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Rain pattered softly on the big, glass windows of the Avengers tower, turning the glow of New York’s night life into a Monet painting, all soft edges and pastel streaks of color. Bucky stood inches from the glass and watched the colors run, arms folded across his chest, willing it to chase away the remnants of his nightmare. He flexed his fingers, still feeling the sticky heat of phantom blood he had already tried to scrub from his skin, the haunting visage of Steve, battered and bloodied, reappearing every time be blinked, the cold realization that it was his own human arm that had driven the blade through his childhood friend’s heart, stopping it...
He shuddered, hugging himself tighter as he started the exercise his therapist had taught him to keep from spiraling. Three things you can see, her patient, clear voice reminded him as he scoured the smeared version of the city outside. Easy enough. The streetlight on the corner (the longest red light in the city, he would swear by it), a cab whizzing by, nothing but a streak of yellow weaving in and out of traffic, and a lone, lit window halfway up the building kitty-corner to the Avenger’s Tower. If his memory served, it was an old office that had been sold off and made into studio apartments. If it was still an office... well, he hoped whoever was in there got a job that didn’t have them up at 2:30 every morning.
He sighed, going back to focusing on the technique. Two things you can hear. This was the one he struggled with. He could hear traffic, but that was faint white noise at this point, a constant clamor he had heard from childhood, extending into his Winter Soldier years, making it a bittersweet sound. The sound of a busy city with a mark in it. A place where he had to watch his back. Hardly something to ground him. And the Tower was too efficient, not even making the slightest hum when the heat kicked on, and Bucky had never once heard the building creak or settle. He supposed it was to keep weird, ambient noise to a minimum, and that Tony knew he could fully trust Jarvis to alert him if something wasn’t working, but to Bucky, it seemed too still at times. Especially now. He tucked his arms tighter against his chest and tried to hear something that could ground him—
“Buck?”
He tensed, whipping his head around to find Steve standing in the doorway to their bedroom, his voice a soft, sleepy slur. Bucky couldn’t help but melt at the sight of him, his golden hair uncharacteristically mussed and free from its rigid styling, the neck of his ancient, rumpled pajama shirt almost off one shoulder in a similar state of dishevelment.
For a split second, he looked like the scrawny, scrappy kid from Brooklyn who picked fights with bullies who were five times his size, who would come home with a broken nose and black-and-purple bruises but still somehow full of piss and vinegar.
“Y’have a bad dream?” Steve asked, shattering the memory as he shuffled into the room, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with a yawn.
“Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet when I got up.”
“Got cold,” he murmured, and Bucky felt a pang of guilt pull color to his cheeks. Steve didn’t deal well with the cold. He didn’t seem panicked or upset, though, which made Bucky feel less like a jerk for getting up. Slightly.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his arm, “You okay?”
“Fine, but you’re ignoring my question,” Steve countered, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist and snuggling against his back, “You have a nightmare?”
“Maybe.”
Steve huffed a laugh against his neck, sending a warm shiver skittering down Bucky’s spine. “Fuck your maybe. Tell me the truth.”
“...It was a nightmare.”
“Bad one?”
He couldn’t stop himself from tensing, the flash of blooddeathpainSteve ripping through him again, vivid and horrible, and he had to resist the urge to wash himself again, to scrub the phantom blood and self-loathing from his skin—
Mercifully, Steve squeezed slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his love’s shoulder. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Bucky nodded, moving to lay his arms over Steve’s, to remind him that everything was okay. Steve was here, happy and healthy and keeping him grounded. Keeping him safe from his own mind.
“I’ll put the coffee on, and we can watch something on TV,” Steve murmured, hooking his chin over Bucky’s metal shoulder, giving one last squeeze before letting go and padding to the kitchen.
The sounds of Steve in the kitchen—the rattle of mugs and the clunking of him puttering around with the coffee maker—was a balm to his frayed nerves, and as he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend they were in their creaky old apartment in Brooklyn, with the windows that protested being opened and the uneven floorboards that were almost stripped of their varnish in the high-traffic areas, Stevie’s sketches and paintings and pencils stacked and strewn on every flat surface. Memories of Steve and him huddled on the sofa on snowy winter days and laying out on the fire escape when it was too hot to bear inside, the gleam in Steve’s eye when he was inspired to draw and the sour look he always gave Bucky when he would tell him off for getting himself beat to a pulp.
He let himself smile, just a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth as he turned to look over his shoulder. “Hey, Stevie?”
“Yeah?” Steve turned to glance over his shoulder, and Bucky’s cold, black heart warmed at the wide-eyed, earnest, let-me-help-you look. There are a hundred things he could say, from sweet and sappy to waxing poetic to just simply throwing Steve over his shoulder and carrying him back to bed to remind him exactly how much he loved him, coffee be damned.
“I call being the little spoon.”
Steve grinned at the softness in his voice anyway, a hint of a blush coloring the tips of his ears as he brought the two mugs into the living room. “Sure, Buck.”
When they finally settled down on the couch, Bucky wrapped up in Steve’s arms as they watched some pleasant baking show on Netflix, he let himself fully relax against Steve’s chest, enjoying the soft music and the chatter of the contestants.
“Stevie?”
“Mm?”
Bucky twined their fingers and squeezed. “Thanks.”
Steve squeezed back and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Of course, doll.”