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“Bucky, I'm fine, I promise. You didn't hurt me,” Steve insisted, his voice steady despite the sting in his cheek. The faint outline of Bucky's metal hand was still visible on his skin. It wasn't much-a red mark, nothing compared to what either of them had endured before-but it wasn't about the mark. It was about what it meant.
Steve stood outside the locked bathroom door, listening to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Heavy, rhythmic thumps broke the silence, each one a sharp reminder that something was terribly wrong.
“Please open the door, Buck. Let me come in.”
The only response was Bucky's laboured breathing, harsh and ragged like he'd just sprinted a mile. Then, low and almost unintelligible, Steve caught the words: “No. You're not safe.”
Steve pressed his hand against the door as though it could bridge the chasm between them. “If you wanted to hurt me, this door wouldn't stop you, Buck. You know that.” His voice was soft, trying to thread hope into the space where only despair lingered.
The thumping continued, unrelenting, each sound like a fist to Steve's gut. “Buck, please,” he tried again. “Remember what Sam said? It's okay to have your space, but if we're worried you're hurting yourself, we step in. You agreed to that. You said you'd let me help.”
The sound stopped. For a moment, Steve thought he'd gotten through to him, but then he heard it: a low, broken muttering. “Take it off... take it off... take it off...”
Steve's stomach dropped. He knew that tone—knew the desperation that bled through each word. “Buck? What are you trying to take off?”
He waited. Five seconds. Ten. The silence was unbearable. “I'm coming in,” he said, his voice trembling. “I'm sorry, but I'm worried about you.”
The door creaked open under his hand, and Steve stepped inside. His breath caught in his throat.
Bucky was curled in the empty bathtub, his head resting against the tiled wall. Blood streaked down his face, smearing the pristine white tiles where he'd been repeatedly banging his skull against them. But it wasn't just that-his right hand was clawing at the flesh around the metal plating on his left shoulder. Long, angry gashes crisscrossed his skin, blood dripping steadily into the tub.
The rawness of it made Steve's chest ache.
“Bucky..” he whispered, frozen.
Bucky didn't look at him. His fingers kept digging, nails splitting against flesh. His breaths came out in short, pained gasps, and tears streaked down his cheeks, cutting through the blood like rivers through broken earth.
Steve sank to the floor beside the tub, making sure to leave the door wide open. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, lowering himself until he was at eye level with Bucky. He needed to be close, but not too close-never too close.
“Hey, Bucky. It's me, Steve. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You're my best friend. We're in the bathroom of our apartment in DC. It's 3 a.m. on a Sunday, and it snowed a little yesterday. You love the snow. You told me once it made everything feel clean.” His voice wavered, but he pushed through. “You didn't hurt me, okay? It was an accident. But I need you to stop hurting yourself. Please.”
Bucky froze, his hand hovering mid-air like he wasn't sure whether to continue or stop.
Slowly, his head turned, and he looked at Steve-really looked at him. His blue eyes were clouded with tears and something darker, something that made Steve's heart break all over again.
“Steve?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. It was a sound that didn't belong to the confident, cocky man Steve once knew. This was raw. Stripped down. Broken.
“Yeah, Buck. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
Bucky's hand fell limply to his side, leaving bloodied tracks on his shirt. He glanced down at the mess he'd made-at the blood on his skin and the streaks on the tiles—and flinched. “I-sorry. I didn't mean to-sorry,” he stammered, his voice cracking on every word.
Steve shook his head. “You don't have to apologize. Not to me. Not ever.”
Bucky's breaths hitched, and he shifted slightly in the tub, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. His eyes darted to Steve and then away, like he couldn't bear to meet his gaze for too long. “I don't... I don't remember how to stop,” he admitted, his voice so small it barely filled the space between them.
“You don't have to figure it out alone,” Steve said gently. “I'm here, Buck. Whatever it takes, we'll get through this. Together.”
Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He nodded, just barely, and Steve felt the faintest flicker of hope.
“Can I help you get cleaned up?” Steve asked after a long moment.
Bucky hesitated, his gaze falling to his hands. His voice was rough when he finally answered. “I don't... I don't deserve this.”
Steve's throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep his composure. “You do. You deserve all the help in the world, Bucky.
You've been through hell, but you came back. That matters. You matter.”
Bucky didn't respond, but he didn't resist when Steve reached for a washcloth, soaking it in warm water. He moved slowly, carefully wiping away the blood from Bucky's face and hands. Each swipe felt like a small victory.
“Thank you,” Bucky whispered eventually, his voice trembling.
And as the first rays of dawn broke through the frosted bathroom window, Steve stayed by Bucky's side, holding on to the hope that, one day, Bucky might believe him.