Who Am I? » [Stucky]

5. All of Me

Waking up in the mornings without having to worry about S.H.I.E.L.D or the next threat on his plate was odd but was ultimately a relief. He had craved a gap in his unruly schedule like this for a long long time.

The blinds remained drawn, and the room still dark. He lay limply in bed, nostalgically staring up at the blank ceiling as if it had an imaginative, bold and intriguing canvas displayed upon it; when in reality the white was just something to look through whilst his mind wandered elsewhere. He was miles away, straying somewhere deep in the realms of his gappy and old mind. It flowed back so many years, but with a void in between. He had missed seventy years in the ice after all.

You know... Sometimes I think you like getting punched?

I had him on the ropes!

He smiled contently at the memory, letting it replay in his mind like a harmonious song on repeat.

He remembered how Bucky had come sauntering around the corner smugly with a smirk on his chiselled face, dapper and done up to the nines. He, by contrast, had been sprawled on the ground all beaten up and daubed in dirt. He had picked him up and slung a caring arm around him, ferrying him out and away to safety like a his knight in shining armour. That had been the day that he had got his orders - he was going to be shipped off to England the next day.

The catastrophic issue was, as soon as he remembered the halcyon days, the things he tried to deny flying back, hitting him devastatingly like a cannonball had been fired at him. The more he tried to block it out, the more it came back - it was like being told not to think about the purple elephant... What's the first thing you thought of?

Just out of reach... Just a few centimetres further...

Clunk!

He plummeted like a stone, dropping into the valley below with a bloodcurdling scream of fear and agony.

Steve's stomach lurched, his heart knotted in his chest and his breathing fluttered. He brought his large warm hands up to wipe face; cleansing his mind. He tried to expel the horrific image from his mind; but it wouldn't go away. He wished it would all just stop. He wanted to delete it from his mind - as if it was that easy. It tormented him.

That cry as Bucky fell haunted him in the throes of the night, suffering in solace. The recurring dream was printed onto his brain like the memory was a branding rod; it marred him gruesomely. 

Too many nights he had woken up bathed in a cold sweat, quivering and bawling because of that. He would always have to get up and occupy himself to try and remove the image from his harrowed mind. He would get up and wander around the flat weakly, stumbling on his jellying legs, stalking the halls like an unrested spirit. And every now and then a guilty sprig of nausea would leave him hugging the toilet bowl.

Who the hell is Bucky?

His tired blue eyes prickled as moisture gathered there.

Who the hell is Bucky?

"No..." He said aloud hoarsely, reigning for control of his mind. His throat clogged up, he felt like he was choking. His breathing was getting harder and harder to manage.

He rubbed at his face, trying to bleach out the images.

He knew it was his fault. He didn't save Bucky. Now there was no Bucky. And after all the painful and secretive years of wishing him back, he had him back. But he wasn't the same, was he?

Being able to hold it in any longer, he quit trying to forbid the emotion and let it all run free from him. The devastation, heartbreak and guilt drowned him like a tidal wave, he was smothered by it. Tears rolled effortlessly down his cheeks and dripped off onto the crisp white duvet and pillow.