Always There (Stucky One Shots and Short Stories)

He Hasn't Told Me -- Steve Rants a Little

  I watch Bucky from across the tavern as he downs another drink. How many is this now? I stopped counting at four. The bartender looks at him with increasingly sad eyes, but pours him another anyway. Part of me wants to stop Bucky before he drinks himself into a coma. I lied. Most of me wants to stop him. But I know he wants to forget.

He hasn't told me what they did to him. I found him strapped to a table, dirty, bruised and bleeding. But it wasn't the sight of him like that that got me. When I found him, he was repeating his name, rank and serial number. Just the thought of it sends chills up my spine. Whatever they did to him, he didn't tell them anything. No matter what kind of pain they put him through, he stayed strong. Really, I expect nothing less. He hasn't told me what they did to him. But if his first instinct is to drink himself stupid, I can only assume it was horrible. And it if was, I'm not going to be the jerk to make him relive it.

I feel like this is somehow my fault. I know it isn't, but some part of me is convinced. And in a sense, it is. I feel like if I had just been faster, quicker to action instead of arguing with General Phillips, maybe I could have prevented whatever happened to Bucky. Maybe not prevented it completely. But I could have been there sooner. I could have stopped it. I could have saved more of him, if that makes sense.

I see the way he looks at me now, like I'm a completely different person. And I guess I am. I'm bigger than him now, which is going to take a long time to get used to. He looks up to me now and I don't really like it. In a sense, it feels wrong. I mean, I'm Captain America now, people are supposed to look up to me. But not Bucky. I was born small and sick, and for the first almost twenty years of my life, he was my shield, my fist. My guardian angel.

I don't know why I expected him to act the same around me as he used to. He was always quick with with a comeback or a right hook, a joke or a tease. And now he just looks uncomfortable. I have a feeling it had something to do with the gun he had before they took him, but I'm afraid to ask.

War isn't what I thought it would be. For some stupid reason, I figured war would be glorious, the allies beating the Nazis back with ease. It isn't anything like that. Just as many of us as them are dying. You can't get attached to anyone, because it just hurts that much more when they go.

Bucky downs another drink and calls for more. He's starting to look a little wobbly now, and I know I should step in soon. I should. I should, but should I? I know I should stop him from drinking himself into oblivion, but part of me is afraid to approach him. He has this air around him of depression, like he's been replaced. I haven't replaced him, I would never dream of it. But I see the way he gets when Peggy is around. I don't know what's going through his head. But I do know that he doesn't like her. I don't know why, and maybe I never will.

He's still the most important person in my life. If I'd gone into that camp and hadn't found him, or had found him dead, I don't know what I'd do. I think I'd just want to stop. What would be the point of a life without James Barnes? How many times has he saved me in the past? How many times have I told myself that he is the reason I'm still alive? My reason for living. I love him. I love him to pieces and then some. But he'll never know. This is one secret I take to my grave.

Bucky spills some of this drink as he downs it and puts the glass on the bar with a bit more force than necessary. I've waited long enough to step in. I weave through the crowded tavern and seat myself at the bar next to him. He doesn't seem to notice me. Maybe he's so far out of it that he only sees the glass in his hand. I'm worried for him now, and put a hand on his shoulder. I want to put my hand on his face, to reassure myself that he's real. That he's here. That he's okay, physically anyway.

He looks over at me a few seconds after I touched him. I guess the alcohol is dimming his senses. Those eyes are beautiful as they always are, but I can't see much of Bucky in them. They're clouded with drunkenness, but beside that, I see a deep sadness and briefly wonder if Bucky will ever be okay again.

"Hey," I say in as soft and soothing a voice as I can muster, slapping on a smile even though I'm worried for him. He won't notice I'm faking if he's drunk off his ass. "let's get you to bed, okay?"

Bucky doesn't argue with me, so I pay the bartender and he thanks me - not just for paying, everyone knows who I am - and I help Bucky out of the tavern and to bed. I take off his jacket so he's just wearing a standard issue white tank top before slowly laying him down in the small uncomfortable bed. I tuck him in, smiling at the memory that surfaces at the action. He groans and shifts when I move away, but I gently push him back. "I'll be right here." I say, and I sit on the edge of his bed. I stay there until I know he's sleeping, mostly making sure he's not going to throw up or do something horrible. He's pretty out of it and I can't help but brush my fingers across his temple, feeling his hair, so soft against my skin.

Bucky hasn't told me what they did to him. But maybe one day, he will.