Yelling With My Mouth Shut

BY : evilkat
Category: Marvel Verse Movies > Captain America
Dragon prints: 1975
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or Captain America or the Captain America characters and will not make any money off this story.

Yelling With My Mouth Shut

By evilkat


The water in the shower has been running for a while now.  The mirror has long since fogged over.  Not that he wanted to look at his reflection anyway.  He really should get in and wash himself off.   The stream of jizz running down the inside of this leg has begun to dry and turn sticky. He really should be in the shower by now, but he isn’t.

Steve’s safety razor lay on the counter next to the sink where Bucky had placed it after retrieving it from the medicine cabinet.  He has no intentions of using it to shave the two days worth of stubble.  Instead, he leans against the steam-slick wall and casually flips the double-edged razor blade over the knuckles of his right hand.  When it reaches his pinky, he catches it between his palm and thumb to bring it back to his index finger and start over.

Flip.  Flip.  Flip.  Flip.

Bucky has been at this for ten minutes or so.  It’s oddly soothing.  He used to do it with his throwing knives, but they had agreed to lock those up for safekeeping until he was in a better frame of mind.  Keep breathing, Sam had told him.  Long and slow.  In and out.     

Flip.  Flip.  Flip.  Flip.

Better frame of mind.  That was a laughable statement.  What wasn’t a black hole of nothingness was filled with the pitifully few memories he had.  And most of those were not what any rational person would consider healthy by any standards.  Memories of orders barked at him in several languages.  Hands that grabbed, pulled, hit, held him down, or dragged him up.  It was like a constant itch deep beneath the layers of his skin that he just couldn’t scratch.       

Flip.  Flip.  Flip.  Fli-

An icy-cold tremor climbs up his spine.   He loses momentum and the edge of the blade cuts into the tip of his ring finger.  The pain barely registers- nothing more than a paper cut.  Bucky squeezes at it until a thin ribbon of blood oozes out. 

The breath catches in his throat at the sight of such a tiny little drop of blood.  It was supposed to hurt.  It always hurt before.  All you deserve is pain. Pain will make you stronger.

He shakes his head viciously as if that would rattle the thoughts from his mind.  No, Steve would never hurt him and he didn’t want to be hurt.  Not anymore.  He didn’t need-

No, that wasn’t entirely true.  Not more than fifteen minutes ago he was begging Steve to hurt him while he fucked him.  He was so stupid to think that all it would take to overcome decades of conditioning were a few declarations of love and some heavy petting.  Had he not been so desperate for any kind of touch that wasn’t meant to damage, Bucky probably would not have let Steve make out with him in the kitchen that one day.  They both should have known what they were getting into when a tender kiss ended with a knife embedded in his leg. 

Hydra had managed to flip a switch in his brain that told him for every ounce of pleasure he felt, that an equal dose of pain is expected.  Hydra never gave him anything without some form of twisted reciprocity.  But there was some lingering hope. If the switch could be turned on, it most certainly could be turned off.  Steve tells him this often and he wants to believe that.  He clings to it more desperately than he would care to admit, but Steve doesn’t know what it feels like.  Sure, he knows pain and loss, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose who you are.

Bucky’s hand tightens around the blade.  The spiders are crawling under his skin again.  It’s getting harder to breathe the humid air in here despite the huge gulps he tries to take in.  He knows, distantly, that if he doesn’t calm down he’ll start hyperventilating.  There is only one thing that will stop the ache.

He rips the shower curtain back and sits on the edge of the tub.  The water is hotter than he normally uses, but he doesn’t care.  He pulls his left foot up onto his right thigh exposing the softer underside.  He could run the razor blade from heel to toes.  Slicing up the gentle arch and digging his thumbs into the open wounds until the agony of it sends tears spilling from his eyes.  It’s the one place on his body that Steve would never notice something wrong. 

Bucky pushes the razor blade against his ball of this foot with the full intention of finally getting the release he so desperately needs, but his hand pauses.  He can’t.  He shouldn’t, he clarifies to himself.  His arm trembles at the exertion of staying in place.  The Devil and the Angel parts of his brain are screaming. 

Just do it already!

With an anguished cry he violently throws the blade at the tiled wall and crumples down under the hot spray and buries his face in his hands.  Only in here, away from loving eyes, can he let himself break apart.

God, you can’t even get this right, can you?

When the shaking finally stops what seems like an eternity later, Bucky flops boneless, head resting on the edge of the tub and stretches out his full length.  The water from the showerhead pelts him on the chest and the metal arm lies like the dead limb it is at his side.  It wasn’t always this hard, was it?  He’s heard stories about the man he used to be.   The suave, easy-going guy, who was always ready with a smile or a fist- whichever was needed.  Not this pathetic waste of flesh that they should have put down after the Cold War ended.

He tries so hard to be that man…for Steve.  He might not come right out and say it, but Bucky can tell when Steve gets that far away look in his eyes, he’s longing for the person he used to know.  And what he’s been left with is this grotesque changeling inhabiting the body of his best friend.  

Bucky forces himself to his feet and robotically washes.  He knows he shouldn’t linger too much longer or Steve might start to worry.  He might not remember too many specifics, but on the frayed edges of his memory is the vague recollection of unconditional devotion.   He reminds himself of that now, when he feels so low and hopes that it will be enough. 

Once he towels himself off, he retrieves the blade from the tub and reassembles the razor, placing back in the medicine cabinet in the same position it was in originally.  Nothing left out of place to cause any suspicions.

When he opens the bathroom door, a gush of cold air rushes in to greet his damp skin and the bionic implant throbs dully at the sudden temperature change.  It’s only a few steps down the hall to Steve’s- no- their bedroom and the warm bed that surely awaits him.  Bucky hates the cold.  He decides to keep what happened in the bathroom to himself.  Not because he thinks Steve would be angry or sad, which he is sure to be, but because for once he didn’t give in to the conditioning and he’d like to keep this small victory private until he can repeat it.


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