zimwy

[zimwy]

GIFT OF THE SILVER TONGUE. they say it's the mark of a good officer--AND OF A LIAR. independent revolver ocelot, spanning all games. #spetsnas, est. 2014. rebooted. previously spctsnaz. oc, ship, crossover friendly. multi-everything. highly selective.

[zimwy]

some elaboration on my metal gear verse.

james buchanan barnes is born in 1925 in gary, indiana, to george james barnes; unbeknownst to bucky, george is a member of the american branch of the philosophers. george dies in a military related "accident" in 1935, leaving the then ten year old bucky an orphaan. he and his sister are split up, and bucky is placed within a military corps that ultimately directly serves the philosophers.

bucky's raw and natural physical talent does not go unnoticed. simultaneously, the philosophers focus on two secretive projects: the super soldier project, and the subsequent teams that form (the invaders, the cobra unit). bucky is the youngest member of the invaders, a group that frequently shares the battlefield with the cobras.

in 1945, during a mission, bucky and steve both plummet into the english channel. bucky is rescued by the soviet arm of the philosophers.

the winter soldier becomes the first recipient of gene therapy, and the first recipient of a functioning bionic arm, developed entirely in secret, of course.

after the 'closure' of the russian philosopher branch, the winter soldier becomes a patriot project and focus, personally created and fostered by minds within their ranks. they cross paths with numerous paramilitary groups and specialized agents, eliminating whomever they are directed to kill and performing a host of operations. when not in use, the winter soldier is placed in cryostasis that preserves their body, mind, and longevity.

has at least one tangle in south africa with frank jaegar and again as grey fox years later.

considering i have a few mgs moots, the path in which bucky takes diverges depending on whom i'm interacting with. for a classic gen char (e.g. big boss, ocelot, etc), bucky will be found and recruited msf or dd era; for modern chars (e.g. solid snake, raiden), bucky will be liberated post cold war in the early 2000s/late 90s.

[zimwy]

i go from "i didn't deserve the things that happened to me" to "there is no suffering that I do not deserve" in like 3 seconds

[zimwy]

moving some furniture around. full here

[zimwy]

bucky is really into bearded steve btw. i think in general he really likes when his partner does something 'new' with their appearance--i.e. if typically clean shaven, a beard or mustache will rile him right up; if long haired, a short haircut will have him staring, etc.

[zimwy]

i could do a lot more for this but im Not Into It anymore so have it as is

[zimwy]

i'm alright. have to be, don't i?

deadly animals. | @bobrvynolds

the concrete tastes like stinging alkaline. for a moment, bucky barely registers the body beneath him, tapered beneath the arch of his torso. knees brace bob's hip and flank, natal arm shielding his own skull from impact with the cracked slab. where the prosthetic landed is where the fissure widens into tangled roots of absent space, a monument to the weight and strength of the arm.

bucky feels him stir, hand loose and perched at barnes' side. feather light as it is, the touch spurns him into rousing, blinking out the field of black spots that've cropped up across his vision. he's quick to peel himself off reynolds, smoke and heavy detritus not five inches from his head. it's the kind that would've pulverized some tender part into mashed meat, if he hadn't bodied him over. big. it brings back memories.

steve's hands on the small of his spine, bracing him up a sinking ship. the invaders hadn't been a maritime unit, but the nature of their work took them everywhere--bucky even remembers what a biplane feels like to pilot.

he shakes some rubble out of his hair, taking stock of the visible conflict area. another shelling would come soon enough; they didn't have to take time to pack a mortar anymore--kids and their god damned inventions. bucky doesn't give bob his hand so much as he simply pulls him to his feet, silver fingers glimmering under a midday sun.

' you okay? '

bob shuffles. bucky can practically visualize the bruising that'll form, contact points where his back slammed into the ground, a scuffed elbow prickling red. still, he grits, i'm alright. bucky's grip slackens, retreating to hover instead around the back of one of his arms, coaxing. no matter that he didn't enjoy leading, it was never very difficult to bucky. have to be, dont i?

bucky rescinds touch entirely once he's confident he's employed a proverbial tether, like teaching a puppy to heel.

' you don't. not really. ' his murmur spoke of experience. ' i was a soldier. when you lie, about a problem.. especially on the field.. you become a liability. ' it's honest, but not accusatory. bucky scans the horizon before cueing him on. ' don't treat a wound, it gets infected. don't set a bone, it heals wrong and you can't use it anymore. have too many nightmares, your unit can't get any sleep either. don't become a liability. are you hurt? '

bucky watches a brief flurry of emotion pass through the undercurrent of bob's features, little tiny twitches and spasmodic muscles. the red room taught that was an involuntary sociological phenomenon, that it could be controlled with intensive training. by comparison, his face is a still and unmoving mask beyond attentive carob eyes.

i, uh, i've got a headache.

that training goes out the window, for a moment. bucky snorts, shouldering past him to weave through a comic book store with a busted front. the owner and any customers have long since fled. ' you and me both, pal. '

[zimwy]

some sunday centric hcs.

while bucky generally gravitates toward dom bottoming, he does enjoy subbing and can get into a good subspace with a dom he trusts--both as a person and as a dominant. showing they know how to listen to his body language, take care of him, adjust play as needed, and displaying good aftercare, all contribute to getting bucky into a subspace mentally. it feels good when it's done right, with someone he knows in the end is not actually being rough or brutal in any way he doesn't want.

he likes both hard and soft doms, but if his dom is primarily soft, he would like them to be hard every now and then (no pun intended). rougher, firmer, even a little mean, he likes it all.

he is a masochist. not to an extreme degree, but mild-to-moderate pain and restrictions and deprivation are liable to turn bucky on as opposed to upset or trigger him. man handling and hair pulling and biting and scratching are on the top of the list, but bruised flesh, knife play, open handed slaps, sometimes full on punching, he enjoys. his absolute no's / extremes are anything that ventures into actual severe pain or torture, and any kind of genital pain. nope, nope.

one of those 'has a job to do during sex' kind of people, determined to get his partner off even if he doesnt get off, but if the sex is with someone he's deeply emotionally connected to (steve, nat, logan, etc), he might become very emotional to the point of tears if the intimacy is gentle and loving. he'll cover his face with a pillow or his arm if he thinks he's going to cry or is feeling rent open by something like held eye contact.

likes dirty talk if the person doing it is good at it. if they're awkward, he's probably only going to like it if he has feelings for them. if its casual sex or a fwb, he'll just tell them to be quiet lmao.

the most sensitive parts of his dick would be the head and his balls. even when he's not in a mood for his dick to be touched much, he won't mind as much if they're playing with or fondling his balls. very very gentle squeezes are okay too.

by contrast his hole is very sensitive. can come from being fingered or eaten out.

i'm not an mcu blog but i fully believe mcu bucky wouldve been a pass round bottom so like RBGRGJEGEH

[zimwy]

if it was someone else, barnes might've taken mild offense at all that spouted hostility. but, he knows logan--painfully well, in fact--and it rolls off bucky's back as water to feathers. he grew up among GI's, foul mouthed as the day was long; his ears were far from any vestige of virginal, and if anyone had any right to carry a torch of frustration, or anger...

' you know, ' he mutters, one-handed realigning his rifle with it's back holsters, ' for an old dude, you ain't patient at all. '

boot welling up plumped dirt, bucky steps forward and reaches for his discarded prosthetic, the weight cool and familiar as the forearm fits into his palm. pressure point affixed at the elbow, bucky lifts the bicep and deltoid absently, mechanisms unfolding to slot together with a resounding kssh-click. the fingers flex, the limb rolls in a perfect and unnatural circle.

' what d'you expect from a bunch of nazis obsessed with the occult? ' bucky approaches the downed beast, blade housed in the depth of his arm unveiling from the root of it's palm. ' not the weirdest thing to pop outta those slimy tentacles. you wanna help, or are we supposed to keep it alive? '

He needed a drink. Something stiff and strong so he could pretend it would have any impact on him. He wasn't going to get that, but he needed one. 

He could only dream. 

For now, dreaming would have to wait. Cussing and fussing would not. He snarls and snaps teeth when the hand retaliates (not that it would do too much. His teeth didn't get the same treatment as the rest of his skeleton. If he had to guess, it was probably a stealth thing.) Then the gunshot goes off. 

It’s well aimed, like it always is. And yes, it is helpful. Of course it is. But Logan scowls anyway. 

“About damned time!” He snarls. He drops the arm and stares over at the… Thing. No, no, not the Thing - not Ben, the bullet would’ve pinged right off - but whatever the hell it is. Aside from fucking huge. 

That, it most definitely was. 

“Jesus Christ.” He mutters, picking his way over rubble to get a better look. Easier now that it's all doped to shit. 

“This what Hydra is spittin’ out, these days?” He asks, half to himself. He has half a mind to shove Bucky’s arm up the thing’s nose - or perhaps the other end - but he restrains himself on the grounds that the kid had come around eventually (and Logan didn’t feel like walking back over to pick it up). 

“Can’t even smell what the poor bastard used to be; think they’re runnin’ out of ideas.”

[zimwy]

“i have to be careful. i'm prone to jumping to conclusions.” // cue the sarcastic tone.

deadly animals. | @hyperionhero

the system of manufacturing names is becoming gradually familiar to the winter soldier. in fact, it's ability to identify has sharpened so considerably that it need not find a particular operandi shared among weapon lines, or allocate an engraving of trademark; a glance at a gun, passing it around it's hands, was enough. tediore. vladof. torgue. maliwan. dahl. atlas. jakobs. s&s. each brand had it's own tells, signatures that easily belied it's creator.

crouching before blackened ruin, the winter soldier brushes their natal hand across an eroded sheaf of metal, finding the vertices jagged and still warm. smoke accosts them even through their protective gear, their filtration mask leaving the acrid taste a dredge in their mouth. it trades it's delicate inspection for a heavier hand, prosthetic grip easily peeling back the crumpled remains.

it's easy, then, to pass the empty shells into reach with the heel of their boot, procured then by hand. the weighty steel loudly thuds into the scorched earth when the soldier retreats to full height, turning the empty shell around in their palm. finally, they find the radio transmitter affixed at their lobe, tapping into their comms line. a direct line to jack when not at his side was an absolute necessity, he'd said. the soldier did not question it's orders.

' reporting allocation of the site, sir. ' they inform, quick to follow, ' it's totaled. evidence points toward obliteration by torgue weaponry. ' the soldier toes a steel boot at a charred scrap as they silently listen to the resulting frustration roaring over the line. they know jack well enough by now to know when it was directed at them (so very rarely; they were such a valued asset) versus a generalized expulsion of anger, like letting off steam. i have to be careful, i'm prone to jumping to conclusions, jack drawls, perhaps through gritted teeth, dripping sarcasm. they give him a moment.

' nothing suggests action from torgue himself, ' the soldier murmurs, ' but retaliation is your prerogative, sir. what would you like me to do? '

[zimwy]

giving himself over feels good, well before dane even approaches nestling into him, finding the connection point between these two haggard souls. this afforded submission came with a sense of relief, for bucky--to be taken care of was to be loved, after all--and he has the sense, for dane, the control bats away some of that fear of incompetence or the muted disdain some of his compatriots possessed for him.

dane, the nuclear bomb, and never dane, the friend, team leader. it made bucky angry as all hell, sometimes. here, he's dane, king of his castle, and of bucky's warm and yielding body.

bucky's lids obscure a decadent stutter of the irises, rolling up briefly toward his skull; dane's thumb brushes his right nipple, no bracket of scar tissue like the left, and sends a pleasurable shiver through bucky's sternum to the flexing muscle in his lower abdomen. his mouth finds his pulse, and only a moment later does bucky realize his shirt is rolling over his head, and dane's skin is flush and hot to the touch. he's firm as ever, warrants a few pawing grasps at one thick pectoral muscle, bucky's gesture appreciative and charged. he pulls at him a little meanly, scrapes his nails to the arch of his ribs, and lets his hand fall to graze dane's adonis belt. his fingers notch at the seam of his pants line. ' yeah? ' he breathes, pretty browns flitting to find dane's stare, intently affixed. ' i wanna see how i make you feel. ' he tugs without any real pressure at his belt. ' please? '

Watching his lover stripping was a powerful sensation. Dane felt himself unravelling; not in the dark descent but with desire. It was primal, primitive and so natural. He hadn't realized how much he needed this until it was offered to him. Deep inside, he felt the core of his being aching. Part of him wished he had a plug for his ass, to satisfy that need. But with Bucky here in front of him, he felt the need to be a beast for him.

He leaned over him again, a hand tracing under his shirt while the other kept him aloft. He wanted to start stroking Bucky's cock, but he'd wait until his babygirl was begging for it.

Kissing his neck, Dane took the time to pull Bucky's shirt off(with a little assistance from his lover) then dragged his off as well. "You look so fucking hot like this. All mine."

[zimwy]

there's a word for this. not the hit work; the winter soldier was loyal to a set of very pointed ideals, following their masters work, a promise of stability and freedom for soviet citizens the entire crux of their indoctrination. labor without meaning, actionable wet work without banners, service without principles; наемник, mercenaries, hired guns that engaged in operations solely to reap personal rewards. it was a foreign concept, to james. they've always rallied behind something: maintaining a careful balance that stayed america and russia's equally voracious desire to engage in nuclear war, protecting innocent civillians whom govern none from the errant rage of a rival nation, performing acts of bloodshed in order to stay the hands and preserve innocence of others. if they killed, it was with unspoken trust that their target merited the operation. wanton empathy had no place on a battlefield.

the red room never liked mercenaries. they remember cruder, vulgar language--gutless, seditious whores--and the echo of someone else's stilted russian makes their head twinge with an angry pain. the winter soldier didn't think so coarsely of this kind of man, but their impressions weren't positive, either.

it was why the red room trained all it's own operatives, and outsourced no amount of sensitive work. there was no trust when the sense of loyalty came attached to a dollar bill. the winter soldier only saw the value of money for what it was--a survival tool that aided in subterfuge, in the end. a transitionary item that would make an honest thing of them. capital was key.

the winter soldier is not a businessman, or terribly motivated by pay.

something good lives in them, dead roots only need be revitalized. but they remained buried under years and years of hard packed soil, the spongy flesh of their violent mind encapsulating anything that they may have been before. they did not spring into existence, fully formed, they know this--but their handlers never divulged information about their past, before the red room. what did james stand for?

did it matter, when this was their life? when they were stranded between the gaps of society, a weapon cast off into the fringes of the universe to learn how to be a person?

they ponder that as they finish off their meal, politely adding the cleared bone china to the pile. all that remained for james is their half-downed coffee, that they nurse now, both hands cupping the frame of it's body. playing dumb wouldn't aid them here. they've already given him an impression of their prowess, albeit incredibly muted and decorated in a palatable, civil way. (in another circumstance, they can imagine their operative handler at their shoulder, a hand plying over their suit feeling much more like the secure buckle of a leather collar.)

the soldier shrugs just slightly, as if not entirely appalled at victor's suggestions. their eyes meet his, head angled down in such a way that the overhead buzzing lights cast vast shadows; over their cheek and lower lids, above the ring of their lashes. their firmness gives way to a quiet melancholy. ' i .. don't want, to.. do work that ends with.. a neutralized target. ' the again goes unspoken. their coffee goes down a little harder when they realize how deep that truth runs. was that what he was looking for from them, service? they'd escaped the frying pan; james had no intention to burn now in the fire. their prosthetic digits creak against the stiff seam lines of their affixed glove, likely used to resist molten heats from metal casts. they feel the urge to flight break and rash over their skin, an anxious heat itching around the seam of their neck, where tissue connected to the collar bones.

the glance they make out the window is subtle, easily written off as attraction to a refracting light passing by, a speeding vehicle, anything but observational paranoia. the next place of business was well down the road, it's parking lot spared only to two vehicular occupants, devoid of their drivers. ' if that's a deal breaker for you, ' james murmurs, relatively nonplussed (and why not? he would hardly be the first to make death-craft an occupation), ' might be best if i get out your hair. '

low rumbles follow down the road. they know the sound: motorcycles. two, they think, catching a glimmer of an approaching headlight. they frown, comforted by the subtle press of an armament of knives strapped to their skin beneath their rags. still, they're practically holding their breath whilst they wait for a definitive end: will they pass on, or will they pull into the lot?

one pulls into the lot, the other continues on, disappearing out of sight. james absently tugs their pack into their lap as they finish off their coffee.

Victor munches on a french fry, crispy exterior cracking under her teeth, pushed back past his fangs to the molars to grind up for swallowing. He barely finishes chewing before he's stuffing another one in his mouth. Victor makes quick work of his fries and potato, eating as if he half-expected the waitress to come by to take it away from him if it wasn't devoured in a certain time limit. A residual instinct from years in the military and the scraps he'd be fed while chained in the basement. Old habits die hard. Victor would like to see someone try to take his food from him now though. He'd bite off their hand at the wrist and maybe eat it. At least nibble off some of the meat, he's never cared for the taste of human flesh. Too gamey and stringy to be good. But the quickness of his eating means his place is clear for the slice of cherry pie that the waitress lays down in from on him a minute or so later, still warm from the warming oven. Here, Victor hits the breaks, pushing aside his plates, and even stacking them, picking up knife and fork to slice off a tip of crust and ruby-red filling. It's sweet and tangy, with the gummy, syrup-ness of canned cherries; not quite like ma used to make but close enough to home that his mouth curls around the fork almost like a smile before he dives in for another bite.

"Well, ya might gotta look outside of the bubble, then, Jimmy," Victor says simply. He breaks the flake of the top crust again for another bite. "Thing a little more imaginatively. I mean, ya really wanna go back into a factory? Workin' on a line for the man? I dunno about you but I ain't ever done so good at playing nice with my boss. Don't ya wanna march to your own tune for once?"

Except for the stretches of years where he was little less than slave, a feral animal chained down, beaten to a whimpering and obedient pulp. Eager to please. Intermittent with violent streaks of freedom. That's the trick. When he's quiet, good, easy, obedient, oh, so sweet even sometimes, doing what he's told, Victor's wanted, accepted, sometimes people even like him. (He visibly grimaces between bites of pie, when Logan comes to mind). But to get free, to really be himself, he's gotta bite the hand that feeds, and ain't no one wants anything to do with him: violent, angry, temperamental, evil, monster. To hell with 'em all. To hell with Logan. He ain't sizing himself down for anyone ever again.

Victor would be lying if he didn't feel a twinge for sympathy for James. Just a brief hint of empathy even. Of what it's like to be on your own, just starting out, used to being kicked and beaten down, whittled down to size. Hell, it would be fun to watch the kid go from pathetic and begging to something worth while, someone on his own. Solidarity with the little guy and all that. Victor still might sell him out though, he ain't made a decision yet. Depends on if Jimmy is actually useful or not.

"Like I said, there's jobs if ya know where to look," Victor continues. He scrapes filling out from beneath and around the crust, so he can save the exterior for a final buttery snack. "Good jobs, well paying. Ya did good work for the army, right? Why don't ya do that for someone who'll pay you your worth? That's what I do, ya ain't even gotta get your hands dirty. Just do the deal and collect a wad of cash."

He lifts a hand then separates thumb-and-fore-finger a few inches apart to indicate the size of the hypothetical money James will get.

"Ya killed for some fuckers in Washington that don't give a fuck about you," Victor points out. "That paid ya shit, cut your benefits when ya got out, and came home for what? A cold welcome 'cause the war wasn't popular. Sent to die in some miserable jungle by a guy in a suit that ain't worked an honest day in his life. Why not get some of your piece of the pie?"

Then Victor picks up the remaining crust and bites into it.

[zimwy]

[zimwy]

i think the fact that it only took bucky about a year to become indoctrinated into the red room program really messes with him. he is vaguely aware he resisted more, had waning thoughts, doubted his superiors, talked back, and was punished for all of it, yes. but the winter soldiers first mission was in 1946, long before the arm was in it's prototype phase, infiltrating and blowing up a vehicle killing an important person in the US military. not to mention, the winter soldier assassinated itsu in 1946. this bucky would've barely looked different. 21. hair slightly longer. new gear. maybe a tad more muscular, still very narrow.

it just feels weak to him to look back on. a year. a year before he was in the field again, a year before he belonged to russia entirely.

[zimwy]

Sometimes, Bucky wonders what that other world looks like. He knows it has to exist, somewhere in the entanglement of parallel universes and intersecting cosmos. Somewhere he would never reach was a virgin trove, a world that wasn't steepled in the blood he'd shed, where he was as innocent as the day he was born and not marked by eternal shame. There was a world where he was not a child soldier, a world where he did not endlessly heed the dog-call of a master his entire life, a world where all this could've came without all the sacrifice and loss.

Part of him wants to see it. The rest of him has the sense that anything else would've made them miss each other by a hairs length of difference--maybe someone else would've killed his wife, or better yet, she would've lived happy and healthy until she was claimed by old age. Selfishly, Bucky realizes he doesn't want to go about it any other way.

He left his scars, and healed new wounds alike. Stitched himself up in Logan's skin real good, like a sticky burr he'd never shake. Nested right into his home, like some changeling in the night.

Bucky's quieted breaths labor into something heinous and bristly, mounting needle point frustration. His toothiness catches in the pit of his throat around a watery grunt, the sensation of Logan's tracing digits rolling Bucky's abdominal muscles into the surface of his skin. He was all work, so little soft or happy fats, sleek little greyhound. And, beneath Logan (beside him, but the stretch of his body and incessant warmth cradled Bucky as if a folded canopy), he felt small.

Everything was in his hands. The submission is afforded trust. His voice finds itself before Bucky finds it; from his chest, it thrums, a levee broken, ' God--please, please, need you so bad--st-stop fuckin' teasin' me, Logan--yes. I'll be good. I'll be so good-- ' It comes out almost one word, congealed and slurry, besogood. ' Я буду хорошим. '

There were a hundred reasons why he was choosing to stick by Bucky after everything that should tear them apart. One moment in the past couldn't outweigh so many more that while no less meaningful, were what they could draw on for comfort when the horrors of the world got to be too much. They were too alike, made too similarly, to blame one another for things they were forced to do. Logan understood, forgave, so that now, he could simply focus on enjoying the time they spent together.

The kids knew, in their way. He'd sat Akihiro down for a man-to-man, and gotten a snarky reply about his tastes, but not much more. That hatchet had long since been buried. Laura had sort of figured it out on her own -- a whiff of Logan on Bucky when they'd last teamed up. And as for Gabby, she took every little thing with such stride that he often envied her. How she could be so bright and happy, so accepting. She seemed to really adore Bucky, which in turn, made Logan adore him more. It was always a plus to get along with his kids.

Logan couldn't help a low chuckle at Bucky's question, almost a whine. He didn't consider him insatiable, not really. It was more like a battery he needed to recharge, a tank needing filled. He had to get what he could, to carry with him when the reality of their lives kept them apart. This vacation was for that very reason -- it had been too long now, and they'd earned a reprieve, so he wasn't going to fault his lover for being a little demanding. "Mm, maybe. I don't mind stayin' in bed all mornin'…" he teased, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the twitching muscle. "You gonna be good?"

[zimwy]

also while i think the winter soldier is very, very loyal to ideals (its part of why the red room could control bucky in the first place; they were brainwashed and fed soviet propaganda and a distorted narrative on top of torture and electroshock therapy and interrogation techniques and drug use), i think they're much more likely to pledge themself indefinitely to an ideal if it originates from or is attached to a human being. i think this is demonstrated through the way bucky himself interacts with and idolizes steve; no matter how well he knows him as a person, no matter that steve can just be steve around him and not just captain america, bucky upholds--or tries to--the same values, at core, because they're demonstrated by steve. the winter soldier is the same, at heart; when there is a person behind the narrative, it's much easier for them to understand and align themself with.

[zimwy]

the laugh that punctuates from bucky's chest is without reservation, entirely unstoppable; he puts up no facades, no appetizing glamors to be wanted. ' steve, ' he starts, his voice thick and gluey in his throat, ' you coulda stepped on my feet twenty times, an' i still would've gone home with you. ' he's sure he has to know, it was a mounting pressure inside him that demanded a head; whether that was a welcoming excision or a rejecting lance, he would've accepted it for what it was, no matter how it hurt. the gala simply provided bucky the tools to devise an excuse, something appropriate yet entirely risque and bawdy all at the same time. he hadn't approached steve like a target, hadn't fluffed up his ego and stroked at every lonely and needy part of him, too much sincerity in last night's approach. see me, want me.

steve's so sweet, it sickens bucky just as much as it warms and placates him. he's candy, whorled sugar and syrup gone right to the tooth, butterflies and electricity dancing like beating wings where his lips impress at the apple of bucky's cheek. he feels the heat of his skin, the smell of his soap and undernotes of last night's cologne yet clinging to every sweat point; he relishes in the brief closeness, hands going instinctually slack to pass steve along his emptied plate.

how that unbridled kindness hasn't gotten him killed yet, he doesn't know. (he remembers staring down the reticle of his scope, steve's face distorted reflection centered in the lens, should i take the shot?)

bucky watches him round to the sink, wants to offer his aid--how many times had he stood on a little step stool to clean up after supper, when george was so tired he'd fall asleep in the living room?--but decides against it, if only because he can imagine steve's generous protest. it was hard to unwind his high-built walls and accept positive treatment without condition, even from steve. ' oh, yeah, ' he starts, easily foraying into innuendo and words of substitute, ' you're a real natural, pal. got me moving in all the right ways. we can dance all you want. ' canine tooth protruding just beneath the soft plinth of his upper lip, bucky furls his natal fingers into steve's shoulder when he gives him a departing kiss, a little needy when he releases him.

but, it wouldn't be all that long, would it?

he's been in steve's apartment before, sure, but there's just something so.. foreign, about the brief solitude that follows. bucky smooths a wet paper towel over the table, just to ensure no flecks of food stuffs remained, and tosses the soiled article in the kitchen bin. he meanders to a window to glance out, paranoia twinging along the bar of his spine dulling to a comfortable ease. no one was outside, looking in, watching, staking, the way he would've been. finally, he collects his discarded dress (it looked odd and eclectic removed of his physique, like a stringy black skin) to check the tag. dry clean only. a derisive grunt escapes him as he lays it over the back of the couch, where it'd been stripped in the first place. collecting his loose heels, he aligns them near the door before taking refuge beside an open notebook.

inspecting the pages, bucky realizes very quickly it isn't a notebook at all, but one of steve's sketchbooks. wild flowers frame a neighbor's tabby cat. beside that, disconnected, undeniably bucky's prosthetic. he didn't know much about art, but it looked impressively real to him; he fingers the plating, the seams of interlocking joints, runs his pads to the junction of metal. bucky doesn't touch the exposed book, doesn't pry further; those were steve's artistic secrets to keep, and his decision to share, if invited. instead, he sidles over to the opposite side of the couch, furthest away from the end table he can be, folding one leg over the other whilst he pages through daytime television channels.

all of it is wanting and boring, so bucky lets it land on a documentary about a seasonal cycle following a mother grizzly bear and her two cubs.

when the door opens, bucky doesn't so much jump as he does race to his feet, quick to alleviate his unmentionables and sanitary items (with a returning peck to the edge of steve's jaw). he ducks into the bathroom to set his comb above the sink and brush his teeth, drawing his hair into one free hand to avoid smattering frothy spittle into the span of his curls. only when he's finished does he sort out the rest of his things--a change of clothes, comfortable and slack, one of bucky's sets of jeans threadbare at the knee, socks patterned with an assortment of cats, boxer-briefs. bucky folds them together and sets them atop steve's dresser, barely restraining a toothy grin as he places down the aforementioned lubricant bottle upon steve's nightstand.

emerging from his room, bucky rejoins steve in the kitchen, natal hand falling upon one of his strong shoulder blades. he presses the meat of his palm into the valley of his musculature, soothingly kneading lazy strokes. ' yeah, everybody in your neighborhood up an' moved out. s'just us now. ' the breadth of his sarcasm is delicate, silly, not mean. ' nah. but i'm surprised there isn't a noise complaint tacked to your door. did you get groceries? '

Steve makes quick work of his breakfast. Having a super solders' metabolism to fuel meant he was always a little hungry, even if he'd gotten used to the quickened processes of his body over the year. When he had been young, he'd never eaten much. Not that his family ever had much to eat but Steve had simply not been that hungry do a combination of illness, nausea, and stomach pain. In the days after receiving the serum, Steve found himself asking for seconds for the first time in his life and sometimes, even thirds. He was big, and hungry, and active, and a full plate didn't make him sick anymore. Time, and experience, has tempered him. If he's hungry later he'll grab a snack, for which there's plenty in his cabinets or to be found on the streets of New York. But he still eats with the efficiency of a soldier, bacon, egg, pancake, mopping up the syrup with the last few bites of pancake. He keeps his eyes on Bucky, listening, noting the slight shift of his mood at the mention of 'dancing with Thomas.' Steve doesn't let himself speculate about it too much, knowing that the past was a place of melancholy for the both of them. Better not to dredge it up and ruin the mood.

And he could imagine what it was like to dance with a man, seventy years ago. The looks, the shame, sometimes, even the violence. Steve never danced with anyone in his youth, because no one asked, and girls who he did ask looked at him with a disdainful pity which he wisely learned to avoid. He had attended clubs and dance halls, though, mostly to sit on the side and sketch the flair of skirts and shaken legs on the floor. Sometimes, he attended clubs where most of the dancers were men, and men in dresses, in the less spoken of but no less known parts of the city. Those men, of course, ignored Steve as much as the girls did. But Steve wasn't ignorant to what their lives were like outside of the club, or the burden of keeping secrets.

"I didn't do too bad last night, you seemed to like it," Steve says defensively, but smiling with Bucky anyway. He sips on his coffee. "Enough to come home with me at least."

He leans over the table to press a kiss to Bucky's cheek as he sweeps away both their plates, mugs, and silverware. Steve feels buoyant as he places the dishes in the sink, the silverware dropped into an old peanut butter jar filled with water. He nods along to Bucky's list of requests; scrubbing, rinsing, putting plates onto the dish rack to dry. He breaths a laugh, feeling his own cheeks warm, and glancing up at Bucky.

"Not bad at all, then, huh. Even with how... inexperienced I am at dancing?" He teases, and slings the dish towel over his shoulder. "Good enough to go again, right?"

He'll give Bucky a parting kiss, and then one more for luck, before heading out of the apartment. It's a quick trip to Bucky's apartment to get the requested items and feed Alpine, who mews pathetically at him as though she'd been utterly starved. Steve gave her many pets as recompense for hogging her human. On his way home, Steve stops in at a grocery store for some items for dinner that night. Meat means no milk, but he found a good quality looking sorbet in the freezer section for dessert. He returns to the apartment to offload Bucky's things and groceries. While putting away his purchases, he asks casually:

"So, anything exciting happen while I was gone?"