Work Text:
It's dark out when Steve finds him.
The compound is quiet tonight, even the wind outside hushed. It's the kind of night where you find yourself holding in a cough for fear of disturbing something unspoken. Steve doesn't particularly like nights like these. They make him think of cold, crushing darkness, of 60 years buried in ice, of everything he missed. He usually tries to break the stillness by putting on music, or a movie, or if he's feeling particularly nostalgic he'll stay up for hours making something from one of Pepper's cookbooks.
The oven beeps, and Steve lets it continue for a few seconds before turning the alarm off. With a smirk, he imagines Tony groaning and covering his face with a pillow. The brief moment of silence that follows means Steve doesn't miss the weird noise coming from the hallway. His head snaps up, his body entering fight mode immediately, tensing and grabbing the nearest weapon, which just so happens to be a whisk. Steve stands still, listening, but no other noise comes, so he creeps around the corner as quietly as he can.
It's Bucky.
Steve doesn't spot him at first. He's standing completely still, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the wall. His hands are twitching. Steve takes a cautious step forwards, lowering the whisk. “Buck?” He asks, and his voice sounds foreign in the silence. “You okay?”
Bucky winces, turning his head away as if he's in pain. Steve's pretty sure he's squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw clenches and unclenches a few times, and when he speaks, his voice is raw and rough. “...Not really.”
Steve takes another step forward, and Bucky's eyes flick to the whisk in his hand, so he pockets it. “What's going on?” Bucky closes his eyes for a second and shakes his head. He looks like he wants to move away, but can't. No, it's more than that. He looks like he wants to run. “Bucky.”
“I keep-” His words catch in his throat, and he swallows hard. Finally, he makes eye contact. His eyes are bloodshot, which Steve would pass off as a normal side effect of just waking up in anyone else, but like Steve, Bucky doesn't sleep on nights like this. “I keep hearing them. Those words.”
Steve frowns. That's… not ideal. “Like… like someone's—”
“No, just- just in my head. It won't shut up.”
Steve studies him, gaze taking in the tension all through his body. He's coiled, ready to attack, or run, or something, but he's trying to fight it, trying to fight his own mind. Steve isn't sure how the ‘trigger words’ work, but if it hasn't already happened, he doubts Bucky can trigger himself just by thinking about it. But Steve understands the feeling.
Ice, pressing down on him, an overwhelming sense of loneliness, waking up somewhere strange and cold.
Thinking about it makes his heart beat faster.
So he pulls Bucky into a hug.
Bucky stiffens, but Steve doesn't let go, and eventually he feels Bucky relax, and bring his arms up around his back.
“You're okay. It's all behind you.”
Bucky inhales, exhales, and nods. “Thanks.”
They stand there for another minute or two before Bucky pulls away and clears his throat. Steve pretends not to see him wipe his face.
“So, uh… what are you making?”