the undefining of steve rogers (stucky)

seven

the hallucinations start at 3:13 am precisely. he's curled up on the couch, still. his sweatpants stick to his skin, but he doesn't make any move to change out of the sweaty clothes. the only reason he's gotten up in five days is to go to the bathroom. the neon clock blinks quietly. it's the only light in the room.

"you keep your door unlocked?" a voice calls, strong and brave, the same way that it had always been.

steve closed his eyes. he was either dreaming or in heaven. he hoped it was the latter. "been waiting for you to come home," he called back.

"sorry to keep you waiting," the voice said softly. "hell of a day."

steve opened his eyes. bucky knelt in front of him. his eyes were bright and innocent, a smile and a laugh lingering at the edges of his lips. his suit was slightly crumpled, the way it always was. they never had enough money to iron out the wrinkles.

steve reached out a hand, cupping bucky's cheek in his fingers. "i never told you, buck, but i loved you. i always have. fuck. i'm so fucking in love with you."

bucky leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. his lips twitched up into a smile. steve watched him, memorizing every inch of him: the cut of his cheek, the tilt of his chin, the stray hair that always fell out of place.

and then he blinked.

bucky was gone.

"oh," steve said softly. he curled his hand into a fist. his palm was sweating. natasha found him later that day, sleeping soundlessly. his hands were curled up tight, as if he was still holding on.