I couldn’t touch you without ruining you,
so I didn’t touch you at all.

It’s when you’re on the brink of something
that you lose your balance.
You told me that once.
When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to,
my heart plays Russian Roulette with my throat.
I swear I fired that night, but, nothing.

Someday, I’ll show you the bullet I had for you,
after time has done the wash.
I’ll take it out of the jar of missed opportunities.
We’ll hold it up to the light.
You’ll roll it around your mouth like a fallen tooth.
You won’t forgive me exactly,
but we’ll laugh about how small it is.
We’ll wonder how such a little thing
could ever have meant so much.

— "All I Had To Say For Myself," Mindy Nettifee (via audrotas) —


miso ; home-made tattoos ; fireworks for k. ;
traded for help installing a show ; sydney, 2013

The Trio met for the first time 23 years ago today.

Anything Peggy Carter-related after CATWS. Idk, former members of SHIELD visiting her or nurses trying to shield (hah) her from what the organization she built had become.
asked by Anonymous


She grows worse very quickly. She has no appetite, and her thirst becomes such a constant companion that she barely registers it. People come and go very frequently. It seems that every time she opens her eyes someone else is sitting by her bedside.

There’s her Lorelai, slipping Peggy’s rosary into her hand, the one Gabe bought for her in Venice. It’s such beautiful colored glass. Deep, true reds. “Antoine’s gonna come visit soon,” Lorelai promises, squeezing Peggy’s other hand. “He’s got some things to take care of first, but he’ll make the time.” Peggy tells her not to worry, that of course she understands. The country must be in a serious state. She’s immeasurably proud of him—always doing whatever he can to help. “He gets that from his grandma,” her daughter says, an old call and response. “And his grandfather,” Peggy replies. 

There are flowers on the bedside table. Creamy white roses. “Now who brought those,” she asks aloud, and there is no reply. 

Steve comes, and he plugs in an ipod full of music from when she knew him—Duke Ellington, Glen Miller, Patti Page, Billy Holliday. He tucks a white strand of hair back behind her ear. They talk a little about Gabe, and they talk a little about Nicholas. “He isn’t dead,” Steve tells her, looking very serious. It seems no one really dies these days. “I always knew he’d do well,” she says. 

She opens her eyes and Antoine is asleep in the chair next to her, looking exhausted. Poor darling. She wonders what grade he’s in now. College? It’s somewhere in New England, she’s sure of it. 

She wakes up in the middle of the night, thirsty, and reaches for some water. It takes a surprising amount of strength to hold her glass between both her hands, even half-full. “Could you set this back on the table for me,” she begins to ask before she remembers she’s alone, but stops. A hand reaches out and immediately takes the glass from her. It appears to be made of metal. 

She knows that she can’t always trust what she sees, that sometimes she gets confused. She tells herself she must be confused, because James Barnes is holding her glass. She remembers that funeral, she knows she does. His hair is long and ragged, one of his arms is not right, and he looks as though he hasn’t slept in days. “You don’t look well,” she tells him. He shrugs. “Just tired,” he says finally, and carefully sets her glass down on the table. Peggy smiles. “Me too,” she says. 

There’s music playing, a song she knows. You’ll never know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you, or just how empty they all seemed without you. So kiss me once, kiss me twice, kiss me once again… “Will you turn the radio off, my darling,” she says without opening her eyes. “That song always makes me sad.” 

She holds the rosary Gabe bought for her in Italy in both her hands. The beads are such beautiful colored glass. Lorelai helps her count. 

She dreams Steve is alive, that he’s here, as young and beautiful as the last time she saw him. “It’s been so long,” she tells him, aching and honest. “So long.” He takes one of her fragile hands in his, kisses her knuckles. “I know,” he says, and doesn’t let go. “I’m here.” 


Peter Bezrukov