for freightcars

[captaincentenarian]

Sam's chasing a lead in Mexico. Nat last checked in from somewhere around Venezuela. And Steve?

Steve's sitting in a corner cafe in a little country town in the midwest, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He knows he's still recognizable, but there's only so much he can do. He sips at his cappuccino morosely. There's no point in getting down about this. He'll find Bucky. He will. Just because no one around the clock tower knew anything about Bucky doesn't mean that Bucky hasn't actually been there.

It'll happen.

He opens the newspaper again. He needs to check the Google on his special untraceable Stark phone, too, but right now he's more comfortable with paper and pen on the scratched surface of the cafe table.

Comments

[freightcars]

Mission report, that's another one he knows. Not in so many words, and right now it's a loose definition of the word mission, but it's a term he can fit into this situation for a sense of stability. A dim and distant part of him is aware, a spark of himself down a long and blurry hallway of disassociation and poor coping mechanisms.

"Stable," He murmurs, his arms still loosely wrapped around Steve's waist. It isn't a robotic voice, isn't in Russian, isn't dark and bitter and spit out, but it's still distant. Still flat, and empty, and emotionless. "Oxygen levels optimal. Breathing regular. Heart rate sixty beats per minute until you kissed me. Cardiovascular abnormality during incident. Levels normal afterward. Cognitive function impaired but manageable."

All of it tumbles out without pause or falter, like he's had to give a self-diagnostic before. This time, however, after a beat he dryly adds, "Left arm missing."

[captaincentenarian]

Bucky's still holding onto him, but it's not tight, it's not 'I'm about to throw you somewhere' or 'I need you to breathe'. It's almost normal. Almost affectionate.

He sounds like Bucky, even if he also sounds like he's giving a weather report. Steve reddens at the until you kissed me, feeling heat in his temples and cheeks. A crazy part of him wants to go tell Natasha that he at least has enough skill to make Bucky's heart race, ha HA, but then he thinks about how Bucky isn't exactly himself right now and he tells that crazy part to shut up.

...he gulps out a short wry laugh. "I suppose it is. How's the metal arm, soldier? Is it causing you pain?"

It's a question. Something he can do, something he can ask, to keep Bucky occupied. Also, he's wanted to know for a long time. It's heavy, as he knows firsthand. It must have a pretty big impact on Bucky's spine.