AN I didn't mean to do this. I swear, I absolutely did not. But then I read RedBessRackham's fabulous story (titled: and you can tell everybody this is your song) just after I watched Political Animals (and I swear to all that is right if TJ Hammond is not the quintessential SebStan character, I know nothing at all), and then there was this self-indulgent conversation about 'Oh NO, I COULDN'T write this, look at everything ELSE I need to work on...', and things just got out of hand. Almost ten thousand words out of hand, to be exact.

Warnings: hard drug use/recovery, language, angst and general emotional pain, rudimentary knowledge about cocaine so please forgive any inaccuracies

Bucky draped himself over the door of his fridge, staring in and seeing nothing to eat. There were apples, milk, leftovers from several meals, salad, eggs, bacon, cheese, protein drinks, yogurt, and yet nothing made him feel hungry. He knew he should eat. He knew it, he knew that his body needed something other than bad decisions to operate, but nothing was tempting him. If he was being honest, the thought of food just made him feel vaguely sick, and the burden of having to figure it all out was just irritating him further, so he closed the fridge door. The kitchen felt exceptionally dark, now that the only real source of light had been cut off.

"Hey, Buck."

Bucky whirled around, stomach screaming into his mouth. Steve leaned against the doorway of his kitchen. He looked tired.

"H-hey," he stammered, staring at him. "What're you doing here?"

"Just here for the backdrops," he said, giving a vague gesture behind him. Steve had been hired to paint most of the backdrops for a local play. They had mostly been stored in Bucky's apartment, as Steve lived in a broom cupboard that barely had room for furniture. "Why, you don't want me here?"

"'Course that's not it," Bucky said, cracking a smile along with Steve. "It just seemed a little late, is all. Weren't you gonna—weren't you gonna pick those up earlier?" Bucky scrambled to think, scrambled to remember if that had really happened, but he kept thinking about how inconvenient it was to have Steve there. Couldn't he have just waited, couldn't he have come by when Bucky wasn't at home? He didn't really want to have to deal with Steve right now, to dodge whatever questions were sure to be launched his way.

"Yeah, but I got a little caught up. I really did mean to drop by earlier, but it seems like you just came back, so…" Steve broke off, eyes wandering over to the green numbers of the oven. They said it was almost ten. Bucky frowned. He had left before noon.

"Buck, you…can I ask you something?"

"Hm? Yeah, uhm, sure," he said, heart catapulting itself against his ribs now, because here it came, here it came, he was going to ask, the whole thing was up, Bucky had screwed up and he screwed up big he didn't want Steve to know he had worked so hard to hide it—

"I…well, I guess I'm more telling you. I—wait, are your hands shaking?"

Bucky glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his hands had a vague tremor. He scowled at them, and turned them into fists so it would be less noticeable.

"Yeah, uhm, missed lunch. And dinner. Kind of."

"Oh…kay. Uhm, well, I…I was thinking about joining the army."

Bucky blinked at him. Steve looked so nervous, practically wringing his hands as he waited for Bucky's verdict.

Bucky leaned back against the fridge, and burst into laughter.

Steve in the army? The idea was just so funny to him, funny bordering on ludicrous. Steve barely knew how to handle his body, after puberty had caught up and slapped the body of a man on him. He was enrolled in art college, he stuck paintbrushes behind his ear and had drawing pencils sticking out of his back pocket, his hands wouldn't know what to do with a gun. He was going to be torn apart! Forget going overseas, his ass would be ripped to shreds before he even made it through the first week of boot camp!

His laughter stopped when he saw Steve's face crumple.

Bucky straightened, humor immediately replaced with anger.

"Steve, you can't be serious. You, the army? You, what, you wanna go over to Afghanistan or something, and let a few terrorists blow you up?"

"We're not occupying the Middle East, Buck." Steve's voice was so, so cold.

"So? The same's gonna happen! You'll probably be tossed into some troubled, developing country, where lunatics Molotov cocktail the streets every few weeks, and then all of your wide-eyed idealism is gonna get shot to shit when you see the world isn't just art college and stand-up American ideals!"

Bucky was breathing hard now, the world tripping over him as he tried to get the words out. The synthetic good mood he had been feeling earlier had completely gone, making him feel hard and cold and horrible. How could Steve toss out something like that, and then look like a kicked puppy when Bucky didn't instantly adore it? It was his fault, he should be the one defending himself, here! Bucky was just looking out for him, telling him the shit that no one else seemed to be able to.

"Gee, Bucky, I didn't realize you disliked the military that much." His voice wasn't accusatory, just a little sad and horribly accepting of what Bucky spat at him. But there was that bitter edge of disappointment, like Bucky had suddenly changed before his eyes, turning into something he didn't recognize.

It was suddenly hard to breathe, he didn't want to be there, he didn't want to have to look at Steve, didn't want to have to feel like such an ass because he was fucking high as a kite and unable to act like a normal human being.

Bucky shoved himself away from the kitchen, and practically sprinted for the front door

He vomited before he could even make the block.

The next day was agony. He desperately didn't want to face Steve. He also had an insane headache, his damn nose wouldn't stop running, he thought he was going to punch through a wall, he was so anxious about his conversation with Steve, and he couldn't think he couldn't think he couldn't think but he couldn't stand not doing anything. Steve had confided that he wanted to join the army, and Bucky had laughed in his face, then shouted him down. He had been too high on cocaine to realize that he wasn't be human until it was too late.

Steve's face was closed off when Bucky knocked on his door. Bucky closed his eyes and sighed.

"Steve, I am so, so sorry. Last night, I—I don't know why, it just—that was kind of a shock."

"I know."

"I want you to know that I don't really think all that stuff. I mean, I'm worried about you, but…I didn't mean that."

"I know."

"Steve, I—I just don't want to you get hurt. I mean, you understand where I'm coming from, right? You get why I'm not over the moon about this, right?" He stared into his face, praying that he wasn't coming off as the obnoxious ass that he was feeling like. Steve just had that flat expression, almost cold in its lack of emotion.

Bucky dropped his eyes, not sure what else there was to say. His nose started running again, and he gave a soft growl of annoyance before wiping it.

"I get it."

He glanced up at Steve's voice. Was Steve responding from pity at how wretched Bucky looked, or because he wanted to get out of his doorway, or because he actually understood?

"I…I'm sorry. If you wanna join the army, go join the army! I just…do it for the right reasons, okay? And please, be safe."

Steve nodded, and glanceddown at their shoes. He touched Bucky on the shoulder, but his eyes said that he still was not okay. Bucky was glad to see that he wasn't going to just get away with his appalling behavior, but his stomach was also dragging itself into knots because things were still not right.

Steve shifted, and then Bucky realized that he had a bag over his shoulder, and seemed to be on his way out.

"I gotta go meet Peggy," he mumbled. Bucky instantly stepped back, nodding.

"Y-yeah, go ahead. Don't let me keep you."

Steve gave a half-hearted nod, but just kept looking at him.

"You're such a jerk," he sighed after a moment, slapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passed. Bucky perked a little, and forced something like a smile on his face.

"Punk," he responded, the words tugged from his lips. He didn't really have a right to fall back into their old routine, and they both knew it, but Steve was allowing him anyways. Bucky could be thankful for that.

"Hello?"

Bucky turned at the sound of the clipped English accent, eyes turning to the hallway. Peggy. It sounded like she had just come in the front door.

"I'm here," he said. "Be out in a sec."

He turned back to the coke lines in front of him.

He leaned over to use them as fast as possible, hands practically shaking from anxiety and the buzz already going through his blood.

"I borrowed Steve's key," she continued, voice drifting closer. "I hope that's alright. He said it was okay, but it's a little different when you're the one intruding…"

Peggy stood just outside of the room for a moment, then let out a scream when she realized what he was doing. Bucky jerked, but didn't turn around. Peggy sprang across the room, yanking him away from the table. He let out a shout of surprise, but then there were clouds of white in the air, and rage ripped through his stomach.

He whipped around to face her, and shoved Peggy back. She grunted when she hit the bookshelf, then she shoved him back and kicked him in the thigh.

"What are you doing?" she yelled at him, fists clenched. He looked up at her from the ground, suddenly hating himself. "What do you—you're doing cocaine? Does Steve know? How could you even—"

She turned around, hand on her forehead. Peggy started pacing, shooting him the occasional look.

"James, why?"

He looked at her, wishing she would hand him an answer to her own question. She glared at him, shockingly betrayed to have walked in on him snorting coke. They had known each other for almost a year now, but she had always been Steve's girlfriend, and not much else. The fact that she would be bothered this way…

Bucky wasn't sure if he felt more shame at disappointing her, or gratitude that she cared.

"I…I don't know."

"How could you not know? This is—isn't like you just slip into it! How could—does Steve know?" she repeated, clearly trying to pull herself back. She had stopped pacing, standing still and bold and terrifying in her potential to ruin everything.

"No, no, Steve can't know, don't tell him!" His heart was suddenly screaming in his chest, threatening to break loose, and just the thought made him want to roll over and vomit on the floor. Peggy looked so horridly perfect there, standing above him with her lipstick just so, and not a hair out of place. Her expression said that she wasn't about to lie for him.

"You can't tell him," Bucky said, more plea than command. "It would wreck him, you can't do it, you can't, please, Peggy, please. He's got bigger things going on, he wants to join the freakin' army. He can't worry about me. He doesn't need to know."

Peggy shot him a flat, disgusted look, and shook her head.

"I can't lie. Not when you need his help."

"Peggy. You can't tell him. You know what would happen, he would give everything up for me, and I can't—I don't want to be the one to ruin his life."

She still had her eyes narrowed, but she kneeled down beside him.

"James…you can't just hide this, and I'm not—" She cut herself off, looking down at his hands. She looked back up, something a little less hostile in her eyes.

"How can I help?"

Things went on. Steve finished his last semester of art school, Bucky attended the ceremony. Bucky mentioned wanting to do more with dancing, Steve suggested he take lessons. Peggy was promoted at her prestigious company, they all celebrated by going out. Bucky did cocaine, Peggy despised it but helped however she could, and Steve was none the wiser. It was actually kind of working.

But not really.

"Whoa, Buck, you alright?" Steve asked, when Bucky nearly collapsed after standing up too fast. He had a slight laugh in his voice, but his eyes were all concern. They were at Steve's place, belatedly celebrating Steve's birthday by watching Yankee Doodle Dandy and eating popcorn and old fashioned root beer (or at least, Steve had made popcorn, and Bucky bought the root beer, but Steve was the only one really eating anything).

"Oh, yeah, uhm, just stood up too fast," he mumbled, praying that would be a valid excuse for practically collapsing at seemingly nothing. He blinked hard, trying to push away the huge spots in his vision. Steve nodded and heaved him upright from where he was braced against the coffee table, and moved back to his chair. Bucky nodded in thanks, and proceeded to Steve's neat little kitchen. He braced himself against the counter, out of Steve's line of sight. He hadn't eaten in…Tuesday, Wednesday, was today Friday?...a while, and he needed something in him, he needed…something other than cocaine (but he also really needed the cocaine), or else he really would pass out.

After a moment, he filled up a glass of water, because that was probably the only thing his stomach would handle. While his hands moved, he hitched a mild smile onto his face.

"So, uhm, how goes the training?" he asked the room, eyes on his cup. Steve glanced around, surprised.

He had been training to pass the military's physical exam for the last few weeks, and the results were already showing. Steve had been reasonably fit before, and certainly not the waif he had been through most of high school, but now Bucky could see the veins sticking out of his arms, the way the muscles hinted through his shirt (Steve still had not grasped the concept of buying shirts that his pectorals weren't exploding out of). It made Bucky proud, just like seeing Steve complete a picture or bring home a project from school. He was doing something, making something. He had made a decision, and carried it out. And yet, there was still that ring of distaste left in Bucky. He wanted Steve to succeed, but he didn't want Steve to go. He didn't want him in danger, didn't want him far away, didn't want Steve looking and feeling like the sun, when he, Bucky, felt and looked like a disappointed sigh.

"It's going good," he said, pausing the movie. His whole body screamed caution, but then, he had good reason. Every time Steve had brought the topic up, Bucky had usually wandered to the subject of the inevitability of death. He never meant to, it just…happened, a logical progression in Bucky's mind, a reality Steve had to reconcile himself with before he launched down this path. Seeing Steve's wary face, though, made Bucky curse himself out for that. Rather than come off as a person trying to help prepare Steve, he had just ended up being a defeatist ass.

"The strength things I can handle, crunches and situps, you know, but the running is killing me. I'm not really certain…it's kind of a coordination thing," he admitted, giving an embarrassed shrug.

Bucky gave him a reassuring smile, and said, "Just give it time. You can sign up whenever you want. Don't push yourself too far."

"Well, it's going better, anyways. I found a running partner, and that's good. Did I tell you about him? Sam Wilson, and he's actually part of the VA."

"No shit?" Bucky asked, breaking into a grin. Steve's delight was infectious, even though Bucky was caught by the mention of Steve's new running partner. He hadn't told Bucky about him, probably because Bucky was so damn intolerant of the idea joining the army.

When had that happened? And when did Steve start keeping secrets?

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either! I was warming up at the gym one day, and just struck up a conversation with him. Just like that."

"That's great," Bucky said, and he prayed Steve believed it.

Steve's expression suddenly faltered.

"Uhm, Bucky…"

Then he felt it, something sliding down his lips. Bucky jerked his head back instinctively, hand going to cover his nose. He glanced down at himself, gritting out curses at his bloody nose.

A few drops of blood handed in his cup of water. He poured it out. He wasn't really hungry, anyway.

"James, look at me." Bucky glanced up, shaking from nerves. His eyes lingered on Peggy for just a moment, then they darted away, checking the windows, checking the doors.

"James," Peggy repeated, taking his face in her hands. He held her gaze then, suddenly connecting with the stern sorrow in her face. He broke into breathy tears, gasping a little as some dropped onto his cheeks.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't—I dunno," he admitted. His voice was a little slower, less jittery and nervous.

"James, you need to sleep," she told him, voice measured and slow. "Can you do that for me?"

"I don't—I don't—I can't, no, no, no, I can't it's not a good idea."

"Why?"

"I won't be on guard, they'll get out, they'll get me." He looked away, and started fidgeting with his hands.

"What are 'they'?"

Bucky vehemently shook his head, dropping his eyes to his lap. Just naming them was dangerous. He had been fine, feeling like he was floating far above the clouds just a little while ago, then he felt himself dropping and fast, so he'd gone to Peggy. She knew, she was safe, she could help.

Peggy pursed her lips, which were the shocking shade of skin, looking weirdly false compared to the stark red of her usual lipstick. She didn't have any make up on, her hair was slung back in a ponytail, and her shirt and jeans were old and comfortable. She looked great, considering it was eleven twelve one in the morning. Probably better than him.

"I'm going to get you a tissue, okay?" she asked, leaning back. "I'll be right back."

Bucky nodded, watching her stand up and turn towards the door. He clasped his hands and rocked in the chair, waiting waiting waiting for her to come back. He could feel her own unhappiness, spinning around the room and making it hard for him to breathe. She hated this, she hated it she hated it she hated lying and she probably hated him, because he was doing this, he was making both of them suffer because he didn't listen to her he didn't get real help he didn't tell the truth, he just got more and more and more cocaine.

She returned in a few seconds, a few tissues in hand.

"Here you go," she murmured, handing them to him. He smeared them over his eyes, then sat there, a little lost.

"Nose, too."

Bucky blinked and dabbed at his nose, realizing that is was running and stung.

Peggy glanced at the other chairs in her living room, but seemed to decide against sitting. She compromised by leaning on the wall.

"What happened?"

He shrugged, not sure what to say. He'd been fine, great, actually, laughing himself stupid with a bunch of people. After all, he'd just done a line of coke off someone's stomach, and had maybe made out with them before—after?—no before—no that was somebody else—maybe?—he'd done a line of coke, but things went bad. He dropped, he was spiraling, the intense joy from before draining from his fingertips. He still felt his skin thrumming, but he felt guilt, the thought of Steve's face in his head. And then shame was on his lips, and then Bucky ran.

"Secret," he blurted, and Peggy looked at him. "The secrets, they—they're all in my stomach, and in my lungs, and I can't get them out don't want them out and they're at the doors and don't want them in can't let them in and Steve doesn't know but he needs to but shouldn't and I need help, Peggy."

Peggy watched him for a long moment, then pushed herself off the wall. He flinched when she strode over to him she hit me last time, but then he felt her drape her arms around him. Peggy squeezed him tight, and whispered, "Oh, honey, we'll work this out."

He didn't know how to hug back, so he just held onto her arm, terrified she might let go.

AN this started out as a simple coffee shop AU what happened.