#i changed my schedule and idk if i work friday or nit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

builder051 · 7 years

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Maybe something about Bucky's triggers could be interesting... like steve knows what they are and tries to avoid them at all costs without bucky realising and is kind of overprotective in a way- idk where it could lead imma just put it out there, could get angsty, fluffy whatever

Here’s what I came up with. I like plot, so… yeah. If this didn’t quite hit it for you, let me know and I can unleash a bunch of headcanons in non-story format as a sort of companion to the Stucky stories.

This is powers/no powers choose your own adventure.

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Steve glances sideways as he ticks up the speed on his treadmill. He catches Bucky’s eye, and he can tell Bucky’s doing the same thing on his own machine. Steve ticks the speed up another notch and pumps his arms at his sides, propelling his body to move faster. Bucky’s already breaking into a sprint, his chest open forward and his quads gripping with visible musculature.

“What’s your distance at?” Steve pants, trying to see the display on Bucky’s treadmill without losing concentration on his own movements.

“Five point six,” Bucky reports.

“I’m at five point six one,” Steve says with a smile.

“Race you to six miles?” Bucky asks, raising his eyebrows and sending a bead of sweat down the side of his face.

“You’re on.” Steve ups his speed again. So does Bucky, and the sound of sneakers slapping against the treadmill belts increases to a frenetic pace.

At their speed, it only takes a couple minutes to finish the last mile. Lactic acid burns through Steve’s legs. The distance counter on his machine flicks to 6.00. “Done,” he exhales, looking at Bucky again.

Barely one second later, Bucky echoes, “Done.” They both slap the speed down and slow their sprints to a softer jogging pace.

“Ah. You win,” Bucky concedes, wiping his forehead to displace the fine hairs that have escaped from his ponytail.

“Barely,” Steve breathes. “You’re getting good. I’m going to have to step up my training to stay ahead of you.”

“Naw,” Bucky says. “I’m just happy to be in shape again…”

“I’d say it’s come back to you pretty easily,” Steve compliments. “But then again, we’re here a lot.” He gestures around at the small 24-hour gym, which, as always, is deserted at this hour.

“What time is it?” Bucky asks, slowing his treadmill to walking pace and looking over his shoulder for a clock.

“Almost five,” Steve replies, looking down at his watch.

“Fuck.”

“Well, we’ve been here since three,” Steve says with a shrug.

“The day has…too many hours. Like no matter what I do, I can barely get time to pass,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve isn’t sure how to respond. Bucky’s right. When they’re up hours before sunrise to dampen the nightmares, first instinct is to expect the day to start. But when work and other activities don’t start until at least seven or eight, something has to be done to goad the clock into moving forward. The gym’s become their go-to activity following pre-dawn wakeup calls. It gives Steve hope that Bucky has so much energy and drive, but it doesn’t take away the fact that he’s been shouting his way through paralyzing bad dreams almost nightly for the past few weeks.

Both of them have gotten stronger physically, but Steve can see the subtle wear and tear the schedule’s having on Bucky. Faint shadows show beneath his eyes. He’s quieter. Twitchier. His forehead sometimes wrinkles with what Steve knows is a headache and Bucky insists is nothing.

“Well,” Steve says, dropping his treadmill speed down to zero. “You about done here?” He steps to the carpeted floor and leans against the wall to stretch his calves.

“Yeah, I guess,” Bucky says. He surfs his treadmill belt for a few seconds as the machine turns off. The expression on his face looks upbeat enough, but Steve doesn’t like the pallor of Bucky’s cheeks or the micro tremble in his fingers.

Steve claps his hand down on Bucky’s stump shoulder. “You doing ok?” he asks quietly, wanting to check in without being overbearing.

“Sure, yeah,” Bucky murmurs, a little distantly.

“Hungry?” Steve continues. “I think we’re out of eggs. But we could find something to eat at home, or we could go out.”

“What’s open this early?” Bucky asks, flipping up the hem of his shirt to wipe more sweat from his face.

“24-hour places. IHOP,” Steve offers.

“Ok. That sounds good.”

They’d walked to the gym, so they end up walking a few blocks out of the neighborhood to a street of restaurants and shops. It’s still completely dark outside, further confusing the precarious concept of time.

Steve steps up under the IHOP’s blue canopy and holds the door open for Bucky. A sleepy-looking hostess takes them to a booth in a windowed alcove and hands them menus that are slightly tacky to the touch.

“Two coffees,” Steve orders when the woman asks if she can get them started with drinks. “And two waters, with no ice.”

Bucky’s absorbed with the menu, so Steve isn’t sure if he’s listening to the exchange. Steve’s gotten good at avoiding Bucky’s triggers, even adopting some of the habits as his own just to make things easier. Up until this most recent string of night terrors, Bucky’s been flourishing. Navigating life easily as long as certain things are avoided. They haven’t actually talked about it in a while, so Steve can’t say clearly whether or not his protectiveness is embarrassing to Bucky, but he has a feeling it probably is.

The dining room is empty except for a group of drunk-looking young people a few tables over. Steve glances at them with a disapproving look for a moment, then he realizes it’s Saturday morning. They’re probably the leftover stragglers from some Friday night party. He remembers himself and Bucky doing things like that years ago, and a single sniff of a giggle escapes him as he turns his attention to the list of omelets.

“What?” Bucky asks, giving a confused smile at the look on Steve’s face.

“Was just thinking…” Steve says. “About us as kids. Going out drinking and stuff.” That feels like so long ago, before the war came in as an unwelcome interruption. Now, sitting face to face in the restaurant booth, it’s starting to feel overwhelmingly like a date despite their gym clothes and sweaty faces. It feels like they’ve been together for a century. But before the war, it was in the closet. And now, it’s an awkward domesticity. Steve can’t drudge up a single memory of them actually going out.

“God, I barely remember that far back,” Bucky says. “We’ve gotten old.”

The waters and coffees arrive. Steve sees to rehydrating himself with the clear fluid before attacking the caffeine. Bucky takes one halfhearted sip of his water, then wraps both hands around his steaming mug. The water’s still cold even though it doesn’t have ice in it. Steve makes a mental note to ask for room-temperature next time, even though it sounds nit-picky.

The waitress comes around a moment later, and Steve selects an omelet. Bucky goes for plain pancakes with eggs and bacon, stuttering a little over his order and training his eyes downward.

“I bet you could make that,” Steve says, pointing at an advert on the wall for pumpkin French toast. Now that his menu’s gone, Bucky’s picking at a crack in the tabletop, and Steve’s reaching to give him a distraction. Bucky’s recent infatuation with the Food Network seems like a good choice.

“I bet it’s too sweet, though,” Bucky says, looking up at the pile of whipped cream and candied pecans topping the image of orange-brown toast triangles.

“But if you made it yourself, you could have it be however sweet you wanted,” Steve reminds him.

“Hm,” Bucky muses. “Might be fun. We could have breakfast for dinner, maybe for Halloween…”

“Yeah, I’d been meaning to ask, what do you want to do this year? How’re you feeling about the doorbell and stuff?” Steve poses, draining his water glass.

Bucky looks into his coffee cup. Last year, Steve’d tried putting up a sign imploring trick-or-treaters to skip their door. He and Bucky’d ended up sitting against the wall in the master bedroom listening to the doorbell ring on and off for the entire evening.

“I don’t know…” Bucky says. “I’m not…really wanting to do the same thing again.”

“I could ask Clint if they get a lot of traffic in their neighborhood. Since it’s a lot more rural than here,” Steve suggests. “Or we could get a hotel.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Didn’t know it was that kind of holiday,” Bucky jokes.

Service is quick in the almost-empty restaurant, and their steaming breakfast plates arrive. The waitress generously refills their coffee mugs and leaves a collection of ketchup and hot sauce on the edge of the table. Steve adds some condiments to his hash browns, then tucks in. The workout’s left him famished. Bucky’s slower in his attack on the eggs and bacon, but nods enthusiastically when Steve asks if his meal is good.

Bucky switches back and forth between his savory plate and his pancakes. Steve directs him to the little cart of flavored syrups. “The original’s probably the least sweet,” Steve says. “But there are fruit-flavored ones, too.”

Bucky scoots down the length of the booth to investigate, accidentally knocking his napkin off the edge of the table as he moves. He’s about to change directions and lean down to pick it up when one of the young men from the drunk table passes by, likely on his way to the bathroom. His foot lands squarely on the white paper napkin, and he slips, reaching blindly for anything to break his fall.

It’s no use. The young man hits the floor, along with the ketchup and Steve’s coffee cup. The sound of glass shattering mixes with swearing, and the waitress rushes over to pull the kid off the floor and survey the damage.

Steve looks at Bucky, who’s wide-eyed and ghostly pale. “I…what did…? I didn’t mean…” Bucky’s stammer-whispering. His gaze is trapped on the young man, who’s dabbing ketchup off his jeans, and the mass of glass and ceramic and muddled red-brown liquid on the tile below.

“Buck, it’s alright,” Steve says, reaching for Bucky’s hand across the table.

Bucky retracts, hunching his shoulders. “I didn’t…I didn’t pull the trigger,” he mutters.

“You didn’t do anything,” Steve says firmly. He rounds the table, trying to avoid the mess on the floor. Bucky’s covering half his pallid face with his hand, and Steve reaches for both shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go outside for a minute. You’re safe. It’s ok.”

He pulls Bucky out the front door and off to the side so they can lean against the building’s brick façade.

“I didn’t meant to…to shoot him,” Bucky breathes.

“You didn’t shoot anyone,” Steve firmly reminds him. “That was a stupid drunk kid knocking stuff on the floor.”

“It’s my fault…”

“No,” Steve says, grounding Bucky with gentle pressure on his arm and stump. “It was an accident. That guy wasn’t paying attention.”

Bucky tips his head back against the wall and takes a gasping breath.

“Alright, get your breath back,” Steve encourages. “You’re at the IHOP in Falls Church. You’re close to home. You’re with me. You’re gonna be ok.”

“Steve,” Bucky mutters.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Steve says. Bucky’s white face is illuminated blue with the glow of the restaurant’s sign. His jaw’s hanging slack; Steve wonders if he’s feeling sick.

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers.

“It’s ok. Don’t worry about anything. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Can we…please go home?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says. “We’ll have to walk. Are you feeling up to it?”

Bucky swallows hard and nods.

“Ok,” Steve says. Then, “You sure you’re feeling alright?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and seems to battle for coherency. “Like…kind of sick, but…still really hungry?” he tries.

Steve chuckles at the honesty, relieved Bucky’s able to get in touch with his own feelings. “How about we take breakfast to go?”

#sickfic #fanfic #marvel #mcu #captain america #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #panic attacks #flashback #powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure

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