Bucky dodged through the street in a quick clip, rain soaking his sweatshirt and making it hug him, the thin material clinging to his left arm conspicuously. He let his waterlogged hair fall over his ears and hang in clumps over his temples and scratch at his cheeks and neck, hiding his red face. Told himself that no one was looking at him. They don’t notice, they don’t notice, they can’t tell that I’m him, that I’m James Barnes, that I’m Captain America’s friend, the Winter Soldier, the most wanted man in the world at one point.
Yes they can, whispered a traitorous voice in his mind. There’s really no difference between reason and paranoia, and this voice acts as both. Famous Bucky Barnes, the murderer, the terrorist, the Winter Soldier. They’ve heard about the Red Room, they know the stories. They know about Howard and Maria. They know everything. Facts. Everyone knows who Bucky is; he only hopes that when he walks down the street, people can’t tell that the guy next to them is the famous hero (or infamous terrorist, depending on who wrote the book).
He chanced a furtive glance out through the gaps in the curtains of his heavy hair. No one seemed to be paying him more than a quick glance, an errant look of distracted suspicion, and if he saw such a ragamuffin practically sprinting through DC, he probably would too.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, an itchy sensation climbing from the bottom of his spine to the peak of his skull, making the hair on his neck stand up. That someone was keeping tabs on his behaviour, waiting for him to step out of line. That he was just waiting to have a muzzle slapped back on, to be strapped into some horrible machine for more therapy -- waiting to to be whipped or electrocuted or stuck in an isolation tank until he’s trying to claw out his own eyes with his smooth-capped fingertips.
He clenched his jaw and forced his tired legs to continue to pull him forward, forced his eyes not to shed a single tear; no hard feat, really, because tears used to mean punishment. Used to, until they stopped flowing at all.
One more step, and then one more step, and then one more step. Eyes on the ground, red sneakers one in front of the other, avoiding cracks in the cement like they’re landmines.
Breathe in, count to seven, hold, count to seven, breathe out, count to seven, just like the expensive therapist Stark hired him says. And one more step, and one more step.
Think of happy things, like Sam tells him. (And it’s so strange, almost scary, to think of a kid like him being a veteran.) Dogs…dames in those little dresses they wear these days…Steve…and again for good measure, Steve. Steve in bed; in the Tower, drinking with the Avengers; in the suit, saying his name, saying it to the Soldier…
His knees buckled a bit, and he forced himself to keep walking, keep pressing forward, leaning forward a bit like he was walking against a strong wind. Maintaining the curtain of greasy hair that protects him from the stares and glares and glances.
And finally finally finally, there was the complex door. And then the elevator, and finally, blessedly, just when he was certain that his stupid Nikes wouldn’t have moved even an inch more, they were knocking against the door of Steve’s apartment.
Our apartment, he reminded himself with a dull sense of force. His key rattled in his hand so hard that it barely got into the lock, and his grip slipped turning it. And then there he was, and there was Steve, looking so good, looking halo’ed with light, looking how the saints probably looked when you got to heaven.
Steve’s face lit up too when he saw Bucky standing there, lit up harshly like the interrogation rooms at the compound, and immediately softened when he got a really good look at him. “Buck,” he said softly.
Bucky listed forward, and brought himself to the couch, slumping over it, feet stuck out at an angle.
Steve knelt beside his feet, genuflected there with one knee up, and undid his left shoelace. “What would your mama say, James Barnes,” he said, and gently rubbed the arch of his foot before moving to the next one.
“Somethin’ like, ‘God bless that upstanding young man Steve Rogers.’”
Steve smiled. “Somethin’ like that.” He heaved himself up and twisted back, settling heavily onto the sofa. “C’mere, Bucky Bear.” Bucky leaned back into Steve, and let Steve’s heat pour over him like warm maple syrup.
"it's been a hard day, hasn't it, Buck," Steve said softly into Bucky's hair, muffled and gentle.
Bucky's shoulders slumped hard and his head lolled back and he just let go, just let the tears fall down his cheeks that he didn't know were still ready to fall and just waiting, apparently, until his muscles finally, finally relaxed.
"Oh, baby," Steve murmured. "What happened?"
Bucky shook his head, too worn out, just too damn tired to even pretend he had dignity. The tears continued to stream and fall around the corners of his mouth, into the creases of his nose. It was the kind of hard, difficult crying that rocked his ribcage and pounded his skull, and he couldn't speak more than a choked out "Sorry."
The apology seemed to bother Steve a great deal more than the fact of having a super soldier assassin sobbing pathetically over his lap. "Don't be sorry, darling, Bucky, baby. I know, shh. I know."
"You don't," Bucky said -- no anger, no venom, just the exhaustion of hysteria and tears and a flatness in his tone that said he believed that implicitly.
"To come home," Steve said. "And find out that everything you know is gone. This new world -- the buildings, the people, even the toilets are different. And you can't find the place you're supposed to be because this isn't the world God put you in. I know, dear heart, I know. Please don't apologize to me for letting some of it out. You have to to survive. I do know."
While he spoke, Bucky lapsed into harder, silent sobs, and Steve just rubbed his back, heel of his hand firm in his Bucky’s spine, relaxing the muscles and trying to ease the pain of the wracking sobs. "That's it, baby boy, I've got you. Come on, let it go."
It occurred to Bucky that Steve hadn’t even considered Bucky might have had a different experience than him -- that he had been heralded as anything other than a hero societally, at least, if clearly the government thought otherwise. But he didn’t have enough words, enough emotional wherewithal to say so. He could barely even keep his eyes open, so he didn’t. He continued to cry, curled in a ball on Steve’s lap, until sleep washed over him like a tide.
*****
“Hi there, Bucky Bear,” a chipper, gentle voice said, far too close to Bucky’s ear. He rolled over and put out a hand, and rolled all the way off the couch and out of his tangle of blankets.
Steve laughed at the sight of Buck sitting on the floor in a heap, blinking up through his tangles of bangs. Bucky wanted desperately to be annoyed.
He couldn’t be. Not when Steve was standing over him smiling like sunshine; not knowing that Steve was taking care of him. “What,” he grumbled.
“I made dinner,” Steve said, “fried chicken. I’ll bring it out to you, all I need is for you to sit up. Back up on the couch.”
Bucky twisted onto his knees and climbed like a bear cub onto the couch, grumbling in protest when Steve helped him along with a firm hand on his lower back. He slumped onto the armrest.
Steve returned with a full plate -- two pieces of chicken, rice, and a heap of broccoli and carrots -- and a glass of wine. A second trip and he returned with his own plate, and settled down, pressing himself up against Bucky, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Eat your veggies,” he nagged, gesturing with his fork.
“Steve…” Bucky set his own fork down, and nestled his head into the crook of Steve’s neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you when I came home tonight --”
“-- You didn’t --”
“-- I did, and I’m grateful that you put that aside and took care of me, but I am sorry. And…I think you should know that I feel that way…a lot. I guess there’s a word for it now, when the boys come home and feel sad about the war? I read about it on the internet. Post-traumatic stress? I think I maybe have that.”
“Buck, eat your dinner,” Steve said. He stared Bucky down, hot gaze on his cheek, until Bucky obediently leaned forward, picked up his fork and shoveled up some carrots. “I know you have the disorder, Buck,” Steve said. “It would be impossible not to. But you’re not going to have an easy time getting help for it --”
“-- because the doctors won’t help the Soldier,” Bucky said bitterly. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I’m just tired. Thank you for dinner.”
Steve saw that the subject was closed to Buck, and he knew better than to press a bruise like that, but he couldn’t help getting the last word in. “We will get you help, Buck. You’ve already got that shrink, right? Tony has connections. I have connections. You’ll be right as rain soon.”
Bucky shrugged out from under Steve’s arm. “Okay, Stevie.” He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and hit the button that made the TV fucking appear on the smooth wall across from him. What they didn’t have in the future.
“Bucky, I’m sorry.” Steve didn’t touch him now, so he looked over, away from the newscast that had popped up onscreen. Steve’s eyes were sad. “I love you,” he said in that sure tone of his.
“Stevie, I…yeah,” Bucky said. Because those words…he hadn’t said them in a long time, since before, probably. But Steve knew.
“Yeah,” Steve repeated, and the very corner of his mouth twitched just a bit. “We’re gonna be fine, Bucky Bear.”
We’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine.
…Yeah.