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1. There are things Bucky'll never say without the cover of needling, teasing, and one of them's this: sometimes, the way Steve curls behind him or - like now - lies on his stomach with his arm thrown across Bucky's torso, it's hard to tell whether he thinks he's protecting Bucky from something or keeping him from leaving, even if - when - Steve falls asleep. And somehow, somehow the last part should bother Bucky, a lot, by any fucking logic in the world, by the fucking logic that makes it hard sometimes when doors are closed or he can't see the sky, and he won't ever say how grateful he is it doesn't, either.
Not even under laughter. Not at all.
He doesn't want to dig too hard at why, why instead something in his head gives up like it's breathing thank fucking God (not that the shit-head deserves it) and lets go. In case he fucks it up, in case he finds the reason and something about it makes his mind snarl up. Doesn't want to lose it, doesn't want to steal it from Steve, considering everything he fucking takes and fucking costs. So keeps his unfocused gratitude that's mostly another word for relief to himself, even if sometimes it's enough to make his fucking head spin.
(If there's anything more than blind chance to be grateful to, then it doesn't fucking deserve anything from him. Or from Steve, either, but Steve'll give it anyway because if anyone'd sign on to be the next fucking run of Job, it's Steve - be the next, and fucking outdo him, too.)
And it's fucking stupid how the world turns on such God-damned petty things. Things you barely fucking think about until they derail everything, all the fucking time, until you'd kill just so you don't have to fight to eat, just so you can fucking sleep. Until you're willing to take advantage of the part where your best friend's way too fucking accommodating, willing to stay because he's the only thing your piece of shit brain believes for safety.
It's fucking pathetic and selfish and Jesus right now Bucky doesn't care. Metaphorically clings to touch and scent and Steve's stupid selfless devotion and literally lets Steve hold onto him and just hopes it never fucking breaks.
Bucky's halfway to drowsing right now, which is closer to sleep (real sleep, not sudden blank breaks in consciousness that half the time come with something fucking awful painted across his eyelids just in case he relaxed too much) than he's been for three days. Steve's not, so much, but it's the middle of the day and if Bucky thought he'd listen he'd've told Steve he didn't need to stay a while ago. As it is, he knows Steve won't, knows it enough for sure not to waste the effort. Doesn't pretend to himself he's not grateful for that, too.
If Steve's restless enough that he traces patterns and lines here and there on Bucky's skin, Bucky doesn't actually mind. It might even be, maybe, that being able to focus on that, on the shapes and directions he can feel, lets him ignore the noise in his head long enough to finish falling asleep.
2. Back when, Bucky slept sprawled out on his back, filling up space like a happy dog flopped out on a hot day. During the War, they all learned to sleep wherever, however, whenever because if you didn't, you'd regret it later.
Now Bucky sleeps half-sitting up, propped up with pillows, if he's edgy, on his stomach if he's relaxed and on his right side in between; the only time he'll even doze on his back is if Steve's half-draped over him, and eventually one of them ends up needing to move. He'll also only sleep if he's touching Steve or Steve's touching him, somehow, even just a hand up against an arm or something equally simple.
Nine times out of ten, that's apparently enough for Bucky's subconscious to believe he is where he really is, and let him sleep. That there won't be any consequences to falling asleep. Steve tries not to think about what the consequences could be: it's bad for his calm (a gently mocking phrase of Sam's that he latched onto with relief, for the mockery and the way it lets him reframe everything as much as anything else).
Tonight, for once, Bucky's asleep and Steve's the one restless and awake. He's not sure why. Maybe something he's not managing to see properly turning itself over in his head, or maybe it's just his turn in the great divine insomnia lottery.
So he's the one scowling at the ceiling by moonlight, while Bucky sleeps beside him, left arm under the pillow under his head, right hand resting against Steve's shoulder, face turned towards Steve. His breathing's slow, which means he's probably not dreaming.
Good.
As he glances over at the clock, Steve realizes he's fallen into the insomniac's bad habit, the one where you look at the time and think if I fall asleep right now, I'll get so many hours and minutes of sleep before such-and-such time . . . which in his case is just ridiculous, seeing as nobody controls when Steve's going to get up but him. If he wants to, he can sleep till noon. He probably won't even if he's tired, but still.
He makes himself turn over onto his side, away from the alarm with its glowing clock and, coincidentally, towards Bucky. It means his shoulder moves out of reach, so Steve rearranges his pillow so that he can stretch his left arm out to cross Bucky's right.
He's not exactly surprised when Bucky shifts a little, and Bucky's fingers close around his lower arm. Bucky gives Steve a hard time about Steve's tendency to hold on, to sleep curled around him or fall asleep half draped over top of him. Steve, on the other hand, keeps any and all observations about Bucky's sleeping tendency to cling to Steve's wrist or arm to himself, in case something in Bucky's head decides he needs to stop.
Later, really. He can store it all up for later. They have years.
It's been . . . not a bad week, but a long one, maybe. Nothing big, not even an inundation of things that should be small and aren't when there are twelve of them in a day, but just . . . things. Bucky's worrying at something, Steve can tell - kind of suspects that whatever it is, it's about Bucky thinking he's not living up to something or keeping up with something, like there'll be a test and he'll fail. Which almost certainly happened, more than once, so there's nothing he or Steve can really do about it except hope that it doesn't take too long for life to write a new script, and write it strong enough to hide the old one.
Maybe that's what's keeping Steve awake. His own subconscious, worrying away at that and trying to find an answer without actually telling him, because it's tired of hearing all the unsatisfying answers his conscious mind knows. Doesn't want to hear another mantra about time and care and building on small things, neural pathways and consistency and more time. Steve doesn't blame his subconscious, exactly, if that's it, but it'd be nice if it'd just give up for the night and let him go to sleep.
Although who's he kidding, really, asking any part of his own brain to give up?
Honestly Steve wishes . . . a lot of things, most of them stuff he doesn't actually wish, or wouldn't if he thought he could really get it. But maybe if there were some infinite scale, one you could see and touch, to show Bucky what he'd already not just lived up to but eclipsed by being here, being him at all -
Maybe Steve would actually wish for that.
He reaches over with his top hand to carefully brush a few strands of hair out of Bucky's face, rests his hand against the side of Bucky's head. And Steve hasn't really gotten over how he can do that, or follow the line of Bucky's neck to his shoulder with fingertips or palm or anything else, and Bucky doesn't even stir. Probably won't ever get over that.
Shouldn't, actually. Never should. Because Christ above, it probably does count as a fucking miracle that Steve just being there can let Bucky sleep, that after every God-damned thing just that's enough. How just being him is safe enough that touch doesn't even make Bucky stir or twitch away.
Maybe his subconscious should look at that for a minute and then count their collective blessings.
Steve leans forward a little, kisses just above Bucky's temple; Bucky's skin smells like sleep and the faint tinge of ozone and metal that's always there now, has worked its way into being as comforting and familiar to Steve as warm skin.
When he settles back, Steve pulls up the comforter they'd both managed to half pull off. And either his subconscious decides to take his advice or he just hits the end of his allotted sleeplessness. Either way, within about five minutes, he drifts off.