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Bucky just couldnt deal with it.
He'd dealt with so much so far but this was his tipping point. He couldn't live through constant battle anymore, it was like life was just throwing more challenges at him until he gave up. And he was so close.
Bucky couldn't even breathe properly, let alone fight.
The atmosphere was suffocating: encased in inescapable, acrid shrapnel and blood. Grenades detonated, billowing charcoal-black smoke from the ground and making it difficult for him to do anything over the plumes.
The only audible sound over constant flurries of gunfire and heavy boots colliding with soil were calculated orders and their hurried, weak responses. Messily, bodies and bullet casings were scattered and spread out across as far as the eye could see;as a result, the sheer amount outweighed any sense of hope or succeeding.
Bucky's side was completely vulnerable because of how unprepared they were for this brutal ambush by Hydra. Their situation was a perfect opportunity for them, and of course they took it. Because why not?
It seemed like they were almost always waiting for an attack, planning an attack, or being attacked. Particularly now, it seemed as though he just couldn't catch a break.
There was no way they would win and also no way they would back down: they'd been told that they would either fight and win, or die trying. That hardly left room for cowardice-in other words retreating to try to preclude more casualties.
Bucky was sheltered behind an unoperational tank, catching his breath after a particularly harsh series of blows from the enemy. His legs were folded in on itself and the rest of his body was pressed against the side of the tank.
There wasn't much solace or rest of any kind here but compared to everywhere else this was as comforting as when his mother used to softly sing to him when he was a child after a nightmare.
At this point in time, not even that could bring him out of this nightmare for long.
At least he could begin to think-preferably about his next move. To eventually stop panicking. Stop fearing. Stop shaking.
He knew that Steve would still be out there, fighting with irritating ease. Presumably, Steve would be effortlessly taking down countless hostiles and doing it better than everyone combined.
Bucky found it difficult to decide on whether the embarrassingly imminent loss didn't bother him or bothered him too much based on how hard he fought. Steve's determined attitude and strong willed mind resulted in him deciding on the latter.
Although he was strong and powerful-and almost in a way unrelenting-he still had a big heart, and an arguably bigger, stupider brain. The type that helped everyone else but not himself(or, unintentionally Bucky).
His theories proved themselves to be correct when he wearily poked his head out of the so called 'temporary' cover:Steve was there.
Front and center. Suit standing out in the crowd like a flame in the dark; its saturated, unmistakable logo, colours and shield a stark contrast to Hydra.
If Bucky wasn't so worked up in his current situation and the safety of his childhood friend, he might have allowed himself to admire how good Steve looked. Pushing through the danger with just a sheet of vibranium as protection.
He was unbothered by the amount of soldiers in his path, with unwavering movements in a quick and precise manner to stop him from being overpowered.
Bucky's eyes took in the scene, soaking up every inch of Steve. His ruffled, dirty-blond hair resting on dirty skin, making its way down to his steely blue eyes that were intimidating to most(but if you looked deeper and for long enough, they would render picturesque, with that hopeful glint).
Bucky almost envied how good he looked when he fought and his spirit to some extent because there was no way he could go back out there yet. Not in the way Steve could.
There was too little strength in his mind and fatigued body, especially compared to the Captain America.
He slunk himself back on the earth and doubled over, his hunched form meeting the sight of his hands. His calloused, mud and grime caked hands that were gripping a gun but avoiding using it at all costs.
This was the very gun that had seen him through all of his battles, killing more than he'd like to think about and saving his ass from being beaten to a pulp-or worse.
The weapon that mopped up all of the real messes on the sidelines and took all the actual shots meanwhile, Steve still had to fight, but, alternatively he got to look all heroic and innocent while doing it.
It's not like he ever took into consideration the blood on his right-hands conscience-it's not like Steve had to deal with this level of guilt anyways.
He loved Steve deeply in all senses of the word and didn't know why his mind was betraying him and being so hateful all of a sudden but the heroics and what was quite literally ignorance to all things bad or things unimportant to him was just starting to seem narcissistic(which he never, ever used to think of Steve as being).
He would never say anything out loud and even if he did, no one would agree, or care for that matter. It would seem selfish under the pressure of a fray that he himself wasn't contributing as much as he should to.
Bucky decided to snap out of it. Settling on the decision that there was nothing they could do:that these were just the cards they were dealt and Bucky couldn't be in the spotlight. And he didn't want that, did he?
He could've sat there in another jumble of bad thoughts and blurry memories for hours, but instead pulled himself back to the present, a cacophony of shouts flooding his system and deepening the reality of the situation and the insignificance of everything else other than the eventuality and finality of the fight ahead.
The noises were all coming from the center of the battlefield, right where Steve was.
Great.
It was as clear as mud what that could mean, however anything to do with victory was more than welcome.
He had to go, he had to get up.
He sucked in a heavy breath of stale air and stood up to look in his general direction. There was no Steve.
He must be covered by the endless swarm of the enemy, doing god knows what, pushing him to his limits. There were so many. How was Bucky going to do something if Captain America couldn't even save himself?
Bucky stood there motionless, frozen in thought like ice, occasionally glancing back and letting time pass. Only after a few glances was Steve visible:his piecing sea-blue gaze meeting Bucky's as if to condemn him for not helping. Although, the desperate spark in his iris spoke otherwise.
The somewhat familiar look spoke multitudes, like it was urging him to help. After a second of consideration and a pull of courage, he agreed. Bucky met Steve's gaze with a sense of determination, a promise, this time.
He struggled to put his rifle in a ready position:a mix of clammy and shaky hands were the cause for him fumbling. He locked his eyes to where he knew Steve was, biting back negative thoughts that swarmed his psyche.
He muttered to himself "He would do the same for you. He needs your help."
Bucky paced forwards, attention snapping sharp to the focal point of the area.
"He would do the same for you," He picked up the pace, almost stumbling over his feet in his hurry.
"He needs you."
"He would do the same for you."
He repated this like a mantra under his breath, however the words didn't compute to his mind because selfishly all he could concentrare on was how he could only think of battle.
Aside from these small moments of spiraling, he couldn't really think of a time where he let himself relax and think back to the past and, more importantly, the future. Bucky just couldn't imagine himself in either time frame. It was so weird.
It was like his mind was slipping away from him, just like he'd heard about. Bucky had seen so many stories of men coming home from war-including his father-and not being the same.
For example, when he had any specific goal or mission in mind for battle, it was all he could think about. Everything else would be pushed to the deepest corners of his brain, eventually overflowing and spilling out uncontrollably. Subconsciously plaguing all emotions and pulling him out of the moment.
His mind drifted back as with every step Bucky was getting closer to the fight. As the first few black-uniform clad men came into his direct line of sight, he felt as if he was giving up. He'd been brave and gone here to help, not for desertification.
This wasn't enough to deter him as it turned out, because when he was just inches away from the sea of soldiers, adrenaline hit. Confidence surged through him and gave that little push that he needed to continue.
He didn't bother wasting any more time.
Bucky raised his free hand up in the air towards the closest one and grabbed his neck firmly to push him and the others around him to the ground. Confused shouts and startled, pained cries rippled through the man's and without warning, soldiers began to break off from the group with furious snarls on their faces, fists and guns raised belligerently.
He used the neck of the action rifle to strike someone in the face and managed to get a few scrappy punches and kicks in before Steve was visible.
Steve's face was looking disheveled at best with at least 5 men surrounding his space and attacking him. It looked like they had a personal grudge the way they put so, such time and effort into hurting him.
One just smirked and played around with the shield as if it was nothing whilst Steve layed helplessly on the ground, held down. Bucky couldn't even play off just how angry that made him.
That was his best friend, his Steve. He had to use that anger to help him though.
As soon as he got the chance, Bucky tossed his gun out of his hand and threw himself at the shield. Wrestling with the man holding it, he saw that the element of surprise had made Steve's attackers loosen their grip in perplexity. Steve immediately bounced back and began to fight back against them.
Although the man was two times bigger than him and visibly a lot stronger, Bucky fought him off remarkably quickly and tossed the shield to Steve. He struggled to find his rifle when weaving through angry Hyrda soldiers, gave up trying, and stumbled up towards his partners side, making them stand back to back.
His nerves eased with each other's help and as the first few people that targeted them were either disarmed or incapacitated soon enough.
It actually looked like they had a chance.
"Thanks Buck!" Steve shouted behind his back, relieved.
His voice was even and happy; contrasting to his seamless fighting and the way he had just evaded capture and death mere moments ago. How Steve had hope and energy was beyond him.
He called back, "You woulda done the same for me." more to himself than to Steve. It didn’t matter that there was no reply, they simply fell into the more than familiar routine of fighting together.
But, after a while he grew tired and the lack of weapons wasn't finding itself that useful. The seemingly endless swarm of Hydra wasn't getting any easier to fight and he didn't know how many more he could take before he was subdued also.
Someone crept up and bumped into him, something cold pressing against his skull. Bucky backed up hoping to find Steve, but he was off to one side, fighting a few others-not behind him.
Shit.
Bucky raised his arms in surrender but didn't turn around. If they hadn't shot him yet, what did they have planned?
If he wasn't terrified to his core, Steve could have been there to shout to and save him. The amount of hostiles were finally thinning near him but someone made their way to his front, another muzzle of a pistol pointed directly at him.
The one in front either recognised him or had a shred of human decency or sympathy, when he looked towards his comrade silently to question what to do, how to deal with him.
Bucky couldn't do anything other than wait.
The gun behind his head shifted and he flinched to the side, eyes blown wide with pure panic. The one behind yanked him back while the other lurched forward, terrifyingly closer: he stared him down and lowered his gun.
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell if it would be better to move and get shot or beg-maybe if he didn't resist capture, he would be fine.
Suddenly, the deafening bang of the gun in front erupted in his ears. The pain didn't reach right away but it was obvious it was his arm that was shot. Shock overtook Bucky and he stayed still while the soldier behind pushed his arms down behind his back, bright red staining his left sleeve.
The man re-gripped his pistol and quickly slammed the side of it against his head, repeatedly. He did this until Bucky’s knees gave out and his face and body softened in a sort of unknowing defeat.
Bucky didn't know what they were doing due to his vision blurring and twisting. He desperately attempted to keep his eyes open, to blink away the weariness but he couldn't hold on for any longer.
✪✪
Golden rays of light filtered in through clear windows, casting onto the walls in soft lines and small rainbows, only shifting from its residence when the sun cowers behind buildings. The light, summer breeze carrying the sounds of children's laughter, their playful chirping carrying down the street. And refreshingly, the heat was just right for this time of day.
Two tall buildings towered over a new, perfectly straight path that led down towards a road and more buildings. Bright, blooming flowers sat in plant pots situated on painted windowsills.
Two boys, that were smiling, like every child smiles when they believe the world is that bit simpler than it actually is, made their way down the street-joking and talking with one another.
The smaller one on the right struggled to keep up with his friend, golden hair glistening with hardly concealed sweat. This and a tough expression on his soft, not quite grown into, freckled face made his company slow down.
He could feel his friends gaze, something mixed with understanding and pride. He reached his hand out, entwining his charcoal-stained hand gingerly with his friends before they turned the next corner.
The next street was familiar and so was the comftorble silence they lapsed into. There was almost a small sense of that recognition as Bucky saw(or most likely dreamed)this scene.
There were some teens-probably only a few years older than them-sitting and chatting on the bottom of a fire escape:the pair didn't really notice them, didn't pay much interest, but the others did.
"Hey!" One called out to them,
"Why are ya holding hands?"
His friends jeered him on and started to stand up and crowd around him. The blond felt his friends hand slip away, it didn't even occur to him to be shocked because of course he was affected by their lowly taunting. His best friends previously felt pride dissipated. Lodged in his throat.
"Bunch of fairies." One further behind muttered before glancing towards everyone in the group and making the unanimous decision to tred towards the two and move to a stance that meant nothing good.
They couldn't fight them off-they were too old and strong, with too many to even have any sort of a fair fight-they needed to run. But, they wouldn't leave without each other.
The smaller(quite literally unable to walk properly let alone throw a punch one)mimicked their stances with as much courage as he could. Unsurprisingly, all he received was mocking laughter and a half-confused, half-scared look from his friend.
Aptly, his plan didn't quite pan out how he wanted:they were attacked and superficially injured. They could barely fight back and they definitely couldn't run now. They were very much trapped.
Only when they both realised there was no way put and they would just have to endure it, get used to the fighting, did they give up.
Comparatively, the older boys only grew bolder, braver-hence the grazes and bruises forming. They kept repeating words and phrases that the pair didn’t quite understand but knew couldn't be nice, considering the tone.
To onlookers they might be empathetic, worried, might even feel as though it was merited. Bucky might understand them now(why people say it to some extent)and he might even say some himself. Maybe to convince himself, pretend he's normal. That he doesn't have those thoughts. Still.
In this vivid, dream-like state, he still felt deja vu, like he'd been there before, hearing those words that reminded him of the present.
He could now recall this exact incident, and even though they were just kids then and they didn't actually like him like that then, people's extreme hatred towards them. Yes, there had been many more similar, likely worse incidents(with intentions as they grew older and braver)and yes, they were likely a lot worse, this felt worse.
This incident deeply rooted the hatred in him, just like the very people that hurt him.
This memory-turned dream felt vague even though he'd replayed it a million times over, I mean it had essentially shaped how he saw the word, everyone around him, Steve, but more importantly himself. He had felt so guilty when he was the one who was attacked.
Bucky couldn't deal with being different, he had to see things the way everyone else did. Steve didnt agree with this mindset, he probably forgot about all of the whole ordeal, phrasing it as 'just another fight'.
Bucky remembered how that day in comlete clarity now: the pastor from his church down the street reprimanding the boys when he heard all the commotion and then helping Steve and him up when the teens ran away.
He innocently told the man the whole story while helping Steve catch his breath on the stoop of the church by the big doors. He recalled how the pastor's face twisted into one of disgust after hearing it, giving no explanation but 'fearing the worst' and sending them on their way.
He locked the doors behind him, believing that his 'values' had greater importance than helping some injured, confused kids.
They walked all the way home and he basically had to drag Steve the whole way to his apartment and then walk himself back to his own place. Bucky remembered how he was so tired afterwards. The blood on his nose had dried up and his face was just now starting to swell just like Steve's did, his legs hardly propping himself up.
He collapsed onto the hard floor as soon as he stepped into the threshold of his home.
His mother had patched him up that evening. She actually wasn't mad or judgemental like the Pastor, but she sure did talk to him.
A young Bucky was told that he was just confused, she said that she was aware he didn't mean anything by it, but, in the eyes of god and the rest of the world, it was a sin, very wrong and very illegal. He could get even more hurt and face prison time if he did this again.
His ma was gentle and understanding:he really wished her messages actually stuck with him into adulthood.
It made him avoid Steve for weeks without explanation then, made him even more confused. Although, not as confused as he was now.
Almost everyone reminisced childhood, but he felt he had a better connection to it. Everything was black and white then, good and bad. Just simpler.
Now, he could kill someone and be praised for it, when their only crime was that they were from a different country(Hydra excluded). Bucky was less doubtful then, happier, content.
All aspects of his life had changed, even Steve. And even though he had a weird reluctance to change, he somehow craved it.
He just needed something to be different. For good this time.
✪✪
Bucky's eyes pried open as he awoke. It took him a moment before his vision swam into focus and he realised where he was. He registered the warmth to his side and his eyes drifted towards it.
Steve was curled up on the floor by the edge of the cot he was resting on, gripping his hand as of that was the only thing protecting him.
Bucky’s bones ached, the fire in his left bicep screaming at him with each pained breath. His head pounded-thrashing in his skull, while his heart slowed down and relaxed with the comfort of Steve.
He was in a medical tent a few miles from the initial fight, receiving extensive medical attention for his wounds accumulated during battle(and the hidden ones he didn't dare tell anyone about previously).
"Hey Bucky,"
Steve smiled softly at him, reassuring him that everything would be okay.
For a second, for one fleeting second, he let himself believe that.
"You fell real hard back there and we had to carry you here so they could fix you up."
That's what made him start to worry. Bucky catapulted into a nervous state, wondering what was going on.
He tried to sit himself up to see what was happening, consequently causing all the limited remaining strength left in his fragile body to dissappear into dirt. Without Steve's steady, strong hand to ease him back down, it would've hurt like hell.
He explained calmly and firmly. To the point. "You've gotta be on bed-rest for now, but I'll stay with you. Don't worry."
Buckys eyes climbed up to Steve's bright and hopeful, sapphire-blue gaze. A lingering fatigue struck them this time, clashing with sun-kissed skin and sharp, defined features. His face complimented him in a way Bucky suddenly never noticed before.
He looked so much older than he should. Different.
"Is the fight over?" He asked.
"Yeah."
"Yeah," His voice sobered a little while he scratched his neck, embarrassed by the casual tone before.
"We lost a lot of good men. More than we should have, but, if we want to to look on the brightside:we beat them. I mean it was an ambush, we were outgunned, outplanned. We could have lost more so I guess we're lucky."
"It isn't all bad, ya know?" He added. As hopeful as ever.
All he came up with in response was a light hum of defeat as he leaned into his touch, grasping at his hand, not bothering to see if anyone was nearby or looking. He was injured, why not?
After a dream that vivid and eerily thought-inducing, any form of touch was grounding and more than welcome. Especially from Steve. It just felt right. He clung onto his smoke-stained hands desperately, unwilling to let him go.
Bucky gave him a curt nod and a tight smile, gaze shifting behind him, unfocused like he wasn't really there, like he wasn't present in the moment with his mind being so astray.
There was a telling look on his face:confusion.
"Watcha thinking about?"
What wasn't he thinking about?
Steve let him formulate his swarming thoughts into words for as long as he needed. There didn't need to be an expert there to notice how puzzled Bucky was. Steve noticed immediately anyway, like he always did.
"The war..." He answered, trailing off as if there was something else to that sentence.
Steve chuckled and ducked his head down. "Buddy, I think everyone and their mothers are."
"No, no.
It's because I just can't cope with it. I just keep getting confused for no reason, or-or scared, it's really affecting me in everything.
The shell-shock is too unbearable for me."
The Soldier let out a big sigh after he finished, his mind detangling slightly, easing the pressure.
Yes, it could pass as shell-shock but the shock rattled so deep into his body-nestling into his ribs and surrounding his face and neck, making his breathing laboured. It caused him to shake uncontrollably when he needed a clean shot, it caused his mind to buzz with thoughts that were never positive or helpful.
Like a program, inescapable and set in stone. He was just lucky Steve was engrained into him, his love overpowering anything new.
On another note, if this stayed with him for the rest of his life (like his father in The Great War)how would he cope? Bucky's brain felt as fried and far gone as a battlefield, filled with screams, explosions and white hot, sticky blood.
He had been forgetting so much and had been acting so differently that he began to wonder if this was a curse. A punishment for all of his sins perhaps? His version of hell?
After this war, what would be left of him? Of Steve? Of their relationship? Of his, and their memories;past, and future? If Bucky forgets things that happened to him months ago, what if he forgets new things, new experiences? What if he forgot this, this exact moment?
He slid his eyes back to Steve:Steve's face turned serious, but not without his sympathy, he looked just like a kicked puppy, he had the sad eyes and head tilt and everything.
"Aw, Buck." His voice and touch was so gentle.
"You know I'm always here for you, you talk to me, I'll help. You just want a hug, I'll be there. You want me to go away, I'm gone. No questions asked."
Wrong.
Steve was always on a mission or talking about a mission-usually with Peggy. Yes, he knew Steve was entitled to his own relationships and his own time but they were best friends(maybe more-definitely more a few years ago)and Steve had promised.
Bucky couldn't remember the last time they had a friendly, light-heared conversation without fighting or another person worming their way in.
Despite all this, Bucky returned a smile and let him continue, biting his tongue tightly and pursing his lips to keep himself from snapping. Steve should not be lying like this, it was against his code.
"Also, you still have the opportunity to go hone. You aren't required to serve anymore and no one would judge you if that's what you were worried about. I'm sure everybody would love to see you home and safe in one piece. Especially Becca, you know how she hadn't stopped writing you."
Wrong again.
Bucky didn't care about judgement, not in the sense of war that is-he hadn't even enlisted in the first place, he was drafted. And yeah he misses his sisters and parents dearly but they could handle themselves fine, Steve couldn't. He almost got his ass killed earlier and acted like it was nothing.
Additionally, as dumb as it may sound, he felt the overwhelming urge to attone, he craved to feel some sort of happiness from achievement or some direction in life. He couldn't deal with it all being for nothing.
Possibly, if he does this, it'll even out the scales from all the people he's killed or arguably worse, loved.
He really hoped this was hell because in his mind there was nothing worse. There must be something good waiting for him after tirelessly serving for his country.
Bucky drew himself out of deep thought for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
"Not a chance Stevie, you wouldn't last a day without me. You would be toast right now if I want there to look after you."
"I would say the same for you." Steve retorted.
"Yeah, only because you got yourself in so much trouble." He pointed out.
"Do you know what I find funny?" Bucky asked, his true smile showing in his speech.
"What?"
"That even though you are all super and tough now, you are still so, so stupid."
"Hey-"
"Nobody's cares how cool you look if you're six feet under. You are so muscular and able bodied, like we get it man."
Steve let out a chesty laugh and shook his head playfully.
"Jerk."
He was still smiling, still happy. They basked in the relatively calm moment for a few beats.
"But, seriously. Other than that you've changed so much since I left. I guess we both have in a way but I certainly didn't get that buff overnight."
Bucky held his gaze, eyes empty and icy, the joy he once felt, the love, lingering in the back, as if he couldn't reach it yet. As if he was just about to find it but gave up. The words he was saying were all jokes, while his expression remained somber.
"You couldn't even stay the same size and I was gone for what, few months?"
Steve let him talk, he was so sure Bucky could find himself again.
"You know before I shipped out I thought that in a few months this war would be over. I would be a little messed up but it'd all be alright when I would come home to you and my family. I would get a stupid job and we could live together like we used to. I could go on dates with girls, go to bars on Saturdays, church on Sundays, and stay home with everyone on weekdays after my shifts. I really believed that."
"What changed?"
"I can't always be like the people around me, I'm just not wired like tat, not hopeful like that anymore, not like you. It just never works out. Now I know better."