Chapter Text
Only the dead have seen the end of war
— attributed to Plato (perhaps erroneously)
BOOM.
The blast reverberates through Bucky’s skull like a ball-bearing, pinging around between his ears until his head is ringing, until the ringing is the only thing he can hear. He’s on the ground with no recollection of how he got there, and when he tries to push himself up his arm won’t work, something’s wrong. Behind him, Reynolds is up on his feet, but he’s the only one. He’s shouting something Bucky can’t hear and still that ringing is pounding in his brain, and it won’t stop—
Bucky wakes with a start, the flashback lingering even as his brain processes the sound as his alarm. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face, trying to dispel the remains of the nightmare. This is not the day he wanted to wake up like this, not when he’s already got enough nerves about finally starting college, a good ten years older than all the other freshmen.
Bucky isn't nervous though, he tells himself. He doesn't get nervous — he’s tough. He's been to war, been pinned down by insurgents with no hope in hell of rescue, heavy artillery fire coming from both sides in a war that never really had a legitimate purpose, but had a real and bloody end for far too many good soldiers. So he isn’t going to be nervous about some damn students, that’s for sure, not even after his most recurring nightmare.
The nightmare, a flashback really, is one that Bucky relives often. They’d been stuck in the shelled-out ruins of a small village for three days before they found their opening — a gap in the defences of the rebels along a dried-out river bed, a way to escape. The terrain had been soft underfoot, cracked across with old traces of water, but with a slight give to it still, despite being dry. Bouncy. Lake and river beds had been Bucky’s favourite terrain underfoot when they were moving through the landscape, flat and soft but hard enough for a good pace without any issues. He’d always tried to plan their routes through old lakes and rivers, to give their aching feet and knees even the smallest modicum of relief. That day, he’d wished it had been a real rushing torrent — they’d been out of water for nearly twenty four hours at that point. But still, it had seemed too easy, the way out too clear for what had been a complete shit-show up until then.
Bucky had been on point, leading his squadron to safety out of the valley they were stranded in — there was a rendezvous point around two clicks out where they’d be able to radio in for support from. Their rifles had been trained outwards, constantly scanning the surrounding landscape for signs of the rebels returning after the airstrikes had apparently beaten them back. Attention completely focused outwards, no one had looked at the ground beneath their feet.
Bucky, out in front alone, got off lightly. Odds are that he had already passed over at least one of the IEDs, but the weight of one lone foot soldier — instead of the humvees they were normally aimed for — hadn't been heavy enough to trigger them. However, his squad marching in formation behind him, heels striking hard, packed sand at the same time? That, that had been enough.
The rebels hadn't been retreating. They'd been laying a trap.
Bucky… Bucky doesn’t like to think about what happened next. He tries not to dwell on it as he gets ready for his day, starts the walk to campus, but his mind refuses to listen to him. He’s still not sure how many of his team survived the initial explosion, doesn’t know who was screaming next to him when he blacked out. He only knows that the day the explosion happened was the 5th of April, and by the time special forces liberated him — and only him, the lone survivor of his 10-man squad — well, it was the last week of June. He’d still been in the military hospital out in upstate New York for the 4th of July that year, and had never been more thankful that he missed the firework celebrations. He still has trouble with loud, unexpected noises, but he can just about not panic and drop to the ground when he hears a car backfiring.
Bucky’s memory of the actual explosion is patchy… He has flashes, but even thinking about them makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, makes his skin cold, and a phantom pain run up his non-existent left arm. He doesn’t like to think about what happened that day, how he let his men down, how they all died because of him and the route he’d led them on. It still felt like a cruel irony that he was the only one who’d survived, that he alone should bear the burden of what went wrong that day. It was only right. He remembers what had happened in the weeks and months afterwards far too well.
Fuck.
As he makes it to the campus, he resolves not to think about it anymore. The continuing cause of his not-irregular-enough nightmares, and the source of his ever-present PTSD wasn’t perhaps the best topic to get his mind off his first-day-at-college-nerves. It can't be that bad, right?
He shakes his head, his long hair falling in front of his face as he does so, hopefully masking the haunted look in his eyes from all the other students milling around him. He probably needs to make friends with some of these people, will surely at least need the help of a study group at some point. He really can’t afford to alienate them on day one.
He can already see in his mind the look that Nat would give him if he came back to their flat with the news that he’d had a full-blown freakout in the lobby of the NYU history faculty. She’d laugh, sure, until she realised he wasn’t joking. And then her face would go soft — not pitying, never pitying from Nat — but that look that said she knew, and she, at least, wouldn’t judge him for it.
He kinda wishes Nat was here with him today. But she has a real grown-up job and Bucky is just a washed-up veteran finally deciding to go to college for the first time, once he realised he wasn't qualified for anything else apart from getting shot at. Or shooting at things. He'd been the sharp shooter for his squadron, and often requested by other units for his sniper skills. When he can't sleep at night he tries not to think about how many faceless and nameless targets he's killed. Tries not to and never succeeds.
He needs to stop thinking about this.
He's here. He's starting college. History major, he knows that much at the moment but he has no idea what he might minor in. He'll try a few things out probably, see what sticks. In two minutes he will be late for orientation though so he needs to get moving. LH107 which he guesses is a lecture theatre on the ground floor. 103… 104…
He follows in a couple of kids that he swears can't be old enough for college – they look like children. Jesus , he has nothing in common with these kids. It's fine, he tells himself, it'll be fine. He's a hardened war machine, or something like that, he's not scared of a few teenagers.
He does a weird sort of jig to stop the door catching on his prosthetic arm. He doesn't bother wearing it half the time, doesn't see the point in having an extra bit of plastic stuck to him, but he'd wanted to appear normal; wanted to blend in on his first day at least. He doesn't need any stares.
He slips into the back row as the professor at the front of the lecture hall is shuffling their notes. About 40 maybe, with greying dark hair; he looks nice. Bucky quickly grabs his laptop out of his backpack and flips it open. The schedule for orientation is up on the screen when it wakes up, and he catches the name Dr Banner just as the professor at the front introduces himself as the same.
“Morning all. I’m Dr Bruce Banner, please feel free to call me Bruce. I’m the undergraduate faculty advisor for the History department, and I also teach Intro to American History 101, which is compulsory for all history majors. But I’m sure you already know that!”
Banner seems like a nice guy, very affable, and Bucky’s glad. He’d been worried that the head of the department would be some crusty old tweed-wearing bore from New England or somewhere, like a really un-fun version of Giles from Buffy, but Banner seems cool. In fact, Bucky’s certain that he’s nearer in age to Banner (Bruce… call me Bruce) than his fellow students, so he already feels more comfortable about going to him if he ever has any problems. Not that he will… seek help that is. He needs one of those signs they give out when you’re in AA - help me if I don’t ask for help . He hates it even more nowadays, assuming people are pitying him once they see his lack of arm.
Banner’s introductory spiel has given way to the start of the American History 101 lecture, and he spends the next hour going over the course content, as well as what other courses they are advised — or required — to take.
It’s boring, although admittedly not as boring as sitting in some foxhole for hours on end, with only the desert rats to keep you company. But it’s still pretty dull and Bucky — Bucky loves every minute of it. He’s already thinking about the gift he’s going to buy Nat for convincing him to go back to school, but here, right here, he feels like he’s finally made a good choice in life.
Not that the army was a bad choice. He’d enlisted straight out of school in 2002, a few months after 9/11 and the Iraq war had started. There had been a huge swell of patriotism sweeping the country, and as a physically fit eighteen year-old it had seemed like the best thing that he could do to support his country. As a Brooklyn lad, the fall of the Twin Towers had also hit incredibly close to home, and if going to war meant it could keep his friends and family — his sisters — safe, then that’s what he’d do.
He’d been smart though. Bucky had always done well in school, and it had upset his mom that he had chosen not to go to college at that point. It’s probably not every mother’s dream to be worried about their son being shot or killed instead of asking about any cute girls they’d met in the library. Not that Bucky would have been meeting girls, but his mom still doesn’t know about that… He suspects Becca does. Becca is his eldest sister and closest confidante after Nat, and he’s pretty sure she can read minds. She hasn’t asked him, and he still doesn’t know how to tell her. After years of living under DADT, the act of hiding that part of himself is truly ingrained second nature, and he still doesn’t know how to change that.
Nat knows, of course. He’s been friends with her since 5th grade, when her family moved over from Russia. The Barnes family were originally from Romania — his grandmother only speaks Romanian, so Bucky’s been speaking it from a young age. And Russian and Romanian were close enough language cousins that he knew enough, at least, to communicate with Nat when she turned up at school, skinny as hell and with the fiercest attitude he’d ever seen, not speaking a word of English. She’d learnt English quickly, but she’d never forgotten the kindness that the ‘weird Barnes kid’ had shown her. He’d thought himself in love with her for a short time when puberty struck, until he realised that what he liked most were the well-defined curves of her muscles, and not her breasts. Muscles that looked even better on the football team.
He’d never done anything about it when he’d been in school, but Nat had noticed where his eyes strayed. Then, straight into the military, there hadn’t been space for a boyfriend of any kind. He’d done his fair share of bed-hopping when home on leave, but never anyone serious, never for more than one night. College, though, is meant to be a fresh start. It's meant to be a chance for Bucky to be honest for once, to let himself be just himself. Not Sergeant Barnes, not big brother Bucky looking after his younger sisters, and not James Barnes the one-armed veteran. Maybe finally he can just be Bucky again.
While he’s been lost in his head Banner has concluded his lecture and the students have started to file out again. A blonde girl gives him a strange look as she passes Bucky and he realises he's just been sitting there staring. Great start, Barnes, just sit here like a 30-year-old creep. He's already out of place enough, what with his age and his arm (and his PTSD, a vicious voice in the back of his head helpfully supplies), he doesn't need the other freshman thinking that he's any weirder.
He follows the last few of the students out, holding the door for Banner behind him before he realises he's walked into a sea of students and for a moment he can't remember how to breathe. There are bodies everywhere, people crammed in too tight and nowhere to leave. He can't see the exits and there's no way out.
There’s a blackness creeping in around his vision and he can feel both of his palms tingling, itching for the cool grip of a rifle. He doesn't have his helmet on and he doesn't know why, doesn't know why he would have taken it off when they’re out on manoeuvres.
Oh god . He doesn't. He can't. He needs to get out of here. He knew this was a bad idea, can't believe he ever thought he could hack it at college. He slowly backs up until he's pressed up against the lecture theatre door that he'd exited from only a moment before, and he tries to remember how to breathe.
He’s not really seeing anything anymore, mind filled with memories of sand and stone. His chest feels tight and he's sure he's going to pass out soon if he doesn't find a way out of here.
Then suddenly, a pair of strong hands are resting on his shoulders, grounding him to the here and now. It should feel constricting but the hands are warm and firm even on his scarred and ruined shoulder, and he's no longer lost in the Iraqi desert.
“Hey pal, you’re ok, just breathe.”
Bucky wants to reply but he doesn’t have any words inside him, has only memories of heat and pain, the sharp tang of blood in his nose and mouth.
The hands are steering him until he's being pushed back into the lecture hall from earlier (and was that really only a few minutes ago? It seems like a lifetime), and then they’re guiding him down onto the floor, back pressed up against the wall and two exits in clear view. Bucky concentrates on the wide open space before him, and the clear routes to the exits, as his vision clears. He focuses on the normalcy of the crappy college desks in front of him, all neatly ordered in row upon row. He thinks about the feel of the rough thin carpet beneath his fingertips — it would be better if it were a nice plush he could sink his fingers into, but at the moment all that matters is that it isn't sand, there are no stones or grains ruining the texture. Just old worn carpet, run thin by thousands of pairs of feet from students throughout the years.
It's quieter in here too, although Bucky can hear the susurrus of conversation from the swell of students on the other side of the door. Concentrating on that mass of noise makes his heart rate jump up again and he immediately shuts it down. Listens instead to the rough sound of his own breathing, and isn't surprised to find it sounds like he's run a marathon. Fuck.
He wonders how many people saw him freakout. That's when he remembers that he didn't come into this room alone and he looks up to find a guy who must be about his age taking great care not to stare at Bucky while he pulls himself back together.
The guy looks… he kind of looks how Bucky feels sometimes and Bucky is instantly sure that he's a vet as well. He looks like he’s not as tall as Bucky, with strong wide shoulders making him look stocky. His hair is a dirty ash blond and his face has deep wrinkles like a pit bull, but he doesn't look angry or aggressive, just like… like life had taken its toll on this guy, in one way or another.
Bucky tries to speak, to get the guy’s attention, but nothing comes out except a harsh puff of air. He's clearing his throat to try again when the guy looks up at the sound.
“Hey,” his voice is soft, far softer than Bucky might have expected, and his eyes crinkle up into a smile, “how you doing?”
It should be patronising, should set Bucky's hackles rising, that this complete stranger is babying him. But if he's learnt one thing from being spit out on the wrong side of war, it's that people don't have to be kind; kindness is always, always a gift, not an insult.
“Yeah,” Bucky clears his throat again, his voice sounding thick and scratchy like it really had been filled with sand. “I'm … good. Sorry.” He reaches up to rub his hand across the back of his neck, a sliver of embarrassment creeping in now that his flashback is subsiding.
“Thanks…thanks for your help.” He can't quite bring himself to meet this other guy's eyes, worried about the judgement he'll find there.
“Don't worry about it. You looked like you needed an escape.”
They don't quite stare at each other in silence for a few moments before the guy speaks again.
“Clint Barton, infantry medic, 501st, retired.”
A weight lifts off Bucky's shoulders that he hadn't even realised was still there. This guy is a vet like he'd expected and Bucky knows that means this guy gets it, that there won't be any judgement on his behalf.
“Buck—James Barnes, 107th, retired as well. Freshman history major, my friends call me Bucky.” He notices that Barton hasn't reached out his hand for Bucky to shake, understands that it's not because he's being rude or dismissive, but that he's not forcing Bucky to reach out and touch him if he doesn't want to. The last piece of anxiety that had been clamped around his chest unfurls at this; Barton gets it, he's safe here.
He reaches up his right hand for Barton to shake, and the other man reaches out with another one of those crinkled smiles.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah, you too.” The hand, on the back of his neck again once Clint lets go. “Thanks for that.”
“Seriously, it was no problem, it looked like you needed it. First day?” Barton’s expression is wide open and accepting, and god, Bucky couldn’t be more thankful right now.
“First day. I wasn’t expecting—“ Bucky trails off, unable to articulate quite what he was or wasn’t expecting. The crowds? The noise? How it would take his mind back immediately to the war like he’d never left? He’d been out two years, he really hadn’t expected to have an episode like that on a college campus.
They tell you that PTSD never leaves you, that it’s always a part of you. The strategies they teach you to employ, they’re not about a cure, or getting rid of it. PTSD becomes a part of you just like the blood in your veins, your bones, skin and sinew. It’s about learning how to cope with this new part of you, learning how to accept it and manage yourself around it. So you can live a normal life, so you don’t have to feel your vision blacking out in a crowded place. For some, that means avoiding crowds, or having a service animal that can help them navigate those situations which might trigger them, for others it becomes easier, normal, natural. To be in a crowded place and not been scanning for concealed weapons or suicide bombers, not to be constantly scanning for threats and escape routes.
Bucky knows he’s not there yet, knows he’s not comfortable having his back to the door, or when he can’t see people’s faces — he’d absolutely hated Halloween last year, people all around him in masks and costumes, and he doesn’t think he’ll fare any better this year. But normal, everyday situations, he’s been fine with, that’s one of the reasons why he’d decided to enroll in college, why he’d thought he’d be able to cope with it. To react like this on day one is a huge blow to his confidence, and he just wants to head straight home, back to the crappy flat he shares with Nat and hide in his bed until he’s not damaged anymore, until he’s not a traumatised vet who doesn’t know how to act around normal people.
That's not possible though. The cruel thing about PTSD is that it’ll be with him for the rest of his life. It's never not with you, you just get better at managing it. The carefree Bucky who existed as a teenager died in some godforsaken corner of the Middle East and he's never coming back.
Barton had sat down next to him on the floor whilst Bucky had been lost in his head again. On his right side, so he's not pressing against the prosthesis, not making Bucky hyper aware of what he's missing. It makes Bucky feel like he’s back with his unit, back with the men he lost, where they always understood each other without having to say anything.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I was a huge mess the first couple of years. How long have you been out?”
“Two years.” Bucky winces slightly as he answers, aware that he should have his shit together more by this point.
“Ah.” But Barton’s tone isn’t judging even now. “I’m guessing you didn’t think the crowds would get to you anymore? I know that feeling, man.”
Bucky’s internal cringing subsides even more. “Yeah, I just thought… I’d been doing well.”
“That’s the real bitch, isn’t it? Two steps forward, one step back.” Bucky just nods in reply, not willing to delve too much further into his battered psyche right now. “You got another class now? Or do you wanna go grab a coffee?”
Bucky doesn’t have anything else until the afternoon — his World War I lecture — although a whole module focused on one of the bloodiest and most brutal combats in history seems like a really fucking bad idea right now.
“Coffee sounds great, lead the way.” He pushes himself up off the floor, and extends his good hand back to help Barton up. He thinks he might have just made a friend.
Barton takes him to an off-campus coffee shop — don’t bother with the department canteen unless you’re truly desperate. That stuff’s worse than army swill — where he buys him a coffee. Once they’re sat down at a small table near the back (exits: two), Bucky spies a wedding ring on Barton’s left hand, so he’s pretty sure he hasn’t inadvertently found himself on a date on his very first day. He had promised himself — and an ever-perceptive Nat — that he would be more open about himself, it’s all part of the new James Barnes, but accidentally outing himself by ending up on a date with someone he just wants to make friends with would be truly disastrous.
He lifts up the coffee to take an experimental sip, and realises that it’s pretty good. The warm liquid immediately seems to seep down inside of him to where he had been cold, too cold inside, memories lingering of a past he doesn’t want to remember.
“Thanks for this, and earlier.”
Barton’s smile is small, but no less genuine. “Hey man, forget about it. I get it, really.”
Bucky can see him eyeing up the stiff and lifeless prosthesis in his left sleeve and finds that he doesn’t mind so much.
“You can ask,” he says quietly, eyebrows quirking at Barton.
It’s not something he normally offers up easily, or at all, but he finds that it feels normal here. God, he doesn’t think he’s ever realised how much he missed being part of a unit until right this moment. He tries not to think about the men — about the brothers — that he lost that day, but he wonders right now how much easier the transition between there and home would have been with the rest of the 107th at his side.
“Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Both. Six tours, ten years. I’d been thinking about getting out, but didn’t have a clue what I’d do. And then, this happened in Afghanistan, kind of made up my mind for me. IED. Lost my whole squad.” Bucky doesn’t mention that he hadn’t lost them all in the explosion, knows from debriefing that some of their bodies had been recovered from the compound he was being held in. That information, that belongs to him and his guilt, and no one else. He sees someone, had been a requirement upon his (honorable) discharge, an army sanctioned therapist. But it’ll be fucking decades before he’s sorted through all his baggage. Honestly, he’s just happy right now that he can function enough to be out in public, that’s more than he’d thought could be possible at one time.
Thankfully, Barton doesn’t press the issue at all, and even though Bucky’s only just met the guy, he can’t say he’s surprised.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Barton doesn’t offer anything more complicated than that but Bucky knows — he understands in the way that only someone who’s experienced the same can. Luckily, Barton doesn’t let either of them dwell on it though.
“So history major? What made you pick that?”
“I don’t know. I’d always been interested in history at school, and then after I came home, I had a lot of time to read books. But, all the fiction books, all those happy endings seemed so fake. The history books, they at least seemed real to me.”
He takes another sip of coffee. Those are the same words he wrote in his admissions essay, although they’d been slightly more eloquently put, but it’s true. He couldn’t get into fiction once he’d seen the very worst that humanity had to offer, it had all felt so fake and empty. History at least was real, and Bucky needed reality more than ever since coming home, far too often getting trapped within his own memories and nightmares. He still reads science fiction, though. Pulpy, trashy, outlandish science fiction, where the aliens have green skin, and it’s so far removed from his reality it takes him to other places, other worlds.
“What about you?” he asks Barton, wondering if he’s a history major too.
“Med School, third year. But someone had recommended Banner’s graduate class on the history of medicine and I was trying to catch him earlier — you’d just come out of his 101 class, right?”
The third year of medical school at least explains why Barton is closer to Bucky’s own age than his fellow freshmen, especially since he must have done at least a few years in the army as well.
“Yeah, although 101 seems pretty basic. Easy credits though, I guess.” Bucky offers a little shrug, as if to say, hey, taking something easy wouldn’t be a bad idea for once.
Barton offers a small chuckle. “Yeah, most of the 101 courses are nice enough, enjoy it while you can!”
They end up chatting for over an hour in the back of that coffee shop, and Bucky knows by the end of it that he’s made a new friend. On his first day! Nat would be so proud of him. Barton tells him where the good coffee is on campus, and where the quietest spots to study are. Tells Bucky about his wife and kids, and how he'd got out for them — couldn't bear the idea of his kids growing up without a father like he had done. He also asks Bucky if he’s planning on going to the local VA meetings or does he have a group back home…?
Bucky doesn't live in Brooklyn any more, doesn't live near his ma or sisters. The apartment he shares with Natasha is only five blocks from the part of the NYU campus where the history faculty is based. But he also hasn't been to a VA meeting since his very first one, two weeks out of hospital and already going crazy under his mom’s too-attentive care. She’d only meant well, he knows, and he loves her for that. But it had been so stifling. And a VA meeting had been a Valid Excuse to leave the house that not even his mom could argue with. But sitting there, surrounded by other vets who had lost friends and squad mates about there, Bucky had felt like a fraud. He'd been responsible for the death of his whole unit, who was he to sit here and gain sympathy for his loss? What about their loss? What did they deserve?
He'd barely made it through the meeting before bolting outside and vomiting in a side alley. He'd crouched there against the stained brick wall and cried great heaving sobs, lungs desperate for air as he cried and cried and cried. And then he'd wiped his face and walked home, told his mom he was moving out and within a week he was living with Nat. He'd never gone back to the Brooklyn VA support group.
He's self aware enough that he knows it's unhealthy, has admitted as much to his therapist, who he still sees once a week. She's stopped asking him if he's ever going back, stopped expecting a change. But Bucky wants to, he wants to feel good enough that he could be a part of the support, to be able to talk to people who understand, who won't judge. He wants that, he’s just still not sure he can allow himself that mercy yet.
But there was Barton telling him about the group that meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays on the NYU campus. That there are a surprising amount of vets studying here, all looking to be a part of something different, something kinder.
He’d given Barton a non-answer about the VA, but it’s been gnawing at him since. The idea had tickled at the back of his mind as he sat through the introduction for the WWI course. Thankfully, the time spent talking with Barton had resettled his mind somewhat, and since the lecture today was mostly only the course outline, as well as starting to cover the political situation in Europe that had led to the start of the war, there was nothing that reignited Bucky’s memories.
At the end of the lecture, he swings his backpack over his right shoulder and heads towards the front of the room whilst the professor — a Dr. Carter — is still packing up her things.
“Excuse me, Dr. Carter?” Bucky guesses she’s easily in her sixties, but from their class today he could already tell that she was sharp as a tack, and incredibly smart. He knew he’d have to be honest, that she’d see through some bullshit excuse straight away.
Dr. Carter looks up questioningly before Bucky continues. “Hi, my name's James Barnes, I'm a freshman history major. I just wanted to talk to you about your class…” He trails off, unsure of how to phrase his request.
Dr. Carter just looks at him patiently. “Yes?”
“I'm an army vet and I just… I just wanted to make you aware that I might need to leave the class sometimes. I mean, I'll try not to, I don't want to, but sometimes…”
Dr. Carter takes pity on his rambling. “That's okay James, don’t worry about it. You do what you need to and let me know if there's any way I can help, if you need transcriptions of anything you have to miss.”
Once again, Bucky is surprised and relieved at the kindness of practical strangers. “That’s great, thank you. I’m really excited to take this course, so I’m hoping there won’t be any problems.”
“I hope so too, James,” Dr. Carter responds in a quiet voice, a small smile on her lips. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You too, thanks.”
Bucky’s not entirely sure he’s worth this kindness, but right now, he’s going to be selfish and take it.
He goes for a bit of a wander around the campus after that, and although he tells himself it’s just so he can get a feel for things when he not rushing around looking for a class, there’s a small voice at the back of his head that won’t go away. Do you plan on going to the local VA meetings here? We have a group that meets on campus… Barton’s voice is echoing through his head, and he’s not going, he’s definitely not going. He hasn’t been to a VA meeting in two years, he’s definitely not about to start going here, on campus, where he’s meant to be making normal friends and putting all that behind him.
His fingers, though, his fingers aren’t listening to him. Because somehow his phone is in his hand, and he’s pressing down for Siri even as he tells himself that he’s still not going.
“Siri. Where are the VA meetings on the NYU campus?”
It’s a bitch to type with only one hand, especially when you’re standing outside trying to look like you know exactly what you’re doing.
His phone flashes up with the answer in seconds, and shows him how far away it is. It’s in a different building to the history faculty, but it’s not far. No more than a five minute walk away. Bucky looks up from his phone to his surroundings, getting his bearings for which direction he needs to head. If he goes left, it’s a short walk to his apartment… If he goes right…
He goes right. He thinks about how easy it had felt talking to Barton earlier, how it had felt like the camaraderie he’d had overseas. He thinks about how there are some things these teenagers will never understand about him and the things he’s experienced. Bucky doesn’t want them to either, doesn’t want anybody else to be burdened with this weight, this fear, this guilt, this anxiety. But he does wish sometimes to be understood, and maybe it’s time to find that again.
He can check it out at least, see if it’s worth going to again. It is turns out to be a disaster, well, it’s still only his first day.
He stops off to get another coffee — it’s been a stressful day and the first day excitement is starting to droop into weariness. For someone who used to get by on four hours of sleep a night or less, he’s pretty embarrassed, but maybe that’s a sign of the times too. He no longer needs to function solely on adrenaline and coffee, he’s allowed to establish a sleep pattern like a normal person, sleep in a soft bed with pillows and a warm blanket. That had taken some getting used to at first. He’d gotten used to sleeping pretty much anywhere, anytime, and to come back to New York and have to sleep in a bed? It had felt wrong, and his body hadn’t known what to do with it. Hadn’t known how to cope with the absence of pain, and discomfort, and full-body weariness that was all part of being at war.
He’s used to it now. He’s perfectly happy hibernating in his bed for hour upon hour, only emerging to use the bathroom or eat cold pizza from the fridge. That’s probably just as unhealthy as not sleeping, but he’s trying. Sometimes… sometimes it’s just not safe for him to be out in the world, when he’s scared of what he might do to himself, or other people. At times like that, the safest thing to do is just to go to sleep, to hide away until he feels like he’s in control of his own mind again, like he knows who he is and his place in the world.
There had been days when he’d first come back that he’d supplemented those days with cheap bottles of whiskey, of vodka, of gin, of rum. Whatever was on hand and would get him drunk the fastest. Whatever would get him drunk enough that he wouldn’t remember that he was incomplete, that he was missing his arm, and half his mind sometimes too.
That had been a dark time. Those first few months when he got back, when neither his body nor his mind knew how to adjust to being Bucky Barnes the amputee, Bucky Barnes the vet, Bucky Barnes the murderer, the blood of all his unit on his hands. He knew how to be Sergeant Barnes, knew how to be a member of the 107th, knew how to be their sharp shooter, but he didn’t know how to be this new Bucky, this half man, this wasted man.
He thinks maybe, maybe he’d still be drunk right now if it hadn’t been for Nat. She’d found him a job, had poured all the alcohol out of their apartment, and kept doing the same over and over again whenever Bucky bought any more. She poured it out faster than he could buy it, faster than he could drink and she read him the riot act. It worked a lot better than sympathy, a lot better than a soft touch and pitying looks. He didn’t deserve sympathy, but orders, he could follow those.
He thinks that maybe the suggestion from Barton was an order in a different sense. A command that maybe it’s ok to let himself interact with service personnel again, to let himself be a part of a crowd he’s been denying himself access to, feeling unworthy of their support. He’s fully aware of the unhealthiness of his thoughts, but the guilt sits heavy inside him every single day, along with the knowledge of what happened to his team, and the screams of those who had been imprisoned and tortured alongside him. Their blood is a part of his consciousness, their lives his responsibility, and he’s the one who let them die. There are things he could have done differently, things he should have done to ensure their safety more — he should have known it was a trap, should have spotted the IEDs beneath their feet. They trusted him, and he got them all killed; that’s why he can’t forgive himself.
He might just be able to reach out, put that guilt into a context where other army personnel can understand it. He’s not looking for forgiveness, but he’d take acceptance. He’d take pretty much anything that would help him sleep at night, that could help wash the stain of this blood from his hands.
He realises those hands are shaking as he reaches up to open the door to the building. Even his left hand, made of flesh-colored plastic, dead and lifeless in his sleeve, is trembling with the shakes that are wracking his whole body. God, he would kill for a cigarette right about now, but he’d given those up along with the booze, given up the things that would slowly kill him without his consent.
He sucks in a deep breath and heads inside. At the very least Barton will be there so it won't be a room completely full of strangers.
The room inside is set up into rows of chairs rather than the circle he was expecting, like at AA meetings. He'd also tried one of those once, when Nat had finally succeeded in clearing all the alcohol out of their apartment, and he was left facing a future where he couldn’t numb reality with drink. He’d gone, shaking, face pale and sweaty, to his local AA meeting, and sat there in a circle looking at his future. He’d eaten a stale donut and listened to these strangers tell stories about how they’d ruined their lives over and over again. How they’d driven away their loved ones, and burnt every good thing in their lives into the ground.
The next morning he craved a drink more than he craved oxygen, but all he could see were those pale and shaking faces, old and sad, alone. And he couldn’t do it. He even went to the liquor store and bought a large bottle, was on his bed, bottle raised to his lips but he couldn’t take a sip. He’d wanted to, so so badly, but those faces gnawed at him and he’d walked to the kitchen on shaking legs and poured the entire bottle straight down the sink. He’d been sick as a dog for days from withdrawal, vomiting constantly despite not eating, just throwing up lurid green bile and choking on air. He’d sweated through every t-shirt he owned until the shakes and the sweats had subsided, until he’d been able to look outside the window without the daylight burning his eyes. Then he’d turned to Nat and swore to her — never again, not a drop — and he hadn’t, ever since. It hadn’t been easy, but in the end, it had been simple.
He knows, he knows he’s fucking lucky. People lose their lives to alcohol, in sucks them back in time and time again, and the PTSD makes it feel like a comfort, like a friend, something that they choose rather than an ever-deepening hole that’s spinning out of control. Bucky wants a drink every single damn day of his life, wants to feel that blissful ignorance that only comes with being so blindingly drunk you can’t remember your own name. He wants to forget everyone and everything, stop thinking about how he got his whole team killed and yet he’s still here to tell the tale. He wants to say he doesn’t drink to preserve their memory, but it’s not true. He wants to drink because he’s weak, but he doesn’t because he doesn’t deserve the blissful stupor of intoxication. He deserves to remember.
There are a few people dotted around the room, some milling near the coffee urn set up on a table along the wall, and the rest already seated in the ten or so rows set up. He takes a seat near the back, cap pulled down low over his face. He’s not sure he wants to talk to anyone, not even sure anymore he wants Barton to realise he’s here when he arrives. He feels fucking sick, he doesn’t deserve to be here. The dog tags he still wears feel hot against his chest like a brand that’s being burned into his skin.
He can’t do this.
He gets up and starts to make his way back towards the door, when two people walk through. It’s Barton and a dark-skinned man who looks to be around the same age. The two are talking animatedly, conversation flowing easily between them like they’re fully functioning adults who know how to navigate the world. Unlike Bucky.
Bucky swerves towards the coffee instead of heading to the exit like he’d been planning. Shit shit shit . Too late to leave now. Barton spots him, and walks over with a bright, “Bucky!”
“Hey Barton.” Bucky’s voice is quiet but he’s just glad it doesn’t waver.
“I’m glad you could make it. Wasn’t sure we’d see you here.” Barton looks like he wants to clap Bucky on the shoulder and then thinks better of it. He’s glad. Bucky’s not sure he can deal with physical contact right now. His nerves are feeling frayed like old wire, and he’s scared he might lash out if someone comes too close. He’s not sure he can trust himself, it was a bad idea to come here.
“Wasn’t sure I’d be here either,” Bucky replies honestly.
Barton doesn’t comment any further and instead introduces him to the man he’d walked in with.
“Bucky, I’d like you to meet Sam Wilson, who’s the lead of the meetings here. Sam, this is Bucky, the vet I was just telling you about.”
Bucky bristles at that slightly, wondering what Barton might have told this man about him. Did he tell him he was having an episode in the corridor? Did he tell him he couldn’t even get through one day as a normal person before having to retreat and hide?
“Bucky, nice to meet you.” Wilson’s voice is soft but firm, and god damn he is attractive when he smiles. A set of perfect teeth shine out at Bucky underneath a neat and tidy moustache and beard. He also doesn’t extend a hand for Bucky to shake, and he could really get used to this level of consideration. “Freshman history major, right? Barton was just telling me that he met another vet this morning?”
Wilson’s face is completely guileless as he questions Bucky, and the tightness that had stretched across his shoulders at the introduction relaxes infinitesimally; it didn’t seem like Barton had told Wilson any more than the bare facts about Bucky.
“That’s right. 107th infantry, Sergeant James Barnes. But my friends call me Bucky.” At this he does offer a hand out to Wilson, but loosely, showing that he won’t be offended if Wilson rejects him. Bucky doesn’t think he will, but he’s seen the skittish vet-type before, those who can’t go in for a handshake without worrying that there’s a suicide bomber hiding behind the friendly gesture, waiting to grab you and draw you in close. Or those, like Bucky himself, who hasn’t allowed himself to get near another human being physically since he was discharged, who can’t bear the thought of someone he doesn’t know touching him, touching this body that even now he’s not fully in control of, because sometimes the PTSD is in control, and he never knows when that might be. The best he can do is keep himself isolated and keep to himself. At least then, he’s the only one he can harm when things run out of control.
Sam Wilson shakes his hand like it’s no big deal, and doesn’t spare Bucky’s prothesis more than a passing glance. It feels good, to be around people who intrinsically understand all the things that Bucky doesn’t even know how to start explaining. It feels good.
A few more people file in and Sam tells them to take a seat as they are about to start. Bucky shuffles back into the row he'd just come out of, Barton following him but leaving a gap between them when they sit down.
Sam, meanwhile, has walked up to the front of the room where there is a small table which he steps in front of and then immediately leans back against. The posture is so distinctly un-military that it jars Bucky momentarily, and it takes him a second to remember that he doesn't have to be here. This isn't mandated and it isn't compulsory. He's here by choice, he's not in the army any more — his life is his own to do with as he pleases.
“Good evening everyone, and welcome to tonight's VA meeting. For those of you who are new, I'm Sam Wilson. I was a pararescue, two tours. I'm now studying for my PhD in aeronautical engineering at NYU. We invite everyone to share whatever they feel comfortable talking about, but it's also okay not to share. We don't require you to speak here, it's okay just to listen.” He looks around the room. “Who would like to go first?”
There's a brief silence that seems to ripple round the room as if everyone is expecting the person next to them to speak up. Then a woman in the front row stands up.
“Evelyn, go ahead,” Sam says with a smile, and the woman starts to speak.
“Hi, I'm Evelyn, two tours, engineers. I lost my husband in ‘07 to an IED — he was infantry. Yesterday, my girlfriend proposed to me and…”
Bucky looks up at the word girlfriend. Obviously he's aware that there must be queer people in the army, but for most of the time he was enlisted it was such a taboo topic — it would get you discharged if you were found out. It's remarkably refreshing to hear Evelyn speak so openly to a group of strangers, albeit strangers with a shared commonality.
“I just … I'm so happy but I'm still filled with this guilt. Like, how dare I be happy when Aaron’s dead? I promised to be his wife for the rest of our lives, and I guess I'm struggling with the fact that I get a second chance and he doesn't. He doesn't get anything. They took that away from him.”
Bucky is staring very hard at his remaining hand as she finishes speaking, furiously trying to blink back the tears that have formed in his eyes. The war took a lot away from everyone, but this woman, she’s clawed something back, or found something new. She’s allowed herself to live, in a way that Bucky hasn’t been able to, hasn’t allowed himself. He wonders… The degree, being here at NYU, is the first step that he’s allowed himself to take, but maybe? He doesn’t know. What is it that they say about alcoholics? First, you buy a plant, and if the plant survives, you can buy a pet. And, if after that, both pet and plant are alive, you can think about adult, human relationships. Bucky doesn’t own a plant, or a pet. Can he really be thinking about looking for a relationship? He wouldn’t have to hide it anymore, he’s no longer in the military, and DADT has been repealed anyway, even if he was. But he’s never even been in a real adult relationship before, he doesn’t know how to do that.
Maybe it’s time to find out.
By the time he starts paying attention to the room again, Sam is thanking Evelyn for sharing, and talking about how the burden of loss can often be a part of them that never goes away. They carry it along with the guilt of surviving when many others — more deserving, or less so, there is often no way to judge — came home in body bags. Or not at all, their bodies lost in explosions, or under enemy capture. Bucky knows that, surprisingly, the bodies of all his team were recovered, thrown into a mass grave that had been left open as they died one after the other — even those who had died in the original IED explosion, their bodies had been recovered by the enemy, presumably as a way of covering their tracks, leaving no evidence behind that a targeted explosion had gone off.
The grave had only been waiting for his own body when Special Forces had finally located the compound and freed him. Sometimes his nightmares involve him lying in that grave, the bodies of his team crushing him and suffocating him until he wakes gasping into the night, tears and sweat intermingling on the sheets.
A couple more people share their own thoughts or stories, but Bucky’s hardly listening to them. He’s gone too far into his own memories, mind more on the past than in the present.
He says an absent goodbye to both Wilson and Barton on his way out, walks the long way home to clear his head. It’s still summer in New York and the evening is sticky with the promise of rain. Bucky lingers in the hope that the storm will break while he’s still out in it, but nothing comes. After so many months spent in the barren desert of the Middle East, the touch of rain on his skin is something that Bucky treasures, something he craves. It reminds him of the simple pleasures in life, that they haven’t all been lost or denied to him. This thing, at least, he can enjoy. He likes to throw on his battered sneakers and head out into the rain, especially when it’s really pouring down. A heavy downpour means that the people who find themselves stuck in it are no longer looking around at the world. Their heads are looking down at the pavement, eyes turned away from the rain falling from the sky, or else hidden under the protective shelter of an umbrella. It means no one’s looking at Bucky’s slightly lopsided gait as his body struggles to compensate for his missing arm — the weight and balance of his uneven body throwing him off, even after two years of being like this.
He supposes that he went nearly 28 years with two arms, so maybe it will take him another 28 to get used to only having one. To not wake up sometimes still and try to turn his alarm off with a hand that isn’t there anymore, scratch his nose, pull the covers up over his head so he can pretend the world outside doesn’t exist, that he doesn’t exist.
He shakes these thoughts out of his head as he takes the stairs up to their apartment two at a time. The lift hasn’t worked in months, but Bucky finds he doesn’t mind so much any more. Back when he’d first moved in here with Nat, back when he’d still been far too self-conscious to attempt running outside, the flights of stairs up to the sixth floor had been the only exercise he got. Until he discovered the sanctuary of running in the rain, the privacy it offered him. Now, the stairs are still useful exercise every day, but he no longer finds himself struggling for breath once he gets to their front door. It feels good though, to get his blood pumping round his body, and sometimes he races up the stairs like he’s five years old again and he’s got the newest comic book from the store. It reminds him of who he was before the war, before the explosion, and the loss, the grief and the disability he now carries with him everywhere he goes.
He hasn’t even got his key into the lock when they door swings open before him, revealing an angry looking Natasha Romanoff.
“Where have you been? Your class finished ages ago.” There’s a fire in her eyes which reminds Bucky of the Natasha who poured all the alcohol out of their flat, the Natasha who used to pick fights with the school bullies so they wouldn’t pick on the other kids.
Bucky feels another flash of hot guilt course through him for not letting Nat know that he would be home late. He hadn’t thought about it at all, had only been thinking about himself, and whether he could face going to the VA meeting, if he could face being in the same room as other vets.
“Shit Nat, I’m sorry,” he replies as she hauls him into the apartment to give him a once over.
Once she’s satisfied he’s okay, her glare flattens into a frown. “Where were you, and why didn’t you call?”
She sounds like nothing less than Bucky’s own ma in this moment, and he has to try hard to bite back a smile. He loves Nat, he really really loves her, and he’s so glad she cares about him.
“Nat, I love you.”
Her frown softens into a smile, “I love you too, you great dork. Are you okay?”
He feels bad for making her worry, and promises himself he won’t do that to her again. It had been his first day on the NYU campus, of course she was going to be worried about him and how he’d fared. He should have texted her, at the very least.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry. I actually went to a VA meeting on campus.”
Her eyes widen at that admission, since she’s fully aware that he has been to exactly one VA meeting before in his entire life, and that he’d sworn off them for good ever since.
“You did what?” She hustles him to to the couch, and sits down next to him, curling her feet up under herself. She taps on her phone for a few seconds, “Pizza’s ordered, now spill”.
Bucky opens and closes his mouth a few times before he answers. Sometimes he forgets how efficient Nat can be when she’s on a mission.
“I went to the campus VA meeting. I met a vet earlier in the day and he mentioned it, and I just. Found myself there. It actually wasn't bad.” He gives a small shrug and a smile as if to say, what can you do?
“So you went to this VA meeting for this vet? Was he cute?”
“No!” Bucky response is loud and immediate. “Not like that. I had a bit of a freak out in the corridor after my first class. Too many people, too much noise, and he just appeared out of nowhere. Got me somewhere quiet. Sat with me for a minute. It felt good to talk to someone who understood without me having to say anything. It stuck in my mind, that it was maybe what I'd find at the VA…”
Nat’s looking at him with a shrewd look in her eye as if she still doesn't believe there isn't some ulterior motive here.
“I swear, that’s it. The vet — Clint — he’s married, it wasn’t like that. He’s kind of gnarly looking. You’d like him though.” Bucky’s voice is earnest as he explains to Nat, and he’s honestly not sure he’s felt this optimistic in a long time.
Yes, this morning in the corridor had been hellish, but he hadn’t vomited, he hadn’t blacked out or hurt anyone. No one had even really seen him, apart from Barton, and he hadn’t judged him in the slightest. Dr. Banner had seemed chill, and Dr. Carter had already impressed him. For a moment he doesn’t recognise the swelling feeling in his chest, but then he realises. It’s hope. It might even be happiness. He leans into Nat slightly as he lets the feeling encompass him. He can do this, and it feels good, it feels right.