"Uh– yeah." Steve nodded, staggering from the twisting clutches of the blanket and quickly moving to a far shelf, seizing his sketchbook and tearing out a blank page. He returned to the couch with the paper and a pen he found sitting idly by a lamp, gently placing it on the coffee table in front of Bucky, his eyes wide with curiosity at what Bucky might do.
"Thanks." he said. He took the pen carefully in his right hand, and made a timeline. The stuff where he knew where it went, he placed in the correct spaces. Others, he simply wrote farther away, to link up later.
Steve watched as Bucky noted each situation and memory to a place on the drawn line, leaving a few. "That's pretty accurate," He nodded, noticing the point that his memories switched from pre-war to a few moments post-war.
Bucky nodded a little bit. There were a few that he didn't dare write down, didn't dare reveal in all of their horror. Not now. Not to Steve. Not when those memories made him want to curl up in a ball and cry.
"So…this is what you remember?" Steve asked, trying his best to sound neutral, but feeling a strange affliction towards the fact that all his personal memories could fit on a page, with room to spare. "It's pretty good so far. –Progress, definitely. And…we'll add to it as you remember more," He said with a hopeful smile.
Bucky shrugged. "Most of them." he replied. "And…it's not all that great. It's hardly anything." he tried not to sound bitter about that.
"It's something," Steve lightly shrugged, his eyes glossing over the page while he voiced his optimism, "We have to keep encouraging these memories to resurface, and before you know it– this page will be full. And I've got lots of paper." He softly smiled.
He shrugged a little bit. "Maybe." He replied softly, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know."
Steve shrugged back, looking down at the corner of the blanket and twisting it, "Well…only time will tell what progress is t' be made," and that applies to…other things, too.
Bucky nodded, and shrugged slightly. "Yeah." He agreed softly, shrugging his shoulders.
"Speaking of time…" Steve murmured with a quick glance at his watch, "It's nearly lunch. Do you think we should go back to the tower?" He asked, just now realizing how much he'd missed his cramped apartment, making a casual note to bring some things there when they'd leave.
Bucky shrugged again. "I don't know." He replied after a moment. "If, uhm…if you want to, I guess." He replied, running his fingers through his hair.
"We don't have to," Steve shrugged back, perfectly content with being bundled up in his apartment, next to the only person he'd ever really wanted to be with. "Is there something else you think we should do, instead?"
Bucky shrugged, putting the paper aside. "I…don't know." He replied slowly, looking over at Steve again.
"Hm," Steve bit his lip, slowly rising from the couch, "Well– I think I'm gonna gather some things for when we do go, but if you wanna us to stay a little longer…?"
He shrugged a little. "Alright." He replied. He leaned back in the seat, letting out a breath. He wasn't cold anymore, thankfully.
Steve smiled with a single nod, slowly moving to his record player and turning on some soft jazz while he headed over to a shelf. As he gathered his sketchbook and drawing pencils, he thought about something he'd been told by someone back in the war. 'When you love someone, you tell them. You tell them, and you go from there.' He couldn't remember if Bucky had heard too, but he felt a twinge of impatience– like he had to tell him. But what would I tell him? It's too soon.
Bucky took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He ran his hands through his hair and listened to the music, closing his eyes.
Steve was conflicted. He was surrounded by reminders of that this was a safe enough time to admit how he felt, but Bucky was in a mostly fragile state; only having some of his memories of their intertwined lives together. He needed him as a friend and support system through this 'healing process,' and Steve was trying to be that for him. "So…" He started, diverting his thoughts as he pulled a book from his shelf, "I was thinking about…some things to talk about in therapy. For me, and for you."
Bucky looked up at Steve, cocking his head a little bit. "Huh? Oh. Like what?" he asked slowly, looking at Steve carefully. He wasn't quite sure what else to say.
"Well, for me, I think I should talk about growing up the way I did. With…y'know, being sick all the time." He shrugged, shuffling his sketchbook and books into a neat stack on the coffee table, next to the photo album. "And for you…I think…When you're ready, that is, maybe…it would help to talk about HYDRA."
Bucky inhaled. "I don't want to." he replied immediately. "I…I don't want to talk about that." he didn't want to talk about blood and electricity and screaming and "you are a weapon" and "the fist of HYDRA".
"Well…there's probably a reason you don't want to." Steve replied, knowing he should tread carefully in his mention of HYDRA, "It obviously bothers you, and holding on to all those memories and– and emotions…"
Bucky closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to talk about it." He repeated. Not about anything. Not about the handlers or the victims or what I've done. He shook his head a little bit.
"And I'll respect that," Steve said with his hands up in a casual show of defence, "But I know you know that it hurts to think about. Just…think about how long you can take thinking about it"