, thank you!” Stumbler hugged his partner to the best of his ability, the other making room by lifting the arm holding the canvas, “You're sure it wasn’t too much—”

The rabbit’s mouth held its shape, stopping in surprise upon seeing Wulf’s companion.

“Bucky!” Stumbler practically leapt into the beaver’s arms. Luckily, Bucky caught him with a small oof, and smiled despite himself.

“It's been so long, I haven’t seen you!” Stumbler beamed before getting a better look at Bucky’s face. The hare’s expression immediately morphed to the same concern that Bucky was growing used to.

“You look like you haven’t slept since I last saw you,” Stumbler remarked— before realizing what he’d said and waving his nubs defensively, “Not in a bad way! Just…Are you okay?”

“Says he hasn’t slept. Needs to talk to you specifically,” Wulf grunted as he carefully placed the canvas on the empty easel. Stumbler blinked, looking from Wulf, back to Bucky. He gestured to himself. Bucky nodded.

“Well I don’t know how much good advice you'll get from little old me,” the rabbit chuckled, “But I can try!”

Bucky wrung his hands together, giving Chief a fleeting glance before looking back to Stumbler.

“No one else is in the theater, right…?”

“Nope! Just us three,” Stumbler confirmed. 

Bucky looked at the far wall, remembering the gruesome distorted nightmares that had been projected on it as if it were commonplace. Olive’s face…

He shook his head slightly and blinked, bringing himself back to the present.

“It’s about Layer 3.”

Both Wulf and Stumbler froze. Bucky could have run out of the theater with how quickly all warmth had left the room. His heart thundered in his ears.

“Olive and Gio and Walter, they…I—I’ve been having awful dreams since I got back, and— I didn’t mean to fall asleep in front of them but I did and they saw me freak out! And now they’re asking questions and I can’t have them see what's down there, I can’t—!”

“Hey,” Wulf put a firm hand on Bucky’s forearm where his hands had gone to clutch his head, his expression deathly serious, “Relax. Freakin’ out isn’t gonna fix anything.”

Bucky peered through his hands, blinking back tears as Wulf removed his hand and stepped away. 

“I overheard them, they’re worried about me and now they’re curious.”

“Well that’s not good!” Stumbler tapped his foot anxiously, “What if they go looking?!”

“The doors are locked, the puzzles are in the way,” Wulf chimed in, “Even if they got the doors unlocked they’d never get down there.”

“Maybe we could make a ‘Keep Out’ sign?”

Bucky shook his head, pacing the length of the theater.

“That'll just tell them exactly which doors to go in. But we have to do something!”

“...But if they’re up here,” Stumbler’s brow furrowed in thought before his eyes lit up, “maybe the Dwellers don’t exist anymore!”

Bucky halted his pacing, looking up at Stumbler as if he’d just revealed the meaning of life.

“Wait— Wait, you're right!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “The only reason they were—”

“They’re still down there.”

Wulf interjected gruffly, hunched over on one of the benches. The others turned to look at him, immediately drained of any hope. 

“I thought the same thing,” he nodded in Stumbler’s direction, “so I went down there to make sure, just to be safe. Nearly got body slammed by that damn goose. If one’s down there they’re all down there.”

“Including…” Bucky shakily pointed to himself. 

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Bucky shut his eyes with gritted teeth, turning his back to the other two before letting out a short yell of frustration, stomping his foot and balling his fists. 

“Fantastic!” he threw his hands up before letting them fall loosely at his side, “If Walter goes charging down there to try and fix things, he’ll get hurt! He doesn’t know any better—he might die just because I had to be a crybaby!”

Fulfilling his own words, Bucky’s eyes stung with tears that he tried to blink away. 

“...We can build over them.”

Bucky turned to face Wulf, blinking in slight disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

“Board them up, build a rock wall, seal it, whatever,” Wulf waved a hand dismissively, using his hands on his knees as leverage to stand, “No one gets in or out. Problem solved.”

“Yeah!” Stumbler hopped slightly, his small cotton tail wagging in renewed excitement, “That way no one gets hurt!”

“You'd do that?” Bucky’s eyes squinted slightly in apprehension. Wulf shrugged. Bucky hummed.

“Well…They’re coming to talk to you later today, I heard them talking about it last night,” he clasped his hands together worriedly, “You just have to tell them there’s nothing under the island, that I'm just paranoid. Giovanni won’t need convincing.”

Stumbler pouted upon seeing Bucky scowl during his last words. He knew very well how…brutally unfiltered the goose could be. The rabbit could only imagine what ensued from something as vulnerable as crying in front of the disgruntled chef, let alone explaining outlandish night terrors. Taking a few hops forward, he put a comforting nub on Bucky's arm.

“We promise, we’ll help you keep them safe.” Stumbler nodded resolutely before he turned to Wulf. “Right?”

“...Sure.”

“See? You have our word!” Bucky couldn’t help but mirror Stumbler’s grin, albeit much less bright, “Pinky promise! …Well, uh, nub promise.”

The gentle crashing of waves and the ever-present call of seagulls filled the beach air. There was only a slight breeze, ruffling the short chestnut fur on Bucky’s face and arms. It was early afternoon now, and he could feel the consequences of his all-nighter weighing heavy on his mind and body. Every part of him felt sluggish; even his eyes were lazily half-lidded. Forming any coherent thought took the same energy as pulling an anchor from an ocean trench. If his grip faltered, it slipped between his fingers, pulling him back down. The beach was empty, luckily. Bucky didn’t think he could take anymore sideways glances and scornful looks from the town and his own friends, drilling into him like nails, making him painfully aware of every bone in his body and bringing that exhaustion to the forefront of his mind. He knew his body was basically shutting down by now, every ounce of energy being funneled into keeping him awake and breathing. In his more difficult moments, he almost wished his body would get on with it already.

In an attempt to drive that train of thought away, Bucky took a deep inhale of the salty air and sharp wind. He held it for a few seconds, before closing his eyes and releasing the breath. When the shore came back into his vision, he began to feel a crater in his chest, sinking to his stomach. 

He was utterly, agonizingly alone.

“Hey,” Stumbler’s small voice made Bucky flinch from his thoughts, twisting his torso to confirm the owner of the voice.

“...Do you want to be left alone?”

Bucky swallowed around the growing lump in his throat, trying and failing to stop the tears from surfacing. 

“No,” his voice broke pathetically, “I don’t.” 

Stumbler gave a sympathetic half smile, stepping forward to settle next to Bucky in the sand. The beaver faced forward again, staring vaguely at the horizon.

“...I feel like I’m living a double life,” he admitted in a teary whisper, “I don’t want to lie to them, but I have to, to keep them safe! Gio’ll go down there just to try and prove me wrong, Olive will have no idea what she’s getting into...I just feel so selfish and gross.”

"I dont think it's selfish to want someone to talk to,” Stumbler consoled, “It was all really scary, you shouldn’t bottle it up.”

Bucky chuckled, but didn’t smile. Stumbler continued.

"Sometimes, when I get upset, Wulf will listen, but I can’t always tell him everything. It’s ok to talk to different people about different things, or to know when you have to do stuff on your own! And right now,” Stumbler’s brows tilted up in concern, “I think you need help…”

Bucky hugged his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knees with a heavy sigh. A gust of wind disturbed a few grains of sand from their place, making him squint against the intrusion and wipe his eyes. He chose to blame his tears on that. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “Yeah, I do.”

After a short lull, Bucky continued.

“Did you get nightmares when you found out what was down there? Everything that happened?” He tilted his head so his cheek rested on his knees, facing Stumbler. The rabbit nodded, his deep blue ears twitching in the breeze. 

“Yeah… When Wulf and I made the website, in case anyone else wandered down there, I guess it was sort of a way to process everything? And, I— I know he seems harsh, but considering everything with…him,” Stumbler glanced at the sand for a moment before perking back up, “He could’ve been a lot worse. We still have a lot to deal with, and it’s not easy, but we're working through it together!”

Stumbler seemed happy with his words, a warm smile on his snout. Bucky had begun fidgeting with his tail. 

“I just don’t want Walter to get hurt,” he muttered, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, “I'm…”

“Used to being the big brother who’s not scared of anything?” Stumbler cocked an eyebrow and smiled gently. Bucky gave a small laugh.

“Pretty much,” he admitted, “How’d you guess?”

“Not exactly the same, but,” Stumbler shrugged, “Wulf can get the same way. Thinks he has to be big and tough and strong all the time, talking about feelings isn’t manly,” he waved his nubs and raised his eyebrows in dramatic mocking, “You know how they get.”

The rabbit’s smile widened when his quip got a genuine laugh out of Bucky, who hid his face in his forearms.

“I live with Gio, I definitely know how they get.”

Bucky felt that gaping black hole in his chest start to shrink with each passing moment, warming his insides. Even if he was exhausted, emotionally raw, and not at all dressed to be in public, he wasn’t on his own. This was the first time he’d really smiled or felt safe in weeks. For once, he didn’t have to put on a brave face. It felt nice. 

“...Thank you, Stumbler,” Bucky sat up a bit straighter, no longer fighting off tears, “Without you, I…I probably would’ve just sulked here until sunset.”

Stumbler chuckled, his eyes squinting shut. 

“You can always talk to me. I actually got worried when I didn’t see you for so long but, I figured you needed time,” the rabbit looked guiltily at the ground, “If I, um… If I had known how bad it was I would’ve helped sooner.”

Bucky shook his head, “No, you're right. I only made things worse for myself by trying to deal with it alone. I thought about coming to you before, but…”

Bucky trailed off, grimacing slightly. Stumbler tilted his head, confused, before giving a quiet ‘ohh’ of realization.

“I'll try and tell Wulf to lighten up on you, heh,” he grinned, “I know I can trust you.”

Bucky felt a pang in his heart at the words. After the passive aggressive townspeople, the accusations of disturbing everyone’s peace, the discoveries of what his image was being used for… It had been a long time since anyone really trusted him, in spite of knowing everything he’d done wrong. He smiled, teary-eyed once again.

“You,” Bucky gave a short, stunned bark of laughter, “have no idea how much that means to me.”

Just as he had done earlier, Stumbler leapt to catch Bucky in a hug (to the best of his ability). Now, the beaver’s smile was warm and genuine despite his exhaustion as he embraced the rabbit in turn. The gauze was rough against his fur, but he hardly minded. 

When they separated, Bucky felt better than he had since even before they had all crashed here. Stumbler kept a comforting nub on his forearm. 

“I-I should head back to the house,” Bucky pointed a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of his home, “I sorta ran out on Walter this morning, he’s probably worried about me.”

Stumbler nodded and steadied himself enough to stand, Bucky following suit. 

“Y’know you can stop by whenever,” the beaver offered, “If you're willing to put up with Gio, I guess.”

They both chuckled as they made their way off the shore. 

“I just need a pep talk to myself before I see him!” Stumbler bounded forward a few steps, “I’ve been hoping you'd invite me, to be honest, I didn’t wanna impose.”

“Well, now you have an official invitation.”

The sand eventually gave way to lush grass and small flowers as the beach melted away into forest. When the two reached a shabby stone path, they bid each other one last farewell before they went their separate ways. 

Bucky decided to take the path home through the woods, ignoring the worn path in favor of appreciating the scenery. Sunlight dappled the grass and rocks as it reached through the shifting leaves, leaving puddles of light on the ground. The air was sharper here, less salty, the overgrown greenery giving a gentle earthy smell instead. 

The shuffling of leaves and sticks didn’t bother Bucky all that much. He knew other animals lived in the woods, there were other roads, and Hornz didn’t stray too close to the well-trodden paths. He simply kept walking. 

He was about a half a mile from the house when the Dweller emerged. 

Every ounce of warmth that had slowly built that afternoon was shattered like cold glass with a sledgehammer. Bucky froze, paralyzed, as the thing that looked like Olive ambled onto the path. He didn’t dare move, he didn’t dare breathe, mind running rapidfire with what on earth he could possibly do. He couldn’t breathe properly he couldn’t think properly—

The creature had its back to him, its head scanning like a periscope, studying the trees. Bucky slowly raised his hands to cover his mouth and stifle any breath he took. The sound of the water dripping onto the rocks was enough to make his heart nearly slam its way out of his ribcage. He couldn’t panic. Not now. Was there anything stopping it from killing him anymore? If he went home would it follow him? Did it even realize he was there? 

A strange, fleshy noise emitted from where its throat might be, before it took off in the direction it had come from. Bucky felt bile rise in his throat, nauseous with dread. 

He stood frozen for a minute or so, until the footsteps were long out of reach, and then he ran.

Chapter Text

He ran.

He ran until his knees ached and his lungs burned and the cobblestones tore at his paws. The house seemed so much farther away than normal.

A root caught his foot as he sprinted, jerking him off balance and sending him tumbling forward, arms reaching out to catch himself. A short yell of pain tore its way out of his throat, the stones striking his cheek and leaving his head rattling. After a moment of disorientation and gasping breaths, he scrambled back to his feet, nearly tripping again. 

When the house came into view, Bucky nearly wept with relief. Craning his neck to look over his shoulder, still running, he found nothing following him. Icy fire climbed up his chest with the strain as he began to slow; the consequences of a run so long finally bared their teeth, adrenaline wearing off. He wheezed and coughed as he stumbled to the door and gripped the knob in trembling hands.

Please be safe. Please. 

Bucky’s eyes scrunched shut as he froze in front of the door, mentally uttering his silent prayer. The brass knob was cold on his hand as he turned it. 

“Guys! Is anyone here, are you guys okay?!” he shouted into cupped hands into the seemingly silent house. 

“For the love of twigs, could you take it down a few decibels?!”

Giovanni’s face scrunched in discomfort, his wing fumbling with where Bucky assumed his ears were. He’d emerged from the hallway into the kitchen, dressed as usual, save for his hat.

“Gio, where is everyone?!”

“Jeez, what are you a babysitter?”

“Please, I don’t have time for this!” Bucky groaned, voice still croaky from the strain on his lungs. Giovanni rolled his blood red eyes and scoffed.

“Went into town to ask Wulf about your crazy talk last night,” he snarked, “They actually think you might be telling the truth.”

“Okay, I know you don’t wanna hear it, but I am,” Bucky stepped further into the house, gesticulating wildly as his panic grew, “And there’s one in the woods right now and it almost saw me and it—it could be heading into the town, someone could get hurt—!”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Giovanni snapped, leaning down to be eye level with the beaver, tilting his head with narrowed eyes, “I knew you were an attention hog but this is excessive, you know.”

“URGH—!” Bucky stomped his foot on the tile and turned on his heel to pace back and forth, chest heaving as his brows knitted together, “I'm not messing with anyone! I told Wulf and Stumbler to lie to you guys, that I was just paranoid, but I'm not! We have to go get Olive and Walter, we have to warn everyone—!”

Giovanni scoffed again, shoving past Bucky and moving towards the door. The other glared at him in disbelief.

“I'm not entertaining this any longer,” the goose snapped, “This is a mind-numbingly stupid act, even for your standards.”

Without fully thinking, Bucky lunged forward and grabbed Giovanni by the wing, yanking so that they were face to face.

“For once in your life would you just listen to me—?!”

Crunch.

The front door began to splinter before their wide eyes.

Any shock at his own actions was sucked into a cold, terrible vacuum in the gaping chasm of Bucky's chest. His grip on Giovanni’s wing grew weak.

“Why would someone break in during broad daylight?!”

“It followed me. It followed me, oh god—” 

Bucky stumbled backwards, away from the door, eyes stinging with tears. Another impact began to cave in the dark, evergreen door with the brass knob. 

“What are you talking about?!”

Giovanni would deny the fear seizing his chest until he died, he swore. A small, gleeful voice taunted that that may not be very long at all. Another sharp crack of wood giving way. Bucky gripped his wing tighter.

“Gio, run.” His words were breathless and desperate.

“What?!”

Crack. The mangled arm beginning to reach inside cared not for the splinters and chunks of wood puncturing its rotting body. That horrible, sour, rotting smell. Just like the sewer. Just like the plaza. Bucky’s throat closed, but he clambered for Gio’s wing and began to pull him towards their rooms.

“Run, now! As long as it doesn’t see us we—!”

The door buckled, and the beaver ran just as he had before, pulled forward by adrenaline and terror. Giovanni caught a glimpse of the thing before he was pulled away.

Easily a foot taller than him, that horrible smell, gaping black chasms that seemed far too deep to be eye sockets. The stomach-turning resemblance to the one pulling him to safety. 

Despite his denial, Giovanni found himself praying that it hadn’t seen him in return. 

As if every instinct from before took over his body, Bucky could only think of one thing: get out of sight. The first room he saw was Walter’s, only able to process the sunny mural on sky blue painted walls before he shoved Giovanni into the small closet on the far wall, crawling in after him and shutting the door as quietly and quickly as possible. 

Stripped down to his survival instinct again, Bucky put his hands over his mouth to muffle his breathing just as he had done so many times before. His mind flashed to a time where it hadn’t been enough, when the thing that looked like Walter had plowed into the barrel and crushed it like it was nothing more than a soda can. He had either hit his head or passed out from terror, because he’d woken up in that rusted, smothering, musty cell. 

It was difficult to see in the low light of late afternoon streaming through the slits in the door, but Giovanni was able to make out Bucky’s curled up form, hands smothering his wheezing breaths, eyes cloudy and dissociated. He hadn’t noticed he was shaking himself until he heard his feathers rustling slightly. 

This didn’t make any sense. That thing had looked like Bucky. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t imagining the heavy, shuffling footsteps in the hall. Despite his pride telling him that this was complete madness—an elaborate joke meant to make him humiliate himself—the distant, detached fear in Bucky’s eyes was something even he couldn't laugh at.

A shadow stretched past the door frame, looming, darkening the cloudy blue walls. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. 

The creature, the thing using his image, stepped into the room—far more deliberate, far more calculated and malicious than the zombie-like creature had any right to be. Its head turned too smoothly, body parts twitching and moving independently of each other, empty sockets seeming to dart around. One suited hand rested on the doorframe to steady its swaying. 

Bucky swallowed thickly, trying to stifle the growing lump in his throat. His ears were far more sensitive with his eyes squeezed shut. Every shifting hunk of flesh, every footstep, could keep them alive. Just like old times. 

When it seemed satisfied, the Dweller stepped back into the hall to check the next room. Neither inhabitant spoke, or moved, or breathed for what seemed like hours. Bucky heard the thing pass their room again a few moments later, moving towards the living room. Its weight made the aging wood creak in protest. It limped slightly, Bucky could tell by one step creaking longer than the other. The air in the closet was beginning to become suffocating with the pair of panicked breaths stealing the oxygen away. 

Eventually the footsteps faded, and the house was silent. By now the light streaking inside was turning orange. Bucky, a far cry from the detached shaking figure from before, moved sharp and deliberate to swing the closet door outward enough to step out. It startled Giovanni, how confident the beaver seemed. He stayed in the dark cramped space, craning his neck to follow Bucky’s movement.

Taking a shaky breath, he reached down and grabbed one of Walter’s slippers sitting next to the bed. With narrowed eyes, he hurled the shoe into the living room, where it collided with the small lamp on the end table and sent it clattering thunderously to the floor. The pair flinched at the ear splitting noise in the thick silence. Luckily it didn’t seem to break. 

There was no response from anything lurking out of their sight. Bucky made a motion with his hand for Giovanni to come out, then waved down to tell him to remain quiet. The other took slow steps as he obeyed, staying close to the wall to avoid loose squeaky boards, until he was able to see into the main room. 

There was nothing that even implied something had happened, save for the remains of the front door.

Bucky stepped towards the scene, holding a hand out telling the other to remain still. He stepped surprisingly light, alert despite the visible exhaustion. His posture straightened, scanning the room intently.

After a few silent moments, his shoulders slumped.

“It’s gone…”

Giovanni stood up fully, mouth slightly agape. Bucky’s back was to him.

“...We have to get into town as fast as possible,” he spoke quietly, acting as if his voice wasn’t trembling, “If Wulf doesn’t know about this yet I have a feeling he’ll find out soon. If we get there before sundown we—”

“It looked like you.”

Bucky flinched. He didn’t turn around.

“...Yeah. You're gonna have to get used to that.”

Giovanni gave a dry laugh that seemed to mock the idea of laughter as a whole. 

“You…”

“Ran away? Cried like a child? Go on, get it over with.” Bucky snapped like a cornered viper. It was Giovanni’s turn to flinch.

“You were…” he hesitated, feeling his throat actively resisting the words, “You were right.”

Bucky turned to stare in disbelief. 

“The only possible explanation is that this was some…elaborate prank, but you certainly wouldn’t have the imagination to come up with something like this.”

Bucky frowned slightly, brows furrowing. 

“So unless Olive jumps out and laughs…” Giovanni shook his head and gave another incredulous chuckle, “Apparently I just have to accept that there’s flesh monsters on the island and carry on with my life.”

“...Until everyone’s safe,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Yes. Believe me, I know it’s…a lot to try and process.” 

He turned towards the door again, hiding his tense, tearful expression from the red eyes boring into his back.

“...But at least you aren’t doing it by yourself.”

Chapter Text

In the pitch black, the little beaver screams like a pig being dragged to the butcher. He kicks at the rough cement that burns his paws so unused to this horrid treatment, flailing hopelessly in Olivia's grip that reeks of stillwater and coppery blood. A wounded animal. 

"Put me down, put me down!" he screeches like he's being shoved underwater, "Let go of me!" 

It doesn't let go. 

The Things never speak, not really. Just a Frankenstein's monster of mindless chattering, pre-recorded dialogue shoved in a blender, words stuttering and pouring from their monstrous false throats in a murky, bubbling ooze. Could they even control their own voices? How did they even make those sounds? 

Bucky continues thrashing.

The cell wasn't really all that bad. If anything it was a welcome reprieve from the constant running running running running. Sometimes he really wished he could just lay in that stupid cot and let himself rot to death. That the universe would just let him die. Heaven forbid he get a reprieve. 

He's really screaming just for the sake of screaming. Kicking and flailing and weeping for the hell of it. It's the only time he has enough control over his own body to do it. He figures its smart to get as much out of this brief moment of autonomy as he can. His imaginary friend wasn't really all that merciful---for the love of twigs, he knows he's not a small guy but they could at least get him to the barrels a bit faster. 

Those stinging words were all true. Even if Bucky couldn't see this things face, he hoped it hurt, when he called them an idiot. The bane of his existence. Not even close to a real friend. For all he knew they didn't care in the least about his little tantrums, but it was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself. Olivia tossed him thoughtlessly into the cell. 

"Brilliant work once again," he grouses, rubbing his shoulder where it collided with the cement, "Truly, it's the barrel's fault for not being closer!" There's no reply. There is never a reply. 

Even as his body is pulled forward to the keypad (7418, it's seared into his skull like a brand by now) he continues to verbally bombard his dear friend. 

"Can't wait to see how far we get this time!" Blue eyes roll, flaring with contempt as his useless husk of a body marches back into the darkened Plaza, "My bet is five minutes before I'm back in that dam cell. What do you think?" 

There is never a reply. Bucky scoffs. He's glad he has enough control to do that. His fist trembles as he clutches the candle that never seems to grow smaller, yet still drips burning wax onto his hand.

"Let's just get this over with."

______

The walk to the town hall is silent, like a rubber band stretched to its limit, a moment from snapping. Bucky fidgets with the hem of his faded blue shirt, picking mindlessly at the fraying threads. Even though he's considered fairly young by most of his companions, the ache between his eyes indicates the worry lines beginning to become permanent. At this rate he'll be getting grays, for twigs sake. 

Giovanni watches the beaver fidget and pick and worry with veiled concern. They had rushed out of the house in such a frenzy (completely ignoring the lack of a front door, the goose only just recalled with a twinge of nerves) that there was no time at all to process their own emotions.

Not that he needed to, of course.

… Oh, who the hell was he kidding.

Monsters! The little moron is finally right about something, and it had to be monsters. Horrible, twisted, fleshy duplicates of him and his housemates, no less. Fantastic. If Bucky was right about those creatures, safe to say he probably wasn't lying about there being a whole underground to the island. When had he even gone down there? Why would he go down there?! Curiosity was gnawing away at the goose like a moth at old clothes; beneath his skin practically itched to interrogate the beaver.

But, in a rare moment of empathy, Giovanni figures it's not really a good time to interrogate his companion. He sighs.

Bucky gives him a quick glance, and then acts like he didn't. His hands are holding loosely onto his elbows in a mimicry of a hug, and his ear flicks gently when a breeze passes by. The two almost laugh at the sunny cloudless sky that's slowly turning a rich orange and pink, accompanied by the soothing sounds of crashing waves and gulls overhead. The perfect backdrop for their collective existential terror. 

“...Does anyone else know?” Giovanni asks hesitantly when the town is in sight. His voice sounds like the last leaf of autumn in a winter gale. 

“I, uh,” Bucky stammers before relenting, “...Wulf. And Stumbler.”

“Won't they just tell the other two? They went to go ask about your…” He sighs heavily again. “apparently-not-insane ramblings.”

“I, um…told them not to say anything,” Bucky explains, looking at the ground guiltily, kicking a small pebble along the path before it nicks a rock and disappears into the grass. “So that you guys wouldn’t go looking. I couldn’t risk it.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of lying to Walter.”

“Hey, I did what I had to!” Bucky snaps suddenly, stopping in his tracks to finally look Giovanni in the eye with narrowed eyes and balled fists, “I know you don’t care if we all drop dead but I do!”

“It wasn’t a damn accusation!” Giovanni waves his wings and yells over Bucky before he can continue his tirade. The other stops, brows still slightly furrowed, though he looks more puzzled than angry now. 

“Not everything I say is some–- some scathing indictment, you know!”

“In my defense it usually is,” Bucky snarks back under his breath, though he continues walking. Giovanni gives an exasperated huff before following suit.

“I guess I'm just…surprised,” he says after a few moments, “You seem like too much of a goody two-shoes to go behind our backs.”

Bucky makes a noise between a scoff and a chuckle.

“Maybe I used to be,” he sighs, staring wryly at the path. 

_____

“Chief!”

Bucky perks up when he spots the wolf and his friends chattering outside the theater now bathed in the scarlet light of the setting sun, switching to a sprint that Giovanni doesn't expect. He jumps slightly, and watches Bucky run off ahead. 

Olive and Walter turn their heads to follow his voice, expressions immediately morphing to concern. Apparently Wulf had pulled off the lie. Olive steps closer as he practically skids to a halt, speaking like she is trying to coax a frightened wild animal into a cage.

“Bucky, we were just heading home to—”

He barely hears her, not even sparing her a glance before he grabs ahold of Wulf’s sleeve desperately. His cold hand trembles.

“They're here. I saw one in the woods and—and one got in the house! I–It left and I have no idea where it is! We have to get everyone to safety—!”

“Bucky…” Walter puts a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder, a look of pity in his eyes that makes the beaver’s stomach turn with guilt and something else he can't place. “I know you're stressed about…well, somethin’, but there’s nothing after you!”

“You don’t understand, I—!” Bucky waves his hands like a frantic conductor before pulling away from Walter and turning back to Chief.

“You know I wouldn’t mess around with this!” he insists desperately. Wulf looks at him, puzzled, unsure how to reply. “I don’t know how they got up here but it isn’t safe anymore!” 

“Bucky you can talk to us!” Olive pleads, her hands clasped together, “We just want to help, but we can’t if you’re just… telling us it's monsters.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Giovanni interjects as he finally catches up to the group, looking slightly disheveled from the run, “Unfortunately.”

The rest of the group balks at him.

“...Are you really Giovanni? Is this a prank?” Walter asks hesitantly after the stunned silence.

“It's not a prank, you moron!” he squawks. Bucky shoots him a fiery glare. “This thing busted down our perfectly good front door and nearly killed us!”

Chief’s eye darts from Giovanni, to the woods, until he locks eyes with Bucky. His brows knit together in a warning glare.

“You're not fuckin’ with me, right? Because if you are—”

“I'm not, I swear!” Bucky is trying desperately not to shout now, “I saw— I was— O-Olivia was in the woods, Brandon got in the house!”

“Who’s that…?”

Bucky’s urgent tirade halts like a power outage when Walter speaks, his voice small as a mouse. The older of the two stammers hopelessly for a moment, trying to find some way to keep this from poisoning his little brother’s head—to keep it all hidden. Wulf glances at him curiously.

“I–It doesn't matter.” Bucky’s words convince no one, despite his efforts to keep his voice from trembling.  “It's gonna be fine—”

“I'm not a little kid.”

The sternness—the borderline anger—on Walter’s face sends a freezing cold pang through Bucky’s chest. He blinks, dumbfounded, unable to even stutter a rebuttal as the black hole in his chest expands. Even Giovanni seems a bit stunned at the sudden authoritativeness of the walrus’ voice.

“You don’t have to keep lying to me.”

Bucky swallows, eyes darting anywhere they can, but his throat is too constricted to even speak. That roiling mix of guilt and some other unidentifiable hurt pushes against his skull. Wulf pushes past him to put a hand on Walter’s shoulder, whose resolute gaze never falters even when Bucky can no longer look at him.

“Look kid, I know this is a pretty big adjustment, but we're not safe here anymore,” Wulf speaks with uncharacteristic softness and turns to Olive as well. “And I'm not talkin’ volcanoes. This is serious stuff. You two think you can handle yourselves?”

They both nod once, and Olive beams triumphantly, innocently. 

“Of course we can!”

The wolf chuckles despite himself, and steps back.

“Well that’s that, then.”

To Bucky, the whole exchange is nothing more than muffled nonsense making its way past his ringing ears as he stares at the stone below.

Had he done the wrong thing?

He’d always been too overprotective.

But he had every right to be.

It wasn’t really lying, right? Just withholding life-altering horrors, that's not a bad thing, is it?

He just did it to keep his little brother safe. He was just trying to keep everyone safe, he didn’t care what happened to him. Why did that churning mix of anger and pity and disappointment in those brown eyes feel like a dagger in his chest? Was he a horrible brother? 

“Hey.”

Bucky is broken from his stupor by Giovanni’s wing nudging his arm. Watery blue eyes blink up at red, still feeling paralyzed. The goose sighs, defeated.

“Like you said,” he mumbles and avoids meeting eyes, “You did what you had to.”

Before Bucky can even process the exchange, Wulf tenses suddenly, head snapping towards the shoreline. There is a panic in his eyes that seems to make the ocean breeze stand still. His ears pivot, as if he’s straining to hear something far off. Olive tilts her head, her hands going to reach for the wolf, but stopping mid-air.

“...Wulf, what is it?”

Fluffy gray ears pin back, eyes widening even more as his nose twitches.

“Stumbler.”

Chapter Text

“Come on, come on! We're gonna miss the high tide!”

Walter’s voice squeaks with excitement as he drags his big brother out to the shore, hand clasped in his. It is early morning, just after dawn, and the docks have been buzzing with life since before first light, smelling of salt and fish and polished wood. There are bells, and men shouting, and waves crashing, and the two young boys hurry across the creaking wood dock, laughing for the sake of laughing. Here, now, Bucky is quite a bit taller than his little brother, but he too is a child. 

Their little boat is nothing to marvel at; it is small, with mismatched wood and oars left behind by other, much more impressive sailboats. But it is theirs, and they love it like it's a home. It bobs gently from the waves, tied to the old docks with a fraying rope. They look down at their ship with the pride of a seasoned crew.

“We never named him!” Walter exclaims suddenly, throwing his small hands outward in childish despair, “Every good boat has a name!”

“‘She’,” Bucky corrects, adjusting his scarf out of habit, “Boats are always called ‘she’.”

“Ohhh,” Walter's big brown eyes go wide with amazement at the seemingly infinite knowledge his brother holds, “Then what should we name her?”

Bucky hums in thought, tapping his tail against the wood. 

“What about ‘The Salty Sea Dog’!”

“That’s a silly name!” Bucky scolds, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head, “Besides, it's too long! It won't fit!”

“Well…” Walter winces as a particularly sizable wave sprays him. “What about ‘S.S. Bucky and Walter’?”

“That’s even longer!”

“Well, I don't hear you coming up with anything, smarty pants!”

Bucky pouts and folds his arms, falling silent. Walter stares at him for a moment, before looking at the saltwater below.

“...’The Seaweed’?”

“Now you're just naming things you see,” Bucky deadpans before groaning, “It's gotta be something cool!”

“Seaweed’s cool!”

“Name one cool thing about seaweed.”

“...It’s green.”

Bucky groans again, slapping a hand over his face is exasperation.

“You boys takin’ her for her first sail t’day?”

Upon turning around, the brothers are met with the captain of one of the larger sailboats, an elderly blue heron. She’s visited them from time to time, offering suggestions about boat construction and sneaking them little snacks from her travels. Bucky beams proudly.

“Yes ma’am,” he answers, holding his head high. Walter shyly peeks out from behind him. 

“A fine job ye’ve done!” she smiles warmly and pats the painted side of her sailboat, The Triton, “I think ye’ll be able to out-sail me!”

Bucky and Walter giggle. It’s ridiculous of course, the flimsy thing doesn’t even have a sail, but it’s nice to imagine one day joining the grownup captains. 

“You think so?” Walter asks, bright-eyed, finally emerging from behind his brother.

“I know so,” the heron winks, crinkling the graying feathers around her eyes. She crouches to be eye level with the siblings, her expression suddenly serious, beak frowning. Bucky only notices now that one eye is yellow, and the other is brown.

“You boys may want ta plan for a dif’frent day, though,” she warns, “Scarlet sky this mornin’, you know the old sayin’?”

“‘Red sky at night, sailor's delight, red sky at morning, sailors take warning’,” Bucky recites plainly, having heard the mantra from his time by the harbor. The heron chuckles.

“That be right,” she nods, “I don’t want ye sinkin’ out there! Some a’ those waves could topple my Triton!”

Walter squeaks in terror.

“We're not gonna go out far, ma’am,” Bucky reassures, though he fiddles with his scarf, “And we can’t go anywhere until we decide a name!”

“Aye, ye’ve got to name her!” she exclaims, tossing her wings outward dramatically.

“Walter wanted to name her Seaweed.” Walter elbows Bucky in his side. 

“Now, ye’ve got to name ‘er somethin’ strong!” the heron proclaims with a playful bravado that makes the boys giggle, “A boat’s name comes from the heart! I named my Triton after those old merfolk tales, the ones that made me want ‘ta go take on the sea!”

The brothers think for a moment, before Walter perks up, shaking his fists excitedly. 

“We should name her The Heron!” he looks to Bucky for approval, “Because you helped us wanna sail too!”

The woman looks stunned for a moment, her long beak agape. Then, she smiles, mismatched eyes twinkling. 

“Why, I’m flattered, boys,” she replies, placing a wing over her heart, “How’sabout I help ye paint her?”

_____

The painted words in stark black ink are far more pristine than the rest of the vessel, gently curling cursive letters that Walter has trouble deciphering at first. Once the ocean wind dries the lettering, the old heron helps the boys push the ship back into the water. Bucky hands Walter an oar, and they wave with their free hands, shouting their thanks.

“Stay close ta shore!” she shouts as she waves back. 

“We will!” Walter shouts back, just audible over the wind beginning to howl. 

The water laps lazily at the sides of the boat, spraying little droplets on the two small passengers. Bucky may be young, but he’s also a beaver, so the boat has no leaks to be found. Placing both hands on his oar, Walter watches his brother row, carefully trying to match his rhythm. The older of the two is straining a bit, fighting the current trying to pull them back to shore. Walter’s blue-gray hands are rather small compared to the adult sized paddle, leaving him fumbling a bit. When he finally manages to get a solid grip, he looks back from where they came from. A pang of fear grips his heart. He taps his brother on the back.

“Hey, Bucky? We, uh,” he stammers, painfully aware of how shaky his voice is, “We’re out pretty far, y’know!”

Bucky turns around with a hand shielding his eyez, squinting at the shoreline. The sun sparkles and reflects in his eyes, leaving his vision spotty. He frowns.

“We're not out that far!” he argues while placing both hands back on the paddle, “Don’t tell me you wanna back out now!”

Walter groans worriedly, tossing his head back.

“You can’t be scared all the time, Walter!” Bucky continues, “Or else life is gonna be boring!”

“I guess so,” the young walrus grumbles, “But Miss Heron said not to go out too far, and she’s real smart with the ocean!”

“I'm being careful!” Bucky protests, “And you have to row too, or else we’ll just keep going to the right.”

“Alri-ight,” Walter sighs, reluctantly going back to paddling. 

Though it isn’t noon, the sun still beats down on the two novice sailors, making their valiant push against the current a very tiring one. Even Bucky becomes a bit reluctant to push forward, with more and more waves colliding with the front of the boat and splashing inside. The strain of rowing wears on both of them, and Walter’s small hands eventually lose their grip. 

“Bucky!” he yelps, standing up fast and grabbing onto his oversized captain’s hat, “The oar, I dropped it!”

“What?!” Bucky stands too, right behind his brother. 

The weight shifts to one side, a wave nudges the other, and the little ship capsizes. 

Both brothers yell, but it’s quickly muffled by saltwater. It stings as it pours into their noses and mouths, desperate gasps for air only met with more of the unrelenting sea. Even as he tumbles underwater, Bucky reaches blindly for his brother, trying to grab hold of him. Neither of them can see, swimming fruitlessly to try and find the surface, finally catching on and closing their mouths, though the lack of oxygen burns like ice in their lungs. 

Bucky surfaces first, wheezing and coughing up seawater, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He treads water with one hand, shielding his eyes with the other. 

“Walter!” he cries out desperately, tearfully, desperately trying to hold back the sobs, “Walter, where are you!?”

Ignoring his lungs actively rejecting the water inside them, Bucky gasps a breath and dives back under. 

Walter’s arms, exhausted from rowing, barely keep him above water. He gasps as he surfaces, crying and choking at once. 

“Bucky—!”

Just as he reaches towards the blob of color that looks like his brother, a stray wave knocks the upturned boat into the back of Walter’s head. 

“Walter?! Where—”

Bucky's chest hitches as his eye catches the red blooming in the water. He paddles over frantically, coughing as wave after wave hits his face and tries to push him back. By the time he reaches the limp shape in the water, he is crying so hard it hurts his ribs. Small, chubby arms want so desperately to give out, to end the strain, but Bucky doesn't care. He hoists his brother onto his back with a grunt and swims with one arm towards the boat. Struggling, hands slipping, Bucky clings to the flimsy little ship with one hand and holds his unconscious brother with the other one. He can't tell if what's dripping onto his shoulder is blood or saltwater. 

Somehow, through adrenaline or survival instinct, Bucky manages to push Walter onto the upturned bottom of the boat, balancing him carefully. He sobs and squeezes his eyes shut when he sees the blood dripping rhythmically into the seafoam. With every ounce of strength left in his small, exhausted body, he begins pushing the boat towards the shore. 

_____

The sun is almost at its peak when they reach the shore. 

A few yards before they hit the rocky beach, Walter awakens with a weak cry to his big brother that his head hurts, it really hurts. Bucky’s hands grow so weak with guilt he almost slips and lets go. He holds on, ignoring the tingling exhaustion and deep chill beginning to settle into his bones.

When they're noticed from the docks, soaking wet and shaking and approaching hypothermia from the cold sea, a few sailors begin shouting, something about a doctor, Bucky’s ears are ringing too loud to hear. Without acknowledging every inch of his body protesting even being conscious, he stands, his drenched fur dripping water, and picks Walter up in his arms. The injured walrus clings weakly to him, sniffling that he's sorry he dropped the oar. Bucky wants to say, “Never apologize again. You did nothing wrong. I'm sorry I was too reckless and childish and stupid to prevent this.” But it takes too much energy to speak, energy he needs to carry his baby brother to a doctor, so he says nothing other than the occasional wet cough. 

Eventually, the grownups catch up, and quickly get Walter to a hospital. Bucky collapses from exhaustion, legs giving out before he can step in the ambulance himself.

_____

There is the steady beep of a heart monitor. Some muttering voices. Bucky blinks his eyes open.

The sterile white hospital room is hardly comforting, and his whole body aches and stings, but he pushes himself up with a wince.

“Walter?” he croaks weakly, “Where ‘re you?”

A nurse rushes to his bedside, another beaver from what his blurry vision can process. 

“Your brother's okay,” she soothes, putting a hand on his shoulder that burns when it presses against muscle, “You were very brave, you got him here fast enough that everything will be okay.”

Okay? Everything wasn't ‘okay’! Because he had to be a reckless idiot, his brother almost died, his only family, his best friend. Grownups can be so stupid sometimes! Everything was not okay! 

Before he can stop it, tears begin to boil over and roll down his cheeks. He hiccups and sniffles, clinging to the nurse for comfort, even though she doesn't understand, not at all. She whispers things that are meant to bring comfort, but Bucky doesn't hear over how loud his mind is being. Her scrubs are surprisingly soft. 

_____

“It doesn't hurt that bad!” Walter insists after Bucky questions him for the seventh time that minute, “Honest!”

The little walrus’ head is wrapped in gauze. By now, the bleeding has stopped.

“I'm sorry for going out so far,” Bucky sniffles, standing next to his brother's hospital bed, “I feel so stupid.”

“My big brother is not stupid!” Walter’s face scrunches up angrily. Bucky can't help but smile. 

“Sorry.”

“When we get out of this stinky hospital,” Walter carries on as if he'd already been on the topic, “we're gonna make an even better boat! One we don't have to row… Like a sailboat!”

The door to their shared room clicks open gently, and Bucky’s hand tightens on Walter's arm. He relaxes when the heron enters, resigning instead to looking guiltily at the floor. 

“Hi Miss Heron!” Walter chirps, cheery as ever.

“How are ye, sweetheart?” she asks gently, a tense smile on her beak. Bucky avoids her gaze.

“I'm good! I lost my hat, and I’ve got a little headache, but the doctor said I'll be okay!”

“That’s wonderful,” she beams, before turning to Bucky, “And how are ye doing, little one?”

Bucky blinks up at her, fully expecting to be chastised.

“Me?”

She nods, her smile as gentle as ever.

“Word on the docks is ye swam through a rip current, swam hundreds a’ yards to get li’l Walter t’ safety.”

Bucky’s mouth gapes slightly. Had it really been that far? Regardless, he felt another pang of guilt in his chest. He didn’t deserve to be praised for heroism that came from his own stupidity. 

“I see that mind racin’,” the heron chuckles, “Ye thinkin’ I was angry at ya?”

Bucky nods silently, his bottom lip quivering.

“Well,” she shrugs, “Ye did do somethin’ a bit foolish—” Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, “---But, ye also tried your damndest to fix it. And ye did, Bucky. He’s alive cause he’s got you fer a big brother.” 

Walter beams, looking at Bucky as if he’s the center of the universe, the sun around which his entire being revolved. Big blue eyes grow misty.

“Okay,” he sniffles, wringing at the sleeve of the hospital gown, “I promise I'll listen next time.”

The heron chuckles softly, ruffling the fur on Bucky’s head with her wing before perking up.

“Say, Walter,” she grins, “How’d ye like a replacement captain's cap?”

Walter’s mouth forms a little ‘O’ shape, before he nods excitedly. Bucky gives him a small glance. 

“Oh! Right,” he clears his throat in a comically adult motion for such a small creature, “Yes please, ma’am!”

With a smile as bright as the noon sun, the elderly heron removes her own hat and places it on Walter’s bandaged head. He bounces in place, excitedly waving his fists.

“Really?! You're sure, miss?”

“Aye, I'm positive,” her mismatched eyes twinkle, “It suits ye."

She looks between them as if she is looking at her own children, with the gentleness if a caretaker.

“I know ye’ll look out for each other. I can feel it,” she pats Walter’s shoulder, “I’ve got ta get back to the docks now, the Triton won’t sail ‘erself!”

She gives a curt salute, standing at attention, and the siblings do so in return as they watch her exit into the bustling halls of the hospital. Walter giggles. 

“She’s right! When I get big, I can take care of you like you take care of me, Bucky!” His chestnut eyes seem to hold all the light in the world. “We're gonna be the bestest brothers and the bestest sailors ever!”

Bucky laughs, climbing into the hospital bed next to his baby brother, embracing him tightly. 

“I promise,” he whispers, so that only they can hear, “I'm not gonna let you get hurt, ever ever again.”

_____

“I have to go check on Stumbler!”

“We're coming with you!”

Olive has a tight hold on Bucky’s wrist, even as he attempts to jerk away, eyes continuously darting back in the direction Wulf had run off in. She pulls Bucky backwards and uses the momentum to start sprinting. Teetering on his heel for a moment, Bucky yelps in surprise before grabbing the otter’s shoulder and shoving her back in turn. She stomps her foot.

“Bucky—!”

“Stay here and don't move!” he yells, a roiling maelstrom of sternness and terror, holding out his hands as if trying to calm a wild animal, “I'm not letting you guys get hurt!”

Olive watches Bucky disappear in between the houses near the theater, following Chief’s path.  

Light is slowly disappearing from the island, the red sun dimming to purple twilight. As it becomes harder to see, Bucky nearly trips over wayward stones and roots, the wind whistling in his ears as he sprints. Panting hard, he catches up just in time to see Wulf scrambling through the door of the darkened town hall. Bucky follows. 

“Stumbler!” The wolf’s voice booms through the hall as he knocks a few stray papers off the front desk. Bucky careens inside a few moments later to hear only silence. 

The beaver swears under his (short and wheezing) breath, slowing to a quiet walk. He can barely hear his own thoughts over his heartbeat, and he can barely see anything save for the yellow light from Stumbler’s room. Weak knees tremble from exhaustion. The shadows he hides in are cold and heavy, and every noise feels like a jet engine in the skull crushing silence. Stepping carefully forward, Bucky stays close to the wall, avoiding weak, squeaking boards. Above his pounding heart he can hear rustling, the soft slide of his hand against the wall. His ear twitches. 

A shadow moves across the ray of light stretching down the hall. Bucky flinches. 

When he finally reaches the empty doorway, he inhales. Deep and shaking. With one hand he holds the wall. The other squeezes into a fist. Like that’ll help. Trembling, prepared for the worst, he peeks inside. 

Stumbler is…fine. 

Bucky heaves a sigh that leaves him deflated. Other than the worried look he’s giving Wulf as the assistant bandages his arm, the rabbit is completely unharmed. In fact, he smiles warmly at Bucky when he notices his presence.

“Howdy again!” Stumbler chirps and waves the arm that’s already been bandaged, “We thought there was a break-in or something, the way Wulf flew in here!”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Sorry, we're dealing with a…” Bucky glances at the wolf nurse, cutting off his sentence. “With an issue.”

“You’re all set!” The short wolf gives Stumbler a small thumbs up, “Make sure you don’t get sand in there, it'll irritate the wound.” Stumbler nods cheerfully. 

“Thank you!” The rabbit waves a nub as the nurse exits through the back door of the town hall. When the three are alone, he turns back with a flick of his ear.

“Alright, what’s so urgent?”

“I smelled blood,” Wulf huffs, “I thought you were hurt.”

Stumbler frowns, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Why would I be hurt?”

Chief sighs, pinching the bridge of his muzzle. His good eye glances at Bucky.

“Apparently…” he stalls, tapping his clawed finger against his leg, “Apparently the Dwellers are up here.”

“What?!”

The Dwellers are up here.

The Dwellers are wandering around up here.

They’re on the island.

Bucky’s blood turns to ice in his veins. 

“Oh my god–!”

Before either of the two can even process, Bucky bolts out the door that had been left ajar.

Stupid stupid how much of an IDIOT could he be?! Brilliant work! Leave your best friends alone, at night, knowing full well that there’s fucking monsters wandering around! So much for protecting everyone, you complete moron, now all you've done is left them wide open when they know practically nothing about how to defend themselves from something like this! For the love of twigs he could hardly breathe the air forcing itself in his lungs is so cold each running step on the cobblestone feels like a hammer against his skull—

Bucky rounds the corner to the theater, tears stinging at his eyes. 

The exterior of the theater is vacant.

Okay okay don’t panic they’re smart they went inside that’s what anyone would do oh god please don’t let his gut be right

The theater door slams open with a sharp, aged creak, nearly falling off its hinges as Bucky scrambles inside.

“No no no NO NO!”

The inside of the theater is dim, but he doesn't need ample lighting to see the overturned chairs and broken glass. Bucky grips the sides of his head, his chest rising and falling far too rapidly to be healthy, each breath whistling and wheezing and leaving him lightheaded. Gray-blue eyes are wide with a panic only comparable witnessing a city reduced to rubble before them. 

It had to be a nightmare. He had to have fallen asleep. Bucky hits his head hard, over and over and over, yelping with an especially hard blow that leaves him seeing stars. There is no shooting up in bed, no calming hand on his shoulder, no fading of night terrors.

His friends are gone. 

His little brother is gone.

Chapter Text

Olive flops backwards against the wall of the dingy old cell with a huff, letting her arms swing back and forth. It's nothing special, a few green barrels, two sets of bunk beds, and a keypad none of them know the code to. Giovanni is pacing back and forth in front of the iron gate, and Walter is curled up facing the wall, silent, on one of the beds. It is dim, and orange, and the air roils with unspoken emotions. 

“This place sucks!” the otter grumbles.

“‘Sucks’?!” Giovanni squawks incredulously, stopping his pacing to wave his wings, “That’s the best adjective you've got for this hellhole?!”

“Well, what do you suggest, oh, all-knowing one?!” Olive angrily places her paws on her hips.

“I suggest you actually help me figure out how to bust out of here!”

Olive groans dramatically, kicking one of the barrels with a reverberating clang. Walter flinches. 

“Guys, please,” he mumbles, “Don’t fight.”

In the dim light, the others can just barely see Walter, hugging himself tightly and gripping onto his own floral blue shirt as if it is a lifeline. Where the sleeve folds upwards reveals a dark bruise near his shoulder where the monster had grabbed him like a chicken trying to escape its beheading. Olive frowns, stepping closer to the dusty, moth eaten bed. The closer she gets, the more prominent the attic-like smell becomes. A small, gentle paw rests on Walter’s shoulder. He winces.

“It's gonna be alright, Walter,” she says softly in an attempt to comfort, “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” The younger’s voice is trembling and nasally. Olive grows even more worried when she realizes he’s been crying silently. “And I made Bucky upset, he might not even come to help us.”

Olive perches on the edge of the bed, ignoring the cloud of dust that puffs up. 

“Bucky wouldn’t just leave us behind!” she protests, “Besides, if he’s telling the truth and he’s been down here, he’ll know where to find us!”

Walter doesn’t answer, curling up tighter. Giovanni huffs in annoyance.

“If the moron had just opened his mouth and told us this wouldn’t have happened!”

Olive’s head snaps up, glaring hot daggers at the goose.

“Now don’t you go blaming this on him!” She stood, waving her finger firmly at Giovanni. “Not everything is his fault!”

“Well, this time it actually is!” he snaps back, “If he hadn’t run off to check on the rabbit—!”

“Then he might’ve gotten taken too, and he wouldn’t be able to rescue us!”

Giovanni stammers for a moment before ruffling his feathers and shaking his head.

“Do you always have to take his side?”

“Do you always have to make him feel horrible about everything?!”

“Guys!”

They both turn to see Walter sitting up, no longer bothering to suppress his tears, whiskers quivering slightly. He’s trying very hard to look angry, but he’s failing quite thoroughly. Olive looks guiltily at the floor. 

“If you're going to fight, at least do it quietly,” he mutters, turning over again, “I'm going to try and sleep.”

Olive gives a weighted sigh, her shoulders slumping.

“All of us probably should. I know Bucky’s coming, I just…” She looks at the floor and wrings her hands. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before then.”

Giovanni scoffs, continuing to pace back and forth and fiddle with the gate. 

“You two go ahead. I’d like to get out as soon as possible, with or without the rodent’s help.”

Olive climbs into the bed above Walter, getting a small peek at his sleeping form before curling up as comfortably as she can in the scratchy sheets. 

_____

Snapping, crunching, breaking, squelching, bleeding, screaming.

It’s an awful lot of noise, far too much for Walter to process all at once, but he isn’t left much of a choice. He can’t see, or smell, or feel yet, but he can hear the wood splintering and the blood spraying. He hopes that’s all he’s forced to endure. 

Of course, his subconscious isn’t so kind. Eventually the sharp coppery smell of blood and the cold, clammy tile floor against his bloodied, shaking hands becomes noticeable. Then the impacts. Steady, rhythmic against his skull and his torso. He can’t process anything, except that it hurts, and he’s scared. He’s very scared. 

At one point he feels a leg from the chair puncture his head. Well, he doesn’t feel it, but he feels it. Does that even make sense? Oh, who is he kidding. None of this makes any sense. The rupturing of the skull almost instantly kills the small, writhing body he’s currently in, but Walter can still feel it all. Whatever is beating him senseless doesn’t stop even when the man is nothing but a mangled cadaver. Poor Walter would cry if he could. He is so terribly afraid. 

He can’t even get a good look at his attacker, only seeing clouded crimson vision. Everything is limp, and he has never felt more powerless in his life. Was this even his life? The question slips down his mind like racing raindrops down a window. 

No, this isn’t his life, or his dream. It isn’t a dream at all, he realizes.

The dead wounds he feels aching across his corpse match the marks on the nightmarish version of himself that he’d seen when they had all been taken. Thank whatever god was up there that he didn’t get a bird’s eye view of Nathan’s skull squelching open like a rotted watermelon. He wasn’t sure if being forced to see through the man’s blinded, bloody eyes was much better. 

So, his name was really Nathan. He used to be a person. And now he wasn’t. That was a bit sad.

Nathan didn’t understand why he was dead, and neither did Walter. Was he dead, too? They were different from each other, right? He was alive, right? Just asleep. Walter wished he could wake up now. He’d seen enough—even if he couldn’t really see. He didn’t want to know who was killing them so savagely. Mostly because he had a feeling he already knew who it was. 

Walter often doesn’t know his own strength, but he knows he could’ve at least given the monsters a decent fight before they all got dragged off. He doesn’t like fighting, not one bit, but if it meant saving him and his friends, he would if he had to! 

But when they got taken, the youngest had been frozen in wide-eyed terror, unable to even think about fighting, because the one who had unceremoniously gripped his arm and dragged him away was his big brother. 

The Bucky monster seemed to be the leader (‘Fitting,’ Walter had thought despite his terror) and the other monsters had followed him into the dark twisting halls. Walter doesn’t remember a lot of the ordeal; he recalled Olive’s hollering to be let go, some strange broken voice that sounded horrifyingly like his own, and the rotting smell of whatever inhabited those monstrous skins, but that was about it. He barely even fought, just staring at the bloodstained deep blue sailor’s scarf and the dead, hollow smile. Tears had sprung up at some point, with Walter resigning to the fact that, if he had made Bucky so upset that he would run off, maybe he deserved this. Bucky was probably scared too, for a long time, and none of them had done anything except get angry and ignore him. He was just trying to protect them, and Walter just had to stick his nose in everything, act like he wasn’t scared, that he was capable of protecting anyone. He really was an idiot, wasn’t he.

So, between the sinking feeling in Nathan’s gut before he’d died, and the recollection of his own memories, Walter doesn’t need to see Bucky to know that He is the one still savagely beating them with the remains of the chair. If his tear ducts were functioning, he most certainly would be crying. 

With each squelching impact, he sees glimpses of people, talking and laughing in some kind of break room, hears the steady tapping of a keyboard in a dark office, and with the final blow, Walter jolts awake so violently he nearly chokes. 

Shaking hands grip the sheets, then his rapidly stuttering chest, then cover his mouth to stifle his wheezing sobs. He still trudges through hypnagogia, his eyes fighting to focus and his ears ringing. Through tear-distorted vision, he sees the monster that looks like him standing silently at the gate. 

If Walter wasn’t delirious with half-asleep terror, he might say the thing’s empty sockets looked at him with a sewed together mimicry of sympathy. But that was stupid.

_____

“Bucky, calm down—!”

“If you tell me to calm down one more dam time I'll SOCK YOU!”

Wulf holds his hands up defensively, as if trying to appear non-threatening to a cornered feral cat. The lights in the theater have been turned on, bathing the messy scene in harsh white light. Bucky looks as if he’s dipping dangerously close to madness as he clutches his head and breathes as if his lungs have been punctured, half wheezing, half sobbing as he puts all his weight on the interior wall of the theater. His eyes are bloodshot and wild from exhaustion, and he is barely standing upright. The broken glass he’s standing in gently clinks from his trembling. 

“The Dwellers probably, um, took them to the cell, right?” Stumbler tries to steady the air, though his foot is tapping nervously, “That’s easy to find!”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just slumps against the wall with his face in his hands. 

“Why couldn’t I have jus’ told them?” he whimpers.

“Even when you did, you said Giovanni just called you crazy!” Stumbler protests, hopping over to Bucky and putting a nub on his shoulder, “You just did what you thought was right, you were scared!”

Bucky wipes his misty eyes on his forearm, staring blankly at the floor. He is silent for a long while, chewing on the inside of his cheek to try and keep himself somewhat grounded. Wulf moves slightly in his peripheral.

“...Did you see the way Walter looked at me?” he whispers blearily, barely audible. Wulf sighs. 

“I'm not your family therapist,” he huffs, though his voice is soft, “But, you know the old saying about doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. Stumbler’s right; you did what you thought was best.” He pauses for a moment when Bucky looks up to meet his eye. “Last thing we're gonna do is let you sit here and feel sorry for yourself, though. You gotta pull it together.”

Bucky takes a shaky breath, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. After a moment, he nods, pushing himself up to stand. He winces when the hand supporting his weight is pricked by a shard of glass. 

“Alright,” he swallows thickly, shaking his hand with a slight hiss of pain, “Yeah, the sooner we get down there, the better.”

Stumbler smiles sympathetically. 

“And you'll have us! We’ll have them out in no time!” His ear flicks cheerfully.

“Fastest way is through the diner,” Bucky glances at the floor when Wulf says what was already on his mind, giving a slight annoyed sigh, “The door to Layer 3 should already be open, but if it’s not we'll just cut through the gallery and get the code. Straight shot from there.”

“Sounds like a solid plan to me!” 

Bucky nods again when the other two look to him for confirmation. 

“Yeah,” he fiddles with the collar of his shirt, “Let’s get them outta there.”

Chapter Text

The little group’s plan to rescue their captured friends did not go as smoothly as they had hoped.

“Go, run!”

Puzzles refusing to solve, doors denying entry. It was as if every force in their world wanted them to fail. The keypads and gates they knew so well had been tampered with, broken, leaving Wulf no choice but to try and use what coding he could manage on the Silvertechs to clear the way forward. Bucky had grown near hysterical by the time they reached the darkened hallway leading to Layer 3, its walls still adorned in ink. 

"Can't--- C-Can't we all just- all just--- just--- get along--long?"

What should have been maybe an hour of puzzle-solving, had taken them the entire day. Every moment they spent hacking their way through the most minor puzzles was another moment that their friends were trapped.

“I don’t remember her being this fast!”

They had walked so carefully, their steps barely audible, their breath bated. No one had even dared to whisper. And still, the monster had found them.

Every logical thought fled when the first traces of Olivia's broken noises met their ears, the group reduced to a maelstrom of fight and flight. Silence no longer mattered. Their frantic darting footsteps carry them like frightened deer now, running blindly through the halls that seem eerily unfamiliar.

“Dammit, it's gaining on us!”

Wulf holds a hand in front of Stumbler and Bucky, skidding to a halt with his chest heaving.

“Get to the cell and get the other ones outta here!" he orders, half looking over his shoulder, avoiding Stumbler's gaze, "I'll get her off your tails!”

“We're not--- We can’t just leave you here!” Stumbler shouts tearfully, nubs reaching for the wolf in a panic even as the glitching, distorted voice gets closer, shadows parting and shifting for the Dweller. Bucky steps backwards, heart thundering like a snare drum in his throat, bracing for the instant that he can bolt away.

“I'll be fine! Just go before more of them show up!”

Wulf thrusts the candle they’d brought into Bucky’s shaking hands, shooing him and Stumbler away with a waving hand while he confronts the waterlogged Dweller growing ever nearer. Only now does it become clear how much taller than them Olivia really is. How wide her rotting fabric smile is. How her false skin sags and melts like hot wax.

“Go!”

In a moment of adrenaline, Bucky yanks Stumbler away by his upper arm, sprinting in the opposite direction. The rabbit looks back at the rapidly consuming darkness that the candle flame leaves behind, watches the hungry shadows swallow Wulf whole. He grits his teeth with a clipped breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and runs faster. 

The plaza is horribly silent save for their panicked gasps for air and pounding footsteps that echo through the dark cavern, still as a vacuum. The strange rooms tower above them, rusted iron bars narrowing their path at every turn. For the first time, in the midst of this mind-splitting animalistic fear, Bucky wished that someone was guiding him through the cold, damp labyrinth. Even with Stumbler's mental map, they both feel as if they have been thrust into a vast forest with no compass. So many turns look the same, sending them in dizzying circles. To anyone watching, they are ants in a maze more than they are people. They reach a fork in the road, both paths too deep for the candlelight to reach.

“Dammit, which direction?!” 

Bucky digs his heels into the cold ground and looks to Stumbler for guidance, having lost his bearings in the midst of their whirlwind of terror. He ignores how he tips off balance and nearly vomits, feeling a surge of lightheadedness.

“Uhm, it's---,” Stumbler’s head darts rapidly around like a bluebird listening for a hawk, “Go left!”

They run off again, feeling cold fire curl in their ribs and throats from the strain of seemingly eternal running. There is a distant flare of dread in the back of Bucky's chest, tingling at his lungs. He only just notices the feeling when his foot catches and scrapes against the concrete, tripping and collapsing onto his knees and elbows, thrown into a sudden violent coughing fit. The candle is thrown to the ground with a soft waxy clink against the cement. As their beacon rolls off, taking the light with it, Stumbler chases after.

Bucky slumps against the wall, clammy and weak and trembling as blood begins to dot the fur on his elbows and knees where he had caught himself, leaving a stinging hot pain behind. He coughs hard again, a throaty, chest rattling noise that sounds anything but healthy. The weeks of exhaustion are finally catching up, he laments with a wince. 

Stumbler hurriedly returns with the candle in his nubs, looking at Bucky’s hunched figure with concern, though his foot is tapping wildly. The flickering yellow light does no favors for the beaver’s dark, sunken eyes and pinprick pupils.

“Bucky, are you ok?!” 

“I—” Bucky coughs into his arm again, slumping further until he's almost curled into a ball. “I feel like… I'm about to die or something, ha.”

Stumbler doesn't laugh. Bucky’s blue eyes look dangerously cloudy.

“We can't stand still, or we— we might get caught!” he fusses, his black eyes bright and wild with fear, “You gotta keep going!”

Bucky laughs, a sound closer to a wheezing last breath. His fur is growing sheer with cold sweat.

“I jus’ need a minute,” he insists in an unconvincing slur, “Go get them out of the cell and I'll meet y'guys there.”

“No! I'm not leaving both of you behind!” Stumbler stomps his foot, his bottom lip quivering.

“You need to get them out of here, I can barely stand up,” Bucky rasps, wincing as a sharp pain like a gong pulses through his skull. His voice is small. “I can't.”

Stumbler looks helplessly at Bucky, and then at the hall they were traveling down. It’s impossible to see what’s at the end through the eager void. The candle drips hot wax onto the bandages.

“The… The cell is close by, I can feel it!” the rabbit says firmly, “You can lean on me!”

“Stumbler, M'not exactly the smallest guy in the world,” Bucky chuckles airily, “Please, I'll stay right here. Just… Please, go help them.” 

Stumbler opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut. His foot gives another frustrated thump against the concrete. A sharp yell of frustration erupts from his throat, and Bucky's feverish chest feels a vicious twist of guilt.

“Fine. Fine!” Stumbler relents, “But if either of you get hurt, I'll kill you!”

He squeezes his eyes shut as he sprints into the darkness, and within mere seconds he is gone from view.

Only now does Bucky truly process the wholeness of the darkness---how it covers and suffocates him like a wool blanket in the summer months. His attempt to make out his own trembling hand only results in straining his exhausted eyes; he's only able to make out a distorted shadow barely discernible from the rest of the oppressive obscurity. The collapsed beaver sinks heavier into the wall with a cinched, breathy laugh, finally processing the tingling sensation in all his limbs, leaving them trembling and weak. Borderline useless. A weak whimper of pain tears from his throat like sandpaper. His bones feel as hollow as a sparrow’s.

Resigning himself to the smothering solitary void, Bucky lets his head fall back against the wall with a grimace, and shuts his eyes.

_____

The rescue did not come as soon as they had hoped, but Olive wasn't too worried.

After what must've been the first few hours or so, the otter stops her lighthearted drawling of "any-y-y minute now". She doesn't stop when Giovanni asks, but when she sees Walter's exhausted face silently pleading with her, she sighs and leans against the bedpost, defeated. There isn't much else to do in the cell otherwise, not even a tennis ball to toss mindlessly at the wall to prevent insanity.

Talking hasn't been a priority, not really. On occasion, Olive and Walter try to lighten each other's moods by talking like they're home—like they aren't trapped in a rusty jail that reeks of old blood and electrical burns—but it usually doesn't last, and they fall back into tense silence.

When they accept that they may be stuck for awhile (Giovanni refuses to admit that he wishes the rodent would show up, just to get them out of this mess), they begin sleeping in shifts an hour or so at a time; two rest and the other keeps watch. It is not lost on his friends that Walter opts to stay awake the most, even offers to let them rest longer, claiming he's really not tired. Olive's blood chills slightly when she recognizes the look in the walrus' eyes: the same dread and exhaustion that she'd seen eat away at Bucky like acid.

She desperately wants to ask. Ask what Walter had seen while he slept, why he had stared at his monstrous doppelganger for so long when he thought nobody could see. But Walter is so much like his brother, and she knows he won't tell her the full truth until he's forced to. 'A bad dream', maybe 'curiosity'. Olive knows Walter's curiosity---bright-eyed and innocent---this is not it. He looks the same as he did when the monstrous Bucky had dragged him like he weighed nothing. Like his reality was crumbling before him. But she knows he will say it's only a bad dream, if he says anything at all. Walter has grown quiet so quickly, like snail flinching into its shell. Instead of talking, he watches the gate as if he can make Bucky appear just by willing it. 

Olive sighs from the top bunk, where she'd been observing Walter sitting on the floor and watching the iron bars. It's her turn to sleep, despite her worries nagging and demanding she stay awake, alert, for any sign of danger or rescue. It's not like she can help it, she's worried about Bucky too. But she tries to tell herself she'll be no good to anyone if she falls asleep mid-rescue. She flops face first into the pillow on her bed, immediately regretting it.

Sputtering and coughing, Olive shoots back up and rubs furiously at her face to clear the dust embedded into the pillowcase and clinging to her whiskers. As she shifts though, she hears a muffled crinkling from beneath her. Odd.

With a small quizzical hum, she rummages through her bedding as if she's digging in sand. Upon reaching inside the pillowcase, her tiny ears perk up when her paw meets rough paper.

“What the heck are you...?” She mutters aloud to herself as she unfolds the scrap and holds it up to the near-nonexistent light, squinting in an effort to decipher what's written in the bleeding black ink. After a moment, her eyes darting back and forth to make sure what she's seeing is real, her bright green eyes light up and her mouth hangs open.

“Guys!”

Olive vaults off the top bed, landing slightly painfully on her feet, teetering a bit before she rights herself. Walter sits quietly against the opposite wall, simply watching with a distantly puzzled expression. Giovanni is asleep on the other bed, head tucked into his wings and his expression oddly peaceful, but the otter pays no mind as she shakes him awake. He startles, sputtering slightly as his feathers stand on end. Red eyes blink a few times, the disorientation of sleep slowly making way for the goose’s trademark agitation.

“What is it now?” he grumbles, shaking out his feathers and frowning at Olive. 

“I think this is the code to get outta here!” she exclaims and waves the scrap of paper in Giovanni’s face, “And it’s Bucky’s handwriting!” 

“Olive—”

“I'm gonna try it!” 

She bounds over to the keypad, skidding to a halt before Giovanni can even finish her name. There’s a loaded silence, punctuated by a few short beeps as she punches in the code…

And then a cheerful little jingle, accompanied by the sound of metal creaking heavily. 

The three stare, wide eyed and silent, at the now-opening gate.

“I told you it would work!” Olive squeals suddenly, hopping up and down and pointing at Giovanni, “You didn’t believe me but it worked!” She cheers, running over to the others to pull them towards the exit. Giovanni wrenches his wing away, looking at Olive as if she has asked him to eat a bug.

“Are you nuts?!” he honks, “Those…things are out there!”

“Hey, I thought you wanted out!”

“I also don’t want to die.”

“You're such a scaredy cat!” she chastises, pulling both him and Walter back into the darkness, “Come on, let's get out of here! I remember the way back up!”

_____

As dire as it is to stay quiet, Bucky cannot swallow the cry of sharp agony in his ribs as he doubles over. 

This is not exhaustion. 

Cold, shaking hands clutch his midsection as he swallows the urge to vomit, head ringing like a bell tower and pain flaring behind his eyes. Everything hurts from his ears to his chest to his hands to his legs and it won't stop why won't it just stop? It feels as if glacier water is rushing through his pulsing veins instead of blood, leaving him a shivering, feverish heap against the wall. He should've just powered through, he thinks, he should've gone with Stumbler. At least he wouldn’t have been alone, possibly dying by some mysterious happenstance. Chattering teeth clench like a vice, desperately trying to stifle another sob, trying to swallow the rapidly expanding lump in his throat. Even in the pitch black he knows his vision is blurring around the edges, but his body refuses to grant him the reprieve of unconsciousness. By now he can't tell if his melting double vision is because of the stomach churning vertigo or the lack of air in his lungs. Watery blue eyes squeeze shut, bracing against the pain assaulting him from every angle.

Why could he see the woods.

Bucky startles, snapping his eyes open and fumbling backwards, but the vision of the forest doesn't disappear. As clear as day, he can see the darkened grass and trees, silver moonlight dappling the ground. He squints, rubbing at his eyes to try and get rid of what has to be a hallucination. It's fruitless. The sensation of his vision moving while he lay still—albeit trembling—against the cold cement is nothing short of nauseating, pain like a creature trying to push its way out of his skull from his brain. Whatever eyes he's seeing through, they're moving slowly through the thickest part of Slumber Woods without any regard. The way his point of view lurches tells him the thing is limping. Just when Bucky feels the bile of motion sickness rise in his throat, his vision stops swaying. 

Everything is still and silent, oppressively so. Bucky waits with bated breath, to be caught, for his vision to go back to normal, back to the greedy darkness of the Plaza, for something to happen. Anything. He hopes this will end soon. He's so tired. Everything is hurting. His head feels strange, like the inside of his skull is cracking down the sides to try and make sense of the double vision. His jaw flares with pain from his gritted teeth, and he feels watched. Not by any Dweller or monster, but by his own eyes. Staring into him and also through the back of his head like a harpoon through his brain.

‘I guess this is it,’ he thinks, ‘I've finally lost my mind.’

Lost.

Bucky’s distant eyes widen, freezing in terror upon feeling his own thoughts take a life of their own, stitching together new ideas that were not his, like clockwork soldiers ticking to life. Something else is in his head.

Fin- D.

Like a ghost, he can feel the echo of another body around his own. Tall and hollow and melting, the invisible apparition like a blanket of ice. The thing turns, slow and deliberate, collective eyes falling onto a worn dirt path amongst the rocks. It turns again, and even separated by layers of concrete, Bucky knows they are looking directly at each other.

Find.

Soft moonlight and greenery disappears, a magician's tablecloth being snatched away, plunging Bucky back into the inky darkness of Layer 3 and sending him collapsing back into the wall. It makes his head spin and pirouette like he's tumbling down a steep hill, rattling his thoughts around in his head. His chest stutters, trying to remember how to breathe, what his own body feels like. A shaking hand clutches his chest, gripping the faded blue shirt that's grown damp with cold sweat like a drowning man would clutch a buoy.

He isn't sure how he knows Brandon intends to kill him, but the knowledge slots into his mind as if it were always there. Bucky stands on quaking knees, puts all his weight on the grimy cement wall, and limps to the cell.

Chapter Text

There is a sharp autumn wind howling across the deck of the Triton, one that rattles the masts and forces the crew to hold fast to a rope, or the side of the ship, or, in the case of its newest passengers, to the captain herself. They’re moving steadily towards the docks, but whitecaps still rock the vessel in an uneven rise and fall.

“You boys’re gonna have t’get used to the perilous weather out here if yeh want t’stay!”

Walter, now beginning to reach his brother's shoulder in height, clings to the heron’s leg, while Bucky holds onto her wing with two hands. Big brown eyes blink against the gale as Walter looks about the deck, watching the modest crew go about their duties. Bucky strains to see the horizon, blurred by cold fog and low hanging clouds of mist rolling along the waves like dolphins racing the wind. Above them is a solid sheet of soft gray sky, misting down droplets so small they're invisible.

“I’ve got ta run down to the shop when we dock,” she explains, “Need some bait for the rods.”

“Can we come, pleaseee?” Walter begs, his eyes almost sparkling. The heron strokes her beak with a playfully quizzical expression, giving a long hum.

“I s’ppose so,” she relents, to Walter’s excitement, “C’mon boys, I’ll show yeh where the anchor is.”

Walter and the captain pull ahead, with Bucky trailing behind. From here, he can see the scar, red and raw, still healing on the back of his little brother’s head.

As much as Bucky tells himself that he should be grateful Walter was even alive, and that the accident led to them being taken in by the heron, he has a feeling he’ll never be able to be rid of that hollow pit of guilt sinking in his stomach. At the end of the day, it had been his fault. He’d ignored all the signs of danger, pushed both him and his brother beyond their limits, and because of it, Walter had almost died. Even when the nurses called him a hero, telling him he saved his brother’s life, he felt… gross. Why on earth did he deserve praise for fixing his own mess? Wasn’t that the bare minimum? Wouldn’t anyone do that for their family? What made his pathetic attempt at keeping his brother alive worthy of any accolade? Bucky knows he can’t shield Walter from the entire world—it wouldn’t be fair to him—but he desperately wishes he could. He’s Walter’s brother, yes, but for most of their lives he's also had to be more than that. The bruising scar, still a bit raw from where the stitches had been removed, was just a glaring reminder that he failed. He doesn’t deserve his little brother, not in the slightest, and the knowledge sits heavy in his gut like a rock. The promise he had made on that hospital bed had felt so final, a vow, an imaginary knighting. With the little power he had, he was going to use every ounce of it to keep his brother from getting hurt. No matter what it took.

Bucky looks up when he hears Walter’s amazed ‘whoa’ upon seeing the anchor dropped. Were they docking already? Bucky can’t hear him over the call of gulls and the slapping of waves against wood and the chatter of sailors, but he can see the sparkle that seems to light up his brother from the inside. He wants that glow to stay as long as possible. Walter runs back over, grabbing Bucky’s hand in both of his and dragging him over.

“We're gonna go into town now! The anchor was so cool, the splash was so big!” Walter rattles on excitedly, not noticing how Bucky’s smile seems weak and far away. He lets Walter pull him along as they follow the heron down the rickety ramp to the dock. She watches them carefully, extending a wing to grab onto once they reach the bottom.

“Cap’n Hazel!”

The heron looks up from the docks, towards the sharp, bright voice that seems to skim above the winds like a skipping rock. An orange cat with a white muzzle leans over the edge, green eyes so electric and bright they seem to cut through the fog. He looks as young as he sounds, only a few stray gray hairs beginning to dot around his eyes.

“Aye, Tracey?!” the captain calls over the sounds of the waves.

“Remember t’grab the little yellow lures!” Tracey pinches his fingers together to indicate the size. The tips of his paws are also white, giving the impression of mittens. “Ya know we always catches bigguns with those!”

“Aye, I'll make sure!”

The feline shoots her a fanged smile and a thumbs up before he leaps energetically back into his work tying up the sail, white-tipped tail trailing behind him like a kite. Hazel waves in return until he's out of sight.

“Alright, ya boys ready t’go?”

Bucky and Walter nod, each of them holding loosely onto an outstretched wing. The blue and white feathers are soft, ruffling in the sea breeze. They start off towards the small town bordering the ocean, the two brothers trailing behind the heron like a wake in water, heads turning and surveying every detail of the unfamiliar village. The buildings are small, a bit dilapidated from decades of storms and salty air, but quaint and charming nonetheless. White paint is yellowing and chipping away on the houses exteriors, dirt and erosion between the slats accentuating the separation. The cobblestone street is fairly busy, lined with little shops and small bunches of people huddled together as they walked. The steady drone of conversation floats beneath the whistling wind. 

It's a short walk to their destination, more of a shack than a store, but apparently it's the only place to get the special lures. The untreated wood and grimy, frosted windows certainly don't look very welcoming.

“Alright, I won’t be even ten minutes in here,” the heron reassures, “But it be a bit too much for you youngin’s.”

“Okay, we'll wait here,” Bucky replies before Walter can protest. The walrus shuts his previously smiling mouth with a small huff. Hazel chuckles as she enters the shop, a large cowbell above the squeaking door signaling her entrance. After a few moments, Walter turns to Bucky with his arms folded.

“I wanted to go inside!” 

“Miss Hazel said no,” Bucky responds firmly, hands on his hips, “Besides, it looks gross!”

“So do you.” 

Bucky flicks the brim of Walter’s hat. 

“You're being mean because I'm right!” the younger holds his hat down with both hands, pouting melodramatically at his brother.

“I'm not being mean, it looks creepy in there!” Bucky shudders, equally as dramatic, “Maybe whoever runs the shop eats kids!”

Walter gives an exaggerated groan, letting his head fall back.

“You're no fun!”

“Not my fault your idea of ‘fun’ is a creepy shack probably filled with bugs.”

Walter sticks his tongue out, and Bucky gasps in feigned offense with a hand over his heart.

“How dare you!” he tries to seem offended, but there’s clearly a smile playing on his mouth. Walter stifles a giggle. Without warning, Bucky pulls the visor of the hat over Walter’s eyes, blocking his vision. 

“Hey!”

Just as Walter rights himself with a laugh, their rambunctious play-fighting is abruptly halted when a small figure careens around the corner, slamming into Bucky and knocking him to the cobblestone path with a loud oof. He doesn’t hit his head too hard, but it’s still enough to rattle his brain and make him put a hand to his forehead. A young, bubbly voice meets his ears before he can see properly. 

“Ow... Ohhh my gosh I'm so sorry! Wow, I ran into you really hard, are you okay?!”

When Bucky’s double vision settles, his eyes focus on the no-longer-blurry figure still collapsed onto him. She looks about his age, if he could guess, one underdeveloped canine tooth visible from her worried frown, and whiskers cascading from her pale tan muzzle. The rest of her fur is short and sleek, colored a light hazelnut brown. Big, oval, yellow-green eyes speckled with hazel blink down at him, short eyelashes twitching slightly in the wind. She wears a red and white striped one-piece bathing suit, a bit old fashioned, but it makes her eyes that much greener. Due to the fact that it’s dry, Bucky guesses she might’ve been running off to go swimming. 

“Uhh,” she cocks her head to the side, jostling her whiskers, “Did you hit your head too hard?”

Bucky realizes his face is very, very hot. 

“I'm fine!” He shoots up abruptly as if to prove his point, only serving to bonk their foreheads together again. They both yelp at the sharp impact, putting respective hands to their heads. 

“You sure?” the otter teases with a giggle, “You shot up like a jack-in-the-box!”

She climbs off of Bucky with a hup, brushing herself off before reaching a hand down to help him up. Bucky’s heart shakes and rattles around in his ribcage as he takes it, giving a small smile as he pulls himself up. 

“Yeah I'm okay I promise—!” he replies, far too fast, avoiding the otter’s eyes. She chuckles.

“I'm Olive!” She firmly shakes Bucky’s hand up and down before letting it go, putting her hands on her hips.

“Matches your eyes,” he says before he fully thinks, immediately snapping his mouth shut and stammering, “I mean, like, oh twigs, because of um, the—the green olives, like the vegetable— Are olives a vegetable—?”

Olive giggles again, and Bucky cuts off his own rambling at the bubbly sound.

“Technically they’re a fruit, that’s what my momma said anyway,” she answers as if the others nervous, frantic fumbling for words were completely normal, rocking back and forth on her heels with her hands swinging, “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m, uh,” he swallows, “I'm Bucky.”

“I like your outfit,” Olive beams, “Are you a sailor?”

“Uh, I guess so!” For the love of twigs he’s making an idiot of himself isn’t he. 

“Neat!” Olive hops slightly, shaking her fists in excitement before pointing to the shop a little ways down the block, “I gotta go help my folks carry some boxes off the shipping truck—just got some new fishing rods—but since you're a sailor maybe I'll see you around the docks some time!”

“I, uhm, I hope so!” Oh twigs what is he SAYING?

“Cool beans!” she exclaims as she runs off, craning her neck to turn and wave, “See you around, Bucky!”

“See you around, Olive!”

Bucky’s hand hovers mid-air even after Olive disappears, a lopsided smile playing on his lips.  

“...Ooooh, you totally like her!”

Bucky startles with a yelp as Walter latches onto his forearm with a mischievous grin, having completely forgotten his little brother was there.

“What are you talking about?!” he retorts with a halfhearted scoff, pulling Walter’s hat over his eyes once more, “She just bumped into me, I was startled!”

“I saw little cartoon hearts in your eyes and eeeverything!” Walter presses on after fixing his hat, using his approaching growth spurt to his advantage and plucking Bucky’s hat off his head in return, holding it behind his back, “You didn’t wanna let go of her hand!”

“Walter!” Bucky gives a whispered yell under his breath, reaching for his hat as they continually circle each other, “You're being so loud!”

The walrus shoves the white sailor's cap into his brother's chest, making him stumble backwards slightly.

“Why, you don’t want your crush to hear?!” Walter cups a hand over his mouth and shouts the dreaded word. Bucky scrambles to press his hands over his brother’s mouth. 

“Will you shut it?!” he hisses, “She probably already thinks I’m a moron, I don’t need my loudmouth baby brother making her think I—Ow!”

Bucky yanks his hand away and shakes it when Walter bites down.

“You love her, you love her!” Walter sing-songs as he dodges Bucky’s swipes at him, “You wanna get marri-i-ied!”

“You little—!”

Walter yells as he’s tackled to the ground, but it quickly delves into giggles, his smug smile not letting up even when Bucky has him pinned. The beaver’s face is scrunched up in an angry, childish scowl.

“Why are you mad that I'm right?” Walter’s self-satisfied grin only widens.

Bucky pouts for a moment. He glances at the ground.

“You don’t need to yell it so loudly,” he grumbles in defeat.

Walter exclaims victoriously, sitting up as Bucky slumps back into a kneeling position, groaning at the sky. 

“There there, Bucky,” Walter mock-comforts, putting an arm around his brother and patting his shoulder, ignoring Bucky’s deadpan glare, “The sting of young love is always painful…”

“You are literally the worst.”

“You love me.”

“You’re still the worst.”

A low, clunky bell cuts through the wind, and the siblings turn to see their caretaker emerging from the shop with a small bag. Her head swivels worriedly for a moment, before she catches sight of the boys and smiles. 

“Are yeh boys roughhousing already? Wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

“Bucky has a crush!” Walter blurts out before Bucky can stop him. Hazel cocks an eyebrow and smiles, intrigued. 

“Ohh, is that so?” 

Bucky feebly attempts to cover Walter’s mouth with his hands once again.

“No I do not!”

“He definitely does!”

“Don’t listen to him he's crazy—”

“He’s in love with her!”

The heron chuckles fondly, shaking her head. 

“Ah, th’beauty of young love.” Walter giggles as Bucky hides his flushed face in his hands with a groan. “Who’s tha lucky lass?”

“I am not—”

“The otter girl from that shop!” Walter answers eagerly, pointing a finger towards the direction Olive had run off in.

“Ohh, the otters’ shop?” her quizzical expression turns bright, “I know them rather well! Quite a handful they’ve got ov’r there!”

“Her name was Olive!”

“Walter.”

“Ahh, she be the oldest of the litter! Four little brothers ta deal with,” the heron chuckles again, “Well, Ah don’t stop by this port often, but next time we do maybe you two lovebirds can meet again.”

“We're not lovebirds,” Bucky groans, sliding his hands down his face before pushing himself to his feet, “I probably looked like an idiot! I doubt she’ll even remember me when we come back.” His hands flop down at his sides, his shoulders slumping. 

“Now, don’t be discouraged,” she puts a wing on his shoulder as they head back to the main street, “I'm sure yeh made a fine impression on the lass. You're a proper gen’l’man.”

Bucky smiles despite himself as they venture further down the road, to a much safer looking shop. 

When they’ve finished, Bucky and Walter are each carrying a brown paper bag full of various fish, lures, and extra fishing line. The wind grows stronger as they grow nearer to the shore, making the two brothers blink and squint to avoid drying out their eyes. The Triton is just the same as they left it, dark polished wood standing out like a silhouette against the cloudy gray sky. It really is beautiful. 

When they’re back on the swaying deck of the sailboat, the heron shakes out her wings and stretches.

“That was a bit of a trek for me lads,” she sighs heavily, her bright yellow and brown eyes looking a bit more tired than usual, “Why don’t yeh head down to your quarters while I get a bit a’ shut eye? It'll be gettin’ dark soon, anyhow.”

“Alrighty!” Walter chirps, balancing on one foot and waving, “I call top bunk!”

Bucky’s small wave halts midair, jerking his head around to see Walter running off towards the stairs leading to the cabin. 

“Hey, that’s no fair!”

Bucky darts off in the same direction, rapid footsteps thumping on the wooden deck. Hazel watches, a smile gently crossing her long beak. The setting sun has begun to turn the sky a pale yellow, the horizon line still fading and gently blurring the sky and the warm gray ocean together. The sun is a small hazy light bleeding into the clouds, steadily sinking beneath the fog. The minuscule droplets of misting rain settle on her feathers like stars. 

“You'll catch a cold like that, you know.” 

A voice weaves through the air from behind Hazel. It’s clearly trying to be gentle and quiet, like the fog surrounding them, but it can’t seem to fully suppress its faint cockney accent and theatrical intonation. The heron gives a small chuckle, shaking her head and turning towards the visitor. 

The loon is a few inches shorter than the captain, their black feathers shiny and sheer from the rain, dotted with white. Some on her face resemble carefully placed freckles. They wear a faded brown pilot's helmet, with a vest to match, and in her left wing she holds a smooth wooden cane, making her stance slightly crooked. The goggles atop the helmet are catching the rain, pooling in the glass. Small red eyes are soft as she observes the heron’s reaction to her unforeseen presence.

“I didn’t realize yeh were in this ol’ town,” Hazel replies in a voice much brighter than her eyes, “Thought ye were still up north.”

“Ah, well, you know me,” the loon shrugs with their free arm, giving a lopsided smile, “Gotta keep ya guessing.”

“I think we be gettin’ a tad old for spontaneity, Laverne.”

“You, maybe.”

The two laugh even as the drizzle soaks into their feathers. The deck of the ship is shiny with precipitation, a rippling mirror of the sky as they step back and lean against the entrance to the cabins. 

“So…you really took ‘em in?,” Laverne asks as they lean heavily against the smooth wall, genuine inquisitiveness in their voice despite the teasing tone, ”What happened to ‘I’ll chew off a wing before I have kids’?”

Hazel lets out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, shaking her head again as her eyes fall shut. 

“Aye,” she replies with a smile in her voice, “I know what I said. But the lad shouldn’t be raisin’ that little one alone. Ah thought they could fend for ‘emselves, din’t seem t’need my help. But…”

She pauses, warm smile faltering.

“Th’accident really was dreadful,” the heron continues solemnly, “Poor things were holed up in that hospital for a whole week, refused to separate. The oldest collapsed b’fore he could even get in the ambulance with the little one, swam through a rip current, if yeh can believe it.”

“Bloody hell,” the loon interjects, “I knew beavers were decent swimmers but…bloody hell.”

“Aye, adrenaline’s an incredible thing, I s’pose,” Hazel concurs before continuing, “The oldest, Bucky, told me the little one’s parents never came lookin’ for ‘im. He’s been lookin’ after ‘im since he found him.”

Laverne clicks their tongue, looking away as if they’re digging through their own head. They snap when the name clicks in their memory. 

“Walter, right? You mentioned he was a sweetheart.”

“Oh, he’s a darlin’,” Hazel puts a wing over her heart, “The crew loves ‘em both already.”

The pilot chuckles at the fondness so plain in her partner’s voice, recalling in their younger years when she had spoken about children as if they were barnacles on her ship. They’ve both gotten soft, it seems. While her waterproof feathers leave the intensifying rain to glide off elegantly, the heron’s slightly unkempt ones simply absorb it, beginning to leave an aching chill. She shivers. Leaning up on her cane, Laverne holds out her wing.

“Let’s get ya inside, old lady,” she banters, though her face is as warm as candlelight.

The captain rises with a slight wince, holding fast to the offered wing. 

“Aye,” she nods, then solemnly looks up at the twilight-bound sky, “Shame to waste a lovely sunset on account of my old bones.”

Laverne watches her partner’s gaze, how her mismatched eyes catch the sun, the shade of her cap seeming to make them glow. She smiles. 

“If ya don’t get inside you might catch bird flu before you can see the next one,” they tease in a near whisper.

They both laugh again, a reverent, barely audible thing that catches in the salty air like dandelions tossed about in the wind. After another hesitant moment, the two carefully descend the stairs to the sleeping quarters. The rain continues long into the night, and the clouds do not clear by morning. 

______

Limping his way down the hall is an agonizingly tedious experience, but every time Bucky tries to go any faster than a brisk walk, his legs are wracked with sharp, white-hot pain. He despises feeling so broken down. So pathetic. The self conscious part of him hopes that no one else has to see him like this. And he still has no clue why this is happening. Sure, he could’ve been hallucinating, exhaustion will do that. But the horrible weight he’d felt, the dread latching onto his heart… it couldn’t have been from a lack of sleep. 

By the time Bucky reaches the end of the hall, looking out at a more open area with crisscrossing wooden ramps, his body has somewhat recovered from the shock. At least enough that he can walk without immediately collapsing. His lungs no longer burn as badly, his vision has mostly cleared, and his headache has dulled to a weak throbbing. He doesn’t feel great by any stretch of the word, but he’s at least grateful he doesn’t feel like he’s a moment away from dying. 

Just as Bucky is about to brace himself to sneak across the wide open floor, he squints to see a small figure hopping towards him. And a taller figure following behind, a small candle flame illuminating their path. 

“Bucky!” Stumbler whisper yells as he gets closer, looking as if he’s about to go in for a hug before he stops himself, “Thank goodness you’re okay! You're okay right?”

“Don’t exactly feel like I could run a marathon,” he croaks and huffs a small laugh, swallowing thickly when he realizes how sore his throat is, “But, I'm not dying.”

Stumbler shakes his head, mirroring the dry laugh as Wulf approaches.

“You alive?” he grunts, nodding his head towards Bucky’s general demeanor.

“Somehow,” Bucky raspily chuckles in reply before his expression falls, “They’re not with you. They weren’t there?”

Stumbler’s brows furrow upwards with guilt, and he looks at the floor.

“No, they weren’t there…”

“They were there at some point, though, the beds weren’t made.” Wulf reaches into his jacket with his free hand, rummaging before pulling something out. “Found this near the gate, inside.”

The wolf holds out Walter’s worn cap to Bucky. 

Stumbler’s body tenses, as if he’s bracing for the beaver to panic. When the silence simply continues, he relaxes, though slightly puzzled, as Bucky simply takes it. 

Bucky’s hands are quaking ever so slightly as he takes the hat and slowly holds it to his chest, bowing his head as if to hide his face in it. The cloth is cold, like the rest of the Plaza, but it still smells faintly of salt and sawdust. If he tried hard enough, he could catch a whisper of the oversteeped black tea Walter had been drinking just before Bucky ran off. Had that really been just yesterday? The murmured exchange seems like years ago now.

Bucky opens his eyes, blinking heavily and swallowing his tears like sandpaper. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hold his brother’s hat to his chest and sob that this wasn’t fair, that he was too exhausted to keep running, that he just wanted his brother, he wanted his friends, he wanted to go home and never think about any of this again. But, he was just that: exhausted. There's no energy left in his body to spare on more screaming or weeping or begging. He was tired.

So, Bucky looks up, ignoring the tears streaming down his cheeks as if he doesn’t even notice them, and steps into the open room. Even Wulf looks bewildered.

“We wandered everywhere and we didn’t see them,” Bucky mutters, “And you didn’t see them either, when you were with Olivia?”

Wulf blinks, glancing at Stumbler for a moment.

“...No?”

“Then something’s off,” the beaver turns around, one hand on the wall and the other at his side holding the cap, “Doesn’t the Plaza feel weird to you guys? Like we're going in circles?”

“Sort of,” Stumbler admits, “It doesn’t feel like I know where I'm going.”

Bucky pauses and looks at the ground, brows furrowed in thought. 

“I think they’re going to Layer 4, if they aren’t there already.” He looks back up, eyes glancing back and forth from Wulf to Stumbler. “Think about it, how would they have gotten out of the cell without the code, or someone helping them? I don’t know who, or why, but something wants them to go deeper. And it wants us to keep getting close to finding them, and then getting ripped away again.”

Stumbler hums in thought. 

“But, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“How you got sick earlier, that’s never happened before!” the rabbit’s foot taps with anxiety, “Everything just feels so weird…”

Bucky sighs heavily, running his free hand through the fur on his head.

“It’s… something with Brandon,” he finally admits, “I had this really weird vision when I collapsed and I, um, I—I think he’s on our trail now.”

“Like whatever the hell this thing is, it's herding us like sheep,” Wulf sneers, “Pushing us all deeper but keeping us from finding them.”

“Exactly.” Bucky lets his hand fall to his side again. “We—We have to catch up with them. Who the hell knows what’ll happen or what they’ll find.”

“I just can’t imagine what would be sending us running in circles like this…” Stumbler shakes his head and stares off into the darkness, thinking. Bucky sighs again.

“We can worry about that later. Just, we…we have to be together, I need— Th-They have to be okay.”

As Bucky turns to face the silent void, Stumbler puts a gentle nub on his arm. 

“They’ll be okay. We’ll find them.”

There’s a long, oppressive silence before Bucky simply steps forward, leaving Stumbler's bandaged arm to fall back.

“C’mon.” His voice is monotonous, and deeply, horribly tired, “I think the safe room is this way.”

_____

“Can you just admit you have no idea where you’re going?”

Giovanni hisses at Olive as she leads the group, his red eyes constantly darting and twitching in an attempt to spot movement. While she hates to admit defeat, even she can relent that she’s been stubbing her toes on quite a few barrels in the dark, grasping at the gritty walls for direction. They have to have been aimlessly wandering for at least an hour now. They’ve been climbing ramps, feeling blindly at iron bars; the only light they’ve really seen has been the glowing crystals inside a strange, deep blue cave, but none of them were brave enough to see what else was inside. At one point they had gone through a room that looked as if it was completely submerged in water, despite several barrels and a whole computer resting safely on its surface. Olive had stepped inside first, testing how solid it really was. Her slow, tentative steps revealed that the whole room was solid, and completely safe, prompting Walter and Giovanni to follow hesitantly after her. They pushed through the eerie blue room with unease. 

Now, they were trekking carefully through cobblestone halls, the atmosphere eerily reminiscent of the jail cell they’d been trapped in earlier that…day? Week? It was honestly difficult to tell. Olive, Giovanni, and Walter form a close-knit line, remaining as close and as quiet as possible. 

“Watch out—!”

Giovanni shoots out a wing to Olive’s chest and shoves her backwards. She staggers back in shock, arms flailing to try and keep her balance. Walter catches her before she can topple over, giving her a concerned glance before they both look to Giovanni.

“What’s the big idea?!” Olive snaps as quietly as she can. 

The goose leans down slowly, face twisting into a grimace. When he turns back around, he’s holding a piece of sharp, dented metal like it's a dead bug. In the low light, they can all see its green color—a barrel somehow torn to shreds.

“The ‘big idea’ is that I just stopped your foot from getting impaled!”

Olive hums in surprise.

“Well I'll be darned,” she chirps, “How’d ya see that?”

“...My eyes?”

Walter stifles a chuckle into his hand, even as Olive puts her hands on her hips and huffs irritatedly. Giovanni rolls his eyes and tosses the twisted piece of metal out of their path. 

“You two, how many feathers am I holding up?” Giovanni asks with an air of anticipated superiority, stepping back and holding up his wings. He watches them squint and strain their eyes with annoyance.

“Six?” Walter says with very little confidence.

“...Thre-e-e?” Olive draws out the word as she shrugs. Giovanni scoffs.

“It was two,” he grumbles, “I'm leading from now on.”

“What?!” Olive interjects, “Why?!”

“Because you almost had an impromptu amputation, and neither of you can see three inches in front of you,” the chef shoots back.

Olive opens her mouth to retort. Then she shuts it, sighing and letting her shoulders slump. Gio did have a point, her night vision wasn’t exactly up to par when she wasn’t underwater. 

“Ffffine.” She pouts. “Go ahead, then.”

“Thank you.”

The group walks in silence for a long time, taking tedious, careful steps through the winding halls of the Plaza. For what seems like hours, their world consists of wooden planks and iron bars and quiet fear. Giovanni isn’t used to being the one leading. Normally his comfort zone is insisting that he could lead much better than the rest of them, if he really wanted to. He refuses to admit that keeping his friends alive might be a bit more responsibility than he intended.

Exhaustion begins to creep up on them as they pass an enormous computer into more stone halls and deep crystalline caves. Olive groans.

“This place is ginormous…” she laments, stalling for a moment to stretch her back, “Where the heck are we?”

“I swear we've been in this cave a hundred times already…”

“Just because I can see doesn't mean I can navigate somewhere I've never been, you know,” Giovanni grumbles, “It feels like we're just going... in…”

Giovanni trails off into silence, standing as if he’s been petrified, staring distantly ahead. 

“...Gio? What's wrong?” Olive questions softly as she moves forward to stand next to the goose, squinting into the darkness.

She hears Olivia before she sees her.

It's a horrible choking, gurgling sound, stuttering and jerking like roadkill moments from dying. They can almost make out words, but it's all too broken apart. A busted voice box. Olive puts a trembling hand on Walter’s arm as she steps backwards. She tries to reach for Giovanni, to pull him away, out of his paralyzed fear, but he refuses to look anywhere else. As if his gaze alone is preventing the Dweller from striking. 

Just as Olive is about to whisper his name, to snap him out of his terrified trance, her throat begins to burn.

'Oh twigs, of all times to get a cough…'

Olive’s throat spasms and twitches, trying to repress the coughing fit rising from her lungs. A shaky hand presses to her mouth as her chest convulses and the tickle in her throat becomes unbearable. By now, Walter notices her trembling, how her teary eyes are squeezed shut and her whole body jerks unnaturally. The burning only worsens, and deep panic settles into Olive’s bones when she sputters, and feels water begin to gush from her mouth. 

There’s no way Olive can hide the choking coughs now, and the cacophony breaks through her mouth and nose like a dam bursting. Walter leans down quickly, putting an arm defensively around her. The otter doubles over, leaning into him for balance as her lungs try to both inhale and expel the water at the same time, a futile process that leaves her sinuses sore and her ears ringing. Giovanni doesn’t take his eyes off the Dweller, even as it walks towards them. Too unhurried. Too calculated. 

It hit her before she even knew it was coming.

Olive gives a gasping inhale, gulping desperately for air as cold, earthy water splatters at her feet.

It started with loud screaming.

Searing hot gashes of pain erupt across her legs and arms and stomach, and she yells in agony. The moon watches, full and cold and silver from above.

Reduced over time to mere croaks.

How could she be in two places at once? How could she feel fleshy amorphous hands gripping her ankles and dragging her across the wet grass while also hearing Walter quietly beg her to get up, to run?

Any will to swim away slowly drained away as she sunk down further into the water, polluting its natural color.

Weak, shaking arms barely held Olive up as Walter held her to his chest, ignoring the cold, gritty water being choked up on him. 

The rodent stood a few feet away, watching the effects of his actions.

In her double vision, Olive can see a shape silhouetted against the sky, though her vision is distorted and rippling from the water. She gulps and wheezes for air, only to be met with more of the liquid, tasting of blood and minerals. 

And he would only begin to walk away,

She can hear the other two panicking, yelling, even as she is swallowed by a fear and an acceptance completely alien to her. The gashes are deep, but they don’t appear on her skin. She is drowning, but manages to have just enough air to keep herself alive. From far away, Olive feels Walter lift her into his shaking arms and hold her to his chest, his heart thundering in her ear. The coughing has settled only slightly, and the otter manages the herculean effort of turning her head to meet the Dweller’s empty, black eye sockets. It isn’t running towards them. Even without pupils, Olive knows they are looking at each other. 

Even as she lay shivering, getting further and further away from her waterlogged doppelgänger, she hopes it understands when she thinks—with as much conviction as she can muster— ‘I'm sorry that happened to you’. It stares, with some incomprehensible mimicry of emotion in its hollow eyes, watching as they turn out of the hall and catch sight of an elevator. As quick as they can manage, Walter and Giovanni cram themselves inside, pressing every possible button until the metal doors creak closed. With a small, exhausted whimper, Olive curls into Walter’s chest as he pants with terror and exhaustion, clinging weakly to his shirt. 

When she stopped struggling. 

Chapter Text

The elevator doors jerkily slide open with a horrid drawn out creak, revealing the eerily pristine walls of the aquarium. Giovanni peeks his head out of the doors, craning his neck to see if they’d been followed. Through the small square windows he can see a dark cityscape, pale golden light humming from the windows and apartment buildings towering seemingly endlessly in both directions. From this angle at least, Giovanni can’t see any roads or people. As if the whole city was a distorted decoration. The coast seems clear, though, so he steps into the open area. Walter still holds Olive close to his chest, though her choking and sputtering has stopped. She shivers slightly.

“You alive?” Walter asks lightly, managing a small smile despite his quavering voice. Olive gives a raspy chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies as cheerfully as she can manage, “Just need a minute, I think.”

“I don’t see anything,” Giovanni butts in as if no one had been talking, his eyes never moving from the open space in front of them and his feathers standing tensely on end, “I don’t think it followed us.”

“Don’t see how it could, unless there’s stairs somewhere,” Walter pouts in thought, lowering his arms so that Olive can lean on him as she stands, “Or another elevator.”

There is soft, off kilter jazz music playing through a tinny speaker, small and far away. Giovanni frowns. 

“We need to get back up to the surface,” he grumbles, “I can’t stand being stuck down here anymore.”

“What, are we not good company?” Olive cocks an eyebrow and pouts, “Last time I checked, you aren’t the one having murder nightmares or vomiting up lake water.”

Walter exhales through his nose in a quiet laugh. 

“That’s not what I—!” The goose rolls his eyes, groaning exasperatedly and letting his wings slump. “It’s just freaky down here!”

“This is the most friendly looking place we’ve been, actually,” Walter replies with a small lilt in his voice as he holds onto Olive’s arm, “And as of right now there’s no monsters. I consider that a win.”

“You don’t find the fact that the creepy island dungeon is suddenly clean and friendly mildly odd?!”

“Not really, no.”

Giovanni huffs in irritation, sliding a wing down his face. 

“It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“Thank you!” Walter beams.

Olive snorts at Giovanni’s frustration, stepping away from Walter’s arm when she realizes she can stand on her no longer shaking legs. 

“Well,” she pulls ahead, stepping past Giovanni before turning back to face them, “Might as well explore a little bit. Start looking for another way back.”

Giovanni feels a pit in his stomach at the words, an inexplicable dread that they should not be here. That there is no way back other than the way they came from. The feeling they are walking into a trap. It writhes in his gut like an upturned centipede, rooting his feet to the cold, eerily pristine concrete and sinching his throat like a noose. But there’s no other way forward, except for forward. 

While the goose had been zoning out, Walter had started to follow Olive in her trek forward, reassuming her spot in front now that there was plenty of fluorescent light. Giovanni shuts his eyes and takes a breath before moving to catch up with them. He passes them both, moving rapidly down the hallway. 

“You in a hurry?” Olive frowns, her voice reminiscent of a parent catching their child sneaking out.

“We can cover more ground if we split up,” Gio answers, only stalling to turn and look between the other two, “Knowing you two we’ll be wandering in here for a hundred years before we find anything of value. At least on my own I can make some sort of progress.”

Walter opens his mouth to protest, but Olive interjects.

“Are you nuts?” she asks with an incredulous sneer, “That’s, like, the number one way to get killed in this scenario!”

“I’ll find a way out faster without any dead weight.”

“‘Dead weight’---?!”

“You heard me.”

The otter fumes, brows knitted together and eyes narrowed as Giovanni pushes past them further down the hall, until he reaches the end and makes a sharp left turn. Walter sighs, a noise reeking of disappointed expectancy. He turns to Olive, who huffs irritatedly as she begins to continue forward, shoulders squared. 

“C’mon,” she nods her head towards the hall ahead of them, “We'll go to the right.”

Walter gives a weak smile and thumbs up, softening Olive’s demeanor.

They wander for what feels like an hour, finding nothing but barrels and computers and busted keypads, dented and sparking slightly. By now, their knees are beginning to grow sore, their patience running thin. After turning another corner, Olive groans and slumps against a barrel. 

“It feels like we're goin’ in circles!” she laments, flopping her head into her hand, “Why can’t we find another magic elevator?!”

Walter lowers himself to a sitting position adjacent to Olive, bracing himself on his knee and sighing as he settles. His back is to her, obscuring his face when she tries to shoot him a worried glance. The past few days have been stressful, sure, but Walter being so quiet and reserved feels wrong. 

“...Walter—?”

“Do you think Bucky’s even looking for me?”

Olive’s body twists to fully look at Walter even as he hides his face further, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Her heart crumbles slightly in her chest, an ache in her throat. 

“I— O-Of course he is! Why wouldn’t he?!” Olive shifts to her knees, scooting so that she’s facing her friend. Her soft green eyes are wide and stunned, hands moving to rest on Walter’s shoulders.

“Because we had th’ fight and…” His voice quavers and slurs and he represses a wave of tears, his hand moving to rub at his eyes, and then moving to gesticulate. “He looked so upset an’ I just wanted to help but I just got mad! And I’ve never said anything like that b’fore and I just wanted to act like I wasn’t scared but now we’re stuck down here and I'm terrified and I’ve never seen him look so upset so what if he doesn’t come to help just because I—?!”

“Walter!”

By the end of his tirade Walter is nearly sobbing, hiccuping as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Olive’s hands firmly hold his shoulders, an attempt to steady him. Her eyes helplessly dart across his face as she watches his feelings from the past days bubble and boil over. It was rare to see Walter truly emotional, beyond his normal pleasant cheeriness or slight fear or sadness. The most the otter had ever seen him cry was at a scary movie, which Bucky had immediately shut off (prompting Giovanni to make a snide comment about his brother being a crybaby). But, this wasn't the same. Walter’s head felt as if it were shattering, aching from every overwhelming nightmare from the past few days. The pipe system of his brain was getting too clogged, too full, and only now did they burst, pouring out through desperate tears. Olive gaped, stunned and fumbling for what to do. After a few moments of Walter's quiet sobbing accompanied by the tinny, distant jazz music, she leans forward on her knees, and captures Walter in a smothering hug, her expression falling soft.

Walter immediately hugs back, a crushing grip that Olive would wiggle away from in a normal circumstance. His arms are big enough to almost fully wrap around her torso, and even in the cold, sterile environment they’re trapped in, he manages to radiate warmth from deep in his chest. Olive tucks her head into his shoulder.

“He’ll come for us,” she soothes, “I know he will. Just like before.”

Walter can't muster the energy to protest, so he simply nods. Olive reluctantly pulls away from the hug when her lungs begin to burn in search of air. Walter’s hands wrap around his own torso in a mock embrace, his watery brown eyes refusing to meet hers. He’s still curled in on himself. 

After a moment, Olive hums, before reaching and tapping the back of Walter’s head. He flinches slightly, his own hand going to rest there as he tilts his head at her. 

“What was that for?” he croaks, wiping his face on his free arm.

Olive smiles gently.

“You remember how you got that scar?” she asks, retracting her paw back into her lap. Walter nods. 

“Hit my head when I fell off the boat,” he mumbles, looking guiltily at the floor beside her. 

“And Bucky got you help,” Olive replies with finality, shutting down any protest Walter might have, “You're okay and alive because he’d do anything for you. I know him, he won’t be able to rest until we’re all safe.”

She takes Walter’s hand in her own, placing the other on top.

“I know you're scared. I am too. But things are gonna turn out okay, alright?” 

Walter finally meets her gaze, blinking away any remaining tears as he squeezes her hand. 

“Okay,” he answers, barely a whisper, “Sorry for getting so upset…”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not good to bottle up your feelings,” she grins playfully, “Otherwise you end up a grouch like Giovanni.”

Walter’s shoulders shake with deep, quiet laughter, even as he wipes his eyes and sniffles. He pushes himself back to his feet, putting his weight on the barrel to balance himself before grabbing Olive’s hand and helping her up.

“We should prob’ly keep moving,” he says, his voice still slightly nasally from his prior tears, “Are you still okay to walk?”

Olive brushes off her striped shirt before giving a peppy thumbs up, beaming brightly.

“Onwards to an exit!” she exclaims with one hand on her hip, the other pointing valiantly down the hall, “And maybe Giovanni, if we see him on the way.”

Giovanni scowls as he stomps through the sterile rooms and halls of the Aquarium, eyes darting back and forth, going whichever direction he feels drawn to. Maybe if everything didn’t look so similar, this would be easier, he groused. Every clock he sees is permanently stuck at seemingly random times, so he has no way of knowing how long he’s been walking other than his creeping exhaustion. 

Should they have split up? Giovanni wasn’t an idiot, he could take care of himself, of course, but he couldn’t speak for the other two. If they got hurt, the blame would likely be pinned on him. He didn’t know if he felt like dealing with that headache—not like Bucky had any room to talk, leaving them all alone in the dead of night with monsters running around, and all. Whatever. No point crying over it. 

A room caught Giovanni’s eye before he stormed past it, an open area with desks and computers, and another clock—this one stuck eternally at 12. Some of the off-white computers were knocked over, some had exposed wires, and others had dust so thick it may have been there for years. He stepped tentatively inside, head pivoting to try and catch anything attempting to sneak up on him. The room was just as pristine and inconspicuous as everything else, despite the thick smell of mothballs and electricity that made his mouth dry.

One computer in particular caught Giovanni’s attention, an undisturbed machine free of any dust, the only one not damaged in some way. That familiar dread sunk in his stomach like tar, even as he moved towards it, that he should not be here, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he crept closer, craning his neck to watch his back as he approached the computer. Luckily, it was facing the entryway, allowing him to continue his scrupulous surveillance. His wings were never very dexterous, but he managed to wiggle the mouse around a bit, expecting no reaction. His brows raised when the screen buzzed to life as if it had been used only a few minutes ago. That was impossible, though. Giovanni narrowed his eyes.

The web page it was opened to had a picture of a man with gray hair, a set of years below the image, and a wall of text. 

Rex Broadside

1917-1986

In honor of Broadside Animation’s anniversary, we are celebrating the legacy of its founder, Rex Broadside. Never one to be discouraged by naysayers, he inspired many young artists to pursue their passions and become great storytellers. Both the animator and his most famous creation, Bucky Beaver, have been beacons of hope for children and adults alike for decades.

That feeling came back, the rapid pounding of his heart and the bone-deep dread. What the hell did this even mean? What did they mean ‘creation’?

Wings trembling, Giovanni switched to the other tab. 

A logo for ‘Cogware Games’, the symbol he’d seen mounted on the walls everywhere they’d gone. And beneath it, another short blurb of text.

BUCKY AND HIS FRIENDS NEED YOUR HELP!

After a sudden crash during a routine fishing trip, Bucky ends up on a mysterious island, where his friends appear to be apprehended by a pack of wolves for disturbing the peace. Embark on a puzzle-based adventure, as Bucky wanders the vast island of Nulla Terra, helping his friends work off the damages, fix your boat, and get back home!

Below that was…

A picture of all of them.

That wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be possible. That was their boat, wasn’t it? The very same one. So how could… No one had taken that picture. How did these people know about the crash? About their kidnapping? Were people spying on them? 

Giovanni’s throat was beginning to tighten, leaving him struggling to breathe. He continued reading, eyes darting across the words so rapidly it made his head ache.

With our first ever demo of the game "BLUNDERCOVER" being a hit with crowds over at local conventions in 1995, and a thriving partnership with the Broadside Animation Company, leading to the creation of the magnificent "SHIPWRECKED", we won't hold back on getting our hands dirty with game development. After all, that's where the name comes from, every cog in a machine has to be working together to create a meaningful result!

Giovanni stumbles backwards away from the computer with a sharp plastic clatter, blood red eyes wide, rapid breaths wheezing from his chest. A game? If Bucky wasn’t real, were any of them? How much of their lives were pre-programmed? Was this some sort of sick joke to mess with him? He wasn’t laughing. This was not funny. This wasn’t funny.

The whole wreck had felt like some sort of dream. Giovanni had never concerned himself with the gaps in his memory, or the dreamlike haze that seemed to cover the memories he could recall. But this place existed, at the very least, Bucky hadn’t been lying about that. But wouldn’t they all remember him disappearing? Giovanni felt a roaring flare of rage at the idea of his memory being tampered with somehow. Who the hell did these people think they were? Spying on them, messing with their lives? He moves back to the computer, brows knitted together in a fresh wave of anger. He switches back to the other tab. 

A small, silent video is playing off to the side when he scrolls down. Black and white, poor quality. In it, a small beaver in a construction outfit is working diligently on a dam. He pulls various tools from thin air, building the structure higher and higher, using mud and twigs and logs. After a minute or so, Giovanni watches the little character look at his creation with pride, his buck teeth poking out as he beams. Just when it seems to be a success, though, the dam begins to crack, water leaking through, making the beaver’s ear perk up in surprise. When he turns to see the steadily collapsing structure, he tries to run. But Giovanni watches the water swallow him whole.

After a short fade to black, the credits roll over an image of the beaver’s lifeless, bruised body slumped against one of the detached hunks of wood. Giovanni huffs a humorless laugh. Even if it doesn’t look exactly like the Bucky he knows, it’s still a bit vindicating to see. He keeps reading.

Before his redesign a few years into his lifespan, Bucky would die at the end of every cartoon (usually rather violently). Despite modern audiences viewing Rex’s early cartoons critically now, they were a comfort in the days of war and atomic threat, when the public needed entertainment with a bit more of a violent edge. Historians also note that this was Rex’s coping mechanism for the loss of Blot, his original creation. In an interview in 1973, the founder stated:

‘I was frustrated, of course I was. Being cheated out of something like that, it— you know, it messes you up, especially cause I was so young at the time. Didn’t know any better, I guess. I admit Bucky was a bit of a punching bag for me to— for me to, uh, deal with my frustration. I’d say I feel bad but, [Laughter] clearly the public enjoyed it. So that’s, you know, that’s what I went with.'

A heavy weight began to settle in Giovanni’s chest, any humor remaining in his expression hollowing out like a void. How the hell was he supposed to just carry on with his life like this, knowing it’s all just a twisted puppet show?

His spiral is interrupted when his trembling wing disturbs a few yellowing pages that had been haphazardly stowed beneath the heavy keyboard, barely peeking out. 

It can’t possibly get worse, right? Giovanni tells himself even as he swallows the panic in his throat. There’s a subconscious, foreboding feeling that it most certainly can. 

The handwriting is inconsistent and messy, written in black ink that’s bleeding in places.

10/16/19XX

They're making me change the rating. Watering it all down for the sake of the public. That's who this is all for, isn't it? The public that’s blindly consuming my work. I lost most of my control over this the moment I reworked everything. Art is supposed to be great for expression, why is it wrong when I do it? I could've been some drunkard, or a serial killer, God forbid. But I chose to express my frustration through art, and now this fucking "industry" has taken that away from me too. They destroyed what I loved, and now they're destroying what I hate. "Outlet for creatives" my ass.

11/19/19XX

Mark and I got into another argument. I'm starting to wonder when I lost the reins on this company.

1/31/19XX

"A colorful cast". That was the terminology they used. Give the little rat a "colorful cast". Fine, if that's what they want, I'll give it to them. 

2/4/19XX

They think it's all a joke. 

This might've been a stroke of genius. If they don't want ME torturing the thing, I figured, just make some little cartoon character to do it for me. And they're all eating it up. Gary, the guy they cast, pulled Mark aside a few days ago and said it was "a bit harsh". That the audience might not take well to their beloved mascot being berated. He was wrong, of course. 

I may not care very much for Mark and what he's done with my art, but he does know what the public wants. And for once our hypotheses were the same. The people love to see a hero fail: whether he's getting teased about his cooking skills or buried alive. It's just a matter of what you can get away with. It's not as morbid as I usually care for, but with how soft the public is becoming, I'll take what I can get. I almost wish Giovanni was real so I could thank him.

Giovanni stares at the final, yellowed page, looking as if he's about to laugh hysterically. Or break down in tears. He can’t seem to make up his mind. Seems all that fear about his life being messed with was somewhat valid. Red eyes stare distantly at the page, the words blurring together until they’re incomprehensible. His head feels as if it’s been beaten with a metal bat, too confused and helpless with the knowledge that he was never supposed to have. 

As desperately as he wants to sit in the quiet, fluorescent white room and spiral into his thoughts and dread, Giovanni faintly catches voices from beyond the doorway. Blankly, methodically, he folds the papers and tucks them in his coat, ignoring the ruffling noise his feathers make when he trembles. 

“Hey, look who’s alive!” 

Olive’s voice is clearer now as she leans against the doorframe, smirking playfully. Giovanni scowls, but it feels more like some alien doppelgänger trying to mimic emotions for the first time. He is too aware of his face, of his entire body. He feels like hollow plastic. 

“So, ready to admit splitting up was a bad idea?” Olive teases as the goose rejoins her and Walter, continuing down the hall, “Or did you find a super secret key to get us outta here?”

Giovanni huffs and shakes his head. It feels robotic. 

Sparing one last glance at the office area, he looks at the lone working computer with something like disdain. It’s the most he can muster in his current state.

“Let’s just keep moving.”

Chapter Text

Bucky’s parents died when he was nine years old.

They feel more like statues of saints than family now, alien things he knows he should revere, but he can never really understand who they were. It was a tragic thing— a freak house fire that the beaver barely recalls— but he still thinks about it often. He remembers it all as if he had been watching from afar. A quiet, objective observer of the horrible tragedy that really didn’t change the world that much. People died all the time. People’s parents died all the time. Still, Bucky always feels a slimy, writhing guilt at how apathetically he views the accident. Even before he was confronted with death over and over, even before he discovered his previous life of torment, the memories don’t even feel like they belong in his head. Now more than ever, he feels more like an empty nesting doll than a person. There should be more, shouldn’t there? There shouldn’t be a dry, hollow void where his insides should be, only disturbed by isolated memories and nightmares flaring through and then blinking out like dying stars. 

Bucky often wondered, when it was quiet and dark in his room, and he was alone, if he had a soul. He knew Walter had one. Anyone with an ounce of sight could see it: the lovely light in his hazelnut brown eyes that scrunched up when he smiled, in the way he treated the world around him with gentleness. He could see it in Olive, when her eyes like rippling grass beneath a yellow sky well up with tears at old movies about true love. Even in Giovanni, his conviction, the snapping curling fire that seemed to tear about him when he spoke, the passion for life that had somehow soured as he’d grown. Sometimes, Bucky envies how deeply and loudly and agonizingly alive his friends seem to be. Even when he was young and would soothe Walter through tears when he scraped his knee, he envied it. This can’t be how he was meant to feel, like a spectator; sadness like hunger pangs and happiness like a dry mouth and anger like an itch. Ironically the weight of his own apathy often drives him to silent, hopeless tears. 

As the elevator descends, Bucky’s mind drifts to his parents again.

He knows they wouldn’t be proud of him. Maybe that’s just his snarling self-loathing talking, but what had he really done with his life so far? Fail to take care of his brother? His friends? Crash his boat? His parents probably didn’t picture their child in a dingy underground labyrinth hiding from monsters. But hey, what did he know. Now wasn’t the time to imagine what life would’ve been if he still had his mother to hold him through his nightmares. It was far too late for that.

The weight of his brother’s hat in his hand is that of a ball and chain as they get further and further underground. As his mind is wont to do, a little thought like a noose constricts his throat: What if they were too late, and everyone was already gone? 

Would he just go home? Would he go back to that silent house and cry until he disappeared? Empty house to match its only resident, he thinks scornfully. Maybe he’d get used to it, like he’d gotten used to being an orphan. How could he even bear to sit at the dining room table without them there? 

…God, he really had gotten jaded lately. They weren’t even in Layer 4 yet and here he is planning out his stages of grief. A ‘wild imagination’, or whatever his father used to say. 

The elevator jostles them all as it halts, and Bucky sharply inhales as he’s pulled from his thoughts, clutching the hat tighter on reflex. He blinks, heavy and slow to try and stop the burning in his sleep deprived eyes. If things weren’t so urgent he would just curl up here in the rusty elevator and drift off. 

Stumbler looks up at Wulf, only now noticing the tear on the upper sleeve of his tattered dark yellow jacket, creating a window to view the dark, ugly, blooming bruise, and fur matted with blood. Olivia had caught up to him more than he cared to admit, it seems.

The metal doors give another horrid noise as they clunkily open, revealing the Aquarium. Bucky tries to watch his breathing when he remembers what’s down here— who is down here. The cheerful jazz music continues through the tinny speakers. 

“Alright,” Wulf rolls his neck and shoulders with a sigh, “Let’s get this over with. The sooner we get outta this nightmare, the better.”

Bucky wordlessly steps into the hall, one hand resting on the elevator door frame, eyes scanning the dented barrels and false water and white walls. Brows furrowed and face set with his near-nonexistent patience, he walks off to the right. 

“Bucky,” Stumbler stammers and jogs to catch up with the beaver, “Do you know where you're going?”

“No.”

“Oh…” Stumbler glances nervously at Wulf as they pass the welcome desk, “Uh, so we're just… wandering—?”

“Olive!”

Bucky cups his hand over his mouth and yells, leaning forward to project his voice. It reverberates slightly, seeming to ricochet along the walls, high ceilings and pillars and spiral into the barrels. Stumbler and Wulf’s ears pin back in surprise, eyes widening. 

“You're gonna make us a Dweller magnet, waffletail!” Wulf scolds in a hushed voice, “The hell are you doing?!”

“Walter! Where are you?!”

The wolf stammers hopelessly, letting his hands fall to his sides in exasperation. He looks at Stumbler, wide eyes and raised eyebrows, gesturing to their companion with urgency. The rabbit’s foot taps a few times before he runs to catch up with Bucky again. Wulf follows. 

“Bucky, we really should keep our voices down!” Stumbler urges quietly, “We don’t wanna attract any more attention than we need to.”

“I’m sick of wandering around aimlessly, hoping we run into them,” Bucky snaps, never ceasing his rapid steps. The bright, clinical lighting makes the sunken shadows on his face even sharper. “It echoes in here. They’re more likely to hear us.”

“What if... if one of the Dwellers—”

“If Rex shows up,” Bucky halts suddenly and turns fast, looking down at Stumbler as he nearly knocks into him from the unexpected stop, blue eyes bright and wild as he scowls, “Then I beat that stupid barrel into the ground and keep moving.”

Stumbler balks at the ferocious conviction in his friend’s face, watching Bucky storm ahead before blinking back to reality and following him.

“He hasn’t slept in almost three days,” the rabbit mutters, looking up at his partner worriedly, “I'm amazed he hasn’t collapsed.”

“I think he might be losin’ his mind a little,” Wulf’s voice lilts. His voice is playful, but lined with real concern, “Not sleepin’ that long has gotta mess with your head.”

Stumbler sighs as Bucky shouts Olive’s name again.

“Your arm,” he nods, accusing but worried, towards the tear on the worn yellow fabric of Wulf’s jacket, stiff from the dried blood soaked into the threads. Chief puts a hand over it, wincing away guiltily. 

“...Didn’t wanna worry you,” he mumbles gruffly, his ear flicking, “Beside’s, it’s not that bad.”

“I'll always be worried when you get hurt,” Stumbler replies gently, linking their arms as best he can, leaning his head on the wolf, “I'm sorry I didn’t see the cut sooner.”

“Eh,” Wulf shrugs slightly, attempting to hide a grin, “Can’t really see anything in the Plaza anyway.”

Stumbler rolls his eyes, but grins as well. Bucky shouts Giovanni’s name. 

Delirium is beginning to settle into Bucky’s mind like a parasite, heavy and pulsing against his skull. He knows shouting is foolish, he doesn’t need Wulf or Stumbler to tell him that. They could easily get caught. But he is far past caring by now, and the value of his own life is an afterthought. 

“Walter!” he shouts again, his voice beginning to strain and scratch, “Olive!”

“...Did you guys hear that?”

Olive stops unceremoniously in her tracks, holding a hand out to signal Walter and Giovanni to do the same. The walrus feels a sting of panic in his chest, bracing himself for another monster attack. Olive’s small ears twitch slightly. The ensuing silence is deafening, pressing against everyone's ears, reminding them how alone they really are.

“What is it, Olive?” Walter whispers, hunching over as if that will make his voice quieter.

The otter puts a finger to her lips before moving the same hand to cup her ear, taking a few steps back from the way they had come and swiveling her head. Her ears flick again. Green eyes scrunch up as she desperately chases the elusive mystery noise that only she seems to hear. Walter tilts his head in intrigue, but remains silent.

Giovanni stares at the area behind Olive, anxiously anticipating another Dweller encounter, or some other nightmare to come barreling around the corner. Inky black feathers stand on end when the silence simply stretches on.

Without warning, Olive springs to life, grabbing Walter’s hand and sprinting down the brightly lit hall. He yelps in surprise, a whirl of adrenaline pulsing through him like an electrical current as he’s pulled along, nearly tripping over his feet to keep up with the otter.

“O-Olive what’s the matter?!”

Without turning around, she pants.

“It’s Bucky!”

By now, Bucky is beginning to consider giving into the crippling exhaustion. His mind and body—and now his voice— are completely wrecked. He catches his eyes slipping shut once or twice, when his wild resolve has dwindled back into the aimless wandering he was trying desperately to avoid. 

“Bucky!”

His heart ricochets against his ribs.

Exhaustion is forgotten, meaningless in the wake of this glimmer of hope. It’s faint, distant. But not immensely distant. He takes off to the left, clumsily throwing a door open.

“Olive!” he yells, near breathless from premature joy as he follows the echo, “Olive I can hear you!”

They can all feel how close they are, a deep, gut feeling like a rising sun that they’re so close now. Olive is smiling, beaming when her desperate cry receives a response in that voice they had nearly forgotten the sound of. 

“We're near a bunch of barrels!” she shouts as she pulls Walter along.

“That doesn’t really narrow it down!”

Olive laughs as if she’s soaring, and veers to the left.

For a few moments Stumbler nearly loses sight of Bucky as he sprints through halls and careens around corners, tail flowing behind him like a kite. The rabbit’s heart thumps rapidly as he looks up at Wulf, and they both smile despite themselves. The only thing that could stop Bucky now would be the end of the world. 

Bucky grabs the wall, practically throwing himself around the next corner. Even in this underground, desolate place, the wind on his face makes him feel as if he’s a child running along the shore again. 

“I think we're getting closer!”

“Bucky, you're really close!” Olive shouts into cupped hands, amplifying it as much as she can, “Keep talking!”

They make a right. 

“Should I say something specific?!” he yells in reply with a smile in his voice. He nearly trips when he turns right, Olive’s voice nearly in his ears now. 

They don’t realize their success until their heads collide and they trip, fumbling and yelping in shock as they tumble to the cold floor, heads rattling and vision blurring. Bucky picks himself up frantically, leaning back on his hands with wide eyes. 

Olive laughs tearily, smiling so bright it seems to dim the fluorescent lights above them.

“We keep meeting like this, huh?” 

Bucky laughs, and doesn’t bother suppressing his tears as he traps her in an embrace, shoulders shaking.

He is laughing, and sobbing, and clutching Olive as if his arms are the only thing tethering her to this plane of existence. Her clawed hands clutch the back of his shirt in turn, her tears soaking the sleeve. 

“I knew you'd come,” she whispers through suppressed sobs, for only him to hear, and he feels the words against his shoulder, “I knew you would.”

When they reluctantly pull away, arms still resting on each other, they both burst into another disbelieving laughing fit, amazed that this isn’t an illusion. They both look a mess. Olive’s eyelashes have become soaked with tears, clumping them together messily. Bucky is shaking as if he’s been pulled, sputtering, from the ocean.

Only then does Bucky look up and see Walter’s smile that scrunches his eyes, those teary brown eyes, and his arms that are stiff at his sides in a way that makes it obvious that he knows he has to wait, but more than life itself wants to hug his brother. Bucky pushes himself to his feet. Walter’s smile falters slightly, eyes drifting to the floor.

“...Bucky, I… I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you or make you sad, I just—I wanted to—”

The older latches onto him like a vice, refusing to let him finish. Bucky hides his face in his brother’s chest, any tension falling away into relief when he feels those warm arms slowly descend around him, standing on his toes to reach Walter’s shoulder. Against his cheek he can feel the soft flowery fabric and the stuttering rise and fall of Walter’s chest. The reality of the past few days, everything that had happened, how alone they had felt without each other, swallows them both whole. Bucky can’t tell if his sobs are from joy, or gut wrenching guilt. 

“Don't you dare,” he scolds in a whisper, voice muffled into the floral shirt, “try to apologize for this. This isn’t your fault.”

Walter sniffles, tucking his head into his brother’s shoulder like they’re kids again. Their voices whisper like the last pair of autumn leaves.

“I really missed you,” Walter whimpers, because anything louder feels earth-shattering, “I was so scared, I-I thought you wouldn’t come because I made you upset—”

“No, No,” Bucky interjects, pulling away to meet Walter’s eyes but keeping his hands on his shoulders. He stammers for a moment, studying his brother’s weary face as if it will somehow endow him with the perfect words to fix everything. 

“I'm sorry,” he says finally, “I was just… I was so terrified of you getting hurt that I just made everything worse. It’s—It’s hard, when I've been looking after you so long, you know?”

Walter nods silently, wiping at his eyes. 

“You're always going to be my little brother, I'm always gonna look after you,” Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat, his voice breaking slightly, “But I—I never wanted that to push us apart, I'm just…I know this was all— just, terrifying and awful, and I'm sorry…But I'm so proud of you. You have no idea how proud of you I am.”

After an aching moment, Walter reaches back down and steals his brother into another interlocking hug. He’s silent, but Bucky can feel the way his chest trembles and his arms hold him so tightly that his ribs protest. He doesn’t let go.

Olive leans down, picking up the sun bleached captain’s hat from the floor where Bucky had dropped it in their tumble. 

“You guys must’ve forgotten it in the cell,” Stumbler says quietly, giving the otter a lopsided smile, “He’s been holding onto it since we found it.”

Olive chuckles fondly, running her thumb along the brim. 

“Thank you guys for sticking with him,” she replies softly, holding the hat to her chest.

Wulf nods curtly, a prelude to a smile playing on his muzzle. 

When the two brothers finally separate, Olive holds the hat out to Bucky, who takes it, smiling, and stands on his toes to affix it to the top of Walter's head.

“There. Balance has been restored,” Bucky jokes. Walter wipes his eyes and chuckles.

Giovanni watches from a few feet away, feeling as if he’s intruding simply by existing in the same space as the tear-filled reunion. His feathers ruffle slightly, unsure what to do with himself. When Bucky’s eyes turn to him, he freezes, heart hammering against his chest. Walter and Olive step aside to catch up with Wulf and Stumbler, leaving the two of them alone. Bucky’s smile has faded slightly, but his eyes are sincere.

“I'm glad you're alive, Gio.”

The goose scoffs a laugh even as he scowls, shaking his head. 

“How flattering.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” Bucky folds his arms, speaking gently, “I really am happy you're okay.”

“‘Okay' is a strong word.”

The beaver frowns, and sighs. Giovanni is acting odd, he can see that in the way he doesn’t berate him for taking so long to find them, doesn’t wave his wings in exasperation despite everything that’s happened down here, how quiet and unsure his voice is. He knows asking will be a fruitless endeavor. Getting Giovanni to talk about his feelings is what Bucky imagines it’s like to pull someone’s teeth out one by one. But he knows something is wrong.

“...Did something happen?” He takes the leap anyway.

Giovanni’s heart twists and leaps into his throat. Everything he’d seen flashes by in his head like a slideshow in a matter of seconds, and he remembers the folded up papers tucked away in his coat.

“...No,” he answers, not sounding nearly as irritated as he wants to, “Nothing happened.”

Bucky knows he’s lying. He says nothing in reply. 

“You two ready to get the hell outta here?” Wulf calls from a few yards away, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the way they came. Bucky’s smile returns, almost relieved for the distraction. 

“Yeah,” he exhales as he follows the rest of the group, “I think I'm gonna sleep for a dam year.”

Giovanni trails behind as the others chuckle, looking anxiously over his shoulder as he walks. 

Chapter Text

“Look, I wasn’t even expecting to get the job! He could at least act like he doesn’t hate my guts.”

Brandon slumped against the wall next to the water cooler, his head making a dull thunk when he rested it against the surface. The flimsy paper cup in his hand was nearly empty. The director had told him that drinking a ton of water at once wasn’t good for his voice, and that cold water would mess up his vocal cords or something like that. That didn’t mean he enjoyed the meager sips of room temperature liquid that may as well have been from a tap. Gary leaned down to refill his own water while the other man sulked, his collared shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Despite them not being filmed, Brandon still felt juvenile in a tee shirt and jeans.

“I wouldn’t take it personally, kid,” Gary shrugged before throwing the lukewarm water back like it was a shot, making Brandon stifle a chuckle. He wondered if being a voice actor would eventually make him just as dramatic. 

“Stewart’s doin’ all this and Broadside’s still got 'im animating on top of it,” Gary continued, rolling his eyes, “I’d be a miserable bitch too.”

Brandon gave a short laugh in reply before shaking his head.

“I—I dunno,” his smile and voice fell into a hesitant mumble, “I mean, he’s been here longer, right? He probably deserves to be the face of this company more than I do.”

The older man huffed and filled his cup again. His pale hands, beginning to wither with age, remained steady as he pressed the small blue lever.

“Listen, Lester. You've got something he doesn’t have.” Brandon raised an eyebrow at him, crinkling his paper cup between his thumb and forefinger to occupy his hands. 

“Stage presence,” Gary jabbed a finger in his chest, and the other jumped slightly as his eyes crossed to look down at it. The older man pulled his hand back to shrug as he continued. 

“Stewart is a hell of an artist, I’ll give him that, and he’s a good voice actor. But, emphasis on the voice bit.”

Blue eyes averted to the ground at the implication that he was a good actor in any sense. Brandon wasn’t sure if it was modesty or self deprecation.

“If you wanna be a mascot actor you need to be dramatic as all hell. You gotta make those hunks of fabric feel like cartoon characters. Have to be willing to embarrass yourself.” Brandon listened intently, folding his arms. “It's not easy, doesn’t always come naturally. Believe me, I’ve been doin’ this awhile. Did a stint with Disney, actually.” 

Brandon’s eyebrows raised in impressed shock as Gary continued.

“Nate’s a good kid, but,” Gary leaned against the wall next to Brandon, his face contorting slightly in hesitation, “He doesn’t exactly have the boundless energy you need to play a character like Bucky, y’know?”

Brandon shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his face. It looked more like a grimace.

"Guess so."

Gary gave him a sideways glance, biting the inside of his cheek and wracking his brain for something decent to say.

He sighed finally. 

“...Lemme put it this way,” he huffed, his face turning serious. Brandon’s head turned slightly to meet his eyes. “Mark’s too much of a hardass about this company to hire someone sub-par. If you sucked, you wouldn’t be here.”

Gary paused abruptly, wincing. He waved his hands defensively and stammered for a moment, as if he was trying to mime the words.

“Not— Not that Nate ‘sucks’,” he added as soon as he could form the sentence, “I just mean that—”

The helpless fumbling halted when Gary saw Brandon’s shoulders shaking, his free hand covering his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. When he took his hand away, his slightly yellowed teeth were showing in his smile, revealing the slight gap in his two front teeth. His gray blue eyes were bright when he settled enough to look up at the older man, the slight bags under them lightening for a moment. The wrinkles around Gary’s mouth shifted when he smiled in return.

“Thanks, Gary,” Brandon chuckled like he had just watched a child show him their first drawing, “It…It means a lot. Feels like everyone around here has some issue with me except you and Mark... And Olivia, I guess."

Silence hung heavy in the empty office, the only sound being the muffled dialogue from the voice director’s room a few doors over. Olivia was doing her lines now. Brandon could hear her laughing as he stared off blankly. 

“Acting is so weird,” he says unexpectedly as he tosses his cup in the bin, “Like, our characters hate each other and we’re just… like this.”

Gary's slightly puzzled expression melted as he chuckled. 

“Well, that’s our job, I guess,” he shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall and rolling his shoulders, “‘Suspension of disbelief’ and all that. Audience isn’t supposed to think about the random middle aged guy voicing the character.”

Brandon’s laugh was bright as he followed the older man away from the water cooler. It cast a warm glow on his face that seems to dim the sharp white office lights, if only for a moment. Gary only really sees that look when he’s in the voice booth. 

“Yeah, guess you're right,” Brandon has a playful smile in his voice, “If you actually acted like Giovanni I might quit, honestly.”

A deep laugh burst from Gary’s throat, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. 

“If Nathan acted like Walter, maybe you two would finally get along!”

Their laughter filled the empty office like soft music as they stepped towards the door to the recording room, leaving heavy silence in their wake when it swung shut behind them. 

Chapter Text

Despite being on edge, the group’s return through the Plaza was startlingly uneventful.

They remained quiet, stepping silently and refusing to speak once they emerged from the elevator, but the area that had once been an ever-twisting, incoherent maze was now a cold hollow corpse, devoid of life and sound, like the abandoned skin of a cicada shuddering in the trees. Luckily, Wulf had held onto the candle, and he led the rest of the exhausted group through without interference. 

Bucky was on high alert despite his exhaustion. He gripped Walter’s hand protectively as they walked, his eyes scanning across the metal bars and wooden ramps even as his vision swam and his body begged him to just sleep. A few times, Walter’s face seemed to distort just out of his peripheral vision, and his head would snap to look up at him. There was no change, just the walrus looking back at him with a puzzled frown. He would tilt his head, wordlessly asking if everything was alright, and Bucky would nod and squeeze his hand tighter. 

Even in the Land of Darkness, where the air was thick with death, they all heaved a sigh of relief upon escaping the Plaza and into the open stretch of land. They remained silent though, acutely aware of the soft rustle of their feet against the dirt. There wasn’t even any wind to disturb the dying trees that loomed like monstrous claws. Giovanni was looking over his shoulder every few moments, silently convinced that something was following them. 

When they entered the graffitied hallway, after climbing one by one onto the decrepit dock, Bucky and Stumbler exchanged a brief, wordless glance upon passing the incomplete game of hangman. Bucky looked away after barely a second, turning his head to stare at the floor, his expression cold and dismissive. Stumbler’s brows furrowed in slight worry. Bucky’s own third eye-adorned silhouette stared back at him before they reached the door.

Through the yellow-tinted hall littered with Connor’s false warnings, and into the museum they continued. The welcome desk was vacant. Wulf hoped with all his might that the attendant had escaped safely, but there was no telling what had happened in his absence.

Upon processing where they were, Bucky stepped faster, ears pinning back in an attempt to block out the voice over the loudspeaker, staring irritatedly at the floor in front of him. Giovanni watched his stature shrink before slowing to glance at the large printed image of a rabbit in a news cap waving cheerfully, eternally frozen. He frowned, glancing back at Bucky, before stepping quickly to catch up with the group. 

The gallery fared no better. By now, Bucky had shut his eyes, allowing his sense of where Wulf was to guide him through the halls of abstract numbers and colors and corpses. The pristine condition only heightened the unease. The silence left behind by the hopefully safe island residents was occasionally broken by distant music, as if it were playing from underwater. The white floors are cold and unwelcoming, the harsh lights casting unflattering shadows beneath Bucky’s eyes. 

Walter wants to ask how far they are now—it didn’t feel nearly this long when he was dragged down here, or perhaps his brain had simply detached from the experience entirely—but he remains silent, his free hand fiddling with the hem of his floral shirt. However trivial, he thinks it may be nice to finally get into more comfortable clothes after spending a few days trapped in the thick, dusty air of the Plaza. To wash the memory of this place off of his skin, even if he couldn’t scrub it from his mind. He squeezes Bucky’s hand tighter. 

The entrance to the gallery stands like a gate to hell, and the drawn out creak of the door allows the distant music to swell louder, making Bucky’s ears twitch. As they step into the dim red light of the Diner, Bucky’s grip on Walter’s hand falters. He pauses, a slight rotting meat smell stinging at his nose; juxtaposed against the elegant eating area, it makes his head hurt. Olive’s face screws up in disgust when she processes the odor, as if the eerie red wallpaper would peel away to reveal decaying flesh. Giovanni’s feathers rustle slightly when the color of the walls reminds him of his own eyes. A slight twinge runs up his spine.

Bucky stares at the golden statue erected atop the fountain as they approach, glinting and catching the candlelight from the elegant chandeliers. He stops, his legs refusing to carry him further as he stares at the lifeless smile and outstretched hand. He may as well have been staring at his own corpse. Walter stops when his hand limply falls away from Bucky’s, turning to see him staring at the statue with an unreadable expression. After a moment, he blinks himself out of his trance. 

Cold, trembling dread sinks into Bucky’s veins when he feels his head throb sharply and his vision begins to swim. 

He turns to the others, opening his mouth to warn them, only succeeding in choking on his own breath when his head pounds like a hot ice pick splitting his skull. He stumbles forward as his head spins, reaching blindly to steady himself on a chair before he feels Walter’s arms catch him. 

Stumbler turns, black eyes widening in horrified realization when he sees Bucky collapsed in his brother’s arms, breathing like a stuttering engine desperately trying to start up in the cold. The rabbit nudges his partner, pulling his attention to the beaver. 

“Bucky, I— what’s wrong?” Walter asks as quietly as he can, even when the running water of the fountain could hide his voice. He watches helplessly as his brother trembles and struggles to speak through the flaring pain pulsing through his chest and skull. Bucky’s arm is looped around Walter's neck as they both kneel, the music pressing against his skull as if it’s trying to escape from the inside. 

“Hh—” Bucky croaks out before wincing and putting a shaking hand to his pounding chest, “Have t’get out of here—”

Blue eyes are wide and clouded with cold terror, staring at seemingly nothing. Wulf and Olive push forward frantically, only to nearly trip backwards when they find the empty doorway blocked.

Brandon looms like a phantom, hollow black eye sockets seeming to look right through the two, directly at Bucky. Wulf throws an arm out in front of Olive nonetheless, guiding her to back up. The Dweller takes a step, and then another, seeming to unfurl into the open room. Bucky turns to meet what he supposes counts as Brandon’s eyes. He breathes as if his lungs have been punctured, trying to back away while also using his body to shield Walter.

Giovanni screams as if his throat has been slit. 

Bucky’s head snaps towards him in a panic, just fast enough to see the goose collapse and clutch his face desperately. The poignant smell of burning flesh and thick oily smoke is nearly instant, overwhelming the room and poisoning the air. Bucky’s blood manages to somehow run even colder as he watches his friend cry out and curl in on himself, too consumed by the abrupt agony, the sensation of his skull colliding like a rhythmic pulsing heartbeat. 

The screaming is rather uncanny, in how similar it is to Gary's own cries as he was killed. Bucky forgets to breathe, his body entirely forgotten as the images flicker through his mind like old film. The impacts, over and over, the hissing and bubbling: nothing else exists in this warped moment.

Gary’s distorted laughter pushes through the music from behind them, a glaring splatter of red against the buzzing terror.

Stumbler pulls closer to Wulf and Olive, head jerking between the Dwellers blocking their only paths of escape. 

Again, and again, again, his head collides with the glass, and somehow he’s still alive. Giovanni barely processes his own body, too swallowed in the drowning, melting distortion of his mind and the Dweller’s. When the burning starts, and he feels the excruciating frying of his own skin, he lets out a noise closer to the cries of an animal in the throes of death, rather than a real scream. It pierces and stings and burns but there are no words that could ever possibly capture the inhuman magnitude of this seemingly endless pain. 

Would he die like this? Would this kill him? Would he die with those yellowing pages folded neatly in his coat?

Would anyone mourn him if he did?

Olive runs from behind Wulf to lift Giovanni’s wing over her shoulder, managing to get him into a standing position. 

“How the heck are we getting out of here?!” she shouts, pulling Giovanni away from his doppelgänger, “They're blocking both exits!”

Wulf looks back and forth, mind racing. The music wails even as Gary falls silent, the fork lodged in his eye glinting in the light of the chandeliers as he tilts his head curiously. 

“ Wh—What are You— you w-w-waiting f—for?! ”

Bucky nearly vomits in terror when he hears his own voice tear its way from Brandon’s false throat as he leers at Gary from across the room, who takes a step back and seems to glance from Brandon to the crumpled Giovanni. The group knits closer together, as far away from the two Dwellers as possible. Walter holds Bucky to him, shielding him from Brandon’s view. Giovanni can’t be bothered to care that he’s pathetically collapsed into Olive, his entire skull still engulfed in flaring pain as he shudders and gasps for breath.

When Gary still doesn’t answer, shrinking away from the altercation, Brandon’s broken voice seems to turn the air around him to ice, an alien tone unfit for Bucky’s voice.

“ F—Fine.” Black, void-like eyes turn predatorily to Giovanni. “ Coward. ”

Bucky doesn’t think when he sees Brandon lunge forward inhumanly fast, he simply pries himself from Walter’s grip, and throws himself in front of Olive and Giovanni to take whatever blow the Dweller would have inflicted. 

There is no impact, leaving Bucky bracing for a moment before he turns, nearly crying for air, to see Brandon staring at him. The hollow smile does nothing to hide the black hole of contempt that seems to turn everything around them cold. Even without lungs, the Dweller’s shoulders seem to heave with rage. 

It grabs the collar of Bucky’s ragged shirt to the shouted protests of Olive and the others—Bucky swears he hears a noise of protest from Gary as well— and he feels weightless for a moment as he’s lifted effortlessly. Brandon’s voice, his voice, drops to a hissing whisper that seems to deafen everything around them.

“Y-Y-ou did this—This to me.”

Bucky’s stomach falls hollow with fear, eyes wide and chest heaving; in a muddled blur, he hears Olive shout as he’s swung face-first into the nearest table. 

He doesn’t have time to scream. His face collides with the sharp edge of the wooden table and explodes with pain and blood. Once, then twice, then his body goes abruptly limp with unconsciousness. 

Wulf tries to yank the two apart, but is simply tossed aside, landing on his wounded shoulder with a pained cry. Brandon doesn’t stop, even when something far too clumped to be simply blood splatters onto the dark polished wood. 

Walter is frozen for a few moments, white hot panic squeezing his heart rooting him in place. He sees the blood but is hardly able to process it; until a few thick drops land on his boot. Dark and red and glittering against the rough material. Those miniscule drops of blood seem to snap Walter out of the detached haze he's been in since he was taken. 

Leaping to his feet, as if his head has been suddenly torn from deep water, Walter runs at Brandon with every ounce of force he can possibly muster, and knocks the Dweller off balance, sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. 

Fueled by the icy terror of seeing his brother half dead and barely giving the Dweller any time to recover, Walter grabs the nearest chair and, heaving with exertion, lifts it over his head and swings it into the Dweller. The action is so violent that it shatters the chair almost instantly. Brandon lets out an inhuman noise as the splintered wood lodges itself in his flesh, stunning it long enough for Walter to gather Bucky in his arms and run for the exit so frantically that he doesn't even look back.

Finally seeing their opportunity, Olive pulls Giovanni to his feet and Wulf recovers enough to put Stumbler on his back, and they run in Walter’s wake. Gary takes a hesitant step forward, but makes no attempt to chase them down. 

Brandon claws himself to his feet, ripping the splintered wood from his flesh and hurling it to the ground with a dull cracking sound. In the flickering shadow of the golden statue, he watches the group clamor through the door to the diner, slamming it shut behind them. 

Heaving in fury, Brandon turns to glower coldly at the Dweller opposite him, though he’s unable to shift the wide, hollow smile.

“ I don’t— I don’t Know why I— I thought you'd actually do th-th-this properly, ” he snarls as his voice glitches and breaks, bathed in the red light as Gary steps back, “ G—Get out of m-My sight.”

When Walter collapses into the theater with his brother in his arms, the overcast sky is only just beginning to brighten. He couldn’t help but feel guilty for attacking the Dweller, at least until he mustered the fortitude to look down at Bucky’s bloody face. For a moment, Walter understands how Bucky had felt seeing him bleeding in the ocean all those years ago.

Olive lowers Giovanni to the floor, and they both look at Walter’s back turned to them. Wulf shoves one of the benches in front of the door, immediately slumping against the wall and clutching his injured arm. 

“Get him to the town hall,” Stumbler urges Walter from a few feet away, “The nurse should be there, they’ll have medical supplies.”

Without turning to face them, Walter stands on shaking legs to rush out the door. The rest of the group tries to stay level-headed, but it's difficult to swallow the damning sight of Bucky’s arm hanging limply at his side.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s recovery is slow, and he doesn’t wake up for almost a week. 

Walter had run as fast as he could without agitating his brother’s injury, pushing the town hall door with his shoulder and stammering an explanation he doesn’t really remember to the wolf nurse. Bucky was laid down gingerly on one of the flimsy beds (not really made to hold someone with a near-fatal injury) and Walter had to be coaxed to let go of him at all. The nurse did what they could. Disinfecting and bandaging and stitching. Walter doesn’t leave his side—not even when the sight of the gnarled, bloody wound makes him sick to his stomach. He hopes, deep down, that everything will go back to normal, and Bucky’s face will heal, and they can all forget this ever happened. But for the first time in his life, things don’t seem that simple. 

When Bucky wakes up, his eye only opens a sliver. The light is too much. Walter’s head shoots up the moment he hears the pitiful, weak voice murmuring nonsense, standing up fast and putting a hand on the beaver’s shoulder. Something that sounds like “hurts” warbles its way from Bucky’s throat, and Walter’s chest tightens. 

“I gotta get the doctor, I'll be right back,” he insists, squeezing his brother’s hand, “I'm not leaving. I'll be right back, I promise.”

After the first week, Bucky is able to open his non-bandaged eye, the white gauze decorated with blood drying— dark and spotty and crimson.

“I'm sorry,” he croaks to Olive, when the pain has dulled to a steady ache and she sits on the edge of his bed, “I… I'm sorry I had t’ drag everyone down with me. This never should've happened.”

“It’s okay,” she answers in a voice soft as powdered snow, “I'm just glad you're okay.”

Neither statement is true. Bucky feels guilty tears twist in his stomach and sting at his good eye, turning his head slightly to avoid seeing his friend in the throes of repressed grief. Could he even cry out of the other one anymore? Did he deserve to cry at all?

The island is put on lockdown. Wulf watches constantly for the Dwellers, and boards up every door he can think of. It’s a bandage on a gaping bullet wound, he knows that. But it’s better than nothing. The volcano looms over it all, just another thing the wolf must keep at bay. His programming is really being pushed to the limits lately. 

Giovanni visits only once, two weeks later, when he and a wolf whose name he never learned have fixed their splintered front door. 

Bucky is asleep when he arrives. He simply watches him for a while, absently observing the clean bandages. Had Bucky been a moment slower, or not moved at all, that may have been him: bleeding and barely alive. When Bucky stirs, showing signs of waking, Giovanni leaves hurriedly without looking back.

Bucky loves Walter dearly, and he’s grateful that he isn’t recovering alone, but he understands now how Walter felt sheltered. It hurts, seeing Walter so worried about him. It shouldn’t be this way at all. 

“Walter, I promise, you can go home for a while…”

Walter gives a short sigh. He’s glad Bucky’s well enough to talk again, but he’s had this exchange at least 3 times this week. 

“I don’t want you to be by yourself,” he replies the same way he does every time.

Bucky exhales and slumps against the pillows keeping his head up. He studies the ceiling—the hair-thin cracks and dark water spots—but he can feel Walter’s eyes on him.

“You haven’t been home once. Olive and Gio have both at least slept in their own beds.”

“I'm not Olive or Gio. I'm your brother.”

Bucky’s eye falls shut, and his lips tighten into a line. And then he laughs, hollow and humorless and melancholy.

“I remember when you were little,” his voice matches the gray sky hidden from the dimly lit room, “And you were in the hospital. I was so scared it was all my fault.”

Walter shifts in his chair. Bucky’s head tilts slightly to the side to look at him, his expression difficult to read. 

“I…” Bucky stammers for a moment, the eye contact with Walter feeling like a rope cinching around his neck. “I just…I'm sorry things turned out this way. I'm sorry you had to see all of this.”

Walter is silent for a moment, shrugging and wringing at the hem of his shirt. Bucky really wished he would at least go home to get in more comfortable clothes if he was going to be here all the time.

“I don’t…I don’t really, understand what I saw…” Walter’s voice is small, and his mouth barely moves, “I just knew it was scary, and I hoped it was just a bad dream, but…”

His voice trails off, withering away. Bucky’s heart shrieks with guilt. 

“I don’t know if I fully get it either,” he half-lies, “Best we can do is just… just keep going, I guess.”

Walter hums in agreement, placing his hands on top of his brother’s, his face solemn. 

“...Hey,” Bucky gives a ghost of a playful smile, prompting Walter to look up at him, “Look at us, having a grown up conversation. I'm getting better already.”

Shoulders shaking, Walter laughs softly in his chest, before leaning to the side and awkwardly resting his head next to Bucky’s. It’s uncomfortable, and Walter’s neck twinges slightly, but he hardly minds when the closeness lets him feel his brother’s heartbeat.

It’s late afternoon on the day Bucky finally comes home, walking with his weight on Walter’s arm. It takes longer than usual; Bucky’s not used to his depth perception being altered yet, and Walter has to catch him a few times. When they arrive, the front door is whole and the living room is tidy, like nothing happened at all. 

The first night back in his room makes him realize how uncomfortable the town hall beds are. He really has no idea how Stumbler and Wulf sleep in those things. There’s a soft, salty smell in the air of his room, like the sea air had passed through and left a memento behind. It’s a familiarity he knows is fake, but he can’t help the comfort it brings him. He needs that now more than he needs existential dread.

There are no nightmares, to Bucky’s shock and relief. No dreams, either. Just a heavy, dark rest that makes his mind feel at ease. Part of him internally writhes, poised for when the next horrible thing will happen. Things are too calm.

The rain is gentle and misting, collecting on the windows and racing down the glass. Bucky sits at the kitchen table, tracing his finger along the rim of the pale yellow teacup and following it with his eyes, distant. It’s nearly empty, the tea bag sitting heavily at the bottom of the cup. 

His small ear twitches when he hears the door open and quickly shut, briefly amplifying the sound of the rain before muffling it again—a tired, percussive symphony against the glass. Bucky turns to investigate when no one announces their presence.

“Oh, hi, Gio,” he exhales, “Kettle’s still hot, I know it’s kinda cold out.”

Giovanni stalls, seemingly paralyzed. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice as he stands up to put his mug in the sink.

“Look, I know you said nothing happened but it feels like you've been avoiding me.” He turns around mid-sentence, stepping into the den, “You can talk to me about stuff, y’know. I know that’s probably your worst nightmare though.” He huffs a small laugh.

When Giovanni’s face doesn’t change, Bucky’s smile slowly shrinks away as his tired eye searches for even a muscle twitch. He sighs, a hint of irritation in the sound. 

“I'll leave you be, then.”

Bucky turns again, bracing himself on the worn wool blanket draped over the back of the sofa, and begins to head back to his room. He reaches the hall when he hears

“I know about Rex.”

Bucky's blood freezes and boils in the same instant. 

His hand stops mid-air. Twitching. Itching to hit something at the simple utterance of the name. Confusion and blind rage feels like two meteors shrieking and colliding in his skull, scraping like flint stones, so much so that he barely notes the quiet defeat in Giovanni's voice. 

“...What.”

“I…” Giovanni, for the first time in his life, sounds miniscule, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Bucky’s eyes are wide and stinging with rage before he shuts them, face twisting into a tight smile that never reaches his eyes. Fists fall loosely at his sides as his shoulders slump. And he laughs. He laughs, shoulders trembling, his head shaking with something like disappointment.

“Let me guess.” Giovanni’s throat tightens when Bucky’s voice hisses and cracks like a barbed whip. “You probably got a good laugh, didn't you?”

Bucky turns, moving his head first, and his body following. There’s a cold fury like a dying star in his icy blue eyes—as sharp and aware as a knife.

“I knew something was off. You fell behind in the museum.” Bucky continues, shaking his head and waving a finger at Giovanni as if he has finally gotten an inside joke. Giovanni has never seen him so furious while smiling. “Nice little walk down memory lane, huh? Stopping to enjoy the show?”

“I didn’t—”

“I know how much you probably appreciate his art,” Bucky snaps like a cornered animal, “I deserved it, didn’t I? Go ahead. Let me hear about what a genius he was.”

“I'm sorry.”

The words are pulled out on meat hooks, raw and tearing and resistant. Bucky simply stares at him, the white hot fire behind his eyes not dimming in the slightest. 

"What?" There's a hollow laugh within the word. His glacial eyes narrow in disbelief and his brows knit together, head tilting challengingly. 

"I'm sorry." Giovanni doesn't cower away from the statement this time, doesn't take his eyes away despite feeling years of projected hatred finally being pointed back at him, drilling into his skull. "I don’t…I don't think I really hate you."

"Ohh, you don't think you hate me!" Bucky throws his hands up in disbelief and turns away, still smiling like a hurricane. "Well, that makes it all better, then! You know, I…I knew, you didn't give a shit about my feelings but I didn't think you'd stoop to Rex. Guess I was wrong! You’ve truly managed a new low!"

"I'm serious!" Giovanni urges. The red dotting Bucky's vision prevents him from seeing the turmoil in the other's red eyes. "For so long all I had was how much I hated you and I never even questioned why!"

Giovanni fumbles for the inside of his coat, gripping onto the pages he never removed, and holds them out. Only then does Bucky see how afraid he looks. It doesn’t sway his mind.

“I know why now.”

The forced smile has faded into a cold stare, and when he reaches to grab the papers, his body still quakes with fiery anger. Giovanni watches his eyes dart across the lines, scowling at some points and scoffing and shaking his head at others. 

He flips to the next page. It trembles in his hand. 

It takes him a long while to read the final entry, scanning back and forth, going back to the top once he reads to the bottom, scouring the jerky handwriting. The roaring fire has shrunk to a weak, flickering candle by the time a few minutes pass. 

"So." He shrugs and lets his hands fall to his sides again. The paper crinkles as it moves. "You found out you were just a toy for his sick ideas. Join the club."

"The only reason I hate you is because of him."

"Yeah," Bucky snaps as he places the journal entries on the couch, "Why does that change anything."

"Because I don't like being told what to do."

Bucky huffs a quiet, defeated laugh, and the exhaustion he's worn for so much longer than his time on Nulla Terra grows so unbearable he can barely stand. Seems that not even a week of unconsciousness can cure him.

"Tough. We don't get a say."

"So, what? You're just going to give up!?"

"Don't. you. dare." Bucky's voice breaks and crumbles apart even as he jabs an accusatory finger, "Act like I've done nothing but sit here and— and feel sorry for myself! You have no idea what happened to me back then!"

"You're not even going to try and move on?!"

"'Move on'?! Why don't I bury YOU alive a few times and see how fast you ‘move on’!"

"That's not what I— You're just letting him win this way!" 

"What choice do I have?! After getting my skull crushed into the pavement over and over I got a little nihilistic, you know?!” 

Bucky’s voice scrapes and bleeds like flesh against concrete as he begins to shout, his hands waving as if he’s conducting a symphony. 

“What, because I was always the optimist?! The 'fearless leader'?! That's what made it so satisfying to tear me down, isn’t it?! For both of you! The only reason you even fucking exist is so that he can keep torturing me even while he's rotting underground!”

Giovanni’s heart is slamming against his ribs, small and terrified. For the briefest moment, he wonders if Bucky will actually hurt him.

“You're just a walking torture method! And I'm the one that gets the brunt of your— y-your constant abuse, because THAT'S what’s supposed to happen! We're not people, we're just fucking TOYS! And neither of us will ever be anything more than that!"

It is silent.

And then, Bucky sobs.

Ugly and loud and broken and choking on breath. He doesn't care that the other watches him slump against the back of the couch and curl in on himself like burning paper turning to ash. He cries into the darkness of his closed eye. 

This mental dam he has built for so long, crafted from twigs of false optimism and self sacrifice, leaking and feeble, finally crumbles. 

How fitting, the one thing he's supposed to be good at. 

Giovanni watches, paralyzed, like he’s watched a mountain fall before his eyes. His posture is unsure. Unsure how to approach the object of his vicarious hatred, weeping like an abandoned child. 

Was this really all they were? Was this all that any of them were? Giovanni refuses to accept that, even if it’s futile. He’s always been stubborn. 

He takes a few steps closer to the sobbing heap that is Bucky, taking a great deal of consideration before kneeling beside him. 

In the void behind his eyes, Bucky doesn't see Giovanni, but he feels the shift in the air beside him. He shrinks in on himself, mortified of being seen but physically incapable of carrying this horrible weight any longer. 

The other reaches a wing out, tentative and trembling. When Bucky collapses into his shoulder, sobbing into him as if he is the only buoy in a flooded earth, Giovanni fights his natural instinct to squirm away. 

Had he really held those memories all this time? Every irritating lecture about friendship, every friendly competition, every insult Giovanni had thrown his way, those decades of torture rested in the back of his mind. 

Bucky had built himself on a cracked foundation with a neat coat of paint, and it seems Giovanni had unintentionally taken a wrecking ball to all of it. 

Giovanni says nothing, even when the sobs wracking Bucky's body shrivel into small, pitched exhalations coupled with suppressed yawns. The sudden spike of rage and adrenaline seemed to plummet, leaving him shaking and exhausted in Giovanni's wing. His eyes were squeezed shut, trying desperately to ignore the realization that he'd just wept into the arms of the man whose existence he'd called meaningless just a short while earlier. The man who'd been nothing but the catalyst for his torment. 

They are both silent for a long while. 

Pathetic and disgusting and embarrassing, Bucky’s brain hisses at him, cracking like a porcelain doll in front of Giovanni of all people. 

He makes a choked noise and closes his eyes again, refusing to acknowledge any of it. The stiff, carpet-like backbone of the couch is not comfortable, and both their bodies ache with lack of movement. Bucky's hands have curled up, tucked against his chest, desperately wanting to escape the vulnerability of his position but refusing to move away from the only comfort he’s felt in ages. They are both silent. They can think of nothing to say. 

Until Giovanni speaks, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet he is afraid Bucky may not hear him. 

"Do you want tea?"

Bucky almost laughs. It astounds him how the simple question, completely meaningless in any other scenario, seems to have chipped away at the dark, cold chasm in his ribcage. He wipes his face again, smiling, small and tired, as if he has been pulled from a burning building. 

"Yeah," he rasps, throat raw from dormant fury and chest breaking sobs, "Please."

Chapter Text

Night falls quietly, as it always does on the island. The rich orange sun shrinks slowly behind the horizon line and the velvet blanket of stars begins to nestle peacefully into place. The clouds seem ablaze with the light, scarlet and pale gray. 

From the little house by the ocean, the sweet hum of muffled conversation and laughter floats on the wind, the coffee table lamp glowing like a lighthouse. Quaint square windows are cracked open slightly, fluttering the curtains and welcoming in the evening chill. 

“You cannot pick, we’ll be here all night with how indecisive you are!”

“Well, you always pick the same thing!”

“Because it’s good, not that I expect you all to have good taste.”

Olive groans melodramatically at the ceiling, tossing her arms out far enough to collide with Giovanni’s beak. He flinches back indignantly, raising a wing to brush her away. Bucky watches with a furrowed smile, perched on the arm of Walter’s chair and balancing himself against his broad shoulder. His head still aches, pulsing slowly like the tide, but it's receded into a distant throb for now—serendipitous timing that he's very thankful for.

“It’s bo-o-o-oring!,” the otter whines, flopping sideways against Giovanni and smushing him against the arm of the couch, “It’s just people talking!”

“It’s called,” Giovanni shoves her back in turn, folding his wings proudly, “Compelling dialogue.”

“Ohh, so you’re a director and a chef! You’re a real renaissance man, aren’tcha?” Olive smirks, before miming a curtsey and putting on a phony accent, “Forgive me for doubting your wisdom, Shakespeare!”

Walter and Bucky fall into a fit of laughter, so much so that the older nearly tips off balance and off the armchair. He yelps and clutches at his brother’s arm, the near-fall only making his giggling fit worse. 

“I know I’m hilarious, but please, remain seated.” Olive’s voice quivers with repressed laughter as she theatrically puffs out her chest, splaying a hand over her heart and putting the other on her hip. Giovanni rolls his eyes again, fighting the ghost of a smile that plays on his beak.

“You’re all impossible, I don’t know why I bother.” The irritation in his voice sounds far more practiced than it usually does. “If you want to watch some useless drivel, be my guest.”

Olive laughs, short and childish, pumping her fist in victory and scampering over to their haphazard collection of VHS tapes in the TV stand. 

“What’re we feelin’ tonight, boys?” Her voice is muffled with her face shoved amongst the shelves. “Cheesy romcom, or…yeah, no horror movies, I’m guessing?”

“Oh, twigs, absolutely not,” Bucky chuckles weakly, “Had enough of that the past few months.”

Olive hmph’s in agreement and puts the tape she’s holding back on the shelf. 

Her muttering becomes muffled in Bucky’s ears as his brows furrow, thinking intently. His finger taps rhythmically on his leg, occasionally rubbing back and forth against the grain of his fur, parting it and then moving it back into place. 

“What if we go to the beach?” he suggests suddenly, something like disbelief etched into his features as he smiles. The others look up quizzically at him, Olive’s hands stopping midair. 

“Why not, right?” Bucky tosses his hands up in a shrug, “It’s not fully dark out yet.” 

A weak laugh bursts from Olive’s chest. A small smile begins to creep onto Walter’s face. There’s something like posh reluctance twisting Giovanni’s beak. 

Olive practically springs to her feet. 

“Why not!” she chirrups, mirroring Bucky’s leisurely shrug as he hops off the arm of the chair. Walter follows suit, wringing his wrist in nervous excitement as he trails behind Bucky, all of them moving towards the door like a school of fish. Right as she reaches the door though, Olive turns on her heel and slinks behind the couch, peeking over the back as if she’s about to pounce.

“Either we all go or no one go-oes!” She sing-songs to Giovanni’s deadpan face.

“Then I suppose you'll all be staying.”

The otter rolls along the edge of the couch until she’s leaning over the arm, reaching and tugging on Giovanni’s wing. His frown deepens, eyes narrowing as he side-eyes her.

“C’mon, we'll be so bored without ya!”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t make me drag you.”

“You will do no such thing!”

Giovanni stumbles to his feet as Olive pulls especially hard. When he scowls, she simply smiles as if she’s holding an ace up her sleeve, fangs peeking over her lip. The goose gives an irritated huff, opening his mouth to retort.

“Humor me.” She smirks.

“For old time’s sake.”

Giovanni’s chest tightens as if caught in a snare, his annoyed frown shrinking, caught off guard. His beak opens once, then closes, then twists into a defeated pout. A long, groaning sigh pulls its way from his throat.

“...Fine.”

There’s something about the cold salt in his lungs, how the sand gives way beneath his rapid footsteps, the wind breathing down his nose and throat like ice, that makes Bucky forget he had been bedridden just a few weeks earlier. It stings a bit, the sand and sun in his eyes, but the billowing lavender clouds haloed in orange, as if the sky itself were bursting open and leaking sunlight, makes any discomfort seem wholly unimportant. 

It leaves his whole body light, as if he’s a child again, all spontaneity and wild recklessness. He still can't believe he decided to do this, let alone drag everyone along. Deep down he knew this could be stupid, or dangerous, that some horrible threat could be lurking. But he's too close to flying to care. The wind is sharp and cold and stinging the inside of his nose on every inhale, and he feels as if he could fight the whole world and win.

Bucky snaps from his thoughts when he catches Walter beginning to pull ahead of him. The wind leaves their eyes dry and their fur tousled, but neither of them could be bothered to care. 

“Just because you’re taller doesn’t mean you’re faster!” Bucky shouts breathlessly, paws pounding even faster as he draws closer to the shoreline, his footsteps falling heavy and sinking into the wet sand below him. When he strains his neck over his shoulder to look at Walter, a wild, nostalgic wave drowns his entire body. 

It’s that look, all over again. When he teased Bucky after meeting Olive, when his growth spurt hit and he wouldn’t stop talking about it, when Olive bet him she could find more shells in five minutes than he could. An excitement like summer, something intense beneath the long-doused bonfire made of waterlogged wood. That terrified stone was crumbling away, and—even if it wouldn't last—something flightless has taken off inside him.

Like a miracle, Walter isn't scared right now. It really is a beautiful look on him.

Deep in reminiscent distraction, Bucky blinks as Walter passes him, in the water up to his ankles now.

“Don’t get your bandage wet!” he calls out, a twinge of genuine concern in his voice.

Bucky hesitates, a smile singing on his face before he laughs again, the waves hitting up to his knees. Cupped hands reach swiftly down to the water, scooping a handful of the saltwater and splashing it in Walter's direction. The youngest shouts and laughs, hands coming up to shield his face.

“That ain't fair, I can't splash you back!”

Commotion closer to the shore makes Bucky turn, nearly tripping when a wave hits the backs of his knees. 

Olive has Giovanni by the wing, pulling him along into the water. They're bickering intently, Olive’s face painted with a bright grin while the other protests. Over their heads, the sky is darkening steadily, bleeding purple and black into the clouds as the sun disappears. 

Cold water splashes against Bucky’s back, making him yelp from the chill as he whips back around to face Walter's grinning face.

“What happened to not hitting me!” he half laughs, half speaks.

“I didn't hit your eye, it's fair game!” Walter's balance is thrown slightly off when a wave hits him.

“Ohhh, so it's like that, huh?”

Bucky's grin is sly before he spins sharply, skimming his flat tail along the ocean's surface and sending a barrage of water in his brother's direction like a sprinkler. Walter shouts and shields his eyes again before delving into a laughing fit.

Olive manages to get Giovanni out farther, much to his apparent dismay. She dives beneath the starry water, the island lit only by the moon now. The pillowy clouds have thinned into wispy gray feathers along the sky, brushstrokes along the inky void. 

For hours, the heavy silence of the island is broken by a swell of waves and laughter and playful shouting. 

The nearly-full moon is at its peak when they finally emerge back onto the shore, drenched and laughing and tired in a way that tastes sweet.

Walter clutches a few white shells in his hands, the result of his and Olive’s dives beneath the water. Giovanni shakes his feathers off, halfheartedly mumbling something or other about how long it will take to clean off. Their clothes are soaked and clinging to their bodies, leaving them shivering, salt crystalizing in fur and feathers.

Bucky falls backwards onto the sand, staring upward as he catches his breath. Olive and Walter are admiring their little collection a few yards away, sorting the shells by size as the walrus tries to identify what they might've belonged to.

Tomorrow, Bucky knows his eye will ache. He'll need the bandages changed (despite how careful he'd been, he knew they had probably gotten some salt or sand under the gauze). And all of them will need a day to recover, because they aren’t little kids anymore. 

But right now, they’re all alive, and this time when Bucky looks up at the sky, the stars are real.

Chapter Text

“It seems you've grown soft.”

Wulf glances up from his Silvertech, scowling when he catches a glimpse of the cobbled together mass of burlap and flesh draped in the shadows of his room, dull yellow walls seeming to be drained of their color. His ears pin back as he continues typing, ignoring the unwanted visitor as best he can. Torn from his concentration (to his annoyance) Wulf finally feels the dull ache at the base of his back, snaking up his spine from his hunched sitting position, and butterflying into his scapula. When Husk remains, and the wolf finds himself blinking, tapping his fingers in an attempt to keep his broken focus, he huffs and pushes his keyboard away with the sound of plastic scraping wood and massages the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want.”

“Can two friends not have a nice conversation?” Sullen eyes roll at the clear insincerity in the words.

“We aren’t friends,” Wulf snarls, finally relenting and pushing away from his desk and meeting what might be the thing’s eyes. They're hollow, torn holes in the stained burlap, red with gore and leaking some inhuman substance, but they seem to bore into the wolf regardless. “I’m busy, so spit it out or get lost.”

Husk makes a strange, windy noise that might be considered laughter, its chest jittering and twitching as if a pair of lungs were fluttering like a moth. Wulf’s lip twitches in irritation as its derelict excuse for a body twitches and slithers in on itself. 

“We're simply shocked you gave the rodent a place to live peacefully,” the vaguely humanoid mass replies, curling like calligraphy, “Considering he's the one that always rips away everything you hold dear.”

“If this is some mental trap to try and fuck up everything,” the chief snarls and glares through his brows, a deep rumbling growl in his voice, “I said, I'm not in the mood.”

“Don't you remember what happened the last time you chose to let things simply play out?” Husk carries on as if Wulf didn't speak, “What happened to your little friend?”

“I said fuck off.” Wulf’s voice grows thorns, shoulders squaring and hands gripping the arms of his chair.

“It really was terrible, wasn’t it? The wood just missed his heart, so it killed him slowly, and painfully. Such a bloody affair.”

Wulf shoves himself out of his chair, and it gives an ear splitting screech as it flies backwards. His lip curls dangerously as he faces the mass and jabs an accusatory finger.

“I don’t need you to tell me what happened. I know what happened.”

“If you hadn’t picked up the pieces this time, I can hardly imagine what would have taken place. The Dwellers ravaging the island… 

What a dreadful thought.”

Wulf throws a dismissive hand through the air and scoffs in irritation, turning on his heel away from Husk. His arms cross over his chest. He can feel his heart against his forearm. In his right shoulder, there remains a prickling ache: the reminder of his encounter with Olivia.

“It's not…his fault,” Wulf grumbles, “That this stuff happens around him. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Is that really what you believe?” Husk’s multiple layered voices lilt as if it’s taunting the wolf. “Or is that what the rabbit believes?”

Wulf says nothing in reply, his back still turned to the mass of flesh. His tail flicks slightly. When Husk speaks again, there’s a smile in his voice…somehow.

“You know you can't bring him with the rest. He is a catalyst. He will be a festering parasite in your safe haven.”

The room is silent, save for the slight fleshy shifting noise that emanates from Husk even when he's still. Wulf’s good eye studies the floor, darting aimlessly as he thinks.

“What's in this for you?” he turns and narrows his eyes, arcing his head challengingly, “You didn't come here because you care about Stumbler, or me. So what's your angle?” 

“I want this world to thrive just as much as you do, my friend,” Husk answers in an infuriatingly musical voice, “Bucky is in the way of that.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to just— just kill him?” Wulf tosses his waving arms up in exasperation before letting them fall at his sides with a sharp huff, “We both know I can't do that.”

“You don't have to.” Husk's voices thread together, daring the other to keep listening. “You could simply leave him behind.”

When Wulf opens his mouth, no words come out. He exhales, his eyes falling shut.

“... How do you know about the hotel.”

Husk makes that strange noise again, like artificial birdsong and wails of pain, corpses chittering with laughter.

“We are this island,” he replies wistfully, “We know every blade of grass and every grain of sand. How could we not hear about your little project?”

Wulf scoffs, rolling his eyes and sliding his hand down his face in irritation, claws digging into his scarred cheek.

“We, too, would like this world to carry on. You want safety for your people. Everyone wins.”

“Except him.”

There’s a horrid squelching noise as Husk jerkily tilts his head: taunting and inquisitive. Wulf’s face screws up in disgust and the coarse gray fur of his neck stands on end.

“But is that really what matters to you?”

There’s a twinge in Wulf’s chest, a hefty sinking pit in his stomach. He swallows the knot in his throat and clenches his fists in his pockets, only now realizing how cold his office has become when the rest of his thick fur stands on end.

He knew there had to be some condition, some underlying scheme that Husk was keeping from him. Though, of course, it was entirely possible he simply saw this as entertainment— saw all of them as entertainment. That thing was impossible to read. 

Regardless, Husk was right about one thing: Bucky was a hazard. A catalyst, whether he wanted to be or not. Having him in the hotel would be too dangerous, his mere presence a breeze that could topple Wulf’s carefully crafted house of cards. 

He could still hear it. Stumbler’s agonized voice crying for him, screaming for him to ‘look out’ the moment before the rock caved his head in. Even with a splintered canvas leg in his chest and blood gurgling from his mouth like a sputtering fountain, Stumbler was trying to protect him. That look in his eyes. Those black, welling voids of terror even deeper than when his limbs were being ripped off. The excruciating pain of seeing the one person he loved more than anything being reminded he was mortal. Nothing but flesh and blood and code. Wulf didn’t know how many more times he could bear those terrified eyes being the last thing he saw before his skull was crushed like it was nothing more than a maggot underfoot. 

Wulf gives a frail breath out, his ears flattening against his head and his fists clenched at his sides. His voice sounds far weaker than he had hoped. 

“Get out. Now.”

He feels nauseous when he hears Husk practically beaming as he answers. 

“As you wish."

Bucky sits on the rickety front steps of the house, alone beneath the slate gray sky. 

The nurse had told him that, after removing the bandage over his eye, going out and getting fresh air was just as valuable to his recovery as everything else, so he listened as best he could. Didn’t want to get muscle atrophy from being bedridden, after all. It was already a pain getting back on his feet after staying in the town hall, and he decidedly was not going through that again; for both his and his friends’ sake. Rain mists down from the blanket of clouds, and the trees seem greener than they usually do.

Despite how good things have been the past few weeks, that nagging fear is back: that things are going too well, that he’s too content. Bucky knows life is supposed to be hills and valleys, or whatever the saying is, but the fact that being alive at all is one of the high points only proves how deep his valleys have been. What should be the normal status quo feels like the universe cutting him some slack. 

Even so, his chest doesn’t feel quite as tight as it did before. Bucky couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of himself for staying so… optimistic. Being honest with his friends, especially with Walter, still felt like teaching a fish to walk: unnatural and awkward. It went against his every protective instinct, an unpleasant sledgehammer to every brick in the barrier he’d built around himself. He shook his head and chuckled at the image of himself encircled by a little stone wall.

Bucky's shoulders fall slowly as he sighs. He leans forward, and rests his head in his hand with a distant expression as he looks out at the silver ocean, and his mind wanders. A chilled breeze makes his fur stand on end.

Brandon’s words eat away at his thoughts like moths at old clothes, even now. Those words dripping with hatred like venom, how tormented those hollow sockets seemed to be. His own voice scorning him just for existing. Bucky wishes more than anything that he could find a way to fix everything, to help everyone—anything the make up for what his existence had caused—but, like always, he feels utterly powerless.

His eyes squeeze shut, forcefully pushing the thoughts away. Enjoy the moment, he reminds himself. The satin curtain of rain catches in small droplets amongst his thick fur.

“How goes your recovery?”

Bucky’s hands fly down to clutch at the steps to steady himself as he jolts, his eyes flying open and darting rapidly for the source of the familiar voice. The sharp whistle of panic plunges away into simmering irritation when he catches the lopsided silhouette in the cold shade of a tree. He scoffs.

“Oh, for the love of twigs,” he mumbles under his breath before raising his voice, “Here for your cryptic monologue that ruins my day?”

Husk laughs like birds plummeting from flight.

“Oh, no,” he drawls, “We just thought you would appreciate our first conversation without your ‘Friend’ pulling the strings.”

Bucky scoffs again and narrows his good eye.

“If you're here to remind me to overthink and be paranoid, you're a few minutes too late,” he sneers, reaching to grip the railing and pull himself to his feet with a wince, “And if the others come back, I’d prefer if you weren’t here.”

“You truly don't understand the magnitude of any of this, do you? Even after all you’ve seen.” The mass of flesh and wood twitches slightly as Bucky turns his back. “This perfect life that's been crafted for you; you have no idea how soon it will fall apart.”

“Like I said, too late. Already gone down that mental rabbit hole.” Bucky looks over his shoulder as he grips the front door handle. “And I’m not gonna let you waste what time I do have .”

“How very noble.”

Bucky gives a sharp irritated exhale through his nose, irately yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind him before storming into the house.

“It's impolite to abandon a friendly conversation.”

Bucky yelps and nearly trips backwards as he whirls around to see Husk looming in front of the door. The scarecrow-like figure is far larger than he remembers.

“Can’t you take a hint?!” he snips as he recovers, placing a hand over his thundering heart and feeling a sharp pang in his wounded eye, “Get the hell out of my house!”

“We are this island,” Husk replies vaguely, “Everything on and beneath its surface belongs to us. Including you and your friends, if you recall.”

“Yeah, right, of course, how stupid of me,” Bucky snips, still trying to calm his heartbeat, “Any other cryptic nonsense you'd like to get out of the way?”

When Husk laughs, Bucky fumes, eyes furrowing with impatience. 

“Very well, since you care not for pleasantries.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“The Chief is building a safe haven, far beyond the island.” 

Bucky freezes, looking at the creature up and down in confusion. 

“He is taking everyone to safety, away from the Dwellers and the volcano. Everyone, except for you.”

Bucky gapes, eyes drifting to the floor and darting across the threads of the carpet. For a fleeting moment, he forgets that Husk is even there.

“...Wh-what? Why should I believe you?” His head snaps back up to meet the creature’s hollow, sagging sockets. His face is trembling with incredulity, denial, even as he finds himself believing the words. A heavy weight settles behind his lungs.

“We saw him make the choice. But more than that, you know what he really cares about.” Husk’s torso shifts unnaturally with a muddy squelching noise, and Bucky’s feels a wave of nausea. “You know he won’t hesitate to do what it takes to protect his people.”

It digs like needles, panic pressing into Bucky’s skull like a steadily closing vice, cracking and splitting and splintering, wood bearing too much weight. As Husk continues, it’s far too clear, cutting through the ringing noise in his skull.

“You're an omen. A hazard. The harbinger of every horrific thing that has plagued this island. But you're also too…integral to simply kill. So, the solution is quite obvious: you must be kept solitary. Quarantined like a disease.”

Bucky’s vision is spinning as he stands paralyzed, his body refusing to respond. His depth perception is still strange as he nearly topples over, the fibers of the carpet seeming to warp and shift. 

“You’re a liar…” he mumbles defiantly, before raising his head and his voice to indignantly snap at Husk, “Wulf said he—! He wouldn’t just—!”

“You of all people should be acquainted with bending the truth to keep people in ignorance.”

Bucky’s head snaps up, his chest burning from the sudden denigration. Its burlap face seems to contort with glee without moving at all.

“If it’s any condolence, there was regret in his eyes. But he has made his choice.”

Bucky shakes his head, obstinate. A sharp, throbbing ache pulses through his injured eye and across his face like roots, making him clench his teeth. Would Wulf really leave him alone on the island forever? After everything that had happened? His brows knit together, his head reduced to a screaming whirlwind of rage and confusion and terror.  

“What— What about my friends? What's going to happen to them? They wouldn’t—”

“They'll be safe and sound…for the most part,” Husk replies with infuriating calmness, “Safe from the Dwellers. Safe from you.”

“No, no, they— They won’t let this happen, they won’t— I—”

“This is what you wanted all along, is it not?” Husk’s head jerks into a taunting tilt with the grotesque sound of flesh tearing. Bucky flinches. “Your friends, safe from the truth? You should have known the only way that could happen was by separating them from the source.”

Bucky has no answer. His eyes are cold as they sting with tears, his chest hot and his hands clammy. His worn shirt suddenly feels like a wet rag over his mouth and nose, smothering his lungs and clinging to him like a parasite. He can taste bile in the back of his throat. 

“It seems terribly selfish to want to keep them in harm’s way.”

Bucky’s nails dig into his palm, and his eye drifts upward to burn holes into Husk.

“...Selfish?” 

Despite the recalcitrance twisting his features, his limbs prickle with weakness as he steps towards Husk.

“All I’ve ever done is to keep them safe, and you've done nothing except watch. I am so— so sick of all of this! I'm sick of you, and Rex, and for god's sake, maybe for once in my life I deserve to be a little bit selfish if it means I'm not left alone to die!”

Husk simply looks down at him as his chest heaves slowly, expressionless as always. Bucky’s eye throbs like a broken tooth as he jabs a finger barely an inch away from Husk’s chest, feeling the threads just graze his paw. Prickling at his back, there’s a feeling that this is very, very foolish. But his heated anger outweighs it now, ignoring the quiet squirming noise from beneath the cloth. 

“I'm not an idiot,” Bucky hisses like an electric shock, though his narrowed eyes are gray and exhausted and he sways where he stands, “I know you're the one that got them to Layer 4. You made sure Gio saw those papers, didn’t you? Showed Walter and Olive the murders. They didn’t magically get out of the cell, did they? The Plaza didn’t turn into a maze at random. Hell, maybe you're the reason I started having those nightmares in the first place.”

Bucky glowers, bubbling and searing as much as the stomach of the volcano. Husk’s gleeful silence is all the answer he needs.

“So you can earn the right to lecture me about being ‘selfish’, when you stop treating me and my friends like your fucking dollhouse.”

At the same moment the door opens, Husk disappears as if they were never there at all. 

Bucky blinks, dumbfounded, at the spot where they had been, echoes of his anger lining his face even when Olive tilts her head at him, quizzical as she shuts the door behind her. Her hazelnut fur looks windblown and mussed, and she’s dressed in what looks to be her old lifeguard shirt and shorts.

“Hey,” she ventures gently, frowning in concern, “Everythin’ oka-ay? You look like you're gonna be sick or something.”

Bucky swallows, eyes finally drifting to meet hers. In his upset state he’d forgotten how fragile his recovering body still was when he was stressed, and he’s nearly brought to his knees by dizziness. Olive takes a few quick steps forward to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa,” she mumbles, “C’mon, sit down…” 

She lowers them both to the couch. Her paws are cold and coarse with salt and sand.

The thought of being in this house, on the island, without her or anyone else for the rest of his life, feels like a wild animal rattling Bucky’s ribcage. He wrings the hem of his shirt and intently studies the threads of the sofa.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“It's… It’s nothing—”

“—Nope.” Olive folds her arms with a huff, furrowing her brows. “Last time you said it was ‘nothing’ I got kidnapped by monsters and started vomiting lake water. I'm not takin’ no for an answer this time.”

Bucky scoffs a laugh despite himself, and guiltily rubs the back of his neck. 

“Right, I…” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I—I am sorry… about everything, Olive, I never meant for you guys to—”

“I ain’t worried about that,” she scolds gently with a wave of her hand, her eyes soft as they dart across Bucky’s features, “You're stalling. What’s going on?”

Bucky huffs in defeat. It’s almost annoying how well Olive can read him sometimes. 

“...I think, Wulf is making a safe spot away from the island, to protect everyone from the monsters, and the volcano,” he explains as steadily as he can, “He’s going to move everyone there except for... except for me.”

Olive’s expression falls into flat shock, shoulders slumping. 

“What?” Her head arcs forward slightly. “Why not you?”

“Because I'm the linchpin for all this.” There’s an acceptance in Bucky’s voice that sits like frost. “I'm a danger magnet, I'll threaten everyone’s safety.”

“That ain’t true!” Olive tosses her arms out and lets them flop to the couch with a muffled thump. “What’s Wulf on about?!”

“But he’s right, Olive. If it wasn’t for me, none of this would’ve happened. I'm the one that triggers all the horrible things that happen here.”

Bucky collapses back into the couch, staring coldly at his lap.

“Wulf has every right to want to keep me away. I know I’d do anything to keep you guys safe in his position.”

“I don’t care about… about code, or whatever nonsense says that you're dangerous.” Bucky looks back at her finally, fiery determination in her eyes. “You're my friend. Ain’t no way I'm leaving this island without you.”

Bucky smiles sadly. 

“I don’t know if you’ll have a choice.”

Olive sputters incredulously, her head darting about as if there's someone else in the room who will speak reason. When no answer comes, she groans in frustration and latches her teeth into one of the worn decorative pillows, kicking wildly. Bits of stuffing are poking out from her previous outbursts. 

“What about Walter?!” she shouts suddenly as she slams the pillow down. Bucky feels a sharp, cold pang of dread in his chest that nearly takes his breath away. “He won’t even be able to sleep without you with us, you know how he is! There's no way this is happening, there's just no way!”

Bucky’s lips press into a thin line and his tail wraps around him as he picks at the fibers of the sofa with a nail. There’s a dryness in the back of his throat, making it hard to swallow as he watches Olive flop backwards again. Hopeless fear pulses through his ribcage as heavy as his heartbeat. Bucky mirrors his friend's position, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“...What do we do, then?” His voice is weak, and defeated. 

“How’d ya find out about this?” Olive sits up suddenly, her expression intense and her eyes wild. Bucky stammers and his eyes flit about, but one sharp look tells him not to dodge the question. He winces as if the words are acid burning his throat.

“I— There's… something on the island,” he explains hesitantly, “It knows about everything that happened, and it's what was keeping us from finding each other under the island.”

Olive listens intently, leaning forward on her hands.

“It showed up here, right before you got back,” Bucky continues, “And it told me about what Wulf was doing.”

“How do ya know this freaky monster is even telling the truth?” Olive’s brows knit together, “If it went through all that nonsense just to mess with us, what’s stopping it from just lying?” 

“I just…I—I have a gut feeling,” Bucky answers gravely. Despite his words, he hesitates. When had Husk ever given him a reason to trust it?

“But do you know for sure?”

“No, but—” Bucky’s words cut off, and he huffs a disgruntled sigh as his thoughts collide like sparking stones. “Olive, there's a lot going on here. Wulf can't hold the volcano off forever, he has to protect the residents—and Stumbler. If it means you guys are safe, I don't care what happens to me.”

“Well until I hear Wulf say it I’m not believing it!”

Olive springs off of the couch and strides to the door so quickly that Bucky’s eye has trouble following her, blinking in shock as she yanks it open and storms off. When his brain finally catches up, he fumbles frantically off the couch to follow the otter outside, closing the door behind him. Olive’s shoulders are squared as she practically stomps off down the path towards the town.

“Olive—!”

Bucky's eyes dart around the trees for a moment before he glimpses his friend further along. He breaks into a jog to catch up, the cobblestones damp with misting rain against his feet, reaching a hand out to her. The sky hangs heavy and gray above them, blurring the horizon line with fog. 

“Olive, I don't know if this is a good idea—”

“If we ask Wulf directly,” she replies without stopping or looking at him, “We’re more likely to get a solid answer. If it's true, we convince him not to do it. If it's not true, then that thing was lying to you. Simple as that.”

Simple. Bucky gives a weak chuckle.

“I'm not gonna stop you, am I?”

Olive glares straight ahead through furrowed brows, her muzzle scrunched up in a resolute frown as she stomps. 

“Not unless you drag me back to the house by my ankle.”

Chapter Text

The scar is ugly. Gnarled. It leaves Bucky’s right eye cloudy and useless; milky white and staring blindly. As lifeless and murky as polluted water. 

When he raised a hand to gingerly touch the scar tissue, it was a smooth, taut texture that made him flinch away on instinct, leaving the fur around it patchy, unable to grow. It was horrific to look at—the result of an equally horrific encounter—and the first time Bucky saw himself in the mirror he nearly vomited. The raw skin still hadn’t fully healed. He felt like something out of a horror movie. 

The nurse (Bucky had learned her name was Carol) had winced when she removed the bandages, despite her best efforts. Her gentle eyes darted back and forth from the discarded bandages in her hands to his face as she explained what to do from here, never lingering too long on his obvious wound. She had mumbled something about the wound needing oxygen to fully heal properly, that she was sorry they couldn't save his eye; all things Bucky knew she was saying out of obligation. Well-meaning and good natured obligation, but Bucky couldn't help but still feel a bit like a freak show act.

When he got back to the house, worn down and far too aware of his body, Bucky hid in his room for a while. He was repulsed by his own reflection, even more so than before, and he didn't blame Olive for having the same instinctual reaction as the wolf when she came to check on him. She tried to be encouraging, but Bucky wasn't quite sure if her words were genuine or out of pity. He did chuckle when she said it made him look “badass”, though. He managed to face the rest of the house later that night. 

After a few days of explaining to Walter that, no, it didn't hurt that much, it just felt odd and a bit cold, Bucky's long stretches of time staring in the mirror became less and less nauseating. Notably, after Giovanni had offhandedly commented that Bucky barely looked like himself anymore.

… He barely looked like himself.

Broadside’s beloved mascot, Rex’s creation, didn't have a giant gash across its face. But he did. 

It was jagged and ugly. If he went out people might give him a sideways glance. It felt strange and tight and unnatural when he moved his face, and he was still unused to missing half his peripheral vision. But god, for once in his life, it was his . It wasn’t the result of one of Rex’s stories, or his Friend dragging him into certain death. He had earned this. 

If his mind didn’t forget the pain so easily, perhaps Bucky wouldn’t be so grateful for the overt deforming of his face, but the mix of fear and unconsciousness had driven it from his memory enough to consider Brandon’s ruthless attack a gift, in the most morbid sense. He kept that to himself, however. Bucky sensed that having to watch the bloody affair was nearly as traumatic as surviving it, and it might be inconsiderate to seem happy about it. Especially around Walter, considering his involvement. So Bucky kept his macabre appreciation unspoken for the time being.

“Wulf!”

“ Olive, please don’t yell —”

Bucky wrings his hands and begs under his breath, fumbling to keep up with the otter as she storms into the town hall, her footsteps falling sharp and angry on the cold floor. He winces and falls behind to gingerly shut the door Olive had unceremoniously thrown open in her path with a quiet click . When it’s back in place, Bucky exhales, and darts after her. 

Turning the corner, he’s met with Wulf, turned to face Olive, his elbow resting dispassionately over the back of his chair as she looms in the doorway.

“Oh—, uh, Olive. Is there something I can—?”

Wulf’s words fizzle away like a blown fuse when his eyes meet Bucky’s. His brows twitch, furrowing slightly, searching the other’s face as if it’s a puzzle. The moment feels like eternity, their damaged eyes scrutinizing each other desperately, frantically and silently tunneling through each other's thoughts as if they could meld together. When Wulf’s ears pin against his head, and his eyes look as if he has heard the click of a gun against his back, caught and cornered, Bucky's expression hardens as if Wulf had thrown him to a pack of starving wild animals. He doesn’t need Olive to even speak to know his answer. As she opens her mouth, drawing in a breath to interrogate, Wulf blurts out

“I have to.”

He speaks like a guilty convict, and he doesn’t look up at Olive. Even as the air seems to grow as sharp and cold as icicles, Wulf can’t bring himself to break Bucky’s gaze.

Bucky told himself that he understood, that he didn’t blame Wulf for his priorities if the plan turned out to be true, and yet he finds himself glaring through furrowed eyes, mouth slightly agape as the area in front of his heart splits apart like rotted fruit. Something stupid in him wanted Olive to be right, foolishly hoped that Husk was lying, that he was more to Wulf than a disease in his precious code. Bucky’s eyes narrow, his face falling eerily flat. 

“Why.” He rasps, cursing his trembling voice. 

Wulf stammers, running a hand down his face as he creakily pushes himself up from his desk. 

“Bucky, you know I can’t just—”

“You trust that thing more than you trust me?” The words tumble out before Bucky can stop them, half-laughing, pitch raising in incredulous fury. He can feel fire crackling in his throat, can feel himself flying into a frenzy, but he can’t seem to pull the reins back. “After everything that’s happened?!”

“I don’t— It’s not about trust,” Wulf replies weakly, “I’ve got my people to think about here—”

“Do you think I'm some kind of parasite ?! Is that what I am to you?!” He has to stop shouting why can’t he stop—

“I don’t want to do this, I don’t have a choice.”

A hand gripping his shoulder makes Bucky’s words die in his throat, stopping him from stepping any closer to the wolf. He hadn’t even realized he’d even started approaching. When he looks up at Olive, her face is stony— clearly swallowing her own anger in favor of keeping him grounded. Bucky feels a pang of guilt in his ribs as the roaring in his ears quiets. 

“You've gotta find another way,” Olive demands, looking back at Wulf, “I ain’t going anywhere without him.”

With the supernova of anger fizzling out in Bucky’s chest, that cold acceptance returns in its stead, and his body feels as if he’s promptly plummeted beneath ice water. Wulf looks between them both before sighing and massaging his temple.

“Olive,” Wulf sighs, “There’s a lot… at stake here.”

“I. don’t. care.” Olive bites back, “You can figure out a way to take him with us. Either we all go, or none of us go.”

Wulf huffs through his nose, fingers curling around the backrest of his chair as he leans back on it. The chill in the room settles heavy like a permafrost. Bucky’s hands feel numb. 

“I’ll…” the wolf exhales slowly, choosing his words as if they determine whether he lives or dies, “I'll see what I can do.”

Bucky can feel the lie curdling the air around them.

An abrupt, guttural rumbling thunders through the town hall—through the entire island. The three cry out as they’re pitched off balance, Bucky and Olive grabbing the doorframe to steady themselves as Wulf fumbles to clutch onto the wall. Clouds of dust rain down as bits of the ceiling are jostled out of place, pre-existing cracks greedily lengthening. The noise is cavernous; a bellowing beast beneath the ground, threatening to swallow the floor they’re standing on. Olive holds fast to Bucky’s upper arm as an invisible panicked noose cinches his throat. Their hearts pound like frantic death chimes, in perfect chorus with the island itself. 

It stops almost as soon as it begins, the reverberating settling back into the normal quiet hum. All three heave for breath, leaving Bucky and Olive to meet each other’s gaze. ' Are you okay? How much longer do we have? What now?'  Bucky looks back at Wulf. 

The fear in his eyes is serrated, cutting along the dull patterned floor before falling on his Silvertech, and then Bucky. 

They both see it: the volcano erupting, the fire, the destruction, the reset. Wulf can’t bear his scars reopening. Bucky can’t bear his disappearing. The wolf’s teeth are visible as he pants with unease, unable to hold Bucky’s gaze. As if their eyes were opposing magnets.

“...I’ll try,” he resolves after a long, thin silence, “I’ll think of something.”

Chapter Text

The walk home is silent, the rain still coming down in a haze, but the air is much hotter than their initial trip. The humidity is smothering, drowning them as they hurry home, the cobblestones slippery against their feet as they seem to both hurry and take the smallest steps possible to avoid the finality of entering the house. Olive's tail drags behind her as she walks, sliding against the rocks and eventually the damp dirt path. 

Bucky can’t stomach looking at Olive’s tumultuous expression for more than a few seconds at a time, the guilt teething at his heart and clawing at his ribcage. There’s a few moments he looks up, and opens his mouth to break the silence, punctuated only by distant bird calls and crashing waves, but he simply closes it again, and goes back to gnawing on his bottom lip. The air is heavy, closer to a rainforest than the clear ocean air they’ve grown used to, and the area beneath Olive's skin is beginning to crawl with unease. An impending dread she refuses to acknowledge.

The house comes into view a few minutes later. Whatever sun can stretch through the thin, sheet-like gray clouds reflects off the windows, leaving spots in Bucky and Olive's vision as they approach. Even when they climb the old steps to the front door, the aging wood creaking and bending beneath their weight, they say nothing to one another—though the sound of waves is loud enough here that they consider it an excuse to stay silent. 

The house is cool and dry, a refreshing wave that clears the volcanic air sitting heavy in Bucky and Olive’s throats. They shake the droplets off their fur and itch to change out of their damp clothes that cling to their rain-matted fur. Bucky’s eye catches Walter sitting at the kitchen table, thumbing through a book on sailing that Stumbler had recommended. He’d perked up upon hearing the door creak open.

“Oh,” His face brightens into a smile, folding the edge of his page to mark his place before closing the book, “I thought you guys were in your rooms.”

Olive shakes her head, moving to lean against the doorway to the kitchen.

“Went to visit Wulf,” she explains distractedly as she tries to wring out the water from her shirt. 

“Any reason?”

Bucky gives Olive a sharp look, but her back is turned. 

He was perfectly fine being more open with Walter (alright, not entirely true, he still struggled quite a bit), but Olive had a tendency to be a bit…blunt, with her wording. Bucky wanted to think about how to approach this, so for now, he just has to stall. His heart cinches when Olive’s mouth opens.

“He—”

“We just wanted to ask how Stumbler was doing,” Bucky interjects before Olive can finish whatever she was going to say, “Needed some time outta the house.”

Olive turns her head to squint at him. Walter doesn’t notice. 

“Not great weather for a walk,” he chuckles, before his expression falls slightly, “...You two felt that earthquake earlier?”

Bucky nods before shaking off the remaining water from his face, flinching when the movement sends a sharp pang through his eye. 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s words strain slightly as the pain dissipates. “Wulf’s doing his best.”

“He’s making a safe spot for everyone,” Olive elaborates, being as truthful as she can, “So we'll have somewhere to stay, y’know, away from the volcano and all.”

Bucky sits across from Walter, resting his head in his folded arms on the table’s cold surface. His skin seemed to swallow up any relief from the heat that it could. 

“Oh, really?” Walter perks up, his smile returning, “That’s good, right?”

Bucky gives a muffled ‘mhm’ and nods into his arms before leaning back in the chair.

“And everyone’s goin’?” Walter asks unassumingly. Bucky clears his throat.

“Yeah.” He prays his voice doesn't tremble too much. “I just…might be behind everyone else.”

Walter’s smile tightens slightly. 

“Oh...Did Wulf say why?”

“No reason, really,” Bucky says a bit too fast, “Just…stuff with the living arrangements.”

“... You're doing it again.”

Bucky’s blood freezes.

Looking back at him, Walter’s eyes are stormy, brows furrowed, lines deepening around his face in a melting pot of rising frustration and disappointment. His shoulders are drawn in, and his hands grip the edge of the table. Bucky can feel the vibration of his hands shaking through the wood. Speech dies in his throat, sentences slipping like water through his grasp as he tries to backpedal on his half-truth, trying to come up with that perfect string of words that will just please, take that look away, ease everything back to normal. When he can’t seem to manage, he just lets the words tumble out.

“Walter, it's— I am gonna tell you, I just…” Bucky's eyes try to dart anywhere but his brother. “I don't— I'm still processing everything and I, I didn't want you to worry if things actually ended up being okay—”

“That's what you said about last time.”

Walter looks down weakly at his hands. If the first accusation felt like a stab in Bucky's chest, Walter's small, defeated voice, barely audible, is the twisting of the knife. It burns cold against Bucky’s heart as he scrabbles desperately, as if he's trying to form ashes into something solid—it's futile, crumbling beneath his unpracticed hands. 

“He didn't mean to upset ya, Walter,” Olive butts in, pushing herself away from the countertop, “We just wanted to think on it for a bit.”

A knot lodges in Olive’s throat when Walter turns to face her, all betrayal and ice.

“You too?”

“Walter it's not— It isn't like that,” she insists, holding her hands out and miming surrender, “We were planning on telling you.”

In the middle of her explanation, Walter pushes himself out of his seat, pushing it back under the table with an obtrusive creak and turning away from them. He's careful not to stomp, avoiding breathing too loudly as he heads to the door.

“Walter—” Bucky pleads, following hurriedly after him.

The doorknob needs to be jostled slightly before it clicks, frustration pushing into Walter's throat, hot as blue flames as he jerks it open far more forcefully than he means to. 

“I just—” he stammers, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before holding out a hand to stop Bucky from following him, “Just give me a little while. Please.”

The door closes with practiced gentleness, and Bucky stares in shock at the painted wood as it shuts in his face, his hand still half reaching. Olive mirrors his posture, slightly dumbfounded. The silence is the weight of the world pressing down on the small room, as if time had slowed for only them. 

It would’ve been so simple to just explain. Why didn’t he just explain? Why did he always seem to dig himself deeper and deeper into the bottomless hole when it would be so much easier to just drop the shovel? 

He should go after Walter. He wants to go after him. But what would he even say? That he didn’t want him going off on his own because it was too dangerous? His adamancy to “protect” everyone is what got him stuck in this web to begin with. The least he could do was give Walter some space to cool down. But it also wasn’t like him at all to run off. At least not since Bucky had known him.

After what feels like an hour of bated breath and bitten tongues, Olive mumbles.

“That's…never happened before.”

Bucky shakes his head: disbelief and affirmation as his hand falls back to his side.

Why did I get so upset?

They were just trying to help.

They were gonna tell me anyway, this is stupid.

...Why am I even out here? Why am I even angry?

They're right. I wouldn't have been able to handle...whatever's going on.

They still could've told me something was going on.

Great way to show how mature I am, stomping off and pouting. 

...I don't like feeling like this.

Discomfort writhes and twists like unfamiliar snakes in Walter’s chest as he walks aimlessly through the woods, unconsciously avoiding the town. He barely processes his surroundings or his body, only conscious of the aching in his head and the clenching in his heart that's beating far too fast. It feels unnatural, like sirens pressing against his inner ear, making his head too loud and his body too shaky. He doesn't feel good. 

The brim of his hat casts his face in shadow, blocking the brutal sun of the late afternoon as it struggles through the clouds and the trees, needles and leaves waxy from the mist. It's still drizzling, the sky is still gray, and a thin haze hovers over the forest floor around his ankles. Walter's boots sink slightly in the damp sandy soil as he stalls abruptly, unsure, in a small clearing. 

Finally looking up from the dirt feels like emerging from deep water or waking from a dream, as Walter’s eyes dance nervously around the collection of graying trees. He’d wandered farther than he thought.

The clearing is completely alien, as stark and unnatural as the emotions pulling at his insides, and the sun seemed far dimmer than it should be. Everything is heavy, and dark, and the trees reach like claws.

Every ounce of frustration that had been burning behind Walter's eyes and against his heart falls away in favor of frigid unease. He doesn't know where he is. The path is just...gone.

Why did he leave, why did he have to storm off like a child. The ground spins beneath him and pulls him under all at once. No matter where he looks, he doesn't recognize it. He's gone off too far. Why are the trees all dead here?

He's done it again. He did it again.

His feelings are wrong. The forest is wrong. Everything is wrong, and it's his fault, isn't it? It should be hot, why is cold air burning his throat? Why can't he slow down his lungs going as fast as his heartbeat? His family was already gone, and now he's lost his friends because he had to go and be a crybaby. It's his own fault. Why did breathing feel like a rope around his neck? He couldn't breathe.

“The path isn't very far.”

The voice startles Walter nearly out of his panic with a pathetic yelp, sending him jolting backwards until he's pressed against a tree.

He doesn't see anyone, not at first, as he wrings his shaking hands that are tucked into his chest. As he scans the trees, a dead grayish yellow, the figure catches his eye. 

Walter's not sure how he didn't catch it before, the decrepit, scarecrow-like humanoid stained with what he really hopes isn't blood, hunched unevenly between the trees. Even with the black, hollow tears in the fabric that serve as its eyes, Walter knows the thing is looking at him. He's not sure why he feels his flesh crawling. 

“I…” he stammers, “I'm sorry, I—I dunno what—”

“There's nothing to be frightened of.” Walter feels the urge to flee tugging at his legs when he can't identify where the voice is really emanating from, when it seems to press between his eyes. “There's still time.”

Walter blinks, the echoes of his wild panic slowly fading into confusion. 

“...Time for what?”

The laugh that follows sounds like a dying sparrow fluttering on the inside of Walter's skull. Fruitlessly, he presses his hands over his ears, wincing and shrinking in on himself. He wants to leave.

“There isn't very much time,” the creature continues as if Walter hadn't spoken, “But nonetheless. We suggest you make the most of it.”

Walter takes a step back, expecting to bump into the skeletal tree trunk, only to nearly trip backwards onto the dirt path. He blinks in shock, the ache in his head only growing, before turning back to face the hunched monster. 

Some kind of terror, deep as the island, keeps him rooted in place even as he grows desperate to run, even as his previous panic crescendos and his blood wails in his ears. As if this thing is holding him there by force, taunting him with his way home just out of reach.

“He is never going to tell you.”

Walter’s heart drops out of his chest.

“If you really want the truth, you won’t get it from him. You never will.”

When the thing lurches with a stomach turning squelch, Walter runs as fast as he can.

As he gets farther away, he can’t tell if the sound he hears is the birds overhead, or the laughter of the monster shrinking into the distance. 

Chapter Text

It was a silly argument, really. Just average sibling back-and-forth that escalated to bickering, then to raised voices, and then to slammed doors and melodramatic exclamations that they’d never speak to each other again. It was childish, and it truly meant nothing—hollow words that stung like insect bites more than daggers. They would never really hurt each other; they both knew that. Sometimes it felt like they only argued because that’s what siblings were supposed to do; as if they needed to act like blood-related brothers to prove to themselves (and everyone around them) that finding someone abandoned in the woods doesn’t mean they aren’t your family. 

It was nearing the end of autumn then, an oppressive cold clinging to Walter’s bones as he trudged down the warmly lit street, not sparing a glance at anything but the sidewalk in front of him. He had stormed out so hastily that he’d neglected to take any sort of coat—leaving him wrapping his arms around his trembling chest and shivering as he passed beneath the glow of street lights. With his head tucked down to shrink his frame and the chattering of the thin crowd on the street, no one really paid him any mind.

Only when the sky began to turn from orange to purple did Walter notice how far he had strayed from the docks; it was a vaguely familiar location—he wasn’t completely lost— but he certainly couldn’t name the street he was on. The anger in his blood was beginning to cool to the temperature of the air by now.

Blinking as if he had awoken from a kind of trance, Walter didn’t realize his gait had stalled until a passerby shoved past him—someone who moved too fast for him to identify, but smelled nauseatingly of old clothes steeped in cigar smoke. They mumbled some derisive comment that Walter couldn’t make out, but he stammered a meek apology anyway. As the crowd grew thicker with huddled denizens hurrying home for the night, Walter found himself trapped; his back nearly against the brick wall of an old building as he avoided the sidewalk traffic. 

Round, nervous eyes darted to and fro, reflecting the street lights and lit windows that were leaving spots in Walter’s vision. In a moment of impulsive panic, with a nervous groan and a heavy chest, he slipped into the building he’d been cornered against with bated breath. A sigh fell from his mouth the moment the bustle of the crowd was muffled.

It was some sort of diner, clearly; the establishment had dim lights and wooden tables adorned with carnations in cheap glass vases, a few booths, and a bar area lined with red vinyl high-top stools. Behind the bar, a calico cat—wearing smudged spectacles and graying around her striking green eyes, Walter noted—was busy with what appeared to be closing. Below the meandering jazz music emanating from some tinny speakers, he could hear her going back and forth with the lone patron. 

“You know I don’t mind you bein’ here.” Her rough voice makes it difficult to tell if the statement is sincere, and she’s polishing a glass as she speaks. “‘Specially after everything with Winnie. I know you need the company.”

Walter finally takes notice of who the calico—which he assumes is the owner—is talking to. It’s a burly, fairly imposing figure, leaning his elbows on the bar with an empty glass in front of him. Brown eyes blink, taken aback, when he realizes the man is a walrus as well. He realizes absentmindedly that he doesn’t see his own species very often.

From the side, Walter can see that the tusk nearest to him is broken—completely snapped off about halfway down—and he winces, imagining how much something like that would hurt. In his peripheral vision, he sees the barkeep retreat behind the kitchen door, carrying a rack of clean glasses against her chest.   

“Can I help you?”

Walter jumps when the gruff voice addresses him, and he realizes with heated embarrassment that he’d been staring at a complete stranger. When he opens his mouth to stammer out an apology, though, he’s stopped by their eyes meeting. 

They’re chestnut brown, lined with age and stress, half-lidded with indifference—and likely intoxication, Walter realizes with a sting of nerves.

But, beyond the visible, trivial details, something feels uncomfortably familiar about the lone guest scrutinizing him. He glances back at the broken tusk for a hesitant second before righting his gaze again. The other seems to be doing the same, picking Walter apart with his eyes with a look that radiates the same gossamer familiarity. Walter notes the reddish-brown flannel shirt, one sleeve rolled up neatly to the elbow, while the other clings loosely to its owner’s forearm, courtesy of the missing button that he never bothered to fix. 

Walter’s ribcage feels as if it’s unfurling, mouth slightly agape as he looks from the tattered shirt to the face of the man wearing it. Those worn eyes bore into the ceiling above Walter’s head, turning stony and defeated. 

“You—...” Walter’s voice is small—hesitant and squinting—as if he’s waiting for his burning suspicion to be validated. The man sighs, and instantly, something about that look (disappointment with smothered annoyance) feels like a familiar punch to Walter’s chest; it nearly knocks the wind out of him. 

“Thought you were dead,” comes the deadpan reply to the unspoken question, and Walter’s mouth snaps shut. Every one of his thoughts seems to lag behind, still piecing together the missing button and the broken tusk and the harsh eyes like an elaborate puzzle he doesn't realize is already solved. His hands are frozen, clenched together and tucked into his chest as he keeps staring for what he realizes is far too long. 

The flat statement only hits him a moment later, so unexpectedly that he almost flinches when he realizes what exactly his father had just said.

“I…What?” he stammers, dumbfounded.

“Your mother and I thought you ran off and got yourself killed,” the older man continues as if he’s reiterating an obvious fact, “Barely recognized you.”

The endless list of words Walter could’ve combined came up empty when he reached for them, stunned by the electrical shock of far too many conflicting emotions. All he can muster is a meek:

“What are you doing here?”

The man turns his upper half to fully face Walter, lazily draping an arm over the back of the stool. The action feels far more threatening than it looks, and some deeply buried muscle memory makes Walter take a step back.

“Pretty sure this place is open to the public.”

“That’s not what I—” Walter stutters, then exhales, his hands hanging slightly, “I just…I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Yeah,” the older man gives a dry chuckle that holds no smile, “Me neither.”

Before he can reason out any of his tumultuous thoughts or organize his uncharacteristically clashing emotions, Walter finds himself speaking again.

“Did you look for me?”

The words are rather pathetic—shivering and desperate, as if his lungs are strained from clutching the edge of a cliff. Despite every instinct telling him to keep himself together, Walter can't stop the way his eyes start shining, swallowing around the encroaching lump in his throat threatening to boil over. The alarm in his mind is wailing; he can’t help but feel like crying would be the equivalent of waving red in front of a bull. 

The man laughs, as dry and humorless as a forest reduced to ash. Walter realizes he doesn’t remember his father’s real name. 

“‘Course we did.” Walter’s muscles relax just slightly; he doesn't dare to show it. “You just never turned up.”

“So, you just… stopped looking?” Walter’s voice tilts up in disbelief. 

“Figured it was a lost cause.”

Only when his knees begin to ache does Walter realize he’s been standing, tense, knees locked as if he’s in rigor mortis as he listens to the verbal equivalent of a slap to his face. For a moment, he thinks he would’ve preferred that—at least the sting would fade faster, this was lingering too much, it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. He could feel the Hurt rotting inside his bones, eating away at the marrow of his ribcage. 

“I—”

Trying to find a rebuttal is about as easy as grasping water in between his fingers. In Walter’s mind, he had fashioned from gold the image of his parents (the ones he had told Bucky he would go back to in a heartbeat, while in the throes of irrational anger) and in it, he saw them searching for years. He could envision the exact position of the sun in the sky as he imagined them hunting for him. He could so vividly recreate the smell of his small, poorly ventilated childhood bedroom with its water spots on the ceiling and the bedside table with corner so sharp he was afraid it would go in his eye if he tossed and turned too much. His vision was imperfect, sure, but polished and neat and sentimental, and warm. Talking to his father now just felt like swallowing ice. 

The silence stretches too long. The bland music feels like a personal insult. 

“I don’t get it,” Walter pleads finally, “Did I do something wrong? I—I'm sorry if I did something wrong.”

When his father sighs and massages the bridge of his nose, it feels like a gun at the back of his head.

“That. I—I dunno where you got this whole ‘spineless coward’ thing, but I sure as hell didn’t raise you that way.”

‘You didn’t raise me at all.’ is what Walter’s far braver alter ego desperately wants him to say. He just bites the inside of his cheek and frowns. 

“I expected more from ya, that’s all.”

That’s all.

“I was ten. What exactly did you ‘expect’ from me?”

The brave idiot lurking in Walter’s subconscious wins, just this once, and—just as quickly—retreats once again. Sometimes a turtle pokes its head out of its shell and immediately gets its skull stomped on; Walter would prefer that to the hardened look his father gives him.

“Expected you to make something of yourself, so you wouldn’t be a dead weight on your mother and I for the rest of your life, but I always ended up disappointed.

“And from the look of things, kid, I was right to worry.”

A long time ago, Bucky taught him a phrase—back when they were both still young, and still learning things that kids are expected to learn. Even back then, Bucky was a lot smarter than him. Whenever someone would say something mean, or they were treated unfairly, Walter had learned that sometimes it was alright to be mad, as long as he didn’t hurt other people because of it. Bucky used the term righteous anger. 

Walter thought it sounded fancy at the time, and Bucky always had a way of putting words to complicated feelings that Walter didn’t seem to share, but his subconscious (for one reason or another) had deliberately tucked this phrase away for safekeeping. 

It was a profound realization to come to, in the middle of a tacky diner in a small town, on the verge of tears in the lobby, but sometimes these things just happen. Walter realizes very plainly: he is angry at his father. And he has every right to be. The threat of tears remains, but his brows knit tightly together.  

“I'm not…a kid.” Walter's timid voice trembles as if he's lifting a great weight, holding the entire earth up with his hands. He remembers something else his big brother had told him, on a night many years ago, when he had cried that he missed his family. That he missed home.

“... And you don't deserve to call me your kid.”

There's something like impressed shock lining his father’s face (it may very well be the first time he's looked at his son with something other than disappointment or apathy), and Walter realizes his fists are clenched indignantly at his sides, trembling and making his knuckles ache. Despite it all, his steadfast words and stern expression, the knot in his throat grows tighter and tighter. 

“I don't think I want anything to do with you anymore.”

“Then I guess we're both in agreement.”

The indifference is a blade through his ribs and heart that cuts through bone and comes out the other side. Walter’s mouth tightens into a line, and no longer bothers to swallow his tears. The man won't care either way.

“Bucky was right,” he blearily snaps, all tears and righteous anger as he turns and storms to the door. He throws it open so quickly that the bitter cold hits him like a wave, nearly freezing the tears in his eyes before he turns to get what he hopes is his final look at his father. A glare of mutual expectation and disappointment. 

“I'm better off without you.”

Walter didn’t pay any mind to the scornful eyes on him as he shoved through the smothering crowd that felt so much larger than it really was. He was crying now—chest-deep and freezing, sobs burning at his eyes beneath the black sky. He was practically blind as he wove between strangers, desperate and scrambling to get away from anyone that might so much as look at him as he crumbled. Someone snapped at him to watch where he was going. He just kept running. 

He didn’t want to hate his dad, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hate anybody! Why was he making it so hard? Why did he have to look at him like that? Why did he look disappointed to see that he wasn’t rotting in the forest somewhere?

At some point, the violent lights and cacophonous crowd thinned, until it was so dark Walter could barely see a foot in front of him. His heart was a wounded sparrow flailing hopelessly in his ribs, screeching against his ears as he collapsed into a dilapidated bench on the side of the cobbled street. He heaved an ocean-heavy, shoulder-wracking sob, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding his face as he cried and cried until his head was throbbing, simply letting his misery overwhelm him. If anyone passed him by, he didn't care enough to look up at them.

It was almost an hour before Walter could breathe steadily again, and even then his chest still hitched and stuttered weakly in an attempt to hold in any oxygen. He felt gross now—stuffy nose and teary eyes and sore throat, not to mention the dull ache in his back from his sitting fetal position. Walter hadn’t felt this bone-tired in a long time. He wanted to go home. 

Only then did he remember (with a harsh stab of guilt) exactly what he had said to Bucky before he stormed off.

I'm never coming back. 

I don’t need you anyway. 

Another weak, hiccuping sob into his arms. He hadn’t meant it, not really; he never meant any of it, he just wanted to go home. He wanted his big brother. 

“Walter!”

The sound of Bucky’s voice made Walter’s head snap up. Wiping his eyes allowed him to see the beaver darting towards him from the direction of the docks, haphazardly clothed in a dark blue coat and a pair of brown boots that were much too big for him. The walrus blinked, stunned as if by a flash of light as Bucky stumbled up to him, gripping his shoulders.

“Oh Walter, I—I’m sorry, I know you probably—! Twigs, I was gonna give you your space, I know you’re gettin’ older and all, but—” Bucky rattled on before taking a short breath, “It was almost two hours and you’re not normally out that long! So I— Y’know I got worried, and— God, Walter I'm so sorry, I-I didn’t mean anything I said, I promise!”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell, heaving for breath, finally getting a chance to take in Walter’s face: tired, glassy eyes all furrowed with hurt, staring up at him like a lost deer.

“...Walter?”

He grunted as he was pulled down into a sudden, crushing hug by the youngest; the telltale pressure on his lungs as his ribs were captured in the vice of his brother’s arms was a welcome ache. Bucky didn’t ask. He simply returned the gesture, even if his arms weren’t as strong. There was a single, yellow street lamp a few feet away—it buzzed and flickered like a horde of wasps as it cast the peripherals of its light on the silhouettes below. They held fast to each other as if the autumn wind would scatter them both—as if they alone were holding each other’s atoms in place. 

Bucky guided Walter to his feet, one arm around him as he wiped his bleary eyes and leaned his weight against him.

“C’mon,” Bucky ushered quietly, “Let’s go home.”

“And then I just…ran.”

Bucky nods, slow and thoughtful, chewing on his bottom lip. Walter’s bedroom is small and smells faintly of salt and linen, and the bed is big enough that they both can sit comfortably, albeit close together. The yellow sky of the cloudy late afternoon weakly lights the room, along with a bedside lamp—one with a shell-shaped base that matches the one in Bucky’s room. 

“I dunno what it meant by that,” Walter continues, something like childish defiance lining his face, “But I think it’s silly. I trust you way more than some…freaky forest scarecrow.”

The chuckle that breathes from Bucky’s throat is quiet and fond. 

“I…Thank you for telling me about this , Walter.” He puts a hand on his brother’s arm. “I know that things are kinda weird right now.”

Walter shrugs, fiddling with the hem of this shirt and wrapping a loose thread around his finger before letting it unfurl. 

“You think you'll be alright if I shut my eyes for a bit?” Bucky asks, only now letting the weakness of exhaustion bleed into his voice, “Bit of a tiring day.” 

A lopsided smile creases Walter’s eyes as he nods. 

“I will. I’d join you, but I have a sleep schedule to stick to.”

“What’s wrong with my sleep schedule?!”

Bucky folds his arms indignantly, though a grin plays on his muzzle. 

“Doesn’t a ‘schedule’ mean it’s gotta be the same all the time?”

A swift hand yanks the brim of Walter’s hat over his eyes, sending him simultaneously fumbling to get his vision back and swatting at his older brother, the both of them laughing all the while. 

“Alright, alright!” Bucky chuckles, catching his breath before pushing himself off the bed, “I gotta go ruin my sleep schedule.”

“Love you, Bucky.”

“Love you too.”

They give each other one last passing smile, warm as the light of the bedside nightlight, before Bucky exits into the hall, quickly slumping into his room and collapsing onto the bed. The air in the room (and the whole house) is balmy and uncomfortably warm, but not enough to win out against the exhaustion of the day. Bucky hugs a pillow to his chest and wraps his tail around himself, already feeling the heaviness in his eyes conquering his racing mind as if he were falling under anesthesia. 

He slips into unconsciousness much faster than usual, his dreams nothing but muddy, indiscernible silhouettes. 

Chapter Text

The darkness behind Bucky’s eyes is too bright, and he doesn’t remember what he had been dreaming about. There were no concrete images to grasp, no visceral horrors haunting his subconscious, just the taste of saltwater burning the back of his throat and the shrill cries of birds echoing behind his forehead. If he had dreamt of anything palpable, his waking mind had deemed it unimportant, and dissolved the visions before he had any awareness of them. The muddled line between sleep and wakefulness slowly sharpens, and Bucky becomes aware of the coolness of the pilled sheets against his fur.

For a few more moments, like warming an engine in the cold, Bucky keeps his eyes closed, even as light presses against them. He turns to his other side. It's a monumental effort for his half-asleep body, limbs like lead as he grumbles something incomprehensible. 

It's several minutes before he finally pries his eyes open, heavy with the lingering exhaustion he can't seem to shake. The sound of distant birds gets clearer, and he wonders if that's what had seeped into his dreams, if their incessant noise was what kept him from fully sinking into sleep. He groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position and stretches with a wince. The shiver that snakes up his back doesn't strike him as odd until a few seconds later.

It shouldn’t be cold. Not with the volcano teetering on the verge of erupting. 

Bucky’s brows knit together as he stares at nothing in particular, eyes darting as his mind begins whirring. Maybe it was just… he wasn’t sure, exactly. A cold front? Did the island even have a real winter? Was it just his room? The house? 

A frown sinks into Bucky’s features before he looks up at his bedroom door. There is something small, and hollow, and rotten settling in his stomach, and it only expands when he stands and reaches to grip the scuffed knob. He catches the twisted reflection of his hand in the faux metal.

The door’s hinges creak, painfully obtrusive in the silent house. Not even the constant shifting of the house settling rings out as Bucky steps into the hallway, the dull navy carpet muffling any noise his footfall would have made. The dimness is overwhelming; it’s dull as twilight or dawn—gray as his old films and just as suffocating. His ankles feel weak as he continues into the den, running clammy fingers along the raw wood of the walls. 

Something stops Bucky from calling out—to his friends, to anyone—his voice box wrenched from his throat by a gleeful invisible hand. Outside, the world is drowned in fog and gray. No sun, no moon, no stars; it’s all one heavy, slate gray cloud. Maybe he’s seen this place in a nightmare before, Bucky thinks absently, resting a hand on the threadbare couch. His throat writhes, another surge of desperation to yell for help despite his safety, but he swallows it down again; the words push at the barrier at the top of his throat.

An overhead light buzzes in the kitchen, dull yellow and dusty, fighting to serve its purpose. But the house is ravenous. The light doesn’t reach more than a few inches before it’s greedily swallowed by the shadows of pitch. His heart should be pounding faster. Why was it so steady? Nothing is out of place save for one of the cabinets being left slightly ajar. Nothing is upturned or broken or disturbed, and yet the stagnation is more dreadful than if Bucky had woken up in the burnt remains of his home, blanketed in ash and his lungs thick with smoke. A simple cause and effect. Fire. Destruction. A simple explanation. Causation is simple. This hellish twilight limbo just twisted his head in unforgiving knots. 

The urge to yell rears its head again. Bucky pays it no mind as he stumbles, off-tempo and twisting to scan the darkness, towards the front door. 

Outside is no better. If anything, it reaffirms Bucky’s wild terror that he’s somehow slept through thousands of years, and he was the only one left alive. The air isn’t cold. The air isn’t anything. With how difficult it’s becoming to breathe, it’s possible that there’s no air at all. The ocean is an endless sheet of tar-black glass against the silvery haze of the sky—perhaps everything had flipped, and the void of space was lapping weakly at the sand instead. Bucky looks up. Looks up and is suddenly so miniscule and weak compared to the absolutely endless dead chasm above him. Like this, he can’t see the cobbled ground, or the frozen trees, and the only thing keeping him from falling up is his own awareness of a sharp rock against his foot. A silent gunshot rings out, and Bucky runs.

The beach is first: damp, cold sand swallowing his steps and kicking up behind him—the lone disturbance in this paralyzed limbo as he turns in his path like a frantic ballet. There isn’t a soul to be found among the lazy excuses for waves. Not even a familiar wind. Bucky can’t smell salt or fog or splintered wood, and something deep beyond his understanding refuses to search beneath the water. (He knows the sand will eventually grow too deep to see, and he won’t remember which way is up.)

Past the stones, throwing open the doors of every hut on the island leaves nothing to be found. Every humble home is abandoned, comatose. Bucky still doesn’t cry out, though his chest is beginning to heave and his breaths are becoming thin and audible. Everything else is silent. So silent that Bucky’s ears begin to ring so he doesn’t have to process the horrible, total, crushing silence. His heart has broken free of its predetermined rhythm; bending, snapping the iron bars of his ribcage and roaring and clawing to escape—pounding in time with his steps. The barrier at the back of his throat is beginning to split. 

When Bucky finally flings the Town Hall door open, and is met with the thick, dead air of a mausoleum, he doesn’t bother to enter. He stares, knowing the answer, and a trembling hand pulls the door shut again, and falls at his side. It strangles him—that feeling like an ant beneath a dome, the silence, the absent sun, the slowing heartbeat and blood screaming in his ears. 

There is nobody left, everyone has moved on. Except for him. Bucky places a hand, slow and shaking, over his dead eye. And then it tugs at his fur and digs at his skin and it stings like needles, it hurts, and he’s bleeding and the warm liquid running down his cheek and coating his hand is the final wrenching dagger that confirms this isn’t some dreadful nightmare; he is alive. He’s bleeding. He’s awake. He’s awake. He’s still awake. And no one else is here. 

Bucky wails. 

“You promised!”

“Olive—”

“Don’t you ‘Olive’ me! You said you would get him over here!”

“I said that I would try, there’s nothing I could do! This is the safest option for everybody.”

“You mean it’s the safest option for you?!”

“I’ve got my people to think about, Olive, I just—! …If I think of something, I know where he is, and I can get him over here easily.”

Olive roars in frustration, swinging her foot into the nearest barrel and sending a reverberating clang throughout the room. Walter and Giovanni flinch from where they’re huddled in the doorway. The youngest is used to making himself small, drawn shoulders and folded arms, but now more than ever, he wishes he could simply disappear entirely. The cramped room looks nearly identical to Wulf’s old office, but it’s a bit neater, and the light is cold.

“Listen,” Wulf sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes furrowed, “He’ll be safe there until I think of something, alright?”

Walter swallows the sting of anger that bites at his throat when he hears Wulf’s annoyed lilt. Giovanni catches the youngest wrapping his arms tighter around himself from the corner of his eye. 

“Well, think of something fast.” Olive snarls, ignoring the pain in her foot and the dent in the barrel. “Because if he’s stuck there, we're not staying here.”

It’s fruitless to argue, Wulf knows that. As deeply as he knows he should explain that he takes no enjoyment in this, that he really was trying to find a way to keep everyone safe and happy, he’s only one man. One man with a hell of a lot of weight on his shoulder—one of which never healed right. He didn’t enjoy putting souls on a scale, but it wasn’t his fault when it tilted one way or the other. Instead, Wulf lets his arms fall to his sides with another heaving sigh, and shakes his head. 

“I'll keep you guys in the know,” he mumbles, “You should head back to your rooms, I’ve got work t’do.”

The otter grumbles something unintelligible, but Wulf makes out an obscenity or two as she storms off into the hotel. Giovanni follows dangerously close to her heels, staring intently at the seam where the wall met the floor.

Walter takes a step before he glances back, one hand on the doorframe. His mouth opens, then closes into a tight grimace; Wulf watches him swallow the venom rising in his throat.

“...Thank you for trying.” 

It's all he can muster before he shuts the door behind him.

With no sun, and no time, Bucky can’t determine how long he’s been sobbing here, head against his knees and wild red nail marks bleeding into his fur, but he assumes it’s at least an hour—not that it matters, anyway. He can hardly breathe through his runny nose anymore. With derision, Bucky realizes that actually feeling his feelings is a rather ugly affair.

Even when I'm the only living thing for hundreds of miles, still worried about how people see me. Kinda funny honestly. 

He doesn’t smile. 

The suffocating silence would have almost been a comfort, if not for the deafening maelstrom rocketing through Bucky’s skull. God, he was exhausted. Was he going to die here? Could he die here? Part of him wants to find out. 

Stop it. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, and, even now, fights the thoughts away. The iota of hope that he’ll make it to the hotel, that he won’t be alone, that this is all temporary—it annoyingly persists. But beyond that stubborn flickering spark in his chest, Bucky knows, by some familial instinct, that Walter is scared too. And that convinces him to stay alive more than any self-preservation ever could. He exhales steadily, and pries his bleary eyes open.

“Yeesh.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch anymore. 

“You've looked better, kid.”

“What do you want, J.D.” 

The anomalous creature is a harsh, colorful imperfection amidst the wasteland, so much so that looking up at him makes the backs of Bucky’s eyes hurt. There’s a curled smile engraved on its face (Normally the beaver would snap indignantly at the sight, but his emotional well is quite empty at the moment). 

“No reason ta be so snippy, kid.”

“I think I have a pretty good reason, actually.” Bucky mumbles monotonously, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blindly forward again. 

“Ahhh, right.” J.D.’s head rolls back as if he’s just gotten a joke weeks after the punchline. “This whole…”

He flippantly gestures towards the rows of empty huts and the black ocean. 

“...Predicament.”

Bucky’s brows furrow, his eyes falling shut. 

“Why. Are you still. Here.”

The rat chuckles without a care, leaning contrapposto on his cane. Only now does that searing pulse of irritation mumble through Bucky’s chest. 

“Well, since you’re so eager, let’s cut to the chase.” J.D. crouches to be eye level with him, pausing expectantly until he sighs, and turns to meet the pinprick sockets that serve as the creature’s eyes. 

“I can getcha off the island.”

A heavy heartbeat pulses in Bucky's ears.

“W—Why should I trust you?” He scowls, holding his stony expression as if any emotional twitch would send everything awry. 

“Well, if you'd like to explore your plentiful options—” J.D. gestures theatrically to the desolate island, “—I’ll be waiting right here.”

An exhausted scoff tears itself from Bucky’s throat as he leans back against the exterior of the town hall with a thud, weighing his admittedly limited options. J.D. isn’t exactly the most trustworthy creature he’s ever met...but at this point, what has he got to lose?

His mind flits back to Walter, and his expression falls. J.D.’s smile widens. 

“...How would we get there?”

Chapter Text

The walk is long, and awkward, and silent, and neither party feels the need nor the urge to fill that void with idle prattle. It’s rather maddening: the utter gravity of the silence, as gray and relentless as the fog clinging to their ankles. But, for better or worse, the incessant ringing in Bucky’s ears, the ever-present death whistle of his blood flow, distracts him enough as to not cry again. Even their footsteps against the stones hold no echo, no reverberation that should exist in the pure dome of emptiness; the silence is an impassive, hungry entity all its own, making sure not a breath nor a scream for help would ever escape its waiting maw. 

Of course, in their monotonous trek to the caves beneath the island, J.D. leads them through the diner— with its horrid crimson walls and dim, throbbing candlelight— a choice of route that makes Bucky shoot the blue rodent a venomous glare. It simply grins in reply, and Bucky is too focused on the lingering pressure in his sinuses to verbally retaliate. Crying so much really was an ugly affair. 

As he walks, slow and heavy and draped in red, Bucky's eye flits to the split shards of tinted wood strewn across the floor. And then, to the dented bloody table where he was sure he would die. The liquid that once matched the walls and floors is now rotten and black, the moisture permanently warping the wood. Seems no one bothered to clean that mess up, considering one place setting atop the table is off-center, and the other had fallen off the table entirely, shattering in the whirlwind of his temporary death. Somehow, Bucky swears he remembers hearing the ceramic shatter after the first impact of his head against the wood, the top of his head knocking it askew before it toppled to the floor. Or, it could very well be his brain filling in the gaps between his waking moments.

While Bucky was in the midst of recovering, he jokingly commented to Olive that being in a coma felt like time travel—as if Brandon cracking his skull had made the whole world skip like an old record. She had laughed then, but as he walks past the fractured table amidst the tidy eating area, Bucky realizes that no one really talked about that period where he was asleep. 

A loud flare of pain cries out behind Bucky’s damaged eye, as if it wants to fall right out of his skull and roll back to its place of death. He does no more than exhale before he keeps walking. 

Bucky idly scratches at his arm as he walks in a haze, following the blue and black amorphous shape in his peripheral vision. The stinging, the moving blood under his skin, the pull of his short fur, damp from the fog—it’s enough to put his thoughts behind a temporary blackout curtain. If he had a bit more of his wits about him, he would’ve been grateful for the blockage. Instead he just itches and pulls at nothing until red beads beneath his nails. 

Idly, he wonders what J.D. is thinking about right now, before deciding it really doesn't matter all that much. He was fairly sure that some part of this was a trick, that something would go wrong and he would die, but, quite frankly, he considered either outcome favorable. If he lived, he’d get his chance to get back to everyone safely. If he died, everything would go back to the way it was, and he could just forget. Even now the idea was tempting: being able to just wipe it all away and start over in a blank world as a blank person, to hopefully not make the same stupid mistakes. His eye throbs again. This time, he flinches imperceptibly.

The museum is the same. Bucky’s grown sick of seeing it. The monuments to everything that ruined his life plastered on the walls just to jeer and laugh and point at his misery. In the half-aware state he’s in, he’s almost numb to it all. The only spark in the dark of his mind is that familiar flare when he sees his creator, smiling. Normally, Bucky would let the more violent side of his imagination take over—envisioning every gory, suffocating, bone-breaking end he had to endure redirected at the man, the root of his suffering. It was his only outlet. His last ditch effort for control like a lab rat shaking a fist at the scientist stabbing it full of needles. But, now, he doesn’t have the energy to do anything more than scowl in the picture’s direction. It didn’t happen to him, not really. What did he have to be angry about?

“Enjoying the stroll?” J.D. looks over his shoulder as he walks, the thunk of his cane against the wood making Bucky’s ears twitch rhythmically. 

“Go back to not talking.” His words sharpen like icicles, watching as J.D. presses the button with his cane.

He stares at the floor as it changes from wood to red once again, and before he can process that they’ve even left the gallery, they’re on the waterlogged wood of the dock with the lone tape recorder. J.D. taps it dismissively with his cane.

“Wanna have a listen?” he asks, grinning. Bucky looks pointedly at him. 

He steps over the recorder and shoves past the other creature, before leaping off the dock and catching himself with a wince, shifting the dry, dead soil beneath the impact of his palms. Some of it cakes beneath his claws.

“Yeah, I don't blame ya.” J.D. shrugs before hopping off the creaking wood and landing next to Bucky, “They can be so dramatic sometimes.”

“Says the one with a cane and a top hat.”

“Hey kid, this was a gift. It’d be rude not to wear it.”

Bucky scoffs and carries on following. 

The Aquarium is quiet. 

Their steps echo more here than anywhere else, the cavernous, sterile white halls reverberating their presence within them. The cold white light squeezes Bucky’s eyes and presses against his skull like an iron maiden, so sharply that he shuts his eye against it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the partial blindness that comes even when one of his eyes is open. It's disorienting. Only now does J.D. decide to strike up a real conversation.

“Bringing back any fond memories?”

“No,” Bucky huffs, “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, don’t be a downer!” J.D. chuckles, tapping his cane on the wall. “You weren’t a little curious about it all?”

“No.”

The rodent huffs another quiet laugh, studying Bucky’s solemn, stony expression. 

“You ain’t a conversationalist, y’know,” he cocks an eyebrow, “Thought you'd be a bit more talkative without your ‘buddy’ holding you back. You're the main character, after all.”

Bucky flinches, his brows knitting together. 

“Don’t call me that,” he breathes with more audible sadness than he intends, “Please.”

“Not fond of the title?”

“I don’t want to be important.”

J.D. laughs openly this time, a lilting, uncomfortable sound. Bucky instantly regrets his moment of vulnerability.

“You ain’t got much of a choice kid, hate ta break it to you.”

“Getting used to that.”

“Wow.” J.D frowns dramatically. “You really are a downer.”

“I think I’ve earned it.”

J.D. hums, and they continue walking. Occasionally, the rodent punches in a code, presses an invisible button, hums an unidentifiable tune. Bucky zones out again, trying to stop his mind from running unfettered. It works for the most part; every wild thought that claws at him is trapped comfortably behind a rickety door, muffled and distant—far enough away that it's a problem for the future him.  

Bucky looks up when J.D. slows to a stop and sighs.

“Well, since you're not in a talking mood, at least let me leave ya with a piece of advice.”

Bucky massages the bridge of his snout with a grating sigh, still blinking back to the real world. 

“And what’s that?”

There’s a pressure inside his ears, a humming that instantly sets him alert and tense and ignorant to J.D.’s reply, ears pricking up and swiveling about with his head. There’s something spiny and horrible settling in his gut, thistles of a terror he doesn’t yet have a name for. His tunneled peripheral vision narrowly misses the way the other rodent’s charming smile has curled far too wide.   

The rapid rise and fall of Bucky’s chest stutters and stalls in his throat like a cornered prey animal when he turns all the way around, and a white rabbit twice his height, gargling and choking and rotting where it stands looks back at him with one lidless, bloodshot eye resting in the void of its socket. Somehow, even staring with his mismatched eyes wide enough to burn, Bucky can see nothing but the decaying thing at the end of the hall beneath a fluorescent spotlight. He imagines this is how it feels to have the barrel of a gun pointed at your head.

“I advise you to start running.”

When Rex barely flinches forward, the anticipation snaps like a violin string tuned too tight, and Bucky runs. 

Every footstep is the rapid impact of a bass drum rattling and echoing against his ringing ears, thumping like a timpani and rumbling like thunder and nearly drowning out Rex’s horrible, bloody scream. He has to remember which direction to go. Room after room of notes and computers and dust and frozen clocks and thinning halls and ceilings high enough to make him feel miniscule, every step another injection of panic pumped into his twitching heart as objects and barrels clatter behind him in the wake of Rex’s relentless chase, and the thought flits across Bucky’s mind that if he stops running to soothe his strained searing lungs he will die, that the utter contempt that his creator felt for him was what kept its body moving, and god knows what it would do to him now, without his dear friend wrapped around him like suffocating armor. He needs to turn right. 

The barrel doesn’t register in Bucky’s vision until it collides with his leg with a head-splitting clang, sending him tumbling to the cold white floor as he yells, the impact of metal against bone erupting across his entire left side. For a moment, curled up and clutching his leg to his chest, expression squeezed tight as he gasps and sobs, the pain makes him forget the monster on his trail. But the singing of blood in his ears can only smother Rex’s tortured, screeching breaths being torn from its malformed lungs for so long, and even with involuntary tears melting his vision, Bucky sees the outline of it gripping the wall as it rounds the corner, heaving, staring down at his crumpled form. 

Before he can even push himself to his feet (he’s sure that leg is fractured, it has to be), the monster’s gnarled fleshy hand wraps around his bicep and, with inhuman strength and hatred, throws Bucky against the adjacent wall with a sickening crack that leaves blood exploding in his nose. With a gagging cough, Bucky pushes himself back to his feet, a hand covering his gushing face as he stumbles backwards, catching the trail of blood smeared like a comet’s path on the pure white walls. It pools against his tongue and chokes him like he’s drowning, gargling for breath as Rex stalks forward.

As lone eyes lock, the animalistic terror pumping in Bucky’s blood sets alight like a match to fuel, burning hot and sudden and defiant. He knew this hall. He knew this place. One more turn, and the door to the caves would be waiting. 

Not when he was this close. Not when he could practically feel the doorknob beneath his blood-soaked fingers. 

Bucky backs up with every step Rex limps forward. He can feel the inevitable bruise blooming painful and ugly on his leg, and when his brows furrow in defiance, his likely-broken nose stings and drips crimson into his matted fur. 

Not after all of this. Not after a broken skull and a lost eye and a coma was he going to let his creator take everything from him. 

Rex sprints forward the moment Bucky blinks, and this time, he reaches behind him and grips a barrel with bloodied chipping claws and heaves it upwards with a scream of effort, slamming the solid metal into what remains of his creator’s skull with a horrific squelch and a crunching firework of what might be blood. 

The crackling scream is nauseating as Rex falls, mournful in a deep rooted way that would freeze anyone else’s heart. But Bucky turns on his heel and sprints off, uncaring of how much pain the monster is in as he makes the final left turn past a room with a lone computer and a clock stuck at 12 and throws the fateful door open. The caves are red and dark, and the door sits out of place as Bucky holds it desperately shut.

The frantic impacts come hardly a second later, the anguished screaming and desperate punching and clawing at the wood rattling against Bucky’s grip. Even like this, dead and brought back wrong and trapped in that fake skin, Rex’s voice is there—pained and horrible and human—screaming for help and vindication as if wringing the life from his creation’s lungs will fulfill some prophecy that will finally let him die. 

For a moment, Bucky pities him. The moment passes. 

After what feels like a thousand eternities, the door ceases its rattling, and the agonized breaths disappear. Bucky wheezes an exhale and slides to collapse on the flesh-covered ground. 

The neck of his shirt has borne the brunt of his bloody nose, soaked, and stained crimson. It’s sticking uncomfortably to the fur on his chest, and he can still taste the copper on the back of his tongue. Bucky slumps heavy against the wood. 

How long will he have to keep running? When will he be allowed to stay still? 

He can’t cry again today, he’s too tired. He can’t take anymore, the voice in his mind mutters to him like a prayer. But there’s already clean lines painted gently into his blood-soaked cheeks. He’s already choking.

Bucky fears he’s hallucinating behind the darkness of his eyes—some horrid mental cocktail of fear and adrenaline and exhaustion—when he feels the silent cave wrap him in a comforting embrace. Maybe, he thinks in his numb exhaustion, he could just stay here. He wanted stillness, he wanted safety. Everyone would be alright without him. More clear streams wash away the blood on his face. 

Not when he’s this close, his mind whispers. Not yet.

Not yet.

Bucky stands on shaking knees, wiping his face on his shirt before he takes his first steps. Hopefully he can wash his face when he gets there. 

With Giovanni walking in front of him and Olive having detoured to the cafeteria, Walter finds himself scowling at the back of the goose’s head. There’s boiling water steadily rising in his chest, roiling and bubbling over his ribcage.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Giovanni turns and blinks back at Walter incredulously as they stop in the coldly lit hallway that leads to their adjacent rooms. The space is nice enough, but the fluorescent light isn’t exactly cozy, and it casts dark shadows beneath their eyes.

“...What?”

The youngest is frowning, looking at Giovanni, then the floor through his brows. His arms are hugged tightly around himself as he grumbles petulantly. 

“To Wulf.”

“What was I supposed to say, exactly?”

“I dunno, Bucky did save your life. You coulda defended him.”

Giovanni scoffs and tosses out a wing dismissively, moving to turn the knob on the door to his designated room.

“I'm not going to tell the mutt how to run his hotel.”

“There’s a first.”

The mumbling makes Giovanni whirl around again, glowering at the other man’s back. 

“What was that?”

Walter sighs, and his hand slides off the doorknob and falls exasperatedly at his side.

“Normally you don't have any problem telling people what to do,” he grumbles just loud enough to hear, turning his eyes towards the goose, but not his head.

“Where exactly is this attitude coming from?”

Finally, Walter huffs and turns fully around, looking at Giovanni with brown eyes that look black in the light.

“He did a lot for you, y’know,” he replies.

“What he did was his own choice,” Giovanni snips back, narrowing his eyes. 

“You could at least pretend you're grateful for him helping you and Olive.”

“So, what?” Giovanni pivots his head challengingly, hissing through gritted teeth. “He goes and almost gets himself killed and I'm supposed to worship the ground he walks on?!”

“No, just–!” Walter groans in frustration, tossing his head towards the ceiling as if it will give him the mental fortitude to reason with the obstinate man. “It would be nice if you were a little…nicer! To him!”

“No one’s gonna change that stubborn dog’s mind,” Giovanni huffs, “Why are you so damn worked up about it?!” 

“Because it should’ve been YOU!” 

The silence that follows Walter’s explosion is thick as tar. He pants for breath through his teeth, and Giovanni feels a creeping dread that the scathing words are only the beginning, that he's stepped into something he wasn't prepared for. The next inhale that Walter takes feels like the cocking of a gun.

“It should’ve been you getting hurt and feeling all those horrible things, not Bucky! Because you're miserable, and all you do is just– just make everyone around you miserable too!”

“I don’t have to listen to this utter nonsense–!”

“NO!” Walter’s stomp sends vibrations through the floor, and Giovanni’s feathers prick up. “You’re going to listen to me, you're not going to talk over me this time!”

Walter takes a jerking breath, choking on his words like an old engine starting in the cold. 

“You never feel bad about anything, do you?! Nothing’s ever good enough for you— not me, not Bucky, not anyone! And it just— it never crosses your mind that you're just hurting everybody! 

“I don’t care that this is mean; for once I just wanted you to feel bad, so you could see how Bucky feels! He got his head cracked open for you! He’s half blind because he protected you!” He hurls an accusing finger at Giovanni's stunned face. “And the moment he’s out of sight you want to throw him under the bus like he’s a monster or something! What, does he have to die for you to respect him?! Will that finally satisfy you?!”

Some part of Walter’s brain is positively stunned that he hasn’t stopped yet, as if some wild, barking, thrashing animal with gnashing teeth and foaming mouth has been let out of its cage as he gesticulates wildly, swatting madly at invisible flies and clenching his fists around nonexistent reins.

“I can’t believe I was so stupid to think you'd actually change! For once, I thought, ‘This is it! They finally at least tolerate each other’! But NO! You're still the same inconsiderate, self-centered coward you always have been, and you're never going to change! You always told me I was an idiot, so I guess you were right!”

Now, timid brown eyes are black with wild anger, crackling like a lightning rod and weeping like thunderclouds. Giovanni’s beak is slightly agape as he watches Walter barely take a breath.

“You bring out the worst in everybody!” he carries on, boiling over, “I hate being so mad, I hate yelling mean things because I know no matter what I do, no matter how nice I am, or how much I yell, you're never gonna listen to me! You're not gonna listen to anyone, and you're just– you're gonna be fine! Meanwhile Bucky spends every day of his life thinking of other people, and he gets left behind and treated like dirt! You didn’t even TRY and change Wulf’s mind! You never shut up until it actually matters!”

Walter’s senses are beginning to catch up with him, leaving salt pouring down his cheeks and his whole body searing hot and trembling. He’s not thinking, he's just talking: rattling on with years of neatly packaged, chained up fury. At the unfairness of the world, at his shitty parents, at Wulf, at Giovanni, at being treated like a kid, at being alone. At how small he’s made himself and at who he could’ve been if he wasn’t so scared. At being confused and left out, at being such a crybaby. For once, he simply refuses to be soft. He refuses to choke around the lump in his throat. For once, when Giovanni tries to swallow him, he’ll find spikes on his tongue. He takes a shaking breath.

“People… would hate you if they knew you.”

The silence rings with the remnants of Walter’s speech, heavy and fizzling. Something in that boiling rasp, that dizzying rage, the overused voice that hasn’t yelled in all its years of life— something in the searing words makes Giovanni feel like his rapidly pounding heart has slowed to a stop. Walter meets his fallen expression with glacier eyes, heart torn by wild horses between vindication and nauseating guilt. He feels the ache behind his eyes pushing, watering all over again. 

Giovanni watches the youngest turn, shoulders squared, and storm back to Room 103. 

The pan makes a horrible metallic clang as it hits the yellowing linoleum, and Walter throws his hands over his small ears with a whimper. The cast iron was too hot, too heavy for his small hands, biting at his palms that he removes from his ears and begins waving about to ease the burning. There’s oil splattered across the floor, ugly and amber beneath the cold kitchen light. Luckily it didn’t go as far as the carpet. Walter blinks his tears away, trying to decide whether to get cold water for his hands or a rag for the floor. Maybe he could do both. 

The boy grabs a cloth from under the sink, wincing when the fabric meets his sensitive palms, before standing on his tip-toes and running the cold water. The faucet is leaking, and the blue and red spots on the handles have long since faded into the rusty metal. 

The front door opens. 

Walter’s conditioned himself enough by now not to yelp in surprise when it slams shut, but he hasn’t managed to stop the way his heart thrashes in his chest. He ignores the pain in his hand, throbbing with his heartbeat as he hurriedly shuts off the faucet and wrings the cloth. The cold water feels nice. 

“Don’t slip, momma. I'm cleaning it up.”

His father huffs in reply as Walter turns around, clutching the wet rag in both hands. 

“Oh,” he mumbles as cheerfully as he can manage, “Sorry, poppa.”

Another dismissive hum. 

Those black eyes have an uncanny ability to make Walter feel smaller than he already is (His parents often called him a ‘runt’, when they did speak to him. Just another way he seemed to disappoint them.) Even when his father barely spares him a glance, he looks at his child with such apathy and disillusionment. As if the little boy standing on the stained linoleum was a monument to the deepest disappointment somebody could feel. The longer their eyes stayed connected, the more Walter believed that was all he was. He couldn’t tell if his father hated him, or simply wished he’d disappear.

“...Don’t let it get on the carpet.”

“...Alright, poppa.”

Olive gets back to their room around fifteen minutes later, only to find Walter curled up on the cold floor beside the bed. He doesn’t look up at her, doesn’t stop his chest-wracking sobs; he simply keeps crying into his arms. “Like a little kid,” the voice in his head hisses at him. “I don’t care,” he screams back, “Let me cry. Just once, let me cry without feeling bad.”

When Olive finally blinks back to herself, she rushes to his side, kneeling and putting gentle hands on his arm. She hushes him, mumbles and whispers reassurances she can’t really process in the moment, until she manages to get Walter to cry on her shoulder instead of the darkness of his arms. 

“I'm sorry,” he warbles with such hopelessness that Olive fears she may cry as well, “I'm sorry, I'm trying, I didn’t mean to get so mad.”

“It's okay, it’s okay, honey. You're okay, I promise.”

“I'm sorry.”

Olive wraps her arms around his broad shoulders, cradling his head close so that their heartbeats are touching. 

“I forgive you, honey.”

A cry falls from his throat, all despair and guilt like an animal in the throes of death. They hug until their bones ache, until Olive is crying herself, and they don’t let go for a long while.

Chapter Text

There’s an offbeat, padded knock at Wulf’s office door as he scribbles haplessly in a notebook, his Silvertech bathing his face in a gaunt, drawn out glow. The book’s pages are worn, thin as tissue paper, and some of the blue lines are bleeding out from stray drops of water or coffee. The chief’s handwriting is as messy as his fur: fraying at the edges and poking every which way—a bristling thicket of blue-ink thorns and faulty branches of code littering the yellowing pages. Wulf's head twitches up when the knock sounds again, the noise finally snapping him out of his focus. It's always startling when he forgets how long he's been working in isolated silence, when the smallest noise frightens him out of his skin, his ears conditioned to accept only the hum of his computer and the tapping of keys. Wulf sighs, flicking the pen back and forth between his fingers.

“C’mon in,” he mumbles, loud enough for whoever is on the other side to hear— desperately trying to ignore the way his voice falls away into exhausted drawling. He prays it isn’t Olive. He doesn’t have the mental fortitude to argue with her right now.

The door lazily creaks open, and the blue rabbit hops inside. His face is bright, but solemn.

“You've been in here for hours now.” Stumbler’s voice is far warmer, far gentler than the harsh white light of the Silvertech. He steps closer to the desk. “You should take a break.”

“I can’t.” Wulf doesn’t look up from his notebook; the only indication that he’s listening at all is his frantic scribbling slowing and a slight twitch of his ear. Just slight. “We still have people in the waiting room, I'm working as fast as I can, this is just taking so much time!” His voice shrinks to a whimper as he finally slams down his pen and hides his face in his hand. Stumbler’s frown deepens, an ocean trench etched within his face.

Wulf jolts when bandaged nubs reach up to his face, guiding it to look down at his partner. He fights to blink tears from his eyes when he sees how Stumbler looks at him: soft reverence, wishing he loved himself enough to rest. The gauze is due to be changed, Wulf thinks when it tickles the fur on his face, white and gray and matted. His lower back aches like hell. Stumbler’s offer of a break becomes more tempting the longer he isn’t looking at that damned computer— that damned computer that lets out an irritating beep of disapproval when his code throws up another error. 

“What time is it?” Wulf asks, gruff and exhausted.

“Almost four in the morning,” Stumbler answers in a near whisper, brows furrowing upward. The Silvertech fades into standby mode, and the little white glint it cast in Stumbler’s black eyes disappears. In the yellow light of the office, beneath the ceilings that leave them dwarfed– the lone set pieces in this dark theater– Wulf closes his notebook and sighs. 

“What are you doing awake, anyway?” Wulf fiddles with a stray thread hanging off his jacket.

Stumbler shrugs and rocks his head back and forth in a dismissive pendulum. In this light, it’s easier to see the dark rings beneath the rabbit’s eyes, the mussed fur and drooped ears. Wulf hums. 

“Ah, you know how it is,” Stumbler answers hesitantly, “Insomnia.”

“Want me to program ya some melatonin?” There’s a ghost of a grin playing on the wolf’s overbite. Stumbler’s face smushes into an amused smile-pout.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” he deadpans– before the lines in his face melt away again, “But… I’d sleep easier if you were with me.”

Wulf chuffs and swallows, his throat dry and silent. Maybe, just for a while, the rest of the world could wait.

“... Alright.”

There’s an affectionate satisfaction spreading like watercolor across Stumbler’s face as Wulf pushes his notebook away and stands, pushing his chair beneath his desk. 

The lights in the halls are dimmed and warm, careful not to disturb any guests at the early-late hour. They don't meet anyone else in the hall as the muscle memory of their route to home slowly returns. The hotel owners’ room was tucked away, granting them a sanctuary within their sanctuary– a quiet haven that has started to form dust in the corners. 

When they finally enter— the room smelling faintly of ink and an old attic— Wulf flops face-first onto the blanket with a creak from the mattress below, the ridiculous position leaving Stumbler giggling.

"You're so dramatic."

The rabbit shakes his head, but climbs into the sheets next to the wolf, fidgeting until his face is tucked into the thick, fluffy fur of his husband's chest. Already, Wulf is beginning to forget how cold his office was; the sensation is pushed from his mind when his arm wraps around Stumbler. The silence is comfortable and heavy— a fleece blanket so unlike the constant, prickly buzzing of the computer. The throbbing ache behind Wulf's eyes, drilled by blue light and lines of code, is beginning to fade into the back of his mind. His tail thumps slow and rhythmic against the mattress.

"Don' even want a cup of hot cocoa or anythin'?" Stumbler asks sleepily, his voice muffled in the fluff. Wulf shakes his head.

"Can't get up now," he yawns and strains as he stretches, "Jus' got comfy."

Stumbler simply hums and curls up tighter, tucking his snout into the crook of Wulf's neck and exhaling slowly. The only light is the little lamp on the nightstand, the one with the dim yellow bulb that fizzles when it's left on for too long, casting the couples' silhouettes in warm shadows on the wall behind them. By the time Stumbler quietly asks if they should turn off the light, Wulf is already asleep.

From the top of the water tower, the hotel looks so small.

Especially so beneath the dark blanket of night; the gentle, artificial glow reaching from the windows twinkles like bioluminescent creatures at the bottom of the ocean. The sturdy white walls stand, protecting those inside. Love extended beyond code– beyond ones and zeroes and scripted words. It doesn’t matter what awaits beyond the carefully crafted safe haven, what vast emptiness surrounds this dome of desperate hope, because there are people inside who would sooner die than see it crumble. 

It’s a quaint sight, one that J.D. has yet to tire of. He doesn’t much care for the sappy, emotional nonsense that Wulf cites as his reasoning for building the hotel, but he can admit it’s an impressive structure. It’s awfully pretty, nice to look at– but it’s got no real foundation. No spine, just like the man that created it. Just thinking about the "power of love" schlock makes the rodent fight back a derisive chuckle. 

The wind is strong this high up. He holds his hat steady when a particularly strong gust blows by. 

If his estimation was right, Bucky would be here within the hour, give or take. The caves were long and twisting, nonsensical at times, but muscle memory is an impressive thing. Bucky probably wouldn’t remember the journey, but hey, sleepwalking is still sleep. He was really doing the kid a favor. J.D. could admit he was cutting it close with his extravagant display in the Aquarium (goodness knows if he pushed the kid enough he might've just keeled over dead from exhaustion) but, hell, it was worth it. What a show.

There’s a soft creaking of metal behind him, interrupting his musings. J.D. grins.

“Up here to enjoy the view?” He raises his voice to be heard above the gale.

Husk’s limping gait reverberates, sharp and slow against the dull metal as they stand next to the rodent, over two heads taller even when they’re slouched. There are two wolves, once lifeless, strolling in the courtyard below. One gesticulates excitedly, rambling on about something the cryptids can’t quite hear, while the other listens fondly and lights a cigarette.

“Is he here?” Husk’s mangled sockets seem to scan the grounds. J.D. huffs a laugh.

“Patience is a virtue, pal. He’ll be here.”

“Don’t call me that.”

J.D. scoffs, head tilting as if he’s rolling his eyes, but the grin doesn’t falter.

“Hey, this whole thing was your idea. Thought we were partners in crime now!”

There’s a sound of shifting meat as Husk looks down to meet that infuriating smile.

“You were supposed to lead him here directly,” it drones, monotony twinged with irritation, “Instead, you decided to steep things in your unnecessary theatrics. Again.”

One of the wolves below bellows with laughter, an obnoxiously cheerful noise ringing throughout the courtyard. J.D. turns, hanging his cane on the metal railing before leaning back against it with a sigh. Infuriatingly casual.

“Hey, I was just thinking of you.” Husk seems to glare down at him. “What’s more enjoyable for you to watch: him and I walking for hours talking about junk that you don’t care about, or–?”

“I change my mind,” Husk deadpans, “Any option where you aren’t talking is more enjoyable.” Turning back to the hotel grounds, Husk tilts their head, as if listening for something. Their voice lilts into an invisible smile. “Seeing his delirious confusion almost makes your little stunt worthwhile.”

“See?” J.D. shrugs and folds his arms across his chest, “I was really bein' quite selfless.”

The two fall into silence as the wolf crushes the burnt-out cigarette beneath its heel and follows its companion inside. The rest of their conversation is inaudible as they enter– the wind whistles and howls at this altitude, and neither of the enigmatic creatures care enough to strain their ears over something so trivial. They watch, silent and observant as stone gargoyles, until the skybox bleeds from pure black into the indigo ink of twilight. When the birds begin to call, announcing the coming arrival of the invisible sun, Husk’s head twitches upward. 

“He’s here.” J.D.'s voice is low, curling with a conspiratory smile, before it blips back to his normal demeanor. “Snuck into the waitin’ room, clever kid. Why didja ever doubt me?”

A trace of something that might be a misplaced eye or raw sinew glints from the tear in Husk's burlap hood as their posture shifts out of the slouch, even taller than before.

"We doubted you because your entire scheme is surviving on luck," it snaps, sneering with frustrated contempt, “When you prove yourself actually reliable, and capable of listening, perhaps we won’t doubt you anymore.”

“Listen, I know scarecrows don't got brains, so you might not recall" —something in Husk's body chitters like furious cicadas— "but you ain’t my boss. ‘Sides, someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.” J.D. plucks his cane off the railing. “Loosen up a little.”

“Your reckless games could have gotten him killed.” The stern, accusatory jab makes the edges of J.D.’s grinning mouth twitch. “Then what would we have done?”

“I’m sure he woulda screwed up again.”

“This world is volatile now,” Husk continues venomously, the snarling whispers that weave beneath their words growing sharper and louder, “Any error could have unforeseen consequences, ones that may not lean in our favor. Ones that we may not be able to control.”

“Oh, would you ree-lax? I know what I'm doin’.”

“If you could treat this situation,” they hiss, “With a bit more delicacy. I’m sure you will find practicing restraint to be a rewarding experience.”

J.D. grips his cane until his palms burn, sighing long and low– a whispering siren of warning to the other cryptid. His snout contorts into a frown as he draws his breath back in, before he sculpts it back into that grin he knows will grate on Husk’s nerves. 

“I’ll leave the ‘delicate touch’ to you, old pal. I’ve got my own plans.”

Husk doesn’t reply, save for a hoarse, strangulated imitation of an annoyed exhale.

“You're impossible.” 

“Please, spare me the flattery.”

When J.D. turns around to face the wind, Husk is gone. He makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, squinting against the breeze.

“Always fun chattin’ with ya.” His voice rumbles quietly. Overhead, bird calls swell.

The crashing of an airplane is a horrible tragedy. A flaming comet of metal and oil and dying engines and crumpling propellers hurling through the sky. No matter where it makes its impact, it is beyond repair. There is no salvaging the blackened, heat-curled metal, sharp enough to sever limbs. There is no repairing the burnt leather seats and the punctured fuselage. And when the glass protecting the  intricate needles and gauges shatters from the impact, it cannot be glued back together. It will be smaller, and it will be many, and the gasoline-fueled fire may simply melt it into an unrecognizable lump. 

You can certainly try– you can weld and cut and glue and paint, replace every screw and nail until the engine runs as smooth as silk, but it is not the same engine that plummeted thousands of miles. You can repair a broken plane, but it will not be what it was.

Some people die in that blaze, that explosive, merciless fury. Too quickly to even wonder if they've written a will. Their families cry, and there is no body to bury. Just a closed casket and a polished spectre born of tearful eulogies and whispered prayers. 

But some unfortunate few survive by the skin of their teeth. 

Some claw their way out of the flaming wreckage to be faced with downed trees and dead grass, lungs black with oily smoke. 

Some people have to live with a hunk of metal in their leg and a wound so grotesque the flies start devouring it before they're even dead. 

Just long enough to feel their organs start failing and their blood start clotting. 

Long enough to cough up chunks of red into the yellow grass. 

Long enough to think about how, by the time anyone goes looking for them, they'll be rotted into the dirt and eaten by worms.

Laverne wakes up in a hospital bed. She feels a bit nauseous.

The buzzing of the fluorescent light is grating. She's dizzy before she even sits up, before she even opens her eyes. God, her eyes are cemented shut. If somebody could shut that horrible humming light off before her head explodes, that would just make her day. They could stand to shut that beeping off while they're at it, heart monitors always got on her nerves. 

A heart monitor.

As soon as she wonders why she hears it in the first place, the beeping quickens.

The pilot doesn't bother suppressing her groan of discomfort as she moves to rub her eyes. Whoever’s watching her is going to have to deal with how shitty she looks. Of course, her leg isn’t rotting off, so that's a bonus. 

The light buzzes. The heart monitor speeds up. 

Opening her eyes feels like prying half-dried super glue off of stone, but she doesn't need to see when her wing fumbles for her leg and finds not a trace of stray sheet metal. The thin hospital blanket wouldn't be able to hide that.

This was weird. Way too weird. She had felt her own heart stop and there wasn't one person for thousands of miles who would've been there to start it again. It's horribly bright but somehow too dark to see. Could someone shut that stupid monitor up already?

Laverne rips the electrodes off of her chest with shaking wings, uncaring of the few white feathers they take with them. Blood red eyes are wide and trembling and dry as ice as they scan the small room, shielded from the outside world by a measly blue and white curtain.  

When she tosses the paper-like blanket to the floor and stumbles to her feet, she’s stopped at the sight of the bedside table. On it, her helmet and jacket rest neatly, and her cane leans against the wood. It’s polished, somehow.

She had used it as a makeshift splint after the crash, not that it did much in the long run. 

“Oh, ho-oly shit–”

Laverne’s thundering heart nearly thrashes out of her chest when she notices that both of her legs are quite neatly attached to her body, like they’d never sustained any damage at all. Nothing is missing below the knee, no bones are broken, no infection is spreading– it seemed time had gone backwards. In the midst of the crooked whirlwind, she lets out a high, short chirp of a laugh, punctuated by rising tears. Why did they even bother giving her cane back? She was fine now. She was going to be fine. There’s another choked laugh. 

Might as well get dressed. Seems like she’s well enough to be released.

She only takes a few steps before her arms go weak and she doubles over, heaving stomach acid into the trash can beside her hospital bed– a mess of wheezing breaths and feathers standing on end. She was dead. She was dead. She is dead. God knows how long she’s been dead. Maybe years. Maybe decades. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. Some horrible writhing Thing is twisting inside her, gleefully singing that she doesn’t belong here. It’s right. She doesn’t. Another wet cough wrenches from her burning throat. Nothing is audible except the blood ringing in her skull. 

Laverne should be dead. She shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong here. 

It rings like a clock chime, a mantra behind her eyes as she numbly stands, grabs her helmet, and pushes the curtain aside.

Chapter Text

I feel bad that I even have to make this, but it can't really be helped I guess. The fic's gonna be on hiatus until I get motivation back, and I'm not sure when that's going to be.

I have so many ideas, so much that I want to do, but I've repeatedly had my enjoyment stolen from me by people who don't respect me or my work and seem to take enjoyment out of demeaning the people around them. I've tried my best to keep my passion in spite of this, to not let people without an ounce of respect for this fanfiction's source material steal the joy I got from writing this, but I feel guilty keeping you guys in constant suspense. It's not good for me to have these expectations constantly over me, and it isn't fair to dangle a conclusion over your heads that may not ever come. I hate that it came to this. But it's gotten to a point that I can't stand to look at my own characters or my own work. It's gone from a lack of motivation to just pure hatred, especially with Laverne. 

I cannot stress enough that if it was up to me, I would have a chapter out every week, like I did when the fic first started. But it's not up to me, not when parasites on my life have ruined and ridiculed and objectified the art I poured so much of my heart into. Writing this was my life for so long. It shouldn't mean this much to me, I know that. It's an AO3 fanfiction that I'm crying over, but I know it meant something to other people too. And I'm sorry I have to rob you all of whatever joy you may have gotten from it. It's dumb, but I'm not even being dramatic. I'm literally crying while I'm typing this lmao.

I really did try. I tried to be kind to people who treated me like shit, I tried to keep up my passion and my workflow, I tried to love this project the way that everyone else seems to. But I can't do it anymore. And I promise whatever anger or disappointment you feel towards me is nothing in comparison to the anger and disappointment I feel towards myself.

I know it's cruel to do this so soon after the Terminus cancellation as well, that isn't lost on me. It feels arrogant to say that I feel like I'm taking something else away from the community, but it still does feel that way. I don't want my reputation to be "the person that can never finish any of their projects". I know this is probably horrible timing, but I wanted to do this before I lost my nerve, because I know I would. I know I'd shut my mouth to try and keep everyone happy, but I'm learning now that all that does is slowly drain me until I have nothing left. 

This didn't need to be this long, or verbose- I know that. But I feel like the people who have actually appreciated what I do for nearly the past two years deserve more than one sentence, I guess. Maybe the assumption that people even care at all makes me arrogant, but after having my self-worth beaten into the ground I think I've earned it just a little bit. 

Again I'm just, sorry it has to be like this. I hope this isn't forever, and one day I can think about continuing this story and feel something other than dread, but for now, this is the step I'm choosing to take. I appreciate all of you more than you can imagine, especially the people who have stood by and done their best to support me while I struggled with this. I wish it didn't feel like I was disappointing all of you as well.

Thank you to everyone who's read In My Restless Dreams. I hope that one day I can come back to it with the love I felt for it in the beginning. Until then, I'll be seeing you.