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A low whine works its way into Steve’s dreams and quickly wakes him. He knows that noise; he knows it as well as he knows his own voice, and its presence indicates that something is wrong.
Peeling his eyes open and squinting around the darkened bedroom, Steve doesn’t pick up anything out of the ordinary, not even with the assistance of his serum-enhanced vision. He can feel another set of eyes lingering on his form, though, his skin prickling with the war-learned instinct to find cover and escape the careful gaze that rests upon him.
Only with months of therapy, patience, and practice under his belt is Steve able to push aside that impulse, and only then when he can say with certainty that he is safe and that everyone around him is safe, too. Recognising his surroundings and taking note of the cooling, recently abandoned space beside him, Steve holds still and listens, waiting for another noise to lead him to where his love has sought refuge.
He gets one after a few seconds.
The soft, pain-filled whimper has him sliding out of bed and moving slowly, cautiously, towards the shadow of the large, flowery armchair in the corner of the suite. It’s Bucky’s favourite piece of furniture; an ugly thing which, having caught a glimpse of it in the window of a dingy shop, he said reminded him of the old rocker his mother used to sit and knit in on cold, winter evenings. Ultimately, Steve couldn’t argue with the wide, pleading eyes that begged him to take it home from the thrift store, and it became theirs that very day.
Now, Steve can just see the end of Bucky’s long snout and the tip of his bushy tail as they peek out from under the security and semblance of protection that the chair provides. He can’t fathom how Bucky manages to huddle his giant form in the small space time and time again, and he would likely find the contortionist act endearing if he didn’t know the reason that he finds his boyfriend curled up there once or twice a month.
“Bucky?” Steve whispers, crouching down before the chair, sure to leave enough distance that the scared, traumatised werewolf doesn’t feel cornered and that any accidental, fear-driven strikes from said werewolf can’t reach him.
Again, a drawn-out whine calls to him, the dark grey snout twitching with the effort. It emerges from its hiding spot a few inches, miniscule movements rapid as the keen nose scents the new arrival. Steve knows that Bucky is using his apparently comforting and familiar smell to pull himself completely out of the realistic flashback, the aftershocks of which, he is still obviously shaking from.
Several weeks previous, during a more present and aware moment, Bucky had explained to Steve that breathing in and tasting the unique flavours -he called them- that each person produces helps him to differentiate someone known to be a friend from an old Hydra handler or abuser. He said that when he is in states of confusion and distress, it’s harder to concentrate on the signals that are being picked up by his sensitive receptors, a glitch that was noticed and taken advantage of for punishments and methods of control. He said not to touch him until it’s clear that he has made the connection between a scent and the individual it belongs to.
On one hand, that truth breaks Steve’s heart; with everything that Bucky has lived through, months later he is still suffering as his brain and his body both attempt to process the past sordid seventy years of his existence. In instances like these, it feels like all the hours spent with doctors of the mind, desperately learning how to recover, has been thrown out of the window. The amount of time and toil that Bucky has put into figuring out if Steve, Steve, is going to hurt him… it’s physically painful to witness, to see every thought as it flickers by behind mistrustful, cold, grey eyes.
But on the other hand, it’s Steve’s scent that can most easily bring Bucky up from the depths of his nightmarish memories. It’s Steve who Bucky recognises when he isn’t even Bucky anymore. And then, when a frightful and wearying episode has finally passed, it’s Steve who Bucky turns to collapse into and trusts to carry his weight and the weight of his possessed body’s sins. The special bond that exists between them has the strength to surpass frequent and extensive brainwashing repeatedly. Understanding this fills Steve with a sense of distinction and value that can’t be found anywhere else because this is Bucky and all Steve has ever wanted to be is enough for the beautiful, haunted man who has always owned Steve’s heart.
He knows now, with all of his heart, that he is.
“Baby, it’s me, it’s Steve. You’re safe here. It’s August of two-thousand-and-fifteen. You’re with me in our bedroom in the Avenger’s Tower,” he continues to softly murmur reassurances and words of warmth and encouragement, doing his utmost to ignore the pressing need to reach out and touch. “I love you, Buck, it’s me.”
It takes several minutes for Bucky to huff and give a slow wag of his tail, signifying his awareness, but, caught up in his rambling and lost in icy eyes, Steve doesn’t notice, at first. Only when Bucky quietly barks does Steve realise that the eyes he’s staring into have warmed and lost the edge that keeps Bucky precariously balancing between finding himself again and tumbling over into the mind of a confused, dangerous, and tormented soul.
“Come here, baby,” Steve whispers, opening his arms and sitting properly on the floor to take the weight of his aching calves. Even though Bucky is back in the present, Steve must wait for him to make the first move as a further show of trust and care to the werewolf.
And Bucky obeys, slinking forwards and revealing his lithe body bit by bit as it leaves the cover of the armchair. His face is typically wolfish in nature, though his eyes remain the same dazzling steel blue orbs that James Buchanan Barnes was born with in the early spring of 1917. The ears atop his head are adorably floppy when not at stiff attention, making him look younger and more like an overgrown puppy that anything else, infamous assassin included. His coat is gorgeous, silky smooth and charcoal in colour, and when he moves, it’s with astonishing grace and poise, each step appearing as though it has been carefully planned right down to the angle at which the pad of his enormous paw touches the floor.
On any given day, Bucky is a sight to behold, no matter if he’s in his human skin or lupine fur. For Steve, even better than gawking and lovingly admiring either of Bucky’s forms, is holding the man or the wolf tightly in his arms, running his hands over powerful muscles and through soft hair.
He does so now, using one hand to gently caress the massive head that rests on the side of his neck and the other to hold the trembling body close to his torso.
Bucky whines with every second or third exhale and continues in his desperate attempts to push himself impossibly nearer to Steve. His sitting position within Steve’s crossed legs doesn’t give him much leverage to succeed, but with his head hooked over Steve’s shoulder and listening to the constant thrum of soothing words that are being spoken, he must soon realise that he’s safe and that Steve won’t let go. With a sigh, Steve feels the tension leave Bucky as he slips down to curl up in-and-on the loose circle of his legs.
Finally, with that, the anxious strain that has been playing on Steve’s own mind and body relaxes. He lets his grip loosen so that Bucky can get comfortable and then returns his calming ministrations. At three o’clock in the morning, he thinks, there are worst places to be than sitting on your bedroom floor and cuddling the love of your life, who also happens to be in the form of a one-hundred-year-old, eighty-kilogram wolf.
˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚
It seems like they doze for hours before Bucky grunts and squirms, but the sun isn’t yet peeking through the blinds so it can’t have been too great a passage of time. Steve’s body is stiff, but he doesn’t unfold himself until Bucky has rolled out of his grasp and onto his back on the carpet, going about his post-nap stretching ritual. He smiles at the dog-like manner of it all as he stands, wincing at the sensation of blood rushing back into his limbs from where it had pooled.
By the time he’s fully awake and his body feels more like flesh than rock, there is a human-shaped Bucky Barnes standing in front of him with his lips turned up in a gentle smile. His transformation is silent, rapid, and used to startle the crap out of Steve. It doesn’t surprise him anymore, the experience of one second seeing a wolf, and the next, seeing an older version of the boyish face he knew all those years ago.
“Hey,” Steve mumbles, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Bucky’s and pull him closer. “You alright?”
Bucky looks down at their entangled hands, his long, thick lashes brushing the pinkened tops his cheeks. A faint whisper is all Steve hears. “I’m sorry.”
Ignoring the splinters forming on his heart, Steve tucks a finger under Bucky’s chin, but doesn’t force his head up, just holding and supporting it gently. “Bucky? Look at me, doll,” he says softly, smiling a watery smile when Bucky does so with sad, shiny eyes. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. We all have our ups and downs and I want nothing more than to be with you through them all. It’s you and me, pal. ‘Til the end of the line and beyond.”
His words have the effect he knew they would; Bucky closes the slight space between them and tucks himself into Steve, burying his face in his neck and twisting his fingers into Steve’s shirt, waiting for arms to wrap around him and clutch him tightly.
Steve does his part with a teasing yet sincere, “I love you, wolfy.”
A quiet chuckle and weak slap to the chest lets Steve know that everything will be okay. Together, they can make it through whatever the universe throws at them.