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When the chamber doors open, Bucky Barnes is treated to a moment of hope.
Hope because for once the flood of warmth through his bones is pleasant rather than painful, and he is allowed to sink, malleable, into the padding's firm support. Hope because all the dark abysses of his groaning body, all the traps and snares that made the pathways of his mind treacherous and impassable, have been cleansed and sealed up by a torrent of molten gold. Hope, because he has been renewed.
Then the steam clears and his heart plummets to the soles of his feet. At the back of the room, a group of Wakandan doctors and scientists sit at consoles and make notes, eyes alight with a fever of empirical interest. A few armed guards line the walls. And they are a few, because in the middle of the room, grim faced and battle ready, stand the Avengers.
"What's happened?" Bucky asks, ripping himself from the machine. He scans the group in nanoseconds, putting faces to names and threat profiles as easily as he could recite his numbers up to ten:
Sam Wilson, Falcon, low threat in hand to hand.
Clint Barton, Hawkeye, moderate threat without the bow.
Wanda Maximoff, Scarlet Witch, high threat.
Natasha Romanov, Black Widow, night threat.
Ca- No.
Captain America is conspicuously absent. Adrenaline jumps through Bucky's veins as he asks "Where's Steve?"
***
"It's complicated." Natasha replies, an hour later after Bucky has been wrangled through a full medical examination and informed that his mind is free. The very idea should fill him with joy but instead he barely feels it, too consumed by the burning need to know what's going on.
"Maybe we shouldn't do this," Sam interjects sceptically, picking up on Bucky's discomfort like the professional he is "He doesn't seem..."
Bucky shakes his head, stopping San before he starts dissuading the others "Tell me. Please."
"Man, you're unsettled as all hell and you've barely-"
"No." Bucky insists. This is a special kind of anxiety, far from pre-battle jitters or PTSD, and as old as the ages. "I just need you to tell me. What's happened?"
For a moment, Bucky's one-time teammates simply watch him; Wanda with her head cocked to the side as if he was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit, Clint with a mask of polite impartiality, Sam with doubtful eyes.
Natasha, who is simply standing before Bucky looking to all intents and purposes uninterested, speaks "About a week after you were put into cyro, Steve contacted me for outside assistance in breaking these idiots out of the Raft. The next day he sent Tony Stark a letter of conciliation and left Wakanda for the continent."
"Alone?"
Natasha nods, shutting him up with an eyebrow when he begins (hypocritically, he will admit) to protest.
"Steve is an extremely capable operative and tactician who needed to realign himself after the mess with the Accords without external interference. We thought he would be okay."
Bucky shifts forwards on his chair, white leather crushing under his one hand "Thought?"
The region of Natasha's eyes tightens. A tell.
"We lost track of him a month ago."
"A month." Bucky repeats, rising to his feet on a tide of sudden fury "He's been missing for a month and you didn't tell me?"
In his periphery, Bucky notes that Clint is on his feet, tense. Natasha stares him down "You explicitly demanded not to be woken before the triggers were removed. It took the techs a month to do it. You're lucky you had such a quick fix."
There's a certain bitterness to the last of Natasha's words, a kind that makes Bucky think that maybe he's not the only one with a darker past than he'd care for. Sympathy soothes away his anger, and he lets himself drop back down into the chair.
"I'm sorry." He mutters.
Natasha inclines her head graciously "Okay."
Sam picks the thread of the conversation up, pointing a finger at Bucky "You claim to have your memories back."
Bucky nods "Mostly."
"Do you remember Steve? Not who he is, but do you remember details about his life, details that-"
"That you don't know?" Bucky frowns. He does remember Steve.
He remembers the sound of Steve's laugh, remembers that he broke his leg and wrist simultaneously when he was ten, remembers the warmth of his hand splayed flat between Bucky's shoulder blades, and the way he cried for hours when the time came to throw out Sarah's dresses. Bucky remembers those moments, and thousands more. That doesn’t mean he wants to share them
"I'm not sure what I remember about Steve will be any use in tracking him down."
"That's not what we're trying to do." Wanda informs him. He startles slightly; it may be the fifth time he's ever heard Wanda speak "When we couldn't find Steve in person, I looked for his mind." to her credit, she doesn't falter under Bucky's half-horrified half-incredulous gaze "At first I did not recognise him. But then I realised that I was simply refusing to confront what I did not want to see. It's...dark in there."
Bucky swallows, turning pleading eyes to- of all people- Sam "What does that mean?"
"It means Steve's suffering. And you need to help us save him."
***
Clint has done some pretty weird stuff. That’s, like, an indisputable statement of fact. So to him mapping out Captain America's mental state on a flip chart is pretty much another day in the office. Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes, Leaders of the Steve Rogers Defence Club, do not seem to agree.
"That's just crass!"
"There are ways to do this without having a bitch session, guys!"
Nat rolls her eyes at the both of them "It's not a bitch session. We're collating data we all already know an aspect of."
"If it was a bitch session, there would be pizza and wine." Clint adds, because he's supportive like that. Also, it's funny when Sam and Bucky both glare the same way, then both pretend they didn't.
"If we had time we would do it more sensitively. But we don't have time, so we have to do it this way." Wanda offers, easing up their defences.
Nat doesn't wait for them to regroup before going in for the kill "Do you want to help him or not?"
Bucky sighs and slumps in his seat, and Sam nods. It's a beautiful sight.
Clint turns to the flip chart and writes a big STEVE across the top in lilac pen. Below it, he scribbles on opposite sides of the paper NOW and THEN. It's pretty neat. To him, at least. Bucky's looking at the page like it's filled with hieroglyphics.
"Who's going first?"
No-one speaks. Typical.
"'Kay I will. Um...Steve gets up, like, way too early." He notes it down.
"No?"
"What?"
"No." Bucky says again, eyes narrowed thoughtfully "Steve gets up at a pretty average time. Around half eight. Or at least...he did? Before the war?"
"What about during?" Sam asks, going all counsellor-mode.
"'Dunno. He slept when he could and where he could, like everybody. Wasn't really much to notice."
"Okay." Clint draws a great big exclamation mark between the two discrepancies.
“Depression wise," Nat informs them gravely "I've noticed quite a few things."
"Depression?" Bucky asks. His entire body has been tense throughout the day, but now there’s a hint of fear edging into his expression. It makes him look young, and all of a sudden Clint realises that compared to him, edging on forty, Barnes is. Nearly as young as Steve.
"A mental illness. It is...not fun." Wanda clarifies softly.
"I know what the word means. But the serum...Steve doesn't get sick anymore." Bucky protests weakly.
Nat shakes her head. Excluding Bruce, she probably knows the most about the serum out of all of them, knowledge gleaned from her unique brand of protective care and blatant nosiness.
"It cured all of his existing medical defects," Bucky frowns; Nat carries on "And increased his immune system beyond normal levels, but he isn't impervious and the serum wasn't delicate enough to handle psychological ailments."
Barnes crosses his arms defensively "What, you calling Steve crazy?"
Nat purses her lips, offended "I, out of everyone here, understand where he's coming from the most. No, I'm not calling him crazy."
"Well, what then?"
"That depends."
Bucky scowls, shoving a hand roughly through his hair. Clint's never seen anyone do it more expressively. "On what?"
"On what you remember about Steve when he was younger. How he acted, what he said, the expression on his face when he thought you weren't looking. The things that could tell us if we're dealing with something new, something old, or something in between."
"It'll help him?" Bucky asks again, voice small like he's half hoping they'll turn around and tell him no, it won't. That it's all a massive prank. But it isn't. Clint's here instead of chilling with Nat or helping out his sister with the kids because of how very much it isn't.
Barnes seems to see the answer on their faces. Smart cookie. Or, y'know, highly trained. Maybe both.
"What do you need to know?"
****
Barnes leaves the room crying after 80 minutes.
****
It's stupid. It's stupid to be here, hiding in the bathroom, shaking like a leaf and leaking from his eyes and nose when he weathered a war with barely a flinch. Breaking down over something that's happening in Steve's mind- not even his own. Except, what the Avengers say Steve's feeling? Bucky's felt it. He's felt the dread and cinch and cloying, visceral pain of self hatred. He's felt the drag of it through days on end, the epochs of vacancy where even breathing seems perfunctory and he can barely summon a spark of care, a flicker of any emotion other than crushing disappointment in himself.
Bucky's been there. God has he been there. But Steve's there now, languishing in the hell his own mind created, and it's worse than agony to know it because he loves Steve more than life, more than his own damn soul and there is no torment he would not go through to set him free. But Bucky can't. He can't free Steve unless Steve wants to free himself and he knows without question that his wonderful idiot of a best friend thinks he deserves it.
Maybe it's not so stupid to be crying after all.
Bucky let's his head fall against the bathroom mirror in defeat.
“So…”
Bucky jumps at the voice, whipping around with his fists raised. Natasha leans in the bathroom doorway, alert but unconcerned. She’s put a soft t-shirt on over her catsuit, and Bucky is about ninety percent certain it’s sole purpose is to make Natasha look just approachable enough for him not to launch at her the second he sees that she’s broken the bathroom door. Maybe it works, or maybe Bucky’s just not in a fighting mood; he leans back against the sink and parrots “So…”
Natasha smiles briefly before her features relax back into their position of highly trained neutrality “You should hurry up.”
Bucky wipes his cheeks “Why?”
“Wanda found Steve again. He’s in a…” Natasha releases a genuinely pained sigh, which makes Bucky like her a little more “A precarious position.”
Bucky suppresses the wince that threatens to twists his features by sheer force of habit, but Natasha notices anyway. She stands staring at him for a breath, then reaches behind her and slams the bathroom door closed. When she meets his eyes again, he is staring at a warrior queen. His back straightens in response.
“Steve is one of my friends.”
Bucky nods. He’d figured as much at the airport months ago, when Steve and Natasha stood at an impasse instead of diving into combat, trust clearly not completely broken between them.
“We’ve fought together for years.”
Bucky nods again.
“The first time was The Battle of New York, the second was the night after. I found Steve on the floor with a full bottle of horse’s sleeping pills and two pints of vodka.” she smiles darkly “Looking back on it, I can admire his taste. It was my favourite brand.”
Bucky licks his lips, the only movement in his entire body.
“I talked him down, of course. Shared my own little stories. Sung him lullabies in Russian as I stroked his hair.”
Natasha takes one deliberate step forwards, somehow managing to seem like she’s towering over Bucky even though she’s at least a head shorter.
“I’m not expecting you to do that. But I’m expecting you to do something. And if Steve means to you even half of what you mean to him, I am expecting you to do better.”
“But I can’t heal him.” Bucky protests quietly.
“No.” Natasha confirms in a tone that implies Bucky is being exceptionally stupid “But you can help him heal himself.”
Bucky’s hands twitch to form fists. He forcibly unclenches them “He doesn’t want to heal.”
“Make him. We’re taking off in ten.”
With that, Natasha spins on her heels and sweeps out.
****
They have to land the plane, cloaked, in an empty car park in an industrial estate on the outskirts of the city. From there Wanda leads them, hands glowing a subtle red, on a muggy trek through alleyways and across roofs, dodging dogs and miscreants and law enforcement alike. Eventually Wanda stops outside block of flats that looks more structurally unsound than the illegally divided tenement Bucky used to occupy with Steve.
“Are you sure this is right?” Sam asks, nose wrinkled.
“This is worse than my block.” Clint mutters.
Wanda nods and leads them forwards.
They don’t encounter anyone as they inch up the crumbling stairs, trying not to gag on the stench of mould and urine, guided by the eerie flickering of Wanda’s powers. It might be just because it’s night, but Bucky suspects the cause of the quiet has more to do with the kind of hush that settles over Serbian bunkers and half-destroyed castles than a sleeping home. Finally, they reach the top floor. Wanda inches forwards, features twisting into something grotesque as she stops outside the last door on the landing and lowers her hand.
“He’s in there.”
For a second, Bucky doesn’t want to open the door. Seeing it, whatever’s happened to Steve, will kill once and for all the illusion that he could be okay.
Bucky steels himself, and pushes the door open.
It’s not a pretty sight. The room’s bare, illuminated by the harsh blue light of a billboard flooding in through curtainless windows, walls spotted with mould and floorboards peeling up in random places. Steve’s huddled in the corner, golden hair hanging lank and dulled around hollow cheeks, his feet bare. Bucky almost doesn’t believe it’s him until he turns himself towards the door and two more details of the scene become visible: Steve’s unmistakable blue eyes, and his arms huddled close to his chest as blood pumps, crimson, from neat lines across his forearms. Bucky crashes to the floor at Steve’s feet, reaching desperately for Steve’s hand, smeared ochre, until he thinks better of it and his grip settles on Steve’s shoulders.
“When did you do it?” Bucky demands, fear blocking out everything else but Steve.
His gaze wanders, listless, only settling on Bucky’s face for a few seconds until its focus shifts again.
Bucky grips his shoulders harder, then when that fails moves his hands to grip Steve’s face “Steve? Say something!”
Finally, Steve’s eyes meet Bucky’s. He stares at him for a heartbeat, then another, and another, until eventually, inexplicably, he begins to laugh.
Bucky looks to the Avengers, to Sam knelt on the floor beside him, but is met with equal confusion. Steve notices and laughs harder, shrieking hysterical eruptions that reverberate off the mildewed walls and through Bucky’s skull like the clanging of a funeral bell.
“Come on, man.” Sam pleads, hand replacing Bucky’s on Steve’s shoulder “What’s so funny.”
“You...you,” Steve snickers, shaking his head “You caught me red handed.”
Bucky opens his mouth to inform Steve of how completely nonsensical he’s being, but Sam gets there first and takes a different tack.
“Okay, man, I see where you’re coming from. But those are some pretty deep cuts there and they’re not gonna heal up on their own.”
“That’s the point.” Steve retorts, a slightly unhinged smile on his face.
Nausea twists in Bucky’s gut in time with a feeling of familiarity. Steve’s not the only hysterical person Bucky’s had to deal with in his life. He was, after all, a sergeant in a war filled with conscripts.
He stands up, looming over Steve, and barks “Look at me!”
Steve does, as do the Avengers.
Bucky ignores them.
“Now get yourself together.”
Steve inhales deeply and exhales as slowly. Clarity dawns. Slowly, like he’s hoping they’ll all disappear, he takes in the room. The Avengers. Bucky. His arms. Steve inhales again, nods once, then throws his head into his knees and sobs.
****
Sam is the one who patches Steve up. Physically, that is. Partially because Sam’s the one with the most medical experience, but mostly because he’s the only one who brought supplies: bandages, disinfectant, gauze, painkillers. A plain white sheet. They were all determined to save Steve, but Sam seems to be the only one who was prepared to deal with the aftermath if they didn’t.
He isn’t inclined to analyse the causes for that.
The atmosphere is sombre as he winds the bandages around and around Steve's wrists, keeping the tension, not letting himself focus on the fact that he’s fixing a friend’s attempt to kill himself. Barnes is crouched behind Steve, arms wrapped around his sunken shoulders, hands cupping his face. Murmuring reassurances and possibly chastisements too. Kissing the top of Steve’s head from time to time.
Steve must be pretty damn withdrawn if he’s not reacting to that, Sam thinks.
He wants to cry.
But he won’t.
He has a job to do.
Between them, they get Steve up and into the plane. All the while he stares unseeingly, haunted and hollow, absorbed by the same hell that haunts half the veterans Sam knows from the VA. Or rather, half the ones he knew.
Once Steve is sat down, strapped in by Natasha next to Barnes, Sam gives him a sedative and Clint takes off. Not half an hour in, Barnes pulls Steve into his lap. Sam looks away.
****
The Wakandan doctors keep Steve sedated until the wounds on his arms have healed. Bucky’s glad to see that there are no ugly scars to remind Steve of That Night when he wakes up, but at the same time it seems to him like something as big as trying to die should leave a mark. It’s not for him to say, though.
He does protest when the doctors say they want to keep Steve in the hospital on suicide watch. Bucky and the Avengers can do that perfectly well themselves, and given his history of illness nothing will help Steve’s mental health less than being held in a hospital. Bucky is very sure of that.
****
Bucky avoids Steve for three days. When he finally works up the nerve to knock on Steve’s door, the first thing Steve says is “Are you going to ask me why I did it?”
“No. I know why you did it. More or less.” Bucky replies truthfully.
Steve nods, accepting Bucky’s answer without question. He’s regained some weight and his hair seems glossier, shining in the tropical sun. Dark circles still linger under his eyes. Sometimes, Bucky will catch him staring at nothing, vacant and pained.
“Are you going to do it again?”
“Nice. That at least that gives me an illusion of choice. The others just told me not to.” Steve deflects wryly. Bucky stares at him until he looks away, bunching up the bedsheets underneath him in agitation.
“I want to.” Steve admits at last “ I know I should get better. But I want to.”
“I’m in love with you.”
Bucky blinks. He hadn’t meant to say that. But it was a confession overdue, so the words had flowed out of his mouth and into the space between them anyway. Steve sits back, wide eyed.
“I’m in love with you, too.” he assures Bucky dazedly “But I still want to die. Sorry.”
Shaking his head, Bucky crosses the room to sink down onto Steve’s bed next to him. Entwining their fingers he asks “If you love me- and I’m not trying to be conceited here, just asking from personal experience- that means you’d die for me, right?”
Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand.
“Of course.”
Bucky ignores the flood of three-parts warmth and one-part fear that Steve’s answer brings, carrying on “So, logically, you’d live for me too?”
It’s a risky thing to say. Bucky can tell. However, if it works, the payoff will be worth it.
After a long, long silence Steve coughs once and whispers “I’ll try. For you. And for my friends. I’ll try.”
Bucky smiles “That’s all I ask.”
****
Later, when the two are pressed together in bed, hearts beating as one while their breaths mingle on the pillow, Bucky gazes at Steve’s sleeping face and makes a vow. It’s a simple one, yet unprecedented in its importance. It goes something like this: one day, Steve will learn to live for himself, and Bucky will help him find the reasons why.