riverviewlogs | catch-all; cross my heart then I hope to die with a peace of mind

[ Michael isn’t ready to call it quits. He’s been running back and forth between the wall and the office all day, tracking progress and keeping records of the damage as it’s discovered. The reports are endless, and the repairs will take days. If they’re lucky, and extermination proceeds as planned, the power-grid will be patched to 75% functionality over the next forty-eight hours, and fully restored by the end of the week.

He’ll sleep when the last teams have cleared out from underground. Until then he needs to be awake, and aware, in case of an emergency. Right now he’s barely one or the other. Sweaty, dirty, and exhausted, he needs a shower, a strong cup of coffee, and a change of clothes. Afterwards he’ll head back to test the structural integrity of the last generator coffin before tech support are allowed in with heavy equipment.

Michael barely lifts his head upon entering the elevator and jamming the button to his floor. His face is streaked with dirt, and everything he’s wearing is going into the garbage as soon as he gets in the door to his unit. What isn’t ragged is stained with grease, sweat or blood. He’s mostly avoided the fighting, but being a mechanic under extreme circumstances is hazardous in its own right. Michael doesn’t need to see his skin to know he’s black and blue beneath the dirt.

When the doors shut and Michael finally glances up, more out of habit than any actual interest in his surroundings, he’s only half-surprised to see a familiar face. It’s been a while since his first week in the city, back when he’d had all the time in the world to meet people. For all that he’s sore, tired and stressed out, Michael’s more comfortable in Riverview now than he was then.

He manages a smile. Genuine, somehow, albeit frayed at the edges. ]

James.

[ Almost as soon as he speaks the elevator grinds to a halt. His smile fades. ]

[Elevators are a convenience. Not one he chances to indulge in often, or carelessly. He is neither superstitious nor mistrustful, but he is a hard man by nature and necessity. Hard men stay so by eschewing shortcuts.

But he is sporting an injury today - one hidden by dressings and clothing but that has nevertheless put a stutter in his confident gait - and he is neither too prideful nor too stubborn to acknowledge that rest will allow it quicker healing. He is not a young man, and old pirates do not become so by force of will alone.

He nods to the other man in acknowledgement. When the elevator stops, it merits no more than a 'hm'. He stoops slightly to investigate the paneling, though he is hardly so savvy to the modernity of the machine to be able to divine an immediate fix for the issue.]

Michael.

[A faint upward twitch of his eyebrow. His appearance is too remarkable to go unremarked, though James is rather lacking in sympathy for its disheveled nature. In an aside, as he presses a button,]

You look as if you've been busy.

Edited 2017-04-07 19:13 (UTC)

Thanks for coming out. I didn't want to make a fuss over nothing.

[ Michael's walking with a flashlight in one hand and a map in the other. It's cold beneath the city. He stops to shiver and zip his jacket closed to his throat. The tunnels, in a state of constant repair, are eerily silent except for the drip of moisture and hum of machinery.

Michael isn't scared of the dark, but he's grateful for Steve's presence.

It's the middle of the night, the only time Michael could get away from his desk and the heap of paperwork that had accumulated there as a result of the operation. A week later and he's still dealing with the aftermath.

Everyone has an opinion, and Michael's been doing his best to ignore them. What's done was done. All that mattered was accomplishing what they'd set out to accomplish. Exterminating the threat, restoring Riverview's utilities and repairing damages to the underground.

Whether it was perfectionism, professionalism, or personal responsibility, Michael's taken it upon himself to investigate a technician's claims of spotting something strange in the tunnels while making repairs.

If they missed something, anything, Michael will find it. Even if it takes him all night. At least he's not alone in his endeavour. ]

There's still a lot of debris in the aquaducts. We'll have it cleared out by the end of the week. The generators are all back online, and we've starting reinforcing the tunnels hit hardest by the hive.

Sorry, I sound like a broken record. I do know how to talk about things other than walls- I don't even like walls. Give me a bridge any day.

Edited 2017-03-29 02:44 (UTC)

It's not a problem.

[Steve answers honestly. He would have been up even if Michael hadn't contacted him, and he's actually more relieved to have a mission to go on. Something to devote his attention to rather than sitting up late in the dark is an escape as much as a way of helping Michael out.

He'd rather fight a pack of monsters in the dark than sit up facing his own memories.]

You said that something could be down here, right? I don't want all that work to go wasted either. And if there is a problem with the power again, I couldn't fix it. I'll follow your lead.

[Steve smiles a little at Michael's talking. It's almost like Tony's habit of picking at details when he's nervous, and the familiarity is nice, strange as it is to be hearing another person worry aloud.]

It means a lot to them that you came down personally.

[That he knows without a doubt.]

It would be easier to send people to check on things, but you took it up yourself. That says a lot about you.

I like to measure twice and cut once. That's what it says about me.

[ Michael walks a little faster, bouncing the beam of his flashlight over the path ahead. There's a lot of junk on the ground. It'll take weeks of construction before Riverview's underground infrastructure is anywhere close to safe.

He's only carrying the map to X each area as they clear it. He's spent hundreds of hours in the tunnels at this point, and knows most of it by memory. It shows in the way he moves. Outside the wall was Steve's territory. Down here, amidst the tunnels, was his.

That's the difference between them. Steve is a soldier, and Michael's just a rat in a maze. ]

And if you want something done right, do it yourself.

[ He smiles back over his shoulder. Michael appreciates the sentiment, but he can't let the sentiment of Steve's words affect him. It's not that Michael thinks Steve is lying. Michael respects Steve, and he believes Steve believes he's a good person.

It's just that Steve's wrong. ]

... Did you hear something?

[ It could have been the water-powered turbines, or it could have been a growl. Michael's ears are only human. ]

Edited 2017-04-04 00:12 (UTC)

Mm. We need efficiency. That's going to keep everything on track.

[It also says that he's a dedicated man that believes in a job done right, but Steve lets Michael duck that point. He's proving himself already. That's enough.

Michael is right that Steve isn't as at home in the tunnels. As good as he is with mapping terrain, he doesn't understand the tunnels the way an engineer does. The layout of the tunnels is a winding knot for him. He trusts Michael to lead.

The noise catches his attention as Michael mentions it. A grinding, or a growling, echoing in the empty path ahead. Steve steps forward, between Michael and the possible threat.]

Hold on. [He waits; listens. Nothing.] Stay here. I'll check it out.

[Steve moves forward into the darkness, investigating the tunnel ahead to check for whatever might be making the noise. He sees the movement at the edge of the dim light as he does, but before he can turn back to warn Michael, a large, lizard-like beast lunges forward and knocks him on his back. That is the warning before three more creatures step into the light, baring their fangs at Michael.]

Steve!

[ Michael drops the flashlight and map, running towards him, only to stop in his tracks upon sighting the other three reptiles.

They're not the biggest of the creatures he's seen, not that it makes them any less dangerous, or intelligent. Their teeth, dripping with corrosive venom, gleam in the dark. Michael hadn't expected more than one, but it makes sense any survivors would travel in a pack.

He's frozen in place. His body has forgotten how to move, how to breathe, caught between fight or flight. If he runs, there's a chance they'll go for Steve first. The easy meal-ticket. Michael knows the way back to the surface, and he's quick on his feet when he has to be. Steve would put up a fight long enough to distract them while he gets a head-start, and maybe there's even enough of him to go around.

He would only scream for a minute or two. Accidents happen. What could Michael have done, other than go down with him? People would understand, or they wouldn't. He'd be alive regardless.

Michael forces his body into action, but he doesn't run. He picks up a brick and throws it, then another one. He won't hit anything, and he doesn't intend to. It's just a distraction. He picks up a long piece of rebar and taps it against a steel rail, walking backwards with careful steps.

Just surviving isn't good enough anymore. ]

Did you guys know you missed the extinction event?

Don't worry, I held your spot.

[The smaller creatures are more aggressive, fearfully grouping together for the advantage in hunting, and Steve absently thinks that they seem like juveniles. Vicious, hyper-alert, and prepared to strike rather than flee.

He's wrestling on the floor with one over-sized goanna, using his arm to keep the snapping teeth from reaching his neck, when he hears the clack of stone on the floor nearby. The monster's packmates snarl in response, drawn by the noise, and turn to Michael instead of Steve. That second is enough. He swings with his left arm, punching the lizard from the side, and grabs it behind the jaws to throw it off of him, claws scratching at his suit as it fights back. The two others hiss, now between Michael's bricks and Steve, unsure of which is the bigger threat. Steve doesn't give them much time for consideration. He kicks the nearest one like a soccer ball, flinging it back before turning on the two others. One lizard, still hurt from his hit, is warier than its friend.]

I didn't realize you were so popular, Michael.

[There's always time for jokes. Or maybe that's just Steve's way of coping with the near-miss.]

I have my moments.

[ As soon as Steve is up, and the reptiles are distracted, Michael makes his next move.

He drops the rebar and looks around him on the ground. He picks up a scrap of thick rubber, one piece of a discarded repair truck tire lying nearby. One man's trash was another man's treasure.

Gripping the rubber like a potholder he uses it to tear one of the temporary power lines away from the wall. The expose wire burns brightly in the darkness, sparks flying and fizzling out in the puddled water at his feet.

Michael rips more of the line away from the wall, darting across the tunnel to stand on the tire.]

When I say jump-

[ There's old scaffolding on the ceiling. An ordinary man wouldn't be able to reach it, but there's no doubt in Michael's mind that Steve Rogers can. ]

Jump!

[ Michael touches the wire to the ground, and every reptile in contact with the ground, even the ones they can't see, will scream in unison.

And so will Steve, if he doesn't act quickly enough. ]

[Steve is holding his ground, ready to fight off another scuffle with the lizard pack when Michael yells jump. He leaps without hesitation, jumping into the air and realizing mid-leap that he can grab the scaffolding and just making it. Most of that is thanks to the super-soldier reflexes and strength. He ends up hanging by his fingers, struggling to keep his grip as he hears the lizards scream below him.

That'll give him nightmares later.

The howls of pain come from more voices than he originally counted. Apparently there were more in the group that he hadn't seen, lurking at a safe distance. But that wasn't enough distance to keep clear of the current. Once the yelling ends, Steve drops to the ground again. He looks surprised by the bodies lying around him.]

Michael? Are you all right?

[That was definitely a risky move. He goes to check on his new friend, worried that he might have gotten hurt defending them both.]

[ Michael's already retrieved and re-mounted the cable by the time Steve pick his way over the bodies to him. Now that the threat's been eliminated, he can have a repair team down to repair it in the morning.

Michael wipes his brow on the back of his sleeve, climbing back down from the wall. The tunnel is thick with greasy smoke, like someone's been barbecuing a particularly fatty meat indoors. He can taste it on his tongue. His stomach turns.

The tunnel is eerily silent now, aside from the soft crackling of the cable and lingering sizzle of the cooling bodies. ]

I'm fine, are you?

[ Physically, he's fine. Untouched. Mentally? His mind keeps going back to what Loki said, that these creatures weren't just creatures, but beings. These are the first he's killed by his own hands, barely a blip on the radar compared to the thousands he'd killed indirectly.

Michael closes the door on that train of thought. He can't banish it from his mind, but he can ignore it. Push it back, and away, into the same dark corner he puts everything else he doesn't have the strength to face right now, or ever.

He needs to get away from the smell. ]

I think that takes care of that. Let's get out of here.

[ His flashlight is fried, and the maintenance lights in this area of the tunnel are down thanks to his abuse of the electrical, but Michael knows these tunnels well enough to navigate them in the dark. He starts walking at a brisk pace back towards the entrance.

What Michael hadn't remembered, because it wasn't on the blueprints, was a large pit almost twelve feet deep where demolition had torn a chunk of the nest straight out of the ground. One moment Michael's in front of Steve, and the next he's gone. There's a dull thump as his body hits the bottom. ]

[In the silence of the aftermath, Steve reaches Michael. He checks to make sure he's not hurt and offers him a hand, a small assurance that he is there for him and going to make sure they leave the tunnels together.

The gesture is also gratitude, since Michael just saved his life. He could have run, and if he had, Steve wouldn't have held it against him. But Michael had chosen to stay.]

Let's go. This way is clear enough for now. We can end more people down as guards later, but for the time being we should go home.

[Steve takes another look around at the mess as they leave, covering Michael's back on the way toward the exit. He sees Michael slip out of view suddenly as he glances forward, but not in time to grab him before he's gone, despite making a grab.]

Michael!

[The alarm is sharp in his voice. Steve leans over the edge of the pit, trying to get a view of the man below.]

Michael! Answer me!

[ Michael wakes up a minute or two later, flat on his back. The fall could have been worse. He sits up, sore, but without any immediate disorientation, or other tell-tale signs of a concussion. ]

I'm okay!

[ The floor of the pit is soft, made up of damp, packed earth, but the walls are rocky. Michael climbs to his feet only to fall over again with a muffled yelp. He'd hit the dirt at an awkward ankle, and in doing so had twisted one of his ankles beneath him, spraining or breaking something.

He tries to get up again, and makes it halfway, holding onto a chunk of concrete. The pain is excruciating. He won't be standing on his own, never mind climbing.

For a split second, panic threatens to overwhelm him. He can't see, has no way out, and wouldn't make it back to the surface even if he found his way back up again. He feels small, and helpless. Trapped. Childhood claustrophobia rearing its ugly head.

When he calls up again, there's a strained edge to his voice. Calm combating fear.

What if Steve leaves him? What if he dies like this, alone in the dark? Would anyone care? Would anyone even notice? ]

Steve? I think I need some help down here.

Michael?

[The minute of silence is enough to make Steve tense, worried that Michael landed hard the wrong way and knocked himself out or worse. He sounds relieved to hear the call back up, to know that his friend isn't badly hurt.]

Stay where you are. I'm coming down.

[With no rope to pull Michael up or a way to see what condition he's in, Steve decides that the best thing to do is just go down himself. The sides of the drop at least aren't sheer, and Steve makes his way down broken stone and concrete packed together in messy patterns until he can jump to the bottom a little way away from Michael.]

You had me worried.

[Steve turns his light toward the other man, frowning when he sees how Michael is using the wall for support. He kneels down to check his legs.]

Can you feel your toes?

Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere.

[ Michael heaves a sigh of relief when Steve's voice cuts through the silence, leaning against a slab of concrete. There's nothing he hates more than being alone in the dark.

He concentrates on his breathing, slowing the frantic beating of his heart to something near normal while Steve navigates his way to the bottom of the pit.

Michael's face is pale, streaked with dirt, sweat, and a little blood from a tiny cut above his eyebrow. He forces a smile, if only for Steve's benefit. ]

Yeah. All eight of them.

[ He attempts to lift his right foot for Steve's inspection and immediately regrets it. His ankle isn't sprained, it's broken, his entire foot bent at an odd angle. ]

Ow.

[The sight of the break makes Steve tense. That will make getting out hard for them. He can see that the pain and effort is already putting a strain on Michael, and the blood on his head doesn't make Steve feel any better. He straightens up and puts a light hand on Michael's shoulder as he looks up the way he came down.]

I don't think we're getting back that way. And you shouldn't move that leg too much.

[He turns to look around the hole to see if there is an opening out of it. If he can find a tunnel, maybe they can walk their way out. Even if he finds one, Steve knows that the tunnels are a maze and that navigating their way to an exit will take some time. But getting Michael back to the top of the drop risks hurting him even more.]

Out of the frying pan and into a crack in the stove, huh? Don't worry. I'll get you back.

[Even if he has to carry him back. Which, considering everything, Steve thinks he might.]

Even I don't know the layout of the sub-tunnels. They're older than anything the city has on record.

[ Michael closes his eyes and listens. If he stops, and concentrates, turning off the mechanisms he'd spent so many years developing in order to function like a normal person, he can hear everything. The sizzle of burnt flesh, crackle of electricity, dripping of water, and the sound of Steve's breathing are just a fraction of the many sounds that threaten to overwhelm his senses.

Somewhere amidst them is an 'quiet' spot, a place where sound disappears. An opening or tunnel. Michael turns and points into the darkness. ]

There's a tunnel over there, behind that pile of rubble, I think. If we go north, and take the first way up, we should the wall. Theoretically.

[ Steve remains still, standing next to Michael like a sentry while he catches his breath and seems to refocus. He doesn't interrupt him, the way his eyes close reminding Steve of others he's seen before; of himself when he needed time to escape the stress of the moment and organize his thoughts. When Michael points into the darkness, Steve nods. ]

I'm going to check it out. Stay here, and I'll be right back. I'll clear us a path, but you shouldn't move around more than you have to.

[ His tone says he means business. Steve follows the direction Michael pointed him in to the rubble and begins moving away the chunks of fallen concrete and metal poles. He goes through the opening after clearing it, checking a few feet beyond before doubling back to Michael. ]

Looks okay for now. We'll need to be careful.

[ He offers his flashlight to Michael. ]

Hold that for me.

Hey-

[ Michael almost tells Steve not to go. That he can keep up, keep pace, and go with him. The thirty seconds Steve disappears into the tunnel, the light going with him, is long enough for his heart to rise in his throat.

He doesn't want to be alone. Abandoned. After all these years, the scared little boy inside of him is still just as present as he ever was. The dark was still terrifying, and the monsters were still real. People still left, and never came back. Not for him.

Almost as soon as Michael is convinced Steve is gone, which is in less than a minute, he comes back. If Michael weren't so relieved, he would be ashamed. All the therapy in the world couldn't fix what was wrong with him. Moments like this proved it.

He offers Steve a tight-lipped smile and takes the flashlight. ]

Did you see any piping, something I could use as a crutch? I'll manage with someone to lean on.

[ Steve, in full scouting mode and quite at home with an objective in front of him, returns from the brief trip in good spirits. With the start of the tunnel clear, he's ready to get them out, and unfortunately oblivious to the anxiety he just put Michael through. His concern in the man's injury. He hands over the flashlight and considers Michael's request, then steps forward and scoops Michael up with both arms, holding him against his body as he moves back toward the entrance to the new tunnel. ]

We should keep you off of that foot. The faster we get you help, the better.

[ He tries to keep Michael as still as he can as he carries him, moving steadily without rushing, but not moving slowly as he walks the path he's memorized. ]

Can you hold up?

Morning.

[ Michael is a morning person, he's just a firm believer that morning doesn't start until after the sun rises. Bucky was right that Michael wouldn't be awake before he's gone for his run, but he's crawled out of bed and is pouring pancake batter into a hot griddle by the time Bucky's back.

He's still in his pajamas, white tank-top offering a rare glimpse of his tattoos, flannel pants, slippered feet quiet on the tile floor. He moves slowly, with a casual grace, more relaxed than he has been since his arrival. A different Michael than the man he's had to be to get things done, and stay on top of them. His face is softer, his eyes half-lidded, still a little sleepy. The deficit he'd racked up will have to be paid back over the span of a week, maybe even two weeks, but he's looking and feeling a little less haggard already.

The coffee helps. Michael's already drank half the pot, but the other half is for Bucky, or anyone who wants it. He nurses a mug with one hand and grips a spatula in the other, waiting for the edges of the pancakes turn gold.

As promised, the batter is dotted with a generous, bordering on ridiculous, quantity of blueberries. ]

Hope you're hungry. I made way, way too much.

Edited 2017-03-29 03:45 (UTC)

[Bucky is up before the sun most days. He gets up, he goes running with Steve or anybody else who seems interested, he goes to the gym and works on his own training or Yuri's, he comes back to the apartment for breakfast and a shower, and then he heads to work with the Perimeter Guard. It changes, depending on if he has a normal shift or a late shift or an emergency call out to the field, but generally speaking, he's predictable enough.

When he walks into the kitchen that morning, he's fresh out of the shower, wearing sweatpants and a tank top, wet hair combed into an old-fashioned part. His arm is on full display, but the tank hides most of the scarring around the socket. Bucky can't help but spare a glance to those tattoos; he's curious, but it's rude to ask. He seems relaxed though, moving around casually in the soft morning sunlight, pancakes sizzling on the griddle.

They smell great, is his other immediate thought, stomach rumbling for calories after all that exercise. He goes for the coffee, pouring himself a mug of it, adding just a dash of cream and sugar because some things will always feel like luxuries, with a background like his.]

Starving. [He answers honestly, smile small but easy. Genuine.] They smell amazing.

Family recipe. My brother does it better, but it's the thought that counts, right? And the blueberries.

[ Michael smirks back at Bucky over his tattooed shoulder.

It feels good to relax, and even better to be returning a favour. Bucky's small kindness had left a lasting impression on Michael. The note is still in the top drawer of his desk, tucked safely into a book. Prison taught a man to hide what was important. Anything could, and would, be taken from you.

Michael flips three pancakes onto a plate, drops a handful of blueberries over them and carries the plate to where Bucky's sitting. The butter, maple syrup and necessary utensils are already set on the kitchen table. He sets it down in front of him, and smiles, not quite meeting Bucky's eyes. Shy.

He's glad it's just the two of them. The last thing he wants right now is an audience. They've got an hour or two until it gets hectic. Mornings on their floor are always busy. A mad dash to the coffee machine and then out the door to work or training. Michael's more or less comfortable with his other roommates, but he'd wanted a moment alone with Bucky. An opportunity to say thanks, without an audience. ]

I didn't realize it could be this quiet in here.

I'm sure you make them just as good. [Like Bucky even cares when he's having breakfast made for him. He'd eat them even if they were bad, because it's a sin to waste food, and he is hungry. He brings his coffee to the table and takes the plate that's put in front of him gladly, his smile widening a bit, a silent thanks.

He's spreading butter and pouring syrup when the next comment comes, and he snorts quietly.] Me neither, considering who else lives here. Loki must be out.

[He still doesn't quite trust the trickster but trust or not, it's hard to deny that he - she, lately? - is a definite presence. Bucky cuts off a bite of his breakfast and pops it into his mouth. He can't quite help the pleased little sound he makes.] This is probably the best pancake I've had since this diner next to the Army base where I grew up.

A promise is a promise. Thanks for all your hard work down there.

[ Michael almost exhales with relief when Bucky takes a bite and doesn't spit it back out again. He moves back into the kitchen to pour another pancake, keeping himself busy. Keeping the air casual.

It really has been ages since he's cooked, and even longer since he's cooked for anyone but himself. The past three years have been wholly devoted to his brother, the means of their escape and survival.

At some point, Michael had changed. Become a different man, so he could survive in a different world. Michael's spent so long thinking like a convict, being a convict, that he's not sure he knows how to stop. The life he lived before Fox River feels closer to fantasy than reality.

Michael hasn't told anyone who he is, only who he used to be. The man he wishes he still was. Moments like these blur the line. Maybe it's foolish, even a little dangerous, but it feels too good to stop. He needs this to stay sane. ]

Tell me about yourself. Anything. You were a military brat?

It's funny. We're all living together, but we don't really know each other. Like we skipped from A to C, or even D.

Edited (word salad) 2017-04-03 22:28 (UTC)

Anyone would have done the same. [It's not really modesty; it's coming from a place of self-loathing in Bucky, one that he tries to suppress, but shows through his cracks like this in off-handed comments. Anyone would have tried to do good out there, he isn't special for his efforts. The pancakes are highly appreciated, though.

He eats slowly, taking the time to enjoy the flavors of warm vanilla and the sweet bursts of blueberry, the sticky sweetness of syrup. This isn't the kind of breakfast you just shovel into your face so you can leave the house faster, like his own slightly overdone fried eggs. He smiles a little at the comment about living together and not really knowing each other.] I guess they figure we'll get to know each other soon enough, since we're all in the same boat as far as being on a strange moon. I don't mind it much, reminds me of the barracks.

Yeah, my old man was Army. Fought in the Great War. [The outdated term slips out easily, casually.] We moved around a lot until I was twelve. What about you, where'd you grow up?

Chicago, born and raised. I moved around a lot too. Foster kid. The system bounced my brother and I around until he was old enough to become my guardian.

[ Michael leans back against the kitchen counter, drinking his coffee. An oversized pancake bubbles and turns golden on the griddle, surrounded by a fleet of miniature pancakes. Michael's favourite. He likes them small and crispy.

Bucky's earlier comment about the Great War hasn't gone unnoticed. Michael's been thinking about it, rolling the information around in his brain before speaking.]

I'm not sure I'd consider Vietnam a great war. No offense.

[There's something hard to read in his expression as Michael shares that bit of information. The foster care system today is a lot different from what they had when he was a kid, but he can sympathize with that, in a way. The system today isn't all that great either. He eats slowly.] After my dad died, they sent my little sister to a boarding school. I stayed on at Camp Lehigh til I could enlist. [It doesn't seem so strange, sharing personal information with this man. It's not perfect trust, there are few things Bucky actually trusts, but he likes Michael. Gets on with him.] Were you and your brother close?

[But then he pauses, looking up at Michael with a mouthful of food. He chews, swallows, has to remember that this isn't his home world and kids in other worlds don't grow up reading about Captain America and Bucky in their history books.] No, uh. [An awkward pause.] I meant World War One. I was born in 1925.

That must've been hard.

[ He steals a miniature pancake out of pan with his fingers and catches it quickly with his teeth, munching while it's still hot enough to burn the insides of his cheeks. Just like when he was ten, except his brother isn't here to scold him. Some things never change. Some do. ]

I never thought we were close, to tell you the truth. He was strong, I was smart. He was big, I was small. We were so different. Still are. The only thing we really have in common is that we're both stubborn.

We kind of drifted apart when we got older, but-

[ It hits him all at once. His brother's face, his laugh, the sound of his voice. The smell and taste of the pancakes on a Sunday morning, when they hadn't had much, but they'd still had each other.

Now he has nothing.

Michael's throat closes up. He has to turn around, and busy himself flipping the pancake. It's too soon, the batter splatters everywhere. Some days it feels like everything he touches falls apart. He sucks in a deep breath, tries not to cry for a second time in front of Bucky Barnes. ]

Wow. You look good for your age.

Edited 2017-04-09 00:12 (UTC)

It was what it was. [The statement is obvious but unspoken - that he didn't know anything else but the Army anyway. Maybe it was hard, but it was what it was, what it was always going to be. He keeps eating, definitely enjoying the food, but also watching Michael with careful, almost curious eyes.

Michael turns around, and Bucky still watches his back, feeling something in that brief flash he saw flit across his face. Brothers. It takes him back, a little. He and Steve were like that, years and years ago, big and small, strong and street-smart. Stubborn. It seems strange almost, that Michael and his brother didn't have the same kind of relationship, but it's not strange at the same time.] Did I bring up some bad memories? I'm sorry. I kind of put my foot in my mouth a lot. [A slightly lighter way to say that he doesn't have to talk about it. That Bucky won't pry if it isn't wanted. He might not understand his feelings, but he understands finding conversational minefields, things that are hard to talk about.] I'm still not used to... any of this. Being back in the world.

[He prods at a blueberry with his fork, until it leaks juice across his plate. He drags a bite of pancake through it meticulously, scoffs low and quiet.] Thank cryogenics.

No, it's not you. I'm not sure I ever got used to being in this world. You're doing pretty good.

[ Michael takes a deep breath, grounding himself. Navigating his emotions requires all the control and concentration of walking a tight-rope. Sometimes all it takes is the wrong word, or the right one, to throw him off-balance.

Michael flips the remaining pancakes onto a large plate and carries them back over to the table. He sets up his own plate, a stack of a mini-pancakes drowned in syrup with a thick slab of butter on top. He prods it with his fork noncommittally, chin in his palm.

So much for a casual breakfast.

He rubs a hand over his face, easing the tension out of his forehead with his fingers. ]

Can I tell you something? You don't have to care, I just need to say it.

Edited 2017-04-14 22:31 (UTC)

I'm not, really. You can say it. I'm pretty self-aware. [He smiles a little wryly, cutting another bite of his pancakes. Bucky is glad for the still quiet of the morning hour, their floormates off asleep or at work already, or out and about. It's nicer like this. More comfortable, despite the minefield of conversational topics.

He just hopes he's not upsetting Michael. The man is nice, easy to work with. He buckles down and gets his job done. Bucky likes him.

His lips quirk up a little more at the sight of all the little mini pancakes on Michael's plate. It's a terribly small factoid, but he files it away anyway.]

Yeah. Go ahead. What happens at pancake breakfast stays at pancake breakfast.

I wouldn't have known if you hadn't told me. You're not even freezer-burned.

[ Michael prods at his pancakes with the tines of his fork, playing with the tower. He pushes one dollar-sized round to one left, and and then the next round to the right. Until they're all precariously balancing on one edge, with space in-between.

He swallows hard. It's not easy for him to be honest. Not even with himself. He's had to push so much down, and hold it there. All the guilt, the hurt, and the regret sits in his belly, slowly, but surely, burning away at him like acid. Unspoken, and unacknowledged.

So much has happened, and there just hasn't been time to talk about it. Face it. He's been too busy running, fighting and surviving. ]

My father died. The same day they brought me here. I didn't get time to do anything, and I don't know what I would've done if I'd had time. Because he was gone my whole life, and then he came back just to leave again.

And I haven't- I can't think about it, or I-

[ He sets his fork down, putting his hands over his face. ]

Edited 2017-04-16 17:37 (UTC)

[The more upset Michael seems to get, the more Bucky's expression smooths out into something quieter and more thoughtful. A little sad. He hadn't meant to ruin breakfast by bringing up demons from Michael's past; a small part of him wonders if this is going to ruin the easy camaraderie they've had so far. It'd be just like him to do that.

But ultimately, he's not making Michael tell him anything. He's volunteering the information. And the least Bucky can do is listen, so he does, resting his fork on his plate and watching his expression as much as he can.

Oh. To be brought here so soon after something like that... Losing your father is hard. He remembers that much from his own childhood.] I'm sorry. [Two words are hardly sufficient to carry the gravity of sympathy, but there they are. He isn't sure what else he can offer.]

If you need to get it out, I can listen. I don't- know what else I can offer, but I can listen.

I don't want to talk about it.

[ Michael shakes his head, burying his face in his arms. Bucky has done nothing wrong. Michael's the one with a problem. He always is.

He doesn't want Bucky to see his face, or his weakness, but it's already too late. Michael can't convince himself of his own strength, never mind anyone else.

It's all a facade.

At his core, he's just a selfish, scared little boy who doesn't know when, or how, to let go. ]

I'm sorry.

[Michael is hurting, and there's a part of Bucky that wishes he could help, but there's an even bigger part that knows sometimes you just have to get a hold of yourself on your own. He's been there, in a way. Not mourning a father, or at least not recently, but mourning the person he used to be. Did talking about it ever help?]

That's okay. Believe me, I get that. Not wanting to talk about it. [He lets the acknowledgement out there, and looks back down at his plate, letting things lapse into silence. He only hopes it isn't a lonely silence; he doesn't leave, doesn't judge, he just eats his pancakes and tries to be there.]

catch-all; cross my heart then I hope to die with a peace of mind

james flint; you're beyond guessing that i'm beyond desperate

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steve rogers; bring on the thorny crown

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bucky barnes; and this here is just one of my moods

tmw you think you tagged something and it never sent???

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