Spare
I know you keep a journal
And every page is rippled
From the tears that you cry
Ain't no meaning to your scribble
'Cause words can't describe what you been feeling inside
It's like thousand-foot walls and they're still on the rise...
Something was up with Steve and Bucky.
Everyone could see it. Avengers Tower was a closed ecosystem; sure, the super-soldiers could hide on their own floor for a little while, but they couldn't stay out of the general eye forever. There were still missions, and debriefs, and team breakfasts every Saturday—which Steve enforced himself, so it would be bad form not to attend.
At some point, the other Avengers were going to see that something was wrong.
They'd notice the furtive glances. They'd notice the odd silence. They'd notice the deeper hunch in Bucky's shoulders, and the darker bags under Steve's eyes. They'd notice that the two who usually sat next to each other were now across the table, or across the room, or not even in the room until the other left, if they could help it.
Even if the team was blind to everything else, they were bound to notice when Steve snapped.
Bucky was still getting used to utensils. HYDRA hadn't exactly fed him, and when they did, it was either a tasteless sludge in packets or a vial of nutrients injected right into his arm. He was still practicing things like common table manners, and social cues, and how to use a knife and fork.
So when he scraped the side of his fork across the plate, making that horrid noise, in an attempt to gather up the last little bit of sauce and crumbs, it finally got on Steve's last nerve.
"Can you stop?" he snapped. He didn't raise his voice, but it sounded loud in the silence.
Bucky recoiled. The plate and fork dropped to the table with a clatter. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving like a marathon runner.
He looked terrified.
Steve's expression changed. The annoyance gave way to realization and guilt.
"Buck," he stammered, extending a pacifying hand, "I'm sorry, Buck, I didn't—"
Bucky rocketed out of his chair, away from Steve's grasp, sprinted the few yards and plunged into the elevator.
Steve charged after him. "Bucky!"
The doors shut in his face.
Steve took a step back. He stood helpless in the middle of the Common Floor lobby, with the eyes of the Avengers on his back and a heavy silence in the air.
Steve lifted his head, drew in a shivering breath, and sighed.
He slunk back to the table and finished his breakfast in silence, but he didn't seem all that interested in the food.
Nobody said a word, but they all knew something was wrong.
"Hate to say it, but I think they're on the rocks." Sam Wilson sighed and swirled the last dregs of coffee in the bottom of his mug. "Rogers in particular is a pressure can, and it's just gonna get worse if he keeps his mouth shut."
It was Thursday. That meant Sam was in town for Bucky's weekly therapy session. He'd been in D.C. the rest of the week, three hours' train ride from Manhattan, and even he could tell something was up.
Clint Barton scowled and clicked his tongue. If the resident shrink said it was bad, it must be really bad. "You really think it'll get bad enough for him to blow up?"
Sam shook his head. "I don't want this to keep goin' long enough to find out."
Clint leaned back in his chair and sighed. They needed a plan. Normally, Rogers would be the go-to guy if a member of the team were out of commission emotionally, but...well, what do you do when the doctor's sick?
Thor didn't have the gentle hand for this. Bruce and Tony didn't have the stability. Natasha would have been great to have around right now, but she was out on a mission, burning her tracks after the Triskellion leak.
That just left Sam and Clint. And although he had some experience calming a two-year-old's temper tantrums (now that was a can of worms he dreaded opening to the team), Clint was kinda out of his league when it came to handling grown-ups.
But Clint cared, dang it. He'd been there when they first pulled Barnes out of the rain. That was when he first met Sam, at four in the morning after a cold, wet, nightlong stakeout, and decided right there that any friend of Steve's—especially a friend who helped kick HYDRA's ass—was a friend of his.
Truth be told, Clint was invested. He'd seen brainwashing undone before. He'd seen a new person blossom out where there had only been obedience and fear, and he wanted to see it happen again.
Any roadblock to that goal—even a spat between the super-soldiers—would have to be addressed, as Coulson always put it, "with extreme prejudice".
Clint pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Okay, tell you what. You have that thing with Barnes this afternoon, right?"
Sam checked his watch and shrugged. "In about half an hour, yeah."
"Great." He leaned his elbow on the table. "So here's what I'm thinking. You take the brunette, I'll take the blonde, and we'll see if we can't get out of 'em what the hell this is all about."
Sam raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug. "You're gonna get Rogers to crack?"
Clint shrugged. "Gonna try."
He looked impressed, but not convinced. "I hope you're bringing a crowbar."
Clint smirked and puffed up his chest with all the false arrogance he could muster. "Just my winning smile and charisma. Anybody can open up to this handsome face," he added, rubbing at the scruff on his chin.
Sam's expression was flat. "I wouldn't."
Ouch. Clint frowned. False arrogance or not, that kinda stung for a second. "Gee," he drawled sarcastically, "thanks, man."
Sam chuckled and shook his head, his grin revealing a gap in his two front teeth. Clint couldn't help but snicker.
"Well," said Sam, this time without a trace of irony, "you've worked with him longer than I have. You might have a better chance than me." He raised his mug in toast. "Good luck."
"Likewise." Clint snapped off a stiff salute.
He didn't have a plan yet, but one was beginning to form in his mind.
It was stupid enough that it just might work.
Clint watched the clock until 2:04. He didn't want to barge in right as the therapy session started; that would be suspicious. He needed Steve to have his guard down.
Right as the clock ticked 2:05, he swung into the elevator and stuck his hands in his pockets. "The Captain's floor, JARVIS."
The British voice in the ceiling answered, "Of course, Mr. Barton."
A slight jolt under his feet, a quiet woosh, and when the doors opened, everything looked different.
The only constant thing across every level of the Tower was the wall of windows on the far side; room layout, furniture, and utilities varied widely. Compared to the Common Floor, Steve's choice of furniture was pragmatic and spartan. He only had what he needed, plus a few handmade sketches and paintings on the wall to spruce things up.
Steve sat in the living area, staring at a book, and quiet voices could be heard from the other room.
Clint barely kept himself from snorting. Eavesdropping, huh? I know you've got that weird super-hearing. I bet you haven't even turned that page for the last ten minutes.
Unfortunately, Steve wasn't so engrossed that Clint was able to sneak up on him. He looked up as soon as he heard the footsteps. "Barton."
Clint waved with two fingers. "Hey, Cap."
"JARVIS didn't tell me you were coming." Steve warily folded the book shut on his finger, but didn't put it away. "You need something?"
"Nah." Clint sniffed. "Just wondering if you've got a free afternoon. I've got nothing to do. Could go down to Manhattan by myself, but that'd be boring, so I figured I'd ask."
Steve looked like he was attempting to smile and slowly set the book aside. "I...didn't think I'd be your first choice for company."
Geez. Self-depreciating much? Clint put that away for later and carried on with the act.
"Yeah, well, Tasha's on assignment right now," he said, counting off on his fingers. "I probably wouldn't walk out with my wallet intact if Stark got involved. Bruce is busy in some science thing, and Thor took a flight down to New Mexico. That leaves you and me." He shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. "What do you want to do?"
Steve thought for a moment. His hand hadn't moved, still resting on the cover of the book on the side table. The voices in the other room had gone strangely quiet.
For a split-second, Clint worried that the jig was up before it even got started.
But then, Steve looked out the window, put a small, controlled smirk on his face, and turned to Clint. "What is there to do around here?"
Clint stood ramrod straight, as if at attention. He took aim, narrowing his eyes at the arrows on the floor. Two steps, dropped his arm back, swung it forward, and released.
It took some skill to hide the slight tweak he put into his throw. The lurid purple ball, scuffed from years of use at the bowling alley, skidded down the lane, missed the first two rows of pins, and knocked down three in the far corner before dropping into the gutter.
It was easy to pretend to be upset at that. Clint sucked on his teeth. "Dang."
Apparently, his acting was working, because Steve stood behind him with an incredulous grin, polishing the ball he brought from home. "You can hit an Asgardian god from a rooftop a block away, but you can't bowl?"
"I was trained," Clint hollered as if offended, as he stomped back to the ball return, "in archery, not how to hurl a—" he grunted, hoisting the purple thing into his arms, "—heavy ball down a lane."
Secretly, he was really good at that too. This time, he curved the ball just enough to slide through the gap he'd already made before, hitting no more pins, and he dropped his shoulders and grumbled for show.
Behind him, Steve chuckled, and Clint had to hide a smirk of victory.
So far, the plan was working.
A navy blue ball hurtled down the lane, and the pins exploded to all sides with a satisfying BANG and a clatter.
Clint looked up from his nachos to glance at the scoreboard. Another X appeared after Steve's name.
"I swear you're gonna get a three-hundred," said Clint.
Steve smiled modestly, walking back to his chair.
Clint stuffed another chip in his mouth and grumbled, "Darn young fellas showing up us old guys."
Steve took a seat at the table as the pins reset. "I thought I was ninety-six. You're the old guy now?"
Clint made a big show of wiping off his hands on a napkin. "I'm the old guy if it means I get to complain about you whipper-snappers bowling three-hundreds."
"Step up your game, old man," Steve grinned. In spite of the tension earlier that day, he really seemed to be enjoying himself.
Clint summoned his best imitation of Laura's dad—not that he'd ever admit it was that—and pretended to hobble towards Steve on a cane, shaking his fist. "Why, back in my day we bowled in the snow!" he cried in a lisping voice.
Steve chuckled and shook his head. At first, that looked like all the reaction Clint would get out of him, but the longer it went, the more the joke seemed to get to him, and his eyes scrunched up and he was outright laughing.
"Barefoot!" cried Clint. "Uphill, both ways!"
Steve clutched at his chest and cackled, and Clint didn't even bother hiding his grin.
Sometimes, he wondered how often the Avengers forgot just how young Steve really was. Sure, he was their leader, and his serious demeanor made him seem way older than the rest of them, but mentally, Steve was just out of his twenties.
He was way too young to carry the whole world on his shoulders. Finally, Clint was getting to see a genuine laugh out of the kid. Even better, he got him to relax.
Clint took his turn with a little puff of pride in his chest. He almost forgot to do badly on purpose.
Almost.
Conversation wandered around a bit, after that initial icebreaker. They mostly talked about safe things, like sports, and food, and what bowling alleys were like in the 40's.
Mentally, Clint was kicking himself for not realizing those were a thing. He always thought bowling alleys just didn't exist until they popped mysteriously out of the pavement, like weeds, one day in the 80's, fully-formed with the rigged claw machines and garish carpet.
But Steve didn't seem to mind the misconception. Actually, he was all too excited to talk about one of the few sports, along with things like golf and pool, that he could actually play as a kid. It was indoors, and less strenuous than baseball, which was better for his asthma, and even back then, he'd cultivated a fantastic aim.
After the serum, he still had all that old skill, plus ten times the strength and even keener reflexes. So now he hurled around a sixteen-pound ball with twice the power and precision that he had a seven-pounder and it was no wonder he dominated.
Clint made a mental note to never actually try in a game against Steve. He had a feeling he'd just leave embarrassed.
A few disproportionate scores and about a dozen nachos later, Steve stepped up to take another swing. Clint would have loved to stay in this spot forever—just shooting the breeze, having fun, and forgetting everything outside the polished lanes and the distant chatter of other players—but he had a job to do.
"So," Clint said, trying to keep it casual, "how's things with you and Barnes?"
Steve's swing faltered. He clipped the side of the first pin, nearly missing it, and when the dust settled, the tenth pin was still standing alone in the back corner.
The resetter came down, the lane was cleared, and a 9 appeared on the scoreboard.
Steve swung his arms, not turning around, and not looking at Clint. His voice was carefully level. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," said Clint. "That's the first time this game you haven't gotten a strike."
The ball return whirred softly in the background. With a clunk, CLUNK, thump, it puked the navy ball up and onto the rack.
Steve went to get it. He didn't look at Clint.
Clint sighed. Maybe it was better to be gentle on approach.
The voice that came out of him sounded a lot like the one he used with his kids. "What's going on?"
Steve weighed the ball in his hand and turned to face the lane. His throat sounded tight. "It's nothing." Two steps, and a roll, but he missed the one remaining pin by half an inch. Steve stalked back to his seat, his shoulders bristled, and his eyes fixed on the carpet.
Clint shook his head. "That's not a 'nothing face', Steve."
Steve sat down heavily and crossed his arms. He still didn't look up.
Clint relented. "If you don't want to talk about it, I'll drop it. But you have to promise me you've talked to somebody else who can help."
He left Steve to chew on that and stood up to take his turn. For a moment, Clint thought he wouldn't get an answer—and then, a quiet voice spoke from the table.
"I haven't."
Clint shrugged and took his stance. "Well?"
Steve paused. He was staring at the table this time. "I guess I'm just frustrated."
Clint didn't say anything, but he did give a small grunt of affirmation, raising the ball under his chin to sight it down the lane.
"And I shouldn't be." There had been anger in Steve's voice up to this point, but now there was sadness tinged in with it too. "He doesn't deserve it."
Clint nodded, not taking his eyes off the pins. "Is it, like, angry-frustrated, or...?" He took a swing, and let himself score six, with one pin standing alone in one corner and a cluster of three in the other.
"Some sad, some angry." Steve's finger traced a little shape on the table, his eyebrows knit in his forehead. "I don't know."
Clint headed back to the ball return. He offered eye contact, just in case Steve wanted to receive it. "Are you mad at him?"
"No." Steve said it firmly, but just like that, the vehemence was gone. "Or I don't want to be. It's just..." He put his elbows on the table and knit his fingers behind his head.
Clint didn't move. If Steve was gonna break, it was about to happen now.
"It's gotten hard." Steve's voice was quiet, guilty, as if he was admitting a shameful secret. "At first, I...I think it felt good to do all the work. To help him, and to feel needed. Even making sacrifices," he added quietly, "since he'd done so much for me.
"But now, it's been so long..." His hand pushed his hair back from his forehead, ran over his scalp, and came to rest at the back of his neck. "I'm tired of it. I thought we'd be making more progress by now. But we're not. He wakes up screaming a lot and neither of us get a lot of sleep. Sam tells me to be patient with him and I'm trying, but..."
He stared bitterly at the table. "It's making it hard to take missions. It's hard to look at him. Hard to talk to him, sometimes." He opened his mouth, shut it again, gestured futilely with his hands for a moment, and finally slumped in defeat.
"There's just...a lot there. You know?"
Clint nodded. He'd picked up his ball and a towel and was rubbing the grease off, just to have something to do. "I think so. He's been through a lot, and you've got to process that as much as he does."
He strode up to the lane, aimed for the three pins in the corner, and took them out. Could have sent one flying into the guy on the other side, but didn't.
Steve nodded, but gave no more acknowledgment than that.
When Clint returned to the table, Steve stood up. He seemed emotionless, like the passion from ten minutes ago had been completely drained from him, and he picked up his ball like clockwork. "I caught myself thinking today," he said quietly, "maybe it would be better for us to spend some time apart."
He took his swing. Rolled a split. The tenth and seventh pins stood alone in their back corners, as far away from one another as they could be.
Steve gave a small huff of disappointment.
Clint's nacho cheese was going hard. He pushed it aside. "It could. You never know."
Steve whirled on him with a look like 'are you serious'.
"Not forever," Clint shrugged. "Just...for a little while. So he can heal by himself, at his own pace."
He kept talking as Steve went back to grab his ball from the return. "When that's done, I bet it'll be easier to be close again."
Steve clipped the side of the tenth pin and sent it bouncing off the wall and flying into the seventh. Reunited again, they disappeared down the gutter, but Steve didn't celebrate the spare.
"He doesn't have anywhere else to go."
Clint raised an eyebrow. "Nowhere?"
"This century wasn't made for us in the first place, and now it has him pegged as a criminal." Steve's shoulders were rigid. "An assassin."
"Hm." Clint wasn't quite sure how true that was, but he understood the emotions behind it.
Isolation, whether true or perceived, is a slow but steady killer.
Steve trudged back to the table and took his seat, elbows on his knees. "And also..." he whispered, his voice weak and heartachy, "I don't want him to leave. I just got him back."
The machine reset the pins, a new, whole, white set of ten.
"I just want to be there when he's whole again."
Clint nodded. The ball return went clunk, CLUNK, thump, and the scoreboard said it was his turn to play, but he didn't get up just yet.
His voice was quiet. "What do you think you should to about that?"
Steve shrugged. "I don't know."
"You could start by talking to him."
For the first time that conversation, Steve looked up and glared. "I tried."
Oh. Clint felt his heart drop. Oh boy.
Steve averted his eyes, staring at the garish, space-themed carpet. "I don't think he's in a place that he can offer anything back right now."
Clint just sat there for a moment, listening to the chatter around them, to the air blowing from the machine and the belt whirring in the ball return. He thought back to all the times he'd seen Steve and Bucky together, before this crap went down; all the times he'd seen Bucky trailing after him like a dark, frightened, but eager-to-please puppy, and the hunger and desperate joy in his eyes when he did something that made Steve smile.
Clint spoke slowly. "That's all he's tried to do for as long as I've seen him with you." He lifted his head. "He wants to help, Steve. He just doesn't know how. You've got to tell him."
Steve looked incredulous. "I don't want to be that selfish."
"It's not selfish." Clint was arguing a little bit, but he needed this to get across. "There's only one of you to take care of you all the time. You've got to do your job, Steve."
"He's lived under orders his whole life." Steve sounded frustrated and angry. "I don't want to give him more."
Clint raised his eyebrows. He jabbed a finger into a spot on the table. "You're gonna compare a request from a friend," he said, and then jabbed another finger down, far away from the first one, "with a command from HYDRA? Really?"
Steve scowled, looked away, and snapped, "Just take your turn, Clint."
"Okay." Clint raised his hands. Maybe that was a little too much, too soon. He softened his voice, genuinely apologetic. "Sorry."
Steve didn't answer. He just sat there, gnawing on his lip.
Clint stood and picked up his ball. This wasn't going anywhere until Steve cooled off. That cooling off didn't really look like it was happening; Steve just sat there, his hand over his mouth and one knee bouncing.
After a moment, the quiet voice from the table said, "I don't want to make him angry."
Clint took a swing and scored an eight.
"I don't want to hurt him." The voice got quieter. "He isn't stable enough to handle that yet."
Clint swung his arms and tried not to roll his eyes. He'd heard a lot of dumb stuff this afternoon, but this beat all of it. "So that's what he is, in your mind, now?" he asked over his shoulder. "Unstable?"
Steve's glare was like blue fire.
"Do you think walking on eggshells is going to fix that?"
Steve stood up. His chair crashed to the floor. "I don't know, Clint!" he shouted, and barged off towards the door.
"What the—?" Clint stumbled his way, too late. The exit door shut, Steve was gone, and the nearby patrons, employees, and a janitor with a mop were all staring.
Clint ran a hand through his hair and grumbled to himself, "Damn dramatic super-soldiers..." He just hoped that Steve had remembered to take off the bowling shoes.
He changed into his own sneakers, put the bowling shoes on the counter like a reasonable person, and apologized to the girl at the computer and asked her to cancel their game. On his way out, his hands were full. In one hand, Steve's bowling bag, with that heavy-as-hell ball; in the other, a white pair of sneakers.
He found Steve sitting on the curb.
The bowling shoes had been left in a little heap on the carpet just inside the front door. Steve's socks were looking a little worn out, beat up, and sad. Their wearer didn't look much better.
Clint set the bag on the sidewalk first, and then lowered himself down, a respectful distance away. Steve had blown up when he shouldn't, but now wasn't the time to bring that up. He just set the white sneakers by Steve's hip as a tiny hint.
Steve turned his head slowly, like a giant made of stone, to glance at the shoes. His eyes were glassy and red. He turned again, facing the quiet road, folded his arms around his knees, and hid his chin in them.
Clint watched a beetle crawl on a dandelion poking through a crack in the pavement and said nothing.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," said Steve.
He sounded different. Tiny. Vulnerable. Clint was surprised and not surprised all at once, but he knew better than to talk. He just bit his lip and nodded.
"We were just gonna go to the war and come home." Steve's voice cracked on the last word. He put his forehead down and drew in a wet, weary breath. "And not even that, if we could help it."
Clint could feel his heart dropping. He hadn't thought of it very much before, but—every single hope that Steve had ever had—for his life, for his friend, for his world...
Most people dream of an extraordinary life. Steve just wanted a normal one.
Even that was taken from him.
Steve's face contorted, first with anger, and then with sadness, and his fingertips turned white as they clawed at his skull. "It wasn't supposed to be this hard."
He put his head in his knees.
His shoulders shook, but no sound came out.
Clint could feel a pain in his chest. The world sucked; he knew it. He'd been in the foster system, after all. If there were a button he could hit to set the whole world right—so no one ever felt a father break a beer bottle over their head, or a mother burn them with the end of a cigarette, or a brother get cold and distant after years of working so hard to stay together—he would have hit it, in a heartbeat, a long time ago.
But there wasn't. The world was broken, and there was no quick way to fix it. Steve had a friend whose brain was sick, a friendship that was pulled thin and fraying, and a heart that simply hurt, and there was no easy fix.
So Clint just put his hand on Steve's shoulder, and hurt with him.
The dam broke.
Steve didn't cry. It just wasn't a thing that happened. He was their fearless leader, principled and stoic and brave. He could be happy, or worried, or righteously angry, but things like grief and fear made a man look weak.
Captain America couldn't be weak, right? He was too strong for that.
And yet, here he was.
No, it wasn't making any noise. But he was shaking, his head in his knees, his whole body convulsing in spasms, and when he drew in a breath it was sharp and wet and desperate.
For a split second, Clint got a picture in his head. It wasn't of Captain America. It wasn't even of Steve Rogers, as he'd met him two years ago.
It was of a scared, poor, scrawny boy from Brooklyn—in khaki pants, worn-out suspenders, and shoes that were too big for him—whose mom was gone, whose dad was gone, and who only hoped he'd get to live another day, and his best friend with him.
He could see him. Though that kid was older, tired, wearing different clothes, and hiding in two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, Clint could see him.
He was sitting on the curb, right in front of him, bawling his eyes out.
So, for that kid, Clint stayed quiet.
Clint stayed.
He knew that was the most important thing.
It took a few minutes, but by and by, Steve started to calm down. He lifted his head, pale in the face but red-eyed and puffy-nosed and breathing with his whole chest, and dabbed his eyes on the sleeves of his t-shirt.
He pulled one of the sneakers onto his foot and slowly began to tie the laces. His voice was calm, but it sounded all clogged up. "Sorry I stormed out back there."
Clint shook his head and kept his voice low. "No, I get it. It's okay."
Steve's eyes started watering again. He pressed them to his sleeve and took a deep breath, trying to control himself.
Clint didn't move.
Another deep breath, and Steve lifted his head and pulled on the other sneaker. He focused bravely on tying the laces, as if it would distract him from breaking down again.
Clint stretched his legs and glanced around. The road was quiet at this time in the afternoon, and the neighborhood seemed blasé and familiar to him; but to Steve, this, and everything else in the twenty-first century, had once been new and terrifying.
"To be honest," he said slowly, "I can't imagine what you're going through. On one hand, I've seen brainwashing undone, but," he shrugged, "me and Tasha didn't have any history before then."
Steve just nodded. Clint took that as encouragement to continue.
"Your whole world, though..." He frowned. "And then your best friend..."
Steve's face contorted a little, and his voice was small. "Only friend. Before."
Clint nodded. Steve looked drained, his shoulders low, his hands resting uselessly on the sidewalk.
Clint stared up at the clouds drifting lazily through the blue sky, as if it would help him collect his thoughts. "Sometimes I look at you, and...can't help but be impressed. I think if my world burned down, and I got tossed into a new one, expected to learn everything real quick and be a hero—" He threw his arms out wide. "And even when the universe started to give me something back, it always half-assed stuff—"
Steve choked up a tiny, starving chuckle.
Clint smiled, but the grin fell off his face just as quickly. "I don't think I'd be where you are now. I'd probably be angry at everything. Or at luck, or God, or whatever."
The tiny sliver of happiness in Steve's eyes fled away, replaced with something dark and unhappy.
Clint picked his words one by one. "I think it's incredible you're still..."
Steve smirked. "Sane?" He'd at least recovered enough to be grimly humorous, but there was still a bit of hurt in his eye.
Clint shoot his head. "You still care."
One by one, every muscle in Steve's face went slack with surprise. He turned, perching his chin on his arms, to stare out at the road in front of them.
"Natasha said something like that."
Clint smirked to himself. Good ol' Nat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." A little roughness returned to his voice, as if the tears were clogging up his throat again. "First night he came in out of the rain...she said, 'it hurts because you care.'"
He swallowed hard. Clint never heard the rest of that story.
"Then that's your problem." His smirk was grim, and his voice completely serious. "You care too much." He clapped Steve's shoulder and tried to shake it, but it was like trying to move Atlas. "'Fraid guys like you are always gonna get their hearts broken."
Steve thought about that for a moment. "She told me not to lose it," he said quietly. "That I'll need it."
Clint nodded. "It's times like these that you really, really need it."
Steve lifted his head and met his eyes, and for the first time that conversation, he looked like he was listening.
Clint had a split second to think of something worth saying.
"'Cause it's times like these," he said, leaning in and poking Steve in the chest, "when your heart gets broke, that you have to decide what's really important and what's the right thing to do. It's times like these that it matters what you choose, 'cause it's a crisis. I think you have an advantage on that, really. You're not jaded. You see right and wrong clearer than all of us old folks."
It wasn't a particularly inspired speech. Clint didn't have the talent for that. But Steve grasped it with both hands and didn't let go.
"What I think is right..." The last evidence of clogged sinuses were beginning to fade from his voice. He rubbed his arm and open palm, looking like it was a question he'd asked himself a thousand times. "Do you really think it's enough?"
"I do. I really do." Clint thought for a moment and sighed. "I've seen enough psychos who got halfway to burning the world down because they only cared about themselves." More lightly, he added, "They're half the reason we cut a paycheck, so I can't be all mad, but still."
Steve gave a small snort of a laugh, but didn't lift his head.
Clint smiled, but his voice was dead serious. "If you're at least making an effort to look out for someone else—if you're at least trying to do what's right—you're far more likely to do it. I know, because I know the alternative."
Steve nodded slowly. Clint could see the gears in his brain turning. "I...I think the right thing to do is to stay with my friend in his time of need." He wrung his hands slightly. "I just don't know if I can."
"Why not?"
Steve stared at the pavement. "Did you know I can lift eight hundred pounds?"
Huh. Clint wondered where this was going. "Really?"
Steve nodded stiffly. "Stark calculated it. I'm strong enough to lift eight hundred pounds, dead-weight, no assist." His voice got quiet, almost quavering, and he raked a hand back through his hair. "But I'm not strong enough to stay with my best friend when he's hurting."
Clint paused. "You need to talk to him."
Steve glared around his arm.
"I'm serious! If you have trouble with somebody, you work it out by talking to them. Won't fix it to talk to anyone else."
Steve seemed exhausted. "I don't want to put that on him..."
Clint leaned back and rolled his eyes up to the sky. "Steve, lemme ask you a question."
Steve hesitated. "Okay..."
"If your places were switched," Clint said, flipping his finger back and forth like a windshield wiper to demonstrate, "you with your brain fried over medium, and him taking care of you, and it was getting hard for him—would you want to know?"
Steve didn't answer, staring straight ahead.
Clint leaned down to flick a bug off his sneaker.
Finally, Steve whispered, "Yes."
Clint nodded. "Put yourself in his shoes. I know you and he look like night and day to most people, but you're a lot more alike than you think."
He paused, thought for a second, and then leaned back on the heels of his hands. "I'm just going to level with you. From what I've seen, my experience, there's a lot of harm that's been done by keeping secrets. I say that as a former spy." He looked up, almost as a challenge. "And there's a lot of good that's been done by telling the truth.
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you're the 'doing good' kinda guy, Steve, not the other thing."
Steve lifted his head. He seemed reluctant, maybe even resigned, but still, there was the barest flicker of hope in his eye.
"All right," he said. "I'll try."
Clint sat back with a broad smile. "Good." He couldn't shake Steve, so he just settled for scrubbing roughly at his shoulder. "Just know you're not alone this go-round, all right, pal?"
"Sure." Steve put on a fake smile. It fell away pretty quickly, replaced by wary pessimism. "And...if it goes wrong?"
Clint sighed. "Then you work it out."
Steve didn't answer or look at him.
He doubted it. It was obvious. To be honest, Clint doubted it too. He wasn't trained in this sort of thing; he had no idea if his advice would work. He had a feeling Steve hadn't really told him everything, either. He was still holding something back.
Clint just knew if this all stayed bottled up and festering too long, nothing good was going to happen. If they got it out in the open, then maybe—just maybe—they'd give it a chance to get better.
So it was half to assure Steve, and half to assure himself, that he said, "You've got at least a couple things in your corner. You and Barnes care about each other, and you're both stubborn as hell. That's as good a place to start building up as any."
Steve smiled; and this time, it was genuine. "Thanks, Clint."
Clint smiled back. "Anytime."
At the very least, Steve knew someone cared, and he wouldn't face this alone.
He slapped his knees, pushed into them, and stood up. "Up for a rematch?" he asked, offering a hand to Steve. "I can start us a new game. Kinda canceled the last one."
Steve grasped his wrist and pulled himself to his feet. "Nah." He wore a tiny smile. "I think I made enough of a scene. Let's do something else."
"Sure." Clint stuck his hands in his pockets. "Do you like, uh...I guess the bars wouldn't do you any good. How about putt-putt golf? I putt a mean golf."
Steve thought for a moment, and a smirk slowly grew on his face. "As mean as your bowling aim?"
"Ooh." Clint narrowed his eyes. "Watch it, Rogers."
Steve chuckled, and deep inside, Clint considered that a job well done.
By the time they got back to the Tower, it was late in the afternoon. The sunlight filtering through the wide windows stretched across the den on Steve's floor, casting long, warm, orange shafts of light over the coffee table and the couch.
Steve and Bucky sat on the couch, talking.
Well, Steve had been doing most of the actual talking. Bucky just sat at attention, studious and subdued as he always was after a session with Sam, but he'd leaned into Steve a little, absorbing every word with a look of quiet sadness and pain.
Bucky's voice was low and rasping from disuse. "I knew it's been hard."
Steve lifted his head in surprise.
Bucky's eyebrows scrunched up. He seemed almost annoyed. "I-I'm not blind, Steve," he stammered. "I know you're not sleeping 'cause of me." A brief look of hurt crossed his face, and he turned away.
Steve took a moment to process that. He lowered his head, sheepish. "I've kinda been pretending."
Bucky's smile was small and barren. "I know."
Steve thought for a moment and said slowly, "Maybe I had to, at the time. But now..." He scrubbed his face, conveniently hiding his mouth in his hand. "It's getting harder, you know, to put on a brave face and act like nothing is wrong..."
"You don't gotta do that," Bucky said, as if it was so simple. He lifted his head and smiled. "We gotta talk about you, too."
"I don't—you're—" Steve stared into Bucky's face, lost for words. Suddenly, all of his protests of 'you've got it so much worse' seemed so small and ridiculous in light of Bucky's sincerity, and he couldn't even choke out a protest.
Bucky's smile was a complex one. There was hurt in his eyes, but underneath, it was also so full of love. He frowned at his knees, trying to collect his thoughts. "Sometimes I get stuck in my head, Steve. I need someone to look out for, or I'll never make it out."
He took a deep breath and wrapped both arms around himself. Talking seemed to wear him out. "Been feeling kinda useless lately, to be honest. You gave me everything, and I ain't got a dime to pay you back."
The tiny smile reappeared, and he shyly lifted his head, peeking out from the curtain of dark hair. "D' be nice to be the helpin' one for a change."
Steve could hardly think. Too many emotions were whirling around in his head, clouding his vision and making his protests feeble. "You don't have to pay me back."
Bucky scowled. "G-goddamn it, Steve. You ain't perfect. You can't do all the work yourself. I know I'm messed up in the head, but I'm not useless yet. Just l-let me have this."
And he surged forward, grabbing Steve by the shoulders and glaring him down with fervency that pushed past his fear, and the light in his eyes was like a firecracker and like nothing Steve had seen into him since the day he fell off that train.
Steve stared. He hardly remembered to breathe. God, it looked like Bucky—his Bucky, the old Bucky, the one who wasn't afraid to tell it straight or knock him down a peg—not the Soldier, not the Asset, not the warped and broken wreck that HYDRA dished up.
It looked like his best friend.
Steve wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to grab his Bucky and tell him to never, ever, ever go away again. He wanted to talk to him like he used to, confide his fears and darkest thoughts in him like he used to, and finally be rid of the awful, aching weight in his chest that he'd carried for far too long—
But he was scared.
"Promise me it won't be too much," he gasped out.
Bucky blinked and frowned. "Why the hell would it be too much?"
"I don't know." Steve's mouth was running, and he couldn't stop it. "I don't know. It's just...you've already got so much to deal with. I don't want you to have to carry me too. I don't want to be the reason you jump out that window and I never see you again..."
Bucky's eyes went wide.
Steve realized what he said.
He couldn't bring himself to speak. His tongue felt fuzzy and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his heart pounded THUD-thud, THUD-thud in his chest.
Bucky let go of his shoulders and turned away slowly, damningly silent. Steve wanted to bury his face in his hands.
So he'd thought about it.
Oh, god, he had thought about it.
Steve couldn't even imagine how he'd feel—after how far they'd come, and how much they'd suffered, and how hard they'd worked to get here—if he woke up one morning and found Bucky twenty-five stories down, on the pavement, out of his own choice.
He couldn't stop it from happening, not if Bucky really got it into his head. That terrified him. He couldn't stop it, short of locking his best friend in a Hulk-proof cell and taking away every freedom that he'd worked so hard to give him back.
What if it really happened? What would he do? Would he blame himself? Would he blame God? Would he be angry with Bucky, or would he just hurt? Would he wish he'd done things differently, been a better friend, not said those words or done that thing because maybe then Bucky wouldn't have done it?
Would he think about following him?
Those questions had all been hypothetical, before. They were the fear that would keep him up at night, listening for the slightest, wayward sound—the fear that made him walk on eggshells around Bucky, and flared whenever anything set him off. But he'd never gotten confirmation that they were anything worse than his brain jumping to the worst possible extreme; he'd never gotten confirmation that those thoughts had ever crossed Bucky's mind at all.
But now, those questions were far less hypothetical.
He'd thought about it.
And now, he knew that Steve had thought about it too.
Bucky was very, very quiet. "Steve."
Slowly, Steve clawed together enough courage to look up.
Bucky was staring at the floor, rubbing his thumb down the seams on his metal arm. The metal arm—the one that was welded onto him while he was awake—the one that still made him wake up screaming bloody murder when he had dreams about the surgery.
"You know why I don't jump out that window?" he asked, slowly and deliberately, and his voice began to shake. "You know why I don't try to rip this damned arm off? You know why I don't—why I leave the guns far away, why I don't touch 'em, don't even look at 'em, when I'm feeling low and I just want to stop seeing the dreams anymore?"
Steve shook his head dumbly, unable to speak. Hot pressure stung behind his eyes and pounded in his chest.
Bucky was physically shaking, but he kept talking, doggedly, like dragging himself through frigid snow. "It's not 'cause you jump outta bed and come wake me up every time you hear me screaming. It helps, really, having you there, but that's not it. It's not because of what you say, 'cause that doesn't always help, and it's not 'cause of what you do.
"It's because..." His voice quavered. "I don't know. I wake up, and you're in the other room breathing, and even if the worst things are goin' through my head I know I can't do none of it because god, you're in the other room, you're asleep, and it'd destroy you.
"I don't think you could stop me, if I were really set on it—but I'm not. I won't be. Not ever. I can't do that to you. Don't you understand? You don't even have to be there, and you give me a reason to hold on.
"It's enough...you're enough.
"You."
He'd leaned in. The look in his eyes took Steve's breath away and didn't give it back.
Bucky paused for a long while, staring at his hands. "As long as you're here, I ain't goin' nowhere, and I ain't doing nothin'. I couldn't do that to you again." He lifted his head, steel and fire in his eyes. "But I'm tired of 'not doing', Steve. God, I know you're hurting. I know. I know. You're the worst actor I've ever seen."
Steve tried to laugh. It didn't work. His chest felt like he'd been hit with a truck.
Bucky gazed into the distance. "I want to start doing. Helping." He turned, and the look in his eyes was pleading and pierced right to Steve's soul. "Least you can do is let me start with the guy I owe more than anyone in the world."
Steve stared back. He had no more words. A thousand different emotions were rolling around in his chest, but the biggest one was affection, and the next one was hurt.
He barely controlled himself to choke out, "Can I hug you?"
Bucky's face slowly stretched into a grin, but there were tears brimming in his eyes. "Yeah."
So they did. Steve held on like he'd crumble to pieces if he let go, and Bucky leaned in like he'd been missing this his whole life, and Steve dug his forehead into Bucky's shoulder to hold back the tears.
Bucky's words were playing on repeat, over and over, in Steve's head.
Least you could do is let me start...
"God, we're a couple a' messes," he choked out.
Both of them laughed, and it sounded wrong, and man oh man did it ever feel like release.
"I'm so sorry," whispered Steve. He perched his chin on Bucky's shoulder. "I never even gave you the chance."
Bucky's voice was muffled, his face in Steve's shirt. "From now on, though?"
"Yeah." Steve smiled. It was tight and feeble at first, but slowly, it broadened into a grin, and his spine and shoulders relaxed as he finally let go of everything he'd been holding on to for far too long.
He buried into his best friend's arms, and trusted.
"I promise."
Meanwhile, Sam and Clint were on the Common Floor, bent over a StarkPad.
JARVIS' security feed came with sound, as well as video. Sam didn't wait to see any more than the hug before he quietly turned it off.
He crossed his arms and sighed softly. "Wow."
Clint nodded, with a small grunt of agreement.
Sam shook his head. He was no stranger to high emotions—lord knows he'd sat through his fair share of them, in his job—but they never stopped affecting him, at his core. "That's incredible."
Clint preened. "Why, thank you."
Sam glared at him half-heartedly, but he couldn't keep it up. He sighed. "Well, I have to give you credit where it's due. They talked it out; that's the important thing." A thought hit him, and he leaned one elbow on the table and turned to face Clint. "How did you get him to crack, anyway?"
Clint smirked. "A magician never reveals his secrets."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. But as the only licensed counselor in this Tower full'a crazy, I might need that information."
Clint thought for a moment. "It involved bowling."
Sam just stared for a moment. There wasn't a trace of irony in Barton's voice. Sam wouldn't put it past him to be a fantastic liar, what with being a spy and all, but he really seemed to be telling the truth.
Finally, Sam gave up and turned away. "You're right, I don't wanna know."
Clint snickered, and Sam allowed himself a chuckle.
But look up
To a beautiful sound
And see for yourself, you're not that far down
And know this
I cannot love a little
My promise to you is unconditional
Just turn around, and I'll be there
I'll be there
THE END
A/N: Hey, all! I've been gone a while, haven't I? Sorry about that. Been doing a lot of brainstorming for my original writing and future installments of the Remembered AU. I hope you're all doing well!
If this story seems like it's coming from somewhere personal, that's because it is. Without going into too much detail: Steve and Bucky were always comfort characters for me, because when I got into this fandom, my own personal Bucky was suffering a terrible bout of depression, and I was afraid of losing her. The conversations between Clint and Steve were scripted a long time ago, when I was feeling the strain of that friendship the most, and despaired of seeing any resolution. But things turned around, and in a weird way, reality has actually outpaced the comfort story; Bucky's line "we have to talk about you too" is ripped verbatim from something she told me, and it's still one of the most profound things I've ever heard.
Love you, Raina. No matter what happens, I'm with you.
"You take the brunette, I'll take the blonde" is a loving homage to theoriginalbookthief07's "Never Meant for You to Fix Yourself". The lyrics before and after the story are from tobyMac's song "Atmosphere". I am not very good at bowling, but to be fair, I don't practice often enough to get better.
Reviews are white sneakers.