Archive of Our Own

    "'I exist.’ In thousands of agonies — I exist. I’m tormented on the rack — but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar — I exist! I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov 

It begins, probably, when Bucky gets his first cold in over seventy years.

He’s waking up one morning – habitually early as hell – and he immediately feels like something’s off. He shifts a bit to blink around the room, frowning at the ceiling. He’s thirsty, for one, and his throat is scratchy as all get-out. And his head hurts. And okay, he’s sore. Really sore. Is he hungover?

Bucky burrows back into the covers and thinks back to the night before. He and Steve both had wine with dinner, but that’s not enough to get him feeling like crap now, and it never was, even before his off-brand serum.

He decides to ignore it. He tries to go back to sleep, not really settling back into a dream, but dozing, floating in and out of consciousness, having half-dreams.

Some time later, Bucky vaguely feels Steve getting up out of bed, kissing his hair, and leaving the room to putter around the kitchen. Steve’s gone for a long time – or, at least it feels that way. Bucky can’t really tell. When he’s finally pulled from his half-dreams, it’s from the mattress dipping.

"Buck," comes from outside the sheets. "You hungry?"

It’s Steve. Bucky opens his eyes and immediately squeezes them back closed. It’s a lot sunnier in the room than it was before.

A few beats, then there’s a gentle hand at his shoulder. “Bucky?”

Bucky presses his face into the pillow where it’s dark. He feels like shit. "I feel like shit," he says.

He can feel Steve settle down on his side of the bed and lean in a little closer, rubbing up and down Bucky's arm. "Bad brain day?"

Bucky pokes his head out from under the covers and turns onto his back, shaking his head miserably up at Steve.

"What's the matter, sweetheart..?" Steve asks softly, reaching up a hand to move a piece of hair from Bucky's face. He then frowns, pressing the back of his hand to Bucky's forehead. "You're warm."

Bucky nods again, closing his eyes. "Feels like I got hit by a damn bus."

"D’you think you might be sick? I thought the serum stopped that."

"I have a knock-off," Bucky reminds him darkly. 

"Hmm." The weight from the bed disappears. "Be right back."

Bucky keeps his eyes closed, listening to Steve enter the kitchen and open and close a cabinet. The tap runs for a few seconds, then Steve walks down the hallway and back into their room. The mattress dips again.

“Sit up for me?” Steve asks.

Bucky pushes himself into a sitting position, groaning as what feels like all his muscles protest against the movement, and leans back against the headboard, taking a deep breath. He’s absurdly winded.

He tries fully opening his eyes and the light stabs into them again. He ducks his head, wincing. Steve stands back up and Bucky can hear him messing with the blinds. He gets back onto the bed and Bucky slowly lifts his eyelids. The room is dim. He looks over at Steve, who is holding a glass of water and looking very worried.

“S’at better?” Steve asks, keeping his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Bucky croaks. Steve hands him the glass. It’s cold. Bucky takes a long sip. The water helps with his throat, but only slightly. He hands it back to Steve, who reaches over him to place it on the side table. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Can I get you anything else?”

Bucky slips back under the sheets. “No, ‘m good. Just tired.”

“Okay,” Steve says, still sounding worried. He combs Bucky’s hair back from his forehead and presses a kiss there. He then settles down in his spot and fiddles around with something that sounds like paper. Probably one of his boring nonfiction books. Bucky slowly falls asleep to the quiet rustle of the pages and to the feeling of Steve’s hand stroking through his hair.

After several hours of moping around in bed later, all the while convincing a fretting Steve that no, he’s not dying, Bucky feels better – not great, but better – and good enough that many days pass without notable incident.

Nat drags them both to some Korean bar with – in her words – really good ribs and really bad karaoke. Bucky can’t help but disagree after he and Sam stare with a mixture of absolute bewilderment and awe as Steve and Nat sing some early 2010’s pop song whose lyrics the former frequently trips over and the latter sings like she knows Korean backwards and forwards.

Soon after, Clint invites Bucky over to watch a movie, and Bucky very quickly becomes stupidly enamored with cheesy sci-fi and awful special effects. Clint loans him a few of his worst offenders – and in fact because of their quality – favorites.

A couple days later Steve asks Bucky to go rock climbing with him at some gym he’s masochistically obsessed with. He unabashedly uses his ridiculously blue puppy-dog eyes to his advantage, and despite knowing this, Bucky yields. Because of course he does. He then beats Steve to the top of the multicolored wall, finally benefitting from the million or so years reaching sniping positions with an often-malfunctioning heavy-as-shit murder arm. Steve exceedingly reinforces his lifelong standing as the world’s sorest loser.

Bucky’s completely fine following the first two ventures, but the morning after their trip to the gym, he wakes up and his entire body hurts – really hurts. He can feel it in his muscles, in his teeth, in his ribs – in his fuckin’ eyelashes.

He very gingerly turns himself over, biting his lip hard to keep his breathing even, and slowly cranes his neck to look at the alarm clock over Steve’s shoulder. It’s just past three in the morning. Bucky sighs. He’s laying his head back down, resigned to toughing out whatever annoyingly recurrent illness this is, when Steve stirs and blinks up at him. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if Steve has some kind of sixth sense about the state of Bucky’s wellbeing.

Steve blinks some more. He frowns at Bucky’s grimace, quickly propping himself on an elbow as his eyes clear.

“S’wrong?” he slurs, voice rough with sleep.

Bucky smiles bitterly at him, doing his best to keep as still as possible. Steve’s now visibly alarmed, sitting up more and scanning Bucky’s body like he can find the source of his distress.

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers. For some reason he feels like if he speaks any louder, he’ll hurt more.

Steve doesn’t stop his search, grasping Bucky’s arm and beginning to lift it like he intends to clear the view of his vital organs. Bucky sucks in a breath through his teeth at the grip and Steve yanks his hand back like he's been burned.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes, eyes wide.

Bucky places his hand on Steve’s chest, over his heart. “It’s okay,” he whispers again. “I just pushed myself too hard yesterday. That’s all.”

Steve intertwines his fingers with the ones pressed to his chest and sinks back down under the sheets, peering dubiously at Bucky. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bucky assures him quietly with a squeeze to his hand, all while making sure his breaths are long and even.

Steve obviously doesn’t believe him, but he gradually relaxes and closes his eyes, brow still furrowed. Bucky, suddenly finding himself too exhausted to reassure him more, gets dragged back into sleep.

Bucky’s moderately sore throughout the following day, taking extra care with his movements around the house. Steve tries and fails to pretend he’s not watching him like a hawk. He also keeps yawning and blinking himself awake the whole time they’re catching up on their latest bad reality TV show.

Bucky lowers the volume and turns to him, frowning. “Steve, did you go back to sleep last night?”

“Yeah,” Steve lies.

Bucky gives him a look.

“No,” Steve admits, slumping a little bit. “I was making sure you were okay.”

“Steve,” Bucky groans. He carefully scoots over and leans into him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Steve replies, a bit defensive. Then his voice goes soft. “I’m always gonna look out for you, Buck.”

Bucky melts a little. "Punk," he mumbles, stealing a kiss.

"Jerk," Steve replies with a smile against his lips.

He’s fine – really. For a couple weeks, Bucky’s fine. Their overnight incident is nearly forgotten as the days go on, and everything’s fine. It was a one-time thing. He won’t push himself so hard again. It’s fine.

Bucky's just turning on the tap to rinse their plates when his phone goes off. 

"Steve," he calls. "You mind answerin' that?"

Steve jogs over towards the kitchen. "Nope. I've got it."

Bucky hums his acknowledgement, turning back to the sink and squeezing a bit more soap onto his sponge.

"Y'ello?" Steve says behind him. A pause. "Hey, Sam. Yeah, he’s washin’ up.” Bucky cracks a smile. He never thought he'd get close enough to Sam to regularly chat with him, but here they are. Damn him, he's just too likable.

"I don't know, I'll have to ask." Steve leans into view. "Hey Buck, do you want to go running with Sam before lunch? It's supposed to be real nice out."

Bucky thinks on it for a second. Is he having a rough day? He‘s been feeling great, actually – no phantom pains or anything. And it's been hot as hell. He could use some air...

"Sure," he says, resuming his scrubbing. "Why not?"

"Sorry,” Bucky gasps. "'M sorry."

"It's okay, Buck. It's okay," Steve tells him again, easing them both to the ground. Bucky all but collapses onto the dirt, gingerly bringing his legs in front of him.

Sam makes it back over to them. "Here," he says, unscrewing a reusable bottle and pressing it into Bucky's palm. "I got you some water. Only drink a little at a time, okay?”

Bucky does, relishing the cold in his throat and internally pleading his nausea to go down. His heart is absolutely pounding. It feels like it’ll beat out of his chest.

“What happened? I didn’t even realize how far behind you were falling…” Steve asks him over the deafening sound of his own pulse, laying a gentle hand on his thigh. His stupid puppy eyes gaze up at him so full of worry and guilt, and Bucky can’t find it in himself to lie.

“It hurts,” he admits, voice breaking halfway through. “It hurts real bad, Steve. I just- I couldn’t-...”

Steve presses his lips together like he’s mad at the air and the ground for him, and Bucky looks away. Sam’s now crouched beside them, frowning in thought.

“Your legs hurt?” he asks. “Does anything else?”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Everything.”

They don’t stay much longer after that.

On the drive out, Sam takes a look at his hips and knees and ankles but other than some grime from the earth, nothing looks amiss. Steve offers to massage the muscles when they get home but Bucky declines. He just wants to sleep. He dozes on and off until they get back, dreaming of his bones crumbling inside of him.

At home, Steve helps him slowly recline on the couch. He quickly disappears into the hall bathroom and returns after a short while with a small washrag, putting a knee up onto the couch cushion to lean in. He carefully drapes the rag behind Bucky's neck. It's cold, and Bucky closes his eyes, leaning back into it. 

After making sure Bucky’s legs are in a comfortable position, Steve settles down next to him and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, reassuring him that it's alright – that everything’s gonna be alright.

Bucky would normally resist the reassurance but right now it's more than welcome. He turns his head towards Steve, looking up at him. Steve sighs with a weak smile and moves his hand down to cup his jaw. He strokes his thumb over Bucky's cheekbone and all the sudden Bucky feels like crying.

"What's wrong with me?" Bucky asks, voice much smaller than intended. He feels so dramatic, but a quiet part of him really is… scared. He was doing fine. He was fine.

Steve looks like he might cry, too. He leans in and rests their foreheads together. "I don't know, sweetheart," he tells him quietly. "But we're gonna figure it out. I promise."

Bucky lifts his hand to rest over Steve's and breathes for a while. "Okay," he whispers.

He starts pacing himself. Odd to just now be feeling his age, but he supposes it can’t be helped. No more impromptu runs. No more rock climbing. He can do that. They can do that.

So they do.

The pain gets a little better.

Other things get worse. More often than not, Bucky lies awake in bed, unable to sleep.

Painkillers help, but only a little. Sam’s fancy sleepy time tea and melatonin supplements only make him feel loopy. Nat offers to teach him some yoga, but it makes his joints burn. ASMR creeps him out, reading is too distracting, and music is too loud.

Eventually, they try to knock him out the old fashioned way.

It feels good – it does – but the whole time he feels too hot or too cold and he can’t really stay hard so Steve can’t enjoy himself because Bucky’s not enjoying himself. Steve gets a lame orgasm out of it at Bucky’s insistence, but they call it off early and end up cuddling with a movie on instead while Bucky tries to hide how much his muscles are actually aching.

Needless to say, it doesn’t work. He nods off during the day, sticks it out until the next night to try again, but he still can’t sleep.

Bucky presses the cold heel of his hand against an eye socket and sighs.

“Please fall asleep,” he mumbles to himself. “You were so tired earlier, why not now?”

He does crosswords on Steve’s phone, trying again to sleep multiple times until his body finally succumbs in the early morning. Steve wakes him sometime after lunch, but he still doesn’t feel rested.

He….can’t really remember the last time he felt rested.

Life goes on. It almost starts to feel like it’s going to leave him behind.

Steve, bless him, does his best to keep Bucky sane. He’s been turning into somewhat of a homebody – which in turn is cutting into his social life.

“Ready?” Steve asks one evening, hugging Bucky from behind and pressing a kiss to his freshly shaven neck. “They’re almost here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles, trying not to smile as he finishes checking his hair in the bathroom mirror. “Give me just another second and I can play party host.”

Steve squeezes him briefly, then leaves the bathroom, blazer swishing.

They've tried to dress up, a little. For normalcy's sake.

Bucky eyes his reflection. Yeah, those eyebags aren’t going anywhere. He looks a little bit less like death with the way he scrubbed his face clean and the bun he has his hair back in doesn’t look half bad, so it’s probably as good as it’s gonna get. He follows Steve.

Nat’s already in the entryway when Bucky enters the room, kissing Steve’s cheek with a wine bottle in hand. Sam’s not far behind, plastic covered cake in tow. They clean up nice. Steve looks illegally handsome beside them, and Bucky feels a little underdressed in his – still nice, but pretty casual – joggers and sweater. He’s preferring comfortable clothes these days.

Steve’s made one of his ma's recipes that looks amazing and smells even better. He loads Bucky up a generous portion, gaze lingering with a sappy expression. He adores cooking for him, for some weird acts-of-service reason. Not that Bucky’s complaining.

Amongst the chatter and the oldies record Steve’s put on, Bucky sips at a small glass of the wine Nat bought. It’s a bit dry for his tastes, but good nonetheless. It’s been a while since he’s had a nice drink with friends.

Or such a big meal.

Bucky hasn’t really eaten all day, and he’s starving, but as he looks down at Steve’s food, he finds himself hesitating.

He takes a bite anyway, and it sits like glue in his mouth. It’s delicious. He can hardly swallow. Steve not-so-subtly awaits his reaction, and Bucky gives him a goofy and super-suave nod of approval. After Steve grins and turns his attention back to the crazy story Sam is telling, Bucky’s smile drops.

He wants to eat more. Steve was cooking all day. He pushes his food around on the plate.

Later that night, after Natasha and Sam are gone and Steve is dead asleep, Bucky vomits into the toilet.

He must still look green the next morning, because Steve frets over him until they determine it was the milk.

It’s the milk, then he suddenly feels ill after eating certain meats, and gets mouth sores after having certain fruits, and breaks out horribly after using shampoo he’s used for years. He can't drink alcohol anymore – it makes his face flushed and numb. Their wine glasses gather dust.

They adjust his diet, but he still has periods where he can’t really get himself to eat what’s left anyway. Steve becomes adept at making toast, and is more than happy to awaken their juice blender from hibernation, but Bucky often catches him sadly eyeing leftovers that only he himself has touched and can’t help but to feel just as guilty as he did that night of the dinner party.

One morning, Bucky wakes up to news that Steve needs to fly out of state on short notice for something Avengers-related. It can’t be helped, Steve says, but tells him he still feels a little bummed. They were planning on staying in and catching a movie they’d been looking forward to as soon as it came out, but he muses they can always see it when he gets back. Bucky’s half asleep, but he’s awake enough to smile at Steve’s ramblings and say it sounds like a good plan.

Steve leaves a little later on in the day, just like he said he would, leaving Bucky with a minty fresh kiss on the cheek and a promise to finish up in D.C. as soon as possible. Bucky tilts him into a real kiss, says goodbye, then watches Steve disappear down the street in Nat's car, leaning on the door jamb and waving with his best smile.

For the next three days, Bucky stays in bed.

Every trip to the bathroom is a big ordeal, and every pitstop at the kitchen is sluggish and futile, his appetite once again slim to nothing.

He falls back onto their bed after an especially long trek to the sink to refill his water bottle and breathes for a bit. How is his heart rate so high?

He turns his head so his cheek is resting on the duvet and considers trying to nap again. His hair falls in his face as he does so. It’s getting pretty dirty; he really could use a shower.

After spending way too long gathering motivation, Bucky pushes himself back onto his feet and shuffles to the linen closet.

In the bathroom, he sets his towel down on the counter and leans against it for a minute, catching his breath. He turns the shower head on, waits until it's hot enough to burn a little, then steps in.

Washing his hair is easy enough. He's had enough time acclimating to his lack of an arm that it's over with pretty quickly. But when he bends down to scrub at his legs, and he straightens back up, the room tilts. His vision tunnels, forcing him into a sitting position, where he tucks his head between his knees.

He breathes through it, trying his hardest to not throw up. When the rushing in his ears fades out, and his vision clears, he frowns at the porcelain.

That's never happened before.

He considers standing back up, but his legs feel like jelly, and he doesn't want to risk passing out for real and cracking his head open for poor Steve to find. He sits up and sighs, resigned to stay on the floor of the tub for a while.

A long time passes. Bucky's mind begins to wander. As it tends to. He thinks of his past, before the war, before anything. He thinks of his present. Of what’s changed since then. Bucky can feel himself sinking a little too far into dangerous territory. He thinks of the pain he's gone through. Of the pain he's going through now. Of this stupid illness. Whatever it is.

He watches the water swirling around near his ankles and gnaws on his lip, frowning. This stupid fuckin' illness. He can't even take a goddamned shower. And he can't have sex, and he can't exercise, and he can't eat, and he can't sleep. He frowns harder. He can't do anything, it feels like.

Bucky tips his head back and rests his head against the tile, screwing his eyes closed.

He lets himself feel pity, god forbid. Pity for himself, pity for his friends, pity for Steve. Jesus, Steve. He's been through so much too. And now he has to wait on Bucky nearly hand and foot. Bucky suddenly has a sinking feeling that Steve will get tired of it. He deserves better. Steve deserves someone who won't be such a burden on him. Who he can actually do things with. Who he can love without dealing with all this shit.

Bucky lets the water run cold, and feels something like unlovable.

Steve returns with a souvenir and an offer from Tony to poke and prod at him in his lab. Bucky only accepts the former.

While the topic is brought up, Steve admits that he would like him to see a doctor. Bucky refuses.

Steve offers to ask Dr. Banner instead. Bucky refuses again.

Steve mentions Shuri as another alternative, Bucky snaps at him, and Steve drops the subject. They put the souvenir on Bucky’s dresser, next to his medication.

“Maybe later, okay?” Steve murmurs to him that night as Bucky lies on his chest.

Bucky wants to say that he’s afraid of what the doctors could find. He wants to say he's afraid Steve will stop loving him if they tell him he’s broken. He wants to admit how bad it really is, so Steve can leave him and get it over with.

He swallows and replies instead: “Yeah. Maybe.”

The next few weeks, Steve is extra gentle with him. He can probably sense that he hit a nerve the other day, so in return he’s extra attentive.

Bucky starts to kind of hate it. The constant help.

It reminds him of when he first came home, Steve's friends walking on eggshells around him. Picking their words with extreme thought, like he’s dangerous, or like he wouldn't be able to understand them otherwise. More than once shooting him pitying looks when he would try and get back to normal, replacing their stupid brunches with his then-necessary nutritional drinks and trying to teach his remaining and non-dominant hand to write in English again.

Or like when he got his fake arm removed for good, when all the sudden people began to run to open doors for him and give up their seats on the train, going out of their way to grab his arm – startling the shit out of him – and lead him through the crosswalk like he's missing a leg too, all offering up the same damn guilt-driven and unsolicited oh-so-noble help.

Instead of bringing up his feelings to Steve before any resentment can form, he brews in it, letting it seep into his skin. He returns to it again and again, prodding at it until it's never gone in the first place. It’s starting to poison him – he can feel it – but he leans into the feeling, desperate to experience something other than a whirlwind of pain. It distracts him, and he welcomes it. It's horrible, and he knows better, but he lets it happen anyway.

And it’s awful, because Steve just wants to help.

He's feeling especially bitter one morning, and presses his face hard into his pillow as Steve fusses around the bedroom behind him. His legs are aching and beg for movement, so he eases to the edge of the bed and slides them out from under the sheets. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and takes a few deep breaths. He grits his teeth and begins the grueling process of getting out of bed for the first time in the day.

Steve hurries up beside him and begins to lift Bucky to his feet.

Bucky wrenches away. "I don't need your help," he snaps, probably a little too loud.

Steve leans back a little bit and retracts his hand, but otherwise doesn't react, eyes a little wide.

“I’m sorry, Buck, I was just trying t-”

"I don't need you trying to help me. I can get out of bed on my own, I'm fine," Bucky flings the covers aside, the anger seeping to the surface as he stands. "You need to stop treating me like a goddamn child who can't hold their own head up and give me some fucking space – I can't have you hoverin' around me 24/7 no more! I can't!"

Bucky rakes a shaking hand through his hair and sighs hard through his nose.

"I'm sick of it," he says, turning to face Steve, but not really looking too closely. He doesn’t care how Steve’s reacting – he doesn’t. "I'm not helpless! This isn't anywhere fuckin' near the shit I've been through, and I swear I can handle it by myself. Just... please leave me alone. For once.”

Bucky can see Steve clench his jaw. "Bucky," he says. "I never said you were helpless.”

Bucky brushes past him to grab his meds off the dresser and busies himself shaking out his pills with trembling fingers. “You sure fuckin’ make it feel that way, pal."

Steve makes a small wounded sound and follows him to the dresser. “Bucky," he says again, voice tight. "It's okay to need help."

Bucky laughs, loud and sudden. Steve flinches a bit. "Of all people to preach about acceptin' help," Bucky scoffs, changing out of his shirt with halted movements. "That's rich." He’s taking this too far. A part of him knows he needs to stop before things get out of hand, but another part of him really really wants to push Steve until he breaks. Until he snaps, and he yells and hits, and he punishes-

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Steve asks instead.

"It means just how it sounds!" Bucky sneers, heart starting to race with rage or fear or some mix of both. He glowers over at him. "You never let anyone fuckin' help you. You think you can do every single thing on your own, no matter how much it could kill you. Hell," he laughs, "you'd rather die than admit you can't do everything! You’ve always gotta fuckin’ prove yourself – prove your capability, your resilience, your strength that everyone fuckin' expects you to have. You just can't let anyone know you're weak, that you've changed. You can't admit you're not perfect, you can't admit you're not better, and you can't let anyone know you're still a worthless fucking atrocity!"

Bucky all at once realizes that he's screaming, that he’s crying, and that Steve has gone completely silent. His eyes are sad and so, so blue. He lifts his hands to cup Bucky's jaw, wipes underneath his eyes with both thumbs, and gently pulls him into a hug.

"I'm sorry," Bucky whispers. For yelling at him. For feeling so angry. For crying so much. For being sick. It’s all he can say. He can’t stop shaking. “I’m sorry.”

"I love you," Steve replies, holding him tighter.

Bucky hates that he doesn’t believe him.

Later, Bucky lies on top of Steve, face buried in his neck. Steve runs his fingers gently through his hair, so slowly that Bucky can tell he’s distracted by something. He lifts his head and looks questioningly into his eyes.

Steve just sighs, dropping his hand to his chest. There’s a few moments of silence, Bucky trying to search his gaze for answers, then Steve quietly speaks.

“I think it’s time to see a doctor, sweetheart.”

Bucky looks away, hiding his face again so he doesn’t have to reply. Not because he thinks Steve’s wrong, but because he knows he’s right.

“Have you tried losing weight?”

Bucky bristles where he’s perched on a paper-covered examination table. He blinks, looking briefly at a frowning Steve. “I’m not quite sure what that has to do with it.”

Across from him, the doctor raises an eyebrow, leaning forward so his elbows are perched on his bony knees. “Well, according to your chart, you’ve gained thirty pounds since your last check-up.”

“Doc,” Bucky says. “I was malnourished the last time I got a check-up.”

“Well…” he says again, glancing down at Bucky’s torso. Bucky bristles further. Sure, his stomach has gotten softer and he doesn’t quite have the most defined muscles at the moment, but he’s been a bit preoccupied. He’s still strong, it’s just almost like he’s been busy recovering from years upon years of neglect.

The physician luckily doesn’t press any further, looking back at his clipboard with a sigh. “That aside, there’s not much I can tell you, Mr. Barnes. Your bloodwork came back normal, urinalysis was normal… I mean, you seem fine enough. It’d be a bit hard to get all the way up here if you were feeling so bad, huh?” he asks with a chuckle.

Bucky can hear Steve take a forced deep breath and shift in his chair.

He sighs again. There’s a tense silence as the man flips through his paperwork one more time, then looks back up. “Well. You’re free to schedule a follow-up but I really do doubt that’ll be necessary,” he comments casually, getting up from his stool and tucking his pen behind an ear. He glances back from where he’s tidying up. “You need help finding the front desk? This place is kind of a maze.”

When they step outside the clinic and start walking back to their car, Steve is fuming. He’s going on about how unfair it is for anyone to dismiss Bucky like that, how he can’t believe a professional would ignore obvious symptoms – especially with a patient’s word. Bucky tunes him out for a little bit. He appreciates Steve defending him, he really does, but his head is complaining about sitting in such a bright waiting room for so long and he kinda just wants to curl back up in bed.

After Steve drops his keys while unlocking the door, cursing at them frustratedly, Bucky huffs a bone-tired sigh and drops his head against Steve’s back. He turns his face into his soft shirt and closes his eyes, giving them any rest he can.

“Bucky?” Steve questions, all the fight gone from his voice.

“Can we just go home?” Bucky mumbles into the fabric, exhausted.

Steve turns to place a warm hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. "Yeah, Buck,” he says gently. “Do you want to lie down in the back seat?”

Bucky does. He must nod off on the way, because the next time he opens his eyes, Steve’s setting him down on their bed and curling up next to him. Bucky tucks himself closer to Steve’s side and lets his body rest.

“Have you been exercising enough? You know, fresh air and some vitamins can really…”

“I think it’s at least partially psychosomatic, don’t you agree? Well, no, not that it's in your head, per say, but you said you’ve experienced trauma, correct? Well some say…”

“And you’re sure it’s not the flu? Have you tried this other vaccine? It’s new, and I must disclose that we… but from what I’ve heard…”

“I’m sorry, there aren’t really any more tests we can run. There weren’t any abnormalities either, so I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do.”

“Nothing? Absolutely nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Steve…”

“Sir, I’ll have to ask you not to use such strong language-“

“There’s gotta be more, there has to. Can I speak to your supervisor?”

“I’m afraid that’s not really-”

“Bullshit.”

“Sir!”

“Steve, please, let’s just… go.”

They're sprawled on the couch, Steve with his computer propped up on his stomach and his feet pressed against Bucky's thigh. Bucky's covered in a throw blanket, stroking absently at the skin of Steve's ankle. He’s feeling okay, all things considered, and he finds himself completely absorbed in the mediocre show on television. He’s been watching a lot of TV lately. Besides reading, or playing simple games on his phone, or browsing social media, he doesn’t really do much of anything these days.

Steve tilts into Bucky's view and peers over at him. Bucky half angles his head over, distracted and a little foggy.

"Hey, Buck."

"Mm," Bucky replies.

"Can I try somethin'?" Steve asks. His tone is light, but Bucky can immediately tell this is important.

Bucky mutes the TV. He looks over at Steve. "What is it?"

Steve closes his laptop and puts it to the side. He starts scooting closer and Bucky removes the blanket from his lap, tucking his legs up under him as he turns to fully face Steve.

Steve gets settled and rests his hands on his knees. "Okay. I just finished reading this article about pain similar to what you got and it said somethin' real interesting. Do you-" he pauses. "Do you mind if I poke you a little bit? There are some certain spots I'm gonna look for."

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Huh," he says. Steve’s staring, calm and anxious all in one.  It’s making Bucky a little nervous too. "Where are the spots s'posed to be?"

Steve lifts a hand to his own chest and taps just below his collarbone. "One here, one here…" he reaches behind his head and down his back. "Some here."

Bucky thinks on it for a second. Worth a look, right? He tugs his shirt off over his head and leans a little closer to Steve, lifting his chin ever so slightly. "Go ahead."

Steve smiles, small and fleeting, and smooths his hands up Bucky's sides. Bucky shivers, and smiles back. His hands are warm. Steve brings one of them up to where he'd first pointed at himself and starts gently prodding around. "Anywhere here hurt when I touch it?" he asks.

Bucky shakes his head. It doesn't feel like much of anything. "It feels like you're repeatedly pokin' me."

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, and shifts his fingers a little deeper into the tissue, pressing circles against various parts of the upper quadrant of Bucky's ribs. It's starting to get a little uncomfortable. Bucky shifts.

Steve moves his hand a small amount to the left and Bucky sucks a sharp gasp in through his teeth as Steve kneads into a certain bit of muscle that sends a shooting pain through his chest and an ache down inside his bones. Even when the pressure is gone, it leaves behind a prickling burn that pulsates just under the skin. Steve shifts to the other side and presses into the same area directly parallel.

Bucky instinctively flinches away as the same thing happens. "Ow, fuck," he frowns. "What the hell?"

Steve bites his lip and hesitantly brings his hands up to Bucky's shoulders. He lightly pushes his thumbs into some spots on either side of his throat and it hurts there too.

It hurts near the elbow of Bucky's arm, and down at the sides of his hips, and deep inside his inner knees. Steve gingerly turns him around and starts rubbing his thumbs into Bucky's lower back, and it hurts there more than ever.

"Fuck," he grates out. He's embarrassingly close to tapping out, feeling a bit ill. This is ridiculous. Steve's not even poking him that hard. "There many more?"

"Just a couple more," Steve whispers. He sounds like he might cry.

Steve's hands run up to his shoulders and nudge some points at his nape and his upper back that make his whole body tense up but aren't completely unbearable. His hands move downward and start searching around his shoulder blades, pressing just a little deeper. It gets really uncomfortable shockingly fast, and when Steve digs into twin spots beside his spine it's suddenly more than Bucky can take and he jerks violently with a cry.

"Fuck, stop, stop!" Bucky pulls away from the hands hurting him so much. They follow, and Bucky braces for more, but they only move him carefully into a hug.

"That's all, it’s over," Steve murmurs into his hair, holding him close and rocking them slightly back and forth. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. That's it, I promise."

Bucky buries his face against Steve’s chest, head suddenly and dizzyingly too blurry to think of much more than comfort, and clings to him like a lifeline.

Steve squeezes back just as hard.

Armed with new information, they visit a few more doctors. 

Bucky’s searching for footing, ignorant and terrified, fighting a monster he doesn’t even know the name of.

And then – he does.

Fibrositis. Fibromyalgia, in layman’s terms. Comorbid with myalgic encephalomyelitis and osteoarthritis and a million other long and freaky words that Bucky can’t make heads or tails of.

A relatively underresearched condition, as the doctor had admitted. She’d said it seems to be a label stuck on a group of diseases that no one can really discern. What that implies for Bucky he doesn’t quite know.

He stares at the floor, silent.

“And there’s treatment?” Steve is asking.

“Well, yes,” the specialist replies. “But it can’t be cured.”

Steve continues to ask questions, one after the other, but all Bucky can do is stare.

Chronic, she'd said. Forever. Who knows for how much longer? Another seventy years? Every single day of every single month of every single year until he finally croaks. On birthdays, holidays, vacations… Everyday, no matter what. He knows it’s true, but the information keeps sliding off him like a magnet of the same pole.

“Bucky?”

Steve. Bucky looks at him blankly.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks gently.

Bucky shakes his head.

Steve’s gaze lingers, but he eventually turns back to the doctor and puts on a smile.

“Thank you ma’am, really. It’s… It’s nice to know.”

“I can imagine,” she replies with an empathetic smile, leaning back slightly in her chair. “I’m glad you two can finally find some answers. Stop by the front desk if you’d like to schedule a follow-up.”

They do. Steve cross references their calendar while Bucky stares vacantly at a display of informative pamphlets. He recognizes the one for PTSD, the cover an older man in fatigues being pat on the back. There aren’t any on fibromyalgia.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks him.

Bucky just closes his eyes, leaning against him.

It feels…different. Bucky can’t tell if it’s a good different or not. Nat’s never heard of it, but Sam’s come across it once or twice, and Clint thinks his cousin’s mentioned it before. Sam says it can be spurred on by a major illness, or severe psychological trauma. Chronic stress, he said.

Chronic. Always with the always. They were supposed to be done with those. What a joke.

It is nice to have answers. He can name what’s been going on. Steve is becoming well-versed too. Allodynia. Tender spots. So on and so forth. Bucky has some fancy new prescriptions to add to the cocktail, but he can’t tell if they’re making a dent or not yet.

Recovery is slow, his now-regular doctor tells him. She has no idea just how true that is for them. Slow.

“Do I…” Bucky hazards one evening on their back porch. He has an ice pack on the back of his neck to waive off a migraine and heating pads on top of compression garments for his knees.

Steve peers over his book at him from where he’s curled up in his chair. “Hm?”

“Do you reckon I…” Bucky looks down at his hand, fidgeting. “Deserve it? At least a little?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, then Bucky can hear the chair creaking as he stands up to walk over. He kneels down beside Bucky’s seat and places a gentle hand on his arm.

“Bucky…”

He sounds heartbroken. Bucky risks a glance and sees that Steve’s eyes are filling with tears. Bucky cracks a half smile and wipes them as they fall. Crybaby. 

“Bucky,” he says more firmly, ducking a bit to make better eye contact. “Of course not. You don’t… you don’t deserve this. You aren’t being punished.”

Bucky presses his lips together, feeling all the sudden like he might cry too.

“Buck, is that how you really feel? Like this is your fault?”

Oh. Bucky is crying. He breaks eye contact, shrugging.

“Sweetheart…” Steve mumbles. He pulls Bucky into a hug. “You don’t deserve any of this. It just…happened; it’s out of our control. All we can do is meet it head-on, yeah? I promise, you didn’t do anything to deserve this, Buck.”

“I did, though,” Bucky chokes out, clinging to the back of Steve’s shirt, the one he wears when he wants to be extra cozy. “If anyone deserves it, it’s me.”

Steve just hugs him harder.

“You’re not the only one,” Steve tells him after a good cry and a slow shower. “You’re not.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, bundled up in the sheets.

Steve slides closer, showing his laptop screen. “There are thousands, Buck. All sorts of people. It can happen to anyone.”

Bucky bites his lip. Do they deserve it? There’s a child smiling at the camera on the website Steve has pulled up. No, they… They don’t deserve it.

“It’s not fair,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve settles further into bed. “No,” he replies. “It’s not. It’s not fair.”

Has anything that’s happened to them been fair? He doesn’t think so.

They can’t really go back anyway, to a time where it might have been fair. No matter how hard Bucky tries, they can’t go back. That life is gone forever, and what could have been doesn’t exist anymore. It’s gone.

But…sometimes he wishes he could just go back in time and freeze it – maybe right before the draft. Right before it all went to shit. Would that be enough? How far back does it go? Was this his fate from the beginning?

Steve doesn’t really believe in fate, but Bucky kind of does. Is he right? In a way, could they have been doomed from the start?

Steve told him this just happened, that it isn’t because of anything, it just is.

Isn’t that worse? It having no definite cause? How else is Bucky supposed to go back and fix it?

…No. He can’t go back. They have to just… face it.

Bucky’s so tired of just facing it.

“I’m so tired,” he tells Steve on one of their quiet nights in. More often than not, their nights are quiet and in.

Steve smiles sadly and raises a hand to brush Bucky’s hair from his face.

They’re curled up in bed, neither of them in the mood to do anything productive with their evening when it’s so dark and gloomy outside. Besides, the rain makes Bucky’s legs ache.

“Me too,” Steve murmurs. Then, he freezes and adds, “Of course, it’s not the same, but-“

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I know.”

Steve just grins sheepishly.

“Want me to read to you?" he asks. "It’s about ten o’clock now.”

Bucky shakes his head. “‘M not sleepy. Just…tired.”

Steve runs a gentle hand through Bucky’s hair, looking into his eyes.

Bucky searches his face, hesitant.

“Um…” he starts, faltering. Steve waits. “I’ve been meaning to say something.”

“Hm?”

“I’m…sorry.”

Steve frowns in a we’ve-talked-about-this way.

“I know I don’t have to be, and I know you forgive me no matter what, blah blah… But I’m still sorry,” he says quietly. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow and gives him a look that reads, really?

“Do I even need to say it?” he teases, voice soft.

Bucky rolls his eyes fondly. “End of the line?”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Bucky does a little more research. He feels well enough a few days later to trek his way to the library, spending a few hours reading anything he can find, stubbornly plowing through the brainfog it gives him. He pokes around a bit more online, visiting some blogs and scrolling through studies, despite the headache that gives him instead. He’s getting a little sick of popping pain pills, but it’s no different from the other crap he takes, he supposes.

He considers a support group for all of ten seconds before shoving that idea right back where it came from.

He bookmarks a couple forums, and follows a few people on social media. He’s too nervous to post anything, but it…helps. A little.

When he finally works up the courage to interact with anybody, it’s under a picture of a woman that looks a little younger than him, uniquely aging experiences aside. She’s posing with a sleek metal cane. It’s entirely covered in stickers. The one that caught his eye is right under the handle.

It’s of Steve’s shield.

He has an anonymous account, so he feels comfortable leaving a comment. It looks…cool. Nothing like the pin-straight wooden canes he normally thinks of. He finds himself staring at the sticker. It makes him feel...good. Weird but good. He compliments her on it. He gets a notification later that day.

Thanks, she replies. Seeing it gives me a lot of strength – a smiley face.

That’s great, he comments back. In what way? If you don’t mind me asking.

Well, I’ve always admired him, she explained. A lot of people in the disabled community speculate he might have had some kind of chronic illness. It’s comforting to know a hero like him has that lived experience.

Bucky blinks. He’d never really thought of it that way. Steve was…Steve. There weren’t a whole lot of things he could otherwise be called back then, as far as his health went. It was just…poor. A weak constitution, some had labeled it. A bad heart, bad lungs. But never anything too specific. He’s better, now. A lot better. It’s all just part of the before.

That’s pretty swell, he types. Do you find that having a cane helps? I'm new to all of this.

He almost wants the answer to be no – not at the expense of her, but of him.

Yes, so much! I can’t recommend it enough.

Bucky puts his phone down at that, staring at the ceiling. A cane… Would that even work with his missing arm? Let alone the stares it might bring his way – although he usually gets those regardless.

Upon further research, he finds that he could use an arm crutch instead, to free up his hand.

He digs out Steve’s computer and searches for retailers online. He stares at a listing for a long time, then closes the page and puts the laptop way.

He finally tells his therapist. He hasn’t seen them in over a year, but he figures it’s probably past time to drag himself to an appointment.

At his mumbled concerns about Steve, they raise their eyebrows.

“Steve? The together-since-the-30’s Steve? The ‘end of the line’ Steve?” they deadpan. They've always kind of been his common sense filter.

“Well when you put it that way…” Bucky grumbles, crossing his arm and looking away. They would probably call his posture closed-off.

“James,” They say, fixing him with a look in his peripheral. “What has he ever done to make you believe in any way that he’ll get tired of you?”

Bucky doesn’t reply.

“...That’s what I thought. And has he ever stopped acting like he loves you?”

Bucky just shakes his head, throat tightening with unexpected emotion.

“Look,” they sigh, tone softening. “Sometimes we lie to ourselves and we think it’s true. The truth doesn’t matter; we won’t change our minds. But we can. Talk to him.”

Bucky finally looks at them.

They smile. “Maybe he’ll prove you wrong.”

He doesn’t do it right away. The inevitable weighs heavily on his mind. Obviously the two of them communicate. They always have. They want to stay together. Bucky honestly can’t imagine a life without him. But for some reason, this feels different. Like he’s already asking for too much.

The stress eats him up.

He’s hunched over the sink, bile burning his throat. He takes twice as long to move from the bed to the couch, stepping gingerly with aching muscles. His bones are a brand, his skin a bruise. He can’t hold onto a thought.

He breaks.

“Stevie,” he mumbles in the doorway to their study.

The man in question looks up from his desk without hesitation, putting whatever he was doing aside. “Yes, Buck?”

Bucky’s words get stuck in his throat. He feels hot tears fall from his eyes before he even realizes it.

“Bucky…” Steve breathes, standing and bringing him into a gentle hug. Bucky buries his face in a broad shoulder and sobs. Months of pain run down his cheeks in scalding rivulets. He can’t remember the last time he hasn’t felt feverish, even as his freezing cold fingers find their inevitable way to the back of Steve’s shirt.

They end up sitting right there on the rug. Bucky cries until he feels hollowed out.

He sits back, tears blurring his vision. “Can I ask you something..?”

“Of course,” Steve tells him softly, wiping them away.

“Do you still love me?” Bucky asks, dissolving halfway into more pitiful sobs.

Steve’s heart visibly breaks and he pulls him into another hug, holding him tight.

“I love you so much,” he replies, voice wavering. “Bucky, I love you so much.”

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky whispers, like a secret.

Steve holds him tighter.

“I love you. I’ll tell you as many times as it takes,” Steve says. “I love you.”

Bucky just cries.

He’s crying every day, it feels like. He’s never cried so much.

You’re in mourning, Steve gently tells him.

Bucky supposes he is mourning. His old life, what could have been… What’s supposed to have been. The explanation doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He’ll get over it, be okay for a few days – but it always comes creeping back. Like he’s remembering something he’s forgotten, a memento mori with every ache. It’s like an ever-present shadow above him, looming in its dread.

It takes a while for the shadow to lessen.

But it does.

He finds another social media post – the same girl as before showing off a new tattoo. Delicate script, across the top of her back.

I know that must have hurt! One comment reads.

Don’t I know it, she’d replied. At least I got to choose the pain this time. Smiley face.

Ouch, right on the stingray of pain. Kudos, someone else says.

After a quick confused search on the blogging website they’re on, the joke makes Bucky smile.

Thanks. It’s nice to have something positive right there, for a change. I think I like myself a little bit more now. A smiley with its tongue out.

Pretty soon, it’s Bucky’s birthday. He’s sick, just like he’d anticipated, but it’s easier to handle by now. He and Steve have become experts, just about.

“Maybe I should get a gig as a rheumatologist,” Steve had told him that morning with a cheeky grin.

“What, hero-ing not paying you enough?” Bucky had drawled right back, feeling lighter than he had in days.

Steve surprises him with a care package of all his favorite proven-safe snacks to munch on while they open presents. Their friends had respected his choice to abstain from any kind of celebration, but that didn’t stop them from sending gifts.

Bucky’s relieved to see the majority of them are unrelated to his health. It’s hard to feel like he’s got anything else going on these days. It’s nice to be reminded.

That being said, Steve does have one extra to give him, looking somewhat nervous.

“I saw it in my browsing history,” he admits, a little sheepish.

It’s an arm crutch. He can see signs of life all over it – some keychains, a few custom stickers…cheesy signatures like a high school yearbook.

It’s part of his health, but it’s a part of himself too. Bucky can’t find the words to express enough gratitude, so he just leans across the couch and kisses him.

That night, Steve kisses him more. His hands smooth over his skin, firm enough to avoid triggering his sensitive nerves. He draws moans out of him with wandering fingers. Bucky doesn’t need to finish. He simply rides the waves of pleasure, nuzzling into Steve’s neck as he tells Bucky with his body: I love you, I love you, I love you.

He thinks he’s starting to believe it again.

Bucky tentatively mentions the idea of tattoos one lazy afternoon shortly after. Steve seems interested, mentioning an artist whose work he’d been keeping up with.

A few short weeks later, Bucky cranes his neck a bit in the mirror to better see the crisp black wing – an insignia of a time long past – under his collarbone, his crutch propped up beside him. The design is near his sternum, right where it's tender. He skims the tips of his fingers around the edge of the tattoo and feels himself softly smile. It's sore, but in a good way. It looks really nice; the lines are crisp and clean, and the ink stands out on his skin.

He can hear Steve chatting quietly with the artist as he scoots up onto the chair and they crinkle around with some new cling-wrap. He's getting a wing too, on his arm, but for now the two of them seem to be giving him privacy. He flattens his hand just under the fresh ink and presses in slightly to feel his heartbeat. It's steady. Underneath his palm, his chest is expanding, breath coming in slow and deep, and he realizes he doesn't really hurt that much anywhere.

His collarbone, an area that gives him so much grief, looks beautiful. His smile widens.

Yeah. Yeah, he gets it.

His eyes flick over to Steve’s reflection. Steve’s already looking back. He has an embarrassingly obvious love-struck expression on his face, and Bucky can’t help but to laugh a bit.

“I love you,” Steve mouths, as if it needs saying.

Answering him finally feels like the truth.

“I know,” Bucky smiles.