captaincentenarian | for freightcars

Initially, he thinks it's a no. More than friends in the sense that they were brothers, family, closer than two people generally get. He thinks it's going to leave him stranded and alone with the ideas he's been harboring about what they might have been. And then Steve chokes out the truth, and it leaves Bucky with parted lips and a blank mind, trying to wrap his head around it all.

He thought so.

He wasn't sure, but he thought so.

Slowly, carefully, he nods. Were they two normal, healthy people now might be the time to act on it. As it stands, this is so... tentative, he isn't even sure who he is anymore, let alone who Steve is, and so he doesn't. Just nods like he understands, and then tears his eyes away.

He needs to think about it all.

Slowly, carefully, he starts unlacing his boots. Murmurs a soft, "I think I'm gonna... try to sleep."

It's too much, isn't it. He should've stuck with small, simple memories from growing up together. Going to Coney Island. Steve throwing up everywhere. The time Betsy Henderson kissed Bucky in the bushes behind the ferris wheel, and Bucky still came out after Steve because he heard Steve going into a full blown asthma attack.

...but he couldn't lie.

Not about this.

Bucky looks about to break. "You bet," Steve says quickly, switching on the lamp. He gets up, flicks on the lamp, flicks off the main room light. Finds a spare blanket, realizes he's fussing far too much, and awkwardly places it on the end of Bucky's bed anyway.

Considering he's slept on benches and rafters, train stations and abandoned homes, trenches and foxholes the extra blanket really is overkill. He doesn't need it, but he appreciates the gesture. His boots get abandoned at the foot of the bed, and while Steve fiddles with the lights Bucky disappears into the bathroom for a while.

Has to breathe to himself, runs the water for the sound of it. Scrubs his teeth for too long with a cheap plastic complimentary tooth brush and probably ancient tooth paste.

Realizes eventually that he's stalling, and comes out to a quiet room. Pulls back the blankets, and then hesitates.

"Thanks." He says, before he can stop himself. "For looking for me. For everything."

It's ridiculous. Steve isn't exactly in need of great luxury when he sleeps either. He lives a more comfortable life, generally, than they did back in the war, sure. He's slept in better places most nights than Bucky has. But he still has to sleep on the floor in some hotel rooms if the bed's too soft.

He sits on his own bed, and focuses on breathing while Bucky's in the bathroom. He realizes after a moment that he's also focusing on the sound of Bucky brushing his teeth, on the evidence that the other man isn't escaping through a window because he can't handle being around Steve. "Stop it," he murmurs to himself. He has to trust. He has to trust in Bucky's trust.

Steve blinks, and his eyebrows twitch in a small confused frown. "It's okay. You'd do the same."

Slowly, uncertainly, he nods. He thinks he would, probably, if the situation were reversed. He pulled Steve out of the river in the end, after all, didn't he? Overcame the stronghold they had on his mind, undid the brainwashing implanted in him because of Steve.

Silently, he settles into the blankets. Slides a metal arm under the pillow, stares at the ceiling, then forces his eyes closed.

Minutes tick by.

He murmurs, "I can feel you staring. Don't make it weird."

Steve turns, shifts his feet up onto the bed. The magazine's in his lap, but he hasn't opened it. Bucky's so quiet. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest reassures Steve that he's still actually breathing.

Bucky comments, and Steve starts guiltily.

"It's weird enough already," he agrees, voice rueful. "Sorry, Buck."

He opens the damn magazine, and forces himself to start reading. First article. Forwards, then backwards, then he starts trying to make himself memorise it. It's boring as anything, when what he wants to do is crawl into bed next to Bucky and hold him all night, make him feel safe. He's not stupid enough to actually do that, but the want is thrumming in his blood. Bucky's here, he's coherent, and Steve wants.

He picks up his water, and takes another sip. His swallow sounds unnaturally loud.

He's hyper-aware of everything on a normal day, but this only seems a thousand times worse. He can hear every page flip, every exhale, every swallow. He can hear the thump of the water bottle onto the night stand, he can hear the crinkle of the plastic.

It's loud and painfully attention-consuming. He sighs, cracks an eye open after nearly half an hour of trying.

"Just lay down, you're giving both of us a hernia."

"...fine," Steve grumbles, and carefully pushes down the marveling at that. He doesn't have time to pause and reflect at every single little thing that reminds him of how it used to be, like a starry eyed idiot. He has to deal with what's here, what's real, what's in front of both of them.

He supposes he could try to sleep.

He flicks off the lamp, and places the magazine on the night stand. There's enough dim light through the shuttered window that he can still see a little. He makes himself comfortable, the bed springs squeaking softly under him, and closes his eyes.

With the light off and both of them settled, still, and quiet, something peaceful descends over them. There's a quiet whirring of the air conditioner's fan running beneath the window, circulating air and taking the edge off of the silence. There are gentle inhales and exhales from the pair of them. There's a soft blanket of darkness, a companionable quiet.

Eventually, hours pass. Eventually, they sleep.

Eventually, Bucky's dreams become disjointed and violent. Ugly and electric, filled with screams and straps and harshly barked Russian.

Reset him. Prep him. Reset him. Prep him. Reset him, prep him.

"желание ржавый семнадцать рассвет печь девять добросердечный возвращение на родину один грузовой вагон."

At quarter past 3 in the morning Steve will wake to a weight pressing onto him, to Bucky straddling him, to a hand on his chest and the gentle point of a knife at his neck. Wild eyed, lost, muttering in panicked Russian, "Почему я здесь? Каковы мои заказы?"

What are his orders? What is the mission?

It's incredibly peaceful. Steve starts to realize just how little sleep he's been running on, and he surrenders to it after a while.

Steve's eyes snap open at the weight on his stomach. There's something sharp at his throat, and Bucky speaking in Russian. Steve understands a little now, thanks to Natasha - but only a very little. He can pick out 'orders'. He can't respond in Russian. He leaves his hands exactly where they are at the moment. His eyes are wide.

If he speaks back to him normally, will Bucky respond? Will he wake up from this flashback or nightmare or whatever it is? "Bucky," he says quietly, as calmly as he can. "Bucky, it's me. You're safe. There are no orders."

The name seems to make him flinch, eyes wide and alarmed, senses on fire. His mind is a litany of curses, of russian whisperings and the yelling of people in charge. It's a puzzle with all the pieces scattered, desperately trying to fit themselves back into shape but the ends aren't lining up quite right.

He is the Winter Soldier.
He is Bucky Barnes.
He is the Asset.
There is always a mission.

He presses the knife into the neck of a man he doesn't recognize (he recognizes, he recognizes). Presses the point in just enough to draw blood, the faintest little nick. Friend or foe, threat or not? A small voice whispers captain, he's outranked, he's just a sergeant. No, yes, is that right?

"Bullshit," He whispers harshly, fingers of his metal hand curling into Steve's shirt, gripping him by it tightly. "Каковы мои заказы? What do I do? What are my orders?"

Because if he fails to deliver, if he fails his mission, they will reset him and the punishment will come.

"I don't want to be reset- I don't want to be reset- Каковы мои заказы?"

Bucky winces on top of him. Steve can only see his face dimly, but he doesn't need to see every nuance of expression to know just how confused and distraught the other man is. Not with him on top of Steve like this, not with Steve's hyper awareness of every single muscle.

His nostrils flare as the knife presses further into him. There's a tiny dot of warmth. It's broken the skin.

Bucky's in an utter panic and Steve is about ready to deck him if necessary. If, y'know, it wouldn't involve the knife going through Steve's throat. He's prepared to try to grab it if he has to, but it's better if he can talk Bucky through this one way or another.

..............oh.

Oh, no.

That's what it's about.

Steve feels his brain whir into furious thought, with a layer of glacial stillness and focus on top of it. He can't get this wrong, because if he fails to respond correctly Bucky will break completely.

"You're doing well," he says firmly, putting a snap of authority into his tone. "You're a good soldier, Bucky."

He won't call him an Asset. Can't do that. (Maybe... maybe later, if Bucky needs it.)

"Your orders right now are to get off me, and to stand down."

He breathes quickly, his chest heaves. He stares at Steve like a drowning man in search of air, and seems to hesitate at the command. Was this a test? Is this a test? The authority in Steve's voice leaves no room for question, though. Slowly, tentatively, he retracts the knife.

Stand down is barked, and that one's a familiar enough order.

Carefully, gracefully, he extracts himself from the bed. Backs away from it slowly, though the knife doesn't leave his hand. He grips it with white knuckles, his shoulder blades touching the hotel's door, his eyes practically glowing in the darkness thanks to the reflection of light behind the curtains.

He's panicked, he's lost, he's adrift and he doesn't recognize the room he's in.
He's been thawed, then, reset already, he's got a mission, he only ever wakes up somewhere new when he has a mission.
He waits for orders.

When Bucky needs to think, to make a decision, he looks poised on the edge of a razor blade. Lethal and bleeding and about ready to crack.

When he knows what to do, he moves with the grace of a big cat. Steve takes that in, tucks it away. All information he needs. He knows enough about flashbacks (or whatever the hell this is) to know that arguing with Bucky, trying to push him into reality, won't work. He has to work with what's going on. He has to blunt it, to redirect it, to help Bucky calm down.

Which means he needs to give Bucky orders. Orders that will make him safe, and won't hurt him.

Steve rolls to his feet, and dabs a finger at the spot on his throat. It's already stopped bleeding.

Is this -

Hell.

He'll have to try.

"Your mission is to stay by my side and do what I need," he says calmly, because he trusts that this soldier in front of him will do as he's told. He has to trust. "Your mission is to tend to me. Whatever I tell you to do for me. Understood, soldier?"

Secure and protect, guard. He's done that before. That makes sense, that's familiar, and it's a relief. It's easier than killing, defense leaves no room for failure. His grip on the knife seems to loosen just a little, his shoulders seem to relax, but he's still a guarded machine. A barely-tamed animal, something distant. Someone other than the man he'd been a few hours ago.

"солдат будет подчиняться." He murmurs finally, accepting.

A second passes, a tense second of silence, and he has to ask, "What do you need?"

If Steve keeps him awake purely to guard him, then Bucky's going to stand there on the verge of attacking all night, isn't he. And possibly when housekeeping comes in the morning, he WILL attack. That won't work.

Steve needs some way to calm him down. Especially since he's not sure what that Russian means. He needs to bring Bucky back as much as he can, gradually, gently.

"Get me a water from the fridge," Steve says, nodding at it. Ridiculous. Bucky - all versions of him - knows where the damn fridge is. "Get yourself one, too, and breathe, soldier. Breathe."

If he can't keep Bucky calm then he might have to - have to kiss him. There's an uneasy stirring in his gut at this. If he can't keep Bucky occupied with doing things himself, such as relaxing, guarding, then he'll have to make him do something with Steve.

It's true, he's wired. It seems like even the few hours of sleep had been enough, or perhaps the adrenaline coursing through him from the nightmare is what's eradicated all sense of exhaustion from him. He's vigilant, his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest.

Having a purpose seems to calm him. Order in the chaos, knowing what it is he's supposed to do. Following obediently is the only surefire way he could avoid pain, it's ingrained into him. It is an anchor in the storm. He moves, grabs the caps of two bottles with deft fingers. Holds one out to Steve in offering, and once it's taken, uncaps his own and drinks. That order was implied, not outright stated, but he's an over-achiever.

Once done, he caps it again and exhales.

Breathe is order number two. His eyes drop, fixate on the floor, and he inhales slowly. Exhales equally as slowly, though it shakes through the tightness of his chest. His hair falls in his face. Eyes flutter closed.

His hands are shaking.

He is Bucky Barnes.
He is the asset.
Isn't he? He isn't anymore, is he?

His hands continue to shake. Who is he anymore? What is his purpose? He doesn't know what he wants, he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know independence anymore, the world is overwhelming in it's possibilities.

Bucky's twitchy as anything. It's like when they were kids, staying up too late, drinking precious coffee so they could make it to part-time jobs as well as school and attempt to get homework done as well.

He gets the water, and Steve takes his. Okay, that's good. He's drinking. He's able to manage domestic things like this when ordered to do so. Steve doesn't have anywhere near enough domestic work to give him, though. Steve sips at his water, watching Bucky intently.

Breathing now. Good. It's not about to fix this, but it'll rub a little of the edges off Bucky's tension.

...his hands. He's shaking.

"I'm going to touch you now," Steve says, in a tone that brooks no disagreement. What the hell is he going to do? He'll figure it out as he goes. First step is to take Bucky's hands, then slide his own hands up Bucky's arms and around him.

He holds him lightly for now. Don't want him to feel trapped. "Do the same to me."

That's not an order he's familiar with. This isn't a situation he's familiar with, not in the context of objective or mission. Steve's arms come up around him and he freezes momentarily, statuesque and stiff. If anything, he breathes a little more quickly, a hair under hyperventilation.

It's soft. It's gentle. It's comforting. A choked sound forces it's way out of his chest and the water bottle in his hand drops. Clatters to the floor, bounces around unspilled, rolls under the bed.

He obeys. Wraps his arms around Steve's waist.

His eyes clothes. Breathe, soldier, he's ordered. His eyes squeeze shut, and there they stand, embracing each other in the darkness, Bucky trembling like an addict withdrawing, but accepting despite that.

"I... don't..." he murmurs into Steve's shoulder, and cuts himself off abruptly. Loses his words.

This is asking a lot of Bucky. Steve isn't sure if Bucky's going to break down, or robotically do as he's told, or hurl Steve across the room. Anything's possible. But he has to try to redirect Bucky into something more calming, something absorbing, something that will help him come back down from this hypervigilance.

There's a horrible sound, and the water bottle drops. Steve tchhs at himself and tosses his own onto the closest bed. Stupid, Rogers. Pay attention.

Bucky's muscular arm, and his muscular metal arm, wrap around Steve. It's everything Steve's wanted since he saw him on the bridge.

Still shaky. "You don't have to," Steve says firmly. "I'm in charge. You don't have to do anything other than what you're told."

If Bucky wants to talk, that's fine, it's good, even. If he can't, then he needs to know that that's acceptable. That he's not failing any mission, not screwing up any orders. That he won't be punished.

He lifts a hand, smooths it over Bucky's hair, cups his cheek. "Stay here with me, and breathe."

What he'd meant to say, what he'd failed to say, was I don't understand. And Steve's right, he doesn't have to, does he? Following orders doesn't mean understanding orders, it doesn't mean that he has to know exactly where they stand, or who Steve is, or who Bucky is. Absently he knows, his subconscious mind is catching up with his conscious one, little by little he's coming back to himself, and allowing himself to dismiss those questions that haunt his mind every single fucking moment? It's a welcome relief.

To let it all go and simply listen helps release some of the tightness from his chest.

He breathes. He lets himself be touched, though he can't meet Steve's eye as he does it. Lets himself breathe, a slow and steady inhale and exhale.

Sure enough, the shaking stops and his hands steady. He's still rigid, tense, broken, but he's calmer now with a little direction.

Steve keeps one hand on his back, and the other strokes through Bucky's hair. Over and over, gentle and soothing (he hopes, oh how he hopes). Bucky's solid in his arms, and he hopes that he can be the same for him. A reassuring, grounding presence.

Bucky's breathing gradually smooths out, and the trembling stops.

Steve murmurs, "Good," and then to his great horror finds that he's brushed his lips across Bucky's.

No, you idiot.

Let the man calm down, without you trying to foist your own wants on him. Let him calm.

In that moment, just for a second, they find peace. It's just gentle breathing, and gentle touching. The whirr of the fan, the steady beating of their hearts. Bucky's slows, at least until Steve's lips find his. It beats double again, two strong and pounding pulses in his chest.

Do the same to me are his orders. He exhales, and with a knit to his brow, he ducks in and presses his lips softly to Steve's. It lasts only a second, just as long as the whisper of the one Steve's had been, before he pulls back again.

Those were his orders.

...

Steve's breath hitches in his chest, and for a moment after Bucky pulls back, he crushes Bucky to him again.

Then he pauses.

He can't do this to Bucky. He can't just... can't just use him for Steve's own needs. He thinks Bucky actually wants it, on some level, but Bucky's not home right now in his body. Steve can't just do things to him. But what can he do instead? What if this is the only way to keep him calm and quiet?

Kissing - kissing isn't too bad, he guesses.

"Tell me your condition," he says quietly. "Tell me about your heartbeat, your breathing."

He doubts he can get any information from Bucky about his emotional status right now, but maybe this will help Steve make decisions.

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."

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captaincentenarian - 2018-07-20 05:10 (UTC) - Expand