Chapter Text
[GROUP CHAT: fuckers i work w]
PieTRAITOR
Ok fam why is our favorite Daddy so distracted today?
He has missed his chair while trying to sit down
Trice
In a row
WandASS
It’s thrice petey
Or twice
PieTRAITOR
Don’t call me that woowoo
WandASS
I have spit in your coffee
PieTRAITOR
When i was your age, Wanda, we respected our elders
WandASS
When you were my age?
12 min ago you were off in bathroom
i fucking hate u all
M jus havng a rough day
Tasha
That’s a lie, kids. Someone was on the phone late last night with a special other someone.
tash
Ifuskcn swear 2 fuck
PieTRAITOR
OOOOOOH! Is this the Bucky Hot Asshole we all know and love?
WandASS
You know its true love when you fall on your ass
the fuck guys
can’t u just
fuck off
WandASS
He’s so angry!
PieTRAITOR
Do you think we are still all the funny names in his phone?
of course u ar asshole
stil dont believe u took his number
and still fuckign text hm
PieTRAITOR
It means he is thinking of you every day, Daddy!
Tasha
You guys could consider lightening up. He DOES have a date. A real one.
PieTRAITOR
Alkdjsl;shklasdjasasadi
WandASS
;alsjql;wema,.sdm!!!!!!!!
WHY THE FUCX IS IT S O SURIRISING
Tasha
Clint, you really need to turn your autocorrect back on.
Pietro
Apparently Hot Asshole likes Daddy just the way he is
Pietro im gona end ur fuskjhb lief
also f u 2 nat
Tasha
❤️⭐️❌⭕️
Okay, new topic of conversation: why the hell is PHIL so distracted today?
PieTRAITOR
I dont see it
u dont see much
PieTRAITOR
ass
WandASS
You’re right though. He keeps losing his train of thought
PieTRAITOR
Well we are all fucking exhausted
If i have to interview one more family member i am going to go jump off the building
Tashur right
doesnt look like he spelt any
slepp
omg
Tasha
I’ll try to find out. The rest of you, step it up, I’d like to go home some time this century.
PieTRAITOR
Stfu
Stank
What the hell???? 57 unread???? Is someone dying?????
WandASS
Not our fault, Natasha
piss off tones non ur busness
Stank
It’s in group chat. It’s definitely my business.
A date???? Hawkeye!!!!!
Why didn’t you invite me????????
on my date? ru kiddng
Stank
To Baltimore!! Guys Weekend Out????????
PieTRAITOR
Oh it’ll be a guys weekend out
For sure ;) ;) ;) ;)
WandASS
Or guys’ weekend IN ;) ;) ;)
Stank
IN AND OUT AND IN AND OUT ??????
PieTRAITOR
HIGH FIVE
y cans u all jus leave me aloen
WandASS
I am morally incapable
PieTRAITOR
I am physically incapable
Stank
I just don’t feel like it.
You know, I can fix that autocorrect for you, Barton.
u are teh entire reasbn i cant use it stark
Stank
Now that just hurts, Hawkeye.
Banner
I don’t know how I always get added back to these group chats. I’m deleting all of you.
Stank
Brucie!!!!! Clint’s all grown up and has a date!!!!!!!
Banner
I literally don’t care, Tony, although good for you Clint
Bye
thx
PieTRAITOR
Give us all teh juicy details Daddy
i am givin u no details at all
u don’t deserve them
Tasha
Look, kids, solve this case and I’ll give you all the details you need. I’m going to put Phil down for a nap.
Stank
Aw, Mommy Long Legs taking care of her spawn.
WandASS
Omg perf nickname
im thrownig my phone in teh trash
PieTRAITOR
Daddy no. Daddy. DADDYYYYYYY
Wait I can see him he’s just turning it off
Wait lol Natasha just stole Tony’s phone bye I need to see this
[32 min ago]
How Does Thor Exist
MY FRIENDS! WHAT HAS OCCURRED HERE?? I DID NOT KNOW I WAS HONORED ENOUGH TO BE INCLUDED IN THE INTIMATE DISCUSSIONS OF YOUR LOVE LIVES! I AM TOUCHED TO HAVE BEEN ADDED TO THIS FAMILY BONDING CHAT! BARTON, HAWK-EYED ONE, GODSPEED WITH YOUR WOOING AND MAY THE SEX BE ROMANTIC AND PHENOMENAL!
I HEARD THE BUZZING BUT THOUGHT IT WAS SOME STRANGE MACHINERY FROM THE LABORATORY! HOW FUNNY! NEXT TIME I WILL CHECK MY DEVICE SOONER SUCH THAT I CAN TAKE PART IN THIS RITUAL!
IT SEEMS ENTERTAINING AND HILARIOUS WHILE STILL BEING A TRIBUTE TO TRUE FRIENDSHIP
YOU ARE ALL TRUE FRIENDS AND FAMILY TO ME
omg
Banner
Please, everyone, delete my number
How Does Thor Exist
BUT BRUCE! MY LOVE!
Banner
I don’t know you.
———
Bucky flops back onto his bed and slips his thumb along the bar on his screen. “Yo,” he says, cause he knows it’s Clint, and they just talked a few days ago, and this may be a dumbly exciting new part of their - thing - but it’s an exciting new part of their thing, and Bucky likes it.
“Yeah, I’m calling for a James … Barn?” Clint loves doing this shit, Bucky has found out, and he loves fucking with Clint, so it works out well. “Owner of Hobo Chic Incorporated?”
“Sorry, there’s no James Barn here,” he says, patching disappointment into his voice. “Did you mean James Bond, international man of mystery?”
“No,” Clint says deadpan, “I must have meant James Boones, proprietor of deliciously cheap-ass wine-style beverages?”
“I think you have the wrong number,” Bucky replies, trying not to laugh at wine style beverage. “Could you mean James Bourne, another international man of mystery?”
“Definitely not,” Clint says, and there’s just a hint of laughter in his voice now. “Let me check again.” There’s a rustle, and then: “What about James Barnacle, deep sea fisherman?”
There’s absolutely no way for Bucky to expect that, and he breaks out in delighted laughter. If he’d known Clint was so much fun on the phone, he would have called weeks ago.
“Great,” Clint continues, “I have a great deal to offer you on boat insurance,” but then he’s laughing too, deep and easy, and the sound of it makes Bucky so inexplicably pleased that he’s gonna have to deal with that at some point.
“What’s going on?” Bucky grins into the phone - not that Clint can see - and squiggles his back a little bit to get comfortable in the pile of blankets.
“Well,” Clint says teasingly, “I, uh,” and then his voice drops into his usual, casual, somewhat self-degrading tone. “Would it make you feel better if we skipped all of the pretense that I was doing any of this work and I told you what Natasha found in between here and Baltimore instead?”
“Sure,” Bucky says easily, “Sounds good. Let’s just say you did it anyway. I’m sure you would have.”
“That,” Clint says, sounding pleased, “but also, I’m very lazy.”
“Hit me up.” Bucky puts Clint on speaker and pulls up maps on his phone, curious as to where Natasha might have found for their… date? Not-date? Hangout? Fuck, he really needs to ask Clint what this is.
“So,” Clint starts, “there’s this suburb-town-thing called Rockville, outside DC. Nat thinks we’ll be able to avoid some traffic by heading there rather than anywhere closer to the city.”
Bucky pulls it up on his screen. “Not Bethesda?”
“Nah,” Clint drawls. “She said it’s more convenient, and that it’s more my thing anyway.”
“Your thing,” Bucky teases. “What’s your thing?”
“Uhhhhh.” Clint sounds a little taken aback. “Um. Casual? Not super… nice? I mean, snobby?” There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh, shit, I mean we can do nice, would you rather do nice?, I just figured you liked the Dugout and all but I can—”
Bucky’s laughing almost too hard to get it out, but he finally manages to say, “Clint,” which stops the desperate ramble. “Christ,” he says through more laughter. “I don’t need fancy. Somewhere you like is fine.”
“You know,” Clint says, like he’s trying to get some dignity back, “for the record, Natasha doesn’t plan all of my dat— all of my weekends.” The phone transmits a distinct sigh. “I swear.”
“Clint,” Bucky urges, “were you gonna say date?”
There’s a pause, and then Clint responds, his tone flirty with a trace of nerves: “Am I allowed to?”
“Sure,” Bucky says, because that’s better than the hell yes that almost came out of his mouth. Then he remembers Clint’s hesitancy, that it might come across wrong, so he adds: “I’d like that, I think.” It comes out soft and husky and all kinds of feelings things he doesn’t want to deal with just yet, but — maybe it won’t come across the phone line.
Clint’s sigh of relief is almost covered by the cocky “I’ll make sure you do” that he actually says, and both responses make Bucky feel better. They make him feel warm, actually, something in his chest clenching.
“So, Rockville,” Bucky prompts.
“Yeah,” Clint says, definitely trying for casual this time. “Tasha found me a hotel that seems nice but not expensive, it’s like, right near the Metro and the Amtrak station, you know, just for, uh, reference.”
“Clint,” Bucky retorts, “I will drive there, like an adult person, in my car.”
“Not everyone has a car,” Clint shoots back, and fuck, he’s right.
“You’re right, sorry, man, it’s just.” Bucky pauses. “I’ve had some kind of car since I could drive. It’s independence, right? It means I can get out of anywhere I need, go anywhere I need, whenever I need.” He swallows, thinking carefully. “That’s really cool of you to find somewhere that accessible, though.”
“Eh.” He can almost hear Clint shrugging over the line. “Haven’t always had that, don’t like to make assumptions. Plus, Nat found it.”
Bucky’s mind is now rewinding a little bit and pointing out a major piece he may have missed. “So,” he says, and it’s his turn to play super casual. “You’re staying the night?”
Clint snorts. “Unless I’m on a case and therefore heavily caffeinated, I am useless to humanity after a certain hour of the evening. Yes, I’m staying over. No fuckin’ way am I driving home that night.”
Based on the silence that hits at that moment, they’re probably both coming to the same conclusions - and reliving a share of the same memories.
“I mean,” Clint says carefully, “I can tell Nat to — I’ll book a double? In case you end up wanting to — not drive home. That night. That’s not a problem.”
If I stay that night, Bucky thinks, that second bed will be the most useless thing in that room. What he says is, “Thanks, man, that would be awesome.” The thought’s enough to get him thinking of having Clint, naked, spread out over a king size mattress, and it punches a little breath out of him as he considers the possibilities.
“Right,” Clint says, and he must have gained a little more confidence because now he’s asking, his voice low and a little teasing, “So when can I take you on this date, Mr. Barnes?”
“Well, you finally got my name right,” Bucky shoots back, grinning into the phone. “When are you free?”
“Well, this weekend I have an appointment with that Barnacle guy, so how about… hm.” Clint pauses, and Bucky can hear a faint sound that might be Clint flipping through the screens of his calendar. “Actually. Um. Two weeks Saturday?”
“The 7th?” Bucky checks. “Yeah, lemme see. Oh! A whole lotta nothin’. I can probably pencil you in.”
“I’ll pencil you in,” Clint mutters, like it’s an automatic response. “Alright. Lemme confirm with Coulson that I can get fully off-call, and I’ll, uh. Book a room.”
This time the silence between them feels charged - even over the phone - and Bucky remembers Clint’s hands on him in the club, the flashing lights, Clint’s mouth on his neck, before their lips ever even touched.
“For the record,” Bucky says, his voice low, and he didn’t mean to say this out loud but his mouth is doing it anyway. “I’m staying in that room, if I’m invited.”
He hears Clint’s inhale and fuck, he hopes that isn’t too forward — he should probably make some kind of excuse.
“One bed or two?” Clint asks, and there’s this growl in his voice that hits Bucky in the spine. His dick is very interested in that growl. He wants more of that.
“Hmmm,” Bucky murmurs, and are they really having this conversation? “What’s your preference?”
“Um,” Clint says, as if he’s thinking the same awkward thing — but then Clint goes for it, his voice absolutely thick and filthy. “One bed means more room. Two beds means two places to… mess up.”
And fuck, Bucky’s half hard already, his hand palming himself through his sweats, and this is something new. There’s anticipation there right alongside the want, and they’ve danced around this the whole time, and Bucky very suddenly wants to not give a fuck.
“I like the way you’re thinking.” His voice is rough, husky. “Tell me more.”
Clint makes this sound that’s half-laugh and half-groan, and says, almost dumbly, “I’m very turned on right now.”
“Good,” Bucky breathes. “Cause I am too. Just thinking about it.”
“Thinking about you,” Clint admits, and that’s it; Bucky slips his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats, trailing his fingers up his cock, feeling it harden.
“Christ,” he says; it comes out a bit wrecked, and that’s probably a dead giveaway that he has his hand in his own pants, but at this point Bucky’s done caring. “I think about that night a lot,” he tells Clint, like a confession.
“Shit.” Clint groans and there’s a definite edge to it. Bucky imagines Clint, jeans unbuttoned, the tip of his cock sticking out over the waistband of dark boxers; fuck. He remembers Clint’s dick all too well.
“You have no idea,” Bucky gasps out. He’s deliberately playing it up, and he doesn’t really know why. They haven’t done this; haven’t even gotten close to this. They’ve distinctly avoided this. And why? This attraction is what started it, what led to the fact that they’re still even talking, and they’ve been too embarrassed to pretend it exists? This is at the core of their entire connection; this is how they met.
“You think?” Clint asks. “Half my entire frickin’ head’s stuck on a continuous replay of your dick inside me,” and jesus fuck it isn’t even meant to be dirty talk and it’s the filthiest thing Bucky’s ever heard. His cock twitches in his hand and his grip tightens.
“I can’t even fuckin’ think,” Bucky gets out, “cause my brain ends up stuttering on your fuckin’ abs.” His hand is around his cock, now, hard on the upstroke and lighter down, like a tease; he’s buzzing, incredibly turned on just by Clint’s voice.
“Are you —?” Bucky manages to get out.
“Yes,” Clint whispers, “yes, are — are you?”
Oh, fuck. “Yeah,” Bucky says, “yeah, fuck, Clint, sometimes I just start remembering you on that fuckin’ dance floor and I don’t need to even go any further…” He trails off, fisting his dick, hips slowly thrusting upwards through it.
“Bucky,” Clint whines, “Buck. You don’t even. Your goddamn mouth.” He can hear rustling over the phone, fabric shifting.
Bucky’s hand is getting slick, his dick leaking, and he speeds up and tightens up a little bit, punching a moan out of his mouth he didn’t mean to make. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, I’m just picturing all the things I want to do to you…”
Clint interrupts with a strangled sound of his own. His voice is really rough as he asks, “Fuck, Bucky, tell me, I wanna know.”
Bucky breathes in. His hips are moving on their own now, in tandem with his fist, and it feels good but knowing that Clint’s doing the same thing, knowing that Clint has his own dick out, engaging in this fantasy together — it’s the hottest fucking thing Bucky’s done in a long while.
“I’m imagining it’s your mouth,” he starts, low and breathless, the words just coming out with no thought at all, no self-consciousness, no filter. “With you - fuck - would you — would you get on the floor? On your knees?”
“God yes,” Clint breathes, and he sounds absolutely wrecked over the phone. “Yeah, I’ll do that, it’ll be so good.”
The wave is rising, pleasure building from the base of his spine, thinking about Clint’s mouth, Clint’s hands; Bucky’s breath is haggard as he says, “what else? What are you—?”
“When I was fucking riding you,” Clint says instantly, and the tone of voice goes straight to Bucky’s dick. He isn’t going to last much longer. “You looked so good, you felt so good, shit, Buck, I’m close—”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, “yeah, me too,” and he ends up arching his back, thrusting into his fist again, again — he hears Clint gasping — and Bucky’s there, like a lightning bolt, heat punched out of him, hissing as he comes all over his hand. “Fuck,” he whispers, and gets to hear Clint come over the phone with this long low moaning sound, relieved and wanting and Bucky’s picturing it, picturing the way Clint had looked on top of him.
“I don’t believe we just did that,” Clint says, and his voice is slow like honey and wonderment.
“I don’t believe we didn’t do that before,” Bucky replies, trying to get his breathing under control.
Clint snorts. “I didn’t really realize it was an option.”
“Don’t ruin the afterglow,” Bucky says idly, and Clint snorts again.
“I’ll see you in two weeks,” Clint says, wonderment still in his voice.
Bucky sighs, sated and satisfied. “You will.”
———
Steve maybe isn’t quite sure what to do with his second fork (or his first fork?), and he isn’t sure the second glass of wine is making him more relaxed and charming or just more of a rambling nerd, and he really isn’t sure what’s in this sauce, but he does know one thing: this is a real date, and it’s going surprisingly well.
Carter isn’t Carter: she’s Peggy, open and laughing and lovely. There’s this sneaky, snarky side to her that Steve hasn’t ever really seen in full play (only pieces), and god but he’s loving her take on the last Spider-Man movie; her dry recitation of the State of the Union, complete with faces, has Steve rolling around in his seat.
He continues to feel pleasant surprise all through dinner and dessert - rich chocolate cake and another glass of Zinfandel for both of them, an incredible combination - and he feels like he’s just staring at Peggy with a dumb smile on his face but can’t bring himself to do much else.
Peggy must notice, because she leans back in her chair, wineglass in hand, and smirks. Steve wonders whether she’s like this with everyone, any time she isn’t at work.
The smirk turns sharp. “I’m only like this with the good men,” Peggy says, and Steve realizes he said the last bit out loud. He stammers, setting his glass down, and Peggy must take pity on him, because her eyes go soft.
“Steve,” she says, gently through her smile. “We need to talk about this.”
“Do we?” It sounds plaintive to his ears, and Steve mentally gathers himself up. “That isn’t what I mean, really, I’m just. I’m enjoying this, and I don’t want to go too far or put any labels on it, I just want to ...enjoy it. For now.”
Peggy nods at that, taking a sip of the wine. “I know.” Her voice is soft. “But even then, Steve, you should realize there are reasons I don’t do this very often.”
Huh. “I don’t know much about your life outside of work,” Steve offers.
“That’s because there isn’t much of one,” Peggy says, “and when I do decide to unplug I do so thoroughly. There’s no other way to survive this job.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, thinking. “Distance. That makes sense.”
“Plus,” she continues, her lips curving again. “I don’t think you and I are the kind of people who can stay casual about something like this for very long.”
That sounds like some kind of criticism, so Steve replies, “Like I said earlier, Peg, I just want to enjoy this for now.”
“Steve,” Peggy says, and he’ll never get tired of how his name sounds in her mouth, in her accent. “Look at us. We’re both passionate, devoted, and absolute workaholics. There’s no way anything between us would be anything else.”
Steve picks up his wine glass, taking a slow sip in order to think about it. Peggy’s right - as usual - but it’s a right that sounds like an ultimatum, and those don’t sit well with Steve. “Is that such a bad thing?” He shifts, and then says, “You don’t seem the type of woman to settle for anything else.”
Peggy laughs at that, bright and crisp, and Steve finds that stupid grin pulling itself across his face again.
“Let me put some cards on the table, Steve.” Her face is still alight with mirth, but her words are serious. “Of course. I don’t settle for anything. Which is why I really don’t date. It isn’t…” She trails off, biting her bottom lip as she thinks for words, and Steve nods. “It isn’t as important to me as the work, in the grand scheme of things.”
“Really.” Steve’s taken a little aback; someone as bright and talented as Peggy deserves a partner, deserves unyielding support and unlimited backrubs.
Her smile goes crooked. “You can’t tell me in this day and age that marriage is the proper end goal for every woman, Steve.” Her voice is teasing, because she knows his views on that align with her own, and Steve nods to concede the point.
“This work,” Peggy says. “This work we’re doing, the chance we have to make a difference, to root out toxic masculinity at its source, to rewrite broken procedures that have given us nothing but dirty cops and unfair racial profiling… Steve, this work is the most important thing I’ll ever do, and no relationship is ever going to have as much priority as the changes we could make. The changes we are making.”
“I know, and I love that about you,” Steve says automatically, and then cringes, wondering if that’s too forward. He’s told the whole goddamn team he loves them at some point, and he does, and after a moment Steve decides to refuse to be embarrassed about it.
Peggy’s lips quirk upwards at the corners, as if she was waiting for him to come to that conclusion, and Steve sighs and smiles.
“Full honesty, then,” Peggy says, and something about her expression changes, goes almost soft. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and I haven’t in a while, because I am always going to put this job and this work first, and myself second, and while I’m not sorry about it, I’m aware it makes any prospect horribly unbalanced.”
Steve shrugs, and takes another sip of wine to pause while he puts his thoughts in order.
“Full honesty?” Steve asks gently, to confirm, and Peggy nods.
He sighs. “Full honesty is that I feel like there’s something here, between us, and I would regret only ever catching it out of the corner of my eye, never turning to really look at it. I want to - I want to look at it. I want to see what it is. That doesn’t mean it’s… Hmm.” He pauses to duck his head, look up at Peggy tentatively. “I’m not just seeing things, right?”
“No, Steve,” and this smile is generous, broad, and edged with emotion Steve doesn’t always get to see. “You’re not.”
“Then I want to see what it is.” Steve plants himself firmly in his chair and looks her in the face, shrugging again. “That doesn’t mean changing you, it doesn’t mean changing me, and it doesn’t mean a picket fence and 2.5 children. It might mean three dates and we’re done; it might be some long dramatic torrid affair,” and he’s teasing with that, rewarded with Peggy’s bright laugh. “It might end up not a possibility. All I want to do is… take a look.”
“You’ve a beautiful way with words,” Peggy murmurs. Her eyes are starry, and the intensity of her gaze is almost enough to leave Steve breathless. Full honesty, indeed. “Not always, but when you’re inspired, you so easily drop speeches that could make men cry. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“Oh,” Steve blurts, immediately ruining the moment. He feels himself flush and rubs his hand over his face, laughing a little. “I don’t - I don’t notice.”
“But I do,” Peggy says, her voice creamy with approval. “Of course you don’t; that’s what makes it so charming.”
Steve grins at her, and to his surprise, reaches his hand across the table. “So. No commitments, no expectations, no rules, just us. Shall we take a look?”
Peggy grins at him and her face is still alight, eyes shining. “Yes,” she says, “let’s,” and Steve pulls her hand across the table to kiss her knuckles.
------
Phil’s already at home with the scotch in hand when an email from Fury comes in with the subject line “FYI - RELATED.” Phil doesn’t like the sound of that.
Cheese,
Psychological report from that last case. Keep your eyes open.
Cheese
Phil hasn’t been able to get that last case out of his mind. He’s seen a lot of shit in the BAU -- really, a lot of shit. Their job, at its core, is not just to look at the awful things that come at the edges of humanity, but to try and understand them, and it’s not the kind of job that gets done without some of the abyss settling inside you. And still that last email had settled in somewhere, an ice shard next to his heart, that mental picture of being stabbed over and over by someone you love while they're not in their right mind. It’s poignant in its horror, and Phil doesn’t much like the nightmares.
He still opens up the report, because any email where Fury calls either Phil or himself Cheese is something he’s asking a personal favor for.
The report doesn’t help. The subject shows all of the markers of wild grief, the signs of losing a loved one, but absolutely no recognition or recollection of actually stabbing the wife. In fact, all of the suspect’s responses - via psychological evaluation as well as a slew of mental testing - corroborate the original story of some kind of demon he fought off his wife only to find her dead afterwards. Phil reads it through three times, over two additional glasses of the scotch.
So: it obviously isn’t true - the suspect obviously killed his own wife - but the suspect also, equally, confoundingly, obviously believes his own story is true, despite the evidence. To a level Phil’s never, ever seen faked before, and he’s been with the BAU since the very beginning.
What do you know that I don’t, he replies to Nick, because Nick wouldn’t tell him keep your eyes open unless he had some very specific static showing up on a very specific wine. He spends the next fifteen minutes wrestling with the desire for another scotch, because he’s now trying to analyze a scenario so traumatic that a man’s real memories are pushed down into his subconscious so far a full psych workup can’t get at them. The clinical part of him wants to know what does that, but the part that’s still vulnerably human seems incredibly emotional. How can a man whose body did such things still believe to such a powerful extent that he’s innocent?
The email arrives as he’s still staring at the screen.
Noise from a couple different vectors. Could be foreign. Nothing yet, but you’ll be brought in as soon as a crumb shows. Have a feeling I’m gonna need my good eye, Coulson.
Foreign -- that usually means terrorist, and the BAU’s been brought in to consult and even mediate a number of those incidents, but it doesn’t exactly match up. Why the hell would a foreign terrorist cell want to make a normal man murder his normal wife?
Phil finds he’s shaking his head, over and over again, and he closes his laptop. There’s no amount of garbage television that can completely drown out this scenario, but Phil is sure as hell gonna give it his best attempt.