Work Text:
Steve was tired--heavy-eyed, voice-slurred with sleepiness tired. It was rare for Steve to feel this exhausted, for his arms and legs to droop and swing so loosely from his sides. He hadn’t felt this anxious to throw himself, with a sudden thud onto his bed, and pass out over the sheets, not even taking the time to slide under the comforter, in a long time.
His body was built, grown to heal fast, to need little rest. He’d gone on week long assignments for S.H.I.E.L.D. before where they’d given him no time for sleep. He’d fought battles back in WWII that lasted days, and of course he never rested. Despite Bucky’s pointed comments about Steve needing to stop for a minute, to come back and rest for just a night: “Let the other soldiers fight. Give Hydra a small chance you lug.” Times when Bucky’s eyes betrayed the worry he felt at having to leave Steve, even the lumbering impossible tank of a super-soldier he’d become on the battlefield for more than a second without Bucky also being there. Dammit though Bucky couldn’t go as far or as fast or for as long as Steve could. Steve wouldn’t rest. Not when there was a fight, where real fuckin’ men were laying down their lives. Never when there was fight.
It wasn’t like Steve to be this exhausted. Still with Bucky back, living with him, and sleeping in his bed--if only his pinning pre-war self could see this now--Steve hadn’t gotten a goodnight’s sleep in months. If he wasn’t up, trying to cover Bucky’s trail so that he could be here safely, making sure there wasn’t another Sharon Carter, all innocence and espionage, living next door anymore, he was up with Bucky.
The first week Bucky hadn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept at all. Steve couldn’t leave him sitting, staring as he was at walls without company. That meant Steve stayed awake too. That had actually been better than the first month of Bucky actually falling asleep. When Bucky’s eyes shut and his mind finally drifted off into slumber, all of the walls he’d erected, all the dams keeping the damned life he’d haunted at bay disappeared. His subconscious reared it’s heinous head and wracked Bucky with nightmares so awfully tangible he’d wake up tasting copper.
This kept Steve up: Wrapping a wet washrag around Bucky’s head to cool the flames and stop the sweating; throwing Bucky’s hands off his neck and wrapping his own arms around the wide-eyed screaming soldier holding him through the worst of the pain, and still holding him through all of the horror and guilt at what Bucky had woken up to.
“S’okay Bucky. I know you couldn’t help it.”
“I thought I was. . . You were someone else. . . I was trying to kill. . .”
“Shhh, shhh, Buck, it’s alright. You were just dreaming. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, I promise. I’m gonna be right here with you.”
“Steve I can’t do this. I can’t stop this.”
“And you’re gonna be right here with me. We’re gonna be together through all of this. Every solitary second.”
Bucky’s getting better though, Steve always reminded himself; usually when’s he washing his face off before bed, reminding himself to be strong, always to be stronger. Every night he gets a little better. The morning finds his side of the bed soaked through with sweat, the pillow sometimes with teeth marks, bucky having bit down so hard the fabric tore slightly. Still he’s getting better.
But Steve is sapped. His energy gone from him. Everyday getting groggier, the hours moving slower across the clock.
Tonight Bucky was lying in bed. Asleep before Steve even left the bathroom, he let a puddle of drool puddle on his pillow, his mouth drawn open slightly and his back heaving up and down in steady breaths. Steve should stay awake but he doesn’t. He collapsed onto his side of the bed and passed out instantly. He crossed out of consciousness in an unseen instant and finally he’s getting rest.
---
Steve is in the air. His hands wrapped tightly around the controls, so tightly his fingers could leave dents in metal poles. He’s holding all his fear in his stomach, clenching his legs and abs trying not to think about anything other than the sound of Peggy’s voice--trying and failing.
“Don’t you dare be late.”
Then there’s the jolt. The plane crashing into the icy ground. Steve being flung forward, hearing his ribs crack, feeling his forearm shatter, pain ricocheting through him. Still he stays conscious as the ship lowers itself into the ice. Steve feels the cold seeping, slithering in from the cracks in the glass and the holes in metal. He hears static and as much as it hurts him, as much as he wishes for one more mellisonant syllable, one more word from his best gal all he can think about his Peggy sitting near her microphone, hearing the same static, saying his name.
Now that no one can see him he’s crying. He’s dragging himself back. He finds a place to lie down and he flings himself over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. When he first feels the water drenching his back he jolts but he doesn’t stand up. He stays laying down as he feels to cold closing in fast than the water rises. Everything is getting colder, Steve’s mind is hurdling in all sorts of disjointed directions. He feels a sudden urge to tear off all of his clothing but he doesn’t want to move.
Then he starts to get warmer again. The water still pooling underneath him, he feels as if he were suddenly in a jacuzzi. Warmth. Warmth. He thinks about dying and the tears stop. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore so he closes them. He’s thinking about his mother. He’s thinking about Bucky. He’s thinking about how warm and happy they both must be. He lets himself smile as he thinks about how close he is to the two of them--the closest he’s been since he lost them. They feel inches away and suddenly death is no longer scary. He’s ready for Sarah. He’s ready for Bucky. He’s ready. Warmth.
---
Steve opens his eyes with a shiver: his voice stammering, his lungs heaving, hitching as he struggles to catch a breath he’s lost. It’s dark. He’s sweating and his hands have the sheets curled into a ball under his fingers. Then he feels himself lifted up. He lets his hands go limp and there’s a body holding him in its arms. His eyes adjust to the darkness pupils dilating, opening wider letting in the moonlight in which the room is awash and he sees Bucky staring down at him. James Buchanan Barnes staring down at him. He’s in a soft bed, covered in covers with his best friend holding him. Everything is so irrevocably peaceful. He’s back with his Bucky.
This is heaven his staggering mind thinks. He’s in the arms of his love. He’s being held and holding all at the same time and Bucky is waiting for him. He knew Bucky would always be waiting for him.
“Sarah?” he whispers. His eyes dart around the room looking for his mom. They were both supposed to greet him here. He doesn’t see her. The room is looking more and more familiar and something doesn’t seem right.
It’s all flooding in. the reality of everything. A consortium of all the confusion and pain and relief is all bursting back into the forefront of Steve’s mind. Torn between letting go of the illusion and holding on to the last remnants of the peace it brought him Steve doesn’t move. He clings tighter to Bucky for a minute.
“I’m sorry Bucky. I didn’t mean to scare ya. You were finally having a goodnight’s sleep to! I’m so -”
“Don’t you dare Steve. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. That I’m not the only one who’s sleep can be painful ya know?”
“I guess.”
“Besides, you’ve been through a lot too, and that’s okay.”
“I thought I was dead. I was in the plane and I crashed it again and I thought I’d died.”
“I know. I heard you yelling out and moaning and I figured. Plus I heard Peggy’s name a few times.” Bucky’s voice trails off, the faint hint of jealousy (so irrational he refuses to even acknowledge he’s feeling it, but mostly filled with sympathy and and understanding that warms Steve.
“When I woke up and you were there. I guess I just. . . You’re my heaven Buck.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry that was so stupid a thing to say. That was so stupid and I’m sorry. I never did know when to shut my mouth and -”
Steve felt Bucky’s lips, cold, rubbed and scared raw by bite marks and picking but every bit as heavenly as anything Steve’d ever felt, press against his. Steve let all the stuttering nervous anxiety slide out of him.
“I love you Steve. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”