Hey guys!
I keep forgetting to upload the next chapter! I'm so sorry!
But here you have chapter 8. I really, really hope you guys enjoy it and I appreciate the fact that you've read up to here already. It really means so much to me! This fanfiction is my baby and it means a lot so I'm so happy when people take interest in it.
So anywho~ enjoy!
Chapter 8
Bucky had taken to carrying an A5 notebook with him into which he scribbled fragments of memories, trying to hold onto them that way until the memory was complete. Sometimes he'd get Steve to draw him something that they had both seen to make sure that he remembered something correctly. Steve was an amazing artist and always managed to capture all the small details that were so important to Bucky, important in helping him remember. Bucky would fold all the sketches Steve drew and would keep them in the back of his book to look at whenever he felt his memories blur at the edges.
Steve helped him look up some online articles about events that they had gone to or important events that had happened in the past four years that Bucky had missed. They printed them out and he stuck them into that notebook of his, labelling them with colourful sticky notes. He'd also write down names that popped into his mind, asking Steve to tell him who they were. He would write down everything Steve told him about the person belonging to the name as if he was scared that he'd forget the person again if he didn't. The notebook had been Sam's idea and honestly, Steve was eternally grateful to Sam for it. It helped Bucky sort his thoughts and gave him a sense of control, calming him down immensely. It also gave them a constant topic of conversation.
"There's still something wrong." Steve muttered, leaning against the water dispenser in the gym. Sam and Steve were watching Bucky take out his pent-up energy on a training dummy that was looking worse for wear the longer Bucky punched and kicked it. The gym smelt of rubber and sweat. It was a familiar smell for Steve, one that he hardly registered anymore.
"What d'ya mean?" Sam asked, crossing his arms across his chest like he so often did.
"When I ask him what he wants, he never answers." Steve explained, "When I ask if he wants to do something, it's the same thing. The only exception is when I say that I want to do something or that we should. Then he just does it without complaining or objecting." He sighed, listening to the clapping sound that echoed off the walls of the station's gym every time Bucky's right hand came into contact with the dummy. "Sounds kinda familiar, doesn't it?" Sam looked over at Steve in the same moment that Steve looked at him. Dread welled up in Steve, the feeling driving him to start doubting the apparent progress Bucky had made. "Are you trying to tell me that he's following orders?" Steve asked. The line between his eyebrows was getting more and more pronounced the longer this conversation went on. He was almost regretting bringing up the topic in the first place.
"Sorry Steve but… that's exactly it: he's following orders." Sam muttered, making sure to keep his voice low to prevent Bucky from hearing them, "You said he's starting to remember who he is. That's good. Still, I doubt that we'll get rid of what Hydra put into him that quickly." Steve nodded distractedly, feeling like he was caught in one of his nightmares again, powerless and unbearably unable to change a damn thing, "Have you asked him how he sees himself?"
"What?" Steve blinked, tearing his eyes away from the grey cement floor and looking back up at Sam whose face was unreadable.
"Well think about it: Hydra made him believe that he was nothing but a weapon, an object. I'd be interested to know whether he still sees himself as a weapon or is starting to see himself as a person again. A weapon doesn't want things or want to do things, doesn't have a free will- a weapon is maintained and used to eliminate the enemy."
Steve let that sink in for a while, as painful as it was to do, watching the way Bucky moved. His movements were heavy and forceful, violent in a way that made Steve feel nervous and jittery, uncomfortable. His movements weren't meant to hurt; they were meant to destroy. His body was like a spring that uncoiled right before winding up again, ready to let out all of its force on the nearest object over and over again without tiring. Even now when Bucky was calm, he still moved like an assassin. He didn't move anything like Bucky used to.
Steve noticed that Bucky had been striking with his right hand only. He was about to ask Sam about it when Bucky pulled back his left arm. The plates shifted to recalibrate and prepare for impact and with one impetuous movement, Bucky brought his metal fist down on the training dummy that splintered into numerous pieces with a loud crack that rang in Steve's ears. Steve was too shocked to cringe at the pain in his ears. The only thing he was rendered capable to do, was stare, open-mouthed. "So that's..." Sam's voice trailed off, a shocked arch defining his eyebrows as he eyed the remains of the training dummy on the floor. The training dummies were, in their essence, designed to replicate a human being as best as they could. If that had been a real person… a human being instead of a training dummy… Steve's eyes were on the remains too and he felt a dip in his stomach and he bit down his nausea immediately. "Yeah." Steve forced himself to reply, shaking off the shock when Bucky turned to look at him. He didn't even look apologetic for having destroyed expensive training equipment. Instead, he looked passive, like he was waiting for instructions.
"How are you feeling?" Steve asked him and Bucky frowned, looking puzzled by the question, "See what I mean?" he muttered to Sam before the two made their way over to Bucky.
Bucky's eyes watched Steve, analysed him the way they always did. Steve was tense but Bucky couldn't figure out why. Steve's upper arms and shoulders were strung tight, like he was seconds away from lashing out. When Steve came to a standstill in front of him, he took a step back instinctively, pressing his arms against his sides and standing up a little straighter. "Let me guess, you didn't even break a sweat, am I right?" Sam asked him a little sarcastically, tilting his head a little at the end of his question. "No." Bucky replied bluntly and Sam huffed at that, shaking his head before looking down at his phone for the time. "Well as much as I'd love to keep watching Hercules do this thing, I'm gonna go and give Rhodey my report for the day before I start doubting my masculinity. Try not to break anything… else..." He quirked an eyebrow at Bucky who showed little to no reaction to what Sam was saying. Sam patted Steve's upper arm in silent encouragement before striding off leisurely. The metal gym doors closed with a click that echoed off the high arching walls, making Steve feel small and lonely in the large space.
Steve let his eyes wander around the hall, giving himself a moment to think. There was a boxing ring in the far corner, next to a metal stand filled with weights of all shapes and sizes. Mats were spread all over the floor in between training equipment. Numerous dummies were lined to the right wall, one of them now lying in fragments at Steve's feet. He looked back down at the pieces while he let his mind wander to what Sam had said about Bucky still being a weapon. After all this time, how could Bucky still consider himself nothing but an object? Bucky wasn't a weapon! He was Bucky! His Bucky! He was much, much more than a mindless weapon! Hadn't he shown that to Bucky over the past two months? Hadn't he done enough to help Bucky? Had he gone about this all wrong? Had Bucky even made any real progress at all?! Or was he doing all of this because Steve wanted him to? His mind went back to the nightmares that had plagued him ever since he had been told that Bucky was dead. Although they would vary, they all ended the same way- Bucky died and there was absolutely nothing Steve could do about it.
It was like he was there just to watch it all happen.
This was a lot like that. Bucky was so far gone and although Steve had desperately and self-sacrificingly tried to help his best friend, all of that suddenly didn't seem like it had been enough. If he hadn't even been able to show Bucky how precious he was and how much he meant to Steve, then how much of a help was he really?
Anxiety and anger flushed through his system like a deadly poison and his body switched to autopilot, his legs carrying him over to his bag that he'd left by the water dispenser next to the door. He brought forth bandages that he quickly wrapped around his hands, muscle memory guiding his fingers. Once his knuckles were safely tucked away under a firm layer of bandages, Steve moved over to a punching bag hanging in the far right corner of the room. For a moment, he forgot about the fact that Bucky was there. He forgot about the fact that he hadn't slept properly in over a month. He ignored the fact that he was so tense that his muscles ached all over. He pulled back his right arm before forcing it forward angrily, bringing his fist down on the bag. He then did the same with his left hand; then right. His hands beat down on the boxing bag over and over again, the way they used to when he was at the gym after a nightmare-filled night.
After a while, he could feel the muscles in his shoulder begin to burn slightly. It felt good. The feeling drove him to punch harder and harder and harder until the muscles in his arms began to scream in protest. Sweat began shimmering on his skin and his fringe stuck to his forehead slightly. His feet shifted over the cement floor while he continued to punch and C'mon Stevie! You gotta hit harder than that if you wanna protect yourself! Try again!
With every punch, a new memory came forth, making his heart clench and driving him to punch even harder and harder.
The memory of a stranger with brown hair standing in front of him with spread out arms, protecting him from the bullies. An outstretched hand, offering to help him up from the ground.
The memory of an arm pulling him closer, against a firm chest.
The memory of a knee-weakening smirk while an arm was draped around a girl's waist.
The memory of a hand on each of his shoulders while he wept at his mother's funeral.
The memory of a feeling that made his whole body feel like it was on fire.
The memory of a fight because he had to go and because he might never, never ever come back and he wept and wept and wept because that idiot wasn't coming back he was dead! Dead!
A hand wrapping around his throat.
Dead!
Cold eyes staring back at him.
Dead! He was dead!
A hand caught his and stopped it mid-strike masterfully, his shoulder jerked under the inability to let out the pent-up momentum. He blinked back to reality, noting the stinging pain spreading over his knuckles. When Bucky let go of Steve's hand, Steve saw that Bucky's hand had feint lines of blood on the metal. He lifted his hands, realizing that the bandages had slipped and torn, subjecting his knuckles to the full force of his punches and splitting them right open. One look at the punching bag told him that it must have happed quite some time ago.
How had he not noticed that?
His breathing was uneven and his chest still felt tight with emotions that were still heartbreakingly present and almost impossible to control.
Despite the pain, his body itched to continue until he couldn't continue anymore, until all the pain scratching at his insides like sandpaper was gone. He swallowed, concentrating on slowing down his breathing. Bucky didn't say anything, just kept his ears on Steve's breathing because something told him that that was important; that respiratory distress was something he had to listen out for with Steve.
Steve pulled the bandages off slowly, cringing when they brushed over the sores on his knuckles. He dabbed the blood from his hands using the ruined bandages before shoving them into the pocket of his grey jogging pants sloppily. He took a deep breath, composing himself, closing his eyes and gathering his racing thoughts before speaking up. "What do you think of yourself?" Steve asked hoarsely, turning to face Bucky who was watching him warily. The question was met with the same confused reaction that Bucky had mastered by now. For the first time, it irritated Steve, showed him that Sam had been right with what he had said. He was too emotionally-drained to beg Bucky to just talk so he resorted to the only other way he knew how to make this new Bucky do what he wanted him to. "I want you to tell me what you think of yourself." Steve added and Bucky shifted, looking down at the floor while he thought. Steve wanted to whirl around and smash his fists against the punching bag again when he realized that Bucky was going to answer this time. He was going to answer not because he understood the importance of Steve's question, not because it meant a lot to Steve, not because he wanted to but because he was… he was following orders.
"My name is Bucky." He started slowly with a wavering voice that mirrored his uncertainty, "I protect you because you're Steve and I belong to you." Steve held his breath, swallowing the morbid lump in his throat. Hearing Bucky say something like that, hearing him talk like that about himself… it just… made Steve feel strange. It made his skin crawl and his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. It just felt so wrong to hear Bucky Barnes talk like that. His heart was racing and he was shifting from one foot to the other restlessly. "Should I continue?" Bucky enquired when Steve hadn't responded and Steve nodded after a short moment of hesitation. He was terrified of what Bucky was going to say but he knew that he needed to hear it. He wanted to help Bucky and if that meant hearing things that hurt him, he would take it- he would let someone set him on fire, let Hydra have him and take his own humanity away over and over again if it ended up helping Bucky.
"I am a weapon that Hydra created. I serve the purpose to-."
"No." Steve interrupted Bucky, shaking his head vehemently, "You're not a weapon! Furthermore, Hydra did not create you!" His voice came out a lot louder than he had intended and Bucky clenched his jaw, squaring his shoulders before taking a step back. Steve wanted to panic when he realized his error but he quickly reminded himself that that wasn't going to solve this in the slightest. "I'm sorry." Steve blurted out, "I didn't mean to yell." He took a deep breath to compose himself before continuing in a low voice, "You're a person Bucky. You're James Buchanan Barnes, the guy who took all my stupid with him when he joined the army. You're allowed to want. You're allowed to like, to hate to love- whatever you want, you're allowed to be your own person."
"A person?" Bucky echoed, looking down at his hands as if they held the answers.
"You were a person before Hydra, even if you don't remember it. You're a person now too." Steve tried to explain, wishing he could look inside of Bucky's head to know what his best friend was thinking. "I don't remember how to be a person." Bucky admitted and the lost look on his face in that moment tore Steve's heart apart. "I'll help you remember." Steve promised in a shaky voice, lifting his hand to wipe a few stray strands of brown hair out of Bucky's face. It was an old habit but Steve wasn't about to do anything about it. If Bucky let him touch him, then Steve would. "Want to go for a shower?" Steve asked him with the best smile he could muster up. It was crooked, but it was a smile. Bucky took a moment to consider Steve's question before lifting his eyes to meet Steve's. "Yes… I think I do."
The concept of wanting to do something or having his own interests confused Bucky. Hydra had taken anything along the lines of a personality away from Bucky through torture, dehumanisation and numerous painful 'wipes'. The more he remembered from his past self though, the more he felt himself tending to do some things more and others less. He wondered whether he was doing those things because he liked them or disliked doing the ones he avoided. He didn't know. He didn't remember what it felt like to want to do something or generally how to apply the term want. He knew what dislike felt like, knew what hate was. Liking something was an abstract concept, just as happiness was to him. Still, he figured that he must like Steve in some way. Steve made him feel better. Did he like that? He probably did; he just wasn't sure yet.
Throughout the next few days, Steve would explain his own actions to Bucky to make the concepts they were introducing him to more relatable. "I draw," Steve held up the sketch pad for Bucky to see, "Because I like sketching. It's fun." He smiled at Bucky who looked between Steve and his sketch of a man playing with his dog for a few seconds before Steve could see a question forming in his eyes. "Fun?" Bucky frowned thoughtfully and Steve waited patiently, keeping his eyes on Bucky to watch his thoughts project onto his face with all its intricate expressions. Steve could hear the dog bark and his fingers itched to finish his still life sketch before the pair left the park but he pushed down that feeling, focusing solely on Bucky. "Like when we went to Coney Island?" Steve's eyes widened against his will and the sketchpad was forgotten instantaneously, sliding out of his hand and onto the bench next to him. "You remember that?" Steve gasped. He couldn't help his excitement. His face was all lit up and his eyes were sparkling expectantly.
"I made you ride the Cyclone. It was a rollercoaster. You threw up afterwards." Bucky's features relaxed almost as if they were about to bend into a smile, "I gave you your inhaler because you couldn't breathe properly."
"Yeah I remember that." Steve nodded.
"But we still had… fun?" Bucky looked almost hopeful to Steve, and the latter scooted a little closer to Bucky, somehow yearning for his proximity, yearning to touch him and reassure him, show him that he was okay, that he was a human being, that he wasn't going to hurt anyone anymore.
"We did." Steve told him, smiling at the nod that Bucky gave him. He watched Bucky get out his notebook and a pen from the small black shoulder bag he carried with him nowadays. He opened the hardcover A5 book at the most recently used page, writing down the words Coney Island and I had fun in his neat handwriting.
"You'll have fun again sometime." Steve assured him when Bucky hadn't looked up from the book, "It takes time. When I came back from a SWAT mission that was particularly difficult for me to stomach, it took me months to have fun again. I didn't touch a pencil until two months after that." Again, Bucky nodded in response, letting the pen hover above the page before writing down more.
Steve likes to draw.
Steve stared at the words for a little while longer, feeling a blush spread across his face while warmth bloomed in his chest. He had almost forgotten what Bucky could make him feel like. It flustered him so much that he forced himself to his feet, stuffing his sketchpad and his pencils into his grey backpack and slinging it onto his back. He didn't know where he was going, just that he didn't care, as long as he got away and what's wrong Stevie? You're all red! Don't tell me yer getting sick again! Want me to stay the night to look after you? Stevie? You're getting even redder! Go lie down! I'll make you some tea.
"Steve?" Bucky's voice was deeper and rougher than usual. When Steve look at him, he found that his shoulders were tense and his eyes were studying Steve anxiously. "Oh damn, sorry!" His mind put two and two together and Steve put a hand on Bucky's shoulder comfortingly, settling back down on the bench. Bucky tensed notably before he relaxed slowly, letting out a long, controlled breath to slow down his heartbeat. "I shouldn't have moved that quickly." Steve added. Bucky mirrored what Steve would usually do when he didn't want someone to worry about him, letting his lips curve into a slightly awkward-feeling, reassuring smile. "What were you doing?" Bucky asked him when he saw that Steve was no-longer as upset as a moment ago. "I wanted to…" Steve's voice trailed off when he couldn't think of something to say. He was pretty sure that Bucky would drop the subject if Steve told him that he didn't want to talk about it and yet he felt inclined to make up something to ease Bucky's racing mind. He could see it in Bucky's eyes, the way they were shifting a little more than usual, mirroring the chaos in his mind. It always happened when small, day to day things triggered memories that he couldn't place. There was so much going on in Bucky's mind, contrary to what most people would think judging by his vacant facial expression. "Did I do something wrong?" Steve sucked in a sharp breath, startled by the fact that Bucky was looking for the problem in himself.
"Why would you say that?" Steve asked him, a little breathless due to his fluster.
"Your body language… you wanted to get away. The only thing you could have been running away from, is me." It was only a feint crease in his eyebrows but Steve picked it up; picked up the hint of hurt in Bucky's eyes and identified Bucky's fear of being put back to sleep. "No that's not it at all!" Steve flailed his arms around, reverting back to the uncoordinated kid from Brooklyn who was trying to explain something to his best friend, "I wanted to get away from my own thoughts. I don't know." He shook his head, fighting the blush that wanted to betray him, "Something hit me and I just wanted it gone."
"Did it hurt?" Bucky asked, his face straightening out but Steve could still see that he felt unsettled.
"No. No it didn't hurt."
"Good." Bucky nodded, looking at something behind Steve before continuing, "Because I don't want you getting hurt."
Steve's breath hitched and he had to avert his eyes, staring down at the floor which he proceeded to paw with his foot, rolling a small stone underneath the tip of his brown boot. "Thanks Buck." He forced out the words as to prevent Bucky from getting the wrong idea. He had done everything right and Bucky needed to know that, "That means a lot to me."
Another concept Bucky didn't quite understand. Then again, when he thought back to what he had felt when Steve had told him that he'd always come back for him, Bucky thought that maybe he understood what Steve meant with that. So Steve valued the fact that Bucky wanted to protect him? 'Always wanted to protect Stevie because he didn't deserve pain- he deserved the best. A memory associated with that train of thought rolled over him like a wave and his body tensed when an unfamiliar feeling spread through him. It made him feel as heavy as lead and his eyes began burning while his throat dried up.
He could see Steve crying, no… sobbing. There was a coffin placed next to an open grave. A cold breeze whipped through the air around them and forced Steve's short blonde fringe out of his face. Bucky saw the deep creases on his best friend's forehead that sorrow had personally put there. Why Stevie? Why did this have to happen to Stevie? He moved to stand behind Steve, placing one hand on each of the smaller boy's shoulders. He could feel Steve lean back against him and he let him, let Steve press the back of his head against his chest as hard as he wanted.
When Bucky came back to reality, Steve was watching him with those same worried eyes, scanning his face, probably for any signs of aggression. Bucky wanted to get his book out to write down the memory and the feeling associated with it but something stopped him.
He thought that if he forgot this, forgot how sad Steve had looked on that day and forgot how much it hurt to see Steve in pain, how unbearably sad it had made him feel… he thought that if he forgot all of that, that it wouldn't be so bad.
There you go~ I hope you liked it!
Please let me know what you thought of it! I'd really appreciate it!
Until next time~
