Remind Me

'Even though it hurts in this moment

I have always known it:

You're the other half of my broken heart.'

Bucky stands beneath the warm fall of a post-workout shower. 

Despite his initial reticence to be involved, the training session with Hill’s agents — with Steve — had turned out surprisingly well. By the end of the session, the agents were no longer regarding Bucky with their usual degree of suspicious borderline-animosity, and Steve seemed to be happy with their progress. Even Sam — who’d assumed the thankless task of playing mediator between Hill’s agents and Bucky in Steve’s absence — had managed to lose the worried frown, easily assuming his role as Steve’s assistant.

Now, standing beneath the warm flow of water, Bucky can’t help but notice that the overabundance of restless energy that’s plagued him ever since Steve came back, is conspicuously absent, his muscles feeling only the pleasant weariness of a good workout. 

The reprieve, while more than welcome, is… unexpected. These days, spending time around Steve typically serves to exacerbate Bucky’s constant low-level agitation, leaving him often frustratingly on edge, high-strung and irritated. And while Bucky’s made a habit of trying to tire himself out — running, mile after countless mile; fighting through as many combat simulations as it takes to get him physically exhausted — such methods have only ever met with limited success.   

Except today. 

For some reason, he hasn’t dissolved into an anxiety-riddled panic attack, not during all the time he’d spent working with Steve, nor afterward, when he’d slipped away at the end of the training session, just as Steve started wrapping it up. Even now, the restless tension remains absent. Dormant, instead of rising up to choke him.

He considers this as he scrubs down. Wonders if the attack might have been derailed due to the presence of so many onlookers. But...no. That’s not it. He steps back under the flow of water.

It must, he thinks instead, have to do with the fact that his energy had been so singularly focused on something else; channeled into sparring rather than panicking. 

He wonders if that’s what it takes, and if it can be done again. If he can replicate this sense of quiet calm.

There’s one way to find out, Bucky thinks.

—

The next time Steve leads a training session for Hill’s agents, Bucky finds himself hovering nearby. 

Predictably, Steve invites him over, and again, at the end of the session Bucky discovers a mind gone quiet, body purged of all its restless energy, more settled than it’s been since the last time he’d sparred with Steve.  

The physical and mental stillness Bucky experiences post-sparring make him want to keep being involved. The fact that each session brings him that much closer to expunging the distrust between himself and Hill’s agents turns want to determination. 

It helps that Wilson, as well, continues to assist with the sessions. His steady presence and soothing energy go a long way in making everyone more comfortable. Bucky hadn’t expected that, but he finds himself benefiting from it all the same.

Slowly, working with the agents becomes something Bucky does more easily. Slowly, he grows more comfortable, even if never quite completely comfortable.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about his relationship with Steve. 

Apart from the time they spend sparring, and the few hours of peace following, Bucky still finds himself shrinking away from Steve. His heart still thuds with anxiety when Steve gets too close, body going shaky, every thought suffused with the urge to go, hide, get away.  

He fights it — stomps down on that feeling that presents like an instinct but is really just fear — and, gradually, he’s able to force himself to stay. To push through the trembling and the short, shallow breaths. Slowly, he’s able to chip away at the invisible barrier keeping a solid five feet between them. To make himself share the couch with Steve at a distance that steadily disappears by the smallest of increments.

But his progress is nonlinear. Jagged. Full of relapses and nonstarters. 

He still has bad days, sometimes more often than not, and the setbacks that arise from those bad days are aggravating. His own finicky emotions prove to be a source of unending irritation as he finds himself vacillating between ease and apprehension. He’s a swinging pendulum — drawing close to Steve and then shying away, indecisive as hell. 

And fuck if it isn’t one of the most frustrating things he’s had to deal with to date.

—

When Steve enters the apartment after a lengthy meeting with Hill, it’s to the sound of silence. He places his keys into the bowl beside the door and heads further inside, wondering where Bucky might be, assuming by the quality of the silence that he’s out. 

It’s a safe assumption considering the fact that the last few days have been rough — “bad days” as Steve’s taken to thinking of them — and Bucky tends to keep his distance when that happens. 

While, on good days, Bucky is typically less reserved — easier to talk to, more comfortable with Steve’s proximity, and generally more relaxed overall — bad days are a staggering contrast.

On bad days Bucky goes quiet. He’s edgy; easily spooked. Shies away from Steve, keeping himself far out of reach. Oftentimes, he’ll disappear altogether, not returning until Steve is already in his room, lights out, waiting for sleep he knows won’t come until he hears Bucky creep back into the apartment.

Since Steve had come back, Bucky’s been fluctuating pretty regularly between good and bad days.  

Fortunately, as time passes, Bucky seems to be slowly outpacing bad days with good. 

Unfortunately, the bad days still crop up. 

These past few days have been bad ones. 

As if everything else the bad days stir up isn’t bad enough, Steve suspects Bucky’s been having nightmares — the dark shadows smudged beneath Bucky’s eyes betraying his broken sleeping patterns. 

Perhaps, then, it shouldn't come as such a surprise to find Bucky sprawled out on the living room couch, dead to the world. Except Steve knows Bucky always makes himself scarce on bad days. Which means he probably hadn’t intended to fall asleep here, and being completely exhausted had done him in. 

Steve’s eyes trace over Bucky’s face, taking in the faint frown, the bruised-looking skin beneath the thick fall of his lashes. He looks...not peaceful, but like he might be able to stay asleep for a little while and Steve doesn’t want to disturb him. 

So he pads around quietly. Sits in one of the living room chairs and pulls out his sketchbook. Doodles nothing in particular. His eyes are drawn again and again to Bucky’s face, and each time he fights to drag them away, to keep from staring. It’s just... this might be the longest Bucky’s been in his presence — unmoving — since Steve had come back, and Steve can’t help but want to greedily drink in the sight of him. 

He wishes he could slide onto the couch behind Bucky. Wrap his arms around that leanly muscled form, and bury his face into the warm place between neck and shoulder such that each breath would be filled with the fresh scent of Bucky’s shampoo; the soap he uses on his skin.

As the minutes pass, though, and Bucky begins to frown more deeply, Steve is drawn from his daydream.

He watches as Bucky shifts in his sleep, slowly becoming more and more restless. Eventually, Steve realizes Bucky’s not going to settle, that he shouldn’t wait for his distress to abate on its own. 

He gets to his feet, dropping the sketchbook onto his abandoned chair and carefully approaching Bucky, certain, now, that he’s in the throes of a nightmare. 

Strands of dark hair stick to Bucky’s dampened forehead, creased with distress. His breathing hitches, a tiny sound of anguish spilling from his parted lips, as he twitches sharply, metal hand curling into the fabric of the cushion beneath him. 

“Bucky, hey Buck,” Steve murmurs gently, “Wake up, pal.”

Bucky shifts, face angling toward Steve, drawn to the sound of his voice even as he’s clearly still asleep. 

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve coaxes, reaching out helplessly. “S’ just a nightmare, love.” His hand wavers as it draws closer to Bucky, hovering just over his forehead, stalled by Steve’s loath to touch. It’s impossible to forget, and Bucky’s made it quite clear, that he hates it — being touched. That outside of sparring, he doesn’t want Steve ever touching him. 

But then Bucky lets out another broken sound and Steve’s moving on autopilot, brushing a tender hand feather-light across Bucky’s brow, pushing the damp strands out of his face.  

Bucky’s eyes fly open. 

In an instant he’s on his feet. 

A deadly-looking blade — and where had it even comefrom? — is clutched it tight in his flesh hand. His sleek, metal arm, angled forward so as to be between him and the perceived threat, recalibrates with a high-tech sibilation. 

Steve opens his mouth, shuts it. 

Sometime between Bucky’s waking and jumping to defend himself, Steve had raised his palms. He holds them there, open and empty, keeping himself as unthreatening as he can.

—

Bucky blinks rapidly, gaze darting about his surroundings, brain working furiously to orient itself.  

He’s on his feet beside the living-room couch, blade out and body poised for combat, but he can’t recall anything past when he’d sat down earlier. Can’t even recall why he’d sat down in the first place. 

His gaze catches on Steve; hands out and placating, expression a mixture of guilt and concern. 

“Sorry,” Steve says before Bucky can unclench his jaw enough to get any words out. “I shouldn’t have— You looked like you were having a nightmare and... I just wanted to…” he trails off. Swallows. Then continues in a low voice, “I’m sorry I touched you. I know how you don’t like it.”

Bucky eases out of the combative stance. Slides his blade back into the hidden sheath at the small of his back. 

He’d fallenasleep. He hadn’t meant to, but the reason why he had isn’t difficult to decipher.

Simply put: he’s exhausted. 

Over the past week, nightmares have been choking him awake so often he’s basically given up trying to sleep on any sort of consistent schedule. Sometimes, during the day, he might manage to slip into a doze, but he won’t get more than an hour of rest before the nightmares have him jerking back awake. Lately he’s been so tired that his body has started shutting down whenever he sits still long enough, with him being too exhausted to fight it. 

The days crawl by, fatigue dragging him down, making everything seem more difficult than it needs to be. 

And, to top it all off, the stress of the nightmares combined with this recent exhaustion has built to a point where he’s started getting tension headaches. 

Even now he can feel one forming — a tight pressure behind his eyes and down his neck, sitting heavy between his shoulders.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice is soft, and Bucky blinks his eyes back open, not quite sure when he’d closed them.

“S’okay,” he rasps in belated response to Steve’s apology. Scrubs a hand over eyes that burn and water simultaneously. He’s so fucking tired. “Didn’t mean to…” he waves a hand, instead of finishing. Didn’t mean to pull a knife on you. 

Steve slowly lowers his hands, concern clear on his face. 

“You look exhausted Buck,” he says, still in that careful, quiet voice. “Do you— I mean. Is there anything I can do?”

Bucky doesn’t want anything from Steve. Doesn’t think he could bring himself to ask even if he could think of something. 

Three years ago, there was a part of him that had… needed Steve, and never had he hated that part of himself so much as after Steve went away. He’s worked ruthlessly to weed it out ever since, and he’s managed — to an extent. Enough that, if the past three years prove nothing else, they prove that he knows how to survive without Steve.

Bucky can’t — refuses to — need anyone. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Self-reliance is what will sustain him, he reminds himself. It’s what’s been sustaining him.

Even though there are times when he’ll wake up knowing that he’s alone, that he’s existing in a world where he’s barely tolerated by those around him, only useful for his skills as a weapon, a soldier. That Steve — the only person who’d known him, the only one who’d, maybe, cared about him as something more than an asset, a mission assist — is gone, gone, gone. 

Eventually he remembers that Steve isn’t gone. That he came back. 

But the residual feelings of misery still linger, and it’s hard to pull free of them.

He forces his mind back into the room. Sees Steve waiting for an answer. He shakes his head in response to the offer. Motions toward his bedroom. “I’m gonna…”

He starts to turn, but Steve takes a short step forward. Says imploringly, “Don’t—”

On reflex, Bucky stops. 

“Buck,” Steve entreats. “Talk to me, please? I want to… What’s going on with you?”  

‘Let me help’, Steve doesn't say, but Bucky hears it all the same. Sees it in the earnest expression on his face, in the way his hands twitch at his sides. 

Bucky drops his gaze.  

A quiet thought whispers through his mind, small and hurt. ‘You left...You left me.’ 

Bucky hates that voice. Hates how weak and pitiful it sounds even within the confines of his own mind. 

That voice — those words — underscore all of his insecurities, everything he’s been fighting to push down, to ignore, ever since Steve came back. 

It’s the weight of those insecurities that keeps him off-balance. Leaves something in him feeling hollow and broken. Something he can’t— doesn’t know how to fix. 

It shouldn’t be this difficult, Bucky thinks, just to move on. To pull himself from the emotional pit he’s somehow found himself stuck in. 

So Steve had left. ‘So what?’ he asks himself viciously. Things hadn’t gone the way Bucky’d wanted them to. But when have they ever, really? Since when has anything in his life gone the way he’s wanted? 

Steve was— is — the best thing to ever happen to him. And Bucky should be grateful for whatever amount of time he’d had — has — with him. 

Because deep down, he’d always known that eventually Steve would leave him behind. It was only a matter of time, and Bucky’s been preparing himself for it for as long as he can remember. 

Long before Peggy had come along. Long before the war. 

Ever since that day. A day that had been just like any other, nothing special about it, except he’d suddenly looked at Steve and the realization had slammed into him: Steve was special. One of a kind. Remarkable. A powerful soul in a tiny body, full of inner strength, integrity, and a righteous fury that couldn’t be ignored. And suddenly, Bucky was noticing it, seeing it clear as day.  

Steve’s mother had seen it too. And, Bucky’d realized with a rising sense of gloom, eventually, someone else would see it as well. Someone who Steve would see right back. Someone who Steve would love ...

When Bucky discovered, not much later, that his feelings for Steve — the deep, all-encompassing devotion; the knowledge that he’d follow him anywhere; the way he wanted to keep him close, always — meant he’d gone and fallen in love with Steve, he’d also come to accept that the only thing changed was the fact that their eventual separation would hurt more. 

He’d worked so long to prepare for it. As much as one could prepare for that kind of thing. Still, it had broken him. 

Bucky knows it’s because he’d gotten careless. 

Times have changed. Relationships have changed. There is more room in the world these days for the way he feels about Steve, and somehow, he’d allowed himself to forget that there is a reason he’s always had to prepare to lose Steve, why Steve can never be his.

There is a reason things don’t go his way. Have never gone his way. 

Call it god, or karma, or something else, the truth behind it is this: He doesn’t deserve Steve. 

Because while at the heart of him, at his core, Steve is good, through and through, Bucky isn’t — has never been — good. 

It’s something Bucky’d come to accept about himself a long time ago. He’d look at Steve — the best guy Bucky knew, who fought so hard, who always wanted to look out for the little guy, even at the expense of himself — and he knew that he’d never been so selfless. 

Bucky fought, and protected, and cared... But it was for Steve . Because he loved Steve. His love was, in the end, a selfish thing. He made Steve smile because Steve’s smile made Bucky smile. Made him warm inside, made him happy. 

In the Army, in basic, he’d gained a new awareness of just how deep his deficiencies ran. 

He’d been horrified to learn just how quickly he became proficient with weapons; almost as soon as they were put into his hands. Turned out he was a natural-born killer, and he’d risen through the ranks with an ease that, at the time, had made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t tell anyone that, couldn’t tell Steve, who had been so proud of him, Sergeant Barnes, that he didn’t want to be so good at war. That he’d never even wanted to bethere. 

So, he was a coward on top of everything else. A coward with blood-stained hands. 

It didn’t take very long for him to learn how to compartmentalize. To shove all of his fear, and his horror down deep where it didn’t get in his way, didn’t distract him from making the kills that they wanted him to make. Because that was how you survived in a kill-or-be-killed world; by being the better killer. So that’s what he became. And that, he knew, made him into a whole new kind of monster — the kind that stopped feeling the pang of remorse every time he put a bullet into someone. Made a body out of what had once been a living, breathing person. 

Those are the facts. The truth about himself. There’s something inherently wrong with him. Always has been.

Hydra hadn’t turned him into a monster. He’d been one long before they’d gotten their hands on him.

After his defection, he’d told himself this was something he’d never forget. That he’d had that monster inside him all along. That Hydra had simply put him to better use than the U.S. military ever managed to. 

He wouldn’t forget. He didn’t deserve to forget.

The people he’d killed, the lives he’d destroyed, these are things he can never atone for. And if being selfish — or a natural-born killer, or a Hydra-controlled murderer — aren’t enough to prove his unworthiness, the sheer magnitude of the horrors wrought by his hands is, by far. 

And yet, somehow — between the time he’d spent in Wakanda, dying in Thanos’ war, and coming back to life, again — he’d lost sight of this. He’d become complacent. 

So when the time had come to gracefully accept Steve’s choice to be with Carter, he’d gotten caught up in his own feelings. 

Steve’s departure had been a crushing blow, a sharp reminder of the things Bucky had allowed to slip out of focus. And his absence gave Bucky the time and space to remind himself. Who he was, what he deserved. And what he didn’t. 

He doesn’t know how he lost sight of it. Time and again, life has seared it into his brain. Experience has taught him well: someone like him doesn’t get happy endings. 

He isn’t worthy. 

Except. 

Now, Steve is back. Has said that he is in love with Bucky. 

The thought of that, the possibility of it is...nothing short of miraculous. 

It’s too much. 

More than Bucky deserves. Could ever hope to deserve, after everything he’s done. All the suffering wrought by his hands. 

Which makes it difficult to believe that Steve could really feel the same way. 

It’s not that Bucky thinks Steve is lying. Steve wouldn’t. 

It’s more the fact that Bucky thinks Steve is... confused. Because things didn’t work out with Peggy. And Steve had ended up missing the new life he’d left behind. 

So maybe Steve’s mixed up. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he just needs something to fill that empty space he’d reserved for Peggy. 

Whatever the case, Bucky doesn’t think— he can’t believe that he is what Steve really wants. 

And  — deserving aside — maybe that’s the other part of why he has such a difficult time letting Steve get close to him. 

He knows he’d allowed Steve’s absence to damage him. And because he’s weak, (had somehow allowed himself, in Hydra’s absence, to become weak) the hurt that lingers from that damage has been affecting him physically. Causing anxiety to skitter through his limbs. Making him feel like there’s never enough air in the room whenever Steve is around.

It’s difficult to be around Steve when Bucky literally aches for him. It’s not that he doesn’t want Steve touching him. He wants it toomuch. Steve’s hands on him, they feel…god, they feel indescribablygood. When Steve touches him, Bucky never wants him to stop. It’s another reason he needs to keep his distance. 

He’s working on it. Working to keep those feelings locked down and under control. Because despite what Steve has said, despite Steve claiming to love him, Bucky can’t imagine that he’ll ever truly be able to keep Steve. 

Someone like Bucky — monstrous, blood-stained, broken —  will never be able to hold onto someone as bright and goodhearted as Steve. 

This is something he knows. Something he won’t — can’t — allow himself to ever forget. 

He can’t. Because this is the end of his line. He’s standing on the precipice, so close to tumbling over the edge. And he knows he won’t survive the shattering impact that surely awaits when Steve realizes he’s not really in love with Bucky. 

It’s not something he’ll come back from. There won’t be enough of him left. Better to keep himself from believing Steve could love him. 

Better to smother that hope. To never let it ignite. Because the flames of that fire will burn him alive. 

—

Steve watches Bucky struggle. Working through some internal conflict that Steve isn’t privy to. 

It’s clear from the turmoil shadowing his features that there’s a war going on in his head, and Steve wants desperately to reach out, to soothe that turmoil. 

The effort it takes to restrain himself creates a painful tugging sensation beneath his sternum. 

He shuffles another small step forward, not quite breaching the invisible barrier Bucky uses to keep everyone at arm's length, and Bucky’s gaze snaps up, focus instantly drawn from the inner battle he’d been lost in.

His blue eyes are wary, and Steve feels the weight of that uncertainty cut through him sharp as glass. 

“God I fucked us up,” he whispers, raising a hand toward Bucky, helpless to keep from reaching for him, even when he’s not close enough to touch. Bucky twitches away; a tiny, instinctive movement that digs the metaphorical knife deeper into Steve’s chest. “I hate that I made you... afraid of me,” he continues, dropping his hand. “That I made you scared — of me being too close, of me, anyone, putting their hands on you. I hate that I dragged you back into something you fought so hard to get past the first time.”

Steve draws an unsteady breath, anguish making each word scrape rough in his throat. “That’s on me,“ he says, forcing himself to keep going, to say what needs saying no matter how pinned he feels under that piercing silvery-blue gaze. “And I’m so sorry, Buck. For three years ago, for every day since. For every single hurt I caused, and for every setback you’ve had to struggle through because of me.

“And,” Steve continues, voice low, “I’m sorry that I can’t...walk away. I’m sorry that I can’t— that I’m going to ask more of you.”

Bucky’s brow furrows, gaze flickering across Steve’s features in confusion. 

“I hurt you,” Steve says, “and I’ll never forget that. I’ll pay for it for the rest of my life. But I also… I can’t forget that you said you love me.”

Bucky flinches, another tiny movement that Steve might have missed had he not been paying attention to Bucky’s every movement, his every breath. 

“You do... You love me, Buck?” Steve needs to ask. Needs to hear it again. 

Bucky swallows, looks as if the word is cutting him from the inside as he drags it out, releases it into the air between them. “Yes.”

Steve nods. Doesn’t let the elation caused by that simple word distract him. “I love you too, Bucky. I love you—”

Bucky looks away. His mouth twists, hands adopting a fine tremor. And Steve feels the air release from his lungs, a sharp burst, as if it’s been punched out of him. “You don’t believe me.”

“I—” Bucky begins, gaze still averted. “I don’t— I can’t—” He expels a sharp breath of his own, clearly frustrated. The tremor becomes more pronounced. 

“It’s okay,” Steve soothes, ignoring the sting Bucky’s mistrust evokes. “I understand, Bucky. I get it. I broke your trust. And it’s something I have to work to earn back. And I will. For as long as it takes. Whatever it takes. But I also...I need to ask. I can’t keep going without asking. I need to know—”

He breaks off, searching that cerulean gaze, looking for anything that can give him even a shred of hope. 

“What is it you want from me, Steve,” Bucky rasps. Uncertain. Edgy.

“I want—” Steve breaks off. Recovers. “I’m asking,” he says, “for you to give me a chance.”

Bucky’s gaze drops, dark lashes sweeping down to cover his eyes. “A chance,” he echoes. 

“I can’t let you go, Buck,” Steve says. “I won’t. Not unless there’s no other choice. Unless you give me no other choice. I want to fix this. Fix us. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. I walk around missing you, even though we share an apartment. Even though I see you everyday. I think of you first thing when I wake up, and last thing before I fall asleep. Everything I want and hope and wish for, revolves around you, and I can’t, I won’t pretend that those feelings aren’t there.”

Bucky bites his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t raise his gaze from where it’s glued to the floor. 

“Please Buck,” Steve whispers. “Please can you... Give me another chance.”

Finally, Bucky looks up. 

He meets Steve’s eyes with something shattered in his expression. Something dark and resigned. 

“Okay.” 

And even though he’s agreeing, there’s nothing happy about his demeanor. No joy, or excitement. Only the tired compliance of someone giving in. Giving up.

Like Bucky can’t — or won’t — deny Steve, but he still believes saying yes is going to hurt. If not now, then eventually, somewhere down the line.

It’s not how Steve wanted this to go. Not anything like he’d hoped. 

But it is a start. A single step onto a shaky, precarious bridge. 

Steve silently swears to himself, to Bucky, to fortify that bridge. With all he has, with everything he can give. He’ll make the ground solid beneath Bucky’s feet. Make it so that Bucky won’t ever doubt Steve’s love for him, not ever again. 

“Can I—” he asks, aching to draw Bucky into his arms. 

A long moment of tense silence passes and then Bucky nods, a diminutive little bob of his head, and Steve shifts carefully closer. 

When Steve finally puts his hands on him, Bucky shakes, a full-bodied shiver. After a few rigid moments, though, he sinks into the touch, muscles loosening in quiet surrender.

“Steve, please...”

The plea is soft, almost lost in the space between them, and Steve has to strain to hear it. 

And while Steve can’t know specifically what Bucky is pleading for, he can guess part of it easily enough. 

He sees, every day — in the way Bucky closes himself off, tucks himself away so that the shattered pieces left of his heart can’t be ground further to dust — that Bucky is shying away, as much as he can, from being hurt. Bucky’s faith, his trust, is fragile. The last burning ember of a smoldering candle, fighting to keep from being snuffed out. 

Steve refuses to let that ember die. 

“I love you, Bucky,” Steve promises lowly, fanning that tiny spark. “I swear it. And I’m not going anywhere. I won’t ever leave you again.” 

Bucky shudders. Dips his forehead to rest in the curve between Steve’s neck and shoulder. His hands reach up to clench tightly at the back of Steve’s shirt.

(He’s not crying. He’s too emotionally drained for that, Steve thinks, even if he always had cried easy. Not in public. And never around anyone else. But around Steve, when he got worked up enough, the tears would well up, spilling over sometimes before Bucky could raise a hand fast enough to swipe them angrily away.) 

Steve sinks his fingers into the dark tangle of Bucky’s hair, gently cupping the base of his skull. 

He drinks in the moment of quiet, Bucky warm and yielding in his arms.

—