Dreaming of You

Dreaming

Sleep had always been the one thing that Steve had never had a problem with. Even as a child, his mother said if anything, she could always count on him to sleep at night. He loved to sleep, the way his body felt like it was floating on air, to the dreams that filled his head. Sleep was the one thing that was constant. The one thing that he was good at. While his body was shit; his heart struggled to beat properly, lungs struggled to breathe no matter the weather, or some other general fuckery wrong with his body, sleep was always there. Until it wasn't, until eventuality he fucked that up to. Until it grew harder and harder to fall asleep at night, and he had to depend on pills and medications until the doctors confirmed what he suspected was wrong. Insomnia. Just another item on the growing list of what was wrong with him. So long were the days that he could easily fall asleep at night, where now he laid awake at night, craving those wishful dreams and the feeling of floating on air. Of course, given his line of luck, this had to happen right when he turned eighteen, right when he was coming of age to dream about his soulmate.

You see, soulmates existed. And when Steve had first learned about it he laughed, a real ugly bark of laughter right in the middle of his fifth grade class because the idea was hysterical, preposterous. Who in the world would love him? A boy who saw more of inside the hospital than he did a classroom. You only started to dream about your soulmate once you turned eighteen, that is if you could even dream of them. It wasn't universal, you didn't instantly dream of your soulmate the night you turned eighteen. It could happen any time between your birthday night to whenever the fates decided that you were allowed to dream of them. What you dreamed about them was another thing left up to fate, rather it was their past events, their current doings, or even compared to what some people said, you could talk to them if you were one of the lucky few. And Steve, well he knew he would never be that lucky. So while Steve's classmates were always talking about their future soulmates, Steve didn't bother. Instead, he focused on graduating and getting a solid job rather than worrying about some phantom lover.

After graduating high school, Steve took a small part time job at Sam Wilson's bakery, Red Wing. This was only supposed to be a temporary thing while he figured out his next move, but as life would have it, Steve liked the bakery. That's where he found his natural talent for not only baking the most delicious fruit-filled pastries or killer muffins, but he had a natural talent when it came to decorating cakes. The cakes pretty much sold themselves and the orders were backed up, meaning Steve stayed constantly busy, he helped Sam's bakery grow, and gain the support he deserved. He finally felt he found his place and he made people happy, so that was worth it to him.

That's when the dreams started, roughly five years after he took the job at Red Wing's Bakery. At first, Steve thought it was just exhaustion, a few wisps of a man with silver eyes, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Then he heard his voice, the gravel sound shaking him right to his core. Of course, he didn't mention any of it to Sam, because the guy would laugh at him [in a friendly manner] or tell Steve to take a break to figure this out because soulmate stuff was important. To Steve, it was the least important thing to him.

The insomnia wasn't too bad when he had stayed busy all day and today had been a hell of a day, with three custom order cakes, twenty-three various fruit-filled pastries ordered for a party, and two sheet cakes done. By the time Steve had gotten home, remembered to eat something, take his medications, and a shower, he was fucking exhausted. He didn't even remember falling asleep, just his head hitting the pillow and the window blowing cool air on his face. The medications that assisted in him falling asleep always gave him some strange dreams that border on nightmares, but these, well the dreams weren't normal. Even for him. These felt real, like he was there instead of sleeping on his bed, in his small apartment in Brooklyn.

There was a man with his back to him, his profile larger than Steve's, with broad shoulders, and short curls. When he turned around, Steve swore his heart stopped. The man was beautiful. His eyes were what struck Steve the most, bright silver. When the morning sun had hit them just right, he could see flecks of blue and green swirling around like a kaleidoscope. Dimples showed when he smiled at someone coming over the desert hill, a cigarette hanging from his lips. It was clear he'd been a soldier for years with the way his skin was tanned an olive tone, dog tags hanging around his neck with a pentagram Steve couldn't quite make out. What struck him the most, out of all his features was just how sharp that jawline was and those full lips, like he'd been kissing someone before. So, why did he feel jealous over that fact? And why wasn't this man a model instead of a soldier?

"Barton!" The man laughed, an almost relieved sound to his tone as he flicked the cigarette into an ashtray not too far from him. Smoke hung around him like a halo as he greeted the other blonde, pulling him into a one-arm hug. The other arm held a rifle, their protective gear bumping into each other. "Thought you and Dugan weren't back for a whole another day? Whats-" That's when the man stopped, finally taking in the situation. It was clear how pale the other man was, how drained he looked. Blood coming from his temple, his nose broken. It was clear something was wrong.

"They took them, us! We-we-we-we-" the man whispered, his voice trembling. "They took Dugan, Bucky. Even Ava. I-"

Who was Ava and who was them? Why was the smaller, blonde man looking like he was about to collapse, tears streaming down his dusty face? Whoever they were, it infuriated the man, the man named Bucky.

With a steel look in his eyes, Bucky sat Clint down in a makeshift chair, pressing a bottle of water into his hand. "Drink. Then go to medical. If they ask, I'm gonna go get 'em. My fault they're gone anyway."

"You can't! It's a suicide mission-"

"Then I guess I better say my prayers and hope there's a spot in Valhalla for me, huh? They got Ava, course I'm gonna go get em."

Regardless it seemed Bucky wasn't going to listen to this Barton. He flashed the tear-stricken man one more smile, trying to comfort him before hopping into a jeep and speeding off across the steep, sandy hills. There --