starspangled | Inbox (CheckingIn)

[It's the same. Steve's starting to feel the desperation creeping in - the hotel's in general more than his own.

Bucky's appearance still catches him a little off-guard.]

So that's why you've been hiding from me.

[ He's frowning at him. Steve doesn't look any better, either, and he chooses to ignore that comment. ]

Have you rested at all?

Yeah, for a few minutes.

[Steve counts it, even if Bucky probably won't.]

I'm worried about the others.

Why?

[ He shuts the door behind him carefully. And no, it doesn't count. ]

What happened to the others?

The hunger's taken its toll.

[Steve sighs and walks closer to him.]

It's not enough to just make it through it now. It's made them even more afraid. Fear isn't a good thing with this many people in such a tight space.

[ Bucky doesn't move from the door, as if putting himself between Steve and it could protect Steve somehow, as if he could keep him safe right here in this room.

Steve is distressed, and the hunger's taken its toll on him, on them. Bucky can bear this for as long as he has because he's endured far worse. The Russians are creative when it comes to breaking men.

He nods, watching him quietly. ] You need to eat. We can deal with them later.

[Steve sighs, paces a few steps before running a hand through his hair. He's skipped most of his workouts to conserve calorie, and that's left him restless. He looks at Bucky for a moment, hand on his hip.]

Together.

[ Bucky's silent at that, taking his measure -- but it looks like Steve won't take no for an answer this time. He steps forward towards him, then moves past to where he knows Steve's stashed it, opening up an egg. Together, right?

There's chocolate in it this time, four cubes of it. His own stomach growls, and he hands him three. He can only imagine how much worse it must be for Steve. ]

Here.

[See, the thing about Steve is, he can count. And he can hear too. Just like he heard Bucky's stomach.

He accepts the three cubes of chocolate without a fight. But he breaks one of them off and holds it against Bucky's mouth. (He doesn't realize that it's not the first time, that there's something familiar about someone holding something there, instructing him to bite down.)]

Open.

[ Bucky recoils because it's familiar, because it hurts, but it's necessary, and the sight of someone holding it to him, someone he trusts makes him think of pain. Pain is what purifies men, sweeps away what is not necessary so that they can do what's needed.

The memories are too ingrained into his damaged psyche, the conditioning is still an infection, a virus that makes him sick. Someone says open, and Bucky --

-- the winter soldier opens his mouth to take the bit, obedient. There is nothing that is not chilling about this. ]

[Steve doesn't know, just knows that he got Bucky to take his fair half of the chocolate with minimal resistance. He takes a square of his own next before sitting down on the bed.]

You know, it's more exhausting to do nothing. Why is that?

[ It doesn't hurt. It's thick, sweet -- chocolate. It doesn't hurt. Bucky hesitates before he chews, swallows. He's hungry, and it takes him a few moments before he responds. ]

You only ever really do nothing when you're dead.

[ Body's still working, blood still pumping -- Steve has a body that works at a much higher level than any of theirs. He contemplates his reaction to it, and feels... he's not quite sure what to feel, except: ]

Never do that again.

I don't know. There were plenty of days where you forced me to do close to nothing.

[But he was close to death too. He looks up.]

Do what?

[ He takes another cube and frowns at him. ]

You were sick. [ His words are clipped -- he could have more than easily have sent Steve flying, he knows. Funny how you can never really trust how you'd react. Erratic, unpredictable, thoughts in a hundred thousand directions and yet concentrated into one. ]

Don't do that. What you just did. I don't need you to treat me like I'm dependent on you. [ It comes out harsher than he intends for it to be, anger seeping out to the person who least deserves it. He exhales, regret laced in his next words. ]

...I'm sorry.

[Steve tries to keep his expression right where it is, tries to keep his shoulders from squaring, muscles from tensing beneath the skin. Like a cat bristling before the fight.

He doesn't point out that Bucky is guilty of the same thing, that he tried to give Steve more than half like he's somehow more important or less able to deal with the hunger, he's not sure which. Because he remembers the feeling, the way Bucky always fussed over him, fed him soup straight from the spoon. Even when he was well, it was just a natural gesture, giving each other a piece of bubble gum, sharing a lick of ice cream.

But that was then. Things were different. They were different.

He exhales.]

Okay.

[ It's because Steve is more important than he is.

Steve mattered beyond his own very powerful survival instincts, and Bucky's only just learning why, in all his weeks that he's been here with him. But he ends up hurting him all the time; clumsy words, angry words -- they've changed, and to ever hope to fit back together the way they did before would be a terrible thing.

Still. Still, he wants to find a way forward. He doesn't want them to crash and burn -- Bucky's already lost so much, he can't lose him, too. He swallows, hard. ]

They did that to me all the time. [ Bucky lets him in, just a little. ] Mouthguards, always. I don't really remember what comes after. But it hurt.

[He's not. He never wants to be. If there's a job to do, or suffering, Steve wouldn't have it be anyone else in his place. If he gets hungry, he can take it. If he gets hit, he can take it. If he gets hurt, he can take it.

Steve lowers his head after Bucky's story, because he'd rather him not see his face, the guilt and rage, the feeling that Hydra took one more little thing away from them. Something innocent is now twisted forever. They hurt him, and Steve doesn't feel like he hurt them back enough to make up for it.]

I'm sorry. I didn't know. [Breathe through it, Rogers. Steve looks back up at him cautiously.] Come sit beside me?

Don't be sorry.

[ Because Bucky doesn't need to look at his face to have a good idea on what's happening right there. Steve, who takes the weight of everything on his shoulders, even the things that he shouldn't, like this one. He suffers quietly, Steve Rogers, and the sick thing about all of it is that everyone expects him to take it just because --

-- because why?

He pauses for a few moments before he steps forward and takes a seat beside him. ] I didn't say that to make you feel bad for me.

I know.

[Steve's smiling when he looks up, that smile that says he's still hurting but he appreciates what Bucky's doing. It helps.]

You wanted me to understand. And I want to. It means a lot to me that you told me.

[ He knows that smile. He's seen it so many times that it's bittersweet; it's the look he gets when he's taking something on all by himself.

Something reacts, something instinctive that makes him reach out for Steve, a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Since he's already being honest, might as well. There's an elephant in the room in the name of Steve's issues they haven't talked about. ]

You should talk to me, too.

[Steve opens his mouth to spit out the usual response, the one he gives so often and so well that just about anyone would believe it. But Bucky's not just anyone. He looks at him, and he knows that he can't expect if he doesn't give in return.

He just doesn't know where to start.]

What's the first thing you see and hear when you wake up? When you manage to sleep at all.

[Because he knows that's something they both struggle with.]

[ Bucky hesitates. He knows Steve is on the verge of telling him something, aware that he needs something to lead him in, to show him just what the monsters in his head are like. ]

Gunfire. The faces of everyone I've killed. Sometimes the ones I've lost. The worst are the mornings when I wake up wanting to kill.

[ The ghosts of war never go away. ]

Me too.

[And the ghosts of war of everywhere. Most days, they don't even seem like ghosts to him. It's the sort of thing he'd almost told Sam, and now he's telling Bucky. Sam probably could've helped him, but Bucky understands.]

If the alarm goes off, it sounds like a grenade. So I just don't let it go off. I pass someone in the hallway, I half-expect to see them fall in a spray of machine gun fire. [Steve drops his head, rubbing at his temple.] I opened my eyes and they told me that the war had been over for a long time. But not for me. I never got to come home.

[ He understands.

Bucky's not sure if he could be of any help, but he understands. He knows the truth of those words, the little things that aren't so little anymore. Heightened paranoia, the ingrained fight or flight instinct, and his heart aches for him.

It isn't supposed to end up like this. They aren't supposed to end up like this. Bucky forgets himself for awhile, in the face of Steve's raw truth, knowing the pain of it. Neither of them ever got to the end of the war, they never got to go home.

He reaches to brush his fingers over Steve's jaw, intent on tipping Steve's face to his -- no hiding. ]

Not yet. But we'll find home, wherever it is. However long it takes.

[ End of the line, right? Steve, you promised. ]

[You promised first. He looks up at meets Bucky's eyes, smiling at his encouragement. Maybe home's not as lost as he thought it was.]

We?

Inbox (CheckingIn)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)