Penny doesn’t smell right. Steve isn’t sure why, he doesn’t know that she’s giving off worry and fear in her very scent but he does know that he doesn’t like it. It makes him feel nervous, like he’s doing something wrong. It makes him want to go.
Thankfully, the moment Bucky reminds him that he has a job and roommates and class the next day, he’s shoving the bacon back into the fridge. “Ah crap. Crap, I don’t— I’m real sorry, pal, I just gotta run.” He skirts Penny quickly. He wants to give Bucky a hug, but he can’t. Not wanting to cross the dog, not wanting to make the situation worse, he takes himself and his hunger and his strangeness out of the apartment.
“Ill come check on you tomorrow,” he calls, as if Bucky was attacked, and shoots off various texts as he half jogs home. That he’s not out of breath by the time he gets there says a lot, but he’s too distracted to notice.
None of his clothes fit him. His shoes are too tight. He itches and he burns as he tries to be helpful to people at the art store who are buying supplies he knows they’ll never use and will go to waste. He barely swallows down his anger.
Leaving work means passing Bucky’s apartment. He finds himself climbing the stairs with feet that ache. The buttons on his shirt over his chest are almost bulging, threatening to burst. The itching hasn’t stopped. Going home makes the most sense, but he can’t not see Bucky.
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Thankfully, the moment Bucky reminds him that he has a job and roommates and class the next day, he’s shoving the bacon back into the fridge. “Ah crap. Crap, I don’t— I’m real sorry, pal, I just gotta run.” He skirts Penny quickly. He wants to give Bucky a hug, but he can’t. Not wanting to cross the dog, not wanting to make the situation worse, he takes himself and his hunger and his strangeness out of the apartment.
“Ill come check on you tomorrow,” he calls, as if Bucky was attacked, and shoots off various texts as he half jogs home. That he’s not out of breath by the time he gets there says a lot, but he’s too distracted to notice.
None of his clothes fit him. His shoes are too tight. He itches and he burns as he tries to be helpful to people at the art store who are buying supplies he knows they’ll never use and will go to waste. He barely swallows down his anger.
Leaving work means passing Bucky’s apartment. He finds himself climbing the stairs with feet that ache. The buttons on his shirt over his chest are almost bulging, threatening to burst. The itching hasn’t stopped. Going home makes the most sense, but he can’t not see Bucky.