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builder051 · 2 years

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Hi! Hope you’re having a good day!

I was wondering if you still wrote for your steelbridge sixties fic? If so, I thought an interesting prompt might be Bucky dealing with bad night terrors after moving in with Steve, and Steve trying to figure out what to do.

If not no worries ofc!

Yes! Absolutely, I'm here for that! I'm going to twist your prompt just a bit, mostly because I started writing it longhand, and it wandered away before I could really nail down the plot.

Warnings for war/associated horrific past trauma (Vietnam era), talk of drug use/abuse/withdrawal, use of tobacco and marijuana, mental health stuff, and food talk (NO ED stuff).

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James isn't doing well. His schedule's off. He's paranoid as hell. Sleeping hours into the afternoon. Nearly starting a grease fire at midnight because the pan fell on the floor, and he cracked the eggs on the stove anyway.

This morning, he wke Steve promptly at three, ushering him into pants and shoes and muttering frantically about being late for work.

It took Steve half an hour to calm him down. Convince him the sky was dark by reason of it still being technical nighttime, not because of impending rain. Talk him into staying within the confines of the property, even if it meant venturing out onto the freezing slab of concrete in their socks so James could get his bearings in the form of an early morning cigarette.

They now sit, knee to knee, at the kitchen table. The air holds tension, as well as the distinct scent of char. The burning egg smell still hasn't faded, and James smokes enough that it's all Steve can do to keep him from doing it in the house.

The kettle starts up a shrill whistle, its usual piece of stovetop scrubbed clean and back into everyday use. James jumps in his seat, then stands to pour the water into the waiting cup of instant powder Steve had left for him on the counter. He stirs, sniffs, then sighs.

James likes instant coffee. Soggy cornflakes, as well, which Steve had also set up, and James is slurping loudly as he waits for his coffee mug to cool enough for him to carry.

Steve waits for James to return to the table before he goes to choose a teabag. He passes the sink on his way to the kettle, and the cornflake bowl and spoon sit in the bottom of the basin. "Thanks, Buck," Steve says.

James doesn't acknowledge him, but the sound of him setting his mug back down on the table soon follows, so Steve's happy to assume James was just busy sipping.

Steve's happy to do a lot of things. He'll keep humoring James, making him comfortable, even if all they're doing is going through the motions.

Some of it confuses him, though. James didn't go away to war making his coffee from grainy black powder in a can. His parents had an electric drip coffee maker. They'd used to tease James's father about the thing because it was imported from Germany.

The cold cereal, too. James ate his mother's hot breakfasts before school most mornings. Half the time, so did Steve. And if they ran late, James would always charm the girl working in the store at the gas station and get two packaged donuts for the price of one.

Steve doesn't bring any of that up, though. He doesn't know if James remembers, with the hit his recall has taken with the brain injury and everything. He might be offended. Or think Steve's just making shit up.

Steve's gone and broken it down, apples to apples, that they serve an undeniably better breakfast at the shelter. Hot food with a rotating main protein--eggs, usually, with bacon or vegetables, a grain-based side, fruit options, and unlimited buttered toast and orange juice from concentrate. And that didn't even include the presence of the coffee cart, which had it's pot of black drip refilled all day and set beside pitchers of water, milk, juice, and, on Wednesdays, hot cocoa. He doesn't remember James outright disagreeing, but they hadn't made plans. Not that day. Steve doesn't remember much more of that day, or the next, or the next several after that, because that's when the worst of the withdrawal hit.

It was a mutual decision to limit James's bodily intake to tobacco, pot, and chicken noodle, but, when the moment came, James had very little choice in the matter. From his first explosive vomit to the last drops of fever sweat, it was Steve driving the bus, navigating them through the dangerous roads of detox on a mixture of demands and deals, most left unfulfilled.

Steve's pretty sure he promised a ticket to a baseball game. He can't think as to why, though. James would hate it. The crowds. The noise. The trauma of forcibly drowning him in everything he used to be-- young, fit, thrill-seeking. He'd call a random girls' name into bleachers, and if somebody startled and looked around, James would just grin and ask her out to a dance after the game. Steve would shudder at his audacity. But sometimes he'd hold Steve's hand in public, too. Try to nuzzle him, or peck him on the cheek. Usually after a beer or two, and Steve would casually caution him to behave. But it's not like he closed his mouth when James would start giving tongue.

Steve's mind abruptly comes back to present when James lifts his wrist to check a watch that's still back in the bedroom, safely tucked in the drawer of his bedside table. It's light outside, but the sky still holds the dusty, not-quite-bright quality that separates dawn from day and dusk from night.

"Is Sam coming for dinner?" James asks, his brow deeply furrowed, as if he's trying to recall something he's committed to, perhaps months in advance.

"Ah." Steve starts slowly. "He does. Sometimes." He pauses, then, "I don't think we have any plans today, though..."

"Oh..." James looks ashamed. "Sorry..."

"I can ask him at work, though," Steve offers. "Or you can, if you feel like coming today."

James looks from the risen hairs on his wrists to the window, then back to Steve. The question is on his lips, but Steve doesn't make him ask it.

"I think you've got your day turned around," Steve says gently. "It's morning, just now."

James frowns at the table. Nudges his nearly empty coffee cup. Perhaps remembers shoveling down food a few minutes ago.

"Huh," James pushes out, managing to make it half a smoker's laugh.He shakes his head, then runs his fingers through his permanently greasy hair.

"Hey." Steve tries to ameliorate the situation. "It's an easy mistake. You worked all weird hours in, like, marshes that all looked the same over there, right? With clouds and rain all the time?"

James gives a sort of shudder, then throws back the last powdery sip of his coffee.

Steve's gone too far, and he knows it. Stupid. "Or, like everybody does once or twice, as a dumb kid. You smoke something a little too strong for your senses, get all dopey, then splash your cheeks and look at the clock and think you're already late for tomorrow's marching band practice? Right?"

As far as Steve knows, though, none of their old crowd had been dumb kids. They'd kept it to a single doobie passed around among a half-dozen of them, crouched under the back window of the old science building, taking just one hit each so nobody's eyes got too big or weepy. Or there was the direct opposite. Parties with bottles of Jim Beam and plenty of roll-your-owns. Steve remembers basements with pool tables and record players and couples making eyes, ready to get dirty when it was their turn for the bathroom. None of them had even been in the marching band. Steve can't help but smile a bit. He cups his chin in one hand to keep the expression from growing, lest it annoy James.

"I," James says, narrowing his eyes. "I know what you're talking about. What you mean."

"Yeah?" Steve mentally backtracks to ensure he knows, too.

"'M not stupid."

"I know," Steve examines his fingernails, which are perhaps half a shade pinker than the ivory-toned glaze on the mug upon which he rests them. "I didn't say you were." He pauses again, not wanting to further offend. "I think you're probably still tired. Wiped out, you know?"

James is still new to this being sober thing, and straight carbohydrate, milkfat, and caffeine is a hard hit right after the day's first cigarette. As much determination as James may now have, hounging away the days under the effects of shoddy hallucinogens changed him, on a cellular level. Probably before his commanding officer became the attending physician. The doc approved the 24-7 morphine drip, which just as well hammered in the nail James had made a dent with, out of pure boredom as much as any other reason. And so he sits, contemplating everything at eye level, so as not to have to look up at Steve.

The fact that James has gotten this far is, in fact, mostly arbitrary. Sure, he came to believe it was all for the best, but he'd only started detox because Steve had waylaid him on his way out the door to get his next hit. Then being so weak and sick, James stayed stuck in fever dreams while Steve toiled to take care of him.

For a while, James could only whisper. Except for when he screamed. Most of it was the same garbled stuff.

"Do you have some?"

"I need some."

"It's ok if it's not China white; I'll take anything."

"C'mon. Weed? Anything?"

"It hurts so bad."

And then, suddenly, in the middle of the night, "Get down!"

Steve jerked awake.

James screamed again. "Get down! There's Charlie all over his place. Gimme that--"

James had flopped on top of Steve and reached for the small alarm clock on Steve's bedside table. The plug departed the wall with an electric spark.

Steve yelled out on instinct, but quickly clapped his hand over his mouth. James shoved Steve in the side with one of the clock's pointy edges and told him to shut up. Then he slapped the plastic face and tried the buttons. They didn't beep, for the clock was no longer plugged in, but the sound of hard parts indenting against each other still felt loud enough.

"Lieutenant?" James hissed. "Over?"

"Buck--" Steve had tried. "You're home. It's ok."

"Get down--" James said over him, then dried the clock again. "I can't establish communication. Hold your cover--"

Steve could see James's entire body trembling. He lost grip on the clock, and Steve quickly took the opportunity to take hold of his hand.

"But--" James visibly paled. He looked scared and young and sick.

"You're in bed," Steve said. "Look."

"Mm." James dropped his gaze, and his hair covered his face. A wet gulp followed.

Steve asked, "You feeling sick?"

"No..." James stalled out. Then he pulled his hand back to rub his forehead, matting up his long bangs and slowly raising his eyes to meet Steve's. "In bed?"

"Yeah," Steve had confirmed. He felt a little embarrassed now. He wondered who James thought he was. Some platoon-mate who may as well be a stranger? A call girl with long black eyelashes? Maybe Nat or Darcy under some stairwell in the clutches of downtown. Or does he remember him, as his own self. His Steve. His high school lover. Committed caretaker. The one who pledged to stay with him to the end of the line.

"It's safe here," Steve told him, before realizing that wasn't exactly true. "I mean, there isn't a jungle with, like, planted bombs. Or folks trying to shoot you." Race riots were raging every day. Policemen stopped to talk to women who were too tall and men whose pants didn't fit right. But they wouldn't be out for James. There were drug busts, though. And bad dealers, those who might loose a shot to the gut instead of cutting a bargain to a customer a dollar short. But he chose not to remind James of that. They were past it, anyway.

It's Steve's job now to pull James, and himself, if he's honest, into the present.

"Do you want to have guests for dinner?" Steve hazards. "It's fine, if you want. We've got cream of chicken, and rice, and..." Steve gestures to the pantry. They could have cornflakes for all he cares. If James wants to have a friend over, that's progress enough.

"But, the calendar, I thought..." James seems to finally realize there's no wristwatch to check, so fiddles with his empty coffee mug again.

"We're working the same shift today," Steve explains, though he knows James already knows this. "Instead of opposites, you know?"

"Mm." James agrees without exactly saying so.

"So it's actually a great day to host," Steve goes on. "Sam will probably be tired and ready to eat same time as we are." Then he backtracks. "Well, same time as I am, I guess. You don't have to come to work if you don't want to."

James stays silent a moment. "What would I do?" he eventually muses.

Steve, who's already thinking about the line of hungry customers who will soon fill the shelter's dining room, misunderstands the question.

"Well, probably not flipping eggs--"

"No," James says quickly, perhaps to stop Steve discrediting him as much as to set him straight. "I mean... not work?

"Oh." Steve blinks and bites his lip, realizing he hasn't exactly entertained the issue. "Instead of work..." James has been with Steve nearly all the time since sobering up. After a tentative success, James began staying in the house alone a few days a week, giving him more time to rest between the under-the-radar shifts he put in doing odd jobs around the shelter. "I guess you could, uh, get a haircut?"

"No!" James snipes back, with unexpected venom. He wraps his arm protectively around his head.

"Well, I didn't make you an appointment or anything," Steve says, attempting to calm him down whilst keeping his tone light.

"No sharp things by my head," James says, definitely. He pauses, then twists his lip a little. "I haven't, uh, seen the girls in a while. Or the Hawk." He glances up at Steve, as if he's asking if he can bring the car home late.

"Yeah, we've been keeping them updated." Steve treads carefully. "They know you're ok."

"But I haven't seen them in a while." James seems to know what he wants to ask, but can't think of an excuse to make the request valid.

Steve feels for him. James's friends from the street know he's been trying the mild life lately, and even though he's weaker, he's much less sick than he was before. Steve wouldn't dream of ordering James around in a narrow set of boundaries; he'd had more than enough of that just with moving between the couch and the bathroom, then scrubbing the carpet afterward. And banning contact for fear of influence... it was unthinkable.

"We're all adults," Steve says with a shrug. He's pretty sure James said the same thing at their high school graduation. "You know what's good for your body. And if you come back with uppers in your system, or any downers except pot or booze, I won't let you in the front door."

"Hm. That's fair." James nods.

"And if you have track marks or a sex disease, you can't come in the back door, either." Steve ruins it by sniggering on the last word, but it gets his point across without having to run through the details.

"Where's your mind gone?" James asks, lines of deadpan curiosity deepening between his eyebrows. "You can't fuck people in broad daylight, Steve."

"Oh, I don't know." Steve looks out the window. "It's not that bright yet, is it? Call the radio station and get their word for it, but I don't think meteorological sunrise is until well around 7 O'clock."

"Hmph." James rises slowly, his knees cracking as he stands, then steps to the sink to place his cup. He makes to leave the room, perhaps to head to the bedroom to get dressed. James pauses behind Steve's chair, though and murmurs, "Not when the grass is wet."

Steve laughs. He tips back so the crown of his head brushes James's elbow. He can only see the ceiling, but he grins at it anyway.

"Getting dressed for work, then, Buck?" Steve calls as he makes his own way down the hallway. "Or other things."

"Meeting friends," James replies. He wears a plaid shirt, open, and looks intently and with a bit of annoyance between pants in two shades of brown. He contorts his fingers to do up the bottom shirt button one-handedly, then nods at the trouser options. "Which one's better?" he asks Steve.

"Are you going to go sit on the grass?" Steve teases. "'Cause then I'd say, not the ones with the button fly."

"Hey, don't underestimate what a chick'll do for you..." But James does set one pair aside and shake out the other. "These?"

"Yeah." Steve nods.

"I want to look sharp all day," James explains. "See some people during the day, then have Sam over for dinner." He quickly meets Steve's eye. "You'll ask him, right?"

"Of course." Steve hands James a belt.

James smiles and thanks him. He leaves the belt folded over his arm and reaches to squeeze Steve's hand.

James isn't doing well. The dark circles under his eyes and his patchy facial hair say as much. But he is doing better, dressed in springtime green, and brushing his nearly shoulder length so it lays flat behind his ears.

Steve will love him no matter what, but a sense of pride begins to bloom as he watches James check the color of his socks before putting on suede shoes. Looking good to go out with friends. It's like having a little of the old James back again.

"Don't worry," James says, nudging Steve with his elbow and startling him into putting on the shirt he's been holding awkwardly for a few minutes now. "It's not like I forgot you."

"Hm?"

James closes the gap between them in a single step, then bows his head the last few inches to place a gentle kiss on Steve's lips. Their noses rub as they pull back far enough to see each other properly.

"Now don't you go telling anyone..." James whispers.

"No, sir," Steve nearly makes a weak salute, but he second guesses himself and gives James a squeeze on the shoulder instead.

"Now, for dinner, after work," James starts.

"I'm sure Sam and I can bring home something," Steve offers.

"No, I can make chicken casserole. I can have it done by the time you're home."

"You sure about that?" Steve asks, worried about the stress of the undertaking.

"The recipe is on the back of the soup can," James says, blankly. Then he smiles. "You didn't think my ma actually knew how to make anything besides scrambled eggs, did you? Campbells, I tell you. You can cheat your way through all the family dinners and banquets and pot lucks."

"Ok, ok." Steve puts up his hand, which winds up on Bucky's other shoulder. "I trust you."

James glows. Just a little. "Thanks," he says diplomatically. Then, "I love you."

"I love you, too." Steve pauses. "But don't go telling anyone else..."

James nods. Then they both laugh.

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bobateaboo · 1 year

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wrote a lil thing of backstory for my boy Cleaver, Stalker (who isn't called by name but is there) is by me and Nightterror is by @andizoidart !!

Funny thing; when any experience with other monsters is life threatening, it means it takes a while to notice when everyone else stops being there.

Cleaver had been in hiding for… how long…? A long time, only coming out to check his traps before hiding back away in his old house. The windows boarded, the door covered with more locks than he’d bothered counting for some time. He only left when it had been months of empty snares and bear traps, once he’d boiled the leather of his brothers old boots for something to eat, once he’d gotten desperate enough to peel the bark of the trees and raid the old sentry stations for cigarettes for anything that even vaguely counted as edible.

To say he’d been on guard when he crept into waterfall was an understatement. He knew who lived here, she had a name, the one who broke his skull… he was afraid of seeing her again. He couldn’t quite remember the others who lived there, just the songs he would hear them sing in the caverns before everyone started to starve, but seeing them would be bad as well. It was too quiet, too quiet, his footsteps echoed against the stone walls…

But were never joined by another pair of feet.

He found ------’s old house on the first day. Worked up the courage to venture in on the fifth. It was empty.

The leather from her old, worn couch lasted him 4 days.

It took seventeen days to ensure that every resource waterfall had was truly gone. It was mostly a pity search, now that he thought about it; if there was anything left, then the monsters would still be here. Where the shallows had once been full of reeds, they were plucked barren; the underground was a closed environment, no gaps in the stone for sunlight to slip through. Once they had been picked, they had been picked. Nothing regrew here.

He did find graves, though. The monsters had been careful to spread the dust too thin, so that no desperate soul could deface their loved ones by eating it. One could wonder how long it was before they regretted that choice. Cleaver didn’t bother guessing.

There were the last monsters, though, who didn’t have anyone else left to bury them. Monster dust is near impossible to get down, but makes a type of paste when mixed with water. And the one thing this place wasn’t short of was water.

It wasn't good. But it was food

Hotland yielded similar results. He found the labs with dust strewn across the large control board and onto the floor, like someone had died while slumped against it, leaning on it for support. He picked up the glasses in the dust pile. He hadn’t seen well since his injury.

They didn't fit him.

The robot - he had a name, didn’t he? - had lost power long ago, when the core first failed. The desks were strewn with smaller generators and batteries that had been hooked to him in an attempt to support him on reduced power, but they had all run out by now.

The capital was just as depressing. The king’s dust was in a pile on the dried flowers of his garden, his crown gleaming on top of it. Cleaver picked it up and put it on. The edge slipped into the crack on his head. He spent the next hour carefully removing it.

He didn’t bother going back to snowdin once he’d gotten to the other end of the underground. Why bother? The beds were comfier here.

And sure, his brother's grave was back at home. But what was the point of visiting if he’d forgotten his name so long ago…?

Cleaver had been considering cutting off his own fingers for food when it happened.

He was sitting on the floor, in the dead flowers, leaning against the king’s throne while he picked dully at his phalanges, wondering if there was even enough magic left in them to do anything, when a shadow passed over him.

Cleaver wasn’t a small monster. He hadn’t been since his injury had thrown his magic regulation out the window. This monster would easily only come up to just below his shoulder.

But he was terrifying.

He was dripping with oozing black, strange, tentacle-like limbs sprouting fron his back. His hands were in his pockets, a relaxed stance to contrast the imposing figure; Through the sea of sludge, a teal eyelight glowed, staring directly down at Cleaver.

Cleaver didn’t move just looking dully up at the figure. You didn’t spend this long in isolation without starting to see things, of course, he was used to them at this point. Sure, this one was new; usually if he saw people, they were people he’d seen before. Had he seen this man before? He didn’t look familiar, but maybe he’d forgotten…

There was a second figure behind the mass of tar- a skeleton, like Cleaver, with empty, dark eye sockets and a red shape in front of his chest. He was starting to realize that the first one was a skeleton as well, just… Goopier. And meaner-looking. With his cracked skull and hulking frame, did Cleaver look that mean by now? He hadn’t seen his reflection in so long.

“Get Up.”

He didn’t. Why would he? He was tired, too tired to cater to his own fantasies. He tilted his head as he studied the goop-monster and the second skeleton, who looked mildly amused more than anything else. He idly kicked a pebble, which bounced off of Cleaver’s knee. It took him more than a few seconds to realize the significance of that.

He had felt the pebble. So that had to be real. So if this hallucination had kicked the pebble, and moved something that was real, then….

Cleaver lunged at the skeleton, mouth gaping open to reveal a maw full of sharp, crooked teeth, hands outstretched and intent to grab him. The monster drew a knife, but it didn’t matter. Cleaver never met his mark.

A tentacle seized around his waist, lifting him up before slamming him back down to the castle floors, knocking the wind out of him.

Here’s a fun fact most don’t know until it’s relevant to them; when your bones don’t get the nutrition they need, they start to get fragile, brittle. Your body simply doesn’t have enough calcium, protein, or calories to keep things up to standard.

So Cleaver was painfully aware of his poor, brittle condition as he felt two of his ribs snap under his own weight. He let out a breathless cry of pain, curling around his middle as he lay on the floor, clutching his chest. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking as a voice sighed, and a pair of dark shoes came into view, standing in front of him.

“I assume you’re now taking this a bit more seriously.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be. Cleaver nodded anyway. “Wonderful. I have a proposal.”

Cleaver’s vision went blurry as the dark thing knelt in front of him, the stark blue of his eye filling his senses. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of the skeleton he’d attacked, looking amused, but not surprised, by the goings-on of the dark thing.

“If you work for me, I can remove you from this place. You will be fed and given a place to stay, but that position depends on your ability to follow orders.” The thing clanced down at Cleaver’s sorry state, wrinkling his nasal bridge slightly. “Once given some recovery time, of course.”

There was a part of Cleaver’s brain that screamed that this could be a trap. A way to lure him into a sense of security so this monster could kill him. But a larger, drowsy part of his mind was oh so aware that if this skeleton wanted him dead, he wouldn’t need any tricks. He wouldn’t need much of anything at all, really.

And that sluggish, drowsy part of his brain that had been latched on ever since it heard the word fed shakily reached out, and shook the dark thing’s hand.

“Good.” Dark Thing seemed pleased, so that was either a good sign or a very, very bad one. “Do note that you will be expected to fight on my behalf. Frequently.”

Fighting in order not to starve

When had his life been anything different?

#boba writes #my art #my writing #friend andi #Nightterror #lore #Nightmare's gang #Horror!Sans #Cleaver!Sans #backstory

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