Work Text:
Bucky really liked his chair.
Even in the midst of war, the Howling Commandos'camp always had a few rare moments of respite. Inside the tent, the kerosene lamp flickered dimly, casting shifting shadows on the canvas walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and cheap tobacco.
Steve sat awkwardly on an empty ammo crate that had been repurposed as a chair, his knees drawn so high they nearly bumped his chin. In the unsteady light, he pored over the map and reports in his hands, refining the plan for their next mission.
That was when Bucky stepped inside. A draft of cold air slipped through the lifted flap, chasing away some of the heavy odors. There was a faint, almost imperceptible weariness on his face as he pulled off his dust-stained cap and tossed it aside.
Without a word, Bucky headed straight for Steve. Steve, in turn, relaxed his posture, stretching his legs out and sparing his chin from the crate's relentless edge.
Bucky walked up to Steve and, with an almost unthinking ease, settled himself onto Steve's outstretched legs.
Not sitting straight, but leaning in—something far more intimate. His long right leg bent slightly, his left stretched out in a lazy sprawl, his entire weight leaning into Steve's body. The heat of him—dust, sweat, and warmth all tangled together—pressed close against Steve's thighs and hip.
Steve's body tensed, just barely, for a fraction of a second. He could feel Bucky's weight so vividly, the heat seeping through rough fabric, the breath that carried both fatigue and release.
Once he was settled, Bucky still seemed unsatisfied. He shifted in closer, adjusted his posture, and then, almost as if it were the most natural thing in the world, let his forehead rest lightly against the hollow of Steve's neck. The skin there was warm, the steady thrum of his pulse unmistakable. A few strands of Bucky's dark hair brushed against Steve’s collarbone, leaving behind a faint, ticklish sensation.
"Tired?" Steve set aside the finished plans and let his hand rest lightly at Bucky's waist, feeling the curve beneath the uniform. "How was patrol?"
"How do you think?" The reply came muffled, Bucky's breath brushing against the hollow of his neck before he burrowed in deeper, lips pressed against warm skin as he spoke. "The area was mostly cleared when we first came through. Just a bit of cold air with DumDum. Besides—" he lifted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, "coming back to enjoy the 'Captain America–exclusive lounge chair' makes up for it. No trouble at all."
The "chair" beneath him gave a small, involuntary shake, laughter rumbling out of Steve's chest. Then the tent sank back into quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of the kerosene wick and the near-synchronized rhythm of their breathing.
Bucky closed his eyes, stripping away every layer of vigilance and pretense the battlefield demanded, surrendering his weight—and his silent trust—to the warmth and solidity that held him.
And Steve let him, arm snug around his waist, holding his own soft bear close and savoring the rare, fleeting moment of peace.
——————
The chair.
ChairChairChairChair—
He couldn't take it anymore. His mind was about to turn to mush, to shattered glass. They were going to strap him back into that chair, and he couldn't hold his focus. Thick, suffocating fear oozed like grease from every pore, carrying with it the stench of iron and blood. Wave after wave slammed against his crumbling will.
"Cleanse… needs to be wiped again… data residue… prepare for re-execution…"
No.
NONONONONO
Not the chair—
Hellfire roared to life inside him. Every nerve became a wire of flame, currents alive and ravenous, gnawing at his skin, burrowing into muscle, searing down to the marrow. His vision drowned in thick black ink; his mouth flooded with the rust of iron and the bitterness of bile. The air itself seemed to congeal—he could hardly breathe.
Sparks tore mercilessly through his mind, burning away the last shreds of color. And yet, in the haze, he felt something that had no place here—warmth, solid and steady.
The chair.
This was the chair.
The remnants of his senses unraveled into a wisp of smoke, drifting away beyond recall. In the depths of his consciousness, some fragment not yet erased reached out in vain, desperate to grasp that fleeting feather—warm, impossibly warm, still carrying the trace of a heartbeat.
Whose warmth was it?
The warmth shattered in the next instant, splintering into shards of ice that pierced him through and pinned him from within.
He screamed.
——————
The chair.
The agony that had once driven itself deep into his bones seemed to linger still. He woke, sitting blankly on the bed for a long while before he could dredge up even the faintest sense of awareness.
A nightmare.
A nightmare?
The Asset does not dream. The Asset does not require sleep.
And yet… the last time he had stated this truth with cold precision, the blond man—Steve—had worn an expression as though struck by an unseen hammer, his face shattering into pain. So perhaps this condition, this state, should be defined as: Dream.
Steve…
He slowly raised that metal hand, reaching out into the cold air. His fingertips trembled, trying to grasp once more that fleeting warmth from the dream. But his thoughts were like thick, unmoving mud, countless chaotic fragments floating and tangling within. The harder he tried to discern and hold onto them, the more slyly they slipped through his fingers, leaving a deeper emptiness behind.
…Only…only fragments…he sat on the chair…not pain…warmth…
A new command. Silently, he slid off the bed and crept toward the door. Pale moonlight flowed behind him; he became a ghost wandering in the shadows.
A stingy line of soft light leaked under the door. He could hear hushed voices outside: Natasha Romanoff, code name Black Widow; Sam Wilson, code name Falcon; and…Steve.
…He leaned into the warmth of an embrace…
He pressed down on the doorknob.
——————
"Looks like there aren’t any other critical vulnerabilities at the moment."
Steve's voice was hoarse with fatigue as he stacked the final plan on top of the teetering pile of papers on the coffee table, as if laying down a thousand-pound burden. Sam exhaled in relief, nearly sinking into the armchair, rubbing at his sore neck.
"Basically, yes,” Natasha pulled a file from beneath the stack and spread it out in front of Steve. “But there’s still a potential blind spot in the operation. The data shows that this room in the target building has no clear storage record. Structurally, the space isn't large, and it may be unoccupied—but the backup team still needs to be ready…"
Steve, however, couldn’t focus on the issue for now. His sharp senses picked up the sound of the door opening.
"Bucky?"
A figure appeared in the doorway, bathed in the light spilling from the hallway. Bucky stood there, wearing only thin pajamas, barefoot, as if he had just wrenched himself out of the deepest layers of sleep. His messy hair fell over most of his face, obscuring his expression. All that could be seen was the slightly stiff posture of his body, as though invisible threads were pulling him forward.
Sam and Natasha quickly exchanged a glance. The three of them were equally at a loss, while Bucky remained silent, moving toward Steve as if sleepwalking, his bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet.
Steve's heart thudded heavily in his chest. He stayed seated, not rising immediately, only letting his hands, which had been resting on his knees, fall gently to his sides.
"Bucky? Are you okay?" he asked cautiously, his voice soft, careful not to startle the person before him.
Then, after a suffocating few seconds of silence, Bucky moved.
He didn't sit in the empty seat beside them, nor did he speak. He just shifted slightly, his body carrying a strange sense of familiarity, and naturally settled into Steve's arms.
Bucky leaned sideways, fitting perfectly into the space between Steve's open arms and legs. His cold metal arm hung over the sofa's armrest, while the other warm arm curled slightly, resting on his bent knee. He instinctively searched for familiar grooves in memory, adjusting his posture unconsciously, pressing his forehead gently against the hollow of Steve's neck, his hair brushing Steve's skin, sending a faint ticklish sensation. The whole process felt like a programmed sequence, flawlessly recreating that night in the army camp, under the flickering light of the kerosene lamp.
Across from him, Sam instantly stiffened, looking awkward. Natasha, meanwhile, raised her eyebrows high at the sudden scene before her.
"It's no big deal. I'll just go talk to Fury about the setup," Natasha decided immediately, stood up, grabbed the necessary files, and turned to leave with clean, efficient movements.
"Uh, uh, my neighbor’s bird is supposed to lay eggs tomorrow, I—I'll go check on it," Sam hurried after them, nearly tripping over the chair leg. "Tomorrow… no, I mean, tomorrow afternoon." He practically flew toward the door, grabbing it on the way out and leaving the space entirely to the two of them.
The room fell completely silent, with only the faint distant hum of the city outside and the almost suspended air between them.
Steve held his breath, even the rise and fall of his chest careful and subdued. He slowly lowered his head, his chin nearly brushing the top of Bucky’s soft hair. The hand that had been resting idly on the sofa cushion now trembled slightly, reaching gently, tentatively, to rest on Bucky’s side over the thin fabric of his pajamas, feeling the faint coolness of the skin beneath. His other arm wrapped around Bucky’s back with protective intent, pulling him more securely into his embrace.
He stayed like that, perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter the fragile, dew-like moment. Bucky remained quiet, leaning into him obediently, letting out a soft, indistinct hum of contentment like a small animal. His body sank more deeply, fully relaxed, as if he had finally found the one true harbor he had been seeking. That long-missing intimacy, forged through endless time and pain, washed over Steve’s heart like a warm tide, bringing with it a bittersweet warmth.
His Adam’s apple moved as he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. His voice was hushed, hoarse with tenderness, almost just a breath brushing through Bucky’s hair:
"Bucky…?" He called again, softer this time, as if afraid of disturbing a fragile dream. "Are you… okay?"
The fog of dependence that had enveloped him suddenly lifted. Bucky’s body stiffened sharply, his previously relaxed, closed eyes snapping open. His pupils, briefly unfocused, quickly sharpened, no longer filled with hazy trust but with confusion tinged by fear.
"I… I’m sorry." He avoided Steve’s concerned gaze, looking instead into the empty space. "This… contact… is against the rules? I… should get up." It was as if the person who had just leaned into his embrace for warmth was nothing more than a lingering ghost from the past.
Steve summoned all the self-control he had, locking away the tidal wave of pain and panic deep in his chest. He forced his arms, instinctively tightened from fear, to relax just enough, but still kept them wrapped around Bucky’s waist to prevent him from standing. His movements were deliberately gentle, like soothing a startled bird.
He tried to take deep breaths, forcing down the tremor and the lump in his voice, striving to make his tone sound calm and gentle: "No… wait, Bucky." His voice was huskier than before, each word seeming to be pressed out from under a heavy millstone. "There… there are no rules here. This… this is completely fine. You… you can stay as long as you want. Okay?"
Bucky’s gaze still held traces of lingering confusion, but his tense body gradually relaxed within the warm embrace, leaning back into that solid support. He moved slightly, as if trying to confirm something, but his heavy eyelids betrayed him, drooping shut despite his effort. The long-deprived, peaceful sleep seemed to return to this weary body, and his consciousness slowly sank, drifting into a long-missed tranquility.
Steve simply stayed still, maintaining his embrace, gently holding his regained little plush bear, feeling the breathing of the one in his arms grow steady and deep.
Outside, the night quietly receded with the passing time, giving way to the soft glow of morning light.