fossilised | For Steve

At least Bucky had done enough before this moment to make the murmurings about PTSD rather than outright hostility or a belief that he was the enemy. Not that this would change anything if the recordings got out onto the internet, especially with the way the poor professor's eyes had widened and he was obviously so scared that his teeth were chattering.

"D-Don't hurt me, please--"

Bucky's eyes were completely and totally blank, as if he didn't even hear Grant talking to him, fixed wholly on the professor's face. His grip around the man's throat was punishing, but not enough to knock him out.

"Как вы думаете, я не узнаю тебя?"

"Please... please, you're mistaken, you can't recognise me, I'm nobody."

"Я помню тебя. Я знаю, что ты сделал."

"I didn't do anything! You're wrong, I'm just a Professor, just-- I just teach art, let me go, I'm begging you."

"Я собираюсь убить тебя сейчас."

The Professor's face went whey coloured, and he obviously believed that was about to happen, because he barked out words he wouldn't normally use in public. Image ruined. But he wasn't about to let himself die, he wasn't going to be a martyr to the cause, even if most would be.

"No, Soldat! Release and step back."

"He's HyDRA!"

Grant didn't speak much Russian. A few months without Bucky in various spats hadn't given him much more than sentence structure and some vocabulary. With Bucky living with him, Grant hadl less time for study than he had before. Who wanted to study when he had a beautiful man to spend time with? He was kicking himself for that now.

That did not mean that in New York's melting pot, someone in this class couldn't understand Russian. A boy with eyes bluer than the sky and blond hair dyed dark red tossed down the water color brush that he had been holding and moved the camera phone away from the scene towards his classmates. "Dude, Mr. Finney's HYDRA!"

Grant made sure to step back as his classmates actually came forward, some blocking the door and others rushing to meet security and the police to tell them what was happening. This was proof that HYDRA had not been completely rooted out. Like rats, they still filled New York.

Those who had stayed behind in the classroom might have wished that they had gone outside to meet the security and police with the others, because Bucky made good on his threat as soon as Finney had confirmed himself as HYDRA. There was nothing else in Bucky's head, no mercy, no hesitation, no recollection that anyone else was there, as he showed the class of art students just what the Soldier could do.

He slammed Finney's head into the wall, making a sharp crack and leaving a smear of blood behind. Then he did it again... and again... and again... Until his wrist and arm were coated in blood and brain matter, until the man who he had been holding resembled nothing human any longer, and still he kept going as if his brain hadn't registered that the man was dead. Over and over and over.

Police poured into the hall and levelled guns at Bucky, voices a sharp bark.

"Step back! Now! Hands on your head!"

This was not the first time that Grant had seen Bucky kill. His face had grown blank by the second hit and his lips pressed together as he bore witness. This could have turned out beautifully if Bucky had just offered him to the police, but he hadn't. He'd killed. It was on record. And even if there wasn't a tape of it, he was utterly smeared in blood now. The evidence was too high.

Grant's eyes moved towards the guns and then returned to the mess on the floor and lifted again to Bucky. The tears had come unexpectedly, but they were there. His own hands were covered in charcoal dust, streaks of gray resembling a black and white photo of what Bucky's hand would look like, color all drained out. He moved in a daze, slowly, standing between Bucky and the police. It would be called an obstruction of justice but Grant didn't usually fit any of the molds a person ought to. He had no desire to be anything other than the man that tried to protect another who had been so damaged that he could not protect himself....not even from his own desires to stop killing.

"Son, move aside!" One cop shouted.

Grant did not listen. "He's an abuse victim. You're going to punish an abuse victim!"

But Grant knew it was pointless. No one had the right to take the life of someone else unless they were being directly threatened. And Finney was not directly threatening Bucky. There was no case for this. And no cause. Bucky would lose. He would go to jail. HYDRA would get him. So he turned to the other even as he was being yelled at now to kneel himself.

"Go. Go!"

Bucky was still holding onto the corpse of Finney when he turned, radiating violence, though some part of him that was still himself forced him not to just attack. He wasn't an animal, he could control himself, he wasn't going to make this worse. And that's when he finally saw Grant, covered in charcoal dust and crying, and he finally let the corpse slide from his fingers back down to the floor below.

He didn't go.

He dropped to his knees and put bloodstained hands on his head, letting the police come forwards and cuff him, silent and obedient, even as they cuffed Grant too. One of them read them both their rights, Grant should just get a caution, he hadn't done anything too bad and this was his first official offence. But he would still be in the system.

They were put into separate police cars. The officer in Grant's car was professional but not unkind as he talked to him while they were driving.

"How old are you, son?" If he was a minor, they needed to get a parent or guardian involved. "You got somebody that you can call when we get to the station?"

"Twenty-three." He was an adult, even if he didn't look it. Grant sat straight and still with his head bowed, arms fitted nearly into the grooves in the seat back of the car meant for people who had been handcuffed. He'd never known about that small comfort until this moment, and he appreciated it. Sitting back on his arms in New York traffic would have become uncomfortable. "Twenty-four in a few days," he corrected, just in case he was in jail longer than that and they got bad at him for not giving his correct age.

He turned, leaning against the back groove with one shoulder, and watched the news media show up, talking to his classmates that had been all too eager to tell their sides of the story. One even had his own drawing and was touting it as their own in front of the camera.

All of it was just....ugly. The circus outside was ugly and it was unfair.

"I... Yes. Cal you call Mr. Tony Stark?"

The cop actually laughed. "You're not serious."

"No, I am," Grant murmured. "He's good friends with my cousin." And better friends with Bucky. Grant felt a calm settle over him, but it was actually just numbness.

Grant might notice that not all of his classmates were speaking against Bucky. Some were talking about how soft spoken and brace he had been, and how PTSD was a horrible thing, and how murdering Nazis shouldn't be a crime. They were literal Nazis! The one who spoke Russian swore blind that Finney had a weapon, and that it had been self defence. Some others were damning Bucky as a killer and claiming Finney had been the nicest professor on campus.

It turned out there would be no need to ring Tony at the station, there was already someone waiting. Sam Wilson gave Grant a tight sort of smile.

"Hey there, pint sized, not having a great day, huh? You're up for obstruction, but Tony already posted your bail so we're out of here. Come on, let's go get a coffee, you and I need to talk."

Grant didn't want to leave the station. He didn't want to be paraded through a crowd or captured on camera any more. He felt guilty for all of it. Guilty because of his own selfish desire for attending school. He could have just returned to the compound. No one would have ever found Bucky there. No protests. No chance spotting on the street, no murder of a man in his classroom.

His eyes were dry as he followed Sam, not exactly aloof but still sort of out of it. He was currently existing in his own head. He was currently trying to pick out points of weakness where everything good had gone sour and where he could have fixed it before it happened.

Sam led him out back, down the way they took criminals when transporting them to prison, and Grant was at least relieved that no lights or microphones were thrust in his face. He didn't care to speak right now. He didn't even really want to talk to Sam.

Starbucks. It smelled the same in every Starbucks in New York and thst was by design. It was busy and bustling and no one ever looked at anyone else. Not really. The best place to be annonymous in a city crawling with people was right here in the busiest place of all. The best place to be alone was I. A constantly shifting crowd.

No one recognized them. Grant waited for Sam upstsirs on the little balcony where there were still some seats in the back away from Windows where tourists sat to people watch and sip expensive water and milk beverages. He'd asked for... Actually, Grant didn't remember asking for anything. He didn't know if he could drink or eat anything right now.

Maybe Grant wasn't a veteran with PTSD, but he still had the blank look of someone in shock and pain, and Sam was well acquainted with that and how to deal with it. He brought two cups of strong coffee and some pastries to the table, and set them down between the two of them. Steve-- Grant, it was hard to remember sometimes, needed a bit of sugar to boost him through this.

"Tony is already building a solid defence for Bucky. We have CCTV file footage of that man, whatever his name was, involved in the Soldier's "care" about a year ago, and two staff members have verified that he cancelled his class and deliberately headed to your lecture hall once somebody told him who the guest model was. So we have an abuser intending to provoke the abused, that should give him some defence. He also didn't resist arrest so that's a point in his favour."

Sam was an easy blend of pragmatic and sympathetic, a skill well honed over his years at the VA.

"Tony sounded worried on the phone, pretty sure he's going to be raising hell to get Barnes free and Steve the same. You can't blame yourself for what happened, pint sized, you hear me? You doing okay?"

Grant didn't like the nickname but he didn't say a word about it. Not this time and not the last time. He used one of the napkins Sam brought up for his fingers, rubbing the material off of each digit that he could before he wrapped those fingers around the cardboard sleeve meant to prevent burns from the paper cup. The heat was intense. He appreciated that.

Lifting his eyelids, lashes exactly the same as Steve's, Grant found himself turning his gaze almost defiantly up towards Sam, though the other man was not the problem.

"I'm all right." He tried to make it seem like he could do this sort of thing all day, that he was uncrackable and resilient. Stronger, perhaps, than any man, serum or not, could ever be.

He felt like he needed this. It was a good wake up call, a decent shock to the system to remind him that he needed to man up here and take reaponsibility. He needed to understand that things couldn't be simple. Nine days of coming home every night to Steve and Bucky had been a bliss that unrealistically couldn't sustain itself without collapsing under its own weight.

"We need to focus on Bucky here, Sam. I'm glad there's going to be a defense though. It doesn't-- But it won't matter. The world is never going to see him as anything but an animal like this. We need to figure out how to help him. He needs... He really needs someone to talk to."

"You'd be surprised what the world can forgive, given enough incentive to see things in other ways."

Sam wasn't always necessarily talking about good things, but history was littered with the way that the public consciousness had been changed in order to reflect what those in charge wanted them to see. Maybe it would be harder, possibly impossible, but there was a chance. It was just unfortunate that even taking into account that none of this was his fault, it didn't change that Barnes was a very dangerous man.

A lot of people would pity a rabid dog that bit someone, but very few would argue against putting it down for its own safety and that of everyone around it. Sam was a little worried this would be the same thing.

"I ain't arguing with you, your man needs to talk, but I'm not so sure that's going to happen. He doesn't seem like the sort of man who's comfortable with opening up, and I don't think there's a therapist in the world qualified to deal with what he's been through."

He took a sip of his own coffee and leaned back in his chair.

"This was bound to happen sooner or later, it's probably better that it's sooner. And you're not alright, but that's okay too, nobody would be alright in your situation."

Sam was a good guy. There was a reason that Steve became such good friends with him, but Grant wasn't exactly in the proper frame of mind to sit here and be consoled. When he needed something off of his chest, he had Bucky. If he was real bad off, not even Bucky would get in to him. Grant dealt with his agony the way all men of his time did. Alone. That was what he needed more than anything else right now. But Sam was just trying to be kind.

So Grant tried to prove just how fine he was, taking one of the scones to pick out the overly sugared blueberries from the thick and super sweet dough. He ended up dunking little pieces in his coffee too, mostly letting the pastry disintegrate after the plastic lid had been placed side up. He watched the little brown droplets of moisture on the lid collect in the curved indents where the lip of the cup should go and finally sat back.

"Why did they tell you to take me away?" Tony. Steve. "I really should be there, Sam. Can you take me back?"

Sam would like to go back and find the idiots who dictated that all men back then be stoic about their pain, it was their fault that so many good men drove themselves into the ground with shell shock or other issues. Grant was obviously suffering, so was Steve, and both idiots were too goddamn stubborn to admit it.

He considered denying that he had been asked to get Grant out of the way, but he discounted it almost at once and shrugged.

"Tony asked me to keep you away, Bruce is on Steve duty, he wants you both away from the police station. Not sure why."

Maybe because Tony had more of a chance, impossible as it seemed, of getting Bucky free without resorting to shield throwing and emotional outbursts. Money and power could open a whole lot of doors.

"But I'll tell you what, why don't we ask JARVIS what's going on? Hey, J?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Stark has already left the police station with Sergeant Barnes, a rather large bail has been posted and an agreement that Sergeant Barnes will not leave Stark Tower. Not entered into by Sergeant Barnes, who has not spoken since being arrested." House arrest. "However, Sergeant Barnes ran as soon as they were clear of the station and has not been sighted since."

Not that Grant could know it, or Steve could know it where he was being patiently but firmly kept talking in place by Bruce, but Bucky had run back to their apartment and was even now sat on Grant's bed like a lifeless puppet waiting for someone to come and animate him once more.

Grant let out a sigh and dropped his scone into the coffee to turn into sludge at the bottom. He fixed Sam in an understanding gaze and stood up. "Please don't say anything else. Steve will need you more than I will. He's probably the wrong person to be with Dr. Banner right now. If Bucky is gone-- He's just gone. We spent months-- well. You know how it's like looking for a ghost," Grant said, putting the lid back onto his coffee to keep his hands warm. All of his things, minus his wallet and his keys, we're now evidence from a crime scene. His books and his enjoyment of college were gone. He'd already been fired from his job for negative publicity but he was planning to quit anyway and would instead accept the firing and the promise of a good letter of recommendation if he wanted it because he had been kind and hard working.

"I'm going home. I'll be fine by myself. Better off. Please Sam. Let me go."

He placed a few dollars on the table for his portion of the bill, which still felt like a week's worth of salary to him, and headed down the stairs to the subway.

The protestors were gone from his home but he was quick up the stairs anyway, pulling open and slamming the door shut quickly.

In the dark of the living room, back against the door, he let everything out, just before he crossed the apartment towards his own room to muffle his tears.

It was only by chance that he spotted bare feet on the floor. Bucky....?

He didn't stop himself from rushing forward.

Bucky heard the footsteps on the stairs, he heard the door open and close, and he heard the sobbing out in the living room. He didn't move, he just waited until Grant was right there in front of him, all familiar skinny body and blond hair and agonised blue eyes that should never be so full of hurt.

He was still coated in blood and gore, the police had wanted to take his clothes for evidence and let him shower, but nobody had dared to go near him to enforce it and he hadn't reacted to any of their requests that he undress. His eyes, when he looked up at the newcomer into the bedroom, were a strange blend of the Soldier's blankness and a genuine horrified grief.

It felt like he had shattered their whole world today, and he didn't know how to fix it. He had hurt Grant, Steve, Tony... everyone he cared about, and the fallout would ripple outwards for a long time. He didn't speak, he just stared.

Perhaps it was good that Bucky had only been in that black robe, settling in for another hour session, when Finney had destroyed the moment. There wasn't much to take from him. His clothing was all in plastic bags, taken from the scene of the crime. His shoes too. Grant wanted to care about all of that. And he really wanted to tend to any hurt he might have had from running back here. He wanted to make some statement about Stark not exactly helping him to clean up.

Instead, Grant knelt by where Bucky was, carefully trying to will some sort of emotion on the older man's face.

"You gotta help me out here, Buck. You gotta meet me part of the way. I can do the rest but I don't even have a map on where I'm supposed to be right now. I keep making wrong turns. I keep leaving you like this--"

If Grant felt such deep and unending sorrow, Steve's grief had to be deeper. So much deeper now to know that he'd allowed this to happen by never even trying to save the man.

"Please please come back to us, Bucky. Tell me how to help."

"I was wrong."

The words were quiet and brittle, not the usual emotional blankness, and Bucky's hands both tightened into fists all of a sudden. He kept his eyes fixed on Grant, though, as if he were a guiding waylight in the darkness, and only by following him could he possibly hope not to be dashed on the rocks.

"I thought I was Bucky, that I could be the good man you both know. I thought I didn't want to kill again. I was wrong. I saw him and I remembered what he did to me, and I killed him, it felt good. I'd kill him again."

He flexed the metal hand, dulled from its usual shine with blood.

"I was wrong, I'm not a person, I'm still a weapon."

"How can a weapon want anything? How can a weapon do anything on its own, Buck," Grant said, trying to keep a hold of that need Bucky showed him by wrapping his fingers around his still fine jawline. "You wanted him dead for doing... For doing terrible things to you. They have video evidence of it." He didn't know what. He hadn't asked. He had no morbid curiosity to know. "The only problem you're having is reconciling your wants," he whispered, putting himself into the position of being the only object currently visible in his life. Grant wanted to be his guide but Bucky had to really want it too.

That was the problem here. Bucky kept slipping, not back into the Soldier, but into something darker. He kept forgetting that he was a good person. He kept forgetting the past and his youth. And that's where they would find the heart that Bucky thought he lost, once his memory had recovered. And it would likely take years.

"You want to stop killing and you want to kill the people that hurt you. You've just forgotten why it's wrong to want one thing and not another. I can help. We all can help. But we can't... We can't do it here. Not where people know is. We need to go someplace until you find your balance again. You just have to trust me, Buck. Completely. More than you have been."

It was when he got into places like this inside his head, the darker places, that it was easy to forget that there were people he loved him despite all that he had done and all that he was now. Not just Grant and Steve, but also Tony, even Sam had been nice to him, and that meant that he had options.

His eyes never left Grant's face, tracking him when he moved in closer and not stopping him get into his personal space, though he would move away if Grant tried to touch his bloodstained arms and hands.

"I do trust you."

If there was anyone in this world that he would trust completely, it was Steve and Grant.

"I'll do whatever you say."

Grant's jaw was set and he stood without trying to get his fingers into the drying red-brown sludge on Bucky's arm. "Wait here. I need to call Steve." He fished the phone out of his pocket and, after a smile at Bucky, dialed the number and stepped into the kitchen. As the phone rang, he washed his hands as his mother taught him to do since he was always so sick. He pulled out two glasses from the cabinet above the sink and filled both with the water in the pitcher in the refrigerator.

By that point, Steve had finally answered and Grant smiled to hear his voice. "We need to go back to where you found me for a little while," Grant said. "Everyone that matters to him. He needs a safe place to remember how to be a man. Can you arrange that?"

When the call was over, he carried the water back to Bucky and suggestion he ought to drink the glass down to rehydrate him.

"We're going somewhere no one can find us. We need to get that blood off of you first. Can I-- Will you let me help you...?"

Steve was honestly just relieved that Bucky had come back home rather than run off entirely, and it showed in the slightly tremulous cadence of his voice. He promised that he'd speak to Tony, and he'd leave Sam in charge of the Avengers for a while with Tony's legal team left on trying to clear Bucky's name for whenever they got back. He just told Grant to make sure Bucky stayed there, and to be sure he knew that none of them were angry at him.

What he had done was justified. Steve didn't often condone murder, though he would kill in battle like any soldier, but for what that man had done... yeah, he deserved it.

Bucky took the glass of water from Grant and cupped it in his flesh hand as if he weren't quite sure what to do with it, though he did take a gulp or two when Grant told him that he should drink. He frowned, though, when Grant mentioned cleaning up.

"I don't want to hurt you, I don't know if I can trust myself not to. If you want me to get clean, I'll get clean."

"You would never hurt me." It wasn't just Bucky's promise, it was Grant's belief in it. "You didn't hurt the police that came for you. You didn't hurt the students. You only hurt one man who deserved to be hurt and you kept him from continuing to hurt who knows how many other people."

Grant took the glass from Bucky and offered him his hand. He would wriggle his fingers if Bucky didn't take it and if he decided to just go to the bathroom without the helping hand, well Grant would follow him there, pulling off his own clothes. Maybe it was an intimate thing to shower with someone but in this case, Grant was using it like a trust exercise.

Bucky said he trusted him, but how far would that trust go?

He wanted to touch Bucky. He wanted to be the one to wash the blood from his skin. It was symbolic perhaps but he couldn't help himself. It would be better if Steve was here but Steve had a part to play with Tony to get that machine on the compound up and running again.

People seemed to have a mistaken view that Bucky and the Soldier were two separate people, different identities in the same head, but that wasn't true. The commands were implanted, but the Soldier was just who Bucky had become after years of torture, and they were still intermingled a lot. It helped, it wasn't healthy but it helped, to retreat behind the emotionlessness of that learned mask when things got too much.

It's why he moved to the shower when it became obvious that Grant did want him to wash, though he didn't touch those outstretched fingers and he was infinitely careful not to brush up against Grant's perfect pale skin once they were under the spray of water.

Even though the water was hot with a good pressure, the blood had been given hours to dry. It came off the flesh arm easier, sluiced away, but it stained the metal one with harder to remove evidence of what he had done. He made no attempt to actually wash himself, just stood beneath the spray of water and watched Grant carefully.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going back to where the three of us started together," Grant replied, making careful movements so not to hurt the man under the spray with him. They had been together in the shower many times since they had met, mostly due to Grant being less than capable of getting in good and clean breaths, and now it was time to help Bucky the way Bucky had helped him. "I believe Mr. Stark will be coming as well. He's important to you too. From what I know about the technology, it's not impossible to move through the space between our two realities often. He can visit. If the Avengers need Captain America, Steve can come back. But for a little while, we can go to a place where you can live without so much stress. And where you can start to heal."

Grant could still go to college there. Steve would be with them. And no one will have ever heard of the Soldier.

He lifted his hand to place lightly against Bucky's chest at a clear patch of perfect skin. He still found the man beautiful. Even in his pain, he was beautiful. His fingers would travel to the stained metal if Bucky didn't pull back and Grant would rub the drying blood from it. He could discard the stains. He could help Bucky be whole again if only he was allowed.

Somewhere safe with Steve, Grant, and Tony sounded like heaven to him. But he had no idea how they would survive back there. He had got lucky once or twice in using new money to pay for things, but Tony's endless bank accounts wouldn't even be active at a time when he was older than his own father.

"We don't have any money."

Bucky flinched when Grant touched him, but he didn't actually make any moves to pull away until those fingers reached anywhere bloodstained, and then he twitched back so violently that he might accidentally send Grant into the tiled wall by mistake. Though hopefully not enough to hurt him.

"Don't."

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Omg enough signal for a waiting room tag, a miracle!

Yay!

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