(no subject)

[warcode]

[ It's Tuesday in Avengers Tower.

A lot of the particulars of this arrangement had gone over his head, given that he'd been all but catatonic from shock and exhaustion through half of it (turns out using the Cube for a major temporal displacement actually took a lot of energy from the bearer, in this case him) but it seemed to include a lot of shouting and posturing while he'd suffered a fatal disconnect over which Steve he was supposed to back up, the tiny angry one or the big angry one. But the gist of it, explained by Howard Stark's son, is this: the Tesseract fucks with time, and sometimes deigns to answers wishes. Even those not spoken out loud. One flash of blue light later it had dumped all four of them here in the future in some kind of 'temporal bubble,' whatever the fuck that was, and it's keeping them here indefinitely.

Stark promises he's working on fixing it, but the future has things like inhalers and endless amounts of hot water, so there's that. Bucky's not in any big freaking hurry to head back to the war front in any case, even if being stuck here means staring at the frankly terrifying person who is supposedly future-him, or one possible version of future-him.

They're all under what's effectively house arrest in Stark's future robot building, given leave to go wherever they want in the Tower. They've all got their own bedrooms, their own kitchens, even their own floors if they want them, but Bucky had shown up at younger Steve's door at first opportunity and hadn't left him since.

(Part of him thought that maybe, maybe he should be throwing in with the other one, the older one with shadows under his eyes and a look on his face like someone had just kicked him in the stomach, the one Bucky remembered from Europe, but stress had brought on one of Stevie's attacks and Bucky couldn't leave him alone for that.)

He'd been kicked out eventually, though, told to go do his worrying and hovering somewhere else and take his stupid glowing alien box with him, which meant that Steve wanted some space to be upset in peace and that was fine, that was all fine, Brooklyn Steve didn't really know him since he'd been taken off to the camp and. Yeah. He's different. He's killed a lot of people since then, has watched his best friend waffle between science experiment, propaganda darling and one man army with maybe 10% of the training he needs to do the jobs they've got him doing. He's got a glowing alien box that always comes back to him, no matter how he tries to get rid of it. It bothers Steve that he's different. Not a one of them really know each other right now.

He drifts into the kitchen out of lack of anything better to do, still dressed in yesterday's clothes because he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep while Steve rasped in the bed next to him, mechanically opening cabinets and going through drawers, staring in something like hopeless frustration at the array of supposed edibles. The packages are all brightly colored and there are three kinds of everything, all declared to be low-fat or pure organic or a good source of vitamin whatever, like it wasn't possible for a guy to just get milk anymore without having to make some kind of choice about it. The labels are in every kind of language possible, of which he can only read three with his fragmentary French, Italian, and German. There's butter, more than he knows what to do with, and real meat, impossibly fresh, and the house robot has told him that if there's anything he wants that isn't there, he just has to ask for it and it'll be delivered.

All he wants is a goddamn loaf of bread and some cheese to make a sandwich, jesus. ]

Comments

blah blah open in like 3 places

[rocketpop]

[ It'd been a lot to swallow - magic and monsters and two versions of Bucky, a whole other one of him. One where he gets further with the doctor, where he goes to boot camp and takes the serum and isn't weak and pathetic and unable to defend himself.

It's not that he doesn't like the other version of him - he's pretty sure that would be weird, disliking himself-not-himself, but he's frustrated. This other version of him can hold his own, can protect Bucky, can save both of them while he's stuck in the tower trying not to go stir crazy. There's no need for a job - no way to get one, really, because how do they explain him? It'd be demoralizing, for the world to see Captain America like this again, he's told, but it's only temporary. He doesn't want to put anyone in danger, knows this other Steve has these enemies that he needs to combat so it makes sense, but it doesn't make him feel better.

Instead, he's left puttering around the tower. Tony does what he can - he gives him hearing aids, swaps out the asthma cigs for an actual inhaler, does everything he can for him and while he appreciates it, it's overwhelming. This knowledge that he's not enough, not in this tower with the talking walls, surrounded by people who are More Than Him in every way.

Steve splits his time between the far windows, the floor to ceiling ones, drawing there, and going down to the gym, furiously trying to do something, whether it's run or lift weights, something to build up some kind of muscle tone. He works with JARVIS, building some kind of regimen that won't kill him, and doesn't tell any of them about it, not wanting them to fuss, to worry. He goes to the gym only when he's sure no one else is there.

Other times, he just stands in the kitchen, overwhelmed by the variety of choices. JARVIS is very nice about it, but it's so fucking much to take in that sometimes he opens the fridge and just steps back and away and goes back to the seat by the window, because it's overwhelming as all hell. ]

[warcode]

[ bucky slinks over to him eventually, unable to stay away. There's nothing for him to do here either, except retell his story of how he'd been repeatedly locked in a room with the cube, nearly fallen off Zola's damn train and then stubbornly bulled his way onto the plane with Steve, knowing full fucking well that he didn't mean to come back. The Tesseract had been on the plane. He'd grabbed for it first to keep Steve from doing the same. No he doesn't know why it didn't melt him. No he doesn't know how to control it.

(Everyone from the future keeps giving him weird looks when he recites this, the older Steve looking absolutely stricken for some reason, and it's to the point where he's gotten snappish about being asked for more details. Steve had lived it, for shit's sake, they could ask him.)

He comes bearing a plate of apple slices as a peace offering, chewing on one himself and cautiously holding out the plate. He knows this has gotta be harder for steve than it is for him, looking at someone with his face and voice and knowing it's all just out of reach. ]

[rocketpop]

[ He's going to lose it if he's kept here that much longer. He respects what they're doing, okay, he does, but sometimes he thinks he'd take trying to make ends meet and at least being able to leave over this nonsense.

Bucky's gotta be having a hard time of it, too, so he doesn't send him away when he sees the other man slink closer, plate held like an offering.

He snags a slice after swapping the pencil to another hand and nibbles on it, giving Bucky a cautious little look. ]

Bet the two've us could bust out of here if we really tried.

[163]

[ Steve keeps an eye on him even though he tries not to -- he knows exactly how infuriating it is to not be as strong, as fast, as useful; it doesn't mean much when your heart to serve is bigger than your body. He knows all of it, he's been right there before.

And barring that particular sort of insanity, he can understand the frustration, wishing that he could say that it gets better (it doesn't). Things change, and for now they will all have to learn to live with it. Steve is enough, even if he won't believe it in a million years -- but he's enough. He reminds him of the man he used to be, so many years ago; and he can't help but think of childhood days, the difficult times he'd fought so hard to survive. See, they're both survivors, too, fighting to live another day, and always under the watchful eye of one Bucky Barnes, who played such an important part in their continued survival.

Even now, Bucky's still saving his life (even if he did try to kill him). This Steve on, the other hand; this Steve ought to know that. He comes into the kitchen quietly, knows just how unnerving this is. Too many food choices, sometimes the abundance of it still overwhelms him. ]

I remember there only used to be one or two types of food in the cooler boxes, if we're lucky.

[163]

[ It's a lot to take in -- even after the host of strangeness with alien invasions, battles right in the heart of the city and the like, this still takes the cake when it comes to the weirdness scale, because this makes it personal. This hits right home into the past that's just barely scabbed itself over, raw and painful. He sees the smaller version of himself, just as belligerent, little and sickly; always with something to prove (he's a little like that, still), and he can't bring himself to tell him everything that's in store for him.

Things like that, they've gotta be lived (he's sure even if the smaller him knew it, he wouldn't have done anything different).

And then there's Bucky. Younger than he'd ever known him, the spitting image of the man he'd watched over and over and over again in the Smithsonian, when he's still capable of smiling, and Steve had looked at him like he'd been everything important to him in the world.

He is.

Steve swallows whenever he sees him now; it hurts to see the damage done, the trauma and the pain that had turned him into the Winter Soldier. Steve sees the many ways he'd failed him in great detail; it's hard not to when they're both placed practically side by side, when the past haunts him and makes him think about all the ways he could have saved him. If only he was faster, quicker, better --

He turns up at the kitchen right now, half-tempted to take his leave, but something keeps him rooted as he watches the line of Bucky's shoulders, broad and strong; he remembers the echo of his frustration -- how many times had he dreamed of this, that Bucky would turn up here, the old Bucky, the one he'd remembered all the years past? It would make no sense whatsoever, but every time Steve woke up from it, he'd felt emptier, older, and more sandbags would die brutal sandy deaths.

Steve swallows, hard, and knows that he can't run away from this. He's no longer the man this Bucky remembers, and he wonders what this Bucky would think of the man that he is now. ] Bread's on the second shelf to the right.

[warcode]

[ This Bucky thinks this Steve has gotten awful good at playing everything close to the vest, and even better at faking the 'Captain America' stage thing every single day, all squared shoulders and iconic jawline and self-assured confidence. This guy's been in combat and Bucky clocks it automatically; the presence of a Superior Officer, the guy who knows his name carries weight. It's not his Steve. It's not even his Steve from Europe, who always glanced at Bucky before he gave orders to people that weren't the Howlies and didn't know him from Adam.

This Steve doesn't have a partner backing him, despite apparently having a whole team, and it hurts to see. This Steve's gotten used to doing everything by himself. He's quieter, too, even restrained, watches him and the other Bucky with something like hunger on his face when he thinks no one's looking, and somewhere along the way he's learned how to lie.

This Steve won't tell him what the fuck happened to future-him past the bare bones: he'd been captured by Hydra, somehow, and brainwashed into being some kind of assassin, and then he'd escaped, or something. Bucky's not even entirely sure he believes that crap, but then he's the one carrying around the magic alien box that's decided it likes him and has deigned not to melt him down for touching it. Maybe he hasn't got any room to judge.

He doesn't hear Steve come in. It's like both of the future versions are now part cat, they appear and disappear like goddamned ghosts in and out of rooms, and he jumps at the sound of his voice behind him, banging his elbow on a cabinet and swearing a blue streak. ]

[owies]

[ he tries to keep his distance - which isn't terribly difficult when he spends most of his time hiding in the room they've assigned him. ( still hasn't quite accepted the idea that it's his, despite everyone's reassurance, but it's a safe space to retreat to. ) when he does venture outside, it's mostly to observe the others; if he's amused by them being unsettled by it, he isn't saying, but the faint smirk that finds itself on his lips should be clue enough.

they're the faces in his memories, all three of them. of course he wants to know more about them.

but actually engaging with them is. hard. he knows things about them that don't quite make sense, that he isn't sure how to respond to, and that makes it difficult to figure out where exactly he fits into the equation. staying here wasn't his idea, he only followed steve ( the older one, the one he tried to kill twice ) because it seemed the safest option with everything going on, because if there is any way to clear the fog in his head, it's with him.

because it's the only thing he's ever really known how to do, a fact proven twice by the younger version of himself wandering through the tower after the smaller, frailer captain america. it's ridiculous, all of this, and if he wasn't already halfway to crazy before the ghosts of his past became living, breathing, equally confused and frustrated human beings, he sure as hell would be there now.

at least he's in good company for madness. he pokes his head out of the room for the first time in a few days, hiding his left hand beneath a hoodie two sizes too big, and keeps a watchful eye out for any of the others that might be out this late at night. food is probably a good idea, and he might actually be starved for human interaction with these people that mean too much to him to understand. ]

[rocketpop]

[ After his little argument with the other Bucky, Steve does his best to try and find the future version of his friend, only to be ultimately unsuccessful. The sandwiches get tucked into the icebox - no, the fridge, these days, and he keeps himself busy with anything else for the time being.

Eventually, though, he gets restless; the place is too big, too nice, it isn't theirs. He can't sleep in it without feeling awkward, or wrong, even, like the house is so large it's going to swallow him.

Or, worse. He'll wake up and this will all be some kind of dream he's had, sick and tucked into bed, hallucinating the strangest things. He pinches himself every so often, determined not to let that happen, and turns his attention to wandering the halls, trying to get the anxiety out of his bones. It's no surprise to find Bucky out there, but it is a surprise which one it is. He stumbles verbally, briefly, before catching himself. ]

I- hey. Are you hungry?

[163]

[ Bucky avoids them a lot, hiding in his own room on his own; Steve approaches him from time to time, to check in on him, to see if there's anything that he needs. But they're doing this thing where they make sure Bucky knows that this space belongs to him, that it's his own, and he can pretty much do whatever he likes.

If Steve had thought it was hard to get through to Bucky, it's even harder now on the road to recovery, when he's not sure just what he remembers and what's slipped through his memories. But he's there for him all the same, available whenever he needs him. Steve gives him space, watches over him discreetly, but even he can't miss that faint smirk that had given away his thoughts on the matter the other day.

It's difficult for all of them, he knows, and when Bucky pokes his head out of his room (finally), Steve notices. He'd been making himself coffee and a sandwich (sleepless nights are often spent puttering about the kitchen making food) when he spots him, and he pauses. ]

Hey. You're up late.

[warcode]

[ well for once he's not trailing around after tiny steve like a puppy, he's been kicked out of his own room (well, shared room) after yet another argument and had gone stalking out with his pillow looking for another room on another floor even though he knows he'll end up stretched across Steve's doorstep in the hallway like the world's most pathetic guard dog.

And that's exactly where he is at some unholy hour of the morning, wrapped in his blue coat and arms crossed over his chest even though he doesn't have a rifle to cradle, head turned into his shoulder and the door.

It's not a noise that wakes him, even. His future self doesn't make mistakes like that. It's some kind of shift in the air, a ripple across the surface of the Tesseract's muted light (it follows him like a dog, appearing at his feet, in the middle of hallways, and sometimes he sleepwalks, carrying it), and when his eyes open there's a blue glow fading from them.

Maybe he's the last person that should be guarding Steve's door. Maybe someone should be guarding Steve from him. ]

[asset]

[the winter soldier speaks nearly a dozen languages and yet when faced with these three other men--familiar in face and cadence--he feels utterly lost in translation. there is a history they share that was ripped from him over and over and over again until nothing but a muddle of vague flashes, half-remembered pieces of memories were left in the wake.

even now as his focus shifts one to another and the last of the trio there is something tight and sharp in his gut, an ugly desire to understand the looks they share. james buchanan barnes, the young thing wearing a much less weathered version of his face, does not trust him, does not like him and truthfully it's easier that way. why would he want to look at the hollow shell hydra has made of him and want any part of it?

the other steve--the tiny one, with fragile bones the winter soldier can name and categorize by the most brutal of breaks and effiency to inflict maximum damage--he's the one that causes another sharp twist in his stomach. there's a reason seeing the bigger steve's face beaten and bloody resonated so deeply on the insight hellicarriers--he knows it has something to do with the inexplicable instinct to watch every move the smaller man makes, to make sure that isnt something that ever happens to him again.

and yet he doesn't approach any of them, watching silently with lips pursed. aside from that nagging notion hydra instilled in him not to speak unless spoken to...he feels more lost than before if possible. distance is safe.]

[warcode]

[ unfortunately, even in a space as large as Avengers Tower, there's only one outcome when two people are sharing a floor and a third person is constantly trying to shadow one of them.

It's like a carnival mirror, almost, meeting his other self in a dark hallway in the middle of the night, it's like something out of a campfire story. Bucky had gotten up after a nightmare to take a walk (do a perimeter check) and he's pretty sure this guy is doing the same. They won't let him carry weapons around in here and he's pretty sure a knife swiped from the kitchen isn't going to get him very far against future-world threats (aliens, flying metal men, his own self, whatever), but the Tesseract is tucked defiantly under one arm, its muted blue glow lighting his way. He doesn't like it, but he's also not leaving it alone in a room with Steve.

His mouth tightens. He should-- he should turn around, he should say something, maybe they could slide past each other awkwardly like circling dogs, never turning their backs on the other. Instead he just. Stops. What if he's here because he's trying to get at Steve? What if he's finally come to kill his younger self in his sleep? ]

[rocketpop]

[ There's not an ounce of fear in his eyes or in his posture when he looks at this other version of Bucky. How could there be, when it's James Barnes under all of that - under HYDRA's conditioning, under the long hair and the dark circles under his eyes. It's him, it's always, always been him.

Steve doesn't think too hard about it if he can help it, instead focusing on what he can help - in this case, making sure Bucky doesn't wear himself down too hard hating himself, or this other version, trying to be useful in what few ways he can.

Eventually, though, this cat and mouse thing gets old. Steve goes looking for him, and once he finds him, goes right up and pokes him in the chest. ]

You can't avoid us forever.

[163]

[ Bucky's lost, and Steve tries his hardest to help, even if it means giving him the space that he needs sometimes. He knows that Bucky's recovering, that he needs time to himself so that he wouldn't become overwhelmed, but he looks in on him from time to time anyway.

It must be hard for him to take, too, to see the versions of themselves long ago before HYDRA came and tore them apart. They were... happier, then. Things were tougher back then, but this future's no bed of roses, even if Steve's glad that he's back, even if he needs some gentle coaxing and nudgng.

He comes to him now, knows that old habits are hard to break (but they'll break this particular HYDRA-instilled one, Bucky, promise) and smiles faintly. It's hard to see him so changed, so different than the person he'd been before; but they'll sort that one out, too. ]

Hey. You hungry?

LOL OPEN

[severer]

[ Natasha's seen a great many things in her lifetime, but definitely nothing quite like this, what with two pairs of Steves and Barneses popping up and living together because Stark still didn't quite know what to do with them (not that she can blame him, really). But that's just the tip of the iceberg; there's a reason why people don't usually meet their past or future selves -- timelines get messed up, confusion, unnecessary heartache, and the like rear up their ugly little heads.

She takes it in stride all the same (it's just another Tuesday, after all), pops by to get them supplies, to see the younger Steve Rogers and James Barnes for herself, before everything went to hell in a handbasket. She's pleasantly surprised by them, and decides to help them out from time to time, slipping in and out of their apartment just as quietly, an unintrusive presence as she continues to observe the Tesseract, the way all of them struggle to come to terms with each other.

This evening, she's watching a Japanese horror movie involving a meowing boy and a vengeful female ghost in the living room (master assassins have their downtime, too), and when she hears the quietest rustle, she doesn't turn around. ]

Pass the popcorn.

[owies]

[ there's not many can sneak up on him or call him out when he's hiding in the shadows - probably shouldn't come as a surprise that she's one of the few. out of everyone that comes in and out of the tower, she can probably relate to him the most. he doesn't know much, but he knows she's good, almost enough to pose a threat to him if she really tries. and she has, would likely again if she deemed it necessary.

he can appreciate that.

he's a little lost when she speaks up, though. he came empty handed, not even any of the makeshift knives he's started hiding around the floor. a repetitive choking sound fills the silence between them as he looks back and forth between her, the movie, and the hallway to the kitchen, uncertain. ]

I don't have any.

[ :( ]

[rocketpop]

[ Out of all the things he expects, a woman like Natasha giving him the time of day sure as hell isn't one of them. He knows things changed, sure, but there's a difference between being aware of changes happening and seeing them right in front of his eyes. She talks to the other Steve like it's nothing, they banter back and forth and they're comfortable together, easy as you fucking please.

There's nothing to it, they're just friends and Steve aches just a little bit, wondering how the hell things got that good but still so bad. He hasn't spoken to her much, but he makes a note to try and change that this time around, lingering behind the couch she's on. ]

M'banned from popcorn making duty.

[ Since he keeps burning it and filling the apartment up with the smell of burnt popcorn. ]

Sorry.

so very open

[tiptoeing]

[Bruce is helping in any way he possibly can. He's working with Tony to get the Tesseract sorted out, using his basic medical knowledge (which admittedly, seems less basic given the time they're from) to help Steve with his various issues and to help Bucky recover from the shock. He's had little time to marvel over the impossibility of what's happened, or consider the scientific implications.

Or you know, do things like sleeping and eating. But what else is new? He's currently in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea, which he does with an actual kettle and teapot. He can appreciate doing things the old-fashioned way.]

[owies]

[ objectively, from a distance, he likes banner. the man is quiet, reserved, the exact opposite of tony fucking stark. that he's science minded about the whole ordeal without treating them like projects for the next world fair makes him infinitely more tolerable and - and he appreciates the air of calm that surrounds him.

steve has explained why that's sort of an oxymoron, has shown him footage and explained what the hulk is to him. banner's not a threat. he could be, easily, but he isn't. it isn't a stretch to see why he might take comfort around a man that's learning a control he so desperately needs to hold onto.

he follows the sounds of tinkering in the kitchen, pads out of the bedroom they call his barefoot in loose sweats. observes from the kitchen's entrance without stepping over the threshold; he doesn't want to intrude. which is conflicting when he wants to talk to him, or whatever's passing for it today, so he winds up fidgeting a little nervously. bad form for a master assassin, get it together man! ]

it's an open thang

[prespangled]

[It feels like there's too many eyes on him. With the exception of Bucky, Steve's used to being overlooked, at least until he opens his big fat mouth. Now people are watching him like they think he's about to do a trick or something, or like he's a puzzle to be figured out. Sometimes their eyes look at him with a weird sort of longing, like they know something that he doesn't, and no one's letting him in on the joke.

He finds the kitchen when it's late and he can't sleep, something that he struggled with even before the war. Some nights it would be an aching back that kept him awake, other nights he'd be nursing a swollen jaw. Some night's his ma's coughing fits would keep him awake.

Tonight it's just plain ol' hunger. Steve pours himself a glass of milk, hoping it doesn't sour on his stomach. And of all the foods available to him, he finds a pack of saltines, familiar. Good enough. He's settled at the table before he feels them again - the eyes. Steve sighs and lowers his glass.]

There's still some milk left if you want it. And plenty of the "two percent" stuff.

[Steve takes a bite of the cracker, wondering what the hell the other ninety-eight percent is.]

touches gently

[owies]

[ he was watching from outside the kitchen, observing from afar like he usually does. it should come a surprise that steve eventually managed to feel him there, or maybe even come as an embarrassment when he's watched targets for longer from closer and with a lot more malicious intent ( any, in this case, because he will never lay a finger on this steve, even in passing ).

mostly, though, there's an inexplicable flare of pride. steve has always heavily impressed upon bucky that he doesn't need protected, he can handle himself, and even if he's not that man anymore - well. he can still be glad the kid's not completely letting his guard down around the most established assassin in seven decades.

but his offer earns a huff that might sound more like a growl. ]

Why is it always milk?

[ is this a thing, offering murderers milk? he ain't a cat. ]

[warcode]

I'm pretty sure the two percent stuff is also supposed to be milk.

[ he breezes on in like Steve hadn't caught him lurking and turns one of the chairs around, sitting astride it backwards. don't mind him, he's just going to ...well. watch Steve eat. very intently. his knee is jittering to a beat only he can hear though, despite the enforced casualness of how he's sitting. ]

smooches

[dislocked]

[ Bucky detaches himself from the shadows silently, a part of them for so long that he's more accustomed to being a part of it than anywhere else. It's still alien to him, this tower and its bright lights, the inexplicable lack of purpose (generally speaking). The soldier is used to accomplishing tasks, striking off names and cleaning off blood. He doesn't smell so much as gunpowder and ash anymore, and it's unsettling in many twisted little ways.

He watches Steve because he remembers him, right there in the core of him where the memories were supposed to be burned out, scoured and cleaned until there's nothing left but directives, a sense of purpose that belongs to his masters.

Bucky fights that, these days. He's a survivor, he's taking control of his life back, and when Steve calls him out he has the grace to answer to it, dismissing the milk as he pauses a few steps away. Fuck the milk, he's had enough of it offered to him to last a few lifetimes. There's something that twinges when he sees the saltine crackers, something that's not him (or maybe it was, a long time ago. seventy years is an awfully long period of time to try to remember). He's still, standing right there in the sliver of moonlight, the look in his green eyes the ghost of a boy from Brooklyn. He haunts Steve, he thinks. He always had. ]

You should be eating something more.

OPEN

[icingly]

[ There are ghosts in the Tower.

Before, he'd been the only phantom in the dozens of empty rooms, choosing one to occupy for a few hours, a few nights, and then changing his mind just for the sheer luxury of choice. Before, he'd crept into the Captain's (Steve, his name is Steve) unlocked room and stood at the foot of his bed, counting his breaths, and sometimes slid under the covers with him to sleep back to back. That felt familiar to him, sometimes.

He leaves before Steve wakes up each time. He eats when Steve has gone, trailing after him like a shadow, chasing the signs of his presence through each room. This is where Steve goes to train. This is the bag he likes to use. This is the plate he'd left out on the counter with half a sandwich, like food for a stray feral. He supposes that's what he is, now. He steals the clothes out of Steve's hamper (only the ones that smell like him, not the clean ones hanging in his closet or folded in his drawers) and he steals things that he knows Steve uses, like his cell phone or pages out of his sketchpad. He leaves things for Steve, too, like a cat bringing its human a mouse. He leaves coordinates on Steve's pillow for him, or names. The corpses of Hydra bases and their masters.

There are more people in the rooms now, more places he has to avoid and obstacles to the places he wants to go. This or that hallway has suddenly become anathema for the possibility of meeting someone along it. Voices that make his head hurt and his heart contract, alternately, and he wants, he wants--

He doesn't know what he wants. He lets himself into a room that someone else has been occupying, prowling restlessly around all the corners, and finally approaches the bed like it might bite him. The sheets are still wrinkled. The pillows are dented, and he presses his face into them, chasing a familiar scent. He used to know this. He used to know all of this.

He hasn't slept in forty-eight hours. He can go another forty-eight before side-effects begin to set in that would impair mission functionality. But he's-- he has been told, it has been impressed on him that there are no more missions, except to take care of himself. That's what he's supposed to be doing. Recovering.

He stretches out on the bed consideringly and then curls up around a pillow instead, making himself as small as possible. It is not completely safe to sleep here where anyone might come and discover him, but that's a choice he's making, testing for consequences. He wants to sleep here. There is no one to tell him that he can't. ]

[assailments]

[ There's someone in his room. Steve realizes this just moments before stepping into it, sensing the change in the air -- however inexplicable it may be -- and tensing immediately, only to relax, just a touch, when he learns just who it is that's made his way into his bed, curling like a stray cat around his pillow.

The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. He'd had a nasty shock when it turns out that his longtime best friend had become like this, left him alternately curious, angry, and determined once he'd learned the truth of it, the twists and turns that his future takes, the tragedies that leave him sleepless and shaken to the core.

His Bucky goes to war, and his Bucky falls while Steve becomes someone stronger, someone who, with all his new gifts had failed to save Bucky would eventually be. He's seen the future versions of him, the ones who carry such pain in their eyes that it hurts to see. But Bucky needs him more than anything else right now; this Bucky, the one with the new metal arm, the deadened eyes and the struggling psyche. Steve doesn't yet carry the guilt and scars of his future failures; but he takes what he can from it, determined to change the course of their paths, to spare Bucky the pain and horror of being a prisoner of war.

He stops at the doorway to study him briefly, before he draws closer and reaches for the pile of blankets left for him. He's still adjusting to this future, and while many things still baffle him, he's a quick study, picking up on whatever he can in order not to be any sort of burden to the versions of himself and Bucky still running around.

Steve is careful and very gentle when he lightly lays the blanket over Bucky's sleeping form, surmises that he hadn't slept very much -- shadows rarely ever rest, after all, much less one who seems intent on stalking the other Steve, making brief, rare appearances on most days. Steve's glad, perhaps, that this day had seen fit to deposit the Winter Soldier right into his room. The man is still as beautiful in repose; the long lashes, the strong jaw, and he can't help but draw nearer when he pulls the blankets up over Bucky's shoulders. ]