Bucky sits in silence, the bath is filled with scalding hot water and his left arm hangs over the side covered in plastic wrap. Steve doesn't know the extent of the damage, not until he walks into the bathroom and sees Bucky. Gashes line his back, oozing pus and screaming of infection — the pain must be immense, but Bucky doesn't say a thing. He doesn't make a noise, just stares at the off-peach tiled wall in front of him. His hair is matted, unkempt. His right shoulder is bent at an odd angle, and Steve knows exactly what that means.
His shoulder is dislocated, probably has been for a while.
Ever since the Winter Soldier pulled him from the water, he's been scouring CCTV footage for Bucky. Natasha introduced him to a guy who knows a guy. That's his story at least. In truth, Steve approaches Tony and asks him if Jarvis could monitor camera feeds throughout Washington DC. After three months, Jarvis catches a glimpse of a face and alerts Tony. Tony alerts Steve, and Steve rushes off to intercept the man formerly known as James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky doesn't put up a fight, doesn't say a word.
Steve pulls up and opens the door of his car and says something. It makes Bucky pause, and then he gets in the car.
"Cause I'm with you til the end of the line."
The words that began the crumbling of the wall in Bucky's mind have come back to haunt him.
It isn't until three days have passed that Steve suggests Bucky should take a bath, or a shower. At least clean himself up, maybe. Steve watches as Bucky peels off the ratty hooded jumper to reveal a torn shirt, and under that . . . wounds. Self-inflicted? Steve wonders if they are, or not. He doesn't ask, and Bucky doesn't say. He looks away when Bucky finishes stripping and gets in the bath, sitting there for a few moments before Steve realises he's the one meant to run the bath.
Bucky stares at the off-peach tiles. He blinks when necessary, moves his body when Steve tells him to, but he doesn't speak. He's as good as dead, now. Hydra has been exposed. It's what they warned him of. They told him it would happen, and now it has. He had disappeared, til the man sitting behind him found him.
Steve's in the bath as well, wearing only a pair of blue shorts. Comb in one hand and scissors in the other, he starts trying to detangle Bucky's hair. It doesn't work so well. Bucky makes small grunts each time Steve tries to get through a knot. Eventually, Steve just starts cutting away until Bucky's hair is back to the way it used to look. Neat, tidy, and short.
Well, that's a start at least.
"I'm going to have to clean the wounds to your back," Steve murmurs, getting out of the bath and fetching the first aid kit.
Bucky lifts his left arm, turning it slowly and studying it. To the outside world, he's had the arm for seventy years. To Bucky, it feels like no time at all. He's always had his metal arm. He falls asleep standing up with his metal arm by his side, and when he wakes, he still has his metal arm. He's woken up more than a dozen times now, not that he's keeping count.
He clenches his fist, then releases, before he grips his right wrist with his left and starts squeezing.
Bucky doesn't know why he's punishing himself, but he needs to. The pain distracts him from reality, it distracts him from the memories floating around in his head. A man — Steve — laying next to him on a bed, but smaller. This Steve is a third of the size that the current Steve is. Memory Steve is sickly, coughing and apologising. He's sorry for being a burden, sorry for getting Bucky into trouble. Sorry for sticking his nose in other people's business, like when that guy was beating on his wife in the alley behind their apartment building.
Steve can't help but defend people, it's what he does, and Bucky can't not step in.
"Bucky? You, uh, you can get out of the bath," Steve says with a gentle tone, like he's trying to coax a scared puppy towards him, or maybe trying to calm down a dog that's about to tear him a new one.
Bucky stands, letting go of his right wrist. His radius has a greenstick fracture, and the pain numbs all thought, but it's not enough. It doesn't help him tune out Memory Steve's voice.
"Look, I know you don't think I can do this . . ."
"This isn't a back alley, Steve. It's war!"
Memory Bucky . . . the man he used to be . . . Memory Bucky is like a foreign land he's exploring with trepidation.
"Bucky?" Steve says, holding out a large towel. Bucky takes it in his left hand, forcing himself to use his right hand as well to wrap the towel around his waist. "I'll clean your wounds . . . now this might hurt a bit," Steve continues, but it's mostly for him. He doesn't like the uncomfortable silence between them, the silence that suggests they're not friends, or acquaintances.
The silence that suggests Bucky has other places to be, or that Steve isn't as good at being a carer as he thinks.
Bucky walks into the lounge room and stands there, dripping water on the carpet, but Steve doesn't care. Bucky is alive, and as damaged as he may seem now, Steve is certain there's a way to fix him. There has to be. This can't be it. He can't find Bucky — the man he . . . trusted — and do nothing. He has to fix Bucky, has to help him, there has to be a way.
Steve fetches the first-aid kit, uncapping the scalpel first. He needs to reopen the wounds, clean them out. God knows what's been festering in there, but the wounds aren't as deep as he thought.
Steve closes his eye and braces himself for a moment, praying to God it isn't what he thinks — but he knows it is. The wounds are the width of his fingers, or rather, Bucky's fingers. Scratch marks. It explains why they go across his back and not down.
Bucky flinches when Steve starts dabbing the hydrogen peroxide on his wounds. Steve has a half smile on his face, not because Bucky reacted — but . . . it's Bucky. His Bucky. The Bucky that the world thought it could take from him. He won't blame Bucky's so-called death on God, seeing as God has nothing to do with it. God didn't tell Zola and Schmidt to do what they did. Freedom is a beautiful thing, and it's because of freedom that Steve has this man back.
Bucky leans to the side slightly, angling his head and resting it against Steve's knee. He likes Memory Steve better . . . Memory Steve is smaller, he lays there shivering during winter with four thin blankets stacked over him and Bucky's arms around him. He doesn't understand why he's holding Memory Steve, but the emotions he feels are real. He wants — no, he needs — to protect the man in his arms. The man who calls him jerk, and who he calls . . .
"You're a punk," Bucky murmurs.
"Jerk," Steve says quietly, fixing the gauze in place to cover the wounds. He smiles. Bucky may not be Bucky yet, but he remembers something and that's good enough for now. He helps Bucky to his feet, removing the towel from his waist. He dries Bucky's legs, completely aware that Bucky's manhood is dangling within inches of his mouth, but it isn't appropriate. This isn't Bucky from the forties, this is the Winter Soldier. He's been conditioned, trained — God knows what they've done to him and how, but even Steve knows it's a tightrope he's walking.
One wrong word could send Bucky spiralling into a depression, and another could put that metal arm around Steve's neck to snap it.
A smile tugs at Bucky's mouth but he forces a blank expression. He's a jerk. Memory Steve got bigger somehow. The faces match, but the bodies don't. When Present Steve is finished drying him, he disappears into one of the rooms. There's a kitchen, a bedroom, a couch, and a bathroom. Bucky doesn't know the layout of the apartment yet, but he has a feeling he's going to learn it.
His right arm throbs, a reminder of what he's done. The pain numbs all thoughts, happy or otherwise. This man is the Mission, was the Mission. Missions aren't finished until all targets are dead. That was his training, his work ethic . . . but work is finished. Hydra is finished. Now he has no mission, except the one walking towards him with clothes.
Steve sits him down on the couch and dresses him, putting his briefs on first. Steve's face is calm and focused. Occasionally he sneaks a kiss, a slight graze of his lips against Bucky's skin as he slides the pants up Bucky's legs before helping Bucky put the sleeveless shirt on.
"Do you want something to drink?"
Steve refuses to believe this is the Winter Soldier. An imbecile, a helpless child. You don't train a weapon and set him loose on the world while wanting him to rely on a handler, otherwise he would have been caught years ago. No, this is shock . . . or something. The Winter Soldier isn't this . . . this is Bucky. Bucky has been torn apart and put back together so many times. This is Bucky trying to put himself together, without any help, but he needs help. A man like Bucky doesn't break easily, and Steve can only imagine what they did in order to break him.
Bucky doesn't say anything, just sits on the couch and stares at the clock on the wall as the seconds hand ticks around.
Steve notes the time, and the knock at the door. Sam's right on time, and as much as he wants to stay, he can't. He'd bring Bucky along, but Bucky hasn't settled yet. Maybe a week from now he can bring Bucky to the veteran's group. Unfortunately now just isn't the right time. Steve walks behind the couch and leans over, slipping his arms around Bucky's shoulders and hugging him gently.
Bucky leans back into Steve's arms and closes his eyes. This time it's Steve hugging him, not the other way around. The way his muscles fold around Bucky's shoulders, the way the bigger man embraces him as if everything will be alright. Steve doesn't need to say it because he can feel it through the man's arms. Steve will be there for him, is there for him.
"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," Steve says softly in his ear. I love you, he thinks, but he won't say it out loud. Not yet, not until he's ready to admit that the ache in his chest is what he feels for Bucky and not indigestion.
Bucky blinks slowly, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder as Steve opens the door. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."