Sebastian Stan One Shots

pieces.

Bucky normally had good days. Rarely would the memories and flashbacks return, but every once and a while, something would drag them up and he would be a mess.

It made my heart ache.

There's normally nothing I can do but be there for him, and even then, his episodes of violence sometimes get so bad I have to leave his apartment for an hour or two until he calms down.
Today is one of those days.

When I come back, dry sticky tears on my cheeks, I don't know what to expect. The apartment is a total mess. It looks like a hurricane blew through living room; books and knickknacks lay scattered across the floor, a shelf in the bookcase is broken. It's a disaster.

The kitchen and bathroom aren't as bad, but when I open the bedroom door. It's even worse than the living room. The floor can scarcely be seen for the sheets and clothes strewn everywhere, the tall lamp in the corner knocked over, and... Bucky is hunched in the corner. Curled up in a ball, his head tucked between his knees, fingers interlaced in his messy hair.

Everything is settled, quiet, except for Bucky's sobs.
His shoulders shake, scaring me. I've never seen him like this and I'm afraid of what will happen if I touch him. But I walk to him, extending my hand, and gently tap his shoulder.

His shaking doesn't stop, though he does go quiet.

"Buck?" I ask, crouching down next to him. "Bucky, I..." I start to say I don't know what's wrong, but isn't that obvious?

Finally, after too long, he lifts his head, just enough that I can see his red face and tear-rimmed eyes. His eyes, that were ready and eager to learn, a refined fire hidden behind their calm, now worried, scared, anxious.

His hands wring around themselves, fingers twisting, his breaths becoming short. I know what's about to happen, so I turn to sit on my knees in front of him and put my hands on his cheeks. I wipe away his tears with my thumbs, glancing from his eyes to his lips, trying to calm him.

"Put your hand on my heart," I whisper lightly, working to sound unperturbed.

Bucky obeys, his right hand finding my neck. It trails down to cover my heart, fingers leaving a whisper of a touch on my collarbone. My heartbeat is fast, but I know that's okay. It doesn't have to be steady for him to become grounded.

I keep looking at his face, getting a little more sad every time I see a new tear run down his cheek. After a few more seconds, his hand drops, and I wipe away another tear before sitting back.

I want to ask what happened, but I know it's too early for that. I know he needs his space, so I move to sit about a foot away from him, adjusting to the silence.

"I don't remember." Bucky says out of the blue, his voice rough.

Surprised, I turn to look at him, watching his eyes glued to the floor, and wait for him to elaborate.

"You want to know how it happened. And I don't remember. And I'm sorry." He looks down at his hands, then around at the room, as if pondering how that destruction could have come from him.

I move to be closer to him, putting an arm over his shoulders and pulling him closer to my side. "You don't have to be sorry," I say quietly, "it's just something that happens."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't be the one to pick up the pieces."

I kiss his forehead, and say, "Then we'll do it together."

And we do, after a few more minutes of dwelling and kind words, we start to clean up. It's quiet, but doesn't take long.

It almost scares me that Bucky could do something like this with me around, but I've seen the way he controls himself. It gets better every day. He heals, and we heal together.

After we finish tidying, I sit on the couch and he follows. He lays down and rests his head in my lap, and I gently stroke his hair. This is how it was meant to be; even from the damage that was done, it's okay again.
It will always be okay again.