∅
He had to admit it, he missed being part of something bigger . And yet, it terrified him. Being back in action was something he thought he’d never do. Because, how could he? After everything he’d done, why would he choose to fight again? The dapper american man who enlisted in WWII out of civic duty was long gone, and has been since his first encounter with Zola. The highly trained, highly efficient soviet assassin was also gone, to his relief. And still, he had to live with the ghost of both.
Bucky constantly tried to grasp his incessant thoughts, about memories, about guilt, about love, as if they could fade away without warning. But knowing they would sink him if he entertained them long enough. He wrote them down, on a small but thick notebook that was on him at all times. Even on missions, he carried it with him. Coloured tabs, highlighted segments, crossed out words, scratched surface, leatherbound. Life compacted on a single object. His mind seared on paper.
So it was more than distressing the first time someone asked.
i
Tony was hitting the 23rd consecutive hour awake mark and his fourth cup of coffee. He sipped his black elixir while observing the scene before him, from the kitchen. It’d been unfolding slowly down the hall, and he wouldn’t dare to say anything. Yet.
The lights were dimmed down, barely illuminating the room. An untrained ear would call upon silence, but he could hear the faint rustling of paper. The turning of a page, the gentle wisps of a wrist. And it helped that he was seeing it too, it wasn’t some sleep deprivation mirage. The Winter Soldier sat crisscrossed on the floor against the wall like a freaking child , scribbling gently on a notebook. He’d go on what looked like long sentences before stopping abruptly, checking, and focusing back. Tony wondered what was going on, and after a solid half hour, curiosity got the best of him.
“What are you writing that’s so long? A novel?”
The soldier’s head perked up, bewildered at having been seen. In a flash, the notebook had vanished from sight, along with its owner.
Stark furrowed his brow before downing the freezing remains of his beverage.
“I guess he doesn’t like sharing”
ii
A lot of time passed before they ever brought up the notebook again, and a lot had changed too.
Bucky was more than aware how everyone coped, so he gave them space. After their latest mission went sour, a suffocating mist settled. Nat moved slowly through the tower, avoiding eye contact, avoiding food in any shape or form other than protein bars. Bruce and Tony refused to sleep more than three hours because they had “work to do”, locked on the workshop. Clint stopped making breakfast, stopped organizing friday’s movie nights, stopped talking. Thor hadn’t come back since. And Mr. Captain America himself would go out on long motorcycle rides at night, sometimes not coming back until the next day.
Peter noticed too, and started dropping by more often, asking for help with his homework or just to invite them out to have some fun. He made them feel better, for a while, and he even pulled a smile or two out of Tony. It made Bucky feel useful, helping out the kid, whether it was with maths or general academic advice. Parker was a very good listener, and equally observant. It took him less than two weeks to pick up the other man’s little habits. And he wanted to ask, he really wanted to, but he’d rather die on the spot than appear rude. Surging out courage from an unknown source, he said it, finally.
“Do you carry that everywhere?” He gestured towards the notebook bulging slightly through his leather jacket.
The other man stared blankly, bringing both hands from the homework-filled table to his lap. Shoulders tensing along with his jaw.
“If you don’t mind me asking” he added, almost too quickly. Oh god, i’ve fucked it up already, fuckfuckfuck fuck! the teen couldn't stop himself from thinking.
“Yeah, I…” He looked as a child weighing a lie. One could see the gears turning behind those blue eyes, trying to grasp the words, trying not to overshare but still seem open.
“I think it’s too personal to leave behind” warmly , but holding back, he flashed a sad smile. It was the only thing he could do, if he was being honest. What else could he say?
I’m scared I’ll lose my memory again so I need it for backup, I don’t trust my own mind with basic functions such as remembering who I am? mm? or how about, I don’t trust anyone with my own problems so I need it on me at all times to cope? Because the horrors of war and the aftermath of being a personal guinea pig assassin for half a century are poured on these pages? Don’t be ridiculous, fella, you can’t admit that to a kid! You can’t say any of that to anyone, and much less a 17 year old like Parker.
“Mr. Barnes?” Accompanied the soft shake to try to get his attention back. He knew that thousand mile stare, from Mr. Stark mostly, but he’d seen Cap doing it too. Peter’s heart broke each time. Sometimes he wondered if he’d end up having it too, if it was a side effect of the job. Other times he wondered if he had it already and his friends were too polite to say anything.
Bucky blinked slowly, coming out of his head.
“So, what did your teacher say about that trig. homework again?”
iii
A pale hand held a bloodied rag between his fingers. Both men opposite each other, the air between them stale. Thick with tension. Words stuck on the back of the throat, unsaid.
Bucky sat on floor, slumped against his bed. Wide eyes, matted long hair, no shirt. A series of gashes and superficial cuts littered his bruised chest, running across his upper arm and shoulder too.
Steve had walked on his friend fixing himself up. And not from a fight.
They healed faster, thanks to the serum, but that meant hours, not seconds. And he still had an (ir)rational fear of sepsis, so he took care of his body. Bucky wanted to laugh, taking care of my body, yeah, by repeatedly cutting it open? By letting the bad guys beat me up more? If that's taking care of myself...
He stretched his leg out and banged the door closed. Still on the floor, no energy to have a conversation, to unpack everything at the moment. He just needed to feel it out. Breathe. And put his shirt back on. Then, maybe, he would get up. Maybe talk to Steve. Maybe write it all down, so it won't slip away. Maybe.
But right now, he just needed to feel. The sting of disinfectant. The stretching of skin. Floor's warmth. Just breathe.
He woke up four hours later with a stiff neck. And a blanket he was sure he didn't own.
He eventually let Steve in, told him about his coping, his struggle to stay clean. He felt like he should be punished, and sometimes that meant doing it himself. It had started as soon as he'd got his memories back. As soon as he'd been brought back to action. Cap listened, scrunching up his nose slightly, dropping the corner of his mouth lightly, furrowing his brow softly. Bucky was not fond of those micro expressions of fondness, of the pity that overflowed from his friend, because he was being the source of it.
"Recovery isn't one smoothed out road, Buck" long blonde eyelashes fluttered softly, holding back the wetness "You'll find all kinds of obstacles along the way, you might even find yourself having to stop the car sometimes" He held his metal hand, knowing full well how cold and sensitive it is "Change it's tires, fix a light, grease the motor" circles along the palm, small, absentminded squeezes, reassurance "And it's alright, as long as you know it still has miles and miles left" he let go before standing up and with a soft, pitiful expression, he left.
The door clicked shut.
I'm not a car, Steve. I'm much worse a machine.
iv
He hated the routinely talks with the assigned therapist. He hated having someone who cared. It only made it harder. Bucky felt like breaking, for once. He hated feeling loose, feeling like he was keeping everything together with worn out glue. If only he could break, once and for all, shatter into a trillion pieces, impossible to put back together. Steve kept telling him how strong he was, how determined he was, how much life had in store for him. But he didn't want any of that. He wanted rest, he wanted peace, he wanted a different life, a different body, a different mind. He didn't have a home, alike Steve, the only difference was that he couldn't be what he wanted him to be. He could never be good old James again. And he couldn't be the unstoppable sniper everyone else wanted him to be, out in the field. God, he felt dead. No matter what he did, it always ended in disappointment. He'd rather never see a weapon again in his life, never see The Avengers again, never see Steve again. All stakes. All drama. All triggers. No. He would never pull a trigger again, never follow orders again. No more gas lighting in his life. Fuck HYDRA for making him do their dirty work. Fuck SHIELD for making Steve do the same. Fuck The Avengers for refusing to let him go on with his life. Fuck Steve for convincing him to do this. Fuck everyone. He was fucking tired of having no agency, no control, no bodily autonomy. No more saying yes because a no will get him in trouble. No more late night arm repairs at the workshop with Tony because he only sees him as a machine to upgrade, no more boy toy moments at the edge of the bed with Steve "for old time's sake". No. He was fucking exhausted. No. It all ends now.
Bucky Barnes was making a choice. A reckless, regrettable, born from a spur of anger and desperation kind of choice. But it was his, and nobody else would have a say in it.
v
The clock struck 3. Ear pressed against the floor. Nobody was out of their room. Perfect.
Light, ghostly steps. As feather-like as he could, he made his way to the emergency staircase. The elevator not only had cameras, but it made a ridiculous amount of noise. And Bucky wanted to disappear without a trace. Vanish. Never be found again. And that meant no noise, no witness, no camera, no body.
He felt the lock turn under his palm. The cold of the handle. The cold of the last obstacle between him and freedom. A shaky, ragged breath escaped his lips.
"Are you okay?" rang in the darkness. Silence, shattered. Shattered illusion.
Bruce stood there, alternating between fumbling with his glasses and the hem of the sweater. He'd heard a noise and wanted to check. Never would have expected THE Winter Soldier, fully dressed in civilian clothes, by the backdoor.
Bucky stared, wide-eyed, trying to focus on the silhouette of the scientist. A part of him wishing the other man to leave, to leave him alone so he could free himself, rid himself of this life. A deer in the headlights, wishing for the car to either sway or slam headfirst into him.
The other man was baffled by the situation. A million scenarios running through his head. What if something went wrong and he lost his memory again? What if he doesn't know where he is? Or who he is? He knew Barnes wasn't a violent man, not when he had a choice, but being cautious wouldn't hurt. One step closer to the door.
"Do you know where you are?" quiet, soft, so as not to disturb the others or startle the man before him.
A nod.
"Do you know who you are?"
Another nod. Tighter grip on the handle. Wet eyes.
Be happy it's dark and he isn't seeing you fall apart because he caught you red handed. Pathetic.
The situation was becoming less stressful for Bruce by the second, knowing he had full memory was a relief, but he couldn't help but wonder.
"What's going on, Barnes?"
He took another step towards him, only now seeing the unnatural posture. The hand on the door. The gun in the jacket. The knife handle poking from his pocket. And those eyes. Only now he was looking straight into those blue eyes, and seeing what's behind. Desperation, anger, doubt, exhaustion, resignation, hurt. He knew them all too well.
Why the fuck won't he leave? I don't want him to see me like this. Don't want anyone to see me like this! Fuck!
Bucky's grip on the handle faltered, he was shaking badly. The world was spinning and those browns were locked on him. He couldn't flee while he was being watched. He couldn't do that to Bruce, he'd never been anything but kind to him. It wouldn't be fair. Eyes to the floor, he couldn't hold back the tears for much longer. His breathing was a mess too, raking his whole frame with each exhale.
A hand on top of his pulled him back. He let it remove it from the handle, still not fully looking up.
"There's no need to run away, it's okay," he whispered, as he lead the way to the couch, "let's sit down, and we can talk about it if you want to. I can get Ste-"
"No!" he said, not regulating his volume properly. Bucky didn't want Steve and his pitiful gaze, and his tears, and that drained face. He couldn't do that to him, what was he thinking?
"I don't want to talk to him, not right now at least" Voice thrashed and low.
His breathing was going back to normal, sitting down helped the dizziness too. But he still wanted to leave, badly.
"Did you two have a fight?" He asked, without judgement, without a single negative hint in his tone.
"No, we're fine. It's…" Bucky had trouble with words, how could he explain to the man sitting opposite how everything in his life had gone wrong?
"I didn't mean to pry, i'm sorry"
"No, Bruce, it's fine. If I found you trying to run away in the middle of the night, I'd be asking you personal questions too."
"So your plan was to leave"
"Yeah"
"Why?"
"I'm too dangerous to be around others" he lied, looking at his own hands, flesh and metal fingers interlacing in nervousness.
Bruce had to stifle a laugh. "You are telling me that? Try something better, Barnes"
"yeah" he whispered, not trying to hide it.
"What were you going to do with the gun and the knife?"
Blank eyes.
"You were running away with nothing but your clothes, I assume you wallet, and two weapons. Not enough to survive in the wild, but too much to pass through airport security and back to Bucharest."
He tried to keep the poker face, but his eyes were giving him away.
"I…"
He was angry, clenching his jaw, turning the plating of his arm unconsciously. He should've gone for the sprint downstairs when he has the chance.
Banner, don't make me say it
He took his notebook out of his pocket and ripped the last page for Bruce to read.
He caught a glimpse of a disturbing drawing some pages before but it was too fast. Suddenly there was this paper in his hand, and he realized he'd never seen the other man's handwriting before. After a second or two, he turned his head towards Bucky again, who was watching his every move, intently yet too stoic.
The letter was short. The handwriting, half-legible. It felt wrong to be reading it. But he had handed it over without a second thought, and he read it without fully processing it too. Bruce was struck by the ending, scribbled in a mix between cursive and block letters:
" I am so fucking sorry, Steve, but I am never going to be the James you knew. But don't you dare bury me like a soldier once you find me; bury me like a friend would. "
"This," he started, shaking the paper with both hands making it wobble, "is a suicide note"
"Yes" it wasn't a question, but he answered either way.
Maybe now he will understand and let you go. Maybe now he will see everything and open the door for you, even pat your back and wish you good luck in the afterlife. If there is one.
The scientist could see those glazed eyes, even in the dim light. They were centennial, reflecting back a blue so bright that could not have been made in this century. But behind them, there was nothing he could understand anymore. He'd been in James's place, he'd felt broken and used and dangerous. He'd been caught red handed too, caught in that self-destructive cycle, caught in the fog that guilt thickens every day. And yet, he could not understand him, and out of respect he would not pretend to do so.
Bucky seemed relieved when Bruce stood up but only to change seats, an audible sharp intake. The other man noticed something else. Fear.
Did he think I was going to leave?
He opened his mouth, but couldn't find it in himself to say anything. What could he say? Did he need to say something, anyways?
Banner beat him to it.
"How long have you kept it" - he held out the paper back to him - "in your notes?"
"A day" he grunted, not out of disgust but out of exhaustion.
“After a whole day, nothing, no one , made you change your mind?” he answered i himself, not waiting an answer “we must be a bunch of assholes after all, uh”
“That’s not true,” Buck started, fully realising how stupid it was to try and escape. And how grateful he was for Bruce finding him, stopping him. How could he be so reckless? What was he thinking?
“You made me change my mind”
The other man let out a stifled snort, whether it was out of humbleness or simply the stress of the whole situation he did not know.
“No, really. I could’ve taken a sprint right when you caught me and,“ he took a look outside through the great glass wall “ i would be dead by now”
He continued “But instead I’m here, talking to you, craving a coffee”
“I’m glad you’re here, Barnes. You made the right choice” Bruce stood up with the intent of starting the espresso machine, he was in dire need of a coffee too.
“For now”
Bruce stopped in his tracks.
“Sorry?”
“I made the right choice, for now.” he pointed with his metal finger towards the doors at the end of the hallway, knowingly.
And as he did so, his watch struck four; a disheveled Rogers came out of the room and into the living room area.
His bed haze was slapped out of him.
“Buck?”
“Banner? why are you up already?”
“Did something happen?”