Chapter Text
Bucky’s recovery is slow, and he doesn’t wake up for almost a week.
Walter had run as fast as he could without agitating his brother’s injury, pushing the town hall door with his shoulder and stammering an explanation he doesn’t really remember to the wolf nurse. Bucky was laid down gingerly on one of the flimsy beds (not really made to hold someone with a near-fatal injury) and Walter had to be coaxed to let go of him at all. The nurse did what they could. Disinfecting and bandaging and stitching. Walter doesn’t leave his side—not even when the sight of the gnarled, bloody wound makes him sick to his stomach. He hopes, deep down, that everything will go back to normal, and Bucky’s face will heal, and they can all forget this ever happened. But for the first time in his life, things don’t seem that simple.
When Bucky wakes up, his eye only opens a sliver. The light is too much. Walter’s head shoots up the moment he hears the pitiful, weak voice murmuring nonsense, standing up fast and putting a hand on the beaver’s shoulder. Something that sounds like “hurts” warbles its way from Bucky’s throat, and Walter’s chest tightens.
“I gotta get the doctor, I'll be right back,” he insists, squeezing his brother’s hand, “I'm not leaving. I'll be right back, I promise.”
After the first week, Bucky is able to open his non-bandaged eye, the white gauze decorated with blood drying— dark and spotty and crimson.
“I'm sorry,” he croaks to Olive, when the pain has dulled to a steady ache and she sits on the edge of his bed, “I… I'm sorry I had t’ drag everyone down with me. This never should've happened.”
“It’s okay,” she answers in a voice soft as powdered snow, “I'm just glad you're okay.”
Neither statement is true. Bucky feels guilty tears twist in his stomach and sting at his good eye, turning his head slightly to avoid seeing his friend in the throes of repressed grief. Could he even cry out of the other one anymore? Did he deserve to cry at all?
The island is put on lockdown. Wulf watches constantly for the Dwellers, and boards up every door he can think of. It’s a bandage on a gaping bullet wound, he knows that. But it’s better than nothing. The volcano looms over it all, just another thing the wolf must keep at bay. His programming is really being pushed to the limits lately.
Giovanni visits only once, two weeks later, when he and a wolf whose name he never learned have fixed their splintered front door.
Bucky is asleep when he arrives. He simply watches him for a while, absently observing the clean bandages. Had Bucky been a moment slower, or not moved at all, that may have been him: bleeding and barely alive. When Bucky stirs, showing signs of waking, Giovanni leaves hurriedly without looking back.
Bucky loves Walter dearly, and he’s grateful that he isn’t recovering alone, but he understands now how Walter felt sheltered. It hurts, seeing Walter so worried about him. It shouldn’t be this way at all.
“Walter, I promise, you can go home for a while…”
Walter gives a short sigh. He’s glad Bucky’s well enough to talk again, but he’s had this exchange at least 3 times this week.
“I don’t want you to be by yourself,” he replies the same way he does every time.
Bucky exhales and slumps against the pillows keeping his head up. He studies the ceiling—the hair-thin cracks and dark water spots—but he can feel Walter’s eyes on him.
“You haven’t been home once. Olive and Gio have both at least slept in their own beds.”
“I'm not Olive or Gio. I'm your brother.”
Bucky’s eye falls shut, and his lips tighten into a line. And then he laughs, hollow and humorless and melancholy.
“I remember when you were little,” his voice matches the gray sky hidden from the dimly lit room, “And you were in the hospital. I was so scared it was all my fault.”
Walter shifts in his chair. Bucky’s head tilts slightly to the side to look at him, his expression difficult to read.
“I…” Bucky stammers for a moment, the eye contact with Walter feeling like a rope cinching around his neck. “I just…I'm sorry things turned out this way. I'm sorry you had to see all of this.”
Walter is silent for a moment, shrugging and wringing at the hem of his shirt. Bucky really wished he would at least go home to get in more comfortable clothes if he was going to be here all the time.
“I don’t…I don’t really, understand what I saw…” Walter’s voice is small, and his mouth barely moves, “I just knew it was scary, and I hoped it was just a bad dream, but…”
His voice trails off, withering away. Bucky’s heart shrieks with guilt.
“I don’t know if I fully get it either,” he half-lies, “Best we can do is just… just keep going, I guess.”
Walter hums in agreement, placing his hands on top of his brother’s, his face solemn.
“...Hey,” Bucky gives a ghost of a playful smile, prompting Walter to look up at him, “Look at us, having a grown up conversation. I'm getting better already.”
Shoulders shaking, Walter laughs softly in his chest, before leaning to the side and awkwardly resting his head next to Bucky’s. It’s uncomfortable, and Walter’s neck twinges slightly, but he hardly minds when the closeness lets him feel his brother’s heartbeat.
It’s late afternoon on the day Bucky finally comes home, walking with his weight on Walter’s arm. It takes longer than usual; Bucky’s not used to his depth perception being altered yet, and Walter has to catch him a few times. When they arrive, the front door is whole and the living room is tidy, like nothing happened at all.
The first night back in his room makes him realize how uncomfortable the town hall beds are. He really has no idea how Stumbler and Wulf sleep in those things. There’s a soft, salty smell in the air of his room, like the sea air had passed through and left a memento behind. It’s a familiarity he knows is fake, but he can’t help the comfort it brings him. He needs that now more than he needs existential dread.
There are no nightmares, to Bucky’s shock and relief. No dreams, either. Just a heavy, dark rest that makes his mind feel at ease. Part of him internally writhes, poised for when the next horrible thing will happen. Things are too calm.
The rain is gentle and misting, collecting on the windows and racing down the glass. Bucky sits at the kitchen table, tracing his finger along the rim of the pale yellow teacup and following it with his eyes, distant. It’s nearly empty, the tea bag sitting heavily at the bottom of the cup.
His small ear twitches when he hears the door open and quickly shut, briefly amplifying the sound of the rain before muffling it again—a tired, percussive symphony against the glass. Bucky turns to investigate when no one announces their presence.
“Oh, hi, Gio,” he exhales, “Kettle’s still hot, I know it’s kinda cold out.”
Giovanni stalls, seemingly paralyzed. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice as he stands up to put his mug in the sink.
“Look, I know you said nothing happened but it feels like you've been avoiding me.” He turns around mid-sentence, stepping into the den, “You can talk to me about stuff, y’know. I know that’s probably your worst nightmare though.” He huffs a small laugh.
When Giovanni’s face doesn’t change, Bucky’s smile slowly shrinks away as his tired eye searches for even a muscle twitch. He sighs, a hint of irritation in the sound.
“I'll leave you be, then.”
Bucky turns again, bracing himself on the worn wool blanket draped over the back of the sofa, and begins to head back to his room. He reaches the hall when he hears
“I know about Rex.”
Bucky's blood freezes and boils in the same instant.
His hand stops mid-air. Twitching. Itching to hit something at the simple utterance of the name. Confusion and blind rage feels like two meteors shrieking and colliding in his skull, scraping like flint stones, so much so that he barely notes the quiet defeat in Giovanni's voice.
“...What.”
“I…” Giovanni, for the first time in his life, sounds miniscule, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.
Bucky’s eyes are wide and stinging with rage before he shuts them, face twisting into a tight smile that never reaches his eyes. Fists fall loosely at his sides as his shoulders slump. And he laughs. He laughs, shoulders trembling, his head shaking with something like disappointment.
“Let me guess.” Giovanni’s throat tightens when Bucky’s voice hisses and cracks like a barbed whip. “You probably got a good laugh, didn't you?”
Bucky turns, moving his head first, and his body following. There’s a cold fury like a dying star in his icy blue eyes—as sharp and aware as a knife.
“I knew something was off. You fell behind in the museum.” Bucky continues, shaking his head and waving a finger at Giovanni as if he has finally gotten an inside joke. Giovanni has never seen him so furious while smiling. “Nice little walk down memory lane, huh? Stopping to enjoy the show?”
“I didn’t—”
“I know how much you probably appreciate his art,” Bucky snaps like a cornered animal, “I deserved it, didn’t I? Go ahead. Let me hear about what a genius he was.”
“I'm sorry.”
The words are pulled out on meat hooks, raw and tearing and resistant. Bucky simply stares at him, the white hot fire behind his eyes not dimming in the slightest.
"What?" There's a hollow laugh within the word. His glacial eyes narrow in disbelief and his brows knit together, head tilting challengingly.
"I'm sorry." Giovanni doesn't cower away from the statement this time, doesn't take his eyes away despite feeling years of projected hatred finally being pointed back at him, drilling into his skull. "I don’t…I don't think I really hate you."
"Ohh, you don't think you hate me!" Bucky throws his hands up in disbelief and turns away, still smiling like a hurricane. "Well, that makes it all better, then! You know, I…I knew, you didn't give a shit about my feelings but I didn't think you'd stoop to Rex. Guess I was wrong! You’ve truly managed a new low!"
"I'm serious!" Giovanni urges. The red dotting Bucky's vision prevents him from seeing the turmoil in the other's red eyes. "For so long all I had was how much I hated you and I never even questioned why!"
Giovanni fumbles for the inside of his coat, gripping onto the pages he never removed, and holds them out. Only then does Bucky see how afraid he looks. It doesn’t sway his mind.
“I know why now.”
The forced smile has faded into a cold stare, and when he reaches to grab the papers, his body still quakes with fiery anger. Giovanni watches his eyes dart across the lines, scowling at some points and scoffing and shaking his head at others.
He flips to the next page. It trembles in his hand.
It takes him a long while to read the final entry, scanning back and forth, going back to the top once he reads to the bottom, scouring the jerky handwriting. The roaring fire has shrunk to a weak, flickering candle by the time a few minutes pass.
"So." He shrugs and lets his hands fall to his sides again. The paper crinkles as it moves. "You found out you were just a toy for his sick ideas. Join the club."
"The only reason I hate you is because of him."
"Yeah," Bucky snaps as he places the journal entries on the couch, "Why does that change anything."
"Because I don't like being told what to do."
Bucky huffs a quiet, defeated laugh, and the exhaustion he's worn for so much longer than his time on Nulla Terra grows so unbearable he can barely stand. Seems that not even a week of unconsciousness can cure him.
"Tough. We don't get a say."
"So, what? You're just going to give up!?"
"Don't. you. dare." Bucky's voice breaks and crumbles apart even as he jabs an accusatory finger, "Act like I've done nothing but sit here and— and feel sorry for myself! You have no idea what happened to me back then!"
"You're not even going to try and move on?!"
"'Move on'?! Why don't I bury YOU alive a few times and see how fast you ‘move on’!"
"That's not what I— You're just letting him win this way!"
"What choice do I have?! After getting my skull crushed into the pavement over and over I got a little nihilistic, you know?!”
Bucky’s voice scrapes and bleeds like flesh against concrete as he begins to shout, his hands waving as if he’s conducting a symphony.
“What, because I was always the optimist?! The 'fearless leader'?! That's what made it so satisfying to tear me down, isn’t it?! For both of you! The only reason you even fucking exist is so that he can keep torturing me even while he's rotting underground!”
Giovanni’s heart is slamming against his ribs, small and terrified. For the briefest moment, he wonders if Bucky will actually hurt him.
“You're just a walking torture method! And I'm the one that gets the brunt of your— y-your constant abuse, because THAT'S what’s supposed to happen! We're not people, we're just fucking TOYS! And neither of us will ever be anything more than that!"
It is silent.
And then, Bucky sobs.
Ugly and loud and broken and choking on breath. He doesn't care that the other watches him slump against the back of the couch and curl in on himself like burning paper turning to ash. He cries into the darkness of his closed eye.
This mental dam he has built for so long, crafted from twigs of false optimism and self sacrifice, leaking and feeble, finally crumbles.
How fitting, the one thing he's supposed to be good at.
Giovanni watches, paralyzed, like he’s watched a mountain fall before his eyes. His posture is unsure. Unsure how to approach the object of his vicarious hatred, weeping like an abandoned child.
Was this really all they were? Was this all that any of them were? Giovanni refuses to accept that, even if it’s futile. He’s always been stubborn.
He takes a few steps closer to the sobbing heap that is Bucky, taking a great deal of consideration before kneeling beside him.
In the void behind his eyes, Bucky doesn't see Giovanni, but he feels the shift in the air beside him. He shrinks in on himself, mortified of being seen but physically incapable of carrying this horrible weight any longer.
The other reaches a wing out, tentative and trembling. When Bucky collapses into his shoulder, sobbing into him as if he is the only buoy in a flooded earth, Giovanni fights his natural instinct to squirm away.
Had he really held those memories all this time? Every irritating lecture about friendship, every friendly competition, every insult Giovanni had thrown his way, those decades of torture rested in the back of his mind.
Bucky had built himself on a cracked foundation with a neat coat of paint, and it seems Giovanni had unintentionally taken a wrecking ball to all of it.
Giovanni says nothing, even when the sobs wracking Bucky's body shrivel into small, pitched exhalations coupled with suppressed yawns. The sudden spike of rage and adrenaline seemed to plummet, leaving him shaking and exhausted in Giovanni's wing. His eyes were squeezed shut, trying desperately to ignore the realization that he'd just wept into the arms of the man whose existence he'd called meaningless just a short while earlier. The man who'd been nothing but the catalyst for his torment.
They are both silent for a long while.
Pathetic and disgusting and embarrassing, Bucky’s brain hisses at him, cracking like a porcelain doll in front of Giovanni of all people.
He makes a choked noise and closes his eyes again, refusing to acknowledge any of it. The stiff, carpet-like backbone of the couch is not comfortable, and both their bodies ache with lack of movement. Bucky's hands have curled up, tucked against his chest, desperately wanting to escape the vulnerability of his position but refusing to move away from the only comfort he’s felt in ages. They are both silent. They can think of nothing to say.
Until Giovanni speaks, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet he is afraid Bucky may not hear him.
"Do you want tea?"
Bucky almost laughs. It astounds him how the simple question, completely meaningless in any other scenario, seems to have chipped away at the dark, cold chasm in his ribcage. He wipes his face again, smiling, small and tired, as if he has been pulled from a burning building.
"Yeah," he rasps, throat raw from dormant fury and chest breaking sobs, "Please."