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Thunders crack like whips across horses’ backs, the background rumbling of the storm faintly resembling the sound of hooves on hard ground.
The connotation strikes him as odd, but he still likes it better than his old memories of storms. The hours before the storm were always the worst; the air was so dense he could hardly breathe, the pain in his head usually felt like his skull was going to explode and the lightnings flashing even through his closed eyes only made it worse.
Thankfully, with those problems gone, he somehow perceives storm as a soothing lullaby. There is something purifying about it, and not only in terms of the rain cleaning the dust off the streets and the air acquiring the characteristic fresh smell of ozone. It just feels nice to lie in bed and listen to its sounds from the safety of his room, sinking deeper into the soft mattress with each thunder.
The storm is so relaxing he falls asleep faster than usual.
***
Thunders crack like whips used to crack across his back, the only difference is that no physical pain accompanies these awful sounds. No claws slash across his flesh, no teeth rip out pieces of raw meat, no fire burns the wounds into obedience. Which actually makes things worse.
His thoughts run around his mind, scattered, like fresh army recruits who accidentally found themselves on battlefield and panic at the sight of the enemy’s army. Lack of pain only makes them run faster and more chaotically, because there’s supposed to be pain in times like this, and there’s none. This may only mean something unknown, possibly worse, is to come.
He lies with his back to the window, but that doesn’t help much. He still hears every thunder growl right over his head and every lightning flashes bright despite the drawn curtains. Even keeping his eyes shut makes no difference, the eerie white light always finds its way to his brain, so he doesn’t bother to pretend he can stop it anymore. He knows better. After all, the storm is exactly like the whips, and like the knives and hands and pretty much everything: inevitable. You don’t try to fight it, there’s just no point.
You go through the pain and pray it ends sooner than later.
So he lies in his bed, his heart sinking anew with each thunder, because the last one refuses to come, and there’s always yet another whiplike crack so close he can’t shake off the feeling that he should at least feel it pass him by mere inches.
***
He rolls in his sleep and sighs deeply as the storm rages outside, not sure if it’s fighting the night or simply thriving in it. It rules the entire New York but it cannot reach the man resting in his apartment, oblivious to the world and the storm’s wrath.
He wakes up for a brief moment and smiles, hoping for the storm to last until dawn. So that he can go running in the morning and enjoy the familiar scent and the emptiness of the streets. There’s something closely connected to happiness about running just after the rain. It feels like recharging your batteries, like gathering some of the storm’s power that fell from the sky and somehow didn’t seep into the earth.
He can’t wait for that, but for now, resting is good enough. The storm rocks him to sleep again, chanting softly from the distance.
***
He rolls constantly, but there’s no comfortable position when you shake in fear. The blanket feels colder than ice but he still wraps himself in it, hoping for… What is he even hoping for?
Ice would be some kind of protection, ice would mean blissful oblivion. There was no fear or pain there, there was no way to shake, no lightning to see, no thunders to hear. There was some kind of safety there, even if it also meant being discarded useless. Even if there was pain and fear before and after, there still was none during the freeze.
The bedroom is different and feels just so wrong. It reeks of fear and pain even though it’s supposed to be comfortable and cozy. It’s supposed to feel safe.
But then, things that are supposed to be nice are rarely so. Why would the bedroom be any different? It’s not even his, he’s only allowed to sleep here. The cryo wasn’t his either, he was only put there from time to time. Also, unlike the bedroom, it was never supposed to be nice. Doesn’t it mean the cryo was better? It kind of exceeded the expectations, after all.
He buries his head under his pillow, trying to block the thoughts rather than the storm. But there’s nowhere to run from them and they linger at the back of his mind, making the hellish experience even harder to bear.
He’s all alone with his mind playing tricks on him, changing the usual thunders into curses that sound just like Rumlow swearing and the lightning flashes into the evil smiles of medical lamps that loom over a patient in the operating theater.
He’s all alone and he’s got nowhere to hide.
Desperation drives him under the bed. It’s not a proper shelter and it gives him no comfort but he can’t find it in him to crawl out.
***
He wakes up with that weird feeling that something’s wrong. At first he wants to wave it off and go back to sleep but the sick sensation won’t leave. He sits up as a thunder strikes really close to his apartment.
Now he knows he won’t sleep unless he makes sure everything is fine.
He gets up and slowly makes his way through the flat, briefly checking the surroundings. Nothing’s on fire. No one screams. There’s no movement around. Absolutely nothing that would suggest trouble. Unless…
He peeks into Bucky’s room and it takes him a while to realize the place is not, in fact, empty, and Bucky’s not gone. Not physically, at least.
***
The sight of someone entering his bedroom is terrifying. Theoretically, he knows there’s only one person who can come in here right now, but still his mind needs more than a little while to understand the man shouldn’t evoke fear in his heart.
Only, for some reason, he does.
Worse still, he leaves as soon as he notices Bucky under the bed.
Of course he does! He can finally see the true volume of the mess that used to be Bucky Barnes. He recognizes how weak and pathetic Bucky is to be afraid of a goddamn storm, he can’t stand the shame of pretending to be his friend anymore, so he leaves.
Bucky should have expected that. He should have spared him the disappointment and left by himself.
He knows all of that, but the realization still hurts. Not the way the whiplashes used to hurt, not even the way some memories hurt. This is worse, because it confirms his worthlessness. When somebody tortures you or takes away your memories, they acknowledge the fact that you mean something. After all, you receive so much of their attention and they put so much effort in everything they do to you.
When someone turns their back on you, it means they don’t care about you. They literally don’t want to look at you. And it hurts so much it actually eclipses the fear and the storm and the chaos in his mind, leaving only the sense of being forsaken.
Steve’s return comes as a surprise. Bucky waits for his harsh words, but they never come. Instead, Steve approaches the bed and kneels down.
***
“Bucky?”
He looks up and the sight of fear dilating Bucky’s pupils makes Steve a little sick.
“It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. I know how you feel and I’m here to help you.” He waits for the other man to react in some way, blink at least, but he doesn’t. He suppresses a frustrated sigh and continues. “I promise it’ll be better but I’ll need you to do one sim-“ He bites his tongue before he says simple. After all, this doesn’t have to be simple and if it really isn’t, downgrading it like that won’t help. “One little thing, okay?”
He waits again but there’s still no response, so he decides to go on. What choice does he have anyway?
“Bucky, I’ll need you to get out from under the bed. Can you do that?”
Bucky slowly shakes his head, just an inch to the left and an inch to the right, but the gesture is unmistakable.
“Okay, Bucky, look, we’ll do it together. I’m gonna reach out and you’ll grab my hand, and we’ll leave that place together. Together means the two of us leave, so I can’t do it without you. I’ll need your help in this, okay?”
He extends his hand and hopes the grimace on his face is a smile. Bucky hesitates for a while, but finally accepts and then slowly, carefully, Steve manages to pull him out of his hiding place.
Bucky freezes when another thunder strikes somewhere near and Steve gives him a moment to adjust, but never lets go. He doesn’t want him to go back under the bed. But then, after a while, Bucky looks at him with some kind of question in his eyes and Steve hopes it means he’s ready to get another task.
“Thank you, you’ve done great.”
No reaction.
“We’ll go to the living room now, okay? It’s much quieter there.” He wraps an arm around Bucky’s back. He doesn’t want to drag him there like Bucky has no control over the situation, but he still has to guide him and keep him moving once they start. “Are you ready?”
Bucky nods and they make their way toward the living room. It goes slow at first, Bucky looks like he’s fighting some inner force that threatens to paralyze him, but he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, so Steve doesn’t rush him.
They close the door to Bucky’s room and the difference is so clear it almost surprises even Steve. The storm and the thunders are locked away and, hopefully, less scary.
He’s not sure if his assessment was right because there seems to be more despair in the way Bucky clings to him now, but there’s no turning back at this point. They make it to the couch with no further delay. Bucky doesn’t need to be told what to do, he instantly sits down. Steve sits next to him.
“Do you want to sleep here, Bucky? Or is there anything else you need?”
“Steve, I-I’m sorry.” There’s something heartbreaking about his voice, and even more about the look in his eyes. He looks like he might break into pieces. Or cry. Or run away.
Steve tightens his grip on Bucky.
“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe, you have nothing to fear, it–“
It’s just a storm? Of course not, of course it’s not just a storm. It’s memories, really dark memories of something worse than bad weather. Besides, wouldn’t It’s just a storm sound like You’re stupid because you’re afraid of something completely harmless to Bucky? He’s done his own interpretations of some careless words before and Steve is almost certain he’d do that thing again in the least fortunate moment.
He has to be careful about what he says.
“It won’t hurt you, I promise. Nothing and no one will. Not while I’m here.”
Bucky looks like he’s searching for something to say, but words apparently fail him and after a while he just sags against him, so Steve eases them both flat on the couch.
“Can you sleep now?” he asks, pulling a blanket over them.
“Yes, I– No.” Bucky looks away, probably because he can’t roll away, lying on his side and locked between the back of the couch and Steve.
“You still hear the storm?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Well, at least try.” Steve shifts a little and covers Bucky’s exposed ear with his hand, blocking the sounds as much as he can.
Bucky tenses under his touch and Steve quickly realizes his mistake. He withdraws the hand and inches away, wondering if he’s just done more harm than good.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He hopes he sounds relaxed and casual, like it’s not a big deal. He doesn’t want to agitate Bucky, he just wants him to know he reacted mechanically and didn’t want to hurt him. Theoretically, Bucky knows Steve never wants to hurt him and most of his mistakes stem from his concern and willingness to help, and he always assures Steve of this knowledge, but deep down things are more complicated and Steve often sees him react instinctively. He rarely manages to fully shake off the conditioned response. Steve suspects he may be actually unaware of how contaminated his life is and how unrelaxed even his apparent relaxation is. Still, he never mentions it to Bucky. It would only make him feel more vulnerable and more damaged. That’s the last thing Steve wants for him.
Bucky makes a noncommittal sound that may mean either “it’s okay” or “don’t do that again” – Steve can’t tell, so he keeps the little distance he made, just to be on the safe side. He can’t read Bucky’s expression well enough right now, the distress caused by the storm eclipses all other emotion that might find its way into his features. Even the muted sound of thunders is too much for him, and Steve has no way to help him further. It breaks him into pieces, but, of course, he lets none of it show.
Then the simplest, most genius thought crosses his mind. He throws the blanket off his legs and jumps to his feet, maybe a little too fast, because he startles Bucky.
“Steve?” He looks genuinely confused and a bit scared by this unexpected turn of events.
“It’s okay, just give me a minute.”
“But–“
Ugh, he might be too fast and too unpredictable. He looks at Bucky and smiles. It’s hard to smile at someone who looks so broken, but he still tries, curling his lips upward and hoping the smile reaches his eyes.
“I’ll be back, okay? You’re safe here and I’ll be gone just for a little while. I’ll bring you something.”
“But I don’t need anything–“
“You’ll like it.” Steve suppresses the urge to touch Bucky and goes to his own bedroom. He rummages through the drawers, cursing under his breath at first, because he doesn’t want to leave Bucky alone for any longer than necessary, then blessing Sam for the tacky red color he chose when buying this present for Steve.
When he returns to the living room, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the couch, all tense and looking like he’s ready to run for his life. Steve sits down next to him, carefully choosing the exact distance: close enough to offer support and yet far enough not to seem threatening. The choice must be right, because when Bucky looks at him, his muscles relax a little and his eyes search Steve’s instead of shutting tight and isolating him.
“Here.” Steve extends his hand, stopping it between them, unwilling to reach out too far. He’s learned his lesson.
Bucky frowns at the iPod.
***
He’s not sure what to expect or if it makes any sense, but he forces himself to trust Steve’s judgement. And even if it really makes no sense and no difference, he can at least try. He can’t let Steve down, so he accepts the IEMs and tucks them into his ears, lying back on the couch. He’s far from relaxed, but maybe if he lies down, he’ll somehow feel better. After all, he was almost calming down only a few minutes ago, before Steve decided to disrupt it.
He pulls the blanket up to his chin and watches Steve scrolling, probably searching for something specific. It takes him a while, but when he finds it, he finally looks at Bucky and notices the extended hand and the earphone in it.
Bucky’s not sure if it’s a good idea, but somehow he can’t stand the perspective of listening to music alone. It’s like isolation, like being trapped in your own mind, with no contact with the real world. Like you can actually pretend there’s just the music and you don’t exist at all, let alone your problems. He knows it’s comforting for many people, but it’s different with him. He really prefers to remember about his problems all the time rather than forget things again. He doesn’t want to forget anymore and pretending not to remember doesn’t sound cool either.
There’s a question in Steve’s eyes and Bucky realizes that although he’s not going to voice it, he’s clearly asking for directions. Usually he likes cautious Steve, because his moves are slow and predictable, and he never surprises Bucky in a negative way. But this is over-cautious Steve, probably because Bucky reacted to his unexpected touch, and that’s worse. Over-cautious Steve makes him feel awkward and weak. He feels like curling into a ball under the blanket and withdrawing from any form of interaction, but there’s some weird thought at the back of his mind that won’t let him do that. Like he knows it’ll only makes things worse for him. And for Steve too.
He just has to get rid of the overprotective Steve and bring back the regular one. Normally it’s not easy and requires planning what to say, but this time he’s so desperate for anything warmer than the storm raging outside and in his mind that it sounds almost natural.
“You promised to come back, right?” His eyes dart to the empty half of the couch for a brief second, then gaze back at Steve. And Steve smiles with that heart-warming smile that would probably melt a huge brick of ice faster than the sun.
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
He lies down on the couch, clearly still very conscious of the distance, his hands under his head. Bucky doesn’t know how to tell him to stop tiptoeing around him in a polite way, so he just throws the blanket over him. Propped up in his elbow, he knows Steve can see his hesitation, but he says nothing, giving Bucky the time he needs to make up his mind about whatever it is he’s pondering. Steve is always patient and Bucky appreciates it more than he can ever say.
On the other hand, he’s not the best speaker, and he’s not sure if he’s ever been good at that, but maybe he just doesn’t have to try and force himself to verbalize things even his mind can’t fully contain.
The song starts playing into his left ear and he lays his head on Steve’s chest, the regular thud-thud of his heartbeat filling his right ear, somehow calming him down, anchoring him in the real world and still allowing to enjoy the music.
He smiles as Steve holds his breath in surprise and then instantly relaxes. This time he remembers to keep his hands away and Bucky is grateful for that. After all, Steve knows it’s not touch that brings most comfort. It’s sheer supportive presence, and he’s giving more than enough of it.
How many roads you've traveled
How many dreams you've chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place
Bucky already found his.