No one was sure what happened. Steve had been fighting one second and then, moments after the dust cleared, was nowhere to be found. Which, of course, wasn't true. But everyone had been looking for a big, bulky Steve. What had been left behind, though, was nothing of the sort: there, on the ground, Steve Rogers lay swimming in his uniform, unconscious from all that had occurred. 90 lbs soaking wet, maybe, and definitely no where near six feet tall.
The serum, it seemed, was gone. And so was Captain America.
T'Challa swore (once he and everyone else had returned) that he would use Bucky's version of the serum to reverse-engineer a new one for Steve. With Shuri on it, Steve had no doubt that they'd do their best. But in the meantime, all Steve could do was wait. Wait, undergo a hundred different medical procedures for all the things once again wrong with him, and stay out of the way of heroes.
Something he was clearly not, anymore.
He chaffed against it. After years of not being looked at as weak, being thrown back into that role was beyond frustrating. He still had his mind, after all. He was even able to work out now, if he brought his inhaler. But no. Everyone told him to just sit. Wait. Soon they'd have him back to normal. Nevermind that this had been normal for him for fucking years. No. No, they'd get him back to superhero shape. And until then he was...nothing. Nothing to anyone else. Which was probably why he'd gone out late at night, looking for a fight to disprove that theory.
If only he'd remembered just how little good technique meant when punching someone three times your weight.
Steve is cradling a dislocated arm and tonguing at his busted lip as he makes his way to the only person he knows who won't freak out, seeing him like this. Yeah, he got his ass handed to him, but he'd survived it. He wasn't made of glass, after all, people. But no one was gonna see that until the bruises went down and some stitches closed up his forehead. So...
Steve exhales and knocks on Bucky's door, feeling like he is 15 years old all over again, hiding another fight from his ma. Which...in a way, he is.
"Buck, it's me," he calls in. His voice is a little distorted from the swollen lip. Fuck. Great, all he needs is for Bucky to get a headstart on his disapproval.
"I don't need a lecture," he adds on before the door can open and his busted face is on display. "Just first aid."
Five years have passed. He has a feeling that's been a harder pill to swallow for most people than for him, but five years of being out of commission -- or in this case -- dead -- were really just a drop in the bucket compared to how long he'd spent in cryo freeze with HYDRA. So he doesn't complain, isn't really even in any sort of shock about it. He simply accepts that the time has passed and he's back again. He knows it's not quite that simple for those who'd been left alive after the snap.
They haven't talked about it, haven't really talked about much of anything, because the one thing he still is in shock about is that suddenly Steve is smaller than him again, suddenly riddled with health problems again, and pissed off at the world.
They haven't talked about that either.
Most of Steve's time has been eaten by round after round of medical testing and Bucky has done his best not to hover because he knows how much Steve hates that. So he's been there, been nearby, doing his best to be completely nonchalant like this is no big deal and happens every day.
So when he gets that knock on his door, and then calls out, Bucky's crosses the floor of his hut and sighs inwardly at the words he hears next. I don't need a lecture. Just first aid. Because of course he does. He tugs the door open, frown already in place, but the sight of his best friend littered in bruises and cuts makes his stomach turn in the same way it always had back in the thirties when Steve couldn't keep himself out of trouble.
He's not limping as he walks in so that's a good start. His arm is cradled against his chest and the joint has the tell-tale bulge of a dislocation but Steve doesn't let that injury dampen the fire on his face. He doesn't regret what he did. Not even with that familiar look on Bucky's face. He doesn't regret a single thing he did. Well. Except maybe trying to toss the guy and remembering too late that he couldn't. Thus the dislocation.
He crosses the hut and sits on Bucky's bed without comment. His eyes are set dead ahead, lips pursed together. He doesn't even glance Bucky's way as he lets his hand rest in his lap and uses his good hand to poke at his split lip. Still bleeding. Great. That will probably take a few days to heal.
Crap.
"You need to pop my arm back," he says casually. "It's fine. No breaks." If anyone would know what that felt like it would be him. Finally, his eyes dart over and then back to the wall.
Bucky watches him like a hawk as he moves to sit on the edge of his bed, noticing the fact that Steve doesn't look at him and for a moment it's like he's stepped back in time by about eighty decades. It had been different back then in a lot of ways, not the least of which is the fact that they've both seen so much, both done so much since then. His jaw tightens imperceptibly at the comment about his arm.
He knows from experience that dislocation is almost as painful as an actual break.
"You realize you don't have super healing abilities right now, right?" He bites out as he moves to get his first aid kit. And yeah. He's pissed. He can't remember the last time he'd been pissed at Steve. It feels like it's been awhile. He strides over to sit down beside him on the bed. He's well aware of why Steve had come to him and not one of the others. He's pretty certain that any of the others would be freaking out. But maybe he's not giving them enough credit.
"Who were you even fighting with?" He opens the kit and starts pulling the contents out.
"Oh! Gee, that explains a whole lot. Thanks for telling me that nugget of new information, pal." Steve is in pain and his ego is hurt even worse. It makes him more hostile than he otherwise would be. Bitterness drips off the words like venom. Steve doesn't mean to aim it at Bucky but he's the only target available right now. He's also the only target Steve knows he can lash out against and not get hit back. Physically, anyway. Which, speaking of:
"Some guy at a bar," he says. The first aid kit is better here than the one from Brooklyn. Steve grabs some painkillers and tears the package open with his teeth to swallow them dry. He is on so many medications that he probably should have had Bucky check first, but Steve isn't in the mood to ask for more favors. He just wants to stop hurting for a little while.
"He was an abusive ass to his date. I didn't want to just sit there while she listened to his garbage."
He narrows his eyes and glares at Steve for the sarcasm and the bitterness even as he rips open fresh, clean gauze and reaches up, pressing it to the other man's forehead with more gentleness than he thinks Steve deserves at the moment. Asshole. But Steve's right on that account -- he can lash out as much as he wants at Bucky, and Bucky won't physically hurt him. He never had, before, until he'd been brainwashed, even if he'd wanted to shake Steve more than a few times through the span of their friendship.
"Taking the opportunity to try and get drunk?" It's a struggle but he manages to make his voice less annoyed this time, more mild. He's never been an angry kind of person and he doesn't want to be now, either.
He pulls the gauze away from Steve's head, studying the cut there even as he presses his lips when he hears Steve's reasoning for the fight. He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, leaning back just a little.
Once upon a time, Bucky had stood in front of Steve and saw right through him. He'd looked him dead in the eyes and stated with such mild sarcasm that Steve "had nothing to prove". Steve hadn't responded and Bucky didn't need him to because he knew the answer. Just like, now, Steve is sure he already knows why Steve didn't pick up the phone and call him.
The gauze is light and Steve watches Bucky now. It's almost frustrating how good he is at being a nurse. Doesn't use his anger against Steve. Doesn't let it distract him from his work. Steve's grateful which pisses him off even more. Part of him wishes Bucky would squirt alcohol all over and slap bandages on. It would at least focus the irritation somewhere other than on himself.
"I didn't think I needed help," he answers. "Nat can fight without being 200 pounds of muscle. I figured I could manage too."
Bucky definitely knows the reason Steve hadn't picked up the phone to call him, or anyone else for that matter, without actually having to be told. It's a perk and a drawback of having known someone for nearly a hundred years. He forces himself to take a slow, deep breath, trying to release the lingering urge he has to throttle the man in front of him.
"Put this on your lip til it stops bleeding," he says shortly, handing him another piece of clean gauze. He busies himself with preparing to put stitches on the cut on Steve's forehead, gritting his teeth when his right hand, his human hand shakes just a little. He sets it aside for a moment, then moves to the kitchen, yanking some ice out of the freezer and readying a makeshift ice pack.
"Natalia had over twenty years of intense training from some of the world's best of the worst brand of KGB spies, handlers and assassins." His tone is even as he moves back to the bed and sets the bag of ice on Steve's left leg before grabbing one of his kitchen chairs and dragging it over so he's sitting right in front of him. "I would know, because I was one of them." He gives Steve a warning look before he reaches out and picks up the needle and stitching thread once more. The tremor in his hand has stopped now, after taking a moment to breathe.
Steve might see Bucky's hand shaking but he ignores it. He's too angry to be a good friend. He's too angry to even wonder what that shaking is for. As soon as the needle goes into his skin, he winces and continues the expression into a sulking frown. His eyes are fierce as they find Bucky's.
"I've had years fighting everything from aliens to demigods. You think just because I lose some of my serum I stop being able to help people?" Tony's voice is in his head, reminding him that everything special about him came from a bottle. Steve's hands are fists against his legs. The gauze that should be on his lip is crumbled up in his fury.
"I'm capable of fighting. I don't need to be coddled."
"You had years fighting aliens and demigods when you had fucking super powers," he snaps, glare intensifying. His hands continue to be far gentler than his tone. His bark always has been worse than his bite. He finishes the stitches quickly, clipping the thread with a set of medical scissors.
"There are other ways to help people beside throwing yourself into battles and getting yourself hurt." It's the same goddamned argument they've had since what feels like the beginning of time, except it's more frustrating now, more upsetting than it ever has been and he doesn't really know why. "There's more to strength than the physical."
And he really, really doesn't get how Steve still doesn't see that, after everything.
He draws in a breath, leaning back in his chair. "This doesn't make you less, Steve. It never has."
"Yes it does. Don't tell me it doesn't make me less because yes it fucking does."
The curse more than anything else is a statement about Steve's frame of mind. Sarah had raised up a good boy who tried to use as little profanity as possible. He wasn't the type to just swear like a sailor. But right now it felt warranted.
"I am literally less right now, Buck. I am less strong. Less capable. Less healthy. Less...fucking everything and you giving me a pep talk about how I've still got a heart of gold isn't going to change that."
Steve inhales and curses again as he fucking wheezes. The embarrassment and betrayal he feels from his own body chokes him worse than the asthma. He pulls out his inhaler from his jeans only to find it cracked in half. Of course it is.
"There's...one in...the bathroom," he gets out through clenched teeth and shallow breaths. "I left...it."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you!" He rises to his feet. Instead of shocking or alarming him, Steve's cursing and anger only feeds into his own, simmering right beneath the surface of his skin, like lava threatening to erupt. "That's fucking bullshit, Steve. It's always been bullshit!" He points his finger at him. "The only person who sees you as anything less is you. Different isn't less, even if you don't like it, and trust me, I fucking get it."
It's all he can do not to turn around and kick the chair over, because the stupidity spilling out of his best friend's mouth right now is infuriating.
His anger subsides minutely when he hears the wheezing and he turns around, stomping to the bathroom and retrieving it from the medicine cabinet, returning to Steve's side and holding it out wordlessly.
This time Bucky's words pull Steve up short. It's true that, out of everyone, Bucky would know what it was like to change. To be so fundamentally different from who you were. The thing is, though, that this was more of a return to what he was. The weakling he'd once been that had dreams of helping others. Steve hates it and hates the fact that Bucky really might have some clue about this whole thing. He sits, focusing on his breathing, until he comes back.
A few pumps and the wheezing is gone. Steve frowns at it before setting it next to him on the bed, just in case. The rumpled gauze finally goes to his mouth. From all the shouting it's bleeding quite a bit and is sore on top of it. He presses lightly, wincing at how tender it is.
"Thanks," he finally manages.
"Look. Just... Just get my arm in the socket, patch up whatever needs it and I'll get out of your hair, alright? I'm too tired to have this fight."
He sees the moment that his words register, sees some of the fight drain out of Steve's body and exhales slowly, letting some of his own bleed away, too. His mouth is still twisted in a deep frown as he moves to sit back down in the chair in front of Steve.
"This is gonna hurt," he tells him, voice quieter this time, resolved. He braces his hand against the front of Steve's thin shoulder, grasps onto his arm with his right hand, still afraid that he'll overdo it with the robotic arm and cause even worse damage to his best friend than what's already been done. He kind of wants to find out who he'd been fighting and go out there and knock his lights out.
"And shut up. You're crashing here tonight," he grumps. "Don't even argue." He will tie him down if he needs to, though he doesn't voice that out loud. And he wouldn't, really.
Steve opens his mouth to argue but closes it again. Honestly, he really had no idea if the pills he took were gonna interfere with any of his other medications. Not only that but Steve still stubbornly refused to drive anything but his motorcycle. Just getting here had been a trial of pain. Going back on it was going to be miserable and probably dangerous as well. Contrary to what everyone thought, he wasn't a suicidal idiot. "Fine," he agrees. And then more important things are happening.
He's done this before. It fucking hurts like Hell and Steve can almost remember the ache of it after. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Deep breath. Deep breath. And hold it.
"No warning. Just do it." Doesn't give him a chance to tense up and ruin the whole thing.
Bucky presses his lips together and gives a short nod, grimacing at the popping and grinding of bone as he snaps Steve's arm back into place, then reaches for the ice pack, holding it up against his shoulder, gaze darting quickly to Steve's face to check on him. The thing is, as much as Steve had gotten into scrapes and fights back in the day, he rarely every complained about pain. The fact that he'd come to Bucky for help because he is in pain means something.
He lets out a breath, holding the ice in place with one hand and putting up the remnants of the rest of the kit, closing it up and setting it on the floor for the time being. "Lie down," he instructs, planning to keep the ice in place by having Steve pin it in down with his shoulder.
"For what it's worth, I'm glad you came to me," he tells him, gaze darting to his face once more. He's glad he hadn't crawled back to his suite at the palace and nursed his own wounds because he'd been too proud to ask for help. It's progress, at least, damn near a century in the making.
Steve doesn't yelp or even hiss. He takes the pain with nothing more than a grimace even though it's just as awful as he remembered. It's also enough to take the fight out of Steve since he doesn't argue at all to laying down with the ice pack. It helps but not too much. At least it takes the stab out of it and leaves him just aching. Steve closes his eyes and just breathes. Slow and steady.
The bed smells of Bucky. It brings vivid memories of Brooklyn back. Almost enough to make him smile.
"I have enough dirt on you to make sure you don't tell anyone." He opens his eyes and peers over at Bucky. It's not an apology for acting like a dick but it's at least a small, waving flag for a ceasefire.
One corner of his lip quirks up into a smile at the metaphorical ceasefire. "Thing is, I only like about three people outside of you, so I guess it wouldn't matter that much what kinda dirt you gave people on me." He shrugs a little, leans down so his elbows are resting on his knees. "Your secret's safe with me. Obviously." Just in case there's any lingering doubt.
"Yeah, well. It's what I'm here for." He glances up at Steve, studying him, not liking how pale he is, which he figures is probably from the pain. "Shuri's working as fast as she can, by the way. On --" He motions between them. "If anyone's gonna be able to figure out how to re-create the serum, it's her." There's absolute faith and certainty in his tone. Shuri is young -- younger than Becca had been when Bucky left for the war, but she's also the smartest person he's ever met. Witty. Reminds him a lot of his long-gone little sister.
"Just --" He sighs quietly, rubs a hand over his face. "Please don't get yourself killed before she gets it figured out. I swear to God if you do I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kick your ass." There's no anger in his voice, just weariness.
Steve watches Bucky closely and appreciates a little bit more just how worried he probably is about him. After all, Steve is in an exceptionally fragile body, for the time being. Even if his own body wasn't doing it's level best to kill him, Steve punching way outside his weight class was enough to give Bucky some grey hairs. Wakandan medicine was incredible but the body can only take so much.
It is a sobering realization Steve has then that, given the surgery he'd needed to fix his heart, one well-placed punch from bar moron would have had his ribcage snapping like a bird's. One punch.
Steve exhales hard. "It's not all bad. Nice being able to get drunk on two beers again. Cheaper." He offers a smile to Bucky as an olive branch. "Don't suppose I can have one, now?"
He's pretty sure the only reason all of his hair isn't grey is because of the serum flowing through his own veins. Between Steve's fragile health and throwing himself into fights, he'll be lucky if he doesn't end up having a coronary. Idly, he wonders if that would even be possible. He makes a face at Steve's request for a beer, though.
"I'm torn between pointing out your old age and wondering if it's a good idea in case you have a concussion." He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. "You feel like you got a concussion?" Bucky heads toward the kitchen to the fridge, pulling it open and tugging a bottle from the door, flicking the cap off it and returning to the bed, this time sitting down on the edge of it instead of on the chair.
He glances down at him for a moment, the situation suddenly feeling so, so familiar, like stepping back in time. Coming home from a long day of work and finding Steve in their apartment, napping. "What are you gonna? After?"
"I feel like I got tossed around but no concussion." He reaches for the beer without really sitting up. For a second he tries to prop himself up onto an elbow but it shifts his shoulder too roughly. He instead just rolls onto his side and takes a sip before laying back down and looking askance at his friend.
It's a good question. One that Steve doesn't have answers for.
"I don't know. Keep fighting, I guess. Thanos might be gone but there's gonna be something else. There's always gonna be something else." He sounds exhausted as he says it. Bone-deep tired from the very idea of picking the shield back up. But what else is there? That's all he is.
"Your eyes are clear," he acknowledges. He probably got lucky enough to escape a concussion this time. Bucky's still gonna keep a close watch tonight and make sure nothing concerning or out of the norm happens, which means he won't be sleeping tonight. That's fine. He doesn't really need much sleep anyway, and he's got a pile of books he hasn't had a chance to get through.
His shoulders drop and he presses his lips together.
"And what about what Steve Rogers needs? That matter at all?" His voice is quiet and it's a struggle to keep all the emotions he's feeling out of his tone when he speaks. He's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that. He's always known the answer to that.
Steve rolls his head to the side and looks at Bucky for a long second. He knows his friend already has the answer to this. For some reason just seeing the resignation on his face makes Steve almost feel guilty about it. Imagine that? Guilty for being selfless.
He knows, of course, where that guilt comes from. It almost makes him look away. Almost. He takes a long swig of beer instead.
"Steve Rogers isn't as important.
"Being like this again? It reminds me how terrifying it is to be helpless. I don't want others feeling that way. If I can help them...that's what I need to do."
The problem with selflessness is that people can overdo it, take it to extremes. And Steve is a goddamned perfect example of that problem. At the end of the day, Steve doesn't give two shits what happens to himself. Never has. He wants to be angry again, wants to yell at him, wants to put that chair through the opposite wall. Anger would be so much easier than the weight of the resignation that he feels.
"You can't stop people from feeling how they feel. You're not God, Steve. And you can't save everyone from their lives. You're one person." The words aren't harsh. Just honest.
He glances at him over his shoulder. "And Steve Rogers is a person, too. He tends to forget that."
These are the things Bucky would have been saying to Steve for years, if he'd been around. He smiles, thankful for someone telling him what he always forgets about himself. Even if he has zero intention of doing anything about it. At least, when he gets his powers back. If he does.
Steve sucks down two large swallows of beer as though drunkenness will push away that terrifying thought. As though that would do anything other than put off the inevitable realization that he may be normal for the rest of his (likely shortened) life. Still, with half the beer gone and mixed with his painkillers, Steve's face is pleasantly tingly. It's enough to distract him from the darkness of his thoughts and return back to the safe space of teasing.
"Is he? Know that for sure?" He blinks slow and smiles as best he can without breaking the scab on his lip. "What about Bucky Barnes, huh? What's his great, person plans?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
branchandroot
Thank yooou
Date: 2019-08-14 02:39 am (UTC)The serum, it seemed, was gone. And so was Captain America.
T'Challa swore (once he and everyone else had returned) that he would use Bucky's version of the serum to reverse-engineer a new one for Steve. With Shuri on it, Steve had no doubt that they'd do their best. But in the meantime, all Steve could do was wait. Wait, undergo a hundred different medical procedures for all the things once again wrong with him, and stay out of the way of heroes.
Something he was clearly not, anymore.
He chaffed against it. After years of not being looked at as weak, being thrown back into that role was beyond frustrating. He still had his mind, after all. He was even able to work out now, if he brought his inhaler. But no. Everyone told him to just sit. Wait. Soon they'd have him back to normal. Nevermind that this had been normal for him for fucking years. No. No, they'd get him back to superhero shape. And until then he was...nothing. Nothing to anyone else. Which was probably why he'd gone out late at night, looking for a fight to disprove that theory.
If only he'd remembered just how little good technique meant when punching someone three times your weight.
Steve is cradling a dislocated arm and tonguing at his busted lip as he makes his way to the only person he knows who won't freak out, seeing him like this. Yeah, he got his ass handed to him, but he'd survived it. He wasn't made of glass, after all, people. But no one was gonna see that until the bruises went down and some stitches closed up his forehead. So...
Steve exhales and knocks on Bucky's door, feeling like he is 15 years old all over again, hiding another fight from his ma. Which...in a way, he is.
"Buck, it's me," he calls in. His voice is a little distorted from the swollen lip. Fuck. Great, all he needs is for Bucky to get a headstart on his disapproval.
"I don't need a lecture," he adds on before the door can open and his busted face is on display. "Just first aid."
<3
Date: 2019-08-16 12:58 am (UTC)They haven't talked about it, haven't really talked about much of anything, because the one thing he still is in shock about is that suddenly Steve is smaller than him again, suddenly riddled with health problems again, and pissed off at the world.
They haven't talked about that either.
Most of Steve's time has been eaten by round after round of medical testing and Bucky has done his best not to hover because he knows how much Steve hates that. So he's been there, been nearby, doing his best to be completely nonchalant like this is no big deal and happens every day.
So when he gets that knock on his door, and then calls out, Bucky's crosses the floor of his hut and sighs inwardly at the words he hears next. I don't need a lecture. Just first aid. Because of course he does. He tugs the door open, frown already in place, but the sight of his best friend littered in bruises and cuts makes his stomach turn in the same way it always had back in the thirties when Steve couldn't keep himself out of trouble.
Goddammit.
"Get in here," he says, stepping aside.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 02:37 pm (UTC)He crosses the hut and sits on Bucky's bed without comment. His eyes are set dead ahead, lips pursed together. He doesn't even glance Bucky's way as he lets his hand rest in his lap and uses his good hand to poke at his split lip. Still bleeding. Great. That will probably take a few days to heal.
Crap.
"You need to pop my arm back," he says casually. "It's fine. No breaks." If anyone would know what that felt like it would be him. Finally, his eyes dart over and then back to the wall.
"Looks worse than it is."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 03:28 pm (UTC)He knows from experience that dislocation is almost as painful as an actual break.
"You realize you don't have super healing abilities right now, right?" He bites out as he moves to get his first aid kit. And yeah. He's pissed. He can't remember the last time he'd been pissed at Steve. It feels like it's been awhile. He strides over to sit down beside him on the bed. He's well aware of why Steve had come to him and not one of the others. He's pretty certain that any of the others would be freaking out. But maybe he's not giving them enough credit.
"Who were you even fighting with?" He opens the kit and starts pulling the contents out.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 03:49 pm (UTC)"Some guy at a bar," he says. The first aid kit is better here than the one from Brooklyn. Steve grabs some painkillers and tears the package open with his teeth to swallow them dry. He is on so many medications that he probably should have had Bucky check first, but Steve isn't in the mood to ask for more favors. He just wants to stop hurting for a little while.
"He was an abusive ass to his date. I didn't want to just sit there while she listened to his garbage."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 04:15 pm (UTC)"Taking the opportunity to try and get drunk?" It's a struggle but he manages to make his voice less annoyed this time, more mild. He's never been an angry kind of person and he doesn't want to be now, either.
He pulls the gauze away from Steve's head, studying the cut there even as he presses his lips when he hears Steve's reasoning for the fight. He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, leaning back just a little.
"You coulda called me," he mutters.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 04:27 pm (UTC)The gauze is light and Steve watches Bucky now. It's almost frustrating how good he is at being a nurse. Doesn't use his anger against Steve. Doesn't let it distract him from his work. Steve's grateful which pisses him off even more. Part of him wishes Bucky would squirt alcohol all over and slap bandages on. It would at least focus the irritation somewhere other than on himself.
"I didn't think I needed help," he answers. "Nat can fight without being 200 pounds of muscle. I figured I could manage too."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 06:01 pm (UTC)"Put this on your lip til it stops bleeding," he says shortly, handing him another piece of clean gauze. He busies himself with preparing to put stitches on the cut on Steve's forehead, gritting his teeth when his right hand, his human hand shakes just a little. He sets it aside for a moment, then moves to the kitchen, yanking some ice out of the freezer and readying a makeshift ice pack.
"Natalia had over twenty years of intense training from some of the world's best of the worst brand of KGB spies, handlers and assassins." His tone is even as he moves back to the bed and sets the bag of ice on Steve's left leg before grabbing one of his kitchen chairs and dragging it over so he's sitting right in front of him. "I would know, because I was one of them." He gives Steve a warning look before he reaches out and picks up the needle and stitching thread once more. The tremor in his hand has stopped now, after taking a moment to breathe.
"You have not."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 06:25 pm (UTC)"I've had years fighting everything from aliens to demigods. You think just because I lose some of my serum I stop being able to help people?" Tony's voice is in his head, reminding him that everything special about him came from a bottle. Steve's hands are fists against his legs. The gauze that should be on his lip is crumbled up in his fury.
"I'm capable of fighting. I don't need to be coddled."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 08:03 pm (UTC)"There are other ways to help people beside throwing yourself into battles and getting yourself hurt." It's the same goddamned argument they've had since what feels like the beginning of time, except it's more frustrating now, more upsetting than it ever has been and he doesn't really know why. "There's more to strength than the physical."
And he really, really doesn't get how Steve still doesn't see that, after everything.
He draws in a breath, leaning back in his chair. "This doesn't make you less, Steve. It never has."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 08:12 pm (UTC)The curse more than anything else is a statement about Steve's frame of mind. Sarah had raised up a good boy who tried to use as little profanity as possible. He wasn't the type to just swear like a sailor. But right now it felt warranted.
"I am literally less right now, Buck. I am less strong. Less capable. Less healthy. Less...fucking everything and you giving me a pep talk about how I've still got a heart of gold isn't going to change that."
Steve inhales and curses again as he fucking wheezes. The embarrassment and betrayal he feels from his own body chokes him worse than the asthma. He pulls out his inhaler from his jeans only to find it cracked in half. Of course it is.
"There's...one in...the bathroom," he gets out through clenched teeth and shallow breaths. "I left...it."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 08:22 pm (UTC)It's all he can do not to turn around and kick the chair over, because the stupidity spilling out of his best friend's mouth right now is infuriating.
His anger subsides minutely when he hears the wheezing and he turns around, stomping to the bathroom and retrieving it from the medicine cabinet, returning to Steve's side and holding it out wordlessly.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 08:36 pm (UTC)A few pumps and the wheezing is gone. Steve frowns at it before setting it next to him on the bed, just in case. The rumpled gauze finally goes to his mouth. From all the shouting it's bleeding quite a bit and is sore on top of it. He presses lightly, wincing at how tender it is.
"Thanks," he finally manages.
"Look. Just... Just get my arm in the socket, patch up whatever needs it and I'll get out of your hair, alright? I'm too tired to have this fight."
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Date: 2019-08-16 08:43 pm (UTC)"This is gonna hurt," he tells him, voice quieter this time, resolved. He braces his hand against the front of Steve's thin shoulder, grasps onto his arm with his right hand, still afraid that he'll overdo it with the robotic arm and cause even worse damage to his best friend than what's already been done. He kind of wants to find out who he'd been fighting and go out there and knock his lights out.
"And shut up. You're crashing here tonight," he grumps. "Don't even argue." He will tie him down if he needs to, though he doesn't voice that out loud. And he wouldn't, really.
Probably.
"Take a deep breath and brace yourself."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 08:50 pm (UTC)He's done this before. It fucking hurts like Hell and Steve can almost remember the ache of it after. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Deep breath. Deep breath. And hold it.
"No warning. Just do it." Doesn't give him a chance to tense up and ruin the whole thing.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 09:00 pm (UTC)He lets out a breath, holding the ice in place with one hand and putting up the remnants of the rest of the kit, closing it up and setting it on the floor for the time being. "Lie down," he instructs, planning to keep the ice in place by having Steve pin it in down with his shoulder.
"For what it's worth, I'm glad you came to me," he tells him, gaze darting to his face once more. He's glad he hadn't crawled back to his suite at the palace and nursed his own wounds because he'd been too proud to ask for help. It's progress, at least, damn near a century in the making.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 09:12 pm (UTC)The bed smells of Bucky. It brings vivid memories of Brooklyn back. Almost enough to make him smile.
"I have enough dirt on you to make sure you don't tell anyone." He opens his eyes and peers over at Bucky. It's not an apology for acting like a dick but it's at least a small, waving flag for a ceasefire.
"Thanks, Buck. For being here for me to come to."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 10:04 pm (UTC)"Yeah, well. It's what I'm here for." He glances up at Steve, studying him, not liking how pale he is, which he figures is probably from the pain. "Shuri's working as fast as she can, by the way. On --" He motions between them. "If anyone's gonna be able to figure out how to re-create the serum, it's her." There's absolute faith and certainty in his tone. Shuri is young -- younger than Becca had been when Bucky left for the war, but she's also the smartest person he's ever met. Witty. Reminds him a lot of his long-gone little sister.
"Just --" He sighs quietly, rubs a hand over his face. "Please don't get yourself killed before she gets it figured out. I swear to God if you do I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kick your ass." There's no anger in his voice, just weariness.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 10:44 pm (UTC)It is a sobering realization Steve has then that, given the surgery he'd needed to fix his heart, one well-placed punch from bar moron would have had his ribcage snapping like a bird's. One punch.
Steve exhales hard. "It's not all bad. Nice being able to get drunk on two beers again. Cheaper." He offers a smile to Bucky as an olive branch. "Don't suppose I can have one, now?"
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-16 11:49 pm (UTC)"I'm torn between pointing out your old age and wondering if it's a good idea in case you have a concussion." He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. "You feel like you got a concussion?" Bucky heads toward the kitchen to the fridge, pulling it open and tugging a bottle from the door, flicking the cap off it and returning to the bed, this time sitting down on the edge of it instead of on the chair.
He glances down at him for a moment, the situation suddenly feeling so, so familiar, like stepping back in time. Coming home from a long day of work and finding Steve in their apartment, napping. "What are you gonna? After?"
After Shuri figures out the serum, he means.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-17 01:18 am (UTC)It's a good question. One that Steve doesn't have answers for.
"I don't know. Keep fighting, I guess. Thanos might be gone but there's gonna be something else. There's always gonna be something else." He sounds exhausted as he says it. Bone-deep tired from the very idea of picking the shield back up. But what else is there? That's all he is.
"They need Captain America."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-17 01:50 am (UTC)His shoulders drop and he presses his lips together.
"And what about what Steve Rogers needs? That matter at all?" His voice is quiet and it's a struggle to keep all the emotions he's feeling out of his tone when he speaks. He's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that. He's always known the answer to that.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-17 03:39 am (UTC)He knows, of course, where that guilt comes from. It almost makes him look away. Almost. He takes a long swig of beer instead.
"Steve Rogers isn't as important.
"Being like this again? It reminds me how terrifying it is to be helpless. I don't want others feeling that way. If I can help them...that's what I need to do."
The price he pays for what he gains.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-17 03:54 am (UTC)"You can't stop people from feeling how they feel. You're not God, Steve. And you can't save everyone from their lives. You're one person." The words aren't harsh. Just honest.
He glances at him over his shoulder. "And Steve Rogers is a person, too. He tends to forget that."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-08-17 04:04 am (UTC)Steve sucks down two large swallows of beer as though drunkenness will push away that terrifying thought. As though that would do anything other than put off the inevitable realization that he may be normal for the rest of his (likely shortened) life. Still, with half the beer gone and mixed with his painkillers, Steve's face is pleasantly tingly. It's enough to distract him from the darkness of his thoughts and return back to the safe space of teasing.
"Is he? Know that for sure?" He blinks slow and smiles as best he can without breaking the scab on his lip. "What about Bucky Barnes, huh? What's his great, person plans?"
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