Steven G. Rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2014-12-29 07:26 pm
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2014-12-29 07:26 pm
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OOM: Bucky, after the cells
Steve isn't sure when Bucky will be released from the cells, and so is passing the time at the Caribbean inlet, wondering how to get Orpheus's boat here. If it's possible, which he isn't sure about at all.
(There are boats floating on the perfect blue water. That seems promising.)
Boots off, pants rolled up, face turned up to the sun.
(Remembering, too, days spent at the shore, drawing sunbathers and flirting couples and Bucky as a boy, as a young man.)
His sketchbook is tucked in his coat. He may take it out before much longer.
(There are boats floating on the perfect blue water. That seems promising.)
Boots off, pants rolled up, face turned up to the sun.
(Remembering, too, days spent at the shore, drawing sunbathers and flirting couples and Bucky as a boy, as a young man.)
His sketchbook is tucked in his coat. He may take it out before much longer.
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"I always liked those stories," Steve says. "Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad."
He pauses to let Bucky open the door, though the gesture makes him frown. Even if "we're safe here" isn't quite true, it's more true here than anywhere else.
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"That... doesn't surprise me," he says.
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"Orpheus calls me Galahad. I don't remember if I ever told you that or not."
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"I don't either."
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"He told me about you--coming here. During that whole thing."
He takes a deep breath. "I sent him here, Bucky. I knew HYDRA would come after him and I begged him to come here so he'd be safe.
"Please don't think less of him because of that."
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James scans the room once more, slowly, then turns with deliberate movement to face Steve full-on.
"You don't want to know what I think of him."
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"Rikki's my family. You're my family. Na--"
A beat of silence, short and abrupt.
"There's no one else."
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Bucky calling Steve his family: awesome.
Bucky refusing any kind of relationship with Orpheus: not awesome.
"Come on, let's get your gift."
He steps toward the bar.
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Good going, asshole, he curses himself. Want to take one of your knives and stab him in the kidneys next? You fucking jerk. Every time you turn around, you're hurting him all over again.
There's nothing he can think of to say, and so he says nothing.
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It appears, wrapped in plain brown paper and string.
"It's not," Steve begins, "it's not a--a statement."
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He looks sideways at Steve while using his left hand to brace the package. Carefully, he starts to pull the string free with his right hand.
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He watches Bucky for a moment.
"Not quite the touring car and gold watch I wanted to get you when we were kids, but I hope it'll be more useful."
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"Wouldn't know what to do with a gold watch anyway," he says. His tone's dry, but there's a hint of long-forgotten humor that stirs beneath the words.
He gets the paper to rip, and pulls it open to look down at the gift. Words fail him for a second as he studies the warm-looking scarf in a deep blue plaid, the gloves, and the denim jacket lined with sheepskin.
"Thanks," he says, finally, and looks up at his best friend. "I mean it."
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It's rusty, still unfamiliar to him - as if the muscles in his face don't quite remember how to do it, but he manages an answering smile.
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