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It begins with spells of losing time, of not knowing where he is when he wakes up, of feeling and being nothing for swaths of time. When he has to feel his way out of a grave site, he does not question it. He walks out of the cemetery as dead men do, finds the local grocery store and asks to use a phone, calling to ask Sam to come pick him up. He goes to the bathroom and looks in the mirror, moving his hair to look at his face, to look into his own eyes, to look at himself. To look at his hairline.
The horns are still there.
They’re ugly little things, a dusty black rimmed with the red of inflammation as if even his body realises that they are not meant to be there, even as it allows them to grow. He has to put some of his hair over the little nubs, seeing as hair refuses to grow on or really even around them. He’s scooping himself off of the bathroom floor when he hears Sam’s car pull up, the thrum of the engine familiar even with the soft din of the little hometown grocery. Maybe it’s the enhancements. Maybe it’s the other thing. He leaves the store with a nod to the cashier working and climbs into the driver’s seat that Sam has apparently vacated for him, electing to sit in the passenger instead.
“How many dead?” he asks, even if he should not want to know the answer. He wants to know what damage this body has done, out of his control all over again. He wants to know how much blood is on the hands that he cannot leave behind.
“Fifty-one,” Sam answers loyally, though he looks like he wants to hold the answer between his teeth, keep it behind them, swallow it. Bucky nods wants, swallowing his own urge to do something emotional like punching the steering wheel, pick at his skin, scream, start openly sobbing. Sam always holds him when he cries, even when it seems like he’s about to shake apart himself.
“How many civilian?” he asks, his voice coming out in a croak as he looks out into the dusty horizon through the curtain of his hair. It’s beginning to part, just a little, around his growing horns. He wants to saw them out of his own skull. They’re a mark of what’s happening to him, of the things he still can’t get under wraps, still can’t fucking control for the life of him. For the lives of others. He’ll kill himself if he ever hurts Sam. He’ll have to.
“Only four. Seems he wants to work with us, a little. Get rid of the people that hurt him too,” Sam explains, reaching out for the first time to take Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers and not leaving Bucky the option of not accepting the touch. Bucky wasn’t going to say no to that anyway. He’ll take as much of Sam as he can get for as long as he can, seeing as Sam will leave eventually. He’ll have to. Bucky is a powder keg that’s just waiting for the right spark to send everything around him flying.
“Wants to work with us,” Bucky repeats with a derisive chuckle, completely lacking in mirth or genuine joy. It’s all bitterness in the place of emotion and he knows it, doesn’t control it, just lets it go. There’s a demon rocking around in the back of his head, ready to take any opportunity to take the wheel from him all over again, and he’s supposed to believe that the thing wants to work with them? It seems to like Sam, talks to him occasionally, but everyone likes Sam. Even demons, apparently.
“He hasn’t killed me yet,” Sam says, an attempt at levity that makes Bucky’s heart stop beating for one, unholy second. Bucky sucks in air through his teeth, trying not to shake apart without his own permission. It isn’t the time for that; he just came back.
“Don’t joke like that,” he says through his teeth, but Sam is already slipping their hands apart, rubbing at Bucky’s back.
“I know, baby, that was a shitty thing to say, I’m sorry,” he whispers, rubbing between Bucky’s shoulder blades in an attempt to assuage the tension that he’s put there. Bucky can’t even… he can’t even imagine. The idea of hurting Sam, of even just barely scratching him up, makes Bucky feel like he’s going to be sick. Killing Sam? Bucky wants to run a thousand miles away, by foot, just to put enough space between them to make sure that that idea never comes to pass. Killing Sam. Fuck.
“Don’t joke like that,” Bucky says again, but his voice comes out weak and thready, tinged with tear stains that haven’t had the time to set in yet. He barely feels it when Sam gets out of the car, coming to his side and opening the door.
“Come on, Buck, we’re okay. Look at me, I’m okay,” Sam assures him, grabbing Bucky’s hands (even the metal one, the bad one, the demon one) and placing them on Sam’s face. Bucky holds onto him delicately, never deadly in his force, and takes a deep breath. Sam breathes with him, guiding him, and keeps a hold of his hands. It’s easier to come down if Sam is close.
“He likes you, right?” Bucky asks, and they both know who he’s talking about. Sam’s mouth turns up into a smile.
“He totally likes me, I’ve practically domesticated your demonic other half,” Sam boasts, smile turning into an outright grin. Bucky pinches his cheek, making Sam squawk indignantly and adorably. Bucky takes his hands back to himself.
“Guess you’re just too cute for a ferocious and murderous demon, Samwise. Can you drive? I don’t think I’m steady enough,” he admits, leaning forward to put his forehead against the flat plain of Sam’s stomach. He can feel the upper part of the beginning of the v of his hips, warm muscle against him, before Sam pulls him up by his armpits, shoving him out of the driver’s seat and onto his feet.
“I guess I’ll drive, lazy. But, you’re buying me lunch,” Sam snarks. They have the same income source of draining old HYDRA money, but if it makes Sam feel better for Bucky to use his card to pull money out of their joint account, sure.
“Alright. But I want McDonald’s.”