Bonus chapter to keep things moving :)

Bucky XIII: Relapse

"Steve, where is all this coming from? We've always known our friendship wouldn't last forever, but that never stopped us before."

"Maybe it should have."

Out of all the hurtful things that they'd hurled at each other during that argument, it was that exchange which stuck in Bucky's head the firmest. Did Steve really think that his prognosis should have stopped them from becoming friends in the first place? How could he? Whenever Bucky imagined a distant future without Steve—which was admittedly more often nowadays—he shivered with dread. The only thing that could ever break him out of a loop of those dark thoughts was recalling fond memories of the two of them. He knew that same coping mechanism would help him get through life after Steve. None of those fond memories would exist if they'd let fear of the future prevent them from enjoying the present.

Did Bucky wish things were different? Of course. He would love to imagine the two of them as grumpy old men without the impossibility of that future tinting the vision blue. But would he trade the past decade with Steve for a lifetime with anyone else as his best friend? Absolutely not. He'd been spending so much time with Steve lately, often at the expense of other plans, because he wanted to ensure he had as many memories as possible before the opportunity to make more was ripped away from him. Clint's passing and Steve's evident decline only reminded him that nothing lasted forever. He didn't want to spend the last years of Steve's life practicing living without him; he wanted to spend them with Steve. The fact that his best friend either couldn't or wouldn't understand that was mind-boggling.

Though Bucky knew this must stem from fear on Steve's part, he couldn't silence the part of him furious with Steve for effectively shoving Bucky out of his circle. For the rest of the week, he didn't even sit with them at lunch. It was like he wanted Bucky to forget him as if he never existed. Bucky refused to do that, but he wasn't yet mentally ready to confront Steve about it again, so he accepted the temporary pause in their friendship. With nothing else to do that weekend, he decided to do the very thing Steve had yelled at him for not doing: go to a soccer party.

Gabe just so happened to be hosting. He and their other friends knew Bucky and Steve had a falling out—it was impossible for them not to know when they saw both of them at school nearly every day—but the specifics remained a mystery to them. Gabe was just excited to finally have Bucky in attendance. He hadn't partied like this since the beginning of junior year, but everything was much the same as he remembered. Gabe didn't drink. Most everyone else did. And this time, so did Bucky.

For the first half an hour, he couldn't stop thinking about the germs roiling about in an enclosed space with so many people, and how he really shouldn't be here if he wanted to spend time with Steve in the next two weeks. That's what stopped him from coming to these for the past year. So he drank enough for the buzz to erase that thought from his mind. And then he just sort of…kept going.

It was some of the most fun he'd ever had, and he really hoped he remembered it come morning. He finally understood all the hype around beer pong, and discovered a formerly untapped skill for the game. Gabe tried to drag him away after his third round, insisting he'd had enough for one night, but Bucky planted his feet and refused to go.

"Bucky, come on."

"No."

"You're not thinking straight."

"That's the point."

Gabe sighed in defeat. Bucky returned to the game and prepared to beat Monty. He lasted only one point. As soon as the first sip of the first cup passed his lips, his stomach protested all-too-familiarly. Luckily, he knew his way around Gabe's place and retained enough agility even in his drunkenness to get to the toilet on time. Though it tasted completely different, the familiarity of the action dragged his mind right back to the thick of cancer treatment. He hadn't thrown up since his last dose of chemo, and he'd nearly managed to forget how terrible it felt. A pounding on the door punctuated by Gabe calling his name caught his attention.

"'M fine," he replied in between heaves.

"No you're not." Without waiting for an invitation, Gabe opened the door and stepped inside. Bucky, hoping he was done at least for now, sat back against the wall and leaned his head on his forearm with his knees tucked up to his chest.

"You okay, man?" Gabe asked, crouching down before him. Bucky, too rattled and addled to reply, just continued breathing heavily. Clearly, his lack of response didn't satisfy Gabe, because he reached out to help him sit up straight. Unfortunately, his hand headed straight for the right side of Bucky's chest, where his port had sat. Between the alcohol fogging his brain and the setting in which he found himself, everything was just similar enough to half-convince him he was back in treatment. He lashed out at Gabe's hand, swiping it away so violently that the boy cried out.

"Don't touch me," he growled.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I won't do that again. I will, however, get you some water." He filled a small cup from a stack beside the sink with tap water and held it out. Bucky accepted it and hesitantly started sipping. It helped erase the taste of vomit.

"I know you might not remember most of this tomorrow, but do you need to talk? Seriously, what went down between you and Steve?"

Bucky didn't answer. It was far too complex for him to articulate it even sober. Gabe sighed and announced, "I'm calling your mom to tell her you're spending the night here. You're going to sleep it off and in the morning, we'll talk. Deal?"

"Deal," Bucky grumbled. "You gonna tell her 'bout this?"

"Of course not. I'm no snitch. But knowing her, she'll probably figure it out anyway. You can stay in here or go to my room. I'm going to start funneling people out. It's getting late anyway."

"'M sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Whatever is going on here, I'm sure it's not entirely your fault. Try to drink some more water."

Bucky refilled the cup as Gabe left to shut down the party. He swallowed another sip and wondered if Gabe could be wrong. Was this entirely his fault? Absolutely not. No matter how he twisted it, Bucky failed to see how he did anything wrong in this situation. He made his own decision to spend time with Steve instead of doing stupid stuff like this. If he wanted a break, he could have just said so instead of lashing out at Bucky for abandoning his social life. In fact, the longer he thought about it the more enraged he grew. How dare Steve demean him for taking advantage of the one good thing in his life that he was almost guaranteed to lose prematurely? How could he fail to understand that nothing, not school dances, soccer parties, or baseball games, was as important to Bucky as he was? It was downright hypocritical; Steve had basically dropped everything to spend time with Bucky when he got sick, yet now he'd turned around and belittled Bucky for doing just that.

Bucky sat silently fuming in the bathroom until Gabe cleared the apartment and set up an air mattress. He didn't so much fall asleep that night as pass out from a combination of intoxication and anger. He woke up before Gabe with a raging headache that he miserably deemed his first hangover.

The fuzziness had left his brain, but the animosity towards Steve remained. Waking up at Gabe's only reminded him of all the times he'd woken up at Steve's after a sleepover.

He laid there for half an hour before Gabe stirred. The two of them walked into the kitchen and picked at breakfast—Bucky's complete with Advil—and then started cleaning up the place. Gabe said it wasn't too bad compared to other parties he'd seen, and Bucky had no other evidence to go on. It took them maybe an hour and a half to get everything presentable again. Gabe's parents knew about the party, so it wasn't like they had to hide the evidence, but Gabe had promised them he wouldn't leave things a mess. When they finished, he got them both waters and sat down demanding answers.

"What's going on? You and Steve have never fought like this."

"He's being a control freak and a hypocrite," Bucky proclaimed. He then told Gabe about everything Steve had said to him.

"Let me get this straight. He's mad at you for hanging out with him all the time?"

"Yeah."

"That is a little weird. But it sounds like he's dealing with a lot on his end."

"He's always dealing with a lot. That doesn't give him an excuse to be an asshole."

"Of course not. I think you just have to talk to him again and explain your point of view."

"He doesn't want to talk to me."

"He won't say no if you ask to talk."

"How do you know?"

"I've known Steve almost as long as you have, in case you've forgotten."

"Well maybe I don't want to talk to him either."

"If you let this simmer, it's only going to get worse."

"So what? How can it get worse than Steve wishing we were never friends?"

Gabe sighed, clearly resigned to the fact that he'd never change Bucky's mind. He didn't pressure him on it further, and Bucky left not knowing whose side he was even on.

That night, he had the dream.

Bucky rarely remembered his dreams, but this one stuck both because of its vividness and its theme. He stood behind a cabin on a beautiful lake, green-blue water stretching out into the distance to meet a tree-dotted shoreline. A stone bench stood by the water, a lone figure upon it. Bucky felt intrinsically drawn toward it despite not knowing the person's identity. As he approached the bench from the left side, it became clear why. The gray-haired man wistfully gazed across the water, the slightest smile gracing his face. Bucky didn't spend time with many old men, his own grandparents being deceased, but he'd recognize this one anywhere.

It was Steve.

Older, grayer, and more wrinkled, but still indisputably Steve. The eyes gave it away more than anything. Bucky sat down on the empty side of the bench and stared reverently at this impossible image of his friend. Every so often, Bucky imagined what life would be like when he grew old. Mostly, he worried about losing flexibility and therefore the ability to do things like trim his fingernails with his foot, as he'd done since he lost his arm. But whenever those thoughts drifted across his mind, another decidedly more depressing thought accompanied them. Steve wouldn't be there with him. Even with a successful lung transplant, his life would still be cut short when long-term rejection inevitably set in.

"Why are you here?" Bucky asked the figure. Was it just to torment him? To tantalize him with this future he'd never get to see? Steve didn't answer him. Bucky waited, thinking maybe he was just figuring out what to say, but he remained silent. Frustrated, Bucky asked again, "What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying the view," Steve uttered. His voice sounded different. Not just older, but lacking the slight rasp and congestion that it possessed from the damage and mucus buildup in his lungs. He usually sounded like he had a perpetual cold. Not now, not here.

"Yeah, it's really beautiful here," Bucky agreed. He only wished he knew where here was; he certainly didn't recognize it. "Where is here?" he asked. Steve didn't answer. Bucky grew even more frustrated. He stood from the bench and walked the circumference of the cabin, admiring its simple but homey architecture. Steve didn't budge from his spot the entire time. Bucky tried all the doors and windows on the cabin, but everything was locked. With nothing else to do besides throw himself into the lake, he sat back down beside Steve.

"Am I supposed to do something here?"

Steve only stared.

"Do you want something from me? Do I have to ask the right question for you to actually answer me?"

Nothing.

"Have you lost hearing? Do I need to speak up?"

Bucky swore he saw the corner of Steve's mouth twitch up in an aborted smirk.

"I take it that's a no."

He followed Steve's gaze to try and discern what he was looking at, but he couldn't pinpoint anything either on the water or beyond it. The surface of the lake was undisturbed by boats, birds, or anything. It was as still as any body of water Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturally still. In fact, everything about this place was unnaturally pristine. All of the trees were alive and verdant, the wood of the cabin completely un-rotted, the sky clear but for a few fluffy clouds.

And Steve. Old, yet apparently unmarred by illness. An impossible perfection within an impossibly perfect scene. Bucky sighed, finally understanding. He turned to old Steve once again. "This isn't real, is it? You'll never be here, like this. Will you?"

At last, Steve averted his eyes from the lake and fixed them on Bucky. Though everything else about him was startlingly different than the Steve Bucky knew, those stormy blue-green eyes were exactly the same: warm and wise beyond their years. "No," he said with a strange combination of melancholy and fondness. "No, I don't think I will."

And then Bucky woke up, only to immediately start weeping so forcefully that he felt like he was choking on air. Why the fuck would his subconscious show him that just after Steve had told him their friendship shouldn't have ever happened? Was it trying to convince him that Steve was right, that it was better Bucky move on now so he didn't spend the rest of his life imagining an old Steve who would never be? Or was it plainly a reminder of how little time they had left, a catalyst for Bucky to take action to make amends before it was too late? He didn't know. However, the longer he thought about it the more distressed he grew.

"Bucky? What's wrong?" Mom burst into his room, alerted by the sound of him crying.

He attempted to pull himself together. "I'm fine. Just a dream."

"You're definitely not fine. What was it about?" She sat down on the edge of his bed and wrapped her arms around him. Bucky didn't fight back like he usually did when she attempted this kind of affection, exhausted and afraid enough to need the support.

"It was…about Steve," he said shakily. Mom knew about their recent argument. Even if Bucky hadn't explained it to her when she questioned why he hadn't been over to Steve's in so long, she could've just found out from Mrs. Rogers. Or, if that didn't work, she probably would've just figured it out.

"What about him?" she asked.

"He was…he was an old man. And I asked him if it was real, if he'd ever really…be like that. And he said no."

She squeezed him a little tighter. "I'm so sorry. That sounds like a terrible dream."

"I just don't know what to do."

"I think you need to talk to Steve and try to make things right."

"But what if he doesn't want to talk to me?"

"Then you make him," she said sternly. "But knowing Steve, I doubt it will come to that."

"Okay." Bucky took half an hour to compose himself before deciding to text Steve. He drafted about five different messages before ultimately choosing, "Steve, can we talk? Please." It was only nine thirty on a Sunday, so odds were Steve probably wouldn't even be awake yet, but Bucky knew he usually checked his phone during morning vest treatment so it probably wouldn't be much longer before he saw the text. Bucky waited half an hour, then an hour, then two. Nothing. The worried part of him feared Steve was sick and physically couldn't answer his phone, but the still angry part of him knew that Steve was just ignoring him on purpose. He worked on some homework for another hour and half before checking again. Still nothing. At the four hour mark, he texted Steve again, "Are you okay? Just checking."

By the time Bucky went to bed that night, Steve still hadn't responded.

He tried every day for the rest of the week, ending up with a series of nearly twenty unreciprocated texts. If Bucky didn't see Steve from down the hallway at school a few times, he would've thought he was dead or close to it. He asked Gabe, Jim, and Timmy if Steve had gone off the grid, but they demonstrated that he was still responding to their messages, only less so than usual. Evidently it was only Bucky that Steve had decided to cut out of his life. By Friday, Bucky was despondent. Not only that, but he was once again plagued by scanxiety. He had to leave school early to get to Gravesen for his bone scan and chest CT to check for relapse, as he'd done every three months for over two years.

Since his arm's veins had only gotten worse with time and more sticks, they'd taken to sticking a heat pack in the crook of his elbow for half an hour before attempting in the hopes it would make it a bit easier to get a line in him. Bucky was annoyed that it took longer, but grateful that it usually meant he only had to get stabbed once instead of three or more times. Sitting there for over an hour to let the radioactive tracer settle in his bones, he had little more to do than think. It was insane realizing just how different his life was without Steve. He still went to school and soccer practice like normal, still talked to Gabe and Jim and Timmy, but the gap left behind by his best friend was immense. It reminded him of how he'd felt just after losing his arm, like there was something that was supposed to be by his side that had just vanished, leaving behind empty space and a whole lot of pain. This thought process continued during the scan itself, Bucky's mood darkening with every passing minute. His spirits didn't even lift when Dr. Potts happily informed them that his scans showed no evidence of disease, though his mother did heave a sigh of relief. He should've been ecstatic, but not even that good news could break him out of this furious funk.

Bucky refused to allow Steve to sever ties like this. He knew that Steve wasn't doing this out of a genuine desire to cut Bucky out of his life, but out of some twisted sense that he was doing the right thing in saving Bucky from the pain of losing him later on. But it hurt far worse for their friendship to end like this than for illness to take it from them. If Steve was so intent on giving him the cold shoulder, then Bucky just had to say something he couldn't ignore.

He opened the messages app and briefly scanned through the endless permutations of "Please talk to me" that he'd sent over the past week. Steve kept his read receipts on for some reason, so Bucky knew he'd seen all the texts. He'd seen them and consciously chosen not to answer. Bucky typed out three words and halted his thumb just before he could hit send. Was he being a terrible person? Maybe. Did he have a choice? No. This was the only way he knew he could get Steve to talk to him. Without regret or further hesitation, he hit send.

"My cancer's back."

As you know from previous stories in this universe, I have a tendency to adapt famous MCU scenes as dream sequences. This one was by far my favorite because of the way I was able to twist it from something meme-worthy into something tragic. And I like to think that's what this AU is all about, isn't it?