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boxofbonesfic · 1 year

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Title: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ [5]

Pairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Reader

series masterlist || series playlist || chapter song

Summary: Drowning in women and designer drugs, Bucky Barnes of Valkyrie’s Revenge is in a race to rock bottom. Fed up, his bandmates give him an ultimatum—straighten up, or fuck off. In a last, desperate bid to maintain his place, he agrees to return to the one place he swore he’d never set foot again—home.

Warnings: Angst, Drug Addiction, Depression, Suicidal ideation, Mental Health issues, Toxicity, Recreational Drug use, Hard drug use, PTSD, Dealing with trauma, Slow Burn, Fluff, MINORS DNI, [More to be added]

A/N: whew. this chapter… i tried to warn you guys, i really did. buckle up!! as always, i recommend you listen to the chapter song while reading, or alternatively, listen to the fic playlist! thank you so much for reading! divider by @firefly-graphics

series playlist || chapter song

This work is entirely unbeta’d, and unedited. Though I don’t own any of Marvel’s characters, this work and the plot contained inside are entirely mine. I do not consent for this work to be posted anywhere else by anyone but me. Enjoy 😘

It’s Iris’ shaking that wakes you, her little hands jerking your shoulder back and forth as you blearily open your eyes to the almost total darkness.

“Mommy, mommy there’s somebody at the door,” she says, her voice nervous. You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. It takes you a moment to process what she’s said, and you listen for a few seconds, but hear only the quiet sounds of the house settling, dripping faucets, branches scratching against the plastic siding.

“Wha?” You shake your head. “No, baby, it’s bedtime, nobody comes around this late—” You’re interrupted by a fierce round of knocks—some of them so loud, you’re fairly certain the person responsible is kicking your door. It only takes a moment for you to go from sleepy to high-alert, your eyes flicking between your daughter and your bedroom door.

“See?” She whimpers, clamoring onto the bed and clutching at you. You detangle yourself from your anxious daughter, and reach under the bed for the baseball bat you keep there—just in case. Even though your heart is pounding, you know you can’t show her how scared you are—Iris is only as calm as you are.

“Kiddo, you’re going to stay right here in mommy’s room, okay? I’m going to go downstairs and see who’s at the door.” You softly close the door behind you, jumping as the doorbell rings just before the knocks resume. With sweaty hands, you grip the worn handle of your father’s bat, and edge down the stairs towards the door. You hear a loud crack, like wood splintering outside the door, and then—your name?

“Open the do-hic-ooor,” Bucky moans, and through the thick frosted glass you see him rest his forehead against the little window at the top of the door. You fumble with the chain, the bat clattering as it hits the floor. You turn the handle, and Bucky practically falls inside. He stumbles over the threshold, and you scramble to catch him so that he doesn’t clip his head on the end table. He rests heavily on you, his head lolling.

“Bucky?!” You hiss his name. “What—what are you doing?” He attempts to stand up, straightening his jacket as he shoves his hands into his pockets. You resist the urge to slam the door as he shoulders past you—you don’t need Iris more riled up than she already is. “Are you fucking crazy?”

He staggers against the wall. “I n-needed t’see you.” His watery smile is barely even that, a slight upturn at the corners of his trembling mouth before he drags the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Wan’ to see you,” he repeats, slurring.

“Bucky it’s fucking two a.m.” You throw your hands up. “It’s fucking two a.m. and you are scaring my fucking kid!” You’re tempted to hit him, to slap some fucking sense into him because clearly he doesn’t have any right now. Your hand twitches at your side as you tamp the urge back down.

“My fucking kid,” he retorts, and you feel a portion of your righteous anger break off and crumble into guilt. “Isn’t s-she?” He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. He glares at you with lidded, red-rimmed eyes. You want to say no, you know you should, for the sake of your peace, your daughter’s peace, to uphold the promise you’d made to your parents, to yourself.

But you can’t. It won’t come. You’re floundering watching his face contort into some unnameable expression. You don’t know how he’s figured it out, how his addled brain has finally put the pieces together.

“I w-wanna see her.” He slurs, and tries to step around you. You block him, shoving him backwards.

“You’re high out of your fucking mind Bucky! I don’t even want you in my fucking house!” You shrill. “Where’s Steve?” Bucky hunches his shoulders defensively. His glassy eyes roll as he tries to deny what you can plainly see.

“‘M’not high,” he mumbles. “I—”

“Bucky you can’t even speak!” You yell, and then wince, hoping Iris isn’t listening at the top of the stairs. “You show up here at the most ungodly fucking hour, demanding to see Iris— “ You cut yourself off, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Bucky you fucking terrified her, okay? You—I’m going to call Steve.” Your exasperated words make him flinch. He tries to stop you as you reach for your phone, but his movements are heavy and slow.

“That lying piece of shit. Don’t—” He reaches for you, and you slap his hand away, your heart pounding.

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do in my house.”

“I’ll l-leave. If you call him.” He threatens, his voice hard. His pupils are dilated wide, his eyes wet, but you can tell he means it. You know you shouldn’t feel responsible for Bucky, not now, not ever again, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling it anyway. You scrub a frustrated hand over your face, tangling your fingers in your hair before you squeeze your eyes shut, regretting the decision before it even comes out of your mouth.

“Okay, fine,” you relent, holding your hands up. “No Steve. But you can’t see Iris like this.” Bucky looks rough. You know he’s been out partying, doing only God knows what—his eyes are red-rimmed and watery, his nose red and irritated. He looks like he’s going to argue with you, but after a moment snaps his mouth shut angrily.

“Fine.”

“You can sleep on the couch.” You say stiffly. “I’m going to go get you a blanket. Stay down here.” The words are curt, short as though you’ve bitten off their edges. He opens his mouth, and you’re not sure you want to hear what’s going to come out of it next, so you turn away, and march directly up the stairs. You wait at the top to hear the tell-tale creak of the first stair, but it doesn’t come.

For a few seconds, you pace on the landing, hands balled into fists and pressed against your closed eyes. Bucky is here. He knows. He knows. He knows. You can’t stop the endless refrain inside your own skull, panicked tears tightening your throat as you try to swallow against them.

Calm down. Iris can’t see you like this.

You take slow, hiccoughing breaths, swallowing back the tears and anger until they’re gathered into a tight, hot ball in your chest. Forcing it down, you head for your bedroom.

Your door is cracked open, and Iris peers at you guiltily through the gap. You almost want to laugh as she jumps backwards, hopping nervously from foot to foot as you cross your arms.

“I thought you were supposed to be in bed,” you say, raising an eyebrow. Iris scuffs her foot guiltily against the floor.

“I, um, I heard Mr. Bucky,” she admits, and you have to stop yourself from smacking a frustrated palm against your forehead. “Why is he here, Mommy?”

You’ve never felt more like shit than in this moment—you can’t tell her. Not like this.

“He’s… he’s not feeling well, babes. He’s going to rest downstairs, on the couch.”

Iris looks at you excitedly. “So he’ll be here for breakfast?!”

“No.” You say quickly, and her round eyes go glassy. “He has somewhere to be tomorrow morning, so he’ll be gone when we get up for school.” You’re not sure if you’re saying this for her benefit, or yours. “Into bed.” You say, patting the mattress. “You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

Bucky is standing in front of the fireplace in your living room. It doesn’t work, but the hearth serves as a display wall of sorts. Framed pictures of Iris, photos of you two together, your parents, your life. There’s a sort of sad bemusement on his face, like he can’t believe your life went on without him. That you had lived without him. You watch as he reaches forward to trace Iris’ face through the glass, and wonder if he’s looking for the parts of her that reflect him.

You clear your throat and he turns, guiltily shoving his hands into his pockets. The silence is so heavy between you, you aren’t sure if you can carry it. Luckily for you, Bucky breaks it first.

“I dunno how I didn’t see it the first time,” he says with a sad, hoarse little laugh. “She looks just fuckin’ like me.” You’re not sure what you hate more. The fact that he said it, or the fact that it was true. “Kid’s wearing my goddamn face and it took me a month to notice it.” He turns like he’s going to grab a picture off of the shelf but misjudges the distance, and stumbles against the wall with a thud.

“Jesus, Buck!” You rush over to him to stop him falling. Grunting, you loop one of his arms over your shoulders. He goes with you easily, mumbling something you don’t understand as you half drag him towards the couch. “You need to lay the fuck down.” You growl, sloughing him onto the cushions. He lands with a soft “oof”, and begins kicking at his boots.

“Hold on—christ— I’ll help you.” You tug his boots off and toss them to the floor as he curls in on himself.

You’re not sure how a man his size can look so small, so fragile, but he does. The angry, bitter part of you wants to throw the blanket and pillow on the floor in a heap, but you don’t. You spread it out over his sleeping form and he mumbles, twitching. Carefully, you reach to tuck the pillow under his head, and pause as your fingers brush his cheek. You let them linger for a moment before pulling your hand back quickly, and cradling it against your chest.

You turn sharply and head back for the staircase.

“Goodnight. Jellybean.”

His voice stops you in your tracks, the raspy word making your throat tight.

He won’t remember it in the morning.

You go upstairs.

Iris is asleep in your bed when you open the door. Sleep finds her easily, and you’re glad for it. It means she feels safe, something you don’t want to jeopardize with the man sleeping it off on your couch downstairs.

You suppose you had been lucky, not having to see him like Steve did, strung out and barely coherent. If you can help it, Iris will be spared that sight forever. Fists clenched determinedly in the duvet, you stare at the ceiling, waiting for—you don’t know what you’re waiting for. The doorknob to jiggle, for sounds of destruction to arise from downstairs, the sound of his voice, for sleep—for anything.

And then, finally, you sleep.

🎤

This isn’t Steve’s house.

Bucky stares up at the unfamiliar ceiling, counting the minutes until the memories begin to trickle back into his skull. He remembers scoring—easier now than it ever was, considering. Every bar-back knows a guy who knows a guy who can get him what he wants, all he has to do is ask.

And boy did he fucking ask.

He remembers the disembodied rolling bliss, remembers you, your disappointed face. Bucky groans, sitting up. The blanket falls to his lap, and he furrows his brows, picking up the edge. He knows what Kitty will say when he comes to meeting today. It’s a small town and word travels fast. Bucky knows he wasn’t exactly discreet. He’s used to it by now, the well of disgust and shame that begins to grow in his stomach the more he recalls.

It was inevitable, the demon whispers, and Bucky wonders fearfully if it’s right.

I shouldn’t have come here, he thinks to himself as he looks around. His head is still cottony with the pill-hangover, but he knows enough to know he’s an invader here. Why did he even come? The pitiful confrontation he’d forced had gone nowhere, ending with him passed out on your sofa. Bucky rubs his temples.

The whole house smells like caramel apple, your favorite candle. Bucky doesn’t know why he still knows that, but he does. It’s neat enough, but there are signs of life everywhere. Iris’ toys, your books. And in the corner, your guitar. It’s well taken care of, the used Sweetwater you’d managed to get your hands on. He remembered the day you’d found it, rescuing it from the attic of Kevin Harris’ grandmother’s place after she passed.

“Good, you’re up.” Your clipped voice sounds from the doorway. He looks up to see you, still in the oversized shirt you used for pajamas and leaned against the wall. You look tired, and Bucky knows it’s his fault. “How are you feeling?”

He laughs dryly. “Like an asshole.” He’s a wrecking ball. “Is, um. Is Iris…?”

“She’s fine,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before you fold your arms across your chest. “She didn’t see you.” He’s thankful for that, at least. “I called Steve. He’s on his way.”

Bucky grimaces. He doesn’t want to see Steve, not after—

“Why did you tell Steve and not me?” He blurts,. “Why did you tell him about Iris?”

“He guessed,” you say defensively. “And even if I had, that’s my business. You made your choices very clear, Bucky.” You glare at him from across the room. He doesn’t know what to say to that—you’re right.

“She’s my daughter.”

“Bucky. I couldn’t—last night? I… How could I let you meet her like that?”

The shame burns in his throat and he swallows tightly against it.

“I know. But I—” The sound of someone at the door makes the both of you jump.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, and disappear down the hall. Bucky stands, folding the blanket you’d given him and placing it neatly on the couch cushions. He hears your footsteps recede, and then the sound of the door lock unlatching. Your voice floats down the hall, quiet but audible.

“Oh—Andy.”

And then a distinctly male voice. “I wanted to stop by, maybe help with drop-off today? I figured we could get breakfast together after.”

“I, um. You know what, Andy? Now is just really not a good time—”

“Is that your bat? Did something happen last night?” He sounds concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes everything’s fine, no—wait, Andy I said it’s not a good time—”

Bucky backs away from the archway just as Andy rounds the corner. His shocked face contorts with anger as he whips his head around.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Bucky feels hot anger flare in his chest as he crosses his arms. “Could ask the same of you.” Andy takes a step forward before you grab his arm.

“Would the two of you just fucking stop? Andy I said it’s not a good goddamn time!” Bucky watches you run a frustrated hand through your hair, tugging on it before letting go. He shouldn’t feel so territorial—you aren’t his. That doesn’t stop the sneer from curling his lip as he watches the other man reluctantly stand down.

“What is he doing here?” Andy asks again, and you purse your lips.

“Andrew Barber this is my house. I do not have to explain myself to you.” Andy looks positively murderous at that, but says nothing, crossing his arms as he levels a hard look at Bucky. “He crashed on my couch last night. Happy?”

“No.” Andy replies without taking his eyes off of Bucky. “You should have called me.” There’s a possessiveness in his tone that makes Bucky’s hackles rise. He’s the one with history, it’s Andy who’s the newcomer. What right does he have, to look at Bucky like the interloper? He doesn’t like the way Andy positions himself between you, a hand on the curve of your hip over the t-shirt. It’s familiar in a way that makes Bucky want to bare his teeth in warning.

You let her go, the demon reminds him. You threw her away like trash. He is pleased, though, to see you shove Andy’s hand away as you place your hands on your hips stubbornly.

“I’m an adult, Andy, and I handled it.” You say, your hard glare daring him to challenge you. He doesn’t. “Besides. Bucky was just leaving.” You say it pointedly around Andy’s broad shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t want to leave now, especially not now that Andy is here, but there’s little room for him to argue, not when he sees Steve pull up in the pickup through the living room window.

“Yeah.” He mutters. “Just leaving.” He shoves his hands into his pockets as he heads for the door. You walk him out onto the porch, your arms still crossed over your chest. He looks past you to Andy, who smiles at him smugly.

“Try not to miss your meeting,” he says, and you whip your head around to glare at him, before closing the door behind you.

“Look, ignore Andy. He’s just—”

“An asshole?” Bucky scoffs. “I didn’t think that was your type.” You scowl at him.

“Well, if he’s an asshole then I’m two for two, so it’s definitely my type.” You retort sharply. “Bucky, look. Last night—”

“I fucked up,” he says quickly. He doesn’t want to hear you say it. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason he knows that hearing you tell him he fucking relapsed again would make him hurt worse than the fucking DT’s. “I know I fucked up.”

“You did,” you say, and he winces. That stings, too. Maybe worse. “You had three weeks, Buck. Why’d you throw that away?”

His lip curls. “Finding out you have a kid six years into their life isn’t really awesome news.” He snaps back. “You, Steve, you both lied to me.” He can’t help the accusatory pitch his tone takes. He knows you take note of it too, your eyes narrowing to angry slits.

“Oh bull-fucking-shit, Bucky,” you say, tossing your hands up. “Call after call after call, none of my fucking letters answered.” You shake your head at him. “What was I supposed to do? You shut me out! I wasn’t going to fucking chase you forever!”

“What?” Bucky steps back, reeling. “What are you talking about? I never got one fucking call—”

“I am not doing this with you.” You say, pinching the bridge of your nose as you turn back towards the front door. “I am not going to fucking stand here and argue with you about what I know I did. You don’t get to show up high at my fucking house and demand to be treated like you would have been father of the year if you’d known.”

“Maybe I fucking would have!” He spits, the old venom welling up temptingly under his tongue. He regrets the words before they’re even fully out of his mouth. “If you hadn’t tried to trap me—”

The slap echoes in his ears before he feels the sting of it, raising his own hand to his face where you had hit him.

“Get the fuck out of here.” You spit through gritted teeth. Your eyes are wet with unshed tears, and the angry shame in Bucky’s chest grows until angry tears are pricking at his eyes too. It isn’t for you, his anger. No, it’s for himself—because there’s no one Bucky hates more than the man he sees reflected in your glassy eyes.

“Don’t fucking come back until you’re sober, you understand me?” You shove a finger into his chest. “I would rather tell her you’re dead than let her see you like this.”

You don’t wait for him to answer, instead you yank open the door and shut it in his face, barricading him on the other side. He’s tempted to bang on the door, to kick and punch at it until you’re forced to come back out again because this isn’t fucking over, dammit—

But he doesn’t.

Bucky searches for the half empty carton of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, sticking one between his lips as he gets unceremoniously into the passenger seat of Steve’s pickup.

“Rough night?” He asks as Bucky straps himself in, and grabs for the lighter in the cupholder. He doesn’t answer right away, lighting the cigarette and exhaling a few clouds of acrid smoke as Steve pulls out into traffic.

“Yeah,” he says, tapping the ash out of the open window. He watches the row of brick and mortar houses fade into the distance in the rearview mirror. “Rough.”

🎤

“Iron Man at your service, this is Tony.” Tina had been rather reluctant to patch Bucky through to Tony’s personal line, but after a few choice words—some of them threats—she had done so.

“Tony.”

“Bucky! How are you? How’s it going in Milton?”

“Meridian.”

“Whatever.”

“Fine,” he says, choosing purposefully not to mention his bender just the night before. “Listen, did you uh. Ever get any letters, phone calls, or anything from anybody back home in Meridian?”

“Bucky you get so much fucking fan-mail we could fill an olympic swimming pool with it—not now, baby, I’m on the phone,” he hears Tony stage whisper to someone who giggles. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“When I first signed up. They’d be old.”

“Probably? I mean nothing of note. You know we sort through the mail and give you the important stuff. Anything from your personal contacts, you would have seen. Look is there a point to this? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’ve got some pressing business to attend to, if you catch my meaning.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Tony has never thought twice about sampling from the buffet of groupies that seemed to tail Valkyrie’s Revenge like lost puppies.

“I need to know if I got letters about a kid, Tony.”

“What?”

“A fucking kid Tony. I need to know if we were contacted—”

“I told you,” he says quickly, his tone dismissive. “If they got sent, you’d have seen ‘em, kid. Why? Somebody springing a paternity suit on us?” He hears Tony hush more people, excusing himself quietly. The background noise coming through the receiver seems to fade until there’s only quiet breathing on the other end.

“No. I mean—I don’t know. I just…” He pauses. You’d seemed so certain, so sure of yourself when you claimed you’d tried to contact him. Call after call… all my letters unanswered. “I want to know.”

“Well I can’t help you, pal,” Tony replies. “We’d have told you if we got them.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Bucky swallows against the lump in his throat.

“Keep me posted. This is why we have lawyers.”

Bucky hangs up without another word, frustratedly tossing his phone to the bed. He’d refused to speak to Steve when he asked him where he went, why he’d been gone all night. It was easy enough to deflect with an argument, a skill Bucky had learned the very first time his bandmates had tried to take him to task for his behavior. No one wants a screaming match at ten in the morning.

He can’t deflect himself, though, can’t stop the thoughts going round and round in his skull like a carousel. Someone had lied to him, someone had kept Iris from him.

And if not you, then who?

Steve’s quiet knock on his door makes Bucky’s head snap up, his eyes narrowing as his friend steps across the threshold. He’s still angry, and Steve knows it, holding his hands up placatingly.

“Look. I know you don’t want to talk to me right now. But I’m heading out, and I think you should come with me.”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “If you’re trying to drop me off at a facility this is a shitty fucking way to start.” Steve shakes his head.

“Not a facility.”

“Then where?”

“You’ll see.” Bucky watches his friend’s face for a tell—Steve always was a terrible liar. There doesn’t seem to be one though, not that Bucky can see. He gets up slowly, and follows Steve back down the stairs and out the front door. Steve gets into the driver’s seat, and waits patiently for Bucky to catch up before the truck engine roars to life. Bucky is glad that Steve doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless platitudes as he drives.

He doesn’t turn toward Meridian, instead taking the dirt road north of town, away from the meager downtown strip and up into the hills. It’s a gloomy day, overcast and gray, with the occasional drop of rain splattering against the windshield. The back-roads are both familiar and strange to him now, it’s been so long since he’s driven them.

Bucky remembers that—driving full speed around the treacherous corners with you standing up through the sunroof, your arms outstretched like you were trying to touch the sky. He’d believed you could then, in those moments, that your fingertips could touch the deep unending blue.

That blue is gone, though, as are the people you were—Bucky doesn’t know you anymore.

He’s surprised, when Steve pulls up to the old graveyard and doesn’t pass by, slowing to a stop outside the gates.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, panic gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. “Steve—”

“How long’s it been, Buck? Five years? Six?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snarls, lunging forward to try and grab the keys from Steve himself. “I don’t want—”

“For once, Buck, I could not give a shit less about what you want.” Steve stuffs the keys into his pocket and gets out of the car. “Come on.” He doesn’t wait for Bucky, pulling open one of the wrought iron gates with both hands. It opens with a rough squeal. Bucky reluctantly unbuckles himself, sticking a nervous cigarette between his lips as he follows him down the muddy path. His hands are trembling and unsure as he lifts the lighter, but his feet know the way without his direction.

The graves are right next to each other, just like they are in Bucky’s nightmares. The grass is green over the top of them, different from the loose dirt that had been shoveled on top just before Bucky had lit out of Meridian.

Should have been me.

“Why did you bring me here?” Bucky asks, his throat tight with tears he doesn’t want to shed. The cigarette burns at his lips, and he flicks the remains of it into the damp grass behind him.

“It’s the one place you’ve been avoiding. You promised you would come back.”

Bucky flinches.

It’s the first promise he ever broke, the one he’d made as he tossed in his handful of dirt like the preacher told him to. They’re in a better place, he’d said, patting Bucky sadly on the shoulder. A better place. Bucky was too old then to believe the lie—there was no better place. Just cold, wet earth and worms and nothing. He wonders if the demon was born that day, coming up out of the dirt while his mother and sister were lowered into it, because he’d known he was lying, even as he spoke the soft words to Becca’s tombstone—

He would never come back.

But here you are, his self loathing whispers. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.

“It should have been me,” he says softly, stepping forward to rest his palm against the cold stone. “We all know it should have been me.”

“I don’t think Becca would agree with you.”

“Well it doesn’t matter what you think,” Bucky snarls over his shoulder. “She’s dead.” Steve runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Yeah, Buck. She’s dead. She’s dead because Fred Ackerson’s truck jumped the guardrail.” Bucky doesn’t know why hearing that from Steve enrages him, makes him want to pummel his best friend’s face into pulp right there in the dirt next to his sister.

“You don’t understand,” he says through gritted teeth, his hand a tight fist on the tombstone. “If I had—” Steve grabs his shoulders, shaking him.

“What? What would you have done? She died on impact.” There are tears in his eyes too. “How long are you going to punish yourself for this shit, Buck?”

“I deserve—”

“Iris is six.” Steve’s words cut through him like a blade. “Do you want to see her make it to seven? Eight? Or do you want to be down there in the dirt?” He asks, his voice hard. “Because you won’t. Fuck, Bucky, you keep this shit up, I don’t think you’re going to see Christmas.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Steve says, releasing him. “It’s always been up to you.” He casts a forlorn look at Becca’s tombstone over Bucky’s shoulder, before he shakes his head. “Say… whatever you need to say. I’ll be waiting for you in the truck.” The silence closes in around him like fog, so loud that Bucky’s ears ring with it as he stares at the graves. He’d never said anything at the funerals, his tight lipped silence as loud as any of the moving eulogies given by those that had known them.

Bucky clears his throat. “Hey, Beccs.” He says in a hoarse, quiet voice. “B-been a while, huh?” The ground is muddy, but he sits down on it anyway, on the strip of grass between his mother and sister. “I, um. I don’t know what to say. That’s why I never said anything, it all seemed… stupid, I guess. Because you can’t hear me where you are, so… what does it matter, right?”

He’s tempted to give up and go back to the car, but Bucky swallows down the bitter urge, and keeps trying.

“But… if you could hear me, Beccs, I’m—I’m fuckin’ sorry.” His voice cracks. It feels like glass in his veins to say it, to finally admit it out loud to the air. “I am so fuckin’ sorry.” He hates to think about that night, about pulling mom and Beccs out of the twisted burning metal. The only way he can is with the pills, but there aren’t any this time; nothing to stop him from having to sit with his pain.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky does. He welcomes it back like an old friend—and for once, the demon is silent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t turn fast enough, didn’t see him coming,” he mumbles through steady tears. “I’d give anything for it to be me in there, not you.” The tears won’t stop now that they’ve started. “Y-you were going to be fucking—I dunno. A fucking astrophysicist, or something, Beccs. A goddamn force, and I, fuck. I don’t know what to be without you, sis. I… I don’t even want to be.” He admits the last part softly, to himself. He hasn’t thought it, really, not beyond wishing he could trade places with her.

If he was honest, Bucky wanted to die. That was the truth of it. That was why he didn’t bother to save money, why he did every drug he could until he was blacking out. He wanted oblivion—like mom. Like Becca.

That’s not what Beccs would want. The voice is softer, not acid like the one that usually follows every conscious thought.

She would want you to live.

Bucky isn’t sure how long he sits there in the cold drizzle before he gets up, wiping at his face. His hair is slick from the rain, and he shakes the droplets off of his coat before he gets into the passenger seat of Steve’s truck. He’s waiting—just like he said he was.

He starts it wordlessly, and they’re halfway back to Meridian when he asks him.

“Did you say what you needed to say, Buck?” Bucky follows the path of a particularly fat drop of rain down the window with his finger until it passes from view.

“Yeah. I think so.”

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