worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

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."

Steve glances up as the door opens, scrambling to his feel like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't. But he doesn't try to approach the door; instead, he tries to just... look accommodating and reassuring. It probably doesn't totally work, but he's trying.

"Oh - I mean, yeah. Okay. You should." One day is not a lot of lead time, but whatever. He offered. He's not going back on it now. He'll make it happen, if he has to make a special section for Bucky all by himself.

"Okay." He... kind of suspects that this might also be Bucky trying to shoo him out. He knows he should maybe take the hint, if that's the case. "I can... I can go, for now. You can come back out. Maybe, um, brush your teeth. Drink some water. It'll get the bad taste out of your mouth."

C'mon, pal, how hard is it to just make less stuff for one meal? If he'd thought it would be difficult, maybe he'd have suggested more time, but it seemed pretty straight-forward to him. (Also, the guilty-but-reassuring look is kind of adorable. What a dumb-ass.)

More importantly, that's good advice, so he's going to take it. The door comes open a little more and he nods. "Thanks. I'll do that." And then maybe curl up somewhere in here with those extra blankets. He's reaching the end of his ability to be civil and use, like, actual words, here. It's been a long day already. "Thanks for the stuff."

Marginally harder than if he was the only person in charge of lunch, because he's not, but he still figures he can make it happen.

And that definitely sounds more like a dismissal; even so, Steve can't help but look weirdly relieved, because Bucky said "thanks" twice, and that feels like some kind of major win. Especially after giving the guy a panic attack.

That... doesn't feel like a win. That feels kind of awful. Definitely time to go.

"You're welcome. I can get you more... anything. I mean. I'll try. If you ever need anything."

He backs toward the door, like he maybe doesn't want to take his eyes off Bucky - he doesn't - but he's being stupid, so he finally turns to open it so he can go. "I'll... see you around," he says, softly, and slips out.

And now, peace and quiet. He slumps against the bathroom door frame, shutting his eyes, fully expecting the relief and exhaustion after all that. He doesn't expect the wistful unhappiness at being left alone.

Weird.

He shoves it aside, like everything else, and sees about that blanket nest he'd been anticipating. That, at least, is as comforting as he'd hoped, especially with a knife securely in one pocket.

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