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The birds are making a ruckus over morning and Bucky still isn’t asleep. Back in the day, he slept hard. The minute his body hit the mattress, he sunk like a stone and sleep was water. Now, he just floats. Everything is floating. Everything is just floating.
Even during the day he floats. Barely skims the surface of everything. Even Steve feels far away. Just two months ago, SHIELD finally released him to Steve. The first week, Bucky was raw from excitement and nerves. Everything felt swollen and delicate to the touch. Steve gave him space.
Steve is still giving him space.
Sort of. Not physically. No, Steve barely lets Bucky out of his sight. Curls up next to him on the couch, slings his arm over Bucky’s shoulders, hugs him tight for no reason at all. Bucky can’t blame him. Bucky can’t believe he’s here either.
But Steve isn’t talking to him. He’s guiding Bucky through electronics and 21st century etiquette. He’s telling Bucky stories about Tony Stark and Bruce Banner and Sam Wilson, but they haven’t talked about the fall. They haven’t talked about Bucky’s arm. They haven’t talked about the time the Winter Soldier tried to kill Captain America.
They haven’t talked about the time that Bucky Barnes saved Steve Rogers.
And they don’t share the same room. They used to, back in the cramped Brooklyn apartment. Back in the tents at war. Bucky can’t remember, but he’s starting to wonder if there was ever a time that he could sleep before Steve Rogers.
Did the Winter Soldier sleep?
Morning comes in pale blues and grays that shouldn’t remind Bucky of Steve’s eyes, but does. There’s something sad there now. Steve doesn’t smile as much as he used to. Bucky blames himself.
This is the worst part of morning. Realizing that the sun is coming and he’s going to spend another day just barely skimming the surface. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He wants to feel like Bucky Barnes before the fall.
But if he sleeps he has nightmares. Blurry memories of driving a knife into someone’s chest. Of losing his arm. Of Steve’s frightened face as he plummeted. Bucky feels like he’s been plummeting ever since.
—
“Hey, buddy.” Steve is sitting at the counter, angling his shoulders in that way he does when he wants to be small. Bucky is glad he can still find Steve’s tells, even if he doesn’t know why they’re tells.
Steve stands and gives Bucky a hug. He gives him one every morning. As if to thank him for being there. Bucky closes his eyes and inhales. He feels connected with the world until Steve pulls back and he’s floating again.
Seeing him is less of a shock than it used to be. Bucky knows that this isn’t the Steve he grew up with, but the Steve he knew is somewhere down deep where he can’t swim. He skims by on memories of war and of missions. Of Steve finding him on the table. Of the relief he felt reflected on Steve’s expressive face.
Steve was always so expressive.
“How’d you sleep?” Steve says.
“Just fine, thanks.” Bucky says. He wonders if he used to lie to Steve. How often and what about. He knows that the information has sunk deep into the wreck that is Bucky Barnes’ memories. If only Bucky could hold his breath long enough to go looking for it.
Steve makes a face and Bucky knows that Steve knows he’s lying. But Steve must know Bucky well enough to know when to press and when to just hand him the coffee.
Bucky feels himself sink a little bit under and feels better for it.
—
“I think,” Sam says, “you’re depressed.” He’s making eggs at the stovetop. He’s wearing an apron and house slippers. Sam has a way of blending the masculine and the feminine. It doesn’t shock Bucky’s 1940s sensibilities the way it should.
Bucky is wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. Steve said he used to dress sharply. Bucky doesn’t know what that means.
They are forced together sometimes, Bucky and Sam. When Steve squares himself away in the gym. Steve says that he trusts Sam. That he’s his next best guy. It hurts Bucky in a way that he can’t express, can’t fully feel. Another emotion, sinking to the ocean floor.
Sam is a big guy who uses big clinical words. Depressed is not one of those words. Depressed is a word that Bucky knows.
“What makes you say that?”
Four months since Bucky left SHIELD’s care. He’s relearned the tick of a sardonic smile. He knows better how conversation is supposed to go. He’s making his own decisions. He’s playing better at being human.
But he’s still not sleeping.
“Dunno, man.” Sam finishes the eggs and slides them onto a plate for Bucky. “You just have a sad look in your eye. I can get you in touch with a therapist, if you like.”
Bucky just shrugs and eats his eggs. Sam watches him.
“The captain tells me you used to be a real live wire.”
Bucky doesn’t want “the captain” telling Sam anything that Bucky “used to be.” Bucky didn’t used to be anything to Sam. Or to anyone. He just used to be the Winter Soldier. His fork creaks against the plate.
“So I get the feeling that this isn’t really you, you know?”
Of course it isn’t really him, Bucky wants to say. Really him was singed from his synapses. Burned out and wiped clean and rewritten. Really him was conditioned out of him like a trained dog. Really him sunk and froze with Steve and he’s still trying to get under the surface to get it back.
If only he could sleep.
“I don’t want to see a therapist,” Bucky says. Not because he doesn’t think therapy would help (he does). Not because he doesn’t trust Sam (he does). Not because he doesn’t want to get better (he does).
“Why not?”
Bucky doesn’t know.
—
Steve’s drawing skills are much better now that he can see color. But he still sketches mostly in black and white. Bucky doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s force of habit. Maybe it’s an artist thing. Maybe that’s the way Steve has always seen the world. Black and white. Good and bad. Bullies and victims. Bucky Barnes and Winter Soldier.
Bucky remembers trying to describe the colors red and green to Steve and not getting very far. He remembers sitting with his hands still so Steve could learn how to draw fingers. And then feet. And then arms and legs and faces and bodies.
Steve is drawing when Bucky comes into the room.
“What’re you working on?” Bucky says.
Steve folds up his drawing pad and smiles, but it isn’t really there. It isn’t really a smile. It makes Bucky ache.
“Nothing worth looking at. Nat and I were gonna go for a jog a bit later, do you want to come?”
Bucky doesn’t think he used to run with Steve. Steve couldn’t run. He shakes his head.
“I’ll stay here.”
Steve’s face falls. “Alright. I’ll stay here with you.”
—
Out of all the people Bucky visits with on Steve’s forced playdates, Doctor Banner is the only one who gives him any sense of belonging.
When Bucky met Banner, Banner wore the same kind of smile Bucky had been wearing. Forced and brittle at the edges. This look that said he was stuck in his own skin and didn’t know how to claw his way out.
Bucky feels like he’s outside his skin and doesn’t know how to get back in.
So they work in a way.
Doctor Banner doesn’t try to coerce Bucky into talking. Doctor Banner just makes him a cup of tea and explains what he’s working on in the lab. It’s confidential information and Bucky likes knowing that someone trusts him with his work. Doctor Banner didn’t see him as the Winter Soldier and Bucky has never seen Doctor Banner as the Hulk.
Doctor Banner speaks to Bucky like he’s normal. And Bucky supposes that, to a half-monster like Doctor Banner, Bucky is normal.
Once, Doctor Banner told Bucky about what it was like to turn. What it was like to come back to himself without any memory of what he’d done or who he’d killed.
Bucky can appreciate that sort of pain.
So maybe that’s why Bucky feels comfortable enough to tell Doctor Banner what he can’t tell Sam or Natalia or even Steve.
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
Doctor Banner is working on something for Tony Stark when the confession comes out. It’s unprompted so Bucky is impressed by his smooth reaction. Maybe Doctor Banner reacts to everything as if he knew it was coming.
He looks up, unfolds his reading glasses and gives him his complete attention. “For how long?”
“Since I got back.”
Doctor Banner nods and rubs the space between his eyes. “I’m not a therapist.”
Bucky knows. Bucky doesn’t want a therapist.
“You should talk to Rogers.”
He doesn’t want that either.
—
Bucky remembers one thing from back then with complete clarity. He used to be the one to look out for Steve.
He was the one to work the docks and bring home food. He was the one to tuck a blanket around Steve’s bony shoulders.
He propped Steve up when Steve couldn’t stop coughing. He curled up in bed with him when Steve couldn’t get warm.
He followed Steve down alleyways and patched up scraped knees and bought him his medicine and made sure he took it.
Bucky knows Steve helped him too, but he can’t remember asking for help. He just remembers Steve was there for him. Steve was there when Bucky got too drunk. Steve was there when Bucky needed his ego stroked and his vanity mended. Steve was just there.
And now they’re not talking and Bucky’s just floating. Waiting to drown.
—
By month five, Bucky is reaching critical levels. He suspects he’s only made it this far off small increments of sleep and Zola’s modifications.
But he’s starting to lose touch. He’s short with everyone, even Natalia and even Steve. He’s hearing whispers behind his eyes. His fingers shake and his skin aches and everything makes him feel like splintering. He can’t focus on even the smallest tasks. And he’s crying for no reason.
Steve finally notices.
It’s morning again and Bucky still hasn’t slept. When the blue gray of morning (Steve’s eyes) turns into a bright pale yellow (Steve’s hair), Bucky stops trying and rolls out of bed.
He’s surprised to see Steve waiting outside his door. He looks soft and sweet in his pajama bottoms. He’s crumpled up, sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin. Bucky is hit with the memories of a thinner Steve sitting outside his apartment, eye bruised black.
Now, Steve just looks up. “Doctor Banner says you haven’t been sleeping.”
Bucky sighs. Figures. He extends his hand to help him up.
“Not really. Wanna get some coffee or something?”
Steve just shakes his head and plants his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, steering him back into his room.
Being around Steve triggers all sorts of memories. Bucky did the same thing to Steve once, when Steve had the flu. They were like that with each other; physically coercing what they couldn’t verbally coax the other to do. Bucky eases a little under his touch.
“We’re gonna try lying down now, Buck.”
Bucky sighs. “I think I’ve already tried that one, Stevie.”
Steve, to his credit, only rolls his eyes. “Just lie down.”
Bucky does and is only mildly surprised when Steve curls up next to him. He rolls onto his side and Steve presses up against his back, arm heavy over Bucky’s hip in a way it never used to be.
“We did this all the time,” Steve murmurs.
Bucky nods. He knows.
“When I was really sick and the apartment was really cold. Except it was you all curled up around me. Like a cat.”
Steve’s voice is warm and low. He can feel the rumble of his chest against his back. Bucky closes his eyes.
“I remember being real embarrassed at first and then sort of liking it. Made me feel safe and snug, you know?”
He didn’t know then, but he understands now. Curled up like this…Bucky feels himself sinking and sinking fast.
“I want you to feel safe now, Buck.”
Bucky does. He falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until the sun is setting.
—
Of course, this messes up Bucky’s sleep schedule something terrible. When he wakes up it’s after seven o’clock and the world is winding down. He doesn’t even feel tired when midnight rolls past.
But this time, Steve is up with him. Sitting at the edge of his bed with a sketch pad and a bowl of popcorn. He keeps throwing kernels at Bucky’s open mouth and missing so there’s popcorn everywhere.
“I thought Captain America would have better aim,” Bucky says, sardonic. He’s feeling more alert now that he’s slept. He feels different. There’s energy and life under his skin. Bucky Barnes is crawling up between the cracks and making his way home.
Steve chucks an entire handful at Bucky. He’s laughing and the sound makes Bucky feel clean and light. “Shush. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“What’re you drawing, anyway?” Bucky picks up popcorn from the duvet and pops it in his mouth. It’s buttery and light and Bucky thinks of Saturdays at Coney Island with his best friend. He wonders if he can talk Steve into going again. Wonders if the hot dogs still taste as good as they did.
“You’re real impatient when you’ve slept,” Steve grumbles, but there’s no real bite or depth to it. He’s just grumbling to grumble.
It’s nearly four in the morning and Bucky knows that the birds will start chirping in an hour. The sun will be up in two. But he’s not dreading it this time. Steve’s with him.
“Come on. Be a pal. Let me see.”
Bucky reaches for the pad with his metal arm and Steve jerks away so fast that Bucky’s hand closes around nothing. The metal clicks together. That thing inside him, the dark and sinking one, aches. Bucky feels so heavy. He’s dropping to the bottom and he doesn’t know why he ever wanted to get under the surface. Nothing hurt when he was floating.
Steve catches his expression immediately. His eyes flick down to Bucky’s still clenched fist and back up, wide and astounded. It’s a sweet look on him. No wonder America loves Steve.
“No, oh no, Buck, no. I didn’t…It wasn’t…I just…” Steve is blushing. “Here, I just didn’t want you to see.”
He turns the pad toward him and it takes Bucky a moment to realize what he’s looking at. It’s him, mouth turned up at the corners in what Natalia calls his “cat smile.” His hair is soft and long around his face.
And Bucky has seen Steve sketch him before, but there’s something different here. Something soft and tender around the eyes and mouth.
Bucky looks up to Steve and Steve isn’t watching him. He’s turned his shoulders away and his head is down. Nervous. Trying to curl up into himself. Fold himself smaller.
And Bucky can’t believe he didn’t know. Can’t believe he didn’t see it in himself. Can’t believe all the time they’ve wasted. All the time that they have together now. And so narrowly missed having.
Bucky cups his jaw and kisses him. And he’s no longer skimming the surface. He’s here and real and human with Steve. And that’s all that matters.
“I didn’t know.” He whispers when he pulls back.
And Steve…Steve is flushed and smiling and looking at him like Bucky hung the sun. “I didn’t want to push you.”
“We need to talk more.”
“We will, I promise.” Steve presses their foreheads together. “We’ve got so much to talk about, Bucky. So much to do together.”
“I can’t wait,” Bucky says. And means it.
Just as the sun starts to rise, just as the birds start getting excited about the sun, Bucky falls asleep again. Steve pressed against his back. Steve is here and Bucky is finally safe.