Everything was wrong. Bucky had only just begun remembering things only to realize that he had been the one to pull the metaphorical trigger on one of Steve's best friends. He would hate him now, he was sure of it. Bucky didn't know exactly what Steve would or wouldn't do but it wouldn't be good. He would be alone…again. He couldn't bring himself to look back, even when he felt Steve's fingers slowly uncurl and slip away from his wrist.
The soft sigh that Bucky heard behind him was a thousand times words that any cry of outrage. He sound so…disappointed…It broke Bucky's heart.
"I know…" Steve whispered quietly, and Bucky turned abruptly. When he saw it, even though he had been preparing himself, the expression on Steve's face still hurt. He was staring at the ground, hands limp by his sides. His eyes looked so old. The blond haired man swallowed hard before drawing in a deep, hesitant breath. "I was told that the car wreck that killed Howard and Maria Stark was arranged by Hydra…I guess I didn't really know…I had hoped…I had hoped that it wasn't you…" He finished. He didn't look angry, just sad, and disappointed.
"Steve," Bucky pleaded in a low tone, turning fully now and stepping towards him. "Steve I'm sorry. I didn't…I couldn't-I-" Steve reached up and gripped Bucky's shoulder, the man startling slightly at the contact.
"Bucky." He said abruptly, meeting his gaze. "I know." He emphasized again. Steve sighed, letting his hand slid from Bucky's shoulder. "I…I think I'm going to turn in early tonight Buck…" He said, for once feeling like he was the one who needed space, who needed to process and absorbed the painful information. He felt like a heel; walking away, leaving Bucky standing there like that, but he couldn't handle talking about it right now. He wasn't angry and Bucky. God knows he didn't hate him, but he knew it would take him a few hours to shake the lump in the pit of his stomach caused by knowing that Bucky, however brainwashed, had killed Howard and his wife.
Bucky watched Steve walk slowly down the hallway, a feeling of nausea churning in his stomach. He felt like he had just destroyed every ounce of faith Steve had in him; and when Steve's faith was all Bucky had, it left him feeling like an empty shell. "Steve," He called as Steve reached his bedroom door at the end of the hall. He turned, looking back at him.
Steve did the most painful thing when he was sad; he smiled. He looked back at Bucky with a tiny smile on his lips, his eyes holding the kind of sadness that you could drown in. Bucky didn't remember exactly when he'd decided to call out to him, but he was looking at him now, waiting, with that heartbreaking smile playing at the edges of his lips. "I'm sorry…" Bucky managed, knowing it wasn't good enough.
Steve exhaled slowly and nodded his head. "I know Buck…I don't blame you…I'm just…tired…" He said quietly, knowing it was a transparent excuse. Bucky did the only thing he could. He nodded, rooted to the spot, feeling like a monster for doing this to the only person in the world who had been willing to care for him.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
It took Steve a long time to get to sleep. He didn't want to dwell on the fact that his best friend had killed the Starks. He told himself that Bucky couldn't be held responsible, that he had absolutely no control over his actions, but it still hurt. It hurt, and Steve knew that it wasn't the kind of hurt that went away very quickly. Steve wasn't determined to forget about it and brush it under the rug; he was determined to forgive Bucky.
A sudden crash woke Steve abruptly out of a troubled sleep. He sat bolt upright in bed, his hand flying to the gun he had been ordered to keep at his bedside at all times. For a second, there was silence, and then a string of hissed curses. Bucky. Steve slipped out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a soft thump. His gaze darted quickly to the clock on his nightstand, and a frown tugged at Steve's brow. "What?..." He rasped, too tired to comprehend why in the world Bucky would be awake at three in the morning. Leaving the gun on the nightstand, Steve ghosted out of his room, the carpet in the hallway muffling his footsteps. The blond haired man peered cautiously around the door from and into the kitchen, not quite sure when he would see.
For one thing, there was flour everywhere. How that much flour could have gotten all over the kitchen Steve could only guess. An upended metal bowl lay in the middle of the floor, also coincidentally in the exact middle of the flour explosion. Apparent that he been the source of both the noise, and the mess. Bucky was crouched on the floor, two fingers in his mouth, hissing curses around them. He pulled them briefly out of his mouth. There was blood on his fingers. "God fucking dammit!" Bucky snarled, stuffing his fingers back in his mouth and sucking on them hard, trying to relieve the sting.
"Bucky?" Steve asked wearily, and Bucky jumped, his face clouding with guilt as he yanked his hand out of his mouth.
"Steve!" He blurted uncertainly, twisting his hand behind his back. "I…didn't mean to wake you up…" Steve scrubbed briefly at his eyes, blinking in the dim light of the kitchen.
"No, No it's fine," He whispered, walking over. He reached behind Bucky, gently taking his wrist and pulling his hand where he could see it. He frowned slightly at the nasty laceration across the pads of his fist two fingers. "What happened?" He asked, grabbing a clean rag from the drawer beside him and putting pressure on the cuts." Bucky looked away, flushing with embarrassment.
"Knife slipped." He mumbled. Steve raised an eyebrow, nodding.
"Yep. That what happens when you bake with the lights dimmed." He murmured, stepping away to pull the first aid kit out from the cupboard over the fridge. On his way by, he slid the light switch all the way up, flooding the kitchen with light.
"I didn't want the light to wake you…" Bucky said, his voice still barely about a mutter. Steve turned back to him, his smile still touched with sleep.
"Well, I'm awake now," He said, spreading his hands. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing at this hour of the morning."
Bucky was almost too embarrassed to answer, even so, it took him until after Steve had bandaged his lacerated fingers to speak.
"I…" Bucky hesitated. "I was making…" He cringed. "…Sticky buns…" Steve looked up, letting Bucky's hand slip from his own. There was a look of amused surprise on his face.
"Sticky buns?" He repeated, and Bucky went pink.
"They were supposed to be for breakfast…they…apparently take longer to rise that I thought but…I…wanted to make them…for you…"
Steve sucked his head, breathing a small sigh. "Buck. You didn't need to do that." He said gently, and a look of irritation phased across Bucky's face.
"Of course I did." He snapped, turning away and dropping the offending knife in the sink. He offered no other explanation than this because Steve knew. He knew, whether he would talk about it or not, just how much he had done for Bucky.
A smile tugged at the other man's lips, and he nodded. "Okay, okay Bucky…" He paused for a second, before looking back up at him. "Do you want my help?"
Bucky looked away, still feeling a knot of frustration. He had wanted Steve to wake up nice and slow the next morning to the smell of freshly baked sticky buns. He had wanted him not to worry about getting up to make them both breakfast as he always did. He had wanted…he had hoped that the feeble peace offering would be enough to keep Steve from looking at him with that agonizing, disappointed look on his face. But now, instead, Steve was here, in the middle of the disaster of a kitchen, bandaging his cuts, and offering to help him finish the job even though it was three in the morning. 'Just go back to bed,' Bucky's mind snapped, but his mouth betrayed his desire to be near him.
"Sure…" He murmured, trying not to sound too affected either way. And so Steve and Bucky ended up in the kitchen, cleaning and baking until the sun streamed through the window and the smell of freshly baked sticky buns wafted on the morning air.