Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold air was numbing its skin as it marched forward, each step feeling like a caught fall rather than walking. It watched the snow part as black boots pushed their way through with no specific destination ahead. The arm was heavy at its side, malfunctioning, disconnected at the root. That would’ve hurt too if not for the cooling metal sucking the heat from its body, and the nerves around it were shot anyway. It felt far away. Its other hand futilely kept pressure on the hole under its ribs, the occasional red dot dropping onto the white snow, silver in the moonlight, becoming blue from the encroaching dawn.

The mission had gone south. The target had gotten intel that he had been deemed a target without Hydra knowing–or maybe they had, but sent the Asset anyway. That would’ve been fine had the target not covertly hired three times his usual security and hid them everywhere, lying in wait for the assassin. The Asset had been surprised, then overwhelmed, surrounded, caught, held, bent. The arm was difficult to break, has been shot dozens of times and the bullets barely leave a scratch, but they knew that. They also knew it had to have weak points, joints, connections that could be compromised. They grabbed it, bent the arm back, tried to wrench it from its socket. Internal wires snapped, fuses sparked. 

The bullet lodged deep into its torso didn’t help, either.

The Asset hadn’t failed its mission, though. It never does. They only caught it because the target was pretending to sleep and got the jump on the assassin, pulled a gun, and got lucky. The man was too prideful to keep guards in his own bedroom or to sleep in a safe room instead of his elegant suite, despite knowing Hydra was sending the Winter Soldier after him. The Soldier succeeded, like it always does, but the noise alerted the guards. And there were so many of them. And they hurt it. It had to jump back out of the window once it managed to wrestle free of their grips, too many stories high and without the arm to help, landing hard.

It had to go the opposite direction from the extraction point, into the north woods instead of the south, but Hydra would find it. They always did. For now, it was just going forward, forward, farther, not thinking about anything other than how it fucked up. Strategizing, replaying it all over in its head, trying to learn from the mistakes. It needed to continue. It was helping mankind. It needed to do the right thing, and the right thing was to do what it was told.

A hidden root caught its shuffling foot and the Asset went down, twisting in time to land on its side, but still landing hard onto the gnarled forest floor, the snow offering little cushion. It coughed, and it reached up to unbuckle the mask and toss it away. The inside was covered in sticky blood, clogging the air holes. The Asset spit blood off to the side before turning onto its back. The air was crisp and clear. The sky was turning from black to blue revealing the leafless branches looming above him. How long had it been walking? The cold snow felt good on its back, helping with the swelling and various bruises. It could feel its tissues healing already, but its breathing was still labored. The serum didn’t make the expelled blood suck back into place, and it could feel it sitting heavy in its lungs. One of its ribs was probably shattered too. It could feel the bullet, or at least it thought it could. There was no exit wound, so it was somewhere in there. Maybe the tissues were already healing over the lead. The surgery was not going to be easy.

The Asset stayed there, on its back, on the snow, surrounded by black trees. Snowflakes started to fall, clouds rolling in from the west. Hydra was late. Would they find it in time? Would it be covered in snow before they got to it? Its body was used to the cold, it would probably be fine. The cold numbed the pain in its shoulder and stomach. It couldn’t feel its feet or back anymore either. Maybe it could just shut down, like it does in cryo. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe this was it. 

A snowflake landed on his cheek, then another, seeming to take their time melting against his frigid skin. He watched as more floated around him, free to move around in the windless air. This was familiar. He remembers lying in pain, snow falling and accumulating on top of him. He doesn’t remember details, except that he couldn’t feel his arm then either. Which… that’s strange. When was that? This hasn’t happened very many times; he’s virtually indestructible, or at least his arm is. Him, not so much, apparently. 

More snow was piling softly onto his limbs– its limbs. It . The Asset, Soldat, the Winter Soldier, was a weapon, a thing. Its handlers made that abundantly clear. They treated it differently than everyone else around him, handled him–it, like they did their guns. It felt like a thing right then, dropped out of someone’s pocket by accident, left to be buried and forgotten. Maybe they’re out there looking for it, though probably in the wrong spot. Once it’s finally found, it would soon be fixed, put through maintenance, tested, observed, then put back on ice. It’s come out of cryo before with old wounds, frozen before they were done healing. Those left the worst scars.

It couldn’t feel much of anything other than its slowing heartbeat. It was kind of nice, actually. It was quiet out in these woods, and the Asset was stationary, not expected to do anything. Well, it was technically expected to reach the extraction point, or find its way to Hydra, but it was malfunctioning and damaged. It would most likely be retrained before being repaired, though, as Hydra didn’t appreciate it when things went bad, when it got hurt, when it failed. Which, it didn’t fail, really. But that won’t matter. Resources and time will be spent fixing it, and they don’t like that. But it needed to do the right thing. And the right thing was to do as it’s told.

Though… maybe that won’t happen. Maybe it’ll be lost out here and they won’t find it until it’s too late.

He wanted to stay here. He liked it here. 

It–

It shouldn’t like anything.

But–

~

“Buck?”

Bucky woke with a start, eyes flashing open as a wave of icy chill ran through him top to bottom. He looked around frantically, panting, feeling the sweat that had pooled a bit underneath him on the mattress. The room was mostly dark except for some soft light coming through the window, and his eyes landed on Steve waiting in the doorway. He was too far away to read his face in the darkness, even with Bucky’s enhanced vision, but he could tell it was taking all Steve had to not run all the way into the room. His muscles were taught and his back was slightly hunched like he was ready to leap forward. That doorknob he was holding would probably need replacing; no way he wasn’t squeezing that thing with all his might.

Bucky took a deep breath to try to calm his heartbeat and nerves. He rubbed his eyes. “Hey, Steve, what’s goin’ on?” he said, voice raspier than he’d expected. He knew what was up, but was hoping the intrusion was unrelated.

“Friday warned me your heart rate was too fast,” Steve said softly. Damn that robot. “She suggested I assess you in case you… needed medical attention.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” He looked back at him. “Just… a memory. Not even a bad one, so I don’t know why I…” He stopped. “It’s nothing.”

“Buck…” A bolt of nerves rushed through Bucky’s chest, like every other time Steve called him that, especially with that sickening tone of concern. He’s been hearing it a lot ever since he’s been back at the compound and living with Steve while he “recovered.” Doctor’s words, not his. He was fine.

Bucky sighed. “You can come in. C’mere.”

Steve wasted no time making his way over to the bed to sit down on the side of it. Bucky looked up at him, raising his arms a bit. “See? M’all good.”

This scene was familiar, but the roles were reversed. He’d spent many hours sitting on the side of Steve’s bed back in the day, before the war, before the serum, when he’d still get sick or his conditions would flare up or he’d lose another fight. He’d bring him food and medicine, much to Steve’s chagrin, but Bucky insisted on him resting and recovering. The man had always had the energy and drive of 3 men twice his size but the frame and constitution of a sickly Victorian child.

“Is this how it was when you tried to take care of me? When I was stubborn as all hell?” Steve said, evidently thinking the same thing.

Bucky cracked a smile and chuckled. “No, you were way worse. You were such a punk. I practically had to lock you in your room sometimes.”

Steve smiled. “And I’m glad you did.” He reached over and grabbed Bucky’s shoulder firmly, shaking it just slightly. “Now I get to return the favor. If you’d let me.”

Bucky’s throat hitched. He didn’t know why. He swallowed it down. “Whad’ya mean? I let you check on me, didn’t I?”

Now that Steve was close to him, closer to the light, he could see just how sad he looked. When he first got to the compound, Bucky thought he just always looked sad nowadays, which he had thought made sense. But sometimes he’d see him talking to other people, or being distracted by the television, or reading something, and he looked normal. As normal as Steve could, anyway. But when he was with Bucky, he was sad.  

He hated it. He was fine . He was deconditioned, no one could control him anymore, his arm had been replaced, and they had some time now to settle. To live their lives, even if just for a little while, before something else inevitably happened. To make up for some of the time they lost being apart. Or whatever.

“Bucky…” Steve sighed and slumped a bit, and then scanned the other man as if to find something else to comment on. 

Bucky did the same to him. They were wearing the same kind of white tank top, but Steve had thrown on sweatpants before running in here while Bucky still only had on his boxers, thankfully covered by his light comforter. He suddenly felt pretty vulnerable and exposed under the other man’s gaze and was about to try to convince him to leave again until Steve’s eyes landed on Bucky’s metal arm and he furrowed his brows.

“You don’t want to take that off when you sleep?”

Bucky blinked and looked down at his left arm, now darker in color and lighter in weight than before, thanks to the Wakandans. It was also removable now. “Honestly, I didn't even think about that.” He clenched his fist a couple times, and the soft whirring from inside it was perceptible only because of how quiet the room was. Normally, it was practically silent. “My last one was glued to me pretty good, and I didn't sleep very much back then anyway." 

He looked back at Steve, who was frowning even more. Shit, shouldn't have brought that up.

“Is it more comfortable with it off?” Steve asked.

“Uh, well, it's pretty inconvenient to go about your day with only one hand, but… I'm actually not sure? Before this one was installed, I couldn’t lay on my left because of the, uh… stump… and now that I have it, I just sorta… keep it on.”

Steve's sad eyes wandered around Bucky again, making him feel nervous once more. “Maybe you could try it; you might sleep better." 

“Steve, I'm good, I just want to get back to sleep–" 

“Yeah, that's what I'm trying to do for you." He started to bring his arm over him towards his shoulder but stopped. “May I?”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Look, Steve, I–" 

“You're a side sleeper, Buck, I know. Which means you're either lying on this thing, or it's laying on you. That can't feel great. Come on… please?” 

Steve's hands hung in the air unmoving. He was staring deep into his eyes–not quite pleading, but he sure had a way of being very convincing with just a look. Bucky knew if he said no, for him to drop it, Steve would. But he was right. It was worth a shot.

“Alright, fine, here," he said as he tilted to the right a bit to give Steve a better angle. Steve gave a small smile and then continued his reach to Bucky's shoulder. He pulled back the tank strap to expose the hidden release mechanism. It's not meant to be easy to do, so it was taking him a moment to get it. He had made sure Shuri told him everything about how it works so that he could help with any issues that may arise.

Bucky caught himself staring at Steve, and the image of him leaning over him to work at his arm made his heart jolt again. He felt heat rise up from his neck and he turned his head away to try to calm down. But once he did, visions of doctors and scientists leaning over it and touching it—him, touching him, his arm, his body, his hair, his face, rushed through his mind, the slight jostling from Steve's prodding was amplified as he remembered how he was pushed around and forced into chairs and devices and corners and–

His spiral was interrupted by a hand softly laying on his chest.

“Hey, Buck, it's alright, hey–" Steve's soft voice cut through the noise, dousing the fire like breath on a candle. “I’m sorry, I can stop, we don't have to–" 

“Nah, Stevie, you're fine, I…" Coming back to himself through Steve's touch, he realized how heavy he'd started breathing. He took a deep breath. “Let's try taking it off." 

Bucky still wasn't looking at Steve, but he heard the small smiling breath he let out. “Well, good news," he said, and with a small tug, the arm came loose from its connections and slid down off of its base.

Bucky looked over at the exposed socket. The purple crystals gave off a faint glow, but nothing too intrusive. He moved his shoulder blade around to test it, and it was definitely weird being disconnected, but it felt like something he could get used to pretty easily. 

He looked back up at Steve, who was holding the arm as if it would break if he dropped it, as if it were porcelain instead of vibranium. That thing would survive a Chicxulub-esque meteorite, and he knew that, but he cradled it gently and safely all the same. He was watching Bucky and waiting for a response. 

“Yeah, this is fine.” He gave a wave of his shoulder. “All good. You can, uh, put it down over there," he instructed, pointing down to the trunk at the end of his bed. Steve got up, and feeling him leave the bed did not feel good, the rise of the mattress and his warm body leaving his side made Bucky suddenly nervous. He quelled the urge to reach out to grab him and just held his breath instead. He figured that dream just really fucked him up and he was still jumpy from it. He didn't even remember much, just that he was on his back, and cold, and sad, and relieved. Steve placed the arm gently on the trunk and returned to him in no time, letting Bucky breathe easier.

“You'll let me know if you need any help with anything else, right?" Steve asked. 

Bucky chuckled. "Of course I will, Stevie, don't you know me?" 

“Yes, I do know you, and that's exactly why I ask." Steve couldn't help but smile, but he was serious. “I'm here for you, Buck. I want to return the favor." 

Bucky’s heart wrenched again. There were too many things he wanted to say in that moment, but he couldn’t tell him any of it. It would make Steve feel bad to know just how much guilt Bucky felt, not only for what he'd done in the past, but for how much help he's received from so many people, Steve especially, who's more than “returned the favor.” Bucky didn't take care of him all those years to get anything back; he did it because Steve deserved it, and Bucky was more than happy to be the one to fix him up and provide for him. And now Steve was stuck with him and doing the work Bucky never wanted him to have to do.

And he knew Steve didn't think like that at all, and he'd hate that Bucky did. He's tried to tell him before that he didn't need to put so much time and effort into Bucky, but Steve never listened. And that was exactly why he shouldn't have to do all this. 

But he couldn't say any of that. Not now. All he could muster was a quiet, “Thanks, Steve." 

Steve smiled and patted Bucky's right shoulder again. “Anything for you, pal." He pointed a finger at him. “And don't forget that, alright?" 

Bucky tried his best to smile and nod. But as Steve started to rise to leave, a rush flew through Bucky, and with a sharp inhale, his arm shot up and grabbed Steve's. 

Steve stopped, whipping his head back around in shock and concern. “Buck? What is it? What's wrong?" 

Bucky had even surprised himself. His eyes widened and he immediately regretted this–not that this was anything he'd decided to do–and his mind raced to think of a way to excuse it as a reflex or something. He didn't even know why he was holding onto Steve for dear life. His mouth opened and closed but no words came, and he was starting to shake. Shit, not again–

Steve turned so that he was facing Bucky more, and he put his other hand over the one on his arm to squeeze assuredly. “What do you need? Do you need a doctor? I can go get–” He started to stand but Bucky’s grip tightened.

“No–" Bucky eked out. His face scrunched up with confusion and anxiety. 

Steve looked upon him in concern and anxiousness himself. Bucky could see him working to slow down, to calm himself, as if sudden movements were a bad idea. Which, they could be; Bucky’s head was swirling as he felt stinging on his eyes. Fuck. What the hell–

Steve sighed and leaned down closer to him, still holding his hand on his arm, never breaking eye contact.

“Bucky… what should I do.” It was less of a question and more of a command. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. Just take a second to breathe, think about what you need.”

Bucky forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He closed his eyes, but that didn't actually help. He felt better looking at Steve, so he opened them again. He tried to think about what he needed, what he wanted, what would help. He was allowed to want things now, to like things, to need things. He mulled it over in his head, trying to grasp any ideas that came up. Thinking was already hard for him, but it especially was when his system was overloading. Looking up at Steve was helping calm him down, the face he'd known for so long, that he was forced to forget, that he put himself through pain to remember, that he ran from out of guilt once the memories had returned. 

What he wanted–needed–in that moment finally came. It took him a minute to actually say it out loud, but he finally did. 

“Stay with me?" 

Steve was already nodding. "Yeah, Buck, yes, I'm right here." He paused. “Like, overnight?" 

Bucky wished he'd never said anything. The heat of embarrassment rose into his face and he turned away. He forced a smile, chuckling at his inanity. “Actually, no, that’s–I don’t know what I was–” 

He tried to let go of his arm, but Steve's hand held it there. 

“I can do that." He smiled fondly, and Bucky's face only got redder. At this point, he knew there was no arguing. This hole he'd dug was deep enough as it was. 

Bucky swallowed hard. “Well, uh… You shouldn't have to just sit there all night.” He looked around his very bare room. He hadn't exactly been motivated to request more furnishings, so all there was was the bed, trunk, side table, and dresser. “I don't… you wanna…”

“I don't mind sharing," Steve offered. Bucky took a second to realize what he meant, and the heat returned. “Unless, you don't want to," Steve added. “I can run and get a chair." 

Bucky felt stupid. This was all so stupid. He shouldn't need him there, but he did. They grew up together, shared beds dozens of times, were in the goddamn army together for years, but sharing a bed here and now was suddenly embarrassing?

“No, don't, I–yeah, that's fine, I was just worried it uh, wouldn't be big enough–" 

Steve was already deftly swinging himself over Bucky onto the other side of the bed, against the wall. Bucky watched him incredulously as he started to tug the blanket from underneath him.

Steve smiled. "Just like when we were kids," he mused. 

Bucky relaxed, still on his back. "I could've scooted over.”

"You still prefer to lay on your left?” Steve asked. “I didn’t want you to have to turn your back to me. You know, just in case that made you nervous.”

He'd gotten the blanket and sheet over him and was settling down on the extra pillow that was thankfully previously provided. Of course beds at the compound would be of sufficient size, especially considering the size of some of its occupants. The veterans had asked for firmer mattresses instead of the marshmallows everyone else had, though. Steve had asked for cots originally, which Stark laughed at, thinking it was a joke.

Bucky shrugged. “I haven't really thought about it. Things are so different; I never know what's stayed the same, or what's coming back. So much time passed where nothing like that mattered.”

Steve didn't respond so Bucky turned his head to look at him. He was staring back at him through his lashes, brows raised and with a slight smile. Bucky had honestly thought he'd be sad just like he usually was when his past was brought up, but he definitely didn’t look sad then.

"What?”

Steve's smile turned mischievous. "If I'd known getting in bed with you would get you to open up, I'd have done it sooner.”

Bucky turned to lunge at Steve, pushing hard on his shoulder, garnering a laugh from him. "Keep that shit up and I'll throw you out of this bed with just the one arm, Rogers!”

Steve apologized between his laughter, shielding himself against the barrage of pokes and slaps from Bucky. He was seeing now that Steve was still ticklish in all the same places he used to be, and Bucky was targeting all of them, reveling in the big smile and sharp laughs from Steve. He hadn't seen him laugh like that in… Well, about 80 years. There were a few nights during Howlies missions where ridiculous pre-war stories were shared that Steve got a kick out of. But ever since Bucky had come back, any smiles were small and concerned, any laughs were soft and full of baggage. He hated it. So, this was nice.

Steve finally had enough and stopped trying to shield himself, grabbing Bucky's wrist. They fought against each other until Steve claimed surrender. Neither of them were using anywhere close to their full strength, but, just like old times, Bucky kept himself from pushing back against Steve's grip too hard. He used to be so much weaker, so he'd always let him win.

He finally conceded and their arms fell slack, landing on the space of the mattress between them. Bucky stared at Steve, who was looking down trying to calm his laughter. Bucky watched his smile, his body hopping with each giggle, his hair mussing up against the pillow. It was nice to see him so happy; it's all he wanted for a long time. 

Steve finally looked up at him, and his eyes softened when he scanned Bucky's face. “Haven't seen you smile like that in a while." 

Once again, it was like Steve was saying what Bucky was thinking. He came back to himself and realized he had been smiling pretty big as well, making his neglected cheek muscles sore. He was about to lift his hand to rub his face when he realized Steve's hand was still on his wrist. He kept his hand still and did his best to pretend he hadn't noticed.

In that pause, they simply looked at each other, smiles softening, breaths slowing. Bucky allowed himself to stare back into Steve's eyes as the other man was doing to him. The dim light from the window was barely bright enough to make out details; any brighter and Bucky was sure he would have to turn away or kick Steve out lest his blushing face be on full display. 

Steve eventually lifted his hand off of Bucky's, much to his simultaneous relief and disappointment, but then it moved towards his face. Bucky's eyes widened as Steve brushed his fingertips underneath the bit of Bucky's hair that had fallen into his face during the encounter to then tuck it behind his ear. One of his fingers just barely brushed his jaw once he pulled back, probably an accident, and Bucky resisted the urge to follow it, to continue the contact, because why in the world would he do that? 

Steve tucked his arm up into his chest. “How does it feel?" 

Bucky’s heart flipped once again. "Wh… How does what feel?" Sweat started to reaccumulate on him from all the heat and these spikes of anxiety.

“Laying on your side. Without the arm," Steve answered as sincere as always.

Bucky wanted to kick himself but instead went for scrunching his face up for a second as he reset himself. "Right, yeah, the arm… S’alright," he answered. He assessed himself, shifting some. “Actually, yeah, this is pretty comfortable. My spine feels straight for once." 

Steve smiled his dimply, concerned smile again. “I'm glad. And also, I told you so." 

Bucky couldn't help but chuckle and sigh. “As always, Steve, you’re right." He raised his now free hand to rub at his cheek, near where Steve had brushed against him. 

Steve was all bunched up, his shoulders at his ears as he tried to keep laying on his side when he really wanted to tip forward. Unlike Bucky, he was a stomach sleeper, which he knew was not ideal, as Bucky always used to remind him, but it was his most comfortable position. With his scoliosis, laying on his side didn't really work, and on his back could get excruciating. Sure, his back would hurt more once he woke up, but at least he'd slept at all. Now that his spine was straight and supported by all the muscles one could ever hope for along a spine, it was still the most comfortable, and with the combination of his regimen and the serum, he didn't have to worry too much about back pain anymore.

Bucky had missed out on years and years of sleep. He went straight from being a soldier to a science experiment to a popsicle to a weapon. None of those roles allowed for very good sleep. When it was out of cryo, missions ideally only took around 48 hours, wherein it was allowed two shifts of sleep: one during the mission, if possible, and one before going back into cryo. In the past, they wouldn't let it sleep at all, until it started consistently malfunctioning and they realized freezing it sort of prevented the whole healing process thing, so they had to relent and allow it to rest. Sometimes.

The Asset didn't like sleeping. It was an extremely vulnerable position to be in, unaware of your surroundings for hours on end. It didn't like the feeling of exhaustion though, and it could tell when it was slipping up because of it, but it always tried to push ahead. Its handlers would demand for it to sleep after a while or else the mission would be compromised. When it slept, it didn't usually dream, so time would seem to pass abruptly, and it was disorienting. But when it did dream, that was much worse–

“You good, Buck?" 

Steve's soft voice wrenched Bucky out of his thought spiral. He realized he'd closed his eyes and started drifting away at one point. He groaned softly and rubbed his eyes. 

“Yeah, Stevie, m’good. I'm just dozing off, I guess." 

“You ready to go back to sleep?" 

“Yeah." 

“Okay, good." Steve reached to grab the blanket on Bucky and pull it up higher so it better covered him. He finally turned into his front and tucked his arms underneath his pillow, framing his head. He heaved a big sigh as he settled in, closing his eyes. “You wake me up if you need anything else, okay, pal?”

Bucky stared at Steve in the dim light, his long eyelashes laying on his cheeks, his chin tucked into his shoulder, his body raising and lowering slowly. He felt a tight twisting in his chest. He grabbed at the sheet underneath his hand before scrunching his face once again.

“Yeah, Steve. I will." 

Chapter Text

Early morning light cut through the blinds and striped along the wall, casting the bare room in a dim, orange glow. Bucky had gotten some of the best sleep he’d had in a long time that night. Once he woke, barely with a start, his eyes landed on Steve lying next to him, still asleep. He was breathing deeply and slowly, his back raising and lowering rhythmically, face serene and half-buried in the pillow. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. He was too contented. 

Steve’s hand had made its way out from underneath the pillow and was resting in the space between them. Bucky stared at it. His own hand twitched, and in his morning stupor, he slowly moved his hand up to be next to Steve’s. He compared the two, looking at them side by side. They were both strong, but Steve’s were broad and sturdy–they were large now, too. Bucky remembered when his hand was so small and delicate, always covered in bruises and scrapes. It wasn’t very often that he’d actually allow Bucky to help him off the ground after a scrap, but when he did, his grip was stronger than anyone else would expect it to be. And now, they echo the strength he always had inside.

Bucky’s hand was strong, sure, but compared to Steve’s, it looked knobbly. Unsure. He didn’t feel like he exuded the stability that Steve’s had. And now he only had the one. The new vibranium arm was his, yes, but he was still getting used to that. His first prosthetic was what defined him for a long time, representing what he did, what he was used for. Now this one, currently resting on the trunk at the foot of his bed, was simply a part of him, and not the other way around. It was… different.

He looked back up at Steve’s face. He could see his eyes moving underneath his lids and his breathing had picked up speed, but only by a little bit. Bucky’s chest wrenched as he hoped the dream was a nice one. He knew Steve, with all he’s been through and how he is, probably had nightmares of his own. He, of course, never talked about his dreams. But Bucky would notice some mornings where he didn't seem quite right, or would ask Bucky a few too many times how he’d slept. There had even been a couple times Bucky swore he had been woken up by a cry from the next room, but he would never hear any more noise once he was conscious, so he wasn’t sure.

Bucky looked down at their hands again. They were so close, right next to each other. As he became more and more awake, the reality of the situation was finally sinking in. He had Steve sleep over. In his bed. Bucky felt stupid and embarrassed, like he was a kid afraid of the boogeyman, and the boogeyman was himself. And now his friend, who he’s supposed to take care of, was here with him. In his bed, with their hands next to each other. And Bucky wasn’t wearing pants.  

The heat on his face could cause steam to rise off his skin.

A part of him was screaming to get up, to run to the bathroom, kick Steve out, never mention this again, go back to normal, get over himself.

But… He didn’t move. Bucky stayed put, still as a stone, eyes glazing over Steve’s resting body, his calm face, his hand. His hand. Bucky’s hand twitched again, their pinkies so close to each other. 

This was so stupid. They touched all the time! Hugs, shoulder and back pats, sparring. But Bucky’s heart twisted in a knot at the thought of just… grabbing his hand. Holding it in his, like they failed to do on that fateful day in the Alps. He inched his fingers towards his... Why did it feel like Steve's hand was so far away when it was right there in front of him? How would Steve react if he just went for it? What if he get the wrong idea? What if he got the right one?

Bucky’s eyes flew shut and his hand froze as Steve started to stir, breathing in a huge sigh. Bucky gave it his all to look like he was still sleeping, concentrating on his breathing and relaxing his face. It was hard to fool Steve, but Bucky had plenty of practice in this regard, what with so many younger siblings, the war, his time as the Asset; there had always been a reason to pretend to be asleep.

He waited for Steve to shift more, to pull his hand back, to stretch, to yawn, to want to leave. Then Bucky would put on his best performance of ‘waking up’ from his commotion. Maybe even give him shit about it, say he was too disruptive, make him leave so he could have five more minutes of rest. 

But that stretch, the yawn, they didn’t come after Bucky waited for what felt like plenty of time. Did Steve not actually wake up? His breathing had settled into a quieter rhythm, but Bucky could feel his hand still laying in its spot. He didn’t dare open his eyes, and he kept focusing on his own deep, slow breathing. Maybe Steve was just taking a while to wake up fully. Maybe sleeping over didn’t give him the rest he needed, either because he was too worried about Bucky or simply from not being in his own bed–

Then Bucky felt it. Something on his pinky finger. He stiffened and quelled any reaction from happening. It moved; soft and gentle, petting—was Steve…? Bucky forced his breathing to stay slow, but it was difficult. Steve must’ve closed the gap, reached out to Bucky, and he was… Was he still asleep? Was this on purpose? Bucky’s mind raced. He wanted desperately to open his eyes to figure out what was happening, but he couldn’t. Steve was touching him, just barely, so gently; whether it was on purpose or not, Bucky was letting it happen. He didn’t know what else to do. Was this what he wanted? What was Steve thinking–

Bucky heard the other stifle a yawn, and his finger paused, resting on top of his, their pinkies almost intertwined. There was a beat. And then Steve said something.

“... ‘M proud of you.”

It was barely perceptible, just a whisper. Bucky used all his resolve not to react yet again. 

“So happy you’re here,” Steve continued. It was like he was thinking so loud that Bucky could hear it. “I know it’s no Wakanda, but… I hope you’re happy too.”

Bucky couldn’t help when his eyebrows twitched at that. He was happy. He’s happy as long as he’s with… As long as he’s with friends.

Steve gave a little sigh. “I know it’s hard… I wish I knew everything I could do for you to help. Sometimes… sometimes I think neither of us know what we want.” He chuckled and then paused, like he was worried the jostling would wake Bucky. Little did he know that Bucky was more alert than he may have ever been before. Steve was being so quiet that Bucky considered he was mishearing him. He started to feel bad, like he was intruding on Steve’s thoughts. But he was saying these things out loud. Right in front of him. In his bed.

“I know I want you to be happy," Steve soon continued, as quiet as ever. "I know I want you to feel better. I know I want to help in any way I can to make those things happen.” He paused. Bucky had to remind himself to breathe, which was getting harder by the second. “And I know I want you here, with me. Which, I guess is a bit selfish, heh.”

Bucky’s heart dropped down his chest. I do want to be here, he wanted to say. It screamed in his head. He wanted to wrap his fingers between his and never let go again. He wanted to open his eyes and see Steve lying there next to him, bathed in the morning light. He wanted what he was hearing to be real. He didn’t open his eyes because he didn’t think he’d be able to handle seeing Steve still asleep, or gone, or never having come into his room at all.

“And I know you’re terrible at faking sleep.”

A rush flew through Bucky, ice in his veins, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He could hear that fucking smile on Steve's lips.

Bucky's jaw clenched with annoyance. “You’re such a punk,” he rasped.

“Jerk.”

Bucky slowly opened his eyes, still worried that none of this would be real, that everything would disappear once reality set in. But there Steve was, shining blue eyes staring up at him, his expression a mixture of concern and relief and happiness. And there were their hands, linked together by their little fingers.

“Hey, Buck.”

“... Mornin’, Stevie.”

Bucky finally allowed himself to relax and let out a breath. He took a long pause, eyes looking anywhere but Steve or their hands. He cleared his throat. “Sleep well?”

“I sure did,” Steve answered, smiling. “What about you? Did… did it help? Me being here?”

Bucky finally looked at him again. He smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it did.”

Steve gave a nod. “Good.”

They laid there, again avoiding eye contact. Neither of them seemed to know what to do next. Great.

Bucky broke the silence, for once. “I… I think I heard… everything. Just, yaknow… so you know. M’sorry.”

Steve blinked slowly as he smiled. “I hoped so. It was the only way I could’ve said anything without you trying to shut me up.”

Heat returned to Bucky’s face as his eyes widened. He couldn’t hold back his smile so he turned to bury his face into his pillow. “Of course that was a fuckin’ ploy!” he cried, muffled by the stuffing, and Steve laughed at him.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not!”

“No, I’m not,” Steve giggled.

“ Christ , Rogers.”

Their hands never left their position in between them. There was a long silence as the strips of light continued to slowly make their way down the walls.

Keeping his face covered, Bucky said more quietly, “I am, by the way. … Happy... Here.”

Steve sighed, as if in relief. “That’s good.”

“And’s not… selfish,” Bucky forced himself to say.

“... What’s that?”

He scrunched his face, thinking. “What you said at the end.” He swallowed. “That you… want me here with you. ‘S not selfish.”

Bucky turned his head to peer out from the pillow only to see it was Steve who was blushing this time.

“Yeah?” he said, a sheepish smile pushing through. “Wanting you all to myself isn’t selfish?”

Bucky chuckled, embarrassed. “C’mon, man, you’ve been waiting on me hand and foot. You're effectively retired and playing house. How is that selfish?”

Steve's smile faltered. “You were happy in Wakanda. They did so much for you, they healed you." He focused on Bucky's eyes intensely, his mouth falling into a frown. "What if I was wrong in bringing you back here? What if I can't give you what you need?”

Steve's eyes were back to being sad, and Bucky got scared that he'd never again see them happy. They just were , and now he's gone and said something that threw it away again. Nervously and without thinking, Bucky's hand scrambled to grab the other's, and Steve reciprocated without hesitation, interlocking their fingers fervently. To get a better angle, Steve turned onto his side to fully face Bucky, getting closer, squeezing his hand as he did.  

There were so many things Bucky wanted to tell Steve that he never wanted to acknowledge or admit even to himself before, which was an admission itself. They all screamed at him at once, a cacophony of true feelings, of worries, of fears, of gratitude, of hate. He couldn't catch one to say aloud, so he laid there silent, his heart beating fast. As their interlaced fingers squeezed each other, he looked back into Steve's eyes. They were wide, expectant, concerned. Sad .

This was all so stupid. 

“You do ," he strained to say. Bucky's face contorted with mental effort. Steve just continued staring, waiting for more. Bucky looked down, squeezing his hand hard, struggling to articulate anything. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt his teeth. Stupid. Stupid—

“Hey, Buck, shh, you're alright, hey–" Steve started cooing softly, reaching his other hand up to grasp the other side of Bucky's hand to cradle it fully. He started petting him, and his voice was low and soft and impossibly gentle for how much Bucky was sure this annoyed him.

So fucking stupid.

“You are what I need ," he growled, forcing the words out. He shut his eyes tight. “I don't fucking care where I am. I don't fucking care about treatment.” Bucky started to shake as his whole body fought to stay put, and he held onto Steve as if he was going to fall away. “I just… I don't want to go back…” His voice was low and gravely, like he was dragging the words through the dirt as they kicked and screamed. "I don't wanna leave you. Not again.”

He finally looked back at Steve, and he saw the morning light shimmering in his welling tears. Fuck, no , this was the last thing he wanted to happen. He wanted him to be happy, goddammit. This was why he never said anything. He was fucking fine.

Bucky started to pull away, intent on leaving the bed and running to the bathroom to hide in it forever. But he wasn't able to turn around very far at all before having Steve yank him back towards him. He dropped his hands from Bucky's only to quickly wrap his arms around him in a grappling hug, surrounding him, keeping him there. 

Bucky’s arm swung around Steve before he could even think. His desire to run melted away immediately at Steve's touch, their chests pressed together tightly, his broad hands grabbing at his ribs, his face in his neck. Bucky tried to grab back with his one arm, his hand finding purchase on the back of Steve's head. His fingers laced through his hair, which was long now from neglecting to get it cut over these past several months they’ve had together. A few moments passed before either of them said anything; they just held each other and exchanged warmth while their breaths synced rhythms.

Steve soon broke the silence. “ You have me, ” he said into Bucky’s neck, which made him shudder. “If that’s what you need, I’m here for you. I got you, doll. I’ve always got you.”

Shivering with a hurricane of emotions, his head buried between Steve’s head and the pillow, his hair mussed into his face, Bucky felt explosions in his chest, and the fallout settled into a relief he hadn’t felt since he was finally deprogrammed. He couldn’t help but admit to himself, finally, after some 80 odd years, that he then knew what he wanted. And he was right in front of him. In his bed.

The Asset shouldn’t want things.

Bucky wasn’t the Asset anymore.