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“Hey, Bucky”
Clint walked past, unconcerned by the ex-assassin, despite the fact that Bucky had grabbed a knife when someone had entered a room behind him. Then again, he was likely used to it because of the company he kept.
Bucky, nodding briefly in greeting, returned to his book, or tried to. His mind was starting to detach, he felt like his thinking was floating behind his emotions, memories and senses - he could observe them, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t calm down, couldn’t-
He jerked his head around as another Stark Tower resident entered - Tony. Bucky was still on edge around him - though (under the careful supervision of Rhodes, Sam and Steve, who were unnecessarily babysitting the at-odds pair’s conversation) the men had cleared the air and apologized - Bucky for killing Tony’s parents (he was regularly reminded by Steve that it wasn’t his fault, but he felt like he needed to apologize for something in return), and Tony for trying to kill him. He was sincere enough, Bucky supposed, but Tony had trouble looking him in the eye as the inventor acknowledged his mistake. They had been tiptoeing around each other since - greeting each other with nods, Bucky agreeing to have his new Wakandan arm examined because Tony was incessantly curious, refraining from sending each other glares across the table, the usual I-don’t-trust-you-but-we-have-mutual-friends-who-lecture stuff - and neither had let their guard down yet.
Bucky didn’t turn, but he watched in his periphery as Stark stumbled in with eye bags so heavy he would have been charged extra by the airlines, clumsily smacking the coffee machine until his pitiful efforts were rewarded (mostly thanks to assistance from FRIDAY) with the bitterest coffee Bucky had tasted - and he was a soldier in the 1940s. He thought that was as strong as coffee gets. Apparently not, as he learned the hard way a few weeks ago. Mildly amused, though no less disconnected from his mind, he watched the somehow-still-standing billionaire stumble into no fewer than two chairs, a fridge, and a doorframe; before he turned around to leave through the other door he had entered through. Bucky wondered when he had last slept. He also wondered how Stark was still alive - as Bucky knew all too well, coffee was only a temporary break from sleep.
Bruce padded into the kitchen next, in the Hulk-green plush slippers that he had apparently been given as a joke (that had gone soaring over his head). Due to the time of day, most of the Avengers were raiding the communal kitchen for whatever had stricken their respective fancy. Bucky wished that it was still three in the morning, as it had been when he first sat on the high perch (accessed by climbing on the countertops, or through the vents. And yes, it had been Clint who insisted on the construction of these niches) that day. He wasn’t sure if having people around was better or worse when he got like this. Eyes bleary with sleep, he turned on a kettle, unsurprised, as he glanced around waiting for it to boil, when he saw boots (Bucky couldn’t break the habit of always dressing in preparation for needing to leap into action at any moment) and a bionic arm cresting the edge of the sloped hideaway. Bucky liked Banner - he didn’t treat the infamous Winter Soldier as a monster, or a killer. To the scientist, Bucky was Bucky, plain and simple. Bucky found that refreshing, and guessed that Banner related to people walking on eggshells around him, due to his history of morphing into a raging, muscle-bound fighting machine. He was also one of the only tower residents that Bucky said more than a few words to.
Unaware of his (nearly imperceptible from an outside view) distress, Bruce gave a tired wave and walked out of the room of course he doesn’t notice, nobody notices, how are they supposed to see what’s happening to you when it’s invisible, it makes sense that they can’t, even if they somehow care it’s not like you deserve care, you take up too much space as it is -
Bucky couldn’t stop these thoughts, couldn’t do any of the exercises that Banner (thank god, he managed to convince the others that it would be better for Bucky to talk to him when he was comfortable, instead of forcing him to go to regular therapy with a stranger who likely would be constantly waiting for the Winter Soldier to come out of hiding) had given him for his thought spirals. He hadn’t talked much about this semi-regular happenstance (Sam had mentioned it in a conversation Bucky caught in passing, but he called it “dissociation”, which seemed like an appropriate name to Bucky, but English is an obnoxious language.) - Bruce never forced the POW to talk about anything, or to do anything he was uncomfortable with, which made it easier to talk about the littler things. He wasn’t ready for the big things, the heavy ones that weighed down his shoulders, that grew claws and teeth in the night.
In comes Sam - normally an observant person, but Bucky had noted that Sam was not one for mornings, despite talking a good game. The Falcon was dead to the world until he had what he called his “morning matcha”, which Bucky had tried, and spat out. Grabbing a jar and a mug (and nearly drinking horseradish instead, which would have been entertaining), he took advantage of the already-hot water readily available, and walked out in a mostly-straight line. Unfortunately, what Sam supposedly found an enjoyable morning ritual was disrupted, as evidenced by the shriek, stream of curses, and sound of a travel mug hitting the floor. The elevated tone and jarring crash sent Bucky into memories, into what you did-
“Белый Волк?”
The sole resident of the tower that could effectively evade Bucky’s detection had slipped into the alcove from the vents. Bucky was familiar with the air duct layout, but tended to avoid using it, his metal arm creating no small amount of noise, despite his best efforts. He wanted to speak. He usually could when he was declensioning - was that what it was? - which helped him to feign soundness of mind. Unfortunately, all the thoughts racing around his head took up too much space. He wanted to move. He did when he was discordant - no, that’s not right either -, but only when his body reacted out of instinct. Stupid often-helpful, uncooperative instincts. Bucky liked Romanov well enough - they had history together, though it mainly consisted of wordlessly seeing each other during her Red Room era, or attempting the neutralizing/murder of the other. But neither held a grudge over it, and they had a mutual understanding. She also was fluent in Russian, and, like Bucky, often reverted to it by default.
But Bucky didn’t talk, didn’t move. He felt like his thinking was floating behind his thoughts and turbulent emotions, in his body but just outside, not quite real but so real that it hurt, time passing sluggishly but seconds were actually days…
Of course it was self-contradictory. He doubted it would be real, be him if it wasn’t.
Trained eyes skimmed his unmoving and tense frame, his knuckles stiff around the hardcover, the coiled energy in his legs, his shoulders, ready to strike. His unfocused eyes, his quiet, regular breathing that came through his mouth instead of his nose like it normally did, caused his chest to rise and fall in time. She knew this language, this state. Considering her life, it was unavoidable to not have seen it in the mirror.
She maneuvered her way in front of him so he could see her, slightly decreasing his hypervigilant state. She didn’t radiate relaxation by any means - the opposite. But it loosened his trigger-pin muscles by a hair, knowing that there was an equally-vigilant ex-assassin nearby, who would clock any changes or threats only milliseconds after Bucky would.
Bringing her wrist to her mouth, she sent a quick message to Steve, without breaking the preestablished eye contact. Steve was skilled at calming the ex-HYDRA agent, given their history, but, ever the 30’s man (at least Bucky was skilled at computers and cell phones), he didn’t take any comms on his morning run. For what purpose, Bucky never knew to get away because he needs a break from you you’re too much work you’re not worth all of it he’s only still nice out of pity and guilt he doesn’t actually care nobody cares nobody cared you’re still alone you’re alone you’re alone you’re alo
“-cky”. Natasha wasn’t forceful, but she was firm. He appreciated that - Steve would coddle him and go miles to make sure that Bucky was comfortable (and a part of him was glad that he would), but that didn’t always help when he was dissembling dissembling? Really?.
Her hands hovered over his shoulder, waiting for consent before touching his arm human arm the one that isn’t still stained with blood and guilty of all the lives all the deaths all the kills all of them all their faces they were INNOCENT they shouldn’t have died YOU’RE A MONSTER YOU- The Widow saw that he needed the physical grounding and gently squeezed his shoulder.
“Тебя зовут Джеймс Бьюкенен Барнс, но ты любишь, чтобы тебя называли Баки. Сейчас 2025 год, вы находитесь в башнях Старка, вы свободны от Зимнего солдата, вы в безопасности, я здесь.” His name, the year, where he was, his mental emancipation. Everything that made it blatantly clear that he wasn’t there.
“помогите мне”. A small plea, in a small voice. “Help” was all he could say, but it carried all the gravity of “Save me from my mind, I’m drowning”, and all the other things he couldn’t say. He lifted his head with glistening eyes meeting her steady ones, and he doubled over, hugging his knees, back pressed against the wall, hair hiding his face from prying eyes. He felt broken. He felt small. He felt afraid. He felt tired. So goddamn tired, a bone-deep ache that comes from the restless nights pacing the empty halls, from his tired mind, from everything that he’d done, that he’d experienced, that ache in his chest that felt like it was spreading, spreading-
He felt lean, muscled arms wrap around TRAP him, felt hair graze his exposed VULNERABLE neck, felt the warm forehead pressing against his. He lost the remaining scraps of energy he had left, devoted to maintaining his waning composure, and sobbed. He knew that the others wouldn’t hear BECAUSE THEY HATE YOU because they were in their separate corners. He knew that other than the former Soviet assassins, Barton, on patrol since dawn (had the sun already peaked? How much time have I lost?) would still be posing dramatically on rooftops, mistakenly believing that this would remain unseen. He was WEAK safe.
I am safe.
He didn’t remember climbing down. He didn’t remember sitting while Natasha made popcorn and sandwiches and got sodas. He didn’t remember the walk to the mini-theatre (as opposed to the main and jumbo theatres, because Stark men never change), Natasha calling FRIDAY to lock the doors and intercept any calls that weren’t life/death, or the cheesy movie she insisted was essential to the century. He remembers a warm hand, a gentle presence, an ally, a friend.
Safe.