worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

Yeah, "oh". At least feel secure in the fact that your buddy never wants to see that again, Steve. There's something important there, even if he doesn't entirely understand it himself.

(The fractured mental pictures of small, skinny Steve have been pored over obsessively, but they still don't make sense, having no context whatsoever so far. He's not even entirely sure if they're real, since he didn't get the chance to corroborate at the Smithsonian that Captain America did in fact used to look like a starving rat.)

"Yes, I can see you healed." That comes out kind of sarcastic, oops. He flexes his metal fist again with a little buzz, then asks, "How long. You said you had been here, on this ship. A long time. How long has it been since."

How long have you been here is not a complicated question at all. And yet still, Steve maybe waits a second too long to answer.

"On board the Barge? About six years. I got sent home once, without meaning to leave. And I went home for a while intentionally, after my inmate graduated. So it's 2016 at home. For me. But I've spent six years on the Barge, in addition to that."

Which probably still sounds more complicated than it should. "Time passes strangely, here. I don't even know if anybody really gets older. I guess it wouldn't surprise me, given everything else."

There's part of him that wants to ask how much of that time the "other him" was here, but the rest of him viciously squashes that part. It's like prodding at an open wound, and he knows it's a bad idea. Better to just let the body (the mind) do its thing without interference. The bleeding always stops. The potential lack of aging barely even registers. It's not like he has any real experience with aging anymore, except watching other people do it.

Time for the next big question: "How much of that were you a prisoner. An. Inmate."

Steve takes a slow breath on that one, before he has to admit, "Four years."

He's... not exactly proud of it, and not exactly ashamed of it. It's complicated all over again. But given that he would never leave Bucky here and given that he also still has zero desire to work for the Admiral, staying an inmate seems like the best option.

He also has no idea how to graduate, and he isn't sure he ever did.

"Most people aren't inmates that long," he feels the need to point out, because he doesn't think Bucky will by any means still be an inmate in four years. "Most graduate a couple of months to a year after they get assigned a permanent warden. I've had... three, but one was sent home against her will and one left voluntarily. Cal Kestis is my warden now. If you - ever needed someone to take me down or find me. Or revive me. Lark Tennant would, too."

That makes two of them who have no idea how to graduate. Or if they want to.

Some kind of benchmark for time is why he'd wanted to know, but he discovers to his annoyance that one year isn't really any easier to conceptualize than four years when you're used to counting existence as a span of days, a week at most. So he just nods, files that away, takes in the names, and... frowns. There is one thing he can conceptualize, in there, and he doesn't like it.

So he looks back in Steve's direction. "No one is fucking taking you down. The hell, Rogers."

There is something so bone-deep familiar in that reaction that despite the inappropriateness of it, Steve kind of ends up smiling.

Well. At least he can't really profess to often have appropriate reactions to things, so it's not really different than the usual.

But they have before seems like a poor argument in response, so Steve focuses on something else that's much more important: "Has anyone explained floods to you?"

Oh. He remembers that part of his conversation with... the other Steve... very clearly: metaphorical waters; you forget who you really are; you become someone else. He hasn't put together exactly why those things bother him so damn much, he is still missing too much of his own context, but they definitely bother him. A lot.

The arm whines a little, and expression slides back off into a safe blank look. "Yes. So you were. Someone else."

"Kind of? Sometimes. Not always." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. It's hard to explain in simple terms, but worth trying: "Sometimes it's me, and I'm just acting differently - in a way I wouldn't. And sometimes it's not me, but a different version of me. Sometimes, it's probably hard to tell."

It's clear he doesn't like when this happens, but whether or not he likes it, he knows it's going to happen. "So, it's hard to... I mean, there's a saying. Never say never. I think that kind of applies?"

Great. So there is, in fact, a scenario where he might have to hit that face again. Fucking wonderful. "Right," he says, sounding tired. That also means the reverse could happen: Steve (or someone) needing to take him down. Not like that's a stretch to imagine, honestly. He can imagine lots of scenarios where he'd have to be taken down. ... he gets the feeling he may have imagined these scenarios at length, in the past, with great longing. Damn.

He doesn't even bother saying that aloud. Steve can probably guess. "Twice a month, he said. Is that right?"

Steve's mouth twists; he can definitely imagine that if he's trying to explain that someone might need to take him down, Bucky might be thinking the same thing.

He nods; "Yeah. Well - usually just once, but sometimes twice. And sometimes there are breaches. Those are - " Worse? Better? He honestly isn't sure, and ends up settling on, "different. You're definitely not you, then. You're someone else completely." Even though it feels like you've been that person your whole life.

But now they're finally at the point where Steve feels like he's got information he just can't keep withholding from Bucky. Even if this might go badly. So he pauses, regroups, glances up, trying to catch Bucky's eyes. "I know your trigger words. I wish I didn't, but I do." And he can't forget them. He's got a stupid eidetic memory, and he's tried asking people to erase them, and there's always some reason they can't. "No one else does. But - I do. I wanted you to know. Because I will never use them against you. I will never tell anyone else. As long as I'm me. I swear."

Eye contact is hard, sorry man. He's still half turned away, and it was never exactly encouraged at HYDRA to look your handlers in the eye. (Also tended to lead to him trying to attack said handlers, which was another reason to learn not to do it, given the punishments for that sort of thing.) The best Steve is going to get there is looking at his eyes, which are kind of focused sidelong on Steve's shoulder.

For a moment there's a frown of confusion. The American never had the Book. (What book.) The Americans never used the Words. (What words.) But the stupid goddamn target-- Steve-- Captain America-- knows the Words. Trigger words. He has. Trigger.

He loses pretty much everything else Steve says at the sudden overwhelming taste of rubber on his tongue, the on-fire after-twitches of a wipe, the confinement of restraints on both arms, emptiness and fear choking him-- a word, the feeling of something slotting into place painfully in his brain. He can't hear it. He can't tell what it is, he can't tell what it's doing, but it hurts and it's changing him and there's screaming somewhere deep inside and--

His brain recognizes it. He has trigger words. He has.

The frown turns into full-on terror and he crumples against the bookshelf he'd just lopped the corner off of with a hoarse scream, both hands at his head. So not restrained, now, but the feeling is still there, it's always going to be there, they're always going to be there--

He's completely forgotten Steve's standing there trying to talk.

Edited (all that and I forgot to change the icon) 2020-08-13 21:40 (UTC)

Steve should know better. He really should.

He should, but it doesn't matter. The second he sees the terror on Bucky's fact, the way he goes sideways into the bookshelf and the sound he makes, clutching his head -

It's ingrained. It's instinct. He doesn't even think before he's over on the other side of the room, crossing the distance between them practically in a single leap, arms reaching out with the intention of wrapping around Bucky, holding him, steadying him. "Shit - shit, Buck I didn't mean - whatever I - I'm sorry."

Whatever he said, it was wrong, and while he should maybe take a step back instead... he can't. He can't.

There's someone lunging at him, too fast too large too close too close tooclosetooclose.

He doesn't see who it is, doesn't hear the apologies, doesn't stop to think, he just lashes out with the metal arm, panting with fear and reaction to the flashback as much as the present. He's not in a brutally utilitarian cabin on a prison ship, he's in a bunker somewhere in Siberia, and the handler isn't there, didn't finish the sequence, just left him half-primed and hurting and terrified. And someone lunged at him.

Unless Steve is very quick on his feet, he's getting launched backwards into the wall by the door, from a metal forearm slammed into his ribs.

Steve might be normally quick on his feet, might even be willing to dodge something like that in a real fight. But he's not exactly paying attention to anything but Bucky's distress and the way it's knotting his own insides up, so when the arm swings out, it connects.

Even as he makes solid contact with the wall, Steve can't really say he's surprised. But he also isn't exactly discouraged, pushing away from the wall even as his head rings a little, taking a few steps forward again. That's... gonna bruise, but it's the farthest thing from his mind right now.

But maybe he's learned a little, because he doesn't reach out for Bucky again, but he also doesn't keep his distance, still closing what's left of it, step by step, hands up but not out (yet). "Bucky," he says. "Bucky, can you hear me?"

By the time Steve's picked himself up again, the Asset is no longer against the bookcase. By the time Steve is starting to move towards him, he's scrambled over the bed and into the tiny adjoining bathroom. By the time Steve says that goddamn fucking name, the tiny bathroom's door has been slammed shut. (If there's a lock in there, that's been flipped, too.)

No, no, no, shit, Steve's messed it up worse. He pulls up short as the door slams closed, feeling the sound of it like a punch to the gut. He's panting even though it's not like he's really exerted himself, but more than that, he just feels...

He feels stupid. He feels like he did the last time he and Bucky had a big blowout argument, even though it's not even like any words have been exchanged, here. But he still feels stupid and helpless and it's like this monster inside of him, trying to claw its way out and it makes his throat tight when he tries to say, "I'm sorry," through the door without actually getting too close to it.

He isn't sure he expects a response. He isn't sure if it's better to just go, but it feels like the shitty thing to do, to turn around and walk away from the mess he caused.

He hesitates for a moment longer. Just in case. Before he asks, "Should I go?"

There's a long time before a reply, and Steve can probably hear the ragged breathing through the flimsy bathroom door. He's got himself propped over the toilet, half-sure he's going to throw up at any moment, but he's back to the present, at least. The memory is... close... but it's not completely overpowering, now. He can hear Steve on the other side, hear the apology. He doesn't know everything Steve said, but he's pretty sure the guy didn't mean to cause some kind of-- some kind of memory malfunction.

"Didn't remember," he finally says, almost too quite to hear, almost too rough to understand. And oh, right, it's in Russian. Did your Bucky ever teach you any Russian, Steve? "Didn't remember the Words. The Americans didn't--" He's sure they didn't have them. The handlers would never have let him out of the bank vault without that additional layer of control, if he did, he knows it. Wipe him and start over, echoes in his head.

And there it goes, he does retch into the toilet at that.

It wasn't Bucky that taught him Russian, but someone has; it's a little rusty, he's lost and regained his serum-enhanced memory in between, but while Bucky's voice is quiet and rough and it takes a moment of replaying what he's saying, Steve... thinks he gets the gist of it.

It's not Bucky telling him to go, but -- that is the sound of Bucky throwing up, and that makes Steve wince.

"I'm sorry," he tries in only slightly American-accented Russian instead, this time, for what it's worth. "I didn't know. I won't talk about them again."

He'd said what he needed to say, after all. No point in bringing them up again. Not until... well. He'll worry about that later.

And then, because he's an idiot, he asks, defaulting to English, "Does it hurt like this whenever you remember things?"

Leaning his forehead on the toilet's tank, shutting his eyes, he tries to get his breathing back under control. He follows Steve back into English. "That's never happened before." Slices, flashes, knowing things he doesn't properly remember, yes... but that was like dumping him head-first into boiling water, shaking him around in it, and then leaving him there for several seconds of horror.

The closest he can think of is... end of the line. That had been less horror, maybe a dunking in cold water rather than hot, but. Kind of close. It had taken him away from the fight for a second, he thinks, but not so much that he'd forgotten where and when he was. Not like this.

"Oh, good," Steve laughs weakly. "So, it's just from things I say."

He feels stupid just standing there, but Bucky didn't tell him to get out so he ends up just sinking to the floor, legs crossed, back hunched, hands on his ankles for a long, quiet moment.

"I don't - want to be a bother. Or overwhelm you. Or smother you," he finally says, quietly. "I don't want to expect things of you that you might try to give me, or anyone. And I know you can manage on your own. But if you don't want to - when you don't want to. You don't have to."

He isn't sure that's the best way to put anything, but he's at least trying to heed the advice people keep giving him, regardless of whether he believes it.

There's a moment where that echoes around in his head. You don't have to. Like he's heard those words. Maybe said them? It's unclear. There's no goddamn context for anything. His head hurts, and yes, the things the guy says do seem to make it worse, do seem to make him worse, but that doesn't mean it's Steve's fault.

He makes a small, annoyed noise, resisting the urge to kick the door since Steve isn't in reach. Just barely. "Rogers. Getting lunch is overwhelming. My fucked up brain is not your fault."

Steve laughs a little helplessly at that, if only because, "Yeah, that's... not actually true."

It's his fault. It's definitely his fault.

But maybe the weirdest thing is... he knows what it's like when something like getting lunch is overwhelming. It's dim and distant and muddled, because it was a... it wasn't exactly a flood or a breach, but he still remembers. He remembers being the guy who was brainwashed by Project Rebirth in some crazy alternate universe where Erskine had never actually defected to the Allies.

And most of all, he remembers being overwhelmed. But at the same time, he remembers wanting to learn how not to be.

"I could help. With - getting lunch. And breakfast and dinner. If you want fewer choices for a while."

He may not have any real memories from before the last wipe-- except, apparently, one of someone saying fucking Words at him; he shivers once again at the reminder-- but he is still pretty damn sure this guy didn't strap him to the Chair or say any of those fucking Words, so how could it be his fault? There's a little part of him that wants to argue, wants to actually kick that door, or maybe open it and actually kick Rogers and get him to stop being an idiot, but there's another... much larger part that does not want to know. Doesn't trust that any of what Steve says about friendship and knowing is actually true. And even if it is true, it's like he doesn't have room in his brain for it. What if asking brings another thing like that-- that memory malfunctions down on him? He's not sure he can handle that right now.

So he shoves it back, to pick at later when there's no one around to distract or confuse him, and flushes the toilet to get rid of the evidence of his lost dinner, sitting back on his heels wearily. When he's sure he'll be heard again over the sound of the water, he says, "People have been pretty good about helping. With the food thing. And I got some systems worked out." Follow someone and pick out exactly what they get. The Joker's suggestion to get things that were all one color. Eat the exact same breakfast every day, since those options don't vary as much and the eggs and oatmeal are always there. Never get the orange jello. Yuck.

Still: "Wouldn't say no to more helping, though. I guess."

Honestly, it's more of a relief than anything when Bucky doesn't argue the first point. Not that it would make it any less true, in Steve's opinion, but it's nice not to have to argue about it for once, even if maybe the playing field's not exactly level at the moment.

And his lips twitch up into a smile, because, "I know you can work it out." That sounds fond - proud - and Steve's just about to open his mouth and say Bucky's clearly got it handled, then, when Bucky says he wouldn't mind more help. He guesses.

Not... exactly reassuring, honestly. "I don't want to overwhelm you more," Steve says, even though he's said something like it at least once already. It's still true. "I just know how much I have to eat, and I know you have to eat almost as much, and I know how to do that with as few options as possible. That's all.

"And I'm on the lunch shift. I can try and keep lunch simple for a while," he adds.

This may be why they keep missing each other: he's mostly actually skipped lunch, just eaten breakfast and dinner, to narrow down on both times to make choices and the potential for having to interact with people. (This may be why he continues to be hungry all the time, but it's not like he actually knows what "not hungry" feels like still.) But if that's where this guy is, looks like he'll have to start going. Sigh.

Probably good, if Steve's right and he's supposed to be eating more. "Okay." He picks himself up finally, though his head is still aching, and unlocks the bathroom door to open it partway, peeking out through the crack at Steve. "I'll come to the dining hall for lunch tomorrow. And see how it looks."

The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: flashback + panic attack, sorry Steve

Steve is probably just going to make it worse lbr (up to you if any actual contact happens)

you earned this, Steve

no argument there

no subject

no subject

cw: vomiting

Re: cw: vomiting

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)