Steve brought the clothes to Bucky, handing them over. "Tony'll probably find someone to get you some clothes of your own, once we go to his place– or tower, I guess. That's where you can stay while we sort things out." Steve nodded blankly. "You'll like Tony, I think. He talks fast, and is always all over the place."
Bucky nodded a little. "Tony…Stark." he said slowly. Something about the name tugged at something in the back of his memory, something… something familiar, but he wasn't sure how. He took the clothes, looking down at them. He saw the dog tag, and frowned a little.
"Oh yeah–" Steve said, following his gaze, not noticing how Bucky had known Tony's surname. "I don't really know how that got there, but…it is yours– If you want it." He said, shrugging.
Bucky picked it up in his flesh hand, weighing it. He kept looking at it, gaze unreadable as a memory trickled back in fits and starts. Or maybe it was two, interwoven? He wasn't sure. In one he was showing Steve the tags, "shipping out in a week". Another moment he was strapped down to…to something and God, he didn't know what was happening, but it hurt like hell, and all he could do was repeat his name and identification number, over and over and over and over again.
Steve sighed, staring down at the little shape of bent metal on its rusted chain, "I remember you showing it to me, the first time…God– I was so jealous. I was worried, too. I didn't want you to…go, I guess." He smiled softly, faintly at the memory. "You said, 'don't do anything stupid while I'm gone-'"
Bucky nodded a little bit, remembering that now, too. Looking down at Steve and clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone." He swallowed, eyes studying the damaged and rusted tags. How had Steve even gotten them? His eyebrows drew together, and he out the tags in his pocket.
How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you.. The words rang down the halls of Steve's 'memory lane,' and he asked himself how he could've said such a thing. They had so much time back then; days filled with adventures around the city, countless inside jokes and stolen glances at each other. He could have said so many other things, so many different things he could have told him to let him know he was important to him. I don't want you to go. You mean so much to me, I don't know what I'll do without you. But no, he'd told a joke
Bucky cleared his throat softly, the memory falling into place. It felt as if it were almost…dusty. Used and worn and somehow…somehow fogged over, as if it were still only partially remembered, and maybe it was. He didn't know. "I should change." He said after a moment.
"Hm, yeah," Steve said, washing away the memory, like throwing a pebble into a lake, and he watched the rippling water fade away into repeated half-circles, inching farther and farther away from him. Maybe that's how Bucky felt, Steve pondered. He turned, walking past Bucky and into the kitchen, trying to remember which cabinet had his prescription.
Bucky went into the bathroom and changed into the clothes. He found a hair tie, where it has come from he didn't know, and tied his hair back in a loose bun at the back of his head. He didn't know where the knowledge to be able to do that had come from.
Steve finally found the orange bottle; take one a day or as recommended. Steve remembered thinking 'yeah, right' when he'd got them, but now, it didn't seem like a bad idea. He took one and swallowed it with a sip of water, and sat back in a chair at the small dining table. Tony's right. He might be right?
Bucky came back out and found Steve. He was wearing the clothes Steve had given him, with his brown hair still back in a bun. He looked…well. He didn't look like the deadly assassin he was, he looked…different. Hard to describe exactly why, but he looked almost lighter. More like a normal person. Except, of course, for the silver arm peeking out from the left sleeve.
Steve smiled at Bucky's new hairdo. You wouldn't be caught dead wearing hair like that before the war, but now, he'd seen a few men with hair done up like Bucky's and decided that he liked it. Not that he liked him, no, no.
"You clean up nice," Steve chuckled, gesturing to the hair, "Where'd you learn to do that?"
Bucky frowned a little. "I don't remember." a flash of memory. Hands running through his hair, teaching him. His eyebrows knit together. "One of my…handlers…" he said slowly. "I think." he touched the bun with his right hand, lips pressing into a thin line. For whatever reason, the memory was not a pleasant one.
"Hmm," Steve sounded plainly, thinking he should probably change the topic. He remembered– breakfast.
"C'mon, we'll talk more on our way to eat." He said nodding in the direction of the door, "I've got a spare coat."
(gtg to bed now. Good night!)
Bucky nodded slightly, taking the coat when Steve held it out to him, putting it on. A few wisps of hair had already escaped from the bun, drifting into his face slightly. He couldn't shake the memory of his handler, the hands running through his hair.
(ok~ seeya laterr)
Steve opened the door for Bucky and closed it behind them, locking it, and reminding himself to bring some clothes for later. The dirty carpet running down the hallways reminded him of an old pub in Brooklyn where they'd go dancing; the dull swirls of the polyester had begun to fade into a dusty, dismal shade.
Bucky looked around the hallway, then at Steve again. He sighed softly, putting his hands in his pockets and shaking his head for a moment. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the fragment of memory, which was slowly starting to grow into…into something else and he wasn't sure he wanted to remember.
Steve breathed in, inhaling and catching the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Like the smoking rooms at train stations, which always sent him into an asthmatic attack. He could still picture it; men in trenchcoats and briefcases, surrounded by a thick haze of smoke, not even being able to see their own hand in front of their face, probably. Irate expressions would don their faces and the overlap of conversations was overwhelming enough.
Bucky continued to walk beside Steve, still trying to push away the growing memory. He didn't want this one. He knew that, somehow, just from the feelings that accompanied it. Of shame and fear and hate and helplessness. He swallowed, putting a hand on his forehead for a moment.
Steve looked back at Bucky for a moment, making sure he was there. A solemn expression had fallen upon his face and he seemed out of sorts. He stopped, turning to face him, "Hey, you alright there?"
Bucky flinched very slightly at Steve's voice, and he dropped his hand. "Yes. I'm fine." He replied, letting out a quick breath. He didn't want to talk about that fragment of memory. Which thankfully had stopped growing, but…he didn't want to remember the rest of it.
Steve knew that Bucky wasn't telling him the whole truth, but let it slide, and reminded himself to check up on him every so often. Maybe he remembered something? If he did and wasn't telling Steve, it was probably for the best, but still, Steve wanted to know what was on his mind. What he was thinking, feeling, remembering…He wanted it all. The good, and the bad..all of it, all his pain that he was willing to share; Steve wanted to feel it too.
"Okay. Let me know if you don't feel well, okay?"
(I just saw your gentleman's guide to vice rp and OH mine Goodness I can't believed i missed it. i'm a huge fan of Downton Abbey, and I just started watching a movie set in that time ALSO GAY called Maurice ;0 )
(lol oof sorry. Ooh cool! I haven't seen Downton Abbey yet tho lol. I mean…if you wanna do that RP really badly, we can do one in PMs?)
Bucky nodded again. "Alright." He replied, swallowing. He pushed the memory aside, clenching his jaw for a moment. He ran his hands through his hair, messing it up a little.