Nothing in this mission had gone the way it had been supposed to.
Nothing.
None of them had been meant to get hurt.
A stupid ass fucker to attack Bucky with a needle - succeeding no less - that had not been part of the plan.
Steve hadn’t even pretended to understand what Banner had tried to tell him once they had taken a look at the needle. Steve understood that apparently they had come over a considerate killer - by now dead and of very little use - who labeled his poison darts so you know what to expect. And apparently Bucky had contracted some kind of sex-disease or at the very least something that could only be cured through sex.
It sounded so ridiculous. Like a pun Bucky would have made way back to convince a particularly dim one to give him a blowjob.
It stopped being funny when Bucky doubled over and all but screamed in pain.
And apparently this was not only something that had to be resolved with sex, but with sex with the right partner. The chosen, unique, special someone that neither of them believed in any longer.
Steve could have lived with an endless string of hookers.
He had been ready, willing and able to drag Natasha to Bucky's bed - by her ear, if needs must - and tell her to do something about it. But those two had broken up long ago. Water under an ancient bridge so to speak - under another one.
Steve had to admit that he had very little idea what his friend had gotten up to between missions.
But in theory things should have been helped by now by the no less ridiculous fact that Bucky should have to cry out for his other half - something that would at least have helped a lot with the searching and finding part.
Bucky didn’t. He was screaming himself raw with pain. And if he had as much as a lucid moment he screamed for Steve to fucking kill him already.
It was one thing to see the last link to your past to go through something like that.
It was quite another one to even consider murdering…
He had taken it out on Banner. He knew it was unfair. And he knew there would be hell to pay later. But the doctor had been… relatively supportive of the idea of keeping Bucky alive for another half hour… even if the idea about pain killers was useless. They had shoot Bucky up with enough anesthetic to kill a rhino. And he was still screaming himself raw.
It was only 20 minutes later when Steve returned, wishing it would not have to be him to do this, not in the tower, not with those people around… not with the things he had just thrown together.
But most of all his face must have told anyone else to just shut the fuck up and leave them some room.
Bucky still was a mess. The harsh electric lights only highlighting his suffering. There were beeping monitors, cables, electrodes. And if this was it… Steve tore every single one of them out of the wall. Smashed them with a fervor and swiftness that would give the Hulk a run for his money.
Bruce tried, once, just once, to interfere.
Steve didn’t even look at him. “There is just one thing you need to know: as long as he screams he’s alive. And now fuck off.”
Instead he took out every single lamp using Bucky’s daggers.
And whatever Bruce made of it, he closed the door behind himself and left them to it.
It was dark.
And he was burning all over.
Like someone had skinned him, dumped his skin in acid and had put it back on the wrong way around.
There was a voice in the dark. Almost a whisper. “You can hate me in the morning.” And his mind didn’t wrap itself around it. Didn’t process. Didn’t understand.
He just continued hurting. He was alone. And a part of him understood that there was a very real chance that he would survive, even this, simply because he had survived everything since…
A strange screaming echoed through the dark.
And then, like a beacon of light, a familiar voice. “Sorry Bucky, another power outage. Seems like I forgot to buy candles… yet again.”
There was a kind of silence.
And than that beacon again. “Are you alright?”
No, he wasn’t. There was always something wrong. But this time… “I can’t move my arms.”
“Want me to have a look?”
And the next thing he knew was that he was sitting, on something hard, the floor probably, leaning against… “Stevie?”
The smaller one must have wrapped himself in loads and loads of blankets, to be such a solid presence in Bucky's back. But a part of him understood that he was safe. Here. Because this was the place where he was always safe.
Just for a moment Steve allows himself something as foolish as hope. Hope that he will have to do neither. That he will neither have to kill his best friend nor have to rip his own beating heart out over this.
Because Bucky is quieting down.
It takes him a whole of three seconds to realize that this might be because Bucky is also passing out.
And the only thing even more terrifying than his actual plan is doing all of this with an unconscious man.
So he plucks up courage that is strictly founded in desperation, sneaking his hand over the other man's heart, underneath his sweater, hand right on his skin. The reaction he earns is another soul shredding scream. And a bucking so wild he feels like he tries to calm down a rodeo bull. But he remembers the most important part. The part where he forces his voice so low, it is almost unrecognizable as his, just moving wind, trying to offer a solution.
“I can be whoever you want.”
It sounds like a line from a porn movie. It should be the last thing that gets him interested right now. But a part of him is also halfway sure that this might be it. And if he gets one free wish before dying… he might have a number of shortcomings, but he isn’t that stupid.
Plus, there is a hand over his chest. And where it is his skin hurts just a little less.
He threads it like other people would thread a sponge bath. It isn’t enough. It can’t be enough. But he clings to it like a lifeline.
He is still trying to figure what to do about this, how to go about this, if maybe there should be at least some consideration about his future fate - though that thought is very, very distant - when there is the unmistakable feel of teeth on his neck. A wet tongue trying to sooth the pain. Before doing it all over again.
And this is the moment he splits. Part of him is taking a distant seat to this. Because whatever is happening to him, he isn’t in control here anymore. Because no one, not a single soul on this planet, would get away with biting as vulnerable a part of him as his neck.
But the other part of him is on board with this. He is panting. He is burning. He is bucking like his life depends on it. And that part wants. Underneath all that burning and itching and screaming, all that parts want is someone, just someone to soothe the loneliness away. And if it is a hand and a mouth and the barest hint of stubbles… this is most likely a hallucination anyway. No one would be stupid enough to go and trap the Winter Soldier in the dark…
A third part of him rears his head, looking for death traps and danger, ready, willing and able to kill everything.
And that’s when there is another hand. He doesn’t remember when he started to suck on those fingers. Doesn’t really understand what he is doing anyway. But there is a hand on his chest, not over his heart, holding, but a little to the side, scratching just so over one of his nipples.
He is not sure what his body is doing with this. But he gives himself over as lost. Because this is just a scratch. It shouldn’t get his hormones to explode all over the place. But it does.
And it isn’t enough. It isn’t nearly enough.
And there are those lips on his spine again, a tentative hand on his abs and his skin lights up in an almost unfamiliar way.
It is then that he hears it in an almost far away voice:
“Tell me what to do, Bucky. Tell me what to do…”
And there is only one person left who calls him like that. And this time he is sure about those stubbles on his neck. And while he doesn’t understand how he ended up like this, he doesn’t question it, doesn’t expect an explanation, doesn’t care for one, really.
This is so far out there, that he is sure that even if there was an explanation, he might be too far gone to get it, really.
He doesn’t care what this is. Not when all he has to do is turn around and devour.
The next time Bucky opens his eyes, he finds himself in the dark. There is a barely opened door further on and the slightest promise of light. He is lying on the floor. And his body is a mess of aching muscles and joints.
It almost feels like another punishment for a mission gone wrong.
Or… no… he isn’t like that anymore. His life isn’t like that anymore.
But it is hard to tell, here in the dark.
And just for a moment he wishes for someone, anyone, really, to push into. Just some reassuring human touch that tells the difference even to his sleep riddled brain.
It is a sign of weakness, really.
He finds them mounting up lately.
Strangely his days only seem to start to run smoothly after he laid eyes on Steve at least once.
It hasn’t reached an unignorable level yet, but it had started to become noticeable - at least to him.
Then again: it was still low demand. A look at your self proclaimed best friend. It wasn’t anything unreasonable. All the more if the guy had a tendency to treat you like a raw egg half of the time…
The Asset, the thing he had been before, would have preferred to just wait here for the next order.
And if he did that he was sure to slip back into a blank state - into something where his consciousness could basically only be kick started again by imminent danger or the presence of another human being.
It wasn’t really a problem. Not to him. It was just inconvenient.
Something that happened from time to time.
When he finally decided to move it was incredibly quiet out there.
The brightness wasn’t something his eyes thanked him for either.
And when he finally had gotten a hold on Doctor Banner a part of him actually wished he had stayed in there and hid from the world just a little longer.
Because… “Have sex with me or I’ll die? Even in the old days no dame would have fallen for that.”
“Yeah, well, seems like Steve held your hand through the worst of it.” And while he didn’t remember most of it, Bucky didn’t have to in order to recognize this as the mother of all euphemisms.
He still tried to sound calm. “Where is he?”
Bruce just shrugged with one shoulder. “He decided to not be found for a bit.”
As it turned out ‘for a bit’ meant since half a week and Steve had taken off without any kind of tracker.
Bucky was sure he deserved a breakfast after everything he had been through. He was really sure.
But he also recognized the way everyone was tiptoeing around him. Even Stark. As if that wasn’t a new one.
Skip breakfast. Shower instead.
And if there was one thing he really could have done without it was Romanov creeping up on him.
“Enjoying the view?”
Nothing she hadn’t seen before. Nothing he was too keen on putting on display in front of her.
“What do you intend to do about Steve?”
And for anyone who didn’t know her better it might have sounded… worried. It wasn’t. Bucky was sure of that. And he wasn’t in the mood to play games about this either.
“I am sure he appreciates your worries. But Steve can handle himself.”
Even Bucky had to admit that there was something wrong with that wording. And with all the things Natasha could have said about that… the huff he was getting instead was… remarkable economic.
Bucky had dealt with everyone else. It was remarkable easy. The only one who really had gotten under his skin… was Thor. Go figure.
“I would have thought that Steve would pick himself someone more worthy.”
So, yeah, maybe that had something to do with it. Then again: he wasn’t the best choice for anyone. The way he and Natasha had broken up had proven so for all the others to see. It hadn’t been pretty.
“He needs you and you don’t seem to care.”
He… what? Erm… nope. “Look, he just needs some time alone. Give him a week - or two - and he will reappear.”
Bucky knew Thor had very much wanted to dignify that with an answer. He hadn’t.
One of the rules Steve had laid down included after-mission routines. There was a shower, some food and rest. Not because those things were practical. But because Bucky deserved them. After the bad missions he stuck to the order. After the good missions he used up too much hot water, ate whatever hit his fancy and he would sleep with a blanket and some pillows wherever he saw fit.
This hadn’t been a good mission.
The shower had been short.
The stares of the other had managed to drive him out of the kitchen in under seven minutes.
And rest had been far from restful.
But this had not been a bad mission either. Not in itself.
So Bucky decided for another shower. Because he deserved nice things. And because sleep was out of the question. And because the tower had yet to run out of warm water.
And if he managed to get the water temperature just so it felt good enough to sit down and just rest, here, right under the spray of water…
It felt good.
It felt really good.
Yes, it was wasting water. But he had a phrase for moments like this. After all he had left an arm in the alps to… … … to come back to this.
Something in his mind stuttered. He remembered warmth. He remembered full body contact. And he maybe remembered sighting this into another person's skin.
It was the truth after all.
If he hadn’t self-amputated even those Nazi bastards would not have been able to save him, much less find him in time.
It had been the beginning of a really long nightmare. But he was here now. And things like a warm shower might not really counterbalance all of the things that had happened. Probably nothing ever would. But it was a start. It was something that made pushing through seem rewarding.
And if he really sighted something like that into Steve's skin…
That idiot was incapable of taking “at least I am alive” for what it was: a way to end the conversation, because it was useless to dwell on all the other implications.
In hindsight: it had probably been inevitable that Steve would take it the wrong way. And the fact that Bucky had been too blissed out on Endorphins to care didn’t really make it any better.
And if any of these idiots really believed that going after Steve would help in any way, they clearly knew a different person then Bucky did.
In the end Bucky had decided to hog the couch in the common room area. A book pile that was high enough to reach his hip, warm socks, three neon bright orange blankets, a thermo mug, water, snacks and a lot of lazing around didn’t earn the approval of the others either. But Bucky really wasn’t in the mood to explain himself, much less to these people.
Also: he had to catch up on the fate of the Night’s Watch and that required him to read. Even if after a while his eyes did take on an itchy, kinda woolen quality. Which - granted - was a new one. But it was not his fault if George R.R. Martin had story telling down to an art form to an extend that Bucky found himself practically running through those pages.
It also hadn’t been part of the plan to have Steve take so long to come back that Bucky was by now reading for almost three days straight.
But no matter how much the others tried to rile Bucky up with throw away sentences of “Steve would this…” or “Steve would that…”, just loud enough to interrupt his reading, he knew to remain seated. Because when Steve finally decided to come back he would have to make his way through the common room area, whether he liked it or not. Which would be exactly where Bucky would be waiting.
And maybe 11 a.m. wasn’t the best time for any conversation, but Bucky would have lied if he was to tell the world that he wasn’t glad that his sniper-esque mission was drawing to a close. Probably only temporary, because the couch was swell, but after that much time…
It was also beyond him why no one else seemed to notice the tell tale sound of the Harley finding her place in the underground parking space.
Or the not so subtle way in which Bucky tried to straighten his posture while simultaneously seeming all relaxed and reading.
Steve was bone tired.
He literally felt the tiredness in the marrow of his bones.
He had spend a week razing past crime scenes, anything he could remember and where no one would mind if Steve ruined the surrounding even more. He had spend decidedly more time punching concrete then was healthy or advisable. And that rage inside his lungs just refused to settle.
It felt like he couldn’t expand his ribcage enough to draw a real breath.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
The last time his body had betrayed him like that had also been one of the last times he had been with Bucky.
Been been with him.
Intimate.
Like the pair of hormonal crazy teenagers they had been.
Okay, the had been in their 20s… but Steve was so not ready to bring semantics into this.
The truth was, that he and Bucky had been together, for three weeks, in the middle of May 1943.
Steve hadn’t understood it back then, but it had driven Bucky crazy to allow a guy who wasn’t able to lift a mangle for a neighbor to hold him down and take him apart at the seams.
Steve had been too young and too stupid to trust his luck back then.
And between his inability to get drafted and Bucky being drafted and being less than enthusiastic about it…
They had broken it off three weeks in. And things more or less got back to normal. Including double dates and jokes and what not.
And after Steve had filled out and… they just hadn’t been able to find back to that kind of dynamic.
Friends? Yes. Comrades, who would lay down their life for the other? Sure. But lovers? Never again.
Still, those memories had pulled Steve through some of his darkest hours.
And yes, Steve knew that he had never been impartial when it came to Bucky. That experience hadn’t helped with that issue.
And to have Bucky like that again, even if it was just for a few hours…
Steven had been prepared to lock it away as another memory, something that would be taken out only in his most private moments.
This time Bucky had taken him apart at the seams, mercilessly pushing Steve to his limits and beyond.
And when they both had finally settled, too high and too lazy to do much more then snuggle below a blanket, Bucky had said the one thing that had shattered Steve all over.
I left an arm in the alps for this.
Not lost. Left.
For this. For imagining that Steve was tiny again and his to have.
And it would have been okay.
If only Steve’s mind didn’t supply the images.
Not just of… leaving .
But of what was bound to follow.
A blister could kill you back then.
To lose an arm…
Even if Bucky had made it, if a sepsis had not killed him… to live with an artificial limb that would stigmatize him for all to see without any semblance of functionality…
It wasn’t the first time Steve felt humbled by Bucky's relentless will to push through.
He himself hadn’t lasted a week after losing Bucky.
Bucky had fought for a home worth coming back to. And Steve… Steve didn’t feel like he would ever be able to contribute enough to this endeavor.
Or that he should be allowed to contribute in the first place.
And here lay the real problem.
Bucky had wanted Steve that night. There had been enough indicators. Names, touches, words… oh, all those words. Steve had forgotten just how verbal Bucky could be if someone gave him the right incentive.
It might have been dark in there. But Bucky had painted with words. The old couch in their rat infested apartment, that photo booth near Conney Island, a dingy hotel in the alps that probably didn’t even exist anymore… by the time Bucky had voiced the idea of stalking up to Steve during one of his trainings and taking him apart with nothing but that punching bag for Steve to cling onto for support… Steve had felt it, those three words he could not hold in any longer… And the room had stilled and Steve's mind had frantically tried to come up with an excuse, anything that would allow them to make it out unscathed… hands groping, arms holding, his mouth trying to form the words that would maybe… and then, there, with his fifth orgasm not yet entirely faded, Steve had felt lips on his. Not the frantic fumbling, not a devouring of flesh. No, a kiss. A real human contact. And for a moment Steve's heart had sung and he had allowed himself something as foolish as hope, that maybe this… Steve had been too tarnished to hope for forever. But he would have gladly taken “as long as it lasts”.
Needless to say, Steve was still that little punk who couldn’t trust his own luck.
He felt horrible for running the first chance he had.
He would have felt horrible for staying if it had been unwanted.
He couldn’t face this yet.
Even if he was slowly running out of crime scenes to raze.
Then again: what kind of choice did he have, really? Sooner or later Steve would have to go back and learn to deal with whatever Bucky was willing to offer.
And there was the real problem. Because back in the day Bucky would have known what to do.
Bucky had learned remarkably early that it was no use to track Steve. Instead he would wait, stay put in their tiny apartment. And whenever Steve finally showed himself again the other one would know to crack a joke or lighten the mood in another way and things soon straightened themselves out.
Steve never had that kind of focus. He needed to move, try to get things done.
And now, coming back to a person he could no longer read…
Putting it off would not make this any easier.
It wouldn’t help Bucky’s mood.
And Steve slowly came to accept that no amount of fretting would prepare him for the possibility of losing Bucky all over again.
His way back to the tower had been far from a straight line. It wasn't something he was proud of, but not only did he cherish a few more moments of hope, he also needed the time to... basically he needed the time to steel himself. Because while Captain America could survive most of anything, Steve Rogers could not. And the longer he had looked into that particular abyss the surer he had been that this had the potential to shatter him for good.
Not knowing how far he would or wouldn't be able to avoid Bucky had been another problem.
Of course he could have asked Jarvis. But that came with the added disadvantage of being announced. And… He just didn't Trust his face enough, yet alone his voice to risk alerting everyone to his presence at once.
Yes, his room could only be reached via the commons room - an arrangement Stark had used surprisingly often to stop Steve when he was about to hole himself up in a foul mood - but a man can hope.
While he approached he tried to place the voices he could hear. Nat, Bruce, Thor. Clint may or may not be there, since he was usually unresponsive until his third coffee - unless the world really needed his help.
It seemed safe enough.
Which was all the more reason to feel like the carpet had been pulled from under his feet when he walked in on Bucky being covered in an abomination of orange fluff and coziness.
People had made him see Sherlock - that British series - and he remembered jokes about shock blankets. Which wasn’t what he really wanted to focus on. Because he remembered this. Remembered coming home to Buck reading.
It couldn’t be real.
Don’t get your hopes up. The crash will only hurt that much more… but…
Steve wasn’t sure what his face did. Nor did he want to examine too close just why his throat made a noise closer to a dying cat right then. And he really didn’t care for the fading chatter of the others. Because Bucky lifted the corner of that blanket, all but inviting Steve. It had to be an invitation. Because they had done that. Before. After fights. Bucky had joked in an off handed way more then once that as soon as Steve had his octopus like grip on someone, one of the few things that would be able to dislodge him again would be a crowbar. They used to have this. And it looked so… nostalgic. Too nostalgic. Too close to home. Steve didn’t trust…
“You are letting out all the warmth, punk.”
Another dying cat sound. And Steve’s feet carried him long before his mind could settle on any words to add to this.
So instead he just pressed his face to what used to be Bucky’s warmest body part: his stomach. All but trying to press his face through the cotton right into Bucky’s core. The sounds he made were unintelligible, even to himself. He knew they had to be an alternating string of “I am sorry” and “I am so so sorry” because the idea of begging for forgiveness was too far out there to be even real. Nothing would ever make up for that metal arm Steve’s hair nudged against. It only served to make his babbling more frantic.
“Get your ass under the blanket, Rogers. You just catch pneumonia again.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Steve didn’t get colds anymore, much less a pneumonia, but it was so close to all his memories, he just turned to sobbing harder.
And Bucky - bless his long suffering soul - simply took his metal arm and hoisted Steve onto the couch. It took some maneuvering, but eventually Steve found himself wrapped in warmth and the smell of Bucky, his face buried so far down that all he saw had taken on a tint of orange.
Steve did the octopus thing. He couldn’t have helped it, even if he had wanted to try. And Steve very much didn’t.
His body was too busy to shake itself apart and Bucky did the kind thing by simply laying a hand on Steve’s back and waiting things out. Steve could only assume that Bucky still pretended to read, probably more for the sake of everyone else then for himself. Bucky had always found a way to wait Steve out. And so Steve simply clung on for dear life and tried his best to draw a real breath into his lungs, held together mainly by a single gentle hand placed on his back.
And Steve still tried to hold impossibly tighter, knowing damn well he might have bruised anyone else's ribs by now. But Bucky just took it. And as slowly but surely his shaking subsided Steve willed his lungs to lock away the smell of Bucky. Willed his hands to memorize the curves he had not really had a chance to hold in way too long.
And as his hands slowly, almost shyly started to wander, there was a rustling of a crisp bag or of something of the like.
And Steve started to shake all over again, as a very casual voice informed him “You are only going to get one treat, Rogers. Either your Crisps or me. Take a pick.”
And still Steve did not dare to hope. But it was so… it was something. He could have Bucky if he ignored his queasy stomach just a little bit longer. He could do that. And almost before his mind came to that conclusion his hand had already curled into the thin cotton of Bucky’s shirt. It would do. It would do forever.
And only with a bit of delay did he realize that Bucky had just offered an out and Steve hadn’t taken it. And it didn’t sound like flirting. But it might as well have been their very own version of it. And as long as he didn’t have to look anyone in the eyes…
Slowly, minutely, Steve’s hands started to wander. Unable to leave things well enough alone. Just to check, be sure, probing, exploring, savoring in a way that he hadn’t been able to before.
Of course things could not last.
There was a very pointed cough, coming from the other side of the blanket.
And Steve’s hands stilled.
“That isn’t my hip bone, Rogers, and you damn well know it.”
Well… yes, he did. It had kinda been the point. He would not have been himself without his god given inability to stop pushing at boundaries.
And Bucky had promised him a treat.
Steve found that he needed to see Bucky face to gauge this conversation. And after a bit of careful wiggling he was there again, his nose barely leaving the warm cushion of the blanket. And Bucky - that perfect, infuriating man - still focused more on his book then on anything else. Through Steve was sure that he saw the hint of a smile somewhere on that otherwise neutral face.
It might have been wishful thinking, because Bucky was still as casual as one could be.
“Well, Rogers, someone ” and there was enough stress in that word to make Steve try to fold in on himself a little more, because there was no missing who that one might be “made me wait three days on the couch. And your friend already think me plenty of strange for not going after you in an ill fated attempt of finding you before you made up your mind to be found.” And there may or may not be an additional flex to Steve’s muscles, because the idea of coming home to anything other than this… “So I am most definitely not putting on a show in full view of the kitchen and Stark's favorite TV set.” Which was all fair and that, but Steve had hoped… ah, this time he definitely didn’t imagine that slight upward curve of the corner of Bucky’s lips. “You got any other plans for today, you pick a room, as in mine or yours, and we take this elsewhere. Understood?”
Steve heard how small his own voice has gotten by the time he manages to mumble a half audible “Mine?”
Bucky nodded and got back to reading.
It almost seemed as if that was the end of the conversation when Bucky asked, almost like an afterthought, “Anything particular you need there?”
And Steve was honest to god glad no one could see his face right now. Because… well… “You said it didn’t matter anymore.” That sentence at the very least grabbed Bucky’s attention, as he casts a curious sideway glance at the human octopus still firmly wrapped around his torso. “Whether I am quiet… or…”
Steve isn’t made to talk like this. He is also acutely aware of all the people who might potentially be listening in.
But the spreading grin on Bucky’s face would have been more then answer enough. “Sounds like something I would say.”
And before Steve can snuggle impossibly closer still, trying to figure out how to move two deeply intertwined people from a to b, there is a particular rakish grin on Bucky’s face that Steve hadn’t seen in way too long, much less had been the reason for. “You and I, we both know you haven’t been taking care of yourself, Rogers. And you know what happens when you do that. We are not moving anywhere before you started to catch up on at least some sleep. And by the time you are all sleep mussed, we take this show to the kitchen, where I will proceed to get at least 800 calories into you. And we both know you are a picky eater. So if that broccoli goes down better with ice cream, I am more then willing to indulge you. Just know that the calories of the ice cream will not be counted.” Which was a move Bucky had used before the war more often than not. You need to eat Stevie, and snacking doesn’t count. It had been surprisingly effective if the aim had been to turn Steve into a human vacuum cleaner where food was concerned. It had never really led to more body weight. But it hadn’t matter. Because back then just as now Bucky had also promised to try and wear Steve out and restart the entire thing again.
They would need to stock up on food. A lot. And other things.
Because for all of Bucky’s high and mighty attitude and while he was a pro when it came to taking care of Steve, he wasn’t the best when it came to taking care of himself. And Steve would spend a huge amount of time trying to get food into the other one as well. Which would of course only be the start… But it was the promise of “later” that finally convinced Steve to shut his eyes and get some rest while also clinging onto the one thing he would never be able to earn, but to which he was determined to cling on to anyway.