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“Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve tells him with tears in his eyes.
“I’M NOT MAD AT YOU! I’M PISSED THE FUCK OFF AT THAT DERANGED ASSHOLE!”
“I know, but… I’m the reason he’s acting this way. I never meant for you to be caught up in all this. I thought… I thought leaving Brock would be easy. I don’t know why I thought that. Seems so stupid now.”
Bucky can hear the shaky breaths Steve lets out. He’s hanging on by a thread, at his wits end with the tragic and unfortunate saga that his Brock Rumlow. Bucky made be boiling over with rage, but it seems undignified compared to the trauma Steve is going through with it all.
“You’re not going back to him.”
Steve’s head snaps up at attention, eyes soft and honest at his boyfriend. “I would never. Not even if you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Of course I want you.”
“…Are you sure?”
“I didn’t sign up for any of this. And God knows I didn’t ask for it. But I love you, Steve. Enough not to give you up without a fight. Even a fight with a lunatic like Brock.”
“This is already out of hand, Bucky—”
Bucky bends at the knee to meet eye-level with Steve sitting on his brown leather sofa. He places a soothing, gentle hand at the side of Steve’s face. His fingertips scrap at the nape of the blonde man’s neck. “I will never let anyone hurt you, or anyone else I love.”
“Brock’s not just talk, James. I… I wouldn’t take his threats idly.”
“What makes you think I do?”
“The last thing I want is you or your family hurt over this. Over me. And he won’t stop until you are…or I go back to him.”
“I thought I told you that wasn’t an option? We’re getting rid of him. Once and for all. Trust me?”
“More than anyone.”
“Good.”
***
The ugly, black mud color water turns when mixed paint interacts must be the only shade Steve finds unattractive. He sees the vibrant beauty in every hue, but he has an unwavering negative opinion of the various swirls of color that coated paintbrushes tend to make when dropped in the same glass of water. Maybe it’s the ending; knowing that cleaning the bristles of a brush means you’re done. That the art created is completed, or on hold until the next time a brush is picked up, ready to fashion more prettiness or pain or both.
He’s done with the brushes and is scrubbing the flecks of Tuscan Sun yellow from under his nails when—
“A restraining order, you asshole?!”
Steve turns to Brock stalking into his classroom toward him. Steve moves quick, pushing a stool in front of Brock, blocking him from charging at him. He moves closer to the open door, in sight and hearing of instructors and students passing by. “Yeah, a restraining order. I see you’re taking it seriously.”
“I don’t want to hurt you—”
“But you have!”
“—I want to hurt Barnes.”
“Hurting him is hurting me! You have done some really egregious things but what you said to Bucky’s sister…? That was low. And disgusting. I want you out of my life. Forever. I want you to leave me and Bucky and my friends and our families alone.”
“Why are you making me out to be some psychotic monster?!”
“You really don’t see that you are, do you?”
Brock’s red with rage. More than when he stormed in. “I don’t know what your little chef boyfriend told you, what he said I did, but I didn’t. He’s a liar.”
“Bucky Barnes is far from a storyteller. But I’ll play along. Let’s say his sister, Rebecca, didn’t record and save the vile messages you left on her phone.”
Brock turns pale and nervous at the mention of Rebecca having proof of his wretchedness.
“Let’s say I didn’t listen to those messages, that she didn’t go to the police with evidence of threats and harassment. Let’s say Bucky made the whole thing up. That you didn’t break into his apartment, or steal his cat. There’s still the little matter of you spending the last leg of our doomed relationship drunk and hitting me, then stalking me, hassling me, intimidating me when I finally found the courage to leave you. Is that not enough to think you’re a monster? Isn’t that enough for me to say enough is enough and get the police involved?”
Brock swallows hard. Sweat beading on his brow. He’s scared. And should be. “…I’m a sick man, Steve.”
“Not this again.”
“Look, I am. You know I am. Iraq fucked me up. And my meds, with the booze, it’s got me acting out like a crazy person. And you know that’s not me. You know I’m not that guy. I wouldn’t’ve… I wouldn’t’ve hit you otherwise. I felt like such a piece of shit every time I did. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do it ever again, because I didn’t want to lose you. I love you, Steve.”
“Bucky loves me, too. And he’s never laid a hand on me.”
“Well, ain’t he just perfect then,” Brock scowls.
“He is. I told you he was.”
“Stark’s in love with you. He’s an asshole but at least he’s got money. Why not be with him? I know you fucked him.”
“Tony and I are just friends. For the hundredth time.”
He’s right though. Steve did sleep with Tony. Not even two days after leaving Brock. He needed a place to crash and Tony living in a mansion built like a fortress was the perfect place to go to hide from his deranged ex.
They spent Steve’s second night there getting drunk and trying to figure out where in the hell they both went so horribly wrong in their love lives. Tony and Loki had broken up just a month prior, Loki having moved across the globe to Norway to be closer to his mother. But everyone, especially Tony, knew he was running away, as far away as he could get from Tony and the messy breakup that ended them.
And after half a bottle of good whiskey, and an hour of Steve crying, feeling lonelier than he ever has, he leaned in, kissing Tony. The billionaire gave in right away, dropping the crystal bottle of brown liquor to the soft carpet and taking Steve into his arms. Then his bed.
Steve’s not an idiot. He knows Tony’s lingering, misplaced feelings for him is part of the reason Tony and Loki broke up. And drunk or not, sleeping with Tony was not a good idea. Which is why he and Tony had agreed that anything further happening between them shouldn’t occur. Despite Tony’s desire for them to be more than friends. Steve hated telling him their night together was a mistake, but it was. Steve wasn’t thinking clearly, too emotional and broken, and ignored Tony’s feelings in order to feel good for a few fleeting hours.
“Right,” Brock scoffs.
“I don’t know what your particular issue is with Bucky—”
“He’s not good enough for you!”
“—but it doesn’t matter to me. Your opinion, your feelings, your addiction and PTSD, your spite and hatred, it doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore. And I’m not falling for your sobs and pleas and excuses anymore either. I’m done. We’re done. Do you hear me, Brock? We. Are. Over. Get out of my life.”
Brock tosses the stool in front of him across the room! It makes a hard metallic echo against the concrete wall it bounces off of, startling Steve.
“Steve?” Steve turns to Maria Hill, the interim director of the art department, standing behind him. “You okay, Steve,” she asks, weary eyes on the dark-haired lug in a threatening stance.
“He’s fine,” Brock answers for him.
“No, I’m not. Please call security,” Steve tells Maria.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”
Brock takes a step toward them. Maria pulls a can of mace from her purse, aiming it at him.
“I’d leave rather quickly if I were you…”
Brock stares daggers at her but doesn’t move.
She takes her cellphone from her back pocket and speed dials a number. “This is Maria Hill. I’m on the third floor in room 307 and we have a trespasser threatening a faculty member in the building.” After a beat, Maria smiles wickedly at Brock, “Dark hair, goatee, about 5’10, and wearing blue jeans with a black T-shirt with a skull and bones printed on it… Okay. Thank you.” She hangs up.
“You fucking bitch,” Brock growls.
“Leave nicely or wait for the guys with guns to escort you out. You choose.”
Steve nervously holds Brock’s gaze. He has no idea what Brock’s going to do next, and he’s not eager to find out.
Surprisingly, he slides right by them, out the door, but not before sneering at Steve, with a silent promise to get him back for humiliating him like this. Sometimes it’s the things Brock doesn’t say that are the scariest to Steve.
He and Maria watch him hurry down the corridor and through an emergency exit door.
“Are you okay,” Maria asks.
Steve collapses to the linoleum floor, bringing his knees to his chest. “I need James.”
***
Scott’s holding a dishtowel stuffed with ice up to his nose. It’s stopped bleeding but the towel is still crimson with his blood. “That’s Steve’s fucked up ex?!”
“Unfortunately.”
“Why the hell would he hit me?!”
Bucky takes the towel from Scott’s hold and replaces it with a fresh one. “Because you got in the way, hero.”
“I thought he might be a confused, homeless guy. Not some jacked up abuser on coke.”
Bucky’s brow furrows. “You think he was hopped on cocaine?”
Scott gives his boss a dubious look. “Having spent years in the company with a few unsavory characters, and a lot of nights in jail, I can tell you with certainty when someone is less than sober. That guys pupils were like black pools of ‘roid rage. What would Steve see in a guy like that?”
Bucky sighs. “They served together. And after the war, felt like they needed each other to cope. But turns out Brock’s got more going on than PTSD.”
“Steve’s such a sweet guy. And twice that troglodyte’s size. How could he put up with it for as long as he did?”
“I think Steve thought he could fix him. Make him better. Make him happy. And in turn make himself happy, taking care of someone that desperately needed him. Caring for people, being needed, gives Steve purpose. And distracts him.”
“Yeah, but…who takes care of Steve then?”
“I do.”
Scott can’t help giving a light smile at that.
“But to be fair, I think Steven Grant Rogers may be growing out of that sooner than we think.”
Scott removes the towel of ice from his broken nose. “Hey. Thanks for putting that dickhead down.”
“Nobody messes with my crew. And I’ve been looking for an excuse to slug that bastard for a while now.”
“BUCKY!” Steve comes barreling into the empty restaurant in a panic. He spots Bucky and Scott at the bar. “I got your text. What happened?”
“We were minding our own business, setting up and doing prep for dinner tonight, and then that comic book villain you call an ex busted up in here, tripping balls and screaming for Bucky. I told him to beat it and he slugged me. But Bucky put his ass on the ground like that,” Scott recounts with a snap of his fingers.
“What he said,” Bucky tells his boyfriend.
“Are…Are you okay? Both of you?”
“I’m fine,” Bucky says calmly.
“My goddamn nose might be broken but other than that I’m aces, sport.” Scott hops over the U-shaped bartop. “I’m going to urgent care. Kate said she’d come in tonight for me.”
Bucky nods. He wouldn’t’ve asked Scott to stay and work after what happened anyway. And he’s grateful Scott had the foresight to get his shift covered.
“Steve. Thank god your taste in men has improved.” And with that, Scott Lang is out the door, hailing a cab to the hospital.
Tears fill Steve’s ocean blue eyes. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”
“No need to be. It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I… Being with me is causing so many problems. People are getting hurt. Everything else was bad enough, but now he’s attacking people. He’s not going to stop. And I don’t want anything to happen to you, or anyone else. I think… I don’t think… I don’t think it’s a good idea if we see each other anymore, Bucky. Things are just getting worse. I don’t want you hating me, or regret being with me. I love you too much for our relationship to turn ugly and resentful like that. We should break up.”
Bucky leans back on the high-back barstool, arms crossed behind his head, lounging casually. “Are you done?”
Steve swallows thickly. He nods.
“Brock’s in jail. And he’ll be there for a very long time.”
“What?”
“After I finally got a chance to deck the fuck out of him, I called the cops and pressed charges. Add that with the voicemails he left my sister and your restraining order, and Rumlow is going to be spending a good amount of time at Rikers Island.”
“He came to the college earlier today.”
Bucky sits upright, body taut and eyes burning.
“He was pissed about the restraining order. We got into it, like usual. He tried to attack me, but Maria showed up. She called security on him. He ran before they showed up. He must’ve come straight here, looking for a fight. With you.”
“Clearly, he underestimated me, and just how much I hate him. Why didn’t you call me?”
“…I was. I needed you. But I was embarrassed. I let him scare me. Again. I called Sam and Natasha instead.”
Bucky slides off his stool. “There should never be an instance where you hesitate to call me if you need me. That’s what I’m here for. I’m here for you, Steve.”
Steve nods.
Bucky pulls him close, flush against his hard body under his chef coat. “And don’t you ever break up with me. Especially not over this. Not over Brock fucking Rumlow. I’m with you, punk. Until the end of the line.”
Steve smiles, blushing. “I like that.”
“Good. Now say ‘yes’.”
“To what?”
“Moving in with me.”
They haven’t been dating for more than 8 months, and yet this is the second time Bucky’s asked. Steve said ‘no’ the first time, 3 months ago. He didn’t want to rush anything between them, too scared it was too soon and he’d lose the only guy he’s ever wanted to marry. Not to mention, Brock’s antics were amping up at the time, but solely focused on him; he hadn’t started to threaten and harass Bucky until last month. He didn’t want his ex trying to corrupt the space, the life, he shared with Bucky if he moved in with him. He thought if they continued to live separately he could keep Brock’s antics solely focused on him and not his boyfriend.
Fat lot of good that did, it seems.
“You still in there, baby,” Bucky teases.
“Yeah. Yeah… I was just thinking.”
“About?”
Steve pictures coming home to Bucky after a hard day. Of Bucky teaching him how to cook some fancy, complicated meal. Or spending a snowy Christmas morning in bed with him. He thinks about them watching TV curled up on the couch, Bucky leaving his shoes by the front door for Steve to trip over for the millionth time, Steve hogging the bathroom with his long, hot showers, their first, real fight about something stupid, like Steve dumping coffee grinds down the sink, clogging the drain, and Bucky fucking him blind on every flat surface of the place.
He smiles. “About how we should get a place in Brooklyn.”
“Sick of The Bronx, huh,” Bucky asks in a thick New York accent that comes out to play whenever he talks about the city. “You don’t want to live here, in Manhattan, with me? In Hell’s Kitchen with the other hipsters?”
“Brooklyn has plenty of hipsters. We’ll fit right in. Maybe you could even open another restaurant there. One in every borough.”
“That’d be nice but I think that’s a little further down the road. For now let’s just try and figure out what kind of curtains we should hang in our bedroom.”
“We’ll need curtains,” Steve asks, cheeky.
“Doll, we just might need curtains in every room.”