Bucky was tired of the goddamned rain.
It was a constant presence in northern Italy during that slow transition from fall to winter, and Bucky was tired of it, tired of the perpetually gray sky that broke open every few hours into downpours that chilled him to the bone. He was tired of the cold, tired of the way the freezing water that gathered on the ground always seemed to leach into his socks and leave him shivering and wet even in the brief moments when the weather relented and allowed them a few hours of clear sky.
Even more so, he was tired of the shiver that seemed to run through his brain every time he had to splash through mud puddles up to his knees, not from the cold but from the memories it brought back of the last time he’d spent fall in Italy — of the fetid water that gathered on the floors of the trenches, of the reek of illness mixed with gunpowder mixed with fear, of the 107th trapped and outnumbered on the battlefields of Azzano, watching their rations dwindle and their friends fall one by one as they waited for backup that would never come.
Beyond that, he was just tired. It was hard to fucking sleep when letting his guard down and closing his eyes inevitably sent him spiralling back to the hell he’d endured after the fight at Azzano, after the mud and the cold and the trenches. He’d take being jumpy and exhausted but awake over having to even think about what had happened on that HYDRA doctor’s table.
So he was tired in more ways than he could count, really, but it was easier just to blame it on the rain.
Bucky curled and uncurled his toes in his damp boots, trying in vain to restore feeling to feet that had long since gone numb. He’d been out in the rain for hours, stationed on a forested outcropping near the place where the Commandos had set up camp for their latest mission, ceaselessly scanning the terrain beyond for anything out of the ordinary. His eyelids were getting increasingly heavy for want of sleep, and kept trying to drift shut of their own accord, but that was nothing a quick pinch to his arm and a shake of his head couldn’t fix. There was an important job to be done, and he was the only one doing it.
(Steve had told him not to worry, that his ears were so sharp he’d be able to hear it if there was a threat nearby, but Bucky knew better. They’d been caught unawares at Azzano. Bucky wasn’t ever going to let something like that happen again.)
The sky was just beginning to fade to dark, and the rain that had been plaguing them on and off all day was starting up again. Bucky bowed his head against it, watching droplets fall to meet his boots as he tried to shield his eyes from the stinging water. He realized a moment too late that the position only served to expose the back of his neck to the elements. He yanked his head back up, but not before a couple of icy raindrops had splattered against his bare skin, finding their way under his collar and running down his back. The feeling was dreadfully similar to that of cold, gloved fingers probing at him, and Bucky screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the rush of memories as they flooded back to him —
He’s on a table, immobilized by some sedative they’ve pumped into the crook of his arm, but he can still feel. He feels everything.
“Just hold still, relax. This won’t hurt a bit.” The doctor’s talking to him, trying to calm him down, but he’s lying. He always does. It always hurts.
They’re doing something to him, and Bucky can’t see it, but his blood is turning to fire inside him and he’s screaming and he knows he’s dying but the doctor is smiling he’s smiling and his teeth are so fucking sharp and this is the last goddamn thing Bucky’s ever going to see and oh god why won’t it stop —
“Hey, sarge!”
Bucky whipped around so fast he felt his neck crack, fumbling for the rifle he had balanced on his shoulder with fingers too wet and numb to function. (God he’d been stupid, so stupid, he should have had the thing ready, should have known they were coming back for him…)
“Barnes?”
Bucky stopped panicking over his gun long enough to really look at the person talking to him. It was only Morita, standing frozen with his hands up in a half-mocking, half-genuine gesture of surrender.
“Just me, man,” he said warily, eyeing the spot where Bucky’s shaking fingers were white-knuckling his rifle. “Supposed to come tell you Cap wants you back at camp.”
Bucky nodded jerkily, heart still going a mile a minute. He was painfully overaware of every shadow around him, every blind spot that might be concealing an enemy.
“What about…” Bucky gestured to the forest around them, the post that would be left unguarded and vulnerable if he headed back to camp.
“Think Cap’s got it covered. Y’know, super hearing, or whatever. And he said not to take no for an answer, so…”
So Bucky’s fate was sealed. He knew from experience that nothing good came of trying to stand in the way of Steve and his unyielding stubbornness.
Still, even as he turned to head back to camp, the back of Bucky’s neck was prickling, adrenaline pumping wildly just under his crawling skin. He couldn’t help thinking that there was something out there, something that, for whatever reason, nobody else could see, but something real and terrible nonetheless. He kept throwing quick, furtive glances over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, but every time he looked there was nothing. Just shadows and the unrelenting rain.
“You need to eat.”
Bucky glowered at the food Steve was offering him, another can of the tasteless K-ration paste they carried with them on long missions like these. It beat starving, but only just. (Bucky would know. He’d experienced both.)
The Commandos had managed to pitch camp under the overhanging branches of a pine tree with boughs so dense they were able to build a fire beneath it despite the rain. Jones and Morita sat enjoying their dinner on one side of the fire, while Steve and Bucky were on the other, both pretending not to notice Bucky jumping every time the wood of the fire popped and crackled.
Refusing to meet Steve’s eyes, Bucky reached out to take the can he was being offered. It quickly became impossible to hide just how much his hands were shaking when he tried to bring the container to his lap and a few splatters of its contents jumped over the edge to land in the mud below.
“Hey.” A hand came to rest on Bucky’s knee. The gesture was probably supposed to be soothing, but Bucky hadn’t seen it coming past the exhausted droop of his eyelids, and the sudden contact shocked him. He jerked away before he could fully process what was happening, sending another wave of pasty K-ration over the lip of the can.
Reeling from the unexpected touch, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist, the bite of his fingernails into his palm helping to ground him in time and place.
He was at camp. With the Commandos. With Steve. Not in the trenches. Not in… well. Not anywhere else. Not anywhere worse.
Bucky pried his eyes open to take in the scene before him. Gabe and Jim were still sitting on the opposite side of the smoldering campfire, staring down into their own rations and studiously avoiding even looking at Bucky. They’d both been overseas long enough to know shell shock, long enough to know better than to single Bucky out for something he couldn’t help, something they’d all been through.
Steve, however, hadn’t been there. He hadn’t stormed the beaches or fought in the trenches or worked in the factory or screamed himself hoarse on Zola’s table. He was Captain America, and Captain America would never know the raw and rabid fear of what it meant to be an ordinary man going to war.
Oblivious, Steve reached out again, his warm hand finding Bucky’s knee and coming to rest there. This time Bucky forced himself not to pull away. He looked to Steve’s face, watching the light of the fire play over his features and warp them until the softness in his eyes was drowned out by the harsh, flickering shadows. Bucky wasn’t sure which one was worse, the shadows or that aching softness beneath, but he felt a chill run down his spine all the same.
“What’s wrong?” Steve asked softly, like Bucky was a lost child or a wounded animal and not a soldier with years of experience behind him and a gun at his feet. Something about his tone sent anger flaring up in Bucky’s chest. He did his best to shove it down, swallowing it under a nausea-inducing mouthful of K-ration and avoiding Steve’s question entirely.
“Come on, Buck. Talk to me. I know something’s not right. You’re all jumpy, you aren’t sleeping, you look just about dead on your feet…”
Steve was still talking, but it wasn’t anything Bucky wanted to hear, and just keeping hold of the thread of the conversation felt like far more effort than it was worth. Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, just trying to tune Steve out. Soon he wasn’t even able to differentiate between the words Steve was saying, just found himself lost... in the familiar cadence of Steve’s voice... and the enticing heat of the fire... and…
“Bucky.”
Bucky jolted awake, just catching himself from falling forward off the log he’d been sitting on and onto the muddy ground. Steve had reached out lightning-fast to keep Bucky’s dinner from tumbling to the dirt once Bucky had started sliding into sleep, and he stayed frozen in the position in which he’d caught it, gaping in bewilderment as he watched Bucky struggle back upright.
“Yeah, ‘m listening,” Bucky mumbled, reaching up a hand to rub at his eyes in an effort to wipe away the sting of fatigue that kept forcing his eyelids closed.
“Buck, you just… you’re exhausted.”
Bucky shrugged as impassively as he could through the tiredness that was weighing him down and making even simple motions harder than usual. “‘S fine. Just need a second, then I can go back out there.”
“Tell me you’re not even thinking of going back out on watch!” Steve said sternly. “Seriously, you’ve been covering us all day. You need to rest.”
“No!” Bucky shot to his feet, the ferocity of his response surprising even him. He was uncomfortably aware of all the eyes now on him, not just Steve’s but Jones’s and Morita’s too. Everyone sat stock-still, gazes glued to Bucky and his heaving chest and shaking hands. Under their scrutiny, he clenched his fists, mouth twisting into something bitter and ugly.
“Get some rest, sarge,” Gabe said quietly, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. “We’ve got this.”
Bucky’s heart dropped with something almost like betrayal. Gabe knew what could happen out here. He’d been there though hell, through the whole sequence of events that led up to Bucky, too sick to stand, getting dragged away for experimentation. He’d almost certainly been close enough to hear Bucky scream. Of all people, he should have understood.
“I don’t -” Bucky started, but his mind felt slow, like all the weeks of shirking on sleep were catching up with him all at once. He swayed a little where he stood, and had to reach out to a nearby tree trunk to right himself.
“He’s right, Bucky,” Steve whispered. “If - if it’s really that important, I’ll take over your post for you. Okay?”
Of the three pairs of eyes currently staring at him, Steve’s were the hardest to meet. He was looking at Bucky like he barely even knew him, like this new and strange version of him that had been rearing its ugly head more and more since Austria was someone to be afraid of.
“Promise me you’ll keep watch.” Bucky hated himself for how much his voice trembled, but he needed to know. He needed Steve’s word.
“I promise,” Steve said carefully, wide eyes still locked on Bucky’s face.
“And if anything happens, you’ll - you’ll make sure I -”
“I told you, Buck. I promise. Now go get some rest.”
Bucky cast one last look around at the faces ringing the campfire, looking for one of them to hold the solution, the remedy for everything terrified and wrong that was building up inside him. Met with nothing but mute bewilderment, Bucky turned on his heel and stormed back to his tent.
He tried to hold out, he really did. Over the past few weeks, once the memories of Azzano and everything unspeakable that happened after had started feeding fast and unprompted into his subconscious, he’d gotten good at keeping himself awake, even when the exhaustion was absolutely crippling. That was exactly what he planned to do now, just go back and sit in his tent for a few hours to satisfy Steve, then head out to keep his watch.
Tonight, though, his body finally got the better of him. The steady buildup of fatigue, not just over the past few weeks but over the years, over the whole goddamn war, was going on insurmountable, and Bucky was at the very end of his rope. He entered his tent, collapsed on his bedroll, and, before he could help it, found himself falling into a hopeless, fitful sleep.
For a moment, it was bliss. But then came the dreams.
He’s marching shoulder to shoulder with his men through the trees but it’s not just trees there’s something in them and he knows the men aren’t safe they’re not safe and he’s trying to warn them but they’re not listening and he’s screaming and -
There are a thousand eyes boring into Bucky’s back and it’s because they’re not trees they’re enemy soldiers and he’s surrounded and oh god how did he let this happen it’s his fault and he’s screaming and -
He’s trying to run but it’s raining it’s a goddamn thunderstorm and his boots are stuck in the mud and he can’t move he’s going to die here he knows it and the trees are getting closer but they’re not trees they’re soldiers and they’re coming for him and he’s screaming and -
He’s sinking down and down into the mud into the earth into the trenches and the thunder is getting louder but it’s not thunder it’s a bombing and it’s too close and he has to duck but he can’t he’s still stuck in the mud and he’s screaming and -
The walls are closing in on him and he can’t breathe and he knows where this is going it always fucking goes there and he can’t stop it and he can feel him standing there the doctor with his sharp teeth and the walls look like a cell or a hospital or maybe a morgue and he’s screaming and -
He’s on the table and it hurts worse than anything and he’s alone and he’s crying for Steve and for his Ma and for any god that’ll listen until it’s so much he can’t even think and it just hurts so fucking bad and he’s screaming and -
Bucky woke himself up screaming.
He quickly clapped his hands over his mouth, trying to desperately to smother the noise, his ragged scream turning to muffled whimpers in his sweaty palms as he fought to come back to himself, to calm down.
He was finally awake, he knew that much, but even wakefulness wasn’t proving much better than the dreams he’d just pulled himself out of. His heart was pounding wildly, his breathing shallow and erratic. The tent was dark, and the walls were too close, looming over him like they were ready to fall in on him and trap him back in the awful nightmare with nothing but his sickening panic for company. With a strangled cry, Bucky kicked at the tangled blankets of his bedroll that were keeping him tied down and suffocated. He broke free, panting, and burst out of his tent into the open air.
It was cold. That alone woke Bucky up enough to get back in touch with his surroundings. In the time that he’d been asleep, the campfire had burned out, leaving the circle of tents completely shrouded in darkness. Well, not completely, Bucky noticed - it was all dark save the glow of a single lamp emanating from a point just beyond their little encampment, on the edge of the outcropping where Bucky had spent the day keeping watch. Bucky stumbled towards it like a moth to a flame, hardly caring what the light was or who it belonged to. The worst of his nightmares were set in the dark, alone. He’d do anything to stave off that darkness, still looming over him and threatening to swallow him whole.
As Bucky approached the lamp, a silhouette came into view, broad shoulders and a square jaw standing out against the trees beyond. Steve was sitting dutifully at the post, a rifle leaned up against one of his sturdy shoulders as he attentively scanned their surroundings. The terror gripping Bucky’s chest loosened its hold a little. Of course Steve had kept his promise.
Moving quietly so as to not wake the other guys, Bucky made his way over to Steve. He could tell from the slight stiffening of Steve’s already straight posture that he knew Bucky was approaching, but he didn’t look over, just kept staring at the trees as Bucky took a seat on the log beside him.
“Thought you were going to sleep,” Steve said, his breath drifting out in clouds that matched the still-overcast sky. Bucky shivered, drawing his hands into the arms of his shirt.
“Slept long enough,” he muttered. He knew the slight slur of his words undermined their sentiment, but he still meant them. He was so goddamn tired that he wasn’t even sure sleep could fix it anymore.
“Really? Coulda fooled me,” Steve said. “Starting to look like you got in a fight and lost with all that purple around your eyes. Aren’t you tired? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky sighed, running his heavily trembling hands over his face. The lingering panic of the nightmare paired with the cold and frustration and god knew what else had his whole body practically vibrating with tension.
“And look at your hands - they’re shaking. I can tell you’re exhausted.”
“‘M fine.” Bucky quickly crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide the tremors, but they were only getting worse, migrating from his hands up his arms and turning to breathless nausea in his chest.
“You’ve got to sleep, Buck. Why don’t you just go back to bed and -”
“I can’t , Steve, please -”
“Bucky, come on. This isn’t healthy. You’re hurting yourself.”
Bucky’s teeth were starting to buzz, tension building and building and building everywhere his body could possibly hold it.
“Besides, it’s gonna start getting in the way of the mission. I’ve got a responsibility here, y’know? I can’t let you put yourself or the rest of us in danger.”
“Steve, I’m not gonna - ”
“Look, I’m in charge here, remember? I’m giving an order, and you’ve gotta -”
“Steve?” The tension in Bucky’s body was reaching a breaking point, rising up and sealing off his chest until he was barely able to suck in a breath. Something was going to have to give.
“Are you listening to me? That’s an order, Bucky. An ord -”
“Steve.”
Bucky just barely managed to squeeze the word out before his lungs sealed off completely.
“Wha - oh. Oh god.”
The world was quickly fuzzing out of focus, but Bucky was able to tell that Steve had dropped his gun to the ground and moved to kneel in front of him, his eyes wide and echoing back the panic Bucky could feel wracking his own body.
“What’s going on? Can you talk to me?”
“I can’t -” Bucky gasped for air, fought for it like he had when he was strapped to Zola’s table and dying of pneumonia. The memory only tightened his chest further.
“I can’t breathe.”
“No you’re - you’re fine, you’re okay. Just take a deep breath for me, come on…”
But Bucky was too far gone to listen. He could see Steve’s mouth moving, knew he was saying something, but his voice was fully drowned out by the pounding of blood in Bucky’s ears, the ragged sounds of his panicked breath as he tried and failed to suck air into closed-off lungs. Bucky’s trembling hands were clenching into tight fists around his knees, like bracing them there could keep him from flying apart entirely.
“Steve…” he squeaked out between fruitless gasps for air. None of their earlier anger felt significant anymore. In that moment, Bucky needed Steve more than he could remember needing anything.
Bucky felt Steve’s hands come to meet his own clenched fists, rubbing gentle circles into the backs of them with his thumbs. The relief of the grounding touch was immediate, but it wasn’t enough to loosen the tight vice of panic still wrapped around Bucky’s lungs. His head lolled forward as stars started to fly at the edges of his vision, hyperventilation sending him dangerously close to blacking out.
“...got you, Bucky, I’ve got…”
Steve’s hands were at his shoulders now, trying to straighten out his airway, but the touch was too much for Bucky to take. He felt his shoulders hunch further forward as one of his desperate inhalations morphed into a gag, and suddenly his meager rations were making a reappearance, lurching up and splattering against the dirt. Vomit burned his throat and the back of his nose, and Bucky choked on a sob as tears borne of both the pain and the humiliation started to sting his eyes. He didn’t think he could possibly feel any worse.
“Alright… gonna be alright…” Steve’s voice was coming through to him in waves, like a radio with a shoddy signal. Bucky desperately tried to listen over the harsh sounds of his own frantic breathing.
“...with me, Bucky, okay? One… two…”
Bucky tried to match Steve’s pace, but slowing his breath made him uncomfortably aware of the wild palpitations of his heart. He bit back a whimper.
“You’re okay,” Steve soothed. “Doing so good, Buck. In with me again, one, two…”
Desperate for relief, Bucky tried to do as he was told, but thinking about it only made it harder to relax.
“Just match me, honey. Focus on me, not anything else.” Bucky finally met Steve’s eyes, wide and full of worry. He pulled in half a breath.
“That’s it. Breathe with me, just like that.”
Bucky tried and kept trying until somewhere along the line it stopped feeling like trying at all, until it was just the rising and falling of his and Steve’s chests in tandem, until they were in sync with each other just the way they always had been. Finally, Bucky could fill his lungs without a fight.
“You with me?” Steve asked as Bucky wound down. Bucky managed a shaky nod in response.
Steve got carefully to his feet, maneuvering around the puddle of sick on the ground to come sit next to Bucky on the log, so close that their shoulders pressed together, so close that Bucky could still sense the rhythm of Steve’s breathing through his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, his worried eyes tracing the tears still running down Bucky’s face. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
Bucky shrugged wearily and ducked his head. He ran his sleeve over his face, trying to at least wipe away the remains of vomit from around his mouth and nose. The rest of his face was still wet with tears and panicky sweat, but there was no sense in even trying to wipe it dry. Steve had already seen. Steve already knew just how deep his brokenness went.
“Do you… do you want to talk? Tell me what’s wrong?”
Bucky breathed deeply and let out a long sigh, watching his breath fog up and float towards the sky as he contemplated what he wanted to say. When everything was wrong, what did it even matter what he had to say about it?
“I just…” he started, pulling for words that weren’t quite there. Steve looked to him expectantly, but he truly couldn’t come up with anything. Somewhere along the line, in the midst of all the fighting and killing and starving and bleeding and torture, he’d lost the ability to fit words to the things he was seeing. The whole war was just a blank, insurmountable horror, consuming him until it felt like there was hardly anything left.
“I’m just really fucking tired,” he finished hollowly.
Steve looked like he was about to say something else, but at the last second he changed his mind, instead just offering Bucky a sad look and a slow nod. He raised an arm to drape it around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him closer, into the glow of warmth that always seemed to be radiating off his new post-serum body. Bucky stiffened for a moment against the touch, but Steve’s arm felt so good wrapped around him that he eventually felt himself relax, leaning his head down to rest against the space between Steve’s collarbone and his neck. He hadn’t realized it was possible to need comfort so much.
A gust of icy wind blew by, bringing with it something cold and wet, a few droplets of freezing water landing on the back of Bucky’s exposed neck. He shivered, burrowing further into Steve.
“Goddamn tired of the rain,” he muttered, throat closing up like he was about to cry again. Couldn’t catch a fucking break, he thought bitterly.
“Buck, look.” Steve nudged Bucky gently. Bucky raised his head to see, not another bout of rain, but a flurry of white flakes falling softly to the ground.
“It’s snowing,” Steve said, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Watching snowflakes drift down to rest in Steve’s hair and decorate the tips of his eyelashes, Bucky almost felt like smiling back. He might have, if his eyelids weren’t starting to feel so heavy.
“C’mere,” Steve murmured, watching Bucky blink slowly, his tired eyes staying closed just a little longer each time. He tugged Bucky closer to his chest, rubbing up and down his arm and leaving a trail of enticing warmth in the wake of his hand. “Why don’t you stay out here with me tonight, huh? Might help you relax, get some sleep.”
“Don’t wanna… go back… keep remembering…” Bucky slurred. He only half-registered the words coming out of his mouth. Exhaustion was slowing him down again, pulling him further into the warmth of Steve’s chest. “Don’t wanna be alone.”
“Yeah,” Steve said softly. “I’m not gonna leave you. Not ever. ‘Til the end of the line, right?”
Bucky was floating, drifting just a little too far away to form words in response. Yes, he thought. Yes, I love you. ‘Til the end.
That was what he meant, at least, when he sighed softly against Steve’s chest, panic receding to something low and dormant as he melted into the safety of Steve’s arms, into the soft kiss he felt Steve press against his hair. With the snow falling gently around them, blanketing the ground until the world looked soft and clean and new, Bucky let his eyes fall closed and slipped into a peacefully dreamless sleep.