You've actually filled a number of my prompts, so I wanted to write this for you. Hopefully, it's at least something like enjoyable.
***
Bucky had good days and bad days.
Most of the time, he lingered somewhere in the middle. Apathetic and quiet and firmly without an opinion. The first few times Steve asked him to make a decision were a disaster, resulting in a panicked, wild-eyed Bucky. Direct orders weren't allowed, but multiple options were something they would have to work their way up to, Sam had warned.
Steve could probably write a book on all of Sam's warnings, actually.
The bad days were almost welcomed, just to break the stifling silence. On the bad days, Bucky had an opinion, had a voice. Both were often expressed violently and loudly, but they were there and they were his. On the bad days, Bucky was of the opinion that Steve was a delusion at best, or an enemy at worst. Steve's walls were scarred with knife wounds and cracked plaster in the shape of fists. He didn't mind.
After the fits ended, Steve would let Bucky cling to him. Would welcome it, smiling through the split lip, and cling back just as tightly, running a hand down his back or through his hair, soothing him. Not hushing him. Never hushing. Bucky spent too long in a muzzle and Steve will never imply that he shouldn't use his voice, even when he was using it to scream.
The good days, though...the good days made everything worth it.
On the good days Steve got to see Bucky's teeth when he smiled, as opposed to when he snarled. He got to hear hints of a Brooklyn drawl, instead of a stilted, rough Russian accent. The shoulder that Steve wrapped his arm around didn't tense and Bucky didn't flinch if he moved too quickly.
Today had been a good day.
...Steve had thought today was a good day.
Today Bucky had remembered Coney Island and rubbing Steve's back as he threw up. Bucky remembered treating Steve to baseball games whenever he had spare money. Bucky remembered working two or three jobs at a time to make sure he had spare money. Bucky remembered stealing food and medicine when there wasn't enough money at all.
Today Bucky remembered that he used to be the one to take care of Steve. Remembered that he used to be useful for something other than killing.
And that's when it stopped being a good day.
"I'm not a fucking invalid, Rogers!"
Steve ducked another glass aimed at his head and let it shatter against the wall. Sometimes, it made Bucky feel better to break things. Steve knew the feeling.
"Don't look at me like that. I swear to god Steve, don't you fucking look at me like that!"
Steve didn't know how he looked at Bucky. All he knew was that he did it too often and Bucky hated it, but Steve didn't know how not to look at him.
"Give me something here, Stevie. God, please, just tell me what you want from me. Anything."
But Steve never knew what to tell him. Because all Steve wanted was for Bucky to get better and that wasn't something Steve could give him, it was something Bucky had to find for himself.
"Anything, Stevie, I swear. Anything, please. I'm going crazy here, just use me for something. For christ's sake, you can use me, if you want to. My mouth or my ass. They did."
Steve slid down the wall, unmindful of the glass under him, and joined Bucky on the floor.
"At least they did that much. At least they made use of me. I can't be useless, Stevie, I can't- I can't just be, without a purpose, without- without a-" Bucky tried to gasp through the sobs that never seemed to make it out of his throat and clung to Steve's arms like they were his lifeline. The bruises from his metal hand would probably last for days.
Sometimes, it made Steve feel better to break things. But he doesn't think he knows how to but something back together, let alone someone.
They had good days and bad days.
Some days, he couldn't tell the difference between them.
Fill: past rape, Bucky + Steve
***
Bucky had good days and bad days.
Most of the time, he lingered somewhere in the middle. Apathetic and quiet and firmly without an opinion. The first few times Steve asked him to make a decision were a disaster, resulting in a panicked, wild-eyed Bucky. Direct orders weren't allowed, but multiple options were something they would have to work their way up to, Sam had warned.
Steve could probably write a book on all of Sam's warnings, actually.
The bad days were almost welcomed, just to break the stifling silence. On the bad days, Bucky had an opinion, had a voice. Both were often expressed violently and loudly, but they were there and they were his. On the bad days, Bucky was of the opinion that Steve was a delusion at best, or an enemy at worst. Steve's walls were scarred with knife wounds and cracked plaster in the shape of fists. He didn't mind.
After the fits ended, Steve would let Bucky cling to him. Would welcome it, smiling through the split lip, and cling back just as tightly, running a hand down his back or through his hair, soothing him. Not hushing him. Never hushing. Bucky spent too long in a muzzle and Steve will never imply that he shouldn't use his voice, even when he was using it to scream.
The good days, though...the good days made everything worth it.
On the good days Steve got to see Bucky's teeth when he smiled, as opposed to when he snarled. He got to hear hints of a Brooklyn drawl, instead of a stilted, rough Russian accent. The shoulder that Steve wrapped his arm around didn't tense and Bucky didn't flinch if he moved too quickly.
Today had been a good day.
...Steve had thought today was a good day.
Today Bucky had remembered Coney Island and rubbing Steve's back as he threw up. Bucky remembered treating Steve to baseball games whenever he had spare money. Bucky remembered working two or three jobs at a time to make sure he had spare money. Bucky remembered stealing food and medicine when there wasn't enough money at all.
Today Bucky remembered that he used to be the one to take care of Steve. Remembered that he used to be useful for something other than killing.
And that's when it stopped being a good day.
"I'm not a fucking invalid, Rogers!"
Steve ducked another glass aimed at his head and let it shatter against the wall. Sometimes, it made Bucky feel better to break things. Steve knew the feeling.
"Don't look at me like that. I swear to god Steve, don't you fucking look at me like that!"
Steve didn't know how he looked at Bucky. All he knew was that he did it too often and Bucky hated it, but Steve didn't know how not to look at him.
"Give me something here, Stevie. God, please, just tell me what you want from me. Anything."
But Steve never knew what to tell him. Because all Steve wanted was for Bucky to get better and that wasn't something Steve could give him, it was something Bucky had to find for himself.
"Anything, Stevie, I swear. Anything, please. I'm going crazy here, just use me for something. For christ's sake, you can use me, if you want to. My mouth or my ass. They did."
Steve slid down the wall, unmindful of the glass under him, and joined Bucky on the floor.
"At least they did that much. At least they made use of me. I can't be useless, Stevie, I can't- I can't just be, without a purpose, without- without a-" Bucky tried to gasp through the sobs that never seemed to make it out of his throat and clung to Steve's arms like they were his lifeline. The bruises from his metal hand would probably last for days.
Sometimes, it made Steve feel better to break things. But he doesn't think he knows how to but something back together, let alone someone.
They had good days and bad days.
Some days, he couldn't tell the difference between them.