Chapter 2
New York recovered slowly. Becca’s arm didn’t.
He’d broken his arm once as a kid, wore a cast for half an itchy, miserable summer but it hadn’t been like this. Becca’s arm had been bloodied and awful and that pic of her clutching Cap had gone viral. They’d called it “external fixation”, pinned her arm together with metal rods, tried to smile and say she was just like Iron Man. Had to shave a chuck of skin out of her thigh to cover the damn wound it’d left.
But even weeks later it wasn’t healing right, the graft had turned grey and today the MRI showed osteomyelitis or some shit which was fancy doctor-speak for fucking eating itself. The break hadn’t healed, the bone was infected, and the skin graft was dying so they’d had to remove it. And now her left arm was mangled and pinned and rotting and she’d have big ugly scars on her arm and thigh for life all for a transplant that didn’t work.
And he’d done that. He’d left her and he’d scared her and it was all his fault.
“Is she gonna lose the arm?” Bucky asked. It might’ve been the first thing he’d said all day. All week, even.
All they did was smile and bullshit. “It’s too soon to tell.” “We’re hopeful she’ll make a full recovery.” and “-one of the best pediatric orthopedic surgeons in the country.”
...
He wasn’t a good person, he was shit sibling but he loved her in whatever small, selfish way someone like him could love. He’d asked to stay with her, he couldn’t just leave her, not again, but the surgeons said she’d be asleep, she’d never know. Wouldn’t miss him.
Yeah. Bucky couldn’t blame her. He was a goddamn mess. Couldn’t even go six hours in a waiting room without stumbling to the restroom for a hit, sweaty and nauseous and cramping and his whole fucking body hurt. His hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t even shoot up without dropping his rig. And of course the guy at the urinals would come investigate. And of course he’d be wearing scrubs.
Bucky was so fucked.
…
Correction: So, so fucked.
Because Bucky knew that look when he saw it. He was experienced enough now to know when a man wanted him. The guy talked him up all smooth, said he was gorgeous and it’d be a shame to send those lips to prison but hey whaddya know it was his lucky day because this guy had a long, hard dick and a heart of gold and so for the right price he’d be willing to look the other way, wouldn’t rat Bucky out to security, call the cops, tell his Mom…and that’s how Bucky ended up on his knees choking on yet another stranger’s dick as he abused his throat, then hacking cum and bile into the toilet once he’d left.
It was also how he'd meet Steve Rogers.
…
Bucky heard the bathroom door swing open again as he tied his arm off. The guy was bound to notice him on the stall floor, but if he kept quiet he might just decide to leave Bucky alone—
There was a polite knock and rattling. “Hey, pal. You okay in there?” No such luck. He was two for two, here. But finally he’d struck a vein and suddenly everything was wonderful and he didn’t give a flying shit. A shitting Fuck. A fucking shitfly.
“‘M fine,” Bucky slurred.
The door jostled roughly then swung open. And there stood Captain fucking America and his mighty shield in all their star-spangled glory.
They stared at each other. Bucky lost his shit again.
Of course it’d be Captain America. Of fucking course. He’d been dumb enough to shoot up in public and the fucking Avengers had caught him. It was terrifyingly hysterical and laughing felt good, laughing felt fucking amazing so he laughed some more.
“Jesus.” Rogers said.
“Nope!” Bucky hiccoughed, wiping tears messily and nestling his head down against the toilet. “‘M Jewish.”
Captain fucking America frowned. “How high are you right now?”
He was fucked. He was so fucked right now. But that was future Bucky’s problem. Blissed out Bucky couldn’t give two shits about that guy. Future Bucky was in for a G-ddamn shitshow. “Go away.”
Rogers knelt and reached for him.
“No,” Bucky said sadly. He didn’t want to have sex right now. Not with Captain America. He closed his eyes and curled away.
There was a hand under his chin. “Can you look at me?”
Rogers looked at him, really looked at him and put it together from the scuffed knees of his pants, pinprick pupils and disheveled hair, the stains on his shirt and the smell of sex.Something in his face gentled. “Did someone hurt you?”
"No," Bucky grimaced. He swiped at Rogers' grip. “Lemme go.”
Rogers dropped his hand. “Can I get you anything,” he asked. “Water. Tooth brush. Ride to the shelter.”
What an asshole. Bad enough Captain America caught him shooting up and turning tricks and sniffling like a baby. Now the guy was making fun of him. What a dick. “Can I go, now, Captain Asshole? Or am I under arrest?”
Rogers sighed, and stepped outside.
Bucky didn’t understand. “You’re gonna let me go?”
“It’s none of my business if you’re using, son. You’re telling me you were conscious and sober and fully consenting but I think we both know you’re lying. I don’t have anything else to go on, so your word it is.”
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault. Except it was, and Captain America could see it. He was a lying, shit-faced druggie who’d just been face-fucked in the toilet and his sick little sister was G-d knows where right now. He fiddled with the frayed hem of his ruined T-shirt. He couldn’t look Rogers in the eye. “Do you hate me?”
“I lived through the Depression, son. Did some pretty desperate things to get by.”
Bucky blinked and looked up. Rogers felt far, far away. “Why’d you tell me that?”
“Because it’s true,” he said. His gaze saddened. “And because no one will believe you.”