[oom] I'll see you in the morning time

[nerves_of_ice]

The low hum of the television on the twenty-four hour sports channel continues all through the night, casting its shadows and dim electronic light over the bed, the blankets, and the two of them curled up together there.

For once, there are no nightmares.

It's only once the sun starts making its way above the horizon and the sky outside begins to fade from black to blue that Bucky stirs - and as he realizes where he is and who's with him, a sunshine-bright smile lights his face.

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[from_the_outside]

She rests her chin on a palm and just watches him for a long moment like a teenager with a crush on the cutest boy in study hall before she smiles to herself and turns back to the laptop.

The tab with the chosen sofa gets saved; she opens a few new ones to start a search for a small dining set. This might take a little longer; she'd had a vague idea for the couch but isn't quite as sure what direction to take with the table and chairs.

Round, square, rectangle? Extendable or drop-leaf? Solid wood, she thinks, and starts there. Dark wood, warm and homey. Soon she's absorbed in her search, clicking through to study and then dismiss various options or to save one in a new tab for later.

[nerves_of_ice]

He pulls out the last bundle of clothing and carefully unwraps it from the dark cracked glass art, which he sets on top of the dresser for now before refolding the last few things and putting them away.

Maybe he can get another stand to hold it, or maybe if he contacts the artist they’ll be able to suggest something to hold both pieces. He has a vague idea for a dual clear frame that wouldn’t block the light, but he’s not sure if such a thing even exists. Still, there’s no rush.

[from_the_outside]

With a few possibilities selected, she glances up to call him over.

Except her glance lands on the all-too-familiar piece of cracked glass art, and an anxious chill spills into her system. "Not in here," she says, more sharply than she'd meant.

She takes a breath, reminds herself she's not in Madripoor anymore, and aims for something approaching her usual tone. "We can find a spot in the living room, maybe."

[nerves_of_ice]

He's already turned entirely around to look at her in surprise and concern.

"Sharon?"

[from_the_outside]

Well, fuck.

She tamps down on the involuntary surge of anxiety and shakes her head, refocusing a little grimly on the laptop screen. It doesn't help; she's not absorbing anything she's looking at.

What's the best way to phrase this so it doesn't sound like she's having some kind of complicated emotional downward spiral? "I don't want it in the bedroom."

Yeah, that probably wasn't it. She adds, "Please."

[nerves_of_ice]

Bucky looks at her, picks up the glass art, and disappears down the hallway to the living room. He’s back in mere seconds, and comes around to her side of the bed and sits down beside her.

“Okay,” he says. “Now tell me why.”

[from_the_outside]

Why.

Couldn't he start with a simpler question, like what do you think space is? or does God exist?

She stares at the laptop screen without having any idea what's on it and says, "Because if I see it right when I wake up I'll think I'm back in Madripoor."

Which is true, even if it's not everything. She's not sure even she can articulate the everything that is her feelings about that piece of art.

[nerves_of_ice]

“Okay,” he murmurs, remembering the way she’d looked at it when they were packing. He hadn’t pushed it then. Maybe he should have.

“Does it bother you to have it here?”

[from_the_outside]

"No," she says, instantly, which is such an obvious lie even she grimaces and shakes her head. Apparently this is happening; she reaches out and closes the laptop, then folds her arms on the mattress and puts her chin on them, looking across the foot of the bed toward the dresser. "A little."

Which is hedging, but it's a start. "It's complicated."

[nerves_of_ice]

He puts his hand lightly on her back, just resting it there in support.

“Okay,” he says again. “Can you tell me?”

[from_the_outside]

There's a long moment where she doesn't say anything, just breathes deep to feel his hand on her back.

If she's going to voluntarily remember all this, she's going to need it.

"It took me three years to get to where I was," she says, after a few more long, quiet breaths. "I told you some of it – a lot of it – but it was... not a pleasant time."

The things she did. The things she had to do. "Having anything that would tie me back to... before... was too much of a vulnerability. And in the meantime I was doing worse and worse things and I didn't have anything that could remind me of who I was before because I couldn't. I couldn't afford it. I couldn't be Sharon Carter if I wanted to live."

[nerves_of_ice]

Slowly, he begins to run his hand back and forth as he listens. Between her shoulders, then along her spine, deliberate and soothing and anchoring her in the here and now. He hopes.

Maybe Sam has Fury’s number. If not, he can go looking.

“Uh-huh,” he says, trying to encourage her. Trying to make sure she knows he’s listening to every word.

[from_the_outside]

She closes her eyes with a silent sigh, focusing for a moment on his hand smoothing over her back.

It helps. "So three years in, more or less, I set up the gallery, the penthouse. I couldn't have any photos or anything that was obviously from Wakanda. And you were gone."

That comes out a little strangely, a little too desperate. She swallows hard and focuses. "But I kept thinking about that art. It wouldn't be obvious, it would match everything else, and I was an art dealer so it would kind of be expected for me to have some pieces around. And I thought it would be nice – useful. Like a kind of code that was just from me to me. That maybe no matter how cracked and broken I got there was still some way to put the pieces back together. So I got it and I put it in my room where no one else would ever see it, and I looked at it every morning and every night and thought about you and found some way to get through another day."

[nerves_of_ice]

His breath catches in his throat, going ragged, and he’s desperately grateful she’s not looking at his face.

—no matter how cracked and broken I got—

He understands, all too well. He remembers first looking through the window of the gallery in Leipzig, struck to the bone by what he was seeing and how it resonated along every nerve with the hope of an impossible dream made something more.

He presses his hand a little harder against her back as he makes a low sound to let her know he’s still listening, and stays otherwise quiet.

[from_the_outside]

"It wasn't – I don't know how to explain it," she says. "It wasn't comforting. Most of the time it made me feel worse. But it was just enough to remind me what I was trying to do and maybe it was the only thing that kept me from just giving in and turning into the person I was pretending to be. So now –"

Now, what? She shakes her head at herself, trying to separate the part that's telling this story from the part that's having an intensely uncomfortable emotional relapse.

"So now when I look at it, it's like I'm back there. Then. Hanging on by a fingertip and thinking about how much easier it would be to just let go. And I know I'm not," she says, a little fiercely. "I know you came. I know I'm here. I know that's all real. And I couldn't ever give that piece up, it means too much to me. But I just – when I look at it now –"

She falls silent, shaking her head again. "I don't know how to explain it."

[nerves_of_ice]

He carefully sweeps her hair away from the back of her neck, and leans over to plant a kiss on her nape.

“I get it, I think,” he murmurs. “We’ll find a way to display it where you can always see where you are, not just where you were.”

[from_the_outside]

She breathes out a sigh and nods. Then, because that was intensely stressful and she feels as sore and tired from it as if she'd been pummeled and kicked, she shifts on the mattress to put her head in his lap and closes her eyes again.

[nerves_of_ice]

He draws his fingers through her hair and over her shoulder, then repeats the slow caress over and over again.

“You’re so strong,” he murmurs. “One of the strongest people I know.”

[from_the_outside]

"It doesn't feel that way."

The last thing she feels right now is strong. Exhausted, yes. Fragile, definitely.

But his hand in his hair and on her shoulder feels good and she just focuses on that instead of anything else.

[nerves_of_ice]

“I know, baby.”

He keeps petting her, slow and steady.

[from_the_outside]

"That feels nice," she murmurs.

After another few minutes, she adds, "Sorry for..."

She waves a hand in a vague gesture that means something like sorry for the emotional rollercoaster/bringing down the mood/the nasty surprise. She'd finally gotten some sleep, but she feels tired all over again.

[nerves_of_ice]

“Hey. No.” He cups his hand under her chin and turns her head up so she can look at him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”

[from_the_outside]

It's a very kind lie. She has a lot of things to be sorry for, but he probably means the emotional whiplash they both just went through, and even though she's not sure she believes it for herself, she remembers saying similar things to him and believing them.

So he believes it, which means she can believe it. "Okay."

She's watching him with her eyes solemn and dark, even as she tugs at one corner of her mouth. "That's good, because this probably won't be the last time it happens."

[nerves_of_ice]

He bends forward, leaning down to her, and kisses her. Against her lips, he murmurs, “Then we’ll deal with it, when it does.”

[from_the_outside]

He says we and she just melts.

(It's been just her for so long.)

She kisses him carefully back, then shifts again to press her face into his stomach and wrap her arms around his middle.

"Okay," she says again, muffled.