Chapter Text
Words like violence break the silence
Come crashing in, into my little world
Silence used to be peaceful for Bucky. These days it makes him feel like he's waiting for something, like he's listening for the warning sounds of predators approaching.
Now silence means he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Mornings are usually quiet in their apartment. Bucky never sleeps well and he's normally up before his boyfriend, sitting curled up in the bay window while he drinks coffee, smokes a cigarette, and tries to wake up. He sleepily watches the traffic on the street below and makes up stories about people in the cars, about where they're going and what they're doing with their freedom. About how they can see anyone they want and change their mind on a dime if they choose.
He snaps out of his reverie when he hears Brock coming out of the bathroom, looking gorgeous and scruffy from sleep in the way that still makes Bucky's heart jump even after all their time together. The appearance of his boyfriend makes his stomach flip in a treacherous, less pleasant way too, hand tightening unconsciously around his coffee cup until his knuckles are as pale as porcelain, because the next few minutes will determine how the rest of the day pans out. If Brock wakes up in a bad mood then Bucky might as well kiss a calm day goodbye.
He chews his nails nervously and lights another cigarette as his boyfriend shuffles into the kitchen, ignoring Bucky in favour of finding caffeine and a painkiller for his hangover. There was a time when Bucky would follow him, wrap his arms around Brock's waist and hook his chin over his shoulder to breathe him in while he's still blood-warm from the bed. It still happens sometimes, but only once he's confirmed that Brock isn't mad at him for something he did in a dream. Or mad at the coffee for being too weak, or the kitchen for being too bright, or…
Bucky snaps out of his head again when Brock comes into the living room, greeting his grumpy-looking boyfriend with a sunny smile. His mind wanders more and more lately, drifting into fantasy at inopportune moments when he really should be paying attention. Anticipation is key, and he can't predict moods when he's got his head in the clouds. Drifting might make things easier in the long term, but in the short term it means he's less likely to notice when he needs to move before something moves him.
He doesn't flinch when he blinks and Brock is suddenly in front of him with all his lean muscle and tightly-coiled strength, Bucky knows better by now. He's pleasantly surprised when Brock leans down to kiss him softly, his whole body flooding with relief. Bucky almost feels shaky when Brock pulls back, now the anxious adrenaline that had been building up in his veins has nowhere to go because Brock is smiling at him.
"Mornin'." Brock's voice is always rough in the morning, sends that same tingle down Bucky's spine that it had when he first heard it. He cups Bucky's face gently and rubs a thumb over his stubbly cheekbone in a rare gesture of tenderness. "You sleep okay?"
"Bad dreams." Bucky nuzzles into his hand like a cat, sighing softly when Brock sinks down to sit on the window seat beside him and pull him into his arms. It's so warm there, with the morning sunshine on their backs and Brock's arms closed firmly around him to hold him through the dissolving anxiety, that Bucky almost wants to go back to sleep right this minute.
The heartbeat against his ear, the sound of Brock breathing and the quiet whisper of his fingers running over Bucky's arm, it's all so much calmer than the threatening silence had been. Bucky feels stupid for getting pent up and nervous in the first place. Brock presses kisses to his messy hair and drinks his coffee without seeming bothered that Bucky's practically purring into his shirt. At times like this, Bucky feels like a total idiot for thinking that anything could go wrong this morning at all.
Feeling stupid is familiar, lately. Once the anxious adrenaline rush of anticipation has worn off and there's nothing to do but deflate and realise he worked himself up into a panic for nothing, that is. He hasn't mentioned it to Brock, who already has enough on his plate dealing with the job he hates (he wasn't designed for an office, comes home every day thrumming with energy that doesn't get spent sitting behind a desk all day) without Bucky piling more crap on top for no good reason.
Bucky just needs to learn to enjoy the silence again without acting like it's the calm before the storm, that's the problem. And it's his problem, not his fiancé's.
"Hey." Brock sets his empty coffee cup on the wooden floor and drops a kiss to Bucky's temple like he's apologising for the movement when his boyfriend is so comfortable. "Wanna get in the shower with me?"
"Mm." Not particularly when he's still a little sore from last night (morning shower doesn't mean shower), but Bucky has somehow lost the habit of saying no to Brock lately. It smooths everything out to go along with things, makes life easier, and isn't that what everyone wants? A quiet life? "When've you gotta be in?"
"Not 'til nine." Brock kisses him on the lips this time, tender and molasses sweet in the way that never fails to make Bucky's knees weak like some kind of bullshit romantic heroine. He'd tried to write a romance novel once, luckily hadn't got very far before Brock crashed into his life and showed him what romance really was. "Got some time, y'know?"
"Yeah." It's an acknowledgement, not an agreement, but they mean the same thing when Brock is kissing him again and pulling him unresistingly down the hall to the bathroom.
It's not like Bucky's opposed to shower sex, not at all, he's just not exactly in the mood first thing in the morning. But he doesn't not want to do it, which is good enough to go along with things to keep his boyfriend happy. Bucky works from home and Brock has his hated office job, after all, so the least he can do is cheer him up before he has to go do something that drives him crazy for the sake of paying their mortgage.
There's a certain shift that happens in Bucky's mind sometimes, especially when he's going along with things he's not crazy about doing. Brock guides him into the spotless bathroom (working from home has advantages, one being that Bucky keeps the very expensive bathroom fittings immaculate) with firm hands that strip off his shirt and sweatpants with all the care in the world. That's around the point where Bucky starts daydreaming. It's not a dramatic shift, it's just that sometimes his mind wanders a little sideways of how things really are.
He thinks about when they first bought the apartment, how they christened the bathtub with the cliché candlelight and champagne and the slow, lazy sex that drove them both half mad and kept them anchored to each other as inescapably as gravity. They didn't get out until the water was too cool for comfort and Brock had wrapped Bucky in one of their new fluffy towels and it had been better than any damn romance novel Bucky could have ever tried to write.
He slides back into the present, cheek pressed against the slick, cold tile of the shower wall as Brock pounds into him, and wonders if he should clean the grout before it starts to turn black. It'd be less pleasant to get his face shoved into it then. It's easier to drift and seek out the good when things are in good order, when there's beauty to be found.
It's a little harder to find the beauty in things these days, just like he can't enjoy the silence like he used to. But Bucky just has to try harder, that's all.
The pharmacy is always crowded on a Tuesday.
Maybe the elderly get their pensions on a Tuesday, maybe it's when insurance companies pay out for prescriptions, whatever, Bucky's never figured out why Tuesday mornings are such a field day at the drugs counter. He tries to avoid them if at all possible, doesn't like being in crowded places if he's got a visible injury, but sometimes needs must. He can't have Brock come home to him looking like he's been getting high all day.
"Hi." He smiles, his most charming 100-Watt grin behind his sunglasses when he reaches the counter after fifteen minutes of queueing. "I got some water in my eyes, uh, chlorine maybe. Swimming. I can't remember what kinda eye drops I got last time, can you help me out?"
"Can I take a look at your eyes?" The pharmacist is young and pretty, red hair swept up into a tidy bun as she smiles back politely. Bucky reluctantly lowers his sunglasses and looks up so she can see the irritated whites of his eyes. "Did you get any kind of soap or shampoo in them?"
"Uh…" Brock likes him to keep his eyes open and look at him when he blows him, whether or not they're in the shower at the time. This time Bucky had been good and kept his eyes open even when the water started to sting, because Brock had been enjoying himself and he'd figured it couldn't last forever when he had to get to work on time. Everything had gone so well this morning that Bucky just hadn't wanted to rock the boat. "Maybe, I'm not sure."
"Okay, I think we have something to help you." She nods and he shoves his sunglasses back on gratefully. He thinks he's seen this pharmacist before, wonders if she ever puts the gauze and butterfly strips and painkillers he buys together and comes up with something suspicious. But it's not like he's buying anything that playing sports wouldn't explain.
What would he even say if someone asked? It's not like he could admit that he fucks up often enough to get in fistfights with his future husband. That he's so immature he still provokes the man he loves into fighting with him like they're children on the playground. And he could especially never tell someone that he, with his gym-perfect muscles and broad shoulders, gets so nervous his hands shake at the prospect of—
"These should help." The pharmacist hands him a paper bag with a couple of small eye-drop bottles in it, jerking Bucky out of his daze. "Cash or credit?"
He pays cash, always, because if Brock sees the pharmacy come up on the credit card statement multiple times in one month again he might get the wrong idea. He's accused Bucky of being hooked on painkillers before, right around the time when he'd started to space out more often and lose track of conversations in favour of the alternate reality playing out in his head, so Bucky tries to keep his card charges looking innocent now.
He's too busy thinking about Brock and the painkillers incident (would his life be easier if he got hooked on opiates? He's not sure anyone would actually notice, as long as he stuck to pills and didn't start shooting up. He's kind of spacy anyway, and it's not like he's spoken to his mom or his sister for six months or something. Plus he works from home so all he'd really have to do would be sober enough to make dinner and keep the place nice for when Brock came home) to pay much attention when he picks up his change and tries to navigate his way through the sea of elderly patrons to the door.
He's so distracted, not helped by the fact he's trying to jimmy his change into his too-tight jeans pocket and walk, that he manages to walk slap into a very solid, massive chest right before he gets to the door.
Coins scatter on the floor, dragging Bucky back into reality with a bump and a sudden ramping up of his heart rate. This is exactly why Brock's always telling him to pay more attention to what he's doing, this is exactly why he always fucks up and gets himself—
"Shit, sorry." The guy he ran into is kneeling down to pick up the dropped coins, and it takes Bucky a second to realise he's supposed to move and drops down to scrabble for the change too. "Wasn't looking where I was going."
"Nah, it's my bad. I was miles away." Bucky mumbles, taking the coins when the guy presses them into his hand and feeling like a clumsy idiot. He looks up to thank the guy and pauses, head tilting slightly sideways as the sunglasses slip down his nose.
The guy looks familiar, somehow. Not exactly like Bucky knows him, but like he's looking at a relative of someone he used to know. He definitely doesn't know anyone as tall or blond (or broad or handsome) as this guy, he's sure. That is, until the guy squints back at him and a smile twitches crookedly at his lips.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah." Bucky vaguely realises he's just staring dumbly, because nobody's actually called him Bucky for years. Brock has always called him Jim or James when he's pissed off. "Do I know you…?"
"Steve, we sat together in, uh, tenth grade English?" The guy stands up and offers Bucky his hand, which Bucky takes to help him up without hesitation because realising who this is has hit him like a breeze block. "It's been a while."
"Shit, Steve. Hi!" Bucky's throwing his arms around Steve's neck and hugging him before he realises what he's doing. He freezes when he realises he's probably being inappropriate (what the fuck would Brock say if he came around the corner to see his fiancé hugging some guy he's never met), but then Steve is hugging him back and his rabbit heart slows down again. "It's been like, ten years."
"Must be." Steve is seriously hugging him back tightly, ignoring the tutting of the old ladies trying to navigate their way out of the pharmacy around the two bulky men embracing near the door. "You said you were gonna email me, man."
"I know, I know. Shit happened, I'm an asshole." Bucky finally brings himself to break away from the embrace, stepping back to look at Steve from arm's length. The guy is about twice the size he was the last time Bucky saw him, and it's like seeing two people at once when he looks at his face, the past and the present superimposed over each other. "Jesus, you changed."
"You too. What happened to 'I won't cut my hair, fuck the administration'?" Steve looks so damn healthy. Bucky remembers the little asthmatic guy who used to sit next to him and let Bucky copy off his To Kill A Mockingbird notes when he'd missed class five times in a row. He used to be able to see right over Steve's head if he looked to his right, now Bucky has to look up to meet his eyes. "You join the corporate machine and get an office job or what?"
"Nah, I work for a publisher now. Write blurbs, sales copy, that kinda thing. Means I can work from home." Bucky shifts his weight nervously and sticks a hand in his pocket, hoping the pharmacy bag in his hand doesn't look like some kind of embarrassing prescription. He still has his douchebag sunglasses on, he realises belatedly. But it's probably worse if Steve sees his irritated eyes in full.
"Still writing that book?" Steve's smile is just like it was, just the way it's been burned into Bucky's memory since he was a teenager and had to leave the first school he'd actually enjoyed since he started education, and Bucky tries really hard not to start daydreaming about what might have happened if he'd been able to stay there and be Steve's best friend like he had been for that one great year.
"Uh, nah. Maybe. Not really." He goes to tuck hair that's no longer there behind his ear self-consciously. Brock had hated his long hair, it wasn't like he told Bucky he should cut it but he hadn't been shy about complaining how it got in his face while they slept, and Bucky had got a short back and sides within the first six months of their relationship. Though the nervous habits still haven't died, apparently. "How about you, what're you up to except growing up amazing?"
Bucky could swear he sees Steve blush at that. His stomach drops when he realises he's been a complete fucking idiot and let his mouth run away from him again. It's one of his big problems and it drives his fiancé crazy. Hopefully it's not enough to scare Steve off within the first five minutes of their conversation, because it's so refreshing to talk to someone that's not Brock or exchanging a few words with a sales assistant.
Bucky had almost forgotten what that felt like.
"I'm a freelance illustrator. Just got done with a kids' book, actually." Steve pulls his wallet from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and hunts through it, handing Bucky a colourful business card with a seriously dorky grin. "Sorry, I just got these and I'm way too excited about them. I think I even gave my mailman one."
"Your Mom must be stoked you made a career out of it." Bucky looks at the card with a warm feeling in his chest, choosing to ignore the fact he probably shouldn't be this happy for someone he hasn't seen for at least a decade. He remembers going to Steve's apartment after school, how Sarah Rogers would hang up anything he'd drawn immediately and find art contests for her son to enter in between shifts at the hospital. She was like Bucky's second mom for a while there, and he missed her a lot after he left.
"Oh, uh. She passed a few years ago." Steve has a slightly pained expression on his face when Bucky looks up, like he's not still hurting but the scars niggle at him now and then. "Breast cancer. They didn't catch it until it was too late, so at least she didn't have to handle all the treatment."
"Oh, man. I'm so sorry." He's reaching out to touch Steve's arm before he consciously realises what he's doing, but he doesn't pull back when the touch seems to take some of the strain out of Steve's face. "She was an awesome lady."
"Thanks." His voice is a little rough, but Steve recovers quickly and smiles when Bucky finally takes his hand away from his arm. The same arm Bucky used to be able to wrap his finger and thumb around he probably couldn't fit both hands around now, and it's still a shock to look at Steve, let alone touch him. "Listen, I've gotta run to a consultation. But it'd be great to get coffee sometime, if you want?"
"Yeah, I'd love that." The answer is coming out without being filtered through the lens of what behaviour is likely to cause an argument with his boyfriend, and Bucky's pretty sure he's going to regret it later. Still, Brock has friends he hangs out with outside the relationship, he might think it's a good thing that Bucky's getting out on his own a little more.
Wishful thinking, maybe, but Bucky does a lot of that these days.
"Text me or something, my number's on the card. Email and shit too." Steve smiles brightly when Bucky agrees to coffee, which probably shouldn't make Bucky's chest settle the way it does. "I'll see you soon, Bucky. I'm so glad I ran into you. Literally."
"Me too. I'll text you." Bucky's pretty sure he's got a stupid smile on his face and he forces himself to school his expression as Steve takes off, giving him a dorky little wave over his shoulder as he jaywalks across the street. He nearly gets taken out by a very pissed off cyclist, but he makes it to the sidewalk safely and waggles his fingers at Bucky again before he disappears into the crowd of pedestrians.
Bucky stands outside the pharmacy for a long time before he manages to get the heartbeat thumping in his ears to calm down enough for him to hear the street again. He lights a cigarette with less than steady hands and tries not to rub his sore eyes and smokes down to the filter until he can put one foot in front of the other and head for home without tripping or stumbling or drawing more attention to himself.
He spoke to someone. He spoke to someone who wasn't his boyfriend or his boss for more than two sentences for the first time in…
When was the last time he talked to his mother? Christmas? That was over the phone. He'd gone for coffee with his sister before she went back to school one afternoon, that must have been back in August.
Six months. The first time he's spoken to someone other than Brock in six months and it turned out to be the guy he still thinks about on a regular basis when nobody's looking. Steve had been his first real crush, his first friend he hadn't shared with a group of others, and actually speaking to him in real life instead of playing out potential conversations in his head is… slightly unsettling. In a good way.
Bucky puts the number from the business card into his phone and sends Steve a text, just a hi to give him his number, and then hesitates over the name to save the contact under. Someone bumps into his back and almost sends him off the sidewalk, and it pulls Bucky out of his head enough to tell himself that he's being paranoid again. There's no reason to hesitate, it's not like Brock doesn't have friends, Bucky can have someone too.
He taps in Steve's name and shoves the phone in his pocket like it's offended him. There's no reason to get anxious about nothing, he hears in Brock's most exasperated voice. Bucky needs to stop being stupid and pull himself together because there's nothing to worry about.
If he has someone to talk to then maybe the silence won't bother him so much. Brock can't possibly have a problem with that.
"Who's Steve Rogers?"
The question (calm, quiet, measured in that way that suggests holding something back) sends a cascade of ice water down Bucky's spine, and makes him sit up a little straighter on the couch. The ash drops off the end of his cigarette and miraculously manages to land in the ashtray instead of on the very expensive leather upholstery that they'd had custom made on the understanding that it wouldn't get burn holes in it like their last one. That would be just what he needed today.
"Huh?" He twists to look over the back of the couch and get a better read on the situation. Brock is standing by the dining room table (black, elegant, rarely used because who the fuck eats at a six-seater decorative table when there's only two of them) where Bucky's editing stuff is still spread out from his afternoon's work.
Steve's business card is in his boyfriend's hand.
Bucky could have sworn he'd put the card in his wallet and not left it on the table, but that's a very small objection in his mind as his heartbeat picks up a gear and his stomach flips painfully. He should've just thrown the card away like he'd intended, torn it up so it couldn't be read even if it was accidentally seen in the trash, but Steve had been so proud of the damn thing and Bucky liked to see him smile in that way that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners just like they had when he was a foot smaller and –
"Steve Rogers." Brock breaks into his drifting thoughts and brings him back to the present with an unpleasant lurch of turbulence. He's watching Bucky closely, holding up the card so he can see it with a deliberately neutral expression. "You've got his card."
"Oh, yeah. He's some illustrator they put me in touch with." The lie comes out smoothly, fully-formed and casual before Bucky even has to pause to construct it. He's become a very, very good liar over the last few years. He shrugs and stubs out his cigarette like there's nothing in the world that interests him less than Steve Rogers. "I've gotta go over some proofs with him, the usual shit."
"I thought you usually did that stuff over email." Brock drops the card back on the table like he doesn't care either, and they're both doing a great job of pretending at each other. They both know perfectly well what question is not being asked here, what's not being suggested, but neither of them are about to say anything about it.
All Bucky's good intentions to tell his boyfriend the truth went out of the window as soon as he heard the tone in his voice, and not for purely selfish reasons no matter that he kind of feels like a douchebag for not being honest. For all his bravado and bluster, underneath it all Brock is pretty insecure and easily hurt, especially when it comes to their relationship. If he thinks Bucky is meeting up with a guy for fun (a hot guy, at that) then he'll just get paranoid about Bucky finding someone better than him. Bucky knows that nothing is going to happen between him and Steve, that he's just an old friend to get coffee with, but it's easier to lie about it and spare Brock's feelings than put him through the anxiety of the truth.
Bucky's life feels like one big exercise in damage limitation, sometimes.
"They want me to meet him in person. I just do what I'm told." Bucky lights another cigarette straight after he stubs out his last one, which he realises gives him away a second after it's too late to cancel the action. He only chain-smokes when he's nervous, something Brock had been the one to point out in the first place, and he shouldn't be nervous about this. Not if he's telling the truth.
The first time Brock had pointed out his nervous habit, it was in the early days of their relationship and Bucky had come over after having dinner with his family. They were openly critical of his relationship with Brock, because they didn't understand it no matter how much he tried to explain it to them, so Bucky had sought out comfort after the stress of the evening wore him down and he was finally able to leave. He'd smoked five cigarettes hanging out of the window of his boyfriend's rented apartment, cold night air stinging his ears and neck, exposed by his newly-short hair, until Brock had draped a blanket around his shoulders and wrapped his arms around him from behind until Bucky had finished being angry and crossed over into exhausted.
They'd decided to move in together the next morning, as the pale light of the early-hours snowfall slipped in through the windows and made everything feel slightly unreal. Bucky's family weren't going to come between them, not if they didn't get the opportunity to. They'd just create some distance there and let them come to their senses in their own time. That morning Bucky and Brock had the shared heat of their bodies against the chill in the rest of the room, hidden under the covers while they whispered to each other like children with secrets, and it felt like they had everything they could possibly ever need in that warm space between the blanket and bare skin. If it had to be them against the world, then so be it.
Bucky's seen his family a few times since, mostly at holiday events or reunions he can't get out of, and pointedly ignores anything they say about his relationship. His strategy seems to work, because they stopped being critical and recently they've stopped trying to say anything at all.
Brock is standing in front of him (not looming over him, that's just his fucked up perception) when Bucky comes out of his memories, back into his head and the present moment with a bump. His chest feels fluttery and sore, like he's run away from something chasing him, and he tries to hide the unsteadiness in his expression when he looks up at Brock and blinks, questioningly.
"What are you hiding?" It's phrased like a calm question, but Bucky knows it's the start of another interrogation. Brock can be just as paranoid as him, only for different reasons, and isn't seeing your own worst behaviour reflected in someone else supposed to be the worst thing? It feels like it right now, anyway, rubbing his skin raw like sandpaper.
"I'm not hiding anything." Bucky takes a drag of his cigarette and tries not to sound pissed off (bland is better than irritated, not caring is better than caring too much, anticipation and deflecting is better than confrontation). "Sorry, I kinda spaced out there."
"Thinking about Steve Rogers?" Brock plucks the cigarette from his fingers (Bucky doesn't flinch, because that would just make everything escalate in precisely the way he's trying to avoid) and stubs it out in the ashtray a lot harder than he needs to. "Is he hot?"
"How can you ask me that?" Bucky can't keep the irritation from creeping into his voice this time, and he can see how it makes Brock's expression twist into something nasty like a car crash he just can't look away from. "When have I ever made you think I'd care if another guy's hot? When have I even looked?"
"You flirted with a guy in front of me at my own birthday party."
This old argument again. Bucky gets up off the couch with an exasperated sigh, ducking sideways so he doesn't check Brock's shoulder on his way past him. Physical contact would only add fuel to the fire he's trying to avoid burning him right now, so he makes sure to give his boyfriend a wide berth as he stalks to the kitchen to get himself a drink, try and get some distance from the conversation.
"You did that right in front of me." Brock clearly doesn't want to let the argument defuse, following Bucky into the kitchen and folding his arms as Bucky pours whiskey into a glass and swallows half of it in one gulp. He feels exposed with his back to his boyfriend but he refuses to turn around, he doesn't need to see Brock's squared shoulders to know he's nearing red. "How do I know what you're gonna do behind my back?"
"I wasn't flirting! I was just making conversation because I didn't know anybody!" He wouldn't get so angry (anger only makes things worse, neutrality is safe, showing feeling is the way to get himself in trouble) if he'd actually done something wrong. What really happened is that he didn't know a single person at Brock's birthday party and had been only too happy to talk to the first friendly face that came his way. "Stop throwing that in my face when I didn't even do anything wrong."
"Yeah, you never do anything wrong. I'm always the asshole and you never do anything wrong." Brock's scowl deepens as Bucky finishes and refills his glass without turning back to look at him. He watches him out of the corner of his eye and forces himself to not tense up, because that only ever provokes a response when Brock is wound this tight.
Bucky's muscles are starting to lock and he knows his knuckles are going pale around his glass, and this train is going too fast and he wants to get off but he's scared it's going to hurt like hell when he hits the ground. It's going to hurt anyway.
"That's not what I said." He hates it when this happens, when they get into these fights that go in circles or nowhere at all. He's half scared and half angry, whether that's at Brock or himself he's never exactly sure. "I've never even looked at another guy, why do you always think I'm gonna cheat on you?"
"You didn't tell me you met this guy today." Brock gestures tightly back to the table and the card sitting on it, the one bright spot in all the dark of the room. He's far too controlled in his movements to be losing his temper, but he's got the thread of rage running cold under his voice that lets Bucky know he's treading on very thin ice. "I asked you what you did today and you never told me."
"It was work, I didn't think it was important." Bucky finally turns and looks Brock in the eye, unable to keep from casting his eyes down when he sees the simmering anger behind his boyfriend's gaze. He's already messed up badly by not backing down and apologising at the very start of the conversation, it's entirely his fault that things have even got far enough for Brock to be in that square stance he takes like he's about to brawl rather than argue with his fiancé. "You don't tell me about every random guy you talk to at work, why would I do that? It's not important."
"It is." There's just a single moment of snapping, that one flash of Brock losing his cool through a clenched jaw when Bucky steps over the invisible line he knows deep in his marrow not to cross. But when he's this riled up sometimes his fear turns into anger and he can't hold everything inside the little box where he shoves it all every day to make sure he behaves and keeps himself safe. "You know I worry about you when I'm not here to—"
"I don't need you to look after me! I'm a fucking adult!" Bucky never figures out if it's the fact he swings his arm to gesture too hard or if he really means to do it (set off the fuse, it's already coming and he can't stand the slow burn, anticipation is worse than just getting it over with), but the glass of whiskey (cut crystal, Sottish import, the expensive shit Brock likes to keep in the house because it makes him feel upper class) flies out of his hand and hits the wall with a sharp smash that cuts right through them both.
Before Bucky can move or speak or even think about whether he should drop to his knees and apologise, Brock is surging towards him as unstoppably as a force of nature. He shoves Bucky into the wall with all his strength, knocking the air out of his lungs and making him gasp and cough as he finds himself pinned, the back of his head smarting and his boyfriend's fingers tight as steel around his wrists.
Bucky tries to push away once, tries to kick Brock in the shin like a weak child, but all it earns him is being pressed harder into the unforgiving brick of the wall (exposed brick, stylish, puts up the value of the apartment) as Brock stares him down with the piercing eyes that let him know that what he just did was a very bad idea.
"What the fuck are you doing?" His voice is deceptively calm again, so level now that Bucky has made the first move, the first slip that let the devil out. "You think you can throw a tantrum and get your way? You think I'm gonna let you hurt yourself because you can't handle a simple question?"
"I wasn't gonna…" Bucky tries to twist away but Brock is a statue, unmoving as marble that has always and will always be right between Bucky and the rest of the world. It should be comforting, because he's only protecting him. Brock is only trying to protect him by crushing him until his ribs feel bruised.
A crazy part of Bucky drifts back into that dream world his soul lives in, wonders what would happen if Steve walked into the apartment right now and saw Brock holding him against the wall like this, pinning him down against his own hysterical temper. Would he think Bucky was agitated, overreacting? Would he pull Brock off him, clean his clock and let Bucky hide in his arms and nurse his bruises like a wounded animal? Would he care at all? Would he help hold him down?
"I'm sorry." The words spill out without Bucky planning them when he realises that Brock is trying to protect him from himself right now. He gets touchy about the birthday party thing, gets defensive about not having many people to talk to and overreacts to their arguments. Bucky shouldn't be scared of Brock when he's the one who lost it, he's the one who threw something at the wall like a frenzied daytime-TV housewife when he couldn't control his temper. His whole life is one long performance of extremely bad acting.
Of course his boyfriend is concerned, he's behaving like some kind of lunatic.
"You make me so fucking…" Brock trails off, letting his forehead clunk against the wall even as his fingers tighten around Bucky's wrists. He sounds frustrated, like he doesn't know what to do with Bucky being this difficult about everything all the time. "You make me crazy. You fuck with my head. You know I can't handle the thought of losing you, and you still…"
"Brock, I wouldn't—"
"I can't lose you, baby. I can't live without you." His voice cracks, and the bruising grip on Bucky's wrists suddenly seems like he's trying to hold onto him, not like he's restraining him. Trying to keep him, safe or just for himself. "You can't do that to me."
"I'd never do that to you." Bucky ducks his head to try and catch Brock's eyes, suddenly feeling guilty as hell for getting so defensive. He's the one who's lying, even if it is to try and save his fiancé the anxiety of him talking to a work colleague times a thousand. "Never, I swear. I don't want anybody else."
"I love you." Brock sounds so wrecked, finally loosening his painful grip enough that Bucky can pull his arms free. The first thing he does is wrap them around his boyfriend in a tight embrace, because he's been such a stupid asshole to get Brock all worked up about nothing when he could have got rid of the card and prevented the whole thing if he'd just thought.
This is the problem with his daydreaming, the soft places he goes inside his head when he doesn't want to deal with reality. Sometimes they don't end up protecting him like he meant them to. Sometimes trying to escape the present just makes things worse when he comes back to it.
"I love you too." Bucky smooths a hand over the back of Brock's hair and finally feels the tension drain out of his muscles when Brock lets his head rest on his shoulder. He won't do anything now, won't yell or shove or fight, not when he's relaxed in Bucky's arms and safe in the knowledge that he's not about to be cheated on. Bucky belongs to him, and being reassured of that seems to have worked to defuse the bomb between them. "Go sit down, babe. I'll clean this shit up and bring you a beer or something. Okay?"
"Okay." Brock straightens up tiredly, kissing Bucky gently on the lips with a barely-audible sigh. "I shouldn't have started asking, I'm sorry. I'm just tired and you know how that…"
"I know. Don't worry. It's okay." Bucky cuts him off with a soft smile, and Brock squeezes his hand before he turns and leaves the kitchen with the heavy gait that usually follows a fight. His shoulders sag, everything seems heavy, and Bucky knows he feels like shit for letting his temper get the better of him. Brock has told him so more than once before.
Alone in the strangely silent aftermath of lost tempers, Bucky leans against the counter (black marble, expensive, custom order that they used to fuck on when everything was still new) and takes a few forcibly slow, deep breaths as the adrenaline catches up to his brain and slams into him all at once. His elbows threaten to buckle as the shakes start and he lets them bend, lets his head rest on his hands and holds his breath to keep from crying until he feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He has to be quiet, he can't let Brock hear him lose it or things could start up all over again.
His eyes are blurry when he forces them open and straightens up, smearing the red-purple bruise rings on his wrists into barely shadows until he blinks a few times and brings everything into uncomfortable focus. Bucky tugs the sleeves of his sweater down to obscure the marks, because he doesn't want Brock to get upset about something that wasn't his fault, and sets about cleaning up the glass and spilled drink on the floor. He'll replace the glass this week while Brock's at work, buy him some new whiskey as an apology. Smooth things over.
Everything will go back to normal. It'll be like nothing ever happened.
Brock has some war movie on when Bucky takes him his beer, kisses him on the cheek and smiles before excusing himself to the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bath for a few minutes, the sound of muffled gunfire coming through the closed door (no lock, Brock took those off after they kept sticking, or so he said) as he stares at his phone. Steve's contact information is all lit up for him, laid out right there on a platter just waiting for Brock to find it. Bucky should delete it and forget about his old friend before he gets himself in any more trouble. Next time he might not get away with it so easy.
But Brock already knows he's supposed to meet a guy called Steve, that hurdle has already been jumped. And Bucky can't stop thinking about the way Steve's face had lit up when he realised who he'd run into, like Bucky was somebody. Not a burden, not a child to be managed or looked after, not property to be catalogued and stored, but a person. A person who might be worth spending time with just for who he is.
Coffee Tuesday? Sam's Place on 9th by the bookstore? I'll buy.
Bucky adds and erases a kiss mark five times before he finally sends the message. Then he deletes the conversation, renames Steve's contact info, sets all notifications to silent, and finally changes his phone passcode before he leaves the bathroom. He curls up on the couch with Brock, slotting into his side with a strong arm around his shoulders just like he has done for the last nine years. A perfect fit.
The movie plays in front of him, but Bucky doesn't see a second of tanks and mud and the Second World War. He's thinking about what Steve might ask him on Tuesday, about how he's going to describe his life so it sounds as good as Steve's or at least passable as happy. He wonders if Steve is married, if he met someone and fell in love, if he ever thinks about that time after gym class when they were fifteen, that one time when they almost—
"Let's go to bed." Brock is turning off the TV and the hands of the wall clock have moved. Bucky can't tell if he fell asleep or just got lost in his head. It's all the same, these past few years.
He twitches a smile and takes Brock's hand, lets him lead them to bed so nobody has to think about anything anymore. It's familiar, comfortable, everything that should make Bucky happy and render the throbbing of the bruises on his wrists totally irrelevant. But it's too quiet when the world is asleep this late at night, when Brock keeps one hand possessively on his waist while unconscious and doesn't even snore, and Bucky never sleeps well when things are too still and he doesn't know what's lurking in the shadows.
He can't enjoy the silence anymore.