Chapter 8
Now
Whenever Bucky thought about that day at the scenic overlook with Steve, he felt a weird mixture of disgust, love, and anger. Disgust with himself for tearing down the wall he’d built up and telling his secrets to Steve. Love for Steve, because that day he’d loved Steve almost as much as he hated himself. But most of all, anger.
The question repeated in his mind. The same question that had repeated itself over and over for months. Why did you leave me, Steve? If you loved me, why did you leave me here alone?
Steve said end of the line, but what he meant was the end of Steve’s line. Bucky had been hung out to dry, and without so much as a word of explanation.
Bucky tried to shake his head free of his memories of Steve. He got up to make a pot of coffee. He silently rebuked himself. Steve Rogers was a hero, and was Bucky’s best friend. It felt like a betrayal to feel angry at him.
He was angry at Sam too. But not as much. He had never liked Sam much. Steve’s new best friend. Bucky couldn’t help but think of Sam as his replacement. Which was stupid, of course. Steve hadn’t even known Bucky was alive. But the resentment was like a reflex. He looked at Sam, and all he could see was the absence of Steve.
But recently, Sam had started watching him. In a way that reminded him of Steve. He was always hanging around, acting casual. Bucky pretended he didn’t notice the concern in Sam’s eyes. Concern, and worse — pity.
Just then, Sam gave a rap on the doorframe of his bedroom, as if he was knocking on the living room door.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
Bucky shrugged noncommittally.
Sam came in and began rattling around in the kitchen, opening cabinets and rooting around. “Can I make you some eggs or something?”
“I’m fine,” Bucky. Jesus Christ, what was this, a bed and breakfast?
Sam let out a chuckle. “Fine is the last thing you are, my friend.”
Bucky scoffed. “OK.” He didn’t really have much else to say to that. Because Sam was right. Bucky definitely wasn’t fine. Not even close.
“Listen,” said Sam. “I’m having a little dinner party tonight. Just a few friends. Thought you might like to join.”
Bucky hesitated. A dinner party? He didn’t know Sam had friends.
This was all very weird. But for all he knew, Sam was filing reports with the government about how Bucky was “coping” and “progressing”. And he was already on thin ice, what with the failed drug test and the suspicious therapist. He had to act normal, or they’d put him back in a cage and he’d never see the light of day again.
“Sure man, whatever.” Bucky tried to make his voice neutral. He picked up his mug of coffee, walked to the couch and picked up the book he was reading. It was The Idiot, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. In English - although he’d already read it in Russian.
Sam strained to see the cover. “Dostoyevsky, huh? Heavy. Any pearls of wisdom in there I should know about?”
Bucky paused. Then he recited aloud, pretending to be reading from the page, a quote he knew by heart.
”I almost do not exist now and I know it; God knows what lives in me in place of me.”
Sam nodded his head. “Sounds relevant.”
“You have no idea.”