It felt like his arm was on fire. And as a person who’d once had an arm actually on fire, Bucky got to make that comparison. He closed his eyes, listening to Mark fuck around on his guitar. He had to be present for this part of the process even though he had little input into it. He rubbed his shoulder, pressing his fingers into the scarred flesh where the arm abruptly ended.
“Do you want to break for the day, Buck?” The guitar went silent at Mark’s question. Fuck.
He opened his eyes, and three sets were locked on him. “Nah,” he dropped his hand from his shoulder, forcing a grin, “we got shit to do. What am I gonna do about imaginary pain at home?”
Mark sat his guitar pick down on the table and let the instrument lean forward. They knew Bucky hated it when they made a thing about his arm, but they kept doing it. They cared about him. “We’ve got months until this has to be done, we can take the day off.”
“No.” The word came out more sharply than he had intended. They were trying to help. “I want to fucking work. Just drop it.” He tossed his notebook onto the table, watching as it slid over what the other men had been working on when they’d decided to fuck around in his business.
John pursed his lips. He reached out and grabbed the notebook, tossing it to the side. He would have yelled at any other asshole behaving like Bucky was, but because he was disabled, he got a pass. That made him want to leave more than the pain. “Let us know if you change your mind.”
“Finish the fucking song then we can all go home.” He spat, leaning back against the couch. He hated working with people. Joining a band had been stupid. A rash decision made when he couldn’t do the only thing he’d ever liked doing.
He closed his eyes again. They had discordant notes on the guitar and nothing else. Nobody seemed like they were in any hurry to write a song. But if they gave up for the day it wasn’t going to be because he’d gotten his arm blown off, he could stick it out.
Without thinking, he reached up and pressed his fingers into his stump again. It didn’t help. It never helped. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, pressing a finger into the spot right over his bone, “that was shitty.”
The music stopped – a blessing really – and it stayed silent for a few moments. “It was.” Lucas finally responded. His voice was low, cautious, as though Bucky would lash out at him again for agreeing. That was fair. “What’s up?”
“I’m just acting like a dick.” He shrugged, still refusing to look at the rest of his band. “There’s no excuse for it.” They wouldn’t understand his excuses anyway. And even if they did, they weren’t good excuses. If he didn’t want to use his arm as an excuse, he couldn’t use damaged brain tissue to get out of things either.
Lucas muttered something to the other two and Mark started playing nonsensical chords again. The couch dipped next to him and then there was a hand on his shoulders. Thin fingers pressed into the muscles, getting at the soreness that usually went ignored. “You know the mood swings’ll get better in time,” Lucas whispered into his ear. He was the only one who’d known him before, the only one that had seen him when he’d come back. “I did some research.”
“It’s been over a year, I think they’re here to stay.” He leaned into his friend’s touch. “I’m just in a mood, don’t worry about it.”
“Let’s just quit for the day.” He suggested, his fingers digging harder into Bucky’s flesh. “We’ve been here over an hour, and we don’t have anything done. No one’s feeling it today.”
Bucky frowned and pushed Lucas off of him. “We scheduled a writing session,” he muttered, finally opening his eyes to look over at Lucas. “We’re not quitting because of this shit.”
Lucas gave him a small smile. He leaned in and rest his hands on Bucky’s thigh. His fingers moved over the denim, massaging gently. “We’re not. We’re quitting because Mark is hungover, I’m hungry, and John has a hot date in two hours. It takes a lot of work to make John look pretty. We’re all unmotivated motherfuckers, and you’re pissed at all of us for it.”
He grinned and pat Bucky on the thigh. He stood up, not giving Bucky a chance to respond. Grabbing his drumsticks off the table, he walked over to his bag and shoved them inside. The other two seemed to take the hint and started picking up their things. They both muttered things about having plans and being very busy.
In part, it pissed Bucky off still. They were doing it because of him, even if they were pretending otherwise. He knew, though, that it shouldn’t bother him. The others had all had to cancel or leave early for personal reasons in the past. Looking at it objectively, severe pain was an acceptable reason to need to leave. “Let’s just try again on Thursday?” He asked as he eased himself off of the couch.
“You’ve got dinner with Clint on Thursday.” John reminded him, carefully placing his bass into its case. He needed a new one but refused to replace it. He said he would use the case until it fell apart. Completely defeating the purpose of having the instrument in a protective box. “He made reservations.”
“Clint doesn’t make reservations, guys, it’s serious,” Lucas added, dropping his voice into what Bucky thought was supposed to be an impression of him. It was terrible. He sounded nothing like that. If anything, it sounded like Christian Bale’s weird Batman voice. Bucky hated those movies.
Bucky flipped them off. No one reacted.
Mark locked his case and stood up, turning around to face Bucky. “We’re already scheduled for Saturday. Everyone can think of ideas and then we’ll regroup then.”
Bucky wanted to argue. They couldn’t go three full days without any practice. But he didn’t want to cancel his date with Clint, and they had a show on Friday. Saturday was the earliest possible date for practice, whether or not he liked it. He needed a few days to get his head on straight anyway.
He had to be on his best behavior for Clint.
He’d managed to keep his shitty personality hidden for two months. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer.
“I’ll drive you home, Buck,” Lucas stated. Bucky knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter.
It would have been a bad idea to use public transportation when he was having a bad day anyway. “Yeah. Okay.” He shrugged and walked over to the other three. “Sorry for being an asshole today.” He pat John on the shoulder and gave Mark a soft smile. “I’ll get my shit together by Friday.”
“Everyone has bad days.” Mark shrugged and grabbed his case. “I know you hate when you get treated different, but I think you’re entitled to a few more bad days than the rest of us. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He pat Bucky on the back as he walked past and then was out the door. John smiled and followed after.
Lucas motioned towards the door, his eyes on Bucky again. “Go get in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Bucky frowned but did as he was told. He knew they’d be having a heart-to-heart in the car and he wasn’t up to it. He owed Lucas though. He groaned as he eased himself into the shitty silver Focus. He missed driving, but the State of New York had deemed him unfit to drive. He’d be able to apply for a review in six months.
“Do you ever think about going back to Indiana?” Lucas asked as he dropped gracelessly into the driver’s seat. He reached over his shoulder and pulled the seatbelt around, clicking it into place. “For a visit, or for good?”
Bucky’s lip curled at the thought. He hadn’t been to Shelbyville since the day he’d shipped out to basic, three days after high school graduation. “No. I’m happy in Brooklyn.”
“Are you?” Lucas leaned over and buckled Bucky’s seatbelt for him.
He closed his eyes, “I’ve got a life here,” he amended. “My family and I have a better relationship when we’re not in the same state. It was even better when I wasn’t in the country.” He could almost feel Lucas frowning at him. He had a good relationship with his parents and his siblings, always had, and Bucky knew he couldn’t understand Bucky’s family dynamic. Lucas wasn’t Russian. “My parents grew up in the Soviet Union, bro.”
“They’ve been in America for 35 years.”
Bucky shrugged. His parents had grown up in abject poverty. In Russia. It wasn’t something an American could understand. Even Bucky couldn’t fully understand it. He just knew how he’d grown up. “I couldn’t ever have a good life if I was near them.” He certainly couldn’t have anything like he had with Clint if his parents were any closer.
The fact that he hadn’t found a good Russian girl to marry yet was always brought up within the first five minutes of any conversation he ever had with either parent.
His father had told him he’d still have an arm if he’d just gotten married to the cute girl three houses down. Thirty-two minutes after he’d been wheeled out of surgery. It’d only taken that long because his parents hadn’t been allowed to see him for thirty minutes.
“I could be happy in Brooklyn. I just gotta get there.” He shrugged again, turning to look out the window. “The band is doing well, I’ve got Clint. I’m getting there. I’d be unhappier in Shelbyville.”
Lucas sighed but seemed to know better than to press it any further. He wasn’t a therapist, and he knew it. He also knew that Bucky was going to whatever he wanted to do, regardless of what might be best for him. “The guys don’t mean to treat you different.”
Bucky hummed softly and turned to look at Lucas.
“I know you get pissed when you think you’re getting special treatment because of your arm.” He glanced over just long enough to give Bucky a small smile and then turned his attention back to the road. “They don’t try to treat you differently. People are conditioned to try to help disabled people, yeah?”
Bucky shrugged.
Lucas opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but closed it before anything came out. He knew when Bucky had had enough.
“I’ll apologize again on Friday.” He turned to look out the windscreen. He knew his behavior hadn’t been acceptable. “I don’t mean to get angry.”
Lucas came to a gentle stop at a stoplight and turned to look at Bucky again. “They know that. Just don’t make a habit of it and it’ll be fine.”
He didn’t know if it was a promise he could make. He had only behaved that way a couple of times with them, but each time it had come out of nowhere. He had seemed more out of control than he had previously. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be his new routine.
“Want to grab dinner?” Lucas asked. They’d pass probably thirty restaurants on the way back to Bucky’s apartment.
He hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch and knew he should probably eat something. “If you see something you want then sure. Otherwise, I can just eat at home.” Keeping him out of the public eye was probably the best choice. He wasn’t fit for the public.
Lucas nodded, and Bucky knew he was going to be forced to eat in public. It would be good for him.
___
Thursday came, and Bucky felt like shit. The phantom pains hadn’t stopped, and he’d worked himself into a headache. He was sure Clint had something planned though. They usually just grabbed easy food together – pizza was always a good choice – and walked Lucky around Clint’s neighborhood, or watched television together before crawling into bed.
He was sure if he texted Clint and said he didn’t feel well, that he would cancel the reservations and bring Bucky anything he needed. But he didn’t want to do that. He had been looking forward to dinner for five days. Clint had been in Bosnia – or something – for days, and the first thing he’d done when he’d returned to safety was make plans for them.
He sighed and grabbed the bottle of Vicodin from the table. He was getting low again, but the VA had mentioned trying to get him off of it. As though he’d use it if he weren’t in pain. He could probably find another doctor that would prescribe it to him.
Popping two in his mouth, he swallowed them dry. They would get him through the night. Besides, he thought, once Clint showed up he’d forget all about the pain.
He forced himself to smile at his reflection. He looked like shit. There were black bags under his eyes, and his cheeks had started to look gaunt again. He needed to get his shit together. If he stopped taking care of himself, then everything would fall apart.
At least he’d gotten all of his buttons done right.
Before he could find anything else wrong with his appearance, there was a short wrap at the door, and he heard keys in the lock. He smiled and turned out of his bedroom. The first thing he noticed was green and yellow bruising covering the right side of Clint’s face. “This is why you made me wait to see you?” He ran his hand down his own face.
“It looked worse before.” Clint grinned and reached out for Bucky’s hand. His hand and wrist were wrapped in an ace bandage. Bucky took it anyway. Clint was always injured, even when he hadn’t been on “Official Avenger Business.” Clint said it had been worse before he’d done away with the Tracksuit Draculas.
He brought the injured hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the wrist. “How did it happen?”
Clint pulled him in for a kiss, wrapping his free arm around Bucky’s waist. He was tense, his body stiffer than usual. He leaned back from the kiss, looking down into Bucky’s eyes. “Things went sideways,” he muttered, “I ended up in a car trying to get out of the country, and there was an IED. I got the secondary blast.”
Bucky nodded, his fingers starting to tremble. Fuck his arm hurt.
“I promised I’d tell you the truth.” Clint rubbed at Bucky’s lower back gently, and Bucky appreciated it. That had been the last thing he’d wanted to hear, but Clint had come back. Clint was safe. That was what mattered. Clint hadn’t lost any parts to the bomb.
“Did you get checked for concussions, TBI, all of that?”
“I got a concussion from hitting my head against the side of the car, and nothing serious. I just gotta be careful for a couple of months.” He knew Clint probably wouldn’t have taken it seriously before Bucky had come around. But he checked. “I made them do all the tests. I’ve got printouts for you so you can check, if you want.”
Bucky smiled up at him and pushed himself up onto his tiptoes to give Clint a kiss. Clint was safe. He had come back. “Are you feeling okay?” He asked, checking Clint’s eyes to see if the pupils were even. They were. Clint was probably in the clear.
“All good,” He grinned, “If you still want to, I was planning on taking us to a place in Brighton Beach. Nat said it was good.”
“Are you taking me for Russian food?” That was the only reason he could think that Clint would need Natasha’
“It was the general plan.” Clint dropped his hand from Bucky’s back and took a step back, taking him in. His eyes flickered slightly, probably noticing how bad Bucky looked, but he said nothing. “You said you don’t eat it very often anymore.”
“They won’t have pizza.”
Clint shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, “I’ll eat your perogies and potato nonsense.”
“The perogies have potatoes in them.”
“Even weirder, but I will eat it. And I will like it.” Bucky snorted. Clint was amazing. He was definitely in love.
___
Bucky froze the second he walked into the restaurant. The hostess was his parents’ next-door neighbor’s eldest daughter. “Fuck.” He muttered, looking straight at her. He lived 730 miles away from his parents, and he couldn’t escape them.
“Yakov Slutsky, is that you?” She practically yelled his name across the restaurant. He was going to have to speak Russian. He hated using it in public and felt like an asshole using it in front of Clint. “I thought you were overseas getting blown up, what happened?”
Clint flinched, and Bucky made a mental note to as how much Russian Natasha had taught him. “I got blown up.” He glanced down at the space his arm used to occupy, his headache returning. “What are you doing in Brooklyn?”
“I got married.” Bucky silently thanked every deity he could think of without prior preparation. His parents had wanted him to marry her, but now he couldn’t. “What are you doing here?” He was sure this would prompt a phone call from his mother asking why he was going to restaurants with men instead of looking for a wife.
“I moved here after I got discharged.” He glanced over at Clint, who seemed incredibly interested in the menu. “I’m, uh, I’ve got a reservation for Clint Barton.” Clint perked up at his name, but turned his attention back to the menu. “Can we just get a booth?” He asked, looking back to Anna. “The least noisy corner please.” He motioned to his ear. She could probably see Clint’s hearing aids.
“Oh, of course!” She grabbed two menus off of her hostess stand. “The rumors are true then?” She asked, glancing over at Clint, who had returned to attention the two assholes speaking Russian.
Bucky furrowed his brow, frowning at her. “What rumors?” He asked, even though he was certain he didn’t want to know what she was going to say.
“A lot of the girls in the old neighborhood said you were-” she looked at Clint again, her manicured fingers tapping on the back of the menus, “you know, ‘pidor.’” A faggot.
Bucky’s heart sank into his stomach, and his throat tightened. He wasn’t sure what was worse. The fact that people thought he might be gay or having that word directed at him. No matter how he reacted, Anna was going to call his parents. He inhaled deeply, not meeting her eyes. He was 30 years old. His parents’ opinion didn’t matter.
(He didn’t believe that in the slightest.)
“I think Clint and I are going to go eat somewhere else.” He told her in English. Clint would take the hint.
“Sure.” He shrugged and closed the menu he’d been reading. “I’m thinking pizza.”
Bucky took a deep breath. He had been a soldier, he could handle difficult situations. Smiling softly at Clint, he reached out and grabbed his hand. Without waiting for a reaction from Anna he tugged Clint out the door.
“Your name is Yakov Slutsky?” Clint asked as soon as the door was closed behind them.
“Yakov Evgenievich Slutsky. I went through Indiana public schools with the last name Slutsky. I had Slutsky written on my uniform for years.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I changed it to James Buchanan Barnes on a dare when I was 25.”