steve rogers might be in the (wrongbusiness) wrote in remediumlogs, @ 2015-11-02 11:20:00 |
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Not sleeping wasn’t a new thing for Steve. He was bad to terrible at the concept at best - but here had proved to be even worse. Especially since here he found himself needing the sleep in a way he hadn’t back home. If the worry about the people he had left behind, the people he’d been forced into this place, what the hell this place was in general wasn’t bad enough, the days that Natasha had been sick and now the days he had literally been living with ghosts had more than made it harder. Bucky was a constant. Just out of the corner of his eye - standing behind him in the mirror, standing at the back of a room. He looked how Steve pictured he must have been in the depths of that ravine, where he had thought he’d left him for dead only to be taken by HYDRA. Broken, battered, a gruesome stump - an image Steve, who had seen it more times than he cared to think about on the battlefield during the war, could easily fill in - where his arm once had been, before the metal one would replace it. The cold accusation in his eyes that played on Steve’s on guilt. His fault. What had happened to Bucky was his fault. The silence of Bucky’s ghost was unnerving, but in some way it was easier. Especially when the alternative was present. Steve had moved into his bathroom as the hours had stretched on in the night. He splashed water on his face hoping to clear his mind. His hands gripped the side of the counter as he yawned and his grip tightened as the sound that had been tormenting him the past few days sounded from the doorframe. “Steve - darling come back to bed.” Steve was the kind of person one could say lived with ghosts. This, well, this was a whole other level. His eyes moved to the figure of Peggy in the doorframe, dressed in a silk nightgown of the era, dark hair in loose curls around her face. Peggy who had been a constant in his apartment since this had all started. Haunting him, torturing him with an image of the life he had given up. “You’re not real,” he said weakly to the image. Words he’d said so often in the past few days he’d lost count. “Of course I am, now come back to bed.” Steve pushed past the ghost and back into his room. There was a breaking point and then there was the point past it which he felt dangerously close to. He tugged on the sweatpants he’d been given that were on the floor beside his bed. His shirt, the only one he still had left, was still too wet where it hung against the back of a chair - he figured it didn’t matter much, he didn’t much expect to run into anyone in the halls at this time of night. He made his way to Natasha’s apartment and knocked softly. Loud enough to be heard if she were awake but not so loud as to wake her up necessarily. Almost immediately though he regretted the action. It was two in the morning. Of course she was asleep. And even if she wasn’t, well, what the hell was he doing showing up at two in the morning. When she answered he’d been turned to go because he figured he was just being an idiot and he probably looked that way when he turned again at the sound of the door opening. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Uh - sorry - “ he apologized. He shouldn’t have bothered her. “I - uh - hi,” he finished lamely with a sheepish shrug. |