It hurt more than Bucky cared to admit, seeing Steve’s look of hope when they finally started talking about everything. What had happened before, what had happened after. What had happened during. It had broken Steve’s heart to have to tell him everything he had done when he was gone, see the haunted look in his eyes as he stared at nothing, remembering everything. But it hurt even more when he saw the familiar gaze of the man he had known his whole life look back to him, the same as he always remembered but somehow different in places, empty where there had been energy before. Steve hadn’t realized how much he really missed him until that moment, and it knocked the breath out of him and he sat there and stared at Bucky without words to give.
Bucky’s memory had come back in bits and pieces, never all there but never all gone. Bucky hadn’t coped with it well at first. He’d become closed-off, silent. Hardly communicating with anyone at all. Not even Steve. It didn’t help that they shared an apartment; to Steve, it was just more time that Bucky would be silent and more time that he felt absolutely helpless around him.
One night, Steve came home to find the place empty, and panicked for a few minutes before realizing that Bucky was an adult and he could go where he liked. It didn’t feel right though, brushing his teeth without seeing Bucky’s reflection in the mirror behind him, or going to bed without seeing Bucky’s silhouette in his doorway, mumbling a goodnight, one of the few things he said. Steve lay in the dark for what felt like hours, and maybe it had been, because when he heard footsteps in the hall outside and the faint jingling sound of keys, the sky had become considerably lighter so he was able to navigate his way to the front door without turning a light on. Heart pounding in relief, he watched as Bucky turned at the sound of the front door opening, his eyes unfocussed. When he recognized Steve however, he stepped away from the door opposite their’s and moved in closer, eyebrows knitting together in thought.
‘Where were you, Buck?’ Steve asked, his voice soft, wavering slightly. He didn’t realize it before, but he had been scared without Bucky. Bucky was the little spark of fire in the eternal winter and Steve had been cold for far too long. And he was starting to thaw, slowly, slowly, with Bucky’s flame. Without him, he’d be frozen.
Bucky’s eyes centred on Steve’s. He seemed to want to say something, but when he opened his mouth, his eyes dragged away and he walked past him into the apartment saying, ‘out’ in a sharp voice that he didn’t mean.
‘And you didn’t think to tell me where you were going?’ Steve hated how anxious he sounded. He closed the door, following Bucky into the kitchen. Bucky was too loud, too unsteady as he walked, and the smell of vodka lingering in the air behind him told Steve he had been at the bar down the street.
‘Didn’t think you’d need to know.’ Bucky said, turning to face him, leaning against the kitchen bench. Steve caught sight of his silver arm glittering in the pale moonlight and Bucky saw, following his line of sight, a flash of insecurity crossing his face as he shifted to hide the metal behind him.
‘Why not?’
Bucky’s eye grew distracted again as he lolled his head sloppily to the side in a shrug. ‘Shouldn’t matter to you what I do.’
‘It does.’
Bucky pushed off the kitchen bench, walking around the tiled floor in a circle as he talked slowly so he wouldn’t stuff up his words. ‘I think that you should not worry about me so much.’ He said this in a matter of fact tone and Steve supressed a sigh. ‘I think that you should not worry about me at all.’ Bucky titled his head up to Steve and smiled a heartbreaking smile, his eyes shining with unused tears and his breathy laugh making Steve’s insides twist. ‘I think you worry about me more than you worry about you.’ Bucky frowned as he went on, his smile fading as he turned to stumble across the kitchen once again, staring at his shoes.
Steve measured his words carefully. ‘Bucky, if you just got me back like I just got you back, you would be worried too.’
Bucky faltered. ‘You –’ but he didn’t finish his sentence. ‘I don’t have to tell you where I am all the time.’ His tone had become closed-off, distant again.
Even though he was trying so hard to rationalize, knowing Bucky was drunk for the first time in a long time and was hardly in control of his words, Steve still felt himself getting annoyed. ‘Considering this is the most you’ve said to me since you’ve been back, yeah, I think I have a right to know.’
Bucky’s eyes grew wide at that and they stared at each other in silence for what felt like the longest they had stared at each other all their life.
Steve softened his voice and moved closer to Bucky, who flinched away slightly. ‘Talk to me, Buck. I’m right here.’
But that was the wrong thing to say, because Bucky was retreating to the hallway, backing away with fear that he hid with angry words. ‘You don’t get it! I’m not meant to be in this world, I don’t belong in it!’ He was yelling now, blinking away the tears that were coming back. Bucky had his back against Steve’s bedroom door, breathing in and out rapidly, and Steve worried that he might have another panic attack, but then he seemed to regain control, directing his anger at the person standing in front of him.
‘I’m meant to be dead! They made me as weapon, don’t you get that, Steve?’ Bucky’s voice was strained, broken as the words sawed against his rough throat and forced themselves out of his mouth. He looked down, a tear spilling from his eye to his cheek and repeated, in a softer, slower voice, ‘I’m meant to be dead.’
And Steve couldn’t take it anymore, seeing the man he had known and loved his whole life be so broken. He didn’t know what it was like to be the stronger one when it came to him and Bucky. It was always Bucky that had been stronger in every way there was. It was always Bucky who had saved him in every way there was. And now it was Steve’s turn, to be the stronger one to save Bucky, and he was frozen again.
‘Bucky – ’
‘I’m not meant for this.’ Bucky said, struggling to keep his voice down as he waved his arms around the apartment. ‘I’m not meant for a life like this, with you. I’m meant to hurt, I’m meant to break.’ His words slurred together as he look down to the floor, but the next words he spoke were full of all the clarity a drunk person could have. Soft, determined, afraid, ‘I’m broken, Stevie.’
‘You’re not –’ and Steve couldn’t get any other words out because he realized he was crying, his breath hitched as he stood there helpless watching his best friend lose all hope, lose everything that made him him. And for a few minutes, nothing could cut the tension and despair between them. But then, Bucky looked up and his eyes were bright with tears and his mouth was turning into a smile. Steve had to remind himself that drunk Bucky was all over the place Bucky, before he asked why he was smiling.
Bucky fumbled with the bedroom door and opened it, making his way into the ensuite with all the composure of a five year old.
‘What are you doing?’ Steve stifled a yawn and sat on the bed, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes.
Bucky was whistling now, and Steve didn’t need an answer as he heard the sound of Bucky unzip his jeans and then water hitting water. When he was done, he wandered to Steve’s bed, lying down, his arms spread out carelessly. Steve titled his head around.
‘Why do you look so sad, Stevie?’ Bucky asked, laughing and reaching up with a metal finger to poke Steve’s ribs, having temporarily forgotten their outburst. Steve felt a reluctant smile chase itself across his lips and he decided to temporarily forget it, too.
Finally, Steve said, ‘it’s real late, Buck. We should get some rest.’ He pulled the doona over to allow him to the bed and slid into the warmth while Bucky still lay across it at his feet. Steve fell asleep before he could say anything else.
The morning sun spilled through the cracks in the blinds and onto Steve’s face, making his hair look lighter than it was. He woke up first, realizing that his skin was against something cold, and saw Bucky’s metal arm reflecting the strips of sunlight. Steve lifted his head off the pillow, frowning slightly as he struggled to remember what they had last said to each other, and realized his hands were around Bucky’s waist, holding him tightly. Bucky’s was leaning on his right hand, but Steve felt the fingers on his left hand tangled around another’s, and he knew that warm feeling wasn’t metal. It was skin and blood. It was Bucky. Before he got the chance to say anything, Bucky stirred awake, feeling Steve’s shifting movements, and turned around with wide, confused eyes. And as he opened his mouth to ask anything that might explain how they got there, they heard a smash from the kitchen and then the familiar sound of Sam cursing to himself.
Steve leapt up and half-jogged out the bedroom and into the kitchen, unsure if he was running to Sam or away from Bucky.
‘Hey.’ His voice was breathless. ‘How’d you get in?’
Sam looked up, grinning. ‘You gave me a key, remember?’ His eyes gazed behind Steve’s shoulder and Steve heard the familiar noise that Bucky’s metal arm made whenever it hadn’t been moved in a while. Like the way Steve’s back would crack in the mornings.
‘Thought I’d make myself some breakfast, since my place isn’t stocked.’ Sam still had that smile on his face, and Steve felt colour rise into his cheeks, and when he finally turned to look at Bucky, his eyes were cloudy and even more confused than before.
‘Steve . . .’ He still had a faint hint of vodka on his breath. ‘What – ’
‘I don’t know.’ Steve muttered, not meeting Bucky’s eye.
‘Don’t know what?’ Sam was asking with mild interest, his eyebrows raised in curiosity as he cracked an egg.
Bucky wasn’t even phased. ‘Don’t know how Steve and –’
‘Buck, don’t.’ There was a hint of panic in Steve’s voice, and he didn’t know why he was so afraid of it all. Of his feelings, of other people knowing. Maybe it was because it was Bucky, and Bucky had been a constant all his life, and if it couldn’t be Bucky then Steve knew it couldn’t be anyone else. It wasn’t the feelings that were stopping him. It was the fear.
Bucky glared at Steve, his head pounding with mixed up memories.
‘Don’t know how Steve and you ended up in the same bed?’ Sam supplied, now slicing tomatoes and grinning at the chopping board.
Steve and Bucky’s heads spun around at the forwardness, but Sam shrugged. ‘Bucky wasn’t in his room.’ Bucky raised his eyebrows and Sam buckled. ‘Relax, it’s not like I was trying to catch something happening, but your room is right next to the front door and the door was open, so I figured . . .’
And Bucky couldn’t exactly jump to defend himself, because there was nothing to defend. He hadn’t stepped over an invisible line with Steve, and he realized later when the three of them were eating breakfast, laughing at a joke Sam had heard from the old lady living across from them, that there was no invisible line with Steve. There was only the one line that had been with them for their whole lives. The line was stretched, smooth in some places, rough in others. Frayed but not broken. Bent but not snapped. They were with each other until the end of it.