Work Text:
Bucky is talking.
That’s a blessed thing in Steve’s eyes, after Bucky spent so much time horrifically quiet. Even when Bucky talks about some show or book or whatever Steve has no interest in, he still loves just listening to Bucky speak. It’s important to Steve that Bucky knows he’s allowed, it’s okay and encouraged, even, to talk for hours about things that make him happy. It brings Steve unspeakable joy.
Bucky is talking, and for the life of him, Steve can’t concentrate on a single word. He’s trying, he’s even managed to lift his heavy tongue for long enough to ask Bucky to repeat a sentence, but he still doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The words flow over him like he’s underwater, a pleasant hum to his numb brain.
Regretfully, after Bucky checks in- not because he’s annoyed Steve didn’t seem to absorb anything he’s said for the last fifteen minutes, but because he wants to ask if Steve’s okay- Steve can finally admit to himself he’s not up for conversation right now and excuses himself to his room.
Steve doesn’t have it in him to change his clothes, instead shucking off his jeans and crawling under the blankets. He’s still wearing the same shirt he’s been wearing for the past couple of days and he certainly smells like it, but that isn’t enough to make him take it off.
It’s only 2 pm but Steve’s psyche feels like he was awake all 70 years he spent in the ice.
Steve closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the sun is setting. He’s vaguely curious to know how long he’s been asleep but can’t find the energy to check. The pressure in his bladder must be why he woke up, but the idea of getting out of bed is sitting just past where his fingers can reach, unable to form the concept into an action.
However, the harder he ignores the need to pee, the more insistent it gets and eventually he’s forced to stand. He’s distantly grateful to find the living room empty as he passes through to get to the bathroom.
Mechanically, he does his business and then stands at the sink for too long, zoned out. The hot water running over his numb hands barely registers. He should brush his teeth, the grit and taste of his own mouth adding another layer of discomfort. In the end, he can’t bring himself to, so he turns off the water and treks back to his bedroom. He curls himself up shamefully in his sheets and wills sleep to come.
He lays there as the sun disappears and the moon rises, bathing his room in gentle blue light. At some point, he hears Bucky walking around the main area.
Somewhere inside him, he has the audacity to feel the guilt curl its fingers around his stomach and squeeze, like he has any sort of business feeling sorry for himself.
It isn’t anything new.
He stays where he is until the sounds fade away.
Time floats around him. Nothing in particular comes to mind, other than the constant chant of how badly he hates himself. The moon gets higher in the sky. He wonders if his room is always this bright at this time in the night. His eyes burn, his head pounds, and he desperately wishes he could sleep.
He’s so, so tired.
He tosses and turns, restless and bored without the energy to fix it. He kicks off the blanket and pulls it back over his body too many times to count.
Each second feels like another grain of sand gathering in his lungs; painful, gritty. Heavy. It anchors his shell of a body to the bed like a fucking shackle.
Eventually, caught up in a cycle of irritation and discomfort, Steve doesn’t notice when the moon goes down. He can’t see out the window, but judging by the gloomy grey painting his walls, it must be overcast. The sun should be rising but the room stays dark.
Because of this, or maybe because he just doesn’t care enough, Steve can’t tell the time other than the vague concept of “not night anymore”. Through all the tossing and turning and aching anger fogging his brain, he isn’t sure if he’s slept or not. He doesn’t know where the hours have gone.
There’s a gentle knock at his door. He can’t conjure a more in-depth response than a quiet grunt.
The door opens with a little creak, and Bucky comes around the bed so he’s in Steve’s eyeline.
“Scoot over,” Bucky says, and sits criss cross in the area Steve vacated. Bucky has two plates in his hands. He sets one down within Steve’s reach and puts the other in his own lap.
Steve makes a small, questioning noise, something swelling in his chest rendering him unable to do much else.
He’s so fucking useless.
Bucky's eyes are focused on his food. His metal hand stabilizes the plate and his right hand picks at the eggs.
Bucky seems to have understood what Steve was trying to say, even if he couldn’t get his piece of shit mouth to do what he wanted it to. In explanation, Bucky says, “missed you.”
His tone is steady and sure, like it's carved in stone somewhere; an irreversible fact. Like it's one of the requirements to keep the world spinning.
Steve can feel it in his weary, brittle bones, why he fell in love with Bucky in the first place.
Bucky is doing all of this for him.
Part of him hates it; hates the idea of needing to be taken care of. Hates the idea that Bucky has to go out of his way to save Steve’s sorry ass again.
Another part, a larger part, wishes he had more to offer. Wishes he were better. Bucky's doing all this for him and he can't even get out of bed. He can't even listen when Bucky's talking. He doesn't deserve this.
But he'll take it, because anybody who's ever called him selfless is wrong.
A few minutes pass with Bucky sluggishly eating. Steve doesn’t do anything but watch him.
“Eat, or I’m gonna make you,” Bucky threatens, but it sounds more like an offer. Steve reaches out to his plate and takes a bit of egg in his fingers. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit, but he puts the chunk in his mouth. The texture is bad, and it’s bland. He knows they don’t always taste like this. It must be his imagination, his mind sucking the joy out of even something as little as food.
He chews, but can’t make himself swallow for an embarrassing amount of time. When he finally forces it down, he gags a little. His hand hovers over the eggs again, but he lets his fingers rest against the edge of the plate instead of trying to feed himself anymore.
Bucky must get sick of the pitiful display because he gently swats Steve’s hand away and stacks the barely-touched plate with his own on the bedside table.
Bucky doesn’t ask before unwrapping Steve from his blanket cocoon. Steve makes a sad, pathetic noise but Bucky shushes him, situating the blankets over the both of them instead. He maneuvers Steve’s body unapologetically until his head is tucked up underneath Steve’s chin, arms wrapped stubbornly around Steve’s torso, almost like he’s daring Steve to complain. Bucky throws his leg over Steve’s hip, effectively pinning him down. Not that he was going anywhere in the first place, but still. Steve’s never been so aggressively cuddled before; it makes him huff out something like a laugh.
Steve coughs to clear the rust from his throat before saying, “Touching,” like Bucky is unaware of the situation he’s put himself in.
“It's okay.” Bucky says it nonchalantly, like Steve’s forgotten how he sounds when he lies. They don't share a bed for a reason, and Bucky sacrificing his own comfort to make Steve feel better sits jagged in Steve's belly.
"It's not okay-"
"Hey," Bucky cuts him off sharply. "Let me decide what I can handle."
"Sorry. I just-” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.
Instead of forcing him to figure out how to speak words, Bucky spares him by saying, "I know, big guy," and patting his chest. "I'm not. I promise I'll tell you if I need a break, okay?" Somehow, the words soothe Steve enough to relax him. He nods and allows himself to settle down into the embrace.
"Now shut up. I'm trying to nap," Bucky playfully grumps, pointedly burrowing deeper into Steve's chest. Steve knows exactly what Bucky’s trying to pull; Bucky plays up his cuteness when he doesn't want to talk about something. Steve is a little disgruntled because the "something" topic is Bucky's health, but he can’t bring himself to be too mad about it. It’d be a waste of energy he doesn’t have.
With Bucky as a warm weight in his arms, Steve’s eyes slip closed.
Dully, somewhere deep under his skin, love gently thrums in his veins.
When Steve wakes up an indefinite amount of time later, the sun is going down again. Fleetingly, he feels the muted ache of guilt for wasting yet another day, before he realizes what woke him up in the first place.
Bucky’s wiggling in his vice grip.
“Sorry,” Bucky whispers, voice clear like he never fell asleep, and presses a kiss to his chin. “Gotta pee.” He grabs the plates as he leaves, and comes back a few minutes later empty-handed.
“Steve?” he says quietly, sitting behind Steve, running a hand over his shoulders. “C’mon out to the living room.”
Steve sighs into the blankets around him.
Steve glares at Bucky over his shoulder. “You could even do both, if you felt up for it,” Bucky continues, needlessly folding one of Steve’s dirty shirts from the floor to keep his hands busy. Steve guiltily sits up; he’s thrown Bucky off his schedule long enough. He won’t make him worry any longer.
Or at least, he doesn’t want to make Bucky worry any longer. But as his feet hit the ground, he’s not sure if he can stand up. He isn’t tired, but he is exhausted. Bucky stands up and comes around to Steve’s side of the bed. “You can do it,” he says with a cheeky smile, like he’s cute or something. He is cute, but Steve won’t admit it.
“I know,” Steve says with more heat than Bucky deserves. Bucky meets him with a Look. Steve’s shoulders slump and he puts his head in his hands.
Bucky kneels down, running his flesh hand through Steve’s stringy hair. He puts a metal finger under Steve’s chin, lifting his face out of his hands to rest their foreheads together.
“I know you know,” Bucky says softly, no pity in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, leaning forward to nudge his nose against Bucky’s.
They rest there for a few peaceful moments.
Bucky squeezes Steve’s shoulder, kisses his cheek and stands up. He pauses in the doorway. “I’ll be in the living room.” The silent request buried in the words lays over Steve’s shoulders like a blanket.
It takes Steve longer than he’d like to admit, but he does manage to get up and brush his teeth eventually. He even washes his face and, somewhere under the utter exhaustion, he feels a little bit better. When he emerges into the living room, he finds Bucky curled up on the couch, squished into one corner with his legs tucked up underneath him. A water bottle is nestled between his thigh and the arm of the couch. One of his hands lays in his lap, and he uses the other to prop his chin up.
"Come lay down?"
Steve hesitates. He knows they probably slept longer than he wanted to, and Bucky can only take so much skin-on-skin contact at a time.
Steve goes to lay down with his head on the other couch arm, but Bucky shifts and pats his leg as an invitation. Steve hesitates; opens his mouth and closes it again.
Bucky said it's alright. Bucky will say if it isn't anymore.
So, Steve shuffles himself until his head is carefully cradled in Bucky's lap.
The tv is playing a peaceful cooking show Steve can't pay attention to. His brain runs in guilty, loud circles. “I haven’t done anything in days.”
“Pal, you got outta bed. Sometimes, that’s enough.”
“But-”
“It’s enough,” Bucky emphasizes, pulling his hand through Steve’s greasy hair. As much as Bucky likes having his hair played with, he loves playing with Steve’s more. Any other day, Steve might pretend to be bothered. Kick up a fuss, complain about the tugging, or Bucky’s fingers getting caught in the tangled ends. It doesn’t feel quite the same as it normally does, but he can’t pretend that the familiarity isn’t nice.
Instead of arguing, Steve sighs, closes his eyes and lets the numbness take the reins for a while. He tunes out the voices on the tv, focusing on Bucky’s deep, steady breaths.
Every once in a while Bucky will offer Steve water but otherwise, they’re quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to talk, allowing Steve to simply feel as he does without leaving him alone.
Here, nestled under the weight of a love he’s sure is there but can’t quite reach at the moment, Steve starts to breathe a little bit easier.