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

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 [The outdated term slips out easily, casually.]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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject