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Bucky keeps the window above his fire escape unlocked.
Steve doesn't tell him it's unsafe -- they both know Bucky could handle anything that comes through it -- but when he finds out he gives him a looklike he thinks maybe Bucky is leaving it open because he's hoping something will. Which, okay, Bucky can't really fault him for that, but that doesn't mean it's true. It's taken him a while, but Bucky's gotten to the point where if he feels that particular buzzing under his skin and nervous energy in coiling in his gut, he'll call Steve or Sam -- or hell, even Natasha, if he really has to -- and go a few rounds in the rink until he can breath again and his legs are too dead to shake. It's probably still not the healthiest coping mechanism in the world, but he'll take any progress he can get.
And it's enough progress that it means Steve is only half right -- Bucky doesn't leave his window unlocked because he's hoping one of these days trouble will come through it and give him something to hit that can hit back. He leaves his window unlocked because he knows that on any given night, there's pretty good chance the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is going to come tumbling through it, and when he does there's an even better chance he'll need stitches.
Matt, surprisingly, doesn't fall under Steve's definition of trouble. He's been strangely relaxed about the increasing number of costumed vigilantes running around the streets of New York, to the point where when a reporter cornered him and Sam in a diner one day and asked for their opinions, Steve's only response had been, "Sir, I'm pushing one hundred. Anyone who wants to make my life a little easier in my golden years is more than welcome to." There was absolutely no reason for Bucky to not introduce them, or at the very least mention to Steve how he'd come across a freshly-stabbed Daredevil on his fire escape two months ago and stitched him back together, and how Matt kept coming back like a stray cat Bucky had fed one too many times, and how Bucky didn't mind at all.
Still, Bucky had been...not nervous, necessarily, about Steve finding out about their growing friendship, but unsure. Steve was Bucky's family, and the Avengers were Steve's family, so Bucky tolerated them, even liked some of them, but Steve and Sam aside, he couldn't really call any of them friends. And saving the world had always been Steve's thing. Bucky was more than happy to help out whenever Steve asked, but when it came down to it, he knows he wasn't built for that kind of spotlight, those dramatic showdowns and high-stakes battles that the Avengers couldn't seem to go more than a few weeks without. He'd had enough of that during his time as the Winter Soldier.
What he was built for, though, was exactly what he'd grown up doing on the streets of Brooklyn -- pulling bullies of kids half their size and socking petty criminals in the nose. And yeah, maybe the criminals Matt took on were a little bit more than petty, but it was close enough that Bucky got it, and Matt got him.
It felt stupidly exhilarating and sneaky to have made a friend without Steve bridging the gap first, like he was doing something he shouldn't, even though he knew he wasn't. But that same thrill had been what was holding Bucky back from telling Steve about Matt's nighttime visits -- even if he knew Steve would be happy he had another friend, he couldn't shake that voice whispering in the back of his head that maybe Bucky was actually doing something he shouldn't, and maybe, just maybe, Steve wouldn't be happy. As much as Bucky logically knew what that voice was saying bullshit, he couldn't quite shake it. Hiding things from Steve sucked, but disappointing Steve was unbearable, and Bucky would always take the lesser of the two evils.
So when he finally explains the open window and the nearby first-aid kit, he braces himself for the worst, but what he gets is all the nervous tension bleeding out of Steve's face and an "Oh, that's great, Buck. So, what do you want on your pizza?" And when Matt slides the window open in the middle of their Jurassic Park marathon later that night with a broken nose, Steve greets him with a smile and an offer to reheat some pizza for him while Bucky resets his face, and Bucky's shoulders feel fifty pounds lighter.
Matt and Bucky don't talk about how most of the injuries he comes to Bucky with aren't ones he actually needs help taking care of -- he's stitched up Bucky the few times he's tried his hand at vigilantism, and they both know he's more than capable of fixing himself unless he's well and truly bleeding out, or how Matt's started to drop by even when he has no injuries at all. They also don't talk about how Bucky leaves his window open even on nights he spends on Steve's couch or Sam's floor, because if there truly is an emergency, he'd rather Matt call him from inside, where he can at least put pressure on his own wounds, than bleed out on his fire escape waiting for Bucky to run back over. And they definitely don't talk about the handful of nights Bucky has actually locked the window.
Bucky's not sure if Matt even knows about those nights -- if Matt's ever tried the window when it was locked, he's been too out of it to notice -- but he doesn't ask, because asking would mean having to acknowledge that they happen at all. Normally, he can predict and prepare for them: he'll wake up to the world feeling desaturated and about forty degrees off kilter, and he can call Steve before the memories get so loud he can hardly hear himself breathing. Sam calls them panic attacks and flashbacks. Bucky calls it fucking annoying.
On the days he can call Steve, he's okay. They still suck, but Steve helps, and even Sam does, the few times Bucky's let him see him like that. They get him through it, distract him enough that the panic doesn't ever get a chance to fully set in. He'll be exhausted by nightfall, but more or less okay. He's never had to lock the window on those nights.
The nights he locks the window are the ones where it catches him off guard. He'll wake up to a world sitting right on its axis, go through the full day in full color, only for everything to come crashing down while he's washing his plate after dinner. A vice goes around his lungs, tight and fast, and his right hand starts to shake while the left one stays horribly, horribly still. Even the thought of calling Steve is unbearable. On those nights, it's all he can do to stumble over to the window and close the latch before crawling into bed and waiting for everything to pass.
Tonight, though, he doesn't make it to his bed. It hits him in the split second after he turned off the TV to go to bed and before he'd managed to get up off the couch, so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs. He chokes on an inhale -- he's in the HYDRA lab -- exhale -- in his apartment -- inhale -- HYDRA -- exhale -- back and forth, back and forth. His legs won't work and his left arm is so, so heavy and it's all he can do not to bite through his own tongue with the effort it's taking not to scream. He is so, so far from his apartment, and locking the window is so far from his mind, until he hears a soft "Bucky?"
'Oh God. ' Bucky wrenches his head out of his hands in what feels like slow motion, and the room takes a minute to catch up when he turns to the window. Matt is standing there, backlit by the city lights below, more shadow than person. At least, he's pretty sure it's Matt -- his voice sounds distorted, like they're underwater, and Bucky can't focus enough to see his face, just thinks he sees the outline of his stupid horns against the window. 'Oh God, not here, not now, go away go away go away except don't if you're dying don't be dying just go--'
Matt takes another hesitant step into the room, and Bucky flinches so violently his neck cracks. Matt stops dead in his tracks.
"What--" he starts, then stops, head tilting slightly. Bucky knows Matt's listening to his vitals, probably tasting his goddamn stress hormones in the air or whatever, and as much as Bucky knows Matt can't help it, can't turn it off -- for a moment Bucky hates him. He hates how Matt doesn't even have to be able to see him to be able to see him, and he hates how this is what Matt's seeing, these tremors in his right hand and the way he can't quite get his breathing right. Bucky has never been one for running away, but he hates how that isn't even an option right now -- he could go curl up on his closet floor and it wouldn't make a difference. Matt would be able to heart the stutter-stop of his heartbeat through the doors.
Bucky should have locked the goddamn window.
The minutes, or maybe seconds, or maybe hours drag by. He's not sure, exactly. Time feels thick and liquidy, and he can't quite get his hands around it. But it's long enough for that rasping voice in Bucky's head to fill in the gaps of what Matt had been about to say -- "What are you doing?"-- "What kind of soldier are you?" -- "What are you?" -- "What the hell is wrong with you?" -- so loudly and clearly that he actually physically jumps when Matt finally says, "What can I do to help?"
Matt's voice is nothing like the one in Bucky's head. There's no vague German tint to his words, no cruelty, no laughter at Bucky and his weakness. There's just this - a gentleness, a concern, and a set of New York vowels that sound like home.
Part of Bucky -- the Winter Soldier part -- wants to tell Matt he can fuck right back off out that window he crawled through. The part of Bucky that grew up pulling bullies off Steve in the back alleys of Brooklyn wants to tell him that he's absolutely fine, he doesn't need help, that in fact if anyone here needs help it's clearly Matt himself, what with the fresh purple bruise spreading over the right side of his jawbone. And the part of Bucky that's so, so tired from constantly trying to fit the other parts together into something that even vaguely resembles a real person wants to ask Matt to hit him so hard he passes out, if only so he can finally get some rest.
But what he says is "Talk. Just...just talk to me. I don't care what. Just talk."
"Okay," Matt says. "Okay. Yeah. Let's talk. Give me a second."
Bucky feels like he's watching from far, far away as Matt quickly peel off his ridiculous Daredevil suit, but he tries to time his breath to the soft clunks of the different pieces of red armor hitting his floor anyway. It doesn't really work, and the wasted effort frustrates him more than it helps.
It's the first time Bucky has seen Matt entirely out of costume. He doesn't look fragile, the way some of the Avengers do when they un-suit, but he does look a little smaller, a little more real. When he finishes peeling the armor off, he's left standing in Bucky's living room in nothing but an old, soft-looking t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and Bucky vaguely registers that if he were in any other state of mind right now, he would find Matt's duck-patterned underwear hilarious.
(Weeks later, when Matt is stitching up a cut on Bucky's shoulder after an Avengers mission gone sideways and listening for broken or fractured ribs, Bucky will ask him why he didn't just leave his Daredevil pants on, and Matt's steady hands will stutter for a moment before he ducks his head in embarrassment.
"I don't know," he'll say. "I...guess I was just thinking, you know, the pants still have armor on them. Armor is threatening, maybe? I didn't want you to feel threatened, or...or like the other way around, like I was afraid of you. I didn't want you to think that either."
"Huh," Bucky will say.
"I'm sorry. It was weird of me."
"No, don't be. I didn't mind. It worked." And then Bucky will grin, wide and just this side of mean, and tease, "Plus, who could stay upset when faced with all the glory of your duck boxers?" and Matt will turn an endearing shade of red and tell him that if he doesn't want to bleed out in Matt's kitchen he better shut his mouth.)
But right now, Matt is asking "Can I sit down next to you?" and Bucky doesn't really feel himself nod, but he must have, because he blinks once, and Matt is halfway across the room, then twice, and Matt is next to him on the couch, and he knows that wouldn't be happening if he hadn't given some sort of okay. Bucky blinks a few more times, tries to focus his eyes on the space separating them. Matt doesn't touch him, but he doesn't put as much distance as he can between them either -- there's maybe two or three handwidths between their knees, and Bucky is thankful for the middle ground.
There's another stretch of silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Matt's head tilt -- he's listening again. Bucky is about to snap that this is the exact opposite of what he asked for when Matt says, "Two blocks south, a woman gave birth at home. She's holding her child for the first time, and they're both crying, but her tears are happy. The midwife is telling the husband that everything went perfectly."
Bucky stutters on another exhale, but this time it's mostly from surprise. 'Oh.' That's what Matt was doing.
"A block east from there. Someone just proposed to her girlfriend. Like, just proposed, just now. There's some crying going on there too...aw." There's a smile in Matt's voice. "She said yes."
Something starts to loosen, just a hair, in Bucky's shoulders. The next breath comes a little easier.
"Bodega down the street, some kids are buying ice cream to surprise their friend just because he seemed sad earlier. They're arguing about whether he would like rocky road or moose tracks better. And...yeah, okay, they just decided to go with a pint of each. Nice choice, yeah? And, building right across from us. Fourth floor. An old man is singing in...not Russian. Polish, maybe? Definitely some kind of Slavic language. He's singing to his cat." Matt interrupts himself with an honest-to-god giggle. "Sorry, correction. He's singing to his cat and pausing every couple lines to let his cat meow back."
The image is absurd enough that a small laugh forces its way through Bucky's lips too. It doesn't sound right - it's too short, too choked off. Even to his own ears, he sounds a little deranged, and he winces thinking about how he must sound to Matt.
But if Matt thinks anything of it, he doesn't mention it, doesn't miss a beat. He just keeps going, occasionally pausing to listen for another moment before narrating everything he hears to Bucky.
Except it's not really everything, and Bucky knows that. He knows Matt hears all the cries for help, the screams of terror, all the anguish and fear, and that's what drives him to put on the suit every night, because his stupid wonderful bleeding heart can't take hearing the pain of the city and not doing anything about it. Bucky knows Matt must be hearing it now. He always does. It never leaves him, just like HYDRA will never really leave Bucky.
But for right now, Matt is filtering the pain out. He's sorting through it, setting it aside momentarily, looking for the moments of happiness and light in the New York City at night and sharing them with Bucky -- two middle-aged men slow dancing in their living room to old forties love songs, a girl sneaking into her younger sister's bedroom so they can stream some Korean award show without their parents knowing, a man sharing a slice of pizza with his dog at the 24/7 shop on the corner -- just to keep him centered, keep his mind here in his living room instead of back with HYDRA. It's that, knowing the quiet effort Matt is going through for him, that helps steady out his heartbeat as much as the stories themselves.
He doesn't know how long they sit there, Matt monologuing while Bucky carefully unlocks every muscle in his body. At some point he starts to tip over, slowly sinking sideways until his head comes to rest somewhere between Matt's shoulder and his jaw, and his metal arm is shoved right up in Matt's rib cage.
Matt shifts, and for a moment Bucky locks up, expecting to be shoved off, but all that happens is that Matt worms his arm out from underneath Bucky and loops it around his shoulders. He lets his head come down on top of Bucky's, so he feels Matt's words just as much as he hears them, and Bucky relaxes again. Almost unconsciously, he reaches over and rests his other hand -- the flesh one, the one that can feel -- just above Matt's hip, tangling his fingers in his t-shirt. It's even softer than it looked, worn thin and smooth with age. Matt's thumb smoothes up and down Bucky's shoulder in response, keeping time with the cadence of his words.
Matt smells like sweat and iron, like cheap Thai food and expensive laundry detergent. Bucky breathes deep and this time his throat doesn't catch on the exhale.
By the time Bucky comes fully back to himself, pale morning light is starting to creep across his living room floor and he feels like he's run a marathon or three. His brain still feels cottony, but a different kind -- burnout and exhaustion rather than panic -- and he can live with that. This is familiar, this is safe. The couch feels solid underneath him again.
Matt has melted on top of Bucky, his body gone heavy where they're tangled together. He's somehow still talking, showering Bucky with eavesdropped anecdotes that are now punctuated with the occasional yawn. He could be making them up for all Bucky knows -- it's not like he can hear Matt's heart to tell if he's lying -- but he doubts it. For all his skill in it, Matt hates lying when he doesn't need to, and Bucky doubts he would lie to him now, when there's nothing on the line.
Matt stifles a particularly big yawn in Bucky's hair. "Sorry. Um, couple blocks north. This girl is calling her grandma in Russia. They're talkin' about...I don't know, I don't speak Russian, but it sounds nice. Pretty sure I just heard the word Siberia? Yeah. This girl is calling her grandma in Siberia."
"Didn't know Siberia was hospitable for grandmas." Bucky's throat is dry, and the words come out weaker and raspier than he'd like, but they're out, and he'll take that.
Matt pauses, and Bucky knows he's listening to his heart again, but this time he finds that he doesn't mind, especially when he feels a slow smile spread across Matt's cheek where it's smashed into the top of Bucky's head. "Guess they make 'em different over there."
"Guess they do." He yawns, and Matt squeezes his shoulder. For the first time in a few hours, he falls silent, and this time Bucky takes comfort in it.
He lets the silence stretch on for a few more moments, just breathing in Matt's presence, before he speaks again. He doesn't want to bring it up, but he knows he has to. "I don't--" he coughs, clears his throat, tries again. "I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay."
"Of course." Matt's voice is scratchy and soft from overuse, but it's warm, and it makes something in Bucky's chest squeeze in a way he hasn't felt in a long, long time. 'Huh.' He'll analyze that later. "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."
Bucky's "Thank you" is equally soft. He doesn't really want to move, but he pulls away from Matt just enough to be able to look him in the face. They're close enough that their noses are almost touching, their breath mingling. "I mean that. Thank you. For everything."
Matt blushes, from the proximity or from embarrassment, Bucky's not really sure. "You don't have to thank me. I'm happy to help."
"Mmm. But I'd like to. 'S the least I can do after keeping you up all night."
"I would've been up anyway, and I know at least three people who would thank you for keeping me off the streets. Foggy'll probably send you a fruit basket."
Bucky laughs, soft but genuine. "Speakin' of. You got work today?"
Matt yawns as he shakes his head, before letting it flop against the back of the couch. His thumb starts tracing idle circles on Bucky's shoulder again, and Bucky leans into it . "We're all taking the day off. Karen threatened us into it -- she said if we didn't take an actual weekend soon she would go on strike, and she knows we can't function without her."
Bucky's laugh is louder this time. Carefully, he unfolds his legs, wincing as all his joints pop, and only when he can't put it off anymore does he gently leans out of Matt's grip to twist his back and roll his shoulders. Without Bucky to support it, Matt's arm flops down, coming to rest around Bucky's waist. Matt looks as tired as Bucky feels, but less wrung-out and more soft and rumpled. He makes a soft noise of protest when he loses Bucky's body heat that's far more adorable than a grown man with his fighting abilities has any right to be, and it's only the growling of his stomach that keeps Bucky from leaning back into Matt and sleeping until noon.
"Well, in that case, how about I make us some pancakes before we pass out on my couch and waste the entire day?" He may not be ready to talk about his past, but he's definitely ready for breakfast, and that, at least, is something he can share with Matt.
Matt immediately perks up. "You? James Buchanan Barnes? Known war hero and sidekick to Captain America? Making pancakes for little ol' me? I don't know if I'm worthy of this honor."
Bucky hits his bare knee as he stands to cover up his snort and the little thrill he feels when Matt doesn't try to excuse himself from Bucky's implicit invitation to spend the day here. "You definitely are not, so watch it. I prefer my breakfast without a side of sass."
The smile that spreads across Matt's face is wide and sleep-deprived-silly, and maybe it's because Bucky is bone-deep exhausted and still just this side of fragile, but the sight of a sleepy, giggling Matt Murdock sprawled on his couch is enough to make his heart swell. "Sorry Sergeant. We're a package deal."
"Well, shit." Bucky could be embarrassed about how fond his voice is, but he chooses not to be. It's been a long night -- a long life, if he's honest -- and he thinks that maybe, just maybe he can have this. "Guess I'm stuck with it, then."
Matt's face is brighter than the early morning sun and all the lights of Brooklyn combined. "Yeah. Guess you are."