Buck had always had nightmares. Honestly they were the one thing he was really good at, dreaming up impossible scenarios or reliving the same dumb thing he did a thousand times over. Back in the good old days, little Stevie would crawl into his bed and sleep beside him without a word. Bucky would would feel the presences of his small bony friend and take a deep breath. He was strong. For Steve he was strong.
Or on assignments for the Howlin' Commandoes, when Bucky would see the people they'd kill haunting his dream, Steve would reach over and put a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. Even if Bucky was still out cold, the soft gentle touch would soothe him to a more restful dream. It was like magic.
A sort of unspoken agreement came from this; that Bucky was brave and tough but sometimes he still needed some help.
Steve was that help, had always been that help and always would be that help. He prided himself on the fact that he always knew just what to say to talk his lover down from a nasty dream, at least when the dreams were about getting forever lost in a maze of ghosts, a regular dream of James. Now things were worse.
Ghouls and goblins were one, very harmless thing. Real life events replaying in someone's mind? Those were dangerous. Those made one forget who they were, where they were, and who they were with. One second Steve was Steve and the next he was Zalos grinning at him from behind a screen. Reality flickered in someone's eyes until you couldn't tell the difference. That was what differed ghouls from reliving every assassination you ever commuted.
Steve was learning quickly that help wasn't all Bucky needed.
He hadn't been home long when the dreams began. The first nights were filled with talking and kissing and movie watching and just being with each other. By the time their eyes drooped shut they were too tired to dream properly. But as 10:00 became a regular bedtime-both boys got up and ran together early-the nightmares became more vivid.
The fall.
The needles.
The pain.
The fear.
The sadness.
It all became very real to Bucky.
He'd wake up screaming bloody murder on a good night. On others he'd attack Steve in fear and confusion. The avenger quickly found that it was not uncommon to hear loud thumps and screams from Steve's and Bucky's floor.
Steve was hopeless.
He stared at the pale moonlight ceiling and waited. It was about 2 in the morning, his alarm had just gone off as it did every night. Bucky usually woke around this time and he was just... Waiting.
It broke his heart to think that Bucky was at the point where he didn't even feel safe sleeping beside him, even though Steve would die before he let Bucky slip out of his fingers again. He knew that. And yet here they were. Frightened, anxious and waiting. Always waiting. Waiting for the next crisis, for the next time one of them got hurt, for the tears, for the next death. It was like being in a constant state of fear and it was exhausting. And it never ended. Sometimes Steve would lay here for hours and... Nothing. Bucky was fine he was fine and the world slept.
But the waiting remained.
Not that Steve wouldn't get up with his lover to calm him down every single night until death finally dragged him down kicking and screaming but...
As if on cue Bucky's side of the bed started shifting. Steve propped up on his elbow gently running his fingers through Bucky's hair. Rarely this would send him back to sleep and the night was not friendly to the weary hero tonight. Bucky began to grip the sheets lightly as his chest heaved for air desperately.
