Chapter 30: Soccer, Sarcoma, and Steve

Knowing Winnifred was there all week helped Steve relax and focus on work while he was there. When he woke up that morning for his run, Bucky was awake, and said he'd slept maybe two or three hours off and on throughout the night. It was better than nothing, but still not enough to be considered real rest. Steve wished there was more he could do.

On Wednesday, he stayed at work later. Driving home, he almost took the route that would take him to the facility where Bucky's team practiced, because Wednesdays were supposed to be the days he drove him home. His heart sank when he remembered Bucky wasn't at work, but at home still trying to squeeze more than an hour of sleep into one sitting. When he pulled into the driveway, he noticed Winnifred's car was missing. That meant either she'd taken Bucky somewhere or had left him alone. Steve didn't know which of those thoughts terrified him more.

He hurriedly got out of the car and into the house. When he walked in, he heard the unmistakable sound of the shower running. "Bucky?" he called. No answer. Steve hung his keys up on the hook by the front door and wandered into their bedroom, following the sound of running water. "Bucky, is that you?" He knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yeah," he replied. Steve walked in and found Bucky wearing a rain jacket and bent over at the waist with his head under the shower spray. "I figured out how to wash my own hair," he announced proudly, straightening up and flashing a hesitant smile.

"Wow. That's…inventive of you."

Bucky shrugged, then grimaced. "I knew you'd be coming home later today since it's Wednesday, so I didn't want to ask you to do it again."

"You could've asked your mom to help."

The glare Bucky shot him could have melted an iceberg. "She might still be my mom, but I'm not still five."

"Okay," Steve relented. His mom had definitely helped him with things right after transplant that she hadn't had to do since he was a little kid, but Steve was more used to accepting help than Bucky. "Well, I'm glad you figured it out. But I'd also be glad to help you again before Monday, if you want."

"Okay."

"How was your day?"

"About the same as yesterday," Bucky replied.

"Where's your mom?"

"She's picking up a few things for dinner. Apparently, what we stock in the fridge and pantry isn't up to her culinary expectations."

"Hey, I think we do pretty well in the kitchen for two guys in their twenties. Most men our age are still living off ramen and hot pockets."

"True. I like your cooking."

"But I'm not Winnifred Barnes."

Bucky smiled. "I wasn't going to say it, but it's true."

"You can say it. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better, yeah?"

"I hope so." Bucky's steely blue eyes darkened. "This is getting old fast."

"Recovery's a bitch," Steve sighed. "There's no way around that. But hey, at least you only have four more days with that." He pointed to the ace wrap beneath Bucky's jacket.

"Yeah. I am looking forward to a real shower."

"That's the spirit." Steve moved to clap him on the good shoulder, but figured even that would probably cause pain. He settled for pecking him on the cheek.

~0~

Monday couldn't come soon enough. Bucky could tell his bandages were starting to smell and hoped Steve didn't notice it. The pain was still very much a nuisance, though. He couldn't tell if it had gotten the tiniest bit better or if he'd just gotten the tiniest bit better at coping. His jaw ached almost constantly from clenching his teeth. At least his appetite had returned to normal. A week of Mom's cooking had definitely helped that along.

Steve took half a day on Monday in order to drive him back to Gravesen for his follow-up with Darkhölme. Bucky offered to drive himself, but Steve said no, and he didn't have the energy to argue with him. He also requested to sit in on the appointment, another issue Bucky didn't argue over, mostly because he genuinely wanted him there. Despite his reassuring presence, he still felt vulnerable sitting up on that table, shirtless, after having his vitals taken and waiting for Darkhölme to show up.

"It's cold in here," he complained, just for the sake of having something to say.

"It's always cold in exam rooms," Steve replied. He'd brought that book again, the one he'd been reading since the day of Bucky's surgery. It was one he'd read probably a dozen times. Bucky wished he'd brought something to do; his nervousness was eating him alive just sitting and waiting.

At last, Darkhölme entered the room and greeted them with her usual serene professionalism. "How have you been these past two weeks? I heard about the ER visit."

"Yeah, that night was…rough," Bucky said reluctantly. "But things have been better since."

"I'm glad to hear it," Darkhölme said.

"His pain level has still been pretty horrible," Steve cut in. Bucky glared at him.

"It's manageable," Bucky insisted. "And I have noticed a slight improvement."

"That's good. Hopefully, as the healing process continues, it should continue to reduce. Physical therapy should definitely help that along. But first, I'd like to take a look. May I?" She gestured to Bucky's bandages. Bucky nodded and turned his head to the right to avoid awkward eye contact as Darkhölme unwrapped him and gradually peeled away the tape holding the dressing in place using adhesive remover. Bucky fought back a grimace every time it pulled at his skin and sent sparkling jolts of phantom pain down his arm. Since this one hadn't been placed until nearly a week after the incision was made, it came off completely clean.

"This is looking beautiful," she remarked. Bucky kept his head turned away as she poked and prodded at the skin around the edges. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steve watching with an almost morbid fascination. "How does the incision itself feel? Ignoring phantom pain."

"That stopped hurting a few days ago," Bucky told him. "It just feels kinda stiff now."

"Wonderful."

Bucky finally dared to glance down. When they took it off at the emergency room, he'd been too out of it to actually look, so this was his first time seeing his new scar. Before the surgery, Darkhölme had shown him on a diagram where she'd need to cut, but seeing it carved on his own flesh was a very different experience. His head spun for a moment. It reminded him of the first time he saw his stump—really saw it, after they pulled the drains and the bandages came off. Surreal didn't even begin to describe it.

This new mark sat in front of the long-healed scar from his amputation. It ran about two inches down from the base of his neck, across the top of his pec, and then another few inches parallel to the old scar along his left side. Already two weeks old, it had begun to fade to a dull brown, and only the barest traces of the dissolvable stitches remained. At a loss for anything to say, he settled for attempting humor. "Gnarly."

Steve didn't so much as smile. Bucky's apprehension must have shown on his face. Darkhölme ran through his physical therapy regimen, and handed Steve a printed version with illustrations and descriptions of all the exercises. That was probably overkill; they were simple enough: opening and closing his hand, rotating his wrist, and bending and extending his elbow. He was instructed to start with ten reps of each, two to three times a day, and begin to increase the number of sets per day after his four-week follow-up.

"Four weeks is when we might begin to see true reinnervation," Darkhölme explained. "Meaning the signals you send to your phantom arm will actually begin to activate the different regions of your pectoral muscle. Full reinnervation can take over a year, but since you're not looking to use a myoelectric prosthesis, the only important benchmark for you is the reduction of your phantom pain."

"Makes sense."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do I really have to wait a full twelve weeks before going back to soccer? I don't use any of the nerves or muscles that were operated on to play."

Bucky heard Steve's exasperated sigh. He definitely didn't feel up to playing now, but he knew that wouldn't last long, especially as he recovered. Besides, soccer had always been a distraction from pain for him. It didn't make any sense that he'd have to rest his entire body for twelve weeks when it was just the one, barely used part of him that needed to recover.

"I'm afraid so. Nerves heal slowly, and strenuous exercise, even that which doesn't use these muscles, could dislodge them before they have a chance to properly integrate into the new musculature."

"Okay." Bucky's chest ached at the thought of another ten weeks without his beloved sport, and his team. Poor Lemar would be doing goalie drills all alone while the rest of the guys worked out together.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll see you in another two weeks."

"Thanks, Dr. Darkhölme."

"You're welcome."

Steve made him do his first set of PT exercises on the drive home. Bucky protested, insisted the car was no place for PT, even for a nonexistent limb, but Steve wasn't having it. Reluctantly, he began by curling and uncurling his phantom fingers into a fist. God, it hurt. With every command he gave them, his nerves shrieked in protest. It felt like maneuvering his hand within a bucket of thumb tacks, every movement causing harsh needle prick sensations to flit across every inch of his skin. By the time he finished his reps of the three different movements, beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead. And it wasn't even real exercise. For fuck's sake.

"That sucked," he announced.

"I'm sorry," Steve said sincerely. "But the more you do it, the easier it's going to get."

"I know, but it…really sucked."

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll do them with you whenever I can."

The sentiment was nice, but these exercises would be easy for Steve. He didn't have phantom pain. It just wouldn't make a difference. "Thanks for offering, but I'm okay."

"Alright. But I will be hounding you to make sure you do them every day."

Bucky sighed. "I know. I expect nothing less of you."

"When I was younger, my parents used to have to force me to do breathing treatments sometimes. Usually they were just boring, but when I was sick or blocked up they were painful."

"I can imagine." He appreciated Steve trying to find common ground. Bucky remembered watching him huff cough through treatments as kids, sometimes working so hard to bring mucus up that his face turned red. He remembered silently pitying him, and thinking about how lucky he was to have been born healthy. Now it was Steve's turn to feel lucky, he supposed, and Bucky's turn to work through pain for his own benefit. Bucky wouldn't wish this pain on anybody, not even Alexander Pierce. Well…maybe Alexander Pierce. But definitely nobody else.

~0~

When Bucky's main complaint first shifted from pain to boredom, Steve was relieved. He'd rather see him bored than suffering any day. But as the days passed, he grew to realize that a bored Bucky was far more insufferable than a pained Bucky. He texted Steve at work almost constantly, to the point where he had to put his phone on do not disturb just to get anything done. On Tuesday, Steve came home to find that Bucky had rearranged the books on the shelf in the living room by color. Then on Wednesday they were sorted by title, and on Thursday back to by author like a sensible library. The most productive thing he seemed to be doing was finding new things to watch on National Geographic, and Steve did enjoy hearing him relay whatever he'd learned that day, whether it was about orcas, space missions, or some archeological find.

"Did you do your PT in addition to rearranging the bookshelf for the third time?" Steve asked.

"Yes," Bucky said without looking Steve in the eye.

"Are you lying?"

"No. I did it while you were running this morning."

"You're supposed to do it three times a day."

"Fine," Bucky grumbled. "I'll just do it now." He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in concentration and discomfort.

Steve crossed his arms and glared disdainfully. "Are you actually doing it or are you just pretending?"

"You'll never know."

Steve threw his hands up in surrender. He could only hope Bucky was actually doing his exercises. It was impossible for Steve to force him, impossible for him to even know if he did it, so he shouldn't even bother trying.

By the time Bucky's four-week follow-up appointment rolled around, Steve was very close to just inviting Bucky to work and seeing if there were any menial tasks around the hospital that he could do like filing paperwork or something, but that Monday he came home half-expecting to find the house in shambles, only to instead find Bucky sitting at the kitchen table with a huge stack of notecards.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

"Brainstorming for my autobiography," he said nonchalantly.

"Since when are you writing an autobiography?"

"Since I realized I had two more months to kill before soccer."

"Wow. Are you serious about this? Like…are you going to try and publish it?"

"I hope to. But I have to write the damn thing first."

Steve restrained himself from grinning like a total idiot. "Does this mean you'll stop rearranging our bookshelf?"

"If this works out, I'll have to rearrange it one more time to fit this book on it."

"That, I'll allow."

Steve had a thousand questions. What would be the focus of this story? His battle with cancer? But Bucky had been reluctant to write a high school essay about that, much less put it down on paper for the whole world to see. His soccer career? That seemed more likely. What about his relationship with Steve? How much about his CF and transplant journey would end up in this book? What about the rest of their Gravesen friends? Tony? Parker? Carol? Clint? They would probably all be mentioned at the very least.

He shook his head. Bucky literally started this project today; there was no way he'd have all that planned out. And he would definitely ask Steve's permission before talking about him in this book, especially if he went so far as seeking to have it published. Now that he stopped worrying about its contents, Steve realized he was actually really excited. Bucky's life was absolutely worthy of documentation in this form, and this project would certainly keep him busy these next two months and beyond.

"We both have appointments at Gravesen tomorrow," Steve reminded him.

"You too?"

"Yeah. I have transplant clinic."

"Oh, okay. Good that you scheduled it the same day as mine."

"That was the plan. I didn't want to drive down there twice."

"You always think of everything."

"I try my best."

In reality, Steve had thought of everything but this approaching appointment over the past few weeks. He first noticed a dip in his lung function the day of Bucky's surgery, and in the month since it had only dipped more. His PFT at this appointment would either confirm or deny his worst fears. Steve could feel in his gut that he wasn't about to hear good news. The same dread had dwelled in his stomach on the eve of the appointment when he got listed for transplant.

He didn't sleep that night. Bucky did, though. He'd been consistently sleeping through the night for almost a week now. But that night, Steve lay awake with worst-case-scenarios running through his head like frames of a horror movie played out of order, nonsensical and confusing, but terrifying nonetheless. He didn't speak of his sleepless night nor his fears the entire drive down. They just tossed ideas back and forth about Bucky's book.

"I'm wondering if I should just tell it chronologically or divide it into sections. You know, one for each important aspect of my life," Bucky said.

"What would those sections be?" Steve asked.

"I was thinking one for soccer, one for cancer and amputation stuff, and…well, one for you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Are you not an important aspect of my life?"

"Well, I'm certainly not soccer," he said lightly.

Bucky laughed. "No, but you definitely deserve a section in my book. But all three of those things intertwine so much that maybe chronologically would make more sense."

"When you imagine yourself writing a chapter from this book, does it incorporate more than one of those things?"

"I don't know, maybe?"

"My advice is to write a chapter or two and see how it feels before you decide. It could go either way."

"That's a good idea."

They parted ways in the Gravesen lobby, and the sick churning in Steve's gut only worsened. When it came time for PFTs, Steve wrapped his lips around the mouthpiece and forcibly exhaled with as much determination as he could muster, but the value that it showed turned his worst suspicions into a reality. He showed his doctor the values he'd been recording from his home lung function tests over the past four weeks, and the look that fell over his face made him break into a cold sweat. And he was so close to five years.

"We need to do a bronch and biopsy to rule out acute rejection, but just looking at the numbers and the timeline, this looks like the onset of chronic rejection."

Steve knew it was coming, but the news still ran over him like a train. From the very beginning, he'd been told over and over again that this was a possibility—more like an inevitability—but in these last few years he'd just felt so good that he dared let himself believe that he'd well and truly escaped the debilitating illness that had dominated his teenage years. And Bucky, God, what would he tell Bucky? He'd just gotten over the worst of his nadir, how was it fair to him to plunge right back into another, one with no way back up?