Chapter Text
Soundtrack: Fortress – Pinback
You and a Test of Will
Nat was at his apartment door again, dressed in a slinky black dress like she meant to go out. She, unlike Bucky, had probably bathed sometime in the last week. His clothes said something more along the lines of “depressed asshole” in a dingy bathrobe and threadbare plaid boxer shorts.
“We’re going out,” Nat said, a decisive hand on one hip, one brow raised in challenge.
“Do I look like I’m going out?” Bucky replied. He started to close the door, but Nat stuck her shoe forward between the frame and forced her way in. Bucky had the physical strength to put up a fight, he knew he did, but he didn’t have the emotional will, so he let Nat into his apartment and closed the door behind her, quietly.
“We’re going out,” Natasha repeated.
Bucky stared at her, flooded by embarrassment at the state of his living space. Dirty dishes and empty beer bottles crowded his kitchen counter and his coffee table. A pile of dirty laundry overflowed from the basket by the door. He meant to take it downstairs to the washers last week…or maybe two weeks ago. Time ran together.
“Come on,” Natasha said, “You haven’t been out in like a month. It smells like ketchup in here and you look like you haven’t slept in a year when I know that’s all you’ve been doing. You won’t talk to anybody that can help, so we’re going out. You’re going to meet me halfway.”
Bucky sighed. He asked, “Who’s going? Where are we going? Why are you doing this?”
Since Natasha arrived back from Afghanistan – several months after Bucky’s arm got blown off and the army discharged him – she made her mission to take care of him, to make sure that he was taking care of himself. They took care of one another overseas, she said, and now she would take care of him here. Already, she was doing much better than Bucky. She went to the VA. Didn’t talk much, so she said, but she liked to listen to the people that did talk. Met a fella at her group. They were taking it slow.
Meanwhile, the weight of Bucky’s desire to blink out of existence consumed him.
“Just me, Clint, and Clint’s friend.”
Clint did three tours in Iraq. He came back minus 80% of his hearing, but with all of his limbs. He seemed all right.
“Army buddy?” asked Bucky.
“You’ll like him,” Natasha swore, “He’s a lowkey guy, kind of shy.”
“Clint’s friends with somebody shy?” Bucky asked.
“Yeah, I know. I promise you’ll like him.”
“Them’s fighting words, Nat,” said Bucky, but he knew that he had lost. He didn’t bother telling her this; judging by the glint in Natasha’s eye, she already knew.
Bucky shed his robe and boxers in the bathroom, unhooked his arm (he could have the thing on if he wanted, but getting soap scum between the plates sucked a fat one), and ducked into his shower. The thing blew hot and cold, so any shower that he took had to happen quick. Five minutes later, he ran a comb through his hair, one-armed, before he took the prosthetic and hustled to his bedroom. Nat didn’t bat a lash as he walked past in a towel with his metal arm clenched in his flesh hand. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. Nat was his best friend – the only one that had ever seen what he looked like minus several layers of clothes and disdain.
Thing was, Bucky was scarred up before he went to play war. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a family that loved him, but that he was born with a chemically imbalanced brain, took sharp shit to his wrists and landed in the mental ward more than once. His ma cried about it but never let him see. Bucky promised that he wouldn’t let her see him as bad as he got ever again, so he hadn’t called since he came back from overseas. He texted Becca, but the texts were less conversations and more hey I’m not dead.
At eighteen, he cleaned up his act long enough to get his GED and work a couple jobs. Bucky saw an ad to join the army before a movie that he went to see by himself, and he figured, why not? It would be better than working his ass off for peanuts.
Two – and part of a third – tours in Afghanistan, and Bucky returned sans an arm and what remained of his sanity. He spent hours sitting for a sleeve of tattoos on his flesh arm so that he wouldn’t cut anymore. He knew if his skin weren’t covered in expensive artwork that he’d cave in and draw blood. He wasn’t healthy – but he was afraid to just give up and off himself.
Bucky dried off before he reattached his arm (state-of-the-art, Stark Industries shit) and pulled on a long-sleeved Henley and the first pair of jeans he identified on his floor. When he exited his bedroom, Natasha handed him his wallet and keys.
As Bucky laced boots onto his feet, Nat laid a firm hand on his shoulder. She said, “If you need out, just signal me. We’ll go. But at least try, okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Bucky said.
“We’re just going to be at the bar down the street. Erskine’s. Steve knew the owner before he went into the service, I guess. I scoped it out for you beforehand. We’ll have a booth in the back corner. All the exits are visible.”
“Steve is…Clint’s buddy?”
“Yes,” said Nat, “I want you to play nice.”
“That depends on some shit,” Bucky replied, “and you never told me why the hell you’re doing this.”
“Because you’re my friend,” Natasha told him, and slipped her arm in his, as though he couldn’t guide himself out of his own damn apartment building. And maybe he couldn’t.
Erskine’s, it turned out, stood not three blocks from Bucky’s apartment building. Bucky didn’t like the amount of people out, but it was Saturday night. Of course there were people out. Having Natasha at his side meant something, meant that somebody had his back, but it didn’t stop his eyes from shifting from person to person, group to group, wondering if any among them were a threat. He tightened his grip on Natasha’s waist and she squeezed his arm, a silent it’ll be okay.
Erskine’s was well-lit for a dive bar in Brooklyn, the crowd not-too-thick, especially in comparison to the bustle on the sidewalks outside. As promised, Clint waved from a booth in a back corner, a bright smile cracking open on his face. It comforted Bucky, just a little, to see his friend happy. Natasha’s smile was more subtle, the slightest curve of her lips, but it was enough that that Bucky noticed.
“Steve’s running late,” Clint said, as they slid into the booth. Bucky ordered scotch on the rocks, but nothing to eat. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday but he wasn’t hungry. Clint nursed a beer and went on, “Something about Pollock and getting into his food container.”
“Pollock?” echoed Bucky.
“Steve’s dog,” Clint explained, “He’s a service dog, but he’s a little shit sometimes. A little shit I love, but a shit nonetheless. Oh, hey. Speak of the devil.”
Bucky turned his head to look at the person Clint was waving to. His breath caught. This – this just wasn’t fair. The handsomest goddamn bastard just walked into Erskine’s, his gait stiff, but a shy smile on his face and a yellow Labrador retriever at his side in a vest that marked him as a service dog. He waved back. It was directed at Clint, but it still made Bucky’s heart stutter in his chest.
Bucky turned to Natasha and muttered in her ear, “You didn’t mention he was hot, Nat.”
Nat shrugged a shoulder and responded, “I had nothing to do with Steve’s looks.”
“You engineered this,” Bucky whispered back.
Bucky didn’t miss the sly half-smile that quirked up one side of Natasha’s face as she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steve slid into the booth and greeted, “Hey, guys,” and zeroed in on Bucky, “Hi. I’m Steve.”
“This is James Barnes,” Nat said.
“Bucky,” corrected Bucky.
Steve’s eyes swept over Bucky and he said, “The same James Barnes that saved Natasha in Kunar?”
“That’s him,” Natasha said.
“Nat,” Bucky said.
Steve was already smiling, a gentle, kind smile. Bucky shifted uncomfortably against the vinyl booth at the sight of it. Steve held out his hand and said, “Thank you for your service.”
Being thanked for his service always made Bucky feel awkward as all fuck, and usually anyone that'd been in felt the same way. The earnest look on Steve's face cowed the barb at the tip of Bucky's tongue, though.
“Uh,” Bucky managed, but he shook Steve’s hand anyway. He forgot to use his flesh hand. Something flashed in Steve’s eyes when he saw Bucky’s prosthetic hand, but he didn’t say anything about it. He just shook, that same dumb-looking smile on his stupid, handsome face. Damn it. Natasha would suffer for doing this to him. He cast her a look that said as much, but she didn’t seem to give a shit. Typical.
Steve ordered a beer. They talked about nothing at all for a while, just discussed movies that they’d seen and how Bucky resembled one of the guys in The Martian. Bucky hadn’t seen The Martian. He hadn’t seen any recent movies, really. He mostly slept, relied on disability to pay for his rent, and scraped by on money that his ma or sister sent over, because they knew he was perpetually unemployed and also too miserable and pathetic to do anything about that.
For the most part, Bucky kept close to the edge of the booth and clenched metal fingers in a fist so that he didn’t try to rub the ears of Steve’s service dog. Unfortunately for Bucky, Steve noticed. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s clenched hand to where Pollock laid on the floor, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Steve said, “You can pet him, if you’d like. He loves attention from handsome fellas.”
Heat spread over what Bucky was sure was his entire face. He lowered his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Steve’s face and stuck his prosthetic hand in Pollock’s fur. Pollock looked up at him, seeming happy as a clam on the floor. From then on, Bucky kept his hand stroking through the fur on Pollock’s head. When he stopped, the lab bumped the pressure-sensors on Bucky’s hand and encouraged him to keep going.
More people filtered into the bar as the night wore on. Bucky lost track of how many scotches he let himself have. It was enough to make his head swim and his tongue loosen. He started talking about the new Star Wars. He wanted to see it, but didn’t have anyone to go with.
“I’ll go with you,” Steve told him, “I haven’t seen it, either.”
“Where the fuck have you guys been?” Clint asked, visibly tipsy, “I’ve seen it three times already.”
Natasha leaned into Clint, lips right up against his ear, so Clint’s hearing aids would pick up her voice above the buzz of the bar crowd. Bucky looked away, having a feeling that the moment between Clint and Nat was some kind of private thing that he wasn’t supposed to be watching. Steve must have felt the same way, because he caught Steve averting his eyes from their friends.
“Hey, guys,” Nat said, “Clint’s kinda overstimulated. We’re gonna take off. Think you two can handle yourselves?” She aimed a pointed look at Bucky. He knew what she was asking. Would he be okay to get home on his own? Could he walk three blocks without losing his shit? Probably not, but he didn’t want to leave yet, which was a weird feeling. He didn’t want to leave Steve. That was most likely creepy, seeing as they’d just met, but Bucky had so many fucking issues that being creepy seemed low on the list when said list was taken in as a whole.
“Fine,” he said.
He and Steve watched Natasha and Clint go, arm in arm, and then ordered more drinks. Bucky was drunk as a damn skunk. He started to run his mouth. He could hear himself say words but couldn’t tell if they even made sense or not. He faded in and out of where they were, faded in and out of himself. He did that sometimes.
“I like your dog,” he heard himself say.
“Thanks,” replied Steve, “He’s, uh. He’s good for me. Having him near keeps me grounded, y’know? Plus he helps me navigate crowds. With my leg, it’s kinda…difficult.”
“Your leg?”
Steve lifted up one side of his jeans. His sneaker covered not a flesh-and-bone foot, but the end of a prosthetic. The prosthetic Steve wore proved to be far less advanced than Bucky’s arm, nothing birthed by the mind of Tony Stark, but a standard, pole-like device that clipped into a sleeve where Steve’s leg ended.
“IED?” Bucky asked.
Steve shook his head. He replied, “Little more messy than that.”
Bucky wondered what could be messier than having one’s limb blown off, but his brain didn’t struggle to make the leap from the gory parts of war to the gorier. So he said, “I won’t ask if you don’t wanna tell me.”
“Thanks, pal,” Steve said. From anyone else that might have sounded sarcastic. Paired with the smile on Steve’s face, it sounded downright sincere.
“M’really drunk,” Bucky mentioned, after a beat. He downed the rest of his scotch anyway. Hopefully any hangover he got wouldn’t be too bad. Crunching the ice cubes left in the glasses counted as drinking water, right? No, he knew it didn’t, but that didn’t stop him from hoping that a few ice cubes would offset the insane amount of cheap scotch he’d imbibed this evening.
“I can walk you back to your apartment, if you’d like,” Steve offered, “Gettin’ late as it is.”
Bucky made some kind of noise of agreement. Steve left a pile of cash on the table. It would cover both of them, and Bucky felt like he should protest, except that he probably drank at least thirty or forty bucks worth of crappy scotch and he didn’t exactly have that kind of cash on him at the moment. He leaned on Steve on the way out. Steve smelled nice, not like cologne, but like soap and laundry detergent and guy.
“Smell nice,” he told Steve.
Politely, Steve said, “Thanks, Buck. You do too.”
They started to walk. Steve offered Bucky a stick of spearmint gum, but he pushed it away and rambled directions. Only Bucky’s directions didn’t make sense and he couldn’t guide Steve to his apartment. He couldn’t remember the way. He hadn’t lived there long, and he used to be good at directions, but then everything went to shit, and he lost his arm and his goddamn mind, and, and –
“Hey,” Steve said.
Bucky wasn’t standing anymore. He was on the ground, face in his hands. Pollock sat next to him, big ol’ head rested on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky trembled. He asked, “What happened?”
“Just got confused about your apartment, is all,” Steve replied, “Why don’t you stay at my place tonight? We can worry about finding yours in the morning.”
Steve made getting lost and forgetting his address sound like something that everybody went through. And maybe they did, except that Bucky had lived in that cramped, gross apartment for almost six months now. After six months, people tended to remember their addresses, but Bucky didn’t. He didn’t just lose his arm. He lost his mind – what was left of it, anyway. Did he already say that? He did.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, again.
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said back, “You’re recovering.”
“Been recovering too long,” muttered Bucky.
“There isn’t a strict timeline for recovery,” Steve replied, voice soft, “Sometimes it’s harder for some people than it is for others.”
“Why s’it so hard for me?” asked Bucky, “You’re…recovered.”
Steve let out a laugh, but there was no mirth in it. He said, “Bucky, I’m so far from recovered that it’s ridiculous. I get nightmares like anybody else. I take medication like anybody else. I have to take my dog with me everywhere, because if I don’t have Pollock, I panic. I’m taking this shit a day at a time. C’mon, we’re here.”
Bucky let himself be guided into an apartment building and up a short flight of stairs. Despite his drunkenness, the stairs still took Steve longer to conquer, even as he white-knuckled the railing and Pollock plodded along to help. Bucky tried not to stare at Steve’s gimpy walk and failed. By the time that Steve made it up onto the landing beside Bucky, his hands shook so bad he couldn’t fit the key into the lock. Bucky tried to take the key from him, but Steve jerked his hand back.
“I can do it just fine,” Steve snapped.
It was the first irritable thing Steve said to Bucky. Usually people got annoyed with him faster than that. He let his hand drop away from Steve’s and said, “Sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to shout,” Steve said, “I just – I don’t like being treated like I’m too weak to take care of myself, is all.”
“I know what you mean.”
Bucky patiently waited for Steve’s hands to stop shaking enough to get his key into his apartment door. A couple minutes passed, probably, but Steve’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction when the door swung open. Steve inclined his head and said, “C’mon. Let’s get you inside, huh?”
The door closed behind them. Bucky shed his coat, but couldn’t quite get his shirt. He wanted it off, couldn’t sleep with it on –
“Here, let me help,” Steve offered.
Bucky began to protest, but Steve pulled the Henley off for him. He guided Bucky back, away from the living area, and said, “You can take the bed. You’ll need it.” Bucky caught Steve’s eye running along the length of his tattooed, flesh arm. The ink was expensive shit, top-quality art done by one of his guy’s brothers. Realistic. Intense.
With a gentle push from Steve, Bucky was on a bed. It was neat. Military corners. Old habits die hard for Steve, then.
“You gonna leave me all alone?” Bucky crooned.
“You’re drunk,” Steve answered.
“Did I ask for your dick in my ass?” Bucky said, “Just come on and cuddle me. ‘Less you don’t want to. I know I look kinda fucked up. Wouldn’t hold it against you.”
Steve held Bucky’s gaze for a long, unbroken beat, and then sat on the edge of the mattress. He rolled up the right leg of his jeans, inch by inch revealing a below-the-knee prosthetic.
“Whatcha doin’?” asked Bucky.
“Taking off my leg,” Steve replied, “I’m not sleeping with it on. You sleep with yours on?” Steve jerked his head at the metal contraption.
Bucky glanced at his arm, at the wealth of scar tissue around his shoulder. He shook his head and found the switch to unhook his arm from the socket. The concept of his arm far outdid Steve’s leg as far as technological advancement went. He wondered why Steve didn’t have a Stark-made leg when Tony Stark offered his prosthetics to decorated veterans at a minimal price: their cooperation. The more lab rats the guy had, the better limbs he could make. Bucky figured he didn’t have a reason not to throw his hat in the ring.
Bucky waved his now-detached arm and asked, “Where do you want this shit?”
“You can set it on the bedside table.”
Bucky began to realize that Steve wasn’t nearly as drunk as he was. The realization started when he watched the careful way that Steve detached his prosthetic and peeled away the sleeve. The end of Steve’s leg didn’t look anything like the exploded mass that was Bucky’s arm – there were no burns, no ugly stretch or bunching of skin. It was smooth. Didn’t Steve say the loss of his leg was messier than an IED? Shit didn’t look messy.
Steve caught Bucky’s eye and said, “Was my foot more than anything. They were able to save most of the leg itself.”
Steve didn’t elaborate further than that, and Bucky didn’t ask. No, he looked on as Steve squirmed up into the bed, mere inches from Bucky’s body. Steve hesitated before he got closer. That was fine. Bucky was the drunker of the two of them, so it was up to him to make crappy passes at Steve. He looped his arm around Steve’s waist and curled in around Steve’s back. Steve was bigger than him, but he seemed to be okay with being the little spoon.
Fingers stroked down Bucky’s arm.
“This is gorgeous,” Steve said.
“Wanna hear something fucked up about it?” Bucky asked, “Of course you don’t. But I’m gonna tell you anyway. I got it done – paid a fuckload of money – so I wouldn’t hurt myself. Used to hurt myself before. You can feel the scars.” Bucky didn’t wait for Steve to touch his wrist, but moved his hand. Steve pressed his fingertips to uneven, tattooed skin, feeling along the precise, measured scars that ran all the way down the inside of Bucky’s forearm.
“You did this before…?” Steve let the question hang.
“Before Kunar? Yeah. I’ve always been crazy. War just made me a little crazier.”
“You’re not crazy.”
“Yeah, then what am I?” asked Bucky.
Steve shifted in Bucky’s loose grip, turned his face so that their eyes met. This close, Bucky could smell spearmint chewing gum on Steve’s breath, with the soft undercurrent of beer and human. It should have been gross, but it wasn’t. Instead, it made Bucky want to kiss Steve. He didn’t, though. He doubted that Steve would want to be kissed by some guy like him. Steve seemed too wholesome for all that.
“You’re human, Buck,” Steve softly said.
Those words were the nicest thing Bucky had heard in weeks.
X
The nightmares that night didn’t belong to Bucky. The nightmares belonged to Steve.
Bucky’s head and heart pounded, but he gathered Steve into his arms anyway and murmured to Steve that the nightmares weren’t his fault.
X
Instant, searing agony burned into Bucky’s brain as light stamped into his retinas. He groaned and held his hand over his eyes, shifted onto his side. Bright, late morning sunlight streamed into an unfamiliar room through the spaces between the metal blinds over the window. As soon as Bucky realized that he didn’t know where he was, he bolted up to a sitting position and put his back to the wall. He scanned his surroundings.
Bedroom. Decent place, with taupe-colored walls. At least, it smelled nice. Smelled like one of those plug-in scent things his ma used to stick in every outlet in their damn house. The bed was messy, but the sheets were clean. Hell, the pillowcases looked like they’d been ironed. Maybe they had. Music filtered in from the other room. The melody was old, something that his granddad might have listened to…maybe Tommy Dorsey. Whatever is was, the notes felt like slimy tentacles against his hungover brain.
His arm was missing.
No - something - his arm caught the lines of sunlight and gleamed at the edge of Bucky's vision. The table was neat as a pin, not even graced by an alarm clock or a lamp. There was, however, an ugly plate, some brown and yellow nightmare from the seventies, topped with a couple of Advil gel capsules and an Ikea-standard-type glass filled with water.
Where the fuck was he?
The outline of the previous night returned to him in pieces as he grabbed at the Advil and chucked them down his throat with a swallow of water. Natasha showed up at his door, made him shower and come out to some dive with Clint and Clint’s war buddy, Steve.
Steve.
Shit, that was right. Shades of gray filled in his memory between the bones. Nat left. Bucky was vague on why, but he imagined it had to do with Clint’s anxiety around crowds or his hearing aids acting up. She left Bucky with Steve like a traitor…or Bucky, idiot drunk he was, probably told her it was fine and she left him to his own devices. He knew he drank a lot, enough to obliterate most of the in-between here and there.
The bedroom door creaked open a sliver. Bucky’s head shot up. He expected Steve, but instead found Pollock poking his muzzle between the door and its frame.
“Hey, dog,” Bucky rasped. He sounded like he’d been gargling gravel with his whiskey. Christ.
Pollock took Bucky's greeting as an all-clear to be in the bedroom. He trotted the rest of the way and leapt onto the bed, tags jangling at his neck. He curled up against Bucky and huffed out a world-weary sigh.
“Yeah, that what you think, buddy?” Bucky asked. Pollock’s tail thumped against the mattress.
Someplace beyond the door, a smooth voice called, “Pollock? Bud, where’d you go?”
Pollock thumped his tail again, but he didn’t move from his place at Bucky’s side. Momentary panic at the idea of Steve being in the same breathing space as Bucky had Bucky whispering to the dog, “Dude, you gotta go. Steve needs you.” Pollock cocked his head at Bucky like he didn’t understand, but he was a service dog, for fuck’s sake. Service dogs were smart. He knew Bucky wanted him out but he was playing coy.
“Oh.”
And now the damn dog had brought the most handsome guy in New York to him. Steve stood at the door, bedhead glowing like a halo in the light from the window, his clothes paint-stained, and his feet in socks that had seen better days.
“You’re up.”
A blush screamed across Bucky’s face before he could stop it. Sure, he nausea roiled in his gut and like he’d been run over by a steamroller or six, but something about Steve’s presence made that all fade to a dull roar. He wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue and tried to think of what to say. They didn’t make a damn how-to guide for drinking your crazy away and becoming stupid in the process.
“Um,” Bucky managed, “I kind of don’t…remember…”
“We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you’re asking,” Steve said.
“No, I got my pants on, so I got that far,” replied Bucky, “I’m real sorry about this. I don’t really – I can’t…”
Steve held up a hand and said, “Hey, don’t sweat it. You think you can stomach anything? I can whip up some pancakes. Or waffles! I can totally make waffles.”
The waffle enthusiasm coaxed a chuckle out of Bucky. He rubbed at his temples and said, “Yeah, sure. Waffles are good.”
A millisecond-long smile flashed across Steve’s face, and he turned away from the door. Pollock jumped from the bed to follow, and Bucky forced himself into a sitting position. His head throbbed with discomfort, like it was one of those popper-vacuums he played with as a preschool kid, little plastic balls rattling around in his skull at the slightest movement. He took a moment to breathe before he reached for his arm and hooked it into the socket built into his shoulder.
Like always, a weird jolt surged through the left half of Bucky’s body at the addition of his arm. He shook it off and pushed open the bedroom door.
“My buddy Sam gave me this waffle iron when I got out of the hospital,” Steve said as Bucky hovered awkwardly back near the kitchen, “I haven’t had a chance to use it yet, so really I gotta thank you for giving me the opportunity to do a science experiment.”
“Uh, you’re welcome, I guess,” Bucky replied. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and drifted away from the kitchen, where Steve started banging through cabinets. Even through a loose, well-loved t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, the fact that the guy was built like a brick shithouse was clear as day. Bucky tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the breadth of Steve’s shoulders or the way that his sweatpants hugged his ass and removed his attention to the living area, which proved to be far cleaner than Bucky’s own piece-of-shit, closet-sized apartment.
A full bookshelf stood tall against one wall, crammed in next to a small television and a respectable, newer-looking couch. The whole entertainment center sat squished on one side of the room in favor of a tarp-covered floor, an easel, several canvases, and a battered antique desk covered from top to foot with multicolored smears of paint.
Bucky’s eyes, once they fell on the canvases, had trouble moving from them. His legs did the moving for him, and before he knew it, he stood in front of a stack of paintings.
They were messy.
Ugly.
Disturbing.
They were perfect.
Not unlike a Jackson Pollock, the paint seemed splattered and smeared with little rhyme or reason, at least as far as the backgrounds went. The shapes in front, though – those were soldiers. Bucky would know the silhouette of an armed man in ACUs anywhere. The exaggerated shadows of soldiers stretched over the canvases, over stains of deep red and violent orange and fleshy pink.
Jesus, they were hard to look at.
Bucky reached out without thinking, until –
“I paint them after the nightmares.”
Bucky jumped back. He stammered out, “Sorry, I didn’t –”
Steve offered Bucky a vague, grimace-like smile. He said, “S’fine,” and started to turn away.
Bucky blurted, “It’s like you’re in my head!”
Steve leaned back on the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his chest. He lifted his brows, and a chasm opened between them, a gaping maw between the carpeted and tiled halves of Steve’s apartment. Steve murmured, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, “They’re fucking brutal, like, it hurts to look at, but – but they’re really good. You should show somebody these things, get ‘em put up someplace.”
“I don’t think anybody wants to see those,” Steve said with a shake of his head. He ripped his attention away and busied himself with making a stack of waffles. He set it down at the table – a foldable, cheap table not unlike the one Bucky shoved into his apartment beside the two square feet that he politely called a kitchen. Steve pointed to the plate and said, “There you go. Some Steve Rogers waffle magic. I got no idea what they taste like, so I guess that makes you my guinea pig.”
Bucky sat at the table, and Steve stuck two bottles down on the table: Aunt Jemima, and a maple leaf shaped bottle of real syrup. Shit, he hadn’t had real syrup since he was a kid. He reached for that and drizzled it over the waffles. They looked and smelled good, at least.
Bucky took off a big bite, chewed and swallowed before he said, “I think people would want to see those paintings.”
“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” replied Steve.
With that, the spell broke. Bucky remembered Steve was little more than a kind stranger and that he’d trespassed enough on the guy’s hospitality. Bucky set his fork down and cleared his throat. He said, “Sorry. You probably want me to leave.” The chair beneath him squealed against the floor as Bucky stood. God, he never even took off his shoes last night. What an ass. How goddamn embarrassed can he make himself?
Bucky rooted around and found his shirt from last night tangled in the sheets on Steve’s bed.
“Aren’t you going to finish your waffles?” asked Steve. Bucky didn’t want to meet Steve’s eye, but he did anyway, because he was a masochist. Steve looked like a kicked puppy.
“They’re great,” Bucky said, “but I’m not hungry. Sorry for, you know, fucking up your morning. And your night. I’ll see you around, Steve.”
“Buck –”
Bucky shrugged his coat on over his shoulders. He felt filthy, like a trough of slop had been upended over his head. He said, “Thanks. Again. I appreciate it,” and pried open the door. Like a bat out of hell, Bucky escaped, and he prayed to anyone that would listen that he never saw Steve Rogers again.