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English
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Part 111 of (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic]
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Published:
2017-09-06
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1,779
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1/1
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24
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371
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you've been here before

Summary:

"She chewed out her stitches," he says, hears himself say - something like that.

Notes:

This fic is part of this series, which is for short-fic associated with my fic your blue-eyed boys, because I needed somewhere to stash it.

Follows please don't make any sudden moves.

Two quick housekeeping notes:

- my courses for my grad degree start up again tomorrow, so this is probably the point where I admit defeat and make myself admit that I can't sustainably manage to answer EVERY comment. This makes me sad because I heart my commenters and I feel like it'll make it seem like I take you for granted - I do not! I just apparently have hit my Swamped. I will try to make sure I answer questions or pop in where Pertinent or something but. *flail*

- due to some unpleasantness I have disabled anonymous commenting; AO3 is actually the only platform I've ever allowed anon-commenting on but for managing my own perseveration-tendencies and anxiety I'm needing to not. AO3 accounts are free; you need an invite but you can pretty much get one within a handful of days at this point. Argh. Sorry about that.

Work Text:

His head hurts.

It's effect. Not cause. Cause is something else, cause is -

Cause is.

(Cause is bad sleep, three nights in a row; cause is a bad static shock from the washing machine, then after cause is a new fucking restaurant where there used to be a convenience store, walking past the back door in the alley bringing a blast of the stink of cooking fish and the way his stomach heaves before he pulls himself up the fucking fire escape of the building across the way and gets up where the air smells of exhaust and dust and wet instead. Waiting there until he trusts himself to go home, scrub his own skin raw in the bath and find something - coffee - to drown out the taste in his mouth, the smell in the back of his throat.

(Cause is fucking hating that, everything about it; snapping, resentful evening, bad sleep, bad dreams; next day frustration, restless pointless attempts at activity, no go away go out stop sitting here while I'm a hateful piece of shit, go; bad sleep, bad dreams again; rinse; repeat. He knows what the cause is. He just can't - think?

(And cause is, cause is . . . something before that, something bigger, making all those things Too Much, something - )

His head hurts. The room is . . .wrong? Like in a dream. Like he knows it but when he tries to reach and get ahold of why and how, how he got here, what anything means, it slides out of his hands and he can't remember. Couches, chair, dining table kitchen - cat? Cat in . . . a shirt, small shirt, what -

(And then he isn't confused, at all. Then he remembers everything, like his fucking head is trying to tune into a fucking radio signal - fuzzy and distant and confused, then snapping into focus, clear. Then something jostles the fucking dial again and it's gone.)

The room is wrong. In an apartment, high up, can see that out the windows, the furniture looks . . . wrong, too . . . nice too fucking - would cost too much and there's a computer and he knows what that is, and the TV, so it's not, he's not before -

- but they wouldn't, they never went with an apartment and he shouldn't be in an apartment he doesn't get apartments that's not how anything is that's all gone now. Unnecessary expenditure excess to requirements, so it's not, so he's making this up is he making this up? or are they making it up, did they put him somewhere it's not really an upper floor just made to look that way and he's supposed to, this is, they want - ?

They want - ?

He wants, what, what does he want what would he want why would he put him here what is he supposed to be doing, he, why an apartment it looks wrong, there was never a target never . . . anything in an apartment that looks like this, that kind of TV that kind of computer that stove, that . . .cat?

Cat. There's a cat. Small. Young. Kitten.

The cat makes noise. Un . . . happy . . . noise?

His head hurts.

Name. From the other side of the room. Spoken. Two syllables, not what he expects, not designation description but not someone else's name - his name, his own name, he has a name, and turning to the sound shows Steve standing by the kitchen counter.

Steve's standing by the kitchen counter. Taller than him now. Clothing . . .matches apartment, not where they came from, not uniform, just clothing, matches TV matches computer, Steve's standing by the kitchen counter.

Steve can't be standing by the kitchen counter.

Thought comes with panic first, no no no fuck no Steve can't be standing there they can't, can't, no get out now go - but it stops, stumbles, because no: Steve's dead. Steve's dead he knows that it's all over done with Steve's gone far away out of any reach Steve's dead.

Steve can't stand by the kitchen counter Steve's dead this is his brain going wrong, this is him making it up this is him losing it finally losing it going fucking crazy or no this is them this is - . . .them? Why would they, that doesn't make - why would they, would h -

And something skips, something, there are thoughts that try to happen but they can't happen together and he just, he can't get, just, Steve can't be standing by the kitchen counter it doesn't work it isn't real he doesn't get that Steve can't be -

Steve isn't, isn't standing by the counter. Steve's closer, arms' reach, Steve's right there when did Steve move? Steve's hand touching his shoulder, Steve can touch his shoulder Steve's . . . there. He's caught Steve's wrist, the heel of Steve's hand in his right hand he can feel Steve there - skin, body-heat, solid, real, there.

Steve is here. Steve was standing by the counter. Now Steve is standing here. Not dead. Here, real - calm, no confusion, only some concern but it's . . . small concern? Focused, no tension, no fear not afraid not angry not any of the things that hide afraid Steve is here and Steve is calm and real.

Fuck. His head hurts. Doesn't make sense. Can't think.

"Hey," Steve says. Steve's hand closes light around his. Texture of skin, warmth. Pressure where bone lies under skin and muscle. Familiar. Steve says, "S'okay. You're in the living-room, s'fine, everything's okay."

Makes no sense. No. . . meaning. Those words don't go together can't make them go together and make sense. But he can feel Steve's hand and there's something around Steve's neck, under Steve's shirt, metal chain tiny metal beads. His right hand twitches like he wants to touch -

There's something around his own neck, left hand goes to it, same . . . kind of chain.

Means something. All of it means something. Means . . . here? Things in his head like something swimming into focus now except just out of reach and he wants the headache to stop so he can reach them.

Noise and movement happen at the same time, happen and don't mean anything - no response to that noise, no response for small orange animal leaping at his left arm, claws digging into shirt and then catching in grooves in metal, cat climbing up to perch mostly on his shoulder. He only waits. Only waits while small animal does, because there is no response. No - what?

Except something like a pounding on a far away door, he knows something. Not what it is.

" . . . cat," he says. Like a parrot like a bleat except no he doesn't say cat.

кошка. He said кошка.

. . . кошечка, котёнок, kitten, stupid baby cat, a litany in his head now, she sits on his shoulder and makes another noise. Litany like a fucking trail through thoughts like a guideline, traces he can follow. They come with other things, other thoughts.

"She chewed out her stitches," he says, hears himself say - something like that. The words have meaning but they're a long way off like he's listening through water. She's still clinging onto his shirt and left arm but he can't . . . do anything about that yet. Everything's still far away. Through water. Through . . . something.

"Yes she did," Steve says, in a kind of sigh.

Bucky lets go of Steve's hand as Steve moves to take her down from Bucky's shoulder, even though she hisses at him. It doesn't mean anything. Bucky has no idea how he knows that.

"Because she's a stubborn little moron," Steve adds, holding her up to look at her in a kind of resigned annoyance. She protests at him and flails one paw at his face. "Then we got the vet to tell us if it was any different from sewing up people, and it wasn't, so we sewed her up, and the vet said if you could put a little shirt or sleeper or something on her it would keep her from doing it again, so you made one."

Yes. He knows that. Those things. The reasons there's a small cat in a shirt. Black shirt. Made out of the one that had a hole, too big, at the collar.

Steve puts the cat down on the coffee-table. She jumps down and walks headfirst into Bucky's leg, then bangs her face against his leg a couple more times.

"Turns out you did remember how to sew," Steve says. He shrugs.

Bucky watches Steve's face. He doesn't sound upset. Still not good at hiding that, either, just . . . can tell, Bucky can tell, when he's trying. And that means something. So right now that's not it. Right now Steve's . . . not upset. Concern. Sad, a little. Exasperated at cat.

Tired.

The cat presses against Bucky's leg. He looks down at her. He wants to stop now. Not sure what he's stopping he just wants to, stop and lie down and do something else instead. No. Do nothing. Stop and lie down and do nothing. He can't.

"I think your head hurts, Buck," Steve says, quietly, reaching up to touch the side of Bucky's head, fingers threading a little in his hair. "I don't think it's helping."

The laughter hurts, too. It wants to come with words, wants to come along with nothing's helping but they get choked off, twisted off to die in his throat so it's just more laughter and his hand going to his face.

Meant to go to his face.

Goes to his throat instead.

Then Steve's hand's there instead, carefully pulling his hand away, resting where it was. And that's better. And fuck.

Fuck.

"Fuck, you should fucking shoot me," he says and for a second it feels like he's almost got a hold on things, like the second you think you've caught your balance and he can see all of this from outside and it all makes sense - makes sense, just tells him . . . shit that shouldn't be there. Then he doesn't have hold of it. Not quite falling over but not . . . balanced. Christ he just wants it to stop.

"Or how about instead we can heat up some of the soup and then you can come lay down," Steve says, "and we can see if I can do anything for your head hurting." It's not quite a question, but it almost wants to be, like Steve's not sure what the answer is. If they can do that. And fuck, Bucky doesn't know either. If they can. So much shit screaming no but -

. . . but if they can't everything is already so bad it won't matter.

And his head hurts.

And he's too tired to care about getting hurt more, if he's already stuck getting hurt that much.

"Yeah," he says, because it feels like Steve is waiting for him to. "Okay."