Dira Sudis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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mcuflashmeme2016-03-26 09:04 am
dira) wrote in mcuflashmeme2016-03-26 09:04 am
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Week 13 - A story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle
Car chase? Backseat shenanigans? Backseat shenanigans DURING a car chase? It's all up to you! This week's prompt:
Drivers, start your engines! This prompt runs until Saturday morning!
A story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle.
Drivers, start your engines! This prompt runs until Saturday morning!
Filaments, part 1 (Steve/Bucky)
The bike rumbles and shakes between his legs. The seat’s long and sleek, buttery black leather, plenty of room for two big men as they roar down the narrow streets of the old city, Steve maneuvering the twists and turns with aplomb. The insistent motion, the proximity of Steve’s body stir up long-forgotten feelings that Bucky can’t think about right now; like cobwebs, he wipes them away.
Focus.
A suddenly loud engine makes him whip his head around, but it’s nothing.
“Still okay,” he yells into Steve’s ear over the throbbing of the bike. They’re back there, somewhere; maybe even up above. He keeps his ears peeled for a helicopter.
He holds Steve’s waist just under the leather jacket and the warmth of his friend’s body is reassuring. There are memories of Steve, old and buried, the archeology of childhood, but it’s all a mishmash, and with the fake memories they tried to implant, he doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t. Flashes of happiness, Brooklyn streets full of peddler’s chants and rotting garbage, Fourth of July fireworks seen from a rooftop, cornsilk hair and the humid embrace of narrow shoulders. Holding on to Steve, actually touching him after all this time, there’s clarity, a glimmer of something real he can hang on to, but it’s just out of reach. If he could hold still for a few minutes, capture it, examine it, escape the relentless chase—
His defenses, a well-oiled mechanism, won’t allow it. Survival’s the game. Compartmentalization, he’s a pro at it, had to be or he wouldn’t have made it this long. Years of it have rendered him hard and thickened, a carapace. Technically, he’s free, at least for now, but he still feels like he’s imprisoned, a shell that might shatter at any moment. The tiniest, least suspicious stimuli might tip him over into an abyss out of which he’ll never climb.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
The bike speeds up as Steve revs the engine. The road rushes under the tires. He can’t go back. He can’t. He tightens his grip on Steve’s waist.
They’re well out of the city, about an hour into the countryside before Steve says, “I’m pulling into that rest area up ahead. Gotta piss.”
Bucky raises his head from Steve’s shoulder and peers ahead through the dusk to see a wooded pull-out. It seems like they’re safe for the time being. There are no other vehicles and the road’s been pretty quiet for awhile, sending Bucky into a kind of trance, with the rumbling of the motorcycle and the warm bulk of Steve to lean on. His arms somehow migrated around Steve’s waist and he’s draped over Steve’s back like a blanket. Steve doesn’t seem to mind.
Bucky hasn’t been able to let go like that for so long. It’s strange and unnerving and he almost doesn’t know whether to trust it, like the bottom’s bound to fall out, leaving him naked and defenseless. Still, he feels a surge of gratitude to Steve and he doesn’t let go as Steve slows down and pulls into the rest area. Bucky scans the roadway and rest area for anything suspicious. No vehicles, as he’d first observed, but plenty of bushes and underbrush, thick, dark trees for cover, but everything looks as it should, no anomalies. His tension eases a fraction.
Steve turns his head to say, “You okay?”
That’s a loaded question. Of course he’s not okay. He’s probably never going to be okay. But he knows that Steve wants to know whether there’s anything Bucky needs at the moment, can he forge ahead. Does he have a choice? No. He can soldier on through pretty much anything, so he merely nods.
“You wanna stay here or come with me?”
Bucky furrows his forehead, not getting it.
“I just—are you okay here on the bike while I—?” Steve gestures to the bushes. Rest areas in this part of Europe are bare bones, just a turn out off the road.
“I’ll stay here.” He doesn’t need to go; he feels better staying on the bike, their only mode of transport. Steve’s treating him like fragile china. Bucky wonders about that. In a way, he likes it but he wishes Steve felt more comfortable around him. On the other hand, why should he? The Winter Soldier—Bucky—tried to kill him and Steve has to know he’s completely fucked up. For that matter, he doesn’t understand why Steve’s even helping him. A wave of emotion wells up, closing his throat and he swallows it down, training his gaze on a tree trunk at the edge of the clearing.
Steve’s all he’s got. Can’t let doubts creep in. He’s not used to—feeling anything, and it’s disorienting. While Steve disappears behind a bush—thankfully his head’s still visible, if Bucky couldn’t see him at all he’d have to go over there to make sure he’s okay—he gathers himself together, wipes away those cobwebs again.
Focus.
He’s grateful to Steve for helping him out but at the same time, Steve arouses uncomfortable reactions in him. He can sense, far below the surface, feelings that once wore deep grooves in his psyche slowly coming to life, like a long dormant machine whose gears have been oiled for the first time in a decade. He doesn’t know what the feelings mean or their exact nature, but they’re there, familiar yet buried, more archeology.
When Steve heads back to the bike, within arm’s reach again, Bucky’s surprised at how relieved he is. Whether it’s because they can get back on the road or because he needs Steve physically close, he’s not sure. He just knows he feels better when they’re together. Steve catches his gaze as he approaches the bike and for a moment they just look at each other. Bucky forgot how blue Steve’s eyes are. He’d almost forgotten what he looked like altogether until—Washington.
“Hey,” Steve says, standing there, a small grin playing at his lips.
“Hey.” Bucky continues staring, can’t stop. It’s the first time he’s gotten a good look at Steve since they've been on the run. He’s the same yet different, his stance and expression displaying a comfort in his body, in his self, that he didn’t have in the war. Well, it has been seventy years. Bucky snorted, thinking about that.
“What?”
“Seventy years. You ever think about that? The war was seventy years ago.”
Steve looks away, his mouth thins. “Sure. Of course.”
Bucky looks down at his hands, suddenly feeling awkward. He’s not that comfortable with small talk. Or any talk. For so long it was better to keep quiet, speak only when spoken to, only answer direct questions, not volunteer information. His life was pared down to the essentials, whatever was needed to complete a mission, nothing more, nothing less. He doesn’t know how to just—be. What is he supposed to say in this situation? How’s he supposed to act?
“Buck. I—“ Steve stops, puts his hands in his pockets, looks down at the ground and then up again, off into the distance. Whatever he was going to say, it looks like he isn’t. “We should get going.” He climbs back on the motorcycle and Bucky’s relieved to be back to the simple act of holding Steve by the waist, not having to look him in the face. Seems like maybe they both feel awkward.
They make it across the border and although there are no guarantees, Bucky feels a tad more confident, a greater distance between him and prison, death or worse. And he knows what worse is. On this leg of the journey, he consciously wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist in a full-body hug, emboldened by the dark as night fell. If he can’t talk to Steve, he can at least express himself physically. Actions are easier than words.
He has a sense that he used to be different, more gregarious. The way Steve looks at him, like he’s searching for the old Bucky. But of course, that person is long gone and he can’t do anything about it. The most he can hope for is to pull together the tattered pieces that are left.
They stop at a roadside restaurant. Steve goes in to get food and bring it out because Bucky’d rather stay outside on the bike, feels safer that way. While Steve’s getting the food, baseball cap pulled down so he’s not immediately recognizable, Bucky gets off to stretch his legs.
They eat sitting beneath a tree, grilled meat and rice with a little salad. The night’s clear, which is a god-send since they’re on the bike and not in a car.
“Lots of stars tonight,” Bucky observes. They’re sitting side by side and it’s easier to talk this way.
“Yeah, it’s amazing how many you can see out of the city.”
“I used to do that on missions, look up at the stars. Not much else to do. They were always there, wherever I went. Somehow I could remember the constellations, never seemed to get wiped.” He stops abruptly, as if he’s said something he shouldn’t, as if too many words came out of his mouth. Say too much and you get yourself in trouble.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve turn towards him, can sense the weight of his expectation. “We used to look at them in the war. It was so different from at home, where you couldn’t see any. We were way out in the country, no lights at all and the sky was so clear, like nothing we’d ever seen before.” Steve’s shoulder gently presses against his. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Do you remember?” A pause. “It’s okay if you don’t.”
Bucky tries. He searches the shreds of his memory. It’s like poking through somebody’s trash, bits of bills, orange peels, milk cartons. Unless you can fit the pieces together exactly, nothing makes any sense. He tries to remember. Some things he only knows from Steve’s Hydra file, that Project Rebirth took place during the war and remade Steve Rogers into a super soldier, that he himself fought in the war with Steve and the Howling Commandoes. He thinks he can remember what Steve used to look like before; the old Steve is still there, in his face and eyes, the sound of his voice. But the rest is like trying to catch a cloud in your hand, wisps with no substance, flotsam and jetsam floating up on the waves.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” He can’t look at Steve, stares fixedly on the ground, not wanting to see the disappointment in his face.
Steve is still for a long moment, then he takes Bucky’s hand and squeezes it. Bucky sharply inhales, shocked despite the naturalness of the gesture. Nobody’s held his hand in—he can’t remember the last time. “That’s okay,” Steve says. “It’ll come.”
Bucky starts breathing faster, he doesn’t know why. Emotions flood him. He wants to jump up, run to the motorcycle and speed away. Or no, fling open the restaurant door and give himself up, as all the patrons spring up with guns in their hands, ready to bring him down. Maybe crash into the woods, on foot, away, away. Anywhere away from Steve’s hand, his big, giant stupid hand clasping Bucky's flesh one so it’s all warm and comforting, a balm to Bucky’s battered soul.
He clenches shut his eyes, feeling like he’s about to explode. But he doesn’t let go. Stays put even though he thinks he might be shaking, even though he might shatter into pieces any second.
Re: Filaments, part 2 (Steve/Bucky)
Steve’s arms tighten around him and Bucky can feel his pulse beating wildly in his neck. Shrouded by the dark, the stars above them, they could be anywhere in the world, anywhere in time. Bucky's aware of nothing but Steve’s scent, Steve’s body, the thrum of Steve’s heart. And he clings to that. Without Steve, he's got nothing. He doesn't even have himself. Steve's his lodestone, his true north, and it's a fucking miracle that they found each other again.
He heaves a deep sigh and settles deeper into Steve's embrace. If they could just stay like this forever, forget everyone else, if they'd all just leave them alone...
"It'll get better," Steve says, mouth against Bucky's hair. "I promise."
"You don't know that," Bucky murmurs. "Don't make promises you can't keep." Just shut up, Rogers, he thinks. Never knew when to shut up.
Steve takes a deep breath, his chest falling and rising. "I'm promising." He lifts Bucky's chin with a finger, forcing Bucky to look at him. Opening his eyes, Steve's face is very close, his eyes glinting in the starry night. "This is my promise to you. I will do everything in my power so you can get better." His hand moves to cup Bucky's cheek. "I mean it."
"You're the biggest sap. Just get us out of this alive." Bucky's heart is swelling, chest about to burst and he wants to look away but he can't. Steve moves even closer and Bucky suddenly knows this isn't the first time this happened. It's familiar. He leans in to welcome Steve's kiss as their mouths meet. His pulse is frantic, emotions roiling, as memories come crashing in. Steve's mouth is soft yet insistent and Bucky is completely unmoored, aware only of the play of their lips and tongues against each other, the sensual push and pull, the grab and release.
"Steve," he gasps when they break for air.
"Sorry, was that okay? I was't thinking." Steve looks concerned. "It just felt right." His face breaks into creases. "I know you probably don't remember. I shouldn't have."
Bucky bites his lip. "No, I...actually do kind of remember. Not specifics, just...a feeling." He puts a finger on Steve"s lower lip. "Your mouth. The way it feels." He attempts a smile, even though he's halfway in shock. "It helps." Knowing this, about him and Steve, it's like reclaiming a part of himself. "I didn't know until now. That whole time I forgot about," he curls his mouth ruefully, "sex. They may have given me something to suppress it. I dunno. I just never felt those things." He pauses. "Jesus Christ. For seventy years."
Steve runs his fingers over Bucky's jaw, holds it lightly. "That's a long time."
"Yeah." It's almost too much to contemplate. They're silent for a moment, embracing softly, looking at each other. Bucky can feel the filaments of connection growing back. It brings him hope that maybe Steve is right, it will be better. This is his Steve; the phrase seems apt. He can almost remember him, the way he never gave up, the way he flung himself into danger to save others-- Bucky abruptly sits up. "You rescued me. From--Hydra, a hospital or something, there was a fire and you jumped, I said I wasn't gonna leave without you--" It's suddenly all there, in his mind, the rescue and the march back to camp with the rest of the Howling Commandoes, a new gigantic Steve at their head, Bucky's head swirling at his transformation, and something else, how he felt odd and-- his mind shuts down, won't let him go any farther. "What did they do to me?"
Steve looks pained. "I don't know. Nobody ever found out. You wouldn't talk about it."
Bucky leans back into Steve's embrace, suddenly exhausted. Steve rubs his arm comfortingly. A car pulls into the parking lot, its headlight sweeping over them and it jolts Bucky back to awareness of their situation. "We should get going."
"Yeah." Neither of them moves. Steve continues to rub Bucky's arm.
"Wish we didn't have to," Bucky says.
Steve sighs heavily. "Yeah." He kisses Bucky again, deeply, and Bucky's lost again, although part of him is listening for that car, for its passengers getting out, their steps to the restaurant, the stern command that Bucky put his hands up.
They part reluctantly and Steve picks up the food containers and disposes of them, then meets Bucky by the bike. Before they get on, Bucky draws Steve into a tight hug. "Thank you," he says into Steve's ear. "You're all I've got." It hurts to say it, but he wants to. It's the truth, one of the only things he's sure about.
"I'll always be here for you, Bucky." They part and clasp each other's arms briefly before getting on the bike. As the road takes them up into the mountains, Bucky holds Steve even tighter than before.
Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It
Content warning for current events in US politics.
"If you tell me one more time that my country needs me," Steve said firmly, "I will throw myself out of this car."
He saw Mr. Lyman's eyes dart to the bulletproof glass of the windows, the heavy doors that had audibly locked as soon as they were both inside, and then the shield propped up at Steve's feet.
"Okay, okay, that line's been overused, got it," Mr. Lyman said. "I realize that the totally insane circumstances and the basically apocalyptic consequences if we fail don't actually make it a good idea. But I figured potentially disastrous longshots were kind of your specialty and I honestly don't know who else could pull this off."
Steve grimaced, but didn't actually argue. When he put it that way, it almost did sound like fun. Just another USO tour, right? Except this time he'd be able to control the script.
"Look," Mr. Lyman said. "It's not even like you'd have to do it. Pick somebody sane and halfway qualified as a running mate, and if you get elected you can resign five minutes after you take office, let them step in."
Steve frowned.
"Or, I mean, hey, go for it," Mr. Lyman redirected quickly. "If the American people choose you, maybe that's what they should get. You're smart, you're a tactical thinker, you look great on camera, you can assemble a team around you who can supply all the formal education and political expertise you could possibly need. It's been done, believe me, and in retrospect it really didn't turn out that badly. I mean, I think half the Secret Service would resign on the spot rather than contemplate trying to serve as your protection for four years, but hey, that's a hell of a job creation program to knock off on your first day, right?"
Steve scowled. "I fail to see how driving loyal people out of their jobs by making their jobs impossible creates anything at all."
Mr. Lyman just stared at him for a second, lips slightly parted, and then he visibly shook himself. "Yeah, see, if we could just get you to do that on TV--I swear to God, Captain Rogers, we could have this thing in the bag."
Steve frowned at that too, struggling to articulate even to himself what rubbed him so wrong about Mr. Lyman's confidence. "I really... really don't like this idea."
"Yeah, I know. And that's why you're the guy for the job." Mr. Lyman sat forward. "People say sometimes, no one who wants this job should be allowed to have it, you know that? And you're the only person I know of in maybe this entire country who can say believably, that you don't want the job but you're trying to do what's best for America."
"If I did this..." Steve looked into his eyes, willing him to be able to understand genuine honesty when he heard it. "That wouldn't be a line. That would be exactly why."
"Well, yeah," Mr. Lyman cracked a little smile. "And that's exactly why. I mean, honestly, if that's what this is going to come down to--if it's unqualified demagogue versus unqualified demagogue, I'm on Team Cap, anybody who has a--"
Steve scowled harder, and Mr. Lyman shook his head and put his hands up. "No, I'm just saying. A lot of people are going to be on Team Cap."
"You can't call it that," Steve said reflexively, and he caught the little gleam in Mr. Lyman's eyes that said he had caught Steve's shift from arguing about whether he would do it to arguing about the script.
"We won't call it that," Mr. Lyman agreed, sitting back, actually relaxing a little.
"We won't even explicitly bring up the thing where you punched out Hitler over 200 times, we'll just put you on a debate stage across from this clown and let people work it out for themselves when he talks about wanting to kick out immigrants and religious minorities. And if he doesn't get the nomination, this is a weird conversation you had on the way to a state dinner, and we never have to talk about it again. I just need you to say it once, so I can start laying groundwork if it comes to that."
Steve took a deep breath. He thought about the logistics, the limitations, the exciting new ways the press would find to tear him apart, the very real possibility of people dying because of attempts on his life. He thought about spending five minutes in January commanding the power to issue pardons with the stroke of a pen. He thought about the consequences of standing aside and doing nothing.
"Okay," he said, and grinned as Mr. Lyman pumped his fist and did an entirely undignified little dance in his seat. "Okay, I--wait, am I actually even old enough?"
"You were born in 1918, and the Constitution doesn't say a word about how much of your life you have to have spent awake, believe me, we've got this. Please, please, Captain Rogers, if I can't ask you to save the country I'll just ask you to save me from my ulcers and my wife from my insomnia. Just say the thing."
The car pulled up to a stop; the uniformed Marines approached the door. At the very last second before the door opened and this little bubble of privacy shattered, Steve nodded and said it.
"Yes. If called upon, I will run for President of the United States."
Re: Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It
Re: Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It
Look at that bad man getting his smoothie on
***
Bucky Barnes was a little shit. Just ask him, he'd tell you. Riding the L line to Manhattan, he settled in for the ride. Putting on his Bose headphones and listening to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' 'Downtown', he got down to business in texting a certain good-looking blond with a baseball cap that was sitting with Sam Wilson two rows away. This good-looking man wasn't sitting with Bucky because, well as he said he was a shit, and it was more interesting this way. And that certain someone knew the plan, or he hoped.
Me: Who's that bad man in the tight tshirt?
Steve: Bucky?
Me: no you, punk, now say it
Steve: Steve
Me: right
Me: now, whose dick is this?
Steve: You did not just take that!!
Bucky could see the top of Steve's ears turning red even from here. He stifled a snicker, but he couldn't help the smile.
Me: No
Me: I don't want to get arrested for whipping it out on public trans, I had it on file
Steve: You what?
Me: Just for you sweetheart
Steve: I'd hope so! Jesus C! Buck!
Me: you didnt answer the question
Steve: I don't remember.
Me: Sure you do, whose is it?
Steve: Yours
Me: Steve, play along
Steve: oh…
Steve: Bucky's
Me: Right
Me: And who's gonna see it later?
Steve: Barnes!!! You do NOT send dick pics to captain america when he's incognito!
Me: So how about when he's doing a press tour?
Steve: Not cool bro
Steve: And you know Macklemore sounds like a dying cow, I can hear him from here
Steve: I thought you had better taste than that?
Me: stfu Wilson and give Steve back his phone
Bucky slumped down, drawing up his knees so his feet were on the seat. He frowned down at his phone.
Me: You're no fun
Steve: Thanks, that's what I am, the no fun zone
Steve: For what it's worth, I want to see it ASAP when we get off.
Bucky heart skipped an unsteady beat. Steve. The little punk. He wanted to kiss him stupid right now for being him and saying that. His lips twitched up into a smile as he replied.
Me: you want me to start now?
Steve: Yes, please.
Bucky bit at his lower lip. That 'please' got to Bucky every time. He'd do anything for that stupid punk when he added on that 'please'.
Me: How do you want me to start?
Steve: Your left hand, please?
The little kinky fucker. Bucky huffed out a laugh. Raising up his gloved, metal hand, he wiggled the fingers at Steve. He knew Steve could see him out of the corner of his eye. Bucky could see his shoulders moving closer to his ears as he hunched over.
Me: Sure thing, babydoll
And he gave a light caress to his already semi-hard dick through his jeans.
Me: dont want to go off here
Steve: Why not?
Bucky chuckled as he stealthly stroked his erection so the other passengers wouldn't know what was going on. But then he was getting turned on doing it here with Steve just seats away. His pulse was speeding up as his dick started to press more into the teeth of his zipper.
Me: dont want you to miss the show
Steve: I won't miss it.
Me: fuck
Me: steve as soon as we get there
Steve: No here, please. :)
Bucky looked up at Steve and he could see that his head was turned slightly his way. His sunglasses obscuring his eyes, but he knew he was looking at him. Bucky didn't blush often, in fact, he wondered if he could at all anymore, but right now he felt a heat rising up his neck and his face getting hot. His hand paused on his crotch.
Me: srly?
Steve: You crazy ass white boys are going to be the death of me!!
Steve: And Macklemore still sucks!
Steve got the phone away from Wilson, by just putting his palm out. He could see Wilson shaking his head, and he bet he was rolling his eyes too.
Steve: Later, please. I want to taste you.
Steve's text came out like a plead, and it just made Bucky harder. Now Bucky was just gently moving his fingers over the solid swell of his dick to ease the pain, so he wouldn't go off like a rocket in his jeans.
Me: bathroom at micky ds, ditch wilson
Steve: I'm on it.
Bucky couldn't get off the subway fast enough. The buildings and concrete tunnel out the windows, a generic blur, as all he could think of was Steve. And Steve's pretty lips on his cock. However, he knew the McDonald's was at the end of the line, but it damn well was going to be worth it.
Re: Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It
Re: Filaments, part 2 (Steve/Bucky)
Re: Filaments, part 2 (Steve/Bucky)
Re: Filaments, part 2 (Steve/Bucky)
Re: Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It