When was the time he hugged Steve? Back after the rescue didn’t count when Bucky was half out of his mind, and afterwards, it’d been so weird hugging this bigger, taller Steve that something felt off about it back in the early days. And besides, a Sarge didn’t go hugging his Captain either. Especially not Captain America.
Now, with no one else here, Bucky lets himself sink into Steve when he slides down to join him on the floor. Thickly corded arms wind around him, and Bucky’s eyes scrunch closed like he’s gonna hide himself from his own future. From the fact that he’s guessing Steve was there to see every second of it and carry it the rest of his life. Bucky presses into Steve’s strong form, trying to push down the way his breathing wants to run frantic and his head feels a little like he’s tried breathing too high up.
It’s Steve’s scent that helps Bucky steady himself. Familiar but foreign at the same time; the woodsy charcoal smell Steve carried like the vine and willow charcoals he’d used crept into his skin, and then on it now, something with a tang of spice he’s never smelled before, tinged with a fabric scent that leans more towards the rubber that seems to follow the flyboys around.
Bucky pulls back, but only barely. They’re so close that their breath mingles, but Bucky’s heart twists at how Steve’s looking at him like he’s drinking up the sight of him while he can.
Seems like once Steve starts talking, he can’t stop. Bucky closes his eyes against the stinging threatening ‘em, sucks in a slow, deliberate breath like he’s trying to master himself before a shot, and opens them even when he’s still not ready to face any of this.
God. It feels like he’s a dead man walking already. Steve’s might as well be getting his last words out to a ghost.
“Don’t talk like that, Rogers. Shit happens, that’s just war. The reels didn’t show all that, and it’s not your fault,,” Bucky says shakily. He clasps Steve’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze and a shake. It’s not your fault! Blame the krauts for it, but it’s not your fault! “Do the others make it? What about my family?”
no subject
Now, with no one else here, Bucky lets himself sink into Steve when he slides down to join him on the floor. Thickly corded arms wind around him, and Bucky’s eyes scrunch closed like he’s gonna hide himself from his own future. From the fact that he’s guessing Steve was there to see every second of it and carry it the rest of his life. Bucky presses into Steve’s strong form, trying to push down the way his breathing wants to run frantic and his head feels a little like he’s tried breathing too high up.
It’s Steve’s scent that helps Bucky steady himself. Familiar but foreign at the same time; the woodsy charcoal smell Steve carried like the vine and willow charcoals he’d used crept into his skin, and then on it now, something with a tang of spice he’s never smelled before, tinged with a fabric scent that leans more towards the rubber that seems to follow the flyboys around.
Bucky pulls back, but only barely. They’re so close that their breath mingles, but Bucky’s heart twists at how Steve’s looking at him like he’s drinking up the sight of him while he can.
Seems like once Steve starts talking, he can’t stop. Bucky closes his eyes against the stinging threatening ‘em, sucks in a slow, deliberate breath like he’s trying to master himself before a shot, and opens them even when he’s still not ready to face any of this.
God. It feels like he’s a dead man walking already. Steve’s might as well be getting his last words out to a ghost.
“Don’t talk like that, Rogers. Shit happens, that’s just war. The reels didn’t show all that, and it’s not your fault,,” Bucky says shakily. He clasps Steve’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze and a shake. It’s not your fault! Blame the krauts for it, but it’s not your fault! “Do the others make it? What about my family?”