[ The way Steve's expression pries itself open is almost comical for those few seconds Bucky's touch ghosts the edge of his mouth, the side of his face, and Steve stares at him as if he's trying to decipher the motion, as if there is some great mystery behind it and how he reaches out for him. Maybe he's overthinking, which is why he doesn't chase it. Not quite. Steve does catch his hand, but after that, he's not sure what to do with it besides grip it steadily. ]
That's not your responsibility. I made my choice. [ And he lives with that every single day he wakes up and sees him, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue refusing to come like they should. There is so much he wants to say - that he's sorry, that it was his fault, that Bucky deserves better - but none of it is enough. He doesn't think it ever will be, and all he can do is sigh. ] I'm glad you're here. [ He'll say it as many times as he has to until they both believe it. ]
[ Bucky gently teases. He might be glad, but every day Steve looks at him like he's in pain, like he's being tormented by all that's out of reach. If there's anyone that deserves better, it's Steve -- Bucky has done too much to be worthy of anything good; anything that isn't punishment for all that he's done. He lets his hand still in Steve's grip, silently wondering what he'd do.
He studies Steve, taking in every flicker of expression, committing it to memory. It's funny how some things don't change. ] Have you done anything that isn't for someone else's sake lately?
[ There's a quiet huff in response to that, awkward for the few seconds it takes him to fumble with letting his hand go. He still wants to hold on, keep it there until nothing could tear them apart, but it's not a fair assumption to make that Bucky would want the same thing. In all honesty, he has no idea what he wants, and Steve can't bring himself to ask. He just brushes it off with a careless little shrug of his shoulders. ]
I ran this morning. [ His smile is an equal tease, quick and soft. ] You know, I wouldn't mind it if you wanted to stay here sometimes. [ Have a repeat of what it had been like to be crammed into a small space with the warmth of him pressed close and reassuring. ] If it helps.
[ Bucky's gaze flickers to Steve's throat instinctively -- it wasn't so long ago that he sported ugly, vivid bruises on his throat, but he remembers eventually sharing a bed with a younger him the way they always had whenever it got too cold and the heating in Steve's apartment never properly worked.
He had insisted on sleeping on the floor at first, aware that this Steve wouldn't survive a throttling if that happened -- but Steve is nothing if not tenacious, and staying in his vicinity is the best way of ensuring that no one on the ship decided to see Steve as easy prey. They had slept curled together like children, and for a blessed few days his sleep had been dreamless. He misses that. ]
[ He thinks it might have always been something he'd wanted to talk about since that day in the training room, but Steve isn't sure where to draw the line anymore. Things like this are always a choice he has to make for himself; if Steve presses, he wonders just how much it would take for Bucky to cave. He wonders if that's still something between them, if it's ever even left, and those few hours he'd felt safe right beside him when he hadn't known anything of the truth... Maybe he could ask. Maybe he could risk it. ]
Something like that. [ Steve moves from where he's standing to walk around him and sit on the edge of his bed. It's hardly big enough for him, so cramming two people in it might not be comfortable, but knowing he's there and okay negates that almost immediately. ] What do you think? [ He tries to keep his voice level, his face straight. Best not to hope too much when so many things are still unknown. ]
[ Bucky's response is quiet, tentative, but warm. There isn't very much that he will withhold from Steve even now -- because what the mind forgets, the heart remembers; and he had loved Steve enough to follow him into hell. It was not choice, it was something stronger and more powerful, the instinct to protect what he holds precious, no matter the personal cost.
Steve is what's precious, the knowledge of that buried under so much trauma and pain and anger -- and he is reminded of it now, a pleasant warmth in his chest he had long believed was dead. It had never left, not really. Dryly, he comments: ]
You sure the both of us can fit in there? [ Actually, he doesn't care. He'll probably squeeze right in there with him. ]
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That's not your responsibility. I made my choice. [ And he lives with that every single day he wakes up and sees him, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue refusing to come like they should. There is so much he wants to say - that he's sorry, that it was his fault, that Bucky deserves better - but none of it is enough. He doesn't think it ever will be, and all he can do is sigh. ] I'm glad you're here. [ He'll say it as many times as he has to until they both believe it. ]
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[ Bucky gently teases. He might be glad, but every day Steve looks at him like he's in pain, like he's being tormented by all that's out of reach. If there's anyone that deserves better, it's Steve -- Bucky has done too much to be worthy of anything good; anything that isn't punishment for all that he's done. He lets his hand still in Steve's grip, silently wondering what he'd do.
He studies Steve, taking in every flicker of expression, committing it to memory. It's funny how some things don't change. ] Have you done anything that isn't for someone else's sake lately?
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I ran this morning. [ His smile is an equal tease, quick and soft. ] You know, I wouldn't mind it if you wanted to stay here sometimes. [ Have a repeat of what it had been like to be crammed into a small space with the warmth of him pressed close and reassuring. ] If it helps.
no subject
He had insisted on sleeping on the floor at first, aware that this Steve wouldn't survive a throttling if that happened -- but Steve is nothing if not tenacious, and staying in his vicinity is the best way of ensuring that no one on the ship decided to see Steve as easy prey. They had slept curled together like children, and for a blessed few days his sleep had been dreamless. He misses that. ]
Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?
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Something like that. [ Steve moves from where he's standing to walk around him and sit on the edge of his bed. It's hardly big enough for him, so cramming two people in it might not be comfortable, but knowing he's there and okay negates that almost immediately. ] What do you think? [ He tries to keep his voice level, his face straight. Best not to hope too much when so many things are still unknown. ]
no subject
[ Bucky's response is quiet, tentative, but warm. There isn't very much that he will withhold from Steve even now -- because what the mind forgets, the heart remembers; and he had loved Steve enough to follow him into hell. It was not choice, it was something stronger and more powerful, the instinct to protect what he holds precious, no matter the personal cost.
Steve is what's precious, the knowledge of that buried under so much trauma and pain and anger -- and he is reminded of it now, a pleasant warmth in his chest he had long believed was dead. It had never left, not really. Dryly, he comments: ]
You sure the both of us can fit in there? [ Actually, he doesn't care. He'll probably squeeze right in there with him. ]