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He lay in the bed, unmoving. Eons crawled past. A sliver of sunlight crept across the wall, marking the passing time. He stared blankly at the wall, considered getting up.
Sort of. More, he acknowledged the passing thought that he ought to get up. If nothing else, to close the small gap in the curtain. Get rid of that ray of brightness that didn’t belong in his room. If Steve had been there, he would have expected him to get up. Expected better of him. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t there, and there was no one nattering about seizing the day, or getting a move on, and he didn’t have the energy to force himself out of the bed.
Some days were better, but this was not one of them, and the fact that Steve wasn’t there was half the problem. His stupid, choked up little heart kept throwing up memories of Steve barging into their shared room, throwing open the curtains and nearly giving himself an asthma attack from the dust as he laid out plans for Bucky’s day off, when he decided Bucky had ‘sulked’ long enough.
Back then, when it had been simple heartbreak keeping him in bed and not the weight of decades of torture, made heavier still with the vivid memories of atrocities his body had carried out, he had thought he couldn’t wait for the day when Steve would leave him be. Now that Steve was gone, had chosen to leave Bucky behind, he hated himself for every selfish thought he’d ever had about wanting to be left alone.
All of that guilt tangled together and sat thick in the air, crushing him. He didn’t know how his chest could continue to rise and fall under all of it. It didn’t feel worth the effort to take the next breath, when the last of the air in his lungs had expelled itself. Seconds would tick by while he was too listless to even hope that was the last, but then his chest would rise again, an inevitable betrayal every time, no matter how exhausted his body was.
He didn’t understand how his body was managing to move that minuscule amount under the leaden weight pressing him down into the mattress.
He lay there for hours. Minutes. Days. He’d lost track of time. He wished he could go back to sleep, but his eyes wouldn’t stay closed — he’d slept too much lately. They felt gummy and his eyelids dragged across the gritty surface, long blinks breaking up the off-white monotony of the empty walls. He hadn’t seen the point of decorating the rooms he’d been assigned when he’d gotten there, and now he didn’t have the energy or will to try.
And honestly, he hadn’t really thought he deserved nice things to brighten up the space. It was right that there was nothing to distract him from rotting in the prison of his own mind.
Some days he wished he hadn’t been unsnapped, that he could have stayed free of all of this. Then he would feel even more guilty because that wasn’t fair to everyone else who’d be returned. It just reinforced how he deserved to be stuck in his room — abandoned by the one person who had sworn to see it out to the end with him — drowning in misery.
It was probably good that Steve had finally cottoned on to the kind of person he had turned out to be. It was right that Steve had left for a chance at a better life, a happier one. Sometimes Bucky hated him for that, but mostly he was glad Steve wasn’t there to witness him now.
At some point discomfort built in his abdomen. He told himself to move, but none of his limbs responded. The air was still too heavy. Or maybe it was his body. Maybe the fibers of his muscles had turned taffy, stiff, reluctant to move. Maybe the taffy had hardened enough to be brittle and would snap if he moved — he felt breakable. Maybe he was safer curled up on his mattress, unmoving.
A deeper sigh escaped through his nose.
His mouth was dry.
He yelled at himself, from the depths of his mind. Berated himself for being so lazy, so fucked up that he couldn’t even roll over. Yelled at his body for continuing to breathe.
He tried to keep his eyes closed again.
He commanded his body to move. His muscles knew that he didn’t really mean it, and continued to be uncooperative. He wondered how pathetic it would be if he couldn’t talk himself into getting up before his body committed another involuntary action. Would he even care?
In the end he managed to lever himself off of the bed and slouched towards the bathroom. After he handled the most pressing issue, he shoved his face under the faucet and took several swallows of the cool water.
He got as far as splashing the water onto his face in an attempt to wake himself from the stupor he’d been existing in, but if anything the fresh sensation contrasted with how awful the rest of him felt and made him feel worse.
Maybe he’d do better in the living room. Change things up. Give himself new things to stare at.
He collapsed untidily onto the couch, a crude approximation of his typical sprawl. His leg hung off at a weird angle, pulling at his knee. The discomfort wasn’t enough to overcome the inertia that had consumed him again. He let it hang.
His face was awkwardly mashed on a couch cushion, angled towards the television. He’d managed to pick up the remote from the coffee table; he held it loosely in his hand, pointed in the general direction of the screen, but was unable to convince his thumb to move to strike any buttons.
He imagined he was sinking into the couch with each heavy exhale. Maybe he would get lucky and it would swallow him.
He didn’t notice anyone come into his room until denim-clad legs blocked his view of the black screen.
He had heard the door open and close, heard the footsteps. Had heard FRIDAY announce something. His mind was just as rusted and heavy as the rest of him and none of it had processed to the obvious conclusion that he had a visitor.
He couldn’t ignore the legs though, and he managed a grunt of acknowledgement.
“Come on, shove over for a second.”
The effort it took to make space on the couch was monumental. It was good that Clint had somehow discovered patience, because it was several long moments before he made his first failed attempt to coordinate his arms into lifting his upper body. The second try was more successful and Clint quickly shoved himself into the spot, replacing the cushion Bucky had been using as a pillow with his thigh.
He dropped back down, still staring blankly across the room. He heard Clint sigh, but didn’t respond. He didn’t have a response. He knew he was being pathetic, there was nothing to say about it. He really didn’t want Clint to point out what he already hated himself enough for.
Clint must have understood that Bucky had run out of steam and didn’t ask for the remote, just liberated it from his lax grasp.
“Just tell me if you want something different,” Clint said as he clicked on some cartoon.
The cartoon was bright and happy and at complete odds with how he was feeling. The only saving grace was how low Clint had the sound, probably relying on the captions more than anything. Bucky closed his eyes against the fun colors and berated himself for being such a shitty host.
He wondered why Clint was there.
Sure, they’d had the start of something going on, before. Lifetimes had happened since then. For Clint at least, Bucky reminded himself bitterly. He’d been snapped, another five years of his life just gone. He should be used to it, having lived in time skips before through Hydra’s cryo chambers.
He was still a little resentful.
Not that what he was doing lately was anything you could call living anymore, anyway.
Shifting to give Clint space had put his leg even further out of whack, now he could feel gravity tugging uncomfortably on his hip. After several minutes of focusing on the discomfort and the full unforgivable knowledge that he barely had to move to fix it, just had to get it together enough to pull his leg up, he managed a pathetic twitch.
Clint, apparently attuned and attentive, leaned over and levered Bucky’s leg onto the couch in a better position.
“Better?” he asked. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to respond. Clint didn’t seem to mind. He ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair.
Clint should have been making snarky comments about how greasy it was. Bucky knew he needed a shower. When he had days like this a shower was as unobtainable as the moon, and it had been a long run of bad days.
That Clint didn’t comment on it, just continued his soothing strokes, petting him, was a mark of how pitiful he was. Clint had never passed up the opportunity to give him hell about his hair care routine before.
Bucky closed his eyes, but felt tears slip past the barrier anyway. The tears were effortless, unlike everything else lately. He felt vaguely disgusted with himself as he felt the rough denim material under his cheek dampen, but couldn’t talk his hand into moving up to wipe away the tears before they reached the leg beneath him. They continued to drip steadily, and Clint continued to run his fingers through his hair, occasionally scratching his scalp with blunt nails. The television droned on faintly, and Bucky eventually fell asleep.
He didn’t know how long he slept for, when Clint gently nudged him awake something different was playing on the television. An action movie, maybe. Bucky didn’t recognize any of the actors on the screen.
“Lemme up, gotta take a piss,” Clint said, as blunt as ever. He somehow managed to lever Bucky into a sitting position as he wriggled himself off the couch. Bucky must have lost time, it felt like he’d barely blinked before Clint was back in his field of vision.
“I’m going to start on some sandwiches. Why don’t you wash your face?”
“Why, something on it?” he muttered sullenly. He didn’t want to move, he wanted to sink back into sleep, but he didn’t think he’d manage without Clint’s fingers in his hair.
“Whole lotta scruff, if you wanna shave; but I think it looks good on you.” Bucky gave a half-hearted glare. “Super hot.” Now Bucky rolled his eyes and levered himself to his feet. Now that Clint had put the idea in his head he realized he did need to make a trip to the bathroom.
He glared at his reflection as he washed his hands. Clint had undersold his scruff. He hadn’t shaved in over a week, probably. It wasn’t a full beard yet, but it was definitely more than a little stubble. It looked like shit, he didn’t know what Clint was on about.
He scrubbed his nails through it, contemplating if it was worth the effort to shave. It was not.
Clint had two large sandwiches cut and stacked on a plate at the kitchen island that served as his dining table, next to a glass of water, and was working on making another.
“Those are yours. Eat up.”
He sat on the barstool, feeling heavy. He managed to get his hands wrapped around the sandwich half, forearms resting against the edge of the counter, so that it hovered above the plate, but didn’t bring it up to his mouth. He was still in the same position when Clint sat on the stool next to him.
“Come on, big guy, gotta keep your strength up.” Clint knocked his knee companionably against his and the tapped his own sandwich against Bucky’s, as if Bucky had been waiting to cheers before they started eating. Clint was several bites in before Bucky managed the first bite. The tangy flavor of whatever spread Clint had used seemed to trigger his hunger, leaving him suddenly ravenous. The sandwiches vanished quickly, but he declined another when Clint offered.
He drained the glass of water when Clint insisted, then watched as Clint puttered around his kitchen, tidying up behind himself.
“I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?” Clint stated, more than asked.
“Would it matter if I said no?” Bucky asked, not having any intention of asking Clint to stay away.
“Nope,” Clint said cheerfully and ruffled Bucky’s hair before he left. “Try and eat some dinner. I left something in the fridge that’s better if you heat it up, but you can eat it cold too, okay?”
With Clint gone Bucky didn’t see a point in staying out in the main room and went back to bed. He lay there, unfocused,mind drifting for a long time.
***
Clint was back, chivying Bucky out of bed the next morning. Bucky stared at him after checking the time.
“What are you doing up so early?” It sounded accusatory and a glimmer of guilt filtered up through the miasma of his emotions. He looked closer and saw that Clint was looking pretty rough himself.
“Just wanted some company,” Clint said, which wasn’t really an answer. Bucky wondered if he’d slept at all, with how deep the shadows under his eyes were.
“Not sure anyone would consider me good company,” Bucky said as he grudgingly let Clint pester him out of the bed.
“Better than the others right now. Cheerful bastards. Come on, pull on some clean pants and we’ll go get coffee.”
“Got coffee here,” he protested. He didn’t know that he wanted to face people.
“We’ll do a drive though,” Clint said, and Bucky thought he heard a hint of desperation in his voice. Maybe Clint just needed to get out for a bit.
“What do I need clean pants for then?” Bucky asked, but obligingly moved to his dresser to grab clothes to change into.
“You don’t want to get all prettied up for me?” Clint teased. Bucky ignored him and closed the en-suite door between them. When he was finished in the bathroom he let Clint hustle him through the compound to the beat up pickup truck he owned. No one tried to talk to them, a minor miracle.
They drove for a long time before Clint finally found a coffee shop, entirely in silence. Once they had the drinks Clint got back on the road that headed towards the compound but surprised Bucky when he found a shady spot to pull off and park. Bucky watched the dappled light dancing over the dash as the branches above them swayed in the slight breeze.
“Thanks,” Clint said after a while. “For coming. I just needed to get out. Drive around, clear my head for a bit.”
Bucky slanted a look at him, again taking in how worn down Clint seemed. He remembered suddenly that he wasn’t the only one grieving. Nat had been Clint’s Steve; of course the bare bit of time since whatever had happened on Vormir had happened hadn’t been enough for Clint to make a full recovery.
“How are you coping so well?” He regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. He watched the corner of Clint’s mouth tick up, a bitter grimace.
“Am I?”
“You been leaving your rooms, living your life. Better'n I’m doing.” Clint shrugged but didn’t respond. Neither of them said anything again, just sipped their drinks in the heavy silence. Clint finished his quickly, but continued to sit staring out the window. Eventually he put the truck back into gear and steered them back to the compound.
Bucky wondered if he had fucked up things between them. It wouldn’t surprise him, it was all he was good for lately.
“I’m sorry,” he said as Clint swung through the gates.
“Don’t be.”
***
Going out and getting coffee somehow gave him enough motivation to clean up a little. Not that there was a lot to do, it seemed someone was helping out in his outer rooms while he was tucked in bed. But the bedroom was on it’s way to becoming a biohazard area.
Bucky pulled off the sheets and left them in a crumpled pile at the foot of his bed while he tugged fresh ones into place. He cleared a few coffee mugs off his nightstand, wincing at the mold floating on the last swallows he hadn’t managed. They went into the kitchen sink but he could already feel himself losing momentum so he gave up on the idea of washing them and returned to his bedroom.
He stood, propped against the door frame, surveying the room for the worst offenses to tackle while he could before he realized that he was probably the worst offense. He stared longing at the bed but managed to shake off the inertia that was creeping back in and shuffled to the bathroom.
It wasn’t a long shower, but he did manage to wash his hair. He hoped the shampoo bubbles sluicing down his skin counted for anything when he ran out of steam and couldn’t scrub himself the way he knew he needed to.
He felt blurry and dull around the edges and he fumbled the taps off and stepped out of the shower. He made a cursory pass at the water dripping down his body with the towel but his arms had gotten too heavy to deal with his hair. He tossed the damp towel across his pillow and crawled naked between the clean sheets.
The rough cloth was rucked up and uncomfortable under his cheek, a thick fold pressing into his flesh but he was done. The air in the room was too heavy for him to shift under, to make even tiny adjustments for comfort. It was all he had in him to keep his lungs working against the weight crushing him to the mattress.
The discomfort eventually faded, numbness seeping in as he stared across the room, unblinking for an indeterminable amount of time, until, finally, he fell asleep.
***
He slept fitfully for most of the day, dipping in and out of restless dreams. He got up periodically to use the bathroom, once even managing to retrieve and don sleep pants before returning to the siren call of his bed.
It was late before he got up and left his room again. His stomach had been gnawing at him painfully for the past hour, keeping him from falling back into a doze. The kitchen felt like it was miles away and after he pulled a bottle of water and an unfamiliar container from the fridge he collapsed heavily onto a barstool. He slumped over the counter, cheek propped up with one fist as he flipped the lid open to reveal the food inside.
It was chicken fettuccine, and Clint was right, it would be better warmed up. He stared down at it for a long moment, before giving into the fact that the only way he was going to eat it, was if he didn’t have to stand, and reached for a slice of chicken.
He hadn’t thought to grab a fork before sitting, and he wasn’t going to fix that either. The food was probably delicious, but it was thick and ashy in his mouth, and he slowly chewed and swallowed a few bites. He couldn’t taste anything over the self-hatred over not being able to at least get a fork. It was beyond pathetic, and he was glad nobody was there to see how low he had sunk.
He managed a quarter of the box before it was too much effort to chew anymore; he wiped the sauce off of his fingers onto his pants and abandoned the box on the countertop, still open. The bedroom was continents away, but the couch was close enough to collapse onto. He buried his face in the back of it, unwilling to look at anything in the room, wary of catching a glimpse of his reflection on the black screen across from him.
He didn’t need to see himself to know how wretched he was.
***
Clint was there again, hand firm and warm on his bare shoulder.
“Time to wake up, sleeping beauty,” Clint murmured quietly, giving a gentle squeeze of his fingers. Bucky didn’t want to move, didn’t want to roll over and let Clint see his face, see — even more than he must already — how badly he was coping.
But Clint was insistent. Bucky felt the hand shift slightly as Clint knelt beside the couch, settling in, apparently prepared to wait. Bucky didn’t know why Clint was continuing to waste his time on him, but his mouth was too dry to form the words — he’d left his water on the counter, untouched.
“Come on, Buck. I need you to get up for me,” Clint cajoled. He ran his hand up and down Bucky’s arm in soothing motions. Once, the feel of Clint’s callouses on his skin had lit him up inside; now it was just a reminder of how broken he was. “The eggs are gonna get cold, and I know you don’t like ‘em cold.”
Bucky hunched his shoulders, tried to bury himself deeper into the cushion, escape the vise squeezing around his heart. He’d been numb before Clint had come; he desperately wanted to go back to that.
“Come on, babe. Get up for me.” And that wasn’t playing fair. When it was just about him, it felt, well not right, but acceptable, to let himself sink into the depths of his misery. When it was just himself he was hurting it didn’t matter.
“Buck, please.”
It was that soft, broken please that finally got him turning over to face Clint, Clint’s hand riding the movement to cling to the newly exposed shoulder. Clint’s eyes were bright, shining starkly against the red rim, but his cheeks were dry.
“I know it’s not fair, Buck. I know it. But please, I can’t lose you too.”
Bucky’s brow creased in confusion. Natasha was gone, Steve was gone, but Bucky, while useless in his current state, was right there.
“I can’t sleep,” Clint said, in a low tone that spoke of confessions. “Because I’m afraid I’ll sleep too long and you’ll be gone too.”
“I’m right here,” Bucky managed to croak out. It was a miracle Clint could understand through the rust flaking off his words.
“I know. I know it’s stupid. And it’s not your fault.” Clint took a deep breath and slid his hand down Bucky’s arm to lace their fingers together. He pulled Bucky’s hand to his mouth and pressed his next words into the flesh under his lips. “You feel further away every day.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he understood and didn’t respond. Tears welled in Clint’s eyes, trembling on the darkened lashes while he held onto Bucky’s gaze. When Clint’s eyes slid shut one spilled out and Bucky freed his hand to smooth it away. It was the first easy movement he had made in days. It had never been an effort to care for Clint.
Clint’s shoulders shuddered, but he didn’t make any noise as more tears seeped out. Bucky cupped Clint’s cheek, felt the weight of Clint pressing into his hand, and pulled him forward to press their foreheads together. Clint went easily, though Bucky imagined it was uncomfortable to be bent in half over the couch.
“Clint. I’m right here,” Bucky repeated. A gasp shuddered out of Clint as he broke and started to sob in earnest.
Bucky didn’t move right away, staggered by the depth of emotion pouring out of Clint, but eventually managed to move himself into a sitting position and pull Clint up into his lap. It was probably laughable how they looked; Clint was so much taller than him, but there was no one to see how Clint clung to Bucky’s shoulders, or how Bucky tucked his own face down into Clint’s hair.
***
Bucky sat down with a sandwich in his room and stared at it, trying to drum up interest. He had gotten it from the canteen, but in the time it had taken to get back to his room, his appetite had vanished. It was a little dull, but he felt proud of himself for managing the social interaction — and honestly, just leaving his room was a feat most days.
He almost hated to think it, convinced he’d jinx things, but he’d felt a little better the past few days.
He’d even managed to scrub his body and his room in a fit of spite, furious he’d allowed things to get as bad as they had. Somehow he’d managed to turn it into a challenge, no one, not even himself, was allowed to get away with telling him he couldn’t do something. And yeah, his shitty mental health had won that battle more often than not lately, and two in the morning wasn’t exactly normal for a spring cleaning, but he’d done it.
He’d even shaved off the oppressive beard.
But now the sandwich sat there mocking him. Maybe he’d just had too many sandwiches lately and should have gotten something else. He tried to think of what he might want to eat instead and remembered the alfredo Clint had left him a while ago.
He glared at the sandwich, wondering if it was pressing his luck to go get Italian and suddenly realized why the sandwich was so offensive.
He hadn’t been making sandwiches for himself to eat, Clint had been. Clint, who he hadn’t seen in at least three days.
Had he gone on a mission? Bucky frowned to himself. He didn’t think Clint would just leave the campus without giving him some kind of heads up — if he was even on the active roster, which Bucky didn’t think he was. He was pretty sure Clint had been put on bereavement leave after losing Natasha, and as that sank in, he sat wondering why Clint had stayed at the compound at all.
He knew he didn’t have anyone to go, but surely there was something else out there for Clint.
He guessed he should appreciate Clint’s choice, since it meant he was there with Bucky. Or at least, he had been.
“FRIDAY,” he called out and waited for the acknowledgement that she had activated. At some point early on in his stay he’d had a moment of pride, or shame, really, and realized he didn’t want anyone, AI or otherwise, actively monitoring his slide into despondency. “Has Cl— Agent Barton gone somewhere?”
“No, Sergeant Barnes. He had not left his quarters in fifty-six hours.”
And that level of overshare was why he’d set her to passive-monitoring in his quarters. Nonetheless, he thanked her, and thirty seconds after he didn’t say anything further she chimed to indicate her ‘exit.’
Fifty-six hours. He chewed on that for a bit. It didn’t feel right for what he knew of Clint. They hadn’t gotten far too in their relationship before, but they’d spent enough time together that Bucky knew he was restless, that he had an almost visceral need to move.
They’d spent a lot of their time sparring or shooting, or walking the streets with cups of to-go coffee fast in hand, because of that.
A sense of dread started to rise in his chest. He knew he wasn’t the only person in the compound struggling, but did Clint have anyone taking care of him? He felt shitty for not recognizing the prolonged absence sooner, and shoved his feet back into shoes before he’d really caught onto the fact that he was moving again.
Clint didn’t answer when Bucky knocked on the door.
“Can he hear me?” he asked FRIDAY, not bothering with the wake word in the hallway.
“Nope. I’d try the door if I were you.” He reached out and was surprised the handle turned easily in his hand.
“Thanks.”
Clint’s apartment wasn’t laid out too differently from his own, and he could easily spot Clint’s long body draped over his couch. His face was turned into the cushions, and he hadn’t moved in response to Bucky’s entry. He knew Clint could be pretending to be asleep, but there was no sign of tension or change in breathing pattern that he could note, and if his aids were out, there was no reason to suspect him of subterfuge.
Bucky watched Clint sleep for a few more moments, imagining the angle his neck was at would be hell later; he really was too tall for that couch to accommodate all of him comfortably. Why hadn’t he picked something bigger?
He finally moved his attention to the rest of the apartment and saw that it was covered in a light layer of detritus mostly composed of paper plates with half eaten food and half-empty cups. There were no arrows, or books, mixed into the clutter, which was what Bucky remembered covering the surfaces in Clint’s apartment before.
Looked like it was his turn to step up.
When Bucky woke Clint up by gently shaking the couch, the way he remembered Clint telling him, Clint only levered himself up enough to squint one eye at Bucky. He let himself collapse back face first into the cushion and his voice was almost indecipherably muffled.
“I can’t today. Sorry.” Bucky poked at his shoulder, undeterred by the way Clint hunched his shoulders, and kept prodding him until he rolled over. “Not today,” he repeated.
Bucky shook his head and pointed at himself, “My turn.” He knew Clint couldn’t hear him, but he figured he could work the context out.
“Just leave me alone.” The words sounded flat, but they didn’t sound sincere. Bucky stood his ground and after a short standoff Clint pushed himself into a sitting position and directed a weak glare at him.
Bucky raised his eyebrows and ran his hand up and down his chest a few times, asking Clint if he was hungry. He was surprised when Clint barked out a laugh.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s what you meant to ask.” He furrowed his brow and made the same motion, but much slower and only once. “But no, I’m not hungry.”
“What did I do?” Bucky asked aloud before catching himself and flushing. Clint huffed in what might have been another laugh and disappeared from the room, still shaking his head. Bucky waited patiently and was rewarded by Clint returning, still fitting in his second aid. “What did I ask you?”
“This the sign for horny,” Clint said, demonstrating before he sat back down. Bucky blushed harder this time, but he couldn't be mad at the mistake. When was the last time he’d heard Clint laugh? His amusement didn’t last long, sliding off of his face as Bucky perched gingerly on the couch next to him, unsure of his welcome.
“I don’t think I’m good company today,” Clint admitted.
“You don’t need to be. You don’t need to do anything. I’ll read to you for a while, then we’ll figure out dinner, okay?”
“Okay.”
They got themselves situated on the couch, Clint’s head comfortably pillowed on Bucky’s thigh and Bucky pulled up Life of Pi on his phone. He was surprised to see the app remembered his progress from before the snap — Clint had recommended it as one of his favorites — but as he skimmed a few paragraphs he realized he didn’t remember any of it and hit the button to return to the start.
While he read he dug his fingers into the meat of Clint’s shoulder, working out a knot. After a few minutes of listening to Bucky drone on, the tension eased out of Clint’s body, degrees at a time, and finally the air of guilt that had crept up, dissipated.
***
“Do you ever wonder why us? Why are we the ones left behind? The ones still here?”
Bucky had walked into the questions after returning from a bathroom break, and momentarily froze. He reclaimed his previous position as Clint’s pillow on the couch and took his time to consider his answer. He didn’t think the truth, which was yes and often, was what Clint needed to hear.
Clint didn’t seem to mind the prolonged silence as long as Bucky kept playing with his hair. It was still short, shorter than Bucky preferred his own hair, but getting a bit long for how Clint usually kept it.
“Why not us?”
Bucky had answers for that too, dozens of them. Reasons why anyone else deserved to be there in his place. But he held them behind his teeth. They also wouldn’t be helpful for Clint to hear.
If Clint came up with his own answers, he also held his own counsel.
***
Bucky’s run of decent days petered out, and Clint had been in to check on him four days in a row. He’d chivvy Bucky into eating a sandwich and then they’d share the couch for a few hours. It was nice, in a muted kind of way, to feel less alone while he was there; but the amount of time Clint spent taking care of him — and got nothing in return — kept growing, and Bucky’s sense of guilt grew with it.
“Why do you keep coming back?” Bucky asked when Clint started shifting, the subtle movements that came before he announced he needed to leave. He’d never known Clint to spend so much time still before; if he didn’t need to be still for a mission, he was always flitting from activity to activity.
Clint stiffened and his hand convulsed on Bucky’s shoulder, briefly digging into the bones before he got himself under control. Bucky regretted asking. He shouldn’t have been surprised his fat ugly mouth had ruined the moment the way it had ruined everything else.
They’d been sitting in silence — well. Clint had been sitting while Bucky had curled into himself on the couch with his head on Clint’s thigh. It had been comfortable, almost pleasant in a way things hadn’t been in a long time, before Bucky had fucked it up.
He levered himself upright, off his now rock hard pillow, and gave Clint some space. He was moving easier today too, he noted idly. Clint’s visits had kept him from sinking as deep as he had before he had started coming, Bucky realized with a start. He hoped he hadn’t just lost that tiny lifeline.
Moments continued to tick by while Bucky stared at a stain on his sleep pants and Clint stared at him, eyes a heavy, burning weight.
“Do you not want me to?” Clint finally asked, just as Bucky started to think he wouldn’t answer at all.
“I do. Just. Why? I don’t get — I’m miserable. Why would you want to be around that?”
“You’re depressed. If anyone has a right to be, it’s you. But that doesn’t make you miserable to be around. And I. It helps, having someone else to focus on for a bit.”
Bucky considered that. In addition to keeping him company, Clint had been making sure he ate at least one decent meal and had another available if he wanted it. Left to his own devices he had skipped most of his meals, or ate something that nobody would have considered a meal — a handful of dry cereal or lunch meat straight from the container — to ease the ache in his belly.
He wasn’t swimming in trash and rotting food because Clint — he was pretty sure it was all Clint — kept tidying things up. Making it so, when he did have some energy, things seemed manageable instead of overwhelming to the point where he immediately shut down again.
He’d been there, he knew how easily he spiraled when he finally had the energy to do one or two things but there were dozens of things that desperately needed to be taken care of. He spent less time hating himself, because of what Clint was doing for him. He didn’t deserve it and he didn’t understand why Clint was using his time on him.
“You coming by, it. It helps. But. You can’t, what could you possibly be getting out of it? Why waste your time on me?”
“Fuck, Bucky. What do you want me to say? I told you it helps.”
“But how?”
“There’s nobod— nothing else for me right now. The team doesn’t need me; if anything I’m more of a hassle than a help, and being worthless is exhausting.”
“You're not worthless,” Bucky tried to protest but he wasn’t sure if Clint heard him.
“Coming here, to check in on you. It gives me a reason to get out of bed.”
“I…” Bucky didn’t know what he was, really. Scared? Unworthy? Going to make it worse? Clint must have thought Bucky was going to ask him to stop coming; he was holding his body tauter than a bow string, and looked ready to take a blow.
Seconds ticked by as Bucky struggled to think of something to articulate. “I don’t—“ he started slowly, but Clint cut him off.
“This is the only thing keeping me from eating a bullet, some days.”
Clint shot to his feet after the words exploded out of him, enough violent force to rock Bucky back against the cushions. He began to pace agitatedly in front of the couch, hands gesticulating wildly.
“Shit! Fuck! I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t want— I don’t want to put that on you. You’re already struggling, and it’s a shit thing, and I’m so fucking s—“
“Clint.” It came out soft, tentative and unsure, but it stopped Clint in his tracks; his jaw clicked shut mid-word. He didn’t turn to face Bucky though, staring straight ahead at a patch of wall.
The silence stretched on.
Bucky wasn’t sure what to say.
He wasn’t trained in this kind of thing. He wasn’t in a place to help support someone else. Hell, he probably wasn’t far from fantasizing about the same damn thing.
He watched the muscle in Clint’s jaw jump.
“Clint.” Nothing. “Look at me.”
Clint turned slowly, reticence written on every line of his body. Bucky could see the shine of tears.
“I can’t be… Are you talking to anyone about this?” Clint bit out a laugh with a violent shake of his head.
The silence was back. It wasn’t awkward as much, as angular and painful. Clint swallowed hard repeatedly as his mouth twisted and he fought for composure.
Bucky eventually stood, and tried not to take it personally when Clint took a half step back — an instinctive fear reaction that Bucky hated even if he didn’t think it was anything to do with him specifically.
But when Bucky raised his arms up in a silent offering, Clint didn’t hesitate to wrap himself around Bucky.
“Please. I can’t. I need this. I need this. Don’t take this from me.” Clint was begging, strained whispers against Bucky’s neck, and he didn’t think Clint was crying yet, but he was. Tears dripped freely down his face as the idea of losing Clint, on top of everything else, on top of Steve leaving, sank in.
Bucky still couldn't find words, but as he held on tighter, Clint’s pleas tapered off. He hoped it meant Clint understood that Bucky needed him to stay.
They clung onto each other for a while; it was Clint who pulled back first. Bucky let his arms fall down, let him put space between them, and finally the feelings swirling through him coalesced into words.
“Don’t leave me alone.”
“I’ll be right back,” Clint promised. And he was, handing Bucky, who had sunk back onto the couch, a glass of water. Bucky was grateful for the water and the moment to collect his thoughts.
“I don’t want you to leave, but I can’t be your only reason, Clint. That’s too big.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Get help.”
“Like you are?” Clint challenged, but Bucky was too wrung out to rise to the bait, and he just shrugged. Clint chugged down his glass and then retreated to the kitchen to put it in the sink. He stayed standing, posture still a little combative when he came back. “I’ll do it if you do.”
“What?”
“No offense man, but you might need therapy worse than I do.” Bucky gave this due consideration. He didn’t really think it would help; what the hell kind of therapist was going to have experience with his laundry list of issues? But ignoring everything hadn’t really been helping either.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll go if you go.”
***
Bucky pretended to be asleep when Clint came into his apartment. Given that had never deterred Clint from visiting before, he wasn’t sure why he bothered. If he really wanted to keep Clint out he would have to either ask him to stay away, or have FRIDAY bar his current level of free access. He couldn’t imagine anything good would happen if he tried either of those things.
Because for all that he was reluctant to talk to Clint right now, he knew things would feel worse if Clint did stop coming around.
“Knock it off,” Clint said, demonstrating that he knew damn well Bucky was faking. “Keep trying to avoid me, and it’s going to hurt my feelings.”
“What feelings?” Bucky’s attempt at light hearted teasing fell flat when he rolled over and saw that Clint did look a little hurt. “You okay?”
“Just got out of therapy. Which, you know. Well, if you ever went, you’d know it can leave you feeling kinda rough after.”
And that right there was the topic Bucky had wanted to avoid. Clint had upheld his end of the bargain and been in therapy for almost two months now. Bucky hadn’t managed to attend a single appointment. He’d tried, at first. FRIDAY had arranged an appointment for him when it had been too difficult to sift through the options on his own. But the intake packet he’d been emailed was a solid twenty pages long and he hadn’t been able to get past the first three.
He’d canceled the appointment that same day.
He’d tried again, a week later, with the same place. He’d decided three weeks was enough time to get the paperwork sorted out, and set a new date. And he’d tried to get it done, piecemeal. An answer here and there. But then the next question would knock him sideways, crippling his ability to do anymore.
He’d had FRIDAY cancel that one the day before it was scheduled.
He’d felt too guilty to try the same place again, and it had taken him several days to tell FRIDAY he needed assistance picking out a new place.
The new intake packet was half the size of the first one. And it had a lot of the same questions. The easy ones, demographic information and the barest bones of his story were easy enough to copy over. But he kept freezing over ‘what do you hope to get out of therapy’ and ‘what is your biggest concern today.’ He couldn’t bring himself to commit those thoughts to paper, electronic or otherwise, and had sent the cancellation message that afternoon before Clint had shown up.
“I’m trying,” he lied.
“You still have your appointment for Thursday?” Bucky shifted and fixed his eyes somewhere to the left of Clint, who heaved a huge sigh. “Bucky.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just. Just. I don’t know. What was the problem this time?” Bucky squirmed guiltily again, before deciding to abandon the conversation and disappeared in the bathroom.
Clint was standing in front of the door with his arms crossed and an unimpressed expression on his face.
“I’m not a toddler, I’m not going to forget what we were talking about because you were out of sight for three minutes.”
“I didn’t think you’d forget. I was just hoping you’d let it go.”
“No way. Bucky, you promised me if I went then you would do it. I held up my end of the bargain, now its your turn.”
“I know. It’s just. It’s not like it’s going to work even if I did go.”
“It’s been helping me.”
“Yeah? And how’s that supposed to work for me? You’re normal; I can’t take pills to feel better like you do. I would metabolize the shit too…” he trailed off as he noticed the pinched look Clint had adopted, as if he’d bitten into something sour. He’d forgotten that Clint was sensitive about the antidepressants. “I don’t think that came out the way I meant it to.”
“No, no. Carry on. Don’t worry, as defective as I am, between the happy pills I shove down my throat, and the aids I shove in my ears, I’m more than capable of listening to the bullshit you’re spewing out.”
“Clint.”
“Don’t Clint me. You’ve been too scared to give anything a try, so you don’t know if it will or won’t work. Okay, so maybe the normal doses can’t do anything with your metabolism, but maybe they could adjust them, or you could take them more frequently. Or maybe you could actually show up to a session and learn some of the coping skills and not need medicine like the way my fucked up brain does.”
Apparently Clint had been holding onto his resentment about the situation for a while. Bucky felt stunned by the onslaught, and tried to parse through it. It couldn’t have all been about him.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you for needing the pills. I just don’t think they’d work for me.”
“Sure,” Clint sneered.
“I don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. Tell me again why you canceled another appointment.”
Irritation flashed through Bucky and he shouldered past Clint and made his way to the living room. If he was going to get lectured he might as well make himself comfortable for it.
Clint followed but remained standing in front of the couch, arms folded across his chest again.
“You look like you’re trying to channel Steve. Knock it off,” Bucky said when the silence stretched for too long. “Tell me I’m a fuck up already, and leave.” Clint’s expression softened, and he loosened his posture before kneeling in front of Bucky, close enough to touch if he reached out.
“I don’t want to leave. And I don’t think you’re a fuck up. Talk to me, tell me why you keep bailing and we can troubleshoot it.”
“Is it even worth it?”
“I think it’ll help. You have to try something.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
“It matters because you’re miserable. Okay? It’s been months Buck, months and half the days you can barely get out of bed.”
“What does it matter to you?” Bucky demanded, feeling petty.
“I care about you, you jerk.” Bucky barely managed to keep from reacting visibly to yet another reminder of Steve. He didn’t think Clint was doing it on purpose, but the fresh reminders felt like a slap in the face, and the accompanying grief made it hard to focus on the rest of what Clint was saying. “I think you deserve better than what your brain is doing to you right now.”
Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that. His own mind was split on the matter. Part of him thought he deserved as many good things as he could stomach to make up for all the bullshit he’d suffered through. But the rest, the biggest part of him, thought he should never deserve an ounce of happiness after his part in what had happened.
The universe certainly seemed to be sending him that message, some disaster following quickly on the heels of any short lived period of happiness. He knew it would make Clint sad to hear that though, so he didn’t want to say it.
“Talk to me. What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Um, walk me through from the start. You’re making the appointment, so that’s a good start. What comes next.”
“I don’t even do that,” Bucky admitted. “FRIDAY does.”
“Still counts. So, FRIDAY books the appointment. Then what happens?”
“The place sends over paperwork.”
“Are you filling out the paperwork?” Something in Bucky’s expression must have given him away. “Are you starting it? And getting stuck partway?”
“It’s just so goddamn many questions,” Bucky snapped, feeling defensive even though he knew Clint wasn’t judging him.
“Do you want help filling it out?” Bucky gave a shrug, eyes averted. “I can write down your answers if you want. Or if you don’t want me to hear the personal things, FRIDAY can. Or hell, Buck. Turn it in half finished. I’m sure you won’t be the first to show up with incomplete forms.”
“I guess.”
“Come on, you’re Bucky Barnes. You can do anything, you’ve got this.” Bucky grimaced and shrugged — he did not share Clint’s confidence — but he didn’t stop him from directing FRIDAY to call the doctor’s office back and see if the slot was still open.
While they were waiting for her to respond Clint reached out cautiously and rested just the tips of his fingers on Bucky’s knee.
“I’ll drive you,” he offered. “I can be with you every step of the way. Whatever you need.”
It held the echo of what he and Steve would say to each other, but it was just different enough to not hurt.
When he nodded his agreement a fond grin snuck across Clint’s face and he squeezed Bucky’s knee. It felt good to be the recipient of the affection and he smiled back.
***
“Why do you keep coming back?” Bucky asked again. He had asked dozens of times, any time he hit a rougher patch, and this was another one.
It had been a long week. The worst run of bad days he’d had in a while. He hadn’t even managed to get out of his apartment for his therapy appointment, but his therapist had agreed to meet with him virtually so he hadn’t missed it. He almost wished he had, he felt worse coming out of it than he had going in.
He was exhausted by himself, he couldn’t fathom how Clint was tolerating him.
He curled on his couch while Clint puttered around his kitchen. There were no clean coffee cups, which, Clint informed him in no uncertain terms, was a tragedy, given that Bucky wouldn’t allow him to drink from the carafe.
“Do you not want me to?” Clint called back. Bucky could hear how his hands stilled in the sink, with the way the dishes stopped clinking. It was the same response he’d given every time, like he expected Bucky’s answer to change. LIke he was just waiting for it. Bucky wasn’t sure how often they’d done this dance, and he was ready for a new tune. All of his moments seemed to be an endless cycle; something needed to change.
“You know I do.”
“Then I’m going to keep coming back.”
“But that doesn’t explain why. How are you not tired of it, of me yet?”
The water cut off and there was a gentle clink as a mug was set down. Clint was still drying his hands as he came into view, wearing a heartbreakingly tender expression on his face that Bucky didn’t know what to do with.
Clint dropped the towel to the floor, next to where he knelt, knees pressed into the couch, and he bent forward, letting his forehead rest against Bucky’s.
“I’m not going to get tired of you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“How can you know?”
Clint sat back on his heels and held Bucky’s gaze for several long moments, before he answered, “I’ve been in love with you for a long time, Bucky Barnes. I don’t see that stopping now. Definitely not over this.”
Bucky swallowed, throat suddenly tight. He found he couldn't speak, so he reached his hand out and Clint immediately caught it in one of his. He wondered if he should feel more surprised by the declaration, but thought back to how he remembered Clint’s favorite book and how he took his coffee after that first bracing undoctored mug. How he remembered the rhythms of Clint’s life — how he moved, the type of clutter he left in his wake — despite how long it had been since they’d shared a bed.
Thought about how everything always felt easier when Clint was there even when he was just sitting in the other room.
“Why do you keep coming back,” Bucky croaked out after a long silence. “When you could just stay?”