AN: this is a very short stucky drabble. I wanted to play with colors and... this is what I've got.
disclaimer: just playing in someone else's sandbox.
summary: Steve's just this washed out jaundice in whatever's left of his ragged mind.
He expects Steve to show up for three months after he wakes up (and he's a little sketchy on the passage of time, but he guesses–three months).
Steve does not show.
There's this place inside of Bucky, this place he keeps all of the things he can't think about if he wants to survive, all the things he can't live without. Bucky's just one paradox after another, just this endless sequence of contradictions. The first time they make him hurt–really hurt, in that place he can't, won't give up–Bucky wishes he'd never met stupid Steve Rogers.
Two boys face each other, opposite ends of a bridge. The blonde bleeds sluggishly, but glowers up at Bucky, arms shaking as he raises them again.
There's this jolt, this flash of pain–deep, like he's cracking apart inside, like there's an earthquake splitting his bones–and Bucky is falling over and over again, rolling backwards, Steve's face like the sunset; all these different colors at once but golden underneath.
At some point, the gold of Steve's face in his memory tinges monochrome; Steve's just this washed out jaundice in whatever's left of his ragged mind.
There's something in the curve of his Handler's jaw that makes his gut clench like he's been sucker punched years later. Something in the way he looks at him, that's the best way he's got to describe it, something in his eyes that makes Bucky breathe a little harder.
(Sixty years ago, Steve never showed but Bucky never stopped hoping.)
thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any thoughts you care to leave behind!
this is crossposted on ao3, under shoestringheart and you can find me on the TUMBLR under the same.
ta!