Touch

He woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, to nothing but darkness and rumpled bed-sheets around his knees.

In a way, the nightmares had gotten better since he first came out of the rain; in a way, they hadn't at all. He didn't so much wake up screaming his lungs out anymore. That didn't make what he saw in the nighttime any better.

Bucky sat up slowly, scrubbing his face in his flesh hand. Prickly stubble scratched at his palm, and a sheen of cold sweat clung to his fingers.

He couldn't remember the dream. The more he chased the details, the more it slipped through his fingers. He supposed it was just as well—but all it left was an unsettling, achy fear in his chest.

The lights were coming on. They were soft and faintly blue, on strips of tiny LEDs, completely disguised in the baseboard during the day—but at night, they offered a faint, assuring glow in the darkness. JARVIS must have noticed he'd woken up.

Half by instinct, and half to calm himself, Bucky took a quick scan of his surroundings. There was the clock, the window, the bookshelf, the phonograph, the slightly overflowing laundry basket in the corner; the shield, art desk, and easel tucked away against another wall; there were the doors to the bathroom and the closet, both of them lit also with a slight blue glow from underneath and inside.

There was the bed, across the room from his. And the lump in it, softly snoring, was Steve.

Bucky sank back into the pillows, trying to ignore the way they clung to his damp skin. He was safe. Steve was safe. Everything was fine.

His metal arm whirred softly in the silence. He rolled over onto his side, thumb tracing the seams between the plates, fruitlessly trying to occupy himself and calm down.

He hated how much he wanted to wake up Steve. Steve could help. He always helped. He'd lie there beside him, either talking in whispers or in silence, and the warmth and the weight on the mattress would slowly convince Bucky's frantic mind that everything was okay, he was okay, he was safe, and he'd slip back to sleep again.

But he didn't want to wake Steve. He needed the rest. They both did, and Steve in particular was working so hard lately.

Still...still.

The metal fingers curled into a fist, gently clinking against each other. Bucky stuffed his face in his pillow, fighting the heat that pressed behind his eyes.

Why, why, why did it feel like something was wrong?

Morning came, as it always did, and Bucky wasn't ready for it. He must have hit the snooze button anywhere between five and fifteen times before he finally slithered out of bed.

There was Steve, bright and cheery as always, bustling around their wing's little kitchenette with a hand towel on his shoulders and a little tune whistling on his lips.

Bucky slid into a chair at the table and struggled not to nod off again. Steve had already been out for his morning jog and then for a shower; he could tell by the slightest flecks of water on that white shirt, and anyway, he knew Steve's schedule. He grit his teeth to stifle a yawn. Morning people.

Steve turned to Bucky and immediately smiled brightly at him. "Hey, Buck. Coffee?"

"Mmn," Bucky grunted and slid his forehead down onto his arm. His voice was a bit too flat, but Steve would catch the sarcasm. "No."

Sure enough, Steve just chuckled and headed for the coffee pot. "You want some eggs?"

Bucky breathed deeply through his nose and struggled to lift his head. "Two?" he rasped. "An' toast?"

"Sure thing."

A steaming mug of night-dark coffee slid across the table and stopped in front of him. Bucky took it gratefully, inhaling the warm aroma, as Steve cracked two more eggs and they started to sizzle in the pan.

Bucky stared at Steve's familiar broad shoulders. The caffeine was granting him a little more clarity. This was their routine, every single morning—nothing had changed at all. Steve stood right in front of him, barely two steps away.

So why did Bucky feel like he missed him so much?

He perched his jaw on his flesh-and-blood fist, the metal fingers tapping slightly against his coffee mug. Part of him wanted to say something—he only had a narrow window, after all. Steve would be gone right after this, to change into the suit and head to Combat for the day's training, and Bucky wouldn't see him for the rest of the day.

This was his chance. He only had breakfast.

Finally, he gave in.

"How've you been, anyway?"

Steve looked over his shoulder, the nylon turner still in hand. His smile hadn't left, but he did look confused. "Me?"

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, where Steve wouldn't see it. No turning back now. "Yeah."

"You—" Steve turned more fully to face him, the eggs on the stovetop almost forgotten. "What do you mean? I haven't gone anywhere."

Bucky shrugged and stared into his coffee. "I dunno, I just feel like I don't see ya all that much lately."

Steve didn't say anything for a second. When he did, he sounded faintly amused. "We sleep in the same room."

Bucky snorted, in spite of himself. "I know—"

"We share a bathroom." Steve was starting to laugh.

"No, I know—"

"You're literally wearing my shirt!" He gestured with the nylon turner, his face now wearing the full grin.

"I know!" Bucky sat up now, hands splayed in front of him. He was about to defend himself for raiding Steve's closet again, but decided against it. The blue looked better on him anyway.

"That's why it's weird," he said instead, and his hands curled around the coffee mug. "I feel like it's gotten so busy around here that we don't...talk anymore."

Steve was looking at him. Bucky knew the look—the one where the gears behind those baby-blue eyes were whirling in that smart brain of his. And he could see it—the confusion, slowly melting into realization and something like sadness.

It was hard to look at. So he didn't.

The toaster dinged and spat out a single toast. That was enough to return Steve's attention. He plucked it out and onto a plate, carefully laid both eggs on top—salt, pepper, and a fork from the drawer—and turned back to the table.

The eggs were a little closer to medium-done than over easy. Bucky chose not to mention it.

"Well..." Steve sat down across from him, his own breakfast also in hand, and slid the eggs and toast across to Bucky. He spoke slowly, and Bucky leaned into listen. "I'm doin' all right. Stayin' busy. Got a lot of training to do with the recruits, and setting things up with A.R.E.S."

"Yeah." Bucky was listening; he'd wedged one corner of the toast off with his fork, and stuck it in his mouth.

"It's hard work," Steve said, "but it's good. Gives me somethin' to look forward to when I wake up in the morning." He paused, as if searching for anything else to say—and when he found nothing, smiled up at Bucky. "What about you?"

Bucky shrugged sheepishly and stuck another bite in his mouth. "Good, I think." He smirked around the pocket in his cheek. "The new kids are fun. I've been hangin' out with them, on off hours. Jus' tryin'a make 'em feel comfortable."

Steve grinned over his own breakfast. "You're doing a great job. They adore you."

Bucky shrugged, trying to hide his smirk. "Eh, I dunno about that."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Aw, shaddap."

Bucky laughed. It wasn't as hearty as he wanted it to be.

Steve dipped a section of the egg white into the yolk like a sauce, and tucked it away in his cheek. "I'm glad you're picking up the slack there. I'd like to do more to make them feel at home, but it's hard to find the time between everything." He shrugged, smiling quietly, as if he'd been thinking about this for a while. "I guess it's up to me to lead, and everyone else to be the welcome wagon."

Bucky couldn't quite look him in the eyes. "Yeah..."

He didn't mean to be so unenthusiastic. Unfortunately, Steve caught on quick. "What's wrong?"

Bucky straightened up and mustered a smile. "Nothin'! I..." He searched for his words for a moment, and when he finally found them, they were sincere. "I'm real proud a' ya. You're practically leading a small army now—we've come a long way from that," he added with a nasty smirk, "skinny punk who couldn't even lead his own arse out of a back alley."

"Hey." Steve frowned. "Y'know, that started out as a compliment..."

"I don't say nothin' that's not true," Bucky said, and knocked back a swig of coffee.

Steve's smile seemed a little unsure, and it fell swiftly back into concern. "You sure nothin's botherin' ya?"

Damn. He really wouldn't let up on this.

"Well..." Bucky sighed roughly. Why was this so darn hard to articulate? He decided to play it off with a shrug and a smile. "I dunno. I jus' miss ya. I like Captain Steve jus' fine, but I like my stupid kid brother better."

Steve smiled, but his eyebrows were still furrowed. "I'm still here."

Bucky sighed. "I know—"

"I've always been here."

"I know! Just—" He was dancing around the issue, he knew he was, like a monkey and a mulberry bush, but he just couldn't bring himself to say it. "I know you're workin' hard, but make time for yourself sometimes, a'right?"

"Hey." Steve chuckled, leaned across the table, and shook Bucky's right shoulder. "I'm not goin' anywhere, jerk."

And that—the weight of Steve's hand on his shoulder—that made everything he was about to say suddenly poof into smoke and run out his ears.

Bucky's hand—the flesh-and-blood, if not the metal—was shaking. He lifted it slowly, deliberately, to where Steve's hand rested by his neck, and slowly curled his fingers around Steve's palm.

That wasn't normal. Steve caught it immediately. "What's the matter?" he asked with a frown.

Bucky let out a shaky sigh and lied, "Nothin'."

The frown deepened. "Buck."

Bucky hid his eyes in metal. Now, now they were really getting down to it. Just tell him, his mind screamed at itself, tell him! Why is this so hard?

He took a shivering breath. Time to face the music, Barnes.

"We don't...do this much. Not anymore."

Steve was still confused, and worried. "Do what?"

Bucky splayed his hand over his face, and peered between metal fingers like prison bars. "I know it's dumb," he rasped, "but you haven't even crashed in my bed since we moved."

Steve's surprise was clouded by concern. "Buck," he finally managed, "you've gotten a lot better about the nightmares. Even before Ultron..."

"I know!" cried Bucky, and he hated how desperate he sounded. "But that's not all..." he whispered, clutching Steve's hand to his neck, "all it is..."

He couldn't bear to look at his face. When Steve spoke, he sounded lost, but somehow determined.

"What do you need?"

Bucky sighed and hid his eyes. "Dammit, Steve, you know how hard that is to say..."

"You're not gonna be punished." Steve recited it firmly, but Bucky could hear his heart breaking. "No one's ever gonna hurt you again, I promised. I just won't know what you need unless you tell me."

Bucky took a long, deep sigh, and shut his eyes. Maybe if he went at this roundabout, he could trick his stupid brain into telling the truth.

"Y'know," he rasped, voice just above a whisper, "I meant it when I said I'm proud a' ya." He huffed up a tiny chuckle. "Really, I am. I care about'cha, lots and lots, an' I'm not gonna get in the way of any good thing you've got goin'.

"But keepin' up that image a' yours," he said, his voice starting to shake, "means I can't go huggin' on ya like I used to, an' I'm startin' to feel like..."

He couldn't go on, but Steve filled it in, voice soft with horror.

"We're drifting apart."

Bucky finally pulled his face from his hand and looked Steve in the eye. He searched his expression for something, anything—what, he wasn't quite sure.

And then suddenly, that expression hardened. Steve pulled his hand back, shoved his chair backwards, and stood.

Bucky felt his spine go rigid. A little twinge of fear sprang into the back of his mind, and he quickly shushed it. "Steve..."

Steve circled the table, three long strides with a purpose, and stood beside Bucky's chair, hands held open at his sides.

"C'mere."

Bucky's eyes were wide, his legs like lead. "I..."

Steve's eyebrows lowered, insistent, but the way his lower eyelids jumped up made him almost look hurt. "Jus' get over here."

Bucky's knees felt like they were rusted stiff, and his feet like two-ton weights. But he stood, slowly, against the panicked instincts screaming in his head not to. There were twin fires in Steve's baby blue eyes—but the longer he looked, the more Bucky could see the heartache behind them, and the guilt.

One step, and his foot fell between Steve's. Warmth radiated off his chest, and the faintest smell of shampoo and clean skin and cologne. Steve reached forward and wrapped him up in his arms—and Bucky broke.

He'd tried to tamp it down for so long, the thoughts screaming through his head, his own messed-up brain trying to justify why he felt so alone.

He doesn't actually want to do this, it said.

He's got better things to worry about, it said.

He says he loves you every day, why are you so needy, you know he shows it differently so why do you care, why do you fight it, why do you keep doing this, why do you even BOTHER—

But no.

No.

Without saying a word, Steve whispered back, no.

And somehow, it was louder than all the other voices.

Bucky's breath came deep and shivering. He wrapped his arms around Steve, metal and flesh, fingertips curling into his shirt, and buried his face in his best friend's shoulder.

He'd offered this. The moment he realized what was missing, he'd offered this. And it felt warm and good and solid and real and he's here, he's here, he's here...

Steve had one hand on Bucky's back, and the other gently supporting his head, and he sighed. "God, I wish you'd told me sooner." It sounded like his heart was actively breaking. "Did you feel like...you couldn't? Was I that busy?"

Bucky shook his head. "It wasn't you." He fought to keep his voice steady, pressing his nose into the soft white fabric. "You know how bad I am at askin'."

He felt, more than saw, Steve shake his head, and press his lips into Bucky's temple.

Neither of them said anything, for a moment.

Bucky just tried his best to breathe.

Steve's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know." He rubbed up and down Bucky's spine, still quiet. "I've been trying to throw myself into work, tryin' to forget about..."

His voice petered out.

He didn't say Ultron.

He didn't say the dance.

Bucky understood anyway.

Steve sighed, and held him tighter, his voice heavy with remorse. "You've been doin' so good—you're basically yourself again—I guess I just thought you'd be okay, and you didn't wanna be babied anymore."

Bucky frowned into his shoulder. "Well, I don't, so don't even think about it, but..."

The bravado was gone as soon as it came. He buried deeper into Steve's shoulder, almost shaking.

"I...I need this," he whispered, and it sounded pathetic. "Sorry..."

"You don't have to apologize," said Steve, and it was so warm and sure that Bucky could almost believe it was true.

He fought the hot pressure creeping up behind his eyes, and his adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

When Steve spoke, it was after a long, careful while of thinking it over.

"This is your language, isn't it?"

Bucky sighed, holding back his tears, and nodded into Steve's shirt.

They'd had a discussion with Natasha, not too long ago, about what she called 'the five love languages', and how the strongest ones are different for different people. Acts of service, words of affirmation, gifts, time—and physical touch.

It had only been pleasant conversation at the time, a fun excursion into home-brew psychology—and another tool under Bucky's belt for his hobby of people-watching—but both he and Steve had secretly, evidently, taken it to heart.

Bucky had always been hugging on Steve, ever since they were kids. A hand on the shoulder, or an arm over both of them, and snapping Steve into his side; Bucky had always reached out, and Steve went with it, albeit with token reluctance, because it wasn't really all that bad.

For seventy years under HYDRA, he'd been deprived of that chance—of touch that didn't hurt. Evidently, even now, after over a year out of the rain, he still had catch-up work to do.

Steve perched his chin on Bucky's shoulder and took a deep, steady breath. When he spoke, there was determination in it—the same determination he'd had when he was just a stubborn, skinny punk in Brooklyn, and that Bucky had loved him for, ever since then.

"Then I'll stay here," he said. "Long as you need."

So he did.

Those few minutes they stood there, while the hall clock ticked and their breakfast got cold, felt to Bucky like the most slow, healing eternity in his life. Steve was patient, and waited for him, gently rubbing a hand up and down his spine.

And slowly, Bucky felt the chasm in his chest beginning to close, and the fissure was filled with comfort and warmth.

He took Steve's invitation and waited until he was ready to pull away, but even then, he immediately missed the warmth. Steve smiled wistfully and leaned in, bumping his forehead against Bucky's.

Bucky let out a low chuckle and pushed back, and his nose scrunched up against Steve's for a second.

Good ol' Stevie.

It stomped on his pride, just a little bit, to be handled gently like this. He was a man, after all—he oughta to be all big and strong and self-sufficient, all the time, 24/7.

But maybe, he was starting to think, it was all right to not be, sometimes. Maybe being strong meant being able to admit when you needed help. Maybe, sometimes, setbacks would happen—and that was okay too.

Steve pulled back and away and sighed, rubbing Bucky's flesh shoulder. He seemed subdued, and thoughtful, more so than he'd been at the start of the morning. "Guess I'm gonna have to change some things, huh?"

Bucky's eyebrows creased, and immediately his thumb found the seams on his metal arm. "You don't have to—"

"Hey, no, shut—" Steve glared at him. "Shaddap."

Bucky chuckled. Ah, there was the rough handling. He was wondering where it went.

Steve smiled, squeezed his shoulder in the way Bucky always used to do, and leaned forward. "Hey. You're my brother. A'right? You're important to me. The last thing you ever oughta feel is neglected. Not long as I can help it."

Bucky looked up, quiet, and listening, and let the sincerity of the words sink in.

"And if that means we gotta change some things around here..." Steve shrugged, smiled, straightened up, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well, we're doing that a lot nowadays anyway."

Bucky couldn't help a tiny smile. Now that was Steve's language—words, and sincere ones. And when he put his stupid head to it, boy, could he be good with them.

But he refrained from making a joke, and just said, "Thanks, Steve."

Steve smiled. "You're welcome."

It was then that he made the mistake of turning to look at the clock. Two blonde eyebrows immediately jumped for his hairline.

Bucky checked the time too, winced, and sucked in through gritted teeth. "Aw, damn, you're late."

"Nah, nah, it's a'right." Steve waved it off with his hand, but he quickly shoveled the last of his breakfast into his mouth and tossed the dishes in the sink. "I'm sure," he said after a heavy swallow, "the rookies have found some way to mess around before I get there."

Bucky's smirk felt a wee bit too sincere. Nothing mattered more to Steve than keeping a good schedule—but, well, apparently, at least one thing mattered more. But then he managed a full-blown smirk. "Knowing Pietro? He probably broke somethin' already."

Steve sighed at the ceiling. "I wish that was an exaggeration."

Bucky snickered—and the last little hairline gap in his chest finally closed.

Steve turned to look at him, eyes full of the warm, familiar smile that he knew so well, but it was slightly creased with concern. "You sure you're okay?"

Bucky took a deep breath, staring into the middle distance, and finding no cracks left in his chest, he smiled. "Now? Yeah."

Steve couldn't have looked prouder. "Good."

He tried to head down the hall, then whipped his head around again. "Hey, if you need anything, I don't care how busy I am—"

Bucky chuckled. "Come get'cha, got it."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." He grinned, turned, and ran down the hall, yelling over his shoulder, "Love ya, Buck! Don't be an idiot!"

Bucky grinned widely and shouted after him, "Love ya back, and you first!"

Steve's cackling laughter bounced right back down the hall to him, and Bucky swung back to the table with a new bounce in his step.

Those eggs were hopelessly cold.

He didn't even mind.

Morning came again, as it always did, and this time, Bucky only hit the snooze button twice.

He figured that, as a reward to himself for almost getting up on time, he'd make some coffee at Tony's fancy espresso machine in the Common Room kitchen. He wasn't alone there, of course. A few other Avengers were scattered around the couches, in various stages of drowsiness, and Steve seemed to have taken the opportunity to brief the newbies on the day's training.

"We're doing something a little different today," he announced in his Captain Voice, as Bucky slipped invisibly past him and to the espresso machine.

Well, not so invisibly, he realized, when he felt the weight of Steve's arm on his shoulders.

Steve kept talking, one arm around Bucky, as if nothing was at all unusual. "Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho are going to come walk us through crisis medical intervention. Usually, in the middle of a battle, trained medical personnel can't get there until hours after a fight, so it's often up to us to..."

Bucky couldn't pay attention. Steve leaned on him slightly, in full view of God and everybody, and he didn't have a doubt in his mind that it was a deliberate decision.

He couldn't allow the smile to his face, though, until he checked the expressions of the newbies seated at the kitchen island.

Sure enough, they didn't seem to be listening. Vision was making the most valiant effort, but even he seemed intrigued and confused by the sight of them. Pietro had been bored to tears in the first place; now, he peered through narrow eyes and a raised eyebrow. And Wanda, seated between the boys, just perched her chin on her hand and looked smug.

Bucky frowned in their direction and thought, Hey, pay attention, as hard as he possibly could.

Sure enough, Wanda picked up on it. Stop being adorable, she sent back.

Bucky smirked and took a sip of his coffee. Nah.

"Hey." Steve's audible voice broke into the telepathic conversation. "Is anybody listening to me?"

Vision somehow sat up straighter. "Sorry."

"Is kind of hard to focus when you are doing that," Pietro scowled.

Bucky decided to play offended. "That makes it sound indecent."

"Well it kind of is!" cried Pietro, throwing his arms forward.

"No..." began Wanda, at the same time Vision said, "That's...not what that word means."

Wanda dissolved into giggles. Steve's voice snapped her out of it.

"Well, you should all stop getting distracted." He wore the Captain Frown, stern and serious—and still hadn't let go of Bucky. "Lots of things can happen on the battlefield that will take you by surprise. You gotta have laser focus..."

Bucky could feel the laughter building up behind his cheeks and nose.

He snorted.

Steve looked absolutely affronted.

Bucky looked back smugly. He, if nobody else, could see the twinkle in his best friend's eye.

"Excuse me," said Steve, with all the two hundred and forty pounds of sass in his body. "We're kind of in the middle of something here."

"Sorry," said Bucky, not sorry at all. He picked up his mug, waved at the others, and slipped away. "I'll just take my coffee and go."

"I'm gonna take that as volunteering to be the medical dummy," Steve called after him.

"Nope," Bucky called back. "Bye!"

Not a meteor, a zombie apocalypse, or an alien invasion could wipe the big, stupid grin off his face.

Yep. All was definitely right with the world.

A/N: Oh DIP I almost forgot to post this. Anyway, hello, touch-starved Bucky! How I have missed ye! This chapter was the most fun one to write yet. Dang, I missed these boys.

Next time, a shorter chapter, and a look at the training drills in the HQ.

Reviews are toast! Tbc...