Nostalgia Really Sucks-Stucky

No, But Nostalgia REALLY Sucks

This is my first try at writing angst, so if you could maybe not crucify me if the story is in any way grammatically incorrect, or incorrect in facts or in character descriptions, that would be great. Also can I just say that the beginning is kind of shitty because I was just getting into my groove, but it gets a lot better at the end? I usually hate everything I write, so me complimenting myself is big. Just keep reading.

Steve Rogers was jolted awake by the feel of a cold metal object being pressed against his neck. He slowly opened his eyes, knowing what he would see once he did, and knowing not to make any sudden movements.

He sadly sighed as he looked into the eyes of James 'Bucky' Barnes. Written there was a splattering of emotions; confusion, forced cruelty, and terror, which he was trying hard to hide.

"Who are you?" Bucky asked, his voice rough and unsteady, the human hand that held the knife at Steve's throat shaking slightly, although his face was a mask of calm.

Steve felt sadness shoot through him, and he tried not to sigh again."Bucky," he groaned, his voice thick with sleep and emotion, his blonde hair ruffled and in disarray, the sheets tangled around his legs the only thing preserving his modesty. "It's me...it's Steve...C'mon, let's not do this tonight....just come back to bed...Bucky, please." His tone was pleading and pathetic, even to him, but he couldn't help it. It had been over a month since Bucky had had a relapse, and Steve had hoped they were over.

But Bucky refused to snap out of it.

"Am I supposed to kill you?" Bucky asked, trying, and failing, to hide his growing panic. "Is that why I'm here?"

A bitter laugh bubbled up in Steve's throat as he pondered that question, but it quickly died as Bucky removed the knife from his throat, grabbed him by his hair, and slammed his head into the wooden headboard of the bed with a resounding crack. Then the knife bit back into the skin of his throat.

Steve groaned and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his hand. He found it rather puzzling that something that felt so good only hours before could hurt him so much now, especially when done by the same person. Different situation, he figured.

Way different.

"Goddamn." He muttered, wincing as Bucky once against pulled him up by his hair.

"Answer me!" Bucky said loudly, his face schooled into an unfeeling mask, his dark brown hair smashed in on one side and sticking up on the other, weariness apparent in his eyes, his entire body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, and his black boxer briefs tight and leaving little to the imagination.

Steve was silent for a moment, his thoughts evident on his face. He was trying to figure out the best way to not die, as tiny drops of blood trickled from the wound in his throat, staining the white sheets crimson.

"To answer your question," Steve said, trying to hide the fact that his heart was beating out of his chest, "No, you're not supposed to kill me. That would be bad."

"Then why am I here?" Bucky asked at a normal volume level, speaking in an emotionless, yet skeptical tone.

"Well," Steve said, "You live here." He waited with bated breath, hoping that this statement wouldn't be met badly. When Bucky was having an episode, there was no telling the things that would set him off, whether it be the fact that Steve's eyes were the wrong color, or the one time that Bucky didn't like the placement of the nightstand, it could be anything.

But, not his question, because Bucky only looked around the room, a grim smile on his face, "Yeah, right. I know where I live, and it's not a place this nice."