Steve drops the groceries. An egg or two shatters on contact, a few ambitious grapes roll under the refrigerator, the bread plops softly on his left foot.
His eyes, though - they're working overtime with his brain trying to process the black, human-shaped mass huddled in the corner. Steve wants to rub them, blink, anything to confirm that too many months of searching haven't broken him this thoroughly, but that would mean looking away...and that he can't do.
The air is heavy, ponderous, the floor oddly rough as he drags his sneakers across it. Only the scrape of brick on his fingertips breaks the spell, and he's on the floor in an instant, a stringless marionette slumped against the wall.
For a few seconds, he takes in every detail - four months of staring at grainy surveillance video and manipulated photographs have made the face in front of him more familiar than his own, yet all the more mysterious for it. Was he always so pale? His skin is glowing against the dark fabric of the hoodie wreathing his face, a halo in reverse.
Steve's reaching out a trembling hand to touch, test, confirm when his visitor's shoulders start to shake. His reaction is instinctive - fingers brush across forehead, then wrist, then he's scrambling to grab an afghan from the couch.
It's so out of place around his shoulders, a strange patchwork of coral knit over dull metal. His fingers nestle it into place, smoothing the soft yarn in miniature circles until the shaking slows.
Steve lets out the breath he's unwittingly been holding in the ghost of a whisper: "Buck?" His visitor stirs, just a little. Here. He's actually here. A tear of relief makes its way down his cheek.
He's dragging a sweat-shirted elbow across his eyes when his pocket buzzes.
Pizza tonight? I'm feeling pepperoni and onion. Could be persuaded to add green pepper if and only if I get to pick the movie.
It takes ten seconds of mental steadying before his fingers can scramble out: He's here, Sam.
Who's there? Clint? That son-of-a-bitch told me he was busy.
He swallows hard. Fingers fall hard on the keyboard, each letter a hammer strike. Bucky.
When the phone begins to buzz again, it doesn't stop.
WhAt?!
When?
How?
You didn't think this was worth telling me sooner?!
Steve laughs a little to himself, in spite of everything. Nobody quite like Sam to bring the alien right back down to earth again. I came back from my run and he was just...here.
A few seconds pass, another buzz.
Is he okay?
I mean, I don't know how he could be okay okay, but...
He's breathing, right?
Steve's only just gotten out, Yes, Sam, he's breathing when the thoughts start coming, fast and troubling. His fingers keep pace.
Should I call someone?
I have to call someone.
What if he's hurt?
What if he's sick?
What if he's hurt and sick and I've just been sitting here like an idiot?
What if -
BREATHE. Sam's command cuts through the rising panic. Steve follows it. He follows it again. Then he texts Bruce.
It's a little messy, between him, and Bruce, and Tony stealing Bruce's phone, and Sam demanding to know how things are going, but they sort it out.
Bucky's pulse is 50 beats per minute - slow, but not dangerously so. Temperature a steady 97 degrees - again, low, but within normal ranges. No visible wounds - recent ones, at any rate - or signs of trauma.
Bruce says to keep a close eye, but let him sleep. Best medicine he could ask for right now. That, and you watching over him.
Steve can't stop watching him - the rise and fall of his chest, the miniscule motions of the hair shrouding his face, the rhythmic scratching of his fingers against the wall. Each movement is full of revelation and potential terror.
When the light knocking comes, it's a shock. He almost doesn't respond. It's Sam's voice calling out, "Open up, man, it's me!" that stirs him to reluctant action.
Sam's holding a bag of takeout in one hand, and a six-pack in the other - under his arm is some sort of cot. "Figured you could use some company."
He begins, "Sam, you don't need to -" but is quickly cut off.
"When was the last time you ate, hmmm?" Sam's stare cuts right through him. Before Steve can respond, his stomach does the work for him. "Mmm-hmm. Just like I thought." A pair of chopsticks and a container of pad thai are forced into his hands before he can argue further.
One sniff of garlic and ginger is enough to summon the rational side of Steve's brain that points out he'll be no use to Bucky if he starves to death. While he begins stuffing his mouth with noodles, Sam pads quietly over to the other side of the apartment and deposits the makeshift mattress a few feet from where the visitor is still curled up, asleep.
"How's he doing?" Sam knocks a beer against the counter and takes a long sip. "Still can't believe he's actually here! All that looking, and he just waltzes on in when our backs are turned. Gotta say, kind of an anti-climax."
"I keep thinking it's a dream." Steve absently takes a swig of the beer Sam hands him. "That any second, I'll wake up. And he'll be gone."
"Hey - look at me." Steve complies, a little reluctantly. "That is not going to happen, okay? We won't let it."
Sam lets the moment hang for only a second before he's clapping him on the shoulder and motioning over to the cot. "Now, seeing as you haven't taken your eyes off that boy for more than five seconds since I got there, how about we sit down where you've got a nice, good view and play a couple hands of rummy?"
His cheeks flush, but Steve nods and follows. "Thanks, Sam. I think I'd like that."
It must be the worst game of rummy he's ever played, with Sam prodding him every other turn to 'look at his damn cards once in awhile,' but it keeps his attention off the clock. The minutes pass, while the hearts and diamonds, clubs and spades, all start to blur together with the numbers.
Fingers drumming on his shoulder snap him from his reverie. "Take five, Wonder Boy. We'll keep an eye on him."
"Natasha?" Steve blinks blearily. "When did you..."
"I texted her," Sam cuts in. "Some time after you nodded off in the middle of the third hand. Should have guessed earlier this was going to be a mission needing backup."
"I'm the heavy." Natasha tilts her head to one side and smirks. "Now, are you going to grab that shut eye willingly, or will I be making you?"
Steve thinks about arguing. When every word word somehow morphs into a club or diamond, however, he instead looks straight at Natasha and pronounces, "Twenty minutes. That's all you're getting. "
She considers him for a few moments, then acquiesces. "Only because you're the only person I know who's as stubborn as I am. But it's a full twenty, or I'm marching you back in there and making you start again."
His hand briefly squeezes the one she's still resting on his shoulder. "Thanks, Nat. I owe you one."
Surprise flickers across her face, but her hand remains where it was. "Let's just say it makes us even. Besides, friends don't keep score. I think somebody told me that."
Sam grins approvingly. "Go on, man. We've got this. Give me a chance to play some real rummy."
Steve looks between them for a few moments, before levering himself to his feet. "I don't know what I'd do without you two," he says quietly.
"Everything goes according to plan, you won't have to find out," Sam promises. He then pats the cot beside him. "Now come on, Nat, show me how they play this in Russia."
Steve turns the corner into the bedroom amidst the shuffle of cards and spirited exclamations in Russian. Twenty minutes, he tells himself, laying his head gingerly on the pillow. He'll be okay for twenty minutes.
He doesn't want to sleep - truthfully, wasn't planning on it when he agreed - but the second his eyelids close, the weight of it drags him under.
Bucky's running out in front of him, laughing. "Come on, slowpoke. Last one there buys the popcorn!" The lights of Coney Island flash and flicker all around him, casting Bucky's retreat in a strange, golden light.
Steve runs, too, but his legs are so thin, two pieces of limp spaghetti beneath him, and Bucky's so damn fast. Then the bulbs flash out, and the light turns blue and cold. Bucky's still running, still laughing, but it rings hollow.
The ground beneath their feet shifts and begins to crumble away. A chasm opens, and one by one, the dilapidated buildings of the carnival tumble into it. Steve tries to scream Bucky's name, but it turns to ash in his throat.
He can only watch in horror as his friend goes tumbling into the gaping maw in the ground. Hands outstretched, he dives onto his knees and reaches into the darkness.
But the wrist that he grabs is cool metal instead of warm flesh. The eyes that stare into his are haunted and empty. The voice no longer laughs, but whispers, "Why? Why?" over and over again...then begins to scream.
Steve bolts upright in bed - heart pounding in his chest, Bucky's name still on his lips. He's halfway to the door when he realizes he can still hear Bucky shouting. He runs.
"What happened?" he demands, not waiting for an answer before crossing the room and kneeling before the screaming man. Here and there, the screams take form as No! and Please! but the rest is pure, animalistic terror.
"I don't know, man," Sam replies, the worry apparent in his voice. "He was fine a minute ago, sleeping like a baby, not a care in the world - then all of a sudden he's yelling to wake the dead!"
"Buck, Buck," Steve murmurs, running both hands through Bucky's sweat-damp hair. "It's okay. You're okay now."
Bucky's hands blindly flail forward, until his fingers catch Steve's forearms and dig in an iron hold. He mutters something in Russian, repeats it over and over again, his voice shaking with quiet desperation.
"What's he saying, Nat?" Steve asks urgently. Though he's no longer screaming, Bucky's new routine of muttering and rocking back and forth is hardly comforting.
"I knew him." Her voice is quiet, dangerously so. "He says, 'but I knew him.'"
"You don't think...?" Steve lets the question hang in the air as a chill washes over him.
"That he recognized you?" Natasha mutters a low curse in her native language. "That HYDRA took it from him like they took everything else?"
She kneels and leans in, inches from his ear. "Bury it deep, until you're both ready to dig it up. That's not what he needs right now."
With a meaningful look, Natasha then sends Sam heading back toward the door of the apartment. Squeezing Steve's shoulder briefly, she whispers, "You know where to find us," then is gone.
With it just the two of them once again, Steve takes a deep breath and redoubles his ministrations. Inch by inch, he slides his fingers up Bucky's arms, smoothing over tremors as he goes. "Ssh, Bucky," he murmurs, purposefully keeping his voice low and calm, "You're safe now."
Slowly, carefully, he positions himself on the edge of the cot and begins to pull Bucky toward him. "It's Steve, Buck," he pleads, as Bucky instinctively claws at him. "Let me help you." Please let me help you.
The fingers beating against his chest curl inward and clutch at his shirt. Steve dips his head closer to Bucky's and whispers, "I'm with you, okay? I'm with you." His hand closes gently over the bone-white knuckles gripping his collar.
When Bucky breaks, it's a dam bursting. As wild sobs tear themselves from his throat, he envelops Steve's rib cage in a bruising grip, a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.
"I've got you," Steve murmurs, maneuvering Bucky shaking form so he's draped across his lap. "It's okay - I've got you." He grabs the discarded afghan and tucks it once more around Bucky's shoulders.
Letting out a long exhale, Steve leans against the wall and rocks them - back and forth and back again. At this point, he's not sure who's hanging on tighter...or who's more afraid to let go.
"Do me a favor, huh, Buck?" Steve's talking to himself, he knows, but it feels good to say the words. "Stick around this time. Between you and me, I don't think can handle another goodbye."
As the minutes tick by, Bucky quiets and stills, only twitching in his sleep every now and again. A whispered prayer escapes Steve's lips before he rests them on Bucky's forehead - rests his eyes as well, just for a moment.
Bucky feels so good in his arms, the warm weight of him reassuringly there. At that moment, propped up on Sam's military surplus cot, there is nothing left to fix, no hurt left to soothe. So Steve lets go. Just a little. Just enough.
The light brush of hair against his cheek coaxes him back into consciousness. It feels like only minutes have passed, but the late morning light filling the room tells him otherwise. Any mental calculations evaporate the instant he looks down to find himself gazing into a pair of startled blue eyes.
Say something, a little voice nudges, but the words stick in his throat. Amazingly, it's Bucky who speaks first. The rough words scrape themselves from a throat clearly ill-used to speaking, but Steve will be damned if they're not the most beautiful thing he's ever heard: "Good morning."
Steve's mouth arches into an almost painfully wide smile as a hot tear makes its way down his cheek. The flame of hope that leapt up in him the night is all at once an inferno. "Good morning to you, too, Buck."