Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.
Great Expectations, Charles Dickens


Bucky watched Steve's chest rise and fall from his spot at his bedside. He was perched on Steve's desk, eyes locked on the steady breaths of his once best friend, the man who still didn't know that he was alive.

He shifted, criss-crossing his legs and leaning his head against the wall with a thump.

He was more than exhausted, body aching and various cuts and bruises drawn across his body, serving as a constant reminder of the fights he had been in earlier this week. Of the fight he had just been in, which had ended with blood splattered on the alley walls and a massive headache.

He seriously hated drunken assholes. Hated them with a burning passion. They hadn't changed at all over the last seventy years, other than getting stupider.

So he had come to see Steve and take some of his aspirin. (And no, he did not feel guilty about it, nope. Not one bit. Shut up.)

Bucky stretched his arms and winced, freezing as a muffled noise left Steve's mouth. He rolled over, face creased in pain.

'Another nightmare,' Bucky thought with a sigh, shifting to step off the desk. He moved to sit beside him, flesh and blood hand carding through Steve's hair.

"Sh, sh, Stevie," he murmured gently as Steve trembled. "You're ok."

"Bucky- Bucky please," he cried, legs kicking.

"You're ok, Stevie. It's just a nightmare." Bucky shifted again and gently ran his hand down Steve's arm. "You're ok."

"Bucky!"

"It's just a nightmare, kiddo. I'm here. It's all ok."

It wasn't the first (or even the second) time Bucky had helped Steve through his nightmares since he had awoken from his own nightmare of the Winter Soldier. Ever since he had found out that Steve was still alive, he had been sneaking into his apartment, breathing in the scent of Steve and home.

(If he closed his eyes tightly enough, he could pretend he was back in Brooklyn, back when the war was a distant threat and Steve was drawing the skyline from their windowsill.)

He sat more fully on the bed and leaned against the headboard, gently rubbing Steve's arm.

(He was so damn lucky that Steve was such a heavy sleeper, or this would never have worked.)

"You're ok, Stevie," he whispered again as Steve finally settled down. "I'm here."

The words felt heavy on his tongue. They felt false and empty.

Because he wasn't actually there. Not really, not in the ways Steve wanted him there.

And god, he wanted to reach out, to wake him up and tell him that yes, Steve I'm alive and it's ok. You don't have to have those damned nightmares anymore. I'm alive and you don't have to feel guilty.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't because he wasn't really Steve's Bucky anymore. And telling him that he was alive would be a lie.

The truth was that James Barnes' heart was twisted and mangled. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to fix it and he sure as hell didn't want Steve to see him this way. He selfishly wanted to keep Steve's memory of them safe, wanted to know that he hadn't lost him, the way he was sure he would if Steve ever saw what his best friend had become.

Murderer. Assassin. Monster.

He sighed, pressed a kiss to Steve's forehead, and whispered, "You're ok, Stevie. It was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare."


Three hours later, Steve Rogers woke with dried tears on his cheeks and the phantom sensation of lips on his forehead, a breeze fluttering through his now open window.

He stood, a frown on his face and walked over to close the window. For a second, Steve could have sworn he saw a blur of silver and red, but he brushed it off and slammed the window shut.

It was probably nothing, after all.


This spawned off of my inability to sit down and finally finish the sequel to 'The Day the Light Left'.

It'll get done one of these days, mark my words.

Anyways, please review!