makinglies | Two ancient losers

To anyone else, he'd look like some homeless person camping out in front of the World War II memorial, he certainly looked the part. He wore torn jeans, dirty shoes, a t-shirt that only had the virtue of being somewhat clean because he'd 'obtained' it recently and a faded hoodie he wore to cover the arm he couldn't stand to look at. He'd shaved all of twice in the last two months and only because he was aware it was getting too long--something that had always been taken care of for him--but now it was grown in again, a steady layer of scruff that couldn't be called a beard but was no where near simple fuzz. He looked like he wasn't taking care of himself...mostly because he wasn't, he only half remembered how. It didn't seem important compared to everything else that consisted of the static in his head.

It had been two months since he'd first noticed someone was trying to track him down. He assumed the reason he hadn't been found before that was because the person doing the tracking hadn't expected him to stick around D.C. initially. But he'd needed answers.

Unfortunately, those answers weren't too quick in coming. There were flashes--there had always been flashes--whispers of color strung through a black and white existence that had no context, made no sense and had no place in a world full of orders and pain, so they'd been discarded. At least until one man had claimed to know him and he knew the man back, or rather he felt he knew him. It was the strongest flash of color yet and it had given context to some of those whispers.

They had tried to kill those colors, to wipe them clean of his mind and they'd succeeded for a time. But now that he was looking for them they easily came back, never truly wiped, just buried. There were so many of them now, flashes of things he thought maybe he remembered but were still out of place, feelings he could name and knew he felt at one time but now couldn't tell if he was truly feeling them or if he was simply remembering.

There were too many holes. His mind was a wreck, a patchwork that had come undone and he couldn't find the needle and thread to sew it back together. He was confused, frustrated and lost. There was a disconnect between the man known as The Winter Soldier, the unfeeling, remorseless assassin and the man he'd read about, Bucky Barnes. He knew them both and could remember enough of each to know he wasn't either of them anymore. He didn't know who he was.

But maybe there was someone who did, someone who knew both and could take all of those patches, line them up for him, and hand him the means to fix what wasn't permanently broken. And if they couldn't, he at least knew Captain America would be strong enough to eliminate the threat he knew he still posed. Just as in some ways there was some Bucky Barnes still in him, there was some Winter Soldier as well; he was still at fault for all that he'd done and he was still a weapon--a tool-- that could be picked up by someone else and used again if he couldn't find his own way.

And standing here in front of this memorial, staring at a name that deserved to be up there with all of those other heroes--those other sacrifices--while he was left forgotten in the shadows, he didn't know that he could. So he waited.

He waited because he'd made certain he'd been spotted so there was a thread to follow, something for Steve Rogers to pick up and maybe lead him to the ghost he'd been chasing for who knew how long. He didn't know how long it would need to wait, but it didn't really matter when he had nowhere else to go.

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"Yeah," he mutters, his had swiping through blond hair in a frustrated tousle. It's easy enough to say, but he's predisposed to guilt. He hadn't lost any other commando his entire run in the war...

Maybe there's meaning in that, some kind of divine message or punishment. For now, he has the chance to make it right. Maybe keeping their friendship just that, just a friendship. It's not as if Bucky needs Steve thinking of things like that right now anyway. He has a long road to recovery.

"Yeah," he repeats, standing. "Look, why don't we get some sleep and figure out some stuff that might help in the morning. You take the bed; you don't look like you've had a good night's sleep in a decade so I'm not gonna hear any arguments about it."

It wasn't as easy as all that and he could tell it was still bothering Steve, but he was right that it felt like Bucky hadn't slept in years. He honestly couldn't even remember sleeping, though he was sure he did...just not in a bed.

"Okay."

He paused like he was going to say something else, but ultimately stood and crossed to the bed, unceremoniously curling up on top of the blankets on his side.

Well, that was abrupt. But its not as if Steve can blame Bucky for that. There wasn't really much else to say for now and maybe Bucky is just that tired. Visible through the narrow entry to the bedroom, Steve watches his friend curl up with his back to the wall, still atop the covers. It's simple enough to guess why, but knowing that Bucky is still acting like he's under attack makes Steve's stomach drop a little. He doesn't say a word.

Steve rummages for a few minutes, getting a spare pillow and a thin blanket so he can settle on the couch. It's drafty and a little chill in the modified warehouse but Steve may well be a furnace. He only really needs covers on the coldest of nights, but there's some security in having a covering anyway. Especially right now, when he could use all the comfort he could get.

You infant, he grumbles to himself mentally as he turns off the light and flops on the couch., guilt settling in again. You're complaining while Bucky's there in the other room not knowing who he is? You're a real piece of work.

He expected sleep would find him quickly and uneventfully, giving him at least a little peace of mind for a few hours. There'd probably be dreams at some point, but most of the time they fell away quickly by the time he was awake so he couldn't remember them. The nightmares he remembered, but more that he had them and what they were about than any detail.

But this time, neither occurred because he found he couldn't sleep. He turned and shifted and tried to find some other way to have that shut down, but it didn't happen. He laid there, listening as Steve's breathing evened out and he began a light snore, and tried to figure out whether it was the new location or the presence of another person that was keeping him up.

The answer was slow occurring and it only happened as he took stock of his physical state to see if it was something there: the bed was too soft. He couldn't sleep because all of that soft, squishy, comfort was uncomfortable.

He thought about waking Steve up to get them to switch, but when he stood and got a better view of the couch, the peaceful look on the blond's face made him hesitant. For once, Steve wasn't concerned with everything he could think of, he wasn't looking at Bucky like he was a wounded animal Steve didn't know how to fix, he was just calm and he didn't want to break that.

So with the practiced ease of his years of training, he slipped quietly into what passed as the living room and settled down on the floor, his back to the front of the couch like a guard dog with his arm curled under his head as a pillow.

Edited 2014-05-07 15:46 (UTC)

Steve's generally a light sleeper and though Bucky was silent as the grave as he moved and resettled, the subtle change pulled the captain from sleep. He didn't jar awake, nothing felt wrong, per se, just different and so he cracks one eye open and tilts his head to look and see what that might be.

He sees Bucky. Or more accurately, he sees Bucky's back, the scar tissue around the arm still pulling at his heartstrings, but he recognizes the position to have meaning. He trusts Steve, enough to leave his back exposed to the blond in such a vulnerable position as sleep. It makes something in his chest twinge.

But he can also see that sleep isn't settling over his friend, not readily anyway, and he can guess at why. He slept on the floor for a few weeks after being thawed too. Even still he has to have low thread count sheets, scratchy but comforting in their discomfort.

"Can't sleep?" His voice is scratchy from having slept a little, but understanding all the same. "Took me awhile to get used to it too. Everything's so... soft in civilian life. Or maybe that's just this century."

"Yeah...probably has more to do with this century." With all it's decadence and comfort, he knew that much without copious memories of his past.

"Go back to sleep."

It was quiet, tinged by the fact he was already beginning to doze lightly just with the change in surface. But he felt better being next to Steve in general. Not that he couldn't take care of himself, but he still felt better knowing he could jump up and protect the blond at any given second.

If there was one thing he remembered clearly and could still feel now: it was that desire to protect the man at his back; it had been one of the first things to come back to him, like it was ingrained in him. As long as he was around, no one would lay a hand on Steve Rogers and get away with it.

"I still outrank you." He smiles, just a small one but it's real and happy. Sam may have understood the difficulties of reintegrating into peacetime America, but Bucky was there when the air was so cold they could barely work the drawstrings of their bedrolls, when the ground cover of rocks and dirt seemed as heavenly as feather pillows when they were finally able to rest. Bucky was there, and that gives weight.

Still drowsy, Steve doesn't even see the Winter Soldier anymore. It's just him and Bucky, like the old days, and he reaches out to brush his fingertips against his friend's shoulder. A quiet confirmation that he's really there. He'd spent the entire evening being wound up and worried and guilty, but in the glow of the city outside, he can let all that go for long enough to just take simple pleasure in Bucky being alive.

His eyes drift closed with that small smile still on his lips and his arm hanging off the edge of the sofa.

Two ancient losers

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