Think Slowly
Think slowly; try to remember I'm alive. My body is here and I am inside.
Stiles sequesters himself. He tries to just come to grips with his situation, which doesn't seem to have a chance of improving. Well, it has a chance, but a minuscule one, so.
He tries to be realistic. He still needs a way to forge a new identity, which is a completely weird reality. Tony is a billionaire. Stiles is sure he'd at least know someone who would know someone who would, well... yeah. But that solves one of his hundreds of other problems. And, he's actually not too sure if he even wants to go through the trouble of pretending to fit into this world like he belonged here.
He hasn't really paid much attention to anyone the past few weeks, just pretending. He only talked about things like the weather, or what everyone's been doing.
He runs a shaky hand through his hair, freshly buzzed. It's the only routine he's keeping up on. He's had maybe one meal a day for the past week or so, and not much before that. He's painfully thin and he can feel it. He can see it, cheekbones a little too prominent, figure too thin in profile. He curses himself in frustration. That's not the problem, though. It's a problem, sure, but it's not the one that really matters.
It's not the one that leaves him wrapped in guilt, mind wandering down rabbit holes. He wonders how he can feel all the people he's killed on his fingertips whenever he grazes them over a countertop, or reaches towards the cupboards. He knows what their last moments looked like when he sees his face in the mirror.
He sees his eyes first, dull and dazed, then anger, pity, inevitability. The image imprints itself over the reflection.
It takes him a while to come out of his room. He's can't stop thinking of what he's done, and how he could possibly balance it out. When he does emerge, he thinks they can see it in him. They can see what he's done. When he stops his sedated steps in the common floor's kitchen, Stiles makes sure he looks away from anyone's eyes before he has time to categorize all the things he sees on their faces.
They will know him viscerally with just that one look. He's terrified what they will see.
Nobody says anything, though. No one acts differently. Stiles stands near the counter and pours the last cup of coffee from the pot. He takes a long swallow of the bitter dark roast and then sets about making a new pot.
Someone clears their throat behind him. He turns and looks over.
Natasha is sipping from a cup opposite Clint, and they seem to be mid-hushed, animated whisper. Steve is leaning back one of the kitchen chairs at the counter, toast in one hand, waving his hand about as he talks to Tony. Nobody seems to be paying him any attention. Weird.
Stiles turns back to the coffee pot, and flinches back from the hulking mass that not only entirely too close to him, but hadn't been there a moment earlier. Stiles pushes the mass away from him and he jumps back, seeing nothing but the door and his route to it. He makes it halfway to the dining room before his brain catches up with his feet. He stalls in his step, and turns around to look. He realizes, not only had he just made a scene, the hulking mass he'd seen was just Bucky, who's now standing silently, staring at him. He's there, to the left of the coffee pot right where Stiles just pushed him. Where he's probably been the entire time, and Stiles just hadn't realized, because he hadn't been paying attention.
He hears the echo of that throat clearing in his mind as he connects the pieces, realizing how unaware he'd been.
He feels too warm, a sheen of sweat cooling just the out-most layer of skin. His heart is pounding wildly, each breath a little more shallow than the last. Stiles takes a couple of tentative steps backwards, watching everyone in the room intently. Focused in on movement, or lack thereof. And he's not moving fast enough. He has to get back to his room, alone, before he loses it completely.
Both of his hands rise to hold the sides of his head. His chest inflates and deflates. He sees Steve stand abruptly and gesture his way. Steve's lips are moving. And now that he's looking, so are Tony's. He can't hear their words, though. It's white noise, nothing piercing the eardrums.
Stiles keeps looking between the them, watching for anything that might threaten his escape. He continues backing away, eyes tracking each occupant of the room. When he gets to the other side of the door, he breaks into a run.
The pushes the button on the elevator. The door doesn't open right away. He keeps pushing the button manically, but nothing happens. He flips his head around to look towards the kitchen and sees nobody.
When the doors open, he jumps inside as quickly as he can and gets the doors shut. He paces the elevator as it takes him to his floor. The door opens with a chime again and Stiles stumbles out, noticing not for the first time that his hands are shaking. His feet feel feather light where they step. He takes the familiar route to his room and shuts the door behind him a little too loudly. He continues his way into the room, into the bathroom. He turns the water on in the shower and then collapses onto the floor in front of the sink.
He's not safe here. He pulls at the neck of his shirt to try to get some breathing room. The moments pass by too slowly. The rotating images behind his eyes turn dry, his panic like that of a lost child. He wraps his arms around his body but just feels more constricted. He pulls his shirt off and stands, resuming his pacing. The tears come unbidden to him, turning to sobs with the same gasping breath that is choking his brain of oxygen.
He tries to center himself but can't find anything to focus in on. Nothing that doesn't cast more of a dark shadow over his mind. He clenches his eyes closed tightly, gripping the edge of the counter facing the mirror. Stiles forces his eyes shut again when he finds they've opened of their own accord. Stiles turns around, eyes still closed and sits, putting his head between his knees. He searches in his mind for faces, a memory, something.
He sees Bucky's face.
No, he is actually seeing Bucky's face. He's crouching just in front of Stiles, watching him. No, he's talking. But Stiles can't concentrate on whatever it is he's saying.
Bucky shuffles closer, moving to sit next to Stiles, back against the counter.
Bucky looks over at Stiles, then wraps his arm around him. He pulls Stiles closer and then starts talking again.
Stiles can hear his voice, the cadence. It's low, melodic. He can hear Bucky laugh, then resume his talking.
The world comes slowly back to Stiles. He feels the pressure holding him down first. Then, he remembers the entire incident. He groans.
Bucky cuts himself off what seems like mid-sentence to address Stiles.
"That bad, huh?" He asks, lifting his arm from Stiles. Bucky adjusts his body to face Stiles a little more.
Stiles just groans back at Bucky.
He stands, noting the shower is already turned off. He stretches and cracks his fingers, barely able to hold Bucky's gaze.
"I think I've got it from here." Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest. "But thank you for being there for me."
Bucky grasps his shoulder briefly and nods at him once in understanding as he makes his way out of Stiles room.
"You know they're all going to talk to you about it, right?" Bucky pauses in the doorway of the bathroom for a moment and turns back.
Stiles opens his mouth to say something, what it is, he doesn't know. Bucky cuts him off.
"Talk to someone. I mean it." He growls. "It will help."
With that, Bucky takes his final leave of the room. Stiles scrubs his hands over his face and hops in the shower to get himself clean.