Steve finally found the orange bottle; take one a day or as recommended. Steve remembered thinking 'yeah, right' when he'd got them, but now, it didn't seem like a bad idea. He took one and swallowed it with a sip of water, and sat back in a chair at the small dining table. Tony's right. He might be right?
Bucky came back out and found Steve. He was wearing the clothes Steve had given him, with his brown hair still back in a bun. He looked…well. He didn't look like the deadly assassin he was, he looked…different. Hard to describe exactly why, but he looked almost lighter. More like a normal person. Except, of course, for the silver arm peeking out from the left sleeve.
Steve smiled at Bucky's new hairdo. You wouldn't be caught dead wearing hair like that before the war, but now, he'd seen a few men with hair done up like Bucky's and decided that he liked it. Not that he liked him, no, no.
"You clean up nice," Steve chuckled, gesturing to the hair, "Where'd you learn to do that?"
Bucky frowned a little. "I don't remember." a flash of memory. Hands running through his hair, teaching him. His eyebrows knit together. "One of my…handlers…" he said slowly. "I think." he touched the bun with his right hand, lips pressing into a thin line. For whatever reason, the memory was not a pleasant one.
"Hmm," Steve sounded plainly, thinking he should probably change the topic. He remembered– breakfast.
"C'mon, we'll talk more on our way to eat." He said nodding in the direction of the door, "I've got a spare coat."
(gtg to bed now. Good night!)
Bucky nodded slightly, taking the coat when Steve held it out to him, putting it on. A few wisps of hair had already escaped from the bun, drifting into his face slightly. He couldn't shake the memory of his handler, the hands running through his hair.
(ok~ seeya laterr)
Steve opened the door for Bucky and closed it behind them, locking it, and reminding himself to bring some clothes for later. The dirty carpet running down the hallways reminded him of an old pub in Brooklyn where they'd go dancing; the dull swirls of the polyester had begun to fade into a dusty, dismal shade.
Bucky looked around the hallway, then at Steve again. He sighed softly, putting his hands in his pockets and shaking his head for a moment. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the fragment of memory, which was slowly starting to grow into…into something else and he wasn't sure he wanted to remember.
Steve breathed in, inhaling and catching the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Like the smoking rooms at train stations, which always sent him into an asthmatic attack. He could still picture it; men in trenchcoats and briefcases, surrounded by a thick haze of smoke, not even being able to see their own hand in front of their face, probably. Irate expressions would don their faces and the overlap of conversations was overwhelming enough.
Bucky continued to walk beside Steve, still trying to push away the growing memory. He didn't want this one. He knew that, somehow, just from the feelings that accompanied it. Of shame and fear and hate and helplessness. He swallowed, putting a hand on his forehead for a moment.
Steve looked back at Bucky for a moment, making sure he was there. A solemn expression had fallen upon his face and he seemed out of sorts. He stopped, turning to face him, "Hey, you alright there?"
Bucky flinched very slightly at Steve's voice, and he dropped his hand. "Yes. I'm fine." He replied, letting out a quick breath. He didn't want to talk about that fragment of memory. Which thankfully had stopped growing, but…he didn't want to remember the rest of it.
Steve knew that Bucky wasn't telling him the whole truth, but let it slide, and reminded himself to check up on him every so often. Maybe he remembered something? If he did and wasn't telling Steve, it was probably for the best, but still, Steve wanted to know what was on his mind. What he was thinking, feeling, remembering…He wanted it all. The good, and the bad..all of it, all his pain that he was willing to share; Steve wanted to feel it too.
"Okay. Let me know if you don't feel well, okay?"
(I just saw your gentleman's guide to vice rp and OH mine Goodness I can't believed i missed it. i'm a huge fan of Downton Abbey, and I just started watching a movie set in that time ALSO GAY called Maurice ;0 )
(lol oof sorry. Ooh cool! I haven't seen Downton Abbey yet tho lol. I mean…if you wanna do that RP really badly, we can do one in PMs?)
Bucky nodded again. "Alright." He replied, swallowing. He pushed the memory aside, clenching his jaw for a moment. He ran his hands through his hair, messing it up a little.
Steve nodded, trying not to think too much about the way Bucky's hair fell in long strands, tickling the side of his face. He wondered what it might be like to feel that; to have long enough hair to sweep in front of his face. But not Bucky's hair, no. It was just a curious thing– he told himself, as he made his way down the stairs.
(well, idk. u don't have to if you don't want to– you seem pretty poluar on the forums~~ i don't want to bother you. BUT the film– called Maurice I cant function youll like it if youve seen call me by your name:)
Bucky sighed softly, and kept following Steve through the hallways. He shifted a little, and raked his fingers through his hair again, the hairband coming off into his hand. He glanced at Steve.
(We can if you want to, I don't mind! As for popular…I mean I guess so? I just join and make a lot of RPs lol)
Steve tried to hide his smile as he held the door open for Bucky. It reminded him of all the times they were sitting together, silent, or busy with something else, and occasionally, Steve would just glance at him. Only for a moment, he remembered, but just to see him as he was; candid and lost in thought. They stepped out into the morning fray; people crowding the sidewalks and taxi drivers yelling in their think Ney York accents.
(well in that case~ sure, that would be nice :)
Bucky walked out the door, letting out a breath and wondering if he would be recognized. If someone would know who and what he was, and he would be arrested or hunted or hurt for it. He squared his shoulders, tucking the hairband in his pocket.
(Alright cool!)
Steve walked beside Bucky in silence, almost forgetting the circumstances of him being there. It really felt like things were– okay, and that they were simply two friends walking to get breakfast. A worn-down and near collapsing building caught his eye, and prompted a double-take. "Oh," Steve said, pointing, "That was Monty's. Monty's Pub. Where your hat got stuck on the chandelier and I had to climb on your shoulders to get it." He laughed, thinking of the warm memory blurred by loud laughter and a slight drunkenness.
Bucky followed Steve's gaze. He cocked his head for a moment, and nodded slightly. "Oh. I see." He replied slowly. "I don't… remember that." He put his hands in his pockets.
"It's okay." Steve shrugged, trying to remind himself that this would be a common phrase for the days to come. He'll remember, one day. Soon, they were across the street from Lucy's diner. "C'mon, let's cross." Steve motioned to the busy street, cars coming and going, reminding him of the day Bucky flipped that van and dragged a few lines though the road.
Bucky nodded, and followed Steve down the road. He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair again, remaining silent as they crossed the street. He didn't know what to say again. He really didn't, because he didn't know what Steve expected from him.
The warm air of the diner rushed past Steve as he entered with bucky, a small bell ringing for their arrival. Rosie, the waitress Steve knew best, was working her shift. She stopped and turned, waving at Steve and mouthing that she'd be right over. He smiled at the grainy Christmas music playing from the corner of the room– a jukebox. Not one from that far back, but jukebox nonetheless. He smiled, so many things had changed now that Bucky was back. Everywhere Steve looked, he saw– or thought of a memory connected.
Bucky looked around the diner, crossing his arms uncomfortably. He knew better than to take his jacket off. His arm was too obvious for that. He didn't know for certain, but he knew that his arm would be the easiest identifier of who and what he was. It needed to be kept hidden.
Steve sat down into the nearest booth and took his hat off, hanging it on a wooden peg on the side of the chair. He chuckled, listening to the lyrics of the music, still strange. "The music nowadays," He shook his head, smiling, "It's really funny to listen to– all the voices are so high…and you can't dance to so much of it."
Bucky sat down across from him, cocking his head to listen for a moment. He shrugged slightly. "It isn't…terrible, though." he replied slowly, looking at Steve for a moment, his eyebrows knitted together just a little bit. He put his hands on the table.
Steve laughed lightly, looking down and meeting the shiny and colourful breakfast menu, slightly bent at the corners. "Yeah, I guess. Some of Its okay." He nodded, remembering the little notebook he kept around for film or music recommendations. "I listened to a bit of a band called 'Nirvana,' the other day. Someone recommended it to me. It's kind of rough, and angry, but I think it's growing on me. They call that punk, I think." Steve chuckled.
Bucky chuckled a little bit. A memory flashed across his mind. Himself, calling Steve a "little punk". He frowned a little. "I suppose that's fitting, then, that you like it?" he replied slowly, already hating how his voice had turned the comment into a question.