Bucky clutched the book with trembling hands, compulsively reading the same page over and over again. The page that was titled, "Stevie", and had only 5 lines. He read them until the words had seared into his eyeballs, until he could see them when his eyes were closed.
He replayed the moments over and over again. He tested those words on his lips, trying out all the strange sounds of their still baffling relationship.
"When Stevie's mom died, and he stayed over with me and we put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids."
His eyes scan to the next sentence, not thinking about poor Steve's face that day.
"When I saw him again, stood on the bridge, and it was the first time my heart had fluttered in 70 years." Bucky gulped, trying not to think about what happened after, about the deafening pain in his head like an electric shock when his memories were wiped again.
Bucky took a deep breath, suddenly conscious of how the air travels in and out of his lungs. It's okay. His memories are his now.
So why is he reading this book still?
"When Steve came to visit me in Wakanda, and the nerves I felt while showering because I wanted to look good for him."
Bucky focuses on the feelings he felt at that time, the butterflies in his stomach and the trembles of his fingers, but most importantly, the way he chanced a small smile in the bathroom mirror. Bucky felt his lips curl into a smirk now, the warmth of the memory soaking him.
He looks further down the list, but suddenly his voice doesn't work and his chest feels like its being twisted. It almost feels like... no. That doesn't happen anymore. No one is going to wipe his mind.
He braces a hand on his chest and exhales heavily, followed by an inhale, and soon he realises it's too late and mumbles, "Fuck" as he sits himself down on the floor and feels his head spin.
Bucky can't breathe, his chest is heaving with the struggle and he feels tremors wracking his body. His palms are drenched in sweat and he's sweating everywhere, in between his thighs and on his neck and on his back. Time passes.
He doesn't know how much, because he can't see the clock, he can only see his hands and they're covered in blood and he's holding a gun and there's dead people everywhere, and someone in the background says, "Хороший солдат" and someone else says "поставить его на лед" and he screams, because not again. Not again, please.
Please, it hurts. It's cold. It's too cold. He can't breathe. Get him out. It's cold, it's so fucking cold and suddenly he's falling, he's falling and Steve is above him and he's screaming, his hand outstretched, horror painted on his face. And then Bucky lands, and it's cold. That's all he remembers.
And his arm really, really hurts. His arm... Where's his arm gone? Keep calm, Buck. Breathe. But he can't, his arm is fucking gone, sliced clean off, blood trailing through the fresh snow. Bucky gurgles and feels sour liquid pushing against the walls of his oesophagus. He spits and his shirt is covered in puke and then...
"Okay Bucky. Listen. Can you hear me? Bucky?" He opens his eyes with a gasp.
"S... S'vie." His tongue feels like its wrapped in cotton and lies dead on the bottom of his mouth.
"That's it. There's my boy. It's me, Bucky. It's Steve."
Bucky clings to Steve's hands and he's hyperventilating so hard it's making his head feel like a washing machine. His stomach feels like a washing machine too, so he swallows harshly, trying to keep it down.
"Hey, Buck. Can you do something for me, baby?"
Do something? What does he have to do? Oh God, please say it's not a mission. No more blood, please. Bucky makes a wet, strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes wide and frantic as he catches Steve's eyes to try and signal that he can't breathe, please help him.
"I don't want to... I can't forget you." He whimpers.
"It's okay Bucky. I just need you to breathe with me. Come on." Steve takes big dramatic breaths and signals for Bucky to follow, all the while rubbing his thumbs over the backs of Bucky's hands, that are clenching Steve's hard.
Bucky whimpers, and tries following. He can do this. He can do this for Steve.
"That's it. Keep going like that. You're okay, Buck. I've got you, keep holding on." Steve's eyes are gentle and his voice is low, like Bucky likes it. He likes it because sometimes big voices from men freaks him out. Unsurprising, considering everything. He appreciates Steve for trying. He tries saying so, but he just let's out a gurgling sound.
Steve's eyebrows shoot up as he asks a question. Bucky can't hear it at first, so tries lip reading. Then his ears unpop, like when he's on a flight locked in a box like an animal.
"Are you gonna throw up, Buck?"
Is he? He doesn't know. But, his stomach is swirling and now he thinks about it, he does feel nauseous. He hates throwing up, but he nods.
"Okay, baby. Let's get you to the bathroom, yeah?"
Bucky's body lurches forwards suddenly, yellow acid spraying out of his mouth. He throws a hand to his mouth and moans in pain, and maybe embarrassment. His face is growing red and his eyes are shining with the telltale sign of incoming tears.
"Hey, Buck, it's okay..." Steve tried reassuring him, but Bucky only retched and vomited more into his lap. Steve quickly manouvered himself behind Bucky, pulling his sweating body into his and wrapping his legs around his waist. There's no point moving to the bathroom now, not until he's done. He's only going to create more mess.
Bucky watches it spill down his chin, more and more spurting through the gaps in his fingers as the images flashed in his eyes. Even when his eyes were closed, he saw things. His shoulders lurched in another retch as more sour liquid coated the bed. He had to get it out. He was drowning in it, he thought. It was like the water. The water he died in, and came back to life in, and spluttered and thrashed in and he needed to...
"Oh, Buck!" Steve ran his fingers on the back of his neck, trying anything to soothe him. Buckys eyes were red and there was drool and chunks of leftover vomit on his stubbly chin. his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He was gasping for air through his broken lungs, heaving in great mouthfuls of oxygen and choking on it when it went in too fast.
He didn't know where he was. His head was thrumming and the sour smell of puke burned his nostrils as he gulped away the saliva pooling in his mouth, his Adams apple bobbing and his chest rising and falling too fast.
The saliva dripped down his neck and landed in the disgusting pile he'd made. He was disgusting.
He was so ashamed, and all he could do was close his eyes and lean his head back into Steve's shoulder, spluttering for air and whining like a hurt puppy. He probably looked awful. he probably smelt awful but Steve was just gently caressing his weak body. Why? Why is he? Doesn't he know what he'd done?
But Steve gently tucks a piece of Buckys hair behind his ear from where it'd stuck to his wet face, pulling his hair back in a single swift movement and holding it in his fist, rubbing up and down his boy's back.
"You're okay, Bucky. I'm here now." He whispered, and Bucky stopped shuddering and was left panting staring at the mess in his lap.
"Nice, big breaths baby..." Steve whispered.
Bucky shuddered in a breath.
"Good boy. That was so good. And another, okay Buck?"
And Bucky did, and with every breath in he felt the weight lifting off his shoulders, and felt his chest becoming lighter as the knots detangled. His eyes felt tired but he could feel Steve's arm around his shoulders reassuringly and Bucky allowed himself to smile.
"Breathing becomes a little easier when you're around." He whispers, a blush crawling up his face.
"Let's get you in the shower, doll." Steve smiles.