It's probably their creators' fault for introducing them in such a sterile setting. Steve remembers looking around the white room, pristine and perfect, like it had never been touched at all, and the thick, pale grey curtain hanging down the center of the space. Looking down at himself, he was dressed in the same crisp, starched white. Matching.
The voices came over the intercom, then, explaining the situation without giving any sign of showing themselves. Lifemates. Sure. He didn't contradict them, but Steve felt uncertainty from that moment, and when the curtain was drawn back, it only increased. The other side of the room was just as white, but the had dressed the other man, the lifemate, in black cotton scrubs, an exact contrast to Steve's.
It was eerie, especially with the gleaming silver arm. For that first moment, he felt like the room was ghostly around them, and the lifemate was the only real, living thing there. It wasn't the best foot forward. Steve was reluctant to come close, skeptical of the voices and torn where Bucky, his lifemate, was concerned.
No touching, he insists to start with. Stay on your side of the room. And he talks politely, addresses him with kindness and respect, makes sure the food supplies they're given are enough for him, but he's wary as a wild deer brought indoors, sleeping on the one chair rather than in the bed for two.
Until the third night, when he suddenly looks at him from the opposite end of the couch and says slowly, "I feel like if I touch you, everything else will disappear. That's irrational."
Irrational, but understandable, perhaps. There's some kind of subliminal draw between them. It's possible once the bond forms, nothing else will matter.
((Here's this! Can edit if you want.))
The voices came over the intercom, then, explaining the situation without giving any sign of showing themselves. Lifemates. Sure. He didn't contradict them, but Steve felt uncertainty from that moment, and when the curtain was drawn back, it only increased. The other side of the room was just as white, but the had dressed the other man, the lifemate, in black cotton scrubs, an exact contrast to Steve's.
It was eerie, especially with the gleaming silver arm. For that first moment, he felt like the room was ghostly around them, and the lifemate was the only real, living thing there. It wasn't the best foot forward. Steve was reluctant to come close, skeptical of the voices and torn where Bucky, his lifemate, was concerned.
No touching, he insists to start with. Stay on your side of the room. And he talks politely, addresses him with kindness and respect, makes sure the food supplies they're given are enough for him, but he's wary as a wild deer brought indoors, sleeping on the one chair rather than in the bed for two.
Until the third night, when he suddenly looks at him from the opposite end of the couch and says slowly, "I feel like if I touch you, everything else will disappear. That's irrational."
Irrational, but understandable, perhaps. There's some kind of subliminal draw between them. It's possible once the bond forms, nothing else will matter.