Work Text:
“No chair - walker .”
“Buck, we’re going to be walking around for a while and I don’t want you getting too tired.” Steve explained, ignoring the childish huff in response from Bucky. “How about we take both?”
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Turns out, Bucky was still as stubborn as he had been before the war. The group, consisting of Steve, Bucky, Sam and Natasha, had been walking through Central Park for 15 minutes. 15 minutes of Bucky struggling (and persevering ) with his walker. Steve stood at his side, arm hovering just behind his back in case his shaky legs finally gave in. The Team were more than happy to match the man’s slow pace, making casual conversation to help distract him from the inpatient ‘tuts’ of the passing New Yorkers.
“Hey, Buck, why don’t we take a break on that bench ov-“
“No. Didn’t have break need.” Bucky grumbled, the strain clear in his tone. Sam shot Steve a look, as if to say ‘nice try ’.
“You know what, I could really use a break and that ice cream van sells Rocky Road so I’m gonna go sit on that bench for a minute. That okay?” Sam spoke nonchalantly, gesturing to a wide metal bench. Steve watched Bucky’s shoulders sag in relief as they made their way to sit down.
Natasha stayed standing, shades on and hand resting on the concealed blade in her belt. Even to the untrained eye it was blatant she was conducting surveillance, making sure their most vulnerable friend wasn’t in any danger. Steve perched next to Sam and held Bucky’s walker steady as the man used his remaining arm to settle down on the hard, metal bench.
Steve was staring. He knew he was but he couldn’t stop. The way the midday sun bounced off of Bucky’s naturally tanned skin, cast a halo below his best friend’s dark, floppy hair. He was wearing his metallic blue Ray Ban’s, a complimentary color to his thin, fabric-coated helmet. Bucky’s head-hitting wasn’t showing signs of improvement, and given the possibly stress-inducing trip, Steve had insisted he wear it. Bucky’s t-shirt was a soft gray material, loose enough that the fabric didn’t irritate him. He was wearing jersey shorts in a darker shade of gray that stopped above his knees.
Bucky’s chin was cast in a permanent 5 o’clock shadow nowadays, both men finding shaving a difficult and unnecessary process. Steve noted the shake in his hand and glanced at his watch. If he didn’t voluntarily use his chair soon, they’d have to head home.
When Steve focused back on the moment he realized Bucky had caught him looking. The smaller man’s face was lopsided with a mischievous grin, his pearly teeth reflecting the white of the ice cream cone Sam had just slotted into his hand.
Steve blushed and cleared his throat before accepting his own chocolate cone, wolfing it down quickly so he could help Bucky if needed. The blonde watched patiently as Bucky attacked his ice cream with determination. He had to shift his legs when Bucky’s pink tongue darted out to lick the escaping drops of vanilla. Perhaps it was the slight smirk on the brunette’s lips, or the glint in his steel eyes, but Steve suspected Bucky knew exactly the effect he was having.
After their short break, the group continued their loop back to the Tower. Bucky was starting to lag, his arm shaking with the exertion of holding up his weight. Steve cleared his throat, ready to offer the wheelchair again but before he could, a shrill noise sounded from the dark haired man. Bucky’s legs gave out under him and he sank to the ground. Steve reacted instantly, supporting his (now reduced) weight and helping him sit on the walker’s built-in seat.
Natasha and Sam stopped their inane conversation and hurried to soldiers’ sides, making sure all sides of the sitting man were covered. Before Steve could even attempt to reassure his former-lover, Bucky was in tears, his right hand raising up suspiciously close to his head. The Captain held his wrist gently before pressing the arm back against his side.
“You’re okay, bud. You’re sitting down and you can’t fall.” Steve said softly, mouth close to his ear so he could hear him. Bucky sobbed in earnest, big, shuddering cries as he searched for breath. Steve rubbed in between his shoulder blades, desperate to soothe him. He slipped Bucky’s noise-canceling headphones from around his neck, up to cover his ears. The group exchanged a sympathetic look before Sam unfolded the wheelchair and set it parallel to the walker. Bucky shook his head before squeezing his eyes shut. Steve knew better than to move him without permission.
There were a few irritated groans from joggers and passersby, even one or two comments about them ‘blocking the path’. Two women, no older than 25, stood on the other side of the path whispering. Steve’s guard shot up as one of them approached Nat. From what he could gather of the (swift) conversation, the young woman was offering her help, asking if there was anyone she could call. Natasha seemed as wary as Steve, but the tension began to roll off her shoulders when the woman explained her younger brother had difficulty with sensory processing. The redhead thanked her for the offer before sending her on her way with a small, grateful smile.
The blonde suddenly felt guilty for his pessimistic views of the general public, desperately wanting to believe there was more good than bad in the world. And perhaps he would have, if the group of suit-clad grown men hadn’t walked by. There were four in total, briefcases in hand. The first, a tall strawberry-blonde, snickered before leaning in to not-so-subtly whisper to a larger brunette.
“Hey, look, 9 o’clock, isn’t that Captain America?” His larger friend agreed and squinted his beady eyes at a visibly distressed and emotionally exhausted Bucky.
“Look who’s with him. Ain’t that the Winter Soldier? What the hell’s the matter with him?”
Steve felt his blood boil and his jaw tighten, he pointedly kept his eyes trained on Bucky, counting his breaths and holding down his struggling arm. Bucky had reached the stage of crying that started to transition into defeat. His wailing was petering off, being quickly replaced by uneven whimpers and gasps. Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave Steve’s, his expression haunted and pained. It was moments like these that Steve found himself wondering just how aware Bucky was, wondering if perhaps the broken man understood his own limitations. Trapped in his own shattered mind and body, his own tongue scrambling his ability to communicate.
“Haven’t you heard? He’s, like, totally retarded now.” The third businessman chimed in with a cutting smirk. Steve could hear Natasha’s manicured nail scraping along the top of her knife. Just as he considered doing something very un-Captain-America-like, he heard the furious footsteps of Sam Wilson approaching the group.
“Dude, look at his fucking helmet…” The large one chuckled, his faint-voice coating the area in tension. Steve winced and prayed Bucky couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand. The smaller man wasn’t crying anymore, his arm was limp in Steve’s grip and his spine was sagging to the left, a tell-tale sign he was out of physical energy for the day. His steel eyes were boring a hole in the parched, cracked ground.
“Talk me?” Bucky’s quiet voice came. His whole posture was dripping with shame and the tips of his ears were scarlett. Steve hastily swallowed a sob and moved his hand to squeeze Bucky’s. He felt as though he was 8 years old again, in the school yard. Like when Michael Dimaggio called his Ma a ‘skeleton’ and mocked her threadbare clothes. Sarah Rogers, a woman who worked two jobs tirelessly to feed him. A woman who skipped out on dinner so Steve could build up some strength for the impending winter. A woman who wore and mended the same pinafore for years so she could afford medicine to give Steve the tiny chance of surviving the inevitable pneumonia he’d suffer.. A kind, generous woman and fantastic mother. His mother.
Steve could take people picking on him, but attacking someone he loved was beyond him. Just like he did in the playground that day, Steve began to cry. Michael Dimaggio didn’t know his mother. And these assholes don’t know Bucky. They don’t know how gentle, resilient and loving the man in front of them is. How Bucky had been through the worst recorded case of torture to a POW history had seen. How Bucky’s mind had been kissed by lightning, and torn and twisted by the hands of evil, and he defied all odds to survive with his kind soul intact. They don’t know how Bucky’s nose goes pink in the bath, or how he likes toast and jam for breakfast. They don’t know Bucky sings along to pop songs in the kitchen, unphased by the sounds, rather than words, flowing from his mouth.
Bucky looked up at the sound of Steve crying and bunched his shoulders in regret. He squeezed Steve’s palm in a vice-grip, anxiety pooling in his downward brows. Steve could hear the distinct voice of Sam cutting through the group of men. They were distinctly quiet as Sam reprimanded their behavior, and when Steve dared to look up, he found them all shoe-gazing in shame. He crowded closer to Bucky, giving him as close to a hug as he could given their position.
“They’re being unkind because they don’t understand. Sam’s helping them understand.” Steve croaked. The blonde knew it wasn’t entirely true, especially when he heard the words ‘Iron Man’, ‘blasters’ and ‘disintegrate’. Bucky didn’t respond, seemingly processing what Steve had said. After a few tense minutes, he met Steve’s eye.
“Chair please. For home now.” Bucky mumbled, clearly exhausted from the eventful day. Steve helped Bucky get situated before folding away the compact walker and asking Bucky to carry it. The long-haired man looked up with wide, eager eyes and nodded. He was unable to keep the little grin off of his face, excited at the prospect of helping. Of being needed.
Steve wished Bucky understood just how needed he really was.