MU's Captain America | Season One | Episode Two

:warning: Mature Themes - Reader's Discretion is Advised :warning:

Beneath the Surface

Trigger Warning: References to Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, Substance Abuse

Steve Rogers’ hands were slightly shaky as he moved through the aisles of the grocery store, but he kept his expression neutral. His eyes scanned the shelves with a precision that came from years of military training, but today, it wasn’t strategy he was looking for—it was a semblance of normalcy. A life he could convince himself to hold onto. It had been weeks since he’d gone out to stock up the pantry, and the truth was, he had barely been eating. His body had grown accustomed to the dull hunger gnawing at him, the silence of empty spaces in his apartment.

As he grabbed a pack of chicken breasts and tossed them into his cart, his fingers lingered for a moment on the label. The familiar twinge of discomfort—the one that came with the knowledge that his life had been out of control for so long—rippled through him. Focus, Steve, he thought. He needed to keep it together. This was for Bucky. It had to be.

Steve had always been a man of routines, and right now, shopping for food felt like one of the only things he could control. Chicken, rice, pasta—simple staples. He picked up a container of plain yogurt, then drifted into the Indian section of the store. Spices lined the shelves in vibrant colors: turmeric, cumin, garam masala. He ran his fingers over them, imagining the warmth they would add to a meal. Tandoori mayo—an indulgence he’d let himself have every now and then.

He added greens, spinach, lettuce, and some fresh vegetables. The thought of cooking, of preparing a meal that wasn’t just takeout, felt like a step in the right direction. He didn’t want to do it just for himself. He wanted Bucky to feel comfortable. To feel like this was home.

Home.

A word that had lost its meaning, but for Bucky—his best friend, his brother—he could still hold on to it.

Next, he grabbed a few packs of dumplings, miso paste, and dashi stock, the ingredients for a comforting soup if he could ever get around to making it. Kimchi, ramyun noodles. The staples of a life that felt foreign to him, but familiar to Bucky, who had spent time in places far from home.

But Steve wasn’t done yet. He picked up some beer and vodka—because Bucky liked vodka—and grabbed a bottle of Jameson for himself. A small indulgence. He needed something to mix with the Asgardian mead Thor had gifted him, a gift that had sat untouched in the back of his pantry for months.

The shopping trip was a momentary distraction, but as he loaded everything into his car, a gnawing sense of unease started to settle in his stomach. He hadn’t seen Bucky in person in months. Their lives had been lived in parallel, but separate. They hadn’t shared a space since the battle with Thanos, and even though Bucky had called him, they hadn’t spent any real time together since then.

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When Steve got back to the apartment, he found Bucky waiting at the door. Bucky had arrived earlier than expected, his suitcase in hand, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. And of course, there was Alpine, Bucky’s white Siamese cat, who immediately bolted from her carrier and bounded straight into Steve’s arms.

Bucky’s eyes were scanning the apartment with a kind of cautious curiosity. Steve had promised he’d keep the place clean. And he had. The floors were freshly vacuumed, the counters wiped down, and everything in its place. There was no sign of the chaos that had consumed Steve’s life for the past few months. No empty bottles of bourbon, no needles.

But as Bucky set his things down and glanced at Steve, something felt off. Steve wasn’t smiling like he usually did when Bucky showed up. There was a tightness in his posture, a strange nervous energy radiating off of him. It was subtle, but it was there.

Bucky had learned to read people in his own way. His time in Hydra had taught him to observe the smallest of movements, to understand when something wasn’t quite right. And Steve? Steve had always been an open book to him. But not today.

Something’s wrong.

Steve seemed distant, like he was physically there but mentally somewhere else. Bucky noticed the tension in Steve’s hands, the way he clenched his fists whenever his thoughts seemed to drift. He noticed the slight frown that was always hovering on Steve’s face, like he was fighting something inside himself.

“Hey Punk !! , you good?” Bucky asked, the words coming out with more concern than he had intended. He set Alpine down and moved closer to Steve.

Steve nodded quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, just… it’s good to see you, Buck.”

The words were fine. The tone was fine. But there was something in the way Steve’s voice cracked, just slightly, that gave Bucky pause.

“Steve…” Bucky trailed off, watching Steve move into the kitchen to put away the bags of food. “What happened? You okay? It’s been... a while.”

Steve froze for a moment, the sound of the refrigerator door creaking open filling the silence between them. His gaze was distant, and Bucky saw his jaw tighten.

“Yeah,” Steve said again, but this time, it didn’t sound convincing. “I’m just… getting used to things. That’s all.”

Bucky stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Steve, I know you,” he said quietly. “Something’s different. You… you’ve changed.”

Steve swallowed hard. Dammit, he thought. He had hoped he could keep up the illusion for just a little longer. But Bucky was always the one who saw through him. Always.

Steve’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the sudden urge to get away from the conversation almost overwhelming. “I’m fine, Bucky,” he snapped, the harshness of his voice making even him wince. “Really, I am.”

Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t push, but his gaze didn’t leave Steve. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But I’m here if you want to talk. About anything.”

For a moment, Steve stood in the kitchen, fighting the urge to break down. He could feel it—the manic energy surging inside of him, the panic creeping up his throat. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Bucky everything, but the words wouldn’t come.

The house was too quiet, and the silence was starting to suffocate him.

He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine for months. The truth was, he hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten until now. Until Bucky was back in the picture. The manic phase was taking hold. The highs and lows, the erratic energy, the overwhelming thoughts. And the worst part? Steve didn’t even know how to stop it.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the unopened bottle of Jameson on the counter, and then back to Steve. He could see it—could feel it. The man who had once been his unwavering foundation now looked fragile, like a tower on the verge of crumbling.

Steve’s lips pressed together tightly as he watched Bucky. He could feel it in the air—the unspoken words between them. Bucky wasn’t asking for answers, but Steve knew that the longer he kept pretending, the harder it would be to keep up the facade.

He ran a hand through his hair, his breath shaky. The silence between them deepened, suffocating.

“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” Steve said, but even he didn’t believe it.

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He just nodded and watched Steve, a sadness settling deep in his eyes. He had seen the signs before—the shift in Steve’s behavior, the sleepless nights, the withdrawal. The subtle hints of something darker bubbling beneath the surface.

And now, Bucky knew.

It wasn’t just PTSD. It was more.

Steve was slipping, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he could catch him before he fell.

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