still friends

Chapter 15: Pain Reliever

March 10th, 2028

He's lost count of how many days have passed since he found out. Clint and Laura keep ticking off dates on a calendar they taped to his fridge, but he doesn't look at it. Can't be bothered to.

Many of those days he's spent curled on his couch. It's his makeshift bed, his makeshift table, his makeshift solace, because he cannot be in the places where all those beautiful moments had been born.

The Bartons try their best to help him, taking turns to stop by his apartment, bring him food, and encourage him to shower. He barely acknowledges them when they enter; he half wonders how they have a key.

"The door was locked." Bucky grunts, not moving from his spot on the couch. Laura was in the middle of sweeping the panel flooring when she paused, clearing her throat.

"She offered hers," she says, quickly adding. "after she asked how you were doing."

How was he doing? Not that it was any of Wanda's business, not anymore.

Bucky realizes he is being absolutely pathetic, hiding himself away like a child. He hates how he's acting, wishes he could change it but he can't help how his body reacts to this change.

Make it stop. Please.

March 28th, 2028

Working out has always been a place he can lose himself, and he finds he does it more and more. His workouts last nearly four hours now, but when a persons day starts at three in the morning, finishing his makeshift routine at seven am doesn't really eat much of his time.

He's grateful for the emptiness the early morning provides. Headphones blasting, he rides his bike to the gym, doesn't bother to turn the headlight on. Not like anyones awake anyways.

It's still chilly, and it only intensifies the loneliness. His apartment has become suffocating, he can't stand to be in it. He finally convinced Clint he didn't need round-the-clock care, so their visits had dropped to once a week; but now, the silence was choking him.

Kick stand up, he hauls his duffle onto his back, shuffling inside the SWORD operated gym. There's low music playing, and a singular person is in the gym, mid-squat; aside from the lone squatter, it's deserted.

Bucky drops his duffle, wipes at his eyes as he stretches. He hadn't realized he'd been crying; that seemed to be a common occurrence noweredays. Bending, his fingers scratch the ends of his toes. His headphones are nearly vibrating; they're so loud, and soon he loses himself in the movement.

Working out is easy; you push or pull weight, move your ligaments and joints until they nearly collapse under the pressure, and keep even, keep based. Working out can't hurt your head. Your brain can't hurt as your leg muscles scream.

He doesn't realize he's being spoken to until a hand smacks his shoulder. He drops his dumbbells, whirling around as he pulls his headphones off.

"You snapped too, right?"

He's taken aback by the stranger's question. She's large, for a woman; her black hair is tied high on her head, large thighs constricted in dark leggings. There are silver bands on her wrists, and her eyes are trained on him.

"Uh," Bucky replies, still breathing hard. Who interrupts a man in the middle of his set?

"You don't know me, I'm Sif." She says, hands on hips. "I think...you're Steve Rogers bitch right?"

Her terminology throws him. "And you are?"

She laughs, her arms dropping. "Guess you could say I'm Thor's bitch. Or I was."