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fandomweekly2020-06-01 04:07 pm
skyrosebud) wrote in fandomweekly2020-06-01 04:07 pm
Entry tags:
[#053] through the cold (MCU)
Theme Prompt: #053 - Silence
Title: through the cold
Fandom: MCU
Rating/Warnings: G / Mentions of canon character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 525
Summary: In the quiet moments, it was just Steve.
Steve found his new life was full of extremes. Extreme pain and extreme joy. Lose and victory. Never-ending noise and silence.
There was no quiet in Brooklyn, but there certainly wasn’t gunfire and bombs pounding out his eardrums either. In some ways, he found the obviousness of it all soothing. Everything was so clearly separated, us versus them. Chaos and order. Life and death.
It was so simple in ways Steve’s life had never been. It all made sense, it all had a clear end in sight.
In the quiet moments, it was just Steve. Maybe a sketchbook in his hand, tracing lines he memorized long ago. In the loudness, there was always Bucky. Whether it was a rifle or a beer in his hand, it was always loud with him around.
Now, it was quiet. Steve sat in a crumbling building with a drink in his trembling fingers.
It was quiet now. It wouldn’t last. The next time the sounds of war erupted, there would be no Bucky around.
Steve wasn’t scared of death. He ran towards it too many times, shook its cold hand before his lungs came back to life or his legs ran despite the bruises. And he was never scared for himself, but he was always scared for Bucky. He risked his own life too many times to count the past few months, just to keep Bucky at his side. It still wasn’t enough.
When Steve’s mother died, there was pain, but there was also relief. She was too kind to suffer, too good for the life she’d been given. Steve prayed for her, desperately hoping she got the life she deserved in Heaven. Everyone who knew her said she would.
Now, Steve couldn’t pray. There was nothing to pray for. Bucky wasn’t a religious man, despite his mother and sisters and the Nuns who tried to beat it into him. Steve knew where Bucky was headed and Steve knew it was where he was going too. Even if Bucky was a good Christian boy, Steve couldn’t bring himself to pray.
All his mind could do was curse. Curse at his enemies, his allies, and the God looking down at them all. Blasphemous thoughts that Steve’s mother would be ashamed of and the Nuns would say he’d burn for.
It was the ultimate extreme, Steve supposed. Heaven and Hell, a war fought by every man simultaneously. Steve was sick of it, all these extremes.
He liked pencil drawings, never simply black and white. They were full of grays and that’s what brought it to life. Steve wished he could live a gray life, but knew he never could. Gray needed balance, action and inaction, moral and immoral, good and evil. Steve was not that type of man, and he never would be. Only in his drawings would he catch a glimpse of it.
Steve sniffled, looking up at the sky with wet eyes. “Nothing to say?”
Of course, no reply came.
Steve’s eyes cast down again, at the drink in his hand. He missed his old body, tiny and weak and able to indulge in such things.
He missed Bucky.
Title: through the cold
Fandom: MCU
Rating/Warnings: G / Mentions of canon character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 525
Summary: In the quiet moments, it was just Steve.
Steve found his new life was full of extremes. Extreme pain and extreme joy. Lose and victory. Never-ending noise and silence.
There was no quiet in Brooklyn, but there certainly wasn’t gunfire and bombs pounding out his eardrums either. In some ways, he found the obviousness of it all soothing. Everything was so clearly separated, us versus them. Chaos and order. Life and death.
It was so simple in ways Steve’s life had never been. It all made sense, it all had a clear end in sight.
In the quiet moments, it was just Steve. Maybe a sketchbook in his hand, tracing lines he memorized long ago. In the loudness, there was always Bucky. Whether it was a rifle or a beer in his hand, it was always loud with him around.
Now, it was quiet. Steve sat in a crumbling building with a drink in his trembling fingers.
It was quiet now. It wouldn’t last. The next time the sounds of war erupted, there would be no Bucky around.
Steve wasn’t scared of death. He ran towards it too many times, shook its cold hand before his lungs came back to life or his legs ran despite the bruises. And he was never scared for himself, but he was always scared for Bucky. He risked his own life too many times to count the past few months, just to keep Bucky at his side. It still wasn’t enough.
When Steve’s mother died, there was pain, but there was also relief. She was too kind to suffer, too good for the life she’d been given. Steve prayed for her, desperately hoping she got the life she deserved in Heaven. Everyone who knew her said she would.
Now, Steve couldn’t pray. There was nothing to pray for. Bucky wasn’t a religious man, despite his mother and sisters and the Nuns who tried to beat it into him. Steve knew where Bucky was headed and Steve knew it was where he was going too. Even if Bucky was a good Christian boy, Steve couldn’t bring himself to pray.
All his mind could do was curse. Curse at his enemies, his allies, and the God looking down at them all. Blasphemous thoughts that Steve’s mother would be ashamed of and the Nuns would say he’d burn for.
It was the ultimate extreme, Steve supposed. Heaven and Hell, a war fought by every man simultaneously. Steve was sick of it, all these extremes.
He liked pencil drawings, never simply black and white. They were full of grays and that’s what brought it to life. Steve wished he could live a gray life, but knew he never could. Gray needed balance, action and inaction, moral and immoral, good and evil. Steve was not that type of man, and he never would be. Only in his drawings would he catch a glimpse of it.
Steve sniffled, looking up at the sky with wet eyes. “Nothing to say?”
Of course, no reply came.
Steve’s eyes cast down again, at the drink in his hand. He missed his old body, tiny and weak and able to indulge in such things.
He missed Bucky.
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