on_va_voir (on_va_voir) wrote in districtmarvel, @ 2016-01-27 22:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | bucky barnes, steve rogers |
Who: Bucky and Steve
What: Could this be any more awkward?
When: The morning after These texts
Where: Steve's apartment
Warnings: Secondhand embarrassment, tbh
It was true that Steve and Bucky had some lost years between them, years that had given them ample time to grow apart, to change in ways that maybe gave one another pause now, whenever the other went off script. But Steve still knew Bucky more than he didn't, and as soon as Bucky had begun texting him the previous night, Steve had known something was up. Bucky asking him to set aside time to talk meant whatever the topic of conversation was, it was serious enough to warrant more than a phone call.
Not that it was hard to imagine what he might want to discuss; Steve was nearly positive this would have something to do with the upcoming Quell, but he thought they'd covered most of it during their last conversation. There had been the fight, yes, but Steve had gone to find him the next day - and hell, but Bucky had been a mess, hungover and miserable and clearly not believing a word of what Steve was saying. He had, at least, gotten Bucky to acknowledge that Steve was going to be the one sent into the arena. He wasn't sure how Stane would orchestrate it, but he had no doubt he'd find a way. That Steve himself was a driving force behind this Quell hadn't escaped anyone, and no one had been shy about throwing that back in Steve's face.
The thought of the approaching Quell left Steve feeling jumbled, unsure of precisely how he wanted to order his thoughts, at a loss as to what he should focus on first. There was too much to do and not nearly enough time, and then there was the terrifying fact that suddenly everyone wanted to launch their own plan of attack, which seemed to Steve a surefire way to sink any hope of a proper revolution. They weren't ready, and he didn't see how they were going to get there before the Quell.
Steve had been spending more time with his punching bag than sleeping these past few days, and his knuckles were heavily bandaged, the pristine white dotted with splotches of rust, places where his blood had seeped through. He'd worried about it being extravagant, back when he'd decided to put a punching bag in the basement of his Victor's home, as well as one in a spare room in his apartment, but there were days where it felt like going at a punching bag was the only thing keeping him together, and those days had been coming around more and more often lately.
He'd abandoned the punching bag with enough time to grab a shower before Bucky arrived, though his hair was still damp when Bucky came in, the coffee not quite finished brewing.
"Morning," Steve said easily, though his gaze traced over Bucky carefully, checking to see what kind of state he was in. Looking, no doubt, for evidence of another night spent drinking himself unconscious. "You sleep okay?" he asked, as he set out two mugs, then grabbed the plate of sweets he'd procured and set it beside them. It wasn't remotely that Steve was a homemaker, or a caretaker, or the sort of person who forced food on someone whenever they came to visit. But he had dozens of memories concerning Bucky's sweet tooth, and it seemed wrong to have him over this early in the morning without offering him some form of sugar.
"Chocolate donuts, just as requested," Steve said with a smile that didn't quite manage to hide his apprehension about this visit. His hands curled into fists, knuckles flexing against the tight constraints of the bandages, and after a moment he turned back to the coffee, relieved to find it finished. He poured them each a generous measure of the rich, dark liquid, then slid one over to Bucky, to doctor as he wished.
And then there was nothing for it but to take a seat and wait for Bucky to explain why he was here.