Entry for Day 10 of Marvel Whump Madness, hosted by Trekkiehood

*this is rated PG-13+ for triggering themes

Steve was glad Bucky had still had a family. He didn't know where they were now or how many of his three siblings were even still alive. He'd never been able to fathom facing them after that day on the train... never been able to even imagine having to look them in the eye when he, who Bucky had defended time, after time, after time, had let him die. But they'd given him one last gift, and it was something he'd be eternally grateful for.

Even though Bucky's body had been lost at the bottom of that ravine, his family had given him a place in the old Brooklyn cemetery anyway. It was a familiar place for Steve... he'd been here enough times first with his mother, and then for her. He could still feel Bucky walking beside him as they went to refresh the flowers on the graves of Steve's parents.

He hadn't been here since he'd come out of the ocean... everything was just too much, and he hadn't been able to imagine trying to come to grips with things that hurt even back then on top of his new load of sorrows. Besides, he hadn't really been given much time for afternoon walks. It'd seemed like he'd barely woken up before the Loki situation was thrust straight into his lap.

So, it'd been well over seventy years since he'd been in the little cemetery. Somehow, though, it was the one place in the world that seemed relatively unchanged. It was still quiet, somehow managing to distance the Brooklyn noise barely noticeable, it was still peaceful, and it was still beautiful.

Grave markers that had been new when Steve last saw them were now weathered and settled in. Bushes that had been barely blooming had overtaken their own plots and half of the next ones. But, for the first time since Steve had come out of the ice, he really, truly recognized the place he was in.

He'd never been to Bucky's place before. The world had needed a soldier strong and on the frontlines, not broken in a graveyard. But he'd been told where it was, sent a telegraph by Bucky's parents, and he'd never forgotten the location.

He knew he shouldn't be here, knew that the world still needed him to be strong, but today, just this once, he couldn't do that. Whenever that happened growing up, whenever he finally couldn't stand strong against the world when it all seemed to be crashing down on him, Bucky had been there. He'd been Steve's strength when he didn't have any left, been someone to make him laugh, let him cry, and stand by his side through thick and thin.

So now, he didn't know any other place to go, and he went straight back to Bucky.

He'd brought along the same red roses Bucky always got for the girls, as well as his water bottle and a pack of powder he'd heard would make them last longer, and now he was glad he had, because it was obvious the little vase in front of his friend's marker hadn't been filled in a very long time.

He knelt down and picked it up, carefully cleaning it out before using his pocket knife to trim the roses down to size, then carefully arranging them. After so many years of doing the same for his parents, it was an unlikely talent he possessed. Finally, he straightened up and stepped back, tucking his hands behind his back and looking over the little area.

It looked good, a spot of color in the bleak landscape. The roses perfectly matched the American flag which marked Bucky's military service, and the design they'd chosen for his stone was simple but no less beautiful.

Everything was set in place, most likely for the first time in fifty years.

Steve swallowed hard, willing the tears he could feel biting his eyes away. If he was going to be weak enough to come here and mourn, the least he could do was do it like Captain America.

And suddenly, he was back here, but with Bucky beside him, staring at his mother's grave a month after she'd passed.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump rising in his throat. It was time for him to move on, be strong, face life. Trying to get through his final semester of high school was hard enough without giving the bullies more ammunition, another reason to call him weak.

He could feel Bucky looking at him, so he lifted his chin, set his stance a little wider, a little stronger, and tucked his hands behind his back, kept his face blank and his eyes on the grave in front of him.

Of course, that act would never work on Bucky.

He laid a hand on Steve's shoulder, attempting to catch his gaze. Steve stubbornly kept his own in front of him.

"Steve," Bucky sighed. "come on, don't do that."

"Do what?" the smaller boy asked, forcing his voice level.

"Act like I'm just like them," Bucky responded softly, "like you've gotta keep your guard up, or I might hurt you. You know you don't, Steve."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his last defense against the tears. When he spoke, they were choking his words.

"Buck, it... it isn't you. It's just... it's been a month... I've gotta start... start..."

"It's been a month," his friend repeated simply. "that's not very long, especially not when you're grieving. And I don't care if it's been seventy years. If you need to cry about it, you cry about it, and I will be right here for you to lean on while you do it."

It was like the memory took all of the strength out of Steve's legs, and his knees hit the ground as today's tears finally began to fight their way out. Before he knew what he was going, words were spilling off of his tongue as he stared at the stone in front of him through the water filling his eyes.

"I can't do this, Buck," he whispered. "I can't... I can't live alone like this. I can't live up to everyone's expectations when I don't even want to be living at all."

He took a deep, shaky breath, finally allowing the strength to drop out of his shoulders as he continued to cry.

"I've lost everything, and I don't... I don't understand why I still have to keep breathing when everyone I've ever cared about is gone. I need you, Buck." The last four words were barely audible. "I don't know how to do this without you."

He squeezed his eyes shut, though he knew it wouldn't help.

"I can't keep up the act anymore. That's all it's ever been, and now... I just... I can drag myself to my feet and put my guard back up and say I can do this all day, but I can't. I never could. I acted like I could make it on my own, like I could fight my own battles and face my own bullies, but I never could. I need you with me, Buck. I'm too weak. I always have been."

He exhaled shakily, attempting to wipe the water from his face. When his eyes opened, he was looking at his knife, lying with the stems it had cut off, its blade still open and glinting dully.

Steve reached out slowly, picking it up and going to close it and put it away. But somehow, he couldn't make himself do it. He turned it over slowly, his eyes glued on its insipid surface. He didn't know what he thought he could do with it. It was too small to do any real damage.

But he just needed to see his own blood, to be reminded that he was human. Because right now, it was like he was the living dead, walking around in a daze, unable to feel anything except the dull ache that was slowly consuming him.

He turned his left arm so that the skin on his inner wrist was exposed and moved the knife so that it was resting against it.

The memory clawed at his mind, but he pushed it away stubbornly. Bucky wasn't here now. He was gone. What he had to say about this didn't matter anymore, because he. Was. Gone.

The thought, the reminder that he couldn't talk to his best friend and brother until he was lucky enough to join him in death, was finally enough to push him over the edge. He took a deep breath and pressed the blade of the knife into his skin.

The pain was immediately satisfying... just a taste of what he really wanted, just a single stone to hurl at himself for all of his mistakes and everything that had always been wrong with him.

But with the tiny trickle of blood that slid down his skin, he couldn't fight off the memory a moment longer, and he was forced to face it.

She wasn't gone yet, but it was coming. He'd known that for weeks, and now, even the doctor had told him that they'd done everything they could, and it wasn't going to be enough.

And old friend of hers had dropped in to see her, so he'd slipped out. He'd always hated the way people like that looked at him... like that sickly little burden that his mother had been stuck raising alone for eighteen years. And lately, like maybe somehow her poor health was his fault, like if he hadn't been around, she'd be okay.

Like they thought they hadn't been beating at the inside of her head ever since she'd gotten sick.

He hated the hospital, and anyone who knew who he was told him he shouldn't be there anyway, because his immune system was too weak. So if he wasn't with him mother, he didn't want to be there at all, and he'd gone home.

But the empty house just made everything worse, just reminded him that it was going to be like that forever... empty, quiet, and lonely.

He didn't know how he'd gotten here, sitting on his bed with his leg trembling and his knife in his hand, pressed against his skin just hard enough to hurt without drawing blood.

But now he was here, and he was fighting a losing battle against the urge to let go and let himself suffer for everything he couldn't do.

Like stand up for himself. Like grow up like a normal kid instead of putting extra strain on his widowed mother's shoulders. Like be strong and be a better man for their household. Like make her get better.

He couldn't protect himself, he couldn't protect the people he cared about, he couldn't protect anyone or anything or right a single wrong he saw in the world. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to do anything. He was just too weak.

He took a deep breath, preparing to press down as he exhaled.

A voice from the door froze him where he was.

"So I guess we'll have to have your telephone looked at, then."

He'd dropped the knife, kicked it under the bed, before he'd even looked up to meet Bucky's gaze.

Steve straightened, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders, forcing strength into his voice. "First, how'd you get in? Second, I don't know what you're talking about, because the telephone's fine."

"You left the door unlocked, Pal," his best friend replied simply. "And if the telephone's fine, I need to know why you weren't calling me over here just now."

Steve forced himself to meet the stronger boy's gaze. "Why would I be?"

Bucky exhaled sadly, crossing the room and sitting down beside him on the bed. He bent down, retrieving the knife from where Steve had dropped it, and gently tapped it in his direction.

"Because this," he told him softly, "is not something someone with a best friend needs."

Steve looked away sharply, unable to hold his concerned gaze. He tried to think of something to say, some excuse to make, but he knew what Buck had seen, and he knew there was nothing he could say to change that, so he remained silent.

After a long pause, Bucky set the knife aside and looked back at his friend.

"Alright, let me see."

Without raising his eyes, Steve held up both hands, revealing the clean surfaces of his forearms.

Bucky nodded slowly. "Good." He took a deep breath, laying a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Now you wanna tell me what's going on?"

"I'm fine, Buck," Steve whispered, but he knew it wasn't going to do any good.

"Steve, you just proved to me you're not," he replied gently. "but that's okay. I'm here for you, Pal. I don't know when you forgot that."

Steve let out a long breath of defeat. He stayed silent for several long seconds before finally whispering, "The doctor said there was nothing else they could do." He swallowed hard, fighting back the water hiding behind his eyes. "I... I knew it was coming, but I just... I guess I hoped that..." He took another breath and let it out. "But there's nothing. She's got another few days at the most."

"Wow." Bucky shook his head slowly, helplessness written on his face. "I'm sorry, Steve. I know... I know that doesn't help, but I'm really, really sorry."

Steve just shrugged. "I should have always known I'd end up losing the only family I had left."

His friend grasped his shoulder a little tighter, and he reluctantly looked up to meet his gaze.

"I know," Bucky said softly, "that losing your mom must be just about the worst feeling in the world, especially since she's the only parent you've got left. I would do anything to take that pain away from you. But she is not the only family you've got left, because we are brothers. Don't forget that, alright?"

Steve met his eyes for a second longer, saw the genuine care and concern written there, and shut his own against the new onslaught of those tears. He could barely choke out a single word, but he did it.

"Alright."

When he could open his eyes again, he saw moisture in Bucky's eyes as well, as he offered him a half-hearted, teary smile.

"Good," he said quietly, then picked up the knife from where he set it. "And brothers don't let brothers hurt themselves, okay?"

Steve looked away, but nodded.

Bucky tucked the blade into his pocket, then rose, pulling Steve up with him. "Let's get outta here. You can crash at my place until you're ready to head back to the hospital. If you want me to go with you, I will, if you don't, I'll stay behind. But I'm with you, Pal, and you better not ever forget that again."

Steve could see it happening all over again.

He could feel Bucky's hand on his shoulder and sadness and concern in his gaze. He could hear what he would say and see the sincerity in his eyes as he said it.

Brothers don't let brothers hurt themselves.

This would kill him. No matter how Steve tried to fight it, it was true.

And, even if he was gone, he couldn't live with that. Bucky had always stood by him. He couldn't do things, even to himself, that he knew would break his heart.

So, he took a deep breath, picked up the knife, and closed it. Then, he set it down in front of the vase of roses.

Then, he got to his feet and allowed his eyes to rest on his best friend's name one last time.

James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes

"Thanks, Buck," he whispered, before turning away and setting his shoulders once more.

Bucky never let him give up. So he was gonna fight the next battle, no matter how much he was dying inside. Maybe he'd get lucky and it would kill him. But if it didn't, he'd do it all again, as many times as he was asked.

Because brothers didn't let brothers hurt themselves, and brothers didn't let brothers break that promise.