The moon shone a streak of gentle light onto Bucky's face.
It was a peaceful, pleasant thing to look at, which probably was why Steve had been staring at it for multiple minutes now, his head resting on his elbow. The room was dim, yet the full moon pierced through the half-closed curtains and in that moment, time seemed to have stopped.
Over the past days, years even, there hardly had been any time to rest. They had seen so much war, both back in the forties and in recent times, so that the concept of peace had become foreign, hard to grasp. Ever since Steve woke up to this new life of his, he stumbled from one fight into another, which, in some way, wasn't much different from the earlier days. However, now, it kind of was his job, a responsibility. Well, and he let out a resigned sigh, it used to be. He left that identity that had kind of grown on him behind by dropping his shield.
Actually, he hadn't really thought about what would happen to him, now that his reality had once again altered so much within the span of a few days, which slowly but surely seemed to become a recurring element over the course of his life. But it was fine, for now, because they finally gained some time on their own, some time to talk about everything that happened in the many years they spent without the other, some time to finally rest, make up for all the time they spent without one another.
Steve had woken up about half an hour ago and just couldn't get himself back to sleep, not daring to waste any of those rare timeless moments. The digital clock on the bedside table said 03:38 AM, reminding him that this moment was, in fact, not timeless and he reckoned he should probably take his eyes off Bucky's sleeping silhouette next to him.
Just when Steve was about to move into a more comfortable sleeping position, he noticed the other man twitching. For a moment, he thought he would have woken him up, already starting to feel guilty for it, but then he realized Bucky's eyes were still closed. He must be dreaming, apparently.
Nevertheless, Steve froze for a few seconds, just making sure. At first, he thought he was only imagining it, but no, Bucky's chest had begun to lift a lot more agitatedly. All out of a sudden, he randomly turned while moving his arm as to shove someone or something away and muttered some incoherent words.
Now, Steve was sure that Bucky was still sleeping because he knew what those unsettled movements meant. He had been behaving the exact same every other night, waking up sweating with the bedsheets spread all over the floor, unable to close his eyes in fear of encountering the reality he saw in his nightmares again.
Although he couldn't exactly remember what the dreams were about as soon as he woke up and calmed his breath, he recalled that most times, war was a crucial element in them. The sounds of guns and grenades, the sight of corpses spread on the field, the taste of blood in his mouth. The fear, the anticipation, the uncertainty whether to expect life or death.
And, a thing he would never admit in order to avoid him worrying about it: Bucky. Bucky falling, dying, hurting, being tortured by Hydra. Bucky's hand slipping through his fingers and Steve having to witness the results of failing to save him. Yes, many people – including Bucky himself - had assured him that it wasn't his fault and yes, he tried to believe that and he managed not to think about everything his best friend had been through but then his unconscious relentlessly reminded him.
And he just couldn't get the thought out of his had that if this pain Steve hadn't even experienced first-hand kept him awake at night, it must be even worse for Bucky, who had.
Bucky pushing the blanket away in an abrupt movement pulled Steve back to reality.
His muttering had become somewhat clearer now, still, all he could make out were a bunch of "no"s and "stop"s, though it was enough to let Steve's imagination go wild. Was it a good idea to just wake him up? It certainly didn't feel like a good idea watching him go through this hell, Steve felt a short, pungent pain in his breast thinking what Bucky was very likely enduring right now, right next to him, so close and yet so far away. Instinctively, he placed his hand on his best friend's chest as to comfort him, reassure him that he wasn't alone.
"Hey, Bucky."
But the other man neither woke up, nor calmed down, quite the contrary. Steve softly nudged his shoulder, his concern increasing as Bucky intuitively kicked the blanket.
"Buck."
And then, the peacefulness disappeared within the blink of an eye.
Before he was able to react appropriately, let alone react at all, Steve felt strong fingers tightening around his throat. Had he not stared at Bucky just a second ago, he probably wouldn't even have noticed him flipping over, capturing him under the blanket by pressing his knees into the sheets alongside his waist. As if that was necessary – Steve was overwhelmed by the sudden change of atmosphere and even if he didn't take several seconds to take it in, he wouldn't have felt the need to fight back, not even in the slightest. Not like he could even reach Bucky's chest, as he was putting as much distance between the two as possible.
In the soft moonlight, he could briefly make out Bucky's expression – his face was filled with fear in an attempt to cover it with raw determination. The sharp pain in Steve's chest returned even heavier, besides the trouble breathing inflicted by Bucky's entire weight leaning on his throat.
But this wasn't Bucky, it couldn't be Bucky – not with the look in his eyes that made everything so, so much worse. It was clear to him that he must still be irritated, shaken by the nightmare, as If he hadn't actually woken up.
Steve felt how he slowly ran out of air while he heard Bucky panting above him.
It was just the same feeling like when he fought the Winter Soldier, a metal hand choking him, trying to fight back, but not any more violently than necessary. Because of course, this wasn't Bucky acting, this wasn't his best friend trying to kill him, but he was still in there. No matter how deep down, how hidden he was, Steve was satisfied with the smallest probability of getting him back, because that still meant that it wasn't completely impossible. And even if it was, that still wouldn't stop him from trying, ever. Steve Rogers did not surrender, not when the fight involved Bucky.
He didn't hesitate searching for his best friend in a heavily guarded hydra base back in World War II and he wouldn't hesitate searching for his best friend in the back of his head that had suffered through way more than he deserved.
Steve managed to free one of his arms from underneath the blanked, trying to grasp everything of Bucky he could get.
"Bucky, it's me, it's Steve", he cawed, unsure if anyone besides him even was able to take notice of his weak voice.
Firstly, his hand found Bucky's wrist, however the attempt to pull his hand from his throat only made the other man tighten his grip. Steve was on the brink of blacking out as he desperately slid his hand up Bucky's arm.
"You're safe, Buck, you're with me, you're safe."
There was no change in his expression and when Steve tried to reach his face, he leaned back further, panic in his eyes, without reducing the pressure on Steve's throat.
"Fuck, c'mon, please Buck, it's me, please-…" He was pretty sure that the last few words came out as rattles. Just when Steve managed to cup his best friend's face with his free hand, he let it sink down to the sheets, running out of strength to hold it up.
Hearing his arm drop into the mattress, the realization hit him. It's over. He tried and tried and failed, he loved and loved and lost.
"…Steve?"
Feeling his eyelids – that, with time, had seemed to become heavier and heavier - close, Bucky's grip suddenly loosened and eventually, the pressure on his chest decreased, too. Steve's hands immediately rushed to his throat, coughing, gasping for air, tearing up, hardly able to swallow. It took him a few deep breaths to fully regain his consciousness.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes and his glance met Bucky's that wandered from his hand, to Steve's throat and back to his eyes. The guilt that defined his expressions now got worse with every second of realization.
"Oh, fuck-…"
"I'm fine", Steve tried to reassure him, but even he couldn't overhear how raspy the words sounded, "It's okay, I swear."
Though he deeply hoped that the atmosphere wouldn't get any heavier, he knew those words weren't enough to make things undone. God, Steve would do everything in his power and beyond to stop the guilty look in Bucky's face from intensifying, every "I don't know if I'm worth all this" from strengthening. He'd taken quite a few bruises from fighting with him and the way Steve looked at Bucky hadn't changed in the slightest. He just wished he would love himself the way Steve did; wished he could provide him with all the love he had needed while he was with Hydra. Bucky had seen enough pain for a lifetime and deserved to finally, finally settle. But of course, things hardly ever went by as easily as Steve wanted them to, maybe.
"Fuck, I'm-… I'm sorry, Steve, I'm-…" Bucky's voice cracked, his breath fastening.
"Buck, I'm fine." Steve showed the blanked away and sat up laboriously, crawling a few inches towards Bucky. Softly, he put his shivering hand into his owns, tightly squeezing it. As he leaned in some more, however, Bucky flinched at the intimacy and tilted backwards, as to keep the distance between them. Instinctively, Steve let go of his hand – sometimes, he knew from experience, there were moments when touch made everything worse. As soon as he did so, Bucky hid his face in his palm.
"I'm okay, Bucky, really, you don't have to-... Hey, you okay?"
Steve knew what Bucky looked like when he was crying, probably better than anyone else. It didn't happen too often, especially before the war. But during that time, he also learned what it looked like when he tried to hold it back, corners of his mouth twisting, eyebrows narrowing, ponderously swallowing the pain. And when it did come out, it did as quiet as possible. Crying meant admitting defeat, or at least that's what his mind kept telling him. Crying meant weakness. Strong men don't cry. And yet, the toughest men Steve knew had the most reasons to cry.
It was quiet at first, but Steve noticed Bucky's shoulders tremble in a familiar rhythm. Instinctively, Steve reached for the light switch right above the bedside table, filling the room with as much light as possible to banish the darkness, both the one in the bedroom and the one in their heads. Then, he picked up one of the blankets and very carefully placed it around Bucky's back.
It was a technique they inevitably grew used to during the war – light solidified reality and blankets assured safety, breathing exercises induced calm, especially when touch was too much to take.
Nevertheless, Bucky's sobbing got even worse.
Shit, Steve thought, was the blanket too much? It sure was. Considering what he'd been through since the war, it most likely was naïve to believe in this technique in the first place, wasn't it?
"Okay, how can I help you? Can- Can I touch you?"
Bucky softly moved his head, hand sliding from his face to the blanket covering his shoulders, clawing his fingers into it. It took him a few moments to calm his breathing enough to spit out unsettled words.
"I don't want to hurt you." It seemed as though these words made everything worse. Bucky's crying and the pain in Steve's chest that threatened to crush his lungs, as well.
Bucky, the one person that took care of him no matter what fight he had gotten himself into, no matter what illness he fought this time, no matter what pain pestered him. The one person that had always been there for him, the one person he never had to worry about leaving. Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.
This Bucky cowered before him, afraid to have a negative impact on Steve's life, even if as long as Steve could think, he had always, always been the most positive impact on Steve's life he could even think of.
What did they do to him to doubt himself like that? What did they do to him to cry like that? A part of Steve didn't want to know, but the other, significantly bigger part of Steve was consumed by a continuous feeling of anger, he could feel his muscles tightening in agony every time the simple thought of it crossed his mind.
How badly he wanted to hurt every single member of Hydra that ever hurt him. And how badly he wanted to tell his best friend all the affirmative words he had for him and how even more badly he wanted him to actually believe that.
"You're not hurting me."
"Show me your neck." Bucky's voice was resigned.
"I mean, I don't mind." He couldn't deny it and he hated to admit that.
"But I do." Bucky smiled and it hurt more than any crying ever could. "The world would be a safer place if they had put me into cyro again. You would be in a safer place, Steve."
"That's not worth the sacrifice." It was hard to spit out these words since the guilt, the anger, the concern had made it hard to speak, let alone breathe. He escaped Bucky's gaze.
There had never been enough time, their piece had always been endangered by war. Against an unaccepting society, against the Nazis, against Hydra, against his very own friends and lastly, but constantly, against their minds. And sometimes, everything at once. And usually, it overwhelmed him.
Why was there never enough time?
They'd been teared apart and reunited and teared apart and reunited and each time, Steve wondered when they'd reach the point that Bucky would feel different in his arms rather than if they'd reach that point. How many pain can a man take until it changes everything? Consumes everything? Destroys everything? And how intensely does it have to destroy until nothing can fix it, ever again?
Steve tried to swallow the sorrow but the lump in his throat was hard to shake off.
They sat face to face with each other, reunited and still teared apart.
His best friend's weak voice broke the painful silence.
"Is it okay if I hug you?"
Steve looked up.
"I mean, I was… tryna choke you a few minutes ago."
"Of course that's okay, Buck."
Bucky let out a long, relieved breath while he carefully slid across the bed to let himself fall into Steve's open arms.
Even though he presumed it would feel foreign, even though the thought of their supposed estrangement kept pursuing him, even though everything reminded him of how different things had become, nothing changed.
Bucky's arm gently squeezed his back and Steve cautiously stroked his and they stayed like that for a while. Long enough for Steve to abandon his surprise and his doubts. It made sense. Bucky had been his home for so long – when anyone else left him, nobody understood him and through every up and down - there was nothing that would take this feeling away from him, ever. At least in this very moment, he felt safe. Time had stopped.
"It's fine, like this", Bucky said against his neck.
"I don't wanna let go." He laughed and it felt like home.
"We gotta, eventually."
Steve knew that Bucky didn't refer to the hug but instead to something way heavier, way scarier. And it was going to be okay, somehow, in the messed up way that it had always been. It had always been enough for him.