brooklyn_boy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brooklyn_boy) wrote2022-04-10 11:40 am
brooklyn_boy) wrote2022-04-10 11:40 am
For FrozenAssets
The strange thing was that Steve had never really been alone before. The closest he got was in DC with the small apartment and the ghosts of the past he kept close to him at all times. But even then, he had the Avengers. He had constant contact with Tony and the rest of the team. Missions to keep him occupied so that the moments with just his record player and books felt like a break more than stifling isolation. But now, after all that had happened?
Now he truly felt alone.
Europe had the unique ability to move forward in time while preserving the past in small isolated bubbles. Steve slipped into England at nightfall and trusted his new beard and darker hair to stop instant recognition from getting him arrested. He was a fugitive, after all. The only place he was truly safe now was Wakanda and he'd fled from that protection as soon as he could.
It wasn't ingratitude that had him running. It wasn't duty either although he used that as a convenient excuse. It was that ever since Bucky closed his eyes in the cryotube, Steve had felt an ache of loneliness open up inside of him and for the first time since waking up in the 21st century, he couldn't figure out how to handle it.
The feeling was unfair to Nat and Sam. Both of them were around more than they weren't and were there for him in a way that was complicated and profound. They both had turned their back on so much to stand at his side. But Nat had her own missions to disappear on and Sam had a family he couldn't reach that tore him up inside. And Steve? The only family he'd ever known here was once more locked away. Close enough to touch and yet still inaccessible. Failed yet again by Steve who tried so hard to protect his best friend and came up short.
Too slow to grab his hand. Too late to save his mind. Too weak to keep him safe. Forever destined, it seemed, to say goodbye and be left behind.
To be alone.
And so he ran. He ran back to one of those bubbles in time that England had. A bar made, destroyed, and then rebuilt on the same ground like a phoenix rising. The place where he and Bucky had drank a beer and started their journey into the war. Where Bucky had looked at a six-foot man brimming with muscles and had seen a little guy from Brooklyn where he'd always been. And where Steve had gone back to mourn that first time he'd lost Bucky two days before he died himself.
Steve wasn't sure why he needed to be there. He just did. At this time of day it was closed and dark which fit his mood well enough. Nat had taught him how to get into such places unseen and when he did, the past pushed against him like a too-tight hug. It was comforting and suffocating all at the same time and the choked out sob bubbled up before he could stop it. He wanted to go <i>back</i>. Back to the war when things were so much simpler. Back to the days when he knew who he was and what role he had to play. Back when he had Bucky and wasn't so <i>alone</i>, even in a crowd.
He walked to the counter and it was new and not when his hands fell on it. It looked the same as where he and Bucky sat. New wood made with old designs; the attempt to make things the way they'd always been and getting as close as you could while still falling short. His nails scratched against the wood as they curled into fists, body bowing over the spot like he were praying. Perhaps he was. For what though, he couldn't say.
Steve's head lifted up and red eyes looked at the bar, desperate for a drink. There was a row of items there from the time the bar was destroyed. Trinkets and antiques left behind after the bombings and the bloodshed. Steve walked behind and let his fingertips brush over them, remembering when they had been new. Mugs. Buttons. Medals. And there, at the end, something different. Something brighter than the rest. Something old and new at the same time that called him back in a way he couldn't explain.
Steve reached for it, unsure of what it was or why it seemed so important. But it did. And as his fingertips stroked over it, the burst of nostalgia that came over him was enough to bring him to his knees. Like he was touching the past. Bridging the gap.
If only such a thing could be done...
Now he truly felt alone.
Europe had the unique ability to move forward in time while preserving the past in small isolated bubbles. Steve slipped into England at nightfall and trusted his new beard and darker hair to stop instant recognition from getting him arrested. He was a fugitive, after all. The only place he was truly safe now was Wakanda and he'd fled from that protection as soon as he could.
It wasn't ingratitude that had him running. It wasn't duty either although he used that as a convenient excuse. It was that ever since Bucky closed his eyes in the cryotube, Steve had felt an ache of loneliness open up inside of him and for the first time since waking up in the 21st century, he couldn't figure out how to handle it.
The feeling was unfair to Nat and Sam. Both of them were around more than they weren't and were there for him in a way that was complicated and profound. They both had turned their back on so much to stand at his side. But Nat had her own missions to disappear on and Sam had a family he couldn't reach that tore him up inside. And Steve? The only family he'd ever known here was once more locked away. Close enough to touch and yet still inaccessible. Failed yet again by Steve who tried so hard to protect his best friend and came up short.
Too slow to grab his hand. Too late to save his mind. Too weak to keep him safe. Forever destined, it seemed, to say goodbye and be left behind.
To be alone.
And so he ran. He ran back to one of those bubbles in time that England had. A bar made, destroyed, and then rebuilt on the same ground like a phoenix rising. The place where he and Bucky had drank a beer and started their journey into the war. Where Bucky had looked at a six-foot man brimming with muscles and had seen a little guy from Brooklyn where he'd always been. And where Steve had gone back to mourn that first time he'd lost Bucky two days before he died himself.
Steve wasn't sure why he needed to be there. He just did. At this time of day it was closed and dark which fit his mood well enough. Nat had taught him how to get into such places unseen and when he did, the past pushed against him like a too-tight hug. It was comforting and suffocating all at the same time and the choked out sob bubbled up before he could stop it. He wanted to go <i>back</i>. Back to the war when things were so much simpler. Back to the days when he knew who he was and what role he had to play. Back when he had Bucky and wasn't so <i>alone</i>, even in a crowd.
He walked to the counter and it was new and not when his hands fell on it. It looked the same as where he and Bucky sat. New wood made with old designs; the attempt to make things the way they'd always been and getting as close as you could while still falling short. His nails scratched against the wood as they curled into fists, body bowing over the spot like he were praying. Perhaps he was. For what though, he couldn't say.
Steve's head lifted up and red eyes looked at the bar, desperate for a drink. There was a row of items there from the time the bar was destroyed. Trinkets and antiques left behind after the bombings and the bloodshed. Steve walked behind and let his fingertips brush over them, remembering when they had been new. Mugs. Buttons. Medals. And there, at the end, something different. Something brighter than the rest. Something old and new at the same time that called him back in a way he couldn't explain.
Steve reached for it, unsure of what it was or why it seemed so important. But it did. And as his fingertips stroked over it, the burst of nostalgia that came over him was enough to bring him to his knees. Like he was touching the past. Bridging the gap.
If only such a thing could be done...
Sap.
"Maybe," he says with a voice a bit more husky than it had been before. "We are thinking too much about this all. Nice rooms, sure, but the view is gonna be wasted when we are just taking in the sights from our bed."
He's not used to innuendo, really, and his cheeks go pink with the insinuation he made. Something tells him it will get easier with time and how often he is likely going to be doing it. Just a smirk and a look from Bucky has always been enough to get his blood pumping faster. Now when he knows the shape of his lips and the feel of his body beneath him it will be far harder to not want to indulge.
Thank God they already share a tent most of the time. No one should ask any questions about it then when they retreat for the night together and close the flaps up as tight as possible. Some privacy even in this Hell so he can hold Bucky close and promise all the things they'll do when back on American soil. That thought alone almost takes some of the weariness from Steve's bones.
"Ya know," he says softly, "Actually, I don't even care where we are. So long as I got my best guy beside me, It'll be the best place in the whole country."
no subject
“Geez, Steve, and here everyone thinks you’re America’s Golden Boy,” Bucky’s eyes go darker, hungrier, cock giving a little lurch against his underwear. And because he can’t help himself, Bucky rocks upwards, gives himself one last grind up against Steve’s length hidden away in his uniform with a ragged gasp. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna be in trouble.”
Just one more. You know. He’s good for now, really. It doesn’t stop Bucky, of course, from letting his hands roam along the rise of strong muscles and the narrow dip of Steve’s waist: Steve cuts such a sharp number in any uniform that it makes Bucky badly want to tear it off him and touch. Especially when Steve’s bringing up all easy-like how they’re not even gonna care about the room with all the fucking they’d be doing.
And now Bucky knows just how far the serum can go.
Pillowing his head with an arm curled underneath, Bucky tilts his face to look up at Steve over him, a soft look settling in the grey eyes that meet Steve’s. That’s gotta be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. Steve means every single word.
Gently, Bucky grazes his knuckles along Steve’s jaw, ending in a caress that traces along his pulse down to his collarbones. “Yeah. I mean I was happy living in that shoebox of an apartment. Even when the draft kicked in or when we wouldn’t get more than a minute of hot water. Didn’t matter as long as it was with you.”