"I have a picture in my head." Bucky said that night, as he was washing the dishes after dinner. Steve was hardly surprised -- Bucky had been spacey since he woke up, and had barely spoken 10 words all day, and that's usually a sign that a specific mental image was haunting his brain.
So Steve got out his sketchpad and they sat down together on the couch. When Bucky got like this, the best method they've found was to get the image out of Bucky's brain as best as possible -- then Bucky could stop remembering it and start seeing it.
"It's a dark room, and there is a big pane of glass on one side. There is a man on the other side of the glass. He is lying on the floor." Steve hurried to outline the room and the figure as words tumbled out of Bucky. Once the drawing session started, Bucky'd enter a dissociated state where he'd describe his mental image in a flood of dispassionate details: shapes, colors, values. Often Bucky didn't know what he was describing until he'd fully excised the image from his mind.
And so they were always surprises, to both Steve and Bucky. One turned out to be a sniper's view of the Kennedy assassination. Another was of an airfield in the Philippines. Those, after some discussion with Bucky, were turned over to Pepper for analysis and safe keeping. Others, Bucky kept in his room -- the image of Becca in the Barnes' kitchen at age 5, with raspberry jam smeared on her face, for example. Steve didn't know what happened with the image that turned out to be Steve himself with his arm outstretched from the train in the Alps, but he didn't particularly want to know. Bucky had gone pale when he'd snapped out of his dispassionate description phase and saw the image on Steve's sketchbook. He'd ran his fingers along the tear smudge lines that Steve'd tried to cover up with his crosshatching, and that was when Steve left to go take a shower. By the time Steve got back, the sketch had disappeared and Bucky was there with a soft smile and a warm hug.
"There is light coming from the bottom of the door here. There is a slot. 3 inches by 10 inches." Bucky reached out and pointed to the spot on the dismal cell taking shape on the page -- a stark room with no opening to the exterior, except for the door. A florescent light on the ceiling that remained off. And Bucky was looking through some sort of window or glass into this room. Nothing on the floor except the man and an empty plate.
Steve couldn't help wondering, who was this man? Why is this image etched in Bucky's brain? That was when Bucky turned his attention to describing the man on the floor, and Steve's sense of unease grew as his hand obediently sketched out every description and correction. The man was naked, lying on his left side, with his rear end exposed toward Bucky. His body was curled in on himself and he was looking Bucky in the eye. The man's body was covered in various bruises, which Bucky pointed out in unfailing detail. Whip marks down his back, bloody bruise lines from cuffs about his ankles and wrists, rope burns around his neck, and blood dripping down his thigh.
"No, not just blood. Also something more translucent. Semen" Bucky's finger traced lines down the man's thigh that Steve dutifully followed with a pencil and eraser. In times like these Steve tried to focus on the artistic challenge of portraying translucency with graphite. It distracted Steve from the greater ramifications of the image taking shape on his sketchpad. The distraction unfortunately didn't last long, as Bucky pointed to the man's rear end and the center of the scene of violation. "And this was more swollen and open, with more sperm and blood spilling out. 3 oz or so."
Steve tried his best to keep calm. Certainly, he's seen and heard of worse. But there was something especially distressing about drawing the aftermath of what was clearly a brutal rape of a prisoner while listening to Bucky's calm descriptions. Had Bucky been complicit in what was done to this poor man? And was Steve also complicit in a way, through his drawing of this scene? What would Bucky think when he snapped out of his fugue state?
By now Bucky had moved onto describing the man's face, and Steve found himself sharpening lines and bringing his features into focus. Lips swollen and similarly smeared with semen and marked with the bloody imprints of some metal gag. A chin with a tiny cleft, sharp cheekbones marked by yet another bruise, a delicate but firm jawline, and blank, unseeing eyes, directed straight at the viewer.
Steve recoiled in horror when he leaned back from adding some additional shading to the deep-set eyes. It took all of his self control to not immediately smudge the drawing beyond recognition.
The man was Bucky. Bucky had been describing an image of himself all along, seen through some dim mirror on one side of the cell.
"And he had some stubble on his face, around here..." Bucky moved to point, completely unaware of anything else except the clarity of the image in his mind. Steve reached out and grabbed his hand. Bucky looked up at Steve, perplexed but unguarded, eyes distant. Steve had never tried to stop Bucky in this state before. Even when Steve found himself drawing the fall from the train from Bucky's perspective, he'd managed to keep his tears to himself and complete the task at hand. But this time...
"Bucky," Steve said softly, words failing to come as he struggled to breathe from the emotions flooding his chest. He shouldn't... he's probably already broken 15 different therapist recommendations and set Bucky back months of recovery, but he needed to... he wanted to know, right now, "What's...?"
And it was probably because of the state that Bucky was still caught in, but he merely quirked his head at Steve and studied the image briefly. "The man. He just gave up and decided to stop existing."
Mini-fill: Out of Focus [1/1]
So Steve got out his sketchpad and they sat down together on the couch. When Bucky got like this, the best method they've found was to get the image out of Bucky's brain as best as possible -- then Bucky could stop remembering it and start seeing it.
"It's a dark room, and there is a big pane of glass on one side. There is a man on the other side of the glass. He is lying on the floor." Steve hurried to outline the room and the figure as words tumbled out of Bucky. Once the drawing session started, Bucky'd enter a dissociated state where he'd describe his mental image in a flood of dispassionate details: shapes, colors, values. Often Bucky didn't know what he was describing until he'd fully excised the image from his mind.
And so they were always surprises, to both Steve and Bucky. One turned out to be a sniper's view of the Kennedy assassination. Another was of an airfield in the Philippines. Those, after some discussion with Bucky, were turned over to Pepper for analysis and safe keeping. Others, Bucky kept in his room -- the image of Becca in the Barnes' kitchen at age 5, with raspberry jam smeared on her face, for example. Steve didn't know what happened with the image that turned out to be Steve himself with his arm outstretched from the train in the Alps, but he didn't particularly want to know. Bucky had gone pale when he'd snapped out of his dispassionate description phase and saw the image on Steve's sketchbook. He'd ran his fingers along the tear smudge lines that Steve'd tried to cover up with his crosshatching, and that was when Steve left to go take a shower. By the time Steve got back, the sketch had disappeared and Bucky was there with a soft smile and a warm hug.
"There is light coming from the bottom of the door here. There is a slot. 3 inches by 10 inches." Bucky reached out and pointed to the spot on the dismal cell taking shape on the page -- a stark room with no opening to the exterior, except for the door. A florescent light on the ceiling that remained off. And Bucky was looking through some sort of window or glass into this room. Nothing on the floor except the man and an empty plate.
Steve couldn't help wondering, who was this man? Why is this image etched in Bucky's brain? That was when Bucky turned his attention to describing the man on the floor, and Steve's sense of unease grew as his hand obediently sketched out every description and correction. The man was naked, lying on his left side, with his rear end exposed toward Bucky. His body was curled in on himself and he was looking Bucky in the eye. The man's body was covered in various bruises, which Bucky pointed out in unfailing detail. Whip marks down his back, bloody bruise lines from cuffs about his ankles and wrists, rope burns around his neck, and blood dripping down his thigh.
"No, not just blood. Also something more translucent. Semen" Bucky's finger traced lines down the man's thigh that Steve dutifully followed with a pencil and eraser. In times like these Steve tried to focus on the artistic challenge of portraying translucency with graphite. It distracted Steve from the greater ramifications of the image taking shape on his sketchpad. The distraction unfortunately didn't last long, as Bucky pointed to the man's rear end and the center of the scene of violation. "And this was more swollen and open, with more sperm and blood spilling out. 3 oz or so."
Steve tried his best to keep calm. Certainly, he's seen and heard of worse. But there was something especially distressing about drawing the aftermath of what was clearly a brutal rape of a prisoner while listening to Bucky's calm descriptions. Had Bucky been complicit in what was done to this poor man? And was Steve also complicit in a way, through his drawing of this scene? What would Bucky think when he snapped out of his fugue state?
By now Bucky had moved onto describing the man's face, and Steve found himself sharpening lines and bringing his features into focus. Lips swollen and similarly smeared with semen and marked with the bloody imprints of some metal gag. A chin with a tiny cleft, sharp cheekbones marked by yet another bruise, a delicate but firm jawline, and blank, unseeing eyes, directed straight at the viewer.
Steve recoiled in horror when he leaned back from adding some additional shading to the deep-set eyes. It took all of his self control to not immediately smudge the drawing beyond recognition.
The man was Bucky. Bucky had been describing an image of himself all along, seen through some dim mirror on one side of the cell.
"And he had some stubble on his face, around here..." Bucky moved to point, completely unaware of anything else except the clarity of the image in his mind. Steve reached out and grabbed his hand. Bucky looked up at Steve, perplexed but unguarded, eyes distant. Steve had never tried to stop Bucky in this state before. Even when Steve found himself drawing the fall from the train from Bucky's perspective, he'd managed to keep his tears to himself and complete the task at hand. But this time...
"Bucky," Steve said softly, words failing to come as he struggled to breathe from the emotions flooding his chest. He shouldn't... he's probably already broken 15 different therapist recommendations and set Bucky back months of recovery, but he needed to... he wanted to know, right now, "What's...?"
And it was probably because of the state that Bucky was still caught in, but he merely quirked his head at Steve and studied the image briefly. "The man. He just gave up and decided to stop existing."