AN hello darkness my old friend

Also, this chapter contains a good chunk of comic book-y hand wave-y yeah that's a thing science, so...yes.

Steve looked so angry he might cry. Bucky felt so scared he might be sick.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"H-how did you know?"

Steve stared at him, shaking his head in distinct disappointment.

"Bucky, how did I not know? It's obvious, I should have seen it so much sooner!" he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "You look awful, you've been acting weird for ages, you can't seem to sit still—" Bucky sat on his fidgeting hands, but couldn't still his twitching leg "—and I never put any of it together."

"I didn't-I didn't want you to find out."

The words sounded pathetic and small.

"Didn't want me to—you're my best friend!" Steve shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "Why couldn't I have helped you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Did Peggy tell you?" he asked, the words a defeated whisper. He had trusted her, and she had gone and told.

"Peggy? Peggy knew about this?!"

"She—she found me, and I was—"

"No, she didn't tell me!" Steve yelled, the words tumbling out over Bucky, like Steve didn't want to know what Bucky had been doing. The idea was almost funny. Steve wanted to know what Bucky was doing, and yet he didn't.

Steve worked his jaw, clearly reining himself in. He closed his eyes, speaking through grit teeth.

"It was Sam."

Bucky reeled with shock—Sam—Steve's running partner? Had he been so obvious to—

"He told me about the difficulties of returning from armed duty. Everyone suffers, but some…they turn to drugs. He described one of the worst, cocaine, to me. How people look, how they act. They lose weight, the always look sick because they're not sleeping, they're nervous and aggressive sometimes, then are walking on the sun the next minute. They look like you, Bucky. Why did it have to come down to this? Why did I have to find out from someone who doesn't even know you?"

He stammered for an answer, empty now that Steve knew. What was there left to do when not doing blow and not keeping it from Steve?

"Bucky, I want to help you. You need help."

"I'm—"

"You look like a mess. Who knows when you last shaved, you hair's all over the place, and a few months ago you never would have just thrown on clothes like that…Buck, I can see your ribs," he said, the last words a heartbroken murmur. Bucky dropped his eyes, lips pressed tight against the sob that had been building in his chest for weeks.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, and then broke down entirely. Steve grabbed him into a furious hug. It was so different from Peggy's, not gentle and forlorn, not tentatively admitting there was nothing to do. This was aggressive and heartbroken and screamed that Steve was sorry.

Bucky had a problem. He could recognize that. He looked like a mess most days, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept, any spare money he had went to either cocaine or granola bars, and he had barely stopped actively hiding the most consuming part of his life from his best friend. He knew that he had a problem.

That didn't mean he wanted anyone to get their hands in it and start changing things, though.

If he had realized Steve knowing about his problem involved Steve doing a cavity search of Bucky's apartment, he would have worked a little harder to keep the truth from him.

"Bucky, what's this?" Steve asked, tossing a bag of something at Bucky. He caught it, jolted out of his sulk. Steve typically didn't say anything when he found a bag of coke or something. All of the drugs Steve found were pulled out, shown to Bucky, and then promptly dropped into the garbage bag in Steve's fist. He might have thought he was doing Bucky a favor by not asking questions and dragging it out, but the silence was by far the worst part of the whole ordeal.

Bucky examined the bag in his hand, frowning as he worked out the contents.

"Contact cards," he said after a moment, completely surprised.

"From what?" Steve had turned back to expunging the couch, but his tone was light.

"Dance studios," he murmured, opening the bag and pulling out a card. He vaguely remembered going around and collecting the info of studios that had caught his interest. He didn't know how long ago that had been.

"Yeah?"

Steve pulled his hand back from the couch, watching Bucky. He was squatting in front of the couch, arms resting on his knees.

"What were you planning on doing with them?"

"I dunno," Bucky said, putting the card back in the bag, suddenly embarrassed. He had mentioned taking proper dancing lessons once or twice, but the idea of saying 'Yeah, I was thinking about taking a class to learn Sluefoot or something' felt completely ridiculous.

But Steve was grinning at him, raising an eyebrow like they were chatting over subs and sodas, not the disgusting innards of a couch and a trash bag full of narcotics. Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I…I guess I wanted…I wanted to look at taking real classes," he admitted, trying to be casual as he pointedly didn't look at Steve. "Like, I can dance, yeah, but…I like swing dancing, and I was curious."

"Why didn't you follow up? The bag looks old."

"Things got in the way," he said. Steve dropped his eyes, giving a small nod. They were quiet for a moment, and then Bucky tossed the bag back to Steve. He caught the bag, examining it for a moment. Bucky pretended not to notice when he put it in his pocket.

By the time they were done, Bucky felt all sorts of anxious, and his apartment looked deflated, without all of its secrets holding it up, but Steve looked satisfied. He probably would have been less so, if he knew just how badly Bucky wanted to go rip the bag out of his hand and use all of it at once.

"How's the, uhm, training coming?" Bucky asked, sitting on his hands so he wouldn't try shoving Steve out the window so he could run out of the apartment and go find a dealer and snort all the coke he could possibly get his hands on.

Steve shrugged, flipping through one of his art books.

"Eh, good, I guess."

"You guess?" Bucky looked at him, questioning the apathy in his voice.

"It's not…really going anymore."

"What? Why?"

Steve put down the book, giving Bucky a grimace.

"Buck…I can't just go off and join the military when you…when you're…"

"So you're putting your life on hold, just because I let mine go to shit?" he asked, hoping that his aggressive sarcasm hid the absolute horror he felt.

"I'm not putting my life on hold," Steve sniffed, opening his book back up. "I'm working as a free lance artist now, and I'm helping Sam out at the VA."

"Two things. Very impressive."

They were silent for a while, which left Bucky to think about how much his body hurt and how much he wanted to sleep but he couldn't sleep and how much he really really really wanted to do blow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair cushion.

For the last four days, Bucky had been staying at Steve's house, so that he could properly detox without breaking anything or going out and buying more cocaine. According to Steve, it was a lucky thing that cocaine withdrawal had minor physical symptoms when compared to alcohol or heroin withdrawal, but Bucky personally thought Steve could very sincerely fuck off, because he couldn't think straight and his hands shook and a thousand other miserable things that made him quite honestly hate the world. But he wasn't doing cocaine.

The only other upside was that Steve had been with him nearly every second of it. He had only left the apartment once so far, and that was to go check the mail. Even then, Peggy had been there to babysit Bucky, and Steve had returned within the hour.

"So, I was thinking…" Steve began, still looking at his book. "I was thinking…maybe you could go to some NA meetings?"

Bucky cracked open an eye and rolled his head about to look at Steve.

"Steve. You realize that on most days, I can barely get the energy up to go across the room to get a drink of water, and sometimes I can't even find the will to move, not with my everything hurting like a bitch. There's no way I can go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting."

"Not right now," Steve said quickly, closing the book again. He had that bright look that Bucky had come to hate, because he was fixing on something, and Bucky would inevitably have to do it, no matter how much it made him despise humanity, and living in general. "But I've read that cocaine withdrawal only lasts about a week. Once we're out of that, you won't feel so awful."

Apparently, Steve had been doing a little more with his time cooped up than Bucky had. Then again, he wasn't trying to kill himself by not using cocaine.

"And it would be good for you, Buck. I mean, these people know what you're feeling, they're not just fumbling around in the dark like we're doing. And they're good, they're not using! You've gotta admit, anything can help at this point."

Bucky closed his eyes again, and returned to facing the ceiling.

"Yeah, sure, fine," he mumbled, if only to get Steve to stop talking about it.

Bucky went to some meetings. And it was alright, he guessed. The other people attending certainly knew more about what he was going through than Steve or Peggy, and there was some sort of comfort in seeing people with more than a few days of sobriety under their belt. But it wasn't really enough.

The first time Bucky tried to sneak out and buy cocaine, it was in the dead of night, he had been about two weeks sober, and he had absolutely hated himself. Steve had caught him in the hallway, and promptly dragged him back indoors. When Bucky tried to force his way out, Steve had punched him and yelled a little bit. Bucky didn't really mind. If Steve was screaming about how stupid Bucky was being, then he wasn't checking Bucky's hand to find the wad of bills stolen from Steve's wallet.

The second time he had gone out, he didn't give a damn about how long he'd been sober, his self-hatred had been dulled by the need for cocaine, and Peggy had stopped him. She didn't scream, or hit Bucky, or even give him one of her brutal disappointed looks. She just asked him very quietly to stay in his apartment, and told him that she would be there in a moment. It had been a fluke, honestly, she just happened to ring the moment he was fumbling with his keys, and he guessed that the coke coke coke tone in his voice had been a little louder than his words.

Once Peggy got there, she asked Bucky if he would go on a walk with her, and he grumbled some sort of affirmative, because he didn't know how to deal with soft. Nothing was soft in his life, anymore. Not the need for drugs, not the twisted up feelings in his stomach, not the way Steve handled him, not the burning in his nose that could only be fixed by the next high. But she just gave him an honest smile, took his hand, and walked him to a nearby park. Bucky couldn't sit still because he could be getting high, but Peggy pointed out that there were birds, and a fountain, and some kids running around a few of the trees. Bucky wanted to point out that he was very, very grateful she was there, but it never came up.

Bucky was doing good. He was doing good he was doing good he was doing cocaine.

He honestly had no idea how it had happened. It started out as a casual trip to the store to get some bread, the thirty day sobriety chip bouncing sweetly in his pocket, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on the sidewalk with no shoes on, waiting for Steve to come pick him up. He could still hear his own voice, jangling around in his head.

Steve, Steve, oooooooh Steve, I fucked up, I fucked up so big oh my gosh you won't even believe, I am so high right now I'm sorry I am so sorry I didn't mean it I don't want to do this I didn't want to I didn't I swear, Steve, I don't where I am please help come get me please Steve.

Bucky hadn't noticed the tears on his own face until he started laughing, because then it had turned into gross sobbing. No one had noticed, not even the girl that had kissed his neck and taken the pipe out of his hand.

"I thought you were getting bread," Steve said after Bucky had gotten into the car. Even in his state, Bucky could feel the sharp disappointment in his voice. He hated the disappointment, more than anything. More than the lies, more than the ache of withdrawal, more than the craving he had in the first place.

"I thought so, too," he mumbled, slumping into his seat.

"Well, you blew that one."

And then Bucky was laughing, he was laughing because he couldn't stand it and he wanted to get out of the car he wanted to get away from Steve when he was like this he was suddenly out of the car he was on his knees he was throwing up.

Steve's hands were on Bucky's shoulders in a second, solid despite everything he had done. Bucky reached up and grabbed on, even though his hand was wet from the rainwater on the street and potentially his own vomit, but he needed Steve to know just how much he meant. He might have said so, the words coming out along with bile and whatever had managed to stay in his stomach, but he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that a little while later, Steve was herding him back into the car, voice low and soothing as he pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to Bucky.

The next time he used, the normal amount wasn't enough. Bucky wasn't even sure if there was such a thing as the normal amount, unless it meant 'whatever is enough to make me feel something else'. It took a long while, that was for sure. A long while for Bucky to break, and a long while for him to feel good. But he didn't feel relief. He just felt…different, on edge, not quite connected to his body, drifting and trying to find land where it didn't exist.

Bucky honestly didn't remember leaving…wherever it was his dealer had been. He didn't remember walking down the street, half out of his head, though there were plenty of witnesses to attest to that. He also didn't remember running into that gang, but apparently it had happened and it had been bad. What he did remember was lying on the ground, hurting to breathe, hurting to think, hurting to reach for his phone and call for Steve. His left arm felt fine, though, which was kind of weird, considering that his left shoulder felt like it had been set on fire.

Next thing he knew, there were people and they were touching him grabbing him pushing him somewhere, even though he wasn't taking steps. He was floating, he was off his head, he was seeing lights go by, he was listening to words like white male, possible intoxication, gun wound, and immediate family.

Steve.

"G-cul'ste."

light light light door woman's face light

"Sir, sir, it's alright, you were attacked recently, but we are wheeling you into the emergency room right now. Can you take a few breaths for me, nice and slow?"

light hurt light hand hurt light light

"G—g—go cul st—"

"Sir, listen to me. You were attacked, and received a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Sir, I need you to tell me if you took any sort of substances tonight—"

"N—go cul—"

"Sir, did you take any sort of drug tonight?"

"Cocaine," he admitted, and the word seemed very, very small at that point. It was whisked away from him as he was carried on, the lights flicking by and people babbling all around him. There was no condemnation, no disgust, no disappointment. He didn't know how to feel.

"Steve," he finally managed, body feeling like it was collapsing in on itself, trying to prevent the words from getting out. "Call—call Steve, he—I need him, call him, he's the one—"

"Sir, I understand, but I'm going to need you to stop moving around. Please stay calm, we're going to take you…"

"…we've had a clear look at the damage, and it's not good. Sir… by the looks of it, your friend may not be able to use his left arm again. As is, we could try to clean up the wound, make it as neat as possible for his body to stitch up by itself, but the bullet practically shattered the scapula, the shoulder blade. It's a miracle none of the bone fragments punctured his lung, not to mention hit his spinal cord, but there is some damage done to his upper ribs, mostly bruising. That's the good news, the chest side of the bone. The arm side…"

"What happened, doctor?"

"Well, the socket was pretty severely damaged. Tendons, ligaments, bone, cartilage…it was all torn apart. Like I said…he probably won't be able to use his arm anymore. Twitch a few fingers, maybe, if he's lucky, lift it maybe an inch in the arm, but other than that…I'm sorry."

"And there's…nothing?" Steve asked. Bucky hadn't quite figured out how to open his eyes yet, but he knew that voice. It was the sharpest form of sorrow he knew, filled with absolute regret at having been unable to save someone from such pain. "Nothing you can do, but…clean it up?"

"Nothing…orthodox. There is a new procedure, but it is…fairly untested. It'll certainly change your friend's life, anyway. But I mention it only as a last resort, and maybe not even that."

"What is it?" There was such hope in Steve's voice, it snapped Bucky into some sort of reality.

"Steve?" he groaned, and instantly he was there, hand on Bucky's arm.

"Bucky, oh, Bucky, I'm here, okay?"

"Wha's goin' on?" he slurred, trying to push himself up. Steve took a long breath, as if steeling himself, then set his hand on Bucky's side. Bucky closed his eyes, not wanting to have to look at such a painful mix of hope and sorrow.

"You're in the hospital, remember? We went through this. And—"

"Why can't I feel my arm?"

Steve stayed quiet.

Bucky opened his eyes (okay maybe just one eye, the other was swelled shut), then, and saw just how pale Steve had turned.

"Steve…why can't I move my arm?" There was panic now, because it wasn't just that he couldn't feel his arm, he couldn't move it, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Buck…there was an accident—you were attacked. It was a gang, and…"

"Steve?"

Bucky had hidden a cocaine addiction from his best friend in the world, had lived every second under the terror that he might find out, but the fear he felt at that second was worse than any he had known.

"You were shot in the shoulder, and…it messed up your arm pretty good. They have you on pretty serious medication right now, so you can't feel the pain, but…you probably won't be able to move your arm again."

Bucky didn't say anything for a long time. The doctor joined in after a moment, explaining all of what he had just said again, but it wasn't making much more of an impression on Bucky the second time around.

He might not move his arm again.

Steve kept that awful, grim expression on his face, eyes moving from the blankets, to Bucky's hospital bracelet, to his face. Bucky couldn't look at him.

He might not move his arm, ever again.

"What else?" he asked, mumbled it, really. Both the doctor and Steve looked at him, faces turning a little sharp.

"Uhm, not much. Aside from your left arm, you also received some injury to your right side, right hand, and both thighs. Also some bruising on your face, but that will heal up on its own. Moving around will—"

"No, not that."

"Ex…cuse me?"

"You-you mentioned something else, just now. To Steve. What else...what else is there?"

"To do about your arm?" the doctor asked, sounding even more reluctant than he had before. "Like I said…I wouldn't normally suggest it, but considering your situation… It's a form of prosthesis, far more advanced than anything else out on the market. You have heard of the arm prosthesis that have functioning hands, yes?"

"Yeah," Steve said, nodding. "They have a small clamp for a hand, and it can close on command."

"Yes, using pressure pads placed in the shoe, a person can command their hand with their foot. This…takes that concept quite a bit farther. Rather than have a rudimentary arm and hand, one that looks like sticks and a couple joints…this would look remarkably like the real thing. The only big difference, really, is that…well, it would be made almost entirely out of metal."

"Is…that even possible? A metal arm?" Steve asked, sounding worried now. Bucky was barely even listening.

"Apparently, now it is. There has been a shocking amount of success with the models, but as it is a fairly new project, there haven't been very many people willing to…it's fairly untested. Since your frien—Mr. Barnes would technically be another tester, the surgery would come at a fairly low rate, subsidized by the company running the trials."

"And…how would that work? You said that it goes beyond the foot thing."

"Yes. The arm's wire nerves would connect with your tissue nerves," the doctor said, turning to speak to Bucky for the first time since he had pushed the subject, "and then…there we are, a properly functioning arm. But I need to warn you, it is a very invasive surgery, as the sheer weight of the arm would require some level of…bone replacement, or enhancement, even in the best circumstances. And, of course…amputation."

"Do it," Bucky said, staring out the window.

"Uh, sir, Mr. Barnes, I don't think you—"

"You cut off my arm, which I can't use, and you give a metal one. You also have to take out some bones, so the arm doesn't rip out of my body. I get an arm that works."

"Well, yes, but also months of recovery. And not to mention the numerous risks that are associated with replacing the body structure unnecessarily. All sorts of problems could happen, your body rejecting the mass amounts of metals placed within it, least of all. I honestly think a more conventional method is the way to—"

"If it doesn't work, will it kill me?"

"What?"

"If this doesn't work, will I die?"

"Well, no."

"And if it doesn't work, I can still use a normal prosthetic? With the foot thing?"

"Yes."

"Then I want the arm."

"Mr. Rogers," the doctor said, dragging the word out as he clearly tried to keep his mild panic in check, "I would advise…well, you can't speak for Mr. Barnes here, not since he is clearly conscious and able to make clear thought, but…please, talk to him. Make sure he really understands what he's asking for."

Bucky understood what he was asking for. Sort of. He didn't count on the entire left half of his chest hurting for weeks on end, or the feeling of being slightly off balance, as the metal arm was a bit heavier than the flesh one. He didn't count on having to check his grip, as evident by the number of water bottles and cups crushed in his hand. He also didn't count on the metal bones and prosthetic port aching when the weather changed, but it did, and it would, until he died or the arm was taken off. But he had an arm.

Steve helped him as much as always, as he went through physical therapy, and tried to adjust to being a cyborg. Peggy showed up to the hospital room with encouragement, contraband candies, and eyes that lingered a little too long. Bucky just tried to get through it without bringing up the fact that he had lost his arm because he had gotten high.

He didn't really crave it any more. Of course Bucky still wanted cocaine, he wanted it like he wanted air while holding his breath underwater, but the ache was gone. His shame and a highly invasive miracle surgery had washed that right out of him, for now, at least.

"I think I should buy a new place."

It had been months, now, and Bucky had been discharged and made it through his physical therapy. He had also been unofficially living with Steve, only going back to his place for the odd items that he hadn't gotten around to moving. Neither one of them talked about it, but Bucky had been avoiding the place because the very floorboards stank of bad choices and cocaine. Steve probably just thought he needed some moral support after replacing his arm with a metal prosthetic.

Honestly, Bucky didn't mind the arm. It was strong and worked well and just required a different set of maintenance. Steve looked at it like it was a parasite.

"What?"

"I said…I think I should buy a new place. Too many…too many bad memories at my apartment right now. I think it'd be…it'd be good to get a fresh start, you know?"

"Y…eah," Steve said, frowning at him over a bowl of oatmeal.

"You don't like the idea?"

"No, it's a great idea, it's good, it's good, I just…do you..."

"I can live on my own, Steve."

"I know you can, but—"

"Steve. I can live on my own."

"Aren't you…a little worried?"

"Well, since you are—"

"Don't do that, Bucky," Steve warned, shaking his head. "Don't start getting huffy because I disagree. I just don't think…I mean, that's some serious trauma."

"And I've been going to a shrink for it! I've been attending meetings, I've gone through physical therapy, hell, I've even been taking long, contemplative walks in the park to clear my head, where people stare at me like I'm some kind of freak and can't be trusted to walk past their children!"

Bucky blinked. He hadn't meant to say that.

The look in Steve's eyes changed a little, but didn't soften.

"Buck, I know it's hard…"

"No, Steve, you don't. You've been sitting on the sidelines, the perfect prince while I have shot my life to shit and you add some sympathy, a few back pats, and say rub some dirt in it! You can't make decisions for me, you can't choose to keep me locked up in here!"

"I'm not keeping you locked up!" Steve snapped back, standing now. "Bucky, you're the one that decided to stay here! I never asked you to—"

"Oh, so now I'm a squatter, a home invader that you've just been too nice to get rid of? Sorry, you never told me."

"Because that's not what you are! You're my best friend, I'm not mad that you need a little help after you got high and screwed yourself."

Bucky didn't say anything to that. He just looked at Steve, giving him the most filthy look he could manage.

"I'm going back to my place," he said, the words dropped like nickel from the counter. Cold, final, not worth very much as they left a ring in the air.

"Bucky, no," Steve said, and then Bucky guessed that he grabbed his arm because it was being pulled back and he couldn't really move forward, but it was his metal arm and he still wasn't quite used to the sensors in it and—

Steve dropped his hand, quick like he didn't want to be seen touching it. Bucky stared at him, trying to find the words to say.

"I didn't mean to—"

"You're afraid to touch it," Bucky said, softer now, more shocked than anything.

"No, I just wasn't sure if…" Steve didn't pick his eyes up off the floor.

"I'm going, Steve."

AN OKAY YOU GUYS JUST SIT WITH ME WE'LL MAKE IT THROUGH THIS I PROMISE.