Steven G. Rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2012-10-13 01:32 pm
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2012-10-13 01:32 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: post-mission, 3:33 a.m.
Nighttime, bedtime. The Commandos are settling in for the night--some reading, some talking, a bit of quiet laughter, as lights go out one by one--and Steve is drawing in bed, captured by the memory of trees in fog and snow. (It would look better on dark paper with a white pencil or even silverpoint, but he'll make do with what he has.) "Do any of you mind if I leave the light on a little longer?" he asks and smiles at the chorus of sleepy "No"s he gets in return.
He's tired, too, even so, and soon his eyelids are drooping and his pencil isn't obeying as readily as usual. Sleep, he decides, and closes his journal around his pencil before turning out the light. He keeps the journal on the cot with him, though, in case he wakes up with another idea. (It happens sometimes.)
Steve's dreams after missions are rarely pleasant, so he tries, tonight, to think about good things in the hope they'll give him good dreams. Eating hot dogs on the Fourth of July. Peggy's smile. Going to the pictures with Bucky and sitting in the balcony where they could watch the rest of the audience. Swimming with Orpheus in the lake at Milliways. Running in the woods...
the woods, so cool and green, the path that winds along the lake toward the mountains, his footsteps steady, not too fast. He's just running to run. He loves running, now that he can do it, loves the speed of his own body, loves the freedom.
He's not running away.
There'ssomenothing behind him.
SomeNothing malevolent is chasing him. SomeNothing evil is dogging his every step. He's only running faster because he wants to.
He bursts through a tree line into a clearing, the one where he and Orpheus like to have picnics. Beautiful place. But instead of springy grass and tiny purple flowers it's full of men in HYDRA uniforms, their faces masked and their bodies draped over each other with the utter stillness of the dead.
No. No more death.
He flees to the path again, footsteps pounding, vision blurry, and tendrils come out of the fog and surround him like a lover's arms.
darkness there
and nothing more
"Steve? Steve. Let me take the pencil, Steve."
Steve blinks a few times, realizing several things all at once--that he is breathing hard, almost like wheezing; that he has been drawing fast and hard enough to tear through the paper; and that the drawing is of the strange symbol, the circle with an X through it, along with trees and a man with too many arms and no face.
The Commandos are gathered around and Falsworth is kneeling in front of him, his hand wrapped around the pencil. "Steve," he says again, gently, and removes the pencil from Steve's fingers. "It was just a bad dream. Just a dream."
Steve presses his hands to his eyes. "I need to go for a walk," he tells them and walks out of the barracks, despite the winter weather and his bare feet, hoping the cold will finish waking him.
He's tired, too, even so, and soon his eyelids are drooping and his pencil isn't obeying as readily as usual. Sleep, he decides, and closes his journal around his pencil before turning out the light. He keeps the journal on the cot with him, though, in case he wakes up with another idea. (It happens sometimes.)
Steve's dreams after missions are rarely pleasant, so he tries, tonight, to think about good things in the hope they'll give him good dreams. Eating hot dogs on the Fourth of July. Peggy's smile. Going to the pictures with Bucky and sitting in the balcony where they could watch the rest of the audience. Swimming with Orpheus in the lake at Milliways. Running in the woods...
the woods, so cool and green, the path that winds along the lake toward the mountains, his footsteps steady, not too fast. He's just running to run. He loves running, now that he can do it, loves the speed of his own body, loves the freedom.
He's not running away.
There's
He bursts through a tree line into a clearing, the one where he and Orpheus like to have picnics. Beautiful place. But instead of springy grass and tiny purple flowers it's full of men in HYDRA uniforms, their faces masked and their bodies draped over each other with the utter stillness of the dead.
No. No more death.
He flees to the path again, footsteps pounding, vision blurry, and tendrils come out of the fog and surround him like a lover's arms.
darkness there
and nothing more
"Steve? Steve. Let me take the pencil, Steve."
Steve blinks a few times, realizing several things all at once--that he is breathing hard, almost like wheezing; that he has been drawing fast and hard enough to tear through the paper; and that the drawing is of the strange symbol, the circle with an X through it, along with trees and a man with too many arms and no face.
The Commandos are gathered around and Falsworth is kneeling in front of him, his hand wrapped around the pencil. "Steve," he says again, gently, and removes the pencil from Steve's fingers. "It was just a bad dream. Just a dream."
Steve presses his hands to his eyes. "I need to go for a walk," he tells them and walks out of the barracks, despite the winter weather and his bare feet, hoping the cold will finish waking him.
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A beat.
"Maybe we should go back together and stay until it's done. Kind of like an extra mission. Time's not passing here when we're there, so it's not like the guys would miss us."
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"Just so long as you don't expect me to take the next bunk over."
He makes it as deadpan as possible, but one corner of his mouth twitches as he fights to hide the smile.
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"Good lord, Steve."
He slaps him on the back and teases,
"You've gone and gotten positively wicked."
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He looks back at the barracks with a sigh, where a light is still burning as if waiting for them. "Guess we should let them know I'm not having a breakdown."
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This time he doesn't even try to keep a straight face. Bucky grins, and ruffles Steve's hair.
"Come on. I'll race you back."
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"On your mark, get set--" He crouches, ready to run.
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He breaks into a sprint right off the mark.
It doesn't matter that he's pretty sure he's going to lose.
What matters is that right here, right now, this is something they can do that they both know they'd never have been able to do before, and that brings a kind of joy that chases away the dark webs of nightmares.
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He's still grateful Bucky won't have to any more.
Steve chases after him, laughing.