Run (A Bucky Barnes Recovery Story)

53 Demons

“It’s like I’m handing you over to them.”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“I can’t watch you get taken away.”

“We’ll be completely in control,” Bucky said. He rubbed his face with the heel of his palm, still holding his flip phone in his one hand. The flip top was being difficult; it was only attached now by one red cord that Bucky figured must have been a pretty important cord because the phone still worked. He was exhausted. He and Steve had been debating, arguing, all night. It had been midnight, and then one, and then two, and then Bucky had thrown his phone at the wall in frustration, which ripped off the flip top, and called back an hour later to find Steve still very awake and still very upset. “We have a plan, it’s a great plan, we’ll run it by Natasha in the morning-”

“Bucky, I’m begging you,” Steve said.

“And I’m not giving in,” Bucky replied. There was a long silence and Bucky sighed deeply, considering whether or not to say what he was thinking, of the slivers he remembered. “You remember… All those years and you’d pick a fight with anyone and everyone?”

“Not… Not everyone.”

“Yes everyone, you punk, I dragged you out of fistfights with probably all of Brooklyn,” Bucky retorted in a fashion and with a truthfulness that almost surprised him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t meant to say it, but the way it sounded coming out of his mouth sounded different, like Bucky 1.0, like a glove that just didn’t quite fit right anymore but he didn’t regret it, not entirely. Even if the information, the actual substance, did surprise him a little. He wondered what dark corner, what deep depth underneath the dam he’d dragged these words out of.

Steve seemed to think the same thing and he was silent. Bucky scrambled to recover.

“What I mean is, you’re a fighter, Steve. Always. I don’t… You know I don’t… Remember much, or even enough, but those fights happened so frequently that I remember several.” It was like the memory of it was built into him, like muscle memory, throw a punch, kick a fella, get Steve out of this and act like it’s no big deal. Well, it was always a big deal and he was bringing it up now. “I wasn’t like that, exactly. But you…,” Bucky began to realize that he was going to have difficulty getting the words out now. “You. Taught me what it means to fight back.”

“This is never what I wanted,” Steve said and he sounded hollow. Bucky almost laughed.

“Trust me, this,” he said and even though he was on the phone, he gestured to himself, up and down, waving the broken phone in the air and snapping it back to his head. “This is not what I wanted either. But it’s damn well what I got.” Steve sucked in a breath, pained or else surprised at Bucky’s sudden loudness. He had to be brash about this, about the past and about what he had become and about this, now, this plan that he would fight for. After all, it was brash enough, red-hot and obvious enough, even when he tried to suffer silently. He wondered if he would feel the same again in the morning. “Steve, this is…” He started again. “Alright, there’s a lot to it, it’s complicated, but this? This is me trying to live up to you, okay?”

There was another pause.

“Are you there?” Bucky asked and Steve, was he crying? He let out a shaky breath into the phone.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Are-are,” Bucky said, alarmed, dropping to sit on his bed from where he had been pacing. “Are you okay??”

“I’m fine,” Steve said loudly. “Go on, what were you saying? Why… Why do you want this?” Bucky found that having two arms would have been nice right about now because his first instinct was to lean over his knees with one elbow on his leg to prop up his head and the other to hold up the phone, but he had to move over now, uncomfortably, and sit up straight, no matter how much he wanted to hang his head and close his eyes. He wanted to call Steve out on the way he sounded upset, but he still wanted to leave him his dignity. Bucky took a breath and considered something.

“Can I come back over?” He asked quietly. “Or you come here?” Steve hesitated and Bucky didn’t blame him.

“Of course,” he said finally. “Get over here.” Bucky snapped his phone closed and threw it on the bed, grabbing his coat as he left his apartment, trying to forget how self-conscious he was of the empty sleeve, hanging at his side, and began to think about exactly what he was going to say to Steve. It might be easier face to face, or else it would be so, so much harder. Bucky wondered if the ambiguousness of the phones wasn’t better, as he walked across the street, doubt gathering quickly. Steve was a catalyst sometimes, a break in his dam and Bucky had trouble looking at his face during conversations like this, the ones that roughed up parts deep inside him like sandpaper, until he was bleeding the very words out of his mouth.

Either that would happen, or Bucky would look at Steve and, as he did sometimes, he would see a friend.

Steve was waiting at the door to let Bucky in and his face was still very red, although he had clearly dried his eyes. Bucky stood in the doorway and stared at him. What did he see today?

“We were talking,” Steve said, as a way of instigating the conversation again, but Bucky couldn’t let go of his red, swollen eyes. He sighed and stepped forward and threw his arm around Steve’s shoulders and Steve seemed to crumble just a little bit into his one-armed hug and squeezed him back, with a desperation that told Bucky that Steve had to remind himself that Bucky really was there. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to reassure, he wanted to apologize, he wanted to brush it all off. He remembered Steve at the hospital, looking heartbroken, asking why they couldn’t grieve together. Well, they were now. They stood there, hugging in the doorway for a while, silent, until Steve seemed more okay and he pulled away and rubbed his eyes and stepped aside to let Bucky in.

“We were talking,” Bucky replied once Steve shut the door and they both walked over to the couch, sitting together in an almost slow and tender way, like it was late at night, which it was, and they had both forgotten how to hurt the other, which Bucky wondered if this also was not true.

“And what were you saying?” Steve asked and Bucky stared at the rug, thinking hard.

“I have to do this because… It’s something you would do,” Bucky said and swallowed. “These are my schoolyard bullies, okay? This is my hell, my demons. It’s for me, I’m doing this for me, I need the…” Bucky was doing good, he was doing great, but he didn’t admit that to himself, not now when he choked and suddenly the words weren’t there to describe his emotions again. He smoothed back his hair and tried again. “It’s-it’s like, uh… Like I’m trying-”

“You’re trying to make it right,” Steve finished for him. “Like you’re proving something.”

“To myself,” Bucky added and was glad that Steve had been able to find the words for him. “You can’t fight this fight for me, Steve. But… But fight it with me?” He asked, looking over and Steve smiled at him with watering eyes and nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “Of course I’ll fight with you.”

Happy birthday, Clint Barton! 

Awwww Clint. :) -BB