Run (A Bucky Barnes Recovery Story)

27 Blame

Steve returned soon with his electric razor, just like Natasha had asked for. She plugged it into the wall and didn’t even bother laying a mat down on the floor before she began to cut Bucky’s hair. He heard the buzzing close to his ear and felt the blade move up and down his neck. He wanted to ask how short it would be, he wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to look like he did in the forties, but he couldn’t gather up the strength, so he stayed quiet and let her cut his hair, just grateful that she was there to be so tender with him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Steve.

During his haircut, a fact occurred to Bucky to say and before he knew it, before he even knew he had the will to speak, he had said it.

“I killed the Starks,” he said, loud enough to be heard above the buzzing of the razor and Steve looked up sharply and Natasha’s hand jerked and she pulled the razor’s cord out of the outlet on accident and it was silent and everyone was staring at him. He stared down at his hands and looked at his left one. It didn’t have a glove on it anymore. He didn’t know what he’d done with his glove, he’d had it just yesterday. His hand shined, reflected the light. He didn’t quite like that. He never did. “I staged their car accident. And then I let their son rebuild my arm.” He looked up now at Steve as though to say, there, now you can’t have any more faith in me. I am the worst of the worst, I’m worse than any criminal you might have fought before because I dug my way into your heart somehow and now I’m just there, hurting you. I even managed to hurt Tony. Please, someone, stop me. Bucky didn’t even know how to apologize. “I realized it the other day. I hadn’t… I hadn’t really… Put it together before.”

“Is that what this is all about, Bucky?” Natasha asked. Bucky shrugged. Steve put his face in his hands. Bucky felt there was more to say, but he didn't want to talk anymore. He ran a hand over the back of his head, self-conscious of his hair, and stood.

"I'll go now," he said.

"No, Bucky, sit down," Natasha said and he thought she sounded strained. He didn't move. He wanted her to throw him out. Steve stood as well and his face was red.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said and Natasha and Bucky watched him leave the room.

"Sit down," Natasha said again and Bucky gave in, collapsing into the chair. He realized that he didn't know how to apologize because there was literally no way in which he could fix with words what had already been done. There was no apology big enough.

Natasha plugged the razor back into the wall and turned it back on.

"Why are you doing this," Bucky said.

"Because your hair is a mess,” Natasha said. Bucky pulled away from her a little and turned in his chair to face her. She turned off the blade and waited, ready to listen to him and he didn’t know why she was.

“Why are you doing this for me, Natasha?” Bucky asked, his voice low. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Says who,” Natasha asked and Bucky scoffed.

“Says, says the hundreds of innocents I’ve killed?” He said. “Says Tony’s parents.” She stared at him.

“You know in your heart that you aren’t truly to blame for that,” she said. Bucky stared back now.

“Then why do I feel so guilty,” he replied. She looked into his eyes and sucked in a breath.

“Just let me finish your hair,” she said and he obediently turned back around.

A half an hour or so later, Natasha declared him a masterpiece and led him by the arm, the left arm in fact, to the bathroom mirror where he could see. He stared at his face in the mirror, skin grey like he was ill and eyes hollow. Natasha had cut his hair short on the sides, almost weirdly short, like he wasn’t used to seeing it, but the top was still a little longer and she had parted it down the side and some pieces fell over his forehead and he had to admit, it did look better. He looked cleaner and it was like a breath of relief passed through him. He ran his hands through it, both of his hands, and let it fall like she had set it. He looked to her with grateful eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What are friends for,” she replied and offered him her signature half-smile in the mirror. He tried to give her a half-smile back and he didn’t quite know how successful he was, but it was a smile if anything and she laughed a little and looked down.

“Will Steve be okay?” Bucky asked as he stared at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t entirely sure who he aimed the question at, whether he was talking to Natasha or simply asking it of himself, but she answered.

“Give him time,” she said. Bucky nodded and watched his own chest rise and deflate as he sighed. “He doesn’t blame you, Bucky,” she added.

“How do you know?” He asked. She looked at him in the mirror and raised her eyebrows.

“I know Steve,” she said. “And he doesn’t blame you for any of this.”

“He should,” Bucky replied.

“Don’t tell yourself that,” Natasha scolded. “You’re wrong.”

“And how do you know that too?” Bucky asked, not in any way accusatory, but with a genuine simplicity, a search for answers. He wanted her to give him the secret to forgiving himself. “How do you know I’m not to blame?”

“It took me years to learn it,” Natasha said. “But neither of us are, Bucky. Not really. You less so than me. You can’t blame yourself when they shape you into a tool.” Bucky nodded because he wanted to believe that she was right. He supposed that it would take years for him to truly learn that, too, and he hoped he would. He wanted to be able to live with himself.

Happy birthday, Tony Stark!! This is literally the worst birthday present in the world! -BB