/AN: I'm not sure if its triggering but the first scene here involves a panic attack, so watch out if that effects you in any way./
He woke up and felt the burning pain; his bones were splinters wedged in every square inch of his arm; everything was agony and his nerves started screaming before he even opened his eyes and oh dear God, it all just hurt so bad. For a second he swore his heart stopped completely when he tried to move the arm to no avail, as if somehow it were paralyzed yet emitting crushing amounts of pain. In that moment there were ropes braided from his panic around his chest and he couldn't breathe, or if he did each breath tripped over itself, creating a dizzying mess of inha- exhale, inhaleinhale, exhale, inh- until Bucky was forced to slam his eyes shut and try desperately wait for it to pass.
Bucky remembered the first time this happened, when he woke up in a hospital bed and couldn't move his left arm. Naturally, he panicked, having not realized that his arm wasn't even there for him to move. His humorous had been crushed in the actodent, with no chance of recovery as the nurse said after successfully calming the amputee down.
It took a few hours for the denial to pass that time.
By now he'd grown used to mornings like this. While it wasn't everyday that he'd wake up to a panic attack, it did happen often enough that he didn't feel the need to call Dr. Banner, his private therapist. Actually, he almost never called the man, figuring if he had a problem, well why couldn't he take care of it himself? Besides, all expenses were being paid for of course, by that asshole in a suit, Tony. Why? Bucky didn't know, but it wasn't a charity he was going to take with grace.
The only reason he agreed to see Banner was the fact that they lived in the same apartment complex, with the doctor just two floors above. Being the only client Banner actually had, Bucky couldn't easily avoid his appointments, especially when the other man was just an elevator ride away from his door. Then Bucky would stare at his single hand, angry enough to see red (well…) while Banner coaxed words out of him. More like coerced. He didn't want to talk- he never wanted to talk about what went on his head, not now. Banner would always end their time by talking about him getting a prosthetic.
"You can get yourself measured and fitted. It'll make life a hell of a lot easier, trust me. And if money's a problem... " He knew money was a problem, "Well, I'm sure your insurance will cover it." Of course by that he meant Tony.
So no, Bucky would always shake his head, insist he's fine the way he is, eyes darting to the broken dish on the counter, or the cracked screen of his phone, or the armful of books he's dropped and forgotten to move. He couldn't accept other people's help like that- the therapist was bad enough.
Three months had passed since the accident and although the doctors prodded him with empty assurances that he was going to get better, he was still waking to phantom pains and migraines from withdrawal (he's been clean for a good part of two months now, with help from Natasha of course).
There were still days where even waking up was a hassle and he'd wait for Natasha to send Clint over and drag his sorry ass to the floor because there was no way she'd let him lose this job, not after all the trouble she went through to get it for him. Some days he couldn't stop moving, bouncing a leg, drumming his fingers, pacing, he just couldn't sit still, but moving only made the migraines worse, so all he could do was take some pills and hope to God that they'd work at neutralizing the pain, rather than dulling it to a mild throbbing. They never do, leaving him snappy and intolerable for most others to be around.
But those are the effects of withdrawal from the addiction he had has, and damn him if he wasn't going to tough out this misery. It's what Steve would have wanted after all.
Steve.
Steve.
It'd been a long time since that name crossed his mind. Not that two weeks is very long, but for Bucky, who even after close to six years justcouldn't stop thinking about those graphite smudged hands, the eye-crinkling smile, the low singing in the shower when Steve practiced for his silly street side quartet, the sound of his voice, the way he smelled, the color in his face before Bucky lost that part of him, the-
Bucky knew moving on would be difficult.
Their truck had been sent off to rust in a junkyard by this time- he wasn't allowed to drive now anyway. The bedroom they'd shared was under permanent lock so he wouldn't have to worry about looking at the grey walls and grey sheets where he and Steve used to sleep. Bucky hadn't opened that door in nearly four months, and then he'd ended up relapsing, waking up outside the bathroom door with vomit on his shirt and alcohol soaking his mind.
The one thing (or perhaps various things) he hadn't hidden from himself yet was Steve's artwork, which even now was taped and pinned to the walls in nearly every room.
There was no way Bucky could avoid looking at them, nor could he tune out memories of Steve's humble arguing: "They really aren't that great; why do they have to go on the wall? That one? Really? It's an old soup can, I did that in under five minutes! C'mon, take these down!"
A few weeks after they first moved in together, Bucky had started pinning the other man's art on the wall. Anything he made up, no matter the subject, medium, or quality. After all, to Bucky, they were all masterpieces. "I don't know whose art work you're looking at, but these are incredible! They deserve to be looked at! Yes, Steve, even the soup can, put it back."
For he would find pictures layed on the table, some tucked between books on a shelf, hidden in coat pockets. Of course he'd just go around the house put them back up. Sometimes he even glued them to the wall. It was one of those friendly fights they had with each other. Steve would take down a handful of his drawings and hide them. Bucky would search them out and put them back up.
Thinking about Steve and his drawings was really draining.
Bucky didn't realise that he was staring at one of the pictures until his hand held it, ripped and crumpled in his hand. It was a watercolor of a flowery field. It'd been so long since he really looked at these, he couldn't even remember what colors everything was supposed to be. Maybe this bottom corner was red? Oh, who'd ever heard of red grass? Though it was the same shade of grey as the shirt he was currently wearing… was he even wearing the red one?
Trying to piece together the shades like this was pointless. He'd tried before, years ago, for maybe a month after Steve's death. He wouldn't even admit now how in denial he'd been at that point, even after Steve was set in a box and piled high with dirt all around. Matching up shades of grey with things for which he already knew the colours. It worked for a while, matching a ball to the truck, a cup to to a curtain, a tie to a bath towel. But of course even specific colours come in different shades, and trying to differentiate between every slight one was impossible.
At that moment, after over half a decade, it hit him. He couldn't appreciate Steve's art the way he used to. What contrasted before now blended together. Every picture was just a repeat of the last, black and white and the greys in between. All they even served to do was taunt him on what he no longer had. No more hunts for Steve's hidden artwork; no more slow jazz or swing music playing on the record player in the mornings; no more burnt homemade pizza's; no more arguing over who'd order take out because dear God the crust is inedible; nothing was here anymore, just Bucky, the drawing's and… nothing.
He was supposed to be moving on, right? Wasn't that what Steve told him to do?
Bucky made his resolve then. With a sweep of his hand, a dozen or so papers were ripped from the wall. Some had ripped corners still hanging my the tape and tacks he'd put them up with. Having no other hand to hold them with, he let them drop, spreading across the hard floor. More and more pages came down. All of them, yes, even the ones in their room, every single one was ripped down in anger. He gathered the pages up in his arm and… well now what?
He'd taken them down but he sure as hell couldn't keep them. If he shut them in a box, he'd only be tempted to look. And somehow the trash didn't sem final enough. If he was going to let go, he had to go all the way. Fire was the only way to go.
Of course he wasn't going to set the pages on fire like this, that'd be stupid. He had neighbors after all, and why should their lives and home be put at risk because of his deprecating actions? Things like this were what fireplaces were made for.
Lighting the fire was a struggle with only one hand, especially since he only had matches. He quickly wondered if a prosthetic would make it easier, and immediately hissed at himself for being so pathetic. He could do this on his own.
He was crying by the time it was lit, building the flames on pages that were quick to turn to ash. God, he just wanted to be okay again, no more crushing sadness, or jittery anxiety, or sympathetic gazes, or emptiness, or the inability to even stir some sugar into his coffee. All of it, he just wanted all of it to go away. He was desperate for something good to happen, for some sort of closure. He just wanted to be happy again. Together. Independent of Steve's friends' money and time and worry.
The papers were falling into the fire faster than they could burn, until he wasn't even throwing them in, they were just falling on their own. One after another. Two at a time. Pile following pile.
With the last one he almost felt as if something had been lifted from his shoulders. The walls weren't trying to suffocate him now. He was out of breath somehow, shoulders heaving as he watched the flames flicker against rough sketches.
Steve's sketches.
Steve's sketches.
What… had he done?
The last pieces of Steve's he had, Steve's own creations and he had just burned them all. Every single picture held a piece of Steve- his heart, talent, his goodness- and now it was all ash and smoke. He'd destroyed something so significant in their lives- no, in Steve's life. In the most cliche way of thinking, his art was his legacy. And it was a legacy that Bucky Barnes just ruined out of spite of his own self loathing. A legacy he'd always built up on a pedestal and in the end threw away like it was garbage.
The regret and anguish that followed out did the pains from his missing arm that morning. But even worse was knowing that he needed to do this. He walked over to the window and opened the curtain. The sun hit his face, the warmness reminding him of Steve's smile. But he pushed that thought away and basked in the sunlight. Steve wasn't in his life anymore. It was time Bucky learned to accept that, regardless of how difficult that would be.
/AN: FIVE MONTHS OH MY GOD. I'm deeply sorry to all of you who've been waiting for this chapter. Part of the reason its so late is partly due to technical difficulties, but I'm not gonna deny the procrastination on my part '-';;
As always, this chapter has been beta'd by magicsintheair, who also writes incredibly good fan fiction I highly rec to you all!
Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this fic, and for motivating me to continue what was meant to be a oneshot! I'm glad I added on to it, even if it did take my an obnoxiously long time to update.