A/N: For this particular storyline, Steve lives mainly in the Avengers Tower, which is where they are at the moment.
"Hey, sleepyhead, it's way past morning, time to get up!" An elbow digs into his ribs, and Bucky catches his breath deep in his chest, forcing his eyes open and squinting in preparation for the fluorescent lights he fully expects to see overhead. It is nothing short of surprising to find himself staring up into the sea of Steve's eyes, and he sits up quickly, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, praying that when he takes his hands away that Steve will still be there.
"You still sleep like the dead, you know that?" Steve asks, smiling at him, but Bucky can see his hands pleating the edges of the dark blue satin coverlet on the bed. Nervous. "Although I guess I can't really fault you, Tony says I've been asleep for like seventy years or something like that. So I'm practically geriatric."
Bucky takes a few moments to gaze around the room. The bed he's currently sitting in is huge, could probably fit a family of five and still have room to spare, and the silky sheets are impossibly smooth against his skin. Sunlight gleams off the honey hardwood flooring, floors that look so clean Bucky thinks one could probably eat off it. The far wall is a bank of glossy windows, outside the impossibly blue sky studded with softly skidding clouds that look exactly like cotton candy should, and in the distance the deep, deep blue of the sea.
He looks up as the mattress shifts, follows the strong line of Steve's back as he walks over to the cherry wood dresser on the other wall of the room, sandwiched in between two doors, a flat screen television balanced neatly on top. A red, blue, and white shield, a star emblazoned in the centre, leans against the dresser's side, and Bucky winces, burying his head in his hands and taking deep, huffing breaths, trying to dispel the sudden jagged shot of pain that racks through his brain. This is all wrong, a voice in his head whispers, deep and terrifying, and suddenly the sheets around him, beneath him, feel like they're burning, and he scrambles quickly out of them, getting his limbs tangled in the blanket and no no no I'm drowning I'm going to die tick tock your time is running out
"You okay?" Strong hands wrap around his waist, carefully extricating him from the covers. "I didn't like them the first time, either. But Tony's like a multibillionaire or something, and he said it was shameful to just be sleeping on cotton sheets all the time. Made him feel like he couldn't provide for us or anything, even though the entire tower's basically his."
Bucky looks up, meets Steve's eye, and feels the racing in his heart slow, slow, slow, the pulse in the base of his throat dropping down a few notches as Steve's thumb strokes carefully, cautiously along the base of his spine, and for just a few moments he can pretend that that shield doesn't exist, that this is really what it looks like.
"Speaking of Tony, he wants to look at your arm," Steve says conversationally, and Bucky wonders if the skin in the hollow of Steve's throat is as soft as it looks. He wonders if he already knows. "I mean, if that's okay with you, it IS your arm after all."
Bucky opens his mouth, is about to ask Steve which arm Tony wants to look at, but Steve's gaze is drifting towards his left shoulder, and though he's pretty sure he's wearing a pair of shorts, Bucky feels undeniably naked as Steve's blue eyes scrutinise the metal planes and bolts and scales, tracing the curves of his arm, the lines of his hand, the joints of his fingers. After what feels like an eternity, Steve clears his throat, returns to look at him, and tilts his head back to meet Bucky's stare with a smile that is undeniably sad.
"Well," Steve says after a moment, pushing a neatly folded pile of clothes at him. "I guess you've always been a bit taller than me, but these should still fit. I think. Maybe if they don't, we can go shopping later..." Steve lets his voice trail off, and Bucky desperately wants to promise him that he'll stay this time, that he's not going to go anywhere, that he'll always be here to wear T-shirts and jeans and the button-downs and V-necks, that they won't be left hanging in the empty left half of Steve's closet waiting for a body to fill them.
"And maybe you'll want to shave, I don't know if you want to keep...this," Steve says, placing his hands against his cheeks. "I mean, you wear that mask all the time, so maybe it doesn't matter -"
"Are you scared of me?"
The question catches both of them by surprise. Steve stares at him, his gaze unguarded, his mouth slightly open, and Bucky can't help but be reminded of that time, all decked out in sergeant's militia uniform, girls draped over his arms, smiling at Steve over his shoulder as they watched Howard Stark unveil his flying automobile. Steve had been...so small, then, so nervous so uncertain, but Bucky had turned back around and smiled a private smile at the small hand that clutched at the back of his jacket and held fast. And after that...after that...then what? His memory is horrendously spotty, and the time between then and now seems to have just passed in a breath, in a whisper, jagged spots of mind numbing pain filling in the spaces in between.
He turns to walk into the bathroom how did I know it was the left door? I've been here before and turns on the faucet, setting the clothes on the closed toilet lid, and bending over the sink to brush his teeth, lather shaving cream onto his cheeks. The razor is slippery smooth in his hand, the blade cold and pristine against his face, and he tilts his face to the left and right, dragging the razor through swathes of airy cream and leaving the skin slightly stinging, smooth.
'Let me watch you shave!' Steve shouts, barging into the bathroom all scrawny and small, even at nineteen.
'Jesus,' he exclaims, jumping and nicking himself in the process. 'It's not like you're going to be growing a beard at your rate, shrimp.'
'Yeah, well,' Steve mutters, seating himself on the counter, his legs swinging back and forth, 'for when I do.'
Bucky shakes his head to clear his thoughts, winces as the razor cuts into his neck. The cut burns, stinging as the shaving cream works into the wound, blood swirling pink down the sink drain. He examines it in the mirror, his eyes slowly tracing his features and wondering what Steve sees in them. It's not much to look at: gaunt, angular face, the eyes dark and angry, ringed with black circles, thin lips pressed together tightly for fear of saying the wrong thing, messy dark hair that doesn't take away anything from the sharpness of his cheekbones.
He sighs, leans over the sink to wash away the last remnants of shaving cream, and tries not to dwell on the fact that Steve didn't answer his question.
I've spent hours watching him sleep and trying to ignore the way his metal fingers clamp into my ribs, his face pressed into the pillow like he wants it to swallow him up. I've watched the dark blue tint of night fade into the soft pinks and golds of morning, watched the shadows trace their way across the planes of his face, watched as he had a nightmare somewhere around 5 AM, struggling and shaking in the blankets, pleading, begging with some unseen person not to hurt him anymore.
I wish he would tell me who. I wish he could remember who. I wish he could remember me.
It's been like this ever since I saw him in this millennium. He shows up, we're maybe able to have some semblance of a relationship for a few days, a few weeks, a few months, before he suddenly disappears again, drawn to some other place where I cannot follow, and then he comes back and it's like it never happened except for a few disjointed memories that don't really make sense out of context. It's like we're making a scrapbook of our lives together, but he keeps shaking out the photographs.
I know it's not his fault, but that doesn't make me any less frustrated about the whole thing.
Natasha says that it's something that he keeps coming back, and I guess she ought to know, being that she and Bucky went out a few years or so ago. She told me that one morning she woke up and all of a sudden he was just gone - the clothes in her dresser, his shoes, his keys and wallet, all gone, like he'd never been there, that there hadn't been anything to prove his existence except the soft musky smell on his pillow.
I still don't think it's fair.
I wriggle out of his death grip at somewhere around 7:30, and he mutters something unintelligible into the sheets and grabs at my pillow, tucking it close against his chest. It makes my heart hurt as I go into the kitchen and crack eggs into a bowl for French toast.
'I love this,' Bucky mutters through a full mouth, spraying crumbs all over his sergeant's uniform, making me laugh, 'but let me tell you, I cannot recommend the French as highly as I do their toast.'
"Hey, sleepyhead, it's way past morning, time to get up!" I say at 9:00, when I've gone through three whole cartons of eggs and have probably made enough French toast to send even JARVIS into cardiac arrest. I sit down beside him on the bed, leaning over to brush a stray strand of black hair out of his eyes, smiling slightly at the way he leans in to my touch. I repeat my summons, digging an elbow into his ribs just for good measure and remembering to stay clear of the trajectory of his metal arm. As expected, he smacks at me blindly, sight still foggy with sleep, before sitting up and scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"You sleep like the dead, you know that?" I ask him, smiling. "Although I guess I can't really fault you, Tony says I've been asleep for like seventy years or something like that. So I'm practically geriatric." I'm fully aware that I'm babbling, the way I get when I'm nervous, but for whatever reason, I can't seem to stop.
When Bucky doesn't reply, his dark eyes darting around the room as though looking for the closest escape route (hint: it would be through the windows to the far side of the room, though I can't say he'd survive the seventy-story drop, and I can't say I wouldn't just as soon jump out after him), I sigh and heave myself off the bed, going over to the dresser to find an acceptable change of clothes he might be able to wear. I rifle through T-shirts and V-necks, wondering what he'd like, before the sheets begin to rustle frantically behind me. I pull out the closest shirt and pair of jeans, and turn around, fully expecting Bucky to be making a break for the windows.
He's struggling in the blankets, and I want to laugh, but the panicked look in his eye reminds me of a trapped lion cub I saw at the zoo recently. He'd climbed up to the top of a rock pile, and couldn't seem to find the way back down. He looked terrified, and had buried his head under his paws and had whimpered until some zoo workers went up to help him. Bucky's eyes have the exact same expression, and I set the clothes down on the edge of the bed, reaching out and wrapping my arms around his waist.
"You okay?" I ask him, gently untangling him from the blankets. "I didn't like them the first time, either. But Tony's like a multibillionaire or something, and he said it was shameful to just be sleeping on cotton sheets all the time. Made him feel like he couldn't provide for us or anything, even though the entire tower's basically his," I tell him, trying to make conversation, trying to fill the air with noise that isn't his labored breathing and the clot of sadness that's clogging my throat.
He looks up, meets my eye, and I match him breath for breath as my thumb strokes gently, soothingly, along the base of his spine, slowly slowly slowly, and for just a few moments I can pretend that this is exactly what it looks like.
"Speaking of Tony, he wants to look at your arm," I say after a few moments, when it's clear Bucky isn't going to say anything. I wonder if he still likes being kissed at that one point under his jaw, if the skin there is still just as sensitive. "I mean, if that's okay with you, it IS your arm after all."
My eyes slowly drift over to the join of metal and skin at Bucky's shoulder, where his sunkissed flesh spills into unforgiving grey planes of steel, cruel curves of muscle that threw a punch at me the very first time I saw him in this century. My stare travels slowly down his arm, into the curve of his palm, remembering the way the metal of his fingers warmed up to my skin after just a few moments, how comfortable and smooth it felt in my own hand. I wonder if he remembers.
"Well," I say after a few moments, giving him the pile of clothes, "I guess you've always been a bit taller than me, but these should still fit. I think. Maybe if they don't, we can go shopping later..." My voice trails off as I begin to imagine hangers full of the dark blue and grey clothes Bucky's always favoured, hanging in my closet and gathering dusk, the shoulders just a bit too broad, the chest just a bit too wide, waiting for an owner who might not come back to wear them.
I shake my head slightly to brush away the image, turn back to Bucky with a smile that is sad and entirely unnatural; I can feel it splitting my heart straight in two. "And maybe you'll want to shave," I say, hoping that he doesn't notice the break in my voice, "I don't know if you want to keep...this," I murmur, patting my cheeks to indicate the five o'clock shadow that dusts his jaw with darkness. "I mean, you wear that mask all the time, so maybe it doesn't matter -"
"Are you scared of me?" he asks, staring at me intensely, piercing.
I open my mouth, waiting for the denial that is resting right at the tip of my tongue to come spilling out, but for the first time, I can't seem to make any sound. Bucky stares at me a few more moments, and maybe it's just the sun in my eyes, but I swear I can see pain and anguish and maybe the slightest hint of disbelief hidden in the dark shadows of his eyes.
With a slight sigh, he turns away, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door gently behind him. A few moments later, I hear the faucet start to run, the scrubbing sound of someone brushing his teeth, the slight pop of the tube of shaving cream opening.
'Let me watch you shave!' I shout, all of nineteen, my limbs still long and gawky and stringy as I barge into the bathroom.
'Jesus!' he exclaims, jumping and nicking himself with the blade in the process. I want to apologise but I can't seem to drag my eyes away from the small trickle of blood creeping down the strong line of his jaw. 'It's not like you're going to be growing a beard at your rate, shrimp,' he mutters, turning away from me and looking into the mirror to examine the damage.
'Yeah, well,' I say after I regain my voice, jumping onto the counter by the sink and patting my perfectly smooth cheeks, watching him lift the blade once again and wishing I could be the one to frame his face with my hands, 'for when I do.'
He laughs, a sound deep in his chest, but he doesn't kick me out.
And then there's a muttered curse from behind the door - perhaps he's cut himself again, Bucky's never had the most steady hand - and I press my forehead against the white wood of the door, wrapping arms tight around myself so that it doesn't hurt quite so much as I mouth his name to myself over and over again.
James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes, my boyfriend Bucky
The faucet turns on again, and before I know it, my hand is reaching out to twist the knob, to push open the door. Bucky looks up at me in the mirror, surprised, spots of shaving cream still clinging to his cheek, and a shallow cut on his neck trickling pink into the water.
"No," I say, wrapping my arms around him, a hand resting above his heart, which I can feel pulsing away in perfect rhythm. "No, I'm not," I whisper into the hollow between his shoulder blades, and after a moment, I feel metal gently wrapping around my fingers, and I fervently pray to myself that I am telling the truth.