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“You should be getting ready,” Steve said accusatorily, arms crossed as he took in the sight of Bucky sitting on the couch.
“Relax, I was about to get up,” He defended, and after a look that made it very clear Steve didn’t believe that for a second, he left the room. Bucky rolled his eyes, though he did start to get up from the couch with a wince.
“Woah man, you alright? Get hit or something?” Clint Barton strolled into the room, taking note of the way his friend was moving like he’d recently been shot. Clint knew a thing or two about that feeling, people liked to shoot him with guns. And arrows sometimes, when he pissed Kate Bishop off (which was often).
“No, my shoulder just hurts. And my neck. And my knees, for some reason, which is stupid because —”
“Who’s your physical therapist?” Clint asked, crossing in front of him to plop down by where he just was on the couch. Bucky looked at him, confused.
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you not see a physical therapist? If you’re dealing with chronic pain, you probably should; I finally had to after the tenth or so time I got kicked out of a third story window. Or off a roof…”
“I’m not dealing with ‘chronic pain.’ My body just hurts all the time.”
“Chronically, one might say.”
“Alright, fuck you.”
“I’m just trying to help!” He defended with a laugh, as Bucky turned and started to leave the room. He called after him, “I’ll send Steve my guy’s number!”
Bucky turned around at that, raising an eyebrow. “Why would you send it to Steve?”
Clint looked at him like he was stupid. “We’ve known each other for a while now, Buck —”
“Don’t call me that.”
“And I cannot think of one single time that you’ve done anything to help yourself of your own volition. Guaranteed Steve loves you enough that he’ll make you go, though.”
“I’m a grown adult. You can send it to me.”
Clint was silent for a minute before saying, “I’ll send it to both of you.”
Bucky rolled his eyes and turned to leave again. “And I say again: fuck you, Clint.”
“Always good talking to you, Bucky!”
“Yeah yeah, whatever,” He called behind him, though he couldn’t hide the small amused smile on his face. Thankfully, his back was to Clint as he turned the corner and headed down the hall to get ready.
----------------
The date had been lovely. A beautiful dinner, a walk in the park, a perfect evening.
And it would’ve stayed that way if Clint Barton hadn’t decided to continue sticking his nose in other people’s business.
“Why did Barton send me a link to a doctor’s office?” Steve asked, tossing his phone face up on the bed so Bucky could look at it before turning back to the closet to grab his pajamas. Bucky just groaned out loud at the question.
“Because he thinks he knows better than me.”
“About what?” Steve turned back to him, an unmistakable look of concern on his face. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” He said, in the cadence of somebody who was very much not fine. Steve crossed his arms, and internally Bucky made a mental note to shoot Clint with a gun the next time he saw him.
“Wow, very convincing, good job Buck,” Steve said, and Bucky just rolled his eyes before moving to take his shirt off so he could put his pajamas on as well. Of course, the motion made the tendons connecting his neck and shoulder feel like pulled taffy, and he couldn’t hide his involuntary wince.
“Goddamnit,” He said, knowing there was no way he was getting out of this conversation now. “I used to be way better at not doing that.”
“Not doing what, taking your shirt off?” Steve asked, and Bucky stifled a laugh.
“You know what I meant, asshole.”
“I do,” He said, and his voice softened slightly as he crossed the room to be closer to Bucky. “Mo mhuirnín. How long has it been hurting you?”
Bucky sighed, resigning himself to the topic as he plopped down onto their bed. Steve sat down next to him immediately, a gentle hand on his right shoulder as he not-so-discreetly looked for signs of injury on the left.
And obviously there were signs of injury. Decades of scar tissue from being broken and rebuilt over and over and over again were going to leave a permanent mark. The skin around the socket where his metal arm attached to his body was warped, but it wasn’t the first time Steve had seen that. However, it was the first time that he’d seen Bucky in this much visible pain from it.
“It’s usually not that bad,” He said, as if he could read Steve’s thoughts. “Obviously it always hurts a little — my whole body always hurts a little — but it really hasn’t been super bad in a while. I think I might’ve strained something on our last mission.”
“Forgive me if I worry about how much pain you define as ‘a little,’” Steve said, turning his gaze back to Bucky’s face as he shook his head.
“I’m fine, Stevie. Seriously.” He turned to meet his eyes, and hoped to god that he’d drop the issue. “Clint’s just making assumptions.”
But of course, this was Steve Rogers. The man had never dropped an issue in his life. “If you’re in pain, even only a little bit of pain, all the time, I feel like that warrants concern.”
Bucky tried very hard not to let himself get frustrated. He always got frustrated in situations like this, where he felt like people weren’t listening to him. Where he felt like they were trying to decide things for him. And when he got frustrated, his communication skills went out the window.
“I said I’m fine. If I was concerned, I would’ve said something.” His tone was sharper than he wanted it to be, but he wasn’t yelling. He hated yelling at Steve.
It’d taken a long time post-Hydra for them to get to this point. For him to be able to understand that people cared for him in a way that was soft, that kindness wasn’t a threat. And unfortunately, he was still working on the idea that vulnerability wasn’t weakness.
If he admitted he was in pain, that he needed help, he was opening himself up to exploitation. Somebody could use that against him, to hurt him, and it was a doctor and he hated doctors and they were going to hurt him again and he wasn’t sure if he could handle —
“Buck? You there?” The sound of Steve’s voice and the feeling of him grabbing his hands jerked him back into reality, and he was surprised to find that he felt completely off-balance.
“Yeah.” His gaze was fixed on the ground, and he was trying desperately to sort through everything that was running through his mind.
“You were doing the staring thing again.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Were you having a flashback?” Steve asked, starting to move his hands away in case physical contact was the trigger. But Bucky just tightened his grip on them, keeping him near.
“No. Just… thinking.”
“Want to catch me up?” His tone was attempting to be lighthearted, but Bucky could tell that his slight concern was moving into something closer to genuine worry.
So much for having a relaxing evening.
“I don’t like when you guys try to go behind my back and convince me to do things,” He started. That was the easiest bar to cross. “I know it’s just because you care, but it makes me feel unsafe. I want to trust you and I need to know that I can.”
“Buck, I’m sorry. I never meant to —”
“I know, I know you didn’t. I just wanted to put that out there.”
Steve nodded, clearly letting him continue talking before he said his piece, which Bucky greatly appreciated. If he was going to have to actually sit down and talk about what he was feeling, he had to do it all at once. Ripping the bandage off. Otherwise he’d just flounder and talk himself in circles and say a lot without actually saying anything at all just to see if he could trick his brain into thinking he did, and that wasn’t productive for anybody.
“I don’t like doctors. Which sounds stupid and childish, I know, but I feel like you can understand why I wouldn’t be the biggest fan of the idea of going to another office where people are going to be poking and prodding at me.”
He paused for long enough that Steve knew he was fine with him speaking. “Do you know what a physical therapist actually is?”
“... No.”
“It’s not really a doctor in the way that you’re thinking ‘doctor.’ I mean, I haven’t ever had to see one —”
“Stop bragging.”
“But they’re a lot more laid back. Mostly just walking you through exercises, assessing more internal damages to your muscles and stuff that you can’t actually see. There’s not going to be any needles or weird machines or anything.”
The combination of those two things together sent Bucky back for a second, and he took a beat to stare at the wall over Steve’s shoulder before actually focusing back on him. If Steve noticed, he didn’t say anything, which was good because if he brought it up every single time Bucky zoned out like that then they’d never quit talking about it. It happened at least once a day, anymore. Something would trigger a memory and he’d have to let it wash over him for a second before he could manage to make himself move on.
Just one of the many wonderful repercussions of healing.
“I don’t like doctors, and I don’t like people knowing that I have a physical weakness.”
“Respectfully: you’re missing an arm, Bucky.”
“And my current one, despite the fact that I hate that it exists, is way stronger than the previous. So: not a weakness.”
“I know that it’s not a weakness. But it’s also not a crime to admit that it’s hurting you, and that maybe it’s gotten to a point beyond your control. You’re a human being, you’re allowed to admit when you’re in pain.”
Immediately, the programming he spent all his waking moments fighting against roared back up for a second to remind him that “the asset does not —”
He cut off the end of his sentence, catching the words as they left his lips and honestly very annoyed that his brain worked without his permission. Steve’s expression changed immediately, and it made Bucky’s heart wrench. He hated the look on his face when he accidentally did that.
It had happened so much in the beginning. Referring to himself in the first person was a habit that he had to build from the ground up. The asset was a machine, a weapon, and was to be referred to as such. And then time went on, and he healed more, and he understood that he was a human person with thoughts and feelings and the freedom to make his own decisions. It was slow-going, but referring to himself as himself, as Bucky, got easier and easier.
But that didn’t mean it was easy. That didn’t mean the programming just went away.
And part of him was so frustrated because in his mind, it had been so long since he’d been there. Three years was nothing compared to the seven decades he’d spent in captivity, but they’d felt like an eternity as he tried to wade through everything that had happened to him. Surely he should be rid of all of this by now, surely he should be fixed. Right?
“I’m sorry,” He mumbled, letting his gaze go to the edge of the bed where he had been worrying the corner of one of their blankets beneath his fingertips.
“Do you want to finish the sentence?” Steve asked, his voice so gentle. So much gentler than Bucky thought he deserved. So much gentler than Bucky ever thought he would get. “Would it help to get it out, I mean?”
Bucky considered it. And his mouth worked before his brain did.
“The asset does not feel pain,” He practically spat, the words emotionless and trained from decades and decades of repetition. Steve just nodded.
“Okay.” Steve took in a deep breath, and Bucky remained motionless staring at the blanket until he felt Steve put a hand on his thigh. Another deep breath, and this time he copied. He knew what to do with that. “Do you want to dispute that, or do you want me to?”
Bucky knew that he could. This was something they’d developed early on, a recommendation from some therapist or another, he could never remember. He’d seen so many at this point. At first it was just him and Steve, but at this point it had been picked up by most of the team. Whoever was around when he did it would ask, and either he would remind himself that he was human or they would.
It took him a long time to be able to do it. His mind would scream at him whenever he would, and it was so loud. So loud. It was still loud, but he’d gotten better at quieting it recently, at reminding himself that he could be more than the soldier he was designed to be. For some reason, tonight was different though. Maybe it was the vulnerability making his skin crawl, or the prospect of having to admit to himself and everyone else that he needed help. But tonight, he just needed to hear somebody else say it.
“Can you?” He asked, and even the act of making a request gave him some mental pushback.
God, their evening really had devolved.
“Of course, Buck. You’re a human being; you’re not an asset, you’re not a weapon. You’re allowed to acknowledge and admit that you are experiencing pain, and that doesn’t mean that you’re weak or you’re failing.”
Steve’s hand was still gently resting on his thigh, and Bucky let the words hit his ears and tried so hard to believe them. To remind himself that he was free, and he didn’t have to go back. He could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes, and he was once again overwhelmed with frustration that he couldn’t just live like a normal person. He couldn’t just have a relaxing evening with his boyfriend where they have one cursory conversation about something a friend brought up and then move on. Every conversation leads to a breakdown, every thought leads to further unraveling, every single moment spent in his own brain leads him closer and closer to complete mental collapse.
Everywhere he looked there was a reminder. He could never forget about it. He couldn’t just make a coffee or cut his hair or watch a TV show; he didn’t have permission. He’d never been allowed to do those things without permission before.
He didn’t even respond to what Steve had said. He just let himself fall into him, feeling so much of everything that he couldn’t even figure out how to express it. It had been a second since it had been this bad. He hadn’t referred to himself in the third person in months.
Steve rubbed his back gently, letting Bucky bury his head in his chest. After a few long moments, Bucky spoke again.
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that, Buck. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”
Bucky shook his head reflexively. He was breaking so many rules right now, Steve had no fucking idea. But he wasn’t apologizing to himself for breaking them, he was apologizing to Steve for making it his problem. “I don’t want to be like this.”
“Like what?” Steve asked, clearly trying to coax more out of him. And Bucky didn’t like that; he’d picked it up from their therapist.
“Can’t handle anything. Feels like everything is a fight anymore. In… my head.” The word “my” came out with resistance, and his brain was yelling at him that this was too much information. Nobody else needed this. Shut it down, put it away, it’s unhelpful and irrelevant and he was not performing the way that he was supposed to.
“Do I have to be the one to remind you that you are trying to unpack seventy years of brainwashing? You are fighting. It’s going to be a fight, because you’re fighting against the shit that they told you was true about yourself. But hey, look at me for a second, muirnín.” Bucky didn’t move from his arms, but he did tilt his head to look up at Steve. “None of what they said was true is. You are a human being. You are a good and kind person and they had no right to try and take that away from you. You’re so so strong, but right now I want you to know that you don’t have to be.”
It was the final statement that really broke him, that let the hurt radiate through his body in a way that his mind rarely allowed. He was still too emotionally overwhelmed to cry, but he felt himself shake slightly in Steve’s arms as the words overcame him.
He was good and he was kind and he was strong.
And he needed help.
“I’ll go. To the doctor that Clint suggested.”
He felt Steve pause for a second before he nodded. “I’d almost forgotten that that was what we were talking about, to be honest,” he said, his voice cautiously lighthearted. Bucky couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh, but he did feel an amused smile grace his lips for a second before Steve spoke again. “But I think that’s a good idea. I think it’ll help a lot, in the long run. And if you hate it you can always just leave. Nobody is keeping you anywhere you don’t want to be.”
“I can just leave,” He repeated, mostly as a reminder to himself. The concept was still so foreign to most of his brain.
“Anytime you want,” Steve said, and Bucky nodded against him. Everything in his mind was still so loud, it still hurt so much. But at least he knew that he wasn’t going at it alone.
“Do you want to get changed and we can lay down? We can talk about it more or just relax, it’s up to you,” Steve offered, and Bucky nodded again. They disentangled from each other so that they could put on their pajamas — a task that they’d both been in the middle of before his swiss-cheese ass brain had decided to ruin everything — and get ready for bed before returning to each other’s arms.
Steve moved to play with Bucky’s hair, his arms wrapped tightly around him as though he could make it go away with just an embrace. He was trying to protect him, always trying to protect him, and it made Bucky’s heart ache. He felt like he’d never truly feel like he was worth all of it. All of the emotional devastation he wrought, the destruction that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Not always visible, but always with him. Omnipresent.
“I’m sorry,” He mumbled again, the third time he’d apologized that night. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to keep doing it.
Nobody understood, that was the problem. They could learn, and they could listen, but they would never truly understand. There was no way to convey it with words, no explanation that would suffice to describe the experience of feeling like your brain was full of landmines. Like you were possessed but by yourself, like you didn’t feel in control of your own thoughts ninety-nine percent of the time. In his darkest nights he wished to go back, if only because there he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to feel the repercussions of everything that they did to him, he just had to feel pain and then blankness and then cold. Orders and pain and blankness and cold. Over and over. It was horrible, it was disgusting, it went against everything that Bucky Barnes as a person stood for.
But it was simple.
Nobody could understand brainwashing if they hadn’t been brainwashed. There was no way around it.
Still, Steve Rogers was going to try. To the end of the line, he was going to try.
“Buck. Please stop apologizing, love. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Bucky wished that was true. But he didn’t say as much. He didn’t even really think that he wanted to talk about it anymore, but words kept leaving his mouth because he felt he owed his boyfriend some sort of explanation. It’s just that there wasn’t one, and there never would be.
The pounding in his head compelled him to shut his eyes, and the spike of anxiety that came with the prospect of nighttime overcame him for a moment. Because night meant sleep, and sleep meant nightmares. Sleep meant nightmares or laying awake with his own thoughts for hours trying to stop his own racing mind. Either way, it was a bad time of day for him.
But Steve was here. He was warm and he was in Steve’s arms.
It wasn’t always enough. But blissfully, that night, it was.
So there was no explanation. There was just a hushed “I love you” and the plan to make a doctor’s appointment in the morning.