Then he spends the next five minutes overanalyzing the last part of his text because therapy always sets Steve's head on straight so he's not really sure how to empathize. And Buck doesn't want his sympathy.
He doesn't know how they even got here. He doesn't know how to get them on a better road. But this is good, right? This is progress?
Bucky almost makes the mistake of sending where that is, but he remembers that he needs the space, needs the privacy. It. Sucks. And it feels like he's lying somehow, by not saying anything. Fuck.
I can do pizza though sure
Sighing, Bucky starts heading back to his motorcycle. It'll be a short walk anyway, at least. This is supposed to be the right thing to do, though, so why does it still feel so awful?
He doesn't know the answer to that, because the answer is that he'll eat anything. Pizza was just a suggestion, but he hadn't meant to make it into a thing.
Whatever they've got. Maybe some garlic knots. I'll pick up soda at the bodega.
That shouldn't feel so difficult to say. They used to say stuff like this so easily before, say everything they thought and felt like it belonged between them.
Steve is biased. (So is he.) Difficult to get a neutral opinion on it. Guess that must be why therapy matters, even if it feels like he's still just carrying everything to his eventual grave. Maybe it will change with time. Bucky really can't tell. Even knowing how he feels, there's just too much attached to everything, so much weight clinging on to every word. Nothing is plain anymore. Nothing can be plain anymore.
He's not what Steve needs.
Thirty-four minutes later, he unlocks the door to their apartment and steps in, stack of pizza boxes balanced on his left hand. There's a smaller carton stacked on top for the garlic knots.
"'m home." Assuming Steve is around. He should be around. Right?
Bucky can't ever imagine being so positive anymore, which is likely the core of the problem. He tries, and sometimes he even succeeds, but overall, a shadow seems to hang over most of his thoughts, especially as they relate to Steve. It's hard not to think he must be the problem, with Steve being fine with everything. But if he is, would Steve even care?
Smiling gently with some relief, Bucky sighs faintly as he answers, "Thanks. Sorry for the delay. Hit some traffic." He's usually not that far out, so his shorter estimate was a tad too generous.
"How was your day?" he asks, as if he wasn't completely unreachable for the last several hours.
"Oh, pretty good. I reorganized the pantry. Did you know we had a sourdough starter back there? It definitely died, so I cleaned out the jar. And the crackers are stale so I think I'll make them into breadcrumbs."
Bucky likely doesn't care about the random goings-on in their kitchen, but that was what Steve did with his day.
"Do you. Want to talk about yours?" Sometimes even that's touchy. But Steve sits down and opens the pizza boxes, grabbing himself a slice and sitting down on the couch to eat it.
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Then he spends the next five minutes overanalyzing the last part of his text because therapy always sets Steve's head on straight so he's not really sure how to empathize. And Buck doesn't want his sympathy.
He doesn't know how they even got here. He doesn't know how to get them on a better road. But this is good, right? This is progress?
no subject
nothing's close right nowBucky almost makes the mistake of sending where that is, but he remembers that he needs the space, needs the privacy. It. Sucks. And it feels like he's lying somehow, by not saying anything. Fuck.
I can do pizza though sureSighing, Bucky starts heading back to his motorcycle. It'll be a short walk anyway, at least. This is supposed to be the right thing to do, though, so why does it still feel so awful?
where and which kind?no subject
Whatever they've got. Maybe some garlic knots. I'll pick up soda at the bodega.
He just hopes that's enough.
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sure garlic knotsokay estimating maybe 20 min
that gonna be okay?He isn't sure how hungry Steve is.
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It's not gonna take twenty minutes for him to pop down to the bodega and get a little soda.
He starts heading down right now anyway, putting away the sandwich he'd started making because he didn't know when Buck would be back.
sorry Steve you can have your sandwich next time
okayheyI love youThat shouldn't feel so difficult to say. They used to say stuff like this so easily before, say everything they thought and felt like it belonged between them.
How did it come to this? Is he the problem?
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Love you too, Buck. I'll see you soon.
To him, that doesn't sound hollow or difficult. It's just natural. It's how he feels.
augh work stressing my out sry
He's not what Steve needs.
Thirty-four minutes later, he unlocks the door to their apartment and steps in, stack of pizza boxes balanced on his left hand. There's a smaller carton stacked on top for the garlic knots.
"'m home." Assuming Steve is around. He should be around. Right?
no problem! also fyi super busy this wknd
It's a relief to have him around, still moving forward, still healing. And so he greets Buck at the door with a big smile and grabs the pizza.
"Hey, welcome home." It's not even that Steve's pretending that nothing's wrong. Steve is just so positive.
k! hope it goes smoothly for you c:
Smiling gently with some relief, Bucky sighs faintly as he answers, "Thanks. Sorry for the delay. Hit some traffic." He's usually not that far out, so his shorter estimate was a tad too generous.
"How was your day?" he asks, as if he wasn't completely unreachable for the last several hours.
you too <3
Bucky likely doesn't care about the random goings-on in their kitchen, but that was what Steve did with his day.
"Do you. Want to talk about yours?" Sometimes even that's touchy. But Steve sits down and opens the pizza boxes, grabbing himself a slice and sitting down on the couch to eat it.