Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

[trashmod]

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16a/?)

[(Anonymous)]

For the first time since they moved in, they’re out in the backyard. It’s not much of a yard, just a fenced-in slab of cement about the size of their bathroom. But it’s more of a yard than either of them’s ever had, and yesterday Steve stared at it through the window while he gripped his cooling coffee and thought, That doesn’t have to be grim, asshole. That’s space and we own it.

When Bucky got home that afternoon, Steve had decked out the yard with a white metal table, three white metal chairs, and a plastic flamingo.

Bucky entered the house through the window, gripping the flamingo by the neck. “What the hell is this thing?” he asked, and Steve said, “Oh, him? My new best friend.”

Bucky took it into the bedroom. Steve’s new best friend watched while they slept.

Hunched over the table, with its floral cutouts around the edges, Bucky’s working on decorating a series of index cards with crayons and a thick marker. Each time he chooses a new color, he seems to deliberate over the options painstakingly, and he’s got his arm wrapped around the cards like they’re his babies. Like Steve might try to eat them.

Steve has no interest in eating Bucky’s young. He has only slightly more interest in the work he’s doing on his laptop, watching security footage from Natasha. The outside of a gas station, seemingly located in the middle of nowhere, almost a year ago. He asked her, “What am I looking for?” and she said, “You tell me,” before the line went dead.

Bucky lies his head on the table. His hair is in a high ponytail and fans out to obscure the index cards. An indigo crayon stays clenched in his hand. He says, “Maybe the flamingo should come back out. Sun’s good for birds.”

Steve pauses the footage on an employee slumped against the wall and smoking. “I don’t know. I liked waking up to him watching us.”

“Of course you like fucking waking up to a dinosaur staring at you. I can’t believe that thing usurped my job.”

“It’s your own fault.”

Bucky rolls the crayon between his fingers. “True enough. Are you gonna ask what I’m doing?”

“You know, you’re kind of going out of your way to telegraph that it’s a secret.”

“Yeah, exactly, and I’m not doing that for my health. I know you can’t stand not to know something. And you don’t exactly got both eyes on that gas station.”

Steve nudges his laptop over to the side. Slides down in his chair and stretches his legs out and crosses his arms and ankles. Bucky’s still smushing his cheek against the table, smiling at Steve almost imperceptibly. There’s a black streak on his cheekbone where he got himself with the marker.

Steve says, “Okay, fine. What’re you working on, Buck?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The CIA. Come on.”

Bucky smiles at him full-on. He lifts his head and slides the index cards across the table. Each has a different stylized bird, all the white space filled in with vivid, clashing colors. There’s the flamingo, holding a beer. Steve’s grinning and squinting when he looks back at Bucky. “These are--Really striking. I like them.”

“Aren’t they? They’re for Sam. I’m mailing him one a week. Gotta keep the romance alive somehow.”

Steve snorts. “Right. This very romantic drawing of a duck with a cigar.”

“That’s me.” He gestures with his chin. “The angry pigeon is you.” Its human fists are raised, and it glares at the viewer.

“And I don’t get to keep this striking likeness?”

“I’ll make you a photocopy.” He drags them back toward himself one-by-one. Stacks them up. Focused on straightening the edges, he says, “Can you cut my hair again?”

“Oh. I can. Yes?”

Bucky shakes his head like dislodging a flea. “Not in an erotic way. You’re just good at it.” He shrugs his metal shoulder high, then takes a moment to brush his ear against the surface. Probably savoring how it’s warmed from the sun, and Steve wants to reach across and press his own face to Bucky’s shoulder. “You really should open a barber shop.”

“I don’t know. What if I’m only good at it when I’m turned on? That could make for some damning Yelp reviews.”

“What if you wore a chastity belt?”

Steve snickers. “Not happening. How short did you want it?”

“Not short. But it’s gonna be a bitch to deal with in the heat.” He turns so he’s in profile, and picks the ponytail up, waving it at Steve. “I’ve got enough hair for a family of five.”

“It’s rude not to save some for the rest of us.”

“I’m a rude guy. It's your bad influence.”

“I’ll cut your hair.” Steve makes a note of where he’s paused the footage and exits out of the program. Shuts his laptop and makes to stand up.

Bucky holds out his right hand to stop him. “Could you do it out here? It’s nice out here.”

“Sure. I can do that.” It is nice, so bright it’s almost sparkling. A crystal of a day, with loose leaves blowing in from the neighbors’ fruit trees. “Do you want to get something I can do it with?”

Instead of answering, Bucky gathers up his index cards and drawing supplies and retreats inside, this time using the door. With the laptop closed, all Steve can think to do is study his own hands. To lay them on the table and look at the backs. The nails, smooth and clean, the places where he still remembers scars. It occurs to him, too late, that “something,” was dangerously vague, and for all he knows, Bucky’s going to return with the knife.

But Bucky sets a comb and a pair of haircutting scissors on the table when he returns. He sits straight-spined in his chair and slips the rubber band out of his hair, leaving it to fall in his face and across his shoulders. He lays a gleaming finger against the notch where his throat meets his clavicle. “Just to here. Please.”

“I can try to manage that.” Steve grabs the comb and scissors and pulls the third chair up behind Bucky’s. At first, he finger-combs through a section, and Bucky’s soft there, but tangled up in layers and layers. He settles the comb perfectly straight in his hair, an inch from the ends, holding Bucky still with the teeth.

Before he can cut-- “You’re telling the truth?”

“About what? My thick hair? The drawings for Sam? My legendary skee-ball skills?”

“Your sub-par skee-ball skills, sure. No. You said this isn’t supposed to be erotic. That’s the truth?”

Bucky cranes his neck to look at him, and Steve manages to keep the comb in place. Bucky makes a face like he’s trying to scare off a mountain lion. “Really? I’m not gonna ask you to non-erotically cut my hair and then, ‘Surprise! Here’s my boner.’ Come on.”

“All right, I’m just. Verifying that we’re on the same page. I'll keep this boring.” He nudges Bucky’s head back to neutral. He starts to trim.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “We’re on the same page.” All irritation or humor has been wrung out of his voice. Though he tries to muster some more up when he adds, “Besides, what’s arousing about scissors? They're no knife.”

Steve’s eyes zero in on the slender blades. There’s the swift shick of sound when they meet. How they’re the same silver as Bucky’s arm and would be much more efficient than a knife, really, at cutting anything off of him. He says, “Well, I think that depends who you ask.”

Lodging Bucky’s fingers in the handle’s holes would be a simple way to make him keep his hands to himself. One of them, at least.

Bucky’s tongue taps wetly against his top gums, more short and thoughtful than tutting. A breeze kicks up, scattering the glassy laughter of their neighbor’s windchimes, and scattering Bucky’s hair too. Like he’s a romantic heroine. Steve pauses his cutting, waits for everything to be still again.

Before he can start back up, Bucky says, “You noticed I’ve stopped, right?”

“Stopped what? Playing skee-ball?”

A long sigh. “No, I play skee-ball all the time. I play skee-ball in my sleep, Steve. You’re saying you haven’t noticed that? I’ve stopped bothering you about fucking me.”

“I did notice, actually.” He isn’t sure whether he should keep cutting. But it’s something to do, something they can both focus on if they have to, so he sets the comb’s teeth against Bucky’s nape and gives him a chance to say, What are you doing barbering me? This is a serious conversation. Nothing. Steve snips at his hair and says, “About the skee-ball. And that you’ve stopped. Talking about that.”

“Okay. Good.” An aborted movement ripples through his neck and shoulders. “And that was the right move?”

“Shutting up about it?”

“Yeah.”

Long and well-cared for, Bucky’s hair curls a little. It springs back into shape every time Steve moves on from a section. That makes it harder to know he’s cutting it all the same length, but it also means precision doesn’t matter as much.

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I guess that depends. Can you tell me what ‘the right move’ means?”

“What do you mean, can I tell you what it means? It means--That’s what I was supposed to do, right?”

“There wasn’t a--” He cuts a thicker bunch, the trimmings skittering into a clump on Bucky’s shirt like a cockroach. “A supposed to.”

“I’m not tryna get you to spare my feelings, dumbass.”

“Great, because I’m not trying to spare them.”

He knows perfectly well that he won’t fuck Bucky’s hair up just because he’s suddenly tense. He can do a hell of a lot of precise and finicky and genuinely dangerous things under pressure. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t picturing his hand veering off, out of his control, and hacking away at Bucky’s hair until none remains. And if there’s no reason to have that image playing in his head, then he won’t let it play.

He goes around and sits in the chair still facing Bucky. Slips the scissors and comb each into a separate pocket. Bucky looks caught-off-balance. Soft and open as a skinned rabbit. Instead of asking why Steve stopped, he blinks more than he needs to.

Steve says, “Don’t worry. I’ll finish later.” The click of Bucky grinding his teeth. “I’m not trying to spare your feelings or your hair. But seriously, can you tell me what ‘the right move’ is? Tell me like you think I’m stupid.”

The moment he’s said it, he registers that he’s made a space for Bucky to respond, Well, don’t I? Normally, that would be fine. Those are spaces they’ve always made for each other, worn smooth with their knuckles and teeth. But if Bucky says it right now, with the sky sharp and white, hair trimmings on his shoulders, Steve gripping his own knees hard--it’s going to sound real.

Bucky doesn’t say, Well, don’t I? He closes his eyes and smirks and says, “If that’s what you need.” He opens them. His gaze locks over Steve’s shoulder.

“That’s all I’m asking. You said you were ‘supposed to.’” Steve shrugs. “Says who?”

“Says the fucking--law of being good to you. Of being a good friend to you.”

“A good friend.”

“Yeah, look, I. Fuck. Can you hand me the comb?” Steve does, pressing it into Bucky’s outstretched, pale palm. Now, Bucky looks at the ground as he combs through the bottom half of his hair. He’s pulling harshly, probably yanking on knots. But his face is placid. “Thanks. This helps.”

“I’m always happy to hand you a comb.”

“Right. And I felt confident about that. It’s why I asked.” His head sways into the comb’s motion. “The sex thing--That I kept asking you about for a long time. Too long, right? I bet I missed some cues there.”

“And you’re saying that now you’re--You’re not confident. That I’ll want to fuck you.”

“Nah, I am confident that you don’t. I didn’t get that before.”

Steve makes a noncommittal noise. Bucky pauses with the comb caught in his hair, holding it straight out from his head. “Steve. You’re looking at me like I’m a bird from another planet. Am I talking sense or not?”

“I think that you understand exactly what you’re saying. But I don’t.”

Back to the combing. Back to closing his eyes. “All right already. Fine. Like I think you’re stupid: First, I kind of thought that you hated me. For what happened to me. And I was mad about it. Then I thought, No, he’s being sweet. He’s talking like I had no choice. Which brought me to another problem: Thought you didn’t want to just 'cause you didn’t understand. So I tried explaining to you. But I maybe didn’t do a very good job. And I thought, the book. That’ll make it all clear. And you read it. And I know it explained things. But you still didn’t want to. So you really don’t want to, I guess.”

He pops an eye open. Steve says, “And now you’re done asking.”

“Yeah. Now I’m done asking. Can I comb your hair?”

Steve nods, not really looking at Bucky. Flexing his brow, trying to puzzle through it. Trying to dissect his own every move. Was the dividing line between husband and friend whether or not he put the book down on Bucky’s birthday and said, “Okay, sure, let’s fuck?”

Trailing the comb through Steve’s much finer hair, Bucky says, “Is that stupid enough?”

“It’s not stupid.”

“I mean did I talk like you’re stupid enough?”

Steve sighs. The motion of the comb is soothing. He feels like a pile of leaves getting raked into place. Consolidated. “Can you tell me what you think the book explained?”

“Well. That the--” There’s a pause between words like he’s just humoring Steve when he continues, “rapes aren’t a problem. I know everything that happened. I remember it. And I don’t think about it how you want me to. I know that. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t. Who the fuck knows. Processed. And thinking about you fucking me feels good. It always feels good. That’s what I want to think about.”

Steve is quiet.

Bucky’s tone gets artificially cheery. “Anyway, that didn’t change anything for you, so, y’know. I had it wrong, I guess. So I’ll just think about it and not bother you. It’s okay. Really.” He’s combed Steve’s hair down so that it swoops across his forehead. Steve brings his fingers to the flattened hair, and they’re met with the comb. After a moment, he tugs the comb free from Bucky’s grasp and twists to look at him.

Bucky’s face is blank. “Bucky.” Bucky nods. “All right, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate you respecting my wishes, but you’re kind of wrong about my wishes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You didn’t tell me that the book was the end of the conversation. I assumed we were going to keep talking.”

“Why?”

Steve drags a hand down the side of his face. “Because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Not secretly break up with me based on a test that I didn’t know I was taking.”

“Oh, now there’s a supposed to?” Looking skittish about it, Bucky lifts his metal hand. He places the knuckles under Steve’s chin and lifts. Cocks his own head and stares. “I wasn’t breaking up with you, honey. I just thought we wouldn’t have sex anymore.”

“Oh.” Steve works hard to keep his eyes on Bucky’s face. The mess of his beard and the gentleness of his jaw underneath. “That’s not necessarily what I want. If we can, I want to figure out how to fuck you. And I thought I’d give you space after you basically gutted yourself on the page.”

Bucky frowns. “Huh. Fuck. It’s a shame we can’t hear each other’s thoughts, huh?”

The horror Steve feels when he imagines that must show, because Bucky throws his head back and barks with laughter, his hand still warm beneath Steve’s chin.



He finishes cutting Bucky’s hair in the bathroom. They watch themselves in the mirror, Steve’s head over Bucky’s shoulder, and the only time they talk is when Bucky smiles and says, “You really think I gutted myself on the page?” and Steve says, “It was impressively raw, Buck. You get a gold star.”



As Steve’s clearing the dishes after dinner, Bucky disappears. In the distance, Steve hears the printer in his office turn on and start chugging away. All the dishes are clean and in the drying rack by the time Bucky returns with an armful of papers. With precise motions, he sets about covering the table, lining up the edges of each sheet until he’s constructed an enormous map of Europe in black and white.

Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16a/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Somehow, 'an enormous map of Europe' is the perfect point for a chapter break. I am delighted by how the sudden cut off is causing me to react. Your writing fascinates and satisfies to no end.

Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16a/?)

[(Anonymous)]

tbh i was annoyed that the character limits forced me to cut it off there so i'm glad you actually liked that! thank you!!!