It's not like Steve really feels anything like relief when the dam finally breaks. He knows that it's something that had to happen eventually, that he was going to one day need to push Bucky to this for his own good (because bottling it up, that can't be healthy either), but the words still cut into his skin, twist around inside him, make him feel breathless with too much empathy for the agony that he doomed Bucky to.
It hurts, too, to hear that Bucky wishes he could have died back then. Can Steve blame him, knowing what he'd had to endure because he'd lived? Of course Bucky would want all of those deaths he's responsible for to be undone, if they could be, but it still isn't easy to have his best friend tell him that he'd rather be dead. Steve's throat tightens like he's got a pipe jammed down it and he goes still as a statue in the water, hands hanging in the air because he has no idea where to put them.
"At least you're admitting it," he says, and his tone is quiet and subdued to counteract all of the understandable anger in Bucky's. "You're allowed to talk about this." It may be difficult for Steve to have to listen to, but he's only getting it secondhand. This is Bucky's life, this is the pain that he's contending with on a daily basis, and if Steve can bear even a small amount of that weight? Then he wants to.
He doesn't move, but he doesn't pull Bucky any closer either, just directs all of his words at his bare back. "That's my point, all right? You can tell me about this stuff and you can acknowledge how bad it is." There must be some sort of release in getting it out there. It must make it at least a little bit easier, for Bucky to be able to say all this and not have Steve look at him like he's a monster, or a tool.
"And... if we can work on reclaiming your body, that'd be good too." How to do that, exactly, Steve doesn't know. But it seems like what they did here today might be a decent start.
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It hurts, too, to hear that Bucky wishes he could have died back then. Can Steve blame him, knowing what he'd had to endure because he'd lived? Of course Bucky would want all of those deaths he's responsible for to be undone, if they could be, but it still isn't easy to have his best friend tell him that he'd rather be dead. Steve's throat tightens like he's got a pipe jammed down it and he goes still as a statue in the water, hands hanging in the air because he has no idea where to put them.
"At least you're admitting it," he says, and his tone is quiet and subdued to counteract all of the understandable anger in Bucky's. "You're allowed to talk about this." It may be difficult for Steve to have to listen to, but he's only getting it secondhand. This is Bucky's life, this is the pain that he's contending with on a daily basis, and if Steve can bear even a small amount of that weight? Then he wants to.
He doesn't move, but he doesn't pull Bucky any closer either, just directs all of his words at his bare back. "That's my point, all right? You can tell me about this stuff and you can acknowledge how bad it is." There must be some sort of release in getting it out there. It must make it at least a little bit easier, for Bucky to be able to say all this and not have Steve look at him like he's a monster, or a tool.
"And... if we can work on reclaiming your body, that'd be good too." How to do that, exactly, Steve doesn't know. But it seems like what they did here today might be a decent start.