AN Even though this is technically a Bucky recovery fic, it's more of a study of Steve. I often end up writing about him in the point of view of someone who idolizes him, but now I wanted to address a little bit of Steve's depression. His main priority is helping Bucky, but he can't really do that if he's not taking care of himself, first.
This story follows another one of mine called 'coming with the spring', but can be read as a stand alone.
Thanks as always to Red Bess Rackham and ThatGypsyWriter for betaing!
It was hard sometimes. Helping Bucky claw his way back to humanity was hard. Existing after the brutal aftermath of everything was hard for Steve. Sometimes, just existing felt like pushing boulders up a hill again and again, only to watch them fall back down. It was especially tricky, because on the surface Steve seemed fine. They both seemed fine. Ignoring the scar tissue and the ghosts in their eyes, they were fine.
Except Bucky was always quiet and still, his back to a wall as he studied the exits. He kept hiding knives around the apartment, in case of an attack. He only ate when Steve brought it up, because he was perpetually afraid of breaking the rules. He had a notebook stuffed with his past; pictures, newspaper clippings, sticky notes, and loose leaf papers he carved his past onto before he forgot again.
Not that Steve was doing much better. He moved like clockwork, his days hammered into neat, predictable segments that didn't leave room for the past. Although, with Bucky there, all he seemed to have was the past.
Steve had known it would take work, but he hadn't realized it would be so damned hard. It made him want to scream, but if he screamed he'd disrupt the neighbors and put Bucky even more on edge. So he kept quiet. He stayed supportive. He tried not to tally up all the ways Bucky was not Bucky anymore. He tried not to tally up all the ways he should have been able to help but could not.
Bucky didn't like to sleep. Steve had noticed the bags under his eyes when he first saw him, but he'd assumed that was from traveling. Things didn't improve after Steve set him up in the study (a room meant for guests, but Steve hadn't had any friends that wanted to stay over). Instead Bucky spent the night whittling, slicing down the hours from when Steve went to bed until he got up, existing alone in the dark.
Steve didn't say at first, even though he felt Bucky waiting for the sun to come up. Bucky needed to adjust on his own time. But when Steve found himself laying awake, knowing full well that Bucky was also awake next door, he couldn't help but think the whole situation was stupid.
It was three in the morning when Steve finally poked his head in Bucky's room. He sat on the blankets against the wall, posture perfect. He looked perfectly alert when he opened his eyes.
"You wanna ride around the city?" Steve asked, striving to sound casual.
"On the motorcycle?"
"Yeah. I'll give you a tour."
Bucky considered a moment, then nodded. They were quiet as they trekked outside, then came to a stop before the bike. It didn't seem impressive enough to demand the walk all the way outside.
Steve glanced at Bucky. "You feel like driving?"
Bucky gave him a long look. He used to complain about riding behind Steve (you drive like a maniac, Rogers; my arms can't fit around your barrel chest; I'd like to see something other than America's shoulder blades when we go somewhere), but now he looked confused at the offer.
"I don't know the city," he said.
"Don't worry, I'll bring you home."
They watched each other for a moment, both probably wondering if there was something deeper to the statement. Then Bucky shook his head and let Steve drive.
They rode for hours. They rumbled through DC, the late spring warmth rustling across their skin. Bucky's arms were tight around Steve's waist, the folds in his jacket pressing lines into Steve's skin. They were silent as they cruised past the Capital Dome, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument. They watched the people and cars pass by slews at a time, completely disinterested in the two men on the bike.
When the sun thought about making an appearance, Steve took them home. Bucky wordlessly got off the bike after it stopped, then hesitated. He looked at the ground, trying to find the words.
"I can't…it's hard for me to sleep," he finally admitted.
"Is it something I can help with...?"
"No, it's just…too loud in my head."
Steve looked at him, struggling to find something to say. He nodded and let out a breath. "Alright. Well, usually I'm up early, so if you want to do something…just ask."
He gave Steve a tired, sincere smile, then climbed the steps to their apartment.
Steve sat on his bike and waited for the sun to come up.
"I'm going to the store," Steve told Bucky.
He glanced up from where he had been reordering his notebook. Bucky's expressions were hard to read, these days. Either they didn't hold any emotion or they held too much. He nodded and looked back down. Bucky didn't ask to go along, and Steve didn't ask if he wanted anything special.
When he'd first woken up, Steve had been overwhelmed by the big grocery stores. The aisles of things were strange compared to the neat, behind-the-counter services he remembered. Even now it felt strange to pass rows of Pop Tarts, endless stacks of fruit, the mountains and mountains of pasta.
He filled his cart, trying to balance the amount of food two super soldiers needed to eat and the amount that would actually fit on his bike. On his way to the checkout, he impulsively grabbed a bottle of chocolate milk. Bucky had liked chocolate shakes, so he might like this. Steve moved to put it in his cart, then hesitated. Did Bucky still like them, or had that been conditioned out of him?
Steve let it drop into the basket and told himself to focus on checking out.
When he got home, Steve hesitated before the door. He didn't know how Bucky would react to arm loads of food. First he'd been poor, then he'd been serving overseas, then captured, then (if the crimson star on his shoulder said anything at all) made communist. Those weren't exactly lives filled with excess.
Steve closed his eyes.
Out of monsters and aliens and gods, the man on the other side of the door scared him the most. Not because he was an enhanced cyborg assassin, but because he was Steve's best friend and he might have an opinion and he might not.
Steve opened the door. Bucky glanced over the food in his arms, then stood up.
"Need help?"
"Sure. You eat breakfast, yet?" Steve had eaten before he left, but it was about time for the second of five meals for the day.
"No, breakfast sounds good." Bucky took a few of the bags from Steve, deliberate in his casualness.
Steve made eggs, sausage, and toast, while Bucky made juice and prepared some fruit. Steve noticed that not even the delicate peaches had been bruised after being handled by Bucky's metal hand.
Sam was wary about the situation. He eyed Steve during lunch like he was searching for wounds.
"How's it going?" he asked.
What's the damage report, he meant.
"It's fine. I'm fine. He's…recovering."
Sam gave him a look. "How recovered is 'recovering?'"
"I dunno," he sighed. He didn't want to fight, not with Sam. Not when he was one of few willing to help.
"Because, Steve, you don't have to fix him."
"If I'm his only chance to ever have a normal life…"
"You're not responsible for him. And you're not the only one he can hurt. No judgement, but we don't know what they've done to him. It's probably not going to be a one man job, Steve."
Steve sighed and leaned back in his chair. "If you had a chance to save Riley, in any way, you'd take it."
"Yeah, that's true," Sam said, eyes serious. "But I'd have to weigh the casualties all the same."
Steve shook his head, forcing out a smile. If they had been talking about anyone else Sam would have said 'costs'. But instead he said 'causalities', and Steve couldn't say he was wrong.
Natasha was more supportive.
How're things going? she texted a couple days later.
Not bad. He's quiet and likes Nilla wafers.
He better not eat all of them! I like those too.
Seriously, tho, you need me to come over? Natasha pressed.
I don't know. Depends on what he wants.
Steve knew there was some connection between Bucky and Natasha, but he didn't know the extents. When he mentioned her stopping by, Bucky froze. His hands lowered from tying his hair back and his eyes stayed pinned on Steve.
"What'd she say?"
"Just wanted to see if she was welcome."
Bucky nodded, eyes down.
"What happened between you two?" Steve asked. "Before Chicago, I mean."
Bucky shifted, hip pressing hard against the bathroom counter. He looked like he was dragging the words out of himself, each one a struggle.
"We were in the Red Room together. I—I taught her. Taught all of them, the little girls. She and I—" Bucky let out a ragged breath. He glared at the wall, and Steve raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay, then. If you don't want to see her…"
"They ordered me to kill her because we got too close."
Steve blinked at him, too shocked to say anything.
"They had just started wiping me. Before…" Bucky grimaced and closed his eyes. "They made me not me. I was someone else, they made me think like someone else. But it wasn't working fast enough, and to make me kill her…they had to wipe me. That's what happened."
"And…Chicago?"
"It was the first time I recognized her since." He looked miserable, broken, disgusted with himself.
"Do you want to…wait, then?"
Bucky stared at him, then nodded. Steve nodded back and left the bathroom. He sat on his bed, not seeing much. That had been the first time Bucky talked about what had happened.
Bucky's arm stopped working a month after he moved in with Steve. Steve looked around from his dinner when Bucky started hissing curses, a familiar glimpse of the man from before.
"What happened?"
"Stupid thing—it needs to be maintained, hasn't been tuned up in months."
"What do you need?"
"I don't know," he sighed. He dropped into a chair across from Steve, fiddling with his arm. The arm plates kept readjusting, the movements jerky. "They always checked it out when I was thawing."
"Thawing?"
"Yeah. It took hours."
Steve swallowed hard, trying not to panic as he thought you knew this you knew this you knew this.
"Okay," he said, standing up. "I—I know a guy who can help."
"Who?"
Steve froze, the words piling behind his teeth. He was about to name Tony, but then he had remembered. Bucky had been ordered to kill Howard and Maria. The fact slipped from his head sometimes, denial beating out hot anger.
He let out a slow breath. "Tony Stark. Howard's son."
Even if Steve hadn't been looking for it, he would have caught the shadow crossing Bucky's face.
"Howard's son. How old…?"
"About forty-five." Steve grimaced as Bucky counted back the years, trying to pinpoint exactly when he had made Tony an orphan. "Buck…I know about Howard. And Maria."
His eyes shot up to Steve, horror and fear sharpening his expression. Bucky clenched his teeth and looked away. He held his arm still, his fingertips turning white from the pressure.
"I didn't want to," he whispered.
"I know."
"I don't think I can face him."
"That's okay."
Bucky worked his jaw. His tired blue eyes drilling holes into Steve, trying to search out answers. "You know and you don't care?"
"I care," he said, hating the lump in his throat. Not even the serum had been able to fix that. "I care HYDRA used you to do it. But that's not something we can change."
Bucky nodded, eyes so afraid. They watched each other for a long moment, then Bucky nodded and let go of his arm.
"Call him, then. It's his choice if he wants to help."
After Tony picked up the phone, Steve cut from 'hello' to 'a serious request'. Things were always serious in the apartment, these days. He was pretty sure HYDRA had destroyed both their ability to laugh.
He tried to break the news gently, but Steve still heard something crack in Tony's voice through the receiver. His laugh was tight, like it came through clenched teeth.
"You're saying—and you want me to help him?"
"It wasn't him, it was HYDRA—"
"So is this how it works with you? Your friends can murder each other as long as your favorite wins? After all the shit my dad spouted about you, I would have expected more."
"Tony—"
"Fuck off, Rogers."
Steve felt the words like a gut punch as the call cut out. He put his head in his hands, dreading having to tell Bucky. But of course, Bucky didn't say anything. He probably saw the pain in Steve's eyes was a wicked confirmation he didn't want to have.
Natasha's sigh was heavy after Steve explained what happened, crackling through the receiver and setting his teeth on edge. "A phone call, Rogers? That was…not the greatest idea."
"I couldn't leave Bucky long enough to tell him," Steve said.
"Couldn't or wouldn't?" she asked, words chillingly accurate as always.
He pursed his lips. "Shouldn't."
She sighed again, and Steve could imagine her look of worn resignation. "Maybe you should work on trusting him to be alone."
"How do I know something won't happen, that he'll still be there?" He sounded panicked and pathetic, even to himself.
"Because I was, when Clint left me alone. He didn't try to tackle it all, he trusted me to do my part."
Steve didn't have much more to say after that.
Bucky disconnected his arm for the next two weeks. Steve tried not to stare as he realized that Bucky had been wounded, that the metal arm was only there because he had lost the real one when he fell.
Tony called a week later. "Put the damn thing in a box and send it up. I'll probably break your nose if I see you right now. And tell Natasha to get off my back."
He hung up before Steve could say 'thank you'.
"Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"They're gonna find out sometime."
Steve looked at Bucky, huddled up on the end of the couch. He was looking better, each day washing away the habitualized neglect HYDRA had enforced on him.
"Find out what?"
Bucky shot him a look, a 'come on' that transcended both decades and mindwipes. "Me. Who I am, what I've done. This can't last. The world will find me and hate me and lock me up."
"No, they won't."
"Steve, look at what I've done—"
"No, they won't," he repeated. "I won't let them."
Bucky's jaw worked hard. "Why? Why do you bother, Steve? Why do you believe I'm so good? I killed people. I did things I can't stand to even think about!"
"That wasn't you. That was HYDRA."
"And the Red Room. The KGB. Whoever the hell else had a hand in passing me around! There's too much for you to just ignore!" he snapped, pushing to his feet.
Steve grit his teeth. He would be damned before he lost Bucky again. "Don't talk like—"
"No, Steve!" he yelled, the loudest he'd been since he walked through the front door. "I shot you. You still have the scar on your stomach, I've seen it! Why do you trust me? Why do you let a human weapon walk around your house?!"
"Because I'm one, too."
"It's not the same, you know it," Bucky sneered. "It took me months to find myself in my own head. You have a strong body, that's all. I've been programmed to destroy nations."
Steve swallowed. His hands shook from the effort of not grabbing Bucky by the shoulders and demanding why he was fighting this, why he was making it so difficult for them to be alright. But Steve knew it wasn't Bucky's fault. Not even in the slightest.
"What do you want me to say, Bucky? I don't have answers for you. I don't know how to fix you, okay? I know things aren't going back to how they were, I get that, I'm barely keeping my own damn head above water as is! It's so obvious we both have problems, I can't help you! But for fuck's sake, don't try to make this harder on us."
Bucky blinked hard, fighting back tears. "I don't know what to do. Nothing feels right anymore. I'm not your friend anymore, I'm barely even human. I'm not—I'm not—"
He shuddered out a harsh breath, the fight disappearing as he slumped against the arm of the couch. Steve's first instinct was to rush over, but he'd tried that once and had been slammed to the floor on sheer reflex. So Steve walked slow, crossing the length of the sofa to pull Bucky into a hug.
"It's broken, it's all broken," Bucky whispered, almost choking on tears.
"I know," he said. "But I'm trying, Buck. I'm trying."
"So am I," he sobbed, grabbing Steve into a relentless hug.