dappered | (no subject)

[ 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. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It doesn't change a thing.

[ Steve lets himself be shoved against the wall -- as far as he's concerned his missions were complete, he'd done what he'd needed to do. Beyond that, well. Beyond all of that, beyond war, there's nothing for him here. What else is there for him out in the world?

He knows that tone, forces himself to shake off that insult (now there's something he hadn't thought he'd hear again). ] What did I give up?

Edited 2014-12-30 08:55 (UTC)

Everything that made you you.

[ everything that bucky used to be afraid of, before, how steve threw himself into fights and kept getting back up when it would've been smarter to stay down, how he'd shrug off asthma attacks and conveniently forget to tell Bucky that he'd stayed home from work because he'd been too dizzy or weak to get down their building stairs. He'd clung to life like a barnacle, tiny and stubborn, and then he'd gotten big and stubborn, taking on tanks and bullets and entire hydra bases wearing a bullseye on his chest. He used to care. Maybe he didn't know exactly what God had intended for the serum, but he'd cared enough to stand his ground and defend himself over Bucky being sore about it.

Of all things, apparently surviving was the pressure that had finally worn him down. This Steve drifts like there's nothing anchoring him to reality, forgets to smile, apparently has forgotten that it's a goddamned miracle that he didn't die in the same TB ward as his mom, coughing his lungs into nothing.

he grips the back of steve's head, his voice raw and cracked. ]

I barely recognize you, Stevie. What the hell happened?

[ Things change. Steve's most fundamental principles are still very much in effect -- he still fights tooth and nail for what is right, for what is good instead of what is easy; but other than that there's nothing more left for him, even if he tries reaching out, forging friendships.

He's lost so much in his years asleep, and no loss rings as painfully and tragically as his best friend he'd failed to save when he needed him. To know, too, that Bucky had still been alive, that things could've been different if he'd fell in after him -- see, these things take its toll on a man. These things change a man.

Steve doesn't remember what it's like to be happy anymore; the smiles he carried are all buried with Bucky Barnes, and he moves into his grip, a hand coming to close around Bucky's wrist, aching to touch, to know that he's real. ] I let you go when I shouldn't have.

[ And this, this is what happens. It hurts to know that Bucky doesn't know him anymore, and he presses his forehead to his, closing his eyes quietly. The touch is welcome, curling warm in the pit of his stomach even as Bucky's tone breaks his heart.

Since when has it become so difficult to be happy? ] I wouldn't blame you if you kept hitting me, you know.

There's more to you than me.

[ but he's pulling Steve into him, brows pressed together and Bucky's arms slip around him automatically, taking his weight. Asking without asking to lean on him. ]

I'm not gonna hit you, you stupid mook.

Can't be me without you, buddy.

[ He's tried. He's been trying so hard, for years. But now Bucky's back here, those arms slipping around him -- but Steve hesitates, his breath catching when he's so close, when all he can think of is the impossible, the only thing he's wanted to do for the longest time.

And now it's the nerves that set in, makes him anxious and exhilarated all at the same time. He could do it, he could lean closer; he could finally, finally press a soft kiss to that mouth the way he'd always thought of, he --

-- Steve holds his breath, eyes dark when he meets Bucky's, when he's shifting his head just a little, lips parting before he slowly closes the inches between their mouths, careful and jittery. Surely, Bucky wouldn't kill him for it?

[ Bucky would love to kill him for a lot of things, yeah, but not for that. He picks up on what Steve's trying to do the moment he leans in and then he's being kissed, so soft and cautious it almost makes him want to cry. ]

This place is no good for you, [he murmurs against Steve's mouth, cupping his face and firmly tilting his head for a better angle.] Nobody in this joint's ever even taught you how to kiss.

[ he thumbs at the corner of Steve's mouth, eyes glittering and going in for the kill. ]

Open for me.

[ Oh. Oh. Steve is pleasantly surprised when Bucky doesn't push him away, even moreso when all it does, it seems, is to spur the man on. He's not a stranger to that predatory look, the way Bucky goes in for the kill -- Steve just hasn't been the target of that.

He's smiling before he knows it, leaning forward into his touch. He's obeying where he's guided to go, addicted and hopelessly drawn to the way Bucky touches him, aching for more. With a soft exhale, he looks back at him through lidded eyes and ridiculously long lashes. ]

That's your job.

[ He parts his mouth, a hand slipping around Bucky's waist to pull him closer. ] Was it really that awful?