I never could've seen this far
I never could've seen this coming
It seems like my world's falling apart
Why is everything so hard?
I don't think that I can deal with the things you said
It just won't go away

In a perfect world
This could never happen
In a perfect world
You'd still be here
And it makes no sense
I could just pick up the pieces
But to you
This means nothing
Nothing at all

- "Perfect World" by Simple Plan

Snake was yelling again. Something about how awful the food was, combined with accusations that the warden was pocketing everyone's tax dollars and treating the inmates like animals. He did it every time one of the guards walked past in the hallway—not that it did any good.

That wasn't his real name, of course. It was just what everyone called him, because he had an enormous tattoo of a snake that coiled up one of his arms, twisted around his chest, and then curled around his neck, ending in the snake's head on his right cheek. He had a grating voice, like someone had punched him in the throat and he'd never quite recovered.

Snake had been Bucky's cellmate after Korey left. Apparently, he was something of a regular at Rikers. From what Bucky had gathered, Snake had been pod boss in another cell block the last time he'd been through, so he hadn't been too pleased to discover that Brad ruled the roost here. Finally, he'd taken out his frustration on one of the guards, and he'd ended up here in the bing two days before Bucky—

You're trying to ignore me, a voice much more intimidating than Snake's whispered in Bucky's ear. Don't you know by now that's not going to work?

Bucky lay in his uncomfortable bunk, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Outwardly, he was just lying there listlessly like he did for hours at a time every day. But inside, he was scrambling to fill his mind with more thoughts about Snake. What was he doing? Was he throwing something at the guard? How was that going to help anything? And now the guard was shouting too...

Do you really think you'll be able to distract yourself with the likes of him? The monster edged into his vision, its slimy black body seeming to grow taller, looming over him and grinning widely with too many teeth. Aren't you just running away from what you should really be thinking about?

Bucky closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to keep looking at the monster at the edge of his vision. That turned out to be a mistake. Without even a boring ceiling to look at, all he could see was Brad sprawled on the ground before him, blood trailing from a broken nose...

With a shudder, Bucky opened his eyes again and rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Every moment of his latest encounter with Brad filled his heart with blistering shame. And anger. He was still furious with Brad for reading his letters, mocking and defiling the one way he could still demonstrate his love for Mabel. When he remembered Brad reading the words he'd written when he was at his most vulnerable...Bucky wanted to hit him again.

You're nothing but a bully, just like him.

Stephanos finally spoke up. That's a lie. You're nothing like him.

Oh, my mistake, the monster chuckled, unperturbed. That's right—you're actually worse than Brad, aren't you? You're even more dangerous. More...reprehensible.

You briefly lost control when Brad provoked you. That doesn't make you a terrible person.

But you know what does make you a terrible person? It's not just Brad you've hurt. You know who else you've hurt—viciously, deliberately?

"Shut up," Bucky whispered, trembling fingers tangling in his hair as he gripped his head. With only one hand, he couldn't even cover his ears—not like that would actually help, when the voice echoed around the inside of his skull.

Hurting someone doesn't make you a bully, Stephanos said, his calm steadiness grating almost as much as the monster's mocking laughter. Steve hurt you too. But you don't think of him as a bully, do you?

Maybe not, the monster conceded, but did you see the look in his eyes when he left? You hurt him—so much that he couldn't even stand to be around you anymore. He came to you for help, but all you did was kick him while he was down. Whatever you want to call it, that's not what a friend does.

All you have to do is apologize, Stephanos said reasonably. As soon as you get out of here, call him up and ask his forgiveness. Both of you spoke without thinking in the heat of the moment, but you can always start over again. You know you can. He's taught you that much, hasn't he?

Bucky pried his eyes open, peeking at his forearm an inch from his nose. Scar upon scar upon scar, each one a testament to a time when he was ready to give up, but Steve encouraged him to try again. His heart rose a little, just as it always did every time he thought of how tirelessly Steve had led him through the darkness, promising that all he had to do was take one more step, and he would finally begin to see the light...

I didn't do enough for you?

No.

Bucky's heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach, burning with shame. Ever since they'd first been reunited, Steve had selflessly sacrificed everything for him, never asking for anything in return...and Bucky had thrown it all back in his face. He had to be the most ungrateful person on the face of the earth.

But you weren't wrong, were you? Steve does everything he can for you...but it's never been enough. After all, I'm still here. The monster laughed triumphantly, its voice making Bucky's head throb. And the longer you're stuck in here, the less he even tries.

That's not true at all, Stephanos retorted. There isn't a whole lot he can do when you're separated like this, but he still does as much as he—

'All quiet on the Western front?'

The monster's mocking sing-song cut deeper than Bucky liked to admit. Steve hadn't asked him that question in what felt like forever. And that shouldn't matter...but it did.

Because it is all quiet. The monster's foul breath seemed to wash over Bucky's face, like it was whispering right into his ear. But just because you can't hear the shells screaming doesn't mean the war has stopped. And no one can save you from a stray bullet when you lift your head even a single foot above the trenches. Steve knows that. He knows just asking that question is useless—just like everything else he's tried. I guess he's finally given up.

Bucky shuddered, wishing he dared look over his shoulder to find where Stephanos had got to. But at the moment, he didn't think he could stand to see the monster bending over him, so he just squeezed his eyes shut tight.

A hand, insubstantial but still warm, touched his cheek. It wasn't physical, so it couldn't brush his shaggy hair out of his face, but Bucky could almost imagine it doing so. Stephanos didn't say anything, but out of nowhere, Bucky remembered the first time Steve had used that question in that context. And he remembered the conversation they'd had the next morning, after Bucky had stopped crying at the drop of a hat every time he remembered that he'd been the one to kill the Starks.

"All quiet on the Western front?" Steve asked gently. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, and Steve sat cross-legged behind him, massaging his shoulders.

"You 'member that book?" Bucky mumbled, staring wearily at the wall in front of him. Neither of them had slept much the night before.

"Of course. Mom didn't want me to read it. Said I wasn't old enough for it yet. I was...twelve, I think."

"Yeah," Bucky said wearily, "'cause I was thirteen. I wanted to know what my dad went through...but he never liked talking about the war. So we read it together."

"I think that was the only time my mom hid a book from me, except for birthday presents. But we always found her hiding places."

They were silent for a minute or so, dwelling on what felt like ancient memories. Finally, Bucky murmured, "I didn't really get it back then. All that stuff about how soldiers don't know what to do in peacetime. You learn how to kill...and you can never go back. Death is all you know. So you just keep killing and killing...until you die."

Steve's hands didn't falter, still moving carefully over Bucky's neck and right shoulder. "I don't believe that."

"Why not?" Bucky's hands curled into fists on his thighs. "I'm living proof."

Now Steve's hands did stop their soothing movements—but only long enough for him to scoot forward and wrap his arms around Bucky from behind. Resting his cheek against Bucky's metal shoulder, he said softly, "You may have been through a war, Buck...a war that wasn't anything you thought it would be. But you're not the soldier who's going to die in the trenches. You're going to survive. You're going to live on—just like your father did."

Some dim spark awakened in the inert lump in his chest that had once been a heart. But he shied away from it, because a monster like him didn't deserve to feel anything. "So how come you keep asking if all's quiet on the Western front? Doesn't matter if it is or not. You can tell yourself you're going to make it out as many times as you like. But you can't stop a stray bullet, no matter how quiet it is."

"I'd still like to know," Steve whispered, his arms tightening almost painfully around Bucky's chest. "When the shells are screaming, I know you need reinforcements. But...I just want to check. Even when the coast seems clear. Because if you're fighting for your life, I want to help. If all I can do is join you in your foxhole, that's what I'm going to do."

At last, Bucky relaxed, leaning back in Steve's embrace. Heart too full to speak, he just nudged his head against Steve's, but he knew Steve understood anyway.

"So?" Steve asked, his voice little more than a rumble in his chest. "All quiet on the Western front?"

Bucky swallowed with difficulty and managed to choke out, "F-For now."

With his eyes closed, Bucky could almost imagine he was still in bed at Sam's house. Maybe he'd gone back to sleep, and Steve lay at his back, or sat keeping watch... But no. He was lying in his hard cot in the bing, far away from the warmth of Steve's embrace.

And he desperately needed reinforcements now. But Steve wasn't even asking anymore. He'd left the battlefield. Just cut his losses and retreated, leaving Bucky behind. And he couldn't exactly blame Steve for it, knowing he had so many other hard battles to fight.

But...he was so alone.

Visiting Jake at A New Hope was one of the most disheartening things Steve had ever had to do. It would have been difficult enough if he'd gone there and found Jake contentedly playing with other children, or talking cheerfully with his caretakers. That would have been a hard blow, to see him improving by leaps and bounds as soon as he left Steve's care. But at least then he would have known that he'd made the right decision.

Reality was a much harder pill to swallow. The first day he went to visit Jake, he found his son sitting stiffly in a corner of the playroom, watching every movement of every person in the room with as much intensity as ever, as if he were convinced someone was about to jump him from behind at any moment. Steve sat with him and tried to engage him in conversation, but Jake didn't say anything other than yes, sir and no, sir.

Even when Steve tried to coax him into coloring a picture with him or putting a puzzle together, Jake hardly seemed able to focus on the task in front of him. Any time one of the other kids in the room made a sound or movement, Jake's gaze would snap over to them. He was as skittish as he'd been in the beginning, as if all the ground they'd covered in the past seven months had been lost overnight. And then when visiting hours came to an end (far too soon for Steve's taste), Jake barely even seemed to acknowledge Steve's sad farewell.

After a few days of this, the director of A New Hope, a woman named Yolanda, with a bright smile and close-cropped grey hair, pulled Steve aside when he came in. She let him know that they'd found the perfect therapist to work one-on-one with Jake. He was a world-famous child psychologist from Switzerland, a Dr. Broussard, just a lovely man who'd done phenomenal work with child soldiers in Somalia and Sudan, the best of the best, and he'd graciously agreed to come and see what he could do for Jake, and she knew that Steve would just love him when he arrived...

Steve wasn't quite as enthusiastic as Yolanda when he met Dr. Broussard a few days later, but he had no real grounds for complaint either. The doctor was a middle-aged man with a trim beard, a light accent, and a pleasant smile. Jake glanced timidly up at Dr. Broussard every few seconds while the three of them sat together and chatted in the playroom—but then, that was how Jake responded to everyone these days. The other children Dr. Broussard interacted with seemed comfortable enough around him.

Dr. Broussard walked Steve to his car that day, explaining briefly how he was planning to establish trust with Jake until he felt comfortable enough to start opening up. Privately, Steve doubted it would go as smoothly as the optimistic doctor seemed to think, but he decided it was best not to say that. He wasn't a psychologist, after all. Maybe there was some secret to it that he just didn't know.

When Steve expressed his concerns that Jake seemed worse than he'd been at home, Dr. Broussard smiled and said, "I'm afraid you'll have to be patient, Steve. This is a big transition for both of you, and it's going to take time before we start to see any kind of results. Patience, Steve. Change will come in time. I can promise you that."

Patience. Normally, that was something that came relatively easily to Steve. But how could he just wait patiently when he was living through his worst nightmare?

If only Jake were still at home, breaking furniture and following his directions like a little soldier instead of a son. If only he could still visit Bucky a few times a week and have awkward conversations that made his chest ache for the rest of the day. But now Jake lived miles away and seemed terrified of everything that moved, and Bucky was back in isolation for getting into a fight after their argument.

Steve hadn't realized how good he had it until everything had been stripped away. Before, every day had been filled with an overwhelming amount of stress and problems he had no idea how to solve. Now, his days were so...empty. He couldn't visit Bucky or talk to him on the phone. He didn't have a little boy to take care of anymore. A few hours of every day were eaten up by the long drive to and from New Hope, and the time he spent with Jake there. But even so, he had far too much time on his hands, and so little motivation to fill it up again.

What use could he possibly be to anyone now? Every time he thought he'd known what his purpose in the world was, it had been ripped away from him. For years, he'd thought his purpose was to be Captain America and save lives. But that title had been taken from him. Once he'd met Winter, he'd decided that his purpose was to help this man heal and take charge of his own life, a conviction that seemed only more natural than ever once he'd discovered it was actually Bucky behind the mask. But now Bucky was in prison, far out of Steve's reach for the time being—if he hadn't completely shattered their friendship after everything he'd said. And when Steve had learned of Jake's existence, he'd naturally assumed that the rest of his life would be devoted to raising his son and watching him grow into a young man. But now, he'd even been denied the role of father.

He didn't know who he was anymore. He hadn't felt so lost and out of place since the early days after waking up from the ice. Every day, he was filled with the same dread of sitting in a lonely apartment by himself, but every time he set foot outside, he wanted to scream at the crowds of happy people going about their normal lives in a world that felt completely alien to him.

Knowing the dark despair lurking at the end of that road, Steve forced himself to fill his days with tasks. He started a deep clean of his apartment, not that it really needed it yet. He went farther and farther in search of grocery stores and bodegas to shop at, even if that meant walking for a mile with heavy shopping bags weighing his arms down. He finally got around to scheduling an appointment to get a vasectomy. He went on many, many long walks and runs. He brought his sketchbook to various cafes and parks and drew the people and places he saw, trying to lose himself in the familiar motions.

Sam did more than his part, as always. Steve was sure that he wouldn't have survived a week without Sam there to ground him. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when Steve wanted someone to help him fill the silence, and when he needed to be alone. At least half of the time, it seemed, Sam would show up on his doorstep in the evening, either bringing food with him or heading directly into the kitchen to start cooking whether Steve liked it or not. Sometimes they would run errands together, and sooner or later Sam would inevitably manage to coax a smile or a laugh out of him.

But the most important thing Sam did for him was to get him connected to a therapist he knew who was accepting new clients. About a week had passed since Steve's life had completely collapsed when he made his way to the office of Dr. Casey Underdahl, which was just a block away from the VA where Sam worked.

Steve wasn't sure exactly what to expect. The receptionist at the front desk led him down the hall to Dr. Underdahl's office, but it seemed the doctor wasn't in just yet, so he had to wait a few minutes. The office was tastefully furnished, with comfortable leather chairs, a large desk with a computer on it, and several bookcases filled with thick, scholarly-looking tomes.

Just to give himself something to do, Steve wandered over to a sideboard where a number of framed photographs were displayed. There was a family portrait of, presumably, Dr. Underdahl, his wife, and their son and daughter, who seemed to be somewhere around ten or twelve years old. A wedding picture, with him beaming down at his wife, whose dark brown hair had been twined with small white roses. A formal photo of him in full dress uniform—it seemed he was a major. And then there was a photo of him and Sam grinning on either side of a man who looked shockingly familiar...

"Riley?"

"Oh, did Sam not explain who I was?" said a voice behind him. Steve turned around to find Dr. Underdahl himself standing in the doorway. Now that he knew what to look for, Steve could see the family resemblance between him and the pictures he'd seen of Riley. He stood a few inches taller than Steve, and grey was beginning to creep up from his temples, but he had the same smile as Riley.

Closing the door behind himself, Dr. Underdahl crossed the room and picked up the photo Steve had been looking at. Smiling sadly down at it, he murmured, "Somehow, I always assumed I'd be the one to die in battle, make our mom cry... Instead, I had to bury my kid brother."

They shared a look that only a fellow soldier who knew that kind of loss could fully understand. "I'm sorry," Steve murmured. "From everything Sam's told me, he sounds like he was a good man."

Dr. Underdahl nodded, carefully setting the photo down again. "He was. Riley always said he looked up to me, but...I'm pretty sure he surpassed me a long time ago." Then he looked up and gave Steve a warm smile. "I wanted to thank you, by the way."

Steve blinked in surprise. "For what?"

"For looking after Sam. I did what I could to help him when he came back, but what with him being in D.C. and us up here..."

Steve smiled fondly at Sam's brilliant grin in the photo. "Well, doc, the truth is that he looks after me more than I look after him."

"Casey," he interjected, holding out his hand. "Call me Casey."

"Steve." Casey's grip was firm as they shook hands.

Though Steve had been expecting Casey to sit behind his desk during the appointment and maybe take notes on a clipboard in a detached manner, instead they sat in comfortable chairs sipping cups of coffee, like two old friends catching up. And even though they'd only just met, there was something about Casey that made Steve feel like they were old friends, and he could tell him anything. Maybe it had something to do with the connection forged from their shared experience in the military, or maybe it was because they both knew Sam. Perhaps it was simply that Casey didn't seem starstruck in the slightest to be talking to Captain America. He never even mentioned it, but acted almost as though what little he knew about Steve had been relayed to him by Sam.

Before this appointment, Steve had assumed it would be awkward and embarrassing to tell a complete stranger about all the problems he was wrestling with these days. But oddly enough, by the time Casey asked, "So, what brings you here today?" Steve barely felt a twinge of embarrassment to talk about his panic attack and everything leading up to it. It hardly felt any different to talking about these things with Sam. He supposed that was the sign of a good counselor.

Steve had come to Casey because he wanted advice, but he ended up doing most of the talking. There was a lot to tell, after all. The tale of how he'd ended up here was neither short nor simple. As they neared the end of the hour, he felt as though he'd barely even scratched the surface. But even that much felt good to get off his chest.

Casey hadn't said much beyond the occasional comment or question, and even after Steve fell silent, he just sat there nodding thoughtfully for a while. "Wow," he finally said. "That's a lot to be dealing with all at once, isn't it?"

Steve had to look away from the kindness in Casey's eyes. A lump had been slowly growing in his throat, making it harder and harder to speak, and now he felt that if he did anything more than stare fixedly at the nearest corner of the coffee table, he would shatter into a million pieces.

"No wonder it's been so hard for you," Casey continued, his voice warm and gentle. "I truly admire your strength."

Steve shook his head emphatically and pushed himself up from the chair. He could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he didn't want Casey to see them, so he paced over to the window and stared blindly out. The skyline blurred and danced in his vision as he struggled not to blink, not to draw a deep breath...

He couldn't fall to pieces. Not now. Not in front of...not when it wouldn't do any... He didn't want to...

Casey's gentle voice eased its way into the tangle of his thoughts. "Why do you think it was so hard for you to hear me say that?"

"Because I'm not." The words burst out of him against his will. His voice broke, and with it the flimsy grasp on his composure. He pressed a hand against his eyes, but that did nothing to prevent hot tears from spilling down his cheeks. "I'm not strong enough..."

As if his body agreed with him, Steve found himself sinking to the floor, like his legs were made of melting candle wax. He leaned against the wall behind him, shame and defeat coursing through him in equal measure. He had truly found the bottom, and he wasn't strong enough to claw his way back up.

Casey's well-shined shoes crossed the room and stopped beside him. Half of Steve wanted to get up right now, run out the door, and never show his face here again, but the other half knew he couldn't manage it right now.

To Steve's surprise, Casey lowered himself with a grunt until he was sitting next to Steve on the floor. He'd taken off his suit jacket, but didn't seem to mind that his crisply-ironed pants were getting dusty as he stretched his long legs out on the hard wood floor.

"You know, maybe you're right," he said, calmly lacing his hands together in his lap. "You're not strong enough to keep going on as you have been—carrying the burdens of all your loved ones as well as your own, with little to no outside help. You're not strong enough to shoulder the responsibility for what's been done to your best friend, your children, and you, without stumbling and falling from time to time. No human being could be that strong. Not even a superhuman," he added with a wry smile.

Steve brushed a hand over his eyes, but even though the tears kept flowing, the shame dissipated. In its place, a warmth built up in his chest, seeping steadily through him as Casey continued to sit by his side as though it was the most normal thing in the world for two grown men to do.

"But...But they need me..." Steve sniffled. "J-Jake is just four...he needs so much help...and-and Bucky...I'm all he's got..."

Casey nodded. "You're right. They do need you. But that doesn't mean they need you alone, does it?"

Frowning, Steve thought about that for a minute, somewhat distracted from his tears.

"Think of it like this," Casey suggested, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "You've been in many fights, haven't you? You've saved countless lives—back in the war, with the Avengers... Most of the time, you had at least a few people fighting at your side. Did that mean you were weak, because you couldn't save the world all by yourself?"

Steve mutely shook his head. Was that really what he'd been doing? Put like that, it sounded so arrogant. Bucky was right, he realized, more tears clouding his vision. I did let my pride get in the way.

"You aren't weak for not being able to bear more than anyone could. If anything, I think you're incredibly strong for making it this far with all of the expectations you've placed on yourself. I don't know that I could have done the same for so long."

Reality felt so incongruous with his words. Casey was the one sitting there so calmly, with a lovely family and a successful career, while Steve was the one whose entire life was in shambles around him.

A few minutes passed in silence, Steve still sniffling occasionally and Casey letting him think about what he'd said. At last, Casey braced himself against the windowsill behind them and clambered back to his feet, saying, "Well, this old man needs to get up off the floor for a bit..." He stood massaging his lower back as he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I guess...you're probably right," Steve said slowly. "But I still don't know where to go from here."

With a smile, Casey held out a hand. "The only way to go is up."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Steve grasped Casey's hand and accepted his help to stand again. "I'm not sure I know how to do that."

Casey clapped a hand on his shoulder, like an older brother who had seen it all before. "And that's what I'm here for."

It was only when he'd left the building and checked the time on his phone that Steve realized they'd gone almost half an hour overtime because of his little breakdown. And yet, Casey hadn't betrayed the slightest hint of impatience, as if he had all the time in the world to spare.

Steve took a deep, cleansing breath and headed in the direction of home. He still felt as though he stood at the bottom of a ravine, but he'd just grasped the end of the rope that would pull him out again.

Dear Steve,

First, I want to tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn't have said those things to you. Not that way, not then. I could see you were in pain, but all I did was hurt you further. I'm so sorry.

I didn't mean that you're not good for Jake. I've never once thought that. You're the best father he could possibly have. He needs your love, he needs your gentleness and compassion and patience. There's no one on this earth who could give him more than you can.

All I meant was that he also needs professional help. There are things he's been through with Hydra that you can barely even imagine. I know you have the best of intentions, but how can you expect to be able to help him when you don't even know the depths of the darkness he's seen? The kind of trauma he's endured needs to be dealt with by someone who really knows what they're doing. You don't have the training for that, and that's okay. It just means you need some help.

And the same goes for me. I'm so grateful for everything you've done for me. Of course I am. You saved my life, you gave me myself back, you loved me long before you had any reason to do so. I don't ever want to diminish how important that is to me. You are the reason I keep going every day. You're the reason I'm still alive.

You are, Stevie.

But I want you to understand that I'm not okay. You give me a reason to keep pressing on, you make me want to keep trying. But there are so many times that I still don't know how. Even back before everything fell apart and I ended up here, it was still such a struggle just to make it through the day sometimes. Don't you remember Thanksgiving? Don't you remember when I tried to kill myself, and you had to drop everything just to take care of me? That was only seven months ago.

I'm so grateful that you were there to help me, over and over again, the past two years. It means the world to me that you're even willing to do that, to set aside your whole life just to make sure I'm okay. But it hasn't helped me figure out how to do that when you're not there. And I can't help wondering if I'd be able to cope better now if you'd gotten professional help for me too.

You don't have to do everything on your own, Stevie. And I don't want you to. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've given me. It just means that I don't want to watch you work yourself into the ground for me, when you don't give yourself a second thought.

Don't beat yourself up about Jake, or our argument. What's done is done, and it's in the past now. Just take care of yourself. That's the best thing you can do for us now.

Love you to the end of the line,

Bucky

Even my close friend in whom I trusted,
who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.

- Psalm 41:9