Rosalie Kasten is out of luck and out of time. For the last two years, she's been living on borrowed time. After her involvement with the death of Edwin Pierce - Alexander Pierce's son - it's only a matter of time before Hydra comes for her.
James...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
« 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏: 𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 »
𝚴𝛐𝐰, 𝐈 𝐡𝛐𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝛐𝐮 haven't forgotten about me. That sounds more ominous than I intended it to. I actually believe humans have a rather hard time forgetting about me, and the closer they get to meeting me, the more they worry about me. I merely wanted to remind you that I am here. I am ever-present. I never leave.
I could go on with our story to explain in detail how both Sam Wilson and Rosalie Kasten drank more than was good for their bodies, but it would mostly be them talking and taking a shot with every question and answer. Meanwhile, to pass the time, I will speak more about the lights. As I have said, they are a fascination and a distraction.
I must also admit that keeping this in mind will help clear things up as we move along with the story. I have noticed that when all lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. When sitting around a single candlelight or firelight, people start talking about how they are feeling – their inner lives. With just a single light, they speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses and quiet.
The light might be best known as the light at the end of the tunnel, your own personal proof that you are dead. It comes with me, but I do not create it. It's personal to every person, and that makes it special. Over the years, I've come to realise it's made partially of the surroundings, their colour, their feel. Clammy weather rarely gives bright oranges, and broken furniture doesn't give pinks. Some of it is the person's feelings, happy is bright, sad is dark. I do enjoy all of them. I make a point to.
The majority of the light is created by the person. A direct translation of who they are. I don't think they realise it. I've seen the portrayal in their movies and books, but it's always the same pale in those adaptations. There is nothing purer to a person than their colour, and they don't even realise it. Humans never realise what is right in front of them.
« ⌑⌑⌑ »
Rosalie has half a mind to think the sun should be illegal on days when you're hungover. The way it shines into a room and always hits your face just doesn't seem right. It's out to spite her and make sure she can't get her sleep. The signature hangover groan leaves her lips, and she rolls over in the bed, facing away from the stupid light.
She reaches out to try to find out where Cas and Alpine are. Since the dog isn't slobbering over her face, he has to be close by already, but she doesn't find any of the soft white fur. Instead, she finds skin and her eyes are immediately flung open.
She's staring directly at Bucky's sleeping face. His cheeks squished against the pillow and his lips parted for heavy breaths. They're lying close. She's never seen someone be asleep and still have such large bags underneath their eyes. The thing she touched was his fleshy hand. Rosalie pulls the sheet up to look down at her body. She's wearing underwear and one of his shirts. She can't even remember getting home – only the excessive amount of drinking.
