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Bucky was pleasantly humming to Sinatra, chopping carrots to the beat. His hair was sweetly disheveled, matching the pajamas he’d been wearing all day. Steve leaned over him to put the bowls in his hands away in the cabinet above. He pressed a hand to Bucky’s back to keep him aware of his position as he moved around him to the right to get to the shelf wall separating the kitchen from the foyer. Bucky moved closer to the counter without a word to let him by, and Steve tucked the mugs into their spots. He went the other way around the table back to the dishwasher.
Steve bent to pull the corningware out of the bottom rack, sliding the rack back in when he had it. He turned to put the dish in its place in the cabinet next to the washer, only to be clotheslined out of nowhere and slammed back down. His back hit the open door and it gave way under his weight with a slam. Shrapnel flew as the corningware slipped from his grasp and hit the tile.
He hissed in pain, trying to find a place to plant his hand and lift himself up. Everywhere he pressed, ceramic stuck his palms. Before he could orient himself enough to even sit up, a hand grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him bodily up.
He came face to face with Bucky. Steve furrowed his brow. His metal arm was whirring busily, almost tearing Steve’s shirt. Something was off in the way he was staring at Steve.
Before he could ask, his feet left the ground and he was flying past the table and almost into the living room. He skidded to a halt, his fingers squeaking on the hardwood floors as he clawed for purchase.
“Bucky!” he wheezed, scrambling to get up, his socks having trouble gaining traction in his panic and sending him back down onto his side.
He looked up in time to see Bucky shoving the table out of his way and into the wall containing the mugs. The generic white cups that came with the dishes went raining down off the shelves, some shattering in the entryway and some in the kitchen. Bucky’s bare feet confidently stepped through what was left of the corning dish.
“Where am I?” his voice was low and dangerous.
He was relapsing.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It had been way too long for this to happen again. He hadn’t done this in almost nine months. Why was this happening?
“Bucky,” Steve’s voice shook in warning.
He managed to scramble into a defensive crouch. A cursory scan of Bucky’s slowly advancing figure came on instinct, trying to find any injuries- or openings. What he found was the (expensive) chef’s knife Bucky had bought for their new apartment as part of a set at Christmas clutched in Bucky’s right hand. Bits of carrot still stuck to it, surreal against the ominous glint of the blade and the angle it was held at. It had been advertised as the sharpest domestic knife set on market.
As soon as Bucky’s feet were clear of the ceramic chips his pace sped up. Steve stood fully, still remaining defensively positioned. He backed up a little until he hit the back of the couch. He gripped the vinyl, feeling some of the broken dish shift inside the flesh of his palm.
Bucky lunged and stabbed at Steve with the knife, his legs immediately moving to trip Steve up. The knife zipped right past Steve’s ear and into the couch, but Bucky’s legs were successful as they twisted into Steve’s. Steve felt his knees buckle and let himself fall.
He took advantage of his position and rolled, Bucky’s ankle still trapped between his calves. Bucky came down after him with a thud and a grunt, but he kept a hold of the knife. Steve was the first to get to his feet and he ran back to the kitchen, almost tripping over the broken dishwasher as he tried to avoid cutting up his feet. He ended up between the crooked table and the stove, his hands skimming the counter behind him for a weapon or something that would help him but wouldn’t hurt Bucky too badly. He thought up using a cookie sheet for a shield, but he was out of time before he could even open the cabinet by his legs.
Bucky had stood and sidled until he was at the other head of the table. He shoved the chair there away and it fell sideways, skidding through the broken mugs. Bucky’s metal hand gripped the edge of the table and straightened it a little closer to its original centered position, creating a line between him and Steve.
“What did you do?” Bucky asked, voice cold and poised stiffly, muscles coiled tight and ready to spring.
“What- Buck-” Steve said desperately.
“MY HAND,” Bucky screamed, using his grip on the table to shove it into Steve with a single brutal thrust, effectively pinning him between it and the stove.
The wood slammed into his pelvis and Steve gasped, hands snapping to grab the table’s edge. The oven’s handle pressed brutally into the base of his spine. He groaned through his teeth and reached behind him to clutch at the lip of the counter.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Bucky’s voice was all Winter Soldier, but Steve could hear a frantic edge creeping in that was all Bucky, revealing the panic that his blank eyes did not.
“AH! N-nothing!” Steve stammered, grinding his teeth against the pain. “Bucky, stop!”
Mercilessly, Bucky shoved the table a little harder, clearly dead set on crushing Steve’s organs. Steve cried out in pain, nails on one hand trying to dig into the granite counter and his other hand putting dents in the oven handle. He briefly wondered whether his table or his pelvis would break first. Bucky’s hands were already making cracks in the wood, splintering sounds coming from under the metal one. Steve took his hand off the counter and slammed it on the surface.
“Jesus- Buck- Stop!” he tried again, wracking his panicked brain for what to say to calm him down. It had been too long since he’d had to do this. Usually, he would have just subdued and pinned him, but he’d been caught pretty much completely by surprise this time. He went for desperate, choking out “You’re gonna break the fucking table!”
Either the cussing or strange concern about the table took something in Bucky by surprise just enough for Steve to shove back, knocking him over and freeing himself. He gasped in air, pressing a gentle hand to his abdomen. A waste of time. He had about a second before Bucky sprang up and onto the table, hunched so his head didn’t hit the ceiling light. His bare feet padded quickly but cautiously across the surface off it, closer to Steve. Steve stood defenseless, still braced against the stove with one hand, the other pressed to his stomach.
“Bucky, please,” he said again, not knowing what else to say. His eyes flickered between Bucky’s face and the knife in his hand. “It’s me, it’s Steve!”
All that did was piss him off, apparently. Steve had just enough warning to hunch a little and throw his arms up over his face before Bucky was bringing down the knife in a slashing motion clearly meant for his throat. He landed one swipe and one stab before he jumped back in a tactical retreat, creating a gash from one forearm to the other and a jagged, bone-deep wound running along Steve’s bicep.
“AHH!” Steve bellowed and clutched at the wound in his upper arm, forcing his eyes to stay open to watch Bucky. He felt blood gushing from between his fingers and panted hard, trying to think of a way to subdue Bucky from below without killing him. He had a chance. Bucky hadn’t needed to retreat. Steve would be dead right now if it was all the Soldier.
“Bucky,” he croaked, holding up his bloody palm to try and mollify him. “Just- Just drop the knife and-”
Bucky started in a step forward. It was now or never.
Steve kicked out when Bucky’s leg was poised in the air for another slow step, his heel connecting with one of the table legs. The table jerked back with a screech on the tile. Bucky lost his balance and fell forward with a yelp of surprise, his ribs hitting the edge closest to Steve. He made a sound of pain as he toppled off after his heavier half. His head connected with the tile at Steve’s feet, hard.
He was still.
Steve waited a solid count of fifteen before slowly moving so he could see Bucky’s face. Bucky was lying on his side, eyes wide open and staring at the ground. His breath was shuddering and heaving. His flesh hand was pressed against his ribs. His metal arm was limp on the floor under him.
“Bucky?” Steve said, kneeling awkwardly. He grabbed the knife and slid it away towards the refrigerator.
“Steve?” Bucky said, and it was him again.
His eyes blinked a few times, slowly, before he started to lift his head. Steve put the hand of his less injured arm on his back to support him until he was sitting up. Bucky pressed a hand to his head, baring his teeth with a hiss when they touched. His palm came back without blood, Steve was thankful for that much.
“Are you okay?” Steve asked, keeping his voice low.
“Ah, yeah, it’s just my head… What the hell… hap…” Bucky trailed off as he looked up at Steve.
His gaze flickered over Steve quickly, finally freezing on the blood trickling between his fingers clamped on his arm and down to his hand pressed against the floor. He paled and opened his mouth soundlessly. Steve couldn’t have made the situation look better if he’d tried, so he simply frowned sympathetically and settled into a more comfortable sitting position, alleviating his knees.
“I was-” Bucky was shaking. “I was doing so well- I was- I was,” he was starting to wheeze. Steve reached out to rub his back gently, watching blood smear against his white t-shirt.
“It’s okay, Bucky,” his voice was breathless. His arm was screaming at him.
“Your- you- the blood- you-” there were tears in his eyes. Steve’s chest ached looking at him, but he wrapped his ‘good’ arm around Bucky and pulled him close. “I thought- I just-I’m-”
“What triggered it?” Steve asked calmly, trying not to let Bucky feel his injured arm shake.
He used his hand to press Bucky’s head gently down onto his shoulder and then moved it to his shoulder to hold him close. He was getting blood everywhere. It didn’t seem to matter much when everything was broken or torn anyway.
“I just- I cut- I cut my hand, maybe?” Bucky said, holding up his left palm. Steve didn’t know any knife that could cut that metal, but Bucky looked completely serious.
Steve took it with his injured side’s hand, awkwardly maneuvering his arm around Bucky's. He trembled as he held it, turning it over a couple of times to inspect it before he dropped it. It was shiny and blemishless other than blood smear and a bloody hand print from Steve's grip. Steve deflated, holding Bucky closer, but not tight enough he couldn’t get away.
Sinatra was still on in the living room, nearing the middle of the second to last song on the record. Bucky was trying his hardest not to bawl, Steve knew, but even over the music, he still heard the small sounds of grief Bucky was making into his neck.
“Calm yourself down, Bucky,” Steve said, trying to keep his tone casual and light. “Think about Brooklyn.”
“That- Never works,” Bucky said through a sob. “Steve, you’re bleeding everywhere!”
“It worked after the first time, remember?” Steve said earnestly. His stitches could wait a few minutes. He’d have to leave Bucky or take him with, and neither was an option right now.
“No.”
“What the bloody hell is wrong with him?” shouted Monty, scrambling backwards. He hit the wall of the tent and froze in place. He was holding his wrist close to his chest. “All I did was grab his arm!”
Steve was straddling Bucky, hands pinning his wrists firmly on the ground. Bucky was panting, his entire body strung tight. The tendons in his wrist were shifting as his fists clenched. Steve was thankful he'd been there.
“Just leave us alone,” Steve said gently. "Maybe grab some ice if there's any."
Monty nodded brusquely with a dirty look Bucky’s way, sidling along the wall until he could slip out the door. It had only been about four days since the POWs had been rescued from the Hydra base and everyone was still touchy, not just Bucky. Monty wouldn't stay mad for longer than an hour or two.
“Bucky, calm down,” he said quietly, sitting up and easing his grip. His palms slid up to rest lightly against Bucky’s elbows. His breathing was still heavy, even with Steve just sitting low on his abdomen.
“Jesus- he,” Bucky wiggled one of his arms free and ran it up over his face and through his hair. He looked more blown away than anything. “He scared the shit out of me,” his voice was reedy. His arm came to a rest bent over his head, an attractive way to be in another context. An ugly bruise was already forming around the healing rash on his wrists where he’d been restrained.
“So you almost break his wrist?” Steve asked skeptically. “There’s something else. Fess up.” He nudged Bucky’s ribs with his knees. Bucky squirmed ticklishly.
“Not fair,” he muttered, shoving at Steve’s knee with a smile. “You’re heavy now.”
“Bucky,” Steve said, keeping his face serious.
Bucky sighed and his grin melted away. Steve finally noticed how dark the bags under his eyes were, how pale his skin was, how frail the smiles had been over the last couple days. Bucky wasn’t tense anymore, but his pliant body felt more limp and lifeless than relaxed. He licked his lips nervously, fingers picking at a hole in the knee of Steve’s pants. His eyes were distant and avoiding Steve’s.
“It’s… Since I got back from Hydra,” he muttered. “I had these long, vivid hallucinations while I was drugged up. Once, I dreamed I was back in Brooklyn with you. This other time, I thought that I’d gathered the commandos and gotten out. I even saw my mom once,” Bucky swallowed thickly, fingers going limp against Steve’s knee. He finally met Steve’s eye. “Every time, though… Every damn time, I would wake up or come to, or whatever you’d call it, and I’d be back in that lab. I always woke up real sudden-like and expecting the nice things to be there.”
“Buck,” Steve said, pained. He reached up to touch Bucky’s face, but his hand was gently pushed away.
“I’ve been jumpy. I haven’t slept right since I got back. Monty grabbed my arm, and it was right over where they’d grabbed me when they wanted to give me injections," Bucky turned his head to stare off to the side at the canvas, but his eyes were unfocused. Steve thought he saw moisture building up in them. “I thought I was back- just for a second. I didn’t mean to hurt him- it’s just that… sometimes I didn’t know what was real.”
“Oh, Bucky…” Steve murmured, eyes scanning his face. Bucky blinked away his tears valiantly, still looking away. Steve gently turned his head, but Bucky’s eyes stubbornly refused to look up. “Come on,” Steve whispered, scooting back off Bucky's lap to let him sit up.
Bucky did so slowly, with Steve’s hand on his shoulder supporting him. They settled there with Steve sitting cross-legged and Bucky in a sprawl, legs on either side of him. Steve took up Bucky’s wrists in his hands and smoothed soothing patterns over the bruises he’d left with his thumbs. Guilt rose in his throat.
“Think about Brooklyn,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
“What?” that got Bucky’s attention; he looked up at Steve, eyes wet and dark.
“Think about Brooklyn,” Steve repeated, scooting closer until Bucky’s legs had to move up onto Steve’s. Steve leaned in close and Bucky stared back.
“Why?”
“Sense of normalcy, maybe?” Steve shrugged a little. “You said sometimes you didn’t know what was real. We’ll share some memories and I’ll give you some never-before-heard insight,” he waggled his eyebrows to lift the mood, shifting his gaze from Bucky’s wrists to his face. Bucky was pouting.
“Steve,” Bucky grumbled, reclaiming his wrists and placing a palm wide on Steve’s chest to push him away, “stop.”
“No. Come on,” Steve insisted, grabbing the hand on his chest and cupping it between his own hands gently. He lifted it and pressed a sweet kiss over the healing cuts on his knuckles.
“Okay, okay,” Bucky sighed, closing his eyes with a forced exasperation on his face, desperately trying to play the whole thing off like no big deal. He rubbed his temple with the hand Steve wasn’t holding and declared dramatically, “I’m thinking about Georgia Jackson’s gams.”
“Bucky!” Steve laughed. “Be serious, jerk. I’m trying to help you out here.”
“I didn’t ask for help. But fine,” Bucky sighed sarcastically, but his eyes were serious. “You’re gonna have to help me think of things to think on, then.”
“Think about our life before the war,” Steve felt a lump in his throat and swallowed around it.
“Steve, your arm-” his fingers slipped in blood when they went to investigate. Steve pulled his hand away.
“That one summer when all the girls were filling out their swimsuits. We went to the beach and I got sunburned like crazy. You had to take me home and rub aloe vera on me.”
Bucky was silent and still, his face still half pressed to Steve’s right shoulder so he could stare down the steady bleeding on Steve’s left.
“You were so mad at me,” Steve whispered. “You were dead set on kissing Dorothy Miller and you had to drag my sorry ass back home. I think your words were: ‘Damn it Rogers, my hands are supposed to be on a dame’s chest, not yours’.”
“I was mad,” he mumbled, “You peeled for a week and I was kinda glad.” Bucky’s flesh fingers tightened where they were fisted in Steve’s t-shirt over his stomach.
“What about our first time at Coney Island? You made me ride the Cyclone and-”
“Steve, please,” Bucky was barely audible. “I don’t wanna think about that. I made you throw up.”
“The Cyclone did,” Steve corrected. “Now you. Tell me something you remember.”
“Uh,” Bucky swallowed and peeled himself away from Steve. Steve’s skin felt humid where his face had been. Bucky wiped at his nose, his face a red mess. His eyes were swollen and wet, alternating between Steve’s injury and the mess of broken dishes across the floor.
“Now you,” Steve said gently, tucking a piece of dark hair back into place. Bucky needed a haircut.
“Do you remember,” Bucky started off shakily but spun it as thoughtful, “Kenneth Thompson and his sister, Anna?”
“Yeah,” Steve nodded.
“And how he beat the crap outta me for kissing her?” Steve nodded again. Bucky sniffed loudly and swallowed again. His voice was less shaky when he continued. “Kenneth got in trouble for goin’ to a Pansy club. I felt bad for him. We got to be friends.”
“You went out drinking with him a lot,” Steve added. “A lot- a lot, actually.”
“Yeah. He was my... He was… at the Hydra base,” Bucky smiled ruefully. “He didn’t make it.”
“Stop that,” Steve chided. He went back to rubbing his thumbs over the bruises on his wrists (partially guilt, partially the inability to be idle). “Tell me something happy.”
“Remember the summer you turned sixteen?” Bucky asked after thinking for a minute or two. Steve grinned and it was all the answer Bucky needed. “I took you to Coney Island for fireworks,” his smile was soft and happy this time. “We pretended they were for you.”
“I remember that,” Steve laughed lightly, not having thought about that night for a long time.
“We sat in the sand and I managed to get booze somehow,” Bucky was brighter now, “but don’t ask me the specifics because I’m pretty sure I forgot ‘em on purpose.”
Steve laughed at that, touching his forehead to Bucky’s. “Seeing as I’d be an accomplice, I think I can manage that.”
”You got sand in your shorts,” Bucky’s smile was spreading now, disturbing his cracked lips. His head tilted as he lost himself in the memory, almost seductive but mostly wistful. “You had your first kiss that night.”
“Yeah, happy birthday from James ‘Charity Kiss’ Barnes,” Steve rolled his eyes.
“That wasn’t the real reason and you know it, you dingy bastard!” Bucky crowed, thumping Steve on the arm.
He finally had some light back in his eyes. Their smiles matched and Bucky leaned forward to press his firmly to Steve’s parted lips. He lingered but kept it chaste, finally pulling back with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
"See, punk?” he poked Steve in the chest.
“Yeah, I see,” Steve chuckled, his cheeks turning pink despite their privacy. “You feel better now?”
“Yeah,” Bucky stopped talking and stared down at his hands. He flexed his metal fingers and his flesh ones alternatively. “I didn’t cut my hand, did I?” he whispered.
“No,” Steve replied. He wanted to kiss away the frown like he used to. Not yet. They weren’t there yet.
“Just you,” Bucky said bitterly. “I-I must have just scraped the metal or- or something,” Bucky muttered with a pitiful shrug. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I really gummed up the works this time, pal.”
“Hey, it’s going to be fine. It wasn’t your fault; everyone relapses. We’ll get Tony to look at your arm, see if he can find out what’s up.”
“Alright,” Bucky nodded weakly, wiping at his eyes one last time. He sniffled.
“Things take time. The only good thing Zola ever did was give us that,” Steve said firmly, rubbing circles into his back.
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded slowly, back bending into Steve’s hand. “You’re probably right.”