Hold Onto Me (Cause I'm a Little Unsteady)

Three days after he leaves Wakanda Bucky has a full blown panic attack. It's sudden and unexpected and it utterly wrecks him for a solid twenty minutes. There had been no lead up, no warning, nothing; one minute everything was fine and then next he was crumpled against the bathroom wall trying his hardest not to run for the door.

They had been in the city for less than a week when it happened. He'd been standing in the bathroom, staring at the medicine cabinet and still trying to figure out how all of this was going to work. He's living with Steve now, sharing a bed and an apartment with him, and it's all so domestic it puts him on edge. He hasn't lived with someone in decades and the idea of a shared space, even with Steve, makes him a bit anxious. Close proximity is not something he's used to and it's something he usually tends to avoid; close proximity with him usually ends in blood and broken bones. It's what he had been trained for, what he was used for, and now he'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous about the apartment situation. Not for his own sake but for Steve's.

Steve's apartment is a little small but it's more than enough for the two of them. In spite of all his initial hesitation, Bucky is surprised how easy it is to fall back into the familiar pattern of living with Steve; they'd shared an apartment before the war so this wasn't much different. It was less of a learning process and more of a re-learning process by this point. Bucky can't quite bring himself to relax though, no matter how familiar it feels. He walks on eggshells for the first two days, his movements measured and tightly controlled. Small area, confined space with limited exits and escape routes; he has to convince himself nearly once an hour that he's not on the run anymore and that this place is as safe as any.

Steve never falters around him, not once. He's patient and calm at all times, endlessly supportive and unquestioning. He knows what Bucky has been through and what he's still going through, he doesn't shy away from any of it. He still hates what Hydra did to him, the abuse and trauma they inflicted. The rage and guilt and despair of all of it still hits him in the chest like a lead ball, sinking deep to his core every time he thinks about it. He refuses to let them have any more control over him though, focusing every ounce of his energy into helping Bucky heal and regain some sense of autonomy.

He treats him the same as he always has, playful teasing and soft kisses. It's not like he's pretending nothing happened, he just doesn't treat him any differently because of it. He doesn't treat him like he's damaged or broken, like he's different in any way. He knows Hydra was responsible for deep emotional and psychological scars, some of which may never heal fully, but that does nothing to affect Steve's behavior toward him. He doesn't use kid gloves or treat Bucky like he's made out of broken glass (which Bucky appreciates), he treats him as the same man he's always been.

Bucky does the same for the most part, or at least he tries to. He doesn't think he's making that much progress regardless of how many people tell him he is. He still feels stunted and hindered in most of his behavior, years of strict restraint pushing back against every attempt at free will. It takes a long time for him to realize that an expression outside of blank neutrality won't be met with pain and punishment. He's gotten better at it, whether he believes it or not, and Steve is nothing but positive. He's patient and encouraging, telling him over and over not to force it and to just take his time. That's one thing they impressed on him during the months he spent in Wakanda: everything just takes time.

After he had been brought out of cryostasis (a decision Bucky was firmly against at first in spite of T'Challa's repeated reassurances that locking himself away would be more harmful than good) he had been turned over to a team of doctors and scientists whose sole purpose was to help him recover. Steve was there when he woke up, all warm, gentle smiles and calm words of encouragement. He was there every day, becoming a constant, calming presence in an otherwise tumultuous process.

The first task, admittedly the easiest, was repairing his arm. A biomedical engineer by the name of Ghere meets with him with it the day after he comes out of cryo, carefully taking measurements and jotting down notes on a thin tablet he slides into his pocket. The next day he comes in with a gleaming silver arm that hooks into his shoulder with a tiny click. The metal is remarkably light and thin but still stronger than steel. The plates are closer and the joints move easier, no longer locking up at the shoulder joint or caused him to compensate for the weight on that side. He practices straightening, curling, flexing his arm for nearly twenty minutes, amazed at the lightness and flexibility it allows. He thanked Ghere repeatedly but the engineer just smiled and waved him off like creating incredible robotic appendages was just a typical day in the office.

Arm fixed and new limb attached, the next task was going to be significantly more difficult. The doctors and scientists he met with were endlessly patient and supportive, starting from the ground and working slowly up from there. They were the best in the world and they all assured him both repeatedly that time was the best strategy. Let things come a little at a time, don't force it, just take it slow and take your time.

Bucky worked with them extensively for a little over six months, slowly and sometimes painfully scraping his way through years of torture and trauma. They had told him from the beginning that they would likely not be able to remove everything, to delete the memories and nightmares and images he couldn't get out of his head. He accepted that without question; anything was better than nothing.

One of the psychologists, a woman named M'Bali, became Bucky's lead counselor. She was a kind woman with warm, dark eyes and a perpetual soft smile. Her voice was always soft and pleasant, her accent giving each word a poetic quality as she spoke. It was soothing and peaceful and Bucky actually found himself more willing to speak with her than anyone else they worked with.

M'Bali recognized Steve's significance to Bucky's recovery almost immediately. She encouraged his presence during their sessions, welcoming him in to participate instead of sending him away. During their meetings, she made sure she was speaking to both of them instead of directing the conversation in one direction. She firmly believed that Steve would be vital to Bucky's progress and made sure he was well informed during each step of the process.

Steve was more than happy to oblige. He listened intently to M'Bali's every word and suggestion, committing everything she said to memory. He attended every therapy session and every exercise designed to help alleviate some of Bucky's mental trauma. He worked with the other therapists and counselors, listening to their advice and their courses of action. Most importantly, he was just there. He never left, never backed off, never thought twice. He was there because Bucky was there and that's all there was to it. Wherever Bucky was, Steve was.

Wanda appeared out of the blue about four months after they arrived in Wakanda. Steve was surprised to see her but not really; if anyone could help with Bucky's memories it would be Wanda. She followed Steve's example and began sitting in with them during their sessions as well, listening and learning about Bucky's past and what had been done to him. She didn't ask too many questions but Steve can see the muscles in her jaws clench every once in awhile when they get into topics like torture and manipulation. Wanda has her own memories and experiences of experimentation and exploitation, it's a sensitive subject all around. She didn't bring it up but occasionally a pen would snap in the cup on the desk and Wanda would flinch sheepishly.

She proved invaluable to Bucky's progress though. It took a lot of work and no small amount of cursing from both parties but eventually she was able to release most of the influence from the trigger words. She couldn't get rid of their implantation completely but she figured out a way to help Bucky control his own thoughts and push past the enforced compulsion to comply. It took several weeks (and several sparring matches with T'Challa) before Bucky was able to hear each word in the list without losing control and reverting back to the Winter Soldier. A little at a time, day by day, he was starting to come back to himself.

After several months of intensive therapy, both mental and physical, the issue of living arrangements began to circulate. Bucky knew he wouldn't be staying in Wakanda forever and all of the doctors and physicians who had been working closely with him for the past few months agreed that he had regained a significant level of control during his time there. He's not cured or fixed, not by a long shot, but he does admit that he feels a little more like his old self now, more than he has in about seventy years. Baby steps, they told him again and again. Baby steps.

He didn't ask and Steve never brought it up, there was just a silent understanding that they were going back together. That hadn't been his decision, not at first. He still felt too raw and unstable, teetering on the ragged edge of control and chaos. Steve represented home and warmth and safety and that was everything Bucky was terrified of because he knew how easily all of that could be ripped away. He knew how easily he could rip that away…

Steve certainly isn't concerned by it and M'Bali even approved and supported the decision when he spoke with her. Bucky is less sure, however, the idea of him snapping and accidentally hurting Steve always at the forefront. M'Bali insisted that he was more in control than he gave himself credit for and that Steve's support and stability would be the best things for him. In spite of his initial hesitation, Bucky eventually relents and begins to accept the idea of sharing an apartment with Steve. He still thinks it's a terrible idea, an awful plan, really, but he doesn't fight it anymore. Living with Steve was not only recommended but encouraged and, if he's honest with himself, he doesn't know where else he would go.

They arrive at Steve's (their?) apartment on a breezy Wednesday and it's immediately clear that the apartment needs work now that there are two of them sharing the space. It's nothing but bare walls and stiff furniture that doesn't look comfortable or like it's ever been used. None of that is surprising really; Steve is never there, has never has a reason to invest in comfort or luxury, and as such the apartment looks less like a home and more like a model room found in a fancy magazine. That changes almost overnight when Bucky comes home.

The stiff, straight-backed couch is traded for an overstuffed plush model with thick cushions and blankets tossed over the back. The bed set in the bedroom is replaced with a king size mattress and bedding that actually resembles a set rather than a second-thought blanket tossed on top of thin, scratchy sheets. The pantry and refrigerator are stocked with food and a few framed photographs even make it onto the walls eventually. Steve is doing his best to make their apartment a home and for some reason that's what puts him on edge.

It's all so domestic and settled and normal that he finds himself starting to panic. It should feel comfortable and nostalgic to live together like this again, a flashback to a simpler time before the War and the Serum and Hydra. But that's the problem; no matter what he does or how far from them he gets, all of those things happened and there's no way to change that. They might be reenacting their lives before the war but Bucky is not the same man he was back in Brooklyn.

He's a killer, a murderer, an assassin. He'd been responsible for the fall of governments, the rise of terrorists, the implantation of dictators and tyrants. He's done terrible things, some he can remember and some he can't, and the blood on his hands was as thick as paint. The crushing guilt and responsibility for what he'd been forced to do while under Hydra's control is enough to leave him breathless. No matter how many times Steve tried to convince him that it wasn't his fault, Bucky can't get past the fact that he was still the one who did it.

And now he's standing here in an apartment in downtown Manhattan, trying to start over and rebuild a life he doesn't know that he'll ever get back. Steve has unshakable faith in him, devotion to the point of idiocy, and Bucky just can't accept that he's worth all this to anyone after the life he's lived. He knows what he and Steve had before but that was...well, Before. Now...now he doesn't know anything outside this room.

He's standing in the bathroom when it happens, staring at himself in the mirror and trying to decide if he needs to shave or not. He reaches for the razor and suddenly realizes it's the first time in over seventy years that he's had free will and made the conscious decision to shave. His handler's never bothered with it before because he was never out long enough for it to become an issue. During their time in Wakanda, shaving had become part of his therapy, a reintroduction to simple, mundane tasks that would help him regain control of himself. Even then, however, a physical therapist was always standing close by and monitoring the process. Hell, even when he was hiding out in Bucharest he never shaved except when one of the old women in his hallway pointed it out to him. It had never been his decision, one he made entirely on his own.

His hand has been hovering over the razor for two or three minutes now, fingers trembling and hand shaking. At first he's not sure why this is happening, why he's frozen in place and can't move. The more the tries, the harder it is and the more he starts to panic. He's not in control, he's trapped all over again, he can't move…

There's a harsh rushing sound filling the bathroom now and it takes several seconds for him to realize it's the sound of his breathing. Or, more precisely, it's the sound the sound of him hyperventilating.

He's gripping the edge of the sink so tightly the porcelain groans under his fingers. The room feels like a tomb and a cavern all at once, much too close but also much too large. He wants to run but he can't bring himself to move, he's paralyzed. The world tilts a little and his vision blurs and then he's sitting, curled tightly in a corner and clutching a washcloth. He's not sure where it came from or why he's holding it but he's clenching it in his hand so tightly that the cloth has started to rip.

His breathing is still far too loud and fast in his ears and he doesn't even hear Steve enter the bathroom, suddenly he's just there in front of him. Steve's eyes are wide and full of concern but he's calm and composed and it seems like he's the only thing in the room that's not speeding around at 100 miles per hour.

Steve is talking but he can't hear him over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. The feeling of dread increases with every shuddering breath he takes and no matter how hard he tries he can't shake it. He reaches out blindly, he's not really sure for what, and grabs Steve's hand. He's gripping hard, hard enough to grind the bones together, but Steve doesn't let go. Instead, he feels him squeeze back, his thumb rubbing light circles over the back of his back of his hand, tracing bones and veins and tendons.

It helps ground him a little and his head drops back against the bathroom wall heavily. He can hear Steve's voice, a constant litany of encouragement and soothing support, and he tries to focus on it.

"I'm right here, Buck," Steve's voice filters through the raging waters of his mind. "You're safe, I've got you." He repeats this over and over again, never releasing his grip on the other man's hand and never moving. His voice is smooth and level, a solid pillar in a world that feels like quicksand. "You're doing great," Steve tells him, thumb bumping over his knuckles gently. "We'll get through this. I'm not going to leave you."

It feels like hours when it reality it's probably only minutes. The crushing dread tapers off little by little, bleeding out of him like water trickling from a faucet. His breathing is still too fast though, breaths coming short and quick, and he's getting lightheaded. Steve moves just a little bit so he's back in his line of sight and then he's speaking again.

"Deep breaths, okay?" he says gently, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly for emphasis.

Bucky tries, he really does, but it's too hard to take a deep enough breath and he ends up just letting it out as a pant.

Steve tries a different tactic then, taking the hand that's still clutching his own and pressing it against his chest. "Just try to breathe like me, okay?" he says gently, taking another slow, deep breath while keeping Bucky's hand pressed against his chest.

It works a bit better this time, his breathing coming little easier and not quite as shallow. He focuses all of his concentration on the feeling of Steve's chest beneath his hand, the expansion of his ribs and the slow, steady movement of his breathing. He's able to copy it after another moment or two, breathing a bit deeper and easier than before.

Eventually he releases the death grip he has on Steve's hand and flattens his palm against the other man's chest, fingers splayed out across body-warm cotton. Steve covers his hand with both of his own, keeping his breathing slow and even so Bucky can copy the pattern.

Bucky can feel Steve's heartbeat beneath his hand, steady and even just like his breathing. He finds himself focusing on that instead, memorizing the rhythm and counting along in his head. During a particularly rough therapy session back in Wakanda, M'Bali had suggested finding something stable and tangible to focus on when he felt like he wasn't in control anymore. She recommended a phrase or a mantra, anything that could keep him grounded in the present. It hadn't been said outright but the suggestion of a person was included in the advice, a flickered glance at Steve adding leverage to this proposal.

So that's what he does; he concentrates on the steady thump of Steve's heart beneath his hand and lets it pull him back to reality. It calms and steadies him, easing the panic and fear that had caused his own heart to race. It's like concentrating on the ticking of a clock or the pass of windshield wipers; it's continuous and regular enough to induce a sense of calm.

Eventually his breathing regulates and he can feel the stiff bands of tension releasing from his back and shoulders. His head drops back against the wall again, heavy with exhaustion. Steve stays with him the whole time. He waits until he's sure the attack is over, Bucky's hand still pressed firmly to his chest, before he moves again.

"You wanna get out of here?" he asks softly, nodding back toward the bathroom door and the hallway beyond. He leaves the question open for approval or denial, whichever option will make Bucky feel better.

Bucky nods slowly, fingers curling just a little against Steve's chest. He doesn't want to be in here anymore and going somewhere, anywhere else is preferable at the moment. Steve helps him stand and it's not until he's completely upright that he lets his hand fall away from the other man's chest. The disconnect is a little staggering, the loss of warmth and solidity and the steady rhythm of Steve's heart jarring him back to the present.

But then Steve is taking his hand and pressing gentle, feather-light kisses across the backs of his knuckles and he's leading him out of the room. He allows himself to be led into the hallway, away from the bathroom and razors and ripped washcloths. He'll try shaving again another day.

OOOOO

Bucky hates the cold. It brings up nothing but years of bad memories and reminds him of things he would be more than happy to forget. It reminds him of their one room apartment, with its thin walls and unsealed windows, and how it felt like a walk-in freezer about four to five months of the year. The cold was relentless, cutting through their threadbare blankets and thin mattress and chilled them both to the bone. The cold left Steve wracked with fever and deep, wet coughing fits that always left him weak and shivering.

He hates it now for different reasons. The cold reminds him of ice and snow and blood. It reminds him of speeding trains and clipped Russian orders and deep cryogenic chambers that froze his body but left his mind conscious. It reminds him of everything he's done, everything he was forced to do. It makes him feel like he's not in control of himself, like someone else is calling the shots and he's just reacting.

The cold makes his metal joints ache and his reflexes slower. It makes him anxious and apprehensive, a physical and mental reaction to decades of freeze and thaw. It sinks and settles in his bones, deep and raw and throbbing. He hates the cold because it reminds him of everything he lost and everything that was stripped away from him. Bucky has always hated the cold.

The front that blew through earlier that day had done nothing to alleviate his hatred of the cold weather. Harsh, blistering gusts of wind filled with an abrasive mixture of sleet, snow, and ice pummel them from every angle, slicing through their coats and tearing at their faces. The city has taken on an image that's less Winter Wonderland and more frozen hellscape.

Steve is next to him, trudging along through the slushy mix of snow and ice that lines the sidewalks. His scarf is tucked in thick loops around his neck, a few pieces trying to escape the confines of his coat to whip around in the unforgiving wind. One hand is tucked firmly in his pocket while the other grips Bucky's glove-clad hand in his own. Their fingers are intertwined tightly and honestly it's hard to tell if Steve is squeezing his fingers or if it's Bucky.

They hadn't expected the weather to turn as bad as it did and as such they weren't exactly prepared when the icy rain began to fall. They were still about three blocks from their apartment and every cab in the city was filled with people who didn't want to be caught out in this mess anymore than they did. The choice was either keep walking and get home before the weather got worse or stop somewhere and hope to wait it out. They both silently made the decision to keep walking.

Bucky is beginning to regret that decision now, though. Every step makes him feel like he's shutting down a bit more, losing another ounce of control with each passing second. His jaws are clenched and the muscles in his back are rigid and tight. He hasn't been exposed to blinding cold like this in months, not since Siberia. He's pulling further into himself and he's not sure if the reaction is more physical or mental at this point.

Steve notices this and frowns, untangling his scarf and looping it over Bucky's head instead. The brunette opens his mouth to protest but Steve just pecks a small kiss to the tip of his frozen nose and grabs his hand again. Bucky grumbles under his breath and trudges along, burrowing a little further into the scarf as they walk.

Their apartment appears a few minutes later and it's a welcome sight in such a gloomy, unforgiving atmosphere. Steve shoves Bucky into the open lobby first, out of the cold, blistering wind and into the warmth of the building. He follows along behind him a second later, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

Their clothes are dripping, leaving little blotches of water on the tile floor leading to the elevator. There are wet floor signs set up throughout the hallways and foyers and a pile of rubber mats is tucked against the wall ready to be rolled out if need be. Given the miserable weather outside, that need might come sooner rather than later. They step into the elevator and the doors slide shut behind them, the street and the snow and sleet disappearing as they do.

Bucky is shivering. He doesn't realize it until Steve reaches out and rubs his hands up and down the sides of his arms like he's trying to generate heat through the sleeves of his coat. "Should've brought an umbrella with us," Steve mutters although it seems like he's speaking to himself more than anything. Bucky says nothing, he just shivers and leans into Steve as a hybrid jazz version of Fly Me to the Moon plays over the elevator speakers.

The elevator dings as it reaches their floor and the doors slide open with a dull whoosh. Steve loops his arm through Bucky's and leads him out of the elevator toward their apartment, keys out and ready in his hand. Their hallways is empty right now and any other day they might have been stopped by their neighbor, Mrs. Kimmel, before they reached their apartment. She's a sweet woman, incredibly maternal and soft-natured, but she likes to talk and they usually can't bring themselves to cut off any conversation with her that's not bordering on twenty minutes long. She's not there today though which is something of a relief; both of them are so frozen and miserable right now that a friendly conversation with their neighbor might end up being rather clipped and short.

Steve unlocks the door and pushes it open with his shoulder, ushering the two of them inside and locking the door behind them. The apartment is warm and quiet, a small lamp near the door casting a soft, golden glow across the living room. Steve flips on the overhead light and hangs his keys on the hook by the door. Bucky hasn't moved, still shivering and standing in the doorway with dripping hair and clothes. Steve frowns.

"Hey," he says gently, stepping in front of the other man and reaching up to cup his face. Bucky's eyes are dark and clouded, lost in a sea of chaotic thoughts he can't escape from. Steve's thumb brushes his cheekbone and he looks up to meet his gaze. "You okay?"

He doesn't answer at first, the words stuck and buried in his throat like a barb. He'd be lying if he said he was okay, if he tried to pretend that everything was fine. The cold is making him shut down and brings ugly, gruesome memories with it. He shivers and shakes his head. "I'm cold," he says simply, the words clipped through chattering teeth.

Steve smiles a little and nods. "Okay," he says softly, nodding toward the hallway. "Go take a shower and get warmed up. I'm going to check to forecast to see what this front is going to do." He leans forward, capturing the other man's cold, chapped lips in a soft kiss. "I'll be waiting for you when you get out."

Bucky nods, returning the kiss a little rigidly and making his way through the hall and toward the bathroom. He doesn't bother to grab anything dry from the bedroom, he just strips out of his cold, dripping clothes the minute he gets to the bathroom and lets them fall into the sink with a wet thud. The shower turns on and almost instantly the room is filled with thick, heavy steam.

He steps into the stall and stands under the hot spray for several long minutes, willing the heat to drive away the bone-deep cold and the memories that come with it. Memories that are trying their level best to drag him down and drown him in a sea of bloody ice. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on where he is now, not where he used to be. On days like this when he's cold and aching and stiff it's hard to convince himself that the shower stall isn't a cryochamber.

He shuts off the water after about ten minutes, standing silently in the steam-filled stall. It takes a second for him to make the conscious decision to get out; Steve will worry if he doesn't and he can't have that. He steps out of the shower carefully, water droplets still clinging to heat-pinked skin. A two-second rummage through the cabinets rewards him with a towel which he loops around his waist before stepping out into the hallway. He can hear the news from the living room as he makes his way toward the bedroom, the weather forecast predicting a full night of the sleet/snow storm they'd been caught in earlier. Just hearing that makes him shiver again and he ducks into the bedroom to locate a pair of dark sweats with a long-sleeve t-shirt and sweatshirt.

Steve is sitting on the couch when he comes back into the room, two cups of coffee sitting on the coffee table in front of him and a thick, fuzzy blanket wadded on the couch beside him. He's changed out of his own wet clothes and replaced them with an outfit similar to Bucky's. He looks up when Bucky enters the room and smiles.

"A bit warmer now?" he asks as the brunette shuffles into the living room and sinks down onto the couch beside him.

"Sort of," Bucky replies, burrowing into the couch cushions and glaring at the ugly weather outside the living room window.

Steve frowns a little and grabs a handful of Bucky's shirt. "I think we can do better than 'sort of'," he tells him, wrestling the still shivering ex-assassin into his lap and draping the blanket over the top of them. It forms a warm little cocoon around them, trapping body heat and keeping it in. Steve's arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close and leaning them both back against the couch cushions.

"Better?" Steve asks, his chin resting in the junction between Bucky's shoulder and jaw.

Bucky doesn't answer for a moment. It's an odd feeling, being the one tucked in Steve's arms for once. For years it had been the other way around with Bucky bracketing Steve in his arms, tucking him in his lap as Steve shivered from the cold. He's still not used to Steve being bigger now, taller and stronger than he ever was before (he's not sure that he'll ever get completely used to it to be honest). But Steve is warm and solid and he feels himself sinking into him without hesitation.

He leans back, letting his head fall against Steve's shoulder as the blond presses a light kiss to the side of his throat. In spite of the awful weather outside, the apartment is warm and still and quiet. The forecast is playing on repeat across the TV screen, an endless loop of current and future weather patterns filling the comfortable silence of their living room. It's repetitive and predictable and it's almost enough to block out everything else.

His shoulders are pressed flat against Steve's chest, the shared body heat seeping into his frost-stiff muscles. He can feel Steve's heartbeat tapping against his shoulder blades, a slow, steady cadence that reverberates through his own chest. He blinks slowly and concentrates on it, tuning out the forecast and the patter of the rain outside.

Just like before during his panic attack in the bathroom, he focuses on Steve's heartbeat to give him a better sense of stability. The even, measured beats ground him, pulling him out of the dark corners of his mind and back to the present. It helps him forget about the cold and snow and ice. It helps him feel warm again for the first time in what feels like centuries.

The other man's arms are still wrapped loosely around his waist and he locates Steve's hands and intertwines their fingers. He leans into him a bit more, closes his eyes, and sighs. "Better."

OOOOO

He's falling. The wind is cold and unforgiving, whipping against his skin in sharp, icy slaps. The world is composed of only three colors: grey, black, and white. Ash, onyx, and bone. There are shades and contrasts, shutter flashes of blinding white bouncing off impenetrable swaths of black. He falls and flips and tumbles and keeps falling.

He knows at some point he'll hit the ground; things that fall always do. He just doesn't know when or what will happen when he does. The sky is black and the ground is white. Or maybe the ground is black and the sky is white? He doesn't know.

One arm is reaching out, fingers outstretched and grasping. He feels like he was reaching for something or someone, something just past his fingertips. Maybe if he reached them he wouldn't be falling.

Grey floods his vision, the color of twisted, warped metal; the shade of a bullet, the smoke-blackened singe of aluminum siding. Grey like ash and iron and lead. A flicker of silver blinds him momentarily, making the white brighter and the black darker. Maybe it's from his arm or maybe it's from a train. He keeps falling.

The colors shift just slightly, the black ground (sky?) replaced with dull grey-blue. It's like looking at water covered in volcanic ash. He's still reaching but now he's reaching toward the grey-blue void below, not the emptiness above. He's lost something, something that disappeared beneath him. Something he can't bear to lose again.

He doesn't know what it is but he knows he has to get it back. There's no other choice, no other option. He refuses to think about what will happen if he doesn't find it, what he'll do. He falls but now it feels like a dive.

The world goes black suddenly, thick and heavy and suffocating. When can see again, the black and white and grey are gone; the world is now painted red. Scarlett and crimson and vermilion. It's the color of blood and rust and gore. Everything is red, red, red.

He knows this scene, he knows what happens next. He looks to the left and sees what was once white splattered in an endless sea of red. His arm is gone, the ground beneath is stained with the brightest red he's ever seen. It's blinding and brilliant; it might be beautiful if it wasn't deadly.

There's no pain, no feeling, no panic; just numb acceptance of the inevitable. He stares at the growing pool of red beneath what's left of his arm and blinks lazily. It's deep and beginning freeze around the edges, a tinge of black filling in the puddle of red.

He doesn't know how but he becomes aware of something a few feet away, a broken mass that looks vaguely human. It's like a mannequin, crumpled and discarded like it's been tossed from a moving vehicle. White flutters around it, snow or ash or shredded paper. He stares at it, tries to figure out who or what it is. It looks familiar but he can't be sure. He blinks again, tries to clear the red from his eyes, and he see it.

Not it. Him.

There's a body a few feet away, broken and twisted and red all over. He sees the pale skin, the death-dulled eyes, the red splattered uniform. Red, white, and blue. He sees Steve, broken, mangled, and still. One arm is outstretched like he's reaching for something. Reaching for him.

He's shaking now, a bone-deep tremor that rattles him from the core. Steve is there and he can't reach him. Steve is there and he's too far away.

"Bucky…" His name comes out of Steve's mouth as a dull creak, quiet and fading already.

He tries to say something, respond in anyway he can. The words won't come out.

"Bucky…" Steve's voice echoes through his head, whisper-quiet and blaringly loud at the same time.

He has to get to him but he can't move, he can't even breathe. He has to get to Steve but he can't reach him. The world is painted red and he screams.

"Bucky!" Steve nearly shouts, catching one flailing arm while just barely dodging a punch from the metal one. He ducks quickly and catches the metal arm by the wrist, pulling it back and pinning it to the bed.

"Bucky, it's okay! It's just a dream," he grinds out, using every bit of concentration to keep the other man pinned without hurting him. The screams have stopped but the thrashing hasn't and the cops will be showing up at their door again before it's all over. "Bucky, please! Wake up!"

That seems to have the desired effect and suddenly the former assassin freezes, blue eyes snapping open, wide and wild. He's breathing hard and shaking, hair damp and limp with sweat. For a moment he can't focus on anything, his eyes roaming and glassy as they track around the room.

Steve has seen this before, he's witnessed the nightmares first-hand. Bucky hasn't had one this bad in months though and Steve feels guilty now because he let his guard down.

"Buck," he whispers quietly, keeping his voice soft and level as he speaks. He stays still, keeping his movements slow and careful to keep from spooking the other man any further. Carefully, oh so carefully, he reaches up and cups his face gently. "Hey. You back with me, now?"

Bucky's eyes shift slowly and lock on him then, startled and tear-bright. He swallows convulsively like he's choking back bile before he speaks. "Steve?"

Steve nods in relief and gives him a warm smile. "Yeah, Buck, I'm here."

For a moment he can't quite convince himself this is real, that it isn't a cruel break in the grim images in his mind. He can still see Steve, dead and broken and too far away. He shakes his head and swallows again.

"I thought…" he starts but the words never make it all the way out. He reaches up slowly, hesitantly, like he's afraid he's going to shatter the illusion simply by moving. He needs to touch Steve to convince himself he's real. The fingers of his flesh and bone hand make contact with Steve's face, resting somewhere between his cheek and his throat, his thumb brushing against the bony prominence of his jaw. Steve's skin is warm and familiar against his fingers, not pale and cold the way it was in his dream.

"Steve," he says again, voice wavering slightly as he speaks, teetering on the edge of breaking completely. He shakes his head, dark hair falling over his eyes. It takes several minutes for his breathing to return to normal.

Steve stay perfectly still the whole time, speaking quiet words of reassurance and safety while Bucky regains himself. He doesn't ask about the dream, he doesn't have to. He doesn't know what sees when he's in the middle of a nightmare but he's heard him cry out enough, beg and sob, that he has a pretty clear idea of what they consist of. Bucky never wants to talk about them and Steve doesn't push it; he doesn't want to put him in a situation where he feels like he's not in complete control. The decision to talk will be on his terms or not at all. So Steve sits there, patient and still, and he waits for Bucky to come back.

For several long seconds, Bucky doesn't move either, he just sits there with his hand pressed against Steve's face as he tries to come down from the horror of the nightmare. The images are still vivid and burned into the backs of his eyelids like a brand, gory reminders every time he closes his eyes. He breathes deep and wills the lingering panic from the nightmare to fade with each exhale. It's stubborn though, holding fast and choking him with anxiety. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes.

He becomes aware of the dull cadence of Steve's pulse beneath his fingers from where they're still resting against the side of his throat. It's strong and steady, a little fast thanks to the adrenaline dump from before, but it cuts through the waves of panic that are still simmering just beneath the surface.

He shifts his fingers just slightly to feel the thump of blood against his fingertips a bit better. He counts Steve's pulse and slows his breathing to match every fifth beat. It gives him something to focus on, something to ground and anchor him to this reality, not the gruesome images in his nightmare.

Steve never moves, he just sits still and keeps speaking softly while Bucky's fingers remain resting against his throat. He seems to realize it's helping, whatever it is, and he's more than happy to oblige.

Finally, after a few more shaky minutes, Bucky drops his hand away from Steve's throat and passes his hand through his hair roughly. It falls back over his eyes in a dark flop and he laughs humorlessly. "Good thing Mrs. Kimmel is deaf as a post without her hearing aids, huh?"

Steve smiles faintly but it doesn't reach his eyes. He reaches out and copies Bucky's previous action, gently pushing his hair back away from his face with his fingers. "You okay?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, forcing himself to push the last few images from his nightmare away. "I'm...better," he answers honestly. He's not okay, not by a long shot, but he's better and that's all he can ask for some days.

That seems to alleviate some of Steve's fears and he offers him another soft smile. "Wanna talk about it?"
A small head shake. "No," Bucky says as gently as he can. He never does; talking about it means reliving it and he can't do that right now. Maybe in a few hours when the sun come up and the world is bathed in colors other than black and white and red he'll be able to talk about it. But for right now he can't.

Steve doesn't push it, he just nods in acceptance and passes his fingers through Bucky's hair again. "Okay," he says quietly, shifting a bit so they're in a more comfortable position on the bed. Bucky moves back a little to give him more room but he remains touching him at all times.

"I can turn the radio on if you want," Steve offers as he retrieves the tangled clump of blankets from the floor.

Bucky shakes his head. "It's okay," he replies, helping Steve tug the blankets back onto the bed and adjusting them so they're somewhat in order.

"You sure?" Steve asks again, smiling a little when Bucky rolls his eyes and tugs him back down onto the bed. "I don't mind."

The former assassin shakes his head again and curls against the blond's side, resting his head against his chest. He listens carefully, hears the familiar, steady beat of Steve's heart, and relaxes into him. "I'm fine now."

OOOOO

"Your heartbeat sounds different," Bucky declares suddenly one night while he's draped across him.

Steve is half-asleep when he says this, blinking himself awake in a fatigue-slowed daze. "Sorry, what?"

"Your heartbeat," Bucky repeats as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It doesn't sound the same."

He's currently sprawled on top of Steve, stretched out across him with his head resting on his chest. Their evening had quickly shifted from date night to movie night to nap night. They had taken their usual places on the couch, Steve propped against one arm with Bucky leaned against the other, their legs stretched out and intertwined with each other. It was comfortable and familiar and it had become something of a nightly routine over the past few weeks.

At some point during the evening, however, between one Star Wars and the next, Bucky had abandoned his side of the couch and decided it was more comfortable to drape himself across Steve like a human quilt. Steve didn't question this decision, he just shifted down on the couch so they were both in a more comfortable position. He also didn't question it when Bucky fell asleep five minutes later either.

Steve just smiled softly, carding his fingers through the other man's dark, silky hair. When they were younger Bucky could and would fall asleep just about anywhere: cars, kitchen table, mid-conversation, it didn't matter; if he was comfortable and still he was dead to the world in a matter of minutes. It was endearing and familiar and it struck a nostalgic chord somewhere deep within his chest, a feeling he'd been missing for years. He welcomed it with open arms.

He was beginning to drift off himself, one hand slowly carding through Bucky's hair while the other was wrapped loosely around his waist. The images on the television flickered, X-Wing fighters zipping across the screen with laser blasts accompanying their movements. Steve's eyes were just beginning to slide shut as well when Bucky spoke, tugging him from his daze. He frowns a little and looks down at the the brunette.

Bucky's ear is pressed flat to his chest, his metal arm hanging over the side of the couch, fingertips brushing against the carpet. He's awake and still, a warm, familiar weight against Steve's chest. He's listening.

He'd found himself seeking out Steve's heartbeat more and more over the past few weeks although he's not exactly sure why. At first it had been a way to help him deal with his anxiety, a physical coping mechanism of sorts. It helped him focus and grounded him in the present, tethering him to reality. He thinks there's probably some kind of codependency in that but he can't really bring himself to care. The smooth, constant rhythm of Steve's heart made him feel steady and stable. It made him feel whole.

He hadn't noticed it in the beginning, though, the difference. It was subtle but noticeable in a way that he feels like he should have caught it sooner. Steve's heartbeat sounds entirely different now than it did back when they were just two kids struggling to make it in Brooklyn. He remembers what it used to sound like, how it used to feel against his hand, and the way it sounds and feels now is completely different.

Steve is silent for a moment, blue eyes flickering over the other man's expression. The declaration hadn't been accusatory but almost. "Is that a bad thing?" Steve asks finally, fingers combing a gentle sweep through the other man's hair again.

It's Bucky's turn to be silent, contemplating his answer. In spite of everything, he's still getting used to being back in the world, being able to speak and act without fear of repercussion. He's still getting used to being a person, not an assassin, and being around people, not targets and missions. He's remembering how to be Bucky Barnes and the best way he knows how to do that is through Steve. Steve is his anchor, the one steady, constant thing he has in his life. Steve is safety and warmth and home. Steve is everything.

He knows Steve better than he knows himself, it's always been that way. Which is why he frowns and listens more closely when he's laying against his chest that night. He hadn't thought about it before but he's thinking about it now. Steve's heartbeat is different; he doesn't know how to explain it and he doubts he could if he tried. He's pretty sure it has to do with the Serum and the effect it had on Steve's health overall, not just physically. It's the most acceptable reason he can think of at least. All he knows is that he remembers how it used to sound before the Serum, before Captain America.

He remembers the extra beats and the fluttering, the stutters that left Steve breathless and lightheaded. He remembers how it used to feel against the palm of his hand when he had Steve wadded in his lap during an asthma attack. How Steve's bony shoulders heaved and spasmed against Bucky's chest where he leaned against him, how the rapid, panicky rhythm of his heart jackhammered against his palm as he held him close and whispered words of encouragement and reassurance while Steve struggled to catch his breath.

He remembered how it sounded in the dead of winter when Steve was stricken with pneumonia and delirious with fever. How the wheezing and coughing threatened to choke the life from him completely and how his weak, frail heart struggled to keep up with the stress his body was under. Bucky remembered laying in bed with him on those night, covering Steve's body with his own, practically laying on top of him in a desperate attempt to keep him warm. He remembers pressing his ear to Steve's chest, listening to the rattling in his lungs and the shuddering thump of his heart and praying silently for hours on end for the next beat after the last one.

He remembers how it used to sound, how it kept him up at night and worried him sick. It sounds different now, though. It sounds steady and even, a deep, perfect cadence to replace the sickly, abnormal rhythm from before. He keeps his ear pressed to Steve's chest and listens.

"Buck?" Steve prompts again, shifting just a bit to look down at his partner.

Steve heartbeat is steady and slow beneath his ear, his breathing matched in time. Bucky smiles a little and shakes his head. "No, it's not a bad thing at all."

OOOOO

Steve never asks about it, he just seems to understand.

Back in Wakanda during one of the therapy sessions, M'Bali had said something about coping mechanisms and how they manifested themselves in different ways for different people. She called them grounding techniques, ways to separate mental trauma and anxiety from current reality. She had told him the trick was finding something that kept the person grounded in the present, not the past.

Steve had seen it firsthand from some of the times he attended Sam's veterans support groups. Whenever the session got too difficult for one of the members and they began to lose touch with the present, they would describe the room around them, what they were wearing currently, what the traffic sounded like outside. Anything to keep them there, in the present.

Steve thinks he developed his own methods of coping when he first woke up from the ice. He didn't recognize it for what it was at first; the first few weeks he was back had been a blur of Initiatives and new teams and battles with Norse gods. No one talked to him about coping or managing the confusion and anger and anguish he felt with the world he woke up in, they just told him to put the uniform back on and keep going. No one helped him with it so he figured it out on his own.

He sketched and he ran and he made lists. He made lists of lists. He made lists of everything he remembered before the war and before the ice. He made lists of music and books and movies. He made lists of what he did from one day to the next, a small notebook perpetually tucked in his pocket so that he could add more to his list when he thought about it. Those lists helped him cope with the world he left behind and the world he woke up in.

He understands it now more than he did originally. It helped, even if he wasn't sure why at first. Eventually his lists became shorter, the words scrawled through them lessening by the day. When he found out Bucky was alive, the lists stopped completely. He didn't need them anymore; finding Bucky and getting him back grounded him in the present more than anything else. That was his soul purpose, his only reason for accepting everything that had happened. Bucky was everything.

He knew from the beginning that Bucky's coping mechanisms would be different because his experience was different. He'd been tortured and brainwashed for over seventy years; it stood to reason that he might have to come up with something more tangible and permanent than lists. Steve watched him carefully, eager to help in whatever way he could even if it was something as simple as just being there.

It quickly becomes clear that Bucky's grounding technique is 100% touch related. He's not clingy or dependent, he's more than capable of handling himself, but every once in awhile he needs to touch Steve to steady himself. Sometimes it's brief, a little more than a brush of fingers or the pass of a hand. Sometimes it takes a bit longer and Bucky hangs onto him for several minutes, sometimes hours, at a time before he lets go. Steve never questions it, he just holds him close and doesn't let go until Bucky is ready.

It takes a little longer for him to figure out that Bucky's grounding technique is centered not just on him but on his body, more specifically his heartbeat. Bucky never mentioned it and he never brings it up but Steve is able to piece it together well enough. It makes sense when Steve thinks about it; it's stable and constant and provides an even, measured tempo for him to concentrate on. Now that he understands it and realizes how much it helps, he makes sure to accommodate however he can.

He becomes more aware of how Bucky touches him when he realizes this, the way his hand lingers over his heart or how his fingertips brush against the pulse point in his wrist. It's a familiar gesture, one Steve remembers vividly form their lives before the war. His heart had been weaker back then, irregular and fluttering, and it wasn't uncommon for Bucky to attempt to surreptitiously check his pulse when he thought Steve had over exerted himself (which was like once a day, to be honest).

He doesn't question it when Bucky's hand, flesh or metal, presses against his chest after a particularly bad nightmare. Steve just covers his hands with his own and holds them still, breathing slow and even and tugging the other man back to reality. He doesn't question it when sensory overload becomes a little too much and the ex-assassin reaches out suddenly, gripping his wrist just to the point of being painful, his fingers resting against his pulse. In those moments, Steve doesn't flinch or wince or even blink; he waits, still and patient, speaking softly and helping the moment pass.

It's more prominent when they sleep. It's far too easy for him to slip into a nightmare when he's asleep so Bucky maintains some form of contact at all times. When they lay in bed at night Bucky either sprawls himself across Steve's chest or he curls behind him, forehead pressed between Steve's shoulder blades and arm wrapped around his side, hand resting over his heart.

Steve learned pretty early on that Bucky didn't really enjoy being one who was held at night (too many ugly memories of being held down and restrained to allow him to sleep peacefully) so he clutches the hand pressed over his heart, intertwining their fingers and holding on. If he's honest with himself, it helps him sleep too; he's had far too many nightmares of Bucky falling again, a breath of air separating their fingers. He holds Bucky's hand at night because it reminds him that he's here, that he's not falling, that if he goes anywhere Steve is going down with him. They've come this far together and Steve is never letting go again.

Steve accepts it without question for months, never mentioning it or bringing it up to the other man. He doesn't want to put Bucky on the spot or make him feel uncomfortable about it. There are no barriers in their relationship but he just never feels the need to bring it up. He's curious though and his curiosity gets the better of him one afternoon while they're training.

One thing that can be said for both of them: freezing/defrost did nothing to deaden their reflexes. Training becomes a lot more interesting and equal footing is a bitch when it means that no one wins. They're sparring fiercely, dodging some blows while blocking others. Bucky has a deadly left hook but Steve has an equally devastating uppercut and neither of them are backing down from the other. The training room is lined with thick mats and it's probably for the best that the walls are lined the same way. Without the mats, both the walls and the floor would likely be covered in dents and craters.

Steve dodges another punch, flipping out of the way and landing in a crouch. He's not down for long though, springing back to his feet as Bucky lunges for another attack. He thinks he's far enough away but a metal hand clamps around his ankle, jerking his foot out from under him and sending him sprawling across the mat. A split second later Bucky is on top of him, straddling his hips with his metal hand resting against his throat, a silent gesture of defeat for his opponent.

"That's cheating," Steve grumbles, slightly out of breath from their last bout. They've been going at it for the past two hours and it was finally starting to catch up to him.

Bucky grins triumphantly, shifting his weight back just slightly to keep Steve pinned to the ground. "Don't beat yourself up," he says, flipping a wayward strand of hair away from his eyes. "It was kind of my job to take down guys like you, remember? That's what I was conditioned for."

That statement in and of itself is progress. It had taken months for Bucky to even talk about what happened to him, let alone bring it up in a casual conversation. He doesn't do it often, preferring to keep the past to himself if he can help it, but he's a bit more open about it with Steve now. He never dwells on it for long though and prefers to change the subject pretty quickly.

"Still not fair," Steve mutters with an exaggerated huff, changing the subject for him.

Bucky just smirks, still sitting on top of him. "Never said it would be, punk."

His metal hand is still resting against Steve's neck, the heel of his hand balanced against his collarbone while his fingers spread over the smooth column of his throat. His right hand is flat against the left side of Steve's chest, pressure light and careful like he's ready to spring up again at any moment. For a moment neither of them move, both content to simply sit still for a few seconds.

"Does this help you?" Steve asks after another second or so of silence, moving his hand up to cover the one pressed against his chest. His other hand comes up to brush against the metal fingers still resting against his throat. He can feel his own heart beating fast and hard beneath Bucky's hand. "You know, cope with everything?"

Bucky is silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. He frowns a bit, fingers curling just slightly against Steve's shirt. "It helps me remember what's real," he says finally, his voice soft like he's not sure if he's speaking to Steve or to himself.

Steve squeezes his hand lightly. "How so?"

Bucky sighs softly and shakes his head and for a second Steve is afraid he's pushed a little too far and that the other man will pull away. Instead, Bucky links his fingers with Steve's, keeping both of their hands resting against the other's chest.

"Reality still slips for me sometimes, Stevie," he tells him quietly, his gaze a bit distant. "The lines blur and cross; it's not as frequent as it used to be but sometimes...sometimes I have a real hard time telling what's real and what's not." His metal thumb traces a light line along the length of Steve's collarbone. "It used to happen a lot more when I first got away from Hydra; I'd see things that weren't there, relive memories for decades ago…"

He sighs again but it's more of a long exhale this time. "It was bad enough when it was other people but it was worse when it was you." He meets Steve's eyes then, his expression conflicted. "Sometimes I could swear you were right there, inches away from me, but then I'd reach out to you, try to touch you, and you'd disappear. Call it a memory or a hallucination...that was the worst part."

He flattens his palm just slightly against Steve's chest again, their fingers still intertwined. "I can feel this," he says, hand pressed flat above Steve's heart. "I can't make this up, I can't imagine it...this is real." He meets Steve's eyes again, smirking just a little. "It lets me know you're real."

Steve smiles softly and tightens his grip on Bucky's hand. "If it helps you that's all I care about, it's all that matters," he tells him, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. "And you don't have worry about me disappearing; I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. Til' the end of the line, remember?"

Bucky smirks again and shakes his head. "You've gotten sappy in your old age," he mutters affectionately.

"You're one to talk," Steve counters easily. "You realize we're the same age, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky replies, bending down to press his lips to Steve's. If Steve's heart skips a little because of it Bucky is kind enough not to mention it.

OOOOO

Steve's heart stops for three full minutes and Bucky's world stops with it. It's like a scene from a horrible movie, disconnected and slowed down to a fraction of the speed. It doesn't feel real, any part of it, but the worst part is that he knows it is. They're on the roof of an office building, Steve is crumpled on the tiles, and Bucky feels like he can't breathe.

They hadn't meant to get involved in taking down a fringe Hydra agent but normal Tuesdays be damned when you're an (ex)Avenger. It wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D approved nor was it an authorized mission; technically they weren't even supposed to know about it but a helpful "suggestion" from a nameless/faceless individual connected to an agency comprised of nothing but letters and acronyms put them in the right place at the right time.

Sam had gotten roped into with them although he's not exactly sure how that happened. Hydra had made their lives a literal hell a few years back though and he's more than happy to be of assistance in tracking down the last of them. Getting shot at, chased, and rocketed out of a crumbling building tends to leave someone with a bit of a grudge.

The man they're looking for is named Richard Ellis and he's at the top of a very long list of Hydra affiliates. He's the type of person who was never good enough to be at the very top but ended up there because everyone else above him had either been killed or captured in the process. He's responsible for an entire network of arms dealers and international mercenaries, all of whom were connected to Hydra in some way. Taking him down would cause a domino effect through the rest of them; without a leader there was no reason to maintain loyalty or even allegiance to what was left of Hydra. Without him, the remains of Hydra were one step closer to being wiped out completely.

They were given a time and location and nothing else; whoever their informant was decided to cut contact immediately almost after to avoid unnecessary questions. The indication was clear: the less they knew about their contact the better. The reason for their involvement was relatively simple: tipping off the local authorities was apparently out of the question because suspicion might cause Ellis to run and apparently he'd been on the lam for months before their tip came through. So no uniforms, no badges, no warrants; their contact told them they needed someone who blended in with the crowd to get close enough to take him in.

That's how they find themselves staked outside of an office building in Richmond at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, spread out and waiting for the right moment to street isn't crowded this time of day, somewhere right between the morning commute and the lunch hour, and aside from a few people milling about on the sidewalk, their window of opportunity is clear.

Ellis was meeting with a client on the fourth floor, setting up private trusts and accounts under a false company name. Once the exchange was complete and the accounts had been set up, the evidence would be pretty damning. They were told to wait until they were sure the accounts had been set up before moving in to take him down. If they acted before the transaction was completed, they would lose the opportunity to take down two birds with one government-sanctioned stone. In short, they have to wait for Ellis to come to them.

It's just past 10:45 when they see Ellis appear in the lobby, stepping out of the elevator and sliding on a pair of dark sunglasses while smoothing the lapels of his jacket. He has a briefcase in one hand and for all intents and purposes he looks just like any other businessman leaving the building. He's calm and collected, at ease as he walks toward the doors, one hand sliding into his pocket.

He breezes through the front doors and takes a few steps out onto the sidewalk before catching sight of Sam on the sidewalk directly in front of him, leaning against a light pole and lazily flipping through a paper. Ellis frowns slightly, obviously a little on edge by the other man's appearance, but he brushes it off and keeps walking. His grip on the briefcase tightens just a little and the outline of his fist can be seen from where his other hand is dug deep in his pocket. He probably would have ignored the encounter had he not seen Steve from the corner of his eye.

He didn't recognize Sam but he definitely recognized Steve; even dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, it's hard to mistake Captain America. Ellis sees him, turns on his heel, and ducks down an alley. It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's running.

They see him disappear into the alley, cursing the bricked off dead end before swinging up on a fire escape and scaling the stairs. Bucky is right behind him, taking the stairs two and three at a time with Steve and Sam at his heels. Ellis has a few flights on them, though, clearing the landings about ten seconds before them every time. He's fast, there's no denying that, and he's definitely not planning on going down easily. The metal stairs shudder and wobble form their combined weight, shifting and jarring with every step. It slows them down even more, the added effort to climb without stumbling dropping them back by seconds. Ellis is faster, clearing the roof about fifteen seconds before they do and breaking into a spring.

Bucky is the first to clear the last platform, racing across the roof after their target with Steve and Sam coming up a split second behind him. Ellis is already across the roof, coming to the ledge and leaping without a second thought. He lands on the roof of the neighboring building, tumbling through a roll and jumping back to his feet to start running again. Bucky growls and follows suit, leaping after him and landing on the opposite roof. He hears Steve and Sam land right behind him and the chase continues.

Ellis glances over his shoulder and curses viciously. This building is the last on the block so there's nowhere else to go once he reaches the edge. Decision made, he turns back toward his pursuers and digs something out of his pocket, aiming it at them. It looks like a gun but it's much smaller and wider at the muzzle, a flat, silvery disc resting in the center.

He takes aim and fires, the disc shooting out of the weapon like a bullet. It sails toward them but falls short, missing Bucky's leg by a millimeter and bouncing off an AC unit. It seems laughably ineffective at first but there's loud snap of electricity as it makes contact with the AC, thick, black smoke pouring out of it almost instantly as it short circuits and grinds to a halt. It shudders and groans as the electricity continues to arc through it for about ten more seconds before it finally stops, the unit broken and useless.

Steve sees this and turns his attention back toward Ellis just in time to see him aim again, this time centering on Bucky's chest. It takes less than a second for him to figure out what's about to happen and he takes a staggering leap forward and crashes his shoulder into Bucky's. It causes the other man to stumble to the side in surprise and he shoots a confused glare at Steve.

There's no time for explanation as second disc strikes Steve in the side, sharp metal barbs puncturing the fabric of his shirt and sinking into his skin. The second it latches on it emits a loud, powerful crack of electricity that zips through the air like a lightning bolt. Steve cries out and collapses in a heap but Sam is right beside him, dropping to a crouch beside his fallen friend and waving Bucky on as he tends to Steve. They can't lose Ellis, not when they're this close; taking him down is critical.

Fueled with indignant rage at the thought of this man hurting Steve, Bucky pushes forward, clearing the space between him and Ellis in a few steps. He catches Ellis around the waist and drags him to the tiles, crushing the disc gun with his metal hand and leaving it in a heap of twisted metal and circuitry. Ellis struggles violently against him for a few seconds, getting one or two lucky punches in before Bucky incapacitates him with a well-placed punch in the jaw. It knocks him unconsciously almost instantly and Bucky leaves him in a bloody pile of crushed bones and broken teeth on the ground. He glares murderously at the unconscious man for a second or so more before turning his attention back Steve and Sam.

Something is wrong. Steve is still crumpled on the ground and Sam is crouched above him, hands fluttering around his face and neck. The metal disc has fallen off (or was ripped off) and lays useless and discarded on the ground beside him. There's a bloody, smoking hole in Steve's shirt indicating where the disc made contact and dug in. The blood the stains his shirt is dark and charred, a black and red ring appearing around the hole. It sets Bucky's teeth on edge and another wave of rage sweeps through him. The image of Steve injured and bleeding is bad enough; it's even worse when Sam gets on his knees next to Steve and begins chest compressions.

For a moment the whole world grinds to a halt. The air catches in Bucky's throat, sharp and sudden like he's been punched in the gut. He doesn't realize he's made the conscious decision to move until he's dropping to his knees on Steve's other side, a hitched choking sound tearing its way out of him.

"What happened…?!" he demands, his voice tinged with equal parts panic and desperation.

Sam doesn't stop what he's doing, counting each compression quietly under his breath. "That disc was a like a taser on steroids," he grinds out, his voice wavering a bit as he speaks. He spares a quick glance at the discarded disc on the roof beside them. "I don't know what the voltage was but it was strong enough to stop his heart."

The words sink in, heavy and cold like a lead ball slipping through a sheet of ice. Steve isn't breathing...Steve's heart stopped...Steve is…

Bucky shakes his head furiously in disbelief. This can't be happening; it's not supposed to be this way. Steve Rogers doesn't go out like this, he doesn't go down this easily. He bounced back from everything when they were kids, he always got back up. This shouldn't be any different.

Except it is because Steve isn't bouncing back. He's limp and lifeless on the roof of this God forsaken building, face pale and expression slack. Sam is still performing chest compressions, grumbling something along the lines of "breathe you stubborn asshole" under his breath with every push.

Bucky joins him in this mantra, cupping Steve's face with both of his hands and leaning over him. "Come on, Stevie, breathe," he pleads, fingers digging into Steve's pale skin slightly. "Don't do this to me, please. Come back to me, Stevie. Come back to me."

There's a dull snap and Sam pauses for a split second, realizing a rib (ribs?) just cracked beneath his hand. He recovers quickly and continues the compressions, muttering to Steve under his breath. He's not giving up...he can't...

It seems like hours but in reality it's only a few minutes before Steve convulses slightly beneath Sam's hands, jolting his way back to consciousness with a deep, ragged cough that shakes his entire body. It sounds painful as all hell but it means he's breathing and that's all that matters.

Sam sits back suddenly, a slightly hysterical laugh cutting out of him. He mutters something under his breath that might be a prayer but he doesn't elaborate.

Bucky can't even find words at the moment, he just scoops Steve off the roof and gathers in his arms. Steve's back is pressed against his chest, legs slightly bent and stretched out in front of him. He's confused and a bit disoriented, not entirely sure what to make of the gap in time in his memory.

"The hell…?" Steve gasps out after a second or so, coughing shallowly and grimacing as the movement jostles his newly broken rib(s).

"Welcome back, Cap," Sam says with a relieved grin, reaching out and patting him on the leg. "Pro tip: don't ever take one of those on again," he advises, nodding toward the metal disc on the ground. His hand stays on Steve's leg a few seconds longer like he's reassuring himself he's there. Finally, he shifts his attention away from Steve and looks up at Bucky instead. "You got him? I'm going to make sure our friend over there isn't going anywhere."

Bucky nods wordlessly, his grip on Steve tightening. He's trembling, whether from adrenaline or lingering panic he can't tell. He clutches Steve tightly, burying his face in the side of the blond's neck while his other hand tangles in the fabric of his shirt. He can feel Steve's heartbeat beneath his hand, a little too quick and shaky for his liking but there nonetheless. He concentrates on it and feels like he can breathe again.

"Buck," Steve groans, wincing a little against the arm wrapped tightly around his waist. "Too tight."

"Deal with it," Bucky mutters back but he makes a concentrated effort to loosen his grip slightly. He shudders then, a full body movement that rattles him to the core. His buries his face in the side of Steve's throat again and closes his eyes. "Don't you ever do that again," he breathes, voice breaking quietly as he speaks. "I can't lose you, Stevie...not again…"

Steve reached up and wraps his fingers around the arm stretched across his waist, squeezing gently. "Not goin' anywhere, Buck," he tells him, voice still rough and strained from the coughing fit earlier. "Can't get rid of me that easily."

They stay that way for a long time, Steve tucked in Bucky's lap with the ex-assassin's arms wrapped around him tightly. A small extraction team arrives less than ten minutes later, peeling Ellis off the roof and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. The one in the lead, a large man with close-cropped dark hair, takes one look at Steve and puts in a call for med evac while the rest of his men are dealing with Ellis. He nods to them, tells them to stay put, and walks over to help with Ellis' arrest. Once secured, they drag him back toward the edge of the building and take the closest fire escape down to the street where a dark painted van is waiting. Ellis and the extraction team disappear into the back of it, the van pulls away, and just like that they're gone.

The medical team arrives just after they leave, making their way toward the remaining trio on the roof. It took a few seconds, he's still shaky and little wobbly on his feet, but Steve managed to stand with Bucky and Sam's help, his arms wrapped around their shoulders to stay upright. He tries, fruitlessly, to convince the medical team that he's fine but he's immediately cut off by both Bucky and Sam who tell them emphatically that no, he is not fine.

The medical team takes their word over his and nods them all toward the fire escape. They let Steve walk of his own volition but keep a careful eye on him the entire time. They lead them down the fire escape down to the street where another van is waiting, this one modified to resemble a mini ambulance. Steve once again tells them it's not necessary, everyone ignores him, and they all climb into the back of the van.

OOOOO

"Bucky, seriously, I'm fine," Steve insists for what feels like the twelfth time that hour. It's pointless, he knows, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

"You weren't fine for three minutes," Bucky counters smoothly, outright ignoring the other man's protests. Steve had been convinced (read: forced/dragged) to a nearby hospital for evaluation. The hospital physicians hadn't found any evidence of arrhythmia or abnormal activity that would require him to stay in the hospital and he had been cleared pretty quickly. Aside from a couple of cracked ribs and the already healing wound in his side, they had given him a clean bill of health and released him to recover at home. They did recommend close monitoring for the next twenty-four hours, however, with the suggestion to come back if dizziness or any kind of chest pain occurred. And close monitoring was exactly what Bucky was doing. He's been hovering all afternoon, never straying too far from Steve and keeping him in his sight pretty much constantly.

Sam was just as bad. He'd stayed pretty much the entire afternoon, keeping an eye on Steve and tag teaming with Bucky in reminding Steve that yeah, he's fine now but he wasn't earlier and that was enough to cause a collective panic attack in both of them. He'd left rather reluctantly about an hour earlier to meet up with one of the members in his support group but had texted Steve at least three times and Bucky five since he left. Steve has no doubt the texts will continue well into the night and probably into tomorrow.

Their concern is touching in a way but stifling as well. Since they got home that afternoon Steve hasn't been able to move from one room to the next without either Bucky or Sam on his heels. Every shift or flinch was met with concerned looks and a dozen questions and he doubts that will change anytime soon. Still, he hasn't been treated like he's breakable in a long time and it's not a feeling he enjoys experiencing again.

The doctors had advised him to take it easy and rest for the next day or so and, as such, Steve has been confined to either the couch or the bed for the next twenty-four hours, no arguments, no exceptions. That's understandable and all but he's beginning to get stir crazy with the lack of activity.

Bucky is standing a few feet away from him, attention turned to the phone in his hand. It's another text from Sam, no doubt, and Steve uses the distraction as his opportunity. He stands slowly, wincing a little as he pulls himself up off the couch (broken ribs are always such a pain in the ass) and turns toward the kitchen.

"Where do you think you're going, punk?" Bucky mutters, not looking up from the phone.

"Just getting a bottle of water," Steve replies easily, biting back the tightness in his voice from the flare of his ribs.

"I'll get it," Bucky tells him, slipping the phone into his pocket and crossing the room. "You sit back down."

Steve sighs softly and shakes his head. "Bucky, I'm more than capable of walking ten feet to the kitchen."

"Not until tomorrow you're not," Bucky retaliates with a mildly pointed look at Steve. He ducks into the kitchen and returns a few seconds later, water bottle in hand. "Docs said twenty-four hours, Stevie, you're barely out of five."

Steve sighs again. "Buck, I understand the concern and all-"

"Good."

"-but I'm fine, really," Steve continues, undaunted. This has been a dead-end conversation all afternoon but he hasn't given up. Steve Rogers is nothing if not stubborn.

"Sorry, punk," Bucky replies breezily as he passes him the water bottle. "I didn't make the rules."

"Bucky-"

"Steve, please," Bucky snaps back, the words coming out a bit harsher than he meant them to. There's desperation there too, vulnerability. It's raw and palpable, visible like a fresh wound. It's enough to make Steve's mouth snap shut almost instantly.

It's Bucky's turn to sigh and his shoulders slump like a bag of wet sand has been laid across his back. The carefully concealed emotions he'd been suppressing all afternoon are bubbling to the surface now, chaotic and bordering on overwhelming. He'd been rigidly composed until now and he's not sure how much longer he can keep it up.

He can't think of anything else to say so he just steps around the coffee table toward Steve and takes both of his hands into his own, pulling them both down to the couch. He says nothing for a few more moments, Steve watching him quietly. After another second or so, Steve squeezes his fingers gently in a silent gesture of support.

"I was scared today, Stevie," Bucky says finally, his voice small and fragile in the silence of their apartment. "I haven't been that scared in a long time...I didn't even know I could still feel fear like that…" He stares at Steve's hands in his own, tracing the lines of his fingers slowly. "I know you keep saying you're fine but…" Whatever else Bucky is about to say gets lost in the void and he shakes his head loosely.

"You remember our lives before the war?" he asks suddenly, looking up to meet Steve's gaze. "Back before you got the Serum and we were still living in that little shack down from the docks?"

Steve nods wordlessly; their first apartment had been just that, a shack. It was four walls and a single window but it was all they could afford so they made due.

"You remember how you used to get sick all the time back then?" Bucky continues, his eyes dark and turbulent with the memories. "I was scared all the time then. Every time there was a snow storm, every time you caught a fever, every time your asthma started acting up...I was scared out of my mind, Steve. I was always worried that this would be the time I couldn't do enough, this was the time you would get too far from me and I couldn't bring you back…"

"There were so many nights when I thought I was going to lose you, when I thought that it would just be too much and you wouldn't be able to fight it anymore," Bucky tells him, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was so afraid that one day your heart would just stop all of a sudden and I wouldn't be able to get it started again."

He laughs humorlessly at that, the sound hollow and brittle like dried wood. "It never did though; you're a stubborn son of bitch, I'll give you that. After you got the Serum I thought maybe all that had changed. It made you stronger and seemed to fix all the health problems you had; I remember thinking it was a miracle."

Bucky sobers then, his grip on Steve's hands tightening just a bit. "When your heart stopped today I felt like mine stopped too. All that fear and anxiety came rushing back, magnified ten fold because for every time I worried about your heart stopping back then, it never did. Today though…" he fades off again, shaking his head slowly. "Today my worst fear became a reality and I almost lost you all over again…"

Steve frowns and reaches up to lay his hand against Bucky's cheek. "Hey," he says softly, running his thumb across his cheekbone lightly. "You're not going to lose me," he promises, voice sure and steady as he speaks. "It's going to take a lot more than someone with a taser disc to take me away from you."

Bucky smiles faintly, the expression water-color thin. "It nearly did today, though."

Steve is undaunted. He takes the hand that's still clutching his own and presses it against his chest. It's sore and painful, his sternum a colorful myriad of dark, ugly bruises, but he keeps Bucky's hand pressed over his heart, covering his hand with his own. "I'm right here," he tells him quietly, adding as much reassurance as he can to his words. "Come hell or high water, I'm not leaving you ever again. You're stuck with me, Buck," he tells him affectionately, smirking a little. "Whether you want it or not."

Bucky lets out a breathy little laugh and shakes his head slowly. "I think I can work with that."

Steve grins then. "Glad to hear it. Now if I'm going to be stuck on this couch for the next few hours the least you can do it join me," he says, tugging Bucky further onto the couch with him. Bucky is hesitant at first, worried that the movement will jar Steve's injured ribs. It does (ow) but Steve is undeterred and doesn't stop until he's managed to get Bucky on the couch with him, tucked in against his least injured side.

Bucky doesn't relax immediately. He's hyper aware of the bruises littering Steve's chest and as such holds his weight a bit awkwardly to keep from pressing against his cracked ribs. It doesn't work all that well. Between elbows and awkward angles, Steve's ribs flare in protest and he can't quite cover the wince that accompanies it. Bucky sees it immediately and tries to move away but Steve just loops his arms around his back holds him close instead. Bucky lets out an irritated huff, Steve laughs and winces, and they both sink back against the couch cushions.

They sit together like this for several long, silent minutes, content in the quiet stillness of their apartment. Bucky's phone chirps quietly from his pocket but he ignores it for the time being. The fingers of his metal hand are slotted in the spaces between Steve's ribs, a dull vibration pulsing against his fingers in time with Steve's heart. He concentrates on it and closes his eyes.

It's constant and soothing, a physical lullaby that helps drain away the fear and anxiety he hadn't been able to shake since that morning. It's Steve, 100%. Everything about it is everything about Steve and for him Steve has always been everything.

"I love you a lot, you stupid punk," he mumbles quietly after a few more seconds of silence.

Steve smiles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you a lot too, you dumb jerk. With all my heart."