It's always angsty!Bucky, but I feel that time has come for some angsty!Steve. You all know how I like to hurt my characters. :)

PLEASE REVIEW, PLEASE!

IDONTOWNMARVEL

Back, even before the war, he had Bucky. Except he didn't always because if he did he wouldn't be here, at this point, doing this now. Friends from childhood, except he wasn't early enough to stop the bullies from pushing him down, not early enough to stop him from realising that the pain he felt was intoxicating and he needed more, to stop him feeling the disgust he felt when he did this to himself. Just like the same disgust he felt when he saw two men kissing in a back alley on his way home from school one day and then later realising that he saw himself doing the same when he grew up. Bucky wasn't there to comfort him on those days where he'd feel something or see something that made him want to tear out his hair and rip off his flesh because he couldn't stop the crawling feeling he felt there. Those were his worst days. Back then he was either struggling to survive because he had more illness than sense and he felt like every one of his bones were made of glass and that if he moved then they would shatter and split his skin from the inside out, or he was struggling to survive because his own brain was traitorous and he couldn't stop that squirming feeling under his skin and he needed it out now!

But then as suddenly as these feelings started they stopped because now he had Bucky. Bucky didn't judge or sneer or make crude judgements. No, Bucky was his support and if he saw the scars or anything out of the ordinary, well he didn't say a word. Over the years, Bucky and his relationship grew and blossomed. Chase kisses in darkened rooms, groping hands in the moonlight, a bed ordinarily too small to fit two men in but he was small enough to be tucked away under his friend's chin and be held, with a shield against the world and it's torturous, harsh reality.

Then even during the war, when he was a whole foot or so taller and had so much more muscle, he had Bucky and he doesn't deny that when he'd heard that his friend was missing, possibly dead, his heart stopped and then during his frantic hunt for his missing part he didn't miss the sad look in Peggy's eyes when she stated the obvious; 'You love him, don't you?' though it wasn't really a question. He had found Bucky, in the end, made a name for himself, more so than just a dancing monkey could and he became a beacon of hope for those stuck in a war that should have never happened in the first place. But even then with Bucky pressed to his chest in his camp bed late at night, the itch came back. The awful squirming feeling that he had vowed to get rid of. The serum was supposed to make him happy, useful even, but it just made the voice louder. However with Bucky here he didn't have to listen to it again.

Then Bucky fell and he was all alone with the voices again. So he reverted to the only thing he could. He couldn't do too much, though. The war against HYDRA was resting on his shoulders, weighing him down and dragging him through the dirt and whilst he was fighting all he could hear was his mind shouting at him, "It was your fault, you killed him". So he crashed the aeroplane into the water, even though he could have easily made it out of there alive, there was no need for him now. His only thoughts in this moment were blame; He deserved it, didn't he?

He woke up eventually, though, he hadn't planned to and he thought the world was cruel to him. It had been 70 years and his friends were all dead, Peggy was as good as by any extent, she forgot their visits as soon as they happened but he visited her none-the-less. He simply buried his guilt and self-pity and brought it back out later when he could sit alone at night with his penknife and watch the misery flow out of him and then see with morbid curiosity as the skin would heal at a much faster rate than usual. He hid it well, none of his teammates suspected a thing, they all saw him for what he had shown himself off as; a dancing monkey.

In all of his self-sorrow he hadn't even noticed that one day he was back again, fighting HYDRA once more and it all moved by in a blur. He had killed so many people for the sake of the greater good, but was it really good if so much pain followed? Their blood, tainted though it may be, stained his hands and no matter how much he tried to rid himself of it, it was of no use.

Suddenly, Bucky was back. He was a constant in his life and had popped up again and again; In his dreams and his nightmares, in his hallucinations and reality, he never stopped coming back. Then he really looked at what had happened to his friend and he felt sick. The voice came back again, with fervour, this time, shouting in his head. 'Look at what you did to him!' it would shout and scream in the dead of the night when there was no distraction around, 'this is all your fault', he had resigned to his self-made truth. But despite this he helped Bucky, to find himself and where he stood. It took years to do it as well but, with Bucky laying there next to him; because thank any deities listening, Bucky had remembered what they use to have! He was happy and the voiced quietened, despite the fact his chest still felt tight whenever he saw the scars or the scared look in his friend's eyes, or when he saw remnants from God only knows what they did to him for all those years. He stayed strong for Bucky, just like Bucky would so long ago when he was a slight, sickly thing and he didn't know if he would make it to the next day or not.

That's why so much later he was so damaged by what was happening now around him.

2 months. For 2 months Bucky had been despondent, it was longer than usual and quite frankly it was scaring him. He was scared, he didn't even know if Bucky would make it anymore, or if he would just pass away in his sleep without even getting to say goodbye. They had him hooked up to so many machines because he didn't move, let alone feed himself. He just lay there, reliving so many of the horrors that he couldn't completely remember and phantom touches from long-dead people. He couldn't be in the room with Bucky, as much as he wanted to just go and sit with him, hold his hand, but he couldn't. He just couldn't bear to look into his vacant and haunted eyes. He knew he was being selfish but he didn't care because all he could hear was blame. It had been 2 months and he was tired of this. He usually had so much patience, he would wait for Bucky 'til the end of time; to the end of the line, he was wont to say. It had been 2 months too long, and so he pitched up a fit. He dragged the blade across the vast expanse of his skin so many times, bleeding the same blood he always had, expect not always because when he was younger he hadn't been tainted with this awful serum, he hadn't been genetically 'enhanced' then, he was innocent, a child who hadn't seen the world for what it was, yet had seen too much, felt too much already. Breathing then became difficult, his breaths coming in short pants and it felt like he was drowning on land and he clawed at his throat and hair and face and any exposed skin with still blood covered hands, leaving crimson handprints where ever they were placed. Once he was done with trying to gouge his flesh, trying to rid himself of that crawling, squirming feeling that followed him everywhere, one that hadn't been there for so long and then pounced on him in his most vulnerable moment, because Bucky was in the next room over, and wouldn't respond to anything and he hadn't for two fucking months- and he remembered why Bucky was like this and his sorrow and fear dissolved and turned into anger, pure fire working its way through his veins. How dare they hurt him like this! Why wasn't he there to save him? He punched the wall in his frustration, his knuckles pounding against the sturdy material, the well-worn skin splitting apart from the force. He hit it again and again, punching and pounding and then he was kicking it and hitting his head against it, doing anything to make the rage leave him alone! The tears burnt his face as they dripped down, mingling with the deep red of his blood, he was a mess but he didn't care.

His door opened, he knew because he heard it, but he didn't care for them either. They couldn't see him because his back was to the door but they probably heard the noise. He was about to turn around to apologise for the noise but he was cut off by a bone crushing hug.

A fire burned behind his eyes, memories ran and ran, half-formed and mangled. He could only see what he didn't want to and wanted to see what he couldn't. Blankness and empty holes assaulted him and the only thing he could remember from 'before' was Steve. His face came to him, amidst the throws of the harshest memories. He remembered stolen kisses and a bed too small but not caring. He remembered brief embraces and soft touches. That was what got him through this all.

He awoke into lucidity to a loud banging, a hesitant pause and then double the noise. Afraid that there was an unwanted presence, he stood, removing the tubes and wire and then softly plodding, barefoot along the room and out into the corridor. Walking warily through the house he realised that the noise was coming from Steve's room and in that moment his heart stopped and he couldn't breathe, but he calmed for Steve's sake and burst into the room, metal hand fisted in front of his face ready to attack without a weapon. He was topless and barefoot and much too tired after such a long time without moving, but for Steve, he would do anything.

The door slammed into the wall behind him and he all but ran into the room but he was not facing what he had expected. There was no assassin or assailant, not another person was in the room. It was just him, Steve and the loudness of his heavy breathing.

He took in Steve's appearance then. He was pale like he hadn't been outside for a very long time. He was shaking too but he was too distracted by the sheer amount of blood everywhere. There was blood on the wall and on the floor, pooling around his feet where he stood. There was a trail of blood trickling down his exposed back, too. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat as well, and if Steve turned around then he reckoned there would be blood and sweat there too. Steve tensed then looked almost resigned before him. His shoulders slouching, his arm retreating loosely to his sides from where they had been held in front of him before. His hands in balls at his side and blood running down from clearly visible wounds on his arms, dripping from his knuckles and into the growing pool on the floor.

Steve swayed where he stood and looked as if were going to turn around, but he knew that if Steve did then he would probably fall where he stood, so he did the only thing that he could. He rushed up behind him, ignoring the blood on the floor and wrapping his arms tightly around Steve's torso. Tears surprising him and then running down his slightly gaunt cheeks. He only held on tighter.

Steve seemed to tense again in his hold but then relaxed slightly more, turning around in the grasp and returning it tightly. Steve's face hidden in the crook of his shoulder, harsh shudders rocked through Steve's body as he sobbed into his skin.

"Two months" Was all Steve could mutter before and he froze. 2 months. He had been stuck like that for 2 months and he deflated against Steve's chest, the breath having sucked from him. Steve had been on his own for 2 months. His tears renewed and he shook against Steve again, lost in the thoughts of Steve alone, Steve struggling by his bedside, Steve with a knife- He stopped the thoughts there. He gripped Steve against himself and Steve reciprocated.

"I'm so sorry, Steve" He muttered into Steve's neck.

"It's fine" But no it wasn't, it clearly wasn't. It would be eventually.

"No, it isn't." Steve didn't reply. He simply released his hold on Steve and took his by the hand, into the bathroom, washing every cut, kissing every bruise. He patched Steve up and simply held him. Steve simply accepted everything done to him.

He noticed so many other, older scars, wondering when, where and how; most importantly why? Why didn't he see? Why didn't he help? He sighed and wiped away a stray tear.

"Why?" He struggled out.

"It won't stop" Was all that Steve said and he simply wrapped his arms around him. It would stop one day. He took it upon himself to stop this pain, he never wanted to see Steve like this ever again and he couldn't help but feel guilty; it was his fault Steve was like this after all. But he swore with all his heart it would be okay one day.

"It will, Steve. One day it'll stop" and Bucky was right.