[additional warnings for mentioning of food issues in this and the next chapter. nothing explicit, but at some point bucky's starting to get really hungry.]
04 Bucky
Steve shoves him through the door. "Sit."
Bucky sinks down on the edge of the bed, Steve crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "Why’d you do that?"
To his own annoyance, Bucky is still not adept at reading his new handlers. Right now, Steve seems equally angry and sad. Bucky’d take the risk and lie, if he had the slightest idea what to say to placate him.
The frantic beating of Bucky’s heart might be loud enough for Steve to hear, he realizes with a sour pang of disgust. He hates when they know that he’s afraid. He forces himself to meet Steve’s eyes.
"I didn’t want to say it. Wilson asked, and I should have answered, but…" He sets his jaw. “If I’d really meant to hurt him, he’d not be on his feet right now."
"Bucky! If you don’t wanna say something, then don’t, but that’s no reason to attack someone!"
"No," Bucky repeats grimly. "It’s not. I made a mistake. I’m sorry."
Steve urges him on the bed and lies down next to him. Bucky realizes that he missed the right point to undress, and he’s not allowed clothes in bed.
(Unless. But that’s another memory that resurfaced recently and he’s been trying to forget it again ever since.)
Steve’s not complaining about Bucky’s pants and t-shirt, instead he gives the racism talk again. At least that’s something they’ve been through enough times that Bucky knows exactly when which reaction is desired. He nods and shakes his head at all the right times, in between echoing things Steve’s said previously, again and again, until Steve seems satisfied.
"I get it," Bucky says. "It’s not about Wilson personally. If Barton dies first, that’s just as well."
"Bucky," Steve groans and smacks his shoulder. "These people want to be your friends! If warming up to them takes time, that’s absolutely okay, but can you stop wishing death upon them?"
"No harming my friends," Bucky recites, "I know that. I won’t do it again. I could help you protect them, if you’d let me. But I can’t, you know… from here."
Steve’s lips tilt up in a lopsided smile. "Not attacking them is more than enough for now."
"Right," Bucky sighs.
"C’mere" Steve says and Bucky forces his fingers to detangle from the sheets. He rolls overs, lets himself be pulled into Steve’s arms. Up close he can smell Steve, not only his shirt – his skin, faint traces of sweat on his neck, and it jogs his memory, fragmented and blurry. Steve has been his friend before, he’s admitted as much. Bucky remembers scraps, remembers the scent, he… he knows what that skin tastes like.
He swallows down the bile in his throat. Of course Steve lied, he never expected otherwise, did he? Right. They always lie.
It’s not painful per se, Steve’s hand threading through his hair, unsticking wet strands from his neck. Skidding lower. Lower, lower. Rubbing his back. It’s just the apprehension that doesn’t sit well in Bucky’s guts, he wishes they could just get it over with.
Besides, it doesn’t make sense, and Bucky assumes Steve’s trying to wear him out, confuse him to test his limits. He’s all mockingly gentle touches sometimes, like now, but when Bucky asked him in the bathroom earlier if he was supposed to pretend that he was into it, Steve had said no.
It goes on and on, but Bucky doesn’t walk into the trap. He can’t zone out, not just yet, he needs to stay concentrated and brace himself, in case the pain comes sudden and sharp. Steve’s strong, stronger than any of his latest handlers. He was able to deal enough damage when Bucky was allowed to defend himself. All the things he could do now.
Bucky’s head is pressed against Steve’s t-shirt, fabric stained from when he knocked over the casserole. Bucky doesn’t need to eat yet, not that desperately, so he’s surprised that even in a situation like this, his mind threatens to wander off. Food.
Yet again, his body betrays him. It does not take super-soldier ears to hear the loud grumbling of Bucky’s stomach. It’s been latently hurting for days, but not enough to let it show. He needs to prove how strong he is, how valuable, that even on minimum rations he can deliver peak performance.
Steve laughs at him. "Your fault dinner fell through."
"I know."
"You want me to whip up a snack?"
"I’m not hungry, you know I’m not." Another humiliating grumble.
"Yeah? Doesn’t sound like –"
"Stop it!" Bucky sits up sharply. "It’s a physical reaction, nothing more! It does not mean that I actually want food!" He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands and gnashes his teeth. "It’s like… like when they rub you the right way and you get all hard and twitchy even though you just wanna rip their heads off?"
Steve does not know. At least, he looks pretty baffled. Right, none of this has probably ever happened to him. Steve repeats the usual lies and Bucky pretends to fall for it. He seems to get away with it, until it happens again. Bucky feels his cheeks heat up at the next drawn-out rumble of his stomach.
"Listen," Steve says carefully. "I’m gonna bring some sandwiches, and you can take them or leave them as you please."
Windmills, Fill 4/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)
04 Bucky
Steve shoves him through the door. "Sit."
Bucky sinks down on the edge of the bed, Steve crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "Why’d you do that?"
To his own annoyance, Bucky is still not adept at reading his new handlers. Right now, Steve seems equally angry and sad. Bucky’d take the risk and lie, if he had the slightest idea what to say to placate him.
The frantic beating of Bucky’s heart might be loud enough for Steve to hear, he realizes with a sour pang of disgust. He hates when they know that he’s afraid. He forces himself to meet Steve’s eyes.
"I didn’t want to say it. Wilson asked, and I should have answered, but…" He sets his jaw. “If I’d really meant to hurt him, he’d not be on his feet right now."
"Bucky! If you don’t wanna say something, then don’t, but that’s no reason to attack someone!"
"No," Bucky repeats grimly. "It’s not. I made a mistake. I’m sorry."
Steve urges him on the bed and lies down next to him. Bucky realizes that he missed the right point to undress, and he’s not allowed clothes in bed.
(Unless. But that’s another memory that resurfaced recently and he’s been trying to forget it again ever since.)
Steve’s not complaining about Bucky’s pants and t-shirt, instead he gives the racism talk again. At least that’s something they’ve been through enough times that Bucky knows exactly when which reaction is desired. He nods and shakes his head at all the right times, in between echoing things Steve’s said previously, again and again, until Steve seems satisfied.
"I get it," Bucky says. "It’s not about Wilson personally. If Barton dies first, that’s just as well."
"Bucky," Steve groans and smacks his shoulder. "These people want to be your friends! If warming up to them takes time, that’s absolutely okay, but can you stop wishing death upon them?"
"No harming my friends," Bucky recites, "I know that. I won’t do it again. I could help you protect them, if you’d let me. But I can’t, you know… from here."
Steve’s lips tilt up in a lopsided smile. "Not attacking them is more than enough for now."
"Right," Bucky sighs.
"C’mere" Steve says and Bucky forces his fingers to detangle from the sheets. He rolls overs, lets himself be pulled into Steve’s arms. Up close he can smell Steve, not only his shirt – his skin, faint traces of sweat on his neck, and it jogs his memory, fragmented and blurry. Steve has been his friend before, he’s admitted as much. Bucky remembers scraps, remembers the scent, he… he knows what that skin tastes like.
He swallows down the bile in his throat. Of course Steve lied, he never expected otherwise, did he? Right. They always lie.
It’s not painful per se, Steve’s hand threading through his hair, unsticking wet strands from his neck. Skidding lower. Lower, lower. Rubbing his back. It’s just the apprehension that doesn’t sit well in Bucky’s guts, he wishes they could just get it over with.
Besides, it doesn’t make sense, and Bucky assumes Steve’s trying to wear him out, confuse him to test his limits. He’s all mockingly gentle touches sometimes, like now, but when Bucky asked him in the bathroom earlier if he was supposed to pretend that he was into it, Steve had said no.
It goes on and on, but Bucky doesn’t walk into the trap. He can’t zone out, not just yet, he needs to stay concentrated and brace himself, in case the pain comes sudden and sharp. Steve’s strong, stronger than any of his latest handlers. He was able to deal enough damage when Bucky was allowed to defend himself. All the things he could do now.
Bucky’s head is pressed against Steve’s t-shirt, fabric stained from when he knocked over the casserole. Bucky doesn’t need to eat yet, not that desperately, so he’s surprised that even in a situation like this, his mind threatens to wander off. Food.
Yet again, his body betrays him. It does not take super-soldier ears to hear the loud grumbling of Bucky’s stomach. It’s been latently hurting for days, but not enough to let it show. He needs to prove how strong he is, how valuable, that even on minimum rations he can deliver peak performance.
Steve laughs at him. "Your fault dinner fell through."
"I know."
"You want me to whip up a snack?"
"I’m not hungry, you know I’m not." Another humiliating grumble.
"Yeah? Doesn’t sound like –"
"Stop it!" Bucky sits up sharply. "It’s a physical reaction, nothing more! It does not mean that I actually want food!" He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands and gnashes his teeth. "It’s like… like when they rub you the right way and you get all hard and twitchy even though you just wanna rip their heads off?"
Steve does not know. At least, he looks pretty baffled. Right, none of this has probably ever happened to him. Steve repeats the usual lies and Bucky pretends to fall for it. He seems to get away with it, until it happens again. Bucky feels his cheeks heat up at the next drawn-out rumble of his stomach.
"Listen," Steve says carefully. "I’m gonna bring some sandwiches, and you can take them or leave them as you please."