Staticveil . 001 . - Blog Posts

it was a jarring thing to be seen. she was looking at him the same way people looked at a wreckage after the smoke cleared. not horrified. not curious. just . . . seeing it for what it was. he'd spent years perfecting the art of being unreadable, it was strange to have her open him up to the right page so quickly. he didn't flinch, but his gaze flicked—just once—to the window beside her, tracking nothing. an old habit. ghosts didn't show up in glass, but that didn't mean they weren't watching.

❝ i had to relearn everything, ❞ he said, voice low and worn. he wasn't talking about muscle memory, knives, guns, languages that came back faster than his own name, those things were easy. but other things. how to sit without waiting for orders. how to want something without being punished for it. how to tell if he liked or disliked something and making decisions based on that instead of necessity. now drinking shitty coffee in an aging diner and remembering how to talk to people who weren't trying to kill him was a victory.

❝ simple life isn't so simple for people like us, ❞ bucky said, ❝ but it's a start. ❞

kara watched him,  really watched him,   &  for the first time since stepping into that diner,  she saw it — the same war-torn silence beneath his words that echoed inside her.  he wore his survival like old armor,  battered  &  ill-fitting,  but familiar.  the kind that didn’t protect you from everything,  just enough to keep moving forward.  she’d been so focused on her own fracture that she hadn’t remembered he had the same cracks mirrored in him.  different names,  different ghosts,  but the same kind of ruin.  the kind that teaches you to doubt your hunger,  your wants,  your worth. 

she looked down at her hands,  then back up at him,  quiet for a beat.  ❝you’ve had to relearn this too, ❞ she said softly,  not quite a question.  ❝all of it.❞  there was no accusation in her voice,  only recognition — a kind of dawning understanding that pulled the sharpness from her edges.  she hadn’t been alone in the dark after all.  he’d just learned how to live in it longer.   &  maybe that was what he was trying to teach her.  not how to escape it,  but how to carry light in the meantime.  a flicker.  a match struck against the inside of the ribcage. 

her fingers tightened around the mug.  ❝that’s why you brought me here. ❞ not to fix her.  not to promise something clean  &  untouched.  but to show her what survival looked like when it wasn’t being measured in missions or obedience.  to show her the messy,  ordinary way forward.  the healing that didn’t look like victory but like two people arguing about breakfast in a booth that smelled like grease  &  time. 

❝ you've put a lot of thought into this. ❞ bucky said, arching a brow as he examined the menu, ❝ i just like the crunch. ❞ he remembered what it was like in his early days after hydra. remembered struggling to even recognise when his body was hungry after so many years living off of hydra's nutrient paste and protein bars, let alone what he actually enjoyed eating. ❝ most of the places i've gotten pancakes from, the center's always been undercooked. i prefer savory stuff anyway, ❞

he took a sip of his burned coffee. bitter and harsh, and all his. that was another part of this little lesson. making a simple, mundane choice and living with it even if it wasn't satisfying. one step, one action, one choice at a time until things felt right.

❝ it's not about going backwards, kara. ❞ bucky said when he lowered his cup. he leveled his gaze with hers again, eyes that had lived through over a hundred different wars, and countless other conflicts, there was a wealth of experiences hidden behind the depths and he was drawing upon it all to try and move forward. ❝ there's no going back. who you were before, that person is gone. it's about finding our who you are now . . . and apparently you're someone who thinks a lot about pancakes and waffles. ❞

kara huffed a quiet breath — not quite a laugh,  not quite disbelief.  ❝waffles are too structured, ❞ she mused,  scanning the menu with unseeing eyes.  ❝all those perfect little squares,  like they're waiting to be filled just right.  like there’s a correct way to eat them. ❞

she let the silence stretch between them,  her gaze flicking past him to the diner’s window,  where the neon glow of the city blurred against the glass.  ❝pancakes just are.  no borders,  no expectations.  you drown them in syrup,  cut into them however you want.  they don’t ask anything of you. ❞ there was something almost wistful in her voice,  as if she was talking about more than breakfast.   

her fingers skimmed the worn edge of the menu,  tracing over the plastic as if it might give her answers,  as if she could map out a new life as easily as choosing from a list of diner specials.  make something new.  she had spent so long trying to recover what had been taken from her,  as if she could stitch the past back together  &  slip into it like an old coat.  but maybe there was nothing to go back to.  maybe she had to build something from the wreckage,  from the bones of what remained.   

❝i don’t even know where to start.❞ the words came quieter,  like she was afraid of saying them too loud,  like admitting it made it real.  ❝it’s not just failing that scares me.  it’s not knowing if there’s even anything left to build.❞

 &  yet,  she had asked for pancakes.  simple,  familiar.  something warm,  something that belonged to the world of the living.  maybe that was enough.  maybe that was where it started. 

it was difficult to hear her utter the same questions and uncertainty that plagued his every thought since regaining some semblance of identity. how often had he asked himself the same question? pondered the same inevitability of disbelief and raw undiluted regret and guilt and pain? he felt not unlike the blind leading the blind. hopelessly underprepared and praying she didn't notice.

❝ make something new. ❞ he knew he would never be the same man that he once was. he remembered how the war had changed him. hardened him, made him callous and vindictive. unapologetic in his fury. and his time as hydra's weapon, their personal attack dog, had left him haunted and broken. he could never go back to how he had been before all the blood and violence, but maybe he could forge a new version of himself that wasn't so . . . lost. the same had to be said for her as well.

i want to believe you, she said. he wouldn't tell her that he wanted to believe him too. bucky offered her a half smile when she said pancakes, nodding in agreement as he glanced down at the menu. ❝ i'm more of a waffle guy. ❞

kara curled her fingers around the warmth of the coffee cup,  as if it could bleed into her,  as if it could thaw something frozen deep in her ribs.  she turned his words over in her mind — fail,  try again,  fail again —  &  felt the weight of them settle into the hollow spaces she didn’t like to name.   

❝i don’t know if i believe that,❞ she admitted,  voice quiet,  shaped from something raw  &  uncertain.  ❝coming back implies there’s something left to come back to.❞ she traced the rim of her mug with the pad of her thumb,  eyes fixed on the way the steam curled upward  &  disappeared.  ❝what if there isn’t?❞

the thought lodged itself in her chest,  thorned  &  bitter.  she didn’t look at him,  not yet.  instead,  she listened to the quiet,  to the sound of the world continuing without her permission — the scrape of a knife against toast,  the low murmur of a conversation she wasn’t a part of,  the distant hum of a jukebox playing a song no one was listening to.  a place that didn’t need her.  a life that had gone on without her.

 &  yet,  she was still here.  still breathing,  still speaking,  still wanting — god,  wanting.  something to hold on to,  something to tether her to the world,  something that made all the blood  &  ruin  &  loss mean something.  she had never known how to exist without purpose,  without someone else dictating her movements,  her thoughts,  her very identity.  without that,  what was she?  

her fingers flexed,  released.  a breath in,  a breath out.  ❝i want to believe you. ❞ the words weren’t quite hope,  not yet,  but they weren’t despair either.  maybe that was enough.  maybe wanting was the beginning of something that could be real.  ❝ … pancakes. ❞ it was a start.

❝ then i'm not saying it right, ❞ bucky mumbled, because what he was asking her to do was the hardest thing he'd ever attempted. coming back from a lifetime of war, blood, pain, and violence was a constant work in progress and most of the time he felt as if he were performing for some invisible judge, jury, and executioner. ❝ it's not easy. it's the hardest thing you'll ever do. you'll fail, you'll try again, you'll fail again. ❞

bucky turned the mug of coffee absently in his hand. watched the steam rise from the surface and tried not to lose himself in the ordinariness of the motion. he didn't look at her when she asked about him, instead, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. truth be told, he tried not to think about it.

❝ i don't know, ❞ he said finally, ❝ but i believe it matters that we try. ❞ he nursed his jaw for several short seconds before he met her eye again, ❝ i don't have all the answers. i'm making this up as i go, but i do know this: you're not too far gone that you can't come back, kara. ❞

kara let the silence stretch between them,  let it settle around her like a weighted blanket,  unfamiliar but not unwelcome.  no history.  no past.  just now.   she traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip,  watching the way the steam curled  &  disappeared.  ❝you make it sound easy. ❞ the words weren’t an accusation,  just an observation.  she wondered if he really believed it — that the weight of the past could be shrugged off so cleanly,  left outside like a coat too heavy for summer air.   

her fingers flexed against the ceramic.  ❝maybe it is.  for some people. ❞ she glanced around,  watching the other patrons — people who belonged here in a way she never could.  the man at the counter flipping through a newspaper,  the couple sharing a plate of fries,  the waitress moving through it all like she had done this a thousand times before  &  would do it a thousand times again.  ❝i don’t know if i can be one of them. ❞  but she wanted to be.  what she wasn’t sure of was what she wanted from him.  reassurance? permission? maybe just the chance to sit here  &  pretend,  for a moment,  that she belonged.   

the waitress set a menu down in front of her with an absent smile,   &  kara nodded her thanks.  the gesture felt small but significant.  normal.  she wrapped her hands around the warmth of the coffee cup,  inhaling the scent of something burnt  &  bitter  &  real.  she looked up at bucky again.  ❝&  what about you?❞ her voice was quieter now,  but steady.  ❝do you believe that? that we can just …  exist?❞  her gaze shifted from him. ❝ do you think we can ever have … more? ❞

he leaned back in the booth, the vinyl creaking under his weight and his gaze steady on her as she studied their surroundings. he let her words settle, let the silence stretch between them, thick as the late-night air. i see a place that doesn't need me. he knew that feeling well. places like this didn't wait, didn't give a damn who walked through the door or who never came back.

she searched his face, looking for something, but bucky had spent years making sure people found nothing. still, she pressed, peeling at the edges, pulling at the threads to get to the center of it all. ❝ it's part of the idea, ❞ he acknowledged, ❝ you sit down, you exist for a while, and none of it hinges on who you used to be. ❞ he tapped a finger against the table absently. ❝ no history, no past weighing you down, just now. ❞

there was more to it, other bits and pieces he was able and willing to share, but not yet. for now, he wanted her to sit with it. the concept of existing in a space that so many others did as well. the waitress, a woman pushing late fifties with greying hair around her temples and a friendly smile despite the shadows of exhaustion around her eyes, poured them both cups of burned coffee and encouraged them to view the specials menu. he thanked her. mundane. ordinary. human.

her gaze swept the room,  taking in the flickering neon sign reflected in the window,  the linoleum scuffed from years of tired footsteps,  the old man nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.  it smelled like burnt grease  &  something sweet,  like pie left too long under a heat lamp.   

❝i see a place that doesn’t need me.❞  the words felt like they weren’t meant to be spoken aloud,  but they slipped past her lips anyway,  quieter than she intended.  her fingers curled,  then relaxed against the edge of the table.  ❝but you brought me here anyway.❞ a beat.  a breath.  ❝why?❞

she searched his face,  looking for something — an answer,  maybe,  or proof that he had one.  there was something careful in the way he watched her,  something patient,  like he knew she’d get there on her own if he just gave her time.  but she didn’t want time.  she wanted to understand.   

her gaze dropped to her hands,  the way they rested against the tabletop,  steady but foreign.  ❝places like this…❞ she started,  then exhaled,  shaking her head.  ❝they exist with or without us.  people come in,  sit down,  drink their coffee,  complain about the weather.  it doesn’t matter what we’ve done,  or where we’ve been.  we could disappear,   &  this place would go on like we were never here at all.❞

her voice was even,  but there was something frayed at the edges of it.  she wasn’t sure if she wanted to believe it or if the thought of it terrified her.  her eyes found his again.  ❝is that the idea?❞

he watched her as she studied him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind. bucky couldn't be certain what it was that she saw when she looked at him but she looked at him like he had the answer to an unspoken question. maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. the blood at their feet was already beginning to set, thick and dark, and it would stay there for a while longer but eventually, it would disappear as all unclean things did.

bucky nodded, stepped past her and over the body, out of the shadows and into the cold, neon-lit street. he led the way out of the crime scene, keeping a casual pace and walking through side streets and back alleys as if it were second nature. they walked for a long time before his destination came into view.

the diner was nothing special—chrome-rimmed stools, and faded vinyl booths—it smelled like burnt coffee and cheap bacon grease, but bucky liked it for the same reason most people overlooked it: it was steady. real. a pocket of normal.

he slid into a booth near the window with a clear line of sight to the front and rear entrances. ❝ what d'you see? ❞ bucky asked when she joined him, nodding to their surroundings with an expectant glance.

kara exhaled slowly,  watching the blood spread into the cracks of the concrete like veins beneath fractured skin.  it would dry,  flake away,  be washed into the gutters until only the memory of it remained.  but the act — the choice — would linger,  another mark upon a soul already worn thin.  she had spent years telling herself that she was beyond redemption,  that the things she had done,  the things that had been done to her,  had calcified into something immovable.  but then bucky spoke,   &  the certainty wavered,  just slightly,  just enough to let in the smallest sliver of something else.  try.   

she turned her gaze to him,  searching for something she wasn’t sure she would recognize.  he knew — knew what it was to be made into something unrecognizable,  to wake up in the ruins of a life he could barely call his own.   &  yet,  he stood before her,  not unbroken,  but whole in a way she had never believed possible for herself.  if he could come back from it,  then maybe — maybe — she could too.  the thought was terrifying in its own way.  it was easier to be a blade,  a weapon with no need for softness,  no need for hope.  but hope,  she realized,  had already taken root the moment she had let him pull the gun from her hands.   

her fingers curled into fists,  then released.  there was no erasing what had been done,  no undoing the ghosts she carried,  but perhaps there was more than just this.  more than the endless cycle of blood  &  consequence.  when she spoke,  her voice was quiet,  but steady.  ❝then let’s start. ❞ not surrender,  not absolution — but a step.   &  for now,  that was enough. 

there was no undoing what had happened to them, the world or fate or simply the harsh reality, was that it would stay with them for as long as they lived. but there was a means to overcome it. to survive and live despite the violence, the pain, and the horror of it all. she wasn't too far gone to come back to something—someone—more. it was hopelessly optimistic to believe it, and bucky knew better than most that believing it was sometimes harder than even living it, but if he could do it, then so could she.

❝ all we can do is try, ❞ he said, with the same heavy quiet that had wrapped itself around her voice. try, fail, fail again. he wasn't saying that it would be easy, but then, nothing in either of their lives had ever been easy.

bucky holstered the weapon he'd taken from her in his waistband, casting one last glance at the dead man at their feet. blood had pooled around his corpse. ❝ time to go. ❞ he said, voice louder now, something like conviction laced into his words. ❝ i know how to start. ❞

the breath she took felt foreign,  like she had forgotten how to hold air in her lungs without bracing for the next strike.  the world had been sharp edges for so long — missions  &  orders,  blood  &  consequence — that the thought of something mundane felt almost laughable.  help someone with their bags? walk someone across the street? the absurdity of it settled in her chest like a stone,  heavy  &  unfamiliar.  she had spent so long being shaped into something unrecognizable,   &  now he was telling her to rebuild herself with the smallest,  gentlest things.   

she wanted to scoff,  to tell him she wasn’t built for kindness anymore,  that her hands only knew how to take,  how to destroy.  but she swallowed the words.  because she had seen it in him — something she had thought impossible.  the way his presence no longer carried the same weight as before,  how the ghosts still walked beside him but did not dictate his every step.   &  if he could be more than what they had made him,  then maybe — just maybe — she could too.   

her fingers curled,  then flexed,  as if testing the weight of an idea she had never dared to hold.  ❝ &  if it doesn’t work?❞  she asked,  voice barely above a whisper.  but beneath it,  buried in the quiet,  was the real question:  &  if i don’t deserve it?

it was a strange thing, to see another walk so evenly in his own footsteps. he'd spent years hunting the remnants of hydra's survivors. going beyond just those that had controlled him, or those he had assisted in gaining power, influence, control. he'd had a list, ever growing, never ending, he'd soaked it in vengeance and justified it. it had taken him a long time to realise that it wasn't helping, that for every life he took, he'd only ever felt worse.

but maybe here, maybe now, he could at least help someone else reach that point earlier. she met his gaze and he held it. hoping she could find whatever it was she was searching for, beyond the memories of blood and violence, there was something else. not peace exactly, not comfort, but something that didn't feel like death warmed over.

❝ slowly. ❞ bucky said, ❝ small ways at first. mundane . . . boring. help someone with their bags. walk someone across the street. pay for someone's meal. ❞ anything that would remind her that she was flesh and blood and not a weapon primed to fire.

❝ eventually, it'll get easier. become more natural, and the people that need help will find you. ❞

kara stood frozen,  the weight of his words settling into the spaces she had tried to keep empty.  she had spent years chasing ghosts — her own,  the ones left in her wake,  the ones she had been made to create.   &  yet,  here was bucky,  telling her the truth she already knew but couldn’t bear to accept.  that the blood she spilled would never be enough to wash away what had been done to her.  that vengeance would never quiet the voice in her head whispering,  this isn’t justice.  this is just survival.   

her fingers twitched at her sides,  aching for something to hold onto.  for years,  her purpose had been defined for her,  her will overwritten.  now,  even free,  she found herself caught in the cycle of retribution,  mistaking action for atonement.  but bucky had seen through it.  he knew because he had lived it,  because he had been here before.   &  still,  he had found something beyond the nothingness.  she met his gaze,  searching for the place where his own ghosts ended  &  something else — something lighter,  something almost like hope — began.   

her throat was tight when she finally spoke.  ❝how?❞ it was barely a word,  just breath given shape.  but it was a question she had never allowed herself to ask before.  because wanting something beyond survival,  beyond punishment,  meant believing she still had a choice.   &  for the first time in longer than she could remember,  she wanted to believe him. 

❝ it never does, ❞ he said. he had been here before. the emptiness, the obsessive need to set the world right, to avenge himself and all those he'd been forced to hurt, forced to kill. but there was no setting it right, no making things the way they had been before. there was just this : the dissatisfaction of a trigger pulled and that hollow nothing only growing wider.

he ached at seeing that same emptiness reflected back at him. wished he could take it all into himself, unburden her of the injustice and wipe her slate clean again. but that was only his ego talking. tell me it gets easier, the words dug the knife deeper. no sooner had she said it, kara tried quickly to deflect it. cover up the moment of vulnerability with the carefully trained operative leaping from one objective to the other.

bucky stopped her, gloved hand raised to keep her where she was. standing over a body, standing in front of possibly the only man left who could understand what she was going through. ❝ but it does get easier, ❞ he said, expression hard as he tried to reach out, tried to be more than the ghost hydra had made of him. ❝ but not like this. stopping people like him, it's easy . . . but it's not enough. we need to . . . help people. make it so their faces are clearer than the ones we hurt. ❞

the weight in her hands was gone,  but it hadn’t left her.  the cold press of metal had burned itself into her skin,  into her bones,  just another ghost among the many she carried.  the body slumped against the wall wasn’t the first,  wouldn’t be the last,   &  yet — for a fleeting second — she had let herself believe this one might mean something.  that this act might carve out a sliver of silence in the relentless noise of her mind.  but there was no quiet.  just the same gnawing emptiness.  ❝it should have felt like justice, ❞ she murmured,  voice devoid of triumph.  ❝but it doesn’t feel like anything at all. ❞

she exhaled,  slow  &  measured,  as if she could breathe the moment away.  the tremor in her fingers betrayed her,  though not from fear.  fear had been stripped from her long ago,  torn out  &  rewritten into something colder.  something sharp.   &  yet,  as her gaze flickered to bucky’s outstretched hand,  to the space where the gun had been,  she felt the weight of his silence.  heavy.  understanding.  like he had already seen the road she was walking  &  knew exactly where it led.  ❝tell me it gets easier,❞ she said,  though she already knew the answer.   

but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.  not yet.  instead,  she let her hands fall to her sides,  fingers curling into fists as she looked away.  the blood on the concrete would dry.  the body would be removed.   &  she would keep moving forward because there was no other choice.  ❝let’s go, ❞ she said finally,  voice quiet,  resolute.  ❝before i start thinking about it too much. ❞