(ooc: i leaned post-cw, pre-iw. lmk if you want me to change anything because i am more than happy to re-write! i just yoloed haha. )
--
[ Late at night, Steve dreams about the bunker in Siberia. He can smell the chemicals from the cryotubes, hear the drip of melted snow snaking its way into leaking seals, feel the weight of his shield sinking into the metal of a chest plate, and when he wakes? The fire of anger and desperation courses through his veins.
It's short-lived, and frankly, Steve rarely sleeps more than a couple hours. Better to chase the ghosts and guilt away with the dogged determination of work. It's all he's good for, these days; Steve Rogers the man was laid out on the German tarmac, left in a freezing bunker, changed over instead for the soldier. Cold armor fits better than warm, fragile skin. It's what makes Bucky's delivery to Wakanda easier— he can tuck away the bright-eyed Brooklyn boy that barely exists anymore, knowing that maybe, just maybe all the fighting would amount to something good for once.
It's been a week since their Wakandan getaway and being fugitive is no easier now than it had been at the start of the journey, when they were three wanted men instead of two. He's secured an abandoned flat just outside of Munich, it's not much, but it has four walls and doors, with plumbing that works haphazardly at best. It would feel incredibly isolating, were it not for Sam's banter, even in the quietest, coldest days.
He keeps him human, somehow, pries at the edges of the man hiding deep in his chest, not the soldier. It does nothing for the dark circles starting to form under his eyes, but it's a start.
Steve sits on one side of a lopsided couch, a tablet in one hand, looking first at a map, then swapping to some data on the screen. ]
We've probably got a few weeks here. [ A small huff, then he swipes back to the map. ] Looks like HYDRA has an old bunker about ten miles north that might be worth looking at. Might just be old munitions, but we've got time.
[ They have all the time in the world now, so long as they don't linger overlong, don't let eyes peer where they shouldn't. Steve raises his head when he hears something from the kitchenette across the flat. ]
... Are you still trying to get the stove to work? It's gas. You're gonna blow the place up.
[ Missions, stovetops, messages. They're all easier to deal with than everything they're running from, especially when they shouldn't have been made to run in the first place. ]
[ They agree on a date and time over text, once Sam's consulted his calendar. Bucky's not sure if it's a digital one or the kind you hang on a wall. Or even a person. The guy is Captain America now. Maybe the job comes with one of those assistant types, the kind that keeps track of dates and places and times outside of normal hero efforts. Anyway, the point is that between the two of them, there comes a day when Bucky voluntarily leaves the environs of New York and heads down the Eastern seaboard to D.C.
Which he hasn't visited since he tried to take out half of SHIELD. So there's a mind-twist. And he does it on a bike.
Well, a motorcycle. Because commercial airplanes are a pain in the ass and he still isn't much of a train fan. Not even if it would cut a whole day off the trip. In fact, it's kind of nice to just tool down a highway with no particular destination other than the city at the other end. To stop off at little Ma-and-Pa roadside diners on the way when he needs to refill the gas tank. It's a weirdly nice trip when everything is said and done.
When Bucky arrives in DC, he heads straight for the address Sam gave him. It turns out to be VA-affiliated - one of those places that holds group meetings for soldiers and airmen but also helps former military navigate housing, medical needs, and anything else that might come up in civilian life. He turns off the bike and sits there for a little while, watching people go in and out before eventually pulling out his phone. ]
prompt: you fell asleep on my shoulder on the plane ride and i would ask you to move but you look so comfy and adorable when you sleep. also you smell really good and the feeling of your breath on my skin is somewhat relaxing maybe we can go out to lunch in this shitty airport when you wake up?
---
( in this new world, every direction he glances in raises a new argument from his moral compass. sometimes, regardless of the amount of missions and real-life experiences he walks into, it feels like maybe he's never going to lose his sentimentality for the forties. things weren't any easier back then ( as much as he likes to protest the opposite ) but the world felt smaller. from hydra to s.h.i.e.l.d. to the avengers — it just never gets to be black and white. it's about power: who has it and who wants to take it. one person's best intentions to save humanity usually transform into something ungodly, warped into an ideology that people have to be wiped out for something better to emerge.
they're between wars, which means that steve's mind isn't on what could possibly crawl out of the depths of hell next, it's on the mission at hand. in four more hours, they'll be on another continent, following ghost stories from the mouths of locals. he stops asking sam why he's doing this and trades the inquiries for needless reminders that he doesn't have to follow him, or that he's done plenty and he can leave whenever he likes on the next flight stateside.
he doesn't.
it's part of the reason why when sam dozes off in the seat next to him on the jet, steve doesn't shrug him off into the window to teach him about personal space with a sunburn. he lets him sleep because he's keenly aware of the sleeplessness that comes with the job. he's puzzled over the maps, spent the last 72 hours with headphones in more often than not, trying to pick up key phrases without sounding like a tourist. there's no escaping his well-known looks, although he will do whatever he can to throw smoke.
at the moment, he's practicing mindfulness. he figures if he paces back and forth long enough, he'll tear a hole in the cabin floor. the strokes of his pencil against paper are cathartic in their own creative way, giving him an outlet that's vastly different from using his hands for violence. the other part of the reason he allows sam to sleep long after his shoulder gets tense and his bicep goes a bit dead is because he looks peaceful. his cologne or aftershave isn't totally intolerable either. it's less bothersome than it is when his breath fans against his neck, touching one of the few patches of exposed skin on his body. it's weirdly comforting, like knowing there's a knife under your pillow or someone in the cot beside you. it's nice — nice being the luxury steve doesn't permit himself to have as far as intimacy is concerned.
he won't draw something personal with sam around. these sketchbooks have served as visual journals for him in the past. so he's touching up the falcon's wings, the actual bird, when he speaks up. ) How long have you been pretending to be asleep?
He knows in his heart, that the Accords were a really bad idea. At best, they're an unconstitutional mess, vaguely-worded, and need years of edits. It wouldn't be worth it to him, for all the lives sacrificed in the meantime while they work out where the commas and semi-colons go. At worst, they're a powerplay from Ross to get his hands on Tony's tech and Steve's blood and just, everything about Wanda. He hadn't even read the worst about Ross, hadn't asked it from Bruce because it had never been relevant.
And yet, as he opens the door to the room at the seedy motel they paid cash to stay at, he's thinking that he really, really regrets that they couldn't work things out. He could've played dirty and asked any incidents they caused to be litigated, tying up the court system for years. He could just continue to have to break his friends out of prison every once in awhile.
"Guess we don't have to worry anymore about our beds being too soft." They can't even afford beds for everyone, but Steve's fine with the floor. What really gets him is the lack of intel. Natasha's great, even with both hands tied behind her back - especially, she'd say, with both hands tied behind her back - but having to do everything illegally and sneaking around isn't really Steve's forte.
Placing his bag on the chair, he lays out a change of clothes for how he's going to have to dress tomorrow when they head out. For now, it's late and there's only review to do before the morning, but Steve thinks he should probably let Sam get in some sleep too. "Think the room service here is any good?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
maybe i’m hiding behind metaphor, maybe my heart needs to break to be sure;
--
[ Late at night, Steve dreams about the bunker in Siberia. He can smell the chemicals from the cryotubes, hear the drip of melted snow snaking its way into leaking seals, feel the weight of his shield sinking into the metal of a chest plate, and when he wakes? The fire of anger and desperation courses through his veins.
It's short-lived, and frankly, Steve rarely sleeps more than a couple hours. Better to chase the ghosts and guilt away with the dogged determination of work. It's all he's good for, these days; Steve Rogers the man was laid out on the German tarmac, left in a freezing bunker, changed over instead for the soldier. Cold armor fits better than warm, fragile skin. It's what makes Bucky's delivery to Wakanda easier— he can tuck away the bright-eyed Brooklyn boy that barely exists anymore, knowing that maybe, just maybe all the fighting would amount to something good for once.
It's been a week since their Wakandan getaway and being fugitive is no easier now than it had been at the start of the journey, when they were three wanted men instead of two. He's secured an abandoned flat just outside of Munich, it's not much, but it has four walls and doors, with plumbing that works haphazardly at best. It would feel incredibly isolating, were it not for Sam's banter, even in the quietest, coldest days.
He keeps him human, somehow, pries at the edges of the man hiding deep in his chest, not the soldier. It does nothing for the dark circles starting to form under his eyes, but it's a start.
Steve sits on one side of a lopsided couch, a tablet in one hand, looking first at a map, then swapping to some data on the screen. ]
We've probably got a few weeks here. [ A small huff, then he swipes back to the map. ] Looks like HYDRA has an old bunker about ten miles north that might be worth looking at. Might just be old munitions, but we've got time.
[ They have all the time in the world now, so long as they don't linger overlong, don't let eyes peer where they shouldn't. Steve raises his head when he hears something from the kitchenette across the flat. ]
... Are you still trying to get the stove to work? It's gas. You're gonna blow the place up.
[ Missions, stovetops, messages. They're all easier to deal with than everything they're running from, especially when they shouldn't have been made to run in the first place. ]
one day I'll wear it all on my sleeve; the insignificant with the sacred unique;
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Which he hasn't visited since he tried to take out half of SHIELD. So there's a mind-twist. And he does it on a bike.
Well, a motorcycle. Because commercial airplanes are a pain in the ass and he still isn't much of a train fan. Not even if it would cut a whole day off the trip. In fact, it's kind of nice to just tool down a highway with no particular destination other than the city at the other end. To stop off at little Ma-and-Pa roadside diners on the way when he needs to refill the gas tank. It's a weirdly nice trip when everything is said and done.
When Bucky arrives in DC, he heads straight for the address Sam gave him. It turns out to be VA-affiliated - one of those places that holds group meetings for soldiers and airmen but also helps former military navigate housing, medical needs, and anything else that might come up in civilian life. He turns off the bike and sits there for a little while, watching people go in and out before eventually pulling out his phone. ]
I'm here.
(no subject)
you can't blame me, it was the prompt
S C R E A M S
i am here to personally bother you ty
i will always be happy to be bothered by you
(no subject)
ok none of these prompts on the generator were good
And yet, as he opens the door to the room at the seedy motel they paid cash to stay at, he's thinking that he really, really regrets that they couldn't work things out. He could've played dirty and asked any incidents they caused to be litigated, tying up the court system for years. He could just continue to have to break his friends out of prison every once in awhile.
"Guess we don't have to worry anymore about our beds being too soft." They can't even afford beds for everyone, but Steve's fine with the floor. What really gets him is the lack of intel. Natasha's great, even with both hands tied behind her back - especially, she'd say, with both hands tied behind her back - but having to do everything illegally and sneaking around isn't really Steve's forte.
Placing his bag on the chair, he lays out a change of clothes for how he's going to have to dress tomorrow when they head out. For now, it's late and there's only review to do before the morning, but Steve thinks he should probably let Sam get in some sleep too. "Think the room service here is any good?"