I keep thinking about what if that scene in Bucharest had played out differently, you know. Instead of there being such an urgency about it what if Steve had been able to slip in quietly, before the police had any ideas. What if he'd been able to spend time in there with Bucky with only Sam keeping tabs, giving occasional updates from his vantage point.
Bucky cagey and unsure but ... relaxing, little by little as the minutes tick by and there are no ambushes. As Steve tugs his helmet off and all that mussy blond hair is revealed, setting it on the table and doing his best to de-escalate, de-pressurize the moment. Maybe, eventually there's even a little joke, a quietly lobbed love what you've done with the place that's nudge and olive branch rolled into one and maybe, just maybe it gets a tiny snort in response.
Bucky hedging, peeling off his gloves until he hears it and his eyes tick over, nearly meeting Steve's before they jump away again but there's this tiny smirk there that lingers before he nudges back with a muttered still a punk.
And wouldn't you know it, that tension breaks with the answering smile Steve gives him.
"Jerk." He supplies, like a knock back through a wall, an old familiar tune he knows the words to.
Bucky growing to hate wearing any kind of footwear and opting to go barefoot a lot, especially in Wakanda. Some of it might be things he picks up as customs, but Steve thinks it's more than that judging by the almost melancholy look on his face any time he has to pull his boots on to run errands and how quick he is to fling them off the first chance he gets.
When he catches sight of him walking around in the soft ticklish grass later, wiggling his toes and smiling down at his feet, he thinks he gets it. He understands it enough to stop and unlace his own boots before heading out to join him by the lake and the smile on his face when he catches sight of Steve's pale feet is answer enough.
thinking about the way steve and bucky mirror one another again (always) today and in particular the maudlin poetry of steve's weapon being the shield (something designed to absorb a blow) and bucky's being his arm (something that delivers a blow) but also just the heartbreaking way that also reflects the emotional scars they carry, too.
steve wears a lot of his inside (absorbed) and bucky, through no fault of his own has to wear his biggest visibly (the arm). these are not original thoughts I'm sure it's been discussed a lot, but they're with me today as I muse on writing about the boys.
He'd never quite been able to wrap his hands around the anger in him whole. He knew it was in there, that the red haze took over when he fought back, bore the brunt of blows, shakily climbed back to his feet over and over sometimes to the begrudging amazement of his tormentors.
(someday soon they'd tell him so: you just don't know when to quit)
He knew since his ma had passed - that anger had been simmering worse than usual. It wouldn't stay down, Steve didn't know how to shove the lid back on it hard enough to stop it spitting and hissing around the edges, anyway.
Sometimes, he wanted to reach out. Snag fingers on Bucky's collar, or curl them around a suspender strap and reel him back, til all Steve could sense was his bigger body; all he could smell; all he could see was those impossibly blue eyes and that strong jaw; run his charcoal stained fingertips down the shape of his spine; count all the rungs of it. He'd sketched it plenty, he knew it without looking. All the dips and grooves, the place he'd set his palm if he had the audacity. If he didn't feel like it'd burn his hand to do it, that maybe he'd be shoved off, pushed away.
That he'd hear a soft: it ain't like that, Stevie. Not for me.
That'd be the part he couldn't live with. Safer, then, staying inside the marked lines. With blood congealing in his nose and making it hard to breathe. He let out a sigh that nearly whistled for how much was blocking it and listened to the rattle of the ice box. He didn't need to lay eyes on Buck to know the way he was trying to stop his face twisting up with anger so when he came back he didn't look two seconds away from adding to Steve's collection of bruises.
He never would, is the thing.
That makes something else ache in him, a lot deeper down.
"You better jus' say it, Buck." He's waiting, when he comes back. Split knuckles on the sink, sagging a little. "Get it off'a your chest before your face stays screwed up that way." Almost, he teases: no girls are gonna come near you with a sour puss like that, Barnes but his lip stings and he touches it with his tongue instead; wets his lip. Stares at the floor a beat. There's a wad of newspaper showing behind his heel he needs to shove back down.
"You didn't hear the things they were sayin'." He offers, instead. A little stiffly. Angry again, when he lifts his eyes. "Somebody had to say something."
Lead Me Home - Stucky Bingo Prompt Fill by BuckRogers
SB6053 | O2 | "I'm going to Ruin Your Life" | One Shot: 620 Words
Warnings: None, really. Very G Rated.
Author's Note: Just a little something for New Years and for the @stuckybingo that I've been severely neglecting my bingo card on, oops.
Summary: They're never sure where they'll be these days, on the best of them, let alone the worst. Life hasn't let up, just because he's handed off the shield to Sam. The government hasn't eased down on the pressure applied to Buck's neck, either. That boot is still firmly there, riding his airway, threatening that newly minted pardon.
There's always a new loophole, a new request that isn't near to one in actuality and turns Steve's expression sour every time it arrives, bringing a certain shadow to his best friend's features, it's a darkness Steve can't touch. He's powerless in this one thing, the way he always has been, to reach in and spare Bucky from the horrors of his past. All those ghosts that pass behind his eyes. The flicker of them, when he tries - when there's a bad night - when he wakes up gasping and it's all Steve can do not to reach for him.
To haul him across the bed they share and into his arms.
They ain't yours to carry, pal. It'd been the tired denial once, a grim specter of a smile that hadn't come close to reaching his eyes but had settled in, touching his mouth here and there with that rueful gallows humor Buck has been carrying with him in one way or another since the war.
Steve’s tried damn hard not to resent the sight of it.
Tried to put hands around that truth instead, all the way around the hard edges of it; the gnarled and twisted wire embedded deep; the landmines of trauma; scars that went a hell of a lot deeper for both of them than what could be traced on the surface with fingertips or glimpsed under the spray of hot water while they took turns.
Buck wasn’t the only one who still woke up trembling.
Who’s had to stare out windows or down at his hands, white knuckled around coffee cups and putting stumbling words to that cold dread that still finds a way to cling to his skin on a sunny day. That he wears like a different kind of uniform, now: I don’t know if I can let any of it go. I’m going to ruin your life.
You deserve better.
Those eyes find him anyway. Unerringly. So damnably intently. They pin him down, unpick the ugliest parts left of him and come to stand between his legs. Thumbs stroking the tension from his jaw and tipping his chin up for a kiss that feels like a benediction.
Never had much of one anyway, pal.
This year they do know. The fire escape sways alarmingly on ascent and it’s quiet this far up. He doesn’t have to wait long, before there’s movement at his elbow and the long lines of that familiar body ease into stillness beside him. The air is full of Brooklyn, full of home. Anticipation for the countdown sits heavy.
They did this at twelve. At fourteen. There’s music spilling out of an apartment two floors down. The sky erupts in a fire burst of color. Rising up and up before it scatters, whistling and popping.
"Happy New Year, Buck." He murmurs, looking past the explosions, watching the way they paint colors on his skin, instead.
"Happy New Year, Stevie." A hand goes around the back of his neck, cups it, shakes it a little in a code that they've been sharing since before they knew the full meaning. Since schoolyards and bloody knees. Their foreheads touch, and Steve closes the circuit, sets his hand in all that dark hair that's growing out again. Thumbs over the tiny hairs at his nape.
It’s enough, he thinks. Maybe being here at all is enough.
Are you named after anyone? from what I'm told, my mother was going through a french phase and loved the name jacqueline so, here I be! though extra lore nobody asked for: because it's got so many letters, I typically go by jacqui unless it's a ~fancy official thing or I'm in trouble, hah
When was the last time you cried? it would probably be easier to ask me when I'm not crying (anxiety club cardholder)
Do you have kids? nada! I am not parental material, but I do enjoy being the fun cool aunt to three nephews
What sports do you play/have you played? uh, bench warmer if we're being literal about it I don't think I was ever picked for a team willingly a day in my life I am both short and require glasses to see anything long distance - but! I was more interested in drama and books anyway so y'know battles, pick 'em.
Do you use sarcasm? frequently and with flourish!
What’s the first thing you notice about people? I'm actually a big one for vibes, I tend to gravitate toward the folks who put out the chill, easy going vibes. I'm very cerebral by nature, I live in my head so anybody who wants or digs conversations is also a big drawcard for me, I dunno! I like nice people who are funny and a bit different and aren't terribly concerned about what the masses are doing (idk hashtag just aquarius things I suppose) but also - hands! love expressive talkers, love hands. People with big smiles and the ability to poke a bit of good natured fun at themselves and the craziness of the world.
What’s your eye color? blue!
Scary movies or happy endings? oh ya girl is a sap so give me a happy ending every time, although points if it's a scary movie with some sort of happy(ish) ending
Any talents? hm, I guess I can string a coherent sentence together! I used to really enjoy acting in drama class, does making people laugh count as a talent? I like making people feel good I suppose, I'm the biggest cheerleader for people I'm close with
Where were you born? ACT, Australia
What are your hobbies? reading, wasting hours on the internet, RPing, sometimes graphic design/website design (just for funsies), writing, cross stitch
Do you have any pets? I wish I did! can't really have them where I'm renting atm so I yearn and admire all the neighborhood cats
How tall are you? what is height? is it nice? 5'3 repping for the shorties club here
Favorite subject in school? we had a subject called literature which was my absolute jam since it meant spending time studying all my favorite authors
Dream job? well I always wanted to be a writer, or an actor possibly but my anxiety said lmao no to the latter and the former I suppose I am in the way everybody who writes is a writer, just y'know, not so much in the way that it pays my bills
do I even know 15 people stress free tag (this is just a list of people I think are neat):
Writing about Steve and his guilt for what happened to Bucky on that train always gets me thinking about whether or not SHIELD sent over Bucky's file with the rest of that stack we see him reading through in the deleted scenes of the first Avengers film. Did Steve actually write the report he mentions to Peggy in the aftermath of all that?
Do Steve's fingers hesitate over that faded scrap of paper? Is it neatly pinned to Bucky's file under that glaring red KILLED IN ACTION stamp? Imagine seeing that typed summation so many years later. A neat little rendition of assumed responsibility.
I can't imagine Steve then allowing anybody else to write up that report and I imagine the Steve of 2012 touching it carefully, holding every piece of information in that file so reverently.
Something about Steve writing it like a rite of contrition, alone in his tent.
