Chapter 10: To Hang Himself
The murals in Tony's place really are something to look at. Especially when the place is empty and the only other person around is a guy giving a lecture about responsibility and attitude and a whole bunch of other things Bucky couldn't care less about.
"Honestly, at this point, I'm starting to wonder if you even want to keep this job."
Bucky stiffens and drags his eyes from the wall to Tony.
Tony starts tallying up strikes on his fingers. "Show up late, leave early, take unannounced breaks, mix up orders, be rude to customers who don't deserve it, be rude to coworkers who definitely don't deserve it, and antagonize our resident artist—if I was any kind of fair umpire, you'd be long gone from my batter's box."
"You don't even play baseball," Bucky points out, and it flies about as well as one of Tony's pitches probably would.
"And you, my friend, are this close to not even bartending. I'm only saying this because Pepper's too busy, and because I'm the one who hired you. If this was her show, you'd already be out the door."
Bucky's face burns. He's fucked up, he's been fucking up, he knows that, but—but he hasn't been trying to fuck up. "It won't happen again."
"See, you say that, but missing in those four words is a reason to believe them. What's the next thing that'll gunk up your gears, hm? I need people working here I can trust. We've got a good community and good communities take work to maintain. If you're not willing to put in that work, I need to find someone who is."
The burn gets hotter. Bucky knows his face is red now. If Steve were here, he'd have already made a comment about it, or at least shot Bucky a knowing look. Ten-year-old Steve, anyway. This new Steve…God only knows. Bucky can't read him at all; it's like every signal is inverted and everything Bucky thinks is right is wrong and everything he knows is wrong is still wrong. Wrong-wrong, lose-lose. Every conversation a song whose meter he can't grasp.
Tony crosses his arms and sighs. "Look. When you're here, I mean here here, you're great. Attentive, quick, and by all accounts almost as charismatic as me. Having a bartender who can be a pinch drummer doesn't hurt either. That's just not enough to balance out the headaches you've caused. I'll give you a week to sort it out. No shifts. I don't care what you do," he pauses meaningfully, "or who you do it with, but use that time to get your head on straight and I'll welcome you back with open arms."
He gets back to his place at around noon and decides to go for a run. Not because he needs to—he already worked out that morning, and normally he only runs on days he doesn't work out—but because if he sits in his apartment he's going to drive himself nuts. He'd play the drums, but he'd learned the hard way that trying to exhaust himself like that after an upper body workout day is a recipe for agony in his left side.
So, running. He swaps into running clothes, including a long-sleeve sweat-wicking shirt and thin glove for his left hand, and heads out the door, dead set on using exhaustion to suffocate all the frustration that's been swirling in his head nonstop since Tony unceremoniously kicked him out of his job.
He can say it's temporary. He can say he's giving Bucky time to breathe. But Bucky knows the truth: Tony's just giving himself plausible deniability for when he fires one of Steve's old friends. Look, he'll say, I gave the guy a chance, didn't I?
Snarling, Bucky pushes himself harder, feet pounding the sidewalk while he dodges the odd pedestrian. Clearly he's not running fast enough if his brain's still got room to think of that bullshit.
A little over two miles into his run and he's breathing hard, his lungs are burning, and he's deviated so far from his normal course in an effort to challenge himself that he's pretty sure he just spent the last eight minutes running in one convoluted circle. Grids and intersections, this shouldn't be so hard. So focused on trying to read the street sign ahead, he barely dodges another pedestrian, this one taking up most of the sidewalk with all his grocery bags. This city is a goddamn obstacle course when it wants to be.
He reaches the light and slows to a stop. As he does, he wrangles his breathing into something measured and controlled. He's got—he glances to his left at the other crossing to check the timer—twenty seconds before the light's going to change. Traffic's too heavy to jaywalk, too. Wonderful.
If he's going to be stopped this long, might as well start cooling down. He knows where he is, now, and though it's a long walk back to his place, it'll be perfect for keeping his thoughts nice and slow and tired.
He does some light stretching while he waits, and once again nearly knocks into the groceries guy. "Hey, watch—"
His voice dies. Groceries guy is Steve. Steve is staring at him.
"Never mind," Bucky mumbles, facing the street again. When the light changes, they cross, and then they keep walking in the same direction. Bucky's face is on fire and he hopes anyone looking can chalk it up to exercise. Did Tony already call Steve? Does Steve know? And how badly does the world hate Bucky for this random running route to take him on Steve's goddamn grocery route?
This is awful. Horrific. He should run awa—run. He should just run, it wouldn't hurt to do another mile.
Or, it would, because his legs feel like they'd rather fall off than do more running, but no pain no gain, right? So what if he's already started his cooldown? So what if it would look absolutely pathetic?
That's when he hears it: a slight tearing of paper. He glances behind him. Steve's got three reusable bags, but—probably because he got a little more than he was expecting to—one paper bag. He's also got wired earbuds in, meaning he probably doesn't hear the impending disaster.
Bucky might be a jerk sometimes, but he's not an asshole.
"Hey," he says, and Steve glances at him. "I think your bag is—"
With one final papery protest, one of the handles rips off the bag. The second, unable to take all of the weight that's suddenly transferred to it at a far more extreme angle than it's built for, follows suit immediately. Steve doesn't stand a chance; his groceries go tumbling across the sidewalk and he very nearly swings another bag straight into the concrete in his effort to try to save them.
Bucky stops a rolling can with his foot, then bends down to pick it up and the two others nearby. Between him and the other person who stops to help, they get Steve's groceries collected in short order. All the things in the paper bag had been packaged and relatively robust; the greatest damage was to a cereal box, and that was just dented. Good on Steve for being smart enough to put the more delicate things in the sturdier bags.
"Thanks," Steve says when they've got the back re-packed. The stranger takes his leave. Bucky hangs back. Steve's got three other bags; with the last now devoid of handles, he'll have to carry that one in his arms. Strong as he might be now, there's an instinct in Bucky that demands he not let Steve do that to himself.
So, even though he knows the smart thing would be to make his exit just like the other guy, he finds himself picking up the paper bag and tucking it against his body, held in place by his left arm.
"You don't need to do that."
"I know."
After another few seconds of tense silence, Steve sighs and starts walking again. "This way."
As if Bucky had any reason to expect Steve to start moving in a different direction than the one he'd been going. For a block, the silence between them is about as awkward and tense as it's ever been. Finally, Bucky can't take it anymore.
"Gettin' colder," he notes.
Steve's eyes flick toward him for a second. "Yeah."
"You still walk when it's winter?"
"Yeah. I dress warmer."
Work with me, pal, Bucky thinks to himself. He spies a familiar corner store and offers aloud, "Hey, that's McDunn's. Didn't realize they were still in business. Remember when I accidentally shoplifted from there?"
"I remember you proudly showing me the candy bar and bragging about how you did it on purpose. And I remember telling you to put it back."
"Weird, because I remember you eating half of it."
Steve's lips twitch toward a smile. "Maybe I did."
Buoyed by Steve's reciprocity, Bucky manages to keep the conversation going for the next couple of blocks. He's careful, though, sticking to light and easy topics. He learns that Steve's planning on making pierogies for dinner and that the dented Cinnamon Toast Crunch is for Tony. In return he shares that his place's stove only has one working burner and the handle came off his go-to skillet the other day.
At the next light, Bucky shifts the bag in his arms. "I'm guessing you're continuing on this way?"
"A couple more blocks. You're already pretty far out of your way, aren't you?"
"I went off-route for my run."
Steve adjusts his bags, the handles of which have gotta be cutting off circulation at this point, and gestures for the one Bucky's carrying. "I can carry it from here."
Bucky hesitates. "You sure?"
"Yes, Buck, I'm sure."
It's not just memories of small and frail Steve making Bucky reticent to hand over the groceries that aren't his. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to let the first amicable conversation they've had in over a week end so abruptly. Plus,Tony's words are on his mind, now lacking the caustic edge since his mind is too tired to paint that on. So he shifts the bag.
"It's just a couple more blocks, I can go a little more out of my way."
Now it's Steve's turn to ask: "You sure?"
"Yeah, Steve, I'm sure."
The light turns and they start walking. Tony's words keep playing in Bucky's head. He's not trying to antagonize the resident artist, it just keeps happening. Maybe that's a little on Bucky; he's the one trying to stick to lighter topics, deflecting Steve's questions about what he's been doing for the last near-decade, and not prying too deeply into Steve's life in return. If he wants that friendship back, he can't just keep skimming the surface. He's gotta dive deeper.
After mulling it over for another block, he decides on a question that he's pretty sure toes the line of safe after the way Steve blew up on him about not talking to his family. Bucky'll ask, Steve'll answer, and then Bucky will say he's really planning to talk to his family soon, because he…is. Soon. Ish. Probably. It's not a complete lie if the intent is there, right?
He clears his throat while they're waiting at the next crossing. "How's your mom?"
Steve sucks in a sharp breath and he glances at Bucky in raw disbelief that has Bucky's stomach dropping to somewhere in his boots. He knows what Steve's going to say before he says it, he knows, and he wants to yank his own words from where they hang in the air and choke them out of existence.
But it's too late.
"She passed away," Steve says, "seven years ago."
Even expected, those words land so heavily that they knock the ground right out from under Bucky's feet, and his stomach goes with it. Unbalanced, a little nauseous, a little desperate to believe this is some kind of sick joke, he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. It's not a joke, he can see that much in Steve's face. Steve's Mom. Mrs. Rogers. Sarah. Dead. Seven years ago.
The paper bag crinkles and he shifts his grip before he crushes it by accident.
Sarah Rogers, who made the best apple pie this side of anywhere, who patched Bucky and Steve up every time they got into trouble and only chided them after the bandages were applied, who once taught Bucky how to sew so he could mend his favorite shirt, and who was the undisputed origin of Steve's sunrise smile.
Sarah Rogers, dead.
Seven years. Steve was only eighteen.
"I'm sorry," he says, inadequately. "I'm so sorry, Steve, she was—"
"She was," Steve cuts in, eyes like ice and voice just as cold, and Bucky fumbles to a stop. Steve gestures for the bag in Bucky's grip and Bucky, struck dumb, hands it over mindlessly. "I have a commission I need to finish tonight. I'll see you around."
Not see you later or see you tomorrow, but see you around. Like Bucky's just some guy in the neighborhood Steve might stumble across in some unhappy coincidence. Like a stranger that picks up his groceries and then walks away without a word. Maybe that would be better. Maybe being just some guy would've stopped him from plunging a knife into Steve's chest and twisting.
By the time he thinks to say his own goodbye, maybe try to salvage his fuck up, Steve is gone and there's a street's worth of traffic between them.
Nausea swirls in his stomach and mixes with disbelief that'll turn into shame the second he can properly understand the magnitude of what just happened. What happened eight years ago. What's been happening ever since.
Sarah Rogers, dead. Steve Rogers, orphaned. Bucky Barnes, oblivious.
His stomach shoots for his throat and he stumbles in the direction of his apartment, hoping he can make it there before he throws up or, with the way his life is going, God sees fit to smite him right here on this miserable stretch of sidewalk.
The one unopened box he refused to unpack mocks him from its dusty place under the bed when he shoulders his apartment door open. That box mocks him when he kicks the door closed and locks it, it mocks him when he dumps his groceries on the counter, and it mocks him when he tosses his keys in the direction of the bowl by the door. Not bothering to take off his shoes, Bucky crosses the floor to his bed and pulls out the damn thing, realizing too late he should've hung onto his keys to cut the tape.
He damn near slices through his fingers after he finds a pair of scissors and his left arm will not shut up, its tiny servos and gears whirring as though that's at all fucking helpful right now.
Open, the box greets him with a disorganized pile of envelopes. Each one is stamped over the postage with the date—not anything he did, but the action of some Hydra secretary tasked with sorting through mail to the band members.
Seven years ago.
He flips through the envelopes, tossing away the ones that are too recent or too old until he finds the right year. At that point, he focuses just on the ones from Steve. There are only two: the first is just a happy birthday letter. Steve heard his old phone broke and he doesn't have any of the apps they were using to talk anymore, so he's also asking for new contact info. Or just for Bucky to write back. Anything, really.
Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Bucky sets that letter aside.
The second letter, though. The second. It's dated a few months later.
Dear Bucky,
I hope you get this. I don't know if you've gotten anything else I've written after my texts stopped going through. If you've written back, I haven't gotten any of those. I hope you're well and that you're learning all kinds of grooves and fills to keep your neighbors up at night now that I'm too far away to steal your sticks before I go to bed.
My mom passed away yesterday. In case you didn't see my earlier letter, she caught an infection from a patient she was treating and there was nothing anyone could do. She was gone within a month. All I could do was watch. I wish you'd been there because you deserved a chance to say goodbye. I know there's no forgiving me for it, but I'm sorry I couldn't find a way to get in touch before she passed.
Please write back if you can. You're probably busy and I don't mean to bother, but I miss you.
Your best pal,
Steve
There are several lines improperly erased and crossed out after that last "I miss you," and if Bucky holds up the letter to the light and squints, he can make out the fragments: "It's so lonely quiet empty without I really miss."
His eyes are burning, his throat is burning, and his lungs are burning. It's all he can do not to crumple the paper.
"You don't mean to bother," he repeats in disbelief, his voice catching. Steve's mom is dead and he doesn't mean to bother. His mom is dead and he's writing a letter to the guy who can come closest to sharing his grief because that fucking guy never gave him another way to get in touch and he doesn't mean to bother.
And he didn't. Bother, that is. Because Bucky never saw it. Never wrote back. Just buried his head in the sand while Steve dealt with his grief alone.
Bucky sits back, trying to breathe, his ankles complaining with a painful ache at being stretched so far. He doesn't adjust; pain is what he deserves. The paper crinkles in his hands. The date stares at him. The words, though. The words don't need to do anything except exist. They're all the sentencing he needs.
He bows his head, eyes and throat burning, shame and grief twisting twin screws through his heart.
"Barnes, you idiot," he whispers as tears hit the page. "You selfish asshole. You…you fucking moron."
He keeps going, dragging out insults and truth and sharpening the dagger of the latter with the former until he's repeating himself, but it's fine, he deserves it, so he goes ahead and repeats himself. He says all the things Steve is too nice to say but need to be said.
No other letters in the box from that period that he can bring himself to read pack the same punch—except the one from his own mother, begging him to write to Steve, to help him out of "the dark place he's in," and that drags a sob out of Bucky because he wasn't there.
Even the ones without those gut punches are still nails in his coffin. Each one is one more thing he ignored because he thought he could, or—not even that. One more thing he didn't even think about, didn't even think about thinking about. He left and let the world slip out of his hands because he stupidly thought that world would stand still until he figured his shit out and he could waltz back in right on beat. But the song kept playing, the song changed, and now the whole performance is tumbling out of sync.
By the time the last letter of that year flutters out of his fingers and comes to rest on the floor, he's got a headache so severe his whole skull throbs with his heartbeat, a dozen paper cuts on his fingers, and drying tears and snot making his face itch. The paper trail of his failure rests around him in a haphazard circle amid the corpses of its envelopes.
The sun isn't coming through the window anymore. A bleary glance over his shoulder at the microwave clock tells him it's past eight. Paltry hours he's spent going through all these letters. A handful of hours for a year of incomparable grief. That's not fair. Everyone else had to live it, but he just gets to breeze through the highs and lows? A handful of hours when there were three weeks between Steve's last letter and his mother's desperate plea for him to write?
February. That year, he was…he would've been performing in some small venues around Moscow. Trying out Hydra's sound, building up confidence with his new arm. Back then, he'd been learning to enjoy playing again. He'd been pretty sure he could—enjoy playing, that is. He'd been putting his new life back together while Steve's was falling apart, and other than a stray guilty thought, he hadn't thought about his friend at all.
He sits there in the salt circle of his failures and wonders when he became someone he hates. The day he heard about the music program and seriously considered it instead of immediately saying hell no, I'm not leaving my friend? The day he agreed to leave? The day he left? The day he saw a text from Steve and didn't text back, the day he saw a call and a voicemail and didn't even listen to the latter, the day—
The day he got a new one and never redownloaded any of his apps?
The day he decided not to tell Steve his new number?
The day he told the program to redirect all his mail so he never had to look at it?
Or the day he came crawling back to Brooklyn like he could find the kid he used to be and ask him who he's supposed to be now?
Well, that kid's not here. He left. Bucky's here and alone and so filled up with hatred and anger that he can't sit still anymore. He starts trying to gather the letters only to see the blood on his hand and abandons that task for the sink, his overstretched ankles on fire for the first several limping steps. He hisses through his teeth when the soapy water works into the cuts, the pain fanning the flames in his head until he's pacing the cramped length of his apartment trying to work it off. He should go outside, go to the gym, go for a run, do something.
His eyes land on the drum set. Isn't that what he always does when he gets this feeling? Sit on that stool with those sticks and whale on the kit until his anger turns into something worth listening to? That's what he's good for, after all. Put a mask on him, put him by some drums, and call that generosity.
His sticks are too light in his hands. The drums he's played on a thousand times don't sound right; he tries tuning them and the sound gets worse. Every groove he tries falls apart after a few measures and he can't hold a beat. He goes to hit a cymbal and fucking misses like he hasn't since he first started playing,since the accident, since he was a goddamnamateur. The stick hits empty air and the rest of the groove screeches to a discordant halt while he stares at that stick. All at once the buzzing in his ears is deafening and his muscles are bands pulled taut that need to snap.
He hurls his drumsticks with a shout. They smack into the far wall and clatter to the floor, rolling under the couch because of fucking course they do. He doesn't bother trying to fish them out; this whole night is a wash. If he goes out he's as likely to burn off his energy as he is to get hit by another car.
Maybe that's what he deserves.
He shakes his head like a dog and strips out of his clothes with enough force that he rips the seam of his t-shirt. He snarls at it and tosses it aside, then hits the lights and throws himself into his bed in a way that makes the frame creak ominously. Ignoring that, he drags the covers over himself and curls up under them. Between the comforter and his own closed eyes, he can find truly suffocating darkness.
He sleeps and dreams of Sarah Rogers dying in a car accident.