Work Text:
Steve wakes up slowly, groaning as he stretches out from the tight curl position he’d slept in last night. He rolls over onto his back and sighs, taking a moment to just breathe. Bucky’s here in the Tower with him now, has been for almost two weeks, and it’s everything he wanted.
It’s just...some days, Bucky has trouble with his memory, and he doesn’t quite know who Steve is or what it means that they’re together, here in this place, this time. He’ll sit in the massive overstuffed armchair Tony or Pepper or whoever picked out to decorate their main living area, and he’ll just sit there staring off into nothing. He’ll track Steve’s movement, and he’ll make eye contact when addressed, and he’ll eat when Steve puts food in front of him.
But he’s not really there.
And Steve knew this was a possibility — well, he knew logically it was a possibility, and all the experts Fury brought in to help with Bucky’s recovery told Steve it was a probability, and that these days would get fewer and further between as time passed. But the reality of it, the reality of Bucky looking at Steve and not knowing who he is flays him open every single time.
The worst part, though, is that the next day when Bucky is feeling more present, he gets upset knowing that he put Steve through that. As if Steve and what he’s feeling is more important than Bucky and his own recovery. So Steve will sit with him and tell him it’s okay, that he’s getting better, and it’s going to take time, and it’s not his fault. That Steve would rather have him here and have bad days than be apart. He hopes Bucky believes him.
Because the truth of it is, it is hard. It’s draining. And Steve would do it every day from now until the world falls down around them, he would. It’s just...it would be nice if he didn’t have to.
Christ, he’s emotional this morning. He needs to eat some breakfast and pull himself out of this spiral.
He takes another deep breath and hauls himself out of bed so he can get ready and face the day.
Bucky is already awake when he gets to the living area. He’s sitting in the armchair, staring at nothing, barely acknowledging Steve’s presence. Oh. One of those days today. Steve briefly wonders if waking up and thinking about it is what caused Bucky’s bad memory day, but that’s ridiculous and he knows it. He sighs at himself and goes to make some breakfast. He sits in the breakfast nook in the kitchen, and thinks about Bucky out there, keeping his silent armchair vigil.
The doctors all say it’s okay to talk to him when he’s like that if Steve wants, but he may not remember anything Steve says. So far Steve hasn’t because he just doesn’t know what to say, but it also feels weird to just ignore Bucky, treat him like he’s some kind of furniture or decoration or something. Fuck it. Maybe it will feel weird to talk at Bucky like that, but it’s better than doing nothing, which is what it feels like he’s been doing so far on days like these.
Steve finishes his breakfast and washes his dishes, setting them on the drying rack to dry before heading into the living area. He sits down on the couch across from the armchair and softly says Bucky’s name. Bucky looks him right in the eye for a few seconds before moving his eyes up and to the right a bit, just over Steve’s left shoulder. That’s fine. He can work with that.
“Hey, Buck. I don’t know what’s happening in your head today, and that’s okay, that’s fine. But in case your brain is playing tricks on you, making you misremember things, I’m going to tell you something true.
“Back before the war, when we were growing up, and even when we were grown and living together, I used to get sick. A lot. All the time, really, I was always catching one thing or another. You were supposed to stay away so you didn’t get sick, too, which was smart. But you could never keep away more than a day. You’d find a way into my apartment building and into my room, and you’d sit on the bed with me, and you’d read me those pulp sci fi novels you used to love. Sometimes you’d bring a deck of cards and we’d play cards, if I was up to it. Other times you would just lie next to me and match your breathing to mine. I never told you this, but I could feel you trembling sometimes, you were so scared I wasn’t gonna make it. I think a few times I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been there.”
Steve pauses, throat thick from the memory, and looks at Bucky, but he’s still looking up and over Steve’s shoulder. Steve feels a little foolish now, and a lot self-conscious.
“Well,” he says, “that’s...yeah.” He gets up and walks to his bedroom, burying himself under his covers and just breathes a while.
~~~
Steve tries again the next time Bucky has a bad memory day. “We used to love baseball when we were kids, used to sit around the radio and listen to the Dodgers games as often as we could. You used to play stickball with some of the neighborhood kids, and I’d sit on a stoop and watch you. I wanted to be a baseball player so bad when I grew up, and I was convinced I was gonna grow out of all my ailments somehow and magically become a star ballplayer. One of our school assignments when we were in fifth grade was to write an essay about what we wanted to be when we grew up, so of course I wrote about being a ballplayer.
“We had to read our essays out loud, and as soon as I said ballplayer, all the kids in my class started laughing and snickering. Even the teacher had this smile on her face, like I was stupid for wanting such a thing. And yeah, maybe it was a foolish thing to want, but it was so cruel, letting the other kids laugh at me without stopping them. I got so angry I started crying, which of course made everything worse.
“I went and hid in my room after school, and of course you came to find me, and you could tell that something was wrong and dragged the story out of me. You got so angry on my behalf that you turned all red, and if steam could have come out of your ears like in cartoons, I swear it would have, Bucky, you were so worked up. You wanted to find all those kids and give ‘em a piece of your mind or wail on them or something, I don’t know. Not that it would have done any good, but you wanted to.
“I managed to talk you down eventually, and you asked me to read you my essay, insisting when I didn’t want to. I gave in eventually, and you sat there and listened, and you didn’t laugh. Not even once. When I was done, you closed your eyes and had me read it again, and I asked you why. You said it was so you could imagine me in a Dodgers uniform, playing second base, just like I described in my essay.
“I think that’s the moment I knew you were it for me. 11 years old, sitting in my room, telling you my impossible dream about being a ballplayer. And you just went along with it, didn’t even question that I could. Because of course I was never going to be a ballplayer. But you didn’t care. You just wanted me to be happy.”
Steve sighs and shakes his head as he looks down at his hands folded on his lap. When he looks up at Bucky again, Bucky flicks his eyes back up over Steve’s shoulder, but Steve swears he was staring right at him first.
~~~
“When times were tight— ” Steve tells Bucky the next time he has a bad memory day, “and they were always tight — your mom, Winifred, used to save her perfume for special occasions only. If she even had any to begin with. But she still liked to smell pretty, so she would take some of the baking vanilla, and she would mix a little bit with some water, and she’d dab it on her wrists and behind her ears. I always loved it when she gave me a hug because she smelled like baking, like something happy and good. Safe. Warm, you know?”
Steve glances over at Bucky, and he’s staring right back at Steve, his mouth turned up into the smallest, most delicate smile in one corner. Steve smiles back and lets one butterfly soar up from his stomach to his chest.
~~~
Steve sits down on the couch and settles in to tell Bucky another memory when Bucky looks right at him and opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Steve freezes and waits to see what Bucky is going to do. Bucky closes his mouth and looks confused for a second before his eyes glaze over and he isn’t there again. Steve waits a few more minutes, but nothing else happens. Encouraged, Steve starts talking.
~~~
Bucky opens his mouth as soon as Steve sits down, and Steve holds his breath.
“Tell me something true,” he whispers, voice creaky with disuse. Steve beams at him and does.