in the midnight hour I can feel your power

[notreadytocomply]

(Prompt: 02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.)

---

If Bucky were being honest with himself, the reason he's still awake would be the memories come to gather at the window of his mind in dark, foggy silhouettes against a backdrop of screams. Luckily he's lying to himself and blaming his rumbling stomach -- which is true, but not the real reason for the season.

Sleeping never comes easily for him when not induced behind glass sparkling with cryogenic mist, and tonight is no exception.

So Bucky shuffles off to the kitchen at 2:14 a.m. in pursuit of a midnight snack. The shitty apartment is eerily quiet, no sirens in the distance for once. For a moment it feels too out of place, as if Bucky were looking at the scene from afar--

But then he comes back to himself just as his hip bumps the handle of a pan sitting on the edge of the sink -- of all places, why couldn't the culprit (Bucky) just put it two inches farther into the sink? -- and

CLANG!

Bucky sets his jaw, ready for the inevitable oncoming reaction waiting to burst through the door in a flurry of fifteen-year-old spunk.

Comments

[witchplz]

"Heeeheee~ Yes, we absolutely have to! Especially if you're going to get all belly-achey about it."

Rahzel grabs his other hand and starts to drag him to their drab living room.

"But he can help!"

[notreadytocomply]

He rolls his eyes, oh so inconvenienced by Rahzel, and plops down onto the shitty, sagging couch. In his one of seven sins, greed, or gluttony or whatever, he grabs a second brownie as he props his feet up on the table.

"He can help by not being on my tv."

He casts her a sidelong look, nudges her shoulder.

"But I've already had a little help of my own."

[witchplz]

"Too bad-- he's here to help everyone get those pesky stains out, without any scrubbing!" She motions as if scrubbing a particularly stained shirt, hint hint, your laundry is just as gross, Mr. Barnes.

But when he nudges her, Rahzel nudges him right back, gently, and grabs the remote.

"It's what friends are for and all that."

Her heart feels warm.