meadowlarklogs | ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ, ᴘᴇᴇʟ, sᴛᴀɴᴅ.

[ Bucky's home before Steve gets off work, and while he's never been the type to bounce with nervous energy, there's definitely something off about his posture. Stiffer, maybe. Too solemn, too mission-mode looking for sitting on a stool at the kitchen island for no clear and apparent reason.

He doesn't bury the lede, at least. As soon as Steve's shoes are off or whatever it is he needs to shed on his way in, he jumps straight into it. ]

They finished it.

[ Which he realizes is not clear enough at all, so he adds context while shaking his head at himself. ]

The... machine. Stark. Whatever they needed to pull the words out of my head. It's done, they're ready to do it.

[ The not-quite-greeting near the door has him slightly taken aback, in an instinctive 'what's wrong?' kinda way. He'd got his shoes off at the entrance and was in the process of stepping toward the kitchen for some water when he pauses, brow furrowed and blinking until the whatever they needed to pull the words out of my head, when it all settles into a look of sudden understanding.

Oh- ]

Now?

[ If he was looking a little worn down from his work day he's got more life in him now.

Maybe he should've kept his shoes on. ]

[ He shakes his head. There's definitely a sense of urgency written in him, but that's reflective of his own impatience rather than any impending time crunch. ]

No. Tomorrow afternoon.

[ Sorry for the small heart attack. He's just.

You know. ]

I think they're gonna put me under for it.

[ The unspoken question is: can you help me get home after? ]

Okay.

[ Right. He nods and sucks in a breath. Makes sense. And of course he can drive him back, he was kinda expecting that he'd go with him.

Didn't get to see him wake up last time.

He hasn't moved from where he paused yet, halfway to the island counter. Both eyebrows raise and he jerks his head toward the door, questioning. ]

Should we go out?

[ Tonight.

Half the restaurants and bars are still closed from the attacks, but they can find something open.

Whatever he wants. ]

[ The question catches him off guard, earns a flickering glance between Steve and the door. Probably isn't a shock that he hadn't considered it, since he's been thinking about exactly one thing on a loop ever since he got the heads up.

He weighs it, but at the end of the day he got no pre-op instructions and he can't imagine future brain surgery requires much by way of prep.

So. ]

If you wanna.

[ Otherwise he's just gonna sit around the apartment with too much energy pacing the floors impatiently, and they probably both know it. ]

[ They find Let's Taco 'Bout It running in front of a dive bar offering patio service, illegally and violating all kind of health code violations, most likely because of the missing front wall, but it's been going on long enough without anyone shutting them down that someone's started blasting music and turned it into a small, relatively chill street party.

There's nowhere to sit except on the curb, which they do, plates and drinks between them as they eat as a few meters away there's a small group of folks treating the sidewalk like their personal dance floor. It's a mixed crowd, the neighborhood's on the dodgier side but the vibe is friendly. Celebratory. Property damage, they can survive. What's a missing wall when you made it out of the apocalypse alive? An older fellow gives a tipsy, impromptu toast to his friend over the music and a dozen people cheer.

Steve's been relatively quiet, watching folks enjoy themselves and working on his second beer. He thinks about stopping Bucky, but figures if he wasn't supposed to be out drinking he might've mentioned it.

It's good. ]

[ Considering how overworked the police departments are right now not even taking into account those fighting rings cropping up in broad daylight, health code violations aren't even a blip on the radar. Besides that, you can't really blame a small business owner for trying to stay afloat after the devastation. All things considered, they're doing pretty well.

Bucky's legs are stretched out long in front of him crossed at the shins, lazy and leisurely. Steve's beside him radiating contentment. Both of these things are rare, but besides that it has a familiar note to it. Dodgy neighborhood, people ignoring the more stupid letter of the law and just trying to live away the chaos oppressing the world right now.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Kind of comforting, in a way.

He's got his tofu taco plate settled on his thighs, his lips on the edge of a bottle, and he's feeling...

Calm. Strangely enough. Just that general sense that everything's going to be okay, and the pleasant thrumming of knowing he's not gonna be a goddamn nuclear bomb anymore after tomorrow.

You know, provided all goes well.

His bottle settles on the curb again so he can make some sage, mock-solemn commentary. ]

You know... if they fry my brain on accident, you're gonna be the one stuck chewing my food and giving me baths. I'm pretty particular about my water temperature.

[ He lets out a small huff from behind his own drink, lowering it to the ground again as he dips his chin with a faint, smile-- and unintentional or not the joke sobers him a bit.

Wouldn't ask you sure about this? to him, knowing how badly he wants to be rid of that last hold on him. What manifests is his own uncertainty and concern. The suddenness of the announcement. Not knowing how this works. The exact risk factors. No time to think about it between finding out and rushing them both out the door to this spot.

He's content, don't get him wrong.

But you can't blame him for worrying. ]

You're gonna be fine.

[ His tone faintly wry, trying to keep up with the teasing and not at all sounding like he needs to convince someone. He cants his head to the side, going inward for a moment then reaching over to place a palm on Bucky's shoulder, griping gently and rocking him back and forth a few times for good measure, stopping to add: ]

Nothing left up there to fry.

Edited 2020-08-18 06:49 (UTC)

[ More sure of what he's about to do than you were crawling into that Stark Coffin, pal.

Nothing left up there to fry. It earns a soft outward exhale of a laugh, just one short sound through his nose.

He has a suspicion, not based on anything Steve's doing now or any change in his countenance. Based solely on just knowing the guy, he's guessing there's probably some worry hidden in there over this. God knows he'd be if they swapped. He knows he's gonna be fine, he'd like Steve to feel as confident as he is.

He holds out a hand, empty, palm out. Not because it's the end of the world, or either of them are feeling something they can't put into words, or there's a memory to share or a monster in their bones.

Just because. ]

[ If he raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowing knowingly, it's because this gesture seems to be how they call each other out now, even if they haven't done it too recently.

If he hesitates for a second, it's only because they're out where folks might see a hint of blue glowing beneath they're shirts when he grips Bucky's hand.

What flows is calm and content for the most part, the usual warmth projecting from him when he's in a good mood, the sun on your skin after too many days indoors, the welcome heat and light only partially weighed down at the center, that heaviness to his mood that is his concern finely woven in with the rest. The furrow at his brow even when he's smiling his lopsided grin. ]

[ He's not all that worried about the glow. Maybe he ought to be, but he spent the better part of a week out in the public sphere glowing his ass off. Cat's out of the bag. The only thing that could happen now is someone getting bold, coming over to stick their nose in somewhere. Nothing they couldn't handle. That's only if the shirt isn't dark enough to conceal it in the first place.

It's a familiar feeling now. God knows they've done it enough, especially after a near constant 24 hours of it during that nightmare of a day. He's gotten past the point of trying to control it, but even so there's nothing in him right now he'd want to filter.

They match in places. Calm for calm, content for content, a good mood and warmth radiating like a wood stove in winter. They differ, though, in that one area -- where Steve feels concern, Bucky's pushing confidence and reassurance.

Worked once already, didn't it? Couldn't ask for more similar circumstances to test it on, and the other version of him is out there walking and talking and sulking. It's Stark, and for all of his consistently controversial traits across any universe, it can never be said that he's bad at his job.

He drags his eyes over to the sudden crash of cymbals, of laughter, the thump-thump of someone setting up a drum kit, the testing strum of a guitar.

It'll be okay.

What happens tomorrow isn't going to fix everything that's wrong with him. He knows that. Knows the kind of stuff he's got upstairs isn't the kind you can solve with surgery -- hell, it may not be the kind of thing you can solve at all. All the same, the relief it's gonna bring to his mind... Jesus, he can't even guess at it. It's gonna be the kind of thing that keeps flooding in every time he remembers it for weeks after. Hard not to feel good about that. ]

[ He lets the wave of reassurance pass through, smoothing over the rough edges of his mood as much as possible. His reaction is sheepish and gently wry, through the bond and at the corners of his eyes, his mouth-- because he shouldn't be the one who needs to be given confidence and comfort tonight.

Everything's felt a little backwards and on its head since the last days of the attack. Not in a bad way. Hard to put his finger on. Hits like a funny, nostalgic melancholy that he wouldn't be able to explain if Bucky asked. That semi-conscious murkiness that marks a line to somewhere else beyond invitation.

There might always be that part of him waiting to wake up.

But sitting here, the irony of you trying to make him feel better, the street noise around them and no one looking their way.

There's a pulse of acceptance, an uneven blink and a slow spread half-smile, familiar and warm.

Tomorrow will be better.

He pulls back first, his hand moving to rub at the back of his neck, an absent gesture as he glances over his shoulder to watch the small cluster of folks gathered near the band. ]

[ He's right, tomorrow is better. It goes on without much fanfare; the pre-procedure jitters only last for an hour before they put him under. Kind of good he doesn't have the serum, because there's no way this cocktail would knock him out for long.

Takes a while.

It's not invasive. Leaves a small scar on either side of his head an inch or two above the ear, hidden by his hair. He's starting a collection, apparently. There's no way to know, of course, whether or not it was a success. Not until he recovers.

Seems like his brain isn't fried, though, because when they question him he's pretty coherent. He's just stoned out of his goddamn mind. Everything is colorful, vibrant, some variant of either too sharp or too blurry. Feels like a distant cousin to being black-out drunk, but without the gut-wrenching nausea accompanying it.

He's propped up on a bed, backing raised to mostly sitting, eyes slitted like he's either suspicious or wry, hard to say which of the two at first glance.

They debrief Steve since Bucky's out of his gourd, and then they're clear. Take him home, buddy. ]

[ Watching him go under isn't as bad as it was the first time. There's no question mark at the end when they get to seeya soon.

He waits. Wrestles with his nerves. Calls a car for when it gets closer. His knee bounces whenever he's sitting, quick and steady. Barely notices.

Bucky's not much for conversation when he gets out, so it's mostly Steve bearing his weight as he leads him to the car. The driver gives him a funny look little early to be drinking. He shrugs, root canal, occupied with keeping Bucky's limbs in place as he straps him into his seatbelt and walks around to get in the other side. ]

Hanging in there? [ he asks once he's shoved himself into the hated middle seat, shoulder pressed to shoulder and eyebrows raised in question. ]

[ He understands the notion off hauling himself off the bed and out the door. Knows in that dim and distant still-aware place in his mind that they're going to be headed home. He's pretty sure the surgery's over, not wholly confident because he doesn't even remember going to sleep. It was just a blink; then and now.

But they're getting in the car and Steve straps him in.

And he looks down at the seatbelt.

It's goddamn hilarious.

He can't even answer, he's too busy shaking his head and grinning, chest spasming with near-silent breathy laughter. He can't even explain it, he doesn't think he could find the words, the only way he can really communicate it is to just gently tug at the seatbelt like that'll mean anything.

He has a metal arm.
He's the winter soldier.
He just had brain surgery to stop being a lethal killer.
One time he crashed a helicarrier.

Steve just buckled his seatbelt. ]

[ He lets out a puff of air, tentatively relaxing at the breathy sound of his laughter. Still eyes the seatbelt as he pulls at it, but you know, as long as he doesn't try to yank it loose (he'd had only a slight concern about training kicking in, launching himself out the door...) ]

Uh huh-- seatbelts, hilarious.

[ Puts a hand on Bucky's knee, patting it as he grins, leaning back in the seat and for the first time in hours letting the tension roll from his shoulders. ]

Fifteen minutes, pal. Then you just gotta make it up the elevator without puking.

No, no.

[ You don't understand, pal. He's not a moron. Seat Belts aren't funny. This seatbelt is funny. Because it's on him. He'd love to explain, but the only thing that comes out is: ]

It's so stupid.

[ Not Steve. Just the seat belt.

Just as quick as he had it, the thought fades out and he forgets it entirely. The car starts moving. Outside the window is too bright and too colorful, so he settles his right arm on the door panel and rests his head on his hand, cupping his eyes.

It's fine.

But also, speaking of Steve— ]

Did you know... that your shoulders are like two of your waist? How... does that even happen?

[ That last part sounds a little awestruck. Mind blown, as though he's only just coming to the realization himself. ]

Well, I guess that part didn't grow with the rest of me, huh?

[ sURE ]

No, it grew.

[ Bucky assures him confidently, because he definitely remembers what it looked like before.

Were you patronizing him? Because if so he did not notice even slightly. This is one hundred percent genuine. ]

Everything but your eyes and your hair. Your hair got... shorter. Same face.

[ As though it's possible Steve doesn't already goddamn know that. Look, he's blitzed right now. Nothing he says can be recycled later. ]

[ He's being perfectly sincere (he is not). But he listens intently to this explanation of his own features, eyes crinkling with wary amusement and mock concession. ]

You're the expert.

[ It's called a haircut, buddy.

But if you say his face looks the same, he'll have to take your word. ]

Yup.

[ He agrees, peeling his head out of his hand to look out the window again. It's quiet for a few minutes, he gets wrapped up in the sight of it. Buildings passing, old devastation, new life.

A thought floats by in a fleeting moment of clear lucidity, and he turns to face Steve with a deep wrinkle in his brow. ]

Hey-- did they do it? Did it work?

[ A beat. ]

When the hell did we get in a car?

[ His features soften, and he opens his mouth to answer for all of a second before Bucky continues, and he ducks his head again, his turn to scoff a breathy sound of disbelief, warmth building in his chest as the air rushes from his lungs in laughter.

They get out of the car in front of their building, and up the elevator without any puking.

Bucky's out again by the time they get him on the mattress. Steve pulls his shoes off, lays him out, sets a glass of water on the nightstand and finds a place to hang out on the balcony to decompress from a night without much sleep and the stress of waiting.

Not for the first time he's grateful and a little built guilty for how well their place fared in the attack. The building across from them got a fair few windows broken, and the street level is under construction in places all down the block. The only after-effect he's noticed so far is the greenery, more vines creeped their way up the side of the building and over the railing. He gets to messily pruning them, then sitting down to read through the news over again, refreshing new articles.

Part of his attention remains fixed on the sound behind the open sliding glass door at his back, or the lack of them, for the most part. ]

[ He wakes up with a headache, probably to nobody's surprise. He did have goddamn brain surgery, there are two healing wounds beneath his hair — too small to be concerned about, but present nonetheless.

He moves around quietly, groggy, downing half a glass of water left for him and disappearing into the bathroom to try and shower through what feels like a hangover. Middling results.

He joins Steve on the balcony eventually, glass in hand, ignoring the furniture in favor of lowering himself down straight onto the balcony floor. ]

Hey.

[ Subdued, a little rusty. ]

[ When he hears the movement inside he closes his e-book but stops himself short of getting up. Gives the guy some space and dignity to rouse himself without him hovering more.

He shifts the (almost absurdly) small outdoor chair, making some space when Bucky sits on the floor. ]

Hey. [ Soft, empathetic. Looks him over.

(he can tease him later)

A quick jerk of his chin in his direction, a pinch at his brow. ]

You need anything?

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