Life As A House
Chapter One: Two Old Friends Comparing Scars
A year. That had been the last time Steve had seen James in person. Albeit, it was brief and in passing, on a military base in Baghdad. Never in his entire life had he been nervous about seeing his best friend. In this moment, however, Steve was learning that anything was possible. When he'd opened the door to his new house, he hadn't any idea what to expect upon stepping inside, but he wasn't expecting to be greeted by deafening silence with James nowhere in sight. He'd closed the door behind him, his footsteps sounding loud in the sparsely furnished house that was even larger than it seemed in the photographs he'd viewed online.
The living room was where the front door led to, no hallway or entrance area, despite the overabundance of space. As he walked the length of the room, ideas began popping into his mind; this old house had been a steal and admittedly needed a shit-ton of work, but from first glance, none of it appeared major. Steve assumed that his dad had taken care of any major issues, which he was thankful for. He was looking forward to getting his hands dirty, and starting some repairs and renovations. He wasn't accustomed to being idle. It had just about driven him insane to be stuck in that hospital room for the past three weeks, and even though he still couldn't tackle anything too strenuous, it felt like heaven to not be restricted by those four white, sterile walls.
It was also very relieving to be away from his mother. God bless her, she meant well, but he'd learned that she had barely left his side since he was flighted home in a medically induced coma for further treatment. His mother had been pretty normal, as far as moms went, until he joined the army. Then she got protective and overbearing, which was understandable to a certain degree, he supposed. But it felt damn good to no longer be under her worried gaze. Part of the reason he had chosen this particular house was due to the fact that it was a good 30 minutes from his parents house. It gave him enough distance from her to not have to worry about her randomly popping in a hundred times a day, but was close enough to them that Steve could get there easily in 20 if they needed him (as long as he disregarded the speed limit).
Steve smiled as he set his bag down on the end table he recognized from his parents' basement, and sank down onto a sofa he recognized as once belonging to his grandma. It would take a while before he started to think of this place as his, but he was home. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat when the unwelcome fact of how close he had come to -not- coming home intruded his thoughts. His heart rate rocketed, and his palms began to sweat, and he began to feel like he was losing his shit. He tugged at his shirt collar frantically, struggling to suck in enough breath. Holy shit. He was dying. He was going to die from a heart attack after he fucking survived becoming fucking Swiss cheese in Iraq. His skin felt unbearably itchy, and he wished more than anything that he could crawl out of it. He drew in a shaky breath, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he swore his throat was closing up on him. He started shaking uncontrollably, on the verge of screaming, crying, -something-, as he vaguely registered the feel of a large hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
Steve managed to pry his eyes open long enough to find James kneeling in front of him, wearing an expression of pained sympathy on his face.
"Holy fuck, Barnes, I think I'm dying," Steve wheezed, teeth chattering.
"Steve," James spoke calmly, but firmly. "You're not dying."
"My chest is so, -fuck-, tight, and I can't breathe. I think I'm having a goddamn heart attack. Please help me." Steve's voice became small and frightened as he finished his sentence. Too far gone in his panic, he failed to notice that he was crying and trying to curl into himself.
James brought his hand from his friend's shoulder to his hand, and grasped it firmly. "Steve," he said again, "You're not having a heart attack. You're having an anxiety attack."
He paused, his blue eyes filled with anguish that laid right beneath the surface of his tranquil demeanor. "I've had enough of them to know, believe me."
Steve gaped at James, finding enough air to let out a humorless laugh. "Is this that PTSD shit my doctor kept talking about?"
The two friends held each other's gaze for a moment before both bursting out in laughter. "Uh, yeah," James smirked, "That would be 'that PTSD shit' your doctor was talking about...well, the tip of iceberg really." He looked away from Steve and pulled his hand out of his friend's and plopped next to him on the floral patterned couch.
"Well, shit," Steve muttered, breathing deeply now that the pressure in his chest had subsided, "I didn't actually think I was gonna have to worry about it. I kind of feel like an idiot. Guess I should have looked over all those pamphlets about it." He glanced at his hospital bag, contemplating.
Silence resonated, and both men felt slightly awkward. Now that Steve's panic attack had passed, there was nothing for them to focus on, except each other. James had been told the details of Steve's injuries during their phone conversations when he was still hospitalized, but James' were still a matter of mystery. He was trying to think of a tactful way to ask when James stood, moving so that he stood in front of Steve.
"Just ask, dude. Ask me what happened to me, I know you want to."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "I've tried to ask you a hundred times, James. I figured I'd stop asking and let you tell me when you were ready."
"Fuck, I'm never ready to tell -anyone-, but as we live together now, it's bound to come out sometime. I don't wanna shock you with the sight of it." He looked away, not meeting his friend's eyes, suddenly looking more uncomfortable and devastated than Steve had ever seen him look.
Steve looked James up and down. At first glance, everything about him seemed normal, barring his blue eyes that held a depth of pain and darkness that had never been there previously, and that worried him. James' rich brown hair was just starting to get a small amount of length to it, his buzz cut beginning to grow out. Briefly wondering if he would keep it short or grow it out long again, as he'd had it in high school when he suddenly noticed what was missing. James was wearing a long-sleeved Henley, but only one sleeve was filled the muscular definition of an arm underneath; the other sleeve hung limply, loosely. Steve closed his eyes.
Shit. Fucking shit. No wonder James had kept this under wraps. Before the two of them had left for boot camp, they had gone out to eat at Buffalo Wild Wings, and relayed their deepest fears and excitements about entering the military. They were excited to get to potentially see the world, of course, and being the naive 18 year olds they had been, were stoked about the weapons and taking down the bad guys, excited to be on frontlines, fighting for the old red, white, and blue. While they had been aware that they could possibly die, they hadn't really considered it likely, and James had divulged to Steve that his worst fear wasn't getting blown to smithereens, getting captured and taken as a prisoner of war, or getting shot; his worst fear was losing a limb. And he'd made it painstakingly clear that he'd rather die than be without his arms or legs, and it made sense. Forced to be independent from an early age, James had always shied away from depending on anyone else, fearing that once he did, he'd lose them just like he had his parents. The fact that James' worst fear had happened to him was like a suckerpunch to Steve's gut.
"Fuck, James, I'm -so- sorry. I-I don't know what to say." There was nothing he could say to the other man to even begin to make up for what he had lost.
"I don't need your pity," James told him sharply, his voice cold. It was obvious he was emotionally shutting down, and Steve knew immediately that he had not come to terms with this at all. Not that he could blame him.
"Come on, man. I've never pitied you once in your life. I'm genuinely sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"
The other man snorted. "Yeah. You could smack 18 year old me upside the head when I decided the Army was a good idea. You could have stopped me." He gave Steve a look full of mirth. "You always just went along with any of my ideas, why could you, just that once, have talked me down?"
Was he fucking kidding? All James had talked about since they were in preschool was joining the army to become a soldier, just like his dad; it had seemed to be all his friend had ever wanted. Steve was floored and a little hurt at what he was insinuating. His first instinct was to get angry, but he just couldn't allow that to happen, knowing now what James was going through. So although what Steve really felt like doing was flipping him the bird and telling him to fuck off, he chose to do the opposite. He got to his feet and drew the stiff and unwilling man before him into a hug, patting him on the back in that way that men did when they hugged.
Just like countless times before, he and James would get through this, because that's what they did. Pulling back, Steve didn't acknowledge the fact that James eyes were wet. Instead, he grabbed his phone from the pocket of his grey sweats, opening Safari and bringing up the menu on BWW's site. He turned it so James could see, and inquired if he wanted his usual. When he nodded, Steve then proceeded to ask if he could borrow James' Jeep, since his own Rover was still parked in his parents garage, where it stayed while he'd been gone.
After telling James to sit and chill and watch something on his laptop, he went outside, and unlocked the trusty Jeep he'd been acquainted with since high school. As he climbed up into the vehicle and closed the door, the scent brought memories rushing back. So much of his time outside of school and work had been spent in this vehicle, whether he was driving, riding shotgun, or seated in the back seat, usually flanked by Natasha and Clint, while his sister Saylor usually sat up front with James. Whether just going on long night drives to escape their parents, or going to the drive-in theatre to catch the horror double feature they always held on Friday nights, so many of his most memorable moments of his teenage years had taken place here, and the wave of nostalgia that came over him was causing him to feel all kinds of emotions, and he suddenly realized that he could not wait to reunite with his other friends as well.
As soon as he got back with their food and the couple of 6 packs he planned on grabbing, he was going to hash it out with James. Steve could tell that he desperately needed to talk about what had happened to him. And to be honest, Steve wanted to share his experience with James also. He was probably the only person in his life who would understand exactly where he was coming from.
There were so many things that he needed to figure out. He knew that he would be okay for a awhile before he needed to start working, but it couldn't hurt anything for him to start putting his feelers out for any available jobs in the area. And then this house he and James has bought. It was slightly in shambles, but once he was completely healed, and he could start repairing and fixing things, it was going to be amazing. He couldn't wait to have their old gang over, before he paused to wonder if James would be able to handle having them over and discovering his lack of an arm. If he couldn't even stomach letting him know, how was he going to be able to cope with everyone finding out?
Steve had quite the long road ahead, in every aspect of his life, but he was hopeful all would turn out okay. He had to believe all would be well. The last thing he wanted was to trigger another panic attack like he'd had earlier. All he could do was to take everything one moment at a time. All he needed to worry about in this moment was grabbing some grub and beer, getting back home, and trying to help his friend the best he could. And with any luck, everything else would fall back into place, as he continued to adjust to being back in the 'real world'.