Chapter Text
He had made a mistake, a huge mistake, and damn, he regretted it so much. He can never keep anyone with him, and the only thing he manages to do is watch the people he loves most go far away from him and never come back.
Sam was one of those people; Sam was the only actual person he had left, the only person who, after years, managed to give him a reason to live. He will never forget what Sam did for him, but in his heart, there is always the constant awareness that Bucky never did anything for Sam all this time, except ruin their friendship and cause even more problems.
Everything was going well: Sam had accepted his role as Captain America, Torres had healed from his injury, and Sam and Bucky met up at least once every two weeks and talked often on the phone.
It was all perfect and Bucky was making progress in his life, but then he had to ruin everything as usual.
He should have walked away from the Thunderbolts when he had the chance; he should have reacted to Valentina’s speech; he should have had her arrested sooner. He should have reacted now that he was free and able to defend his freedom and that of others.
But he did nothing; he stayed silent and endured it as he always does, as he has learned to do for over 80 years.
Bucky was currently in the dark inside the bathtub, letting the water run, ignoring the world outside that room. Normally, he is always on high alert, but today it was as if his brain had turned off. Every movement was slow, every limb was numb, and everything he saw seemed distant and fake.
On top of that, lately he’s been struggling to stop eating like an animal. He eats way too much, but it never seems to be enough. Tastes mean nothing to him, but he has an uncontrollable urge to keep eating.
John pointed out this habit after Bucky emptied the fridge, which John himself had just restocked.
John wasn't even attacking him verbally; he was just making an observation, but Bucky was filled with such deep irritation that he couldn't stop himself from taking out his frustration on him. They argued for a few minutes until Bucky felt an intolerable itch under his skin and an urge to pull his hair out. He soon realized that was his cue to pull back from whatever was happening and go to his room.
Bucky has learned to manage this trait in his own way—something his parents tried to make him stop doing when he was a kid, to no avail.
He couldn't stop doing what he was doing. He couldn't stop pacing in circles; he couldn't stop suddenly shutting down and not speaking until his body relaxed enough to let him open his mouth. He couldn't stop the itching, and he couldn't hold back the tears or the urge to punch himself in the head.
He felt deeply ashamed of all this. It hadn't happened to him in years, and now, all of a sudden, he felt like that kid who was crushed under the weight of his own mind.
But this time, his mother wasn't there to calm him down, Rebecca wasn't there to comfort him, and Steve wasn't there to give him space while staying quiet yet close by.
Sam wasn't there anymore, either, who—
Bucky interrupted his thoughts and began humming involuntarily. It was a small habit that, ever since he was little, helped him avoid overthinking and grounded him in reality.
It wasn't something he did on purpose, but he was always grateful for it; he hated overthinking, and he was an expert at it. Bucky turned off the water faucet and slowly got out, feeling his legs go numb.
He wrapped himself in a dark blue towel and went to his room with his hair still wet. He went straight to the dresser, pulled out a pair of black underwear, and chose to wear nothing else. It wasn't exactly a good day, and when he felt bad, clothes were an incessant source of stress that annoyed him so much he would scratch his skin and loosen them just to avoid feeling them on his body. He laid on the bed on his back with his hands clasped over his chest, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, thinking about what to do.
He never really had the chance to find something he actually enjoyed doing. Sure, he tried cooking, but it was so nerve-wracking because he was extremely clumsy.
A soldier trained for years couldn't cook without making a mess and, above all, without having some kind of meltdown. After the last time he got sauce on his shirt, he stopped cooking overly complicated meals and focused entirely on easy-to-make foods... preferably without oil.
Bucky started tossing and turning on the bed, trying not to think about the itch under his skin and the tension building in his throat.
He tossed and turned for five straight minutes until he sat up, pressing his hands over his eyes and humming.
He got out of bed shortly after to look for his phone and the blanket Sam had given him a while ago, back when they were still friends. It was during one of their rare outings, and for once, Bucky had let Sam convince him to go out and buy something for his empty apartment.
They ended up in a small home goods store, and that's where he found this blanket—well, actually, Sam handed it to him after realizing how hard it was for Bucky to find something that didn't make him feel nauseous. It was a long, dark blue blanket, extremely soft and not scratchy on the skin.
It smelled so good and felt so comfortable that Bucky couldn't help but buy it. Well, Sam actually paid for it, rushing to the register as soon as he saw his friend's captivated look.
From then on, Bucky only ever used that blanket, but lately, it was an object that triggered mixed feelings in him. Still, every now and then, he gave in and acted selfishly.
He grabbed the blanket and sat on the floor with his phone in hand, ready to text Sam. He spent a whole hour staring at the chat: twenty minutes just to press the first key, and almost two hours to write a simple message.
"Hi Sam, I wanted to apologize for this whole situation. I know I disappeared after the last time, but I didn't know how to handle myself." He paused for a moment, replaying every single word he and Sam had exchanged that day in his mind.
"I know that what I did is unforgivable. I should have never let something like this happen. I know how much trust you put in me, and I know how much all of this means to you. Can we try to talk things through?" He had no idea what he was doing.
The messages weren't coming out the way he wanted, but no matter how much he deleted and rewrote, he could never find anything that truly expressed or explained how he felt.
He had always been terrible at talking to people. Maybe there was a time when he wasn't, but only because he had learned to mimic what others did, and because back when he was a kid, being weird wasn't allowed.
Despite all his mistakes, Bucky only wanted one thing: to do good by someone. But he never succeeded; he kept screwing up, making unforgivable mistakes, and running away from conversations out of fear of where they would end up.
He didn't like fighting, he didn't like raising his voice, and he hated arguing because everyone always assumed he was being pretentious and just wanted to be right. But he didn't want to be right; he simply wanted to explain how he felt. He stared at the sent messages and waited, slowly falling asleep.
"Soldier, bow down."
Warm hands trapping his head in an iron grip.
Two soldiers ripping his uniform off; a bone-chilling cold washes over him.
An excruciating pain spreads from the base of his spine.
Blood.
Dripping blood.
An empty, cold, dirty, and damp room.
Dripping water, every two seconds.
The echo of the water and the sound of his own breathing.
"Soldier, you must eliminate these targets... no witnesses."
A crying child, a pool of blood, a gun, a shot, silence.
The child stopped crying.
Bucky woke up with a start, reaching out for the child's body. He jolted up, tripping on the blanket and falling onto his phone, which luckily didn't break.
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair—now soaked with sweat—and headed back to the shower. There was no reason to keep sleeping if that was how the night was going to go, so he might as well make himself useful.
Bucky walked quickly to the bathroom, bumping into the door along the way. He took off the only piece of clothing he was wearing and threw himself under the showerhead, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the water carry him away.
He stood there for a few minutes until his body relaxed enough to lower his guard and remember what he had dreamed.
He was about to throw up.
He quickly stepped out of the shower just in time to spit a little bile into the toilet, feeling behind him the phantom presence of the HYDRA soldiers who, in that specific year, had used him as they pleased.
He didn't want to remember that period. Out of all the things they had done to him, that was absolute trash, and he didn't even feel like trying to remember any more of it.
He wanted to forget everything. He only remembered that in 2003, those four guards had fun using their words on him without their superiors' consent, breaking a bunch of regulations and betraying HYDRA's trust.
For a year, those guards used him in disgusting ways; they ordered him to do everything, and he obeyed because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
When HYDRA’s leaders found out about it, they ordered the Asset to kill them, and fortunately, no one ever touched him again after that. He barely remembered anything due to the memory wipes. He didn't remember their faces, their voices, or who did what specifically. He didn't remember specific events, just flashes that brought back their hands and the feeling of being trapped between them again.
Bucky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went back to washing himself even more aggressively than before, scratching every inch of his skin with his right hand and using almost half a bottle of soap.
Once rinsed, he stepped out quickly, not wanting to stay naked any longer than necessary, and walked with large strides into his bedroom, where he pulled out the most full-coverage and comfortable pajamas he had.
It was more of a tactical suit than pajamas, but he hadn't had the chance to wear real pajamas in over 80 years, and with all the fights he faced, dressing comfortably had become practically useless. You always had to be ready, which is why there was a weapon in every corner of the room.
Once he was comfortable, he tied his hair into a high man-bun and sat on the chair in front of his desk, resting his elbows on the table to hold up his head.
He started rubbing his hands against his skin while humming thoughtfully and exhaustedly. He didn't want to sleep, and even if he did, he would only dream of other memories that were definitely the last thing he needed right now.
He didn't know what to do other than eat and ruminate on his horrible existence. He found flaws in every choice he had made, and he had realized a long time ago just how deeply he hated himself.
He sighed and stared at the city from high up in the tower, thinking of something to do, and a thought suddenly crossed his mind. He unexpectedly decided to try doing something different: listening to music, just as Sam and Bucky—wait, Sam and Bob—had suggested to him a while ago.
As a kid, he loved music, but his adult self didn't know if he still could.
Maybe he could ask Bob for some song or album recommendations. Even though he had wanted to ask someone else that question, it was too late now; he had wasted his chance.
For tonight, he would allow himself the silence of his room and his thoughts. Starting tomorrow, he would do something different.