The Hero Deep Inside

Sleepless Nights pt. 3

Bucky wasn't sure of how much time had passed.

Steve had fallen asleep, his head lolling against his chest, figure slumped over. Bucky, however, hadn't sleep at all. He couldn't get the images of his nightmares out of his head. He tried thinking of other things. But when he reached back for memories, he came up empty-handed, no longer sure what happened when and what actually happened.

Every image from his past was blurry.

The feelings were still there, yes. But the comfort and security were buried under so much fear and pain and—

Breathe, Bucky.

He rolled onto his side, chest heaving but lungs still empty. He raised his flesh hand to his throat, clawing at it, searching for something obstructing his breath.

Panic. He realized, when he felt his fingers trembling against his own collarbone. He let his hand drop away from his neck, toward the cool hardwood floor.

Calm down, Bucky. You're not there anymore. You're with Steve.

He let his head drop back against the pillow, cheek pressed to the coarse, white fabric. He took a shaky breath.

It took longer to get under control than it had last time. He didn't have Steve this time. Bucky couldn't bear to wake the exhausted man sleeping hunched over in a plastic chair. When he was asleep, Steve looked so much younger. The sharp angles of his face softened in rest, and the creases of stress that Bucky had created disappeared. He looked almost like the boy that Bucky had protected so many years ago.

Oh, how things had changed.

When he had control of his breath once more, he moved to sit up. He knew he wasn't going to sleep again tonight.

Bucky slid to the edge of the bed, testing exhausted legs. Fatigue was dragging him down. His head was throbbing, spinning and for a second he wasn't sure if he was moving towards the floor or if the floor was coming up to meet him.

He gripped the edge of the bed. He hadn't moved at all. Of course the floor wasn't moving. He told himself not to be stupid—he was merely a little tired.

Bucky pushed himself up onto unsteady feet. He felt himself sway, threatening to topple for real this time. Ignoring the warning signs, he pushed himself to walk forward, careful not to wake Steve. Stumbling out of the room and down the hall was a battle in and of itself. When he reached the kitchen, he all but collapsed against the counter, white-knuckle grip on the edge for stability.

Eyes squeezed shut tightly, Bucky leaned forward pressing his forehead to the cold surface. Relief didn't come from the coolness there, but it was better.

And 'better' was all Bucky had right now.

He tried to focus on that feeling. Instead of the other, less pleasant thoughts that were pressing against his skull, clawing at his chest. Maybe if he just didn't think about it, it would go away. Maybe this night would finally end.

"Bucky?"

At first, he thought it was Steve. It was gentle, like his. But the voice was different.

He raised his head, ignoring the ache in between his eyes. His eyes took a second to focus on the face...

Bruce.

Bruce?

He looked like he'd just stumbled out of bed. Which, Bucky thought, was exactly what he'd just done. His dark hair was rumpled, pressed against one side and sticking out in wild curls on the other side. Glasses slightly askew, eyes tired, and dressed in a baggy T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants he looked like a completely different person than he did during the day.