[It had been the longest that he and Rumlow had been apart since entering Hell, a locate and detain mission becoming a need to set the cards up for Rumlow to get back into the game. It had been a difficult few days, one where he slept very little as there was too much going on in his head. Jefferson's suffering was like a slow personal bleed, one that he couldn't escape given that he stayed there with the demon and Kenzi when she arrived. He was trusted and was one of the few who could potentially navigate such troubled waters.
He compartmentalized much, and when it came time to move Jefferson to the familiarity of the shop again, Bucky made the excuse that he needed new clothing, to spend some time with Stella and to have a night in his own bed spooned up against Rumlow. He needed that R and R so badly that he could practically taste it. It hadn't been an easy separation and not just because the mission he was on was so painful either.
He missed Rumlow, like a dull ache that seemed more and more intense on each passing day. Texts couldn't bridge the gap though they tried.
Upon entering home, they came together like waves crashing on land, grappling, kissing. He up-ended Rumlow over the arm of the couch in record time before their haphazard desperation landed them on the floor for a fierce nasty bout of sex. Then more kissing, touching hugging, following one another around wherever they went. It wasn't even questioned, just happened. Even a simple trip to the kitchen to feed Stella required them both, fingers entwined.
Under it all, he suffered quietly. He didn't blame Rumlow for any of what was happening to him, but the mission was still weighing on him. It made him a bit more needy than usual, especially when it came time for bed when he would be sleeping for more than an hour. Rumlow was safe though, created a safe space. So he spooned up and settled in.
The nightmares were bad. Worse than ever. He made no sound, didn't move as he was frozen in the images that plagued him, confusing and volatile. When he woke, it was with a sharp inhale and covered in sweat, fingers gripping the sheets as if he might tear them open. Emotions crashed down, so intense that it almost felt as if he were experiencing the opposite of a wipe.
Slowly and carefully, he disentangled himself from Rumlow and went to the bathroom. Bending, he turned on the water and splashed some on his face, breathing hard but like with Jefferson, he forced himself to calm.
Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Hold it. Rinse and repeat.
He made a low noise like a wounded animal, his breath hitching all over again as he gripped the sink almost hard enough to shatter it on the left side. He tried and failed to calm himself, repeating some of the words that Jefferson said, thinking they were his own. That face - his face - twisted in horror, fear and absolute devastation.
There was order in pain.]
Order in pain. There's order in pain. [He whispered the words to himself, recalling them from Rumlow more often than he can count. He stored a knife behind the toilet and reached for it, feeling as if his mind was desperate for any focus, any relief from the twisting torrent of emotions that swept him, tore at him, made him experience a sensation like mental drowning.
It was a quick nick, barely worth mentioning. It was just above his elbow on the back side of his arm, a place easily explained away and not as easily seen when he was talking to someone. There was a flicker of pain. He tried again, a bit deeper and his eyes fluttered closed as mental anguish was jerked back to let in the low burn of physical pain. His head tipped back so he might view the ceiling if he opened his eyes.]
[Action] Oct 19'ish (TW: self harm)
He compartmentalized much, and when it came time to move Jefferson to the familiarity of the shop again, Bucky made the excuse that he needed new clothing, to spend some time with Stella and to have a night in his own bed spooned up against Rumlow. He needed that R and R so badly that he could practically taste it. It hadn't been an easy separation and not just because the mission he was on was so painful either.
He missed Rumlow, like a dull ache that seemed more and more intense on each passing day. Texts couldn't bridge the gap though they tried.
Upon entering home, they came together like waves crashing on land, grappling, kissing. He up-ended Rumlow over the arm of the couch in record time before their haphazard desperation landed them on the floor for a fierce nasty bout of sex. Then more kissing, touching hugging, following one another around wherever they went. It wasn't even questioned, just happened. Even a simple trip to the kitchen to feed Stella required them both, fingers entwined.
Under it all, he suffered quietly. He didn't blame Rumlow for any of what was happening to him, but the mission was still weighing on him. It made him a bit more needy than usual, especially when it came time for bed when he would be sleeping for more than an hour. Rumlow was safe though, created a safe space. So he spooned up and settled in.
The nightmares were bad. Worse than ever. He made no sound, didn't move as he was frozen in the images that plagued him, confusing and volatile. When he woke, it was with a sharp inhale and covered in sweat, fingers gripping the sheets as if he might tear them open. Emotions crashed down, so intense that it almost felt as if he were experiencing the opposite of a wipe.
Slowly and carefully, he disentangled himself from Rumlow and went to the bathroom. Bending, he turned on the water and splashed some on his face, breathing hard but like with Jefferson, he forced himself to calm.
Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Hold it. Rinse and repeat.
He made a low noise like a wounded animal, his breath hitching all over again as he gripped the sink almost hard enough to shatter it on the left side. He tried and failed to calm himself, repeating some of the words that Jefferson said, thinking they were his own. That face - his face - twisted in horror, fear and absolute devastation.
There was order in pain.]
Order in pain. There's order in pain. [He whispered the words to himself, recalling them from Rumlow more often than he can count. He stored a knife behind the toilet and reached for it, feeling as if his mind was desperate for any focus, any relief from the twisting torrent of emotions that swept him, tore at him, made him experience a sensation like mental drowning.
It was a quick nick, barely worth mentioning. It was just above his elbow on the back side of his arm, a place easily explained away and not as easily seen when he was talking to someone. There was a flicker of pain. He tried again, a bit deeper and his eyes fluttered closed as mental anguish was jerked back to let in the low burn of physical pain. His head tipped back so he might view the ceiling if he opened his eyes.]
...order through pain.