A/N: So if my upcoming fic To Have a Home (which, as of this writing, has begun posting on AO3 and is mostly done but still needs most of the last two chapters written) is me accidentally projecting my own problems onto Bucky, this is what it looks like when I do it on purpose.
Speaking of which, this fic is tangentially related to To Have a Home kinda sorta a little bit maybe? They at least have basically the same status quo, so I guess this might conceivably count as a little bit of a preview.
Some days are what Bucky would like to consider, in the best of circumstances, "normal." He gets up, gets dressed, makes breakfast, feeds the cat, and proceeds to do shit. "Doing shit" is a vague term, but it basically amounts to anything that requires more effort or mental energy than just lying around all day, but doesn't necessarily involve anything "important." While inside, it can be reading or watching TV (and actually watching TV, not just channel surfing. He has to be making actual progress in a show he's committed to) or making at least two out of three of his meals that day. While outside, he can be going for a run, window-shopping or ducking into a store to browse around for a bit, playing a bit (or a lot) of Pokémon Go, or if it was late, trekking across the Brooklyn Bridge to end up at the Financial District's surprisingly nice Denny's that was open until midnight. Bucky had read somewhere that Denny's' were sort of liminal spaces that drew in lost souls and that you didn't "go" there, you "ended up" there. But he eats, he gets out, he takes in new information. These are "good days."
Other days, Bucky just doesn't have it in him to do much. He usually gets dressed, maybe grabs a nibble from the fridge, but still absolutely feeds the cat because far be it from him to neglect a small animal in his care, even when he neglects himself. Sometimes bits of hygiene fall by the wayside when these days carry on consecutively for the better part of a week. Three days without brushing his teeth, a week without showering, thankfully no more than two days with the same pair of underwear. Either way, sometimes he falls into patterns of realizing what little functionality he can get away with and not pushing himself any further than he needs to. These days usually call for some external push from the others, usually Steve, shooting him a text to check up on him. Bucky would probably be a bit peeved if he received these reminders every single day, because he would like his gut reaction to be, "guys, c'mon, I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself." He can, but he isn't. So he appreciates them. These are "non-functional days."
Other days, "doing shit" takes on a greater meaning. These are days when items on a To Do list need checking off and, Bucky's Brain willing, they are checked off. Maybe it's not everything, maybe it's just the essentials, but something get done. Sometimes Bucky goes grocery shopping, sometimes he does laundry, sometimes he cleans the house, sometimes he goes shopping for miscellany like shampoo and tissues, and sometimes it's a combination of some or all of the above. These can also be the days when something a little extra special awakens in Bucky and he feels inspired to create. He has a sketchbook and some pencils and charcoal and when he gets into a grove he can draw still life for hours with increasing detail. To liven it up a bit, he draws the cat. If the weather's nice, he goes out to draw, usually to a park. On colder days, he gets inventive with dinner, trying out new recipes and usually making enough that he invites Steve over for leftovers the next day. His crowning moments in the kitchen are when he revives a successful recipe and makes a bunch for the whole gang to come and feed. Also extra motivation to get his place in order before everyone arrives. These are "productive days."
The absolute worst days go beyond non-functional. Bucky would prefer to feel nothing compared to what he feels on these days, even though a lot of them are actually nights. In these moments, Bucky tips over the edge from emptiness into total despair. His brain buzzes from half-remembered horrors and a sense of inward repulsion and how can you keep going in this world when you've been stripped of everything and you're worth nothing and nobody wants you here and everybody wants you dead. Internal screaming only gets Bucky so far and he cracks under the strain. That's where Steve comes in. He always arrives to find Bucky with his head buried in his hands or pacing anxiously at best, lying down trembling on the bed or the couch or even the floor at worst. Bucky has enough days of keeping it together that they both give plenty of time for these moments where he completely falls apart. On the worst of the worst days, Steve goes the extra mile and wraps Bucky in a thick blanket. Generally, it's just them on the bed or on the couch, Bucky still shaking and weeping uncontrollably into the front of Steve's shirt while Steve cradles him and holds him tight and gives him gentle kisses and whispers loving reassurances to him. They do have a key ground rule for this, though: Bucky has asked Steve not to tell him "it's okay" or "you're okay" because while Bucky's fighting the worst of the demons in his skull, no it's not okay. Steve respects this. However, Bucky can't get Steve to stop telling him "it's not your fault" or "it wasn't your fault," even though Bucky's conscious mind knows it's true. That complete acceptance is still a ways off. Their compromise is, "you're gonna be okay." Steve croons this while stroking Bucky's hair with a mixture of, "you're safe," "I gotcha," "you're fighting so hard and it's okay to take rests," "take as long as you need, pal." Bucky always manages to choke out an eternally grateful "I love you," which is always met with a comforting "I love you too, Buck" from Steve. He sticks around until Bucky is in good enough shape to make a meal for himself or take a shower. Bucky drinks in these affirmations both that Steve loves him and will always love him, and that Bucky can come back from his darkest moments eventually, even if it's not to full strength. It's always coming back to something better from something much worse. These are "broken days."
There are also days that break routine, if you can call Bucky's life "routine," because they involve actually going out and socializing. The simplest and most common events are coffee or lunch dates with Steve, but they frequently involve the others as well. He and Natasha tour the Intrepid, he and Sam check out the view from Top of the Rock, he and Steve rent bikes and do the full lap of Central Park several times over. "Company" doesn't always mean a large group, sometimes it's just a meal or an afternoon or a day spent with a friend or two or three. They're good, and they're fun. These are "special days."
And then there are days where Natasha gets GoPros for Bucky and Steve and they strap them on while Sam gets his flight suit out and hooks the guys up and soars across the skies off Coney Island while two world-weary but very much alive super soldiers water-ski on the open ocean at the end of twin tethers below him. These are "fucking awesome days."