What the Water Gave Me

Chapter Twelve

A few days passed this way. Steve had a bathtub and although it was far too small for Bucky, he was allowed to cram himself into it for as long as he could each day, filling up the water until it practically overflowed and sinking down until his entire head was submerged, half his tail sticking straight up out of the other end. More often than not, he spilled on the floor and Steve would make a dissatisfied face while he laid towels down.

Then, when Bucky began to feel his tail cramping or his wounds throbbing, he’d drain the water and wait for it to sink down sadly into the tiny hole in the bottom and cry for Steve to help drag him out. He often felt the need to remind Steve that he was usually very self-sufficient and he was a great swimmer and he never needed help in the water and Steve would just nod while he wrapped his arms around Bucky’s torso and gave another heave.

“I know, Bucky,” he’d say over and over again as Bucky humiliatingly had to accept his help, dragging him through the house like a great, beached weight. “I know.”

His watery left replacement never appeared in the tub water. The first time he’d been so sure it would happen and when it didn’t, he plunged his head down into the water to hide his tears of bitter disappointment from Steve.

Steve rolled a TV into the room on a cart one day and handed Bucky the remote and told him that it was for entertainment and he could watch whatever he wanted. Bucky quickly became hooked, even though he was rarely entirely sure what he was watching, and sometimes, Steve would sit in with him and watch too. Bucky made a point of laughing at the screen whenever Steve did, even though his laugh sounded more like a gargle. He had to admit that while he missed the ocean with everything he had, ached for it’s comfort and self-reliance and familiarity, he was happy to be spending so much time with Steve. In a strange way, it was a dream come true.

Unfortunately, Bucky was becoming progressively sicker and sicker. Living on a box of days old fish was clearly not good for a siren’s system. Steve didn’t say anything, but Bucky’s ribs were beginning to show one by one and he often had to be forced to eat something, anything, with Steve standing over him and begging him to take another bite. Bucky noticed Steve staring at him worriedly sometimes but he just didn’t know what else to do. He realized he’d probably die before he could eat what he ought to.

Sometimes, when his stomach rumbled, he couldn’t help but daydream for a few minutes about the way a fresh catch tasted. But when his mouth started to water, he’d force himself to stop and chide himself for thinking about something he shouldn’t want.

One day, during a binge watching session of something Bucky didn’t entirely understand, Steve took the remote from Bucky’s hand and turned the TV off and Bucky looked over to him, confused.

“I have something to tell you,” Steve started. “And it probably won’t make you very happy.”

Bucky began to brace himself for several things, including things from the spectrum of, “I’ve decided you aren’t Bucky and I don’t love you and I want you out” to “the water to my house was shut off”.

“I’ve got some guys coming over tomorrow,” he admitted. “People you used to know.”

Bucky scrambled for his paper.

“No!” He wrote emphatically.

“I’m not finished!” Steve said. “Look, they’re good guys, okay? I won’t let them do anything to you. They just want to see you.”

“Steve,” Bucky wrote and looked up at him, pulling his thoughts together desperately. “I’m already pitiful enough. Please don’t make me a zoo animal.”

“I’m not!” Steve protested. “Don’t misconstrue this, it’s just a meeting is all.”

“I used to have pride, you know,” Bucky wrote. “Before I had to be dragged through the halls of a human’s house by my armpits and force-fed dead fish.” He crumbled up the paper and threw it at Steve so Steve had to unwrap it to read it.