Birdie / Interactions. - Tumblr Posts

🪐 — serena “birdie” bird / tags.

🪐 — lil starter  for  @barnaes​ 

                ❝  DID YOU KNOW  that mushrooms are technically closer to animals than they are to plants ? ❞  it almost makes birdie feel bad, to be talking about how  alive  the little fungi are as she dices up chanterelles for their dinner.  ❝  they communicate, just like we do.  well, not  just  like we do,  obviously.  but they send messages out on, like, electric currents kinda,  &  they travel through their root network.  it’s sorta like what happens in our brains.  they can even talk to trees.  isn’t that neat ? ❞   her fingertips take a pause from their work to lift a particularly lovely chanterelle,  birdie closely examining the tiny folds  &  curling edges that make up the mushroom’s strangely lovely shape,  before holding it out for james to see.  ❝ they’re pretty, too.  maybe i’ll have to paint a  mushroom series  next. ❞

🪐 — james barnes ;

musicality in the lilt of her voice, the soft up and down has become a familiar background to afternoons, sinking a comfort deeper into his limbs than he cares to admit. there’s an appeal to the world she inhabits, not without it’s own sadnesses, but beautiful in spite of them, and he thinks of his own, made of metal and blood, and cannot help the shame that sets through him. there’s little he can offer but the way bone crumbles in the palm, the way his dreams are haunted by a flood of red, stories that centre on himself as the monster. if they fell from his mouth, he knows she would catch them, but selfishly, in a way that sinks his stomach to admit, he likes the way she finds summer in the cold of him, likes the idea that he is not a horror story. it takes a moment for the phases to sink into his bones, for him to realise that he was meant to answer in the lull of conversation.    ❛   that’s really neat. bet the conversations aren’t up to much though.   ❜       not that he’s famous for offering much out in the way of conversations.         ❛   as long as you’re not pinching them off my plate to study them, a mushroom series sounds nice.   ❜

     THE LAUGHTER FALLS EASILY FROM HER LIPS,  especially when he’s nearby — which has been more  &  more often as of late. james’ presence in her life has quickly become as natural as breathing, as comfortable as her favorite knit jumper. birdie has been a bit of a loner since she was a kid, a little too much, too weird for most people to handle being around for long. but james doesn’t seem to mind her errant rambling. the two of them moving around each other as they cook dinner together in her little kitchen is the most relaxed she’s felt around another person in years. he’s the only person she can remember letting in who has decided they want to stay.  &  it makes her giggly, giddy, just glad not to be alone for the first time in what she’s only now realizing is a long time.  ❝ oh, but how could you possibly know what mushrooms talk about ?  they’ve been around for longer than plants, they’re the only living organism to survive all the ice ages  &  extinctions  &  stuff,  &  they’re all connected through their mycelium networks. like a hive mind. they’ve seen pretty much everything that’s ever happened. i bet they have all kinds of stories to tell, if we were able to listen. ❞  she’s smiling, her eyebrows raised, waiting for his response before popping the cap into her mouth raw. it’s earthy  &  sweet,  &  the taste makes her she wiggles her shoulders a little in excitement as she chews it.

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

inevitably, she becomes the most delightful interlude, seems to beckon summer through the clouds and set a comforting warmth in hollowed out bones. in so short a time, she has taken his ribs and split them open, set up a home for herself inside of his emptiness, and demanded that she stay, that he knit up cartilage around her until the space is accommodating. he finds he doesn’t mind the intrusion, that there’s a strange comfort in the way her voice lilts through phrases, the way she fills silence with a musicality that he hasn’t found before. she’s singular in the way she clouds his senses, forces air into his limbs until he finds he’s breathing easier, that for all the time he was with her, he didn’t feel the same leaden sense of shame piling in the pit of his stomach. somehow, she pulls smiles from his lips like she’s owed them, slips fingers into his chest and ensures his heart resumes beating.  and he finds himself hooked, not willing to risk a moment of their friendship for fear it might end. 

her hand in his is a reprieve from his thoughts, a warmth that spreads out through his bones and leaves him baffled. he watches as @musecraft​ traces across his fingers, mapping out the lines as if they were not blood - soaked only days before. she doesn’t know the horrors, and perhaps he should tell her the truth of it, give her a chance to run screaming from the monster he’s become, but he cannot bring the words to form. it’s selfish to want her there, to play the ruse for the warmth of her body by his side; admittedly, it’s not the worst thing he’s done. so he smiles and allows her the moment, resists the new urge that builds to house her hand in his and doesn’t allow himself to stick on why it builds. he cannot ruin a good thing by hoping, cannot make a memory from the feeling that shakes through him at the contact. friendship is more light than he ever could have imagined.          ❛   careful, or i’ll think you’re studying me for your next drawing.   ❜​

     IF SHE EVER TOOK PAUSE TO CONSIDER IT, she would likely regard that day that she sat down to sketch beside the handsome stranger at her favorite park bench a pivotal moment in her life. how quickly after that james had become one of her most treasured companions; how faithfully he seemed to keep returning to her regardless of how many times his mysterious military work called him away.  &  in spite of the short duration of their friendship, birdie already found herself missing him when he was gone, his absence in her home  &  at her side something she had already grown to find rather unpleasant. which is why upon his return, birdie finds herself scooting close to him, tucking under his arm  ( the one of flesh  &  bone )  as though it is shelter from rain, protection from cold. but even that level of closeness does not entirely shake the sense of loneliness that has come to set in when he is away,  &  so she tenderly reaches out to take his hand into her own.

                                              gently, birdie let her graceful fingers trace over the curvature of his larger ones, the pad of her thumb smoothing a crease of his knuckle before carefully flipping his hand over, so it’s opening upward instead,  &  presses her palm to his. their hands could not be more different — hers slender  &  small with paint flecks stuck under her nails, his strong  &  wide  &  well trained to hold a weapon. but while she knows he is capable of violence, birdie also knows james to be capable so much more than war. the moment itself is proof, his touch always gentle  (  at least where she is concerned ). their fingers almost entwine, but birdie slips hars back at the last moment, tracing the lines that crisscross his palm to commit them to her memory.  

                                   his words shake her from her focus, however,  &  she glances up at him with a sparkle in her eyes, leaning just a degree closer as she speaks.  ❝  well, maybe i am, ❞  she replies,  an eyebrow arching inquisitively.  ❝ would that be ok with you ? ❞ 

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

she’s sunshine bottled, a lightness that forces itself between his ribs until cartilage bends to her, skin stretching out until it forms a shelter from the storms. the pressure around his lungs lessens with every soft syllable falling from her lips, creating a space filled with a sunlight that even he can feel, built to house him in her warmth. hands still on what he’s meant to be doing, attention locked on her actions, on the soft upturn of her lips that seems to spread upwards to her cheeks and eyes without hesitation. he sometimes thinks he’s lost the ability to show happiness, that they pushed ice so deep into his eyes that he can never light them fully, can never show the oceans of feeling he still retains. not for the first time, he fixates on what it must be like to exist in her brain, to wonder about mushrooms and nature and breathe life into the world that surrounds. perhaps that’s why he finds himself trying to exist in her orbit, selfishly taking that hope for himself.         ❛   you know, that one was probably trying to say ‘i hope this lady doesn’t eat me’ to its mushroom buddies.   ❜     he can’t help the tease, the slight eye roll that comes with delivery even as he offers her a rare smile. here, he almost believes he can be softer, that he can exist in this warmth and the world outside can stop existing for a moment. it’s intoxicating.        ❛   we need most of them for the recipe you know, can’t have you snacking them all away.   ❜ 

      HER ATTENTIONS RETURNED TO THE TASK AT HAND,  birdie uses a knife to carefully  &  evenly dice up the last of the chanterelles. but still her eyes linger on james, even as she pushes them into the pan, catching the small smile that plays across his lips. she knows she’s being a little silly,  &  sometimes that can put people a bit off. most people can’t really handle her eccentricities for long. but james seems to find her charming enough, his hard exterior even cracking enough to let a glimmer of humor through.  &  she giggles, glad to have him there as they prepare their dinner together.  ❝ well, the joke’s on him then, because we’re going to eat all of these. ❞  she adds a dollop of butter, a sprinkle of salt, &  the mushrooms beginning to simmer,  &  crushes a clove of garlic with the flat side of her knife, the warm smell of dinner beginning to fill up her small kitchen. ❝ don’t worry, there will be plenty for us both. ❞  she says, tossing the garlic in as well  &  using a large spoon to stir it all together. she lifts her eyes to rest on his face again, trying to commit its angles  &  planes to her memory. sometimes james seems like he’s far away, even when he’s right beside her. but birdie is gradually learning how to invite him back into her world when he goes somewhere else, nudging his hip gently with her own. ❝ maybe even enough that you can take some home with you, so you can have some leftovers later. i wouldn’t want you to go hungry. ❞

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

words acidic on the tongue, spill out with the fear that they will ruin this closeness, that they will rip the sun from the sky. he’s grown attached, accommodated space around him to fit @musecraft​ perfectly; how could he willingly give that up?❛  i never thought about how important the sky was until i didn’t have one.  ❜
     [ sc. ]

        A BIRD IN A CAGE  might never know the open sky at all, she thinks,  &  wouldn’t that be even worse than having it for a time, only to lose it ?  no matter what may happen tomorrow, no matter if she loses him tonight, birdie will never be able to bring herself to regret him. ❝ well, why can’t you have one now ? ❞  she asks softly, her fingertips resting gently across the back of his hand. ❝ no one deserves it more than you. ❞

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

even his name is ripped open, torn apart until it becomes something tangible, something they can sink teeth into and tear to shreds until it no longer feels like his. his own self is lost between memories that are and are not his, an endless cacophony of voices that slip between his bones until they echo in the hollows, convince him of a haunting tied to his cartilage. she takes his hand like he were nothing more than a man, like they didn’t give him a name and twist him into a horror story. if she somehow doesn’t know the truth of his existence, if that’s why he’s allowed so close to her, allowed someone who doesn’t alternate between fear and pity, then selfishly he wants to keep it that way. mesmerised gaze watches the soft trace of her fingers over his, allows her the freedom to move it this way and that way, trying not to focus on the clawing in his chest at the first touches, the realisation of how long it’s been since he’s been allowed this. 

there’s a new dryness in his throat, a thickness as he swallows his voice back, fights hard to not have a reaction that might seem strange, that might give away something of the truth of him. he doesn’t like the hiding, doesn’t like lying when she has been nothing but kind, but there’s a lightness around her and he doesn’t want to do anything to lose that, not when it makes him feel like he can breathe again, like there’s a hope for someone believing he’s still a good man. so he sits there and lets her play with his fingers, wonders for a moment what it might have been like if she’d taken his hand between hers, has to stop that thought when he realises he might have liked her to, might have wanted a moment when he felt like anyone else in the world.

      —        ❛   don’t think anyone’s going to be interested in pictures of me. ❜       it’s a lie really. there are far too many reasons people might want anything connected with him, and he’s never sure which one of them is worse, which one of them makes him feel most out of place in his own body. he doesn’t want to let her down though, likes the way the light lingers on her cheeks when she smiles at him properly, finds himself craving her approval whenever he can get it.      ❛   you can, if you want to. just … only for your eyes, okay?   ❜

                 SHE DOESN’T CLAIM TO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM.  in fact, when she thinks about it, there’s actually very little that birdie does know about him. james is a tightly closed book most of the time, his memories  &  missions always fraught with painful things he either will not or cannot discuss with her. but while she knows that it all weighs heavily on him, none of it really matters to her — especially not when they are seated together on the sofa, an old record scratching softly in the background, alpine dozing at their feet. casual  &  comfortable together, as if they’ve always been like this. part of her hopes they always will. after so long on her own, it’s just nice to have someone she trusts around.                                           &  birdie does trust him, in spite of how little time they’ve actually had together. it’s not a question of james’ abilities; no, she knows what the hands she gently traces are able to do — she’s not in denial about that. but with her, he’s always been so cautious  &  gentle, so kind  &  caring. how could she not feel safe with him when he lets her tuck under his arm  &  trace her fingertips over his hand ?              when james gives his conditional permission, birdie comes alight, bouncing to her feet with the excitement, his hand still held loosely in her own. ❝ of course, i promise, they wouldn’t be for anyone else. just me. cross my heart, ❞  she chirps, her free hand tracing a large x over her chest to illustrate.  ❝ just let me get my sketchbook. ❞  &  it’s only when she turns away that she releases his hand, practically skipping across the room to her bag  &  tugging the notebook  &  her little tin of drawing pencils out. she’s smiling widely when she makes her way back to his side, seating herself back on the couch with her feet tucked close to her hips, knees raised up in front of her chest. ❝ you know, i’ve actually been wanting to do this ever since i saw you sitting at my bench that day, ❞ she says with a giggle, opening her book to a blank page  &  propping it on her folded legs.

🪐 —open prompt  sent by  @immobiliter​  /  robin                        ❛ wish i didn’t care .❜

      TOWNS LIKE HAWKINS COULD FEEL LIKE A CAGE  for those who didn’t easily  fit into the established mold. birdie knew far too well the uncomfortable sensation of not belonging in a close-knit community like this one.  &  folks around small towns could be mean to anyone who was the slightest bit different  — especially high school kids. it was one of the reasons that she kept the art room door open during her lunch period: any of her students were welcome to come in  &  eat with her if they couldn’t brave the cafeteria for any reason, or if they just didn’t have anyone else to sit with.                                           robin had been taking her up the offer more often lately. birdie didn’t mind; she was grateful for the company, in fact. even if robin didn’t want to talk about it, it was just nice not to eat alone. but she also can’t help but worry about her student.  &  birdie doesn’t really know what to say  — doesn’t want to push her to talk about it — but she wants to help, however she can. ❝ it’s not always a bad thing to care, ❞  she says, her eyes downcast as she slices an apple into neat eighths.  ❝ but you’ve also gotta remember for your own sake that not everyone’s opinion is worth listening to. ❞

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

her touch comes as if he is delicate, contains a delicate nature that he has learnt not to expect, a difference to every other touch he remembers. there’s a soft, bashful nature to the way he smiles, gaze wandering down to watch where her fingertips lie, gentle and unblemished when he can only see his own in shades of red. a better man might draw away, might not let her be tinged with the darkness he knows still resides within his chest, but he’s developed a need to hear her laughter, to let it wash away the remnants of sins that still live in his bones.       ❛  it’s not quite that simple. a nice thought though.  ❜

       FROWNS DO NOT COME EASILY  to her face,  the muscles moving slowly to take on the unfamiliar position of her brow furrowed  &  her lips downturned. james often had an air of melancholy about him that even her sunlight disposition could not always shake him from.  &  suddenly birdie feels that it would be selfish to even try. perhaps she is asking too much of him. perhaps she is only making it harder.  &  the last thing she wants is to cause him any more pain  — james has been through quite enough already. ❝ well, i’ll tell you what is simple; ❞  she says, one hand carefully interlacing her grip with his while her other extends a bit higher. her fingertips are soft when they touch his jaw, softly lifting  &  turning his face until she can look at him directly, her eyes alight  &  hopeful when they link with his.  ❝ when you come back, ❞ birdie refuses to say the word if aloud.  ❝ just know that i’ll be here waiting for you. ❞

🪐 — JAMES BARNES​.

attention lingers on her movements, watches the way she seems almost to dance across the floor, a lightness that he cannot imagine possessing, almost ethereal in motion. in the back of his mind, an old voice whispers that he should know better, that he should blow his own cover and be honest about the rotting that sits in his bones, the past that he’s trying so hard to escape for a moment. she’s a welcome reprieve, and perhaps he loses himself on the idea that she has created him, made up some past which leans softer on his skin. maybe he would like the version in her mind, find a solace in bones not coated in decay. she makes him believe there could be something more, that he ought to be able to build something in this life, and he loses himself in the middle of it, allows himself to imagine for an hour or so. while he has her.       ❛   you should keep hold of the leftovers. i never keep many around since work likes to pull me off whenever it wants. be a shame for them to go to waste.   ❜       he levels cadence well, quirks his lips upwards and brushes past any mention of work, doesn’t want to linger there where the phrase can catch up with him. better to quickly move them forward, to swallow back the ache and surround himself in any moments of softness. that he can have.      ❛   i’m good at finding food for myself, been doing it long enough.   ❜       a slight smirk, joke that only he is in on, before:       ❛   i bought us some decent wine through.   ❜

               MUSIC ONLY SHE CAN HEAR  seems to drift in  &  out of her head, disjointed melodies humming their way out of her brain via her throat. cooking comes easy, able to be executed on muscle memory alone.  &  usually that allows her thoughts to wander away into the clouds, detached  &  aimless.  &  yet as birdie begins to drift, she notices a new tether attached to her wrist that wasn’t there before. it’s not limiting or constricting. it doesn’t weigh enough to hold her down. yet it connects her to the earth, guides her back to where she knows it will be safe to land.  &  when she follows it, james is there, solid  &  real  &  warm, alive beside her as they crowd together in the kitchen. returning to reality to find him waiting feels like coming home;  &  maybe it’s a selfish thing to ask, but she hopes he never leaves.                                              her nose scrunches up a little at the refusal, but the explanation james gives makes sense  —  she wouldn’t want the mushrooms to go to waste, either. not when they’d already been chopped up  &  cooked for their benefit. it would be bad manners to waste their sacrifice by tossing them into the garbage. ❝ if you’re sure you couldn’t take them with you, ❞  she chirps in assent. ❝ i know you can take care of yourself, i just want to help — you don’t have to do it all on your own. ❞ a smile is raised on her lips as birdie glances at his face before giving the pan a final stir. an attentive eye examines the mushrooms in the pan,  &  is pleased to see that their edges are browning, the butter simmering pleasantly with rice  &  shallots  &  spices. birdie claps her hands together, her voice singsong as she proclaims ❝ it’s done ! ❞  &  spins on her toes so that she can extract a pair of plates from the corner cupboard.  ❝ that’s perfect. thank you, james. there are glasses just there, in the cabinet next to the sink. what kind did you get ? ❞

🪐 — JAMES BARNES​.

she becomes an act of salvation, a promise that there is better somewhere in his cartilage, an old, softened feeling beckoned to the surface by her fingertips. he offers nothing but the ashes of him, the rot and the ruin of potential, and watches as artists fingers rearrange shattered parts into something she could love. if there is goodness still within him, one patch of skin untouched by the flood and the fire, then she has found it, has allowed it to find itself through the rot. the hand he holds is clasped gently, face leaning into where her fingertips lie, allowing any sense of gentleness to wash through his bones, hoping her touch will imprint itself so deep that he will feel it when away, that he will know there is something good still waiting for him.          ❛  pick a restaurant, anywhere you want to try, and i’ll book it on my way back.  ❜        something to think about, a focus point that he can cling to when destruction rains upon him. 

         SHE KNOWS HE MUST LEAVE,  but james is still here for now,  &  birdie doesn’t want to take even a moment of this brief scrap of time they have together for granted. his face leans into her touch, a subtle pressure against her palm. his words are the promise of an after, one where they will be able to sit together like this once again. an affirmation of a future that he will be present  &  awake to see  —  perhaps even one they will be able to share. &  birdie could never tell him not to go when he needed, but at least she can believe him when he says that he will return to her. the hand falls from his face with a modicum of hesitance, even as her other remains stubbornly entwined in his. ❝ is this you asking me out for a date ? ❞  but she’s only teasing, humor coloring her tone as a smile gradually returns to her lips, never able to be kept away for long.

🪐 — JAMES BARNES​  for  birdie !

she is a balm for the aching, a promise of softness that begins to feel addictive, a hope that builds in his chest. they say he needs to get out, make efforts to expand the life he’s in now, give himself permission to keep on living. her words work wonders, feel heavy in the space between them, weighted with something like promise. air is swallowed thick through his lungs, the seconds mounting up before he finds his voice, hoping it doesn’t crack too greatly when he speaks.          ❛   maybe. ❜       the more he thinks about it, the idea becomes appealing, seems to fill his chest with hot air and leaves him flushed with colour.      ❛   i mean yeah … that would be good. we could make it a date. ❜       how long since anything like that? there’s a plan already forming in his mind, trying to find the parts of him that might have excelled, hoping he hasn’t forgotten everything he’d once known. the nervousness still lingers, draws any confidence back into himself;         ❛   if you’d like that? ❜

      THROUGH HER EYES  he is practically crystalline, wide gaze tracing the facets of his face with a desire to memorize.  she will call this moment to mind while he is away,  &  as long as she does, he is certain to return.  @barnaes​​ may see himself as devoid of all vestiges of life after all the horrors inflicted upon him by cruel hands.  but birdie can see how a flush of color seems to rise from deep within him at the idea that there could be life for him still on the other side of all the violence he has been forced to inflict  &  endure.  what was alive in him once long ago is still there beneath all the blood  &  metal.  of this, she at least has no doubt.  after all, how could she doubt what can be seen so plainly with her own eyes ?  this is no act of faith;  this is mere observation.  ❝ you’re not very good at taking hints, are you james ?  ❞  but in spite of the tease, there’s nothing but happiness in her tone.  &  her smile grows so wide it overwhelms her entire face, nose wrinkling  &  eyes scrunched together at the corners.  ❝ i’d love to, of course ! ❞

🪐 — ROBIN BUCKLEY  for  birdie !

       She always did a good job of pretending; to her mom, that academic attainment and securing a future miles away from Hawkins was more important than friends; to her fellow band nerds, that it didn’t matter that they’d never be cool enough to sit with the cheerleaders and the jocks, that it was way more interesting to talk about the nuances in playing forte as opposed to fortissimo than it was to talk about who’d been caught making out behind the bleachers this week, anyway. That second statement was admittedly true. But Robin knew for a fact that her life would be easier if she was sat at that table. If talking so passionately about musical theory got her social respect instead of social ridicule.

        “ Oh, I know that. There are so many people here in Hawkins whose opinions should not be allowed to exist, let alone listened to. ” Robin spared Miss Birdie a quick glance as she spoke, but something about her art teacher always put her ease when it came to expressing her opinions, no matter how much they went against the status quo. Whether it was her eccentricities or just her sense of style, there was something very un-Hawkins about her. It was what had drawn her to this classroom during her lunch breaks on multiple occasions now. Here, she could be more herself. At this point, her fork was all but playing with her food, as opposed to helping her eat it. “ But it’s just… frustrating, you know? That those people don’t realise how small-minded they’re being — or worse, that they realise it and don’t care. ”

     HARSH THOUGH THEY MAY BE,   robin’s words still bring a subtle smile to her lips.  so many people whose opinions should not be allowed to exist.  though it had been a long time since she had fled her own tiny hometown, birdie could still remember the feeling of suffocating, the insufferable itch to escape the life that you had been given  &  make one of your own, no matter what it may cost.  towns like hawkins wanted its children to think such freedoms were impossible, but birdie knew better.  &  it seemed robin did too  —  without even needing to be told, she seemed to carry the awareness that there was so much more out there for her than could possibly be found within the hawkins town limits.                       ❝ small towns tend to breed small minds.  especially since most of the people who live here have never known anything else. still, that doesn’t make it any easier for those who might see things a little bit differently. ❞  a frizzy lock falls from the messy pile atop her head, precariously held in place with two pencils pushed through the twist,  &  birdie sweeps it absently behind her ear.  ❝ but i know it’s still hard.  try not to listen to those people, if you can hep it.  &  keep a look out for ways to make where you are now just a little bit better. ❞  even the hawkins art room itself had been small  &  unbearably empty when she had first taken the job over, but by now it was crowded with birdie’s own personal touches.  the brick has all been papered over with all manner of paintings  &  prints,  a series sun-catchers made of dyed shards of glass hang in a row from the ceiling, sending specks of light spinning around the walls,  &  the windows are covered in an abstract tissue-paper pattern that turns the light filtering in from outside into kaleidoscopic pools of color.  from such a bland little room, birdie thinks she’s managed to make a rather beautiful little space. ❝ &  remember, you don’t have to stay here forever, if you don’t want to.  have you given any thought to what you might want to do after you graduate ? ❞

🪐 — JAMES BARNES​   for  birdie  !

❛  —

      [ … ]    hey,    thought i’d pick you up and steal the rest of your friday night. if you want, @musecraft​​​​​​?❜

       ❝ IS IT STILL STEALING  if i come willingly ? ❞  it was a question that she could ask of herself just as well as james.  birdie had long ago resigned herself to the absence of romance in her life, closed off the doors to that part of herself.  only james had been able to find the entrance  &  work it gently  &  patiently open so that he could slip inside.  ❝ where are we going ? ❞

🪐 — JAMES BARNES​  for  birdie !

he  has  pushed  back  splintered  bones ,   has  hidden  them  at  the  base  of  his  spine  and  learnt  to  breathe  in  spite  of  the  locked  box  of  horrors .   she  brings  a  willingness  to  live  back  to  his  body ,   convinces  him  that  there  can  be  an  aftermath  where  he  fills  his  life  with  more  than  the  war.      ❛    we can look into that later.    ❜     the  tease  comes  without  pause ,    gentle  as  it  drips  down ;    he’s  been  planning  for  this ,   used  it  to  occupy  his  mind ,   keep  him  from  falling  deeper  into  the  regret .    keeping  busy  seems  quite  the  suggestion .        ❛  it’s a surprise. but we can walk there, that’s the only clue.    ❜

   STEALING OR NOT,  birdie doesn’t mind either way. the laws that designated certain actions as criminal were so harsh  &  definitive  &  rarely left space for the context of a person’s entire lifetime. instead, they divided the world into rigid boxes to designate humans as either good or bad. but in her experience, life was far more messy than all that, the reality of a person’s makeup more of a vast gradient than a neat checkbox. though if she had to choose only one side or the other, birdie was confident that james would be the good sort. even if he didn’t see it in himself, she’d always had a bit of a knack for finding the light where others could not.  ❝ walk there, hm ?  so mysterious. ❞  birdie is certain that she is safe if james is with her  —  safer than she is without him, even.  so there’s no hesitation as she tucks herself close to his side  &  links her arm through his. her hand curls around his arm  &  holds him gently, reveling in the sensation of his powerful muscle moving subtly beneath his sleeve. she doesn’t need to know where they’re going; she trusts him.  ❝ alright then. lead the way, mystery man. consider me all yours for the night. ❞

🪐 — JAMES BARNES  for  birdie !

panic is a clawing beast;     the answer he knows she wants is ash on his tongue, too thick to fall between the teeth even if he knows it would soothe, even if he knows the moment would end faster, without casualties. the rest of the drying up provides a welcome distraction, too methodological, too precise for it to happen naturally, wiping out the pan from dinner like it’s weighted, like the domesticity could be a salvation. he’d meant honesty when he’d offered it, expected that @musecraft​​ would understand when the words don’t come, that there’s pasts locked away because that’s the only way he knows how to breathe; all he can offer her is the truth away from the aching. it takes a moment, the too - loud ticking of the clock reminding him that he’s been silent too long, that he’s holding on to the words out of fear that they will shatter the peace. 

❛   i don’t know.   ❜        at least that’s honest. elbows lean against the kitchen counter, a stance more casual than the way his stomach churns inside him.       ❛   my mom did. she believed in every bit of it, had all the proper traditions for the holidays. when she died, dad kept them up but without the heart of it. i don’t remember ever asking him really. and when i came back, rebecca was too far gone to tell me anything about it, but her kids had traditions. still do, they invite me over sometimes.  ❜      but he’s a stranger to them. he’s a name that was martyred, something that the pride has disappeared from, too complicated to exist comfortably in the lives that they have built. none of that answers the question, but it buys time, gives him a moment to think about what he should say, work through the feelings and come up with something close to an answer.        ❛   i like being there. i like taking part in other people’s traditions because sometimes they remind me of being back there, and sometimes because it’s the only thing that the army didn’t get. but i don’t know if i believe in it, not anymore.  ❜ 

        THE ONLY THING SHE WANTS  from james is  the truth.  this is a touchy subject for some, she knows  —  faith inspires passion,  &  so many people are so convinced their version of god is the only one that can exist.  &  birdie knows that he goes to synagogue,  that there is some part of himself that has a relationship with the spiritual.  james tends to be closed off about things like this, but she can’t help but be curious.  she just wants to know everything about him  —  including this, even if they disagree about it.  &  james is so convinced that all he has to offer the world is violence, that bloodshed is the only thing his hands are capable of, in spite of the gentleness he has always shown her.  so it makes her wonder who he is within those holy walls  —  if he prays when he visits,  &  if he believes when he does.  but birdie can finally understand that if god does exist, then it appears differently to everyone.  &  if synagogue is where james finds it,  then who would she be to judge him for that ?       so birdie listens closely as he speaks, leaning back against the opposite countertop  &  patiently waiting for @destage​ to find the right words.  &  when he does, she nods, her wide eyes never falling from his face.  she can understand his passion better as a reflection of the love of his community  —  &  as connection with others, which he so desperately needs  ( he is still a human, too, after all ).  but birdie also notices the absence of true faith, the lack of conviction when it comes to a higher power beyond that.  &  she crosses the tile floor on feet clad in mismatched socks  &  curls into him in the way that’s become so natural to them.  both hands tuck around his waist  &  slip up the back of his shirt,  &  birdie rises to her tiptoes so she can nuzzle her face into his throat, lips touching a feather-light kiss just above the pulse point there.  ❝ i get that.  thank you for telling me. ❞  her fingertips trace little patterns over his spine in an attempt to soothe him, swaying slightly back  &  forth between her feet as she clings to his solid  &  steady form.  ❝ it’s still  a big deal  for you.  &  i hope you know that i support you going. ❞  &  then birdie pulls back from her embrace just enough to peer up at him, a soft smile on her lips.  ❝ but it’s not  the only thing  they didn’t get.  they didn’t get you.  you know how i know ?  because you’re still here. ❞   her small hand splays wide over his chest, blue  &  yellow paint flecked across her knuckles  &  under her fingernails.   ❝ right now, with me.  you’re right here, james. ❞ 

🪐 — spotify wrapped memes : @polarnoid ( astarion ) for birdie # 95 ▶ big & scared by raleigh ritchie

THERE IS DANGER AHEAD, she knows. the parasite in her mind doesn't make itself known, most days, but birdie is well aware that it is only a matter of time for her if she does not rid herself of it. & ridding herself of it will be treacherous, but at least she is not alone. & at least tonight — at least here — there is some beauty to be found. she & her companions have made their temporary camp in a lush valley, & birdie has drawn away from the rest to perch at the riverside humming to herself, weaving the wild poppies & daisies growing there into a chain.

well used to being on her own, birdie senses more than hears the presence of another, & turns to see astarion regarding her from a distance. without breaking her tune, she flutters a hand toward him, beckoning him to approach before patting the empty patch of grass at her side, a clear invitation to join her. ❝ come & take a break, step into the sun. ❞

🪐 — OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH : @baldursgoons ( aurora ) for birdie ▶ ❝ we’re friends. friends tell each other these kind of things. ❞

IT'S BEEN AWHILE since birdie has had a real friend, & she pauses in her work at mending a heavy winter cloak to look up at aurora in surprise. ❝ oh. they do ? ❞ of course, birdie considers almost everyone to be her friend, even those she hasn't met yet. but it's hard to keep friends when you don't stay in one place for very long, & birdie tends to wander on her own more often than not. so to hear the assertion being directed at her brings a broad smile to her face, her pale feathered wings giving a giddy flutter. ❝ i didn't know. i guess i've never had one stick around for long enough to ask. ❞

she hesitates, but aurora seems genuinely curious. & though birdie hasn't had anyone ask for awhile, the story hasn't faded from her memory. her eyes drop to her stitching as she begins. ❝ my father was a mortal — i never met my mother, but he thought her an angel when they first met, on account of her wings. he said they were so great they could almost touch the ground. when she left him, she left me, too. i didn't have my wings when i was a baby, so i guess she thought i was a mortal, & that i should be with my own kind. but when they came in ... ❞ she pauses, glancing back up to catch aurora's eyes, her wings settling close against her back. ❝ my father didn't enjoy having the reminder of her. so i left. i've been on my own ever since. ❞ & birdie smiles then, shrugging. it isn't a sad story ; not to her. after all, it ends with her being set free.

❝ & you ? what of your family ? ❞