Bucky's cold, but he's been colder, and Steve's not sure he knows that it's 3am on a Tuesday morning or that they're standing in the middle of the street in their underwear. The ceiling-hung light of the top right window in the house across the street is switched on; it wasn't before, and the Captain recognises a silhouette behind the glass.
He pays the curious (and mildly irritated) neighbour no mind, because Bucky's screaming again and it's a struggle to keep him standing. Steve recalls himself- pre-serum after the death of his mother- telling Bucky that he didn't need him to stay, didn't want him to, only to walk to his house in the middle of the night an absolute wreck, short of breath and shaking but instantly welcome into his home, his bed, his arms.
Steve had always been welcome in Bucky's arms.
"Bucky, Bucky, Buck- Bucky. James, look at me, please." He's decibels away from pleading, fingertips grazing the stubble upon his friend's cheeks, tangling against loose threads of hair and wondering how they became this; this wreckage of a friendship, these shells of men, of soldiers.
Though Steve felt nothing more than the simple desire to hold him tight, to soothe him, to kiss his forehead or cheeks or lips or elsewhere and bring him back, he settled for locking their eyes and speaking firmly, and yet as carefully as he always did with Bucky.
Bucky.
"It's three A M on a Tuesday morning. The 17th, I think. We're going to wake up at eight; that's later than usual, alright? A whole hour and half later, actually, so you can rest. I'm going to make coffee, maybe even some eggs with Ketchup, just how you like them, and then I'll take you to see Stark about how your arm locks up sometimes, see if he can fix it. Yeah? Does that sound alright?"
The Winter Soldier is pressing at Bucky's eyelids and he won't stop writhing, but Steve doesn't let go of his eyes or his cheeks or his soul.
"We're standing in the street right now, waking all the neighbours. We need to be back up in the apartment where it's warm. C'mon, Buck, we can put the couch cushions on the floor, just like when we were kids... You remember that?"
He's grasping at straws, but Bucky's stopped yelling and has settled instead for harsh, desperate pants. He isn't pulling at his own hair anymore; instead, his hands are clasped too tightly against Steve's shoulders. The soldier finds that he doesn't mind the bruising risk. In any case, Steve's able to lead him back inside with an arm around his waist, stopping at every floor he needs to, so that he can whisper soft reassurances in his ear and rub his upper back, if he's starting to lose himself in Hydra's toying.
They fell asleep together on the floor, and wake up at eight with Bucky nestled safely in Steve's arms. For once, Steve isn't curled in on himself for warmth the same way he slept pre-serum, and Bucky's not shaking out of his skin.
Steve doesn't tell him about the night before the morning; he figures it's better this way.