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

[prisonking]

who: Michael Scofield + Various
what: Catch-all
when: March, pre and post underground mission
where: City planning, communal Housing, et al.
warnings: Possible mentions of self-harm, drug use, child abuse, and mental illness. Potential acts of violence.

Starters in comments. PM if you'd like to start something.

Comments

[anotheroldsoldier]

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.

[prisonking]

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.

[anotheroldsoldier]

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.

[prisonking]

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. ]

[anotheroldsoldier]

[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.

[prisonking]

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.

[anotheroldsoldier]

[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.]