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“Steve!” the shouting was in the distance, fading in and out, and muffled by loud crashes and bangs that shook the earth.
Steve made a feeble attempt to lift himself up, his elbow and hands pressing into loose rocks and grit. Pain shot through his body and he blinked slowly, trying to let it pass. His arms were shaking with the weight of his upper torso and his neck strained to keep the weight of his head up. A wave of nausea rolled up from his stomach and he let himself drop back down, eyes snapping shut.
He didn’t know where he was, or who was calling him. He would just lay in wait for them for now, panting in exertion.
“Cap, status!” this voice was right in his ear and he took a moment to ask himself why. His fingers automatically went for his ear to investigate, the shoulder on that side screaming as he shifted it. He decided to go still again.
“Steve!” the first voice was back and closer, no longer fading in and out. He was able to focus on it now and made another attempt at getting up, this one a little more successful as he used his left side instead. He was a little ways up off the ground when warm, rough hands cupped his face and a thumb smoothed over his cheek. Something behind them fell and shook the ground.
“Steve!” his best friend’s voice was a scream.
Steve didn’t know why- what had happened? He didn’t yell at Steve much, they were usually on good terms. Steve tried to ask, but his head was swimming and getting up seemed like a feat he just couldn’t overcome right now.
“Shit, this is bad, Steve. This is so bad, oh my God,” his voice was quiet now, strained and reedy right by Steve’s side.
He blinked his eyes open and after a moment he could focus on the blue eyes hovering just over his own, the grey and orange sky tilting in the background. He made to sit up and the other boy moved back to let him, a warm hand moving to press gently on his lower back and help him. Steve tried to nod in thanks, but the movement hurt and was quickly aborted. He placed his hands behind him to keep himself upright and they slipped in a puddle where his head had been. He would’ve toppled over if it wasn’t for his friend’s hand keeping him upright.
“Jeez,” he croaked, pressing trembling fingers to his own head. “Thanks-
“Bucky,” he said.
“Steve, no,” the hands were on his face now and they were much smaller. He peeled his eyes open again and the eyes he met were the ashy green of dead grass, the sky behind them a bright, cloudless blue. “Steve, it’s me. It’s Natasha.” Why could he see the sky if he was lying on a tile floor?
“Oh,” was all he could muster. He brought up a hand to search his head for the inevitable injury. Natasha let go of half his face to slap his dirty fingers away.
“Stay with me here, Steve, you’re bleeding a lot. You hit your head.”
“…kay,” he made to nod, only to remember where that got him and stop short. “Where’s…” he trailed off, blinking to find his train of thought again.
Natasha said nothing in response, just moved a hand to his shoulder, the other remaining behind to keep his head up.
“The building…” He looked around to see variously blurred shapes crumbling and falling around him. His legs were half covered in rubble and rocks bit into his palms.
“Ask him the questions, Nat,” the voice in his ear said.
“Get him out of there!” another voice said, this one angry.
Steve turned to his left, trying to see where the voices were coming from, but Natasha’s hand stopped him. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Steven Rogers.”
“Rank?”
“Captain.”
“What year is it?”
“Ok, do you know what year it is? Is that what I’m supposed to ask?” Bucky was starting to panic, Steve could hear it. The rain was letting up outside of their shelter, under the cover of the balcony of some second story apartment. Bucky’s hair was still plastered, nearly black with water, to his forehead.
Steve laughed painfully, brushing him off with an easy answer. He wasn’t that badly done in.
“Nineteen… Thirty… eight? No wait, it’s two-thous… Nine…” he stopped talking and she grimaced at him. He frowned back. He shifted his legs restlessly, starting to feel the pain in them.
“Steve, who am I?”
“N…?” her frown remained but her eyes softened. The hands moved up to move hair out of his face. She smelled like smoke. He relaxed his face into her seemingly capable hands and let his eyes drift shut a moment.
“Steve? No, no, no, open your eyes, pal!”
“Lady Natasha, I will take Captain to the medical transport,” a new voice said, this one coming from a blurry shape in the background. Hands, these ones huge, were hauling him up like a child before he saw the shape move. Rubble fell off of him as he was lifted and he hissed in pain.
“Stevie, stay with me,” Bucky was saying over and over. They sat in the alley, Steve leaning against a mossy wall. Wetness was dripping from his head onto the top notch of his spine and trickling down. Steve was starting to see dark edges around his vision.
“I’m with you,” he mumbled. He was vaguely aware he was being carried bridal style but couldn’t summon up the moxie to fight it.
“That is good, Captain,” the new voice said, “It would be a tragedy most terrible if you did not remain that way.”
The next thing Steve was aware of was stairs under his feet, an arm around him and a warm hand planted firmly in the center of his chest. Wetness was sticking his shirt to his back.
“Buck?” he muttered.
“Oh, thank God,” Steve felt Bucky stumble, “Thought you were down for the count, pal.”
“Nah, not me,” Steve replied, hissing air in through his teeth as the pain hit him.
“Do you know what to do, Stevie? You rung your bell somethin’ good. You’re bleedin’ all over the damn place.”
“Ice, uh…” he blinked blearily, trying to remember. “Just gimme a second to remember the rest.”
“For Chrissake, Stevie, you scared me half to death,” Bucky muttered, almost too quiet for Steve to hear. The hand shifted, resting over his heart.
They got up to the apartment with Steve limping along under Bucky’s arm and just managed to get the door shut and locked before Steve’s stomach decided to do a big somersault.
“Buck… The room’s kinda… tilty,” he said, sitting heavily on the bed and slumping forward. His back rolled as he gagged and Bucky snapped to attention. He sprang across the room and slid a bucket over just in time.
“Lemme get the ice, sit tight!” he said, dashing back out the door like hell was hot on his heels.
“The ice vendor is right at the corner of Elm today,” Steve replied.
“Ice vendor? Is he gonna be, you know, okay?” someone asked in his ear, voice muffled by a loud rumble, also from his ear. “I thought the serum was supposed to prevent this or something?”
“Clint, just run damage control with Bruce. Thor will be back out to help you in a minute,” it was the female voice again, almost shouting to be heard over a loud whirring.
“Here, Stevie.”
Steve was expecting a grinning, triumphant Bucky to come back, but he got a tight-lipped, rain-soaked boy who looked like he’d run a mile. He was holding ice wrapped up in his button-up and had stripped to his undershirt, which stuck like a second skin to his bony chest.
“Ah- hell!” Steve snapped as the shirt was pressed to his head. It stung like crazy. “Bucky, your shirt!”
“Shut it,” Bucky said, leaning over to the bedside table to grab something, still pressing the ice down. He straightened up holding a bottle of whiskey. The first pour was like agony and-
Steve’s eyes shot back open and he wheezed, sitting bolt upright. He was being stared down by Tony and Natasha. Tony’s armor was in a pile in the corner of the plane. He was sitting on a gurney next to Natasha, who was leaning against the wall with a cold pack pressed to her wrist.
“Welcome back to the land of the living. You know, again,” Tony said. There was an unusual lack of snark in it. He was looking green around the gills, mouth in a thin line and his arm hanging limply at his side. Steve just nodded at him instead of quipping back.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” he demanded, voice coming out weak and wavering. The building he was in had collapsed around him after he’d been thrown into it from the next one over. Clint had been on the roof.
“Captain Rogers, what year is it?” a nurse dressed in full combat gear came around into his view. He pushed a hand over his face and pulled it back with a hiss when he touched a gash under his eye.
“2014,” he replied, snappier than he’d meant to. “What else would it be? Where are Clint, Thor, and Bruce?”
“You were confused earlier, Captain Rogers. You have sustained a concussion.”
“The others are fine,” Natasha added. “Damage control. The bastards escaped without a scratch.”
“Great. Good,” he muttered, feeling the pounding in his skull and hot pain from the gash on the side of his head. He made to swing his legs over the side of the gurney, only to be stopped by the nurse.
“You have sustained a concussion, three broken ribs, a torn rotator cuff on your right side, as well as various other injuries we’ve yet to catalogue. I’m afraid you must stay here, Captain.” He huffed but resigned himself to it, flopping back down and closing his eyes, forgetting about Brooklyn and the chaos of the battle for a while
--
Steve was exhausted. Even the stairs up to his apartment were difficult. His entire body was screaming in pain, from the stitches in his head to the two broken toes on his left foot. The concussion symptoms were gone; he’d spent a day in Stark Tower with a drugged-up, broken-clavicle-bearing Tony, who had gleefully shaken him awake every time his eyes slipped shut. Pepper had been out and apparently JARVIS was insufficient for that, but capable of giving him anything else he needed.
He’d had a good week of being pounded into the ground by bad guys, and he was desperate to collapse and sleep for three days straight. Super-soldier or not, getting your ass kicked hurt and sleep was still a necessary part of the recovery process, no matter how much faster than average it was. His eyes could barely stay open as he missed the lock with his key three times. With a quiet curse, he finally got it right and let himself into his apartment.
It was his exhaustion he blamed for his reaction to seeing Bucky at his kitchen table as he passed the half wall separating it and the entryway. He took a violent inhale of breath at the sight, letting a "Jesus, Buck!" escape before he could filter it.
Bucky returned the curse with a penitent lowering of his head to stare at the oak surface of the breakfast table. Guilt took surprise’s place and Steve withered.
"Sorry, ah-" Steve winced as the unshouldered his duffel bag, the torn muscle in his right shoulder sending a twinge down his arm, "I'm... not myself. I was expecting you to be in bed.” He glanced at the microwave clock and a bright green 2:45 am glared back at him.
"I was waiting up for you. I saw the damage on the news a-about Chicago. You look awf-” Bucky said. He was getting better about talking freely, but stopped in the middle of sentences sometimes. He visibly deflated, swallowing hard. “Welcome home.”
"Thanks, Buck," Steve smiled and huffed a painful little laugh, trying not to move his shoulder any more than necessary. He winced as he tried to peel his hoodie off.
"You're- are you- in pain? Steve?" Bucky made to stand.
"I'm fine. Just tore a muscle," Steve's smile was thin as he held up a hand to keep Bucky sitting, "This is the least of it.”
"The leas- What happened?" Bucky asked, exasperation creeping into his voice.
"I got the hell beat outta me. I got thrown around like a ragdoll. Haven’t felt like this since… well.” He decided not to bring up DC. He wasn’t sure they were there yet.
Bucky nodded slowly, not seeming to get it. He chewed on his lip before speaking meekly to fill the silence. "Your ribs are broken."
Steve just nodded, pointing to his right side. He really had landed pretty hard on that side. "How'd you know?"
"You're breathing like you- like you did before all of... that," he gestured vaguely at Steve, who nodded again.
"Yeah, it kinda feels like it too. I hung around Stark’s place in Manhattan for a while after we finished up the mission, though. His robot butler took good care of me. I’m gonna be alright.” He clapped a hand to Bucky’s shoulder.
Steve took the silent, intense stare as an affirmative and moved past him towards the fridge to get a bottle of water. As he turned to head back to his room, a hand snatched out and clasped around his wrist. Steve startled, almost dropping his water.
“Sorry,” Bucky said, staring at the ground. His fingers fell limply away.
"It's fine," Steve said. He slowly pulled out the chair at the head of the table, the scraping of the legs against the hardwood deafening in the silence, and sunk into it. He stared at Bucky expectantly.
Bucky stood, almost knocking over his chair with the suddenness of it. He was breathing heavily, staring down at Steve with a strange look on his face. He extended his hand to Steve after a beat. When Steve just stared back he leaned down to grab Steve’s wrist and pull it up between them. His palm was bleeding, a gash that had needed stitches oozing droplets of dark red.
“Oh,” he said, not getting why Bucky was so upset suddenly.
"Just- please," Bucky said helplessly, finally letting go.
“Bucky, what’s the problem?” Steve made to get up, but fell back when Bucky pressed a hand to his chest.
“Please,” he said again. Steve stared at his back, covered in one of Steve’s soft old t-shirts, as he retreated into the bathroom.
Bucky came back with a small black bag Steve recognized as his first aid kit. It was simple- just gauze, disinfectant, some bandages, and tape. Bucky was carrying it with one hand down by his side like it weighed a ton. He stood in the hallway returning Steve's stare for a solid ten count before moving hesitantly forward and settling gently in the chair he'd been in before. He turned it to face Steve and Steve moved his, too.
“Let me?” Bucky whispered, hands gripping his own knees, waiting for permission. Steve nodded, lips pursed in anticipation.
Bucky was methodical as he removed bits and pieces from the bag, his brow furrowed in concentration. It had been too long since Steve had seen that look on his face. It was creating strange, bittersweet warmth in his chest. The crease between his brows was going to become permanent, Steve thought for the first time since 1945.
He let out a stuttering breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when Bucky pressed a disinfectant-soaked piece of gauze to his palm.
“Did- Did that sting?” Bucky asked. Steve shook his head, biting the inside of his lip. Bucky’s eyes accused him of lying, but his hands continued their work.
Bucky was dead silent as he tended to the injury, cleaning it and covering it so the stitches wouldn’t snag on anything. He refused to look at Steve, even when he moved on to nearly-healed scratches with the disinfectant. Steve didn’t have the heart or energy to tell him that they were fine.
He finally met Steve’s eyes when his hands moved to touch Steve's face. Something he found there made him freeze. He swallowed thickly before he spoke.
"I used to do this before." As always, it was a statement and a question. He wanted assurance that he was remembering something real.
Steve was suddenly dead tired again. He sagged and gave an exhausted nod. Bucky, seeming less hesitant, began to wipe down the dark, angry looking gash under Steve's left eye. Steve valiantly did not wince. He took it stoically until Bucky managed to see the crusted blood in his hair.
“Shit,” he said. It was so like himself that Steve wanted to laugh, but there was no mirth in Bucky’s eyes. "You can't go to sleep tonight," he whispered, resting his fingers on Steve's skull so gently Steve only felt it by the movement of his hair around his stitches.
Steve remembered those exact same words, said the exact same way, back in some small apartment in Brooklyn a million years ago in August. Steve took a huge shuddering breath and there he was again, feeling small and frail. He took a shuddering breath as Bucky’s palm pressed into his cheek.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see Bucky’s expression.
He remembered the splotch of blood on the concrete and the hard dig of strong fingers into his shoulder as he was hauled upstairs. He remembered a slew of curses fading in and out. He remembered the awful sting of cheap whiskey poured over his head, and how Bucky had pointedly not drank the other half like he would have some other time.
He could almost hear "Damn it, Stevie. Damn it, you can’t go to sleep tonight," whispered into his neck as fingers dug into his back desperately. As he pretended he couldn't feel the tears gathering in the dip above his collarbone.
Guilt hit him like a train, the same way it had all those years ago. He shivered against it, a lump forming in his throat.
Steve felt like crying and almost did. Bucky, the new Bucky, stared at him like he was about to panic or throw up; looking so desperately lost in a way he never did before The Soldier. Steve couldn't even bring himself to tell him that he was going to be fine this time, sleep or not. He wanted to be back in a world where he would tell him over and over until Bucky called him a crazy SOB and slung an arm around his shoulder or waist, settling in for a long night of stories to keep Steve awake.
He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping that night despite his exhaustion and the lack of stories about simpler times. He felt tears prick his eyes as the memory replayed and dropped his head, Bucky's fingers slipping close to the staples in his head.
"Steve, Stevie," Bucky said, pressing a cold hand to his uninjured cheek. The metal felt nice against his face. Steve leaned into it. "Did I- are you?" Bucky struggled, losing his words again.
"I'm fine. I just-" Steve’s voice shook with unuttered sobs. He shook his head instead, unable to find the right words to explain himself.
"Do you want- can I?" Bucky asked, looking as torn up as Steve felt. His metal thumb stroked over Steve’s cheekbone.
Steve just nodded even though he didn't know what he was agreeing to. Bucky's hands grabbed Steve by his good shoulder and hauled him forward into an awkward hug, their knees bashing. Bucky's breath on his neck was humid, and Steve felt wet eyelashes brush his earlobe and jaw.
“I was just- just remembering,” Steve said, reaching up to circle his arms around Bucky. Bucky held him tighter as his words registered and Steve knew he understood. Steve sniffed, still valiantly trying to keep tears back even though Bucky had already seen them. “This one night back in Brooklyn I got knocked into a wall by some guys, split my skull open. You cleaned me up and got me ice. Wouldn’t let me sleep for two days, just in case. I hated you by the middle of the second day.”
“You smelled like whiskey for three days,” Bucky whispered, hand coming up to brush through Steve’s hair on the uninjured side.
“Yeah,” Steve croaked, pressing his nose into Bucky’s shoulder. His voice came out muffled. “I forgot about that.”