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To the Winter Soldier, it was no big deal. The memory came out of nowhere - unprompted save for the unpleasant cling of wet sweatpants to Bucky’s skin. He lay deathly still, praying to gods he’d ceased believing in long ago that Steve wouldn’t wake up. Not now, not yet at least -
- He was restrained, half-reclined but not at all at ease. Every muscle in his body was tense. The Soldier didn’t know where, or when, he was, but he recognized the chair. He knew the pain that followed. People were speaking in a language he couldn’t quite pick up on - words too fast, too low, his brain still confused and sluggish with artificial sleep. Cold metal closed around his skull, and then the shattering, stabbing, splitting agony.
It wasn’t until it faded that the Soldier was aware of his body once more, the steady drip of liquid against a tile floor and soaking fabric of his trousers. The restraints unlocked, someone helped him up and barked out instructions for yet another bustling human to clean up the mess. There was no shame in it. The Soldier curled his lip in disgust at the sensation, the smell, but it was ultimately immaterial. Biology was weak by nature; his metal hand curled into a fist at his side -
- “Bucky?” Fuck. Of all the times to get a flashback, to remember, even something so crude. Bucky felt himself flushing hot all over, terrified at the thought of Steve’s reaction. The cold, wet sheets stuck to his skin, soaked through the back of his shirt too now. There was really no denying this. Steve would kick Bucky out for sure, would tell him just how fucked up and worthless - no, worse than that - he was. “Hey,”
Steve grabbed his arm before he could roll over and get out of bed, effectively stopping Bucky from running away just yet. He was already plotting where to go from here, where he might stay… Humiliation twisted his gut to the point where Bucky felt like throwing up - if only he could be the Soldier now. He tried to channel that impassive coldness, the complete lack of shame and feeling, and failed miserably. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out instead, and his voice sounded pitiful even to his own ears, “It’s was an accident.”
‘Hey,” Steve repeated, “I know.” He sat up then, mercifully not reaching for the lamp at the side of the bed. Bucky didn’t look at him, especially not towards his lap - definitely didn’t want to see dark wet splotches on Steve’s clothing too - “It happens,” Steve continued, “You have a nightmare?” He sounded strangely... not angry. Bucky shook his head jerkily, trying to analyze the tone of Steve’s voice down to each and every miniscule inflection.
“I don’t know. I-” He never did. Woke up trembling with the sweats, sometimes crying, sometimes screaming and could never remember any of it. There was always something - something lurking in his head that Bucky just knew he knew - but the second he woke up it was always gone, always just out of reach. He can’t even remember that now, just the sensation of being soaked in his own piss, cold and mortified.
He tugs against Steve’s grasp, trying to get away. He has to get out of this bed, out of these clothes -
- Someone leads him down a short hallway to a shower with no setting for heat. He walks right into it with his clothes on and strips efficiently under the cold spray. His nipples harden in reaction to the temperature, his skin drawing tight until it aches where his cybernetic arm attaches to flesh and bone, but the Soldier has very specific instructions for how he must maintain himself and does not step out of the freezing water until he is fully clean.
The Soldier leaves his sodden clothing on the floor of the shower when he steps out, and immediately pulls on the uniform that has been left out for him, folded immaculately. The mission is waiting -
- Steve lets him go. Bucky bolts out of bed and nearly trips over the covers when his foot gets caught. Steve reaches up and steadies him, and Bucky still tries not to look at him but he can sense that there’s more Steve wants to say and feels obligated to stay. He’s not entirely keen on the idea of his last memory of Steve involving him being yelled at.
He flinches just the smallest bit when Steve opens his mouth before he can sabotage the reaction entirely, and Bucky already knows Steve won’t have missed that. He ducks his head in shame and waits for the tirade.
It doesn’t come. Steve stands up, and of course - he’s going to hit Bucky. That makes more sense than yelling - doesn’t it? That’s what his handlers would do. Bucky tries to ready himself, not sure whether he should expect a backhand or a punch (would it be to the face or the gut? That’s important.) but then Steve’s arms are wrapping around him - he really can’t help flinching again - and tugging him against the man’s impossibly muscular chest.
Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Bucky doesn’t even know what he would say if he wanted to. He stands perfectly still, trying not to do or say the wrong thing. His clothes are still cold and wet and they smell. Bucky wants nothing more than to get out of them, and he really doesn’t want that all over Steve if by some miracle it’s not already, but he’s a bit terrified to pull away too. “Relax, Buck,” Steve says eventually, warm breath stirring against Bucky’s neck, “It’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean to,” He ends up blurting out, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder before he can over think that too. Bucky tries to memorize the way Steve’s body feels against him, even under these less-than-ideal conditions. His brain is still assuring him that it might just be the last time. “I swear, I don’t know what happened. I can,”
“Shh. I mean it, Bucky. It’s no big deal.” He actually has to pick his head up to look at Steve more closely, because Bucky can’t quite get the words to make sense. “We’re all good here. It’s really okay, I promise.”
“You’re not mad?”
Steve presses Bucky’s head back against his chest, fingers combing through his hair in a way that certainly doesn’t feel like Steve hates his pathetic guts. “Never, Buck.” They stand like that for a long moment more before Steve suggests the best plan Bucky’s heard all night - “Now what do you say we get cleaned up, and you can use that freaky arm of yours to flip the mattress.”
It happens again a week later, and Bucky’s just as mortified as the first time it happened. He grabs Steve’s arm and shakes him awake as gently as he can despite being torn between needing to hit something and desperately trying not to cry. Knowing this is some fucked up reaction on the part of his body to all the trauma he’s been through really doesn’t help - it’s no less embarrassing, and does absolutely nothing to quell the voices in his head telling him he’s a complete fuck up and a million other things besides.
The only thing that keeps him from losing his shit is Steve really. He coordinates everything, then digs out a carton of ice cream from the freezer and they sit on top of the dryer in their boxers, hair still wet from showering, and wait for the sheets to finish.
“Wanna talk about it?” Steve offers, stealing the ice cream right off of Bucky’s spoon with a well timed sneak attack.
Bucky lets him have it. “Not really.” He feels bad enough, doesn’t exactly want to explain in detail why it doesn’t exactly thrill him to add wetting the bed to the list of all the other issues fucking him up at the moment. But, “this just fucking sucks,” he sighs a moment later, leaning a bit more heavily against Steve.
His hand just tightens around Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him in even closer in response. “I know. But hey, I’m with you to the end of the line, Buck. We’ll get through it together, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Bucky assures him, and takes the Captain’s distraction to steal his ice cream this time. There’s an odd feeling in his stomach almost like butterflies - Bucky would be lying if he said he’d never thought Steve would grow tired of him being fucked up and toss him out like yesterday’s trash eventually, but maybe that’s not the case. It feels oddly like hope, and for once, he lets himself indulge.