#codenamews

( ❛ x┊ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ )

            The silence  that passes  between them is earsplitting,                broken only by  the faint  sounds of the  bustling city              below.  His voice does  not placate - not this time.  It              leaves him  struggling to find  air thin enough  to take               in; leaves his heart threatening to break its way clean              from  his  chest. His  pulse  drums  against  his  ears,               drowning out the  faint scratch of static that feeds on               fear.  For a moment,  he can’t move.  Words become               as jumbled as the memories he claims to remember.

                                       He doesn’t want to disappoint Steve.                                             He doesn’t want to hurt Steve.                                                 —- but they crossed a line.                                          and fuck, it was probably his fault.

                                          But this is the only thing he can                                               think to do to make it right.  

             Back still turned  to the super-soldier,  Barnes lets out              a humorless  breath of  laughter.  It actually hurts and               deep down,  he knows this is the reason  why he tried              to leave  without saying a  word to  the Captain.  It is               easier just to run, a habit he desperately  depends on.               It’s easier to ignore when it’s just his own pain, but he              can hear the misery in Steve’s voice and it guts him. 

                                               ❝ I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. ❞  

             He admits  after a long pause,  shaking his head  and               scoffing bitterly. He has to leave - that much is clear.               Clenching  his fists,  Barnes looks up  -  over towards               the window that would lead to a fire escape. He needs              to move. He needs to leave now before Steve opens              that big, stupid mouth of his and tries to fix this - but              his feet seem glued to the ground; legs stiff as wood.

                         He is a coward. Pitiful and broken and dangerous.                  But Steve deserves something. Steve deserves so much more.                  If anything, Steve deserves at least some kind of explanation.   

                                   ❝ I’m not him, Steve. Never gonna be him -                                       no matter  how hard  you try. You-  you                                          want   your   friend.   I’m   not   him…  

                                                                 ————— I’m not Bucky. ❞  

                                                              He is something much uglier…                                                             He is a ticking time bomb. He is                                                             violence and death and brutality                                                                     wrapped in human skin.                                                                          He is devastation,                                                                   He will not destroy Steve. 

             He knows Bucky doesn't want him to speak. He knows he wants him to stay silent, to let him go, to turn his back and walk back to his room with hunched shoulders that former asset won't see but knows of their existence regardless. Wants him to lay his head down and wake up and convince himself this was a dream, that wherever they stand now was nothing, let memories be etched in sand and swept out to sea by forceful waves. And it hurts, the knowledge that no matter what he's said thus far, what he's done, tried to do, it equates to nothing ---- he's failed one of the utmost most important people in his life, unable to change what he sees in the mirror from monster to man. That hurts more than anything, the throbbing in his chest screaming try harder and the organ in his head yelling I don't know how. 

                   ❝ ---- I'm sorry. ❞

             Words are spoken with utmost sincerity, a genuine apology for failing to be enough. He never expected to be any great savior, as always been aware that he cannot make up for years spent having his mind broken over and over and over again, but he had hoped he could at least help -- do more than this. Whatever this is ( and it looks an awful lot like nothing in the light of the living room window, toes freezing against wood floor ). That isn't to say he's giving up, he has never been one to simply back up but he certainly has a slight change to his perspective on the matter of... This,  Bucky -- whatever it is that's going on between them. 

               ❝ You're still thinking you're not -- I don't wait. ❞ He stops, pauses, tries to find the words he needs to expand upon that statement properly as on it's own it does sound rather bad. ❝ I don't wait for you to walk in and act like it's 1935, throw a paper on the table, ruffle my hair--tell me to stop gettin' so many bruises on my face. Put on my shoes, we're goin' out dancing. ❞ An intake of breath follows, rubbing eye with palm and his shoulders feel so heavy, the urge to fall to the floor overwhelming but ignored. ❝ I don't sit around waiting on you to... snap back. To be exactly the guy I grew up with, I know, I know we can't just go back. I'm not asking you to. ❞

               His feet are heavy, with every step he takes forward and he can see Bucky tensing from the few feet away that he stands but Steve isn't inclined to let him run. Staggered step -- something between a leap and a stumble forward -- leads to the placement of fingers about strong wrist that does not belong to his person. Forehead thusly taps against other's back, fatigue ridden stare situated upon shirt. 

                ❝If you ever say the words Coney Island                        to me again, I'm gonna sock you.❞

It had been going so well. They spar sometimes, not because either of them need training, but because it's a good way to keep on your toes and keep everything fresh in your mind. Using a punching bag is one thing; it's good, good for a work out, good for getting rid of frustrations and anger, but it can't fight back. Steve knows that no matter where he hits it, or how hard he its it, it's not going to move and duck and turn, twist into various shapes and positions. He used to spar with Natasha, and Sam, sometimes, if he was feeling lucky, but now he has Bucky. And honestly, he enjoys sparring with Bucky way, way more.

But now he's on his back, and there's an ache all over his body—- but that's from the work out. The main ache is in his face, the very center of it, where he's pretty sure his nose is broken. Bucky has him pinned to the ground, and Steve—- he just can't move. He swallows thickly, feels his lips split beneath a metal fist, and tastes blood.

Kiss Meme: 12

12: ɢнoѕт ĸιѕѕ

             Sleep eludes him yet again, moonlight a lively companion that he sits on the fence as to whether or not to give name such as 'friend' to. On one hand, it illuminates; the shadows of barren room, save the storage based-shoe boxes, singular broken chair and worn bed, shrinking away to reveal familiarity, a quiet comfort in the dead of night. With dim luminescence is he able to count the floorboards--again--and the cracks in the ceiling and walls that whisper of reckless games of tag and memories safely tucked not only in mind but in wood as well, unknown to whomever may come to own abode in later years but kept safe in each splinter and peel of pant. There is debate on naming it home, yet he finds himself unable despite the time he has spent here--before and after the process of fully moving in with best, and only, friend. It is not the lack of his mother nor the way the house creaks in different patterns from that of the one he grew up in, but something else entirely--home, it would seem, lays in the body laying still beside him, drool escaping corner of parted brims and chestnut locks that strew across old pillow and suddenly--he recalls why he cannot consider their moon a friend.

             There are things he is not allowed in this world. Things such as good health or the ability to reach the top shelf in the kitchen, things he can accept, things he can work around and then there are things that serve as pins and needs to his chest and in some fashion of cruel fashion of irony, his best friend exists as such a thing. Fingers ache to touch, lips to brush and the back of his throat seems to burn from the pain of words attempting to claw their way out into open air, You're beautiful when you're sleeping, he thinks, lips parting to speak only to clamp bony hand over mouth to stop taboo from slipping out and things would be far, far easier if only he could not see him--but the light falls directly atop visage, atop muscles and stubble that will be removed come morning that Steve wishes would stay, atop hair in need of a trim and suddenly he is torn in two, selfish desire and rationality that screams no.

             His solution is to stop thinking entirely. A terrible idea--not the first, and not the last.

             Spine curves so as to allow body to dip down, bones seeming to tremble beneath thin layer of flesh and he is waiting for friend to awaken, something to stop him from simply taking what he has wanted since they were thirteen, shoves snow in each other's shirts and laughing at nothing in the dead of night until their sides screamed in agony. No such warning, such red light, comes about and how close must he be now, to feel breath against his lips that is not his own--God, he wishes his heart would shut up, for he cannot hear over the pounding of vessel within rib cage, and half fears it may rouse companion from slumber with the noise it ceases to create.

{ prompt }

frustration fills him and for a moment he wants to s h o u t wants to fight, argue, scream at bucky. force him away. the nasty things settling on his tongue and he almost, almost spills them when his lips part. 

—— except, 

he can’t blame this on bucky. so it’s a sigh that comesinstead and when he turns, turning his gaze to that ofhis friend, his exhaustion is easily seen. eyes sunken, puffy, red. he looks sickly. feels that way. the fight drains from him almost instantly, as if it’s too much trouble, too much effort to even fight back and hesinks back to into the ratty couch. 

this has nothing to do with him. it’s a deeply rooted problem, coming from the first moment steve couldsee himself in a mirror and see just how bad off hewas. just how ridiculous he looked with his thincheeks, long neck and bony shoulders. eyes and nose too big for his face. he hated it the moment he was able to u n d e r s t a n d. 

and now, vulnerable, he doesn’t want bucky to see. because he’s done his best to keep his head up to face himself and others. and for his friend to seehim now, see him so weak,              he hates himself even more. 

it’s hard because he’s broken down. his demons and thoughts of his finally catching up with the thin blond and this was one fight he had lost withthem. with himself. he wasn’t going to win. andthe harder he tries the harder it becomes to keep himself in check. he wants nothing morethan to break down and give in but he can’t. not with bucky here. 

                           ❝ please just                                  leave me alone.❞