Chapter Text
Three days. Three long, agonizing days, coupled with three sleepless nights that still managed to be filled with nightmares. Sam and Nat stayed with him the most, and Bucky was grateful for their constant presence; both of them rocks he could lean on, trust when he felt like his entire existence was about to shatter and crumble into a million pieces.
As promised, he never stopped talking. Well, almost never. Nat forced him to eat, and in return, she or Sam would talk to Steve in his place. But Bucky couldn’t feel at ease until he was once again the one telling the stories. Steve had heard him, had reached for him (even if only with a single finger). He wasn’t about to take away anything that was helping Steve recover, not for longer than absolutely necessary. (Because, as Nat had pointed out, he couldn’t talk to Steve if he passed out from starvation.) So he ate, and he talked with his mouth full, and Sam and Nat filled in the blanks.
It was on the third day, as Bucky was reciting the forty-ninth Shel Silverstein poem he had memorized, that Steve began to stir.
The doctors came in a flurry, having not expected their patient to wake until they had withdrawn the medications keeping him asleep--though Bucky wasn’t surprised in the least--removing the respirator, and checking vitals. Steve was groggy, and less than coherent, but he’d looked Bucky in the eye, and that had been enough. Bucky kissed him, told him to get some rest, then set his head down on Steve’s shoulder and fell asleep himself through his own tears of relief.
When Bucky awoke, it was to shaky fingers carding through his hair. It was so nice, so familiar, that it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t at home, in their bed.
He sat up quickly, immediately seeking that hand with his own. Blue eyes stared back at him, sleepy, but open. “Hey,” Bucky said, a smile spreading over his face.
“Hey,” Steve said back, and it was the sweetest sound Bucky’d heard in a long time.
Twining their fingers together, Bucky brushed Steve’s hair back from his forehead with his metal hand. “You know where you are?”
Steve took a deep breath, let it out slowly, as if the action were affirming in and of itself. “Hospital.”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” He didn’t know which answer he wanted, which would be better, safer.
“I--” For a moment, Steve closed his eyes, and Bucky let him take the time he needed, kissed his hand, his wrist, pressed his lips to that pulse point that reminded him that Steve was alive. Still alive. Always alive. “No,” Steve said finally, after Bucky had lost himself in the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I remember. You gonna tell me I’m an idiot?”
“Maybe later.” Maybe. “How you feelin’? Your head hurt at all?”
“Feels like I got hit by a train.”
“Not funny, Rogers. Gonna chalk that one up to the head injury.”
“Sorry.”
“Seriously, pal, you ever do anything like that again and I swear I’ll--”
Steve grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down, off balance, kissing him and putting an end to his words. His grip was strong, stronger than Bucky would have expected, and his fingers dug into Bucky’s nape.
It was like the dam burst--and all Bucky’s fear, worry, anger, and relief all came out at once. He kissed Steve back, as hard as he felt he could risk, and as gentle as he always wanted to be, then he pressed his face to Steve’s neck, willing aware the tears that flowed so easily. He breathed calmly, he didn’t sniffle, but the tears came nonetheless.
Steve’s hand found its way back to his hair. “I’m always going to follow you, Buck. Always.”
“I follow you, remember?” He sat up again, wiping the wetness from his face on his sleeve. “That’s the way we do this.”
“Goes both ways. Only fair.”
“Not when cliffs are involved.”
“That means you’re not allowed to jump after me either.”
Bucky snorted. “We both know that’s unlikely. I jump after you even when I barely remember you.”
“It’s all mutual then.” Steve closed his eyes, his hand falling back to his side.
Unable to stand not having some immediate connection, Bucky held that hand again. “It’s always been mutual. Since that playground in 1924.”
A small smile pulled at the edge of Steve’s mouth. “My head hurt then, too.”
“Bad habit of yours. Feel free to quit it anytime.”
“Gimmie something to replace it with?”
Bucky laughed lightly. Steve was trying to look suggestive, but instead only looked tired and in pain. “As soon as we’re home again, sweetheart. Promise.” He kissed him again, making plans to kiss him a million times more. “Get some rest. We’ll be home soon.”
Steve was already drifting, his nod less of an intended gesture and more of a settling into the pillow. But his hand was tight around Bucky’s and for now, that was enough.