Chapter 3
Nothing Left For You
‘I gave my heart to a goddamn fool.
I gave him everything,
Now there’s nothing left for you.’
Bucky rolls out of bed to the scent of coffee wafting through the air. He’s barely slept, nightmares choking him awake so consistently that he’d finally given up to lay in motionless silence until sunrise.
At least he hasn’t been screaming; something that occurs more than he cares to think about these days.
Maybe his brain has realized that Steve sleeps just down the hall now, has instinctively fallen back into old conditioning, silencing him the same way it had during his time as the Soldier who, unless ordered to report, was to be seen and not heard.
Whatever the reason, Bucky is grateful for it. Steve would certainly come running if he started screaming his throat raw, and Bucky can’t imagine that predicament ending in anything other than disaster.
For some reason, ever since Steve had returned to Bucky’s timeline, his mere presence has been triggering in Bucky something akin to a flight-or-fight response. When it hits, the response is persistent, powerful. Almost as strong as the drive he’d felt to run, to disappear, after his defection from Hydra. Which is, from a logical standpoint, rather ridiculous. Steve couldn’t be further from Hydra if he tried.
It’s... frustrating.
Bucky’s not used to feeling so much. Not anymore. Not like he had, before.
For the past three years, just about everything in Bucky’s life outside of missions has been dulled by a kind of impassive detachment. It’s not healthy, and Bucky’s well aware that it speaks volumes about the considerable amount of trauma he’s carrying around. But it’s been working. It’s kept him going, at least. Kept him from choosing one day, to lie down and never get back up.
Now though — for some reason he doesn’t want to examine too closely — being around Steve causes all of that emotional detachment to disappear. Steve makes him feel, and not particularly good.
Whenever Steve shows up, Bucky becomes edgy; hypervigilant. His heart-rate and breathing begin to race, and it’s all he can do to keep from running away like a coward.
Since Steve came back, Bucky’s avoided dealing with this reaction mainly by avoiding Steve — though if he thinks about him long enough, Bucky still gets the same response.
But he can’t avoid Steve entirely, not with them sharing Steve’s old apartment. And if he could — choosing to move into another space within the compound — the thought of permanently separating himself from Steve causes the same sort of anxious distress as being near him.
So, he’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t, really, and hell if that doesn’t that say something about the current level of screwed-up Bucky’s head is at right now.
—
When Bucky skulks into the kitchen, Steve is standing with his back to the room, filling two mugs with freshly brewed coffee.
Bucky heads for the island countertop, waiting for the inevitable anxiety attack, determined to fight through it. He’s a world-renowned assassin, he can handle a little nerves.
Turns out, though, that he’s completely unprepared for the mental litany that slams into him instead. He sinks down onto one of the bar-stools, legs gone shaky and unsteady as his brain resonates with one circular, unrelenting thought: Loves me, he loves me, hefuckinglovesme.
Steve turns, a mug in each hand, and freezes at whatever he sees on Bucky’s face. The mugs meet the countertop with a firm clunk.
“Buck,” Steve says, with some alarm. “Are you— okay?”
Bucky swipes a hand over his face, half-hiding, trying to force his breathing back under control. “I’m fine,” he says, cursing the faint waver in his voice.
Steve looks unconvinced.
“Bucky, you don’t look anywhere near fine.”
His voice goes hesitant, then, and he asks haltingly, “Is it because— I mean. Is this okay? My being here? Sam said— But I can find another place to stay if…” he trails off as Bucky shakes his head firmly.
Distantly, Bucky wonders if ‘another place’ refers to somewhere else within the compound. Or is Steve speaking about moving to another place in the city? In the world? Bucky thinks, wryly, that Steve would probably go as far as Bucky asked. His tone is certainly earnest enough.
“It’s fine,” Bucky repeats, too worn out, too preoccupied with trying to fuckingbreathe, to come up with anything more eloquent.
“Are you...sure?” Steve can’t seem to help asking, and Bucky feels a zing of frustrated panic. “It’s no trouble if you’d rather have your own space, Buck. I’ll —I mean I’d understand if—”
“No.” Bucky’s tone brooks no room for further argument and Steve stops talking. “Stay. I. I w-want you to— ”
He doesn’t finish that sentence.
The words, so simple, encompass all of what he couldn’t ask of Steve three years ago, and the realization that he’s saying them now feels like a sharp kick in the gut. A sort of stunned grief wells up in the wake of this revelation, choking off the rest of his words, and all of a sudden Bucky’s done, having barely even started his day.
He pushes away from the counter, stool scraping across the floor with a piercing screech.
His hand is still raised, still hiding his face, and he keeps it there with something like desperation as he feels a hot rush of tears dampen his fingers.
“Buck?” Steve says, definitely alarmed now, and Bucky turns quickly away; heads for the front door; fights to shut down emotions he doesn’t want to face.
—
What did you expect?
Steve stares blindly at the rapidly-cooling mugs of coffee on the countertop before him.
Bucky’s shell-shocked expression. The rasp of his strained breathing. The flash of his stormy blue eyes as he’d fled the apartment — these things flicker through Steve’s mind on repeat, vivid with perfect recall.
What did you expect? he thinks again, viciously angry. That everything would go back to normal? That Bucky would be suddenly okay? You know better than that, Rogers.
Ever since their reunion, since Steve had stepped off that time-machine platform and gone to find Bucky, he’s known — it’s obvious — that Bucky is suffering. That he’s...damaged.
Emotionally.
In ways he hadn’t been before Steve had left.
And it’s because of Steve. Because of what he did.
Three more years of pain and loss Steve had given Bucky, stacked neatly on top of everything else the world had thrown at him for close to a century. And that pain, that loss, had left wounds; deep and unhealed.
He’d been elated to hear Bucky confess that he loved Steve. That he’s loved him for a while. But Steve is not naive enough to think that love, in itself, will miraculously heal the emotional wounds wrought by Steve’s negligence. That it will magically fix what’s broken between them.
It won’t.
It won’t and in fact, the more Steve thinks about it — that Bucky loved him, had beenin love with him when Steve left him — the more Steve realizes just how badly he fucked things up.
Because Bucky being in love with Steve means… it means that Steve’s leaving would have been exponentially more painful than he’d ever considered. For Bucky, it would have been about more than just losing his best friend; his only connection to his past and to his memories.
Losing the person he was in love with would have felt like losing part of himself. An integral piece, impossible to replace.
Thinking about that, knowing what it had cost Bucky to watch Steve go, makes Steve’s guilt, his shame, all the more biting.
Because while it had hurt — coming to the realization that he was in love with Bucky, recognizing where his heart wanted to be, and knowing that he couldn’t be there, that he’d never even get the chance...
While that pain had been deep, and aching, it’d still been tempered by the fact that the realization of those feelings had come later. After the separation.
Steve can’t imagine what it would feel like to know exactly what he wanted, who he wanted… only to have it made perfectly clear that that person didn’t care to have anything more to do with him.
What kind of strength had it taken to accept that indifference? To encourage Steve to seek his own happiness; to smile as that advice was followed so glibly ? Steve can’t imagine that kind of painful sacrifice.
Bucky had felt that.
And still, he’d let Steve go.
He’d kept all that anguish locked inside, and had bid Steve goodbye with only ‘I’m gonna miss you,’ because he’d loved Steve.
Because Steve had wanted to go. And because Bucky believed himself unworthy of asking Steve to stay.
Looking back, Steve can see the fragility of Bucky’s smile, the way he’d barely made eye-contact. The hollow grief in his eyes.
How had he missed it then?
There’s nothing, nothing, Steve can say to make up for that.
There’s no quick fix. No easy remedy.
If there’s even a chance that they can come back from this, only time can mend what’s broken.
And while Steve’s never been very good at waiting, Bucky’s certainly earned as much time as it takes to heal.
—
“I thought I might find you here.”
Steve places the file he’s been scanning on top of the stack of mission reports he’s already read through and glances up to see Sam leaning against the doorframe.
He’s reminded suddenly, painfully, of that night when he’d come upon Natasha in a similar way. She’d been sitting in this same seat, just finished conferencing in some of the few remaining heroes who’d still been fighting to keep the world running in the wake of the devastation wrought by Thanos.
She’d looked haunted; exhausted; tear tracks shimmering faintly on her cheeks — a magnitude of emotion he was certain he’d never seen her express before.
Steve had offered what he could in the way of comfort — which is to say, not nearly enough — but Natasha had managed to dredge up a smile for him anyway.
He misses her.
The loss of her friendship — something that had become all the more precious in the absence of Bucky, and Sam, and so many of the other Avengers — is just another thing that weighs upon him when he allows himself to think about it.
She’d meant so much to him. Always there to build him up when he’d needed it, never afraid to call him on his bullshit either. She’d been his confident, his ally, his friend. And he never even had the chance to say goodbye.
He sighs heavily, shoving down his own urge to cry as he meets Sam’s too-knowing eyes.
The files he’s been going through don’t help his current emotional instability in the least.
Each one includes a mission report written by Bucky, while some include additional reports from other agents who may have been assigned to the same mission. Bucky’s reports are detached, impassive. He relates successes and casualties, captures, and injuries sustained — all with the same cool, efficient wording.
The reports included alongside his — from team members and handlers alike — are also professional, but they tend to contain an undertone of wary unease wherever ‘Barnes’ is mentioned. They note his brutal efficiency, his ability to work effectively with a team. But they also hint, non-explicitly, at how that same level of single-minded focus makes them uncomfortable.
Barnes sustained an abdominal laceration while coming to the defence of Agent Diaz, states one report, butrefrained from performing medical care upon himself. When asked, Barnes reported that the injury was not ‘mission critical’; that he was still ‘functional’.
While the mission was accomplished successfully, this agent feels that there was more than enough time for the administration of first aid. Accordingly, this agent would like it on record that: as protocol advocates for all moderate to severe injuries to receive medical attention, no team member should abstain from taking advantage of such provisions when the mission allows, especially as such behavior can be detrimental to team morale.
Later in the same file, a note from Agent Hill had been appended: Barnes has been notified about the effect his decision to forgo medical care had upon his team’s morale. He has agreed to attend to any future medical needs he or his team deem ‘necessary’, provided that doing so will not needlessly hinder mission success.
There are other recorded incidents like this one scattered throughout the files, often peppered with addendums from Hill, and the more Steve reads, the closer he gets to cementing the unappealing suspicion he’s been nursing since he read the very first mission report:
Even though, more and more, handlers and teammates have begun to regard Bucky as unstable, he’s still considered too valuable, too useful, to sideline.
While it is not explicitly required for him to do so in these circumstances, another of Hill’s notations reads, following a particularly brutal — though coolly reported upon — mission with a high number of enemy casualties, Barnes has been encouraged to discuss aspects of this mission with the [agency’s] recommended psychologist.
But they never make it mandatory for Bucky to talk, never pull him from missions when he displays classic signs of battle fatigue. It’s much the way they treated Steve when he came out of the ice — a cursory attempt at providing psychological care before throwing him headlong into battle. (Or really, allowing Steve to throw himself into battle; they prefer the high ground of plausible deniability, after all.)
Except Bucky’s far more damaged than Steve ever was, and letting him do this to himself seems much more cruel.
It’s disturbing and heartbreaking and Steve finds himself stuck between wanting to drag Bucky out of the field — to tear into Hill and Fury, demand to know just what the hell they think they’re doing sending Bucky out again and again, letting him do this to himself, (can’t they see how much he’s hurting, how psychologically unfit he is for all of this?) — and wanting to allow him the dignity of his choice to fight.
The only thing that keeps him pinned to his seat, reading through file after file, is that Steve isn’t sure that Bucky wouldn’t resent Steve’s involvement.
In all the time Steve’s known him, Bucky’s never enjoyed fighting; never wanted to hurt or kill anyone. It had always been Steve who was driven toward the fight, who jumped into conflicts with both fists raised, ready to give everything for what he believed was right. And Bucky… Bucky would fight for Steve, would give his all in defense of a friend who was so fragile before the serum, and so impetuous after. Countless times Bucky had fought for Steve, and too many times he’d died for him.
Now Steve doesn’t know why Bucky fights. He’d been so reluctant to do so in Bucharest; in Wakanda. But these past three years it seems to be all Bucky does. Mission after mission. One enemy after another. Going wherever it is they tell him to go.
Maybe he feels obligated. After the loss of so many Avengers, maybe Bucky feels a duty to lend his particular skillset toward helping save and protect lives. Or. Maybe — like Steve so many years ago, fresh out of the ice and numb with the loss of everyone he’d loved, everyone he’d ever known — Bucky fights because he believes he’s got nothing else.
“You thinking of getting back into the game?” Sam asks, drawing Steve from his grim thoughts.
“Don’t know,” Steve replies. “I hadn’t really...considered it.” Mostly he’s been thinking about how not to rush impulsively into a situation he doesn’t know enough about. How it might not be the best idea to murder either Fury or Hill, and then steal Bucky away to someplace safe and quiet, where Steve can wrap him in a hundred soft blankets and never let him feel sad or lonely again.
“We could use your expertise,” Sam says. “If you’re interested. Greatest tactical mind and all that. And it might be a good thing to have another set of eyes on Barnes, too. One that puts his best interests above the mission.”
Steve pins Sam with a carefully focused gaze. “What do you mean by that,” he says, more demand than question.
“Well, I mean,” Sam says, looking uncomfortable. “Barnes is amazing. Best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen you. I’ve seen Natasha . But he’s also…” Sam falters. “He’s just. Very mission oriented. And sometimes his handlers don’t... discourage that way of thinking. I do what I can, but he only trusts me so far, and really, that’s not saying much.”
Steve grimaces. “If it’s trust you think he’s lacking, I’m probably not the best person to watch his six, either,” he admits bitterly. “I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed whatever trust he once had in me.”
Sam’s gaze softens. “You guys had a chance to talk yet?” he asks.
Steve nods mutely, glancing down at his hands clasped in his lap.
“You finally tell him you’re in love with him?”
And that brings his gaze right back up, eyes locking with Sam’s shrewd scrutiny. “How—” but Sam cuts him off.
“Man, if you’re about to ask me how I know about that I’m gonna have to smack you upside your stupid-ass head.”
Steve drops his gaze again, feeling sheepish, but also still curious.
Sam doesn’t leave him to wonder.
“Anyone with eyes can see you’re in love with Barnes,” he says, incredulously. “You took down SHIELD for him, chased him for over two years while dragging my sorry butt along with you, and then showed your star-spangled-ass to more than a hundred governments across the world when they wanted you to let them bring him in. What I want to know is how in the hell you missed that enough to leavehim.”
Steve swallows thickly. “I thought— I wanted to… move on. I thought I could fit Peggy into those places that were his to fill. I didn’t know he— that he was—”
“You didn’t know he loved you back,” Sam says, grimly. “Well, that at least makes you seem somewhat less of an asshole.”
Steve sucks in a sharp breath and Sam’s gaze softens again. “Sorry, Steve. If it makes you feel any better, I always put faith in the fact that you didn’t know. No way could I believe that you could be that selfish.”
“I didn’t know,” Steve asserts, hoarsely. “I never would’ve — I’d never have left him, if I’d known. Never.”
“I believe you,” Sam says; a benediction, small as it is. “And I stand by my conviction that you’re what Barnes needs right now. Even if he’s having trouble trusting you. Show him that he still can. Give him the evidence he needs to rebuild that faith.”
Steve takes an unsteady breath. “You think I can… you think I can fix this?” he asks, needing to hear it, needing Sam’s steady conviction to lean on.
“I think you can fix it,” Sam says, “together. You love each other. Give it time, be patient. You’ll work it out.”
—
Steve takes time to mull over his conversation with Sam, to contemplate what Sam had said about Bucky.
(About how, during the past three years, he hasn’t had much of anyone to help look out for him. About how Steve would be well suited to fill that role. About how Sam thinks things will work out between them, given time.)
He puts a lot of weight in Sam’s conviction that he and Bucky will work things out.
He also recognizes that, as Sam had said, he’s going to need to be patient.
Bucky, himself, had asked for time. And while he seems to have managed to return to some semblance of equilibrium where Steve is concerned (at least, he’s no longer working to actively avoid Steve) there are still times, more often than Steve would like to admit, where something will trigger him, and Bucky will go suddenly anxious, shaky and agitated.
They seem to come out of nowhere — the attacks.
Steve and Bucky can be working in the kitchen to prepare a meal; discussing something as mundane as picking an item up from the store; even sitting quietly on opposite ends of the couch, each of them absorbed in their own activities when suddenly, Bucky’s clutching at his chest, breaths rasping harshly from his throat, his whole body shaking as his eyes search desperately for an escape route.
He won’t let Steve anywhere near him when he gets like that — moving himself even further away than the solid arm's-length he always keeps between the two of them — retreating altogether if he can manage it.
Steve asks Sam about it, one day, still wracked with the lingering helplessness that had arisen while watching Bucky gasp and shake, clutching tightly at his chest for the most excruciating thirty seconds Steve’s experienced in recent memory. Ultimately, Bucky had ended up stumbling into the nearby bathroom, slamming the door and spending another ten minutes fighting through the emotional onslaught.
“Sounds like he’s having anxiety attacks,” Sam tells him. “Or something close enough, anyway. Those are some pretty classic symptoms.”
“I think…” Steve says, slowly, reluctant to admit to it, “I’m pretty sure it’s me triggering them.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Steve to elaborate.
“It’s just,” Steve explains, “I’m sure you’ve noticed how withdrawn he’s gotten. Even with me — maybe especially with me, now — he doesn’t really...emote. He’s so. Quiet. Polite. He’ll answer questions if I ask him, doesn’t really avoid conversation, exactly—”
Sam snorts. “Hate to break it to you, Steve, but that’s still a hell of a lot more than the rest of us get.”
Steve grimaces, and Sam sobers. “Sorry man. I wish things were different. But these last three years, you know, they’ve been tough. Really tough on Barnes.”
“I know,” Steve says, quietly. “That’s why I— I mean. Have you ever seen him, when it happens?”
“No,” Sam says, frowning thoughtfully. “It’s possible, probable even, that you really are the stressor. Barnes keeps himself pretty closed off from the rest of us. But maybe he can’t do that with you. It makes sense that you provoke some pretty strong emotions. It kinda makes me think… ever heard of something called Broken Heart Syndrome?”
“No,” Steve says, feeling his own heart clench. “But I can imagine that it’s nothing good.”
“It’s not fatal,” Sam says, “Nothing like that. But it’s pretty messy, emotionally speaking. There’s not much information about what causes it, though it is believed that, like with anxiety attacks, it’s provoked by a surge of stress hormones. It’s also usually preceded by an intense physical or emotional event.”
“My leaving,” Steve guesses, but Sam shakes his head.
“No. I think it was you coming back.”
Steve furrows his brow. “Sam how— Why would my coming back be the problem?”
“Not a problem, per se,” says Sam. “A stressor.”
Steve shakes his head this time, and Sam raises a hand, makes a ‘wait a second and hear me out’ gesture.
“Listen,” he says. “Barnes basically made himself an emotionless void while you were away. Nothing really touched him, emotionally speaking, because he more-or-less locked all his feelings away as tightly as he could. But you coming back? He can’t lock that away, or ignore it into non-existence. He’s forced to deal with you, everyday. With what you make him feel. And, those feelings can get overwhelming, hence the anxiety attacks.”
Steve drags a hand across his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “So you’re saying,” he says, unhappily, “you agree that I’m doing this to him. And I should...what? Stay away from him?”
“Has he asked you to stay away from him?” Sam asks, incredulously.
“No,” Steve answers. “He said— He asked me to stay.”
“Well there you go,” Sam replies. “I was going to tell you the same thing. Anxiety attacks aren’t the end of the world, even if they do temporarily make you feel like you’re dying.”
Steve feels his mouth pull downward, but Sam keeps taking, leaning slightly forward to pin Steve with a serious expression. “Listen, Steve. The best thing you can do for Barnes is to respect his wishes and to be there for him. The only way he’ll get past this is to learn to control it, and he can’t do that if you avoid each other. So give him the chance to learn to manage the attacks.”
He leans back, shrugs. “Anyway, it seems like he’s already refusing to allow them to dictate his life, just by virtue of the fact that he’s choosing to stay around you. ”
Steve knows Sam is right.
So he grits his teeth, and bears through it when Bucky goes shaky around him. Doesn’t decide to move out, to give Bucky a break by putting more space between the two of them the way he’s tempted to do whenever Bucky is forced to withdraw mid-episode.
—
“It might be a good thing to have another set of eyes on Barnes,” Sam had said. “One that puts his best interests above the mission.”
Steve thinks about that a lot as he watches Bucky come home exhausted after each and every mission; blank-faced and silent. The longer he watches, the more he considers taking Sam’s advice.
He doesn’t want to take up the shield again, though — that’s Sam’s place now, and Steve really only wants to get involved inasmuch as he can help Bucky.
Bucky, who everyone calls Barnes.
Sometimes, occasionally, Steve will hear him called the Soldier, or Sergeant .
But no one, apart from Steve, calls him Bucky; the name he’d reclaimed for himself. Had fought through years of programming, and torture, and brainwashing to remember.
It’s enough to make Steve’s blood boil. To make his heart ache with indignation.
‘My name is Bucky’ Steve remembers Bucky asserting — back when the whole world was against him, when all they saw was the Winter Soldier, the weapon, too dangerous for any future that didn’t involve being locked away for the rest of his life. Even then, Bucky had fought to cling to whatever shreds of himself he could grasp.
Now he seems to have given up.
It’s one more thing Steve finds himself determined to give back to him.
—
Steve steps into the gym to find eight of Hill’s agents huddled near the sparring mats in a small cluster.
He’d made up his mind, a few days earlier, and finally decided to approach Hill, offering up his skills as a tactical advisor — someone to help with planning and supervising any missions where his former teammates ended up under Hill’s oversight.
She’d listened to him, gazing at him with shrewd eyes and then, at the end of his proposal, remarked plainly, “This is about Barnes.”
Steve made no effort to disguise his motivation. “I’ve read the reports,” he’d said, “I know you worry about his stability. Though you haven’t kept him out of the field,” he added, unwilling to conceal, entirely, his disapproval of that decision.
Hill had the decency to look mildly chagrined. “You’re right,” she’d admitted, and Steve had felt marginally less agitated. Less like he wanted to take her head off, at any rate, though the potential was still there if she decided she wanted to fight him on this.
“Barnes is the best we have,” Hill stated. “And he has expressed a… pointed desire to not be removed from the field. That fits our purposes, so we haven’t dismissed him.”
Steve ground his teeth, but said nothing.
“To be fair,” Hill said, still watching Steve carefully, obviously aware of his ire, “He’s been very good about avoiding doing anything that would give us a reason to bench him. His behavior is completely professional within the field.”
Steve crossed his arms. Waited.
Eventually, Hill had sighed. “I’ll discuss your proposal with Fury,” she’d said. “It would be good to have your input, especially where Barnes is concerned. Believe it or not, we do know that he’s not in a good place right now. We just didn’t really know how to go about dealing with that. Now that you’re here, maybe we can sort him out.”
“Let me know when you’re ready for me,” Steve said, making it apparent that he wasn’t even entertaining the possibility that his offer wouldn’t be accepted.
Hill had quirked her lips in a half smile. “Before you go,” she’d said, pausing Steve’s exit, “how about a proposal of my own?”
Turned out, Hill had wanted him to refine her agents’ hand-to-hand combat training.
“You’re arguably the best hand-to-hand combatant out there,” she’d said. “And while we’ve had access to the Soldier—”
“His name is Bucky, ” Steve had snarled, then, drawing his hands into fists, leaning threateningly over Hill’s desk.
“...Right,” Hill said slowly, drawing herself straighter in her seat. “Well, he isn’t exactly keen on having people in his personal space. Just about every person I’ve seen get within two feet of him these last few years has ended up dead or bleeding.”
Steve had agreed, irritated as he was, to help out. He really doesn’t mind training others in hand-to-hand, and it will give him something to focus on while he waits for Hill to get back to him.
Because he knows they’ll give him the assignment. They’d be stupid not to.
Now, he watches as Hills agents shuffle nervously on their feet, darting not-so-subtle glances over at Bucky — running a steady pace on one of the treadmills in the corner and completely ignoring all of them.
Steve doesn’t know why he’s surprised to see him here. Bucky runs every morning like clock-work, and it’s been raining hard outside since last night.
It makes sense that he’d be here.
What doesn’t make sense, and really gets on Steve’s nerves besides, is the agents’ reactions to Bucky’s presence.
This is their third session in as many weeks, so Steve knows the group relatively well. Enough, at least, to know that they should all be professional enough not to be standing around gawking at Bucky like he’s the boogie man, seconds away from attempting to slaughter them all.
He claps his hands loudly, startling them out of their gazel-like staring. Tells them, sternly, to start warming up — something they should have already been doing when he showed up, instead of standing around in a cluster, bunched together like a flock of terrified sheep in the presence of a wolf.
A few of the agents cast him guilty looks, and Steve takes a steadying breath, pushing down the irritation caused by their unprofessional behavior. A perfect opportunity has been dropped into his lap, and he wants to be clear-headed enough to take advantage of it.
He’s noticed, and Hill had alluded to it as well, that Bucky’s touch aversion had worsened substantially during the course of Steve’s absence.
Growing up, Bucky had always been extremely tactile; quick to throw an arm over Steve’s shoulder, to tug him in the direction he wanted them to go, to provide a hug when Steve needed the reassurance (or when they’d been apart for anything longer than a minute). Whatever the situation, Bucky had always found a reason to touch Steve. He was the same way with his sisters, his mother.
A lot of that had tapered off during the war, after Zola.
After his escape from Hydra, though, it became very obvious that Bucky’d lost all affinity for touch.
In Wakanda, during the long phase of his recovery, it was easy to see that one one of the many things Bucky suffered from was touch starvation. But he’d also been incredibly wary; always cautious, careful to keep his distance from everyone even while he hid that sharp vigilance behind a pleasant smile. Some days, days when he was more the Soldier than he was Bucky, Bucky would even become violently reactive to touch; striking out at anyone who caught him off guard, becoming horribly guilty about it afterward. Still — eventually — that too had tapered off.
Ultimately, he’d managed to reach a place where his comfort with touch had leveled out. Never to where it had been before the war, but enough that he was able to accept a hug, a clasp around his arm, a gentle brush of Steve’s shoulder against his, or a playful nudge from Shuri.
Now, all of that hard-won progress seems to have vanished. At the very least, it’s been severely stunted. These days, Bucky twitches away whenever Steve gets close , and he keeps a solid five feet between him and everyone else at all times.
Not even Sam touches Bucky, and he seems to be the closest thing to a friend Bucky has in the compound, apart from, theoretically, Steve himself.
So. Steve’s noticed. And he’s been trying to come up with a way to ease Bucky back into casual contact.
Before, in Wakanda, when Bucky had trusted Steve, he’d put a concentrated effort into slowly allowing Steve into his space. They’d share a couch, gravitating closer together as time went by. Steve worked to telegraph his movements, letting Bucky prepare to accept a hug or a tap on the shoulder.
Now, with Bucky’s trust so damaged, and no evidence that Bucky wants to be anywhere even near Steve’s space, Steve’s desire to reconcile Bucky with touch is going to be challenging at best.
By some miracle, though, a chance for Steve to try to bridge that gap has been laid at his feet this morning. A sparring match would put him and Bucky into each other’s space. And it offers the added benefit of keeping the physical contact limited, without pressure of expectation.
Steve wants, very much, to take advantage of this opportunity. So he heads over to catch Bucky — who’s just shut down his treadmill and is taking long pulls from his water bottle — before he leaves.
Bucky tenses almost imperceptibly as Steve gets closer, eyes rapidly clocking the exits before he returns his cautious gaze to Steve.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, voice low so as to keep the conversation between the two of them. He doesn’t want to pressure Bucky, wants him to agree on his own terms to what Steve plans to ask. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping me with a demonstration.”
Bucky slowly caps his water bottle, fingers tightening around the thin plastic until it creeks.
“What kind of a demonstration.”
There’s not enough lilt at the end of that sentence to make it a question, but Steve explains anyway.
Since Steve began working with Hill’s agents, the goal has been to improve upon the combat skills they already possess. Though none of the agents are untrained, they’ve yet to pit themselves against someone like Steve.
As non-enhanced persons in a world where more and more enhanced individuals are being discovered, the odds of these agents ending up in a situation where they will be forced to go up against such an individual are getting higher all the time.
Which is why training with Steve will be so valuable.
Because while these agents will never be able to overpower Steve individually, Steve can teach them ways to outmaneuver an opponent, no matter how strong he may be.
Steve’s job, as their instructor, is to give Hill’s agents the opportunity to learn how tactical competence, in place of force, can be the difference between victory and defeat.
Natasha had perfectly exemplified this concept. She’d always been capable of holding her own on the training mats, even against Steve.
Bucky, too, uses the technique to his advantage. He may not be as strong as Steve, but what he lacks in strength, he more than makes up for in flexibility, speed, and cunning. He far surpasses mere capability, and Steve wants to demonstrate it.
He tells Bucky this, after outlining his plan for Hill’s agents, and Bucky listens, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to the agents in question, expression apprehensive. Steve wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want Steve in his space, or if it’s something else that bothers him.
“I don’t know,” Bucky hedges, when Steve’s done explaining. “I’m not very… good with Hill’s agents.”
Steve supposes that’s one way to put it, even if it hardly accounts for the degree of wary cynicism the agents clearly harbor toward Bucky.
It’s another reason Steve wants Bucky to spar with him: to humanize Bucky in the eyes of Hill’s agents. He wants them to see Bucky, to watch him put all that skill and strength against Steve, but never, for a moment, lose control of it.
Because Steve knows that Bucky won’t lose control, that he’d never hurt Steve, that he’s not a threat. And he wants these agents to see that. To know it, with the same clarity of certainty that Steve knows it.
What Steve says is “You don’t gotta be, Buck,” placing a clearly-telegraphed hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’ll only be working with me.”
Bucky twitches sharply at the touch, shoulder like granite beneath Steve’s fingers, but he doesn’t pull away and Steve’s heart leaps, hope kindling beneath his breastbone.
“Okay,” Bucky finally says, blue eyes finding Steve’s. “I’ll— Tell me what you want me to do.”
—
Steve leads Bucky over to the mats, calls the agents’ to order. They fall-in obediently, trading glances with one another, surreptitiously watching Bucky standing at Steve’s side on the mats. Steve reiterates the focus of the training he’s providing, and tells them that Bucky has agreed to assist Steve in demonstrating the kinds of skills Steve is working to impart.
Then they’re squaring up, he and Bucky, and the room goes deadly silent.
—
When Sam finally makes it down to the gym — late, and feeling guilty because of it — he finds that he needn’t have worried. Steve’s apparently found a substitute assistant, squaring up against none other than Barnes himself, evidently having somehow convinced the taciturn operative to engage in a sparring demonstration.
Some days before his first training session with Hill’s agents, Steve had approached Sam to ask if he’d be willing to work with Steve; to provide some assistance as a demonstrator, and also a fellow teacher. Sam had been happy to help out, but he’s even happier, now, to see Barnes working with Steve in his place.
Things have been... complicated between Steve and Barnes since Steve’s return weeks ago. They’ve talked, Sam knows, are at least on the same page as far as how they feel about each other. But Steve’s decision to stay in the past had left Barnes definitively damaged, and there’s no easy fix for that. No way to get around the fact that it’s going to take time for that damage to heal.
Still, it’s good to see them working together.
Barnes has, ostensibly, reached a point in his recovery where he is at least willing to allow Steve within close proximity to himself — a key difference in his behavior up to this point. Barnes’ trust extends to almost no one these days, and he’s certainly not keen on people being in his space, not for any reason.
He’s as skittish as a stray cat and just about as social, and Sam has no doubt that those trust issues stem from having the person closest to him abandon him with so little evidence of care.
Even the medics responsible for attending to the injuries procured by the Avengers, along with Hill’s agents, tend to give Barnes a wide berth — not least of all because Barnes has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with them — such that even on the rare instance that he’s forced to report to medical, it’s not out of the norm to see Barnes tending to his own injuries.
It’s hard not to be angry at Steve for what he’d done. Especially when Sam sees the devastating impact it’d had on someone who’d been so supremely fragile, so openly vulnerable to the effects of Steve’s choices.
Before Steve had made that disastrous decision, before Barnes had been so emotionally crippled by it, Sam had always seen Barnes as indomitable. He was, after all, the infamous WinterSoldier: stolid, formidable — physically and emotionally untouchable. And he is that, all of it.
But with Steve he never had been.
Steve is the one person who’d had unrestricted access to Barnes’ heart, the innermost core of him, and, along with that access, the ability to hurt him like no one else could. And hurt him Steve had.
Because Barnes had been open to it, had left himself completely defenseless against Steve’s thoughtlessness. He’d caught the full brunt of Steve’s rash disregard and been left reeling in the wake of it.
Something like that isn’t easy to come back from.
Sam is heartened, though, to see that the two of them are working to get past it. That, in spite of everything, there is still love there, smoldering in the wake of disaster.
It’s that love that’s holding them together. Making recovery attainable, keeping it from falling wholly outside of their reach.
And it’s evident in the way they watch each other, in how their eyes traverse the spaces between them.
Steve watches Barnes with a quiet, steady reverence, everything in him seeming to lean toward the Soldier, as if he’s being pulled into Barnes’ orbit. And Barnes — no matter how he keeps his distance — gazes back with similar appetence. When Steve’s attention is turned elsewhere, when Barnes can do so subtlety, he looks at Steve like he’s the only source of warmth in a frozen wasteland, and Barnes is desperately cold.
Sam knows Steve is determined to eliminate the distance Barnes has been keeping between them and today — master tactician that he is — it appears he’s found a way around it, even if only temporarily. Watching the two size each other up, Sam has to hand it to Steve: sparring is a great way to coax down some of Barnes’ barriers.
The two supersoldiers circle each other.
Hill’s agents shift nervously, eyes darting between Steve and Barnes, tension ratcheting even higher as Barnes’ passive demeanor suddenly melts away, all of the predator-like grace of the Winter Soldier rising to the surface and slipping seamlessly into place.
There’s a subtle shift in intent, something lightning-quick and invisible that passes between both contenders. Then, all at once, they’re trading blows; movements sharp, and agile, and just this side of too quick to follow.
It is immediately apparent that the supersoldiers are utilizing contrary styles — two completely different techniques.
Steve’s elected approach, Sam notes, relies predominantly upon his superior strength. His blows are direct, powerful; brutal force obviously meant to be his primary advantage in this demonstration.
In complete contrast, Barnes’ approach is subtle, evasive.
He makes no attempt to confront Steve’s strength with his own; doesn’t try to meet it head-on, or trade strike for strike.
Instead, the former assassin makes agility his advantage.
He flows around Steve’s forceful blows; modifies his technique so as to bypass all that strength and momentum, making it into a hindrance rather than an advantage. Watching the way Barnes moves makes it quite apparent that all that force, all that power, is useless if Steve never manages to hit anything.
Useless to Steve, that is, but advantageous for Barnes who slips between Steve’s blows, gets past his guard to deliver his own attacks: quick, sharp jabs, and calculated strikes meant to break Steve’s balance, to bring him down.
His body bends sinuously, twisting one way and then the other, each movement gracefully executed as if part of a well-known — if complicated — piece of choreography, wherein Barnes reads and responds to Steve’s movements as if they’ve been telegraphed in advance.
It’s amazing to watch, and very apparent that Steve has chosen, in Barnes, the perfect candidate to demonstrate this unique skill set. Because while Barnes is more than capable of overpowering any non-enhanced opponent by way of his strength alone, when pitted against someone like Steve — who’s even stronger than Barnes, and just as fast — the former assassin is forced to alter his strategy.
He does this in a masterful way, countering brute force with shrewd cunning.
The lethal grace with which Barnes moves reminds Sam strongly of Natasha — mirrors, in fact, almost exactly her technique. Natasha, Sam remembers, had been exceedingly talented at bringing down opponents both larger and stronger than herself. Watching Barnes now, knowing he’d been a proficient operative long before Natasha ever had, has Sam suddenly speculating about just where she’d learned those skills.
He wonders that he’d never put it together before as he watches Barnes bring Steve down with a series of complicated but familiar movements that end with Steve flat on his back, Barnes’ metal arm locked securely around his neck.
The two supersoldiers hold that position for a moment, breathing slightly elevated, as Steve grins brightly — clearly exhilarated despite having just had his ass handed to him. Then Steve taps out, and Barnes immediately releases him.
As Steve rises to his feet unharmed, a sudden release of tension sweeps through Hill’s agents, evidenced by a collective loosening of taut muscles and a number of quiet but not particularly subtle, sighs of relief. Barnes’ expression doesn’t change, but he does move that much farther from Steve’s side, and Sam knows there’s no way the former assassin — once most feared operative in the world — is unaware of the cool feelings Hill’s agents have toward him.
Sam tries not to frown in displeasure.
He knows that many people tend to be wary of Barnes these days. Especially those agents who get called to work alongside him during missions, who get an unimpeded look at the Soldier’s brutal efficiency when he’s in the field. That, coupled with Barnes’ history, and the fact that he’s kept himself emotionally — if not physically — isolated these past three years, means it’s not too surprising that Hill’s agents would keep a healthy amount of caution around the former Winter Soldier.
But healthy caution is one thing. What these agents appear to be displaying is something different. Something much more...hostile.
Sam hadn’t realized that their opinion of Barnes had shifted so decisively from ‘stolid ally’ to ‘potential threat’.
How long have Hill’s agents been treating Barnes like he’s one wrong step from being the enemy? As if he’s so unstable that something as benign as a sparring match might trigger him into uncontrolled violence?
Long enough, apparently, that Barnes’ has noticed; has started modifying his behavior in response.
It needles at Sam’s conscience. Rankles at his inner desire that everyone be treated fairly, be treated right.
Because it isn’t right, Barnes feeling like he needs to protect himself from the irrational fears of others. It isn’t right that on top of every other horrible thing life has heaped on him, Barnes has to deal with the mistrust of his own teammates when he’s more than proven himself — again and again, unquestionably — to be the most proficient operative out of all of them. If anything, these agents should be looking at him with gratitude; for all of the times he’s saved their lives, for being there whenever called upon to help pull them out of dire situations.
Instead they look at him with uncertainty; with barely-concealed suspicion.
It isn’t right. It certainly isn’t fair.
And Sam isn’t the only one who feels this way. He glances over to see his own disquiet mirrored in Steve’s tight expression.
Then Steve meets Sam’s eyes, and Sam sees determination settle across his features. Sees clearly, that Steve is not going to accept the way things are between Barnes and Hill’s agents. That he’s going to dosomething about it.
Sam quirks a small smile, gives Steve a subtle nod.
Whatever his plan is, and there’s no doubt Steve has a plan, he’s got Sam’s full support.
Steve returns Sam’s nod with a subtle one of his own before he straightens his shoulders, turning his attention back to Hill’s agents.
Unexpectedly, Steve doesn’t choose to address the tension — hanging thick and prodigious in the air — directly. Instead, he jumps into explaining key aspects of the sparring demonstration, elements that the agents can learn from, and the skills he wants them to practice; today against one another and, perhaps eventually, on Steve himself.
As the agents pair up to do just that, Sam steps in to help, slipping into the role of assistant instructor Steve had assigned him weeks ago.
He works to provide support; guiding the agents through different aspects of today’s training, helping to correct their technique. And all the while he has to force himself not to constantly glance in Barnes’ direction.
Because, surprising as it is, though Barnes has backed away from the group, he hasn’t actually left.
Sam buries the urge to reach out, not wanting to do anything that could cause Barnes to retreat and, in a rare display of interest, Barnes stays. Remains on the sidelines, keeping out of the way of the practicing agents.
Steve’s not so cautious. Apparently Barnes’ proximity is all the permission Steve needs to seek his assistance throughout the lesson, and he does so, repeatedly; shamelessly taking advantage of Barnes’ uncharacteristically sociable mood.
They end up re-demonstrating several of the maneuvers Barnes had used during their sparring match, Steve keeping Barnes as involved as possible.
He asks Barnes questions, has him explain his thought-processes, the best ways to implement them. He skillfully draws Barnes out of his shell and, in a remarkable way, cleverly reveals aspects of Barnes’ personality that have been hidden away for so long.
(Like how he’s unselfishly generous with his time, staying to assist long after he could choose to make his excuses and go. Like his willingness to help with whatever Steve asks of him, and the gentle manner with which he demonstrates certain techniques, with Steve, and even with Sam who is a great deal more breakable.)
As the lesson progresses, the room gradually begins to lose its tension.
Maybe it’s the fact that Steve keeps putting his hands all over Barnes without losing any vital organs. Maybe it helps that Barnes stops looking so guarded, finally managing to relax enough that he isn’t constantly closing himself off, pulling away, keeping his distance.
Whatever the case, Hill’s agents settle, no longer shooting suspicious looks Barnes’ way.
Barnes, in turn, slowly unwinds, becoming less restrained, more open.
Watching the way Barnes calms, Sam would bet money on the fact that Steve’s constant touching is benefiting the Soldier physically as well.
Barnes has been cutting himself off from physical contact for years , and Sam knows the resulting skin hunger must be a hell of a thing to live with. So it’s a relief to see some of that hunger sated, even if Barnes likely doesn’t realize that’s what’s going on.
In fact, this entire sparring session as a whole has been a relief, successful in more ways in one.
Between Barnes and Hill’s agents, for example, Steve’s made more progress in the last two hours than anyone, including Sam, has been able to manage in years. The wariness between both parties has been a real concern as of late, something Sam’s lost sleep over. Something he’s been discussing with Fury and Hill, too.
Because before Steve’s return, Barnes had been so closed off that Sam had worried he’d never break free of his self-imposed reclusion.
It wasn’t healthy, keeping oneself so shut off and even Barnes, strong as he was, wouldn’t be able to keep it up indefinitely. Without something to live for, something to drag him out of the dark place Steve had inadvertently pushed him into, eventually he’d shut down. Eventually he’d concede to never opening back up, and that led to a dark place much more permanent.
Now, though, Barnes appears to have found a patch of stable ground.
Sam’s grateful for it. Hopes it leads to a brighter future.
—