Title: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱPairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Readerseries masterlist || series playlist |

Title: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱPairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Readerseries masterlist || series playlist || chapter songSummary: Drowning in women and designer drugs, Bucky Barnes of Valkyrie’s Revenge is in a race to rock bottom. Fed up, his bandmates give him an ultimatum—straighten up, or fuck off. In a last, desperate bid to maintain his place, he agrees to return to the one place he swore he’d never set foot again—home. Warnings: Angst, Drug Addiction, Mental Health issues, Toxicity, Recreational Drug use, Hard drug use, PTSD, Dealing with trauma, Slow Burn, Fluff, [More to be added]A/N: so i hope folks enjoyed the first part of what i’m now calling the pain train, just one of many. i hope part two delivers some answers, more questions, and most importantly, feelings. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated to the moon and back. divider by @firefly-graphics​series playlist || chapter song“When’s the last time you ate anything?” It’s the first thing Steve’s said to him since they left the station. “You look like you dropped thirty pounds.” To his credit, he keeps the disappointment Bucky is certain he must be feeling out of his voice as they make for the truck.The window glass is cool against Bucky’s overheated forehead, and he rests gratefully against it as Steve slides into the driver’s seat. Truthfully, he doesn’t know when that last time he ate was. He has vague memories of going to a 7-11, but he isn’t sure whether that was two or four days ago. Shit, maybe more. “Yesterday.”  “Liar,” Steve scoffs. “First stop is the diner. They used to have those pies, remember?” He does remember. Real food actually sounds kind of good, and Bucky’s stomach rumbles then, as if remembering suddenly that alcohol wasn’t the only thing required to fill it. “I could eat.” The diner’s exactly the same as he remembers. There’s no sign outside, only a flashing neon light that reads Open, and one of those big foldable chalkboards with the soup of the day written on it. Inside, the worn floorboards are squeaky and a little sticky, but the booth is clean. One of the waitresses squints at them as she sets down menus in front of them. “Don’t I know you guys from somewhere?” “Used to live around here.” Steve says evasively, flashing her a charming smile. “Thanks.” The menus are ancient too, the peeling paint further obscuring the name. It could read Henry’s or Harry’s, but he isn’t sure. Bucky remembers you used to joke it was Horny’s, and it got laughs every time. Fuck. Why is he thinking about you? That’s the last thing he needs this morning. The waitress brings by the  coffee pot, and Bucky holds up his mug, nodding. It tastes like shit, but it’s better than no coffee at all, so he drinks it anyway, ordering pancakes, eggs, and a few sides of bacon and sausage to go with it. “Tony sent me to check on you, you know.” Steve says over his mug. “In the name of transparency.” “Fuck, really? And I thought you were here for our high-school reunion.” Bucky scowls at his best friend over his diner breakfast. “I’m a junkie, not an idiot.” He spears a piece of fluffy yellow egg with his fork. “What’d he say?” Steve doesn’t respond to Bucky’s poison laced jab at himself. “The usual. ‘Get your shit together.’ ‘Make it Cali-Sober if you have to.’ ‘Don’t come back until you can make it through a recording session without doing oxy off of a groupie’s ass.’”“That one sounds like Nat.” Steve chuckles. “It was.” He hasn’t been in the studio in months, and it’s been even longer since he actually picked up a pen to write anything. Shame curls in his gut like a familiar friend, and Bucky wonders when last he wasn’t ashamed. Guilty. He sets down his cutlery, and it clinks sharply against the plate. The demon shifts inside of him, flexing under his skin. You should feel shame, it murmurs darkly. You are a disappointment—a waste. He is nineteen again, and standing over his little sister’s grave, over his mother’s grave while they pour in dirt on top of their bodies like a dark waterfall. It should have been you.The waitress takes their plates, leaving the table empty, save for the cold coffee in the mug in his hands. He doesn’t want to drink it, but holding it is better than letting his fingers tap nervously against the wood. “What happened last night, Buck?” Steve fixes him with a sympathetic look, and somehow, that’s worse than his disappointment, worse than the question itself. He’d known he’d eventually have to answer it, but he hoped to avoid it anyhow. “Wasn’t expecting to pick you up from the police station.” “Nothing.” The answer he decides on is unsatisfactory, he can see it in the thin press of Steve’s lips as he glowers at him. He doesn’t tell Steve about you, about how you’d known just where to cut and how deep. About how he had, too. “Nothing? No offense, Buck, but you smell like a fucking distillery.” Steve’s tone makes Bucky jut his chin out stubbornly.“Stark sent me here to kick the fucking pills, and I kicked them.” Bucky isn’t sure if it’s the demon’s whip-smart tongue or his own shame that forms the sharp retort. He’s good at this, the deflection game, he calls it. Look at the right hand, focus on the right hand—so you’ll never know the left is stealing your goddamn wallet.“So you’ll be drunk at rehearsal instead of high? That’s definitely better.” Steve snorts. “Come on, Buck.”He can’t stop it, the never ending spiral of divert, distract, obfuscate. It’s like a record he can’t stop playing. “I’m just saying. My problem isn’t with booze.” “There are a lot of Austrians who would testify to the opposite.”“I was high—”“And drunk. Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay? It’s not just about you, Buck. We put a lot on hold so you could get your shit together.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Have you been to see—”“No.” Bucky cuts him off quickly before he can get the words out. He doesn’t want to think of them, doesn’t want to hear their names. Unable to stop the tick now, his fingers drum against the table as he avoids Steve’s gaze, staring out of the window instead. He flinches when a warm hand settles onto his shoulder. “I think maybe it would help—” “No.” It makes him sick just to think of going to the graveyard. He doesn’t understand it, the fucking ritual of visiting a corpse. It won’t bring them back—either of them; and Bucky can’t bring himself to stand over their graves, knowing that they’re rotting down there when they shouldn’t be. Should have been you, the demon reminds him, should have been you. He knows Steve, knows he won’t give up until he’s gotten a concession out of Bucky—if not this, then something else.“Have you at least gone to any meetings? Since you’ve been here?” Bucky hates the NA meetings. Hates sitting there and listening to every single person detail how much they hate their lives, their jobs, their spouses, themselves, and then thank God for giving them the clarity to hate without the assistance of intoxicants. Bucky is good at hating himself in private—he doesn’t need to prostrate himself before the holy judgement of the ex-addicts for that little treat. “One or two,” Bucky answers evasively, knowing as well as Steve does that the real answer is zero. To his best friend’s credit though, he doesn’t make him say it out loud. “Before I got sick.” Thank God for small favors.“Think you could start going again? I mean, Tony did promise the cops you’d go. As a condition of your, you know, release.” Bucky grits his teeth at Steve’s words, and he sees his friend draw back, reassessing to try from another angle. “I think… I think  Beccs would be proud of you for trying—”Suddenly, it’s like Bucky is floating above his body, watching himself shove the table so hard the water cups tip over. It’s all happening both too slowly and too fast, like a fly stuck in honey. He points a finger at Steve in warning. “You don’t talk about her,” he snarls. “You don’t bring her up as fucking leverage, Steve.” He doesn’t know how Steve does it, how he manages to stay so calm in the face of the withdrawal-laced tempest of Bucky’s temper, but he does. There are people looking now, peering over their booths at his hoarse shout, but he doesn’t care. “I loved her too, Bucky.” He knows it’s selfish to think Steve didn’t love her as much as he did, couldn’t have, but if Bucky’s learned he’s good at anything, it’s being selfish. Bucky digs his heels in, pressing his lips into a grim line as he glowers at the man across the table from him. It’s not true. He doesn’t want to think about whether Rebecca would be proud of him or not, because she isn’t here. Her woulds and would nots don’t matter. “She wasn’t your sister.” He doesn’t really even want to say it, the cruel words dripping off of his tongue bitter and acrid like bile. He’s gotten exceptionally good at pushing people away, at driving his words home like the blade of a knife. He knows this one hit it’s mark—Steve flinches, his hands flexing on the table as he fights not to curl them into angry fists. “I still loved her.” He didn’t love her like you loved her, the demon whispers, licking its chops. The dull ache in his chest grows. It seems like it’s always there, gnawing away at him until he’s bloody and raw. Steve doesn’t force the conversation further, sitting in silence and offering the waitress his card when she brings by the bill. There aren’t any words left between the two of them, only uncomfortable silence that rankles like a rock in his shoe. Bucky doesn’t know how he can both revel in his capacity for destruction—self and otherwise—and loathe it at the same time. You ruin everything you touch, you know. “Look. I’ll be here for a few days…” Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Just to make sure you’re… straight.” “To keep an eye on me, you mean.” He grumbles, and Steve nods. “I’ll be at my mom’s place if you need a ride to meetings, or anything.” He gets up from the table. “Just call.” They both know he won’t, but it makes the silence easier when Bucky nods. “Yeah.” ——“That’s very good, Jamie,” you say patiently, adjusting the fifteen year old’s finger position on the neck of the guitar. He rolls his eyes at you, but you bite your tongue, knowing his mother is likely already outside the practice room. “I know it’s good,” he sneers, turning up his nose and snatching the instrument out of your reach. “The lead guy in Slayer holds it just like this.” You don’t bother pointing out that the lead guitarist of Slayer has three decades of experience under his belt, and Jamie just started taking lessons last week—he’s one of your only students here at the community center, and you can’t really afford to lose him. It doesn’t help that his mother practically owns the community center, either. Like clockwork, the demon herself sticks her head in the doorway, a plastic looking smile fixed onto her equally plastic filled lips. Speak of the devil and she will appear, you think sourly, forcing a matching, manic grin onto your own reluctant features. “How are Jamie’s lessons going?” She coos, waggling her manicured fingers at her disinterested son. “He’s just so talented.” It’s only barely fall, not even cold enough to wear a jacket most days, but she’s dressed in some kind of expensive looking fur coat already, her embossed purse hanging loosely from the crook of her arm as she stares at you expectantly. Talented at being a little shit, maybe. “Excellent, Mrs. Mattheson.” You lie through your teeth. “He’s picking up the basics so quickly, he’s got a real, um. Ear for it.” “Oh that’s just wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, Jamie?” She asks, and the boy huffs bad naturedly, crossing his arms as he glares down at his sneakers. “Whatever.” He foists the guitar into your hands, and you’re forced to take it, lest it drop unceremoniously to the floor. Mrs. Mattheson continues talking at you while Jamie shuffles off to grab his backpack, despite your desire for the opposite.“I just love that you’re offering these little classes here; you know that’s what Willard and I wanted. Real community outreach.” It sounds parroted from Mayor Mattheson’s latest campaign slogans, the same ones advertising the latest and greatest renovations to the community center, all on his—very public—dime. You try to nod patiently, swallowing the biting retort that the Matthesons don’t even live in the community—they live in goddamn Pascal—let alone give a real flying fuck about reaching it. “Come on, mom, let’s go,” Jamie groans impatiently, gesturing at the door. “I’m supposed to be joining the raiding party in like twenty minutes, and if I’m not online, they’re gonna start without me!” She heaves a sigh, and fixes you with a “boys will be boys” look. “Kids these days and their computers,” she laughs, and you force out a weak chuckle. “We’ll see you next week. And you can do an hour later, can’t you? Jamie will be starting squash.” She doesn’t wait for you to answer before flouncing out of the room. You let out a frustrated little groan, and press the heels of your palms into your closed eyelids. “I just saw Mrs. Mattheson leave, so I take it you’re about ready to break bricks over her head, huh?” An amused voice makes your head snap up, before a small, slightly embarrassed smile finds its way onto your lips. “Hey, Andy.” He’s still in uniform, leaned in the doorway the she-devil herself had been occupying only moments before. “Being the Mayor’s wife has some benefits, I guess. The first one being that you’d have to arrest me if I tried to fight her in the Denny’s parking lot. I didn’t know you were, um, coming by.” He grins at you, full lips curving beneath his well trimmed beard. “Oh, well, I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d stop by.” There’s a hopeful note in his voice you don’t miss, and you wonder if your father sent him your way instead of random chance. “If you’re not too busy.” You shake your head. “Just cleaning up.” You begin tucking the donated guitar back into its case, noting with a frown that somehow, inexorably, Jamie had gotten cheeto dust on the strings. You busy yourself straightening up your makeshift music room, all while Andy’s heavy gaze rests on you. You suppose if you were to put a label on the relationship—which you’ve been hesitant to do for the last three months, it would be dating. But you’re still not sure why you feel so… distant from Andy, why it feels so awkward around him, even when he kisses you. “How are things at the station?” You ask, and he heaves a sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Same bullshit different day.” He replies, before wincing as he looks around to check if little ears might have clocked his cussing. “Sorry.” You laugh a little. “No biggie. I think most of the kids are already gone for the day. Did something happen?” Andy rolls his eyes. “Some asshole got rowdy down at Mike’s place last night. Throwing bottles, yelling at people. Had to take him in last night.” He shakes his head. “You should have heard him—calling himself the Winter Soldier. Every other word was a threat or a bribe. I thought your dad was going to pop him right there.” “My father brought him in?” You ask incredulously. You’re not stupid—it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that your ornery ex had gotten himself in more hot water. No wonder your father had texted you that morning with a heads up—he’d arrested Bucky himself. You scoff. Of course he couldn’t manage to keep himself out of trouble, like he went looking for it. “You okay, honey? You look… upset.” You don’t know when your grip on the handle of the guitar case became a chokehold, nor when your lips had pressed themselves into a thin, unforgiving line. “Don’t tell me you know him.” It’s half a joke, but Andy’s smile fades when you don’t answer. “I, I mean, he’s my ex,” you mumble, shrugging. “I don’t really know him. Not… anymore.” You don’t—the man he was going to be is buried in the ground next to his mother and sister. Andy isn’t from Meridian, he’d only moved to town recently, so he doesn’t have the same bone deep memory of tragedy that you do. You duck your head, looking down at your shoes. “Yeah, well. He’s supposed to sign up for those AA sessions here,” Andy sighs, shaking his head. “Do you have that pepper spray I gave you? Just in case?”“Of course,” you nod, though you don’t really think you’ll need it. Not for Bucky. Andy tucks his thumbs into his belt loops. “Well, if that’s all settled…” he trails off, and the hopeful, interested lilt re-enters his tone. “Maybe we could get dinner? Take your mind off of it.” He flashes you a thousand watt smile. You can hear your parents encouraging voices in your head, can practically see them nodding their approval. Andy’s so sweet, so nice, so reliable, responsible—why not date a man like that? Why not love a man like that? “Of course,” you reply. “That would be really nice.” Andy’s face lights up at your acceptance, and his beaming smile grows wider. “Great. There’s an Italian place in Pascal that just opened up.” Your eyebrows rise up your face. “You mean Basil? That place is booked solid for weeks, Dorothy told me so. Also I didn’t think they, um. You know, allowed kids.” If Meridian was a small, out of the way town in the middle of nowhere, Pascal was its rich cousin. Most of the wealth in Meridian came from it’s so-called “twin city”, a thirty minute drive up into the mountains where ski-lodges, spas, and upscale shopping abounded. “I know the owner,” Andy admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It would be my treat. I’ll swing by and pick you two up after I finish my patrol.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement, but you swallow your objections. Isn’t this what you wanted? For someone to value you, to treat you well, to treat your daughter well? So why do I feel so… bad?“Sure, Andy. That would be really nice.” You smile gratefully, even though something anxious twists in your gut. “Thank you.” His hand is warm and comforting on your shoulder as he squeezes it affectionately. “No problem. I love doing things for my favorite girls.” He winks at you, and leans down to brush his lips softly over yours. You rest your palms against the wide expanse of his chest as he gently worries your bottom lip between his teeth, his mouth curving against yours. “I’ll see you later,” he says softly, and you nod. Andy gives you one last squeeze before exiting the room, and as he does, it feels like all the air goes out of you at once. You slump down into one of the cheap plastic chairs, resting your head on your hands. You feel tired, a bone deep exhaustion settling over you like a heavy blanket. There isn’t much time for you to sit around, however, and you pop back up onto your feet with a groan. The Narcotics and Alcohol anonymous group uses the room after your lessons, and you need to make sure it’s all set up for them. You pull down chairs from where they’re stacked in the corners of the room and unfold the long table for coffee and snacks. You stow away the giant memo-pad you’d been using to teach an uninterested Jamie Mattheson musical chords, and lean it up against the wall. The sound of footsteps isn’t jarring to you—it wouldn’t be the first time someone had gotten there during set-up—and you turn, expecting to see the program director, Kitty, stumbling through the doorway, her arms laden down with boxes of pastries. But to your chagrin, it isn’t Kitty you see. It’s Bucky. Your lips press themselves into a frown without you meaning for them to, and your back goes ramrod straight as your grip tightens on the handle of the broom you’re holding. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his blue eyes clouded and dark as he stares back at you. The silence between you is almost as heavy as the anger, and just as hard to cut through. Luckily for you, he speaks first. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” He says lowly, and you give him a tight lipped nod. “I’m not—I-I teach classes in here. I’m just helping set up.” Your heart is pounding, and you’re not really sure why. It’s like Bucky triggers your fight or flight reflexes—but with him, there’s only fight. He scoffs. “Of course you’re not.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer than you remember, dark strands just long enough to brush against his cheeks. He looks… hollow when he looks up at you. “Then it’s not a secret why I’m here.” The smile on his lips is withered and angry, more of a grimace than anything. “I guess there was poison in L.A. for me after all.” It hurts when he throws your words back at you, and you’re not sure what to say in return. You’re saved from having to, however, as a broad shouldered blond enters the room. “Buck, you left this in the—“ He stops, his gaze falling on you as his eyes narrow. You’re trying to place him, too; there’s something familiar in the square set of his jaw and those icy blue eyes. And then you remember—a gangly teenager, barely strong enough to lift the bass he played so well.“Steve?” His name falls from your lips almost without your permission. You hadn’t seen him in the six years since the two of them had left Meridian—the only difference being that Bucky hadn’t told you he was going. “Holy shit. Jellybean?” Your nose wrinkles at the old nickname.“Jesus, no one’s called me that in…almost a decade.” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t really say I missed it.” You aren’t prepared to be swept up into a crushing bear hug, Steve lifting you easily. You squeak with surprise, wrapping your own arms around his shoulders awkwardly. “Christ, you’re huge.” He chuckles, releasing you. “Late puberty?” He offers the explanation sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Steve looks back and forth between you and Bucky, as though parsing out the thickness of the tension between you.  “You, um. Go to meetings?” He asks, and you shake your head. “No, I teach a guitar class right before, I just like to help set up. Kitty’s a riot,” you reply, loosening your death grip on the broom handle. “That sounds like you,” Steve replies, chuckling. You can’t help but glance at Bucky, glowering from one of the blue plastic chairs, his forearms resting on his knees. It’s funny, that’s almost exactly what he’d looked like at the funeral, too. Slumped over, angry. Defeated. You don’t ask why Steve is there—you don’t want to bring up the cancelled tour, or Vienna. “How, um. How long are you in town for?” You ask, and he shrugs.“As long as it takes.” Oh.Bucky clears his throat, and Steve glances at him. “Right. Well. Just came to drop off your wallet. You left it in the truck.” Steve fishes the brown leather out of his pocket, and hands it off to his friend. A quick glance at the clock above the door tells you that it’s after five—which means Iris’ bus has likely already dropped her off. You’re normally out front to greet her, and sudden panic seizes you.You hadn’t meant to get side tracked, caught up in Bucky and his mess, but that’s always how it was—he’d always had a way of making you forget important things, of getting you all wrapped up in him. “Sorry, I just realized I have something, I have to go.” You grab your own bag hurriedly. “I—”“Mommy!” Iris’ small form crashes into your legs. “Mrs. Dorothy at the front desk said you were in here still.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. The last thing you want is for him to see her, to recognize her. It strikes you like lightning, spreading out into every cell—He can’t know.But Iris is curious, leaning out around your jean clad thigh to peer curiously at Steve and Bucky. “Who are you?” She asks, pointing. You swallow thickly as you turn, your body rigid. “Mommy who are they?” “Holy—crap.” Steve catches himself last minute, before letting out a laugh. “You’re a mom?” You can’t help but grimace at him, your eyes narrowing. He holds up his hands placatingly. “Sorry. Unexpected.” “Yeah, well, six years is a long time.” You reply. “A lot can happen.” You look down at Iris. “These are…old acquaintances. Of mommy’s.” “No kidding.” Bucky replies, and you chance a look in his direction. It’s the first he’s spoken since Steve arrived, and it jars you. “Who’s the lucky father?” There’s a bitter tinge to his words that makes your own hackles rise. “Don’t tell me it was Angelo, I mean he’s been panting after you for years like a dog—”“None of your business, Barnes.” You snap, perhaps too quickly. You don’t want Iris to see this, the bitter, acidic hatred you feel for the man before you. You’d thought you’d buried it deep—at least six feet—but it just keeps bubbling back up. Well, it’s time for us to go.” You thread your fingers securely through hers, not daring to look up. “Got all your stuff, munch?” You ask, and she nods eagerly. She leans back around you to wave at the two men behind you. “Bye bye!”You march her smartly out of the room, the murmured sounds of their conversation lingering behind you. “What’s up, Buck? You look…gone. Like you went somewhere.” You glance back as you round the doorframe, Bucky’s steely eyes meeting yours.“‘M fine.” He looks away, down at his hands. “Just fine.”nextHello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library​ for updates and new work, thank you! Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too! -- source link

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