Private Voids

Too dumb to deal, too numb to feel the knife in my back

They come for Stiles soon after he gets his new cell. He’d been beginning to think that rescue was never coming too, so the timing was perfect.

After a whirl of gunfire, battle raging around him, he’s on a quinjet on his way back to safety. Or, relative safety, his mind supplies.

He gathers from their tense silence they hadn’t found what they’d been looking for. That he’d been right from the very beginning - it wasn’t just about him. They’d taken Bucky too, and that who they really came to retrieve. And, Bucky wasn’t at the base they’d found him on. Not anymore.

Things get back to normalcy for him. Steve and Tony spend time out, searching. They spend time in his labs, looking. Natasha is in and out of the tower frequently, leaving for days at a time before he sees her slink back into the building. She doesn’t stay long before she’s pulled back out again. To do what, he doesn’t know.

Clint hadn’t been there when he’d been liberated. He likes liberated better than rescued. Rescued seems kind of… something. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t need to know. Anyway, Clint still hasn’t been back. And unlike all the times he had to guess about time passing before, he knows it’s been three weeks since he returned to the Avengers Tower.

He sees Steve a little more often than he sees Tony. Mostly in passing, before he goes out again. They have breakfast a few times. Stiles has usually been up all night by the time Steve leaves his bedroom to join Stiles in the kitchen. Usually, Steve is up and greeting him between 4:30am and 5:30am.

However, tonight Steve’s gone. He probably wont be back for another day or two, so Stiles probably wont run into him later on in the morning.

He checks his phone. 2:11am. He knows he should probably lay back down to sleep, really try harder to break the threshhold between awareness and slumber. But then his heart starts racing and he shoves the idea away. He can rest later, when he’s too exhausted to think anymore.

Right now, he’s content with just staring at the city below him, feet danging off the edge of the balcony railing. This high up, the wind whips at him. The wind has started to carry that crisp autumn cold, the kind that bites at his exposed skin, making it feel like the cold reaches down into his bones.

He shivers a little, then reaches over to take a swig of the bourbon he’d poured earlier, before he made his way outside. The glass is a little less than half full and he chokes the rest down as quickly as he can manage, grimacing at the awful taste.

He barely resists the urge to shatter the cup, but the thought is there. Just throwing it against the wall. He can imagine the way the crash sounds, the shards flying everywhere. After an hour and a half, he goes back in, feels his way to his room in the dark, and throws himself onto the bed, shutting his eyes tight and trying to think about nothing but falling asleep.

When daylight breaks the room he gives up and holds his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself. It all used to be so easy.

The next time someone comes back to the Tower, they bring back Bucky. And it’s all of them this time. Except Clint. He doesn’t ask. Even if he wanted to know, he wouldn’t ask.

Now that everyone’s back, he has to leave his room more. Visit the common areas. He gives cordial nods and answers questions. He talks about the weather and thanks Tony when he gifts Stiles a nice, heavy winter coat. He manages to share smiles with Steve, and bite back most of his insults when he verbally spars with Tony, or Natasha.

If he’s being honest with himself, he needs to be alone. He needs to have space, to think, to freak out, to not be watched during his panic attacks, or his nightmares. So he continues to go out on the balcony at night.

He starts feeling threads of anxiety creeping when he’s around the super powered team. He sees them looking when they think he’s not paying attention.

He’s just put a slice of bread into the toaster on his floor when Bucky walks in and sits at the counter.

Stiles says nothing. He barely looks over, just enough to recognize the form approaching him to confirm it’s someone he recognizes.

“Mornin’” Bucky greets him in a quiet voice.

Stiles sweeps his eyes over to Bucky and nods, before turning back to the toaster. He’s just staring at the toaster, now. He has a phantom awareness of how uncomfortable he his with his back to Bucky. He doesn’t know what he’s capable of. He doesn’t know if he’s even still Bucky. His hands start shaking where he’s gripping them on the edge of the counter.

He slows his breath deliberately. He manages not to jump when the toast pops out of the toaster. He quickly grabs it, forgoing a plate and speed walks all the way back to his room, resolutely not looking at Bucky the entire way back.

The shaking hasn’t stopped. He feels himself sway, but he stays steady on his feet. He’s gasping and out of breath, toast crumbling in his hand when he finally reaches his room and shuts the door behind him.

He comes out of it a few minutes of measured breathing later, cursing himself for acting to strange in front of any of them, when he’d been doing so well acting normal beforehand.

He lays back on his bed and stares at the ceiling, wishing he’d brought some of that bourbon back to his room before he’d had the panic attack.

As he lays there, mind wandering, he finally falls off into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

When he finally wakes up, JARVIS tells him it’s just past 1 o’clock in the morning. He’s glad to have slept the day away, avoided all the unwanted conversation. He get out of bed and makes his way to the liquor cabinet in the living space. He forgoes the glass, intending to make good on his thought earlier and bring the remainder back with his to his room.

He forgoes a coat again, just wearing a black long sleeve and sweatpants. He finds that he likes the stimulus, the loud noises of the city below, the bright lights, the blackness of the sky, and the freezing air on his skin. He feels alive.

He sees the balcony door open from where he’s sitting, pressed up against the far wall, feet stretched out in front of him on the solid stone floor of the balcony.

“D’ya mind?” Bucky asks, gesturing to the empty space next to him.

Stiles finds himself nodding his assent. He watches Bucky step closed and then turn to lower himself down next to Stiles.

Stiles offers the bottle wordlessly and Bucky takes it, taking a long gulp.

Stiles takes it back and swallows a shot of his own.

They’re both quiet for awhile. Stiles is able to lull his mind into silence with the white noise of the city. The only sounds punctuating the space around him are their breaths and the sound of the glass bottle being set back onto the stone between them.

Bucky breaks the silence.

“They tell me…” He starts.

Stiles looks over at Bucky after he says nothing more for a few beats. He looks hesitant, pressing his lips together.

“You were gone for awhile. Do you know how long?” Bucky finishes.

Stiles hesitates now, but just for a moment. Because he’s fine. He answers.

“About 5 months.” Stiles wishes he had something to fiddle with, to keep his hands busy, so he doesn’t feel the urge to flap them around to break the tension. He settles for taking another drink of the bourbon.

“Did they take you the same time they grabbed me?” Stiles asks, even though he knows the answer.

Bucky’s face turns to frown harder, if it were possible. He nods the affirmative.

“I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.” Bucky tells him.

Stiles laughs bitterly, looking away from Bucky and back out to the distant city.

“It had nothing to do with you.” Stiles says. And deep down, he knows it isn’t true. He just can’t see what good it does now. Like apologizing ever made anything better. Like Bucky could have stopped anything happening if he wanted to.

“Have you, ya know, talked about anything yet? Worked through it?” Bucky asks, not looking his direction.

“It’s good for,” Bucky starts, “well, good for some things. Not keeping it bottled up inside ya.”

Stiles feels his heart hardening at the words. He fights the urge to stand up an walk away.

“That’s nice, really, but a little bit of torture, a little bit of asking for information, none of that is that rough. I think I can live.” Stiles snarks. His words don’t carry much of an edge like he meant them to, though. It falls flat, and even Stiles can hear it.

Bucky reaches his hand over towards Stiles and squeezes his knee.

Stiles can feel the tears building in his eyes and works to furiously blink them away before he makes a fool of himself. He doesn’t know these people. He doesn’t belong here. Why the universe doesn’t right that wrong and find a way to send him back, he doesn’t know.

They stay like that until morning, when Steve wakes up and wanders out on the balcony and finds them both sitting there, wrapped up in their own heads and ushers them to breakfast.

And it sort of stays that way, for the most part. Stiles finds himself skipping out on the breakfasts Steve makes for the three of them, but spends most of his night out on the balcony. The only changes are now, Bucky joins him every second or third night, and hes started to wear sweaters when he sits out there.

Bucky never needs one, telling Stiles one night that he can’t even feel the chill. He won’t feel anything until it’s colder, when the snow starts sticking to the ground. Stiles feel  bad for him when he hears that. The cold is a good feeling. It feels… cleansing. It takes up all of his senses. It gives him something to focus on, other than the past few months. Something to focus on besides the fact he wasn’t in his universe. He was barely in this universe. He was a ghost. He just went through the motions.

And he keeps going through the motions.

One night, just after 3:23am, Bucky stumbles out of the building towards where Stiles is standing outside. He walks over to Stiles, too fast, and Stiles find himself stiffening up and flinching back. Bucky stops right in front of him and stares into his eyes. Bucky looks, lost. Distant. And then he starts sobbing, falling to his knees, head in his hands.

Stiles feels himself remembering last time he was in this position, and in the same fashion he’d done last time his was in this position, Stiles rests his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. The metal one, he notes. And holds on, anchors him in the world. One physical link to keep him together. But it didn’t help Derek. It probably won’t help Bucky. He just doesn’t know what to do.

When Bucky’s sob quiet, and his breath turns less rapid, Stiles speaks.

“I killed somebody.”

It blurts out of Stiles mouth before he can rethink saying it. Before he can soften it with explanations or context.

“Just because they said to.” Stiles inserts before Bucky can reply.

“Just because they said to.” Stiles repeats, forcing the point home. “I wasn’t brainwashed. I didn’t have an excuse.”

Bucky just picks himself up off the floor, shrugging Stiles hand off of him, and stomps his way back inside.

That’s when Stiles crumbles, tearing coming unbidden to his eyes. He feels his throat choke up and the thought. He knows so many people who had gone through worse than him and still didn’t kill anybody. He muffles his face and sobs silently, except the hitching in his breath. By the time he’s done crying, he feels strangely empty, more worn out than he’s been in days. He falls asleep, curled away from the wall as the first rays of sun cross the horizon.

He wakes up just before lunchtime and makes his way inside. He takes his first shower in what must have been days, but he’s not keeping track. In fresh clothes, he makes his way out of his room. Bucky hands him a cup of coffee as soon as he crosses the threshhold into the kitchen. It catches Stiles off guard.

“I’m sorry for last night.” Bucky says, hands wringing in front of him. “I shouldn’t have walked away when I did. You don’t deserve that. Stevie’s always saying I need to work on my manners.”

Stiles just shrugs. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

Bucky laughs then, bright and booming through the room, like it was actually something funny that Stiles said.

“I’m sure I can say the same.”

Stiles grins a bitter smile at him before he loses the emotion and goes back to frowning, which pretty much seems to be his base facial expression recently.

“Steve’s been gone and he’s usually there for me when I,” he hesitates, “lose it like that.”

“Since dad died, all I’ve had are Malia and Lydia. And everyday, the chance I’m going to see them gets smaller and smaller. So I have nobody here. I’m alone. Just like after the Nogitsune, when nobody could look at me because Allison died and the monster who killed her used my face and my body to do it.”

Stiles clenches his hands into fists, feeling his brittle nails pressing into his palms with a calming, familiar feeling.

“This isn’t my world. Everything here is different. Every person is a stranger.” Stiles says. “I haven’t… I can’t adjust.”

Bucky looks from Stiles hands, to his face. He takes in the way Stiles is standing, straight, stiff, like one wrong move will cause this tentative conversation to slip away.

“You know what they did to me.” Stiles says. He doesn’t ask. Bucky wished he needed to.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Bucky tells him.

“I know that.” Stiles says. His eyes are on Bucky’s but he’s a million miles away right now, watching himself kill that man, feeling Hank’s electroshocks.

“They gave me a choice.” Stiles continues, “Live or die. And I chose to live. Now I just need to live with that.”

Bucky huffs his agreement and swallows a drink of his coffee. It’s already gone cold.

“You can come to me and talk, if ya need to, Stiles.” Bucky offers.

Stiles gives Bucky the best smile he can manage and makes his way out of the kitchen. He finds himself drawn to the gym, and starts running on a treadmill. He doesn’t stop until his legs hurt and he feels wobbly.

He falls asleep the minute he hits his bed.