Steve Not Taking Care Of Himself In Ways That Are Basically Self Harm But No One Knows Because Of His

chapter 1/8 now available on AO3 <3

→ marvel (mcu/comic), captain america: the first avenger

→ bucky x steve, bucky x peggy

→ flawed super soldier serum, dark!steve rogers, mcu compliant with comic influences

→ gore, faked relationship, canon-typical violence

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Bucky thought he understood rage.

Steve was his primary example. He saw it all over Joseph Rogers before he had passed. He saw the marks and bruises on Sarah Rogers’s face, her wrists. Both of Steve's parents had been fierce in their own ways, two sides of the same coin.

Steve had always been an angry son of a bitch. Shake a bag of wet cats, that was what it was like to handle him. He lied when he didn’t have to. He gave one word answers to piss people off. He took every little thing as a challenge, as something personal, so convinced that he needed to prove something about himself.

But now? It was entirely different.

Bucky had known Steve all his life. He knew all his tells; when he lied, when he was about to go into an asthma attack, when he was simmering in rage and about to blow a fuse. He knew how to read his expressions like a book. He knew something was wrong with Steve, just as he knew there was something wrong with himself. His near-dead delirious ass was able to notice it in Azzano, as soon as Steve pulled him off that table. His eyes were - empty? Mostly? He looked like nothing phased him, like nothing made him feel anything - the only emotion he had seen on Steve’s face up until they returned to camp was rage as he faced Johann Schmidt on that catwalk.

It was in himself. He’d felt rage before, he knew it well, but - to his core - he wouldn’t consider himself an angry person. But watching Steve walk around like he was, with the little context Bucky had, god's gift? He just got out of experimentation. Pulled off that death bed by the man who walked like he was the baddest soldier on Earth, like he was chosen by Divine Right when all he did was sign up for a dangerous experiment - it was a slap in the face.

Steve towered over him, and that certainly wasn’t the issue. He acted like he had to be better than him. Bucky’s training didn’t matter, because Steve thought he was better than all the men he’d pulled from Azzano combined. The old Steve had never acted like that. But despite the belief, the narcissistic pride that stained the ground he walked on, he seemed to think he still had something to prove. To the world. To himself. To Bucky. He’d never needed to prove himself to Bucky - he had always been the one person who saw Steve more than anyone else, that knew him as well as he knew himself; from childish friendship to learning how to kiss to leaning on each other after both their families were gone, they had been through it nearly every step of the way. Three years they had been torn apart, longer than they had ever been separated before, and that whole time Bucky was hoping Steve had been blocked enough by the system that he’d keep getting deferred and - Bucky didn’t care how much it tore at Steve to see it - declared unfit. He’d stay safe at home, he’d keep going to art school, Bucky would get back to him and his world would go back to what it was -

But the fucker willingly let an an entity running on agendas pump chemicals in him, because he had something to prove, and now Bucky had to work with a man he couldn’t recognize.

chapter 3/8 now available on AO3 <3

→ marvel (mcu/comic), avengers (2012)

→ bucky x steve

→ flawed super soldier serum, dark!steve rogers, mcu compliant with comic influences

→ canon-typical violence

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Bucky’s mind swelled with panic at the implication - Peggy, Monty - people he loved were dead all at once - but he had to take it in stride. He had to. There was no purpose to dwell on it. If he thought about it all too hard, he wouldn't be able to get through it.

What happened, happened.

He'd process it later. He had to accept it.

“Captain Rogers woke up about an hour and a half ago.” Agent Barton shared. If he noticed Bucky's barely buried alarm, he didn't say. “Director Fury handled him. He broke out and ran into Times Square.”

“Sounds like him,” he said, monotone.

“He's in a conference room. Fury's asked me to bring you once you're ready, so he can speak to you both.”

That made him come to mostly full attention. “He's not detained?”

Clint's head cocked to the side. “Neither of you are detained, Sergeant.”

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. They didn't know? How could they not know?

What isn't there to love about the idea of MCU Bucky becoming Captain America?

It's the right thing to do, isn't it? He was the one who watched him fall. (He tried to catch him but he only caught his tags. The bitter cold tore him away in the blink of an eye, with a scream that Bucky hears when he tries to sleep.) Steve was the best of them both, and if he thought this cause was one to die for, then Bucky would finish it. He's followed him this far, hasn't he? Long enough for the bruises Zola gave him to fade, but not enough that hearing his voice in that train wouldn't make him freeze. (What if he finds him? What if he go back there, strapped down, poked and prodded and injected with God knows what -)

But besides that?

There's nothing.

He's known Steve almost his entire life. He barely remembers a time where there wasn't Steve. He once had him to himself, only he saw the goodness in him, he loved him first, but now he shared it with the world. Because of some holy serum; but the bastardized version of the same thing ran in his own veins, and Bucky knew deep down that he would never be Steve. He could try, but he could never be him to the world.

So why wouldn't he crash that plane?

He never wanted to be a weapon. But he wakes up, and it's asked of him again. Be a soldier. Be an officer. Be Captain America. His gun was an extension of himself, the shield of Steve, and he would never, ever drop either of them. (Not again. He dreamt of it, that scream still scratched into his brain no matter how much time had actually passed, seventy years or seven days.)

And then, one day, beyond his wildest dreams, he'd see him again. But this? This hollow ghost? This isn't the Steve he knows and loves. But he slips from his fingers again,

And on that helicarrier, the glass cracks beneath his feet, bullet wounds and serrated skin and black bruises, but he still has it in him - he catches him. Metal fingers that were foreign to him, but still, Steve.

Never again. Never without him.

Fact:

The MCU!Bucky we know and love dearly is based off of a gay Jewish character Arnie Roth (Earth 616). The MCU has a duty to properly & respectfully include & represent these parts of his identity.

They say their company loves the LGBT+ community yet its been 10 years since Bucky, who is one of their most popular characters, was introduced to the MCU (and far more years w/o any rep at all) yet they still refuse to confirm that he’s gay (or Jewish) nor have they ever admitted to taking Arnie’s backstory (this even includes the “ladies man” persona which was nothing more than a cover, he was never actually attracted to those women) & personality and giving it to Bucky.

chapter 5/8 now available on AO3 <3

→ marvel (mcu/comic), post-avengers 2012

→ bucky x steve, bucky x peggy

→ flawed super soldier serum, dark!steve rogers, mcu compliant with comic influences

→ gore, canon-typical violence, bucky makes friends in the 21st century

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He eventually found himself in front of his own memorial wall. An entire wall, painted with collaged portraits of himself, even displaying a few pictures and a lit-up video, dedicated just to him. Best friends from childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield - excelled as an athlete and in the classroom - became an officer straight out of Basic - isolation, deprivation, torture - Captain America’s best friend - Peggy Carter’s lost love - was given a version of the serum due to experimentation - kept his super soldier abilities a secret until the final battle, to take down the Red Skull once and for all - died tragically alongside his best friend as they saved New York City from Hydra’s bombs.

He stayed in front of that wall even longer to watch all the videos on loop. He and the Howlies from the reels that were recorded right after Azzano, displaying Captain America’s heroism before they went right back out to fight Hydra; an exhibition of his sharpshooting skills; a video of he and Steve, where Steve wasn't smiling but he was looking at him while he was awkwardly laughing, where he looked like himself -

“You alright, man?”

Bucky glanced to the side to find a man looking at him. His shoulders tightened when he realized he was being addressed - he was supposed to be dead, why did he come here -

“Hey - I'm sorry. You got that thousand yard stare. I counsel veterans down at the VA. I look at a face like that every day, I-I just -”

“It's okay,” he interrupted, speaking softly so his voice didn't sound like one in any recordings.

The man looked back up at the gigantic portrait looming in front of them. It was Bucky in the iconic blue coat, gun in hand as he stood in the snow. The corner of his mouth threatened to turn up, Bucky noticed the twitch, but the man pursed his lips to force it back down. “You bear a mighty resemblance. Must be related or something, right?”

thinking about the moment bucky says “let’s hear it for captain america!” and he looks so damn proud and then his face drops so damn fast, because fuck, he doesn’t get to be selfish anymore. doesn’t get to keep steve’s irrevocable goodness all to himself. and he knew this day would come, but he’s furious because it took a goddamn serum for someone to give a shit enough to look. and he wants to burn the world down, because they don’t deserve steve even if they need him, but bucky’s goddamn selfish, because he’s known. he’s known just what steve rogers could do since the moment he fell for the back of his head at 7 years old.

That Captain America Healing Factor is all well and good until someone on the team has to pin Steve down and re-break his arm because they didn’t splint it in time and it healed wrong. Until they have to dig a knife into his face and pull out glass fragments that his skin healed over in five minutes flat. Until he has to have surgery wide awake because no anaesthetic works and the only other option is a leather belt between his teeth and useless platitudes like its going to be okay Steve, I promise, it’ll be over soon.

if you'd prefer to view on AO3 🌒

"hello. and welcome to staying awake."

→ marvel (mcu), moon knight (tv series)

→ character study of the introductions of steven grant and marc spector

→ content warnings: psychological horror, moon knight canon mental health

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❛ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏,

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐆𝐎? ❜

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"Hello, and welcome to staying awake. Let's start with try to solve a puzzle. Solving puzzles is a great way to keep your mind awake."

The bags under Steven's eyes weighed tons, marring his features with the bruises of crescent moons.

How much longer can I go on like this? It seemed like he asked himself that every night, memorizing the torn edge of the tape in case his other self tore it off and tried to replace it, securing the lock around his ankle.

"Bored of a puzzle? Try a book. Reading can keep your mind alert and focused. Imagine being in the story you're reading. Is there an exciting chapter you'd like to be a part of?"

He hated this. He hated this life, its limits - what did he do to deserve this? He's lived a good life. He called his mum every day to let her know he was okay. Didn't he deserve happiness? Allowed to be a tour guide in the museum, get enough money so he could fly his mum out so she could visit, maybe even find a girl. But there'd be no chance of that until playing this tape and the cuff around his ankle weren't necessary.

"Just remember, you'll need about five hours to keep your natural self."

His natural self. What even was that anymore? The gaps in his memory were expansive and endless, the dried blood under his fingernails continuously shocked him, the voices and the moving shadows haunted him.

Anymore, he just lived in a house of horrors.

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❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐓 𝐈 𝐎𝐖𝐄

𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 ❜

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Steven wrung his hands as the storage unit employee led him through the halls. He wasn't sure what was waiting ahead of him, what this "Marc" was hiding from him or if he was even truly part of him. He wasn't sure what was happened, why he'd woken up in that little village and left with blood on his hands, but whoever this Marc was...he was dangerous. He knew that much.

More than anything, he wanted to separate himself from him. Or make sure Marc couldn't take over again and ruin both their lives or kill anyone else. Figured if he was going to be living like this for the rest of his life, sleep deprived and alone, the least he could do was keep others safe.

Stepping inside the unit and the door closing behind him, it looked more like an...apartment, more than anything else. A hidden stomping ground, so to speak. A cot in the corner with a dented pillow, a little standing rig to hang some clothes, stacked military grad storage cases. The sickening yellow-green lights reflected off the walls, and he saw himself staring back, eyes falling on the duffel bag sitting on the case beside the cot.

Naturally, curiosity got the best of him. Wasn't that part of the whole reason why he was there?

His feet slowly carried him across the metal floor, the texture and pattern of it seemingly stabbing through the soles of his shoes. He leaned over as he kneeled down, flicking the strap from overtop the zipper before undoing the zipper itself. Lifting the top, his lungs pushed out the air. "Oh, my god." Carefully picking the handgun up by the handle, he moved it to the side to riffle through the bag. Different currencies were stacked in it, but finally - finally - he found something more interesting than scary. A passport. "Marc Spector," he read, finding a photo of himself staring back. The sight made him think, for just a moment, why didn't he - Steven - have a passport?

Dropping it back down, he reached deeper. His fingertips touched cool metal, and wrapping them around the object he pulled out the scarab. An amazed breath left him as the wings unfolded and the beetle rose from the dock plate, floating in the air and seemingly leading him away.

"I'd say you're a compass," he murmured to himself, studying the direction it was pointed, as he turned with it and rose back to his feet. "but you're not pointing north."

"Steven." That voice was it. The one he's been hearing. It was his own, but not - the accent was entirely different, unsettling so in some way. But he looked away from the scarab, his gaze falling on the reflection in front of him - the version of him that stared back stood differently than he was now, his stature bold and strong instead of tired and drooping. "I need you to listen to me very carefully."

"Marc? There he is, here he comes." He raised his arm in a small wave, immediately hating himself even more. "Hello, man in the mirror. I was wondering if you'd pop up again."

"I know you're scared." He sounded so calm, but so tense at the same time. Tension was just evident in him - the lines around his eyes, the angle of his jaw.

Now that's an understatement. What the hell was slipped into his drink? "A bit, yeah."

"I know you're confused. You weren't supposed to see," he gestured to the entirety of the storage space, as if that summed it up entirely, "any of this."

"No? Well, a bit late for that, innit? So-so what?" His body trembled, as if in time with his voice, nerves and jitters getting the best of him. "Am I, like, meant to be some sort of mad secret agent or something?"

"Yeah, it's a little more complicated than that."

"More complicated? What, am I possessed? Are you l-l-like a demon or -?" Was that why that timeless deep voice had been in his head? The worm, the parasite, that was himself?

"You're in danger, and I can save us. Just like I did last night. But I can't have you interfering in what I have left to do. So this is what's gonna happen." He pointed back behind Steven. "You're gonna go lay down on that cot back there. You're gonna take a nice nap -"

Oh, for goodness sakes. "Are you joking? Sleep - I'm never gonna go to sleep again, you hear me? Look, I don't care how bloody handsome you are. Tell me what it is you are. What are you?"

"You sure you wanna know?

"Yes, bloody - yes!"

"I serve Khonshu. I'm his Avatar. Which means you are, too. Sort of." When Steven was silent, he added, "We protect the vulnerable and deliver Khonshu's justice to those that hurt them."

"Khonshu?"

"Yeah."

"The Egyptian god of the moon?" Marc just nodded, and Steven pulled away from the elastic pulling him closer to the reflective wall. "Oh my god, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I eat one piece of steak and, bam, I go bonkers." He dropped down onto the cot, anxiety hooking its nails in his back. A fist wrapped around his lungs, knives scraping at his ribs. He pressed his hand to his chest, rocking forward. "Oh, god. I'm having a panic attack."

"I made a deal with Khonshu."

Stop. "I need to go to the hospital, I think."

"That deal is contingent on you not interfering, Steven." Steven glanced down at the gun resting beside him, finding Marc staring back, insanity sharp in his eyes. "Now give me the body. You let me finish this and you'll never hear from me again."

"You want my body? Right, yeah. Marc, how about this for a deal?" He pushed himself up, despite the hurricane in his legs. He quickly started to throw everything back in the duffle bag. "I'm gonna take this bag full of illegal shit, yeah? And I'm gonna go straight to the authorities. They're gonna put me away, so I don't hurt anyone else. And hopefully they fill me with enough pills so that you get out of my head!"

The door slammed shut, his hands pressed against it as if he could lock Marc behind it, silence suddenly surrounding him. The only light on in the hall being the sickly yellow spotlight above him. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum, and he took a deep breath and slowly released it to try and convince it to slow. But no - a light thudded on down the hall, catching his jumpy attention.

But nothing was there.

It shuttered off. Then, after a few moments, on again. Then off, on, off, on, off, thundering like a heartbeat. On again, a figure suddenly illuminated, startling him a step backward. Then off, then on, and it was gone.

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❛ 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 ❜

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Marc's chest practically cracked open, as the engraved linen wraps pulled away from him, unwinding and disappearing, the will of Khonshu momentarily vanishing from his body. As soon as he was able to, he reached into his pockets, searching for the scarab. Instantly, as he came up empty handed, panic swept through him, that crack in his chest splintering further. "Where is it?" he whispered under his breath, hands patting at all his pockets. "Where is it? Shit. SHIT!" The dread knocked him to his knees, pulling him down like an anchor to the wooden platform beneath him.

"So this is what it's like?" Oh, god. Marc looked over his shoulder, knowing already what he would find. Steven stared back at him, face shattered into pieces in the broken glass. "Being in the inside."

"...Yeah."

"It's horrible," he breathed.

This wasn't meant for him. "It's alright. You're alright."

"I feel like I can scarcely move."

"It's alright. Breathe through it. It gets easier." No, it doesn't.

"How long you been doing this?"

He turned back around, head dropping between his shoulders. "I don't know, it's - a long time."

"I don't like it."

"Long time."

"I don't want it." Marc pushed himself up to his feet, as Steven asked, "Can I have my body back?"

"I can't do that right now, Steven."

"Please." Marc closed his eyes for a moment, unable to convince himself to respond. This was gutting, the knife practically twisting in his gut. None of this was okay. "I'm taking it back." Steve groaned with the strain, and Marc finally convinced himself to turn back to the glass.

"Sorry. We've always managed to keep a walk between us, but something's changed. The one who controls the body has become stronger." He reasoned, "The reflections help, but most of the time it'll take all your willpower just to be a fly on the wall."

"You can't do this, keeping me trapped in here, you have no right. My whole life..." Marc shook his head, but Steven went on. "I can't go in a bloody date. I can barely keep a goldfish alive. I lost my job." The stage of grief shifted, turning head-first into denial and blame. "It's been you, it's always been you - eating away at parts of my life like a parasite."

No. He wasn't going to linger on that, he wasn't going to let it sink in to that bad place where he locked all those other things away - "Look. When I am done, when I have repaid my debt - I swear to you, you will never see me or hear from me again. I promise you." Nobody is more okay with that than I am. "We wouldn't be alive if it weren't for Khonshu. And my... servitude is the price that I pay."

"...What kind of servitude?

"The kind that leaves me covered in blood."

"Yeah, well, that blood is on my hands." He turned away, shaking his head, doing his best to shove the words out even as they came in. "You ruin people's lives." Steven can't be saying these things to him. "Everything you touch, you ruin." Steven was the one good thing. "You hurt people. You abandoned your wife, you left her stranded -"

Now that was it. Marc spun around, anger lighting up in his chest. "I did not. I am protecting her. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you did, I saw!"

"Khonshu has his eyes on her. He wants her as my replacement. I'm never gonna let that happen." Over my dead body.

"You're a liar! I don't believe you, I don't trust anything you say, you hurt people!"

"I'm never letting him near her!" But he'd never let me die -

"I won't let you hurt anyone again!"

"Just shut up!" God, why can't I die?

"I will never -"

"Steven, shut up."

"- give you a moment of -"

"Just shut up!" 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 -

" - peace, I promise -"

"SHUT UP!" The glass screamed beneath the sole of his shoe, crunching over and over again, less graceful than that of fresh fallen snow in Chicago. Steve wasn't ever supposed to say those things - he was the only good - he was never supposed to see any of this - protect your brother - how dare he?

How dare Marc hit him, like their mother?

The anger subsided to a tired simmer, and Marc stumbled back, the fight dripping away. Steven - Steven, who was never supposed to feel that pain, looked at him in fear, eyes shining, shoulders hunched.

No, no, I couldn't have done that.

The wind howled in his ears, eerie whistles sounding as it hooked over the sharp edges of the shattered glass. The chairs in the amphitheater fell over from the strong gust, and Marc was silent.

He was here.

"You swore he would not interfere."

Following the voice, Marc turned his gaze up to his left. Khonshu, in all his horrible glory, stood at the top of the church. "I know. I'll handle it." He had to handle it, he would. He'd get this done, Layla would stay safe, Steven wouldn't have to see these horrors that were never meant for him.

"You have proven you cannot."

"I will."

"Ungrateful, Marc." The voice was closer now, and Marc turned to look up behind him, following the god as he came closer. "altering the terms of our agreement? You were nothing more than a corpse when I found you. You think you own this body?" The god laughed, eerie and ominous and promising so many worse things for him. But still, Marc turned, meeting that empty gaze with his own. "It belongs to me."

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❛ 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎

𝐍𝐎, 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎 ❜

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Athena: So... who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon?

Odysseus: We're chopsticks!

Athena: Well... that's cute!

Telemachus: Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly?

Penelope: No, it means that if you take one away, the only thing the other is good for is stabbing.

oh theyre about to have the best sex imaginable i bet