"Speaking of time…" Steve murmured with a quick glance at his watch, "It's nearly lunch. Do you think we should go back to the tower?" He asked, just now realizing how much he'd missed his cramped apartment, making a casual note to bring some things there when they'd leave.
Bucky shrugged again. "I don't know." He replied after a moment. "If, uhm…if you want to, I guess." He replied, running his fingers through his hair.
"We don't have to," Steve shrugged back, perfectly content with being bundled up in his apartment, next to the only person he'd ever really wanted to be with. "Is there something else you think we should do, instead?"
Bucky shrugged, putting the paper aside. "I…don't know." He replied slowly, looking over at Steve again.
"Hm," Steve bit his lip, slowly rising from the couch, "Well– I think I'm gonna gather some things for when we do go, but if you wanna us to stay a little longer…?"
He shrugged a little. "Alright." He replied. He leaned back in the seat, letting out a breath. He wasn't cold anymore, thankfully.
Steve smiled with a single nod, slowly moving to his record player and turning on some soft jazz while he headed over to a shelf. As he gathered his sketchbook and drawing pencils, he thought about something he'd been told by someone back in the war. 'When you love someone, you tell them. You tell them, and you go from there.' He couldn't remember if Bucky had heard too, but he felt a twinge of impatience– like he had to tell him. But what would I tell him? It's too soon.
Bucky took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He ran his hands through his hair and listened to the music, closing his eyes.
Steve was conflicted. He was surrounded by reminders of that this was a safe enough time to admit how he felt, but Bucky was in a mostly fragile state; only having some of his memories of their intertwined lives together. He needed him as a friend and support system through this 'healing process,' and Steve was trying to be that for him. "So…" He started, diverting his thoughts as he pulled a book from his shelf, "I was thinking about…some things to talk about in therapy. For me, and for you."
Bucky looked up at Steve, cocking his head a little bit. "Huh? Oh. Like what?" he asked slowly, looking at Steve carefully. He wasn't quite sure what else to say.
"Well, for me, I think I should talk about growing up the way I did. With…y'know, being sick all the time." He shrugged, shuffling his sketchbook and books into a neat stack on the coffee table, next to the photo album. "And for you…I think…When you're ready, that is, maybe…it would help to talk about HYDRA."
Bucky inhaled. "I don't want to." he replied immediately. "I…I don't want to talk about that." he didn't want to talk about blood and electricity and screaming and "you are a weapon" and "the fist of HYDRA".
"Well…there's probably a reason you don't want to." Steve replied, knowing he should tread carefully in his mention of HYDRA, "It obviously bothers you, and holding on to all those memories and– and emotions…"
Bucky closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to talk about it." He repeated. Not about anything. Not about the handlers or the victims or what I've done. He shook his head a little bit.
"And I'll respect that," Steve said with his hands up in a casual show of defence, "But I know you know that it hurts to think about. Just…think about how long you can take thinking about it"
He opened his eyes a little bit, and shook his head again. "We've already had this conversation. I'm not going to a therapist. I'm not."
"But can you admit that not doing anything won't help?" Steve asked, moving towards a window to water a plant with floppy leaves. "I know from experience– the world knows from experience that pain like that needs to be dealt with."
"I don't care." He replied, clenching and unclenching his left hand. "I won't go." You can't make me.
"Why don't you care?" Steve questioned, looking over his shoulder to face him, "Why are you so hell-bent on not going?"
"Because I don't want to!" I don't want to relive those memories in front of someone else I don't want to talk about them I want to forget again. I don't want them. Take them away again and let me forget.
Steve faced him with his arms crossed, not in frustration, but realization. He took a long breath, studying Bucky's troubled expression. "It's because there's more to it, isn't there?"
He clenched his jaw, turning his head away. A curtain of brown hair fell into his face, obscuring his expression and hiding it from Steve. "…yeah."
Steve swallowed, his own expression softening as he took a cautious step back towards him. "Bucky…" He started, "You know you can tell me anything. I'm right here. We're safe."
He shook his head slightly. "I don't want to." he replied softly. "I…I can't, Steve. I just…I can't."
Steve took a short breath, getting lost in the quietness between them paired with the soft jazz playing around them. "Is it because you're scared of what you might say? Or…remember?"
He shrugged a little. I don't want to tell you. He inhaled softly, running a hand through his hair.
Steve looked down, recalculating his thoughts and words, "Is it…because you're afraid of how I might react?"
He hesitated, then nodded a little bit, still not able to meet Steve's eyes.
"Do you think I'm going to react badly?" Steve softly asked, his mind struggling to comprehend how Bucky, his Bucky, could be afraid of such judgement.
He shrugged slightly. "I don't know." he replied quietly, a sharp reminder that even if Steve felt he knew who Bucky was, Bucky didn't know. He didn't remember enough.