"Okay, okay, okay," Steve muttered to himself, threading and tying the hooked needle before sighing,
I'm gonna pour some alcohol over it, to clean it, and it's gonna sting. Is that okay?" He asked, his hands ready with a bottle of disinfectant, just inches from Bucky's wound.
Bucky nodded a little, still watching Steve. His eyes flickered shut as the morphine hit his bloodstream, then he opened them a little, watching Steve through half-lidded eyes. He tensed a little as the disinfectant poured over the wound, muscles clenching.
"Alright, It's clean, now I need to close it." He stated, standing up, turning and going to his liqueur cabinet nearby. A pang of guilt wove through him; half the bottles were empty. Steve shook his head and grabbed the two fullest bottles.
He turned back to Bucky, placing the bottles on the coffee table. "For the pain," He said, "If you like."
Steve went back to the needle and thread waiting for him next to his leg. "Are you ready?" Steve asked, knowing this was going to be painful for both of them. Here we go.
Bucky nodded a little, but didn't touch the bottles. He nodded at Steve to let him know he was ready, holding as still as possible. He couldn't stop the grimace that flashed across his face as Steve began to stitch up the wound, and swallowed. He wasn't going to use the bottles, he knew that.
Steve's hands worked quickly with the stitching needle, suturing the threads as close as possible.
"It's okay," He mumbled to himself, finishing the last stitch, tying, and cutting the thread off the end knot.
"Done!…okay," Steve said, exhausted, rolling back and resting his head on his dusty floor. From his view, he saw the bottles, God, I need a drink.
He reached for the half-full bottle of Vodka, a gift from Natasha, and swallowed a generous swig.
What a fucking nightmare. Steve thought to himself.
Bucky watched him, blue eyes still narrowed. He rolled his pant leg back down, looking at Steve and frowning. He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He was in Steve Rogers' apartment, and he was here for…he didn't know what anymore, now that Steve was done fixing him up.
Steve sat up, looking at Bucky tiredly. "So," he said, averting his gaze out of growing anger.
"You don't remember me, or anything." He scoffed, feeling some strange sense of betrayal, but most of all, guilt. It was his fault that Bucky went through all that he had, the fact that he didn't remember him or any of his past life.. All because Steve didn't go after him. "I'm so sorry." He said, looking down shamefully.
(gtg to bed now. Good night!)
"No." Bucky replied simply. He wasn't sure what Steve had to be sorry for, but he didn't argue with him. Why would he? He didn't even know what they would argue about. He ran a hand through his tangled, messy brown locks, watching Steve still. He didn't quite know what to do or say.
(ok goodnight :)
Steve furrowed his brow at Bucky's strange reply, but he bypassed it and decided that he should tell him the whole story.
"We grew up together." He started, looking away, not wanting to see his blank expression.
"We went to war together and fought together. But I lost you."
Tugging at his sleeve he cleared his throat, feeling his guilt running deep in his veins. "We were on a train, over a high peak. You…fell." He sighed, "I thought you were dead."
His anger now showed itself freely on his face, jaw clenched and eyes, heavy and dark.
"I'm sorry…I didn't go after you."
(just kidding, i'm sort of backish for a little while)
"If you thought I was dead, then there was no reason to look for me, especially not in wartime." Bucky replied simply, still looking at Steve. He shrugged a little, his hands resting on his knees. After a moment, he reached over and unplugged the morphine from his arm with a slight grimace.
(yeehaw)
"Yeah, that's what they told me." Steve nodded, puzzled that Bucky had stopped his morphine drip. Deep down, Steve knew it wasn't his fault, but he blamed himself for what he had to go through, and all that he lost. He had lost his entire life, essentially, because Steve hadn't followed up with a search.
"I don't know what they did to you, Buck, but I just can't..can't understand why I didn't- or why I-" He sighed, running his hands lazily through his scruffy blond hair.
Bucky crossed his arms loosely. He was still in the HYDRA uniform, which was torn and bloodstained, and he looked like a homeless person. Which, technically speaking, he was. There was dried blood on his jaw, and stubble on his cheeks. "I wouldn't know." he replied with a one-shouldered shrug. Somehow, despite the rough, unkempt appearance, he still carried himself like a deadly assassin. Which he was.
Steve looked down at his fraying sleeve, thinking about all the things, all the pain that he'd gone through. He just wanted to keep apologizing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
The least he could do now was let him stay here. He got to his feet, rising slowly.
"We should get you cleaned up, and I'll set up the couch for you." Steve nodded to himself, and offered an arm for support. "You need help to the shower?"
Bucky hauled himself to his feet, keeping his weight off his injured leg. "I can walk." He replied, glancing around the room, then at Steve again. His blue eyes were cold and removed. "I don't need help."
Steve nodded, too tired to argue, and headed for his bedroom for some extra clothes. He set the soft, and neatly folded clothes on top of a small die table and went to the closet for some extra linen. All of these had been given to Steve by SHIELD, trying to help him get back up on his feet. Picking out the softest blankets and sheets, he proceeded to the couch.
Bucky got into the shower after stripping off his clothes, muscles relaxing under the hot spray. His metal arm was designed, thankfully, not to rust from the water. He worked his fingers through his hair, untangling it. He used the soap, but squinted in confusion at the shampoo and conditioner, not sure what he was supposed to do with it.
Steve sat on the now neatly dressed couch and eyed the bottle of Vodka. Figures, He thought, almost laughing to himself, remembering the night he'd thought Bucky was gone and realizing he couldn't get drunk. Now bucky was here, which seemed impossible for a while. Hell, it still seemed impossible. His eyebrows furrowed in thought, wondering how he would break the news to SHIELD, well– if he would, and how to get Bucky the help he needed.
Bucky finished the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, his hair falling down around his shoulders. He looked at the ragged, ruined HYDRA clothes, and frowned. He stepped out of the bathroom, eyes finding Steve. "Uhm… clothes." He said slowly, the towel still wrapped around his waist. His upper torso was peppered in scars, many of them close to the metal arm.
"Hmm? Oh- yeah." Steve snapped out of his daze, picking up the folded clothes and handing them to Bucky. As he walked over to him, he couldn't help but notice the deep scars scattered across Bucky's chest. What did they do..
He averted his gaze before his eyes would linger any longer. "I, uh- set up the couch."
Bucky nodded, taking the clothes. He went back into the bathroom, changed, and came back out, heading over to the couch and sitting down. He was still watching Steve. He ran his fingers through his hair, fingercombing it out.
Steve chewed his bottom lip nervously and rubbed his tired eyes.
"Okay, so- um, are hungry? It's kind of late, but I dunno…I could make something." He said, thinking back to his kitchen.
Bucky frowned a little, then nodded. He would have offered to help, but he didn't think he would be much good in the kitchen. If any good at all. He let out a short, sharp sigh, shaking his head a little.
"Okay," Steve nodded and headed for the kitchen. Without thinking, he turned on his record player holding the best of 1941's Jazz, his routine whenever he cooked something. It seemed to calm his demeanour a bit, and as he took out a saucepan and a box of mac n' cheese, he felt like he was back home in Brooklyn lounging around in his ratty apartment.
Bucky froze when he heard the jazz, the sounds tickling at something in the back of his brain. He inhaled, closing his eyes. Remember. Please. Anything. I want…I want to remember. A vivid memory that was still somehow faded at the edges drifted through his mind. He had taught Steve to swing dance in the living room of Steve's apartment. Not to this song, but a similar one. It had been one of the best moments of his life…right? It started to drift away again, and he grimaced. "Nyet!" He exclaimed without meaning to.
Steve darted from the kitchen and back to the living room, "What's wrong?!" He asked, eyes wide and looking for the threat. "Wha-"