Chapter 1
August 3, forty pills, five swallows. The taste of the lukewarm water, the slide of the pills, the rush of the night wind through his car windows. These details remained clear when he woke up the next morning, his mouth sour with the aftertaste of vomit.
Last month, Bucky jumped off a parking garage, electrocuted himself in the bathtub, crashed into a tree on purpose, and hung himself. And yet, despite his persistence, he woke up every morning inexplicably alive in the same state he'd come back from the war: handicapped, isolated, desperately confused, and fuckingly depressed.
He didn't know why he hadn't died in war. He didn't know why he couldn't die now. He didn't know how to escape his demons, and he didn't want anything else. He was done, fuck it all, finished and through and goddamn done. Bucky curled up against the icy tile of his bathroom floor and stayed there.
He woke up to an unfamiliar voice muttering "Dammit," as a hand connected with his shoulder. In the next instant, Bucky instinctively shifted into combat, pinning the stranger before he completely came awake. He had the other guy pressing into the tile, forearm braced against his neck, knees on either side of the guy's ribs, before he realized his assailant was miniature. His gaze traveled over the overlarge sweatshirt to the slender column of the throat and the pronounced bones of the face before catching on the guy's arresting scarlet eyes.
Great, the pills hadn't killed him, just driven him totally insane. He was hallucinating some kind of red-eyed matchstick in his bathroom. Seriously, the guy was scrawny. This was a hella weird side effect for dehydration. The hallucinatory matchstick-sized guy glared up at him, pissed off. "Get off," he choked out. "Get - the hell - off - pal."
"Pal?" He repeated, the demand not registering in his brain. His brain was busy freaking out over the fact that he was still hallucinating, that he was likely insane. This is not part of my five year plan, Bucky thought, and a hysterical laugh nearly escaped him.
"Dammit," the miniature hallucination hissed, and suddenly Bucky thudded to the floor, the hallucination reforming in front of him. He studied the detail of the hallucination's beat up sneakers, and - well, Bucky had felt the stuttering of his pulse, the vibration of his words, the harried brush of his breath.
"You're ... real?" he queried.
"Yeah, genius." The matchstick snarled, straightening his hoodie haughtily. His eyes blazed ruby with indignation.
"How- " Bucky pushed himself to his knees, then grabbed the counter, nauseous from the sudden move and his lack of balance. The bathroom tilted directions it wasn't supposed to go. "How did you get in?"
Matchstick squinted at him. "If I answer, you owe me an answer; deal?"
"Uh-huh." Bucky answered distractedly, wanting nothing more than to flop back onto the floor.
"Magic." The matchstick replied smugly.
"Yeah-huh." Bucky rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, pal. Magic exists. Surprise. Want me to pull a damn rabbit out of your stupid ass to prove it?" The matchstick snapped, back to being small and sassily frustrated. He snapped his fingers, and they were in the living room. The matchstick took a healthy swallow of a beer that had appeared in his hand.
Magic. Nausea rising, Bucky looked around himself. Teleportation in his own home. Unless he was high, or the last month hadn't happened, the matchstick was telling the truth. Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You're the reason I'm alive, aren't you?"
"I am." The matchstick declared. Nausea forgotten, Bucky lunged for him, twisting his fist in the guy's hoodie front, knocking them both into the wall. Beer sloshed over them both. Unimpressed, the matchstick cocked an eyebrow. "What, no thank you for me? I'm the best damn guardian demon an idiot with a death wish could ask for." As he spoke, the beer vanished from his sweatshirt.
"I don't care if you're the worst. Leave me alone." Bucky growled. "I didn't ask for a 'guardian,' and in case you hadn't guessed, punk, I hella don't want one."
"The name is Steve, not punk, and I'm calling in the answer I bargained for earlier. Answer me this - why do you want to die?"
Bucky swallowed hard, letting go of Steve. Why did he want to die? No one would give a fucking shit if he were gone. He was a disappointment. He was a failure. He was unnecessary. He didn't ever feel safe anymore, and he couldn't imagine anything resembling a good future for himself. There were tons of vets who could use the time and money that would be wasted on him if he stuck around. He hated himself and he didn't want to be hurt anymore - he was so fucking tired of hurting - he was choking on his pain - he was drowning and no one could see and -
He shut down, chest heaving, on the verge of a panic attack. "Escape." he wanted. "It's freedom."
"Heaven or Hell isn't the escape you're looking for." Steve said gently. "Honestly, pal. It fucking hurts, life, but it's too much to let go of. There's too much unknown to give away. You're strong, James. You're a stubborn ass fighter. You're just lost right now."
"Shut the hell up." Bucky said tonelessly.
"Listen to me." Steve said fiercely. "You can't give up because I won't give up on you. I believe in you, and I'm with you til the end of the line, pal."
"You don't even know me." Bucky laughed, a decayed kind of mirth.
"Then give me the chance to." Steve challenged. "I'll make you a deal. Give me a year. Give me a year to get to know you without anymore suicide attempts, and if you still wanna die in a year, I'll ... I'll let you." he finished quietly.
Bucky slumped. One year before this Steve's magic stopped interfering with his escape? God, why? "Why do you care?"
"Because you're worth it." Steve murmured