Staticveil . 002 . - Blog Posts

something in his chest seemed to kick like a live wire when she laughed. it had a dangerous kind of confidence to it, like the click of a safety coming off. not loud, or boastful, just certain. he kept his pace even, boots quiet against the concrete, watching her silhouette glide ahead throught the gloom.

❝ outta the two of us? absolutely. ❞ he said. she tossed him a sidelong glance, all mischief and challenge, and he felt it again—that flicker. rooftop jobs usually meant snipers, extraction points, high-value targets. now it was books, and banter. she cradled the books to her like they were the blueprints to a softer world and when she said don't you dare skim, it sounded like a threat, but felt a lot like trust.

❝ i've fallen from higher, ❞ bucky remarked dryly, the easy grin on his lips softening his dark humour into something congestible. he followed her up the ladder, jacket fabric straining against his metal arm as it pinched between plates but otherwise, the climb was easy enough. and she wasn't wrong. the view was beautiful. the city skyline illuminated by flickering lights like bathed starlight.

kara’s laugh came quiet but sure,  a slip of silver in the dark,  like the glint of a blade catching moonlight.  she didn’t look at him right away — just kept walking,  steady  &  certain,  gaze lifted toward the rooftop’s outline ahead like she was chasing constellations only she could see.  ❝you think i’m the one who’s gonna tap out?❞ she asked,  feigning disbelief with a lift of her brow.  ❝bold of you.  i don’t start things i don’t intend to finish,  barnes. ❞

she let the moment stretch before cutting a sidelong glance his way,  that teasing curve curling at the edge of her lips.  ❝but i’ll let you have your illusions — for morale,❞ she added,  dry,  theatrical.  the books in her arms shifted as she adjusted her grip,  fingertips brushing the weather-worn covers with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things.  ❝we’ll trade off.  you read me the first chapter,  i’ll read the second.   &  when the words get good,  don’t you dare skim. ❞

she reached the base of the ladder  &  turned,  backlit by the soft spill of streetlight,  hair tousled by the breeze,  eyes bright with mischief  &  promise.  ❝hope you’re not afraid of heights, ❞ she said,  voice light but edged with something electric.  ❝because this book club? it’s got a view. ❞

it was easier to be present when the city's heartbeat pounded all around them. the distant call of sirens, the buzzing of florescent lights, the rolling of engines and other strangers burning the midnight oil. the city always felt somehow more real at night. or at the very least, bucky felt comfortable occupying the spaces of the city at night. bucky tipped his head to one side, curious as she asked incredulously if he thought that their night-time book club was a one time deal.

he watched her out of the corner of his eye. beside him at first, slipping easily into place as if they had done this a hundred times before, then slightly ahead. there was an intensity to the way she spoke and the way she moved that gave away how determined she was to make this into a habit. it was . . . unexpected, but not unwelcome.

❝ you'd be right about that, ❞ bucky said carefully, ❝ feels wrong not to finish something you've started, no matter what it is. ❞ he smiled when she flashed him a daring smile, all sharpened edges and intense eyes. ❝ you talk a big game, palamas, but i've got stamina. you're the one who's gonna need a nap between chapters. ❞

kara stepped out first,  the hush of the abandoned library fading as the pulse of the city greeted them — distant sirens,  the occasional murmur of voices carried on the wind.  she cradled pride  &  prejudice against her ribs like a secret worth keeping,  letting the weight of it settle as she glanced toward him,  eyes sharp,  knowing.  ❝oh,  you think this is just a one-time thing?❞ she mused,  the corner of her mouth curving as she slipped into step beside him,  easy as breathing.  the night stretched before them,  quiet  &  endless,   &  she had already decided — this wasn’t just a single evening’s indulgence,  a fleeting moment swallowed by the city’s restless hunger.   

she moved ahead,  just enough to make him follow,  her voice drifting back to him like the echo of something inevitable.  ❝two books,  barnes,❞ she reminded him,  tapping pride  &  prejudice against the spine of a tree grows in brooklyn where it still hid in his pocket.  ❝that’s at least a couple of nights.   &  i don’t think either of us are the type to leave a story unfinished. ❞ the words carried a weight beneath the teasing,  something unspoken yet understood.  they had both left too much behind,  too many pages torn out,  too many endings they never got to choose.  maybe this,  small as it was,  could be different.   

she shot him a look over her shoulder,  dark eyes glinting with challenge,  with invitation.  ❝better pace yourself, ❞ she warned,  all playful arrogance now,  half-daring,  half-taunting.  ❝wouldn’t want you losing steam before we even get to the good parts. ❞ then she turned back ahead,  leading him toward the rooftop,  the city’s glow stretching out before them like a world of stories waiting to be told. 

this time when the smile came, it was easier, intentional. he watched the way that her eyes seemed to brighten with a challenge, an unspoken dare breathed out between them. she slipped passed him with practiced ease, light footed and smooth as silk, answering his teasing with some of her own.

he watched her for another handful of short seconds. the way she glanced back at him, how her fingers brushed over the abandoned shelves. he followed after her—something that was becoming effortless—and peaked over her shoulder as she drew pride and prejudice from one of the shelves. he remembered seeing the bright orange covers the hotel taft used to hand out to its guests like a gideon bible or a complimentary set of matches.

❝ who could say no to a little jane austen to finish the night? ❞ bucky retorted as he fell into step beside her. he didn't remember much of the novel itself, bits and pieces of the narrative and the writing style trickled into the forefront of his mind as they made their way to her designated rooftop spot. ❝ in one night? that's ambitious even for you. ❞ he said, amusement lacing itself into his voice as he spoke.

kara let her smirk linger,  the kind that meant trouble in the gentlest way.  ❝ alright,  no voices, ❞ she conceded,  tilting her head as if weighing the terms of their unspoken deal.  ❝ but we take turns. ❞ a flicker of challenge lit her eyes as she stepped past him,  brushing close enough for the scent of old paper  &  night air to settle between them.  ❝ &  since you’re so particular about your books,  i say we start with a tree grows in brooklyn. ❞

she didn’t wait for his answer,  only cast him a glance over her shoulder,  teasing,  daring,  as she stepped toward the doorway.   her fingers skimmed along the shelves as they made their way out,  movements lazy,  absentminded — until they weren’t.  she paused,  plucking a worn copy of pride  &  prejudice from where it had been tucked between heavier,  less inviting spines.  she held it up just enough for him to see,  lips curling at the edges.  ❝for variety, ❞ she remarked,  slipping it under her arm as she pushed open the door.  ❝unless you’re afraid of a little romance.❞

outside,  the night air pressed cool against her skin,  the city stretching wide  &  endless beyond them.  the rooftop she’d promised loomed ahead,  waiting,  their own private escape above the world.  ❝but don’t worry,  barnes.  i’ll read the good parts. ❞ a beat.  a wicked little grin.  ❝&  by that,  i mean all of it. ❞

❝ i think we've found enough books for one night, ❞ bucky said, ❝ we can always come back. this place doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon. ❞ he added. her second option had bucky releasing a breath that wasn't quite a laugh but had the shape of one, something easy, something light.

❝ reckless, huh? ❞ the word rolled past his lips with ease. he leaned in just a fraction, a movement that wasn't meant to intimidate, but to tease.

❝ you want me to read to you, palamas? ❞ his voice was low, edged with something almost smug, but warm all the same. the tease came almost effortlessly, easier than it should've. a year ago, hell, even a few months ago, he would've let the silence settle there, but not now.

❝ if we're gonna do this, you should know—i don't do voices. ❞

kara watched the way his fingers curled around the book,  the deliberate care of it.  like he was holding something fragile,  something that mattered.   &  maybe it did.  maybe it was more than paper  &  ink,  more than a story — it was a bridge,  a tether to a past that hadn’t been entirely stolen.  she didn’t say anything,  just let the silence stretch,  let him have the moment.  some things didn’t need words.   

but when he looked at her,  something different flickered in his expression — lighter,  a ghost of something unburdened.  it made her chest ache,  just a little,  the way it always did when she caught glimpses of what could have been,  what still might be.  he tucked the book into his pocket,   &  she tilted her head,  considering his challenge.   

❝next adventure … right,❞ she exhaled a quiet laugh,  glancing around at the hollowed-out remains of forgotten stories.  ❝well,  we could always stick around,  find the weirdest book title in the place. ❞ her gaze flickered back to his,  something warm beneath the teasing.  ❝or i know a rooftop,  one of those places no one’s supposed to go but everyone does anyway.  good view,  bad idea.  but we could read there,  if you’re feeling reckless.❞

you pick books like you pick your words, sharp. a little raw, she said. maybe he did. maybe that was how he picked all things, but kara didn't seem to mind it. be let the weight of the book settle, milk and honey wasn't the kind of poetry that soothed—it cut, left its mark, words that bled if you held them too long. he figured it was why it had felt right. some things weren't meant to be easy.

but then she pulled out a tree grows in brooklyn, and for half a second, his breath caught. she placed it in his hands and his fingers closed around it slow, deliberate, as if he was concerned that if he moved too fast it'd vanish. books had a nasty habit of disappearing, being left behind, taken, or like the library, forgotten. it had been a long time since he'd seen this particular book and while it wasn't his old copy, it mattered. a link back to an different time. a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, boyish and charming as he turned the book over in his hands and met her eye.

❝ i guess you do, ❞ bucky agreed tucking the paperback into his breast pocket for later, ❝ which means, you get to pick the next adventure. so what'll it be? ❞

kara turned the book over in her hands,  considering it.  poetry.  it wasn’t what she expected,  but it fit in a way she couldn’t quite put into words.  ❝you pick books like you pick your words,❞ she remarked,  flipping through the pages.  ❝sharp.  a little raw. ❞ there was no teasing in it,  just quiet observation,  the kind that sat between them without needing to be acknowledged.  she thumbed through a passage,  letting the weight of his choice settle before she finally looked up.  ❝i’ll take it. ❞

she let the silence stretch,  long enough for the weight of his pick to settle between them,  before she reached behind her,  pulling her own real find from where she’d tucked it away.  the thin volume of poetry shifted in her grasp as she held up the worn copy of a tree grows in brooklyn.  ❝but i did take you for this type, ❞ she said,  softer now,  a quiet triumph in her voice.  the book was old,  its spine softened with use,  the pages yellowed at the edges,  but it was whole.  whole in the way that mattered.  ❝thought you might like to have it again.❞

❝found it buried in the back,  tucked away like someone meant to come back for it.❞ she didn’t say what she was really thinking — that maybe it had been waiting for him.  she placed it in his hands without flourish,  without expectation.  just a quiet offering.  his fingers closed around it,  lingering,  and that was enough.  kara nudged him lightly as she turned back toward the stacks,  a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips.  ❝guess i win this round. ❞

he smiled, tight lipped and still slightly grim, but it was a smile nonetheless. he watched her go, only once she was out of sight did he turn his eye to the shelves of books. it took him longer than he would have liked to admit to really pay attention to what he was looking at. he picked his way through, trying to remember the last time he actually read a book for leisure at all.

eventually, she returned to him and bucky arched a brow as she presented him with her find. the teasing was gone now, but he knew the feeling well—the hesitation before offering a piece of yourself. he took the book from her hand and blew out a breath, the velveteen rabbit. his expression softened, thumbing through the pages absently.

❝ okay . . . i'm impressed, ❞ bucky admitted, ❝ i didn't think this place would have it. ❞ he turned the book over in his hands before presenting her with his own find. milk and honey by the poet rupi kaur. what is stronger than the human heart, he'd read while thumbing through the pages. ❝ we might need a third opinion. ❞

kara stepped further inside,  the dim light filtering through cracked windows,  tracing the curve of her cheek as she smirked over her shoulder.  ❝oh,  you’re on, ❞ she said,  voice laced with something playful but edged in challenge.  her fingers trailed along the spines of forgotten books,  their titles half-erased by time,  their covers worn soft like well-loved things.  there was something about places like this — untouched,  abandoned,  yet still breathing with the weight of words left behind.  ❝winner gets to pick the next adventure, ❞ she added,  glancing at him as if daring him to up the stakes. 

she disappeared into the stacks before he could answer,  moving through the rows with an ease that came from years of seeking refuge in places like this.  a quiet sanctuary,  where no one asked who you were before or what you might become.  her fingers stopped on a book with a cracked leather spine,  its gold lettering dulled but still there.  the velveteen rabbit.  she exhaled softly,  thumb brushing over the title.  a story about being loved into something real.  a story about survival.  about what it meant to endure. 

when she found him again,  she held it up without a word,  her gaze steady.  a moment passed between them,  something unspoken stretching in the quiet.  ❝i think i win, ❞ she said finally,  but her voice had lost its teasing edge.  there was something else there,  something weightier,  as if she was offering more than just the book.  a piece of herself,  maybe.  a quiet understanding,  waiting for him to take it not knowing that behind her back she held yet another surprise. ❝ you find anything?❞

❝ now that, i don't believe, ❞ bucky said. he'd never really had the eye of a creative, he couldn't write or draw or mold things into something new and extraordinary, creation had never been his wheelhouse. ❝ you should try it out again. ❞

bucky studied the abandoned library as it towered over them. worn and shabby, neglected by the city and easily overlooked in the endless repetition of the day to day. there were many like it scattered all over, foreclosed, forgotten, lost. ❝ then you might like the velveteen rabbit, ❞ he said.

for a moment he lingered outside, eyes flicking up the ruined façade of the library before settling on her silhouette in the doorway. the way she touched the metal—like it meant something—made his jaw tighten. he'd spent too many years breaking into places like this, never invited, never looking for anything as simple as a book.

❝ we gonna take bets on who finds the best reading material? ❞ he asked as he followed her. inside, the air was thick—paper dust, mildew, and the ghost of old knowledge left to decay. it smelt of wet wood and something faintly metallic.

kara let out a breath that was almost a laugh,  quiet  &  fleeting,  as if it had slipped past her defenses before she could stop it.  ❝i tried,❞ she admitted,  tilting her head slightly as they walked.  ❝nothing worth remembering. ❞ a lie,  maybe.  or maybe just a truth she hadn’t quite decided how to hold.  words had once come easily,  before they were twisted,  before she learned that even language could be taken,  repurposed,  rewritten until she could no longer trust the sound of her own voice.  but she liked the thought of it — him,  a soldier at war with the world,  holding onto stories like they might ground him.   

the library loomed ahead,  dark  &  forgotten,  waiting like a relic of another time.  she glanced at him then,  watching the way the past played behind his eyes,  flickering like old film,  something just out of reach.  ❝ tree grows in brooklyn,❞ she mused,  her voice softer now.  ❝that one makes sense.❞ a story about survival,  about finding something worth holding onto in a world that never made it easy.  ❝i always liked the ones about lost things, ❞ she admitted,  as if that,  too,  explained something.   

she hesitated at the door,  fingers brushing against worn metal before she pushed it open,  the scent of old paper  &  dust greeting them like an old friend.  ❝come on,❞ she said,  her voice lighter now,  an invitation rather than an instruction.  ❝let’s see if we can find something worth reading. ❞ there was something in the quiet of the place,  in the ease of conversation that had found its own rhythm between them,  that almost felt like a reprieve.  maybe even something close to peace. 

his pace didn't change, but he heard the shift in her tone—the careful attempt at something lighter, the way she tests the weight of conversation like someone checking for weak ground. he understood the instinct. the city moved around them, alive but distant, separate from them almost, but still, his mind catches on her question. did he like reading? before?

before is a loaded word. before the war? before hydra? before he'd become something other than himself. there's too much ground to cover, and he still wasn't entirely sure where he was supposed to land in it anymore. but he doesn't mind the question. it's not one people usually ask him.

❝ yeah. i did. ❞ he remembered that brooklyn in the '30's wasn't much for distractions when one was barely scraping by. books were an escape, something that didn't ask anything from you except time. he remembered carrying a copy of a tree falls in brooklyn while on the frontlines. ❝ life stories. coming of age. adventures. ❞

her smirk caught his eye, that teasing lilt in her voice pulled the corners of his mouth upward—just barely, but enough. ❝ i bet you wrote your own, ❞ he teased in return, ❝ none of the other poets could explain it like you. ❞

the city pressed in around them as they walked,  the night thick with the scent of rain on pavement,  the distant hum of traffic,  the whisper of wind through alleyways.  kara fell into step beside him,  hands tucked into her coat,  shoulders drawn inward against the cold.  the weight of their last words lingered,  heavy but not unbearable.  survival,  she had learned,  was rarely about victory — just endurance.   &  endurance was easier when silence did not demand to be filled.   

still,  she broke it.  ❝did you like reading?❞ her voice was quiet,  more observation than idle talk.  ❝before,  i mean. ❞ books had been her refuge,  history her constant.  the past never betrayed the way people did — it only revealed itself,  page by page.  she wondered if he had something like that,  something to tether him before the world made him a ghost of himself.   

she glanced sideways,  a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.  ❝something tells me you weren’t the poetry type. ❞ a pause,  then something almost teasing,  almost warm.  ❝or maybe you were.  brooding soldier with a book of sonnets tucked into his jacket.  wouldn’t be the strangest thing i’ve seen. ❞ the corner of her mouth twitched,  the words easier,  lighter.  maybe not normal — but something close enough. 

he pinched his lips together tightly, grim and final upon the bitter laugh that escaped her lips. yes, it was cruel, the cruelest part of what had been done to them was the aftermath. the trying and failing, and trying, and failing to piece some semblance of normalcy back together after being ravaged and having no one else to blame for it.

bucky didn't consider himself particularly spiritual, even with all the impossible things he had seen and experienced, but when their eyes met, something within him seemed to . . . connect. the same unknown thing reflected back, whole and seemingly so real it might as well have been tangible.

the corners of his mouth twitched into a bittersweet smile. he couldn't comfort her, he couldn't sooth her doubts or anxieties, and he couldn't heal her wounds but this—this he could do. the assurance that she wasn't alone, that there was someone who understood, who could share in the burden, who would not flinch or hide or placate with falsehoods. he wanted it to be enough. ❝ we take what we can get, ❞ bucky agreed.

the bittersweet smile lingered, softening at its edges as she mentioned a mostly abandoned library. the tension that had gathered around them as they spoke lightened as they shared their burden between them. ❝ i've got nowhere better to be. ❞ he stood, ❝ lead the way. ❞

kara closed her eyes for a moment,  exhaling through her nose,  as if she could push the weight of it from her chest.  it never worked.  the weight did not leave — it only settled differently,  shifting like sand,  filling spaces she hadn’t realized were hollow.  survival,  he called it,  but it did not feel like survival.  survival should have meant something more than this endless treading of water,  this constant recalibration of self,  this desperate attempt to define the edges of a person who had been reshaped too many times to recognize.  

she had spent years dissecting history,  unearthing lost truths from ruins,  believing that knowledge could illuminate the fractures in time.  but what of the fractures in herself? what of the moments lost to another’s will,  the choices stolen before they could ever be hers?  &  what of the things she had done in that space between will  &  coercion — things she could never quite convince herself weren’t,  on some level,  choices?  

she let out a quiet laugh,  humorless but not unkind,  the sound barely more than breath.  ❝isn’t that the cruelest part?❞ her voice was softer now,  frayed at the edges like something worn thin by time.  ❝that survival isn’t about winning.  it isn’t about answers.  it’s just waking up  &  carrying it again.   &  again.   &  again.❞ she had spent so long chasing resolution,  clinging to the belief that if she just found the right question,  the right truth,  the right name for what had been done to her,  it would make a difference.  that it would become something she could lock away in the archives of her mind,  catalogued  &  contained.  but there were no clean lines here,  no dates to mark the end of a war still waging beneath her skin. 

 &  yet,  when she lifted her gaze to his,  something shifted.  there was no judgment in his eyes,  no expectation — just the quiet understanding of someone who knew exactly what it was to live in the in-between.  the silence between them was not empty but full,  layered with something unspoken,  something almost gentle in its recognition.  her breath caught,  just for a moment,  before she softened,  her voice quieter now,  something raw threading through it.  ❝but if we have to carry it,❞ she murmured,  ❝then i suppose there are worse things than sharing the load.❞ it was a quiet offering of company in the places where ghosts still lingered.  maybe that was enough. 

❝there’s an old library a few miles from here,❞ she said after a pause,  the words careful,  deliberate.  ❝abandoned, mostly.❞ a beat,  then a faint,  fleeting flicker of something like wry amusement in her eyes.  ❝unless you have a better idea.❞

the soldier's expression shifted, a hard edge to the way the corners of his mouth tightened as she gave voice to things he'd only ever kept in his head. he felt uncomfortably exposed, as if she were pulling things from his own head, kicking and screaming, into the dim light of the old bulb above their heads.

❝ you know that i do. ❞ he said. ❝ i go every day asking the same things you do. is this the real me, or is it the thing they made me into? will i ever know? is any of this real or is it a dream? did i really do those things? was it even me if i can't say for sure? ❞ there was no easy answer.

❝ if you play that game of what if's, you'll lose every time. ❞ bucky said with the same unconscious resignation reflected in her face. he had nothing to offer her. no answers or absolution, no wise teachings to cure her of her doubts. only the cold hard truth of survival. ❝ you learn to live with it. ❞ it wasn't what she wanted to hear, he knew, because he didn't want to hear it either. no one wanted to be told that they would have to live with the doubt the rest of their lives, that there was no digging it out, no killing it, only enduring.

❝ and if it gets too heavy . . . at least you're not carrying it alone. ❞ quite the pair they made. maybe if they stuck their broken pieces together they'd be able to make a whole and functional person.

the words landed with a weight that settled somewhere deep,  pressing against the places she had spent years trying to bury.  it would have been easier if he had argued,  if he had given her the sharp edge of disbelief,  something solid she could push back against.  but she knew better — he didn’t deal in false comforts.  he had no need for excuses,  & it seemed no interest in dressing wounds that would never fully close.  

kara exhaled slowly,  a breath that felt more like surrender than relief.  ❝then you know what it’s like to wake up  &  not be sure if the thoughts in your head are yours.  to second-guess every action,  every instinct,  because there’s always that whisper — maybe this isn’t me,  maybe this is what they left behind. ❞ her voice was steady,  but there was something beneath it,  something brittle.  ❝ &  the worst part? even when you fight your way back,  even when you know it’s over,  it never really is.  because what if they were right? what if it wasn’t all forced? what if — ❞ she stopped herself,  jaw tightening.  that was the thought she never spoke aloud.  the one that lingered in the quiet spaces,  in the dead hours of the night when there was no mission to focus on,  no objective to drown in.   

she looked at him then,  really looked,   &  she for a second it was as if she could see it — the same question buried in the sharp lines of his face,  the tension in his shoulders.  like he understood.  not in theory,  not in sympathy,  but in a way that only someone who had lived it could.  ❝so tell me, ❞ she said,  quieter now,  but no less steady.  ❝what do you do with it? the knowing? the weight of it? because i’ve read every philosophy,  every myth,  every self-help book,   &  none of them have an answer that doesn’t feel like a lie. ❞