They usually get up to their own things anyway, neither the keeper of the other, even if they still regularly set aside time for each other, but the past few weeks, there have been chunks of time during the day where Bucky can't be reached at all. When he's accessible again, any explanation is skipped over for another subject to shift away any importance to it. Besides, it's better to live in the moment than linger on what's already in the past, right?
It's after one such disappearance when Steve gets a text back several hours later, but rather than reply about what he wants for lunch — which it's too late now for anyway, being closer to dinner time now — it seems to hint at what Bucky's been up to, even if it doesn't quite explain why he's been awol for hours at a time.
Steve worries for Buck sometimes, especially when he doesn't text back, but he's figured he's done enough being a mother duck and will let him make his own decisions, even if Steve doesn't necessarily agree with them. He tries to unclench, really, he does, but it's just difficult.
Bucky's been his friend for a century. And he'd always been the strong one, the one with his whole life together and with Steve under his wing.
But every single time Steve does anything, he isn't sure if he's moving them backwards, if any of this is working.
Every time he gets a text after a period of silence, his heart jumps into his throat.
Okay, good. That's great. Did you just come from an appointment?
Steve replies with such urgency, and it's so difficult to endure. He has to fight the sharp urge to turn off his phone and shove it back into his jacket pocket again, nerves itching for distraction to allay the stifling feeling that keeps bubbling up with these excursions, but Bucky manages to swallow it down after a few moments to reply.
no
I need space to process
it's a lot
He's being more curt than he'd prefer, but it's difficult not wanting to lash out in some way while he feels all this still. The problem with therapy, particularly during the process of finding a good therapist, is the toll it takes from needing to reveal yourself over and over again to even know if you can be helped. And while he has been nowhere near as exposed comparatively to that of others who might find themselves seeking therapy, it still takes so much out of him.
How was he even meant to go about it when letting Steve see how difficult it was, how draining and still so aggravating feeling half of it at all remains, would only make Steve even more worried and overbearing and—
Fuck, fuck. Walk it off. Just walk it off. He has a baseline now, at least, even if it's still miserable. But it's better than nothing. This is still good. Probably.
Oh. Well, okay, he can deal with that. He needs space to process - that's not the worst. It gives him a reason why he's been dodging Steve's texts.
He frowns at his phone but he knows it's for the best, that Bucky do this part alone. He already feels stifled by Steve and being in his presence. He'd never wanted that for Bucky. And he knows he's not getting his old friend back, and he's fine with that for him. But he's not, for Bucky's sake.
He should respond back. He waits a minute.
He waits two minutes.
It's calculated, each second feeling like an age.
Okay. Just let me know when you want to see me. Dinner, maybe?
He considers sending an emoji. He sits and stares at his screen for another minute, adding one, deleting, adding it again. Finally he just hits send. Emojis are passive-aggressive.
Steve keeps checking his notifications and getting angry when it's just emails.
Or a sale.
Or something that isn't Bucky texting, until it is Bucky texting, and then his blood pressure goes through the roof. Yes, because he remembers exactly what that feels like.
It's not that he wants to be putting Steve in such a position. But without it, Bucky isn't sure how much he can handle. He doesn't want to disappear entirely. No, he can't handle that thought.
Then he spends the next five minutes overanalyzing the last part of his text because therapy always sets Steve's head on straight so he's not really sure how to empathize. And Buck doesn't want his sympathy.
He doesn't know how they even got here. He doesn't know how to get them on a better road. But this is good, right? This is progress?
Bucky almost makes the mistake of sending where that is, but he remembers that he needs the space, needs the privacy. It. Sucks. And it feels like he's lying somehow, by not saying anything. Fuck.
I can do pizza though sure
Sighing, Bucky starts heading back to his motorcycle. It'll be a short walk anyway, at least. This is supposed to be the right thing to do, though, so why does it still feel so awful?
He doesn't know the answer to that, because the answer is that he'll eat anything. Pizza was just a suggestion, but he hadn't meant to make it into a thing.
Whatever they've got. Maybe some garlic knots. I'll pick up soda at the bodega.
That shouldn't feel so difficult to say. They used to say stuff like this so easily before, say everything they thought and felt like it belonged between them.
Steve is biased. (So is he.) Difficult to get a neutral opinion on it. Guess that must be why therapy matters, even if it feels like he's still just carrying everything to his eventual grave. Maybe it will change with time. Bucky really can't tell. Even knowing how he feels, there's just too much attached to everything, so much weight clinging on to every word. Nothing is plain anymore. Nothing can be plain anymore.
He's not what Steve needs.
Thirty-four minutes later, he unlocks the door to their apartment and steps in, stack of pizza boxes balanced on his left hand. There's a smaller carton stacked on top for the garlic knots.
"'m home." Assuming Steve is around. He should be around. Right?
Bucky can't ever imagine being so positive anymore, which is likely the core of the problem. He tries, and sometimes he even succeeds, but overall, a shadow seems to hang over most of his thoughts, especially as they relate to Steve. It's hard not to think he must be the problem, with Steve being fine with everything. But if he is, would Steve even care?
Smiling gently with some relief, Bucky sighs faintly as he answers, "Thanks. Sorry for the delay. Hit some traffic." He's usually not that far out, so his shorter estimate was a tad too generous.
"How was your day?" he asks, as if he wasn't completely unreachable for the last several hours.
"Oh, pretty good. I reorganized the pantry. Did you know we had a sourdough starter back there? It definitely died, so I cleaned out the jar. And the crackers are stale so I think I'll make them into breadcrumbs."
Bucky likely doesn't care about the random goings-on in their kitchen, but that was what Steve did with his day.
"Do you. Want to talk about yours?" Sometimes even that's touchy. But Steve sits down and opens the pizza boxes, grabbing himself a slice and sitting down on the couch to eat it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's after one such disappearance when Steve gets a text back several hours later, but rather than reply about what he wants for lunch — which it's too late now for anyway, being closer to dinner time now — it seems to hint at what Bucky's been up to, even if it doesn't quite explain why he's been awol for hours at a time.
I think I found a new therapist I likeno subject
Bucky's been his friend for a century. And he'd always been the strong one, the one with his whole life together and with Steve under his wing.
But every single time Steve does anything, he isn't sure if he's moving them backwards, if any of this is working.
Every time he gets a text after a period of silence, his heart jumps into his throat.
Okay, good. That's great. Did you just come from an appointment?
no subject
noI need space to processit's a lotHe's being more curt than he'd prefer, but it's difficult not wanting to lash out in some way while he feels all this still. The problem with therapy, particularly during the process of finding a good therapist, is the toll it takes from needing to reveal yourself over and over again to even know if you can be helped. And while he has been nowhere near as exposed comparatively to that of others who might find themselves seeking therapy, it still takes so much out of him.
How was he even meant to go about it when letting Steve see how difficult it was, how draining and still so aggravating feeling half of it at all remains, would only make Steve even more worried and overbearing and—
Fuck, fuck. Walk it off. Just walk it off. He has a baseline now, at least, even if it's still miserable. But it's better than nothing. This is still good. Probably.
no subject
He frowns at his phone but he knows it's for the best, that Bucky do this part alone. He already feels stifled by Steve and being in his presence. He'd never wanted that for Bucky. And he knows he's not getting his old friend back, and he's fine with that for him. But he's not, for Bucky's sake.
He should respond back. He waits a minute.
He waits two minutes.
It's calculated, each second feeling like an age.
Okay. Just let me know when you want to see me. Dinner, maybe?
He considers sending an emoji. He sits and stares at his screen for another minute, adding one, deleting, adding it again. Finally he just hits send. Emojis are passive-aggressive.
no subject
yeah dinnerI can pick something up?no subject
Or a sale.
Or something that isn't Bucky texting, until it is Bucky texting, and then his blood pressure goes through the roof. Yes, because he remembers exactly what that feels like.
Sure. Game for anything.
Once again, the emoji debate. He leaves it off.
no subject
Another five minutes pass.
what would you prefer?head's not exactly the straightest right nowno subject
Then he spends the next five minutes overanalyzing the last part of his text because therapy always sets Steve's head on straight so he's not really sure how to empathize. And Buck doesn't want his sympathy.
He doesn't know how they even got here. He doesn't know how to get them on a better road. But this is good, right? This is progress?
no subject
nothing's close right nowBucky almost makes the mistake of sending where that is, but he remembers that he needs the space, needs the privacy. It. Sucks. And it feels like he's lying somehow, by not saying anything. Fuck.
I can do pizza though sureSighing, Bucky starts heading back to his motorcycle. It'll be a short walk anyway, at least. This is supposed to be the right thing to do, though, so why does it still feel so awful?
where and which kind?no subject
Whatever they've got. Maybe some garlic knots. I'll pick up soda at the bodega.
He just hopes that's enough.
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sure garlic knotsokay estimating maybe 20 min
that gonna be okay?He isn't sure how hungry Steve is.
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It's not gonna take twenty minutes for him to pop down to the bodega and get a little soda.
He starts heading down right now anyway, putting away the sandwich he'd started making because he didn't know when Buck would be back.
sorry Steve you can have your sandwich next time
okayheyI love youThat shouldn't feel so difficult to say. They used to say stuff like this so easily before, say everything they thought and felt like it belonged between them.
How did it come to this? Is he the problem?
no subject
Love you too, Buck. I'll see you soon.
To him, that doesn't sound hollow or difficult. It's just natural. It's how he feels.
augh work stressing my out sry
He's not what Steve needs.
Thirty-four minutes later, he unlocks the door to their apartment and steps in, stack of pizza boxes balanced on his left hand. There's a smaller carton stacked on top for the garlic knots.
"'m home." Assuming Steve is around. He should be around. Right?
no problem! also fyi super busy this wknd
It's a relief to have him around, still moving forward, still healing. And so he greets Buck at the door with a big smile and grabs the pizza.
"Hey, welcome home." It's not even that Steve's pretending that nothing's wrong. Steve is just so positive.
k! hope it goes smoothly for you c:
Smiling gently with some relief, Bucky sighs faintly as he answers, "Thanks. Sorry for the delay. Hit some traffic." He's usually not that far out, so his shorter estimate was a tad too generous.
"How was your day?" he asks, as if he wasn't completely unreachable for the last several hours.
you too <3
Bucky likely doesn't care about the random goings-on in their kitchen, but that was what Steve did with his day.
"Do you. Want to talk about yours?" Sometimes even that's touchy. But Steve sits down and opens the pizza boxes, grabbing himself a slice and sitting down on the couch to eat it.