There was a fly.
In his enclosure.
And he was hungry.
It enveloped him completely, this strange and unusual hunger. All he could think about was how his stomach cramped in hot knots that he could feel when he pressed two inhuman hands against it. He’s been hungry before, of course he has, everyone has, and he’s everyone, and he’s no one. He knows it well, that hunger that comes from being deprived of nutrients and basic human compassion that can only come from a body eating itself from within. He remembered some times — very few and far between — in which he didn’t feel hunger. No, in those times, he felt full and brimming with happiness the way everyone does, of course he has, he’s everyone.
And he’s no one.
The fly — a stain, a mark on the white — continued to drone lazily about, circling in front of him a couple times before disappearing when it passed the void part of the enclosure. One moment he could see it perfectly, bulbous eyes and iridescent body, and then it was gone, blending into the abyss that terrified him to the very core.
The darkness growled at him. It was alive, he knew it was, it’s spoken to him before. It never changed expression no matter how much the voice that spoke to him barked and snapped, cooed and sang, whispered and screamed. It changed shape every time he met it again, but it never changed who it was. Sometimes it had two glowing eyes that blinked slowly and bathed the room in horror, and sometimes it had one glowing eye that only opened on occasions when he tried to befriend the darkness. The coexist, now, but that didn’t make them allies one bit.
The fly shifted, and he saw it, but he didn’t dare advance from his spot on the floor on the furthest corner, just five steps from his cot and fifteen from the darkness, he doesn’t know how far from the sky, he can’t look up to it, the sun burned his eyes everytime he did. He remembers that the sky was infinite, and the sun lived within it just as much as the sun lived in the boy,l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle, who he felt loved by. He remembered this boy in shards that connect together by the sheer adoration he had for him, the suffocating need to be around him at all times. He was the light and the love and the happiness and everything to him, always has been, always will be.
Oh yes the sky was infinite! So infinite and never within his grasp despite the many times he’s extended a hand towards, he knew the sky was infinite, of course he did, everyone did, and he’s everyone, and he’s—
Fuck.
What the fuck.
He just had it. He just had the word in his mouth, he chewed on it like an appetizer, he was so hungry, it was just there in the palm of his hand, unlike the sky he knew that, of course he knew that, everyone knew that, and he’s everyone so if he’s everyone but he’s not everyone, he hasn’t been ever—
The fly buzzed in front of his eyes again, and with a lutch he reached out to grab it. He got it. One moment it was flying, the next it was gone, so he grabbed it. It was in his hand, it had to be in his hand because it wasn’t buzzing anymore, there he goes, killing another living thing for his selfishness, there you go again, fucking everything up because you’re a fuck up and nothing you’ll ever do can make this up, you were born with this hatred inside you, of course you were, nobody was born like that, and you’re not nobody—
NO.
That’s not how it goes.
There’s a pattern, there’s a rhythm, there’s a crescendo and there’s an alto and there’s a diminuendo, nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria, there’s a song to this. He memorized it, how could he forget it? It was so goddamn simple.
The fly buzzed past him again, and to his horror and relief, he opened his hand to reveal nothing. He was wrong, he didn’t catch it, he thought he did and was so sure of it. He was wrong. He’s never been wrong. It buzzed past his ear. He’s always wrong. He swatted at it with a grunt.
When it flew past him again, cocky now that it’s escaped his clenches, he waited for it to land somewhere on the stark white of the walls or the floor or his uniform or his glass of water. He wasn’t allowed glass, but he was once. A cockroach fell into it from the sky, having lost it’s grasp on the clouds above and plummeted straight into his glass of water and it struggled and swam and its prickly legs scrambled for purchase on the smooth surface. When it crawled up the sides, he saw it’s underbelly with meaty legs and grid-like torso that pressed against the cup while trying to climb to freedom. He made a mistake, as usual, he makes so many goddamn mistakes it wasn’t even fucking fair, how did he keep fucking up? He tried not to, but he did, that day, and grimaced at it. It was only a second, it was only a moment, it was just a flash of his lip curling in disgust.
The man. Not him. Another man. Blonde man. Blonde man with the pretty eyes, that man. He picked it up out of the water, ordered him (Him, the him, the one that’s like everyone else, the one that he couldn’t fucking remember how it ended) to open his mouth, and shoved the cockroach inside. The man sealed his hand over his lips while he struggled and fought, and with a shaking, harsh voice that said, “Eat it. I want to see you chew, and swallow, and I’ll rip your goddamn teeth out if you throw it up,”.
He was so hungry. So goddamn hungry.
Running over the ridges flats with his tongue, he supposed, maybe he didn’t fuck up every time.
The fly landed on his knee, and he slammed his hand against the bone with too much hast, too much aggression, and the darkness barked at him. It told him to stop it. He ignored the voice, because he was so fucking hungry, and the fly kept buzzing around over him.
BUZZZZ
ZZZZZZZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Shut.
The.
Fuck.
Up.
He got up, and his knee hurt, and he felt dizzy as it throbbed with his heartbeat, but the hunger overpowered the pain, so he stood up while following the fly with his eyes as it moved around in a pattern, a rhythm, a repetition, a tempo, aggressivo, leggiero, da capo,O gente umana, per volar sù nata, perché a poco vento così cadi?, it didn’t have one.
It zigzagged, it stilled, it flew fast, it droned lazily, and all the while the man tried to get his hand around it to cease it’s infernal buzzing and to sate the hunger. He couldn’t stand another second of this, he wouldn’t stand for it, he hated the fly, of course he did—
No.
Nononononono.
What? He just had it. He just had it in his hands and in his head and on his tongue, where the fuck is it? Did it fly away, or did he not have it in the first place?
He knew he had, he had to have had it. He knows the phrase by heart, by soul, by life. He heard it, he internalized it, he repeated it over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over over and over and over over and over and over over and over and over over and over and over and
o v e r and o
v e
r
Ma ficca li occhi a valle, ché s’approccia la riviera del sangue in la qual bolle qual che vïolenza in altrui noccia. Oh cieca cupidigia e ira folle, che sì ci sproni ne la vita corta, e ne l’etterna poi sì mal c’immolle!
The fly landed on his chin, he slapped it, and the darkness screamed at him, and he screamed back because he’s hungry. He’s been hungry for as long as he can remember, he’s ravenous with it, delusion in his hope he’ll one day finally, finally stop the roaring in his head that demands to be fed and to eat and chew and shallow and of course he does, someone does, who does? Who does? Who is who and who is he and who is this hunger that never subsides no matter how much it’s fed through the lies and the fear and the horror. Why can’t he remember who he is and who the others are and who is it that held his hand and sang him lullabies and read to him before sleeping and who tries and tries and tries to feed the starvation within him and what is it that drives him to seek this person fully in his madness, in his sanity, in his rational and irrational mind that can’t stop chanting eateateateateateateateateateateateat and he’s DONE! He wants to be done! He’s tired of being enslaved to the hunger that knows no end despite the blood and pain and violence and death that’s known him for as long as he’s known what it feels like to know this hunger. He wanted to be free of this, he wanted to hold onto what little left he had, because he had so little and he knew he did and FUCK what came after that? What came after this? Would he be sent to atone for the hunger for eternity that never ended or would he find himself turned to dust, return to Earth as nothing more than a memory from the boy who was the sun, his sun, no one’s sun, che è? Perché, perchè restai, perché tanta viltà nel core alette? NO! NO! NO! Stay here! Stay in the now, in the present, in this place where he can piece it all together, everything will come together once he—
Oh.
He blinked.
Oh.
Blood.
He killed the fly. Crushed it with his nail and felt it pop under it. The fly — the stain, the mark on the silver. That’s what it was now. Nothing more than a stain, a mark. It’s gone, death, killed, and all that remained was a stain, a mark, to indicate that it ever lived. It was dead. He killed it. Qui vive la pietà quand'è ben morta. He laughs, a bit strangely, he’ll admit, but he couldn’t help it. The hunger was gone. Finally. Even if only for now, the hunger faded away along with anything else. He sagged his shoulder, and wiped the stain on his pants.
Rolled his shoulders, fixed his hair, wiped the sweat from his brow, he laughed again, shook his head, and went to sit down in the furthest corner, just five steps from his cot and fifteen from the darkness. He’d sit, and look at the darkness, and pace around his enclosure later, waiting for someone to return and put him to rest because he’ll say it’s time for the sun to turn into the stars. Which was silly, of course. The sun is a star, he knew that, of course he did, everyone knew that, and he’s everyone, and he’s no one.
He sighed. It was back. It was back to him. The first conversation he had with the beloved man, the blue eyed man, his beautiful man. He said, you know what he said? He said (He, the man, the one that’s like everyone else, the one that finally remembered how it ended), “Do you know me?” and the man (Him, the man, the one that’s like everyone else, the one with the sun on his back) said back, “I know you. Of course I know you. Everyone knows you. I’m everyone,”. But then the beloved man frowned when he (This he, the one who killed the fly to calm the anger that was beneath his skin if he were to peel it off) said, “I’m no one.”
He just about sat down, back to the wall, eyes closed to wait for the beloved man to return, when he heard it.
A fly.
The fly — a stain, a mark on the white — continued to drone lazily about, circling in front of him a couple times before disappearing when it passed the void part of the enclosure.
He shot up, chasing after it to catch in his hands over and over and over and over—
But there was another that whizzed by him. He turned, and there were nine on him. He looked up, and the sky was blackened by flies that climbed on one another, that moved together, that pulsated above him in an orgiastic display that rolled in his stomach, more so when they started falling one by one and into his mouth. He couldn’t stop gaping at them, and more landed on his tongue, in his throat, on his teeth, Eat it. I want to see you chew, and swallow, and I’ll rip your goddamn teeth out if you throw it up, and he screamed.
The noise he only made them hungry, finally ready for their next meal, and at one.
They.
Descended.
He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t escape no matter how hard he tried to hit them away from him, and he screamed so loud that the darkness awoke and screamed back at him as it blinked rapidly. The flies buzzed around him, on him, in him. All he could see was black and all he could smell was rot, and decay, and death, and puss, and blood, and shit, and he couldn’t escape. Long gone was the hunger, long gone was the sun, long gone was his beloved man who tried with him to grasp at the infinite sky. He did this. He summoned the flies, of course he did. He killed everyone, everyone he’s ever loved and cared for, they made—
They made him kill them. His mother, who sang him lullabies and read to him in her mother tongue. His father, who worked to keep him fed in his hunger and anger when the world was impoverished. His sister, who was obsessed with counting the steps between things. You cannot have a family. You’re no one. He remembered how he watched for days after as the flies gathered and bred, ate at their flesh and their blood, growing in number as the days went on and all he could do is sit in the furthest corner of the room and watch as they blacked with death and flies. Sat and did nothing when his handlers took the bodies with them, piling them all together. The Barnes Bunch, he laughed. He did this. Of course he did. Everyone knew that. He’s everyone.
HE’S NO ONE.
The hands of his loved ones pull and tug at him, bursting through the wall of flies that surrounded him as he screamed and fought his way to get them off him, get them off me, please, please, get them off me, I’ll obey, please. Arms wrapped around his waist, and this was it, the rivers of blood, to be stabbed and stabbed if he dared to crawl free, he’ll never be free. The demons whispered at him, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying to him, the buzzing overpowering everything else and it all muddled together and he longed for the long hum of a piano.
He fought harder now. He fought to stay in the now, in the present, in this place where he can piece it all together, everything will come together once he’s free. He kicked back, the arms gripping him harder, and he screamed for help, for something to get them off him, for someone to please, fucking help me with him.
Everything silenced.
The black faded to blinding white, the buzzing ceased to a ringing like bells in his ears and a voice singing to him in a soprano, ninna nanna mamma, io to canterò, e se ti addormenti, io ti cullerò, and his eyes fluttered with the weight to keep them open, but he was warm, and embraced, and a voice (not a soprano, maybe a tenor? He used to be a tenor, he used to tickle ivories and sing and his mother would smile) tells him everything is okay, everything is okay, he was okay, he was okay, you just had a bad reaction, it’s okay, you’ll be better soon.
The man was bathed in white, in light, in purity He was beautiful, sent by St. Lucia to cast out the wicked, the evil, the ugliness from his soul. His saviour, in this world, the next, and everything in between. Everything good and innocent within him was thanks to the saint above him, around him. His love, his saint, his savior, his God.
Beatrice.
Amor, ch’al cor gentil ratto s’apprende, prese costui de la bella persona che mi fu tolta; e ‘l modo ancor m’offende. Amore, ch’a nullo amata amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacer si forte, che come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona. Amor condusse noi ad una morte.
Condusse noi ad una morte.
E la rinascita.
The darkness took him.
Steve’s hands shook when he wiped the sweat off his face, sniffling and swallowing down the lump in his throat that threatened to suffocate him. The team of nurses and doctors, the group of agents, Sam, Natasha, Maria, Claire, all stood with their bodies coiled tight, ready to jump back into action if the man in his arms even so much as stirred.
Well, he won’t, if it was any consultation. The needle sticking out of Bucky’s neck was evident that he wouldn’t be waking up at least until morning, when the lights in the room would turn back on and he’d ask Steve what happened to the stars that projected from the lamp Steve got off of Scott. “It was my daughter’s. She didn’t like the dark when she was a toddler, so we got her this to get her through the night. You can keep it, if you want. She’s not scared of the monsters anymore,”. He remembered being scared Bucky was going to destroy the fragile plastic when he first saw it, his eyes following the stickers of what Sam told him were of killers from movies that came out in the 70’s and 80’s. He tried not to think about how, secretly, he needed people to clarify they meant the 1980’s and not the 1880’s. People forgot that they used to know people born in that time. Hell, Bucky’s grandfather was a teenager when the American Civil War was fought.
No matter.
What mattered was the body in his arms that laid limp and breathing heavy, bruised and bloodiest from the struggle of having to restrain him. Not to mention the sickly violet bruise that blossomed on his jaw from before Natasha deemed that they weren’t going to be able to reach him verbally and slammed the button to open the doors to Bucky’s cell, the room suddenly bathing into red and white from the alarms. The smaller man hated the lights, Steve knew that just from the way Bucky would stare at them for hours and hours on end.
He’d been fine. Save for a couple of nightmares and some forgotten things (Small things like the exact tempo of Vivaldi’s Primavera I. Allegro, Steve, it’s supposed to be allegro, that’s the whole point.) but today, for some reason, he just ... snapped.
At first he was still in a ball in the corner, staring at the observation window like he usually did when Steve hadn't been in yet to play games or read him books. It hurt that his friend staring at a one-way window for hours and hours on end was normal. Because all the sudden, his hands sprung to action as he batted his hand around him, frantically moving his head and torso to follow whatever it was that only he could see. Dust particles? A cobweb?
“Maybe a fly got in?” Sam had speculated, taking a bite out of a bagel Maria brought him from ‘the outside world’. It was from the Stark Towers cafeteria, by the way she carried it in with just a tiny white napkin around it that Sam now used as a makeshift plate.
Natasha shook her head and rubbed her eyes, blinking a lot before putting her glasses back on. “No, I don’t think so. We would’ve heard it on the speaker,” She had a point. Bucky couldn’t even scratch his head without the whole observation room flooding with scra scra sca noises.
“Whatever it is,” Claire interjected, putting down her clipboard, “we need to keep an eye on him. Dr. Raynor started him on a new antipsychotic medication and with the other shit he’s taking—” Clonazepam, zolpidem, donepezil … “—mixed with the ones we’re trying to flush out, I’m shocked he’s not halfway through a wall already,”
“Raynor knows to keep the doses low, just in case,” Steve interjected, but he didn’t even believe himself, and didn’t expect them to believe him either He didn’t really like Raynor, not when Bucky always ends up having a nightmare after his sessions with her, but seems to do just fine when he sees his other therapist, Dr. Bucci. Raynor didn’t know about Bucci, but Bucci knew of Raynor, and has even warned them to keep a close eye on her. You never know.
“What’s the point then?” Maria took a sip of her coffee, closing her eyes and breathing out a Oh God that hit the spot, before continuing, “Aren’t you guys freakishly good at burning through that? Tolerance and metabolism and all that,”
“The dosage is low for a super, but it’s—”
The agent snorted, bulking for a split second before swallowing the second sip she took from her cup before dumping an ungodly amount of sugar and creamer into it. “A super? Christ, that sounds like something my husband would say,”
Steve blinked, and he realized that Maria was, in fact, wearing a wedding ring. The diamond was square shaped, and it sparkled even in the low light of the observation room whenever she’d move to even breathe. He never noticed it before, and matter of fact, never really thought about the sacrifices everyone was making by just being here to help rehabilitate someone until a few months ago was deemed too far gone to be saved. Why wasn’t Maria home having breakfast with her husband, arguing over who got the last cup of coffee before rushing out the door to their jobs, pausing to give a swift kiss outside the building before parting ways?
“Is he okay? With all this, I mean. You’re here almost all day, Hill, doesn’t he miss you?”
“Who? Barney? God, no. He knew when he married me that my job was important to me. It’s weird, but … it works. All that matters is that we love each other, you know? Well, that and the hour at night when we watch the game together in bed,”
“I don’t know how he does it. I’d be terrified if my wife was around super freaks all day — no offense,” Sam directed that last part towards Steve, and he found that yes, it did offend him, but in a way that meant he was going to be annoying Sam about it for the better part of next week.
“It also helps that he doesn’t know what I do. Nine years of knowing each other and he still thinks I’m a news reporter,” when Natasha raised an eyebrow at her, Maria waved her off, “It helps if you have friends who’d rather gnaw off their foot over watching a broadcast that goes on at three in the morning … allegedly,”
Natasha shook her head, chuckling at the wink that Maria threw at them. “You’re a God among men, Hill. It’s stupid how hard it is to have a dating life in this line of work,”
“Here’s my advice: use an alias. Either here or out there. It helps draw a line between professionalism and your social life, believe me,”
“So is Maria Hill your real name or …?” Claire teased, dragging out the ‘or’ for far longer than needed as Maria and Natasha gave off a hearty laugh.
“I’ll let you figure that one out,”
Claire laughed, and before she could open her mouth to comment, the sounds of a soul-piercing crunching filled the room like a car running over a bag of glass that could only come from one source. It was Bucky, who just shattered his fucking kneecap under his fist. Natasha grabbed the microphone quickly, a set determination in her eyes and a furrowed brow and said, “Barnes, cease injuring yourself further.” No reaction.
On the other side, Bucky stood up and the speakers picked up on the sounds of the bone shifting under his skin, a bright big blob of red soaking his pant leg as he began to swat the air around him. He limped as he went along, hunting down whatever it was that was bothering him, and Steve couldn’t help but wince every time he walked on the knee that was definitely going to need a cast after this. When the other man froze for a couple minutes, body shaking and shuttering and his mouth moving but no sound coming out, Steve finally snapped back to the room, “Open the door, he needs medical attention,”
A thud, and they all stood up as Bucky socked himself in the jaw. Steve grabbed the microphone from Natasha’s hands as she was engrossed in the scene unfolding before her, and forcefully told his best friend, his everything, to stand down and face the wall. An order that they implemented when he arrived, something Bucky was familiar with and usually compiled without hesitation. Steve made sure to explain to him that the order wasn’t to hurt him, but to protect him and those entering the room. (“Because I’m sick?”)
Just as Steve started to speak, a little too hysterical than he intended, Bucky roared at the window with so much rage and hatred that Steve was sure it was going to shatter. Steve had heard the all screaming that Bucky had ever uttered — from the fear of a nightmare, to that of being in the thralls of ecstasy, to that of having his arm dislocated over a fucking computer chip, to that that echoed as he fell to his death — and he’s never felt the same way about any of them as he did about this one. It made him feel afraid. A cold, primitive fear.
Bucky wasn’t here, not right now.
They could only pick up bits and pieces between Bucky’s struggling and screaming, the words not really making sense as he started to slap all over his body as if something were crawling over in and he gagged before continuing, “Of course—l'amor—and swallow and I’ll—the sun—NO!—can’t escape, get them off me—everyone everyone everyone—the Barnes bunch!—OF COURSE!—perchè, perchè—”
Claire was already running out of the room, slamming the button on the archway before running out into the flurry of doctors and agents running towards the cell as the alarms blared, the room before him turning into a dark crimson that only made Bucky get worse and worse. As if snapping from a trance, Steve leaped into action and bursted into the room to find three agents already trying to get Bucky’s arms to still, but it was clear they weren’t going to win this fight. He wasn’t going to let them. Bucky kicked and punched and screamed and cried, but no one seemed to listen to his chanting, begging them to get off him. One of the agents (Georgia? They only met once, when Steve was introduced when the implemented the security for the ward) barked orders at the others around her, taking the brunt of the man’s elbowing and twisting as he attempted to free himself. She looked pointedly at Steve, teeth bloody from a broken nose and grunted, “Fucking help me with him,”
It only took seconds before the Captain ran to him, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist, and hefting him up backwards while dodging Bucky’s attempts to slam the back of his head against Steve’s nose. Holding on to him felt like performing an exorcism, attempting to cast out the bad and the evil from his body, but he quickly reprimanded himself for that train of thought. He wasn’t evil, of course Bucky wasn’t evil, his current state a reflection of all the trauma and pain he suffered, all the years he spent under the thumb of people who treated him nothing more than an animal. The trauma, the drugs, the fucking incarceration were all teaming up against him and Bucky, his love, was trying so goddamn hard to get out from under it. To remember sonnets and poems, to keep the past and the present separate. He’d been doing so good, improving, recovering. Despite the fear, the shakes, the anger that Steve knew lived in him like a ravenous beast ready to pounce and devour them all if Bucky so much as falters.
There was nothing he could do, and no matter the amount of professionals in the room, he knew no one could help them right now. Still, Steve couldn’t stop whispering into the man’s ear, his lips brushing on the shell of the other’s ear. In his efforts to stop the frailing, the desperate efforts of Bucky to get away, Steve pressed his hand firmly on his forehead to keep from being head-budded again. The hand came away damp and hot, the culprit of the episode finally revealed. A fever. A fucking fever that no one caught until now because they all just assumed he was so doped up it must’ve been an oversight.
It was torture, seeing Bucky this way and knowing that this was going to set them back. Set back his recovery, his pardon, his freedom once he’s deemed safe enough to be let back into the public without fear of a complete and devastating relapse.
Set back from him finally giving Bucky a proper bed and all the books he could ever desire.
The brunette man threw his head back in a wail, and Claire took the window of opportunity to stab the sedative into his neck before he could cause anyone any more damage. The medicine was, thankfully, quick and dragged him under without much of a fuss. First it was a twitch, and then his head lolled against Steve’s shoulder and he started to lower them both to the ground, slipping on the blood on the floor as he descended. Bucky smiled up at him, a stark contrast to the tightly closed eyes and snarling from only moments ago, and breathed out something that was definitely not English before uttering, “Beatrice,” and fell limp in his arms as his body released it’s tension.
He looked up at the others around him, and Sam was the first to speak among them all. “What did he say?” he asked hesitantly, patting the back of a passing agent cradling his elbow close to his body while the doctors got to work on helping those injured in the confusion. Steve watched them go, and held Bucky a little tighter.
“It, uh …” Steve blinked, shaking his head to clear out the fog that was starting to set in and drag him down the rabbit hole of blame he so loved to frequent, “It’s a lullaby. His mother was from Naples, she use to sing it to him as a kid,”
“No shit?” Sam muttered, a small grin tugging at his lips. Steve could tell what he was thinking, could see the positivity wheels churning around in his friend’s head, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. “A lullaby and his mom’s name … that’s really great progress, Steve,"
Steve laughed bitterly, looking around at the blood and debris of tactical gear and pens, at the turned over stars lamp that thankfully survived the scuffle. “Yeah,” he paused, “But her name was Winifred,”
The grin turned into a frown, and Steve regretted saying anything at all. It seemed like he was the only one who remembered Mrs. Barnes, her stark lipstick that always left a stain on her son’s cheek whenever he’d leave the house, her voice filling the home in an otherworldly manner that Steve couldn’t fathom was human, and her old book of poems that she rattled off at any given time along with a small rhyme that only she understood in Italian and Napoletan alike. It didn’t matter what her name was, but he was still protective over the information.
Steve shrugged off Sam’s question to who Beatrice was. He never heard Bucky mention a woman named Beatrice before, nor did he recognize any of the Italian he muttered before slipping off. All he knew was that it’s been a long day, and he needed to get Bucky off the cold floor.
It was the least he could do for him.
That night, he slept in the room with Bucky, having created a nest of blankets and pillows and anything else he could find from rummaging around the medical ward. He didn’t want to be further apart from the other man anymore, and even the ride back to his apartment in Brooklyn seemed like the distance from here to the moon right now.
He cleaned the mess on the floor and walls, resituated the lamp back on its perch on a shelf, and laundered Bucky’s sheets. Nothing was wrong with them. He just … thought the other man would appreciate something soft to offset the hardness of everything around him. Sam and Natasha tried to get him to go home, get some shut eye and eat something before returning, but Steve drowned them out. Like he said, he couldn’t stand being apart from Bucky anymore. He had great friends, he knows they’re just looking out for him, but right now he needed to look out for someone he already failed once.
When Bucky was wheeled back in, limp and motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest, he dismissed the nurses with a smile he usually reserved for selfies with fans, and sought to situating his love and his life back on the bed without jolting him too much. His cardigan, the one he brought in in the morning when the autumn air was starting to set in outside, was now on Bucky. He sighed when Steve finished putting it on him, a quirk at the corner of his mouth making the Captain chuckle.
He thought back to what Maria said earlier, about how even though her and her husband rarely saw each other during the day, what mattered most was the time they did get when the world was asleep, and the love they had for the other. Checking his watch, he wondered if they were asleep now, or still watching the game (Hockey, Steve concluded, remembering the mug on her desk that proudly read Vancouver Canucks) and talking about their day. Maria would say it was just fine, confident that her makeup skill covered up the bruise on her cheek that welted from a metal arm to the face, and then allow her husband to recount his day. They’d whisper, ‘I love you’, and settle in for the night.
Would they kiss before bed? Or would they just fall asleep tangled together, the light of the TV still flickering as their day came to an end only to start all over again in the morning?
Quietly, Steve sat up with his back against the side of the cot Bucky was on. His chest rose and fell heavily, the effects of the sedative still lingering, but the exhaustion from today kept him down far longer than he usually managed on a regular night before the nightmares resurfaced. His fingers trailed along his lover’s forehead, sweeping away a stray strand from his eyes, and he watched him sleep before the nagging in the back of his mind finally won over.
His phone was bright in the dark room, the stars lamp doing next to nothing for illumination. Steve had to lower it when Bucky’s face pinched, shifting his casted leg to fit more comfortable on the pillow Steve propped under him. He took him a while to find what he was looking for, having to dig the words out from the part of his brain where the serum made his memory far more retentive compared to a normal person’s. He didn’t dwell on the juxtaposition between the couple.
However, when he did find what he was looking for, he had to set the phone down and take a long shaking deep breath, and resist the urge to crawl into bed with Bucky, to shield him from everything horrible and the pain from the past that still left its scars on his skin.
Tonight, he’ll sleep on the floor with his hand intertwined with his lover’s and think of the nights where they laid pressed together, sharing each other’s warmth, stealing kisses in the candlelight and whispering their first tongue to their first loves as the world slept around them. Just them. As it always has been, and will be. From now, and forever.