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Steve doesn’t sleep.
Bucky’s noticed this long ago, the remnants of sleepless nights undiscovered by their team without characteristic dark circles cloaking Steve’s under eyes. No, Bucky doesn’t find it in the obvious signs that the serum has hidden, he sees it instead in the dimness of Steve’s eyes, how his smile never quite stretches very far and dissipates into the distance before it reaches anyone. He sees it in the way Steve carries himself like dead weight, the little confidence he used to adorn when striding through the halls of Shield no more than a distant memory.
Natasha begins to speculate, but when Steve returned from another successful mission with a cocksure smile on his face and optimism cloaking his being, happy to finally be home and satisfied – for once – on how everything went…hell, he damn near tricked Bucky too.
It's only in the moment that Steve returns to their floor, peeling off his uniform like a layer of skin he dreads to wear, that Bucky could see it – how he was suffocating under the mask of Captain America in the week he’d been gone, desperate to return to Steve Rogers.
They’re in their bedroom one night, Steve fixated on his current drawing. Dim light cloaks the room and his teeth sink into that plush bottom lip of his, focused.
“You don’t sleep,” Bucky says simply, and Steve doesn’t even lift his gaze, continuing to pencil in the woman’s face.
“I sleep,” he defends, tone flat. “I just wait until I know you are, that’s all.”
His shoulders are stiff even when he’s drawing, and Bucky frowns at that fact, fingers itching to knead the tension out from his body.
So when it gets late and Bucky turns the light off, darkness shrouding their bedroom, he pulls his arm over Steve and nuzzles him against his chest, grip loose yet protective. Steve freezes for a moment, the sudden intimacy of it all paralyzing him, and Bucky can hear the way Steve’s breath catches in his throat, how his heart thunders in his chest. He’s weighing his options, clearly considering pulling away.
“What's this all about?” he asks against the silence, and Bucky kisses into the mop of his blond hair, hands firm against Steve’s back. He listens to the soft gasp in response to the gesture, a shocked little sound that fills Bucky’s ears. He replays it in his head a few times, pleased.
“Missed ya." Bucky shrugs, and he wishes he could offer this to Steve everyday, disappointed in how exhausting this process of recovery has been. Wanda’s done wonders to the trigger words in his head, silencing the most invasive thoughts that used to cripple his functionality, and Bucky can't thank her enough, what with all she’s done. She’s created a safety net around the worst of his insecurities, and has helped him regain his sense of autonomy. For once after detaching from Hydra, Bucky's been able to regain a stronger sense of trust in himself, the feeling liberating after assuming he’d spend the rest of his life living amongst shadows.
Regardless, the nightmares offer little reprieve. Bucky’s had too many mornings where he’s awoken to broken furniture and damaged walls, shattered glass littering the floor and Steve trapping him in a headlock until he's jolted back into consciousness. He distantly remembers the last time they shared a bed together, how Steve left the following morning with a split lip and a cut cheek, reassurances quick on his tongue to soothe the spike of self-hatred that flooded Bucky. That still continues to flow through him. His grip tightens when the memory flares through his thoughts, pushing to the forefront, and he almost considers pulling away, stepping out of the bedroom and putting distance between them - all to prevent it from happening again, to stop himself from hurting Steve. But when Bucky feels taut muscles press firmly against his chest, a soft, pleased little hum reverberating through the room at the sudden contact, fingers teasing as they grip and pinch at the material of his shirt, Bucky can't bring himself to take this away from him, knowing how much he's missed the intimacy.
His therapist advised spending more time with Steve instead of continuing to isolate himself, and though the fleeting kisses and hesitant touches have slowly disrupted the consistency of his most violent outburts, he’s yet become entirely comfortable with sharing such close proximity with Steve.
But that doesn’t mean he should stop trying, Bucky thinks.
"Was only a few days," Steve mutters, amused.
"Could be just a few hours and it wouldn't make a difference, always wanna be with you."
"Charmer." Bucky can feel the smirk on Steve's face as it presses against his chest, getting comfortable.
Steve’s radiating heat, his body a goddamn furnace under all that muscle, and Bucky knows better than anyone how impeccable he is, that the strength he holds is no fabrication. Steve’s body is the most dangerous weapon Shield has, and Bucky's mood sours at the thought, how Fury had made the comment so offhandedly.
Steve’s human, after all – bullet wounds disappearing without so much as the remnants of scar tissue left in its wake, yet he’s vulnerable in that way, all of that power he holds is its own drawback. He refuses to be another person who takes Steve’s strength for granted, who abuses it just because he can – just because Steve would let him. He’s seen his fella leave on missions before with ribs still in the processing of healing, skin raw and bones aching for rest. Never one to tolerate bullies, but careless in regards to upholding his own health, pushing himself to the forefront of every mission and assuming that the serum will keep up. Everything has its limits, and Bucky can see it in Steve’s eyes, how he refuses to accept that he has one.
Steve’s heart has always been too big for his body, even standing at six feet and well over two-hundred pounds. Always the soldier who wants to save everyone at the expense of himself, especially with Bucky.
Maybe that’s why Steve’s not sleeping, Bucky thinks absently, jaw clenched tight. All he’s done is sacrifice every ounce of himself for those he loves, his own needs a mere afterthought once he’s certain everyone else is taken care of. So when Bucky feels the larger man stir against him, anxiety settling deep in the marrow of his bones, Bucky kisses against his temple, running his fingers up the length of his spine until he hears Steve groan in approval.
“Relax,” Bucky says softly, lips ghosting against the shell of Steve’s ear, “Get some sleep, sweetheart. Been runnin’ yourself ragged, you need it.”
“Mm.” Steve responds, displeased. Bucky can practically hear the argument he’s about to make, how it sits there like fresh arsenal ready to be used, so he makes haste, pressing firm kisses across the man's scalp and into his blond hair, distracting him.
Steve keens at each touch, fingers hungry for warmth as they dip underneath Bucky’s shirt, seeking skin. Bucky is kissing him idly, hands running up the length of Steve’s sides and cupping at his cheeks, and the difference is immediate, the way Steve’s body slowly begins to melt against him, finally giving into the haze of exhaustion he’s pushed away for too long.
Steve’s been hungry for this, Bucky knows, what with the way he presses his lips to Bucky’s jaw, sighs against his neck when Bucky’s hands continue roaming against the expanse of his back. Each kiss and touch is hesitant yet firm, almost clumsy from lack of practice, but Steve kisses Bucky back with every ounce of his being, as if he'll never have this chance again, savoring this unexpected opportunity. He doesn’t say anything in response, no words of encouragement to offer, but when Bucky’s hands slowly pause their ministrations, simply deciding to settle on his hips, Bucky almost snickers at the way Steve writhes in response, desperate to be touched more.
An hour passes until Steve’s finally settled down enough to allow himself to fall asleep, his body gone pliant against the heat of Bucky’s chest. Regardless of the reason for Steve's lack of sleep, it doesn't stop Bucky from being bitter with himself for not intervening earlier. It doesn’t matter just how much he’s been struggling with reclaiming his own identity – Steve’s always come first in his life, always will.
Bucky spends the hours listening to Steve’s even, slow breaths fill the space of their room, the pleased little sounds he makes when Bucky kisses across his forehead. It’s not until half past three when Steve begins stir, his body drawing up tight and a whimper forming deep in his chest. Bucky soothes at his tight muscles, hands gently nudging.
“Steve,“ Bucky calls out, bringing a hand to cup at Steve’s cheek, tilting his face up. “Steve, hey, wake up –“
But Steve pushes against the warmth of his hand, a pained cry erupting up his throat. His breathing picks up, gasps coming out sharp and harsh. Bucky can hear the wetness in his tone as he tries to call out Bucky’s name, nothing more than a pathetic mewl taking its place. Steve thrashes in place, a kick landing right to Bucky’s side as his arm extends outward and knocks the lamp off from the nightstand, the crack resonating across the room.
The sound Steve is making is reminiscent of his asthmatic younger years, each breath growing in desperation as it tears through his throat, and Bucky ignores the pain in his ribs, jumping quick to his feet.
“JARVIS, lights.” Bucky says in an even tone, and he feels his chest tighten, circling around the bed to the corner Steve’s curled into.
Light bleeds into the room, and Steve’s breathing hard against the mattress, his blond hair dark and matted as it sticks against his forehead. Tears are welling in the corners of his eyes as they drip against the pillow, sinking into the sheets. His chest rises and falls urgently, air not quite reaching his lungs with how quickly he’s breathing – practically hyperventilating. He’s curled into himself, hands braced over his head.
“Shall I call for assistance, Mr. Barnes?” the AI speaks from above, and Bucky makes his way towards Steve, watching the trembling of his shoulders.
“No.”
Steve’s eyes are squeezed tight when Bucky’s hand steadies against his shoulders, a full body shiver trailing down the length of his spine at the sudden contact. Bucky knows for a damn fact it’s a stupid idea to touch anyone, especially a super soldier, during a nightmare, but he pushes the thought away, unbothered. His safety is the last of his worries, all he cares about is returning Steve back to reality and away from the invasive thoughts that have taken him hostage.
Steve’s hands are wrapped around himself in a protective shell, and Bucky watches as his blunt fingernails dig into the meat of his bicep, surely breaking through skin.
“Hey,” Bucky says again, voice soft, “Stevie, sweetheart.”
Bucky nudges Steve onto his back, and the man is damn near shaking off of the mattress, arms coming forward to cover at his face. He hardly looks conscious, barely on the cusp of awareness. Bucky slowly presses his hand against Steve's side, lets it run up the length of his arm until it peels away at Steve's hand, cradling at his cheek. Steve shudders at the contact, and Bucky carefully adjusts him into a sitting position, each movement slow and precise.
Bucky’s hands are firm against him, holding him up and gently settling him to lean against his chest. Steve’s arms scramble off himself and immediately wrap around Bucky shoulder’s, nails digging into skin as he holds Bucky in desperation. Steve’s face buries into the crook of his neck, and Bucky can feel the wetness of tears press against him, branding his skin. This is the first time Bucky’s seen Steve cry since before the war, and he can’t stop the surge of protectiveness that seizes him, how his arms are quick to wrap around the man’s trim waist. Steve's grip is punishing as he latches onto Buck, entire body pulled in tight as he bleeds into Bucky’s shoulder, too weak and exhausted to keep it all in anymore.
“Can you hear me, Stevie?” Bucky asks after a moment, and Steve whimpers pathetically at the question, nodding minutely.
At least he’s awake.
“I’m going to pick you up,” Bucky says, and slips his metal arm behind Steve’s knees, the other sturdy on his back. Steve’s face is still buried in Bucky’s neck, and a cry rips through his throat, a visceral plea that makes Bucky ache. Steve’s nails are biting into Bucky’s skin, a grounding pressure that drives Bucky forward, determined to take care of his fella when he’s falling apart like this.
Bucky carries him easily into the kitchen, setting Steve down on the island. He quickly grabs a rag from the drawer directly beneath Steve’s legs and gently pats away at the sweat that’s collected on the nap of his neck, across his brow and below his chin. Steve’s eyes are still closed tight, his breathing hardly calming even as Bucky peppers kisses against his hair.
The nightmare didn’t trigger a violent outburst, but Bucky knows this is so much worse, how Steve looks disconnected from his own body, damn near shaking out of his own skin if Bucky wasn’t holding him in his arms – keeping him together. Steve exhales a low whine, as if something had just struck his chest, and Bucky brings his hand up to tilt at his chin, untucking it from his neck.
“Open your eyes,” Bucky says softly, breath ghosting over Steve’s lips, “Look at me, sweet thing.”
Steve’s breath hitches, and slowly, ever so slowly, he opens his eyes, lashes clumped together and heavy with tears. Steve’s eyes are glossy and unseeing as they stare up at Bucky, and Bucky exhales a pleased little sound, bumping their foreheads together.
“There you are,” he smiles, hand resting against Steve’s neck to keep him steady, “There’s my guy.”
“Bucky,” Steve gasps, and he can feel the blond’s fingers kneading against his shirt, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Steve’s eyes are red and swollen, fresh tears glossing over and obstructing his vision. Bucky watches a spike of anxiety course through Steve’s body when his eyes begin to refocus, as if the sight of his face triggered another dreadful thought. Steve gasps, fresh sweat forming on his brow as his body seizes up, drawing in tight.
“I need you to breath,” Bucky whispers firmly, “C’mon, Stevie, I’ll count for you. On the count of three, okay? Deep breath.”
Steve makes a pathetic little attempt, failing. It’s not until his third try that he manages to fill his lungs without stuttering, eyes unblinking as they stare up at his partner, hinging on his every word.
Bucky smiles in praise, kissing his forehead. “There you go, sweet boy, in with your nose, just like that. Hold it, then let it out slow.” Steve follows the instructions methodically, desperate to please. They continue this until Bucky is certain that Steve’s breathing has slowed, some of the anxiety of earlier fading away as he finally manages to get his heart rate down. He settles a hand on Steve’s thigh, the other reaching towards the fridge.
“I need you to drink some water for me, sweetheart. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Steve says brokenly, shaken fingers wrapping around the bottle once Bucky’s unscrewed the top. His hands take hold of the plastic and he spills ripples of water onto the kitchen tiles, soaking his shirt. Steve stares blankly at the wet patch forming on his chest, reeling from the cold sensation. He whines minutely at the unpleasant feeling, hands so shaken he can’t coordinate his movements enough to bring it to his lips. More dribbles against his chest, and Steve writhes from it all, suddenly over stimulated. He hates the cold, Bucky thinks absently, always did – it just became worse after waking up from the ice.
Bucky wraps his hands over Steve’s, steadying his grip and slowly bringing the bottle to his chapped lips. Steve takes a long, slow sip, heavy lashes fluttering closed as a low groan escapes from his chest, desperate to focus on completing this one, simple task that his partner asked him to do.
“Good boy,” Bucky soothes, watching fat tears roll down the length of his cheeks and sit heavy on his chin, gently wiping them away before they beckon to fall into his lap. Bucky see’s the splatters of water against Steve’s shirt and pants, watches the way he squirms in place.
“Let me get you a shirt, sweetheart, you’re soaked.” Bucky offers, and Steve’s reaction is instantaneous, dropping the bottle he was cradling with both hands to quickly reach over for Bucky.
“No –” he begs, eyes wide and pleading. The water bottle falls and spills across the tiled floor, but Steve doesn’t register it, too horrified of spending a single second apart the moment he heard him utter those words. Bucky’s hand hadn't even left Steve's body, but he couldn’t stop the surge of dread that filled his veins, the distress nearly blinding.
“Please, please Bucky, don’t leave me, don’t –“
“I’m right here,” Bucky takes an extra step into Steve’s space, inviting the shaken hands which immediately latched onto his shirt and wrapped around his shoulders to press and prod at his body, seeking comfort in his tangibility. Steve dips his head down into the nook of Bucky’s neck, tear stained cheeks pressing against his shoulder and lungs filling with his partners scent. Static is fraying in his head, deafening and angry as he clings to the only form of support he has.
“Buck, Bucky, Bucky,” Steve cries, hands gripping so tightly at Bucky’s shirt that the fabric beckons to tear from the force. He’s crying in full force again, receding back into his earlier state of vulnerability.
“You’re okay,” Bucky shushes, pressing kisses into the sweaty mop of Steve’s hair, thumb grazing against his cheek. “Want me to take you back to bed? Do you wanna get comfortable, sweetheart? Not gonna leave you, promise. Not for a moment.”
Steve responds by wrapping his legs around Bucky’s middle before he slowly nods, ankles hooking together behind the small of Bucky’s back. Bringing a hand under Steve’s thigh, Bucky slowly navigates them back into the bedroom, pulled down into the mattress by Steve’s firm grip the second the blond’s settled back onto the sheets. Bucky quickly peels off his shirt, and Steve immediately seeks the warmth of his skin, hands desperate as they run along the length of his torso and across his strong shoulders.
“Need you —” Steve gasps brokenly, the words dying on his tongue. Hot tears are burning at his skin, and Bucky watches a few drip against his bare chest, each one reminiscent of cigarette burns as they dribble against him. Bucky would do anything to restore the light in Steve’s eyes, so he lays himself out against the mattress, inviting each touch and caress.
“I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”
He whispers sweet words against Steve’s ear as the man curls in against him, legs tangled and fingers interwoven. Steve pushes every ounce of himself against the heat of Bucky’s body like it’s the winter of ’37 all over again, back when their drafty apartment didn’t so much as have a heater and they had nothing in the world but each other. Steve presses against Bucky frantically, seeking the refuge of his touch and the safety of his voice like it’s oxygen, like it’s all he could ever need. He keens as Bucky’s hot breath ghosts over his skin, when his lips press against the sensitive spot behind his ear and his thumbs hook underneath the elastic of his pants to tease at the juncture of his hipbone.
Bucky speaks idly into Steve’s ear, a conversation which begins with reverent praise and ends with the recollection of old memories.
“Remember when you were a skinny little thing of nothin’,” Bucky says fondly into Steve’s hair, his voice low and charming, “Could hold your waist in one hand. Can still do that, can’t I, baby? You haven’t changed, not one bit. Same old fella I fell for, swear to God and his choir.”
Bucky slowly brings his hand up the length of Steve’s side and settles it against the dip of his waist, Steve wiggling in response. His fingers push at Bucky’s chest, a silent plea for him to keep talking, keep filling his head with those pretty thoughts that always soothe his worries away.
“Full of piss and vinegar back then, weren’t you? I remember how happy your ma was after meeting me that first time, knowin’ there was finally someone to knock some sense into you, or at least bring you home safe. Hardly five feet tall and I knew right away, sweetheart. Knew where you got it from – that spitfire personality that never could quit.”
Hours pass and Bucky talks until his voice is hoarse, chattering about memories he didn’t quite know he remembered. He talks about bandaging Steve’s scraped knees after an ugly fight with the McCarthy brothers, the first time they fumbled their first kiss in Steve’s apartment and almost got caught when Sarah came home a few seconds later. He remembers Steve wearing his shirts, always too baggy against his lean body but perfect nonetheless, Bucky’s scent saturating into the milky white of Steve’s skin.
Steve’s breathing has finally slowed at this point, muscles relaxing and the desperation of his grip subsiding until his fingers are limp against Bucky’s chest. Red crescents liter the length of Bucky’s shoulders where Steve’s nails had bitten into him, but he doesn’t care, he’ll wear them each with pride until the bloody cuts have healed over. Anything Steve gives him he’ll adorn without question.
“Bucky?” Steve calls out weakly later that night, body exhausted from hours of crying. He lifts his head from his partner’s chest, groaning at the headache that’s splitting his skull open.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky smiles, voice a mere whisper. He kisses the bridge of Steve’s nose, fingers running through his soft blond hair, “You feel better?”
Steve hums, leaning into Bucky’s touch. “Yeah,” He says simply, resting his full weight against Bucky’s chest, “I do.”
It’s not until sunlight bleeds through the blinds that Steve speaks again, the fog of the night slowly clearing his thoughts.
“I wanna talk about it.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at that, brushing Steve’s hair away from his face.
“Yeah?” he asks, watching the way Steve adjusts himself to make eye contact. Even red eyed and heavy lidded, Bucky could stare at him for hours, trapped in his gaze.
“Yeah.”
Steve’s baby blue eyes are glossy with fresh tears, albeit irritated and burning from being scrubbed at so often. He’s biting at his bottom lip, and all Bucky wants to do is kiss away that look of dejection from his face, soothe his miseries until they turn to dust. He’d give anything to shoulder the weight of whatever nightmare struck him, he hates seeing Steve like this.
“Sam says it’s good to open up sometimes. Not keep it all in.” Steve chuckles dryly, pleased by the way Bucky’s calloused thumb runs across the length of his battered knuckles.
Bucky watches the way Steve’s throat works, how his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, weighing the words carefully before setting them free.
“It doesn’t stop.” His voice comes out breathy, tone all wrong.
His eyes fixate on Bucky’s fingers, desperate to keep eye contact but shame enveloping him like a shroud. As if he should be ashamed of what he’s feeling, ashamed of being human.
“What doesn’t, sweetheart?” Bucky encourages gently, seeing the wars that are raging through Steve’s gaze.
Is it the nightmares? The guilt? The pain which found refuge behind his chest and festered until it left behind a rotten, mangled mess?
In the time that he had re-entered into Steve’s life, Bucky watched his nightmares all grow teeth and tear through his partner, each bite visceral and stripping him raw. Bucky respects Steve’s privacy, would never pry without his direct consent, but he wants to know what’s eating him alive from the inside out, keeping him from sleeping, keeping him from being happy.
Steve deserves all the sweetness in the world, and there those wretched thoughts are, collecting like bile until he’s left to suffocate.
Steve lets his mouth fall open, chest drawn tight.
“The day I let you fall.” He finally answers, and Bucky can feel the color drain from his face.
Oh no.
“It never ends. It never ends, Buck. Never. Since I woke up, I don’t dream about the ice, about Red Skull, about Hydra. I’m always back in the mountains. Always letting you down.”
Bucky watches the quiver of Steve’s lip, the way his eyes gloss over.
“If I grabbed you, none of that would’ve happened.”
“Steve –"
“It’s true though, Buck,” Steve looks like he’s about to come undone before his very eyes, splinter out into their mattress and sink through the floorboards, dissipate like hot smoke torn about from howling winds.
Steve is slowly peeling his calluses back and exposing the sensitive, vulnerable skin he had been trained to never reveal, and it hurts, a change he hasn't welcomed before.
“If I wasn’t so scared about falling, if I just reached over and grabbed you, they wouldn’t have found you. This never would have happened, Buck. Hell, you wouldn’t be so goddamn miserable, trying to stitch your life back together after they stole it from you.”
There is finality in his tone, a conviction that rarely comes out when he’s not offering his team orders. When he’s not reminding himself how much he failed the most important person he’d ever had in his life.
“I let you down. I can’t just let that go, Buck, what I did to you, what I caused –”
“There was nothing you could’ve done.”
The furrow in his brows intensifies, lips pulled down into a frown.
“I could have at least gone down there.”
“To do what?” Bucky asks, “Let those bastards win just cause you were out looking for a corpse? Endanger the mission for someone you probably wouldn’t even find?”
“It clearly wouldn’t have been a corpse,” Steve responds, fire in his gaze as he presses his hand against Bucky’s chest. “You have a heartbeat. I feel your breath and your warmth and you’re – you’re alive, Buck,” his voice cracks at that truth, trying to appease the ache that sits heavy and full in his body.
“You’re alive and I just...left you for dead.”
“Steve,” Bucky begins, wrapping his hand over his partner’s, squeezing hard, staring into those gorgeous baby blues that beckon to drown this very world in his stare. Even crying and distraught, Steve looks beautiful.
“What would’ve happened if you did go down after me?” he asks, breath ghosting over the crest of Steve’s lips, “You hadda choose. There were so many lives at stake, so much at hand. I’m just one person, sweetheart, you did the right thing.”
Steve shakes his head, matted blond strands sticking to his forehead and shoulders hunching over in defeat. A tremor rakes up the length of his spine and there are fires burning in his nerves that are raging so hot and bright that he’s overwhelmed with every passing second.
“Just one person.” Steve spits, voice low and dangerous. Spiteful. “You were mine though, Buck. You were mine.”
“Still am.”
“And I failed you. Jesus, I can’t just forget that.”
“I’m not asking you to forget it, Stevie,” Bucky lifts his hand and rests it against Steve’s cheek, thumb fanning out and caressing his clammy skin. “I’m not asking for that. Never.”
Steve's gaze slowly trails up the length of Bucky’s chest, over his cupid's bow until it scans hesitantly over his bright, grey eyes, quickly drifting away to settle on his shoulder.
“Why don’t you hate me for it?”
Bucky can hear the confusion in his tone, the conviction behind each word.
“Everything that’s happened to you, it all goes back to that one mission. To you falling.”
“Stop.”
“If I just—”
Bucky brings rough calloused fingers under Steve’s chin, tilting his head to force eye contact.
“I want you to listen up, Rogers.” Bucky begins, voice low and firm. “I will never blame you. I don’t care how much you lose sleep over it, how deserving you feel for me to be upset or angry with you, but that’s never going to happen. Can’t change what happened seventy years ago, so there ain't no point in letting it eat you alive. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Bucky watches Steve's blue eyes gloss over, fresh tears clouding his vision. He nods minutely, as if perplexed from that fact. His fingers grip onto Bucky’s wrist, keeping him close.
“You can wait all you want,” Bucky continues, sliding the calloused pad of his thumb over Steve’s jaw line, relishing in the way Steve keens into the contact, so hungry for Bucky’s warmth. “Wait for me to be pissed, wait for me to rage and bitch like I know you want, but it ain’t never gonna happen. Jesus, Stevie, you make me so happy, never thought I’d have this again, have you.” Steve whines at the comment, pushing his heavy body closer to Bucky’s, desperate to close each inch of distance between them. Bucky smirks. His baby is so sweet, melting into him and desperate for whatever he can get.
“But if you want me pissed, then I got a ton of other things to throw hell over, Rogers.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Jumping out of a plane without a parachute? Really?” he gives a playful spank to Steve’s ass, earning a surprised gasp from the blond as his face floods with color. “Plus, you really gotta learn to use your shield right, it’s only a matter of time before someone smart enough shoots you in the leg,” Bucky spits, running his hand over to pinch at the sensitive underside of Steve’s thigh.
Steve gasps at the contact, a sweet chuckle slipping past his lips. He gets a little shy from the playful touch, cheeks burning bright.
“But this?” Bucky breathes, running his metal hand down the length of Steve’s spine, listening to the soft exhale his baby gives, “About what happened? Never, sweetheart. I don’t blame you for a thing.”
Long lashes fan against delicate cheekbones. Steve leans forward, and Bucky wastes no time meeting him halfway.
Bucky presses his lips firm against Steve’s, his skin and blood hand sliding up the length of Steve’s chest until it nestles into his messy blond hair, blunt fingernails gently scratching at his scalp. Bucky watches the way his partner relaxes against his body, unable to continue holding himself up until he rests heavy and languid against Bucky’s chest.
“This why you haven’t been sleeping?”
Steve shrugs, averting eye contact. “Scared.” He answers simply, the sliver of a smile appearing on his face, “I think about it enough, don’t really like reliving it in dreams.”
Bucky slowly ghosts his lips across the expanse of Steve’s jaw line, nipping at the delicate skin where his stubble grows.
“Not gonna tell you to stop blaming yourself, that’s not something you can do just cause I try and say so. But I want you to promise me something,” Steve’s skin erupts in goosebumps over every hot breath that fills his ear, nodding dumbly as he pulls back from Bucky’s chest, staring up in reverence at his partner.
Bucky cups at Steve’s cheeks, holding his head in place as his stormy grey eyes bear into the depth of Steve’s baby blues.
“I’m so proud of you for talking to me about this, sweetheart. You’re such a good boy, letting me in, letting me know about what’s been eating you up.” Bucky can feel Steve’s cheeks heat up from the compliment, avoiding eye contact to hide his embarrassment.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” his voice is a mere whisper, tone almost desperate. He doesn’t continue until Steve returns his gaze to him, leaning in close to press another kiss to Steve’s slack mouth.
“Can you promise me that you’ll keep talking to me about this? That you’ll stop keeping it in and handling this all on your own?” Steve’s eyes are wide and glistening as they stare up at him, holding onto each word Bucky says.
“We’re a team, Stevie. You and me. Always have been. Don’t want you to start going solo, especially not with this.”
Steve swallows hard at the request, fingers fidgeting at his side. He’s silent for a moment, letting the words sink in.
“I'm no good at opening up," he argues.
"You did a fine job of it just now," Bucky smirks, fingertips trailing down at caressing at his collarbones, ""S not easy, I know. But can you at least try, sweetheart? Try and let me in more?"
Steve hums to himself, eyes scattering from across the room and back to Bucky.
"Yeah,” he finally nods, strength in his voice, “Sure, okay.”
“And this isn’t just for when I’m here, y'know. If I’m halfway across the world and can’t be home, I want you to call me, and if I don’t answer, don’t just hang up. Stark gave us these fancy new phones, and I expect you to use yours, Rogers. Especially for something as important as this. Ain't nothin' more important to me then knowing how my fella is doing.”
Steve makes a soft little sound, considering.
“What about you? What about when you get nightmares?” he asks hesitantly, worried about over stepping boundaries.
Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His lips simply curl at the corners, his body tilting forward until he kisses the crest of Steve’s top lip.
“This is a two way street, sweetheart. Not gonna demand anything from you that I wouldn’t return.”
Steve’s eyes go wide with shock, skeptical.
“You’re gonna talk to me about it?” he asks in disbelief, unbelieving.
“Yeah.” Bucky answers simply, his tone serious and eyes shining in resolution. “It’s not pretty, but they never are. I want you to trust me, Stevie, and I want you to know that I trust you, too.”
“Bucky…” Steve whispers his name in reverence, a silent prayer which always succeeds to protect him from all evil that beckons to tear apart his fragile life. “You don't have to, I don't wanna make you—”
“Ain’t forcin’ me to do nothing.” Bucky interrupts, jaw squared. “I love you, Rogers, ain’t never lived a day in my life without loving you. Even when I wasn’t me, I don’t have a doubt in my heart that it ever stopped.”
Bucky can feel the heat flood through Steve’s body, a touch of pink blooming across his chest and collarbones. His boy’s always been so cute, blushing all the way down to his sternum. Bucky can’t help but swipe his thumb across the sensitive skin, and Steve turns away for a moment, muttering something under his breath.
“Does this sound like a plan?” Bucky smiles, pressing a kiss to the juncture of Steve’s throat. His fella goes so easily, huffing a soft sound as he exposes more of his skin to Bucky’s lips, humming in approval.
He presses both hands to Bucky’s shoulders and holds his cheeks in his palms, dipping down until his face is hidden in the crook of Bucky’s neck. He proceeds to press butterfly kisses against Bucky’s racing pulse, his hands slowly snaking down until they’re caressing at his partner’s exposed chest.
“Yeah,” Steve smiles against Bucky’s skin, “Sounds like a plan.”