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It was slow. It was isolating and gut-wrenching, but the worst part was that it was slow.
Steve knew something was wrong when his phone went silent. It wasn’t shocking. He had felt it for weeks: an ever-growing distance, a chill between them that he couldn’t warm. He was, regrettably, thankful for the chance to escape their pristine Stark Tower apartment. A chance that Bucky himself wasn’t granted. He wouldn't be allowed out for at least another three months, depending on the results of his next assessment.
Steve was on a minor mission to a remote village in Southeast Asia; the goal was to ensure stability after a devastating supernatural incident there a few months ago.
Steve, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why anyone wanted him on that mission. Nat claimed it was for security, but he stuck out like a sore thumb and the others knew that. He wasn’t a spy, nor was he a diplomat. The first morning, they had asked him to stay behind and keep the base secure, which he took no issue with. After waving them goodbye, he patrolled the tight perimeter of the makeshift base, taking note of the unique flora and fauna he encountered.
Thus began his routine: wake up, eat, surveil, patrol, eat, surveil, patrol, eat, sleep. Rinse and repeat.
On the fourth afternoon of the mission, a flurry of branches snapped in the distance, startling him to his feet. He peered into the dark forest, and spotted a trunk of a leg – followed by an actual trunk – ruffling through understory leaves. He relaxed, pulling out his phone and snapping a photo. He sent it to Bucky, captioning the photo ‘My new friend’. Shoving the phone back into his rucksack, Steve started the trek around the base’s perimeter and ignored the thoughts suggesting he wander into the impenetrable jungle.
Hours later, he reunited with the others. They prepared a late dinner and bid each other goodnight. Nat unzipped the entrance to their tent and held it open for Steve.
“Did you see anything interesting today?”
“I did, actually,” Steve replied, “I finally saw one of those Asiatic elephants. I even got a picture of it.” He dug through his pack and fished out his phone, navigating to his photos.
The photo was a mess. Blurry and dark and indistinguishable from a photo of the inside of his pocket, which he had managed to capture multiple times previously. “It’s like I’m there,” Nat snarked.
“Well, it was incredible to witness firsthand,” he said, glaring at the screen.
Glancing at him, Nat softened, “I’m sure it was.”
She turned to pull out pajamas and Steve eagerly tapped onto his unseen messages. There were two. One was a thumbs-up on his horrid photo, sent two hours ago. The second read: No more eggs. Your robot says it can order some. Is that ok? He frowned.
Of course it’s ok. Order whatever you’d like through JARVIS. He paused, then sent a second text. You should know you never need to ask me that.
A gray bubble appeared immediately. It bounced, teasingly, for a minute or so before disappearing. A thumbs-up appeared on the first text. The bubble reappeared once more.
I have to grovel for everything, the message read, I don’t want to make everyone feel unsafe if I don’t ask permission. Steve’s stomach dropped.
He set the phone down, lips drawn tight. He reached to grab sleep clothes from the end of his cot and stepped into them with shaking hands. Easing down onto the cot, he grabbed the phone once more. I understand, I’m sorry. We’re working on it, he sent. Headed to sleep here. Will check in with you tomorrow. The bubble appeared, and Steve allowed himself to feel hopeful. It disappeared. He didn’t receive a reply.
The next few days proceeded in similar fashion. Nat could sense that he was getting antsy and gave him space. He felt bad that he was short with her, but he was itching to return to the tower. Worry had threaded its way into his chest, and as the week continued, the pit in his stomach only grew.
Finally, the area was stabilized. He packed up their tent while Nat contacted the pilot. Soon, a plane appeared overhead. Steve climbed into the body of the aircraft and buckled into a seat, pulling on the straps twice.
He pulled out his phone, where his last text, How are you doing?, remained unanswered. He sighed, and Nat glanced over.
“Ready to be home?"
Steve met her gaze and nodded emphatically, his throat suddenly reluctant to cooperate.
Glancing back down at the phone, he messaged Bucky. Headed back now. We should be there late tonight. Half an hour later, an unenthusiastic ok sat in his notification inbox. He sighed once more, tipping his head back and settling in for the ride.
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The elevator softly dinged as it reached his floor, and Steve smiled, despite himself. A feeling he couldn’t name fluttered in his stomach. Maybe it was excitement. The doors opened, and he locked eyes with his reflection, mirrored in their distant windows. There was no one there to greet him. His smile dropped.
He stepped into the apartment and peered into the darkness, nonsensically hopeful that his best guy would be waiting up for him.
He found Bucky in their bedroom, tucked under the covers. Bucky lifted his head, pupils constricting from Steve’s intrusion. Tendrils of self-loathing licked within his stomach. Why should he expect Bucky to be awake? It was late. He tapped the doorframe with his knuckles as he stepped through, guilt squeezing his throat.
“Just got back,” he whispered, “did I wake you?”
Bucky sat up, comforter pooling around his waist. “No, not really.” He didn’t explain further.
Steve nodded, grabbing a change of clothes and inching towards their bathroom. “How was everything? I missed you this week.”
“It was fine. Boring, but fine. Take your shower, and we can talk in the morning. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
Steve flashed Bucky a quick smile. “Only a lot.” He stepped into the bathroom, thankful for the abundant hot water and familiar scents of their bodywashes.
Freshly changed, Steve opened the bathroom door. He was once again greeted with silence. Squinting into the shadows, he shuffled over to his side of the bed, slipping in quietly.
“Night, Buck,” he chanced.
After a beat, Bucky returned, “Night, Steve.”
Steve drifted off to sleep before the flash of warmth faded within his chest.
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Steve's eyes opened slowly. He always woke up before Bucky, the late riser in their relationship. For a few moments, Steve stared at the wall, listening to the humming of the apartment. He realized he couldn’t hear Bucky’s even breaths, and turned to find the other side of the bed already empty, sheets cooling in Bucky’s absence. The thought wormed its way into his head: he can’t stand being near you.
By the time he stepped foot into the kitchen, Bucky was leaning against the counter with a mug cupped between both hands. They regarded each other from a distance, before Steve realized he was standing in the entryway like an idiot.
"Morning," Steve tried, haltingly.
"Morning," Bucky blinked back at him.
Steve waited for more. It didn’t come.
He poured himself coffee and took measured breaths while cracking eggs. He had to throw the first two out. They didn’t seem right. He sought for something to say and landed on the mission, the elephant, and about Nat nearly falling into a river as she was trying, and failing, to haggle for fruit.
Bucky reacted at the right moments, even smiling during the story about Nat, but when Steve turned to look at him, he realized it didn’t reach his eyes.
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One night, while Bucky brushed his teeth, Steve leaned against the bathroom doorway. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" He didn’t quite mean for his insecurity to come out, but there it was, laid out bare. Steve’s cheeks heated up as shame ran through his head.
Bucky paused. "No," he denied, but his hesitancy betrayed him.
"Are you sure? It kind of feels like I do.” The words came out haltingly, and Steve wiped his hands against his pants, eyes flitting around the bathroom. “It’s fine if I do. I mean, it’s not, but I want you to be honest with me.”
Bucky eyed him doubtfully.
“Really,” Steve insisted. “I want this," he gestured at the apartment, “to be good. Or as good as it can be, at least. Given the circumstances. Comfortable, I guess, is the right word. I don’t want to make it worse for you.” The last sentence came out faintly, and he couldn’t help but wish to take it back.
The silence stretched between them, and a vision of himself punching the vanity’s mirror popped into his mind, unbidden. Steve shook his head and felt glass shards embedded in his knuckles. He tapped them against the door. Finally, Bucky spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth.
"You don’t make me uncomfortable," he declared firmly.
The answer should have reassured him. Instead, it left him feeling worse.
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Two weeks later, Steve stopped texting during the day because the unanswered messages only served to irritate him. He asked for increased duties, much to the satisfaction of Fury and the suspicion of Nat. Around the same time, Bucky began “accidentally” falling asleep on their couch. Some nights, Steve insisted Bucky go to bed, to avoid cramps from sleeping in the living room. Despite drifting off together, Steve always awoke to cold sheets and a sick feeling in his stomach.
One month later, Steve found himself hesitating before entering the elevator. He knew what lay in store for him. That afternoon, Bucky had texted that he would like to talk when Steve returned that night.
Walking over to the living room, Steve wondered, hysterically, if he could be excused by throwing himself through their penthouse window. He locked eyes with Bucky, who quickly glanced away, bouncing his leg. The urge intensified.
Steve sat on the couch, stomach churning. He stared at their coffee table and tried not to imagine slamming his head into the glass. He closed his eyes and felt blood roll down his face. Quickly reopening them, he stared ahead blankly, instead. Despite knowing what was going to happen, he was reluctant to hear the words come out of Bucky’s mouth.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
There were explanations from Bucky. “I don’t feel like myself. I just need some time,” he assured. But Steve knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was him. His demented being who exhausted and drained those around him. He was a scourge upon the man he loved, and there was nothing he could do about it. Other than separating himself.
He blinked hard, twice. He opened his mouth and exhaled slowly. The words wouldn’t come. He swallowed once, and once more, because the first time wasn’t good enough. “I get it, Buck,” is what Steve found himself saying. “I could never blame you for needing space.”
Steel blue eyes found Steve. “You mean that?”
“Always,” he rasped, “I’m with you ‘till the end of the line, aren’t I? You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m always here for you, no matter what that looks like.”
Steve packed quickly. It wasn’t difficult. He shoved a week’s worth of clothes into a bag and grabbed a few toiletries. Bucky watched him from the door.
With shaking hands, Steve made his way to the apartment just below Bucky’s. Bucky’s original apartment, although it was never really used.
Steve dropped his bag onto his new bed and nausea roiled in his gut. He paced around the room, numbness creeping into his limbs and panic shortening his breath. Entering the bathroom, he caught his own gaze in the bathroom vanity. Disgust boiled up as he stared at himself.
He slammed his fist into the mirror.