Chapter Text
Twenty years. It had taken them twenty years to break him entirely, though that time frame would push on for an unknown length as his mind fought tooth and nail. No matter how many times they’d tear him down to the bare bones and reset him, memories would find their way to slip through. Of course this would prompt another reset, but he put up a fight at every corner, even if not a conscious choice to do so. They never truly broke him, only postponed him coming back around to himself. Borrowed time to make use of their dearly weapon, and time to perfect their methods of complete control with no failure.
He had himself back now, which was part of the problem. His morals were there, always had been, and one thing he had never been fond of was hurting people. In war it was different, they were fighting for a cause that they believed in and playing fields were even, or so they’d thought, but the things he had done could not be justified. He had been cruel, ruthless, made into a ghost story that left people looking over their shoulders or running for the hills at the mere mention. Others believed such a monster couldn't exist and didn't. He was a monster. He shouldn't exist. He’d unjustly taken more lives than he could hope to count, and at the time hadn’t felt a single thing about it.
Now he felt everything about it. The guilt, the shame, the regret, the disgust. All of it loomed over like a heavy cloud, occupying his sleep every night and every waking second of his day. The worst part is he knew he deserved it, too. Even though he had been told by someone very dear: ”What you did all those years, it wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice.”
No, there was no choice, but it was still his own palms with ichor, hands that had scarlet stuck beneath the nails and crusted in the creases of metal. Acknowledging the lack of choice wouldn’t take away nor change the fact that what he had done was beyond comprehension, wouldn’t make it stop playing behind his eyelids regardless of if he was awake or asleep. Ghosts lingered, intangible to discard. The heart of his core self would be made to take the lashes, and to give them too. There would be no greater punishment than himself.
This was simply something he had to live with, and he wouldn’t be the type of man he wanted to be if he didn’t accept and face that, to own up to it. That in of itself was difficult. It wasn’t as if he’d committed a petty crime that would be punished with jail time or community service, the things he had done were irreparable. Even if others forgave him he could never forgive himself.
How could he? To have gone from one who protects selflessly, who stood up for those weaker than, to then turn into an attack dog who slaughtered people at his master’s beck and call, innocent ones at that. It was enough to make him sick to the stomach at the thought of himself, which often led to a state of deep dissociation as the flimsy mind tried to preserve itself. Unfair, he would think, that he still gets to escape what he’d done.
On the other hand he owed it to get better, to do better. He didn’t get to wallow in self pity, that certainly wasn’t going to fix anything. He couldn’t change his past, but moving forward he could ensure he’d never fall under control again, to change his future. An end to an urban legend, and he’d come out the other side with the hope of doing good.
As karma would have it he wouldn’t go completely unpunished, and while miserable, he couldn't expect anything less. Times of rest were disrupted by nightmares, or rather, not so kind memories of which the subconscious would remind him exactly of what he’d done and who he was. He’d wake up in cold sweats, gasping, heart racing as he’d remind himself that's no longer who he is. Every day he got to wake up and make a choice to be better. But he seldom felt better.
It was funny in a way how at night he dreamt of those who were unfortunate enough to be his targets, or simply in the way, but when awake he’d get flashes of what was done to himself. The former were much harder to pull himself back to the present from. The torture he once faced was undeniably heinous, but he’d always cared for others more than himself, and things were drastically different.
He knew what had been done to him, unhappy but accepted just as it was after his first abduction. Being a souped up mercenary hit harder because it was harm he had caused, things he didn't get a say in, things he couldn't accept, things where the hurt was prolonged.
Shell-shock was the term he was accustomed to, something there had been programs for. Veterans often came home shaken up, seeing horrors with eyes opened or closed, a category that he too fell in, but not really. The brief period of time he served was all but a cakewalk compared to the grim reality of what happened after the fact. After he had died- which was a whole other layer to how screwed up he was, wasn’t it? Maybe it wasn't that much of a breeze actually, if the fuzziness of his head at the thought was anything to go by.
The memory had sensation to it, or so his mind would provide feedback of. Terror from a previous fear of heights forced to face a tragic accident, looking up at a face so full of terror where a fierceness typically resided, eyes of which were warm with affection, a self assured demeanor. No doubt his own was the same, absolute horror etched on the face as it was whipped with air so cold it stung like a slap. It was the first time he had ever felt terror, something stronger than the fear of his poor sickly friend leaving him in illness. It wasn't a fear of Bucky leaving indefinitely, but a fact. He was leaving his dear friend behind, just as he feared happening to himself all those years previously.
Shoes on the other foot.
The only comfort found in that moment was that death would embrace him quickly, that he would have died while serving his country in the name of something bigger than himself. He would have meant something, amounted to something even if it was beyond tragic to leave his best pal behind. Steve would forgive him.
But that was too easy for his walk of life coming to an end. The world had a knack for kicking him down and spitting in his direction, yet sadistically instilled in him the ability to come back from almost anything like a cockroach.
Warmth had not taken him. Whatever had been done during his initial capture had horrifically kept him alive, leaving him to feel each and every inch of ice freeze over whatever warmth was in his body, surely to freeze him in time scared and blood ridden. There was no telling if he hurt so terribly because of the cold, or due to injury. It was liable to be both, but numbness had found him. It had been his last stroke of luck.
Vision had gone dark as nothingness began to settle, frozen fractals peppering kisses to his face. When he came to, he heard strangers surrounding him despite the ringing to the ears. He wasn’t supposed to come to. Falling into the valley should have been the end of his story, and he’d come to terms with that as he dropped. It was the first thing they took from him.
He’d been captured once more, though how he was found he couldn’t fathom. Bleary eyes would open, squinting from the blazing light overhead, a temporary astigmatism caused from droplets weighing down lashes. Melted snow or tears he wasn’t sure. He didn't want to know.
His ears were ringing and he smelled blood and rust, his head couldn’t lift from the chair he was acutely aware of against aching flesh, but with what little assessment he could give himself, it had shown that one of his arms had been taken and replaced with something heavy and inhuman. Inhumane. Pain pulsated from the shoulder and ribs, unable to breathe, and terror would begin to set in once more. Out of fight or flight, fight won and was attempted, one of the scientists grabbed by the throat with the promise of hurt, but as soon as the fight came it was put down without his input.
When he came around the second time, his ears were still ringing like tinnitus, and his body was shaking. Bucky couldn't tell if it was from lingering cold, or his body attempting to shake loose emotion that his psyche had no clue what to do with.
He’d sit up, blanket sliding down as fingers ran through his hair. Despite the cold he felt settled beneath his skin, he was still sweating. His heart was racing as reality began seeping in, keenly aware of just how gross he felt inside and out. A deep breath was taken, allowing lungs to expand fully before he'd slowly exhaled. Fresh oxygen cleared the sound of ringing, a dark blanket of night lay over himself and the man beside him. The sun was far from rising, but he was far from resting again, so he'd have to settle on crawling from bed to start the day.
Violence that clung to his skin from sleep was directly betrayed by tenderness, the way his torso would twist and lean, his right hand coming to ever so gently to stroke through short blond hair. His body would follow the twist, weight braced on an elbow as he’d lean further to press a kiss to the man’s temple. Bucky would hesitate minutely, eyes flicking over the sleeping face. Long lashes and slightly parted lips, soft breaths, dramatic angles painted from the faint light filtering through the window. A stolen moment of peace.
Legs would swing over the edge of the bed, feet planted on the cool floor as he’d pad his way to the kitchen imperceptibly. If he was going to be stuck awake he might as well get some use out of it, and that was to make breakfast before Steve could wake up and burn the house down to do the same. One might worry about the food growing cold, but the pair had a routine of sorts.
The routine in question was borne of patterns, from the way of which Bucky would rouse violently from sleep every night, or would wake on an internal timer due to the aforementioned happening more often than not. It served to implement some sort of screwed up sleep schedule for better or for worse. This unfortunately would inevitably drag Steve into it with him, although the man swears up and down that he was awake anyways. Or his favorite slip away of an excuse, that he ”Really doesn’t mind.” The latter might be true, but there was no world in which the other man just so happened to be awake the moments or more before Bucky woke turbulently.
After some time settling in and working through grief of his own, finally feeling safe enough to rest, and adjusting to a home bed the blond now slept like a log.
Bullshit that Bucky didn’t wake him.
Of course it was Bucky who woke him near daily from his own trove of problems, or perhaps it was the lack thereof Bucky in bed that did it each morning- he never asked and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Either option saddled him with guilt and would begin another agitating spiral of it, only for Steve to comfort him out of it, which then added a new layer of guilt.
Steve didn’t deserve to be bogged down by his bullshit, yet the blond remained anyways. No matter Bucky’s own thoughts about the treatment he deserved, he wouldn’t tell Steve what he should think or do, so thus a game of tug of war with his mental state would begin.
Realistically he wasn’t entirely upset over it on the surface, because it would always end up the same, a tiring and repeating cycle. This morning was no different.
He didn’t startle as a furnace warm body pressed flush to him, bare chest against his own shirtless back, arms wrapped around his middle as a disarmingly heavy man leaned damn near all the weight against him. A breath of annoyance would escape, but they both knew it was feigned.
Arms would squeeze him, a chin hooking over his shoulder that soon became a cheek, the man’s head tilting so a nose could be buried against his neck.
“I’m cooking.” Words weren’t a defense anymore, long ago did he stop trying to punish himself by attempting to push affection away and instead allowing it for Steve’s sake. Maybe his own sake, too. Now the words were said as a means to progress an ongoing joke born from fondness. As for the affection itself? It would be a lie to say he didn’t enjoy it, that he didn’t look forward to each and every morning just for this alone. Frankly he was sure that was Steve’s plan all along, to wear down his jagged edges until something softer remained, not just for himself but for Bucky to turn inwards.
Bucky had always been a kind man, gentle where it counted and managed to perfectly balance when to smother and when not to, always playing it cool so as to avoid his target any embarrassment- usually Steve, albeit a much smaller and more sickly version. Now Bucky was the one who needed it, and while Steve was out of his depth in being a caretaker he still had the heart and gumption for it. He’d saved the world, surely he can save his best friend, too.
One thing learned was that Bucky didn’t like it pointed out, always quick to make a deadpan joke or deflect attention when it came to his own well-being, so that wasn’t an option despite how blunt the man was. It was a wonder if that was born from guilt of being a burden, feeling as though he doesn’t deserve help, or simply something crossing over decades from being painfully selfless. Bucky had always put others first.
Steve tried his best to change that, or at the very least shift it. Little by little as if cemented brackets gradually pulling teeth into line, discreet enough that even subconscious defenses couldn’t detect his efforts. Such as this, the way Bucky would halfheartedly complain while doing nothing to shake him. It only makes Steve hunker down more, not only wanting to give the love to his favorite person but to make the man stop denying that he wanted it too.
Sometimes Bucky had moments of extreme vulnerability, painfully touch starved from his time with HYDRA. He hid it well beneath pleasantries and brief hugs given to friends, maintaining a stoic expression. It’s not to say he was bleak, far from as he’d still give sass and wit, but the softness of himself was tucked away in a pocket that only Steve could poke and prod. The blond has been his biggest annoyance since childhood, and there would be no fun if that ended. Besides, Bucky primarily seemed as though he wanted to move past and forget, to be treated like a normal person.
It wasn’t nearly that easy or simple, but Steve gave the best of both worlds. Bucky would be treated normal, making up for lost years of shenanigans and laughter, and Steve would allow him to pretend everything was alright and that he didn’t see the war waging behind those stormy eyes. When the bloodshed and shouts got too loud Steve would step in, hold Bucky accountable all the while reassuring him that he was moving forwards, not backwards, and certainly not stuck in place.
Sometimes Bucky would even open up to him first, something small and broken or something full of ire.
Mostly Bucky was tired. Tired of the war in the world, and tired of the war in his head. He was getting better though, gradually, and he put in the effort himself to make improvements and pay his debts. It could be argued he did plenty of that already, what with helping to save the world and all. Yet he still often got stuck on the knots of guilt and self worth. He’d trip over himself time and time again, never allowed to fall as he’d now gained a tight circle of support.
Steve was the most well equipped for it despite a lack of professional standpoint, but he had personal experience that ironically was fairly similar. At least in the ways that mattered. What Steve lacked in experience he made up for with the fire in his soul, never wavering in the face of whatever new and asinine thing Bucky’s mind decided to provide. It wouldn’t be the first time Steve Rogers went into something blind with ambition, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Steve hadn’t been tortured or kept prisoner, no, but there was more to the story. They both had come from the same time period as best friends, lost one another at the same time, lost decades of their life, both gotten frozen over and thawed, and at the end of it all managed to be fully aware in the next time period all while finding one another. Wasn’t that something? The world must have favored them to allow their souls to meet again, both with the same serum in their veins that allowed for a longer life span. The world was far different now than it was, but they now were able to figure it out together with shared life experience under their belt, a never ending inside joke that none of the others could ever understand.
Bucky wanted to get better, and Steve wanted it for him just as much. So, Steve would whittle the brunette down and be a solid pillar to lean on, and in turn he knew Bucky would make good of his efforts. Really, Bucky would probably rather die than let Steve waste his time on him, and the blond himself had enough conviction for the both of them when it came to Bucky’s innocence in regards to past actions.
Steve would press gentle kisses to the side of Bucky’s neck, tired pepperings of it in a silent gesture of comfort that he knew the other would get. Of course he would, they’ve done this more times than either of them could collectively count. Protective arms would give a periodic squeeze when he could tell one’s mind was straying in an attempt to go somewhere dark, and his kisses would spread.
“Pain in my ass.” Bucky would complain without any weight to it, and suddenly those kisses were meeting skin in a smile.
“Yeah, sure.” They could be snarky to one another without it being taken seriously, world knows they both put enough miles into the connection to bypass the worry of hurt feelings. Moreover he knew it was primarily because his own body was physically inhibiting Bucky from moving freely, but he was comfortable resting here, and the brunette wasn’t actually trying to shake him. Complaining just to complain.
“Hurry up, Buck. I’m hungry.” The both of them could complain, see? Although he handled it with more grace- proven in the way Bucky would groan with annoyance, shoulders slumping as if defeated. Was it beating a dead horse to mildly be an asshole to a man fresh off a nightmare? Certainly, though it was on Bucky for wanting to be treated as equal.
“I like you better when you’re quiet.” The voice was hushed, almost as if to account for other people in the home, a bit of gravel to it from the fatigue he still had. “Go sit, I can handle this.” True annoyance still didn’t come, but Steve would listen anyway so as to not push it. One last kiss was pressed to a bare shoulder, arms giving one last squeeze before they’d loosen.
When he sat down he didn’t fall back asleep sitting up, just like Bucky didn’t smile to himself as he looked over to witness it.
Just like every morning Bucky would make their plates, setting them down quietly enough to avoid the clink, and yet Steve opened his tired eyes anyways. Their meal was shared in comfortable silence, a drowsiness settling heavy and normal. “You’re on dish duty.” Bucky was sure to remind him, earning a tired groan that was entirely unnecessary.
Every day Bucky would remind him of this, yet they’d both slink off to bed after dishes made it to the sink. When dishes were washed it was done as a collective- Bucky wouldn’t feel right leaving Steve to be a dishwasher, and Steve didn’t want to clean dishes- it was for that reason that Bucky not only joined in on the chore, but also made sure Steve did it too. Bucky would be damned if he got turned into a housewife who did all the cooking and cleaning.
He was broken down and beaten, but slowly he was healing with things like this. Shards of every iteration of himself were being picked up one by one, and Steve helped in handing over the ones he’d found as well. Sometimes those hands gave something over with the blond’s blood seeping around the edges, inevitable when dealing with the loss of memory that encapsulated much of their time together, but they’d bandage it together. Steve stitched him together personally, forever indebted to him, but at least Bucky had enough tools in his kit to tend to Steve as well.
Never would it be one over the other, a promise made, only ever together as a united front.
They were both healing, although in drastically different ways. If they had each other then it would be okay.