Bucky took another step closer, but didn't take Steve's hand. He stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then at Steve's face again. His pale blue eyes flickered slightly, and he took another cautious step forward towards Steve. His movements were more like a scared and wounded animal's than a man.
Steve stood still, like a tree whose roots were planted firmly in the ground, crushing the concrete beneath, not wanting this moment to change, to forever see Bucky's face, just a few feet away from him, scared, but here. Alive.
His breathing slowed to almost nothing at all, and as his tired eyes watched frozen as Bucky approached him, he wondered Bucky would always be just out of his reach. All he could do know was wait for Bucky to come to him.
Bucky stopped a foot or so away from Steve, staring at him silently. "Where are you taking me?" He asked, voice emotionless. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what to do or to say about anything. Especially not the expectations that Steve seemed to have about him. He wasn't sure how to interpret that.
Steve dropped his hand and stuffed it into these pockets. He shrugged with a pained expression.
"Home." He simply said.
That was all that he could call it, he thought. Steve had nowhere else, and people back then, they used to say;
'Home is where the heart is.' But at this moment, he didn't know where his heart was. Was it with Bucky? Did he lose it all those years ago, the moment bucky fell from that train?
The Soldier Bucky whoever he was nodded. "Alright." He replied, and followed Steve when the blonde began to move. He was limping, his brown hair hanging into his face a little in greasy, unkempt strands.
Steve guided the limping soldier to his apartment building, constantly looking behind his shoulder to see if Bucky was still there. They went up the creaky stairs slowly and in silence, and finally arrived at Steve's apartment. He pushed his keys in opened his, his smiley face keychain seemingly mocking him. He opened the door to his small and dimly lit apartment, walking in first.
He turned to Bucky, "I'm going to get my first-aid kit, okay? it's just in the kitchen."
(im gonna be on and off)
Bucky nodded a little, and waited in the entryway for Steve. His eyes flicked around cautiously, taking in the apartment warily. He didn't quite understand what was going on here, or what he was supposed to be doing. He stood quietly, rubbing his face with his flesh hand. Fuzzy, half there memories flickered into shape, then vanished again, gone in a blink and frustrating him to no end.
(okay. dwb)
Steve came back from the kitchen with a black duffel bag, Not your standard pack. Fury had told him. He pulled out an IV bag, gauze, various tools for stitches, morphine, and so many more things he didn't know what to do with.
"I need to get to where you're hit." He said, gesturing to Bucky.
Bucky nodded, and bent, rolling up his pant leg to show the bullet wound there. "I already got the bullet out." he said. The wound itself had been rather clumsily stitched closed, and it was weeping blood and pus, the skin puffy and red and angry from an infection that had set in. While Bucky was the Winter Soldier, he obviously had not been well-trained in doing stitches on himself.
"Okay, okay." Steve thought nervously. It was obviously badly infected, and he thought about the possibility of calling Fury. No, I can't risk it. He inhaled deeply, already preparing an IV despite his shaking hands.
Steve looked up at Bucky and tried to offer his sincerity,
"I need to start you on this," He said, showing him the morphine, IV bag and the needle that would be attached.
Moving every so slightly towards his forearm he paused and met his gaze. "Can I?" He asked
Bucky stared at him in silence for a long, long moment. After a while, he nodded slowly and rolled his right sleeve up, still watching Steve warily from beneath lowered brows. His pale blue eyes went to the IV and bag, then back to Steve, still studying him.
Steve pressed his thumb to Bucky's cold forearm, carefully guiding the needle through his skin, connecting the tube to it, and making sure it was flowing freely. "Okay, he nodded, I need you to move onto the couch, I'm gonna fix your stitches, and, well," He sighed, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch."
(brb)
Bucky nodded a little. As a supersoldier, the morphine didn't affect him as much as it would have effected a normal person. He sat down on the couch, eyes still trained on Steve in a way that was still a little suspicious, wary of what could happen. He frowned a little, eyes flicking around the room before returning to Steve.
"Okay, okay, okay," Steve muttered to himself, threading and tying the hooked needle before sighing,
I'm gonna pour some alcohol over it, to clean it, and it's gonna sting. Is that okay?" He asked, his hands ready with a bottle of disinfectant, just inches from Bucky's wound.
Bucky nodded a little, still watching Steve. His eyes flickered shut as the morphine hit his bloodstream, then he opened them a little, watching Steve through half-lidded eyes. He tensed a little as the disinfectant poured over the wound, muscles clenching.
"Alright, It's clean, now I need to close it." He stated, standing up, turning and going to his liqueur cabinet nearby. A pang of guilt wove through him; half the bottles were empty. Steve shook his head and grabbed the two fullest bottles.
He turned back to Bucky, placing the bottles on the coffee table. "For the pain," He said, "If you like."
Steve went back to the needle and thread waiting for him next to his leg. "Are you ready?" Steve asked, knowing this was going to be painful for both of them. Here we go.
Bucky nodded a little, but didn't touch the bottles. He nodded at Steve to let him know he was ready, holding as still as possible. He couldn't stop the grimace that flashed across his face as Steve began to stitch up the wound, and swallowed. He wasn't going to use the bottles, he knew that.
Steve's hands worked quickly with the stitching needle, suturing the threads as close as possible.
"It's okay," He mumbled to himself, finishing the last stitch, tying, and cutting the thread off the end knot.
"Done!…okay," Steve said, exhausted, rolling back and resting his head on his dusty floor. From his view, he saw the bottles, God, I need a drink.
He reached for the half-full bottle of Vodka, a gift from Natasha, and swallowed a generous swig.
What a fucking nightmare. Steve thought to himself.
Bucky watched him, blue eyes still narrowed. He rolled his pant leg back down, looking at Steve and frowning. He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He was in Steve Rogers' apartment, and he was here for…he didn't know what anymore, now that Steve was done fixing him up.
Steve sat up, looking at Bucky tiredly. "So," he said, averting his gaze out of growing anger.
"You don't remember me, or anything." He scoffed, feeling some strange sense of betrayal, but most of all, guilt. It was his fault that Bucky went through all that he had, the fact that he didn't remember him or any of his past life.. All because Steve didn't go after him. "I'm so sorry." He said, looking down shamefully.
(gtg to bed now. Good night!)
"No." Bucky replied simply. He wasn't sure what Steve had to be sorry for, but he didn't argue with him. Why would he? He didn't even know what they would argue about. He ran a hand through his tangled, messy brown locks, watching Steve still. He didn't quite know what to do or say.
(ok goodnight :)
Steve furrowed his brow at Bucky's strange reply, but he bypassed it and decided that he should tell him the whole story.
"We grew up together." He started, looking away, not wanting to see his blank expression.
"We went to war together and fought together. But I lost you."
Tugging at his sleeve he cleared his throat, feeling his guilt running deep in his veins. "We were on a train, over a high peak. You…fell." He sighed, "I thought you were dead."
His anger now showed itself freely on his face, jaw clenched and eyes, heavy and dark.
"I'm sorry…I didn't go after you."
(just kidding, i'm sort of backish for a little while)
"If you thought I was dead, then there was no reason to look for me, especially not in wartime." Bucky replied simply, still looking at Steve. He shrugged a little, his hands resting on his knees. After a moment, he reached over and unplugged the morphine from his arm with a slight grimace.
(yeehaw)
"Yeah, that's what they told me." Steve nodded, puzzled that Bucky had stopped his morphine drip. Deep down, Steve knew it wasn't his fault, but he blamed himself for what he had to go through, and all that he lost. He had lost his entire life, essentially, because Steve hadn't followed up with a search.
"I don't know what they did to you, Buck, but I just can't..can't understand why I didn't- or why I-" He sighed, running his hands lazily through his scruffy blond hair.
Bucky crossed his arms loosely. He was still in the HYDRA uniform, which was torn and bloodstained, and he looked like a homeless person. Which, technically speaking, he was. There was dried blood on his jaw, and stubble on his cheeks. "I wouldn't know." he replied with a one-shouldered shrug. Somehow, despite the rough, unkempt appearance, he still carried himself like a deadly assassin. Which he was.
Steve looked down at his fraying sleeve, thinking about all the things, all the pain that he'd gone through. He just wanted to keep apologizing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
The least he could do now was let him stay here. He got to his feet, rising slowly.
"We should get you cleaned up, and I'll set up the couch for you." Steve nodded to himself, and offered an arm for support. "You need help to the shower?"
Bucky hauled himself to his feet, keeping his weight off his injured leg. "I can walk." He replied, glancing around the room, then at Steve again. His blue eyes were cold and removed. "I don't need help."
Steve nodded, too tired to argue, and headed for his bedroom for some extra clothes. He set the soft, and neatly folded clothes on top of a small die table and went to the closet for some extra linen. All of these had been given to Steve by SHIELD, trying to help him get back up on his feet. Picking out the softest blankets and sheets, he proceeded to the couch.