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Today, Steve doesn’t know what day it is.
*
Tuesday, Steve cleaned the apartment and collected 20 empty bottles for recycling. “Bucky, it hasn’t even been a week,” he said as gently as he could.
Bucky's finally turned from the window he’d been staring out for the good part of an hour and looked at him before lowering his gaze and hunching his shoulders. “I will try harder.” Bucky said. The implicit sorry was still there, but at least Bucky stopped using the word as if it was the only protection between him and a beating. Steve took it. Any progress was a huge one.
Steve takes a drink.
“Bucky, is there anything you want to talk about?”
“No.” A long pause gnawed at Steve until he gave up and turned to take his leave. Bucky inhaled and exhaled audibly – that was Bucky’s tell for when he’s about to say something he was scared to say. Steve froze and held his breath as if only hearing Bucky trust him with his spilled guts could make breathing worth it again. “What was he like?” Bucky finally asked.
The question hit him out of nowhere because Bucky never, never talked about the past. Still, it was progress. For the first time in weeks, there might have been something genuine in Steve’s frayed smile. “You were charming, great dancer, real great guy.” The pronoun correction didn’t go unnoticed, and Bucky flinched. Steve ignored it and pressed on. “Summer of ’33, you’d been stuck on this gal Molly for months. You brought her to the Coney Island beach and impressed her with your flips. I tried to do the same because we were on a double date but landed on my back and choked on salt water. Got pneumonia in the middle of summer afterwards. I ruined your date and you still took care of me.”
Because that’s how you reassure someone you don’t see them as damaged. Because if you ignored a problem, you let the other person know you saw past it.
Steve takes another drink. A drink for every time he failed Bucky. That’s the game.
“I will try harder,” Bucky hunched down further and said to the floor.
“For what?” Steve asked, voice fluttering, unsure where to land.
“To be him. You light up when you talk about him.” Bucky’s smiled, forced and self-deprecating - it was a look that did not belong on Bucky Barnes' face.
“You are him. I’m happy that you’re here,” Steve said because it was true, and he would reassure Bucky until he knew too.
He reached out to wrap Bucky in his arms, but Bucky moved just out of reach, and Steve learned the day Bucky fell: there’s no difference between almost close enough and an ocean apart. Bucky was silent and staring out the window again, and for the rest of the day, nothing else Steve said could bring about a reaction.
Steve drains the rest of his glass and slams it down. He doesn’t even bother pouring another and drinks straight from the bottle.
*
Wednesday, Steve joked that he made the gossip columns when the paps caught him dragging an entire liquor store to recycling.
Bucky gave an imperceptible nod and kept staring at the hole in the wall. One of the many holes in the wall. There are so many he couldn’t remember who placed which anymore, and Stark had mailed them a “This residence has withstood __ days without injury” sign. Steve tried again, “But good news is, this sign gets to see a number besides ‘0.’”
Because that was how they worked back then. When something happened, they joked until the problems went away.
190 proof Everclear is the highest concentration of ethanol he can find.
Bucky finally looked at him, or maybe straight through him. There wasn’t much difference these days. “You can give me something stronger to kill the voices in my head. Benzos. Those do the trick,"
“What?” Steve asked with dawning horror.
“You wanted something that takes up less room than alcohol.” Detached – that was the word to describe the ghosts in Bucky’s eyes. Resigned – that was another word. Bucky recites with clinical disinterest, “Alprazolam, five milligrams per 12 hours. Clonazepam, five milligrams per 24 hours. Diazepam, 100 milligrams per 36 hours.”
“No, that’s not -”
“I know you don’t trust me, but you can trust the doctors. They gave them to me all the time. Any time I’m out of cryo for too long, and the benzos usually kill the thoughts.”
“Bucky!” He yelled, horrified and nauseated by what they did to him, and that Bucky would think that of him. “No one is going to drug you, and no one is going to mess with your mind. That’s not how it works anymore, I promise.”
Promising to not fuck with his head while wanting him to be someone he's not anymore. A toast to hypocrisy.
“There’s screaming inside my head all the god damn time.” Bucky said with forced casualness like he wasn’t worthy of regard and didn’t want to draw attention to himself. “My screaming, people’s screaming, bombs screaming. Kids screech really loudly, you know? You can shut it all up or you can stop complaining.”
“I’m not complaining. I want you to get better.” Steve said the words so they were dripping with love. If he gave him enough love, maybe it could heal him.
“I come with a user manual. I know you like to do things the stubborn way, but it might be easier for both of us if you took advantage of it.” Bucky’s voice was both flippant and hollow like he wanted to fill up a void with bravado.
Like he was trying to be Bucky Barnes.
Steve tried to not cringe, but fuck, ‘took advantage.’ They already took advantage of Bucky in so many ways, and if that also meant what he was afraid for it to mean... There was justice, and there was revenge. If Erskine was alive to ask him, so you want to kill HYDRA, he would have said yes, I want to to burn them to the ground. He somehow managed words, choked and tight. “Fuck’s sake, Buck, you’re a human being, and–“
CRACK - the sound of metal fist on plaster cut him off. Bucky’s face was twisted and wild as he snarled, “At least HYDRA were reasonable about their expectations.”
Bucky slipped away to his room. Steve stared at the new hole and wondered how many more holes it would be before structural integrity was compromised and it all came tumbling down.
The Everclear tastes like hellfire going down. Good. He belongs in hell.
*
Thursday, Bucky left the house in tactical gear and without saying anything. Surprisingly, he left through the door instead of a window or the chimney for once. “Habit gets you killed,” He’d explained as if it was common sense that one time Steve brought up his ever-changing points of entrance and exit into the apartment. Bucky wandered out by himself before, and there were no national crises requiring his attention, so Steve mentally shrugged and spent the day patching the holes in the walls.
Steve finishes another bottle and stares out the same window Bucky used to stare out. It has a good line of sight.
When Bucky came back that night, it was through the door again, and he had a busted lip, bruised knuckles, and god knows what other injuries hiding his gear. And a forlorn, lost expression that became more and more hardened and unreadable as his eyes moved past every spot where there used to be a hole.
How many signs did he miss?
Steve plastered on the smile he adopted for walking on eggshells around Bucky and asked, “Welcome home. How was your day?”
“I didn’t kill anyone if that’s what you’re asking.” Bucky was scowling now. Just like that, the room plummeted from overcast to depression churning towards hurricane. Steve couldn’t help hate himself for feeling irritation.
It took effort and several deep breaths to keep his voice light. “That’s good to hear. I’d hate to have SHIELD busting in to arrest you right after I fixed the place up.”
“Yeah, the walls look real nice. Sorry for fucking up your home.” Bucky bit out, and there danced some mercurial concoction of sadness, blankness, and anger on his face. There was a time when he always knew what to say to Bucky, could read every expression on Bucky’s face. Now, he didn’t know if he could offer him dinner. In the end, he’s saved by Bucky dashing forwards and falling to his knees. Steve jumped but didn’t get far because Bucky had hugged himself to Steve’s legs and was whispering, over and over, “I’m sorry, I tried. I tried. I tried… I’m sorry.”
Steve gently pried Bucky’s arms away and pulled Bucky to his feet. Bucky slumped against his chest, and he ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair that he had cut short like it used to be. “Hey now, you’ve nothing to be sorry for,” He murmured. “I know you’re trying, and I’m so proud of you. You’re going to get better, I know you will.”
Steve stands to grab a new bottle but stumbles and falls. You idiot, why did you pull him up? You should have fallen to your knees with him. At some point, the empty bottle had fallen out of his hands and shattered across the floor, and he knows because there's a sharp prick in his palm and knees followed by bright, red blood oozing over glittering glass. So he can get drunk after all.
*
Friday, someone walked into his room at three in the morning. Steve tumbled out of bed and jumped for his shield before realizing it was Bucky.
He forced his breathing to become steady and asked, “What do you need, Buck?” The brief rush of adrenaline trickled away, disappointed.
“I want to meet your friends,” Bucky said.
Steve stared with barely-contained amazement at Bucky’s unmoving silhouette. Bucky wanted to meet other people; he was improving so much. “Sure thing,” He said. “Who did you have in mind?”
“The closest ones."
*
Saturday, they met Nat and Sam at a bar.
“A bar? Really? I’m the only one here who can get drunk.” Was how Sam greeted them, followed by, “Bucky Barnes, right? Sam Wilson. I’m guessing you’re Bucky Barnes by the metal arm and Cap’s heart eyes.”
“He’s the only cheap drunk, he means. We live vicariously through him. I’m Natasha Romanoff. You may remember me. We tried to kill each other.” Was how Natasha greeted them.
“Pleasure to meet the guys who helped Captain America save the world,” Bucky said with a easy charm that Steve hadn’t heard for 70 years. “Sam, want a soda so we won’t drink you under?”
“You know what? You’re a jerk.”
Bucky smiled his easy smile where one lip corner pulled up higher than the other. The one that Steve hadn’t seen for 70 years. “So I’ve been told.”
Steve clenched his hands and had to look away. It wasn’t fair that Bucky acted this familiar with Natasha and Sam when even after weeks, Bucky sometimes refused to acknowledge Steve’s presence. It also wasn’t fair for him to feel that way, so he forced down the bile and jealousy. He should be happy for Bucky.
Steve downs a quarter of a bottle and feels sick. He used to say grace at the dinner table. “I know it’s not much, but we need to be grateful for what we have.” His mom used to tell him.
They sat at the bar for hours. Bucky said a lot of things about Steve and was more animated than he’d been for weeks, and there was a silent agreement to let Bucky control the conversation. Natasha observed, Sam was good at listening to people talk, and Steve soaked in Bucky’s every word while. Steve would be damned if he missed a single second of Bucky being this alive.
“He used to get sick a lot," Bucky jabbed at Steve's ribs. "And Sarah and I would feed him chicken soup. There’d only be broth most of the time because we couldn’t afford meat, and he always got better faster with it. Psychological effects of comfort foods, the doc said.”
“He eats human food? I thought he was powered by protein bars.” Sam said.
“Have you never given him a hot dog before?” Bucky said with mock disbelief.
“Bucky,” Steve set his mug of beer on the table to free up both hands for hiding his flushing face and groaned. “I’m only 95 on paper. You don’t need to write guides for taking care of me.”
“Someone has to. ‘s not like you know how,” Bucky said with something that might have been affection, but it also sounded wistful. He turned his attention back to Nat and Sam. “Once, he’d gotten it into his stubborn head that he could teach this asshole a lesson. Was going to meet him in some alley 8 o’clock sharp no matter what I said. In the end, I had to fake a fever and play at fainting to keep his skinny ass home.”
“Jerk.” Steve bumped Bucky with his shoulder. “Falling sick and fainting’s my line.”
“Hallelujah, so it’s possible to save Rogers from his crazy ideas.” Sam said and raised his glass. Bucky looked lost, but only for a moment, before nodding lazily and clinking his glass with Sam’s.
Natasha twirled a screwdriver in her glass and kept observing, her face carefully blank.
Bucky grinned a shit-eating grin and continued. “And he’ll act like he don’t need help. Don’t listen to him. You gotta see through his stupid to save him from it.”
“I’m sitting right here, you asshole.”
Steve had propped his chin on his hand and was leaning towards Bucky like a plant starved of sunlight, and Bucky avoided his longing gaze and went right on talking. “He’s an idealist, or do you guys pronounce it ‘idiot’ these days? Once, I told him to give it a break after he broke his arm, and he said, “Not until people stop doing shitty things to people who don’t deserve it. He thinks he can fix everything.”
Steve throws the half full bottle across the room. It leaves a dent in the wall and splatters violently everywhere. “Fix that, Rogers.” He thinks. He lets out a guttural noise and bangs his forehead against the wall. “Fix that too.” Bang. And that. Bang. And that. Bang. Bang. Bang. And all that.
“Why are you telling us all this?” Natasha finally spoke up.
Because Bucky wouldn’t leave Steve alone in this world…
“Because you guys care about him.” Bucky smiled again, a record for one day. It was the exasperated but loving smile he had on every time he pulled Steve out of a fight, and Steve wanted to treasure it all and sketch every permutation of Bucky's happiness.
Nat quirked an eyebrow and stared at Bucky until he avoided her eyes. Bucky slumped against Steve’s side and mumbled, “I’m tired, Steve. Let’s head back.”
Steve agreed, “Okay, let’s head home.”
Later that night, Steve asked, “So, you like them?”
“Yeah, they’ll do.” Bucky’s face had become unreadable again.
Steve didn’t ask him what he meant; it could wait until morning. Tonight, everything was happy and gilded and fragile.
… Even when Steve was pushing him to the end of the line.
*
Sunday, Steve was woken up at three in the morning. Again.
He fumbled to find his phone before it woke up Bucky. Natasha’s number. “Hello?” He mumbled and let out a yawn.
“Steve, it’s Bucky.” Natasha’s voice was too emotionless, too professional. A chill ran down his entire body; he hadn’t felt that since the Valkyrie crash. He was definitely awake now.
Steve ran towards Bucky’s room with the singular thought of “Bucky” running through his mind, threw open the door, and looked around frantically. The window was open, no one was there, and with the exception of a heavy stack of books and papers on the desk, the room was as bare as it had been the day Steve showed Bucky around. A breeze wandered in throw the window and picked up papers from the top layer of a neat pile, leaving them stranded on the floor. “Where is he?” He said, or maybe he shut his eyes and prayed.
“I’m sorry, Steve, but….” Natasha read off a street address and talked about “bullet to the head” and “no pulse” and then asked, voice softening, “Do you want to be here?”
Steve might have been shattering from the pressure building in his chest and throat. No, he would not like to be here. He would like to be in another world where there was no war, no HYDRA, no people you loved slipping away from you over and over and over. Instead, he said, “I’m on my way.”
When Steve arrived, he arrived in his uniform and with his shield clenched in his hand. He already had his revenge tour mapped out: First say goodbye to Bucky, and then stop when he dropped dead. Didn’t matter who - against HYDRA, against the KGB, against whoever did this to Bucky – he only hoped that if it came to it, there would be enough of Steve Rogers left in him to not hurt anyone who tried to stop him as well.
Natasha was at the scene, along with flashing blue and red lights and yellow tape and investigators. “Let me see him,” He said to the cops, eyes burning with challenge, and no one stopped him. Natasha started to say something but didn’t. Instead, she gave him a long look of concern. He ignored it in favor of the figure lying in a collapsed heap in the back alley.
He stumbled to the figure on the ground and dropped his shield and fell to his knees. He might have been 95 pounds and hypothermic again with how much he trembled when he moved Bucky’s half-blasted head against his chest and cradled his limp body. “Hey, Buck.” Steve whispered, pressed his face into Bucky’s hair, and inhaled the scent of lavender oil and copper. Blood was still flowing freely out of Bucky’s head and soaking through Steve’s uniform until his whole chest felt warm. “You’re ridiculous, keeping me from freezing to death even now.” He chided. If he suspended disbelief, he could see Bucky’s chest rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing.
He ran a hand through Bucky’s hair, smoothing away the blood-matted strands so he could lay a kiss on his forehead, careful to skirt the gaping wound. It tasted of blood. “Who did this to you?” He asked with his lips pressed to Bucky’s forehead. “Hey, you can tell me. I can kick asses better than you now.” Some irrational part of him listened for Bucky’s answer while Bucky stared at him with unseeing eyes and a bloody hole in his head. “That’s fine, we can just enjoy each other’s company.” Steve shifted to sit against a wall with Bucky’s head in his lap and spent the next part of forever stroking his cheek and gingerly pushing brain matter back into his head. He stayed like that until Bucky was cold to the touch.
Eventually, Natasha approached them with light, measured steps, crouched down, and placed an arm across Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you home,” She said.
Steve pulled Bucky’s eyelids over his dead eyes and mentally said goodbye. Then he wasted no time grabbing his shield and asked, “How did he die?”
Natasha tightened her grip on his shoulder. “Bullet to the lower brain, instantaneous death. He wouldn’t have felt pain.” She tried to pull him up. “We should go.”
“No, who?”
“Steve, there are professional pathologists and investigators here who can find out.” She stroked her hand down his hunched back. “The best thing you can do right now is let them take care of him.”
“I’ll stay with him until they do.” He settled Bucky on the ground and prepared to stand stand sentinel for the rest of the night.
“Steve, at least be here for his funeral.” Steve only grunted in acknowledgement and held on tighter to his shield. “Steve…” Natasha leaned against him heavily, and there was tenseness in the air. Steve looked over and could see her slight frown and pursed lips as she debated her next words. “I know who killed him. There’s no one to fight”
Steve didn’t get it, or rather, he didn’t want to get it, but Natasha was good at destroying liars at their own game, and she reserved no mercy for him. “I thought Barnes was off and followed him, but I couldn’t stop him before he pulled the trigger.” When Steve’s eyes were still a glassy haze of denial, she added, voice soft, “He shot himself.”
“Oh.” He said it like he used to say it when feverish to the point of hallucination and waiting to die. Oh. Steve collapsed into a boneless heap and felt the hastily stitched together revenge plans that barely held him together get ripped out. The shield slipped out of his hands and hit the ground ringing. Unsteadily, he climbed to his feet again, pushed Natasha away, and stumbled towards somewhere - anywhere as long as it was away.
Eventually, he found himself at a liquor store.
*
Some day after that, Natasha walked in on Steve sitting in a nest of bottles both unopened and empty and looking into the barrel of a gun.
She paused at the entrance to his apartment with her hand frozen on the door handle. She blinked and said, slowly and cautiously, the way she would to the Hulk, “Hey, big guy, I don’t think the serum can heal that.”
Steve flicked his eyes from the gun to her. He knew what he looks like – eyes red from crying, spilled alcohol on his shirt, a bruise on his cheekbones and a black eye from when he started a fight and for once didn’t fight back. A bottle of alcohol in his left hand and a gun in his right, held at his own head, pointing right where the bullet blasted through Bucky’s.
“It’s not what it looks like,” He said, voice brittle and yet still more intact that most of himself. It’s not. It wasn’t an unhealthy coping method or depression or losing it or him wanting to die without Bucky in his life. It was just… punishment.
Natasha stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She raised an eyebrow, not at all convinced and for good reason. “What is this then?”
Steve shrugged. “You’re right. He wouldn’t want me to die, not when he – he -” His voice broke, and tears were again stumbling down the well-traced tracks on his face. The words “not when he killed himself to get away from me and my ridiculous expectations” drowned in his throat.
Steve takes a drink for being too cowardly to say the truth.
He wondered if the serum sped up tear production too. With shaking hands, he moved the gun to point into his thigh at the femoral artery. “You should – l-leave. Shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
She ignored the suggestion and took a cushion from the couch, set it on the ground in front of him, and sat on it with crossed legs. “Steve, will you give me the gun and talk to me?” Slowly, she placed her hands in front of her, palms up. Meet me halfway, the action telegraphed. He hated her for reminding him of how he didn't even do that for Bucky.
His head is throbbing now, and he's puked twice, but the game isn't over yet. He drinks again.
He shook his head, and the moisture in his eyes wobbled in complaint. She didn’t understand. How could he explain that he was searching for forgiveness from a dead man?
“Steve -“
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Steve stared into the bottle, and it blurred into something formless as more tears welled up. He wouldn’t mind being small again. Small enough to plunge into the bottle and drown, this time with fire instead of ice searing his lungs.
“We can talk about something else. There’s a camp nearby for children whose parents are in the military; the kids will love it if Captain America showed up. Or that retirement home on Oregon Avenue? There are a lot of vets there.”
“Natasha, stop. You don't understand."
"Then help me understand."
"I’m not a hero.” He paused to wipe his eyes. “Captain America helped save the world from HYDRA and aliens… but Steve Rogers - but I failed twice to save what mattered. I –“ Hiccuping sobs overtook him, and the gun clattered from his hands. Natasha took it out of his reach while he wrapped both hands around the bottle and clutched it to his chest like a stuffed animal. She asked, sounding completely sincere, “Would Steve Rogers like to go shopping for really tight pants to go with his shirts?”
"No." Steve didn’t think he could ever smile again, but he did.
“Will Steve Rogers let me be a friend and talk to me then?” Natasha grabbed another cushion from his couch and held it out to him. “Trade you for a drink.”
“Sure,” he said through a shuddering sigh, and it emptied his lungs of air and his body of strength. He took a deep breath in an attempt to fill himself up with something that wasn't suffocating before accepting her trade. Natasha shifted over, and they sat side by side, each drinking from a bottle and staring ahead of them at the wall honeycombed with holes and saying nothing. Steve couldn't remember the last time he drifted off into a companionable silence.
He broke the silence. “I found books and research papers in his room. On cognitive neuroscience, psychology, and… fucking electrotherapy.”
“Oh?” Natasha nodded and waited for him to continue. He didn't know if he could.
“And I found this.” He took out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Natasha. He focused on his feet while Natasha read and silently repeated the words scrawled in Bucky’s messy handwriting. He had memorized every word, and he knew the location of every tear stain – they were not all placed by him.
Steve, the letter began
I tried to be him one last time, and I couldn't do it, and I can't let you wake up to failure. I tried, I really did. I started getting some of his memories back, so I knew what he was like. I’m jealous, you know. He knew how to be happy, and he was so in love with you. I would have given my right arm to be him. I would have been happy pretending even, but the screaming gets so loud and angry when I try.Steve, are some crimes so great that you can’t smile without being punished?
I read a whole lot of books too thinking I could reprogram myself, but that didn’t work either. I found one of the machines they used on my head and tried that too, but I’m no HYDRA neurologist. I tried to find a HYDRA neurologist, but they all seem to be dead from thorough extermination. Look through the books and notes on my desk - you gotta believe I tried.
I know you don't want me saying sorry, but I've got a lot I'm sorry for. I'll keep it short and leave it to one. Sorry that I’m taking him with me. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he was ever coming back.
It ended with the name “Bucky Barnes” written and crossed out a dozen times before he gave up trying to be Bucky Barnes, and then, tacked on as a final thought:
:) Do you know that’s a smiley face? They don’t hurt to write. :) :) :) :) :) :) :)
“Oh Steve,” Natasha gingerly folded the letter when she finished. Her hand settled into a comforting weight on his knee. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
He does this to himself and finishes another bottle.
*
Some days or weeks after that, Steve stumbled back from a mission with plans to drink until he blacked out.
“Your boy Barnes was thorough,” Clint had said in the comms. “What?” Steve had said, too confused and shocked to say, “He’s not my boy.”
“He seems to be a great guy. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.” Clint had explained. “He sent Hill the layout and location of every active HYDRA cell before well, you know, and he even marked sniper nests for me.”
“Yeah,” He had said. “I’m glad someone appreciated him.”
Steve had been sober for 48 hours for the sake of the mission. He uncapped a bottle to start a new round of the game.
*
Today, Steve wakes up on the couch with a blanket wrapped over him. He thought he passed out over the toilet. The stack of mail on his coffee table has grown, and there’s also a note from Sam calling him heavy and reminding him to pay his utilities and eat the soup he left on the stove. Thing is, he now hates chicken soup – he hates anything to do with the word “comfort."
Steve shoves the blanket off and surveys his apartment. Empty bottles lie everywhere, and new holes decorate the walls. This is the way Bucky liked it. This is the way it should have been. He should have known to leave well enough alone.
His phone helpfully reminds him that today is Monday, two weeks since. Or maybe it’s three. Or maybe he spent another eternity passed out again. He dials Bucky’s number and pretends he can’t hear Bucky’s default carrier ringtone playing from his empty bedroom. Bucky’s default voice mail prompts him to leave a message after the beep. He chokes out, “Bucky, you can come home now.”