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Bucky Barnes is screaming. It isn't an unusual occurrence, and while you wish you could say you had a plan in place for the nights you heard the sounds ripping themselves from his throat, the simple truth is that the same bundle of nerves that unfurl themselves inside of you on every other such occasion make sure that tonight is no exception. The logical part of your brain reassures you that just like every other night, he will eventually fall quiet, or wake, and to just wait it out. This argument wins out every time. But tonight is different. Tonight your legs have reached the door to your room before you can even begin to wrestle with reason. And as you tell yourself that the least you could do is give Bucky Barnes his dignity, your hand is turning the doorknob. And while you whisper to yourself that this man might never be able to look you in the eye again, which would be a considerable issue in your line of work, your feet pad along the corridor until you find yourself outside of his room, standing with one hand raised to his door.
“Bucky,” you call softly, as you enter the room.
It’s almost entirely dark. The bedside lamp is switched on, and a thin paperback lay discarded just out of reach of his right hand, the sharp metal of the left is curled tightly around a fistful of white bedsheets. His back shines with sweat, the tops of his boxers peek out from beneath the sheets, and his hair has fallen to the side of his face, obscuring it from view.
You feel every bit the intruder as you stand half in, half out, unsure of what your next move should be, firm in the belief that he would not want you to see him in this state. You take a few more steps into the room as he begins to groan, the sound clenching around your heart.
“Bucky,” you try again, louder. He doesn’t move. Your new angle allows you to notice his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. His mouth opens again in another hoarse scream and this time, you launch yourself forward.
“Bucky-”
The hand that reaches out to touch him falls limp against your side as you find yourself pinned to the wall, cold metal closing around your neck. You scramble frantically, legs swinging and hitting against the wall. It feels like hours before you grab his face between both hands and force his eyes to meet yours. He drops you instantly and you gasp for breath as quietly as you can, intent on not making this worse than it already is. His eyes, wild, blink rapidly, and with one, two, three, recognition slams into him and he falls to his knees beside you.
“Shit! Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Of course I hurt you, what am I saying, are you-”
“Bucky,” you interrupt in a raspy voice, dropping your hand from where it was rubbing your neck. “I’m okay. See?” You sit up a little more to convince him of your blatant lie.
“I didn’t think, I just felt someone there and-” His hand reaches out to touch you but he changes his mind almost immediately, dropping it to his side.
“I know, Bucky,” you say, crawling towards him to close the distance between you. “You had a stranger in your room-”
“Not a stranger,” he says, bitterly, and you can hear the self loathing thick in his voice as he turns and walks away from you, the artificial lights bathing the room at his request. It suddenly feels so mundane, not at all the place that houses his deepest hurts.
“-and you reacted, any of us would have done the same thing,” you continue, as if he hadn’t cut you off.
There was silence, and then “Why were you in here, anyway?” and you're combing through the question for any traces of anger as you bite your lip.
Do you tell him the truth?
“I…well, I wanted to make sure you were okay,” you say, looking up at him.
“You wanted- oh. I was screaming again, huh?” He asks, and a sudden exhaustion settles itself on his face.
“I mean, only a little,” you offer lightly, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Enough to warrant a visit,” he counters with raised eyebrows and you smile sheepishly in response. “I’m sorry for waking you, I’ll talk to Tony about-”
“Bucky,” you begin. “I don’t care about the noise, shut up.” You pick yourself off of the floor and shuffle over to his bed, throwing yourself down onto it. He looks at you from the other side of the room, one hand rubbing his jaw and the other, heavy metal, hanging limply before him as if he’s afraid of what it will do when he looks away. You pat the bed and he looks at you warily without moving. You pat the bed more insistently and he finds himself walking over and flinging himself onto it so that he is laying beside you.
“Do you want to ta-”
“-No,” he replies immediately, and several feelings hit him at once. Shame, and fear, and anger, and the overwhelming thought that he is the biggest burden the universe has ever delivered, and yet, in the middle of attempting to hatch a plan to leave so that his friends would not have to be so encumbered with his issues, the fingers of his flesh hand intertwine with yours.
“Okay,” you reply simply, your thumb moving soothingly across his hand. “That’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, doll” he says, after a minute of silence. “You come here to check on me and I choke you and then I’m rude-”
“-You’re right, you gotta work on how you treat guests, you didn’t even offer me a drink,” you say, turning on your side to face him, still holding onto his hand.
He huffs at your teasing, and a second later comes back with “My mother would be appalled.” And just like that, he’s Bucky, no-effort, charming, flirty Bucky. You laugh and it fills the room. Bucky smiles at the sound. He closes his eyes, and then winces, opening them back up again so quickly you almost miss it. Almost. He lets go of your hand and reaches for your neck slowly, unsure. You tilt your neck for him to let him know it's okay, and his fingers stroke the angry red marks gently. You can tell he’s about to sink into a slew of self deprecation.
You push yourself up, leaning lazily against the headboard, and pull his reluctant limbs with you so that he falls between your legs, his head resting on the softness of your belly, one arm on either side of you, the same position you’d found him in when you entered the room.
You stroke his hair gently and he looks up at you as you do, his hand clenching around the excess material of your oversized sleep shirt.
“I was in the chair,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your body.
Your fingers stop their movements and your arms attempt to pull him closer once again, failing of course, until he slides his body towards you in acquiescence and the top of his head rests under your chin.
“I’m sorry that you have to relive something so horrible,” you whisper, and your hand runs down the clammy skin of his back before making its way to his neck again, you let yourself fall into the familiar repetition.
“I deserve to remember.” It’s loaded with venom.
“James,” your hand pauses its movements just as its beginning to numb, and rests where his neck meets his shoulder. He looks up at the use of his name. You press your lips to the top of his head once, lingering, before your hand resumes its travels along his back. “You’re giving yourself a hard enough time when you’re asleep, how about you give yourself a little break when you’re awake, hm?”
He mumbles, it sounds vaguely like “Ain’t no rest for the wicked”, and is interrupted by a yawn he fails miserably to stifle. You feel the familiar clench around your heart once more. Glancing at the clock in the room, you find both hands nestled close together at the number 3.
“Hey, how about we salvage what’s left of this night?” you ask. When he only looks up at you in response, you continue. “Come on, you get in the shower so you can feel nice and fresh and we can watch some TV and no sleep will be had, how does that sound?”
“Mmph,” he replies, lolling his head dramatically against you, and you laugh as you sit up, forcing him into a sitting position with you.
“You know it’ll make you feel loads better, come on,” you say, your arms still flung loosely over his shoulders.
He whines, honest to God whines, like a child who has been asked to pack away his toys before dinner and you bite your lip to stop from laughing.
“Come on, lazy bones,” you try again, prodding his ribs, and this time he moves, albeit slowly, to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
“You’ll stay?” he asks, turning back to you, and you notice he’s not meeting your eyes.
“I’ll stay,” you promise, and it’s a second before he nods, mostly to himself, and stands up. When you hear the bathroom door open, you spring off of the bed, placing the paperback on the beside table, and begin to strip the damp sheets from the mattress and pillows. Once you’ve located a fresh set, you embrace the struggle of lifting the mattress to stretch every fitted corner against it, and before long, the bed is dressed in a deep plum, its soft smell warm and inviting. You bundle the old sheets together and move to leave them in the hamper when you hear it. The water is beating down relentlessly against the tile of the shower, and it almost masks the sound, but then you hear it again, an unmistakable sob.
The feeling that seizes your body when you hear Bucky’s screams takes hold of you once more. Do you let him have his privacy, or do you go and comfort him? This time, propelled by the guilt of having suggested the shower in the first place, you walk towards the bathroom and push open the door the rest of the way, to see him curled up in the corner of the shower, his head in his hands, arms on his knees, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. Your shirt is on the floor before you realise you’ve taken it off and you’re left in a crop top and underwear. You open the shower door and he looks up at you from his position on the floor, his hair sticking to his face and his eyes red.
You sit beside him and lean your head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the discomfort of the water soaking your underwear almost immediately. A particularly harsh set of sobs takes hold of him and he gasps for air. “Oh, angel,” you murmur to yourself and manoeuvre the both of you into a position where you can hold him from behind, legs on either side of him. “Shhh, it’s okay, Buck, you’re okay,” you repeat, pressing your lips to the skin of his back, rocking him gently. His hands grasp your arms as he continues to expel air faster than he can get it in. “It’s okay, just breathe, honey, you’re okay, come on, like me, feel how I’m moving against you, big breath in,” you prompt, heaving an exaggerated breath so that he could feel it against his back. He attempts to mimic your breath but fails, and his body shudders. “It’s okay, try again, Buck, come on, take a breath in,” you say as you take your own, this time when he follows its less shaky, and his shoulders slump as he exhales. “Good,” you praise, the word stretching itself soothingly over him like a blanket. “Again, try and hold this one for a few seconds,” you encourage, taking another breath in yourself as the water beats down on you both, and he follows, holding his breath until you instruct him to let go. The sound of the water disappears into the back of your mind and all you can hear is your voice and his breathing for the next few minutes and eventually, he slumps against you and you use the wall behind you to catch the both of you.
You reach for the shampoo bottle nestled in the small nook in the wall and bring it down onto the floor to join you. You sweep Bucky’s hair back from his face and he lets you, his hands still clinging to one of your arms.
“I’m going to wash your hair for you, okay?” you ask, and he nods after a second, still consumed by his own thoughts. You squeeze a generous amount onto your hand and apply it to his scalp, struggling with the use of one arm but not wanting to take the other away from Bucky. Your fingers scratch against his scalp and he relaxes against you. “That feel good?” you ask with a small smile, and he nods, so you take your time with it, massaging until the soap builds a small monument on the top of his head. “Okay, we’re going to wash this out now,” you say, moving him gently back under the stream of water, and using your hand to make sure you don't leave any traces of soap.
Next, you reach for the conditioner and apply it to his ends, this time gently removing your arm from his grasp, leaving a soft kiss on his shoulder to reassure him. With both hands available to you, you ran your fingers through his hair, searching for knots to untangle, finding very few. You rinse the conditioner and the soft nutty vanilla smell fills the enclosed space. With his hair finally washed, you grab the shower gel and loofah, and you yelp quietly when you accidentally squeeze too much onto it. Bucky turns to look at what you’ve done and a small laugh escapes him.
“I didn’t realise I smelled that bad,” he croaks, raising an eyebrow, and you smile. His voice is raw from the sobbing, but he was teasing again.
“I know you didn’t, I practically forced you in here,” you deadpan, nudging him so he knew you were teasing. You rub the excess gel onto your own skin before you push him forward a little and move the loofah over his back in soft circles. You bring it to his front, washing his chest and neck, and he holds your arm briefly again when it’s within reach. You bring the loofah back under the water as you go for his arms, his legs, and there’s a brief awkward moment where you hover at his belly, and he takes it from you, answering your unasked question, and washing between his thighs. You stand to return all the bottles to their nook in the wall and Bucky joins you, unsteady on his feet for a second. You take the loofah back from him and run it over the small of his back, his butt, the backs of his legs, before rinsing it off.
“You ready?” you ask gently, and he nods, leaning his forehead against yours. You turn the shower off and reach for his hair, squeezing the excess water from it, and then do the same for yourself. The water from your body drips onto the floor as you step out of the shower first and make your way to the stack of neatly folded towels. You grab one and turn back to place it around him, and then do the same for yourself. Your hair sticks to your skin as you try to towel it off and you give up when you look up and find Bucky, having finished drying off, watching you. He walks over to the door, not waiting for you when he leaves, and returns just as quickly with a shirt and a pair of boxers. “Thank you,” you say, relieved to be able to strip off the soaked material of your underwear. He nods again before leaving to give you some privacy.
When you emerge from the bathroom dressed in his shirt, you find him wearing a new pair of boxers and standing in the corner of the room. You walk over to the freshly made bed and settle into it, moaning softly at the feel and smell of the fresh sheets coupled with the effects of the hot shower on your sore muscles. You look up at Bucky and reach out an arm, and it’s seemingly all he needs to stop eyeing the bed. The mattress dips as his body joins yours on the bed, and your fingers lace with his as you pull him over so that he’s lying against you once more.
"Thank you for changing the sheets," he says, after a few seconds of quiet. "You were right, feels nice." You hum in response, squeezing his hand.
Your eyes move to the clock and you see that it’s 4:00am. It wouldn’t be long before people began to start their day and you didn’t know where to go from here. You reach for the TV remote with your free hand and it flickers to life with the press of a button. Bucky shifts against you trying to find a comfortable position and the hand that isn’t holding his begins stroking his back as it had been before you’d suggested the shower. You’re certain you could find something decent to watch, but settle for the ridiculous infomercials with their exaggerated voiceovers, laughing every so often at the dramatic questions they pose to the audience.
Bucky’s eyes flutter shut a few times, and every time, he shakes himself awake again, yawning against you.
“Close your eyes, Buck” you murmur, brushing your lips over his forehead and lowering the volume of the TV. “Just for a second.”
He shakes his head and continues to fight the exhaustion for another ten minutes, shifting stubbornly against you, until finally, you hear his breath evening out, and his back rises and falls steadily beneath your now still hand, and the ridiculous man on the TV is driving a motorcycle over a mattress to prove how strong it is. As your own eyes begin to close you realise you’re caged in by Bucky’s arms on either side of you, and it feels safe here.
A few hours later you jolt awake at a sharp knock against the door. It takes a second for you to recognise your surroundings and you squint, trying to adjust to the light. Bucky lies beside you, flesh arm slung over your stomach, face pressed against your neck, legs tangled with yours. He doesn’t react to the noise, his breathing still calm and even. The door is pushed open and you lock eyes with Steve who takes in the scene before him with a raised eyebrow and a smile tugging at his lips.
He didn’t sleep, you mouth at him. Day off? Steve nods once and leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and this time, Bucky stirs.
“Y/N?” he groans, and you can hear the tired in his voice. “Did you stay here all night? I’m-”
“Shhh, go back to sleep, Buck,” you whisper into his hair. You wrap an arm around his waist and wait until he settles back into your neck before you close your eyes and drift off.