fossilised | For Steve

For Steve

[This is a bad idea.

Bucky knows it as soon as he stops outside the little community centre where these classes run and he sees the other students milling about, chatting to each other in their own little cliques. The thing has been running for a while, it's an art group for anyone with any sort of mental health issue - depression, anxiety, psychosis. He's here for PTSD, practically bullied into it by his therapist at the VA, under the instructions that he needs to get out and start socialising more.

There are only six other people, four women and two men, and it already feels like too large a crowd. He makes sure his prosthetic is properly covered by a glove and long sleeve, stuffed into his pocket so nobody can tell it hangs strangely, and slouches in at the back. From the conversations he can overhear, blonde woman and redhead woman have anxiety issues, brunette #1 and the two men all have depression, and brunette #2 has psychosis. They're all so open with each other, chatting about medications and coping techniques and the work they've been doing in class already.

One of them approaches him and asks his name, and what he's there for, but he just glowers at her until she retreats again. He doesn't want anyone to know why he's here, and he's only here so Wilson will stop goddamn riding him about it.

He slumps into the seat nearest the back and waits for the teacher to arrive, already sure this is going to be a waste of time...]

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[Steve's mind is starting to swim, just a bit. The bleeding has slowed but not by much, he's got to risk trying to pinch as his nose to stop the blood flow which comes with a whole new kind of pain and certainty that it's broken.]

Bucky - it's Steve. Steven Grant Rogers, you - you joked about my name being Ulysses. I called you James until you told me to call you Bucky. It's October 31st, we skipped out on going to a Halloween party tonight to stay in. Your service dog is just outside, just look. It feels real, Bucky, but it isn't, you're home.

[Steve Grant Rogers, that name did ring a bell dimly at the back of his mind and make him unsure of himself. It let him take in the surroundings of the bedroom, a comfortable bed and wallpaper and carpet, nothing like a prisoner of war camp out in the wastelands.

His brow furrows, confusion and fear warring for upper place.]

No, I-- I'd remember that, you're trying to confuse me.

[But he doesn't sound sure. Outside the door, said service dog is whining and scratching to be let in, she knows when she's needed to do her job.]

You're having a flashback, Bucky. You didn't tell me what happened when you were deployed so I don't know where you think you are, but that's the ptsd talking. You're home. We've been together three months. Just - let Yasha in, and look outside. I won't move from here, it's just us and her in the apartment.

Please, Bucky.

[Something in the pleading tone got to him and he did, warily, shift to look out of the window and open the door, whereupon he was immediately flattened by a large dog that literally knocked him flat on his back and laid out on him to start licking his face. Weight and a sensation that truly wasn't of overseas, that was her emergency training.

For a second Bucky just lay there, tense and confused, but slowly the fog cleared from his mind and-- where was he? Steve's? Why was Steve--]

Shit-- Shit, you're bleeding, I hurt you. Yasha, get off. Get off. Oh shit, oh no--

S'okay, I'm okay. I jus' need some tissues.

[Steve tries to assure Bucky from the bed. Crisis successfully averted, his own adrenaline rush starts to crash. Steve tries to stand, only to make it off the bed before he's falling on his ass again. The bruising has already stared to show around his nose, under one eye. Where his lip caught and cut against his teeth.

The splash of red on his face, his chest, his hand and the sheets do not look so fine.]

Just - blood clotting issues - you back with me, Bucky?

Shit shit shit shit shit.

[It's a low mantra under his breath as he pushes Yasha off him and rolls up to his knees so that he can scramble to the bathroom and grab toilet tissue, a huge wad of it which gets thrust at Steve with a very shaky hand.]

I'm sorry, God, Steve, I'm so sorry.

[This is why this was a bad idea. Look at what he's done, just look.]

Fuck, there's blood everywhere. Do you need an ambulance? Fuck fuck.

No - no ambulance.

[Steve's hands are tremoring too when he takes the tissues, cleaning himself up as best he can and making sure the bleeding has indeed finally stopped. His lip is still very slowly oozing blood, but that's expected. Lips bleed a lot.]

I'll go to urgent care in the morning to get it re-set. It's Halloween - M'not dying and I don't want to spend eight hours waiting in triage when I could sleep in my own bed instead. It's okay. I'm okay.

[Steve looks an absolute mess, there's blood everywhere, his nose is obviously broken, his lip is swollen, and the bruising is already starting to come in. The worst bit is, Bucky doesn't even remember what he did. Did he kick him? Punch him? What did he say? It's all pretty vague, just a blur of fear and adrenaline.

He feels sick with shame. This is why this whole thing was a bad idea, he's a fucking monster. Steve deserves the best in life, not some broken jerk who hits him. He backs up a step, obviously ready to flee.]

Sorry, God-- Steve, you need to go and get it seen to, it's-- you're really hurt.

[Throughout it all Steve hadn’t really been concerned with himself. Bucky was the one in crisis, whatever he needed came first. Part of it was training, a lot of it was instinct. Steve wasn’t the type to ask for things for himself.

So when he reaches out to catch Bucky’s hand - still loose enough that Bucky could pull away if he wanted - it means a great deal that Steve lets himself sound desperate and vulnerable as he asks,] Don’t go. Please.

[How can he ask him not to go? Doesn't Steve hate him now? He sure as fuck should break up with him for this. He doesn't pull away, a part of him scared that even that will hurt Steve more, but he looks hunted as he roots to the spot.]

I might hurt you again, it's better if I go. I can call-- I can get Natasha or Clint to come round and take care of you.

It was an accident. I know you didn’t mean it - we’ll figure it out in the morning. Figure out what set it off and where to go from there.

[He doesn’t want Clint or Natasha right now, he doesn’t want to have to explain things to them. He wants Bucky, and if it isn’t Bucky he’d rather be alone. He’s so used to it, even if he doesn’t like it.]

I just want to get cleaned up and take some painkillers and rest until it’s light out. Urgent care can make sure it sets right and it’ll be okay.

[That makes his skin crawl. 'It was an accident, you didn't mean it', wasn't that the sort of thing that abused wives say, or that abusers use to keep their partners in check? He doesn't want to become that, and he's not detached enough from the situation to see that it's completely different.]

...yeah, okay.

[He's not happy about it, but he doesn't have it in him to refuse Steve anything at the moment. So he takes a step back towards the bed.]

You should get in bed, tell me where the painkillers are and I'll get them.

[Under better circumstances Steve could have chosen his words more carefully, but you know what? He’s had a rough night. He’s still light-headed.]

Medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Tylenol and… sudafed. [It should cover what he can do at home. Reluctantly letting Bucky go, he has to use the bed to help him stand. He’s going to have to strip the sheets off and replace them, and so he’s trying to figure out if it’s worth the energy to do now or just strip the sheets and sleep on the bare mattress with the comforter.]

[Yasha follows at Bucky's heels as he heads to the background, tail down and ears pricked, alert for any further problems. He has to take a moment when he's in there to gather himself and force all of this down, push it under a mask of stoic acceptance. He's good at that, he learned how to endure a hell of a lot while never cracking, he can do one more night with Steve.

The poor bastard is still stood contemplating the sheets when he gets back with the medicine, so Bucky just sets down the medicine and looks about for other sheets.]

You have replacements? I'll do it, sit down.

[Steve takes the medicine, siting when he’s told to and blinking slowly. His skin still has the faint red stain where the blood was but other than that he got most of it cleaned up. Sheets, where’d he put the sheets?]

There should be… uh… closet. In a bin at the bottom. Thank you.

… I’m sorry.

Don't apologise to me.

[The words are soft but firm, and his expression is a blank mask that makes him look very little like himself.

He digs into the closet and finds some new sheets. It's a bit of a tousle, trying to get the old ones off and the new ones fitted with just one arm, but he manages in the end even if it's not the neatest of jobs.]

There. Now get some sleep, I'll organise a cab for the morning to take you to urgent care.

[Bucky looks so miserable. Well, that's not entirely true. He looks blank. Hollow. Which Steve projects miserable onto.]

It's not that far, I can walk once I get some rest. You... you don't have to stay, if you don't want to. I shouldn't have demanded that.

[He's just terrified if he lets Bucky walk out that door he's never going to see him again.]

[It's not an unreasonable fear, a part of Bucky is already considering how fast he can clear out his apartment and disappear. Maybe an even tinier part of him is considering that gun he has hidden away.]

...yeah, I think I should go.

[He's pretty sure that it's shock that's the only reason Steve is being so understanding. When he wakes up in the morning and his entire face is throbbing, he might rethink his stance.]

I'm sorry, Steve. It never should've got to this.

I'm not angry. I'm not going to be. If... If you'd just talk to me, just let me in we could work it out.

[He doesn't want to force Bucky to stay, to cage him up like some animal - but he desperately doesn't want Bucky to leave either.]

What is there to work out? You've got a broken nose and a bloodied lip, that's-- it's unacceptable, there's no talking that makes that okay.

[He scrubs his hand across his face, expression still blank even if his voice is expressive.]

[that's something. Enough to give Steve the hope to press further. The subjects he's been carefully avoiding all this time.]

When you woke up, where did you think you were?

[His jaw firms, brow furrowing.]

Does it matter? I still attacked you, Steve, what difference does it make if I thought I was here, Jalalabad, or the moon?

It does make a difference because you didn't attack me, you attacked whoever you thought I was. If i dont know, if you dont talk to me, I can't help and I...

[He trails off again, not quite defeated but so very sad.]

... do you even want me to help?

[Goddammit, Steve, now he really does feel hemmed in and like he can't escape from a situation that's spiralling out of control.]

I just don't want to hurt you.

[It's honest and raw.]

This stuff is... it's bad. I don't want it to fuck you over like it's already fucked me up.

I'm not saying it won't hurt to know, but Bucky - not knowing is fucking me up just as much. The things I try to work out, all this blind guessing each idea worse than the last... have you told anyone?

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