battle-born;

“Really? Ah, thanks jaan.”

“If you’re struggling to choose, they do a mean kebab.”

( that does sound good, and if it’s not-- it’s not like he won’t be eating again in an hour or so anyway. )

       “ Yeah, I like living, thanks for pointing the obvious and   don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the help, I really do, but   I thought we were gonna be toe to toe. A punching bag is   a bit too… old. And it’s not like I need some cardio. “

    “You can go ahead. I’m not ready to order yet.”

            [ MEME: ACCEPTING ]

              It’s clear, as soon as he steps foot into the cell, that this is a Bad Day.

     The handful of paperbacks Bucky’d kept carefully stacked by his bedside lie against the opposite wall, splayed pages and torn covers. He’s shoved his bed as far from the door as possible, and he’s curled up with his back to the wall, hair a curtain over his face. If he hadn’t spoken, Steve might’ve thought he was asleep.

     His chest aches, a fishhook-jerk from in under his ribs. Bucky’s here, he’s right here but that one sentence has him rooted to the spot, keeping the automatic door from closing behind him. 

     Some days, it’s like nothing’s changed, save for the shadow-cast of exhaustion over Bucky’s face, some new bitterness in the clip of his words. Days like this-- it feels like all of Bucky’s work is for nothing and all of their progress is unravelled before his eyes, slipping between the creaking leather of his gloves. 

     There’s nothing he wants more than to cross the tiny cell-- it wouldn’t be more than one or two strides for him-- and park himself on the edge of the thin mattress. He’d lay a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades and feel the rise-fall of his breath and ease him down from whatever ledge he’s on right now. It would be so easy.

     But Bucky had said-- had voiced his opinion and put a foot down. If Steve ignored him, who was he really serving? Himself; he would just be telling Bucky that he didn’t trust him to make decisions about himself, and what kind of friend would he be, then? 

     So instead, he nods. Draws in a breath. Hand on the door frame. Modulates his voice.

“ Just wanted t’let you know I was back from the mission. I’ll come back tomorrow, Buck. ”