The Third Rule

~THREE~

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...

As soon as Bucky gets home, he rips off his gloves and throws them on the counter. He pulls off his jacket and lays it on the back of the kitchen chair. He pulls out the beaten red notebook and pulls a pencil from the bin on his counter. 

The first three pages of names are crossed out, it took him nearly three months to get that far, but he has a lot of names to go. The pencil hovers over Peter Parker.

The kid's big brown eyes and fluffy hair haven't left his mind since this afternoon. He is so young, only 17. He's never even known his parents because of Bucky. 

A loud snap pulls Bucky from his trance. He opens his hand slowly and the broken pencil falls from it with a clatter. "Damn it!" Bucky screams. His breathing turns into heaving gasps. His grip tightens on the edge of the countertop, and if he grabs it much tighter it's bound to crumble. He can't escape, he's stuck. His muscles tense and anger fills his veins. He needs to do something. 

With a surge of energy his hands close around the chair and he hurls it against the floor in between his TV and recliner with all of his might. The chair falls apart on contact, one of the legs bouncing off of the couch and other pieces flying about.

Peter didn't deserve that. He's just a kid. 

Why couldn't Bucky have just died in the fall?

Bucky runs his hands through his hair repeatedly, pulling at the roots and gasping for air. Every time... every god damn time he thinks it's getting better his past... The Winter Soldier... threatens to drown him while he struggles silently under the pressure of it all. 

He forces himself to breathe slowly like the Doctor taught him. In, pause, out, pause... over and over again.  The only movement in the apartment is the ticking of the clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. For Bucky though, it is loud. Everything is loud now, phones ringing, TVs blaring, appliances hissing, roaring of cars. Back in the forties, it was truly quiet. There were no loud phones or TVs or machines. Just quiet besides for the rasp of Steve's breath or his mom and sister's soft hum that echoed through thier house. 

Since 1943 everything has been loud. Gunfire, bombs, screaming. Even after the war, even in Wakanda. 

A few deep breaths later, Bucky began to clean up the splinters of the chair. First, he gathered them in a pile then grabbed a garbage bag and shoved them into it. 

He's going to have to get a new chair. And pencil. 

...

Night falls without any sleep, and before Bucky knows it he is sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the counselor's office. 

"Have you had any nightmares?" She asked, folding her hands in her lap. 

Bucky stared blankly ahead, "No." 

She gave him a look and adjusted herself in the chair with a sigh of disappointment, "Don't lie to me, James." 

"I'm not." 

"Fine. Tell me what you did yesterday." 

Bucky sighed, "I went to Queens, got a sandwich. Apparently the best one in Queens." 

She rolled her eyes, "Why were you in Queens, James?"

Suddenly, he became very interested in the white wall behind her, "To make amends. A kid, his... his parents... they died a decade ago." 

She nodded her head, "So tell me again, have you had any nightmares?" 

Bucky's eyes shot from the clock on the wall to the notebook laying on the desk next to her, "Yes." 

...

By the time he finished his session, it was nearly noon. He walked past his apartment down to the subway. The doctor told him he should go back to Delmar's, try harder to make amends. According to her, it might stop the nightmares. It's bullshit, but he's going back anyways. 

But it's not because of finding "peace" or the doctor either, it's for Peter Parker.