Flashlight

Chapter twenty-two

It felt like you had been hit with a hammer when you woke up the following morning, and you were grateful that the long weekend would give you an extra day to recover. Though sleep had found you quickly upon arriving home, it had been plagued with dreams, both sweet and terrible, and you had woken up several times—leaving you feeling exhausted. You tried to close your eyes again, but your mind was already racing with last night's events, and you knew it would be no good.

Therefore you grabbed your phone from the bedside table and sent off a quick text to Maria and Sam, repeating your sentiments from the previous night; you were incredibly happy for them.
Maria was quick to reply, thanking you and following it up with an inquiry as to your wellbeing. She was worried. Sam, however, remained silent. Of course, he had never been one to answer immediately, unless he happened to be holding his phone at the exact moment a message came. It didn't matter. Your congratulations didn't really need a response.

Then you sent a message to Natasha, telling her that you'd call her later in the day unless you expressly told you not to. Of course, you hoped she wouldn't deter you—you needed to know how she and Clint were doing, and you wanted to let them know that you would always be there for them. Thankfully, Natasha gave a quick reply that she was okay and would talk to you later. You smiled and were just about to place the phone back on the bedside table when Wanda rang. She'd probably seen your activity on WhatsApp. You smiled and answered her, trying to sound as chipper as you could possibly manage.

After a short conversation where you managed to convince her that you were doing just fine, you finally got up and made yourself some breakfast, which you proceeded to eat splayed out in front of the tv, mindlessly nibbling as you flicked through the channels.
Time flew by as you did so, eventually you stopped flicking and lingered on Investigation Discovery. It was dark and terrible—murder and tragedy—most of which didn't really register with you, but it did quiet the thoughts in your head long enough to let your shoulders relax a little as you slouched on the couch.

By the time you got dressed, midday had come and gone, and you decided it would be a good moment to check your mail. You'd recently signed up on a few job-searching websites and were now casually looking for a job that you might enjoy more than the one you already had. Most of the daily emails you received from those websites went ignored, as work kept you busy, but perhaps now you could check out what was on offer.

You turned the computer on, and as it booted up, you walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle. With a hot cup of green tea, you sat down at the kitchen table and signed into your account. However, just as you were about to turn your attention to the screen, a knock on the door distracted you.
Confused about who it could possibly be, you got up to open it; you weren't expecting anyone. For a moment, you wondered if it could be Wanda, not convinced by your chipper demeanour on the phone. However, the surprise was big when the open door revealed Bucky. Stepping aside to let him in, you didn't say a word—you just followed his movements with confusion.

"Sorry to barge in, but—" Bucky started, cutting himself off and fidgeting with the set of keys in his hands.

You wondered if he'd suddenly realised how forward he had been by coming here and perhaps wanted to backtrack. Momentarily, you contemplated giving him the out he might've wanted, if only your own curiosity on what he might have to say wasn't ever-growing inside of you.
He had appeared closer to the man you had known most of your life—determination and a certain fierceness in his steps—and you were not about to let him slide back into the dark hole he had made for himself over the past few years.

"It's fine. Sit down," you offered, your mind spinning with all the things he could possibly want to say.

"Thanks," Bucky said and walked towards the kitchen table. You remembered that was where he'd liked to sit most often. The couch was for actual lounging, he had said then. Bucky didn't sit though. Instead, he walked past the table and stared out of the window beyond it. It was a good view, but you doubted he saw much of it. His stare seemed miles and miles away.

"I'm too restless to sit, sorry," he said after a moment, looking back to where you stood by the door.

Shaking from your staring, you finally closed the front door and followed him into the apartment. Meanwhile, Bucky shuffled his feet in place, as if to prove the honesty of his words. Of course, it had been clear before that. You had already seen his shoulders raised high, shortly after he had started fidgeting with his keys. The only question was, was it the apartment that you had once shared that made him uneasy, or whatever he wanted to tell you?

"I was going to write you an email—to answer your questions—because words seem to come easier when I'm not looking into those eyes of yours," he said with a rueful smile, which you returned. He had always spoken so complimentary about your eyes in the past, and it suddenly struck you that he had not done so since his return.

"But you deserve better. More. So before I knew it, I was outside your door," he finished, and you smiled. He really was nervous, and it was adorable. Which only made it harder to stay aloof. And you really wanted to keep some distance. It was all too easy to wrap him in your arms once more.

"Should I leave?" he asked after a few seconds, and you chuckled as you shook your head.

"No, it's okay. I just wasn't expecting you." You wondered how you might help him relax a little, but nothing came to mind. You'd truly lost touch with what made him tick.

"If it helps, until I rang the doorbell, I wasn't so sure I'd come either," he said with a shrug.

"Nervous huh?" Captain Obvious, you thought to yourself, mentally rolling your eyes at the useless comment.

"Yeah, but you're right. You deserve answers and I've had the entire night to think about it."

"I would've been fine with a few more days, let you get some sleep," you half-joked, and he chuckled at those words.

"I know, but I didn't want to chicken out again."

"I see, well, in that case, I'm glad you're here, Buck," you offered with another smile, before asking him if he wanted something to drink. Without waiting for an answer, you had already moved towards the kitchen and glanced back at him when no sound followed the question. He finally asked for water, and you brought him a glass.

"Can I read the email I was going to send…and you can say or ask anything afterwards?" Bucky asked nervously, not meeting your eyes as he spoke.

"So basically, shut up and listen," you joked, and he blushed violently as he tried to tell you that that wasn't what he meant. You laughed at his response and told him you were just joking, you'd listen.

"I've been trying and failing to give you the answers you need and deserve, so I thought if I tried to write it down, things might be clearer." He took a breath and shyly looked up from his paper. True to your word, you kept quiet and simply smiled in encouragement. He nodded in reply and went back to his piece of paper.

"First of all, I am sorry. So terribly sorry. For all the pain, the uncertainty, and the anger I left you with. I never wanted to hurt you. I had convinced myself that by leaving, I'd make your life easier. I felt like a burden, and you deserved better."

It took quite some self-control not to interrupt him at that. You wanted to shake him, tell him that he wasn't the one that got to decide what you did or did not deserve. He took away your choice. But you kept mum, thinking you could shake him afterwards. Or give him a verbal lashing, whichever felt most fitting by the end of his speech.

"When I first came home from the hospital, I didn't know if I wanted to live. It was so hard to adjust to life, and everyone telling me that I was lucky just made me angry. I didn't feel lucky to be alive. I'd lost an arm and was in constant pain. I felt weak and broken and every time you reached out to help me, it made those feelings worse."

A lump formed in your throat, and as you regarded the man before you, you realised how hard it was for him to tell you this. You blamed yourself that you hadn't initially seen his depression. Or perhaps you hadn't wanted to see how deep his pain ran.

"I didn't know how to let you or anyone else help me. I felt unworthy of help. Unworthy of living. Why had Steve and I survived, when three other wonderful men had died? And Steve was still there, and I couldn't really talk to him about it. I didn't dare ask him if he felt the same."

He took a shaky breath, and you fought the urge to reach out to him. You weren't sure if that was what he needed. This explained the distance that had been created between him and Steve. Steve had struggled as well, upon coming home. He had the same survivor's guilt, but unlike Bucky, he had been rather open about it. He'd sought out professional help, gone to veteran groups. And he had chosen to volunteer with homeless vets. It was his way of giving back to a community that meant so much to him. You wondered if Steve was still struggling as well. He always seemed so put together, but he was only human. Pushing that thought aside for a later date, you focussed your attention back on Bucky.

"My therapist told me that what I was feeling was normal. A result of the trauma. But it felt so wrong, and I refused to acknowledge it. Which didn't help, of course. I didn't even tell anyone that I was diagnosed with depression. I didn't want pity and I was certain that was all I'd get.
But pretending that it didn't exist made me feel like a fraud. It was a double-edged sword that I kept falling onto, twisting the blade deeper and deeper with no idea of how to get it out."

"You kept reaching out to me, you were so sweet and gentle. As if I could break at any second. For a while that even made me angry." He looked up at you again, and you tried to keep the tears from falling, but it hurt and you knew it was clear on your face when the pained expression on his face intensified.

"I had to get out. I was afraid I'd swallow you whole, drag you into that dark pit I was sinking into. You never lost your patience with me, and I just thought I would end up breaking you. My anger would be like a lashing, and my depression a coffin to suffocate you. You deserved better than anything I had to offer. You deserved a man full of life, uncomplicated and preferably with all his limbs intact."

You gasped and finally reached to place a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. How had you missed the depth of his pain? And how had you managed to make it worse? That was certainly something you would have to figure out. Had your attempt to support him suffocated him? He had needed space, and whenever he made that clear, you clung to him even harder—it was suddenly so clear how your approach had been the opposite of what he needed.

"Despite my anger and the lack of effort to let you in, you kept trying. And the guilt added to my depression. It weighed so heavily on my shoulders, and it made me see that you wouldn't leave me. I had to be the one to do it. I no longer knew how to speak to you. Never knew how to ask you how you felt. All I knew was that I couldn't comfort you anymore, even though I saw your pain. And you couldn't comfort me either. So I decided that I couldn't be your fiancé anymore. I couldn't be anything to you. So I left, like a thief in the night.

I thought you'd be relieved once I was gone, that you'd move on. That everyone would simply forget about me, happy to be rid of the burden I had become." He took a deep breath, before adding;

"I was a coward, but I'm trying to fix that." His voice broke and tears ran down his cheeks as he placed the paper down on the table, his eye averted, as if he was avoiding your expression, your response.

The silence stretched and your head was swimming. How could you possibly respond to this? It was quite a lot. Slowly, you sat down in one of the chairs around the table, staring at the piece of paper. It felt like an eternity that you sat there, neither of you uttering a single word and not even looking at one another.

Words evaded you, while tears flowed freely. You knew it had to be you who broke the silence. It had taken a lot of progress for him to share this letter with you in person, but it did not make a response any easier to give.
Finally, you decided to do the one thing that had always come naturally to you. You stood again and reached forward, pulling Bucky into a tight hug. And he didn't hesitate for long before returning it and holding on just as tight.

"I'm sorry for suffocating you," you whispered when you pulled back from the hug a while later.

"You didn't—" Bucky started to say, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

"Yes, I did. You needed room to breathe, to work through it and I was too afraid that you'd slip and fall if I stepped back. I was holding on so tightly that I pushed you away."

"No! It was all on me. I should've told you what I needed. Instead, I stopped talking." It was soon clear to you that Bucky was willing to take all the blame, and though you appreciated the effort, it wasn't fair on either of you to ignore either side of the problem.

"And I let you. I moved on assumptions, but you had changed and I no longer knew you as well as before. I should've made you talk—even if it wasn't to me."

Bucky chuckled a little ruefully and you frowned, tilting your head to the side as you wondered what had caused that action.

"So we're both going to carry that guilt then?" he asked with a small smirk and you smiled.

"If only we had shared the load, but no, we had to be masochists about it," you offered and gained another chuckle for your efforts. It was a nice sound to hear.

"And I am infinitely sorry that I turned to ignoring you as I worked through my own issues," you added a moment later. Knowing now that it certainly hadn't helped matters.

"I deserved it." Bucky shrugged off your apologies.

"No, it was passive-aggressive, and we both know that never really helps."

"Can I say one more thing?" you asked and he nodded. "You are not less of a man, because you lived through trauma—you know that now, right?"

He shrugged, and you felt another sharp sting in your heart.

"Bucky, you've been through something horrible. And you have a daily reminder as well. I cannot begin to imagine how hard that must be, but you are still worthy of love. In fact, I think that the fact that all your friends were eager to forgive your absence should tell you that you still are very much loved. Nothing can change that."

He smiled at your words, clearly not entirely convinced, but you accepted victory in the fact that he didn't try to fight your words.

"I think for now, I have to work on me, while you work on you," you said with a sigh and a weak smile. "Maybe work on loving ourselves again, and find out who we are now."

"Maybe reinvent ourselves a little," he said, smiling ruefully. This wasn't the ending either of you had imagined—but it was the end you both needed, neither of you could deny it.

"As long as you don't forget one thing Buck; you are a good man,"

Hugging him close, you hoped to convey all the feelings that were swirling around inside of you. You loved him deeply, but you had both changed from who you had been together. Perhaps too much to fit back together. And for now, you both needed to walk alone. Who knew where you'd find yourselves once you'd gotten back to who you really were.

A/n: It's been forever and I am sorry for that. Life has been kicking my behind and it made this story in particular harder to write. Hopefully it'll be better from now on. This chapter catapults the story into the final fase and I hope you will all like what I have planned.