Steve hates that he thinks that, but he does. He’ll catch a glimpse of his reflection out of the corner of his eye, or he’ll hit his head on something that he’d once been able to pass easily underneath, and he’ll think all wrong like some ungrateful punk.
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy this new body. It’s big, strong, and fast in all the ways he used to dream about. When he came out of the machine, after his head had stopped buzzing and after he’d tried to avenge Erskine’s death, he’d felt the relief of not being in pain for the first time in his short life. He’d taken that pain for granted, often told people “it’s not so bad,” but he knows now that was horseshit. He couldn’t go back. Not now that he knows what it’s like not to be in constant pain. What it’s like to breathe fully, to feel his heart beating steadily, to eat whenever and whatever he wants. What it’s like to have power. What it’s like to have people look at him like he’s something beautiful and good.
He enjoys his body, but it feels wrong.
He thinks what he needs is for Bucky to see his new body. To see, and to touch, and to love Steve like he always has. If Bucky could desire him before, could let Steve crawl on top of Bucky during the nights in their tiny apartment and make love to him, how much better will it be now? Steve is finally the partner Bucky deserves. Strong, beautiful, good. Big, in every way. He can make love to Bucky how he’s always wanted to, holding him and pleasuring him, with no need to stop to catch his breath or regain his stamina.
Maybe then, Steve thinks, this body will start to feel right. The way it should.
*
Steve’s body is good for something beyond the shows and propaganda films. His body is big, and strong, and fast. His body can leap out of airplanes sans parachute and land no worse for wear. His body can sneak into Hydra trucks and take out the occupants without setting off alarms. His body can save Allied soldiers being held prisoner in Hydra factories.
His body can save Bucky.
He finds Bucky strapped to a gurney, far from the area where the other soldiers were being kept. Bucky looks shockingly gaunt, and he’s repeating his rank and number, over and over, in a numbed voice that makes Steve want to chase down the man he saw fleeing the room and beat the hell out of him. He can’t leave, though. He can’t leave Bucky.
When Bucky realizes that Steve is there, really there, he smiles. He says Steve’s name like it’s salvation, and Steve feels like Captain America for the first time since they gave him the ridiculous moniker. Except, then Bucky’s eyes narrow in confusion as they sweep Steve’s body. Bucky’s not looking at him like he’s beautiful or good. Bucky’s looking at him with suspicion.
“I thought you were smaller.”
It’s almost an accusation.
“I joined the Army.”
Steve counters pathetically. As if he’s funny. Bucky doesn’t laugh.
He unstraps Bucky and helps him stand. Bucky’s trembling like a leaf as Steve supports him. Steve wonders what they did to him, but he doesn’t ask. He’d never ask.
Bucky disentangles himself from Steve as quickly as he can, staggering behind Steve and grilling him on what exactly happened to change him like this. Each question has the bite of fear, and anger. He won’t accept Steve’s help, or his touch.
Fill: Wrong (1/?)
Steve hates that he thinks that, but he does. He’ll catch a glimpse of his reflection out of the corner of his eye, or he’ll hit his head on something that he’d once been able to pass easily underneath, and he’ll think all wrong like some ungrateful punk.
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy this new body. It’s big, strong, and fast in all the ways he used to dream about. When he came out of the machine, after his head had stopped buzzing and after he’d tried to avenge Erskine’s death, he’d felt the relief of not being in pain for the first time in his short life. He’d taken that pain for granted, often told people “it’s not so bad,” but he knows now that was horseshit. He couldn’t go back. Not now that he knows what it’s like not to be in constant pain. What it’s like to breathe fully, to feel his heart beating steadily, to eat whenever and whatever he wants. What it’s like to have power. What it’s like to have people look at him like he’s something beautiful and good.
He enjoys his body, but it feels wrong.
He thinks what he needs is for Bucky to see his new body. To see, and to touch, and to love Steve like he always has. If Bucky could desire him before, could let Steve crawl on top of Bucky during the nights in their tiny apartment and make love to him, how much better will it be now? Steve is finally the partner Bucky deserves. Strong, beautiful, good. Big, in every way. He can make love to Bucky how he’s always wanted to, holding him and pleasuring him, with no need to stop to catch his breath or regain his stamina.
Maybe then, Steve thinks, this body will start to feel right. The way it should.
*
Steve’s body is good for something beyond the shows and propaganda films. His body is big, and strong, and fast. His body can leap out of airplanes sans parachute and land no worse for wear. His body can sneak into Hydra trucks and take out the occupants without setting off alarms. His body can save Allied soldiers being held prisoner in Hydra factories.
His body can save Bucky.
He finds Bucky strapped to a gurney, far from the area where the other soldiers were being kept. Bucky looks shockingly gaunt, and he’s repeating his rank and number, over and over, in a numbed voice that makes Steve want to chase down the man he saw fleeing the room and beat the hell out of him. He can’t leave, though. He can’t leave Bucky.
When Bucky realizes that Steve is there, really there, he smiles. He says Steve’s name like it’s salvation, and Steve feels like Captain America for the first time since they gave him the ridiculous moniker. Except, then Bucky’s eyes narrow in confusion as they sweep Steve’s body. Bucky’s not looking at him like he’s beautiful or good. Bucky’s looking at him with suspicion.
“I thought you were smaller.”
It’s almost an accusation.
“I joined the Army.”
Steve counters pathetically. As if he’s funny. Bucky doesn’t laugh.
He unstraps Bucky and helps him stand. Bucky’s trembling like a leaf as Steve supports him. Steve wonders what they did to him, but he doesn’t ask. He’d never ask.
Bucky disentangles himself from Steve as quickly as he can, staggering behind Steve and grilling him on what exactly happened to change him like this. Each question has the bite of fear, and anger. He won’t accept Steve’s help, or his touch.
Steve’s body feels wrong again.