I'm Here | ✓

01 - Nerves

"So, this is it." Steve sweeps his arm around. I shut the door quietly and stare around.

"It's big."

"It's not..." He seems to realize mid-sentence that my apartment back in Romania was significantly smaller than this, and tries to backtrack. "Tony poured some money in my account before the whole Accords deal. It's too late for him to take it out now, so I spent it trying to set myself up with a decent apartment."

I slide around one of his bookshelves, noticing how there's intentionally a lot of open space with some areas to hide. It's strategic and smart. The only area you can't see very well is a small hallway to my right, and I peek around to discover it holds a bathroom on one side and a bedroom on the other. I force my face to remain impassive as I eye the scented soaps and the actual bedframe supporting the mattress. Maybe they were simple luxuries, but ones I didn't have frequently since the '40s. I appreciated them when I had them.

I step back and scan the exposed living room again. Steve watches me anxiously. "I can always grab you some spare blankets and pillows if you wanna sleep on the couch."

I shrug, still a bit apprehensive. "Sure."

Steve retreats to his bedroom. I can't help but watch him as he goes. The bed is a queen size, easily big enough for the two of us, but I reject that idea quickly. No. No. Why would I even expect that? Why would I want that? This is a strange environment, and I'm thinking about sleeping with my supposed childhood best friend.

I turn away quickly when Steve starts to come back out, his arms full of blankets. He piled them on the couch and starts to straighten them out before I can stop him.

"No, no, no, I got it." I'm plenty capable of making a bed, and this doesn't need to be anything fancy.

"It's fine - "

"I'm just being courteous - "

"Don't worry about it - " Steve looks down, and I find that my hand is clutching his arm. It's not tight, but I take it off quickly, stepping backward like I burned him. 

"Sorry." I gesture at the blankets clenched in his frozen fist. "You can do it, if you want."

It takes him a second, but eventually, he turns away with a small nod and gets back to straightening everything out. When he can't see me, I cover my face with my hands. Stupid, stupid Barnes. You can't do that. I'm gonna have to keep myself in check while I'm here.

"Thanks for not minding that we got back so late," Steve says, straightening. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide how they're shaking.

"It's fine. I've stayed up way later than this." I furrow my eyebrows. "It's not like I have a bedtime."

Steve blushes. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it's just, I don't know, it's dark out - "

I cut off his nervous rambling. "I stayed awake for a week straight once. This is nothing. You're fine." I intentionally leave out the part where, at the end of the week, it took me six shots to hit my target and my handlers were especially cruel because of it. Steve seems to connect the dots himself, though, knowing I wouldn't stay awake that long willingly.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, but which part he's sorry for isn't clear. I shrug it off. I've almost come to terms with it at this point.

"It's fine. You're right, it is getting late. Let's get to bed." I perch on the side of the couch, dragging my gaze away from him and counting the knives on his knife block in the kitchen area. He nods and paces away slowly. I count and count and think about where I'm going to put them.

I hear him shut off the light in his room. "Goodnight, Steve," I call.

"Night, Buck." The bed creaks once as he gets in, but then it's silent. I wait for a while, watching as the clock sitting on the mantel counts up, until I hear Steve's gentle breathing from the bedroom. 

My eyes adjust fast. I don't know if it's always been like that, or if it was because of... if it was a tactical advantage. Either way, I pull out a chair as silently as I could and set it down in the corner of the room.

It was comfortable here. Familiar. My eyes flicked across the room, just surveying, watching. I found myself unconsciously looking for exits. Looking for weapons. Looking for danger.

This is supposed to be a safe place. But how do you know they're not still looking for you? Stark, Hydra, the rest? You're only putting Steve in danger by being here.

I flinched at the thumping blades of a helicopter passing overhead. That could be Tony Stark, looking for you, right now. It quickly faded into the distance, and I assured myself I was just paranoid. At the same time, I still couldn't move out of the corner. I chose to observe, just like I always do. Make your move when the danger comes, but not before.

It came early. The clock sitting on Steve's countertop read 2:49 A.M. I heard something over the buzzing of the air conditioning. I couldn't pin down what it was, but it made my heart race. I rubbed my fingers over the knife still clipped to my belt, contemplating drawing it out.

I snuck across the room without ever making a sound. The noise grew louder as I reached the hallway, and that knife was just begging to slide comfortably in my palm. I let it be.

Sticking close to the walls, I slid closer to Steve's room. The door was open, just a crack, and I peeked inside.

Steve was lying there, curled up in a ball. All his blankets were on the floor in a haphazard pile and he was shaking horribly. I pushed open his door and was grateful when it didn't squeak. I stepped around and checked the room for any signs of outside entry. Nothing. The noise, guttural and sad, was coming from him.

But Steve... he looked cold.

Cold and scared and terribly, terribly alone.

Exactly how I remembered him.

The moonlight reflected off the tears running down his cheeks, and I inhaled, just a bit. I felt like I was watching a moment that wasn't meant for me. I was blunt, and this was too vulnerable for me to be here, but I stared nonetheless. Steve was always shoving fists into his own jaw to mute the sobbing, trying to get through it alone so his dad and his mom and I wouldn't hear. But this was oddly raw, and I didn't know what to do.

"Steve?" I whispered, barely a breath.

He launched out of bed and the knife was in my hand before I knew what I was doing. His eyes flicked about wildly for a moment, his body already tense in a fighting stance. He spotted me and for a brief second, I thought he was going to attack me, but he didn't. He relaxed, resting a hand on his chest. "God, Bucky, what the hell?"

He glanced down at the knife in my hand, and I realize what it probably looked like. "I'm sorry. You startled me. It was force of habit."

"Yeah." He turned away, back towards his bed, and wiped the tears off his face with his wrist. "But you're okay now, right?"

I cock my head curiously. "Are you?"

He twists to look at me again, puzzled. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. Just..." He waves a hand at his head. "Just a dream. Nothing to worry about."

I pause, licking my lips before choosing my words. "You know if anything is wrong, you can tell me, right?"

"Of course," he responds, but in a way that makes me question if he means it. "You're just dealing with a lot, and I don't want to make things worse."

So he feels guilty for dumping his problems onto me. "Okay, well, I like to think I'm a pretty good listener if you ever want to talk. I just want you to trust me."

He gives me a small smile. "I do trust you, but this is something I can handle on my own."

"That's not a healthy way of dealing with things."

He sits on the edge of the bed, staring hard at the floor. "If I need something, I'll come to you, okay? I just need some rest."

I raise my hands submissively. "That's fine. I figured I'd just check up on you, just to be sure. I'll... be on the couch."

"Alright." I wait for a few moments, but that seems to be the end of the conversation, so I start edging my way out of the room. I move to close the door, but at the last second, I steal a final glance back in.

Steve's sitting in the same spot, head in his hands, defeated.

And I can't do anything.