“bucky,” steve says. he’s too thin and his breathing’s a harsh tattoo that bucky doesn’t like but his eyes are bright as ever, bright like summer sunshine; bright like his laugh.
nobody’s laughing today.
“steve,” bucky says, careful. the sun catches on his shoulders, hot like it’s summer, like the world isn’t about to end.
don’t go, steve doesn’t say. he sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair.
they are sitting on the steps of steve’s grandmother’s old brownstone. bucky doesn’t smoke around steve. the leaves are about to turn and people keep stopping to smile and wave at them - that’s the neighbourhood, for you.
“i’ll be home soon,” bucky says, catching steve’s wrist between his fingers.
steve’s eyes are magnetic, electric, glowing.
they are both of them not breathing.
bucky wonders if that is steve’s heartbeat thundering in his ears or his own. he wonders if this, if now, is when they will let whatever it is finally drag them in, drag them under.
steve blinks.
bucky is staring at his mouth, at the blue of his eyes.
they are like a fire’s heart, like
the blue of the oldest ice, the blue of the deepest ocean.
oh, james buchanan thinks, oh i’m falling.
he thinks, i’m sorry, steve.
the water is so cold and he has to close his eyes against it-- oh captain, my captain.
“winter soldier, do you copy?”
“that’s not my name,” he says, choking on ice and steel in the back of his throat.
her voice is harsh and cruel. there’s a lilt to it that doesn’t sound like his own. “what’s your name, then?”
he thinks, steve, but that’s not right.
his fingers don’t feel right. nothing feels right.
he swallows.
everything is so cold.
“i don’t know,” he grits out.
“so listen,” she snaps. “it’s for your own good.”
it’s stupid.
he knows that there is such a thing as warmth he just
can’t
remember it.
he keeps thinking: blue eyes.
but his entire world is all red.
“cheer up, soldier,” the red widow murmurs. “it’s not winter yet.” a leaf drifts, crimson like her hair, into her black-gloved palm.
his entire body is always so cold. he says, “it’s been winter for a long time now.”
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-10-10 02:05 am (UTC)“bucky,” steve says. he’s too thin and his breathing’s a harsh tattoo that bucky doesn’t like but his eyes are bright as ever, bright like summer sunshine; bright like his laugh.
nobody’s laughing today.
“steve,” bucky says, careful. the sun catches on his shoulders, hot like it’s summer, like the world isn’t about to end.
don’t go, steve doesn’t say. he sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair.
they are sitting on the steps of steve’s grandmother’s old brownstone. bucky doesn’t smoke around steve. the leaves are about to turn and people keep stopping to smile and wave at them - that’s the neighbourhood, for you.
“i’ll be home soon,” bucky says, catching steve’s wrist between his fingers.
steve’s eyes are magnetic, electric, glowing.
they are both of them not breathing.
bucky wonders if that is steve’s heartbeat thundering in his ears or his own. he wonders if this, if now, is when they will let whatever it is finally drag them in, drag them under.
steve blinks.
bucky is staring at his mouth, at the blue of his eyes.
they are like a fire’s heart, like
the blue of the oldest ice, the blue of the deepest ocean.
oh, james buchanan thinks, oh i’m falling.
he thinks, i’m sorry, steve.
the water is so cold and he has to close his eyes against it--
oh captain, my captain.
“winter soldier, do you copy?”
“that’s not my name,” he says, choking on ice and steel in the back of his throat.
her voice is harsh and cruel. there’s a lilt to it that doesn’t sound like his own. “what’s your name, then?”
he thinks, steve, but that’s not right.
his fingers don’t feel right. nothing feels right.
he swallows.
everything is so cold.
“i don’t know,” he grits out.
“so listen,” she snaps. “it’s for your own good.”
it’s stupid.
he knows that there is such a thing as warmth he just
can’t
remember it.
he keeps thinking: blue eyes.
but his entire world is all red.
“cheer up, soldier,” the red widow murmurs. “it’s not winter yet.” a leaf drifts, crimson like her hair, into her black-gloved palm.
his entire body is always so cold. he says, “it’s been winter for a long time now.”
he hates new york.
the streets always look somehow
familiar.