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He glances at the window again, The fifth floor is high enough that the the late-morning sunlight can make it past the surrounding buildings to spill pleasantly into the room. The scene is... nice. Something that could be found in movies that Steve has been showing him on nights they have free (He won’t admit it, but somewhere deep where he still knows he deserves good things— he loves those scenes. They make him believe a little more he might be happy again.)
Something swoops by the window and he tenses up for a split second before diving to the nearest cover that he took note of the evening before when they arrived in the safehouse. He thuds against the wall in a crouch, eyes scanning for more sign of movement and the nearest weapon. He can hear the water in the bathroom shut off and suddenly he feels off center- Steve doesn’t want him to be this. He tries to convince himself to ignore his instincts and stand up. It was just a pigeon… Some kid let go of a balloon… There is someone lining up a shot on you Right Now. He closes his eyes and brings his right hand up to cover his face (Not his left. Never his left.)
Steve’s careful footsteps approach him, creaking on the hardwood slowly. For a moment Bucky remembers him approaching an injured dog like that back before the war was even vaguely a concern. It almost let him get close until Steve accidentally kicked a discarded can and the dog lashed out in fear. An hour and a half later, Steve was cleaning the dog’s wound with a bloody bandage wrapped around his hand. Bucky vaguely wonders if Steve still has the scar.
The floor groans again as Steve kneels in front of him, close enough to be there and far enough away not to crowd him. He looks up and drops his hand back to his side, there Steve is, perfect, golden, worried Steve. He can feel himself frown as he shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He stands up and pretends that his right hand isn’t shaking and he feels like his other arm is just waiting to fight. “I’m fine.” He says again, a little louder.
Steve stands with him but doesn’t look like he believes it, “Buck…”
"I’m fine." he says again and walks into the kitchen (No windows, easily accessible improvised weapons, multiple routes of egress) with measured steps, not too fast, relax just enough to not be obvious. He stares at the drip of water from the sink for a minute or two before Steve follows, stopping just behind him. In the reflection of the refrigerator he can see Steve reach out and hesitate before placing a hand on his right arm (Not his left, Never his left.) He know he’s still shaking and he can’t hide it anymore so he draws himself inward, drawing his left arm in enough that Steve can only see the angry red scar tissue that surrounds it. He doesn’t want him to see his arm, it shows that he’s broken. That he’s not really Bucky like Steve wants him to be.
His movement doesn’t have the intended effect, Steve steps close enough that his chest is pressed against Bucky’s back. Steve’s chin rests against his shoulder and Bucky can feel the ghost of Steve’s breath as he whispers something too quiet to understand. Then Steve shifts his head to kiss Bucky’s shoulder, just like Bucky used to kiss Steve’s shoulder in stolen moments before the war. “You’re alright.” He whispers, barely audible. Steve’s lips gently brush the back of his neck, “You’re just fine.” A kiss on the other side of his neck, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” His other shoulder, “I love you.” Bucky relaxes just the tiniest bit.
Then Steve leans back a bit and moves to his left (Please, not the left.) Steve’s lips are on that horrible, ugly, marred skin. He feels like he wants to run for it, or vomit, or both. He takes half a step before Steve’s hand is on his waist, “Hey…” He says softly like he was talking to that injured dog, “You’re okay, I promise.” Bucky stops and Steve tries again, “I love you, okay?” He kisses that same scarred skin and then the horrible metal of his arm. “I love all of you.”
For a moment, Bucky can believe it.