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Some nightmares were like cannon fire; loud, violent, sweat-stained pillows, and screams ringing into the night. Those were the dreams that Bucky recognized. Those were the dreams that he braced himself for every time he closed his eyes, when sleep became unavoidable. They were almost reliable at this point, something he could count on, an obligatory part of his routine.
And some nightmares were whispers.
Quiet, slithering, insidious. The kind of whispers that echoed into the morning and crawled over his skin, nestling at the base of his skull where he could never forget.
Those were the dreams that gave him a sick yearning for The Chair, for ungodly amounts of searing voltage to rip every last memory from his mind and wipe him clean until he was nothing but an empty shell, a hollow space where a man once was.
“You should have seen his face, it was priceless. I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.”
You were telling a story, something about Sam stumbling into the red light district in Amsterdam, completely ill-equipped. But he wasn’t paying attention to the particulars, only focusing on the sound of your voice, the vibrations that traveled down your throat and through your belly, sinking into his cheek which was resting on your lap. Your hand was in his hair, dragging back and forth over his scalp, warmth spreading from your fingertips to every thread of muscle in his body like the balm that was promised in Gilead.
His eyes were closed, but he could still make out the glow of the afternoon sun, could still hear the lap of the lake on the shore, the caw of birds that flew overhead. But most of all, he could hear you, he could smell you, he could feel you.
He couldn’t hear the whispers anymore.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying, Barnes?”
He could only hum in acknowledgment, dancing on the edge between sleep and wake, and you chuckled, sending more delicious vibrations through him. He should have been scared to fall asleep, he should have fought the fatigue, stave off the haunts that plagued him, but fear didn’t exist when you were here. The universe only belonged to you and him, and nothing more.
You were still talking, your hand migrating to graze over the stubble on his cheek. He was still barely listening, poised to fall over the edge into slumber, when he caught the dreaded words.
“And we leave for Belize tomorrow,” you said, a groan in your tone. “Steve got a lead on those arms dealers, and I am not looking forward to cleaning up that mess.”
Cold traveled up Bucky’s spine despite the Wakandan heat, dread pooling in his gut by the gallon.
You had to leave.
That was the worst part of your visits, the knowledge that it wasn’t permanent, the relief you brought only temporary. He was your Calypso, and you were the tragic hero that washed onto his shores, never fated to stay on this oasis the two of you built. Before he had time to think, he grasped onto you with his lone hand, burying his face into your middle, right where your belly button resided.
“Stay.”
The word was muffled by the fabric of your shirt, his fingers pressing into your flesh, desperate to keep you close, to fuse your beings together until you consumed him entirely. He didn’t even have the energy to feel ashamed or embarrassed by his childish plea. He just wanted you. Just you.
Your hand stilled on his cheek, your body going rigid as his request sunk in, spilling out into the soil and foliage that surrounded you. Seconds passed like hours in your silence, and it was only then that Bucky realized the mistake he made, the error that was so easy to make within your gilded embrace. He couldn’t ask you to stay because you weren’t his to have, the cold reality of that burning like frostbite in his extremities. He was about to pull away, to set the proper distance between you and him again, when you finally spoke.
“Okay.”
He frowned, looking up at you to make sure he heard correctly, to confirm that his enhanced hearing wasn’t playing tricks on him. But you only grinned down at him softly, the afternoon haze casting a halo around your head.
“I can stay for…six more hours. Seven and a quarter,” you said, your thumb brushing dangerously close to his lips.
He did the mental math, the distance, the speed, the time you had to be at the randez vous point. “You’ll be late.”
You shrugged, looking out across the lake, something unreadable crossing your features. “Steve will live. Besides…he already knows where I am.”
You looked down at him again, and he felt that thing he always did when you looked at him, a thrumming, a dull kind of ache in his chest that pushed down on his ribs and lungs that lasted long after you were gone.
You squinted at him, your lips pursing in a way that reminded him of his ma when a tongue lashing was coming his way. “You look like crap, Barnes. When’s the last time you got some sleep?”
He looked away from you then, lest you saw it written all over his face, or his eyes gave him away, or his big mouth decided to fire away again. He didn’t want you to see the unspoken words spelling themselves out over every inch of him.
I need you.
Please stay with me
I can’t breathe without you.
“Alright, come on,” you said, jiggling your leg a little under his head. When he didn’t move, you nudged at his shoulder, coaxing him off your lap. “Get up. We’re going to bed now.”
He watched in wonderment as you stood, walking a few paces back towards his hut before you noticed he wasn’t following you. You turned, raising your eyebrows expectantly.
“I think you heard me, Sergeant,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, tapping your foot in an exaggerated way, though a smirk was tugging at your lips.
He just stared at you for a moment, perhaps for a second too long, drinking in every line, every curve, every detail of you while he could. Slowly, he got up, and you nodded with satisfaction, gesturing for him to hurry as you walked into his humble dwelling.
It was the first time you actually stepped foot in there, and Bucky suddenly felt self-conscious, too exposed and vulnerable as you paused to look around, your gaze fanning over what little earthly possessions he had scattered around the small space. You zeroed in on his cot, heading straight to it and settling down under his blanket, folding over a corner for him to join you.
“I’m a terrific big spoon, I promise,” you assured him coyly, patting the open cot space reserved for him.
An entirely different kind of warmth spread through him, the kind that made his toes want to curl. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a woman in his bed, and just seeing you there waiting for him made his knees threaten to give out, but he managed to keep his composure, carefully slipping onto the cot with his back facing you.
Your arm slid over his waist, your chest pressing into him, your leg draping over his until he was swaddled by your warm, soft body.
“Relax,” you whispered, your breath fluttering by his ear. “Get some rest.”
He could only nod, his brain steeped in a fog of euphoria at your proximity, every place where his body met yours simmering with the want he had for you every moment of every day. He could barely breathe.
“I could sing you to sleep,” you said, clearly teasing, but Bucky nodded his head anyway. You laughed, pinching lightly at his side. “I was joking, I’m a terrible singer.”
“Don’t offer if you can’t deliver,” he retorted, nudging you back a little. You laughed again, and he thanked whatever lucky stars he had that the universe had spared his ears so that he could hear that remarkable, beautiful sound.
“Fine, but if your eardrums start to bleed, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” you said, your hand migrating into his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. You sighed, and he could practically feel you trying to decide on a song. He was about to tell you he was joking too, that you didn’t have to, when the first melodious notes drifted from your tongue.
“Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you’
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me.”
Bucky went slack, completely succumbing to your touch, to your voice, closing his eyes and inviting sleep back to him. He was so, so tired, more so than he realized, the weight of the past month since your last visit crashing down on him. But he was at home in your arms, a serenity that he’d never deserve even if he lived a thousand more lifetimes.
“Say ‘nightie, night’ and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me.”
And he did just that, thoughts of you and him by the lake, under the stars, by the warm roar of a fire lulling him under, away from the cruel land of the living. Just as the last tendrils of wake let him go, he thought he felt your lips press into his shoulder, his neck, his cheek.
But it must have only been a dream. By the time he woke up, it was early morning, and you were already gone, the empty space on his cot rivaling the empty feeling in his chest without you near. But there was a note where you had been, a torn piece of paper that contained your meticulous penmanship:
See you soon, Bucky.
There was a heart next to the words, rushed and uneven as if it had been a last-minute decision, something you had talked yourself into.
He held onto the promise like a life raft, repeated your words in his head like a silent prayer until it would be fulfilled when you returned.
He still couldn’t hear the whispers.