Right now, you don't know if you even love yourself
Drowned out, broken down, with no one to turn to for help
There's so many roads but there's only one way
One way out of this
The glow on the hill is waiting for you to see it
- "Let Light Overcome the Darkness" by Our Last Night
Murderer.
Monster.
Liar.
Your fault.
Guilty.
Stained.
Tainted.
Worthless. Worse than worthless.
Hated.
You ruined his life. Twice.
It doesn't matter that you're sorry. You can't take it back.
Blood.
Fear. Terror. Panic.
You felt nothing. You. Felt. Nothing.
Scum.
Slime.
Refuse.
Dirt.
Crying? Really? You're pathetic.
You don't deserve sympathy. You don't deserve mercy. You don't deserve help.
Don't. Ask.
Keep your mouth shut.
No one is there for you. Why would they be? How could anyone stand to be around you?
You are alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
"Bucky?"
SHUT UP DON'T YOU DARE JUST KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN DON'T LOOK UP HE HATES YOU HE'S LYING HE'S DISGUSTED JUST TO LOOK AT YOU DON'T LOOK AT HIM DON'T SAY IT DON'T SAY IT SHUT UP DON'T YOU DARE—
Bucky drew a ragged breath, barely keeping his head above the slimy waves of darkness enough to whisper a single word. "Help."
Steve sat up in bed, watching the blankets on the other side rise and fall as Bucky breathed deeply. He'd cried himself to sleep in Steve's arms the night before, and even though he'd barely moved in twelve hours, Steve didn't want to wake him. At least when he was asleep, Bucky wouldn't be dwelling on what had happened between him and Tony.
It was even worse than Steve had feared. He'd known Bucky would take it hard, no matter how Tony reacted to the truth. He'd been trying to prepare himself for the fallout, trying to anticipate the ways Bucky would regress to those dark days he'd almost managed to leave in the dust. Occasionally, Steve had dared to hope that it would be easier to help Bucky this time. After all, he had more experience than he had back when Winter had been at his lowest points. He knew about the voices now. Bucky had told him about the kind of thoughts he struggled with. Surely that would make things easier, right?
But he hadn't been prepared for Bucky to try to kill himself. He should have seen it coming, should have done more to prevent Bucky from getting anywhere close to succeeding. If he'd been only a minute slower...
No, he couldn't think like that. Steve closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. He had stopped Bucky. He'd got to him in time. Bucky was alive and breathing. That was enough. They would make it through this somehow. Together.
Bucky shifted under the blankets, and Steve perked up. He watched for a few minutes as Bucky slowly rolled onto his back, blinked himself awake, and finally looked over at Steve with puffy, bloodshot eyes. With a small, sad smile, Steve said, "Morning, sunshine."
Bucky just looked at him for a long moment, then closed his eyes and let out an aching, bone-weary sigh. "I...don't want to be awake."
Heart heavy, Steve reached out and ran his fingers through Bucky's hair, smoothing the tangles away from his face. "Yeah..."
"I don't...want to...be alive..."
Steve's heart twisted painfully, lodging in his throat so he couldn't speak. He could only watch as tears oozed out from under Bucky's eyelids and slowly rolled down the creases at the corners of his eyes.
"I know I promised," Bucky mumbled. "I'm not going to...do anything, but..." With another sigh, he opened his eyes and looked up imploringly. "I'm tired, Steve. I'm so tired of this. I d-don't...I don't want to l-live like this..." He hid his face in the crook of his arm, curling up on his side to muffle his broken sobs.
"Buck..." His own eyes filling with tears, Steve bent over him and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. He gathered his friend in his arms and sat back against the headboard, rocking him back and forth.
I don't want you to live like this either, he thought, but he was afraid of saying that out loud. It sounded too much like he was agreeing that Bucky should end it all. But then, how could he say that he wanted Bucky to live, when Bucky probably couldn't imagine life without this agony eating him alive?
What he really wanted was to go back in time, to somehow prevent Hydra from ever getting their hands on him. "I'm sorry, Buck," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I can't... I wish there was some way I... I'm sorry..."
Bucky didn't seem to hear him. He was crying too hard.
Steve realized then that there was nothing he could say that would fix this. No number of apologies or reassurances would make this okay. It wouldn't bring the dead to life. It wouldn't make any of this easier for Bucky to bear. Steve was powerless. All he could do was hold Bucky close and pray that time would heal these wounds.
The first couple of days were the worst. Bucky slept through most of that time, and when he woke, he would do little more than cry or stare blankly into space. No matter what Steve did or said, Bucky hardly responded or even seemed to notice. He kept jerking awake with a gasp or a cry, and Steve didn't need to hear his groans or tearful apologies to guess what his nightmares consisted of.
There wasn't much Steve could do. He held Bucky, kissed him, stroked his hair, spoke softly to him...but nothing seemed to help. No matter how many times he whispered in Bucky's ear, "I'm sorry, it's going to be okay, I love you," it didn't seem to make any difference.
Bucky was drowning, and he wasn't even reaching for Steve's hand to rescue him.
A couple times, he'd tried to get Bucky to eat something, even just a piece of toast. Bucky would take a half-hearted bite or two, then push it away again. He also wasn't drinking enough. His lips were dry and cracked, his hair lank and greasy. There were dark shadows underneath his puffy eyes, and his cheeks were starting to look hollow.
On the morning of the third day, as Steve stood looking down at Bucky staring wearily at the wall, he realized this sight looked familiar. Over a year ago, he'd stood looking down at this same man—though he hadn't realized it at the time—and watched him tossing and turning in the grip of fever and hallucinations. He'd been helpless to make things better then as well. They'd simply had to wait as the drugs worked their way out of Winter's system.
Inspired by memories of that time, Steve quietly left the bedroom and fetched Bucky's washcloth from the bathroom. He ran it under hot water until the cloth was warm, then took it back into the dimly-lit bedroom.
When Steve touched the warm washcloth to Bucky's forehead, he started slightly, but only glanced up before returning to his scrutiny of the wall. Steve gently washed Bucky's face, neck, and his right hand, then took the washcloth back to the bathroom. On his way back, he grabbed a fresh T-shirt and sweat pants.
During Winter's withdrawal, he hadn't let them change his clothes. Bucky, on the other hand, offered no resistance as Steve sat him up and helped him change. He did little to help, but he followed Steve's instructions as he pulled on clean pants and a shirt that said, If You Love Me, Let Me Sleep.
As soon as he was clothed, Bucky lay back down and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow with a shaky sigh. Steve tossed his dirty clothes into the corner and patted Bucky on the back in what he hoped was a comforting way. He was about to head back to his side of the bed when he looked closer at the way Bucky held his arms tucked tightly against his sides.
When he pressed his hand more firmly against Bucky's back and rubbed it down his spine, he could feel how stiff those muscles were. Made sense. Bucky had hardly been out of bed at all in the past few days. With a resolute nod, Steve leaned over Bucky and began to gently rub his back and shoulders.
Steadily, Bucky relaxed under Steve's touch, slowly settling into a position that looked a little more comfortable. He grunted slightly when Steve found a particularly tender spot, but otherwise he might have been asleep. Steve kept going, hoping that maybe he would eventually drift off to sleep.
A sniffle broke the silence. Then a tiny, broken cry muffled in the pillow. "Sorry," Steve said, trying to rub more gently down the back of Bucky's neck. "Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?"
Bucky shook his head. "I just...I'm not...I don't think I'm worth all this, Steve."
"Well...I do."
A shudder ran through his shoulders. Steve could feel it under his fingertips. "What...What if you're wrong?"
"I'm not."
"But what if you are?"
"You're worth it to me," Steve said calmly, gently kneading the muscles around the metal shoulder. "So I get to decide."
Bucky raised his hands to his head, tangling his fingers in his disheveled hair. "I'm...I'm s-sorry. It's...It's just...he keeps telling me..."
Steve's heart lurched with a sudden rush of anger. Not at Bucky, but at the voice plaguing him at every turn. The anger was gone as soon as it had come, leaving only a heavy weight of sorrow behind. Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve let his hands fall still.
There was so little he could do. If it had been any ordinary bully, he could have ended this torment a long time ago. But he couldn't fight off these ghosts with his fists.
Heaving a sigh, Steve climbed into bed. He didn't bother crossing over to his side, just clambered over Bucky and collapsed, half on top of him. He draped his arms over Bucky's, grasping his hands, and gently rested his head against Bucky's. He hoped his weight pressing down on Bucky was soothing rather than uncomfortable.
"He doesn't love you like I do," Steve whispered into his ear. "So what does he know?"
Bucky made a sound that was half gasp, half sob. "You...You love me?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Definitely."
"Do you...blame me?"
"No."
"Do you...mind...that I keep asking?"
Steve turned his head just enough to kiss Bucky's cheek. "No. That just means I get to tell you again."
Bucky didn't know how many days it had been since he'd talked to Tony. Every time he started to wonder, or considered asking, he just wanted to curl up into a ball of shame.
Too long. That's all he needed to know. He didn't deserve to monopolize all of Steve's time like this, but he knew Steve wouldn't leave him alone until he started improving. Bucky didn't want to keep worrying Steve, but it was so hard to dredge up any kind of motivation at all. He didn't even have the energy to smile, let alone approximate any of his usual behavior.
But Steve was trying so hard, so he should too. Bucky couldn't find adequate words to thank Steve for doing something as simple as sitting next to him and running his hands through Bucky's hair without saying a word. The only way Bucky could thank him was to get better so Steve could stop worrying.
The first step he took was to try to eat more. He could tell how disappointed Steve was every time he sighed and pushed his food away uneaten, and he noted how happy Steve looked the first time he managed to make it all the way through a piece of toast. So he redoubled his efforts, eating everything the others brought him even if it took him an hour to do so.
Sam brought them a steady supply of warm meals as the days dragged on. Even as dejected as he still felt, Bucky had to admit that he started looking forward to the meals as a break in the dark monotony his life had become. Besides, sometimes Sam even got Steve to laugh a little bit. That was more than Bucky could say.
One morning, Sam brought in a steaming plate of bacon and eggs, with a large muffin taking center stage. "Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" he sang out as he entered the common room.
Bucky, who had wandered over to watch the sunrise, looked over his shoulder at Sam setting a place for him at the desk next to the window. It smelled amazing. He could see chocolate chips melting into the warm muffin in big, gooey splotches.
"Hey, Cap," Sam said as Steve stepped out of the bathroom. "Go and get you some before the others eat it all." Steve hesitated, but Sam waved him away. "Go, go! I'll keep Bucko company." Then he plopped into the nearest chair and propped his feet up on the desk.
Bucky found his lips twitching into something like a smile. "Way to kill my appetite," he mumbled, nudging Sam's socked feet half-heartedly.
This comment seemed to reassure Steve, or maybe he was just hungry and eager for a change of company. Either way, he left without protest. Bucky dug into the food, aware that Sam was watching him with a satisfied smile.
Once all the eggs were gone, Bucky sat breaking a strip of bacon into tiny, crispy crumbs. "What'd you tell everybody?" he asked, not raising his eyes from the plate. "About...why I..."
"I told them the truth."
Bucky looked up, his stomach churning uneasily.
Sam smiled, but his eyes looked sad. "I told them you weren't feeling well, and Steve's taking care of you for a bit. Everybody says they hope you get better soon."
Bucky nodded, staring down at the cooling muffin on the plate. Suddenly, he didn't have much of an appetite for it. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Slowly, Sam took his feet off the desk and sat up straight. "For what?"
Sorry for everything. Sorry you're always taking care of me. Sorry I'm such a bother. Instead of voicing any of these thoughts, he drew a deep breath and said, "I'm...not that hungry, actually."
"That's okay," Sam said with a shrug. "Just keep the muffin for a snack later."
Bucky nodded, but he couldn't meet Sam's eyes, so he nibbled on a bit of bacon instead.
He was relieved when Steve returned a few minutes later. As Sam gathered up the dishes to take back to the kitchen, Steve said, "You feel up to a shower, Buck? Or maybe a nice long soak in the tub?"
Bucky self-consciously ran a hand through his greasy, tangled hair. Steve had been regularly washing his face and making sure he changed clothes, but he probably didn't smell too great by now. He nodded, but when Steve turned to get the bathroom ready, he hastily said, "Steve?"
Steve turned, waiting patiently while Bucky struggled to find the right words.
"You can go," he said awkwardly. "You know...spend time with the others. I don't need you." He suddenly realized how that sounded. "No, I don't mean...I just...I'll...I'll be okay, so...so you don't have to..."
If Steve was hurt by Bucky's words, he didn't show it. "Are you sure?" was all he asked.
Bucky did his best to smile reassuringly and wipe that look of concern off Steve's face. "It's just a bath. I'll be fine."
"Well..." Steve said reluctantly, "I guess it would be good to get a little training in. Maybe just an hour or so. Then when I come back, maybe we could read a book or something?"
"Okay."
Bucky breathed a sigh of relief when he finally gathered up his things and was able to close the bathroom door behind himself. He knew he hadn't been doing a very good job of pretending to be okay, but in private he didn't even have to try.
Moving slowly and sluggishly, Bucky finally got through the motions of washing his hair and filling up the tub with warm water. He lay back, sinking down until his ears were submerged and all he could hear was a low thrum pressing against his eardrums. That, and the distant thump of his heartbeat. He closed his eyes, letting his hands drift in the water—right hand half-floating, left hand sinking to rest on his stomach. The metal was warm now, soaking up the heat of the water till he could almost believe it was made of flesh and blood still.
A feeling settled over him, one he was all too familiar with. It was...an emptiness. Like he wasn't really there, like there was a black hole right in the center of him, and nothing could fill it up. The sensations pinging against his nerves weren't real. The memories that fogged up the inside of his brain weren't real. He wasn't real.
Bones crunched between his fingers, a pulse beating a staccato rhythm against his fingers before stopping in a sudden burst as wide, desperate eyes—
Bucky surged to his feet, sending water splashing in all directions. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. Shaking, he sat back down in the water. He'd take that empty feeling of unreality over this any day.
Murderer...
Bucky pulled the stopper and scrambled out of the tub. His foot hit the puddle of water he'd splashed out, and the next moment he found himself sitting on the floor, his tailbone twinging with sudden pain.
Something was closing in on him. Danger. Had to hide. Danger. Needed a weapon. Danger. Pain. Danger!
A deep chuckle that he knew all too well echoed around the bathroom. Pathetic.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, the bottom dropping out of his stomach even as his heart galloped away. When he opened his eyes again, he found tendrils of shadow creeping slowly up the walls like a horrible mockery of vines.
The monster hadn't shown up yet, though. Bucky grabbed his towel and moved quickly to dry himself off and pull his clothes on. He hadn't paid attention to which shirt he'd grabbed earlier, but he saw now that it was the one with the design of Steve's shield on it. He felt a tiny bit safer with that design on his chest.
Safer? Please. It can't protect you from yourself, can it?
The monster was here now, in its worst form. He looked like Steve, but wrong—his eyes gleamed red, and his arms turned into black tentacles that reached greedily for him. How dare you? he sneered. How dare you smile? You don't deserve to be happy. You don't deserve any of their help. Not when he is hurting.
As the monster spoke, its face morphed into Tony's, the sneer turning into the look of fury Bucky had seen when he'd told Tony what he'd done. With a shudder, Bucky turned away, unable to meet those hateful red eyes.
Don't you dare look away from me! the monster screamed, slapping a tentacle against Bucky's cheek so hard that he reeled back and almost fell to the ground. You need to face what you've done! Admit that you ruined my life!
Bucky looked up into Tony's face, which became Howard's, broken and bloodied by his own fists. His eyes blurred with tears and he hung his head. "Yes. I did."
As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a hand pressed to the shield on his chest. A small, skinny hand that he traced with his eyes to a young boy, who stood to his right. Steve—well, Stephanos—looked up at him steadily, simply pressing his hand to the shield. To Bucky's heart. It's not your fault, Buck.
Bucky swallowed hard, trying to keep his gaze fixed on Stephanos even though shadows were creeping in on the edges of his vision. "I want to believe you," he whispered.
Stephanos smiled and took Bucky's hand in his. It felt so real, so thin and cold, just like Steve's used to. Then come with me. Let's get out of here.
You think it's going to be that easy? the monster howled behind them. Bucky reached for the doorknob, but a black tentacle wrapped around his wrist and held it back. You really think you can absolve your guilt just like that? Just waltz out and smile like nothing's wrong? Your soul is tainted, you filthy wretch!
Don't listen to Brad,Stephanos said calmly, as if it was actually that easy to ignore the screams that sliced into Bucky's mind like razors. He's just a big ol' bully. We don't need anything from him.
Bucky wasn't sure he believed that, but he managed to wrench his arm away long enough to open the bathroom door and stumble out. He glanced around the empty room. Of course Steve and Sam weren't back yet. But it was okay. All he needed to do was find a distraction of his own.
Black Beauty. He'd been reading that before...well, before New Year's. He could just immerse himself in the pages and forget about the rest of the world long enough for Steve to get back...
He hurried into his bedroom and made a beeline for his bedside table, but he couldn't outrun the monster's accusations. Filthy. Hated. Burden. You're a lost cause, Soldier. Nothing you do will ever make up for the lives you've ruined. Your guilt runs all the way down to your blood.
Blood, trickling down her face. Blood, pooling beneath his head. Blood on his knuckles. Blood pumping through his veins, sustaining a heart that was black and rotten to the core.
Your blood should be poured out on the ground. You should be bled dry, just like they were. You should be nothing but a red stain in the dirt.
A tentacle wrapped around Bucky's neck and forced his head to turn towards the corner. The corner with the gun safe. The gun safe where he also kept his knives.
You don't want to do that, Stephanos said softly. But it was so hard to hear over the screams for blood, and he couldn't even turn his head to the right to look at him.
The safe filled his vision. He took a step closer, then another, rounding the bed to approach it.
Yes...yes...it's the only way...
You don't have to do this... Just stop and think about it for a minute...
The clamor of the voices reverberated in his head, getting louder and louder the closer he got to the safe. Trying to be heard over one another. Pleading, screaming, begging...just like all the people he'd killed...
"Shut up," Bucky groaned, clutching his head in both hands. "Just...let me think..."
Stephanos fell silent as requested, but that only let the monster howl louder than ever. Every foul name that bounced around the inside of his skull hurt like shrapnel lodged deep in his bones. With a trembling hand, he opened the door of the safe. It wasn't locked. Steve had put his gun away, but he'd never told Steve where he kept the key.
His eyes latched onto the pistol, hanging in its place. Yes! screeched the monster. Blow your brains out! Right now! Finish the job!
No, said the voice in his other ear. You promised.
His eyes slid over to his collection of knives. Sharp, gleaming, beautiful. Already stained with the blood of innocents. Fit only for this purpose.
That's right. You are nothing but a bloody knife. The Asset. The Soldier. The weapon. So what if it's not your 'fault'? You're still the reason they're dead, you miserable, festering pile of trash.
The never-ending string of insults screamed into his ear, making his head pound. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted it to go away.
He reached out and grasped the handle of his favorite knife. It rested in his palm, the perfect size. So sharp it would cut through flesh like butter.
Yes, the monster murmured in his ear, gently closing his metal fingers around the handle. Relief is so close. Can't you taste it?
He almost thought he could. It was heavy and cold in his mouth like iron. Release from this awful pressure in his head. Pain, so familiar, like a tiny drop of atonement for the terrible things he'd done.
He held out his right arm, turned it over...and stopped.
His arm was covered with scars—some big, some small, some still red, others faded to white. Over the large veins in his wrist, it was hard to tell where one scar ended and the next began. And one long, thick scar cut through all the others, from elbow to wrist.
All of them by his own hand. Most with this very same knife.
A skinny child's hand closed around his wrist. I really wish you would stop doing this.
Why?
Because I don't believe for a second that you want to live like this.
Bucky looked down at Stephanos, who looked up at him with a determined set to his chin that Bucky easily recognized. It was a look Steve got sometimes, usually followed by some variation of, "you don't have to like it, but we both know I'm right."
Stephanos gently tugged on Bucky's arm, taking a step towards the door. Bucky turned to follow.
Not so fast! Bucky jerked to a stop and looked back. Tentacles coiled around his left arm in a tangle that left him unable to pull away.
No matter how much you try to deny it...you want this. As if of its own accord, the knife descended towards Bucky's wrist.
Stephanos' hand was still there. You'll have to go through me, he said, glaring up fearlessly at the hideous creature that loomed over them both.
Good, the monster snarled, grinning with too-sharp teeth as the knife drew closer and closer to that small, unprotected hand.
A sudden sound broke through the tense air: a door closing and Steve's voice calling, "Bucky?"
Bucky drew in a ragged breath, hope and relief warring with fear and shame in his heart. "Steve!" he called out desperately, his voice reduced to a breathless wheeze in his desperation. He stumbled towards the door, calling out Steve's name again.
When Steve stepped through the doorway, the blood drained from his face so quickly it looked for a moment like he was going to pass out. "Buck...?"
"T-T-Take it," Bucky stammered desperately, holding out his wrist with the knife pressed to it. "Please, please take it, take it away, I don't-don't w-want...take it, please..."
Steve stepped forward and gently pried the knife out of Bucky's hands. Bucky's knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor, breathing hard. He stared down at his scarred forearm, at the faint imprint where the edge of the knife had pressed against his skin.
No blood, though.
Trembling, Bucky peeked over his shoulder at Steve, who put the knife back in its place and closed the safe again. When he turned around, the pinched look of worry on his face made Bucky wish the earth would swallow him whole. Bucky hugged his arm close to his chest, where no one could see the scars he'd almost reopened.
Stupid. Stupid. How could he have done something like that? After everything he'd promised, after so many months of Steve's tireless help...after Steve had saved his life not once, but twice, when anyone else would have left him for dead long ago. And this was how he repaid him?
Warm arms wrapped around him, and Steve's head came to rest on Bucky's shoulder. He was trembling almost as hard as Bucky himself. "Thank God..."
Bucky thought back to the night when he'd made the largest scar on his arm. He hadn't been conscious when Steve found him, so he didn't know what Steve had done. What he'd thought or said when he found Winter passed out in a puddle of his own blood. But he remembered the awful, crushed look in Steve's eyes every time he saw a new cut. And Bucky had almost done it again.
"Sorry..." Bucky's arms were pinned to his sides, so he couldn't brush away his tears. He could only slump against Steve and feel terrible. "I...I wasn't going to...I wasn't...trying...I'm sorry..."
Steve's grip tightened. "No...I'm sorry for leaving you alone when you needed me. But thank you for being so strong, Buck. Thank you."
Strong? Bucky had never felt so weak.
Steve kissed him on the cheek before he could protest. "I'm proud of you, Buck. I'm so proud of you."
Bucky didn't understand, but he kept quiet and listened. Even though he was sure he didn't deserve it, he soaked up every affectionate word.
Bucky lay on the couch, watching Steve. He wasn't sleepy, but he couldn't seem to find enough energy even to sit up. Much easier to just lie here.
Steve sat on the floor, his back resting against the couch. Earlier, he'd been reading aloud from A Little Princess, which had been a favorite of theirs since childhood. Maybe A Little Princess was an odd choice for two young boys who usually went for adventure stories, but Bucky held many treasured memories of Miss Sarah reading from it when Steve was sick. He remembered her telling them about how she'd been the same age as Sara Crewe when she first read it, and he and Steve used to pretend that she was the Sara from the book. Bucky had spent hours at Steve's bedside, coming up with increasingly far-fetched ideas for how she had gone from an Indian princess to a nurse in Brooklyn. Usually, they'd involved a kidnapping, a shootout or two, and a certain Joseph Rogers swooping in to save the day.
For the past hour, Steve had been drawing in his sketchbook, positioned perfectly so Bucky could watch what he was doing. They'd hardly spoken in all that time, but Bucky didn't mind. He liked watching Steve draw. It was like magic—just a few strokes, and he somehow transformed paper and graphite into a picture that almost seemed ready to jump off the page.
Bucky leafed through the quick sketches Steve had been churning out and handing silently to him. Miss Sarah laughing, no doubt brought to mind by A Little Princess. Sam with his arm around his mother, both of them grinning identical smiles. Bucky, smiling so wide it looked like his whole face would split in two, his eyes closed and his nose scrunched up. Had he ever been that happy?
Steve had taken a bit more time with the last drawing he'd done, pausing every now and then to close his eyes and, presumably, bring to mind the memory he was putting on paper. Bucky gazed at the finished result with admiration and a little bit of disbelief. The drawing was of him, back when he was still wearing the mask. He sat on the tailgate of a pickup, surrounded on all sides by small children. A girl with pigtails leaned against him, sucking her thumb. A boy tugged on his pants leg, eyeing him curiously as if to see if there were more metal hiding under there. Other children were jumping around, hanging off him and obviously chattering excitedly. Their features were only vaguely sketched in, wispy like bits of cloud that had paused to play as they blew past. And in the middle of it all sat him. Winter. Steve had drawn his face carefully and distinctly, so the eyes were immediately drawn to him. Bucky could easily remember that day, when he'd pulled an entire kindergarten class from a burning building. But he didn't remember looking like...that.
His eyes looked so soft. How had Steve managed to do that? Half of his face was covered with the mask, and his metal arm glinted in the sunlight like the deadly weapon it was...yet his eyes made him look so gentle, like he wouldn't even dream of hurting a fly. He was looking at the innocent children he'd saved, with all the care of a sheepdog watching over his flock.
Bucky gave Steve a sidelong look. He'd pulled out his charcoal pencils, and was entirely focused on his next drawing. For a second, Bucky thought Steve was drawing a picture of himself from the back, since the figure in the drawing was holding the shield. But then he noticed that the figure's hair was long and dark. Steve was filling out the background of the picture with dark smudges of charcoal, giving just a hint of who the man with the shield was facing.
Black smears curled through the air, like snakes or...tentacles. Bucky blinked, realizing that two spots Steve had kept blank could be considered eyes, glaring from the heart of the darkness.
As Bucky stared at the drawing taking shape in Steve's hands, he slowly realized what it must be. This was the angle from which Steve had seen him, that night he'd killed Crossbones. Bucky remembered picking up the shield and standing in Crossbones' way, defending Steve while he lay wounded on the couch.
A picture of him smiling. Saving children. Protecting Steve.
"Okay, Steve," Bucky sighed, breaking the silence. "Are you trying to make a point with all these pictures?"
"Now, what on earth could you be talking about?" Steve said mildly, not looking up from his work. He was putting more detail on the metal arm, shading it in such a way that it seemed to sparkle in the light.
There Steve sat, bent over his sketchbook, a smudge of charcoal on his cheek. Here he was, just sitting with this murderer he called a friend, instead of the thousand better things he could be doing. The same hands that had fought him when he was the Winter Soldier, that had wiped away the blood and sweat and tears when he'd been at his lowest, now picked up that pencil and gently traced out his form. Coaxing beauty out of darkness.
"How do you do that?" Bucky breathed.
"Just practice, I guess," Steve said, carefully tracing the star on Bucky's shoulder.
"No...I mean...how do you...see all of that? How do you...see what I can't?"
Steve looked over at him at last, with a little smirk that hadn't changed a bit in seventy years. "I just know what to look for."
How could he look at that cheeky punk's face and not smile back, just a little? "Could you...teach me?"
Steve's smile warmed. "Sure. Lesson one? This is you." He picked up the picture of Bucky smiling and held it right in front of Bucky's face. "Lesson two? This is you." He held up the picture with all the children. "Lesson three..."
Bucky reached out and picked up the drawing Steve was working on, the one of him standing strong against his enemy. "This is me," he breathed.
"Now you're getting it," Steve said, his voice as soft as a caress.
"And what about all the other pictures?" Bucky asked, letting the paper drift gently to the floor with the others.
"What other pictures?"
In shame, Bucky focused on the pillow his head lay on. He picked at the tassel lying next to his cheek, just so he didn't have to look at Steve. "You know...the ones that...aren't so nice to look at. Like...when I was...the Winter Soldier and...you know. When are you going to draw those pictures?"
Silence fell for a few painful heartbeats in which Bucky stared fixedly at the tassel. Then Steve said thoughtfully, "Well...my pictures always turn out best when they're based on something I can see. Even if it's a memory rather than something that's right in front of me. So...that's why I can't draw those pictures."
He blinked, then looked up in surprise. "What...you mean..."
There was that little smile again, like he was waiting for Bucky to laugh at his corny joke. "When I look back at my memories, I can't see the Winter Soldier. I can only see you."
It sounded too good to be true. How could anyone, even Steve, be that willfully blind? How could he just...choose not to see the worst of him?
His gaze skittered back to the drawing on the floor, the picture of him standing strong against the shadows of his past. And then, the strangest thought of all occurred to him.
What if it's actually true?
Bucky leaned forward, careful not to crumple the drawings, and looped an arm around Steve's neck. "Have I ever told you that you're the best friend in the whole entire world?"
Steve chuckled, patting his arm. They stayed that way for a while—Bucky loosely hugging Steve, who kept his warm hands on Bucky's arm. Again, neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to.
Several minutes passed. "Steve?" he whispered. "You know that I love you, right?"
Steve gently squeezed his arm and rested their heads against each other. "Yeah. I definitely know that."
"Good. So...at least there's one thing I can do right?"
"Oh, there's definitely more than one," Steve said. "You just need to remind yourself of that. And remind yourself of one more thing: I love you too."
Bucky smiled. "How can I forget when you keep reminding me?"
I will be glad and rejoice in your love,
for you saw my affliction
and knew the anguish of my soul.
- Psalm 31:7
Author's Note: Lots of callbacks to MMW in this one. I didn't even plan that, but noticed it when I made my final pass through the chapter. Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far!
