Fluff warning: I had too many ideas that I didn't want to waste, so I combined them. It resulted in much fluff. Still, I hope its well received, but as always, feel free to constructively criticize :)
Lifelines
The sounds from the other room woke him. Not that he had been sleeping very deeply. He had been expecting this. Bucky's nightmares were a regular occurrence. Sometimes the nightmares were bad enough that Bucky would wake up on the floor, shaking, or there would be a new hole in the wall. Steve would be in the doorway or nearby to ask if he was okay after, to which he always- and unbelievably- replied that he was.
Steve's mind wandered to the box tucked away in his closet. He thought of Berlin, after Zemo had broken Bucky out of containment. After Bucky had crashed a helicopter on him and Steve had pulled him from the water. Once he was confident that Bucky was himself, he had freed his arm. It was just the two of them in the room of the warehouse where they were hiding out. Steve felt the pain and shame rolling off his oldest friend.
"Do they have my bag?" He had asked. "The one I had hid in the floor."
Steve could only assume that they did, since he knew Bucky had it strapped to him when they apprehended him. "What's in the bag, Bucky?" Steve figured it was a tactical bag. It contained survival gear, maybe weapons, in case Bucky had to go on the run again.
"Everything," Bucky had said. "Every memory that came back, even if I wasn't sure if it was real. I wrote them all down."
Steve had remembered the notebook he'd found on top of Bucky's refrigerator. The bag was full of more notebooks just like that one.
Steve sadly realized that the bag did indeed contain methods of survival for Bucky. Those notebooks were his lifeline. They had been all he had.
He also realized the implication of what Bucky had meant when he said, "every memory." The notebooks would also contain his memories as the Winter Soldier. Those, in his own handwriting, would be like a confession to put him away forever.
Steve had gotten them all back for him. Bucky had looked at him as though he was giving him back so much more than just notebooks.
"They don't tell you who you are," Steve had told him. Bucky looked so struck by that that Steve wished he hadn't said it. He sighed. "You shouldn't have had to be alone," he told Bucky. The thought of him trying to remember and deal with everything by himself back then bothered him deeply. "I'm sorry."
"It was safer," had been his heartbreaking response.
…
Bucky had been struggling particularly hard a few weeks ago. He never said much about it, but he didn't have to. Steve had gone to his room and found him sitting on the floor against the wall. His hands were fisted in his hair. His notebooks lay in torn ruins all around him. He didn't acknowledge Steve as he crouched in front of him.
Steve reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. At first there was no response, but Bucky finally and slowly met Steve's eyes. He had looked so lost and hopeless. Steve couldn't help the exhale of his name that escaped him. He saw as Bucky mourned his written lifelines and every sense of self he had.
That's when Steve started talking. Telling Bucky story after story from their growing up together and missions in the war. He made sure they were the fun and victorious ones. It wasn't hard, that was most of them anyway.
Bucky stayed silent, but his fingers untwisted from his hair and his arms lowered to rest on his legs. Steve wasn't sure how long they remained that way. It was long enough for Steve's throat to feel dry and his feet to tingle, but he had kept on, occasionally surprising himself with some of the little things he himself had forgotten.
Eventually, Bucky had let out a shaky breath and gripped Steve's wrist. He met his eyes once again. They were still haunted but that horrifying lost expression wasn't there. Steve studied him. He gave his shoulder a squeeze and sat beside him, moving torn pages out of his way. His upper arm pressed against Bucky's, offering constant reassurance.
Steve had spent nearly three years looking for him after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra with the Helicarriers in D.C. "You were never going to let me to find you, were you?" Steve asked.
Bucky had a simple response ready, but when he looked into Steve's eyes, he knew he was expecting more than that, and he owed him more than that.
He sighed wearily. "Part of me wanted to. But I didn't want to hurt you anymore." He looked down, as though ashamed.
And wasn't that just like Bucky; always putting Steve before himself, even if it meant going through his own hell, alone.
"That was worse, Buck," Steve said, and met his eyes.
Bucky's face fell. It was yet another thing he had done wrong. Steve felt guilty. He hadn't meant for him to take it that way. He reached over and placed his palm on the back of his neck and gave it a squeeze.
Steve looked down at his side and noticed one of the lined pieces of paper scrawled with Bucky's handwriting. He saw dates with question marks and small sticky notes attached where another piece of a memory had come to him after initially writing it down, he surmised. Or maybe he wasn't sure where the memory fit. Bucky would later tell him that he also used them to mark where he had written certain memories. Some were of the worst. Some were of the best. A lot of the latter involved Steve. He would reread them often, typically when he needed reminding of the man that he was. Depending on the day, that could have been a good or a bad thing.
After a while, Steve had gotten up and left the room. He came back in with a box and began picking up the numerous torn pages and bent covers of the notebooks. He carefully set them in the box, on top of one another, trying to keep them together. He didn't try to read them. He didn't want to pry.
"You don't always have to clean up my messes," Bucky said quietly. Steve heard a hint of shame.
"Is that what you think I do?" It was a double-entendre. He walked over to Bucky and knelt in front of him again. When he didn't get a response, he asked another question. "Why did you always jump in and finish the fights I got into?" He ducked his head to see Bucky's face and prompt a response.
After a pregnant pause, Bucky answered the simple truth. "I don't like seeing you hurt."
Steve smiled. It broadened when Bucky looked up at him. "Exactly," he told him unnecessarily. At this, Bucky gave him a small smile, and Steve knew he got it.
Bucky had helped pick up the papers. He moved a little slowly and stiffly, as though it hurt. It probably had. He was essentially collecting tattered remains of his life.
"You can throw those away," Bucky had told him once everything was picked up.
Steve paused, looking down at the box in his hands. "Are you sure?"
Bucky nodded, but Steve felt uncertain. He took the box from Bucky's room. He stopped a moment then went to his. He had put it away in his closet. It would sit there for as long as needed, but he wasn't sure that either of them was ready just yet.
…
That hadn't even been the worst. There was one particularly spectacular night in which Bucky informed Steve that he should kill him rather than help him. Steve, with a hole pierced through his heart, had politely responded that he would rather die himself and abruptly left the room for fear of breaking into a million pieces right then and there.
Still, up to this point Steve had ultimately been hesitant in waking him or reacting too strongly to aid him. He'd been advised against it, in fact. Steve could offer his support. He could let him know he was there, but ultimately Bucky had to try to come to terms with things in his own time. But that didn't mean Steve was alright with essentially sitting idly by while he suffered. His best friend couldn't even escape the many years of Hydra's torture while he slept. It wasn't fair. He wished he could take it away.
He lay there and listened for a while, feeling his own form of torture. The groans and pleas from the other room worsened, and he decided he couldn't sit idly by any longer. Swinging his feet over the edge of his mattress, he stood and walked to Bucky's room.
He stopped in the doorway. The figure in the tousled bedsheets thrashed, breaths hitching. Having Bucky back was indescribably wonderful, but to have him back so broken was also an indescribable kind of hell. It was like a constant reminder of his failure to save him, to prevent this and to watch a man he admired and loved like a brother bear such torment.
It had been hard enough when he had thought Bucky was dead. He had wanted to go back for his body, unable to stand the thought of leaving him in that ravine. Then to learn that because he hadn't, Hydra had found him. He couldn't imagine what Bucky had gone through. Waking only to find that he wasn't dead, but back in the hands of Zola, being tortured and used against his will. Alone. In pain. Had he thought Steve would come, like last time? How long was he screaming in the dark, with no one to help him? There was a painful lump in his throat and an incurable ache in his heart every time Steve's mind went there. He knew there was nothing he could do to change that now, but damn it, as long as he had breath in his body, he would do anything to spare Bucky pain from here on.
He crossed the space between them and reached out to wake him. He realized the consequence of this mistake too late.
As soon as his hand touched his shoulder, calloused wild eyes met his. His arms were knocked away. A fist to the face swiftly followed. Bucky was upright in a second, planting a foot in Steve's chest, smashing his back into the wall.
"Bucky! It's okay!" Steve grabbed at him.
Bucky kept swinging. Steve grabbed his deadly left arm, fiercely trying to hold it at bay as he blocked punches from the other, not wanting to throw any in return. "It's me!" But there was no recognition in his friend's eyes, only a deadly defensiveness fueled by the need to neutralize the perceived threat.
"Bucky, stop!" Another closed fist got past his battered forearms and connected squarely on his cheek, splitting skin. Steve felt anger well.
Enough, he decided. He was already in this now. Might as well commit.
Steve caught Bucky's other arm and forced them down. Bucky yelled in outraged anguish. He almost succeeded in pulling his left arm free. Steve readjusted his grip and further trapped it between them, feeling the cold metal through his thin t-shirt. Bucky used his legs as leverage, but Steve was ready. He wrapped a leg around one of Bucky's and planted his foot firmly. One swipe or too much struggle, Bucky would go down.
"You're alright, Buck. You're alright. Stop. Stop fighting me, man."
Bucky yelled, and his struggle renewed. In one swift motion Steve was thrown upward. With his absolute refusal to let go and the momentum, they both crashed to the floor. Steven rolled, able to get behind Bucky and encase his arms and legs around him. They had been in a similar situation once. Steve didn't want it to end the same way. Realizing he wasn't getting anywhere, Bucky's yells turned to screams.
Bucky was hurting. He was lost and he hadn't been eating or sleeping and it was really too easy to subdue him. That distressed Steve, but not nearly as much as the screaming. It wasn't rage. It was fear. Steve's frustration melted. He felt the screams and pain emitting from his normally stoic friend would shatter them both.
Oh God, Bucky. Please stop. Please.
He bent his head so that it was next to his, his cheek brushing Bucky's temple. He would get through to him, pull him back. He didn't care how long it took. "It's okay. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm right here. I got you. I got you. You're safe."
Minutes passed. It could have been ten or one hundred. It didn't matter. What mattered was holding on, keeping the broken man he held on to together. What mattered was that the screams finally abated as the words kept coming. The body against his gradually relaxed. Bucky's chest still heaved, but the breaths were evening.
Steve just kept the unconscious litany of comfort words coming.
"I'm with you. Do you hear me? I'm with you. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. It's okay…"
Bucky had grown still and silent. His muscles tensing only from the occasional tremor that wracked his frame. Steve finally allowed himself to loosen his arms. When he was met with no resistance, he slid out from underneath Bucky. He gripped him under the arm and sat him up. He dropped to his knees in front of him and placed his hands on his shoulders, trying to ground them both. Bucky's eyes were far away.
This man before him was a far cry from the Bucky he'd known all his life prior. That Bucky stowed his worry. He cracked jokes. He pretended to be okay. Steve had always known it was more for his sake than Bucky's own, because Bucky never wanted his friend to feel sorry for himself or to worry about him. God, he loved the stubborn jerk. Hydra had taken so much more than his friend's arm and memories.
"Cold." His voice was a hoarse whisper. Steve looked down. Bucky's head was still hung low, dark hair obscuring his eyes.
"It was always cold when they'd wake me up. Then they would drag me out and strap me down again and-" He shuddered. "The faces were never the same. But the pain was."
And oh, Steve could feel pain too. He closed his eyes. His hands moved to the sides of Bucky's face. His friend didn't look up, but Steve was rewarded when Bucky leaned into the touch with almost a sob.
Steve knew that Bucky had experienced a form of touch deprivation. While he hadn't been utterly devoid of it, the only touch he had known for so long was associated with pain and unfamiliarity. It broke Steve's heart even more right now. He pulled Bucky closer, arm encircling his back, and rested his chin atop of his head. He placed the other hand on the back of his neck, maintaining the skin-on-skin contact.
"I'm so sorry. This never should have happened to you." It was all he could offer. He couldn't recall feeling so helpless, not even when he had awoken to find 70 years had come and gone, along with nearly everyone he knew.
"There's nothing you could have done," Bucky said huskily.
"I could have saved you on that train."
He said it thickly. For him, it was a shameful admission. He had failed him. Left him to a fate worse than death. It didn't matter that he didn't know. It had haunted him every day since. He watched him fall every night in his own dreams. What made it worse, was that Bucky had never really stopped falling.
"Stop."
With some effort, Bucky's hand came up to rest around his wrist. "I've never blamed you. Because it wasn't your fault. Stop blaming yourself." He still spoke quietly, but his words were precise, and his tone was steadfast.
Steve swallowed. He nodded his head slightly, resigning himself even if not completely for his sake.
"You don't owe me anything." A slight shake of the head and a downward cast of his eyes. Implying the false pretense that it was all out of obligation of returning the favor was a copout and Steve saw right through it. Bucky still didn't believe he was worth it. It was gut-wrenching.
"Is that what you think this is?" Steve asked, dropping his hand and unable to keep some incredulousness from creeping into his voice. Hadn't they already done this a dozen times? Yet Steve knew he do it a thousand more if he had to. Somewhere inside him, the levee he'd built to contain everything was breaking.
Bucky didn't meet his eyes.
"I'm here for the same reason I went to that factory after you were captured. The same reason I took that leap not knowing what would happen just because you wouldn't leave without me."
He paused. He willed his voice to be steady as he continued. "For the same reason you finished every one of my fights and wanted me to stay out of the war."
Steve needed him to understand that it went both ways. Love wasn't fashioned from obligation.
"You'd do it all for me. Hell, you have, Buck."
Bucky's weary eyes finally met Steve's. "I just don't know if I can be that guy you knew," he said doubtfully. "I don't know how much of him is left."
Steve shook his head. He pressed the palm of his hand to Bucky's chest, over his heart. "He's right here."
They weren't just words of comfort. He couldn't expect him to be the same. Hell, even Steve wasn't the same person he had been back then. They had been through too much to be. But everyday there were constant reminders that Bucky- not the Winter Soldier- was there. The twinkle that would sometimes show in his eyes, especially when reminiscing about when they were younger. A lot of the time it was Steve filling in the blanks, but he'd smile that mischievous smirk, the same one that couldn't help but make Steve smile too. It made him resemble that youthful handsome man he'd last known.
It was in his actions. Bucky still struggled with the line between right and wrong sometimes, but he wanted to do right. And his fierce loyalty to Steve was without question, just as it had been their whole lives. The more simple truth remained: No matter if he could find his way all the way back, Bucky was still here.
A small light flickered behind Bucky's eyes, but it disappeared just as quickly. "I can't change the things I did."
"No," Steve agreed. Repeatedly trying to reassure Bucky that it wasn't really him that committed those acts could never change how he felt about it or shift the blame. Steve would find that ironic if he were to think about it. "But you can start over, and this time you're not alone." He squeezed his good shoulder.
Bucky wished he could have faith in himself the way Steve seemed to have faith in him. His head was a mess, to say the least. He could remember things from before becoming the Winter Soldier. He also remembered the things he did as him. Sometimes he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. It was a daily chore to try to separate himself from the horrendous things he had done while under Hydra's control, to try to remember that he wasn't that person anymore. Then the reality of things he had done would drop a crushing weight of guilt on him that he couldn't seem to escape. Sometimes he'd forget to remember that he was Bucky, and the Winter Soldier would involuntarily come out of him instead. He felt hopeless.
And then there was Steve. Unwavering and loyal. But Bucky knew he was sad too, and to know he was the cause of it just made it hurt worse. Yet it gave him focus and reason.
"Whatever you need from me, I'm here," Steve said firmly, "But you have to stop being a stubborn idiot and pretending you're okay on your own. You don't have to be." His words purposefully echoed ones Bucky had once said to him.
Steve watched Bucky silently struggle, not wanting to burden his friend with problems of his own. He had always been that way. It was one of the ways he had always tried to look out for Steve, and that was to only focus on Steve. He always downplayed his own worries and self-doubt. Bucky had always been the most selfless person he knew, and Steve had always admired him for that, as much as it also frustrated him at times.
"I need you to trust me."
"I do trust you." Bucky's brows furrowed in confusion. Steve was the only one he really did trust.
"Then act like it."
Bucky seemed to consider this. It felt foreign to be on this side of things. Steve needed him to be able to confide in him. It wasn't any different from what Bucky expected from Steve. It was why he was there. He needed to relearn that it went both ways.
"I'm scared," he forced out, meeting his eyes. It was far from an easy admission. Tears welled and spilled over. The earnestness in his eyes mixed with self-imposed guilt of this horrible confession made Steve's chest ache. His love for him swelled.
He pulled Bucky against him. He wrapped a hand around the back of his head and held on tightly. After a moment of pure anguish, Bucky's arms tentatively reached up and around him until his hands found purchase in Steve's shirt. They fisted into the fabric. In his friend's arms, he suddenly felt safe. He felt like it might be okay to not be okay. Decades of pain, confusion, anger, and loneliness seeped out with each silent sob. Yet it was absorbed by the strong body that held him, arms tightening in comforting affirmation.
"I'm with you," he said with quiet firmness next to his ear, "I'm with you till the end of the line, and whatever comes after."
A couple of beats passed. "You too, you know," Steve heard Bucky say against him. He realized he was right and tightened his arms in response.
After a time, Bucky withdrew from the embrace. He huffed, smiling a little. "Look at us. Bawling like a couple of kids." He wiped at his eyes. Steve smiled too, swiping a thumb across his cheek.
"Like that time when I was six and those kids stole my ice cream," Steve offered. He remembered crying like a baby, not so much because the other boys had beaten him up and taken it from him, but because his mother had saved the extra money for him to get it and he had gotten some for her too.
Bucky laughed, a little sadly. "Yeah, I remember that."
"Yeah, well it was nothing compared to what you did to them."
"They wanted ice cream. I gave them ice cream," Bucky said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, down their pants. With a kick to them to boot!"
"They deserved it."
"Yes, they did," Steve agreed.
Both laughed. Steve marveled at the genuine look of joy on his friend's face, making him look younger and more at ease.
Bucky looked at Steve. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
A small smirk made its way on Bucky's face. "For your face." He gestured to the cut on Steve's face.
Steve huffed and lightly touched his knuckles to the open flesh. "I think I've had worse."
"You know, I think it's an improvement," said Bucky, still smiling. Steve laughed.
"It's gonna be okay, Buck," Steve told him, and Bucky felt like it actually would be.
End.