Chapter Text
Steve was bad again. Bad in the way that he closed his eyes and felt ice rushing around him. Bad in the way that his heart clenched with too-much and not-enough every damn minute. Bad in the fucking way that he refused to acknowledge that anything was less than dandy, because things were fine.
Bucky was back, which should be some kind of relief, a light in the dim depression he had started to escape.
Except he had severe PTSD, recovering from brainwashing and battling with his old and new self, and he needed Steve to be there for him, not drag him down with his minor-in-comparison problems. So Steve ignored everything, put all his stupid recovery on hold for his best friend, the person he risked his life for time and time again.
Mental illness, on the other hand, doesnt care if someone is trying to help someone else, if someone has to put a break on their life. Much like a virus, it spreads to all the cracks if they don't battle with it constantly, if they don't keep on top of it, and it turns the whole system off.
And here Steve was, with Bucky getting better, already cleared by SHIELD officials as free from mind control and other personalities that were installed in him, Now free to recarve his own life as the new Bucky, his own identity, someone who had been pulled back from the dead. And it was going well, as well as possible for a once manipulated mass-murderer slash assasin.
And it was going well without him. Steve had chosen to distance himself from Bucky, let him recover without being dragged down by unrequited love and a hurricane in his head, without someone who was a mess in every sense of the word. Steve made this choice consciously, but distancing himself meant that now, Bucky didnt need him, and Steve didnt know what that meant, because he still needed Bucky like the arctic needs ice, always had. But he had lost his winter soldier. So now Bucky spent weekends with Wanda and Natasha, coming back from hikes and coffee and everything good with tentative smiles, gifted from heaven. Bucky idly chatted with Tony over his arm, and nodded at Sam over the breakfast table, and went to Bruce when things weren't okay. Slightly wary of Pepper and her temper, but still shared lifts with her. Didn't know Clint well enough, but still watched dog cops with him.
All Steve got were glances, an emotion unreadable behind deep blue eyes, a mouth open to say something before abruptly stopping, going to nudge before catching himself pre-touching his old best friend.
And it is hell for him. Seeing someone he loves awkwardly avoid him because he, Steve, chose to give him space. Having to watch a relationship that was once as strong as time itself crumble because of Steve's fucking mind. Because Steve cant control intrusive thoughts and detachment to real life and not attending therapy sessions despite being sent 4 emails from SHIELD's agent department that He Needed To Attend to Continue Active Service.
So he took every mission that he could, barely stopping for breaks inbetween, in case he had to look into Bucky's eyes and not see the warmth once reserved only for him.
He distanced himself from Sam and Clint and Natasha, who were once his support system, but were now just worried glances and questions of "Steve, you haven't talked to Bucky?" except they wouldnt understand, because he can't talk to someone who doesnt need his toxicity.
Using Clint's airvent trick to hide during movie nights and takeaway lunches and sparring matches, taking to sleeping in the cool air system now and then, if only to remind him.
But he still had to go to his floor, devoid of anything meaningful. Still had to sleep in his too-soft too-surreal bed, with his head struggling to make sense of the images infront of him, everything fuzzing and turning unreal before his eyes at 5am.
And here he was once again, laid in his bed, with towering views over a less foreign city now, light only just peeking over the tops of skyscrapers to shine onto his stark white room. Old books surrounded him, all half read after loss of concentration. Half-empty coffee mugs and bowls on various surfaces, long forgotten in a mind fog. Even the bed was bereft of much needed love, without so much as a blanket, only a single sheet that brought him back memories of battlefield tents and huddling for warmth. Of Bucky.
Sensing the oncoming barrage of noise from his alarm, he slowly stood, weariness from needing to but not sleeping deep-set in his bones alongside the well known frost.
Now he was no longer plagued by memories of frost and ice and all things nice, but instead of loss and lack of comfort and the horrendously human emotions the serum never managed to rid him of.
Bones creaking, he stumbled down to the kitchen once again, if only to make a cup of coffee and sit, stony and closed off before anyone else could make it down to the kitchen to try to engage him in conversation he could be without.
He entered the communal kitchen, setting the fancy coffee maker he had still not figured out on the only setting he knew: americano, and set to finding some milk, still wary of coffee as a whole. It didn't leave the lingering unfamiliarity in his mouth anymore, as he wasn't trying to link it to the past. When he had seen his therapist, when he was attempting to recover from everything terrible, he was told that he should stop linking things to his past, and instead see everything as new and different. It only really stuck with his coffee; but now he actually liked smooth expensive Stark coffee beans and milk, everything used old coffee grind wasn't.
Grabbing the mug, and the milk bottle, he sat at the lonely stone table illuminated by the soft glow only just discovering the communal floor; only just battling cement roofs and steel beams to cast light on a weary man in a meaningless life.
His hands shook as he poured milk in, deep black turning to dull brown within seconds - the transformation changed everything about the coffee apart from the soul. Or was that just him projecting?
Either way, the previous feeling of derealisation left him, instead flooding him with confusion and surrealism in the worst way, weak bones alight with a buzzing confusion raring to escape. The mug fell from his hands as he lifted it up, the stony grip lost to an early morning and no sleep and time wearing small wounds big under lack of treatment. However, even the scalding, ruined, probably $6-worth cup of coffee running through his hands, down lean thighs and blue tinged feet did little to jerk him out of the mental hysteria rattling around his eyes, in and out but always back in, nothing dampening the feeling, only appearing to extend it further.
It felt like a prison inside his mind, mind-forged shackled locking him in a stupor unbreakable, only dimmed by exhaustion and constant working.
His hands itched with the knotting of flesh over scalded skin, fingers red raw instead of cold blue. The urge to hit something was back; normally it occurred during a mission (he was always on those, ever since) when he could cover his irrevocable anger at himself with harsh hits to Hydra, to terrorist cells, to whoever he was fighting against. At this point, the ramrod Catholic morality had left him in favour of unrequited pining and mental hell.
Clenching fists tightly, releasing and reclenching, he released the trapped breath inside carefully, measurably, keeping a strict fist on his own body.
It was alright. He was alright. He had to be alright.