verb.
To fall back under pressure. To shrink back physically or emotionally.
noun.
The kickback of a gun upon firing.
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It takes a stubborn mind to cling to their humanity when the world seeks to strip it away.
It takes a desperate soul to reach f...
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It was odd, how easily a routine was slipped into. Without much of a spoken word or instruction, their presence in each other's lives quietly became the norm. A pot of coffee left out every morning, a small gesture of cleaning presented in exchange. An offering of a shared meal, sometimes accompanied by quiet conversation, sometimes not. She still called him Barnes, most of the time. Sometimes it was James, if she was gently teasing him, but never Bucky. Not after the mention of that name had threatened to drive him away.
He still wasn't even sure how to refer to himself. He wouldn't know what to say if someone asked him his name.
The evenings were growing warmer now, gently hinting that the city was creeping ever closer to the beginning of summer. It took longer for the sun to set, longer for the dark to creep in. Still, he stayed. Not because the bewildering girl upstairs had bullied him into it, of course. That was what he told himself every night he found himself sat in her apartment, staring across at her as she either valiantly held up the conversation single-handily or simply quietly ate. He hadn't stayed because she had made him do it, but he couldn't quite tell himself that he wasn't staying because of her.
It had been different tonight though, and try as he might, he couldn't quite make himself stop thinking about that even as it grew late, the hour inching towards the quieter periods of the night that he preferred. Closer to the hours when it felt safer, stepping out to roam through the twisting streets of this city, though not quite there yet. Several floors below his feet, the bar was still open. He could hear the faint sounds of indiscernible chatter and music filtering up through the floorboards. It sounded busy, which was odd – Kat usually went down to work when it was busy.
She might have taken the night off, he reasoned as he pulled on his jacket, preparing to head out on a walk. She hadn't spoken much at dinner; in fact she'd seemed more subdued than he thought he had ever seen her. Even on bad days she still usually was able to fire him little smiles over their meals, ask about his day, maybe even rant a little about her own – but not this evening. She had seemed withdrawn, but he hadn't known how to ask what was wrong. That was what was weighing on him. Something was wrong.
As easy as it was becoming to relax near her, to let her warm and open presence soothe his racing mind, he still struggled with finding the words he wanted to say. Seventy years of only opening his mouth when absolutely necessary had certainly taken their toll on his ability to communicate. It had been with no small measure of frustration that he had quietly bid her goodnight a few hours ago, sensing that she might want to be alone with whatever was bothering her.
She was still awake though. He could hear the shuffle of her steps over his head, the drone of unfamiliar voices and music that told him she was watching something – but not paying attention. Not if her slow pacing was anything to go by.
But then, the sweeping movie score was halted. Her steps became a little heavier – she had put on shoes – and he heard her door open. Perhaps she had been called down to the bar, but that was unlikely at this hour. He couldn't think why she would be going out, but she was going to pass his door in a few seconds and then he'd lose his opportunity to find out why she had been acting strangely.
